A test run in preparation for the real last hurrah

So at a certain point in a woman's life, she usually stops behaving like a wild teenager, she stops going out all night, drinking herself into oblivion on a random Tuesday, she doesn't show up to work smelling like alcohol, nursing a terrible hangover, she manages to keep her dinner down, she can explain all the bruises and random sore spots on her body, she's able to be productive and concentrate on her work, she's able to recall the events and conversations of the previous night, and she basically carries herself with at least a modicum of self-respect, self-control and self-possession.

I, sadly, have yet to reach that point.

Leaving on a jet plane, only to probably come crawling back in a month

So you know that whole thing, when you meet someone, and you feel this connection and familiarity, even though you just met, and you can talk for hours and hours about everything and nothing?

And you're both so excited about each other, and you end up in love a few months later? And then after being in love for over a year, the someone you met decides to ask you to pledge to spend your life with him even if it means that you have to pick up and move your whole life to another country? And he tells you that he wants to take care of you, and wants to have children with you, and wants to wake up next to you everyday?

And because you're being asked on a beautiful island, with the person you're a love-sick puppy over, you respond with a googly-eyed, adoring and excited yes?

And when you return home, you spend two months lying and involving accomplices to get approval from your co-op board to rent out your apartment, you find temporary legal work, you find normal, well adjusted tenants who won't turn your home into a crystal-meth lab, you bargain and haggle with movers so that you don't have to sell any organs to pay for your move, you deal with the (NON-RESPONSIVE) embassy of the country you're moving to, because really, government workers are utterly useless no matter where they're from, and you basically need to check yourself into the hospital from the stress of it all, and still have to say goodbye to your family, your friends, your job all for this chance at building a life with the person you consider your other half?

Yeah. That whole thing is just utterly idiotic. The most moronic, sappy, disgusting, stupid story I've ever heard. That person should really just kill themselves. Anybody have a gun I can borrow?

Mulan

I have an office mate now. I haven't had an office mate since I was a first year associate.

She's great. We've been working together for three weeks. She's Korean, and therefore obviously much smarter than I am. I think our boss is catching on. Asians. Always ruining the curve.

We're madly in love. I know, you're all thinking that it's too early to fall in love. But it's not. I love her, and she loves me. Except she refuses to tell me how old she is. She claims to be in her mid 30's and thinks that's old. Well, of course it's old. But being old is nothing to be ashamed of. We're working on her self-esteem.

She even speaks Korean. Well, the only person she actually speaks Korean with is her mom, so she actually yells Korean.

I tease her all the time by asking for a manicure.* She's a Dartmouth and Georgetown graduate taking shit from me. That alone proves there's no god.

It's nice to have female friends. Well, at least so far it's nice. Once the boss catches on that she's a genius, making my stupidity even more apparent, it's going to suck to have to break into her computer and leave incriminating emails. Again. But hey, getting ahead isn't about making friends. It's about eliminating the competition.

Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.

*For those of you not from New York, the Koreans have cornered the market on Nail Salons. Damn Korean mafia.

Office Stalker II, because sometimes, a girl needs more than one dick

So if it's even possible, I've managed to acquire another office stalker. This stalker, Stalker II, is not like Stalker I. He's not overtly sexual and convinced of his own male prowess. His behavior is just strange. Even by lawyer standards.

He "stops by" all the time and hovers, like the space ship that dropped him off, trying to make conversation. He comments on the view all the time. Going so far as to categorize it as THREE DIMENSIONAL. Yes, he did.

Usually, he just stands and stares uncomfortably, without saying anything. Just stands. Stares. Silent.

He barges into my office, (no knock), to chat (or stand, and stare. Stare silently), when I'm clearly working. Or at least pretending to be so engrossed in whatever is on my screen that not even a naked Clive Owen could distract me.

He refuses to acknowledge any of my GO AWAY signals: the monosyllabic responses, the-one sided conversation, the lack of eye-contact, the repeated refusal to go anywhere with him, the stapler I threw at him. Nothing.

I recently found out that Stalker II stalks many women in the firm, including the receptionists and secretaries. It's a relief to find out the severed body parts he plans to store in his freezer could come from any of us. The bigger the pool, the smaller my risk of ending up a chance encounter in an alley gone very VERY wrong.

Inebriated Lunchtime Banter

Me: You know what I've noticed?

Friend: What?

Me: I've notice that married men have a wandering eye. Do you know how many married men I catch checking me out?

Friend: I'm married. I don't have a wandering eye.

Me: Really?

Friend: Yeah, I look straight at all the hot women.

Next stop - The emergency room

You know, I really don't understand those selfish people, those ridiculous people that get sick on a train and instead of getting off, choose to remain on the train and await medical assistance. What? The seat on the train is any more comfortable or sanitary than the platform floor? You're fooling yourself if you think so.

These people need to get off the train and wait for the paramedics, or firemen, or Superman, or whoever it is that comes to save them. I mean, does the searing chest pain of a heart attack feel any less painful if 500 people are forced to wait it out with you? Let's be honest here. Cramps? Nausea? Wouldn't they feel more comfortable stretched out on the train platform rather than cramped up in a crowded car, receiving evil looks from passengers who wish they would just get on with it and die already so we can roll their body out of the car and get to work?

I'm never going to get back the 15 minutes I lost this morning. Never. That's 15 minutes of billing time. Or net surfing time. Or whatever time, but either way, IT WAS MY TIME. And now it's gone.

So I think as commuters, we need to make a concerted effort to keep our problems to ourselves and be more respectful of our fellow commuters. It's a fast paced world and people are busy. Water broke? Waddle your way off the train, Mamma. Someone will help you soon. Hopefully. Whatever.

Lost Opportunities

I generally write about my own humiliation, because really, there's just so much material. But today, I get to write about someone else's humiliation which will be a refreshing change I think.

See, I usually take the same train every morning, give or take the odd mad-dash, barely dressed, hung-over race to the office that occurs anywhere from once a month to three or four times a week. I recently met someone that I've been seeing on the train since January (minus my three month stint in Greece).

He's very nice, but it took him from January to August to say hello. That's sweet, in a third grade kind of way. But still sweet. We're now friendly, sitting together on the ride, chatting, talking about his terrible taste in music. (Since I know he'll read this, I think I should reiterate that he really has TERRIBLE TASTE IN MUSIC).

When I saw him on the train after I got back from Greece, he seemed so surprised to see me again, and even commented that he thought I had moved out of my building. I told him that I was only away for the summer and back to the old grind.

Yesterday on the ride home, he decides to tell me a story.

Turns out, a few months ago, he met his friend and her real estate agent in our neighborhood, to look at apartments. Apparently, the agent seemed to know everyone and he asked her if she knew of a girl who lived in my building, with long, straight black hair (I have long straight black hair), thin (I am relatively thin), and about 5'6" (I'm almost 5'6"), because she used to take the train in the mornings, but he hasn't seen this girl all summer.

Sure, replies the real estate agent. That's Shari, but Shari just moved recently.

So my friend decides to write Shari a letter. A Lost Opportunity Letter hoping to reach her because he thinks this woman he used to see on the train has moved and is never coming back. A letter that says, you know, I've seen you on the train in the mornings since January, and never got around to saying hello. I'm pretty shy. Wondering if maybe you want to take a chance, I'm interested in getting to know you...... That sort of putting yourself out on a limb, hoping lightning won't strike your particular tree (but of course it will) thing.

So, um Shari, if you're reading this, I believe you have a letter that belongs to me.

And if you're the real estate agent reading this, watch your back, because my friend has a beat-down with your name on it.