Happy February 14th

To all of you out there who hate Valentine's Day because it's a painful reminder of how utterly undesirable you are to members of the opposite sex, don't worry. You're not alone. There are many undesirable people just like you, and maybe you can find each other, sitting alone at Barnes and Noble, or working out at the local Y, to commiserate.


Personally, I don't think you need one particular day for this. I mean, you're alone on other days too, like yesterday, and tomorrow, and probably next week, hell who are we kidding, let's just say you'll probably be feeling this way next year too. So just get over it already. No one is sending you flowers, no matter what day it is.

So what it comes down to is that I think you should be miserable all the time. Not just today. Because really, the woman down the hall who just received a dozen red roses and a few heart shaped balloons, who is going home to a brand new white Mercedes in the garage tied up with a giant red bow from her adoring husband, gets to go home to him all the time. And he probably treats her well everyday of the year, not just on Valentine's Day.

And you're still alone. And miserable about it.

The point I'm trying to make is, that if Valentine's Day really bums you out, like really, then you should be bummed all the time. Maybe you should see if you can squeeze through the window, to jump. You can just end it all.

But if Valentine's Day doesn't make you try to slit your wrists with a butter knife, and you see it for what it is, a way for Hallmark to make money, or a day to show those you love that you love them, then I wish you a Happy Valentine's Day.

If anyone is looking for me today, I'll be alone at Star-sucks with my computer, doing some "work" and some "writing."

Well, they sure showed us

Iran daily holds contest for Holocaust cartoons
Tue Feb 7, 2006 7:20 AM ET
TEHRAN (Reuters) - Iran's best-selling newspaper has launched a competition to find the best cartoon about the Holocaust in retaliation for the publication in many European countries of caricatures of the Prophet Mohammad.

Way to go guys!!!! You sure showed those Danes!!!! That's right, you go girl! You show Europe what its all about. I can't believe you're ahead in the ultimate game of "Na-na na-na poo poo." I think I can actually see your thumbs to your noses as you wiggle your fingers and stick out your tongues.

What's the matter? Hurling petrol bombs at the Danish embassy not enough? Attacking the Austrian embassy not enough? Boycotting Danish goods not enough? Setting up a "scientific congress" to research whether the Holocaust actually took place not enough? Being questioned and investigated for your "peaceful" nuclear program not enough?

I don't think anyone here has forgotten that HILARIOUS practical joke you guys pulled in that whole Iran Hostage Crisis gag at the American Embassy in Tehran. Wow, your political stratagem, so smart, so svelte, so proactive. It's really working guys. Don't listen to those naysayers, YOU don't need an image consultant. You, Iran, know what you're doing..

You guys are on a winning streak with the world. I'm impressed. Really. It's hard making an entire nation of people deserve a Darwin Award. But somehow, you YOU managed.

Hey, why don't I help you guys, I have some pretty good ideas for Holocaust cartoons....oh, but you know what, I think some of your buddies have already cornered that market....here, here, here, here and definitely here.

But I'm sure you'll prevail. The Iranians have always been known for their keen sense of humor and sharp intellect. Oh yeah, did you hear the one where six million Jews were killed in ovens and gas chambers in the 1940's by the Nazi army? Hahahahahahaaaaaaa!!!! Wow, that was a good one.

Oh yes I did, I posted THE CARTOONS

This type of expression is NOT acceptable. But apparently......

.... this is just fine.

I'm not a fan of hypocrisy, especially from the creators of these images:

- Al-Yawm (Saudi Arabia), November 30, 2005

For more images published by the Arab world you can go here.

Why I Should Live Walking Distance From Work

Not only is my fun voyage through the Candyland of subway systems comprised of miserable, corporate drones (like myself) on auto pilot, or gang-banger types with baggy pants and shmatas on their heads, or annoying tourists with their inappropriate laughter and excitement at being in New York City on their way to the Statue of Liberty, or even a homeless person begging (wearing $100 sneakers mind you) under the sign that clearly states "Give to Charity, Just Not on the Subway."

But today, a little treat was brought my way. A little yummy morsel of fun. This morning a 50 year old man with a long white beard, decided it was his turn to save my soul. And so, he began proselytizing, PROSELYTIZING in a booming voice, in the middle of a crowded subway, about our doom. For 20 minutes. About how I (and all non-believers) will surely go to hell if I don't accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior. Predicting images of Hell, where even the innocent go, if they haven't accepted Jesus. Lakes with fire, eternal misery, damnation, blah blah fucking blah. I was like, what's the difference between Hell and NOW?!?!? Seems a little redundant. He said it didn't matter what denomination I was, so long as I accepted Jesus, I would be saved.

And then he got to the part that made my lawyer ears perk up. (We're always in it for the loopholes.) He said, that if I died without accepting Jesus, I would have to pay for my sins myself. But if I accepted Jesus, he would take on my sins, as my Savior. Silly me, here I thought I was paying for my sins as I go, kind of like the cell phone plan.

Hhhmm, I didn't know Jesus would take over my bag-o-sins. Hey, this guy might be onto something. If I don't accept Jesus, I go directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200. If I DO accept Jesus, I could be living it up in Heaven, sipping Mai Tai's with Liberace. (You know he's in Heaven. The only way Hell would let in that many sequins is when it froze over, even they have standards). You know, like the Catholics. They have the right idea with that whole confession, screw-your-wife's-best-friend-in-your-marriage-bed-using-your-wife's-dildo-and-then-confess thing. Hey, what's a few Our Father's or Hail Mary's to avoid eternal damnation? Get with the program people!

The only people really listening to him appeared to be the gang-bangers. All the little Jewish corporate types in their Banana Republic issue-gray pants/blue shirt-uniforms stood quietly, avoiding eye contact. Of course, the unfriendly eye-contact-avoidance-head-bob is pretty common, and so it may not have had anything to do with threats of a new Sodom and Gomorrah. At least the gang-banger types were listening. I would rather they be devout Christians, than hoodlums. Actually, in today's America, I'm not so sure there's really a difference. Seems almost everyone gets to wreak havoc without repercussions. But then again, what does a Jewish girl from New York know about such things....

But I appreciated the guy's efforts in trying to save my soul. My apparently damned soul. Fire, brimstone, hail, locusts. I still don't really see the difference between Hell and being a lawyer.

A Day in the Life....

6:30 a.m. - wake up in a panic thinking I overslept.
6:31 a.m. - realize I have another 29 minutes before I have to get up.
6:43 a.m. - wake up in a panic thinking I overslept.
6:43 a.m. - realize I have another 17 minutes before I have to get up.
6:51 a.m. - wake up in a panic thinking I overslept.
6:52 a.m. - realize I have another 8 precious minutes before I have to get up.
7:48 a.m. - wake up in a panic because I overslept. Begin mad rush to the office. Contemplate showering, discard idea as frivolous.
8:23 a.m. - trip out the door, half dressed, no makeup, unshowered, one shoe on.
9:00 a.m. - get to office and drink two cups of coffee.
9:07 a.m. - work, work, work, work, work work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work....
11:32 a.m. - have a partner talk to me like I'm an imbecile that should be on display at the primate section of the zoo.
11:36 a.m. - WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK, WORK.....
2:17 p.m. - realize I forgot to eat lunch again. Grab a protein bar, two more cups of coffee.
2:29 p.m. - work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work....
3:56 p.m. - look out my window and get distracted by absolutely nothing. Stare dazedly out the window until the drool from my chin drips onto the back of my wrist and startles me back to reality. Wonder if I'll ever have sex again. Discard idea as frivolous.
4:02 p.m. - work, work, work, wor-
4:04 p.m. - go back to thinking about sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, sex -
4:25 p.m. - get interrupted by another partner (blush profusely even though partner has no idea I was fantasizing about things that are illegal in 39 states), get another assignment, that must be completed NOW. Silently curse the partner, his family, his children, his children's childre - what, oh sure, of course I have time to do this for you......
4:27 p.m. - work, work, work, work, work, work, work, work.....
11:07 p.m. - get home, eat hershey kisses and cheez-its for dinner. Wash hair for the first time in five days.
11:48 p.m. - watch the last few minutes of the Colbert Report and some kind of mind-numbing inane reality t.v.
12:28 a.m. - pray to the god in charge of making me a rich, pampered housewife. Go to bed.

The Circle of Life

It was a sneak attack. The morning after I took the subway with one of the partners, he shows up in my office all smiley-friendly, oozing good will. That should have been my first warning. "Have any time?" he asked. That's not really a question. Partners don't ask associates questions. They give orders in the form of questions, akin to the rules in Jeopardy. Questions are generally a prelude to impending misery. It's a warning shot to prepare yourself. He doesn't care if I have time. He's going to give me an assignment, and he wants it done, even if it means I don't get to shower or sleep for the next four days. That's what I get for being polite and making small talk on the subway. I should never stray from my usual no-eye-contact scowl. Even with people I know. Once we leave this building, all bets are off, dammit, I shouldn't have to pretend to care about your kids and flooded basement on my time.

"Sure," I chirp, cooperatively. As if "take this assignment and shove it" was an option. He proceeds to tell me about a really great case, very big, lots of work, sexy stuff. You know, because securities are sex-E. There's a team already working on it, but they haven't really been giving it the attention it needs, so of course, I'm being brought in to do the grunt work that the maladjusted first-year freak won't do. I hate that weirdo. And I hate that I have to pick up his slack. And I hate that the partners don't have the balls to say, "Hey, Weirdo, just because you're a FREAK doesn't mean we're not going to ride you like we do all our other associates, potential legal action by you alleging autism discrimination be damned!"

Two days later, at nine p.m., an even more senior associate and I are toiling away in the conference room, again, reviewing "important" documents, when Freak comes in with a small stack of papers, and tells us he's going home. GOING HOME!!!

Now I'm not one to pull rank, but there is definitely a chain of command in a law firm. If someone more senior than you is working on a case you are assigned to, you go NOWHERE without clearing it with them first. And you don't announce you're going home. You ASK if it's ok to leave. And you better ask in an overly solicitous, annoyingly-attentive waiter kind of way. There's no free-will in a law firm. We are all cogs, cogs in a hierarchy. And you my dear little Freak Mensa-sex having friend, are on the bottom of the food chain. So grab some Vaseline and just relax.

I shot a look of incredulity at the more senior associate. A look that screamed, "Hey! Do something! Say something! Look at all this work we have to get through!! This is anarchy!!!!"

He looked at me levelly, supremely unperturbed by this troubling display of egregious (unwritten) rule-breaking. I think I even witnessed a barely perceptible shoulder shrug. I was beside myself.

"Aren't you going to say anything?!?!" I demanded. He just looked at me. "Not to Freak. But the partner will hear about it. And so will the executive committee. Fucking tool. I've got a wife and kids at home with an hour and half commute between us. Freak's going to pay."

Now, if the Executive Committee hears about this, Freak can kiss 30% of his potential raise goodbye. I didn't want him to lose money. I just wanted him to do his share of the work. Oh well. Maybe some of that money will come my way. There may be no "I" in team, but there is "Me." Sucker.

Dear Abby's Got Nothin' on Me

My girlfriend was complaining today that she hasn't had sex in over a year. I begged her to let go of her sophomoric Disney ideals of commitment and love and just go out there and get laid.

I mean, sometimes a girl just needs a good shtupping. And she's not getting any younger. There's a plethora, an abundance, a large goddamned number of very fuckable men in New York. I even offered my European lover who will be visiting soon for a hot roll in the hay. She wasn't interested.

Half an hour later, this IM conversation occurs:

I was just on the Victoria's Secret website.

Thank goodness.

Yeah, they have some really cute bathing suits.

A 30 year old woman that hasn't had sex in over a year DOES NOT GO TO Victoria's Secret for BATHING SUITS!!!!! Get yourself some crotchless panties and go fuck someone already. Sleep with that Italian bartender you met the other night.

But I don't speak Italian.

Moaning and praying are universal. I have a feeling "fuck me now" and "Oh god" will translate just fine.

At Least No One Told Me to Turn My Head and Cough

I've been given the opportunity, many many times over, to make my overbearing Jewish mother ridiculously happy. And I never came through.

I have dated doctors in almost every single speciality. And I managed to not land even one. Not one doctor is willing to marry me and provide me with the life my mother always dreamed of.

There was the radiologist that wasn't Jewish.
The radiologist that was Jewish, but couldn't stop screaming Yale in public, as he repeatedly told me and anyone within a hundred yard radius that he's doing his residency at YALE! YALE!! YALE, YALE, YALE, YALE, YALE!!!!!
The ophthalmologist that wasn't Jewish.
The ophthalmologist that was Jewish, but was using me as a rebound to get over his non-Jewish ex.
The ophthalmologist that was Jewish, wasn't using me as a rebound, and just wasn't interested. Bastard.
The ear, nose and throat doctor who only wanted to have sex.
The gynecologist with uncomfortably long nails. (Take a minute....eeeewwwwwww. Exhale.)
The dermatologist with the yellow corvette. (God help us all).
The cardiologist that was a little too into the S&M. (I'm not crawling across the floor in some rubber getup holding a crop between my teeth. Not for free anyway.)
The cardiologist with the fake leg. And lazy eye.
The pediatrician. Who likes kids?!
The orthopedic surgeon that was a terrifying republican.
The oral surgeon whose penis curved so far to the left, it hurt.
The podiatrist that had me on a rotation of 12 different girls.
The emergency room doctor that actually liked me right away, which made him totally undesirable. Obviously.
The plastic surgeon who kept offering to do free surgery on me if we ended up together. You know, because it's always great to hear you need a little work from a professional while you're on a date with him.
And, last but certainly not least, the neurosurgeon that I humiliated myself in front of, drunkenly professed my love to (on our fifth date), chased for six months, worshiped and obsessed over, who had the nerve to not love me back. I know, I can't believe it either.

Honesty is NOT Always the Best Policy

There is a breed of man I know that I really don't understand. It's the guy that refuses to lie to his girlfriend about things he really needs to lie about.

I'm not talking about lying about last weekend when he was talking to some girl and tripped and somehow ACCIDENTALLY ended up inside of her in the bathroom of the club while he was out with the boys. I'm talking about the kind of lying that will only buy him peace of mind and will give his girlfriend the answers she wants to hear.

He insists on total, brutal, painful honesty. He thinks it's the only way, and feels that what he did in the past won't upset her now. And if it does, it's her problem. Silly silly man. If she has a problem, now YOU have a problem. So just save her feelings and save your mental well-being and lie. For god's sake, please, just lie!!

"No sweetheart, of course I would never want a threesome with you and someone else."

"No, I wasn't looking at her because I think she's pretty. I was staring at her lazy eye/club foot/fat ass (or insert anything ANYTHING you can think of that will sound plausible)."

"Yes, I love it when we make love." (Look, I know this one's hard, I even throw up a little in my mouth when I have to use it, but just suck it up and do it anyway.)

"You don't look bloated to me."

"I've never paid for sex."

"You are my type."

"I'm attracted to women with (insert hair/eye color/height/body type of the GIRL YOU ARE CURRENTLY DATING)." (A brunette NEVER needs to know you have a penchant for blonds. Spare yourself a future agony because god help you if she ever catches you checking out a blond.)

"You're the best girlfriend I've ever had."

"The craziest sexual thing I've ever done? That time you and I (fill in the blank)." She doesn't need to know about the two strippers in Vegas with the swing. SHE. DOESN'T. EVER. NEED. TO. KNOW.

"I never got a girl pregnant." (Unless you have little Bobby Jr.'s running around, what happened between you and your girlfriend when you were 16 is irrelevant to anything going today.)

And we will return the favor.

"You're the best lover I've ever had."

"Oh really? I never noticed that it curves to the left."

"I've never had a threesome."

"Yes, I came."

"Of course I fantasize about having sex with women."

"I don't care how much money you make."

"I really enjoy swallowing."

"I've never used a sex swing. Hey, what IS a sex swing?" *blink blink*

"I only masturbate to you."

"I've only given blow jobs to men I was in a relationship with. Really."

"I love your mother."

It's a delicate balance that needs to be maintained. You need to lie about things that can't be changed, have no impact anymore and will only upset her if she knows. Because if she's upset, you know you will be upset, mainly because she'll TORTURE you until you are upset. And there's no need to have another crying jag, that turns into a five hour talk that ends at 3 in the morning on a random Tuesday night. Spare yourself.

Exhibit "B" in Learning How to Appreciate What You Have

When a hot (like causes car accidents hot) doctor friend who happens to be a millionaire, decides that SHE's going to now date women, you know you have either entered Bizarro World, or there is such a dearth of men willing to get into a relationship in New York that even a woman who loves LOVES the cock, like I mean, "Mmmm, what's for dinner? Cock! How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie cock? Yum yum fun, cock! Cock, it's the new white meat. Can I have a double order of cock and a diet coke please?" needs to become an Anne Hesh lesbian.

This does not bode well for the rest of us.

They Moved My Office

I've been moved to Death Row.

Death Row consists of all the named and equity partners. They did it on purpose. They said since I'm relatively new, I should sit upstairs, where I'll get to meet more people.

I wanted to ask what was I supposed to do on the days I come in drunk, in the same clothes as the day before, at 10:30, now that I'm sitting on Death Row. But I didn't ask. I didn't think it was appropriate.

A good friend is leaving the firm. She's moving to Vegas. VEGAS. It's too bad she's leaving, she's really great to have around. Fucking bitch-ass whore. I'll miss her. But I'll visit. And then I'll blog about it, because really, what happens in Vegas NEVER stays there. People always come back with stories and souveniers, like herpes and decorative shot glasses from the Bellagio. You know, for the memories.

Exhibit "A" in Learning How to Appreciate What You Have

"Hey iam Jay,
i just wanted 2 say hi i liked your profile and love your pics your such a hottie , so if u wana chatt some more get back 2 me , i promise i wouldnt bite
lIAM A NICE JEWISH BOY
talk 2u soon
Jay
ps your such a hottie"

Like 'Nam, those that have survived the dating world in New York and miraculously find themselves in a relationship, albeit a rocky one, never NEVER want to go back to receiving emails like the one above, that for some ungodly reason, suddenly show up on their unused MySpace account. Brings new meaning to the phrase, 'lets try to work things out.'

You Know It's Bad When Even a Twenty Year Old Loses Hope for the Future

"And if this relationship also doesn't work out for you, then what? What?! Anvils?!?!"

In Response to the "War" on Christmas

Dear You:
From me ("the wishor") to you ("the wishee"), please accept without obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, politically correct, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.

We wish you a financially successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2006, but with due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures or sects, and having regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform or sexual preference of the wishee.

By accepting this greeting you are bound by these terms that: This greeting is subject to further clarification or withdrawal.
1.This greeting is freely transferable provided that no alteration shall be made to the original greeting and that the proprietary rights of the wishor are acknowledged.
2.This greeting implies no promise by the wishor to actually implement the inferences contained in this correspondence.
3.This greeting may not be enforceable in certain jurisdictions and/or the restrictions herein may not be binding upon certain wishees in certain geographical locations.
4.This greeting is warranted to perform as reasonably as may be expected within the usual application of good tidings, for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first.
5.The wishor warrants this greeting only for the limited replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wishor.

Holiday Letter

To the Striking New York City MTA Workers,

Get your sorry, lawbreaking, fucking asses to work. NOW!!!!!! Or I'll shove coal up all of your noses on Christmas.

May your Christmas trees catch on fire and your presents melt for your part in ruining so many others' season, including tourists who may be here on a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

At first, I was in favor of a compromise, but now, I hope you get nothing. NOTHING. NOTHING AT ALL. And wait until you go back to work and see how people will treat you.

If I see one more elderly blind man attempting to walk from the Bronx to his job in Midtown Manhattan, in twenty degrees, I will personally strap on a dildo and make you cry for your mommies.

Happy Holidays.
My Life is God's Comic Strip

If I Was in Charge of Pushing the Secret Red Button....

Um, so the new Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, has said some (utterly insane) inflammatory things lately. His comments about relocating Israel to (Mars) Europe and how the Holocaust was a myth have caused some (people to think to he's a blithering idiot) concern.

But now, NOW, he has gone too far. He has decreed that the poor citizenry of Iran (that voted him into power) can no longer listen to Western music, to the ballads of George Michael, Eric Clapton, and even Kenny G. (*gasp*).

I think the population of Iran (being the pack of psychotic, religious, terrorist supporting zealots) doesn't deserve to listen to the likes of George Michael and Eric Clapton. Western music is too good for them. They DO deserve to listen to Kenny G. though. Actually, Kenny G. should be blasted at the highest frequency man can tolerate before his head explodes off his neck like the Aak-Aak-Aaking aliens on Mars Attacks. (It might actually be ok if their heads exploded off their necks now that I think about it.) Kenny G. should be played on every radio station and every television channel, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, nonstop.

The Iranian people deserve to listen to Kenny G. They deserve it because they're a bunch of hypocrites that wear Parisian couture micro-mini's under their long black cloaks, and attend mixed sex parties where the alcohol flows like the waters of Niagara Falls and the drugs and sex are rampant among the young. I know this because I have friends who go to Iran, and come back boasting about how much fun it is, how great the skiing is, and how hot the girls are... (and also because I'm half Iranian - but 100% Jewish).

Yet it's a country that votes an imbecile into office, and the majority of the population, under 30, complains that the Theocracy (that they help keep in power) is not the regime they want to live under.

I say we help the Iranians's fight for their right to listen to Kenny G. I mean, they fought 27 years ago to overthrow a government they hated and installed a government they claim they really really really hate (even though they don't do anything about it and actually help perpetuate their misery) by electing an inexperienced buffoon who says things that are DUMBER THAN THE THINGS THAT COME OUT OF PRESIDENT BUSH'S MOUTH. IF THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE. So at the very least, they should be allowed to enjoy the sweet sweet tunes of Kenny G.

The One Year Anniversary of My 29th Birthday

Today I am 30, and a dear friend sent me this:

As a senior member of Thirtyhood, I proudly welcome you as a new member to our exclusive club. Sandwiched between Twentyhood and Fortyhood, Thirtyhood holds its own in the battle of the hoods. It is that time when you truly come to embrace adulthood, and let go of childhood once and for all. It is that special time when the realization sets in that you are not a kid any more (at least not a crazy, irresponsible twenty-year-old). Soon you will begin to take on new responsibilities, slowly start to lose touch with the latest trends, and wonder how those kids can listen to whatever that stuff is that they play on the radio these days. Yes, let's face, the second after you turn 30, you become closer to 40 than 20. With that comes an attitude adjustment. And therein lies the beauty of Thirtyhood - while it's not quite as good as Twentyhood, it's still better than Fortyhood. A semi-mature hood. Happy birthday.

Terms of Art

Buyer's Remorse: When someone gives you their phone number or sets up a date and then doesn't answer calls or breaks the date. They regret ever laying eyes on you and wonder what the hell they were thinking.

We're Just Friends: A term of art used by men and women (mostly men) describing someone they used to date but no longer date but would like to continue sleeping with but cannot tell that to the person they are currently sleeping with and therefore need to keep the former paramour around "just in case" while at the same time attempting to make the current paramour feel secure on an illusory level. See also "Recycling."

Recycling: When former members of a couple have sex after the relationship has terminated. The prelude to Recycling is "We're Just Friends."

Friends With Benefits: a situation where a man and woman claim to be "friends" when in reality one of them is in love with the other, but since one member of the friendship doesn't want to get into a relationship, the one in love, in desperation to have whatever contact they can with their love, will agree to sleep with them with no strings attached, even though deep down inside, they miserably yearn for love they have no chance of getting because they've already given up all dignity with this ridiculous farce.

Fuck Buddies: See "Friends With Benefits."

I Just Got Out of a Serious Relationship: when made by a Woman: a rebuff used to imply that a woman finds a man physically and/or morally repugnant and does not want to go out with him.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

I Need to Concentrate on My Career: when made by a Woman: a rebuff used to imply that a woman finds a man so physically and/or morally repugnant that she would rather work as a diver at a sewage depot than go out with the man she is talking to.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

I'm Not Ready for a Serious Relationship: when made by a Woman: a blatant lie straight from the Gates of Hell told by a woman who so desperately wants to get away from the man she's talking to that she'll say just about anything, no matter how utterly preposterous she sounds.
When made by a Man: a rebuff used to imply that a man does not want to get into a relationship but would not mind sleeping with the woman he is talking to in the hopes of setting up a "Friends With Benefits" scenario. See also, "Fuck Buddies."

Just because my number is on the bathroom wall, doesn't mean you should actually use it

Avoidance is the number one rejection tool used in New York. That, and prevarication.

Gentlemen, if you find yourselves in a social situation and meet a woman who is very clearly drinking and/or utterly out of her mind drunk, please understand that there are a number of factors contributing to why she is talking to you, and you being a stud is probably not one of them - contrary to what your ego is telling you. If she gives you her number, that doesn't mean she definitely wants to see you again. It could just mean that she's really drunk, and in order to get you to go away, she'll give you her number in deference to your considerable size and the fact that her friends, those good-for-nothing non-cockblocking when you need them fuckwads, have disappeared for the time being.

The number one factor clouding her ability to have coherent thought and/or judgment is alcohol. NEVER trust a woman who has been drinking. Especially if you are a decent type of guy looking for something more than a one night stand. (If you like her and want to take it further, get her number, and talk to her during daylight, sober hours and gauge her reaction to you then.)

The second factor, directly related to the alcohol, is her horniness level. Sometimes, women who have been drinking become a bit more randy and free with their affections, and are looking for someone to satiate their temporary lust. Fooling around with you in a dark corner of a bar or club does not mean she wants to see you again, and it doesn't mean she necessarily wants to go home with you. ( If she does, good for you.) Otherwise, telling her that you're going to drop her at the train station, when in reality you told the cab driver to go to your apartment IS NOT THE PROPER WAY TO SEDUCE HER. SHE SHOULD NOT BE SCREAMING AT THE CAB DRIVER BECAUSE YOU ARE 45 BLOCKS PAST THE LOCATION YOU TOLD HER YOU WOULD TAKE HER. Getting laid in New York should not involve kidnaping. Really.

And so, if you take her number after you've met her and call her, please do not be surprised if she rejects you. Women, like men, do and say a lot of things they don't mean when they're drinking heavily.

If you call her office, THREE TIMES in SEVEN MINUTES, and then her cell phone, and she doesn't pick up, and you don't leave a message, she's probably looking at her caller ID, surrounded by her friends in the office, laughing at you.

If she breaks the date you made with her, and comes up with a lame excuse, she probably doesn't want to see you and is trying to let you down gently.

If she hems and haws when you ask about her availability to reschedule, she probably doesn't want to see you but doesn't want to actually have to tell you.

If she says she'll send you an email with her schedule and never does, that means she's NOT AVAILABLE TO SEE YOU. EVER.

If you persist in calling her and emailing her even though you get no response, please do not be surprised if she changes her number or a restraining order is taken against you.

Avoidance is what we do when we don't have the balls to tell you we're just not interested. And we expect that you'll get the hint, and have some pride, and STOP CALLING. FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Conversations of Yore

So how was your holiday? Did you enjoy Christmas?

I don't celebrate Christmas, I'm Jewish.

What do you mean?

I mean I'm Jewish. We don't believe in Jesus.

Oh really? So who do you guys worship?

Barbara Streisand.

Do you know what it's like to ride the New York City subway during morning rush hour? Do you?! Huh? HUH?!?! I didn't think so.

Well, let me enlighten you. About 100 people shuffle like cattle into a car and stand silently, making sure no unnecessary body or eye contact occurs.

People either read their papers, listen to their iPods, or try not to fall asleep standing up. The ONLY noise is the occasional rustle of paper as someone turns a page of the Times or the ding of the doors as they open and close at a stop.

So you can imagine my shock, my surprise, my utter astonishment when the woman standing next to me had the temerity, the audacity, the...the....CHUTZPAH! to actually start whistling in the Sacred Silence of the morning commute. Whistling a happy little ditty, with rhythm! And a decipherable tune!!!! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!!? I looked around, stunned, expecting everything to turn black and white and freeze while a man in the corner of the car looks into a camera and says, "MLIGCS doesn't realize it yet, but she has just entered....the Twilight Zone...." doodoo, doodoo....doodoo, doodoo......

I wanted to punch her in the fucking mouth. What are you, a miscreant Dwarf? Does this look like the train to Disney Land?!?! We do not whistle while we work. We DO NOT WHISTLE ON OUR WAY TO WORK. WE DO NOT WHISTLE IN THE SACRED SILENCE. The Silence, it is Sacred. To be Revered and Respected. We do not defile its sanctity with happy little tunes, with little ditties of joy and joie de vivre. There is NO JOIE DE VIVRE ON THE MORNING COMMUTE. There is only the Sacredness of the Silence. Consider yourself warned.

And My Last Name Sounds NOTHING Like Griswald

When one goes to Europe to see one's European lover, one takes certain steps to make sure one is well prepared for the experience. These steps include anything and everything from shopping for appropriate bags, shoes, and clothes (euphemism for buying as much lingerie as you can pack without Customs wondering whether you're a prostitute), to taking beauty steps that begin weeks in advance, like dieting down to a size two, facials, deep hair conditioning treatments, and certainly, lets not forget the wonderful and fulfilling nether-region laser hair removal experience.

This is all done because one pictures oneself walking through quaint cobblestone streets full of fashionistas, with their cool, crisp European look, sipping coffee in a trendy cafe, going site seeing at marvels of history, partying in amazing clubs full of models until the wee hours of the morning, and dining on delicious and exotic fare in restaurants where everyone greets each other with double-cheeked air kisses.

One does not anticipate that one's lover will call her on the day of her departure to inform her, after she's already divested herself of her luggage in her baby sister's car the prior evening in order to work half a day and then run to the airport, that the temperature will actually drop 15 to 20 degrees lower than what he told her while she was packing lightweight spring and fall clothes.

One does not anticipate that on one's second day, after spending one's first evening meeting one's European lover's brother, cousins, closest friends and drinking approximately half a bottle of whiskey and dancing on furniture, that one would get so violently ill, that one was actually afraid of NOT dying.

One does not anticipate that it would rain, RAIN, for seven of the nine days one was there.

One does not anticipate when one's European lover tells her that he got tickets to a great soccer game in a famous stadium, that not only would the team lose in the last seconds of the game, but that the rain would turn into a monsoon, soaking one's four layers all the way through to her bones and again making her actually afraid of NOT dying.

One does not anticipate that the European lover's mother would get ill and have to be hospitalized, and one's European lover would have to spend two days running back and forth between the hospital and his parent's house while one sat in the European lover's apartment waiting for him. (Of course, one DOES correctly anticipate that the minute one returns home, the European lover's mother also miraculously recovers and returns home......)

One does not anticipate that the food, purported to be oh-so-finger-lickin-good, would actually not cooperate with one's digestive system thereby making eating a very dangerous activity.

One does not anticipate that the boiler runs out of hot water, just before one is finished rinsing the conditioner out of one's hair. EVERY TIME ONE SHOWERS.

But then again, one also does not anticipate the amounts of sex one can have when one is trapped in an apartment with a hot blooded European lover because of the inclement weather.

And that's when one realizes that Europeans really do know how to live.

Working for Satan

Okay, it's not bad enough that associates walk around pushing their I.V. drips of coffee all day, coming in various, single-serve, flavors like "OK, I'm Awake Now," "Good Morning! How Can I Be Your Slave Today?" and "HiI'mReadyToGetToWorkRighNow, YayILoveBeingALawyerFor
TheEvilEmpire, WooHooGoLegalResearch," but today, I've seen the end as I know it.

A new vending machine was just installed on my floor. And along with dispensing the usual sundry items such as Coke, Sprite, and Snapple, the machine actually vends RED BULL. Yes, you read that right. My firm has taken it upon itself to provide its employees with the caffeine equivalent of crack. Because sometimes you need an extra little kick, to work past your usual 9 p.m.

I'm going to buy a bottle of Kettle One, and keep it in my desk. If I'm working after 9, I'm not ordering a Red Bull, I'm ordering a Red Bull vodka, and maybe having a party on the head partner's couch with the hot maintenance guy.

Fuck Sandra Day O'Connor, I Want to be Betty Crocker

That's it. Someone give me the check. I'm officially TIRED of working and have decided that I want to be a rich housewife. I really do. No joke.

I've been working since I was 14. Everything from a factory line (yes, I wore a hair net. Oh sod-off, I needed the money) to busing tables, waitressing, hostessing, telemarketing, receptionist, real estate agent, working in a law library and working in a collection agency, all before I even graduated from college.

And now, NOW, I'm a lawyer. Um, no thanks. People say, "What the hell is the matter with you? You have a great job, make lots of money, you have a degree, totally self-sufficient, and you're bitching?" The answer to that, dear readers, is YES. YES, I'm bitching.

I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but just about ANYONE can become a lawyer. I actually saw an orangutan in court last week making oral argument.

And, I don't want to account for every six minutes of my day anymore, because that's what lawyers have to do. We bill our time in 1/10 increments of an hour. All day. Until we reach a minimum of 8 hours. Please, even the orangutan hates that.

Yes I'm ready to give up working with Mr. Keeps Calling Me To His Office For No Reason Other Than To Check Out My Ass In My Pencil Skirt As I Walk Out Even Though He Could Have Just Called Me Or Emailed Me What He Wanted To Say But Instead Decided To Make Me Go To Him Because He's a Perv Partner With An Ego Problem And A Small Penis Who Is Eating Away At My Six Minute Intervals of Billing Time To Have Tug-Vault Material For When He Has To Bang His Fat, Pampered Wife In The Ass Tonight.

I want someone else to worry about the mortgage payments. I'll worry about the cooking and cleaning. I want to wake up in the morning, make a cup of coffee, watch the news and read the paper. In an ugly bathrobe. Ok, the bathrobe doesn't have to be ugly, but really, I'm not picky. Maybe take Italian lessons, read some books that don't use words like, heretofore, aforementioned, party of the first part and party of the second part, and party of the part that makes me want to kill all the parties involved.

I know the feminists will be all, "women's rights," and "equal pay for equal work" and "hey someone give me a lighter so I can burn this bra" (you're not burning my $40 Victoria's Secret bra, bitch), but I don't care. I'm tired of working like a man.

So yeah, I'm ready to give up the glam life of 14 hour days, crowded subways, miserable people, paper pushing, and "fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, that's six minutes, phew," for the exciting world of being a housewife. Or even a waitress on some island. I'll wear flip-flops and serve drinks from a hut all day. I don't care. As long as I don't have to trudge to the office. Who's in? First round is on me.

Things That Make Me Wish I Was Blind

To the young, pretty woman on the subway this morning wearing the pastel yellow knee length wool coat, with the baby pink button-down blouse, light grey trousers, black (square toe?!) shoes, brown leather bag with brown, orange and (matching) pastel yellow plaid wool accent:

I know what you're trying to do, you thought, "Hey, if I wear this atrocious pastel yellow coat, people will notice me, especially in the sallow, blinking lights on the subway. And Prince Charming will be able to pick me out of a crowd, because I'll look so pretty and innocent in pink, and yellow, and light grey, and black and brown and orange. They'll never know the voices told me to wear this, I'll get all the credit...." Um, NO, it's not Easter, put the pastel down and step away from it with your hands up.

Just in case you didn't realize that you're in NEW YORK, in the middle of NOVEMBER, the weather for today, as anyone in even a vegetative state can tell by.....locking into satellite? Nooooo. Calling the national weather bureau? Hhhmm, noooo. Oh yeah, by LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW, is overcast and RAINY, at a cool 55 (you might need the news for that one...).

Bright mismatched pastel colors are inappropriate today. They are actually inappropriate ANY day on ANYONE who can dress themselves and does not suffer from a dire case of color blindness and deranged insanity.

Please, take that yellow coat back to whence it came, (if you can get back into the Gates of Hell) and give the salesgirl that lied to you and told you it looked great on you, a sound thrashing. You might even threaten to bury her in it if she ever sells another one. Just for good measure. God's speed.

No Pain, No Gain

Short of having a sexually transmitted disease or some kind of crazy, rub-fest sex, BLISTERS should NOT appear "down there".....unless of course, you're me, and you're getting nether-region-laser hair removal.

I have only one word to describe the experience: Holy Mother of God OUCH!!!!! Yaowzers! It hurt in ways I couldn't belieeeeeve. AND, they even applied a numbing cream, which numbed areas that I prefer to have feeling, but DIDN'T numb the crucial areas I would have really appreciated.

And the best BEST part, is that my dermatologist is a fresh-faced, sweet, Jewish doctor who looks like he's 23 (clearly he's not....but seriously, he's so young). Who's RELIGIOUS. And wears a YARMULKA. If I wasn't sure I was already going to hell (going to hell is almost redundant at this point), I'd be worried that sitting spread eagle getting cosmetic work done "down there" by a young, religious Jewish doctor would guarantee me a spot. If my mother ever found out, I have a feeling I'd be arriving at my hot-climate destination just a wee bit earlier than originally scheduled.

But, I'm fine now. The blisters are gone. And, so is the hair. The laser works, oh yes it does. And I'm going back in a month and a half, to do it again. And again, and again. The results are worth it. I'll take 15 minutes of excruciating pain once every couple of months, if, at the end of the recommended four or five treatments, I'll never have to go back AND I'll never have to flash my waxing lady.

I'll be posting before-and-after pictures to document the progress. No. Not really.

Mini-Me, Stop Humping the Laser!

Laser hair removal is something that is making me very excited. I have an appointment for Friday morning, and I'll be laser-ing an area that might make my waxing lady a thing of the past. At the very least, it will change the nature of our relationship to something a lot less intimate. This of course, is just in time for my trip to Europe next week, to see my European lovah.

I figure, if I'm willing to put my ankle behind my ear for a woman to put hot wax on my nether-regions, flashing a board-certified dermatologist isn't any worse. I mean, I've flashed my fair share of doctors in New York, at least this time, I might actually benefit from it.

I told my girlfriends I was going on Friday, and they're all jealous. The only thing I have to decide is what I want to leave behind, because I'm not sure if 12 year-old bare is the way to go. I was thinking maybe my first initial, or an arrow pointing down. I heard that if you have nothing left down there, guys consider you to be a professional. I'm certainly no professional, but I wonder if I really want to bother with the landing strip, or the stamp-sized square. I mean, fashion comes and goes, who's to say these things will last.

Fifteen years ago, it was ok to be au-naturale down there, look at porn movies. (I understand that some grooming is always necessary, but not like today's standards). In the past few years, I've found that anything down there is considered unacceptable.

If current trends persist, and men continue to react with total aversion to hair on a woman's body, pretty soon, we won't even have eyebrows anymore. But that's what the laser is for.

I have a feeling a really kinky man invented the laser hair removal machine. And may god bless him.

The Bachelor Party Rears Its Ugly Head Into Yet Another Relationship That Was Going Well

It was a sneak-attack bachelor party. "I'm going away for a female friends' wedding, I'll only be gone for three days...." turns into, "Hey baby, what's up?! I just called to say hello, but I gotta run! Going out with the Groom and a bunch of guys right now! Yeah, its the bachelor party! (guys' loud, excited, somewhat drunk voices in the background, calling out to each other) There'll be lots of drinking! But no funny stuff, the groom is not that kind of guy."

On the inside: The groom is not what kind of guy? The kind of guy that likes to go out and drink? Not the kind of guy that enjoys sex? Not the kind of guy that's attracted to women? Not the kind of guy that's out for his last hoorah? Oh, so the groom is either GAY or a EUNUCH. OR, more appropriately, you think I'm a MORON.

Lurid images floated through my head of things good friends have told me, have warned me about that go on at bachelor parties. Wonderful fathers and loving husbands turn into maniacs, boyfriends and fiances wouldn't recognize their partners if she's the one that jumped out of the cake and into their laps (or was the girl shooting hard-boiled eggs out of her...well, you get the picture). Unless the bachelor party involves a day of golf, camping, or sequestering on a fishing boat, I was warned NOT to trust anything I heard, and to be very very wary.

This is the sort of situation that makes me want to go out and have sex with someone else. Get-back-at-him-for-going-to-a-sneak-attack-bachelor-party-and-doing-god-knows-what-sex.

Yes, yes, very small minded and petty. But please PLEASE spare me the whole trust speech. That's crap. And you know it. Put a man in any situation where he can't get caught and the object of the evening is to get drunk, whoop it up, and have a last hoorah as a single man, and booze, women, illicit behavior, and penetration of some sort will take place. Especially in a place where prostitution is legal, and they have a very casual, Amsterdam-type attitude towards it.

He heard the surprise in my voice (um, maybe because it was the sneak-attack bachelor party!?), and told me to call him every five minutes if I wanted to, you know, just to prove to me that he's trustworthy. Of course, I couldn't let him see how much this bothered me, so I laughed, and told him to go out and have a great time with the boys. I told him of course I'm not going to call because I don't want to interrupt him while he's out, and that if in the next few days, he has a minute in between the wedding festivities, to give me a call if he wants to chat.

And then I hung up, and went through a mental roster of men that would be available for a night out, you know, drinking, whooping it up, maybe a last hoorah. And quickly discarded the idea because I know I wouldn't have the guts to do anything, even if I wanted to.

I hate this about myself. I hate that something like a sneak-attack bachelor party can make me suddenly feel like the ground disappeared from under my feet. I don't understand the weakness, the insecurity, I don't know where it comes from, or why it's so overwhelming. I hate that he could hear the surprise and fear in my voice, even when I tried to cover it up. And I hate that he offered for me to call him "every five minutes" because it made me feel humiliated and small and patronized. "Aawww, don't wowy wittle girw, you pathetic little insecure girl, if it'll make your booboo hurt less, you can call me whenever you want..." Like he's taking pity on me even though a rational mind understands that he's just trying to alleviate my concerns by making himself available to me.

So now I have to make an adult decision: Do I act like a normal person and just let this go? Or do I act like a neurotic wack-job, and become withdrawn, and play the passive-aggressive get-both-of-you-nowhere-fast, shoulder-shrug, nothing's-wrong game?

I think I will attempt (I said attempt, I can't make any promises) to behave like an adult, and keep the passive-aggressive, nothing's-wrong shtick to a minimum.

Maybe behaving like an adult will enable me to actually have the semblance of an adult-ish relationship. That, and letting go of the woobie.

So what are we going to do today, Brain? Same thing we do everyday, Pinky. Plan to take over the world.

At what age is it no longer appropriate to go out with co-workers, get blindingly drunk, fall asleep on the train and miss your stop, wake up and stumble outside, find a cab, slobber your way up the steps to your apartment, strip naked in the doorway, trip over your clothes on the way to the bathroom, puke up things you ate last Tuesday, pass out naked on your bed, and wake up holding your keys and your pocketbook as if you were about to leave for the day.

Thirty you say?

Oh good.

Conversation by College JUNIORS, Yes, I said COLLEGE Juniors. Sober. And No, They're Not High Either.

"Hey, do the 15-trick again!"

"What 15-trick?"

"The one you did the other day. You know. Where you divided 45 by 15."

"45 divided by 15 is 3."

"Yeah...Wow. You're so smart."

"Oh my god."

This is the point when parents should consider selling their children into slave labor. The future of America might depend on it. And I have a feeling Darwin would approve.

Definitions

Boozerholic

adj. - a person who drinks large quantities of alcohol to the point of humiliation, without feeling remorse about it the next day.

Boozerholicism

n. - basing personal religion on the mistaken belief that worshipping alcohol in all its glory will save you from the misery that is the life you've created for yourself.

Crapolicism

n. - basing a world dominating religion on the bastard child of a horny Jewish middle eastern woman from ancient times, who subscribes to the adage, "the bigger the lie, the more convincing it is."

• ex: "I can't believe I had premarital sex and got pregnant! My parents are going to kill me......I know! I'll say God did it!"

Shoulder-Shrug OK

adj. - the reaction you have when your friends ask you about the guy you're dating, but aren't that excited about.

• ex.: "Hey, MLIGCS, how's that guy you're dating?"
  *Shoulder-shrug* "He's OK I guess."

Birthday Ode to My Not-Such-a-Baby Baby Sister

The news of your impending arrival made me realize that our parents were still having sex. Ew.
When you were born, I became the designated babysitter for you.
This situation blew.

There was actually a time, you were shorter than me.
Over the years, this has ceased to be.
Now, I have to look up in order to see.
This has invoked some jealousy.

You used to be a total pain.
From trying to kill you, I would have to refrain.
And you may have something to do with the fact that I'm no longer sane.

But having you in my life has been only a boon.
You are the one who calls me all day starting at noon.
Because of the laughter you invoke, everyone here thinks I'm a loon.
And I'm always hoping to hear from you soon.

As a baby I only viewed you as a pest,
As you got older, you finally gave me a rest.
And today, of my friends, you are the best.
Even though I have a bigger chest.

So Happy Birthday to my darling Spawn,
Without you, my day would have no dawn.
From a child to a woman you have undergone,
With a future of success and happiness to look on.

Paperwork

One of the problems with being Jewish is our obsession with personal resumes. Is the person you're dating good on paper? Is the person they want you to go out with good on paper?

Start with the all important number one question that should be asked and answered in the affirmative, before you pass Go, before you collect $200, Are they Jewish. Check.

You can then move on to:
Educated. Check.
- Ivy League. Secret bonus check.
Doctor or Lawyer. Check.
- Medical or law student. Possible future check once they pass the boards or the bar.
CPA, podiatrist or real estate broker. Half a check.
Writer, artist, or teacher. You lose a previously awarded check.
- Writer with published books and steady income, artist with paintings in galleries with steady income, teacher who happens to be independently wealthy - check reinstated.
Comes from a good family. Check.
Comes from a ridiculously wealthy family. Secret bonus check-check.
Is a good boy (translation - you'll be having sex in the missionary position for the rest of your life...May God have mercy on you). Check.
Is a good girl (translation - kiss blow-jobs goodbye..You might as well just kill yourself now). Check.

Usually, parents don't understand why people with equally good resumes who go through the interview process (i.e., dating) don't just get along, fall madly in love, and get married already.

The problem is the intangible that isn't accounted for. That spark that makes you want to sit with them on your couch all day watching movies, having sex, ordering pizza and ignoring all incoming calls all the while, feeling completely content and happy.

I met two different men on my trip to Greece this summer, one that happens to be pretty perfect on paper, one that is not. And of course, in typical fashion, I fall madly for the one that is not. Neither one lives anywhere near me, because really, there are over 2 million eligible men in New York and I've already dated 1,999,996 of them.

Bachelor Number One is Jewish (Check - here's your $200, you may proceed); educated, graduating first in his medical school class and receiving an award from the President of his country (Check. Check-check). Comes from an amazingly good family comprised of wealthy, educated professionals with medical degrees and/or PhD's (Women and men included) (Check, check). Extra-curricular activities include: deep sea diving in the Maldives, rock-climbing in the Alps, visiting the rain forests in Costa Rica, and heli-skiing in Canada. He has his own practice, is the youngest University Professor in his country, and is the youngest professional lecturer on his medical specialty. (He is invited to lecture anywhere from one to five times a month all over the world).

He is 5'11", blue eyes, blond hair, with a receding hairline, small bald spot, and an athletic build. And he dresses better than any man I have ever seen. Conversation with him is shallow, making any kind of emotional connection difficult, and the thought of having sex with him makes me shudder. Literally. But overall, he is a nice guy, with very honorable intentions.

Bachelor Number Two is NOT Jewish (GO TO JAIL. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200). Is an Engineer (HEY, where are you going?!), comes from a highly educated family comprised of professionals (doctors, lawyers, engineers - including ALL extended family) (Get back here, you don't have authority to move forward!), is independently wealthy (Wait a minute, did you say independently wealthy?), is NOT a good boy (Check for me!!! Yay!!!) and all we want to do is hang out doing nothing.

My poor mother, I felt so bad telling her. But she was surprisingly supportive. She just "wants me to be happy." She's betting Bachelor Number Two will go the way of most of my relationships, straight into the gutter. Crash and burn, baby. What she doesn't realize is that all those other relationships ended because the guys were good on paper. Now that there's someone not good on paper, he HAS to be the one I end up with. Any other scenario would just make too much sense.

Quote of the Day

I think you should follow your heart and not your head. You were never very smart anyway.

Pre-Holiday Prayer for Rosh-Hashana

Dear Lord, please give me the strength to be a good person and not fall prey to the nasty comments I will receive tonight from the women in my family.

Grant me the patience to not want to stab my mother in the neck when she, again, reminds me that I look terrible, and really should do something with my hair, or maybe buy a new outfit.

Let their evil words fall on deaf ears when they remind me that I’m still single, and almost 30, and I'm not as great as I think I am and should give the fat, older man at grandma's temple a chance.

Provide me with peace when the women comment on my need for plastic surgery, and ask why I don't buy myself brand name clothes instead of wearing regular clothes. Please Lord, allow me to hold my tongue and not tell them that I too would spend $1,500 on a handbag and $450 on shoes if I was a worthless shallow housewife who never did a real days work and instead mooched off my husband, while I lunched with my girlfriends, gave orders to the nanny and shopped all day.

Lord, make my countenance serene so that they do not see the bodily harm I will want to inflict upon them when they ask about my personal life, and try to set me up with men who are my "perfect match" until I discover their commitment/mommy/erectile-dysfunction/megalomania/financial/porn-addiction/drug-addiction/mental-incapacity/abusive issues that they've managed to hide from polite society but feel perfectly comfortable displaying to me within 15 minutes of our first meeting.

Grant me peace, oh Lord, to not commit murder or acts of reckless endangerment tonight and for the upcoming year to those you have so cunningly saddled me with as relatives.

May Your children rejoice in Your greatness oh Lord, and please, oh please, let me get through one damn holiday season unscathed and needing even more therapy.

Amen

Guerrilla Warfare - A Guide to Jewish Mothering

This handbook is secreted into delivery rooms around the world and comes in almost all languages. It provides a step-by-step guide on how to manipulate, coerce and guilt a Jewish child into submission.

The existence of this handbook is only provided upon birth or imminent birth of a Jewish child to a Jewish mother. This handbook reveals the intricacies involved in making a person who had the potential of becoming a normal well-adjusted member of society into a neurotic, guilt-obsessed, passive-aggressive Mama's Boy/Girl.

This handbook contains key phrases and silent treatment techniques that are practically guaranteed to be effective, including but not limited to:

• I gave up everything to raise you. And THIS is the thanks I get.
• No really, you do whatever you think is right. I mean, who am I to have an opinion? I'm just your mother.
• Eat. There are people starving all over the world, and you're too good to eat my food.
• When I was your age, I used to walk five miles to school. Uphill. Both ways. In the snow. All year round. And all you do is want want want.
• No, it's fine. You go out and enjoy your life. I'll just sit here. By myself. In the dark. *deep sigh*
• Who am I to want to want to see my son/daughter/grandchildren more than once a month?
• Oh, you finally called. It's nice to know you remember you have a mother.

Comparisons with other children to make sure your child feels inadequate are key. For example:

• Did you hear about the Goldstein boy? He got into Harvard. Oy, his mother must be so proud. What I am going to tell the ladies at Temple about you?
• Did you hear about Shari Klein? She got engaged to a DAWCTA. At least HER mother can rest easy. Isn't Shari two years younger than you?

Enlisting the help of women who have the handbook is also fair game. These women are highly trained and need only minimal coaching and/or information to effectuate the desired result:

• It's your grandmother. Why haven't you called your poor mother? Do you know the agony she's going through worrying about you?
• It's your aunt Ester. Have you gone to see your mother lately? Really? You've been busy? Apparently not too busy to go out with your friends, but too busy to see your own mother. I see.

And of course, if all else fails, the secret weapon: Crying. But use this with caution. Over-use of the Crying Weapon will only cause suspicion and backfire.

Change Your Own Diaper - Yes, I Would Make the Worst Mother

There is something wrong with my biological clock. It's not working. I don't hear any ticking. Nothing. Nada. Crickets. I might be the only living female who is almost 30, and not in the least concerned with having children.

To be perfectly honest, I would probably prefer to not have children. No one believes me. They think I'm lying or scared. My girlfriends call me crazy and brush off that statement as if I never really said it. Of course you want to have kids, they say, you're a woman. Every woman wants to have children.

And I tell them that I don't even like children. They smell, and slobber all over the place. And I have to pay attention to them, and play with them, when all I really want to do is watch some TV, maybe take a nap. But you'll love your own children. It's the most beautiful thing in the world, they insist.

And I tell them I'm not too keen on the responsibility. I like having my freedom to come and go as I please. What do you mean I have to PAY someone to watch it when I'm not around! This is worse than taking care of a dog, and I don't even have time for a dog. Dammit. And then my friends call me selfish. Selfish? Okay, maybe. But at least self-aware. And honest.

Why do you want to get married if you don't want kids, they demand. And I tell them that I look at marriage as two people who love each other and want to devote their lives to one other. Some choose to have families, some may be okay just being together without any additions. This for some reason evokes anger, as if I blew off the semester offering Being a Real Woman 101, when there was a waiting list for the class. Geez.

And to say something that will make most people gasp in shock and horror (and probably never read this blog again): I don't think pregnant women are beautiful. I think they look like they're pregnant. They look uncomfortable and swollen, and tired. They worry about their weight and their bloated ankles, the stretch marks on their stomachs, and the back pain that doesn't allow them to sit still for five minutes. These women do not look happy to me. And personally, I don't think a woman who looks like she's carrying a basketball under her shirt is very attractive. Waddling, hhhhmmm, not so nice. And unless that whole "inner glow" thing has something to do with the sweats after their morning sickness, I haven't seen much "glowing" going on.

Of course, this whole issue is premature, since I'm in no danger of getting knocked-up by anyone right now. Like my grandmother says, "First you need to find the donkey, before you can take him for a ride."

Unfortunately, all the men I meet want kids. And they don't want just one or two, they want a soccer team. And they expect me to stay home and take care of them. What happened to the good old days, when men viewed children as a burden, and only had them because their wives brow-beat them into it? Why can't I find a guy like that?

Men have it easy in the kid department. They get up, go to work, be intellectual, make money, talk to their buddies at the urinal, and come home to "Daddy, daddy, daddy!! I missed you! Look what I made!" while I stand in the doorway to the kitchen in an apron, covered in poop stains and magic marker, a spatula in one hand, and a baby dangling by its diaper in the other, my hair looking like I've been playing with electricity all day, matted with food that number three, the forward, thought would look better in my hair than in her mouth, while I watch the touching scene of my husband and number five, the goalie, unfold in my foyer. My husband plays with the future Pele for a little while, puts the baby down, eats his dinner, watches TV, gets his blow-job and goes to bed. Um yeah, I don't think so.

I think the only solution is to find an older man, divorced, with grown children. I could be the evil, younger trollop step-mother, after their daddy's money. The newer model, someone his ex-wife will call that "Chippy Bimbo." I could be a chippy bimbo. I could be THE chippy bimbo, as long as I don't have to have to kids.

Her Schwartz is Almost as Big as Mine

My Life is God's Comic Strip: Yo, kiddo! Are you coming out tonight?

19 Year Old Virgin Baby Sister: No, I have a date.

MLIGCS: oooo-ooooooo, you have a daaaate? With who? Is he cute?

19YOVBS: Yes, he's cute, he's an athlete. He was in the Olympics.

MLIGCS: NIIIICE!!! Are you wearing your pretty-pretty panties?

19YOVBS: Actually, I'm not wearing any panties.

MLIGCS: *sniffle* You have learned well, young Jedi.

My Life Goes From Sucks to Blows

Once upon a time, not very long ago, there was a certain neurosurgeon that I was madly and painfully in love with. Not real love, of course, because adulation, worship and a lack of spinal column equate to more of a, "I'm so infatuated with you that I'm going to make a total ass out of myself until you get disgusted by my undignified behavior and leave me" kind of love.

The kind where he says "jump," and I say, "I'm already in the air." Sad, sad but oh so true.

We dated briefly; gave it two tries in six months. And it's been about six months since I last saw him. I think about him sometimes, and I say to myself, "Why couldn't he just like me? If he liked me, and we were together, it would have been perfect." And then I try to get a hold myself and stop acting like such a desperate pussy-ass girl.

I also think about him when I bump into random people I know, and wish it was him instead of them. Yes, there is no limit to how pathetic I can be. No, there are not enough help groups in the world to save me.

Last week he was on my mind again, but this time, I thought, "Wow, I think I'm totally over him finally. Must be this new guy I'm spending time with. Why bother with the idea of someone, when you have a real live person caring about you."

But who the hell am I kidding?! I mean, the title of the damn blog is "My Life is God's Comic Strip" and based on prior experiences, we all know this healthy attitude and clear-minded state of affairs can't last.

Saturday, while spending time with this new guy, who happens to be AMAZING, I think to call one of my friends to make plans for the evening. Turns out she has plans with a new friend, who is bringing some of his pals out with them. And she hesitates and says, "I don't want to ruin your weekend," but I'm in such a good mood, I'm thinking nothing can ruin my weekend. Until she tells me that one of the pals coming out is the neurosurgeon.

"What?! WHAT?!?!?!?! You're going out with the NEUROSURGEON? MYYYYYY NEUROSURGEON?!?!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. It's such a weird coincidence."

"Listen to me, and listen to me good. You are going to bring me up in conversation somehow, and you are GOING TO MAKE ME SOUND LIKE A GODDAMNED ROCKSTAR. I am nothing short of AMAZING, WONDERFUL AND LIVING IT UP. If he doesn't say he knows me, you offer to set us up because I'm SO FUCKING GREAT. If he says he knows me, you act like he's OUT OF HIS MIND FOR LETTING ME GO. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Mental Note to Self

When talking to the young partner who has a crush on you about an interview he just conducted, don't joke that the only reason you got hired was because you gave the Hiring Committee blow-jobs. All blow-job talk should be saved for the Christmas party, where you get really hammered and can let yourself go.

The Somewhat Pinkish, or Maybe Mauve Letter

I grew up having it hammered into my head that I absolutely had to remain a virgin until I got married. If I didn't, that meant I was a terrible person with no morals and self-control and no one would marry me. And since the goal of bringing female babies into this world in my culture is so that they can grow up, get married and bring more babies into the world, pre-marital sex essentially meant social ostracism the likes of which makes Hester Prynn seem like the town mayor.

In high school I never had a date. Not even one. Not even to my prom. Needless to say, people who know me now and see pictures from then have a nice time making fun. And yes, there's a lot of material.

When the topic of high school comes up today, someone always invariably asks, "so, who did you hang out with? The football players? Were you a cheerleader?" To which I respond, "no, I was a nerd in honors classes and played on the badminton team. I had braces until the end of junior year, and my uncle's pet name for me was Chunk, after his fat dog." No one believes me. That's fine with me. Let them think I'm being modest.

Seeing as how my chances for losing my virginity were not that high, I wasn't that concerned with my morals. But then I got to college. And met boys. And met the gym. And invariably met the end of my virginity.

But even then, I had such a guilty feeling, it was such a big deal at 19. It was a big deal until I got married at 26. Having sex with someone meant they were my boyfriend. Meant we were in a serious relationship. SERIOUS. There were no one-night stands in my past (and actually, for all of my philandering, there still aren't any one night stands.)

My ex-husband couldn't care less that I wasn't a virgin. My mother, on the other hand, insisted I lie to him and even offered to take me to the gynecologist to reinstate the evidence with a couple of quick stitches. Um, no thanks. I'll take my chances.

Today, as I get older, sex isn't the big deal it was a few years ago. It doesn't come with titles and classifications of "boyfriend" and "girlfriend." Now it's "dating" or "seeing someone" or even just "hanging out." The people you date don't ask where you spend your nights when you're not with them. It's an unspoken rule: No one is exclusive, even if you're having sex, unless you have "the talk." "The talk" has replaced sex as the threshold for entering into a serious relationship. And you can bet you're not having "the talk" anytime soon.

Even though I've bought into this whole way of dating, I still have a weird need to classify whatever it is I'm doing with someone. You know, are we "seeing each other" or are we "just friends" or are we "friends with benefits" and so on. I think it's a female-type need, to create parameters on some level in order to create a sense of security, a sense of standing on hard ground. If you name it and define it, it takes shape and becomes something. Women tend to have a greater need to define, to make it something over "well, let's just see where things go...." But at the end of the day, no matter how many words we use, it's our actions that determine the outcome of our relationships. Actions are the most telling example of someone's feelings. There are "boyfriends" that act like total jerks, and guys you're "seeing" who are really just amazing. So maybe it's okay that a relationship doesn't have a title. At the end of the day, as women, I think it's okay to relax with the titles we need to put on things and just let the relationship evolve.

Who knows, if I can play it cool long enough, I might reach my goal of "Dr. and Mrs. So Damn Rich I Don't Need to Work Another Day in My Life and Have Decided to Take Up Cooking and Piano Lessons When I'm Not Meeting With My Personal Trainer." A girl can dream.

Things Men Feel Comfortable Enough to Say to Me

I told my family I was coming to visit you and if I don't return, I'm either married or dead. Which if you think about it, is essentially the same thing.

Quote of the Day

You're looking at me like I'm the idiot child of a man who had to wear protective head-gear for the better part of his life.

And the Winner Is....

Hee Haw, Missouri sucks hairy moose balls.

The jury ESPECIALLY sucks, and plaintiff's attorney can spend the rest of his life giving them head. And swallowing.

The problem with having trials in bum fuck, where the education is scarce but Hollywood movies with their Hollywood endings proliferate, is that these nice, simple folk, get the wrong idea about the legal system.

Just because the plaintiff is from your hometown, with his "Aw shucks, golly gee wiz, those darn Northerners done come down here and try to take advantage of us nice, hardworking simple folk and they deserve to be punished!!" attitude does not automatically entitle him to win. No really. Good thing there's an appellate system in place. Mr. Hee Haw won't see a dime for a very very long time.

The problem with the case is that it turned into a turf war, having nothing to do with the evidence. Or the lies plaintiff was caught in on the stand. Or the fact that he practically admitted that he concocted the entire thing. So the jury wanted to stick it to the outsiders, those "horrible people up north that don't give a damn about the little guy."

The whole trial was surreal, as if To Kill A Mockingbird was being played out before my eyes. Plaintiff's counsel grandstanding, character witnesses that included plaintiff's eighth-grade bus driver and his preacher. Fifty-eight thousand references to how the plaintiff was "saved" by returning to the church, and how he now lives his life according to Jesus's teachings.

Of course, it was painfully disappointing to have spent two weeks in Hee Haw only to lose. So on Friday, after finding out the verdict, I did what any attorney would do, I started drinking heavily and didn't stop until I got home and passed out in my clothes. Eight vodka rocks, three at the airport, five on the plane. And one lost wallet later.

Saturday morning I crawled to the bank, dark circles of makeup under my eyes, to cancel my accounts and order a new debit card.

"So ma'am, did you say you lost your wallet or it was stolen?"

"Um, I lost it. And would you mind not screaming?" I rasped.

"I'm not screaming ma'am."

"Oh."

Greetings from Bum-Fuck

I’m in Missouri, or as they like to call it here, Missour-ah. I will be in Missour-ah until Labor Day weekend for a trial. Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. I’m actually not only in Missour-ah, but I’m in one of the deepest darkest corners of the “Show Me” State (Show me what? I have no idea because in all honesty, there’s NOTHING here I want to see).

For some reason, everyone keeps asking if I’m from New York, even though I’ve tried my gosh golly darndest to be as sweet and nice as peach pie. I haven’t lost my temper once and I haven’t even rushed anyone to move faster than their regular speed of neutral bordering on reverse.

Scenes from My Cousin Vinny keep flashing across my mind, and I live in constant fear while I drive with the radio on and the windows down that some state trooper is going to pull me over, confiscate my CD, chuck me under the chin with my driver’s license and tell me “there’s no dancin’ in these here parts. Preacher don’t allow it.”

Some older gentleman near the courthouse leaned in real close yesterday, leering and asked, after winking at me, whether I was Indian. I wasn’t sure if he meant dots or feathers, but I just skee-dadled away from him as fast as my stilettos allowed.

Being of Middle Eastern descent, I contemplated lying and telling everyone I was I-talian before coming here. But something about lying about my background bothers me. This is still America, after all. So I lied and told him I was Israeli, close enough, but not as inflammatory as the real deal. He made some weird ooooo-ing sound and has left me alone since.

Missour-ah is not that bad. Everybody is real friendly, and the truck to person ratio is about 3 to 1. I’m off to decide which fine dining establishment I want to eat at tonight, this will probably be my hardest decision of the day. Hhhhmmm, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse…..Fuck it, I’ll splurge and order pizza. Can’t go wrong with pizza. It’s like sex, even when it’s bad, it’s still kinda good.

Saturday Night Fever

- I found you an apartment, exactly in the area you wanted.

- No way Mom!

- Yes, the guy is getting married and he’s giving up his place. It’s an illegal rental, so no lease to worry about. Come to his wedding on Saturday night with me, his landlord will be there, she’s a little old lady; make nice to her, she’ll love you, you’ll get a great apartment.

- Shit, I have to come to his wedding? I hate these weddings, everyone stares at you and gossips.

- Look what’s the big deal, you spend one night with your mom, one wedding, and then you get a great place to live in.

- Fine. The things I have to do to find decent housing in this city.

Saturday night……

- Hey, didn’t you go out with that guy a few years ago?

- Who? The one with the hair plugs? Yeah, I did. Look, he’s here with someone. I think that’s a ring on her finger. Oh he was a nice guy, I’m happy for him…..Bartender, glass of white wine please.

23 minutes later……..

- Um, MLIGCS?

- Yeah Mom?

- Isn’t that your ex-boyfriend?

- Oh my god, I haven’t seen him since we got engaged and I left him for my ex-husband. Ohhhh, look at his wife, she’s gorgeous. And, wait, does she look pregnant to you?

- Yeah, maybe only a few months, but pregnant. She’s really tall, and so thin, even pregnant.

- Yes, I see that. Thanks Mom…..Bartender, vodka. Rocks.

17 minutes later……

- Oh dear lord, there’s my ex-mother-in-law. I didn’t know she was going to be here. I haven’t seen her since I left my motherfucking wife-beating ex. Jesus, could this night get any worse?

- Well, actually…..

- IS THAT MY motherfucking wife beating ex-husband?!?!?! AND HE’S HERE WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND?!?!?!? I didn’t know she’s a blond…..What the fuck is going on? This was supposed to be a wedding, not a goddamn convention. Bartender, whiskey. Neat. Actually, just give me the damn bottle.

The Real Reason They're Called Blind

The problem with going on a bazillion blind dates is that when you meet someone, on the bazillion and one blind date, who, once AGAIN, misrepresented themselves and looks nothing like their picture, you basically want to throw a drink in your own face so the alcohol can burn your retinas and optical nerves up into your brain and kill the neurons holding the image of their ugly lying face from your mind as you blindly grope your way out of the bar.

Produce is in Aisle Three

I know it doesn't say "turnip" across my forehead. The reason I know this is because I've caught glimpses of myself in various mirrors on occasion, and my forehead is blank. No writing, no scribbles, no signs, no doodles.

So I'm always amazed when someone attributes to me the intelligence levels of a vegetable. Not that there's anything wrong with turnips, per se, but really, everyone knows they're not as smart as asparagus or a particularly advanced cauliflower.

My girlfriend and I both met a guy whose romantic overtures we each rejected (unbeknownst to either of us at the time). And then, I receive a very curious email from him, months and months later.

The email asked about life, what's going on, singledom, the usual tripe. And oh so casually let me know he sent my girlfriend an email that went unanswered.

In response to my brilliantly witty and interesting reply letting him know that we are still single, he decides to offer himself as a prospective candidate. TO BOTH OF US. The, "hey there's always a great guy here in [somewhere that totally sucks] if ever your friend or you have interest ;)". (Don't even get me started on the emoticon).

Gentlemen, please, pay attention to the following: If a woman ignores you, don't try to circumvent her rejection by backdooring in through her friends. Women, although crazy and emotional on occasion, ARE NOT STUPID. I AM NOT STUPID. Oh, and I'm also not a pimp.

And please, for the love of god and all things holy and sacred on this good earth, you don't let a woman know she's part of your lineup. Seriously, fishing operations need to be covert. Not, "Hey, I'll take you, or your friend, or even that woman standing off to your left..."

Matters of the heart are delicate, and should be treated as such. Dipshit.

Conversation Snippets of Interest

My first drink ever was a flaming shot of 151.

What's that?

It's a shot of 151, lit on fire.

Oh.......Do you blow it out first?
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Hey, I know this is a long shot, but my old college roommate, from about 12 years ago, lives in the town you used to live in for a while. You wouldn't happen to know Mr. Drives an Embarrassingly Loud Muscle Head Car That is the Total Antithesis of Him Being a Doctor would you?

Mr. Drives an Embarrassingly Loud Muscle Head Car That is the Total Antithesis of Him Being a Doctor? Hhmmm? Oh yeah,yeah, I think I know him. I went out on a couple of dates with him.
What?! You actually know him?

Listen, if he's single and Jewish, and in the State of New York at some point in his life, chances are I dated him.

Where did you guys meet?

On JDate.

Are you still on it?

No.

Why?

Because there's only a finite supply of men on JDate.....
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MLIGCS: Listen, guys, we appreciate your interest in chatting us up and buying us drinks, but really, we're waaaay too old for you.

Ridiculously Hot Guy Whose Breath Still Smells Like Breast Milk: There's no way you're older than me.

MLIGCS: How old are you?

Ridiculously Hot Guy Whose Breath Still Smells Like Breast Milk: 24.

MLIGCS: Oh. I guess we're the same age.....Wanna dance?
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MLIGCS: Is that a hair growing out of the mole on her upper lip?

Friend: (shudders) I think so.

MLIGCS: It's really long.

Friend: I know, it's scary looking.

MLIGCS: It's thick like a pubic hair, but it's sticking straight out.

Friend: Yup. Do you think she knows its there?

MLIGCS: She probably uses it to floss.

Meow

MLIGCS: Look, I really don't want her to come out with us tonight, she's not any fun, and she's a total cock-block.

Girlfriend: Oh, stop being such a baby, she won't cause any trouble. And we're all going out in a group, so you'll have a good buffer.

Four hours later.....

Young strapping male in a group talking to Cock-block says to me:

Hey, Cock-block says you're crazy. She says you're the total crazy one in the group.

Really? That's funny. Yes, actually I am. I'm Crazy. But she's Easy. So gentlemen, start your engines.

If the Shoe Fits.....

In response to this on my match.com profile: "I don't like pedicures because I can't stand anyone touching my feet. I don't like manicures because I don't have the patience to sit around and watch nail polish dry"

I get this:

Dear MLIGCS,

I was searching through the on-line personals and came across your profile.

You seem like a very nice person and one who I think I have a lot in common. Of course, I do have a foot fetish and hope this will not be a problem for you. I love everything about feet. I like socks too. If I like a woman, I want to sleep with her socks. And sometimes, put my penis in her socks. I also can only reach an orgasm when I get a "foot job" and find nothing more sexually arousing then bringing a woman to climax with my foot. Some men are turned on by watching "fisting" films, but my library consists of "footing" films.

Have you seen the work of Troy McFoote? He has been in such films as"Footing Angels", "Something is afoot in Savanah's bedroom", "2 Feet from Heaven" and "Footsie and Tootsie go to Washington." (The latter has an anal footing scene that won an AVF award).

I suspect the reason I like feet so much is that I do not have arms. Well, no arms below the elbow. (I thought I should mention that also.) Some women are turned on by stubs, which I often cover with a vibrating steel cover. But, come to think of it, the stubs actually look like little feet, so this too may be problematic. I hope not.

I think in every other way I am the perfect man for you.

I anxiously await your reply.
The Foot Master

I love my friends.....

Admitting You Have a Problem is the First Step

Try to tell me that I can't have something, and now....I. Have. To. Have. It. Try to tell me that you're not interested in me, and now....I think I love you.

It's always the way. "Hhhmmm, not so sure if I'm really that into him" turns into "Oh my god, what am I going to doooooo, I'll never find anyone like him agaiiiiiin. Waaaaaaaa" when you break up.

"Yeah, he's ok I guess" becomes "He's soooo amazing, I love everything about him and want to have babies with him" the minute you find out he's dating other people.

Your backup becomes Bachelor(ette) Number One the minute you find out you're actually their backup. Sucker.

Losing the power (power you only THOUGHT you had, when in reality, you had NOTHING BUT DELUSIONS OF YOUR OWN DESIRABILITY) will always turn a confident, relaxed person in the dating world into a sniveling pile of insecurity, chock full of aberrant behavior, pathetic phone calls, and that desperate nervous little giggle every time they're with the other person.

Happens to me all the time. I just found out that a girl on my trip to Greece thought one of the guys I was interested in was cute. His "cuteness" has just tripled for no reason other than the smell of competition and that his options have just expanded beyond me. Now, He Must Be Mine.

My friend, on a date with a woman last night that he was sort of interested in, is very depressed today. Because last night, she revealed that she's dating someone else as well, and is...torn between them. Now, he loves her.

"What?! I'm NOT your One and Only?.....But I think we're soul mates destined to be together by the gods; it's written in the stars. Yes, I just realized it this second. What's your point?"

Puh-leeze

Irony, (no, not a black fly in your chardonnay...) is when you stop seeing someone, rejoin the internet dating site you met him on, and get an email from the site with your "potential matches" where he (out of thousands) happens to be highlighted as one of your perfect matches. I mean really.