Mr. Opportunity doesn't know my name

So I joined a new website and no, it's not an on-line dating site. Well, it could be, but that's not what I'm doing. I'm using the "networking/just friends" option. Really. No, I'm serious. Whatever, don't believe me.

It's actually a site for Jews, called The Chosen People. No, I'm kidding, it's actually called, We Really Do Think We're Better Than You and Hollywood IS Ours, So Suck It Mel Gibson.

I've found after chatting with people, ok, not exactly people, after chatting with men, yes MEN, (are you happy now?!) from all over, ok, that too is a lie, because I've been mainly chatting with men from Italy and England (**deep sigh**) and not from any scary eastern-block countries with Borat look-a-likes, that it's not easy being Jewish outside of New York, LA and Miami.

In New York, it's easy to take for granted that pretty much everyone you meet is from somewhere else, always different faces, nationalities, languages, colors, cultures. No big deal, we all get along.

For example, when my mom's best friend's non-Jewish husband passed away, the services were held in a Synagogue. When I asked her how come, she replied, "He's been living in New York for almost 40 years. It doesn't get more Jewish than that for Christ's sake!"

It appears though, that these men encounter a significant amount of anti-semitism in their respective countries when it comes to dating. And not necessarily because they are looking for Jewish women, but because the families of the non-Jewish women they date refuse to accept them. That sucks.

I mean, I know Jewish families that won't allow their kids to go out with non-Jews, but that's obvious, because we're the Chosen People, and that affords us certain privileges, like rejecting inferior religions.

But these poor guys? I feel terrible, I want to just hold them all to my heaving bosom, and make them feel better. Come to Momma, baby.

If I'd only known there were so many available Italian and English Jewish men just looking for a nice girl. I could have pretended to be a nice girl. At least for a little while. Ok, maybe not.

Where did it all go

Your friends are old (and you by association!) when their conversations are comprised of the following:

"I just got an iPod."

"Welcome to the 21st Century."

"Who is this Fergie person who's all over the place?"

"Fergie? The Duchess of York, of course."

"Wow, she looks great. That whole Weight Watchers thing did wonders!"


If anyone is looking for me, I'll be getting a colonoscopy followed by an afternoon of cane-waving from my porch at anyone under the age of 65.

What's really in a name

So I was in Israel for the past couple of weeks, staying with a "friend" and her family for her older brother's wedding and Passover.

My "friend" has a younger brother, much like my baby sister, lots of fun, nice to be around and a great conversationalist. Unlike my baby sister, this young man has a name I have never heard before, and after hearing his family call him by his name - or what I thought was his name - I too started calling him this.

Of course, what I thought I heard wasn't the proper way to pronounce his name. Actually, not only was it not the proper way to pronounce his name, it was an altogether incorrect name and one that may not even exist in Hebrew. It was, more to be exact, a name I apparently made up completely on my own. Go me.

Now, the dirty thing is, my "friend" and her little brother let me call him by this non-name for a WEEK AND A HALF before bothering to correct me. I mean, at the wedding, out with cousins, in front of their parents (who I think were just too polite to correct me and figured I suffered from a medium to severe form of retardation), if front of the in-laws, in front of friends.

Basically, my "friend" and her brother allowed me to make a total ass of myself in front of every single person I met. Now people, I've made an ass of myself before, that's certainly true. BUT THIS TIME, IT COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED!!!! Aarrgggg.

I'm going to believe she allowed me to be an idiot as a result of jealousy and fear that her family would like me more than they like her, which is a very real possibility. And I have decided to simply call her little brother Bob.

Man, I really love that girl. I'm going to make her cry one day for this.

Khristos Anesti!!!

So tomorrow half the world will be celebrating the Christians' attempt to thwart the killing of Jesus by the Jews. As if he really went up to Heaven, body and all. But that's fine, because as I sit here, choking on this flavorless, dry piece of Matzo, I'll let you all believe that hoax.

Tomorrow, as in the Greek tradition, this Jewish New Yorker will be roasting a lamb, making lemon roasted potatoes, preparing village sausages, a veal stew, Greek orzo and a cheese pie for my pookie's family. I have to tell you though, rat poison is hard to find this time of year. But as always, I have prevailed.

So to all of you hoax believers, a Happy Easter to you and your families!!!!!

And remember, the Jews killed Jesus, even if he allegedly rose three little days later.

All good things.....

So my ex-husband just got engaged and I thought I would give the lucky groom an engagement gift, you know, a little advice in the hopes of making the nuptials run smoother this time around. So here's my list on how to build a happy, successful marriage.

1. Hitting, shoving, punching, choking, and throwing things at your wife are not the best ways to show affection. Hard to believe, BUT TAKE MY WORD FOR IT.

2. Calling your wife a whore, a piece of shit and telling her you miss having sex with other women are not the kind of tender endearments Hallmark is talking about.

3. Secretly taping sex acts on your honeymoon won't go over well with your new bride. I know, it sounds crazy, but really, it's not.

4. If your single, overbearing mother starts to suddenly get sick at all of your major events, i.e. the meeting of the parents, the engagement party, the bridal shower, the wedding, your honeymoon, trips you have planned with your wife, please PLEASE please believe me this time that she's faking it.

5. If you're in the middle of having sex with your new wife on a Saturday afternoon, and your mother calls you repeatedly, over and over and OVER again until you answer the phone in the middle of having sex, maybe this time you should finally tell her that ONE PHONE CALL IS SUFFICIENT AND THAT YOU WILL GET BACK TO HER AFTER YOU AND YOUR WIFE HAVE SHOT YOUR LOADS. Because she did the same thing last week, and the week before, and the week before that, and it's tiring getting it back up.

6. Throwing your wife out of a hotel room with her things, in a foreign country, when she has no money, after hitting her and screaming at her because she asked you not to tell your mom something private (when right there in the hotel room on the phone with your mom, you totally spill the beans AND tell your mom that your wife specifically asked you not to say anything and an argument ensues) might be illegal in that country. This time.

7. If your wife gets home from work two hours after you do, and starts to make dinner and asks you to set the table, asking her "why she can't fucking cook one fucking meal on her fucking own" is not a nice way to start the evening. Oh, and if she kisses your forehead when she comes in, wiping the kiss away in disgust is NOT NICE.

8. Let your wife have contact with her family. Really. They exist, even after you're married, no matter how much you wish they didn't. The Jedi Mind Trick doesn't work here.

9. Make friends outside of your immediate family and let your wife have friends outside of your immediate family. You might have some fun that doesn't involve the telling, re-telling and re-re-telling of family stories.

10. Don't throw your wife out of the car in the middle of a residential area and screech away only to end up at your mother's house. And maybe, just maybe, this time you should advise your mother not to call your seething - WALKING - wife to tell her not to tell anyone in her family about this minor, itty bitty little event. Oh, and while you're at your mom's house, you might also want to refrain from telling your mother every single word your wife has ever uttered to you in total confidence.

I mean, these tips might not be for everyone, but please feel free to pick and choose any ten of the ten above. CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!

There are no stupid questions, only stupid men

"You know, the best sex a man can have is a really good hand job. I mean, when the girl knows what she's doing, you can just sit back, relax, and enjoy. She can control the motion, the pressure, the slickness, the speed. It really doesn't get much better...But then, the blowjob is also pretty good, if the girl has some talent, that's really important. Not much tops a good blowjob, I guess, unless you're having sex and the girl is on top. I mean, a girl that can ride like a cowboy while you lay there and enjoy is hard to beat, watching her move and have her way with you.....By the way, what's the best kind of sex a girl can have?"


"Alone."

Ride me Big....Sheldon

I was having a conversation the other day with a male friend of mine about dirty talk. He claimed to be too embarrassed to dirty talk in bed because he thought that would only open him up to ridicule.

I asked what he meant by that, to which he succinctly replied, "Women talk to each other. And laugh at us. And I’m not going to be that guy."

And I found that odd. Of course women talk and laugh at men and the various foibles they go through in the bedroom. Let’s be serious here.

Men talk to each other. Not necessarily to laugh at the girl, but you know, in that macho wacho, "Yeah, I fucked her good" caveman speak they have. Men talk about women in a way that bolsters their virility, creating a story that highlights their prowess.

But I think in reality, women will only ridicule a guy if she’s not really that interested in him, no matter what he does. For example, if he takes her to a fancy restaurant on the first date, she’ll think he’s trying too hard and call him a loser. But if she really likes him, she’ll tell her friends he's awesome.

So if a girl is having sex with a guy she’s not emotionally attached to, (and yes, it’s true, women DO have casual sex) she might laugh at him a little. Ok, fine, she’ll destroy him and make him the butt of all her inside jokes with her friends and he’ll forever be known as The Freaky Dirty Talking Guy, or the Guy That Wore a Diaper, or the Hey Let’s Invite Fido in to Lick Peanut Butter Off My Balls While We Screw Guy.

But on the flip side, if she does like him, he could probably do no wrong in the bedroom. I think it’s more a matter of the feelings two people have for each other rather than the actual actions that go on in the bedroom that determine a woman’s loose lips.

Unless of course the guy wants to talk dirty. I mean, wearing a diaper or having a dog lick your balls during sex is one thing, but dirty talk? That guy clearly has some serious issues.

BFs 4 Eva'

So I managed another foray out into Athens in the desperate attempt to make some friends. I joined a group of expats on Yahoo who actually go out and DO things. And by DO things I mean they get drunk and eat Thai food. A match made in heaven.

So I show up to the local Hard Rock on Saturday night, with my boyfriend in tow, because “God knows who these people are!!!!” and “It sounds to me like it’s just a group to facilitate casual sex!!!”

Turns out the group is mainly comprised of English people. Now, I don’t know too many English, but I’ve always been a fan. I mean why not? Great accents, razor sharp humor, some good movies (Love Actually). Hey, let’s all be friends!

From what I've seen of the English in New York, they're usually drinking it up, falling all over the place, singing for no particular reason, and basically doing anything they feel like. Pretty much my kind of people.

Apparently, the English are not fans. Oh no, not fans of the Yippee Ka-yey Americanos. Nope.

“Ohhhhhhh, you’re American? Let me guess, New York?”

You know, said with that condescending Thurston Howell III clenched-tooth underbite. The whole “Muffy, dahling, how on earth are we going to get off this island? And where are my bloody cucumber sandwiches?!”

“So, what do you do here?”

“Well, right now I’m a desperate housegirlfriend, but I’m looking for a job and some Greek lessons.”

“Oh, how nice for you to have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do all day. I think I know some American girls who live in your town and also do nothing all day. I should introduce you, it would seem you have a lot in common.”

“Wow, so charm school is required in England, huh? Valedictorian, were you?”

“Yes, well most Greek lessons are at night, because the people that come here generally have to work during the day. Not that you have that problem. But I’m sure you’ll find something. The University offers classes, and it’s not that expensive, although from the looks of it, money doesn’t seem to be an issue for you or your boyfriend.”

“I think you and I should exchange Best-Friend charms, because really, I haven’t felt this kind of love since my ex-husband tossed me across the room and called me a whore. Come here and give me a hug!”

Instead of trying to make friends, I’m probably better off sitting on the corner, dousing myself in gasoline and setting myself on fire. Not that anyone would notice such an everyday event anyway.

Valentine's Day, boo hoo, here's a box of tissue, you big baby

So I woke up this morning and realized it's Valentine's Day. Actually, I knew Valentine's Day was approaching because Spawn, my darling baby sister, has been on the phone with me for the past week screaming various threats and epithets about her boyfriend and his, how shall I put this delicately, um, lack of interest in the holiday.

I, of course, am of the school of "Valentine's Day is a bunch of Hallmark malarkey" while on the inside secretly hoping for someone, ANYONE, to send me carnations soaked in red food dye, or some pastel colored, heart shaped candy with inane, meaningless sayings, or even some drug store chocolate whose aftertaste can only be washed away with gasoline. You know, I'm a real romantic. Just don't tell anyone.

Here in Greece, the holiday is a non-event. And so, there are very few women and sensitive men sitting around at home, lamenting their singledom. Unlike my sister's boyfriend, who is scrambling, as we speak, to avoid the hot poker she will repeatedly stab him in the neck with if he doesn't do something to appease her Valentine's Day beast.

Ahhh, to be 21 again and actually give a shit.

Anyway, I wanted to wish all of you who care a happy Valentine's Day and not to be sad today if you're alone. You were probably alone last night, and you'll probably be alone tomorrow night, so really, there's no need to be dramatic about it today.

And remember everyone, the Jews killed Jesus. And probably St. Valentine. You might be next.

There's something almost precious about starting anew

So my things finally arrived in Greece, approximately three months after I arrived, and approximately two months LATER than they were supposed to arrive.

Of course, I want to thank the worthless, good for nothing workers at the Greek docks who decided to partake in their annual Christmas strike.

Thanks guys!!! I loved living with patio furniture and four sweaters for three months, really. Brought back college memories. You guys are great. I hope a rabid dog chews off your nuts so you can't reproduce using your inferior genes.

The good news is, my furniture fits in the apartment. The even better news is I found out that I totally overpaid for shipping. Isn't that great?!

When shipping things abroad, for those of you who may not know, you pay by the square foot. And the shipping companies will generally recommend you have your things packed by them, you know, "because of customs and issues that may arise...."

Of course, when I unpacked my alleged 430 square feet of goods the moving company insisted I had, I realized that approximately 150 of that was empty space. Not packing paper or bubble wrap. Oh no. 150 square feet at over $13.00 a foot. DO THE MATH.

I actually enjoy getting sodomized without lube. I find it rather novel; a unique experience unlike any other. I highly recommend it to those of you with nothing to do on a random Saturday night. Come on, live a little.

Vaseline? No, no thanks. None for me!!! I like to bleed from the ass. Reminds me of the good old law firm days.

Betty Crocker has opened a can of whip-ass

Since sacrificing myself on the altar of domesticity, I have realized a number of things. First of all, "take out" is not one of the four major food groups. As such, I have discovered that I can actually cook. Which is relatively surprising because two months ago was the first time I ever used an oven. I'm 31 years old. This, this is sad.

I have learned that it takes about seventeen times longer to make a meal than to eat it. And about twelve times longer to clean up after. We're talking a 17:1:12 ratio. This is simply poor time management; the opportunity cost is way off. Especially when the alternative is a three minute phone call, exchanging money for food, eating, and then throwing everything away. A friendlier 1/17:1:1/12 ratio if you will.

I have learned that the fairies at the dry cleaners who spread sunshine and joy for only $.99 a shirt are not the only ones expected to know how to get wrinkles out of a button-down. I am expected to have fairy dust as well. It actually comes with my new iron.

I have learned that the killer dust that continues to cover every surface of my apartment no matter how many times a day I clean and how tightly I shut the windows is most likely nuclear clouds of radiation being blown around Europe from Chernobyl.

I have learned that the washing machine is actually not an evil contraption created by some crazed NASA scientist who's watched one too many episodes of Star Trek and is trying to send everyone through a worm hole.

And I have further learned that there are more than just "whites" and "everything else" when classifying clothing. Of course, gone are the days when the dry cleaning fairies would make that distinction for me....

I have learned that two people, for some strange reason, cannot subsist on only champagne, soy sauce packets, and granola, and that food shopping is an evolving, continuous chore that actually needs to be done more than once every never.

And most importantly, I have learned that I MUST FIND A JOB.

I'm too old to get home at 7 in the morning....

Well, it's the new year, with promises of a whole slew of new resolutions, prayers, and intentions that will crash miserably to the ground and get washed away into the nearest sewer.

But until then, I want to wish you all happiness, health, fulfillment and love.

And don't forget, the Jews did kill Jesus.

Happy New Year everybody!!!

Day 5,674,758,320

Boyfriend still home with broken leg. Doctor predicts cast to stay on for another month.

Prospect of spending life in maximum security Greek prison more and more appealing.

Ahhhh, the holidays....

Well, it's the holiday season again everybody, and I wanted to wish all my friends and non-friends out in blog world a very Merry Christmas. And remember, the Jews killed Jesus.

And we'd do it again.

Ho ho ho!!!!!

Conversation you shouldn't have with a JEW

It's the biggest thing since the birth of Christ.

The birth of Christ was the biggest thing ever so far?

Well, you know honey, a billion people can't be wrong....

Um, using the "A billion satisfied customers from McDonald's" motif to validate your religion may not be WHAT JESUS WOULD DO.

Nurse Ratched was just misunderstood, silly

So, I'm not exactly Florence Nightingale. I barely have the patience to take care of myself, much less a 200 pound five year old masquerading as an adult.

See, my boyfriend was in a terrible car accident last Saturday. (He was on the shoulder of the highway, under the hood of his car fixing something, and was rear-ended by an 18-wheeler) Luckily, he managed to get away with only three stitches and a broken right foot.

Thing is, he's been home, in bed with that broken foot for the past week and a half. And it's been a week of "Honey, could you please bring me/get me/put for me/take for me/make for me/fix for me......" and I'm starting to think maybe I should go find that truck driver and ask him to finish the job.

It's not like he can't get around on his crutches, or go out and take care of errands when someone drives him, or isn't capable of making something to eat when we have an argument and he's not speaking with me.

But he prefers to lay in bed and ask, very prettily, for whatever it is that strikes his fancy. And the food orders?! "Um, I'll have two eggs over easy, and some sausage, but cut up this time, and home-made french fries, and toast with coffee, but filter coffee, and make sure you put enough sugar this time."

HOME-MADE FRENCH FRIES?!?! What am I in the army? Standing around peeling potatoes and deep frying them in the middle of the day for just ONE of his meals?!

Getting hit by a truck is nothing compared to what I'm capable of.

Or the, "What fruits do we have?" "We have apples, oranges, bananas and grapes." "Oh good, can you make me a fruit salad please?"

Fruit salad? FRUIT SALAD? Am I in the geriatric wing of the apartment? You want me to peel and chop fruits into bite-sized pieces for you? Do I look like June Cleaver? Has any part of my personality given you the impression that I'm NOT the type of woman who will put razor blades in your food if you piss me off?

Or the, "Can you get me a beer?" And then, the food arrives. "Um, honey, did you forget my coke? You know I only drink coke when I'm eating." And then, once we're finished eating, with the coke and the beer STILL ON THE TABLE, "Um, honey, can you please get me some water? I only drink coke with food you know, and I don't feel like more beer."

I will sodomize you with the broken end of the beer bottle if you ask me for one more thing.

I won't even get into the fact that there are people here four to five nights a week that I get to cater to as well. Of course, I think he has them here because he knows after an entire day of fetching, I'm closer to killing him at night. A buffer if you will. Like I've ever let the notion of witnesses stop me.

And if anyone dares write me a comment complaining that I should have more compassion and all that crap, then I hope your spouse gets hit by a truck and then we'll see whose significant other dies of "complications" first.

Hanging up my disco shoes

So there are certain social lows I've reached in my life. Let's be honest, High School was a four year social low.

But somehow I managed to escape the Badminton Team, the Debate Team, the AP classes and a dateless Prom night to build a new life.

Unfortunately, no matter what you look like on the outside, once a nerd, always a nerd.

Last night, on my first foray out in Athens alone to meet a group of ex-pats, I find myself sitting in a Starsucks, KNITTING.

A group of lovely young women, sitting around, drinking coffee, chatting and knitting. They were not nerds, but we were doing something painfully nerdy.

They were also unnaturally nice. I mean, there was no backbiting, no snarkiness, no one made fun of anyone else. They encouraged each other, told stories, complimented each other, AND THEY ACTUALLY MEANT IT. I realized then I was in the wrong place.

Hell, I mean even when someone left, they sat around and talked about how nice she was, how great she was. No one said anything bad about her. What the hell is that?! When a woman, sitting with other women leaves first, she's just opened herself up to ridicule. This is a sacred social rule!

And these girls broke some sacred social rules. The first being, you never put yourself in a public place where others can point and laugh at you. Unless tequila is involved. The second is, you are never simply nice. Some sort of social politics must be involved, gossip, backbiting, envy. You know, the things that make you friends.

And here I am sitting in a Starsucks, knitting. Of course, I picked up the knitting pretty quickly because I USED TO KNOW HOW. I was probably knitting on Prom night, at home, alone. That must be it. I'm suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

Maybe I'll go to Gucci today, to be treated poorly by the sales staff. That'll put the universe back in order.

Sleeping Beauty

I have decided that the reason my boyfriend can go into a slumberous, immediate sleep the minute his head hits the pillow during or after a fight is because the XY chromosome is missing that extra extension of the XX chromosome housing the gene that keeps me awake and SEETHING for hours in bed.

Now, it could be any kind of fight; the "Fine." "Fine!" "FINE!" "FIIIIIIINE!!!!!" kind of fight; or the simultaneous screaming "I hate you, you jerk!" "You're a pain in the ass!" "I can't believe I'm actually dating you!" "One more sound out of you, and I'm going to toss you over the balcony!" that ends abruptly into an uncomfortable, charged silence; or the, "You did WHAT?!" "But..I..." "WHAT?!" "Oh YEAH? Well what about the time you..." "Don't you even bring that up. That has nothing to do with this!" "Yes it does!" "Shut up." "You shut up." "No, you shut up." "No, you." "Aaaaggggghhhhhhhhh!"

It could be any type of fight and yet within mere seconds I hear the steady, rhythmic sound of his breathing. Now I don't know what the hell, or how the hell, or what adolescent boys who are trapped in the bodies of grown men dream about, be it race cars, or porn stars, or tools or whatever, BUT I AM NOT FINISHED WITH THIS FIGHT.

I'm tossing, I'm turning, I'm flopping around, deep sighs, staring at the ceiling, staring evil thoughts into the back of his head. I get up, get some water, come back, make a rucus. Nothing.

If I thought it would do anything, (like startle him awake or scare him or even just piss him off), I'd hit him in the head with the pillow while he slept. But really, the results of trying to reason with him while conscious or comatose are the same. So why even bother. Jerk.

Et tu Discovery Channel?

As you would imagine, living in Europe affords one certain benefits. Like cool fashions, a more social atmosphere, a more relaxed, laid back attitude.

It also offers certain surprises. Things you wouldn't really think about. For example, when you get your satellite cable set up, you would probably be excited about access to English speaking channels, like MTV, E!, National Geographic, and even three HBO-like movie channels, to name a few.

You would probably not anticipate that starting at midnight, all these relatively lovely, entertaining channels begin to air pornography. Tons and tons and hours upon hours of pornography. And not soft porn you watch on Skinemax. No no. Real, full on, bangeroo porn. Porn that offends even my not-so-tender sensibilities.

The other night, I started watching E!, which was airing what I originally thought was a show about the Cannes Film Festival. Silly silly little old me. It was almost midnight. Of course it wasn't about the Cannes Film Festival, it was about the Cannes PORN Film Festival, replete with full-on nudity and simulated and not simulated sex acts. Duh!

So I flip, and start to watch the Girls Next Door, the show about Hugh Hefner's lovely three girlfriends. Um, except here, the three lovelies were in the shower together, soaping each other up, and down, and back up again. All nude, obviously, and nothing blurred out. Tits, ass and everything (EVERYTHING) else in full view and glory.

So I think, idiotically, maybe a nice movie. Um, yeah. Zoom in, a girl getting the living daylights banged out of her, with the camera practically up her vagina along with the guy's penis.

NEXT!

Aaahhhh, the Discovery Channel. I love LOVE love the Discovery Channel. The Discovery Channel won't let me down. It never does. Even it's European cousin can't be that bad.

And then, my little heart breaks as we endeavor down the "scientific" road to human genitalia and the various plastic surgery options available for women to fix their breasts, their labia majora, their labia minora, the vaginal canal, with a camera obtrusively prying into a woman's actual body parts for demonstration. Of course, what educational show would be complete without discussing penile implants, using a human model's penis for full effect.

And this whole situation is worsened because my boyfriend is sitting right next to me, while I cringe at the TV, feeling like a fourteen year-old watching a movie with her parents when an uncomfortable sex scene comes on.

I'm not against porn, but I prefer my porn to be regulated, like, if I want to watch something, I'll surf the net, or rent it, or even buy it, and then, I can control my porn viewing. But indiscriminate porn? Just porn all over the place, with tits and ass and pussy and dick getting thrown at me from all angles? Not so much.

I mean, if I really wanted to relive uncomfortable, awkward, clammy-handed experiences, I would just go back to high school.

Baby Fish Mouth is Sweeping the Nation

I don't know how some of you feel about baby talk, but I know how you should feel. You should hate it, and find it revolting. Because it is.

I can't stand baby talk. I think it's ridiculous. It should be relegated to three year old girls in pink dresses holding teddy bears who haven't been able to master full sentences and enunciation yet. After that point, it should be beaten out of anyone that tries to use it. With the buckle end of the belt.

Grown women and MOST IMPORTANTLY MEN OF ANY AGE should never partake in baby talk. At no time ever.

I've heard grown women, (and by grown women I mean anyone who can dress herself) baby talk to their fathers and boyfriends. I almost fell over. This perfectly articulate woman will get her father or boyfriend on the phone, and suddenly morph into some cloying, childish idiot, speaking in a saccharine sweet voice twelve octaves higher than normal. What circle of hell have I just fallen into?

And people who baby talk to babies and address them in the third-person. Are you kidding me?! "Does Dougy Wougy wanna go outsidey widey?" Oh my god. That, THAT is child abuse. The child might as well be raised by apes in the Bronx zoo. What's the difference at this point.

And the worst, WORST, WORST!!!!!! is when a grown man baby talks. What are you doing?! What is that?! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?

You might think I feel this way because I'm a heartless bitter bitch. Well, it's actually because I'm an adult that can communicate thoughts and ideas at a level not relegated to people who are still getting their asses wiped by their parents.

Men should never baby talk to a woman. It is not attractive, it is not cute, it is not tender. It is annoying and emasculating. Get a hold of yourself man. Women do not swoon over a man who wants to know if she wants another bitey witey of the dessert. Put the forky worky down before I stab you with it in the necky wecky. Baby-talking jackass.