Do You Know Robby?

Yeah, me neither. Apparently his friends want to make him famous though....and somehow they came to the misguided conclusion that if RBIE linked to his fan site, then they would be that much closer to achieving their goal.

Their poor marketing skills notwithstanding, Robby's friends have a lot our readers can learn from. For one thing, they can appreciate genius and charisma when they see it...a talent most of my friends unfortunately lack.

So spread the word. Afterall, now that France has rejected the EU Constitution, the world must look to a new source for inspiration. Maybe that source is Robby. Or maybe the last two sentences don't make any sense and I just wanted to mention the EU constitution without having to write an entire post about it. Whatever the case, we've all had a bit too much to drink tonight and it's important we don't criticize. And by "we," we mean you. And by "you," we mean our readers. And by "our readers," we mean Mom.

"I Am Happy, Diana...And Nothing's Going to Hold Me Back!"

My favorite manic orphan, Anne Shirley* might be unaffected by this decision but where will the rest of the undoubtedly crazed and depressed citizens of Prince Edward Island turn in their moment of crisis?

A suicide hotline that's only open from 9 to 5?! That's like a pancake restaurant that's only open at night!! Ok..no. That would actually be pretty fantastic. In fact, I bet if more breakfast places were open at night, there would be less suicides. Just sayin'....

The article does bring up a good point: If you're suicidal, but conscientious and patient enough to look up the hotline number and "think it through," then can't you put off the self-killing till morning? No? Well if you MUST speak to someone, call a friend. Don't have any? Oh, that's really sad...man, your life sucks hard...Hello? You still there?....

* Seriously. You didn't get the reference? Where was PBS when you were growing up?

Diary of A Desperate Mover

It's almost 2am and i'm still awake, partly because i'm thinking of all the errands and packing i have yet to accomplish, partly because i slept for almost 12 hours last night, and partly because of the coke i snorted an hour ago.

Log of Evening Activities:

10pm: Ripped out hook from closet wall I never should have put up in the first place. Removed a large chunk of wall with it.

10:15pm: Spent the last 15 minutes thinking of ways to cover up huge hole in wall and panicked about security deposit being lost forever.

10:30pm: Got a grip....stopped sobbing and shaking, and put up bigger replacement hook to cover my crime.

10:45pm: Practiced the line, "that hook was there when i moved in!" until I believed it.

11pm: Started to pack "important belongings". Almost chose to throw out heavy family album when faced with the dilemma of either fitting it or a box of teddy grahams in suitcase. Decided to eat teddy grahams instead and grudgingly fit album...

11:30pm: Faced with the ugliness of my own materialism, broke down and started to throw clothes into "Goodwill bags."

12am: Frantically searched through bags to find my black cardigan.

12:10am: Decided that Goodwill should rightfully name a branch after me for the bounty I was about to bestow upon it....changed my mind as I moved a bag from the "Goodwill" category to the "my new apartment" category.

12:30am: Silently cursed all my friends who are conveniently out of town this friday. Looked around at all the furniture I will have to move, and cursed them a second time. Out loud.

1am: Where's my coke?

Return of the Men's Lady

A great many wonderful things come from being a single girl in Manhattan, and one of them, let's call it my "favorite", is that men are plentiful and easy. But, due to my recent lack of action (tired of making up euphamisms for "hard up"), I've decided to utilize the environment and do as Donald Trump would do: take matters into my own hands. And then proceed to fire people I've never hired. Wait, what?

So, last night I hit on a man in a bar. I wasn't even subtle about it. Two drinks into the night, I walked up, asked him to settle a made-up dispute between me and a friend about the best Michael Jackson song ever (Thriller wasn't an option), and let him take my number after he went through a very sweet, somewhat clumsy 30 seconds on what he does and where he's from (which is not necessary for me to make sweet, sweet love to him, but I suppose it helps). He and his friends left the bar soon after I went back to my friends, but I received a drunken text message from him on my way home, promising to get in touch with me soon. I believe the word "shortly" was used.

I think this is how love happens.

Celebrate the Trashing of Your Vows

I'ts a problem that's gone unnoticed far too long. According to humanitarian Cathy Gallagher, 60 - 80% of men, and up to 65% of women have nowhere to turn when it comes to expressing their lust and admiration for that special someone they're having an affair with.

Tragic. (we request a moment of silence).

Lucky for the world, Cathy refuses to sit back and watch her fellow citizens pace the greeting card aisles in vain, searching endlessly for that unique card that will let Tammy know how much her extra-secretarial duties have meant to her boss, or thank Bill for missing his son's 5th birthday party to make that "business trip."

The idea to create a new line of greeting cards geared towards people involved in extra-marital affairs came to Cathy after a romantic discussion with her husband: "There were all these different people we knew that were involved in [affairs] and I thought that must be a really difficult situation to be in."

Difficult indeed. Affairs are hard enough to juggle alongside a family and career...it's only fair and logical that there be greeting cards to make sure they don't sour too quickly. You must never underestimate the power of a simple "At four o'clock on thursday afternoons when my wife takes the kids to piano lessons, I love you" on a pastel card with a bunny on the cover.

Being sensitive to the situation, Cathy also assures us that when the cards are in stores, they will be discreetly labeled with words like "Love Expressions" or "Intimacy," as opposed to say, "Adulterers" or "Cheating Sluts." Asked about her next line of greeting cards, Cathy wipes a tear off her cheek, clears her throat, and begins a heartfelt discussion on the plight of online sex offenders.

Look for Upcoming Story: "Man Shoots Wife Dead After Greeting Card Mix-Up."

I am NOT pregnant

I went out for dinner on Monday night to a Polish restaurant in the East Village (the same one I took a certain out-of-towner to). I go there quite often. The place is always half empty, but the food is good and well-priced, in a cool neighborhood. I feel it is my duty to keep little mom and pop places like this in business. There aren't that many around anymore...

So, then why, on this particular Monday did those bastards try to poison me? I was sick as a dog all night, stayed home from work the next day, and still my illness lingers, like a thoughtful reminder to the past.

And why the heck is it that whenver I tell people I am nauseaous, the first question they ask is, "Are you pregnant"? Is this appropriate for a co-worker to ask me? I don't think so. Married, age 30 or so, this question might be understandable. But to a 22yr old living in sin with her boyfriend, its no better that saying, "Did you get knocked up?" I especially don't appreciate these types of questions coming from my mother.

To all you aspiring witches out there, please don't curse me and make this the most ironic post ever. Instead, give me your herbal remedy for overcoming my discomfort and remember that I live in a city, and I have no access to frogs and such. Thanks!

My Life Not Only Passed Me By, But Stopped On the Way to Spit In My Face.

Happy Birthday to Ho Chi Minh and Malcolm X!

I know there's someone else we're missing from that list...someone tall, devastatingly gorgeous, sharp as a whip, and slightly less militant.

Someone whose daily horoscope has warned her to be suspicious of "strange happenings,"...making her wonder if the sight of her mother dancing around the kitchen to Ludacris in her pajamas, a sunhat, and heels (while holding a butter knife above her head)...qualifies as "strange." What if that happens fairly often?

Someone whose family celebrated her birthday a day early, calling it her "birthday eve," and suggesting it's a cultural tradition she missed in her first 24 years. Someone whose family is invited to a better party tonight.

Well, names aren't important I guess. We're just lucky to know of her.

Another Reason to Envy Orphan Annie

Visiting parents is always a treat. But as treats go, it falls under the "candy corn with needle hidden inside" category. It's not your favorite, and it might just kill you. I've had problems with family visits in the past when I was only a college graduate with no real career goals. Dinner conversations revolving around which sibling was doomed to support me in the future were not uncommon (my mother seemed to think it was my brother's duty as the only boy, whereas my father argued that my unwed sister was a prime candidate because "what was she gonna do with all that money as an old maid?"-- I personally looked forward to living off my parents' life insurance policies). Since I've started law school however, spending time with family has become more tolerable in the sense that my parents no longer refer to me as the "other child" when introducing me to their friends, my siblings no longer drive me to the goodwill when I ask for a ride to the mall, and my brother in particular doesn't protectively grab his wallet if I happen to walk into the room (which means I am now the proud owner of a new twenty!--sucker).

The downside to all this--and there is always a downside (you saw it coming, didnt you?)--is that my education has somehow inadvertently caused my parents to suffer a mild psychotic break. Maybe it's because they're foreign or maybe it's their constant abuse of household cleaners, but whatever the reason, at some point they decided that I could help fund their most recent power trip.

This is what led me to create the following Notice, now posted in every room of my parents household:

Inappropriate occasions to invoke the phrase “My daughter is a lawyer” (or variations thereof):

1) As some sort of vague, empty threat: “Are you sure there’s no Fire Sauce left? You're aware my daughter is a lawyer?”

2) As a futile attempt to get out of trouble: “Officer, I don’t think I was technically speeding. Maybe you should address my daughter in the passenger seat…she’s a lawyer.”

3) When feeling gregarious towards a stranger at the bank: “They’re taking your house away for tax fraud? My daughter, she’s a lawyer. I’m sure she’d love to help! Hold on, let me get you her number.”

4) As “clever” social commentary at a party: “We live in a strange world. You can’t even trust your own children these days! My own daughter is a lawyer. A lawyer! I don’t even give her advice anymore, because I’m afraid she might take it and then sue me! Ha ha (unattractive snort).”

5) And finally, when your daughter is in fact NOT A LAWYER, but rather a law STUDENT, meaning that she doesn’t know shit about the law and judging from her very round grades, her chances of actually making it to year three are speculative at best.

* Now to Kinkos to see if I can print out wallet sized cards for easy reference.

I heart interviews

I had yet another interview today, for a job that will likely take me nowhere, but that's okay. My interview today was with a (very attractive) web developer, who I will call B.I.L.F. That stands for Boss I'd like to flamanco. In the hopes of one day having wild sex. I have a friend in D.C. who would've liked him- he was probably gay. Anyway, this is how it went.

B.I.L.F. "So, tell me about a time when you had conflict in the workplace."

me: "One time, i worked in an office, and some guy asked me if he could have my chair. So I picked it up and beat him with it."

B.I.L.F. "Hmm. That's an interesting way to deal with it. Why did you choose that?"

me: "I didn't have a gun."

B.I.L.F. "Ok, you're hired."

And all of a sudden, we realize that people in New York will do anything to hire someone to answer their phones.

HAPPY BELATED MOTHER'S DAY

Mothers are special. Truly. They feed us, nurture us, dress us in what can only be legitimately called clown costumes and tell us that we look glamorous and that kids at the fifth grade dance will be jealous...and then comfort us when we come back from the dance in tears. In short, the least we can give them in return for their years of worry and semi-conditional love is our appreciation. I decided to express mine in a letter.

My first draft:

Dear Mom,
Thanks for getting knocked up...and for having the heart to keep me alive till I could eat solids and dress myself. I've heard rumors that I was an accident but I guess that's all water under the bridge now. Where did I hear a crazy story like that? Remember dad's sentimental toast at my college graduation dinner?: "we could never have imagined on that horrifying day when we discovered that birth control was only 99.96% effective, that our lack of financial means to get an abortion would lead us to this joyous day!"

Anyway, like I said, water under the bridge. Love You.

Thinking the first draft too bitter, I sat down with my quill and ink to try again:

Dear Mom,
On this special day, I want you to know how appreciated you are. There's just one thing that's been bothering me and I was hoping you could clear things up. When I was five, Brother and Sister* told me that I was adopted...stolen actually, from a very wealthy and good-looking** couple so I could be used as cheap labor around the house. I wouldn't have believed them, but when you came home that night, you told me to stop being so gullible and then handed me the broom and asked me to go sweep the kitchen. It was a funny joke and we all laughed. But then you stopped laughing and made me sweep anyway...you are my mother, correct?

Finally, being a perfectionist, I thought it best not to end with a question:

Dear Mom,
I'm sorry I couldn't be there on your special day. I hear that Sis is sending you to Hawaii. That's wonderful. What am I getting you? Well, you are holding this letter correct? And you're aware that it IS from me? Handwritten. To be honest, I was going to send you flowers, but after spending three hours at the mall shopping for a small gift to go with the flowers, my account balance was suddenly $500 lower and none of the clothes in my shopping bag were your size. I dont know how that happened but as you can see, flowers were beyond my monetary means at that point. Anyway, this post-it note is only so big!
Love Always, your middle child.

*Not of the Berenstain bears.... Although I agree that would have been beyond awesome.
** I can only offer a guess as to their looks.

I love you. Not like a man loves a woman, but like a man loves a fine cuban cigar.

Ah, it's that time of year. School is over and summer is about to begin. For gradeschool children and graduate school 20-somethings alike, it is a bittersweet moment, filled with goodbyes, see you laters, and godammit, we should have hooked ups (gradeschool kids are such whores nowadays).

A strange (fucked up, if you will) phenomenon that I’ve witnessed during this time is the unwarranted outpouring of affection from people whose existence you previously regarded as “unnecessary” at best. These are the people whom, while you weren’t wishing for their deaths in any way (nervous laughter), you knew that if you should hear about them getting run over by a milk truck, you would be shocked, sure—tell you friends and family, maybe—sit on their memorial bench, of course---but that’s probably as far as your emotional response would go. When these people come up to you at a bar and start telling you how much they’re “gonna miss you” and that “you rock,” you start to question your indifference towards their life and worry about whether they’ll make it home ok and if they’re taking all their vitamins. It’s really unfair what a drunken “I love you” can inspire in a person.

I guess in the end, there’s something beautiful about the togetherness felt at the end of the school year. I suspect it’s triggered by a sense of nostalgia for anything associated with that period of your life. If the class podium somehow showed up at a bar, there would be no less than thirty people waiting to tell the podium how amazing it is and how much they LOVE it. And you know what? I bet the podium loves you back.

Finally, I’d like to send a message to someone “special” just in case I don’t see them before August:

Dear “I think your name starts with an A,”
I’m really gonna miss all the times we said “hey” to each other outside the library on the second floor. I think I talked to you once at a bar review too. We both agreed that night that the weather was “in fact shitty.” Anyway, I just want to let you know how much your friendship has meant to me. Stay sweet. Keep in touch. And yes, I love you.

(now to go wipe off the tears).

Missed Connections

For a laugh, or to convince yourself romance is not dead, check out the "missed connections" link on Craigslist.

You may even be surprised that someone is trying to find you.

(Yes, I know, I have too much free time)

Oh, and Happy Cinco de Mayo! Chin chin!

Gimme a break!!!

Lynddie England's case was declared a mistrial.

For all you law-saavy types out there, how in the world does this make sense?

She plead guilty. Then the "ringleader" of the prison abuse scandal testified that he instructed her what to do, and that her actions were supposed to demonstrate the "proper" technique for handling prisoners. But, wasn't this the same guy that fathered her child? Obviously its a cover-up.

I say, if she knows what she did was wrong, and admitted it, let the trial continue and convict!

As I stare off into space...

I bet in really restrictive muslim societies, when a little boy runs up to a girl and yells "Your Epidermis is Showing!" , it's really more of a threat or warning than it is a lighthearted prank. The joke might end when she finds out the meaning of the word, but it's only the beginning of her inevitable caning.

or maybe not. what i'm trying to say is, my fever is inducing not only bizarre but also politically incorrect thoughts....isn't this enough to excuse me from exams?

i want my mommy.