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.