Day 5,674,758,320

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

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

Ahhhh, the holidays....

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

And we'd do it again.

Ho ho ho!!!!!

Conversation you shouldn't have with a JEW

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

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

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

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

Nurse Ratched was just misunderstood, silly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanging up my disco shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleeping Beauty

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

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

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

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

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

Et tu Discovery Channel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT!

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Fish Mouth is Sweeping the Nation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A test run in preparation for the real last hurrah

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

I, sadly, have yet to reach that point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mulan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inebriated Lunchtime Banter

Me: You know what I've noticed?

Friend: What?

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

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

Me: Really?

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

Next stop - The emergency room

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

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

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

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

Lost Opportunities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Office Stalker Quotes of the Day - Weekly Wrap Up

Monday
Am I ever going to see your boobs?!

I love anal. I bet I could make you love anal too.

Tuesday
You know, you just have to say the word, and you could be having sex with ME in three minutes.

Come on, just give me a little peek….

Wanna touch my muscle? Come on, touch it.

Wednesday
You know, I actually feel really really sorry for you that you'll never experience the mind-blowing, life altering sex you could have with me. But I guess I HAVE to believe you when you say you're in love with someone else.

Thursday
This girl I went out with sent me a text. She's really into me, but I'm just not interested, so I told her I'm in dating mode and not relationship mode. She became VERY upset. Doing the right thing is so hard. Women misinterpret my charm and warmth etc (stuff I can't write in an email …) they fall for me. I feel awful about it.

Friday
Just one boob? How about only the nipple?

Chag Same'ach - Or - Where can I hide out until this is all over

It's that time of year again. It's the Jewish Holiday Season. Replete with all the familiar and endearing family dysfunction it brings.

It used to be that celebrating Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was about family, new beginnings and resolutions, plans for an even better and more fulfilling life.

At some point all the spiritual meaning behind the holiday was replaced with something considered far more important: My ability to land a husband.

The new focus of the holiday was on what to wear to Temple, which Temple service to attend, to make sure to go to the one where all the young people are, and not to forget to make hair and nail appointments prior.

A holiday meant to bring a fresh start, to help us grow as people, to force us to reflect on who we were and who we want to become, had turned into an auction. Temple was no longer a place for prayer and communing with god, it was a place where prime grade A beef was for sale to the highest bidder. And I was the cow. Actually, not just me, but all of my female friends. We were a herd.

Now, I haven't been to Temple since I got married and never went after my divorce. But my mother is on a kick to get me back there. She thinks I might meet someone. I keep telling her I have someone. She says he doesn't count, because he's so far away. I told her that I'm moving there soon. She told me that as long as I'm not there yet, everything is fair game. Including meeting someone HERE, in Temple.

I can't argue with Jewish Mother Logic. And I've never even met anyone at Temple. Never. Not once. Why my mother thinks a miracle will happen this year, I don't know.

I'll outmaneuver her. There's so much fresh meat on the market right now, that parading old, used cow will only be humiliating. And anyway, someone's already bought this cow, he's just waiting for shipment.

I only think I live alone

So there was an insect in my bedroom last night. Not a regular bug. Not a little baby bug that you could confuse with a piece of lint, until it starts to move. No. Not like that.

More like a bug that survived Chernobyl. It might have been smoking a cigarette and flipping channels from my bed when I walked in. Something that size owes me rent.

Now, I'm not afraid of mice, or snakes, or rats, or lizards or anything of that type. But I am deathly afraid of insects.

And, I don't kill bugs. First, because I'm afraid to get close enough to do the killing. Who knows, it might jump onto my face, crawl up my nose, and embed itself in my brain, laying eggs and having dinner parties. Second, because I try to avoid the crunch they make when you kill them. Third, because I'm not a fan of the carnage-clean-up. Bug body parts could go everywhere, legs, antennae, a wing or something equally ridiculous could end up inside one of my shoes. Just the IDEA of that makes my head hurt.

Since I live alone, I had to devise a way to deal with this. So, my brilliant McGyver mind has come up with the most genius of plans. I TRAP the bug under a bowl. Preferably clear tupperwear. Hopefully tossing with aim accurate enough from four feet away to land right on top of it. And then, I just wait until it starves to death. I'll leave that bowl there for weeks if I have to. I don't care.

Now I say clear tupperwear because there have been times when I've trapped a bug under something opaque, and when, three weeks later I went to remove the bowl and the carcass, I found nothing NOTHING underneath. Oh. My. God. That just means it's waiting somewhere in a dark recess of my apartment to do the crawl up my nose, eggs, dinner party thing.

I know it sounds cruel to starve an insect to death, especially an insect whose size requires it travel with a valid passport, but then, it's also cruel to stab it with my stiletto. And really, why get bug insides on my pretty stilettos? So now, I have a pet. A pet on death row. I think I'll call him Stanley.

Technology IS your friend

My office stalker was really mad the other day because his date cancelled on him the day of, via email. He got all persnickety and sent her a nasty-gram because he felt he had to "stand up" for himself against her "rude behavior. She should have at least had the courtesy to call."

They had only been on one date and she wasn't canceling for some esoteric, non-informative (i.e., she found something better to do) reason. She just had to work late.

I told him to stop getting his panties in a bunch, he was acting like a Sheila, especially since he was dating three other women. She doesn't owe him anything after one date. He was just bent because he spent $100 to try and impress her.

If it's perfectly ok to set up a date via email (which it is), then it's perfectly ok to cancel via email. People break dates all the time that way. Hell, people actually break-up using text messages. "things rnt wrkn out good luck." "ur not 4 me, peace."

People aren't brave. We're a bunch of candy-ass pansies. If I can avoid talking to a person about breaking a date, OF COURSE I'm going to use whatever other means I have. I don't want to hear disappointment, I don't want to open myself up to questions, or have him try and persuade me to go out, or even worse, deal with criticism or abuse he might hurl my way.

I once called a guy to break a date the day before. His head almost exploded. "I can't believe you would behave this way. How could you be so rude to break a date the day before we're supposed to go out. Shame on you."

I was like, dude, put down the crack pipe. WE'VE NEVER EVEN MET.

You + expectations ≠ reasonable.

I've even gone so far as to blatantly ignore calls from guys I went out with that are calling for another date. Instead, I send a simple, "It was nice meeting you, but I don't think we're a good match" fuck-off email. I don't want to answer that phone. I don't have the balls to tell a guy I don't want to see him again to his face, or ear, as it were.

Men don't have to deal with this. If they go out with a girl they don't want to see again, they just don't call. So simple. It's us girls that have to do the 'let him down easy if he's interested' chiki-chiki boom avoidance dance.

I would never dream of saying something to a guy who breaks a date with me, besides, "Okay, not a problem." There's no chance I'm going to go out of my way to send him a nasty-gram, or call him and show him I'm upset. That's the kind of humiliation you reserve for when alcohol and heavy narcotics can be blamed. I don't understand people, like my office stalker, who feel it's within their right to be rude or nasty because of the means or timing someone used to break a date. Have some pride, man.

Once, a guy I really liked broke our second date half an hour before we were supposed to meet. Exactly one hour after I just spent tons of money on a new outfit. He never called me again. Two days later I saw him arm-in-arm with another woman walking down the street.

I never said anything to him about his mode of date-break. Anything I could have said wouldn't have made him feel bad, and would have only served to make me look desperate and somewhat mentally unstable. And if I wanted him to know I was mentally unstable, I would just cut to the chase and show him my blog.

Rejection is one thing. But sending nasty emails, or text messages or calling the person and bawling them out because they cancel a date in a way you don't like, only reaffirms their initial conclusion that you are not someone they want to go out with. You can’t force people to behave the way you want. And trying to impress your ideas of proper behavior on someone else only stinks of improper behavior on your part anyway.

Of course, my office stalker doesn't get this. In order to make himself feel better after he sent her the nasty-gram and left the how-dare-you-phone-message, he came into my office and asked me to sit on his lap. And call him Daddy. Clearly his indignation at being treated improperly is teaching him fundamental life lessons.

Evolution

So, my office stalker and I are slowly but surely leaving the harassing, oh my god I need a shower after what he just said relationship and are entering much friendlier ground.

At first, when I told him I'm in a relationship, he really didn't seem to care and couldn't understand how I wasn't feeling this "connection" between us. He kept trying to convince me that something is "there" and I'm just too shy to admit my true feelings.

He would also try to stand uncomfortably close to me, with the obvious purpose of having some part of his body touch some part of my body, but still pretend that it was an accident.

So I basically told him that if the world were flooded in urine, and he was the last person alive hanging on to the last standing tree, I wouldn't touch him in order to save myself from drowning. He's slowly getting it.

The thing is, he doesn't really want me. He just wants what he wants, and he's peeved he's not getting immediate satisfaction. He's currently dating at least four women and meets new women everyday (internet dating sites - not like shooting fish in a barrel, more like nuking fish in a barrel).

He tells me stories about the girls he meets and dates. I know he's not lying because everything sounds suspiciously similar to my own painful internet dating experiences, except this time, I'm seeing it from the male perspective. Which, I must say, is information I really could have used WHEN I WAS GETTING PLAYED.

Once in a while, in the middle of his date rotation recap of women for the weekend, "Stacy on Friday at 8, Judy at 10, Melanie on Saturday for coffee, Jessica for dinner, and a brunch with Amy on Sunday....." he'll stop, and look at me intently, and exclaim, "How can you possibly not want me?"

To which I can only respond, "I don't know, but you're getting harder and harder to resist."