There's a guy at my office whose wife just had a baby. He stands outside my office, everyday, talking to the secretaries, everyday, about his baby, everyday.
If I could, I would stab him in the eye with a letter opener. It's one thing to be a proud father, it's another thing to assume anyone gives more than a five minute shit that you just had a baby.
Your wife has not achieved some amazing feat. Your child probably has nothing to do with the Second Coming. The fact that the baby cries and sleeps DOES NOT MAKE IT REMARKABLE, and, IT DOES NOT MAKE YOUR STORIES INTERESTING.
The eight billion pictures you pull out today are no different than the eight billion you pulled out yesterday, save for the yellow bunny blanket. Here's a hint. Adults don't give a fuck about yellow bunny blankets unless someone is either trying to suffocate them with one, or shove it up their asses without invitation.
I don't understand people who offer you information about their children when all you were trying to do was be polite by asking how the baby is. This should not be perceived as an invitation to present a dissertation on baby formula.
And you know what else he does? Whenever one of the secretaries dares to try and participate in the conversation, or tell her own story, he impatiently listens, and then says, "Well. As I was saying...."
People need to understand that if their children aren't remarkably interesting (like my friend Kiki's) then no one honestly and truly cares about them. If I haven't asked to see baby pictures, Don't. Show. Them. To. Me. I won't pretend to be interested.
If I ask any person how they're doing, the usual answer is a simple "fine," or "great," or "ok" because that person knows that I'm asking out of politeness. And he in turn, responds out of politeness, knowing that I really don't want or need any more information. If he started yammering about his plumbing problems or the fact that his wife is screwing her boss, that just creates an uncomfortable social situation where one is sharing too much.
Same rule applies to babies. There's no exception in the social rules of interaction, carving out a niche for babies. No ear infection stories, no aversions to baby powder, not even one iota about rashes. "Fine," "great" or "ok" are the acceptable responses. Anything more? I DON'T CARE. Neither does anyone else. Get over it.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Gamophobia
I recently read a book admonishing women who have been proposed to more than twice of being careless. I thought about it, since I happen to fall into that category, and wondered whether I was really careless, or just someone who likes to see how far she can get the guy to commit, before she has to extricate herself from a relationship she knows she doesn't want to be in for the rest of her life.
My first boyfriend, whom I loved madly, didn't really propose so much as capitulate to my incessant pressure. Luckily for both of us, he conveniently forgot the entire episode.
A few boyfriends later, I was proposed to again. But we didn't get along very well, and I ended up breaking one of his teeth with my killer aim. He blackmailed me to stay with him, threatening to press charges for assault and battery if I tried to leave. That was a charming relationship that I look back on quite fondly.
There was the boyfriend who was nice, fun, loving, Jewish...and poor. I got thrown out of the house for dating him. And I vaguely recall my mother threatening that if I didn't leave him, she would make my life so miserable, that when I cried (which she guaranteed she would make me do), I would cry blood instead of tears.
I called him, distraught, to break up. I didn't know he was planning on proposing in only a few days, on the 4th of July during the fireworks. But since I was adamant we had to break up because our Jedi training hadn't fully prepared us to fight the forces of Satan, he ended up asking over the phone. Needless to say, family pressure forced us to split months later.
Then, my ex-husband, who proposed on my friend's boat. He used a note in a bottle that he'd hidden in a bathing suit pocket and pulled out as he was coming out of the water. We celebrated all day on the boat, and all night with friends. It was a halcyon day. Really, just the beginning of the end.
And now, my Greek boyf. He didn't use the M word, but asked in what amounted to as a proposal. He knew better than to use the M word; he knew I wouldn't respond positively. I also don't think his mouth is capable of forming the M word and he feared his vocal chords could cramp and choke him to death.
I said, "How about a year? If we're both still alive, and neither one incarcerated or in a mental institution, we'll take it from there."
Love, is about baby steps. Giant leaps can leave you careening off the side of a cliff and splattered on the rocks below. Bob knows what he's talking about.
My first boyfriend, whom I loved madly, didn't really propose so much as capitulate to my incessant pressure. Luckily for both of us, he conveniently forgot the entire episode.
A few boyfriends later, I was proposed to again. But we didn't get along very well, and I ended up breaking one of his teeth with my killer aim. He blackmailed me to stay with him, threatening to press charges for assault and battery if I tried to leave. That was a charming relationship that I look back on quite fondly.
There was the boyfriend who was nice, fun, loving, Jewish...and poor. I got thrown out of the house for dating him. And I vaguely recall my mother threatening that if I didn't leave him, she would make my life so miserable, that when I cried (which she guaranteed she would make me do), I would cry blood instead of tears.
I called him, distraught, to break up. I didn't know he was planning on proposing in only a few days, on the 4th of July during the fireworks. But since I was adamant we had to break up because our Jedi training hadn't fully prepared us to fight the forces of Satan, he ended up asking over the phone. Needless to say, family pressure forced us to split months later.
Then, my ex-husband, who proposed on my friend's boat. He used a note in a bottle that he'd hidden in a bathing suit pocket and pulled out as he was coming out of the water. We celebrated all day on the boat, and all night with friends. It was a halcyon day. Really, just the beginning of the end.
And now, my Greek boyf. He didn't use the M word, but asked in what amounted to as a proposal. He knew better than to use the M word; he knew I wouldn't respond positively. I also don't think his mouth is capable of forming the M word and he feared his vocal chords could cramp and choke him to death.
I said, "How about a year? If we're both still alive, and neither one incarcerated or in a mental institution, we'll take it from there."
Love, is about baby steps. Giant leaps can leave you careening off the side of a cliff and splattered on the rocks below. Bob knows what he's talking about.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Things that give you a warm fuzzy feeling inside
Somehow, after practicing law for seven years, I seem to think that "Are you wearing a thong?" is not an appropriate question my office stalker should be asking me.
"Wow, before I was kind of on the fence, but now? Now I really want you."
"Wow, before I was kind of on the fence, but now? Now I really want you."
Friday, August 25, 2006
And yet, even more positive reinforcement
What kind of man asks, "What does your pussy feel like?"
I'll tell you. The kind of man I get to meet while I'm out having a casual drink with a coworker. The man who happens to be a Jewish attorney that would make my mother's panties wet if she knew I met him.
Um, Olympic, I'd like a one-way ticket to heaven please.
I'll tell you. The kind of man I get to meet while I'm out having a casual drink with a coworker. The man who happens to be a Jewish attorney that would make my mother's panties wet if she knew I met him.
Um, Olympic, I'd like a one-way ticket to heaven please.
Six degrees my ass. Try TWO degrees in a city of millions
You know you've dated everyone in New York when the "hot guy from California that moved down the hall" you've been hearing about for weeks from your good friend is a guy you went out with from JDate a year earlier. What are the chances you ask? PRETTY HIGH.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Just the kind of positive reinforcement a girl needs every once in a while
I don't understand myself. I continuously make the SAME MISTAKES over and over. I KNOW better than to be friendly. I do. No really. I'm a New Yorker. We're trained very early on about these things.
And yet, today, at the coffee station in my new office, at my new temp job, I was polite to the guy who introduced himself to me. I actually had a brief, "oh how long have you worked here, I just started" bullshit conversation.
I met him at around 3:45. I have received 17 (that's seven TEEN) emails from him since then. It's now 6:45. On the same day. He stopped by my office 4 (FOUR) times. Told me I smell really great twice (TWICE). Asked me out for drinks once (ALREADY). AND I JUST RECEIVED THE 18TH AND 19TH EMAILS AS I WRITE THIS.
You know, for the past few days, I've been having a really hard time with my decision to go back to Greece to be with my boyf. I've been plagued with self-doubt. I've asked myself over and over whether I've really given it a chance here in New York, dating about 100 guys in a little over year. I keep thinking, maybe there really is someone here for me that I can love the way I love my boyf, thereby circumventing the need to move to another continent.
But apparently, when you "smell really great" the way I do, that's just code for "your pheromones attract freaks, psychopaths and stalkers. Oh My."
Sometimes you need a little push in the right direction. Fate has decided to give me a giant, full-bodied, up-against-the-railings, your-face-smashed-against-the-glass, hockey-check instead. Maybe Fate thinks I'm a little slow. I just might be. But thanks, got the message. LOUD AND CLEAR.
But of course, Fate won't make him go away. Bitch.
And yet, today, at the coffee station in my new office, at my new temp job, I was polite to the guy who introduced himself to me. I actually had a brief, "oh how long have you worked here, I just started" bullshit conversation.
I met him at around 3:45. I have received 17 (that's seven TEEN) emails from him since then. It's now 6:45. On the same day. He stopped by my office 4 (FOUR) times. Told me I smell really great twice (TWICE). Asked me out for drinks once (ALREADY). AND I JUST RECEIVED THE 18TH AND 19TH EMAILS AS I WRITE THIS.
You know, for the past few days, I've been having a really hard time with my decision to go back to Greece to be with my boyf. I've been plagued with self-doubt. I've asked myself over and over whether I've really given it a chance here in New York, dating about 100 guys in a little over year. I keep thinking, maybe there really is someone here for me that I can love the way I love my boyf, thereby circumventing the need to move to another continent.
But apparently, when you "smell really great" the way I do, that's just code for "your pheromones attract freaks, psychopaths and stalkers. Oh My."
Sometimes you need a little push in the right direction. Fate has decided to give me a giant, full-bodied, up-against-the-railings, your-face-smashed-against-the-glass, hockey-check instead. Maybe Fate thinks I'm a little slow. I just might be. But thanks, got the message. LOUD AND CLEAR.
But of course, Fate won't make him go away. Bitch.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Say Cheese!!!
Ex-girlfriend paraphernalia in the vicinity of a current girlfriend is unnecessary in the most extreme definition of the word. More aptly, it is generally totally and wholly unwarranted and it would be in any man’s best interest and personal, physical safety, to move said items to a minimum of a ten-mile radius of his current girlfriend.
Might I recommend a box stored in a parent’s basement, or a mother’s attic. Somewhere in a galaxy far far away.
Items that generally cause the most damage: Pictures. Get rid of them. No, I’m not suggesting a bonfire, I’m simply suggesting removing pictures from frames, maybe putting them away, keeping them in a place where a current girlfriend won’t accidentally (or not so accidentally, let’s be honest here ladies) come across them. If the pictures are on a computer, and a guy is so loath to part with his past memories, might I suggest maybe burning those pictures to a nice little CD, and then deleting them from the computer.
It’s not that we girls are stupid. We know there have been others before us. What we don’t need to know is how cute the two of you looked together on your trip to some lovely tropical island, or how well she fills out a bikini, or how shiny her hair is, or how romantic the two of you look kissing each other on a bridge surrounded by snow-capped mountains.
Those are the kinds of images that burn themselves into a woman’s brain. And stay there. And then creep up on her when she finds herself in a setting with her boyfriend that looks suspiciously like one of the pictures she accidentally (or not so accidentally) came across. And then, the guy’s in trouble.
Because one thing women want (and I’m not going to speak about what men want, because if I knew, we wouldn’t be reading this blog) is to FEEL THAT THEY ARE SPECIAL. And in order for a woman to feel that she’s special, she needs to feel that the things you do together, the feelings you share for each other, the experiences you have are UNIQUE to the two of you. She doesn’t want to feel that her boyfriend has been there and done that with others, and now, it’s simply her turn on the same ride he’s been on all this time.
After my divorce, I decided to try and spare myself the agony, and now, whenever I date someone, I ask him to please not show me any pictures of his ex’s. I don’t need to put a face to the stories I’m sure I’ll unwillingly hear. (I’m on a need to know basis, and as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing about an ex that I need to know.) I know they’re out there, but that doesn’t mean I need to come face-to-face with them, as it were.
Of course, this doesn’t always work. My boyfriend decided to show me some pictures, and before he did, I specifically asked if any of his ex’s would be in the one foot tall stack. “Nooooo. Of course not. I remember what you told me.” Oh good.
And then, we suddenly come across some pictures that didn’t look quite right to me. I got the wrong vibe.
“Is that your girlfriend?”
“No, she’s just a friend.”
“Are you sure that she’s not a girlfriend? You guys look mighty chummy in these couple of pictures.”
“No, no. She’s just a friend. I play wrestle with all of my female friends.”
Um. Yeah. Until I not so accidentally came across some other pictures which clearly CLEARLY indicated that my current boyfriend and this girl dated.
“I thought you said that girl wasn’t your girlfriend, and that she was just a friend. But I saw your other pictures with her, and I’m pretty sure the two of you dated.”
“Um, well, the thing is, we did date. But we dated before the pictures you saw were taken. And then we were friends. So you see, she really was just a friend.”
“Uh huh. And did you date after the so-called friend pictures were taken?”
“Uh, I, uh…..well, I, I….yes. Yes. We dated before and after the pictures you saw. BUT, we were only friends at the time the pictures you saw were taken. So you see, I didn’t lie to you. We were friends, and I showed you pictures of a friend. NOT a girlfriend. She was my girlfriend before and after. But not DURING. Therefore, I didn’t show you pictures of an ex.” (I’m sure he didn’t go to law school, but I gotta admit, even I was impressed with his nerve.)
Needless to say, what I did in response to that ridiculous statement was NOTHING compared to what I did to my ex-husband when I found old pictures he had kept of him and an old girlfriend having sex. Penetration and all. It’s very disconcerting to see the penis you’re married to actually inside someone else. It’s also pretty unnecessary as far as marital experiences go.
So, to all of you who’ve been reading this and thinking that I’m writing from some pathetic, insecure, jealous perspective, you might be right. To an extent. But I’m also writing from the perspective that sometimes, it’s better to try and spare someone’s feelings. Especially if you care about them and it’s at no real loss to you. Of course, the EXACT OPPOSITE applies if you feel like being vengeful and manipulative. Not that I have cause to be familiar with that type of behavior. At all. Really.
Might I recommend a box stored in a parent’s basement, or a mother’s attic. Somewhere in a galaxy far far away.
Items that generally cause the most damage: Pictures. Get rid of them. No, I’m not suggesting a bonfire, I’m simply suggesting removing pictures from frames, maybe putting them away, keeping them in a place where a current girlfriend won’t accidentally (or not so accidentally, let’s be honest here ladies) come across them. If the pictures are on a computer, and a guy is so loath to part with his past memories, might I suggest maybe burning those pictures to a nice little CD, and then deleting them from the computer.
It’s not that we girls are stupid. We know there have been others before us. What we don’t need to know is how cute the two of you looked together on your trip to some lovely tropical island, or how well she fills out a bikini, or how shiny her hair is, or how romantic the two of you look kissing each other on a bridge surrounded by snow-capped mountains.
Those are the kinds of images that burn themselves into a woman’s brain. And stay there. And then creep up on her when she finds herself in a setting with her boyfriend that looks suspiciously like one of the pictures she accidentally (or not so accidentally) came across. And then, the guy’s in trouble.
Because one thing women want (and I’m not going to speak about what men want, because if I knew, we wouldn’t be reading this blog) is to FEEL THAT THEY ARE SPECIAL. And in order for a woman to feel that she’s special, she needs to feel that the things you do together, the feelings you share for each other, the experiences you have are UNIQUE to the two of you. She doesn’t want to feel that her boyfriend has been there and done that with others, and now, it’s simply her turn on the same ride he’s been on all this time.
After my divorce, I decided to try and spare myself the agony, and now, whenever I date someone, I ask him to please not show me any pictures of his ex’s. I don’t need to put a face to the stories I’m sure I’ll unwillingly hear. (I’m on a need to know basis, and as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing about an ex that I need to know.) I know they’re out there, but that doesn’t mean I need to come face-to-face with them, as it were.
Of course, this doesn’t always work. My boyfriend decided to show me some pictures, and before he did, I specifically asked if any of his ex’s would be in the one foot tall stack. “Nooooo. Of course not. I remember what you told me.” Oh good.
And then, we suddenly come across some pictures that didn’t look quite right to me. I got the wrong vibe.
“Is that your girlfriend?”
“No, she’s just a friend.”
“Are you sure that she’s not a girlfriend? You guys look mighty chummy in these couple of pictures.”
“No, no. She’s just a friend. I play wrestle with all of my female friends.”
Um. Yeah. Until I not so accidentally came across some other pictures which clearly CLEARLY indicated that my current boyfriend and this girl dated.
“I thought you said that girl wasn’t your girlfriend, and that she was just a friend. But I saw your other pictures with her, and I’m pretty sure the two of you dated.”
“Um, well, the thing is, we did date. But we dated before the pictures you saw were taken. And then we were friends. So you see, she really was just a friend.”
“Uh huh. And did you date after the so-called friend pictures were taken?”
“Uh, I, uh…..well, I, I….yes. Yes. We dated before and after the pictures you saw. BUT, we were only friends at the time the pictures you saw were taken. So you see, I didn’t lie to you. We were friends, and I showed you pictures of a friend. NOT a girlfriend. She was my girlfriend before and after. But not DURING. Therefore, I didn’t show you pictures of an ex.” (I’m sure he didn’t go to law school, but I gotta admit, even I was impressed with his nerve.)
Needless to say, what I did in response to that ridiculous statement was NOTHING compared to what I did to my ex-husband when I found old pictures he had kept of him and an old girlfriend having sex. Penetration and all. It’s very disconcerting to see the penis you’re married to actually inside someone else. It’s also pretty unnecessary as far as marital experiences go.
So, to all of you who’ve been reading this and thinking that I’m writing from some pathetic, insecure, jealous perspective, you might be right. To an extent. But I’m also writing from the perspective that sometimes, it’s better to try and spare someone’s feelings. Especially if you care about them and it’s at no real loss to you. Of course, the EXACT OPPOSITE applies if you feel like being vengeful and manipulative. Not that I have cause to be familiar with that type of behavior. At all. Really.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The Not-So-Prodigal Daughter's Return
So I've returned from Heaven, aka, three months in Greece with my boyf. And of course I'm lucky enough to be re-experiencing the dysfunctional psychosis deeply embedded in my family's gene pool.
Part of the family is happy for me for having found someone; part of the family looks at me as if I'm re-eating food I just threw up on the floor; and part of the family is so mad that their heads are ready to explode off their necks.
There are those that have been disillusioned, and are very unhappy about it. They thought my Greek boyf was Jewish, so that when I returned, they were ready to give me the, "As long as you love each other, get along, and want to be together, it doesn't matter where you live. You have to build your own life, even if it's in Greece."
But the minute they found out he isn't Jewish, suddenly the mantra became, "You're making the biggest mistake of your life. You will regret this for the rest of your life. Your life will be over." I tried to make them understand that I don't care about religion, that I don't even believe in god, and therefore, if their advice is to go if the guy is Jewish, then their advice should be the same if I don't care about religion. They don't see it that way. Remarkably.
Somehow, the only thing that resonates in the talks I have with my family is the constant reference to MY LIFE. That's right. It's my life. And therefore, I have the right to muck it up as much as I like. Muck, muck muckety muck.
So far, I've screwed up my life by constantly keeping others in mind when I made a decision to do something. "Would my family approve of this guy? Does he make enough money so that I can keep up with my friends and not shame my family? Is my law firm impressive enough? Are my clothes nice enough; is my figure nice enough; do I look good enough to keep anyone from making plastic surgery suggestions at the dinner table?"
And now, I don't really care. I would rather fuck up my life based on my own mistakes, rather than fucking it up based on the opinion of others.
What's the worst that could happen? We break up? We hate each other? The police need to get involved? Yeah, like I'm not used to that.
Part of the family is happy for me for having found someone; part of the family looks at me as if I'm re-eating food I just threw up on the floor; and part of the family is so mad that their heads are ready to explode off their necks.
There are those that have been disillusioned, and are very unhappy about it. They thought my Greek boyf was Jewish, so that when I returned, they were ready to give me the, "As long as you love each other, get along, and want to be together, it doesn't matter where you live. You have to build your own life, even if it's in Greece."
But the minute they found out he isn't Jewish, suddenly the mantra became, "You're making the biggest mistake of your life. You will regret this for the rest of your life. Your life will be over." I tried to make them understand that I don't care about religion, that I don't even believe in god, and therefore, if their advice is to go if the guy is Jewish, then their advice should be the same if I don't care about religion. They don't see it that way. Remarkably.
Somehow, the only thing that resonates in the talks I have with my family is the constant reference to MY LIFE. That's right. It's my life. And therefore, I have the right to muck it up as much as I like. Muck, muck muckety muck.
So far, I've screwed up my life by constantly keeping others in mind when I made a decision to do something. "Would my family approve of this guy? Does he make enough money so that I can keep up with my friends and not shame my family? Is my law firm impressive enough? Are my clothes nice enough; is my figure nice enough; do I look good enough to keep anyone from making plastic surgery suggestions at the dinner table?"
And now, I don't really care. I would rather fuck up my life based on my own mistakes, rather than fucking it up based on the opinion of others.
What's the worst that could happen? We break up? We hate each other? The police need to get involved? Yeah, like I'm not used to that.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Truth In Advertising
My hotel brochure from Santorini.....the view (which includes my hotel, if you look to the left) is from a nearby restaurant.....my trip, does NOT suck.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Are you LOOKING for a fight?
"Can you imagine how hard it is to be a lifeguard? I could never do it."
"What are you talking about?! There are no waves, no undertow, no nothing here in Greece. The seas are perfectly calm all the time. Most beaches don't even have lifeguards because there's no point."
"Yes, but if I was a lifeguard, I would have to keep my eyes on the water at all times. Look at all the half naked girls I'd end up ignoring. There's just no way."
"You mean to tell me that you couldn't be a lifeguard because it would interfere with your ability to look at girls in bathing suits?"
"Girl watching is a way of life for me. I mean, uh, I only look when you're not around. I mean, I have eyes only for you when you're with me. What I'm trying to say, is that, well, I only look. And looking does no harm. Right? Huh? What do you think? Is that ok? "
"Waiter, bring me another Corona, and a hot poker."
"What are you talking about?! There are no waves, no undertow, no nothing here in Greece. The seas are perfectly calm all the time. Most beaches don't even have lifeguards because there's no point."
"Yes, but if I was a lifeguard, I would have to keep my eyes on the water at all times. Look at all the half naked girls I'd end up ignoring. There's just no way."
"You mean to tell me that you couldn't be a lifeguard because it would interfere with your ability to look at girls in bathing suits?"
"Girl watching is a way of life for me. I mean, uh, I only look when you're not around. I mean, I have eyes only for you when you're with me. What I'm trying to say, is that, well, I only look. And looking does no harm. Right? Huh? What do you think? Is that ok? "
"Waiter, bring me another Corona, and a hot poker."
Monday, July 03, 2006
My Babysitting Rates Have Gone Up
Why is it that every time I get into a relationship, I end up feeling like I've adopted a spoiled, selfish, demanding child instead.
I'm not in the adoption business. I don't even like kids. I'm not the Big Sister type. My time with a Little Sister would involve martinis, cigarettes, and attempts at not falling down in public. These are not things for unseasoned children. And I'm not into training future degenerates. I don't have the patience to break down good values and sensibility.
But why do men bear an uncanny resemblance to the child I see in the supermarket throwing a tantrum because mommy won't get him the sugar-riddled sociopath-inducing behavior cereal he wants. I've always wanted to go up to those mothers, and tell them that their child belongs in a cage, and should be poked every once in while with a cattle prod. And it wouldn't hurt to use the cattle prod on themselves either, for producing an unruly, difficult child that now society has to put up with, and eventually jail due to any number of unspeakable crimes he will most likely commit. Thanks to the disgusting cereal he's hooked on and her bad parenting skills, her darling little five-year old has no shame in throwing himself on the floor, and pounding his fists into the grimy supermarket floor just to get his way. Way to go lady!
So anyway, there seems to be a definite parallel in behavior between grown men and five year old boys. And it's starting to grate on my nerves. There are only so many tantrums I'm willing to put up with. And yelling? Yelling?! No one yells at me. NO ONE. My own mother is afraid of my shadow, and there are men that actually think they can raise their voice to me. It's too incredible to get mad at. I don't countenance yelling. And I don't tolerate tantrums.
And yet every man I've ever encountered, has exhibited these traits in one form or another. Maybe I've been looking for something that doesn't exist: a relationship with an adult male. Can't play the game when no one qualifies for the other team.
I think it's a matter of perspective. No, it's not. It's an objective standard. I've decided. Children are the most selfish people on earth. Always thinking about themselves, wanting you to foot the bill, and feed them, and buy them stupid clothes they're going to outgrow in a few months anyway. They should wear clothes that are three years too big in size. This way, mommy saves time shopping, and has more money for important things, like vodka. Men are basically small children trapped in big, lumbering, sometimes unnecessarily hairy bodies. They too are unreasonably selfish. Give me love, give me attention, give me my way or I'll yell and cry. Oh please. Take a pill and calm the fuck down. Here, have one of mine for god's sake. And shut it, before I get my own cattle prod.
I'm not in the adoption business. I don't even like kids. I'm not the Big Sister type. My time with a Little Sister would involve martinis, cigarettes, and attempts at not falling down in public. These are not things for unseasoned children. And I'm not into training future degenerates. I don't have the patience to break down good values and sensibility.
But why do men bear an uncanny resemblance to the child I see in the supermarket throwing a tantrum because mommy won't get him the sugar-riddled sociopath-inducing behavior cereal he wants. I've always wanted to go up to those mothers, and tell them that their child belongs in a cage, and should be poked every once in while with a cattle prod. And it wouldn't hurt to use the cattle prod on themselves either, for producing an unruly, difficult child that now society has to put up with, and eventually jail due to any number of unspeakable crimes he will most likely commit. Thanks to the disgusting cereal he's hooked on and her bad parenting skills, her darling little five-year old has no shame in throwing himself on the floor, and pounding his fists into the grimy supermarket floor just to get his way. Way to go lady!
So anyway, there seems to be a definite parallel in behavior between grown men and five year old boys. And it's starting to grate on my nerves. There are only so many tantrums I'm willing to put up with. And yelling? Yelling?! No one yells at me. NO ONE. My own mother is afraid of my shadow, and there are men that actually think they can raise their voice to me. It's too incredible to get mad at. I don't countenance yelling. And I don't tolerate tantrums.
And yet every man I've ever encountered, has exhibited these traits in one form or another. Maybe I've been looking for something that doesn't exist: a relationship with an adult male. Can't play the game when no one qualifies for the other team.
I think it's a matter of perspective. No, it's not. It's an objective standard. I've decided. Children are the most selfish people on earth. Always thinking about themselves, wanting you to foot the bill, and feed them, and buy them stupid clothes they're going to outgrow in a few months anyway. They should wear clothes that are three years too big in size. This way, mommy saves time shopping, and has more money for important things, like vodka. Men are basically small children trapped in big, lumbering, sometimes unnecessarily hairy bodies. They too are unreasonably selfish. Give me love, give me attention, give me my way or I'll yell and cry. Oh please. Take a pill and calm the fuck down. Here, have one of mine for god's sake. And shut it, before I get my own cattle prod.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Things that should have been on the SAT's so that I would be better prepared for life, thanks a lot assholes
What, if any, is the appropriate response to the question, "How much do you love me?" (Besides the obvious retching, laughter, turning and walking away as calmly and quickly as possible, and of course, the party favorite, "I'm sorry, have we met?")
I mean, $79.99? Forty-three pounds? 88 gazillion miles? Because as of today, "I like you a lo'" said with the Jim Carey, Dumb and Dumber voice, is clearly NOT the right answer.
First of all, who the hell asks that kind of question?! The same kind of person that asks what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that if you ask me one more girl-oriented question, I'm going to cut your nuts off so that you fit the profile.
I don't know, "I love you so much that I'll try really hard not to fuck with you when you ask me that and make you feel even more insecure than I've apparently already made you feel." How about that?
Or, "I love you so much that I won't tell you that I'm posting this on my blog, since you don't read it anyway, in order to spare you the impending humiliation." Because I'm that kind of girl.
Okay, let's be honest, "I love you so much that I do get jealous when I see the pictures of all of your ex-girlfriends around the house. But then, I remember that I'm better looking than they are, and I get over it." That's love, right?
How about, "I love you so much that I'll let you keep asking me that question without being a bitch (to your face) and I'll try to answer you in a more sensitive and satisfying way." Yeah, that's the measure of love. Trying your best to make the person you're with feel good about themselves, and keeping your (low) opinion of them to yourself. And to everyone that reads your blog.
I mean, $79.99? Forty-three pounds? 88 gazillion miles? Because as of today, "I like you a lo'" said with the Jim Carey, Dumb and Dumber voice, is clearly NOT the right answer.
First of all, who the hell asks that kind of question?! The same kind of person that asks what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that if you ask me one more girl-oriented question, I'm going to cut your nuts off so that you fit the profile.
I don't know, "I love you so much that I'll try really hard not to fuck with you when you ask me that and make you feel even more insecure than I've apparently already made you feel." How about that?
Or, "I love you so much that I won't tell you that I'm posting this on my blog, since you don't read it anyway, in order to spare you the impending humiliation." Because I'm that kind of girl.
Okay, let's be honest, "I love you so much that I do get jealous when I see the pictures of all of your ex-girlfriends around the house. But then, I remember that I'm better looking than they are, and I get over it." That's love, right?
How about, "I love you so much that I'll let you keep asking me that question without being a bitch (to your face) and I'll try to answer you in a more sensitive and satisfying way." Yeah, that's the measure of love. Trying your best to make the person you're with feel good about themselves, and keeping your (low) opinion of them to yourself. And to everyone that reads your blog.
What's up with this love nonsense?
For some reason, my many relatives in Israel are strong supporters of my little romance here in Greece. They constantly encourage me to stay with the guy. The guy wants me to stay. He keeps asking. I like hearing him say it over and over again. I also like that I'm completely non-committal to his proposal. I feel it gives me the upper hand. I like the upper hand. If I can't have a decent drink in this god forsaken country, I'll take the upper hand instead. Beggars can't be choosers at this point.
But then staying would mean leaving New York, and my family and my very cute apartment. It goes without saying that of course it would be very difficult to leave that apartment. Family too, I guess, but I'm really attached to the apartment.
Anyway, the family in Israel keeps harping on this whole silly love thing. "But you love him, don't you?" They say over and over again. "Yes, of course I love him. He's really fantastic. A very special person. I'm very lucky to have found him." Blah blah fucking blah. "And he loves you? Didn't you say he wants to get married?" "Yes, he wants.....he wants to get m-m-m-married." "So what's the problem?! You love each other, he wants to get married, and your mother is a whopping nine hour plane ride away. It just doesn't get better than that."
I don't know what the problem is. But it seems, to me at least, that a woman at 30, who has put herself through school, owns her own apartment, her own car, is completely self-sufficient, has the educational background and experience to support herself with a very nice and comfortable income, doesn't give that sort of thing up for a guy. Does she?
I mean, I'm not a baby person (except for the ones I've dated) and I'm in no rush to pop one of those slimy things out of me. And I've already done the whole "I do till death do us part or until you become a raving wife-beating maniac" thing replete with the engagement ring you could see from space and the puffy wedding dress.
And love ebbs and flows. Like picking the petals off a flower. "I love him." "I want to do him bodily harm." "I love him." "I wonder if I could smother him with a pillow and say he died peacefully in his sleep." "I love him." "How bad could Greek prison really be."
Love is all well and good. But I often wonder, isn't it really just a chemical addiction? Is it really enough to make you act like a lunatic, change your entire life around. Go down a path you never dreamed or imagined? I know, I sound like a woman who has been burned one too many times and has come out of it rather bitter.
But you try dating in New York, and having the worst sex of your life, which lasted a very literal total of two-and-a-half minutes after the guy prematurely ejaculated four minutes earlier. AND he had the audacity to clean up afterward with your fluffy, giant, favorite bath-towel instead of a small washcloth, or WATER. Who uses a person's bath-towel for god's sake?! I mean really. Oh, and I have three words for you if you're reading this. Vi. A. Gra.
And then of course, with love must come trust. How utterly annoying. I don't have a trust issue. I totally trust anyone and everyone who has absolutely no impact whatsoever on my life, feelings or finances. They have the deepest trust I am capable of feeling. Trust is clearly not a problem.
I mean, can I really live in a foreign country, in a foreign culture, with a man I love, and not have a proper drink for the rest of my life? That might be too much of a compromise. Cocktails are a way of life for one particular alcoholic New Yorker, let's not kid ourselves here.
And, like the three cardinal rules of real estate, (1. Location; 2. Location; 3. Location) there are the correlative three rules when dating a Jewish girl from New York: 1. Your finances; 2. Your parents' finances; 3. When your parents' finances will combine with your finances.
And, on top of everything else, I'd have to learn Greek. Did you know there's a tense here called genitive? Genitive. Sounds like genitalia, or vagina, or even genetics, if that's how your brain works. I don't even know what genitive means.
I guess this is too much thinking for a random afternoon. Maybe I'll go for a swim in the beach across the street from my house. Or maybe I'll go for a coffee at one of the many lovely coffee shops along the water down the street. God, it's so tough here now. I don't know how on earth I'm going to manage.
But then staying would mean leaving New York, and my family and my very cute apartment. It goes without saying that of course it would be very difficult to leave that apartment. Family too, I guess, but I'm really attached to the apartment.
Anyway, the family in Israel keeps harping on this whole silly love thing. "But you love him, don't you?" They say over and over again. "Yes, of course I love him. He's really fantastic. A very special person. I'm very lucky to have found him." Blah blah fucking blah. "And he loves you? Didn't you say he wants to get married?" "Yes, he wants.....he wants to get m-m-m-married." "So what's the problem?! You love each other, he wants to get married, and your mother is a whopping nine hour plane ride away. It just doesn't get better than that."
I don't know what the problem is. But it seems, to me at least, that a woman at 30, who has put herself through school, owns her own apartment, her own car, is completely self-sufficient, has the educational background and experience to support herself with a very nice and comfortable income, doesn't give that sort of thing up for a guy. Does she?
I mean, I'm not a baby person (except for the ones I've dated) and I'm in no rush to pop one of those slimy things out of me. And I've already done the whole "I do till death do us part or until you become a raving wife-beating maniac" thing replete with the engagement ring you could see from space and the puffy wedding dress.
And love ebbs and flows. Like picking the petals off a flower. "I love him." "I want to do him bodily harm." "I love him." "I wonder if I could smother him with a pillow and say he died peacefully in his sleep." "I love him." "How bad could Greek prison really be."
Love is all well and good. But I often wonder, isn't it really just a chemical addiction? Is it really enough to make you act like a lunatic, change your entire life around. Go down a path you never dreamed or imagined? I know, I sound like a woman who has been burned one too many times and has come out of it rather bitter.
But you try dating in New York, and having the worst sex of your life, which lasted a very literal total of two-and-a-half minutes after the guy prematurely ejaculated four minutes earlier. AND he had the audacity to clean up afterward with your fluffy, giant, favorite bath-towel instead of a small washcloth, or WATER. Who uses a person's bath-towel for god's sake?! I mean really. Oh, and I have three words for you if you're reading this. Vi. A. Gra.
And then of course, with love must come trust. How utterly annoying. I don't have a trust issue. I totally trust anyone and everyone who has absolutely no impact whatsoever on my life, feelings or finances. They have the deepest trust I am capable of feeling. Trust is clearly not a problem.
I mean, can I really live in a foreign country, in a foreign culture, with a man I love, and not have a proper drink for the rest of my life? That might be too much of a compromise. Cocktails are a way of life for one particular alcoholic New Yorker, let's not kid ourselves here.
And, like the three cardinal rules of real estate, (1. Location; 2. Location; 3. Location) there are the correlative three rules when dating a Jewish girl from New York: 1. Your finances; 2. Your parents' finances; 3. When your parents' finances will combine with your finances.
And, on top of everything else, I'd have to learn Greek. Did you know there's a tense here called genitive? Genitive. Sounds like genitalia, or vagina, or even genetics, if that's how your brain works. I don't even know what genitive means.
I guess this is too much thinking for a random afternoon. Maybe I'll go for a swim in the beach across the street from my house. Or maybe I'll go for a coffee at one of the many lovely coffee shops along the water down the street. God, it's so tough here now. I don't know how on earth I'm going to manage.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Culture Shmulture
There's something about going to the ballet, to watch one of the worlds most renown dancers, Sylvie Guillem, mesmerize the audience (and your boyfriend) with her amazing gracefulness and sweeping movements, in an ancient marble amphitheater, with the sun setting behing the stones, surrounded by diplomats and celebrities, and then falling, FALLING! on the steps as you leave, and practically taking out three little old ladies on your way down.
Why behave with dignity when I can just be myself.
N.B. - and NO, I wasn't even sauced up.
Why behave with dignity when I can just be myself.
N.B. - and NO, I wasn't even sauced up.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
My Ears Might Actually Start Bleeding
I actually heard it. I heard words that a woman my age should never hear.
"I buy Playboy for the articles."
Yes, I'm sure you do. And you probably watch porn to learn filmmaking for your independent film project about the AIDS epidemic in Africa.
I literally laughed for five whole minutes. If you actually read Playboy for the articles, you might have learned that even surgically enhanced, airbrushed, cowboy boot wearing, but curiously nude otherwise women KNOW BETTER. Even if their turn-ons are long walks on the beach, giving blow-jobs and knitting.
I'm just saying.
"I buy Playboy for the articles."
Yes, I'm sure you do. And you probably watch porn to learn filmmaking for your independent film project about the AIDS epidemic in Africa.
I literally laughed for five whole minutes. If you actually read Playboy for the articles, you might have learned that even surgically enhanced, airbrushed, cowboy boot wearing, but curiously nude otherwise women KNOW BETTER. Even if their turn-ons are long walks on the beach, giving blow-jobs and knitting.
I'm just saying.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The Meaning of True Love, Bitchass Style
"Hey baby, I just wanted to call and tell you, but wait, I don't want you to worry or anything, I'm totally OK and it's not a big deal, but I hit my head at work. Please, stay calm, it's just a little bump, there's nothing for you to be alarmed about AT ALL. I'm going to see a doctor now, but really, I want you not to worry."
"You hit your head?"
"Yes, but like I said, please, please, don't get upset. Don't worry. I promise you I'm fine."
"Upset?! Thank god! Maybe you knocked some sense into yourself! I'm going to finish my game of sudoku. I'll talk to you later."
"You hit your head?"
"Yes, but like I said, please, please, don't get upset. Don't worry. I promise you I'm fine."
"Upset?! Thank god! Maybe you knocked some sense into yourself! I'm going to finish my game of sudoku. I'll talk to you later."
Friday, June 09, 2006
Who do I have to fuck to get a decent drink around here?!
Apparently the Cradle of Civilization has yet to familiarize itself with my choice of drink. And I find this to be beyond irritating, especially when all I'm looking forward to is a nice, calming cocktail to get the evening started.
My drinks of choice are: A vodka martini (Kettle or Goose), up, dry, with olives. My other drink is Patron Silver on the rocks, with salt. Both drinks are so easy to make, that I'm sure even George Bush couldn't bungle it. I will of course, partake of the occasional mind-numbing, coma-inducing glass or twelve of wine, but I prefer to pass out from imbibing dangerous quantities of more substantial alcohol.
Unfortunately for me, not only do none of the bars or clubs I've frequented carry any combination of Kettle, Goose, or Patron, but they don't even seem to understand how to make a martini with their inferior vodka, Stoli.
The other night, I tried, vainly, to order a Stoli martini with olives. The waiter looked at me like I was the village idiot. "Olives?!" He demanded, with derision, as if I just asked him to serve me a dead cat with soy sauce. "Yes, OLIVES." I replied. "This is Greece isn't it? I can walk down the street and pick olives off a tree for Christ's sake. You don't have olives at the bar?" Obviously not. So instead, I try to order my martini with a twist. Don't even ask. He shakes his head at me in utter disappointment.
Suffice it to say I end up with a small tumbler, full of ice, with a shot of vodka, an obscenely liberal pour of lemon juice, and a perfectly round slice of lemon floating on top. NOT a martini. Not even a cousin of the martini. Not even a long lost relative of the martini. They don't even live in the same time zone.
I think it's some kind of conspiracy. The kind of conspiracy to mistreat tourists I would only expect of the French.
I'm not even going to comment on the dearth of tequila.
You might be wondering why I'm making such a big deal about the alcohol choices. Well, because I'm an alcoholic, and alcohol is very important to alcoholics. And I'm in a foreign country, where I don't speak the language, can't enjoy the company of my boyfriend's friends and their inside jokes, and really REALLY need alcohol to have fun. That's right. I SAID IT. I need alcohol to have fun. Sue me. So do you.
Luckily, my boyfriend is the best kind of guy, and fully supports all of my endeavors with full fervor and showed up last night with a gianormous bottle of Grey Goose. It's in the freezer right now, taunting me, waiting to be opened. I'm waiting until noon. I mean, I have to finish my coffee with Bailey's first
My drinks of choice are: A vodka martini (Kettle or Goose), up, dry, with olives. My other drink is Patron Silver on the rocks, with salt. Both drinks are so easy to make, that I'm sure even George Bush couldn't bungle it. I will of course, partake of the occasional mind-numbing, coma-inducing glass or twelve of wine, but I prefer to pass out from imbibing dangerous quantities of more substantial alcohol.
Unfortunately for me, not only do none of the bars or clubs I've frequented carry any combination of Kettle, Goose, or Patron, but they don't even seem to understand how to make a martini with their inferior vodka, Stoli.
The other night, I tried, vainly, to order a Stoli martini with olives. The waiter looked at me like I was the village idiot. "Olives?!" He demanded, with derision, as if I just asked him to serve me a dead cat with soy sauce. "Yes, OLIVES." I replied. "This is Greece isn't it? I can walk down the street and pick olives off a tree for Christ's sake. You don't have olives at the bar?" Obviously not. So instead, I try to order my martini with a twist. Don't even ask. He shakes his head at me in utter disappointment.
Suffice it to say I end up with a small tumbler, full of ice, with a shot of vodka, an obscenely liberal pour of lemon juice, and a perfectly round slice of lemon floating on top. NOT a martini. Not even a cousin of the martini. Not even a long lost relative of the martini. They don't even live in the same time zone.
I think it's some kind of conspiracy. The kind of conspiracy to mistreat tourists I would only expect of the French.
I'm not even going to comment on the dearth of tequila.
You might be wondering why I'm making such a big deal about the alcohol choices. Well, because I'm an alcoholic, and alcohol is very important to alcoholics. And I'm in a foreign country, where I don't speak the language, can't enjoy the company of my boyfriend's friends and their inside jokes, and really REALLY need alcohol to have fun. That's right. I SAID IT. I need alcohol to have fun. Sue me. So do you.
Luckily, my boyfriend is the best kind of guy, and fully supports all of my endeavors with full fervor and showed up last night with a gianormous bottle of Grey Goose. It's in the freezer right now, taunting me, waiting to be opened. I'm waiting until noon. I mean, I have to finish my coffee with Bailey's first
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Cooking 101
Apparently, in Greece, you are not allowed to make, cook, prepare, or eat any food other than Greek food. Because for some reason, in Greece, Greek food is the only food on earth.
God forbid you have any machinations of making, say, chicken teriyaki. Because, if you DARE to dream, they will take your dreams and pulverize them into the fine rock-ridden dirt that lines their beaches.
The supermarket does not contain a dressing or marinade isle. You know, your usual sundry items and bottles embossed with images of Paul Newman. (Of course, the supermarket sells whole, frozen octopus. Obviously, because of the huge demand.) This is done on purpose, to prevent you from even imagining that there is such a thing as chicken teriyaki. Or barbecue chicken. Or buffalo chicken. If you don't marinade your meat or chicken in lemon juice, olive oil and/or oregano, you're fucked.
And let's be serious, how is a Jewish girl from New York going to make her own teriyaki sauce?! Yes, I can pass the bar. Barely. But cooking? Not my forte. I'm from the Land of Takeout. Also known as the Land of Ordering In. Maybe, just maybe, I'll have to learn how to actually cook. Which is ridiculous. It's taken me years to master drinking. Imagine the effort to learn how to cook?!
God forbid you have any machinations of making, say, chicken teriyaki. Because, if you DARE to dream, they will take your dreams and pulverize them into the fine rock-ridden dirt that lines their beaches.
The supermarket does not contain a dressing or marinade isle. You know, your usual sundry items and bottles embossed with images of Paul Newman. (Of course, the supermarket sells whole, frozen octopus. Obviously, because of the huge demand.) This is done on purpose, to prevent you from even imagining that there is such a thing as chicken teriyaki. Or barbecue chicken. Or buffalo chicken. If you don't marinade your meat or chicken in lemon juice, olive oil and/or oregano, you're fucked.
And let's be serious, how is a Jewish girl from New York going to make her own teriyaki sauce?! Yes, I can pass the bar. Barely. But cooking? Not my forte. I'm from the Land of Takeout. Also known as the Land of Ordering In. Maybe, just maybe, I'll have to learn how to actually cook. Which is ridiculous. It's taken me years to master drinking. Imagine the effort to learn how to cook?!
Saturday, June 03, 2006
I mean, is there really a reason to complain?!
OK, so I know I'm in Greece for the summer, and there's really no cause WHATSOEVER to complain, but I have to lodge one little complaint. One, teeny tiny itty bitty one.
You see, being from America, and enjoying the beaches of NY, Miami, California, various islands in the Caribbean, and Tahiti and Bora Bora, I always thought the beaches of Greece would be comparable, if not even better. BUT, the beaches, at least the five or six I've been to already, are actually NOT better.
And I'm not talking about the eye-candy, or the views, or the music they play, or any of that. I'm talking about the fucking rocks that are on every beach. There is NO SAND. NO SAND. Just rocks. And not smooth, nice, delicate little beige and yellow rocks like you see in Monte Carlo, but big, mean, rough edged rocks. Everywhere.
The kind that like to dig into your feet and cause foot cramps. And although my boyfriend insists the beaches have sand, I don't consider light brown dirt to be sand. Sorry. That's NOT sand. Um, that's DIRT. Dirt with rocks.
And, the rocks are not only on the beach, but they're in the water. Not all the way in the water, but at least in the beginning, for about five meters. Or, fifteen feet. Fifteen feet of rocks before you hit smooth dirt. With sea grass growing out of it housing any number of undesirable sea life.
I'm a firm believer that, like the rest of the earth, humans should have full reign of the oceans. I think we should be the most dangerous things in the water, at least the water surrounding the coast. Not sea urchins, not jelly fish, not little fish that like to bite your ankles. WE should prevail.
So, when you try to walk into the water, you basically have to hold your arms out to balance yourself on the rocks, and you step gingerly and not very gracefully into the water until you hit dirt. Of course on your way, you invariably step on something that makes you jerk left or right, or lurch forward to avoid the pain. And then, once you've hit the sand/dirt, you then have to watch out for the grass.
This is why my boyfriend has resorted to tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying into the water until he hits dirt. And then, he unceremoniously dumps me in. Because there's only so much patience he has with me "Ouching!" and "Ooching!" my way into the water for ten minutes while everyone else has become a bobbing head on the horizon.
You know what, this brings me back to my basic assertion that with alcohol, anything is possible. Alcohol, like morphine, or crack, takes all forms of pain away. How the hell do you think girls can dance all night on tables in four inch stilettos without having had enough of the sauce to feel no pain?
Next beach, me and my old friend Jose Cuervo are going to go swimming together. And I think I'll be as agile and graceful as a gazelle loping in the woods, instead of looking like a porpoise trying to climb a flight of stairs.
Me and Jose are like the Wonder Twins. Together, we're invincible. If I live, I'll post about it.
You see, being from America, and enjoying the beaches of NY, Miami, California, various islands in the Caribbean, and Tahiti and Bora Bora, I always thought the beaches of Greece would be comparable, if not even better. BUT, the beaches, at least the five or six I've been to already, are actually NOT better.
And I'm not talking about the eye-candy, or the views, or the music they play, or any of that. I'm talking about the fucking rocks that are on every beach. There is NO SAND. NO SAND. Just rocks. And not smooth, nice, delicate little beige and yellow rocks like you see in Monte Carlo, but big, mean, rough edged rocks. Everywhere.
The kind that like to dig into your feet and cause foot cramps. And although my boyfriend insists the beaches have sand, I don't consider light brown dirt to be sand. Sorry. That's NOT sand. Um, that's DIRT. Dirt with rocks.
And, the rocks are not only on the beach, but they're in the water. Not all the way in the water, but at least in the beginning, for about five meters. Or, fifteen feet. Fifteen feet of rocks before you hit smooth dirt. With sea grass growing out of it housing any number of undesirable sea life.
I'm a firm believer that, like the rest of the earth, humans should have full reign of the oceans. I think we should be the most dangerous things in the water, at least the water surrounding the coast. Not sea urchins, not jelly fish, not little fish that like to bite your ankles. WE should prevail.
So, when you try to walk into the water, you basically have to hold your arms out to balance yourself on the rocks, and you step gingerly and not very gracefully into the water until you hit dirt. Of course on your way, you invariably step on something that makes you jerk left or right, or lurch forward to avoid the pain. And then, once you've hit the sand/dirt, you then have to watch out for the grass.
This is why my boyfriend has resorted to tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying into the water until he hits dirt. And then, he unceremoniously dumps me in. Because there's only so much patience he has with me "Ouching!" and "Ooching!" my way into the water for ten minutes while everyone else has become a bobbing head on the horizon.
You know what, this brings me back to my basic assertion that with alcohol, anything is possible. Alcohol, like morphine, or crack, takes all forms of pain away. How the hell do you think girls can dance all night on tables in four inch stilettos without having had enough of the sauce to feel no pain?
Next beach, me and my old friend Jose Cuervo are going to go swimming together. And I think I'll be as agile and graceful as a gazelle loping in the woods, instead of looking like a porpoise trying to climb a flight of stairs.
Me and Jose are like the Wonder Twins. Together, we're invincible. If I live, I'll post about it.
Monday, May 15, 2006
So, Greece does NOT suck
There's something about meeting a significant other's parents that could make even the strongest of personality types puke the day of. I'm not implying that I would ever be reduced to such an undignified state of fear and uncertainty, but I can certainly see such an occurrence happening. Of course, not sleeping for over 48 hours straight and then eating a pork gyro, pork being the foulest of meats, and apparently the national favorite (and here I thought lamb, but what do dumb Americans know....) could also contribute.
It's not so much the meeting, as it is the horrible anticipation, the growing fear and alarm, that nervous pit in the bottom of your stomach, that slowly spreads to your limbs and causes your knees to knock together under your beautiful Tahari cocktail dress as you teeter on your stilettos while you are presented to a small, white haired, kind faced woman who speaks no English, and actually appears more afraid of you, than you of her. Kind of like when my mother used to try to impress upon me that the spider, 1 millionth my size, was probably quaking a tad more than I was upon our introduction and its inevitable encounter with the bottom of my shoe.
Not that I would ever liken a parent to an insect, more closely to Jabba the Hut. But I think I won her over. I do. No really. My hello was flawless, my smile, although somewhat wobbly, was sincere, as was my firm, but polite handshake.
And of course, the coup de gras, when the groom left the dance floor to single me out and drag me to the dance floor to display my inept ability to learn line dancing, my EL's mother actually stood up and took pictures of me. I personally think it was to have something to identify me to the hit man she hired, but nonetheless, it was a nice gesture. Of course, if I find a dart board in their living room with a startling resemblance to me, I won't take it personally.
It also appears, that in countries outside of America, lawyers have earned a certain modicum of respect. I guess in Europe lawyers are more trained to cover up the slime mark they leave in their wake. Or, maybe the level of ethics is different. Maybe they actually practice ethics here. Amazing.
Either way, Greece is a lovely country. I am slowly getting over my fear of venturing out on my own. Venturing out in a country where you look like the natives is somewhat daunting. Mainly because everyone expects you to speak the language. And when you stammer your apologies that actually, you don't speak any Greek, but rather English, and not British English, but the twangy American English, they look almost disappointed. They look at you as if you failed them. I think they think I'm Greek, but I haven't bothered to learn Greek in my native America. An insult of the greatest proportions, especially in a country that prides itself as being the "cradle of civilization." (Enough to make me puke again, but I'll refrain.)
But, I have managed, in the past week I've spent here, to learn the alphabet, and I've taught myself to read, at an amateur level to be sure, but certainly impressive for a weeks worth of hanging out. I may not know what the hell I'm reading, but by god, I won't be categorized as illiterate. NOT in the "cradle of civilization" of all places. (You'd think the cradle of civilization would eat something OTHER than pork all the time, but civlized must mean different things to different people).
The kitchen in my apartment is a Jewish girl's dream come true. There is no stove or oven. NO STOVE OR OVEN. Utterly fabulous. What's for dinner dear? RESERVATIONS. The ultimate bachelor-pad has backfired.
And there is a lovely strip of coffee shops and restaurants right by me. You know, to go, sit, read, have a coffee. Apparently, it's ok to sit and drink a coffee for two hours. This doesn't jive with my New York go get em mentality, but I will persevere to acclimate myself to this alien ideology. When in Rome and all that.....Ahh the travails of being on holiday for an undetermined period of time. I know, you all feel so sorry for me. Me too.....
It's not so much the meeting, as it is the horrible anticipation, the growing fear and alarm, that nervous pit in the bottom of your stomach, that slowly spreads to your limbs and causes your knees to knock together under your beautiful Tahari cocktail dress as you teeter on your stilettos while you are presented to a small, white haired, kind faced woman who speaks no English, and actually appears more afraid of you, than you of her. Kind of like when my mother used to try to impress upon me that the spider, 1 millionth my size, was probably quaking a tad more than I was upon our introduction and its inevitable encounter with the bottom of my shoe.
Not that I would ever liken a parent to an insect, more closely to Jabba the Hut. But I think I won her over. I do. No really. My hello was flawless, my smile, although somewhat wobbly, was sincere, as was my firm, but polite handshake.
And of course, the coup de gras, when the groom left the dance floor to single me out and drag me to the dance floor to display my inept ability to learn line dancing, my EL's mother actually stood up and took pictures of me. I personally think it was to have something to identify me to the hit man she hired, but nonetheless, it was a nice gesture. Of course, if I find a dart board in their living room with a startling resemblance to me, I won't take it personally.
It also appears, that in countries outside of America, lawyers have earned a certain modicum of respect. I guess in Europe lawyers are more trained to cover up the slime mark they leave in their wake. Or, maybe the level of ethics is different. Maybe they actually practice ethics here. Amazing.
Either way, Greece is a lovely country. I am slowly getting over my fear of venturing out on my own. Venturing out in a country where you look like the natives is somewhat daunting. Mainly because everyone expects you to speak the language. And when you stammer your apologies that actually, you don't speak any Greek, but rather English, and not British English, but the twangy American English, they look almost disappointed. They look at you as if you failed them. I think they think I'm Greek, but I haven't bothered to learn Greek in my native America. An insult of the greatest proportions, especially in a country that prides itself as being the "cradle of civilization." (Enough to make me puke again, but I'll refrain.)
But, I have managed, in the past week I've spent here, to learn the alphabet, and I've taught myself to read, at an amateur level to be sure, but certainly impressive for a weeks worth of hanging out. I may not know what the hell I'm reading, but by god, I won't be categorized as illiterate. NOT in the "cradle of civilization" of all places. (You'd think the cradle of civilization would eat something OTHER than pork all the time, but civlized must mean different things to different people).
The kitchen in my apartment is a Jewish girl's dream come true. There is no stove or oven. NO STOVE OR OVEN. Utterly fabulous. What's for dinner dear? RESERVATIONS. The ultimate bachelor-pad has backfired.
And there is a lovely strip of coffee shops and restaurants right by me. You know, to go, sit, read, have a coffee. Apparently, it's ok to sit and drink a coffee for two hours. This doesn't jive with my New York go get em mentality, but I will persevere to acclimate myself to this alien ideology. When in Rome and all that.....Ahh the travails of being on holiday for an undetermined period of time. I know, you all feel so sorry for me. Me too.....
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