Confessions of A Naughty Girl

If Men Really Do Love Bitches, I'm Gonna Have To Hire An Acting Coach

I am reading this new book called "Why Men Love Bitches", recommended to me by a co-worker and good friend.

Although I am good and single for a long while, I should prepare myself for the next relationship right? Even though my knowledge of art is limited to Ansel Adams and whatever slides I was awake for in Art History freshman year, I think love is kind of like a piece of art - it never hurts to take a step back, reflect, and tweak your work. Maybe your next portrait needs an extra chin, your pointillism a few extra dots, your modern one less giant green blob that represents suffering. In that same manner, maybe Future Boyfriend needs a little more space, a little less mothering, a little more energy - but hopefully not an extra chin. I have no idea when the love of my life is going to walk through the door, but when he does, I want to do it up right and have a tray of petit-fours and a cold Heineken waiting for him. I don't want to f*ck it up and give him directions to the nearest men's room.

I am about 54 pages into this book and so far, according to this gospel (which I have paraphrased below, only because I am too lazy to go into my bedroom and cite actual passages), I have never done a single thing right. And with every passing page, I feel the same sense of shame I felt when I read "The Rules", "The REAL Rules", "The Rules Sequel", "He's Just Not That Into You", "You're Just Not That Into Him, Either", and "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret".

The sole purpose of these books aside from profit - I am convinced - are to make you feel like ass. Like rancid, saggy, miserable, Mom-jeans wearing ass. Oh, but there's hope! Through this guilt and shame, they preach, you'll feel empowered to change! You'll have healthy, substantive relationships! You'll have a five-carat diamond ring and a townhouse in the suburbs and he'll magically know where your clitoris or "G" spot are without you having to MapQuest it!

Well you know what, pathetic self-help book people, 1) you're wrong, and 2) f*ck change. I, ever the optimistic, nerdy, book-buying predator, have fallen victim to your bullshit, and like a ho wronged in a Nelly video, am up in your respective faces right now, wagging my finger and telling you to talk to the hand.

This whole book encourages secret-keeping and manipulation as a means to sustain a relationship, because your whole premise is to be inaccessible from the get-go. The one phrase synopsis? "Work him until you bag him and can (maybe) then let your guard down." And yes, in some ways, I am all for keeping secrets and mystery - but more in the way of not ever letting me in to brush my teeth while you do a #2 on the toilet, and less in the way of, oh say, not telling me you've gotten back together with your ex-girlfriend who looks like Melanoma personified.

"Have your own life - see him when convenient for you, not him." Seriously? I get home from work these days at 8 and pass out by 11. So if I am really going to be that inflexible, and he's willing to make a 10:08-10:38 pm sex date with me, then I guess I've found happiness. Otherwise, he's a dog. A mean, worthless, inflexible, dirty dog. Woof.

"Make time to see your friends - and make sure you continue to see them even while you're in the relationship". Ahem. Duh. This is an obvious rule, and I might add that I have a pretty healthy social life already, but nothing beyond a pair of AA batteries to keep me satisfied, and without giving you TMI, that toy gets plenty of exercise. I think, that if presented with someone good, I could find the time for everything - including the toy.

"Don't reveal everything up front - let him feel as if he's unwrapping a gift every time you tell him something new." Okay, I can understand if this "gift" is a metaphor for a vulva, and she's telling me to hold off on the sex for a few dates, but otherwise, I'm a little confused. Is he going to fall over when I tell him that cauliflower is my least favorite vegetable? Should I expect shallow breathing when I publicly acknowledge that I am sexually attracted to Will Ferrell? I am not the kind of girl who will give you my life story on the first date, but to sit there and look pretty seems kind of pointless to me also.

You know what - maintaining a sense of independence is necessary, but in order to be in a healthy, growing relationship, you have to relinquish some of that privacy. You have to compromise. You have to believe - or do a hell of a job feigning belief - that this is going to work, and sincerely try, even if it means taking yourself out of your comfort zone, or occasionally sacrificing your own needs or wants to please someone else. It is exhausting to maintain this nonchalant, uninvested facade - trust me, I've tried - unless, of course, you actually are nonchalant and not invested.

So far, all this book has really done is make me realize this: if you get me - if you are lucky to do so - we will do our little dance in the beginning, but at some point, that will evolve. If you prove yourself worthy, you will get my time, my efforts, my ass, my prioritization, my laughter, my ample breasts (thanks again, God), my compassion, my support, my consideration, my love, and my future. You will render all of the past bullshit absolutely irrelevant and you will get all of the shit I just listed with multiple commas - without reservation or manipulation or constipation. Like it or not.

This is the way I have always operated. And this is the way I will continue to operate. I've been in about a thousand relationships, but when it comes to the big ones - the ones that stay with me in the form of fleeting thoughts while I am in the car on my way to work in the morning, or perusing the shampoo aisle at Publix, or laughing with my friends at a bar, or fighting to keep myself awake when I am still at work at 9 pm with a morning deadline - the issues were never about giving too much of myself to someone, the issues were always about giving too much of myself to the wrong people. I can read a million books about how to shrink my heart - how to make it smaller, more selective, more valuable - but I can't read anything that will expand it - how to embrace the kind of overwhelming sense I get when I love someone, that mixture of pride and excitement and fortune and happiness. That I have been blessed to have had all along, no help from books.

So if men really do love bitches, I guess I'm shit out of luck. But I'd be willing to put a lot of money down on the fact that this just isn't true. Any thoughts?

posted by KA @ 9:28 PM 2 comments

Train Wreck By Proxy

These days, in case you haven't figured it out, I am single. I am Natasha-Bedingfield-"Single"-song-single. I am Lisa-Loeb-VH1-Reality-Show-Called-"#1 Single"-single. I am order-one-chicken-breast-at-the-deli-department single.

And while opportunites come knocking - in the form of two bad dates in the last three weeks and some geographically-undesirable offers for no-strings-attached sex - my love life is (relatively) quiet. A little drama here and there that ultimately nets out to an even-keeled heart and gratefulness that I have no one to worry about but myself.

Well, and my family and friends.

A born extrovert, I have always had a lot of friends. My social circles usually consist of the following groups: the innards, the exes (those who I am still in contact with, usually only for either petty conversation, sex without increasing "my number", or both), the drinking buddies, the friends, and the acquaintances. But with six innards, four exes, ten drinking buddies, at least twenty friends, twice that in acquaintances, and 168 MySpace friends, that tends to become a little overbearing.

And in your twenties, when you factor in the exes and current significant others of even just "best" friends, it populates faster than an inbred rural town in West Virginia, or Kevin Federline's spawn.

Girls love to talk. We talk everything to death. We talk until we're blue in the face, gasping for air, begging for God to have mercy on our lung capacity. There's no way to fight it - it is what it is. Men of the world, take note - most girls will overanalyze your words, your inflection, your face, your gestures, your behavior, and the size of your penis. We parse through all of these things like they're goddamn constellations and if we stare at them hard enough, Orion's belt will appear.

And as the very single friend these days, the nature of everything I've discussed above makes me the perfect candidate for what I like to call the "Train Wreck By Proxy".

You see, girlfriends have a pretty special bond going. Not to take away from guys and their friendships, but really - bitches do bond. Once you get to a certain level of friendship with another girl, their happiness becomes yours. Their misery becomes yours. You end up hearing so many stories, you feel slutty and guilty because you've practically f*cked their boyfriends yourself. And their exes to boot. And when it comes to good or bad times in their relationships, their outlook determines whether or not you are going out and dropping Hamiltons like you're Aaron Burr, or staying in, watching "Sixteen Candles" and letting her cry on your shoulder. Because most of the time, Gentlemen, the burden of if and when you mistreat our girlfriends falls squarely onto our shoulders. Yeah, that's right, assholes. Thank us. I personally accept Visa, certified check, and Diner's Club.

I've seen my girlfriends through every kind of relationship - the Happy One, the Abusive One, the Not-Abusive-But-Totally-Dysfunctional-In-Its-Own-Right One, the Long-Distance One, and last but not least, the Train Wreck.

The Train Wreck is the worst kind of relationship, I think, because unlike other relationships, it starts off disastrous and ends...well, worse. It can encompass any of the above situations, and can take on Train Wreck qualities at any given time. It's like an allergy, really. No way to figure out until you do some diagnostic testing and see red bumps and inflammation. Prerequisites to the most commonly diagnosed Train Wreck relationships include, but are not limited to, the following:

• interoffice relationships
• "older man" relationships
• making-it-work-with-an-existing-ex relationships

and my personal favorite, the "he-doesn't-know-we're-in-a-relationship-but-she-thinks-they're-in-one" relationship. Well f*ck. Fun to be a passersby in that situation. And as I know from personal experience, even more fun to be a participant. Nothing provides you with a bigger rush than watching him flinch when you refer to him as your "boyfriend", or being on the receiving end of the "I'm not looking for anything serious" line after you've been dating for a few months and deleted all of your fallback hookups from your cell phone. Good times!

But as a passersby in these wrecks, you certainly do your fair share of toeing the line. On one hand, you know your friend well, so you have to maintain the fine balance of being honest (if you don't think things are headed in a good direction), yet being tactful and sensitive to their feelings. On the other hand, all you're really given is an email (via bcc: or fwd:). Here's a tip, guys - please do as much as you can in writing to help your designated train wreck by proxy out, since phone conversations and face-to-face tends to get a little emotionally biased by our girlfriends when they recap it for us later. Better yet, sometimes all you have to work off of is a mere description of a glance. ("Well, he looked upset by the whole thing, but I also know that we had Mexican for dinner and refried beans really upset his stomach.")

My poor friend Beth is the absolute master of the train wreck by proxy. Need advice? Ask her. She has seen me through a host of damaging relationships over the last five years, and has the routine down quite well. She's heard every excuse in the book, ranging from, "I think he's intimidated by how great I really am" to "He's in jail, so there's not much he can do to hold this relationship together - the burden has to be on me". She has the beautiful combination of both foresight and tact, and no matter what the outcome, is always there when it falls apart, armed with an assload of Verizon minutes and an offer to fly down from New York if I need her. She and my friend Chris even conspired once to hire a hitman for me. Not that they know any hit men, but I have no doubt that had I expressed interest, Beth's nose would be buried in the Yellow Pages, looking for a listing under "homicide".

In recent weeks, I've found myself in a number of situations where my inner Dionne Warwick kicked in and told me that I was going to have to prepare myself for heartbreak - by proxy. And while I always hope that I'm wrong about this, I try to stay as prepared as possible.

It's hard to stand by and watch your friends proceed to get trampled on, because here's the thing - ain't no arguing with the heart. When you're a participant in the game of love, you see what you want to see, you hear what you want to hear, and you sure as hell don't want any brand of reality check if it involves a thought that doesn't fit into your immediate agenda. So if you're a train wreck by proxy standing on the sidelines - even if, as a decent human being, your conscience is begging to have its say, remember the wise lessons of "Jerry Maguire" - freeing your conscience in this situation will only f*ck you, fire you, and then try to steal Cuba Gooding Jr. away and force you to put Bruce Springsteen on your soundtrack. Your friends won't listen, you'll feel miserable, and you'll end up looking like the naysayer/bitch/disgruntled person. And really, is "I told you so" really all that satisfying to say anyway?

Your best bet, in my opinion, is to grab a hold of that rosary, say 900 "Hail Marys", and pray that your friend comes out of the eventual fallout ultimately unscathed. And until then, you'd best prepare to suck it up and prepare yourself for the slew of excuses that are headed your way.

The beauty of having been through a lot of these situations myself is that at least I have the wisdom - and the experience - to call my friends out when they attempt to justify with the jail excuse. Because really, who dates someone who went to jail six months into the relationship? Aside from me, that is.

posted by KA @ 7:00 PM 2 comments

Acting Like A Lady Is F*cking Hard

A few weeks ago, I made a resolution for immediate implementation:

(1) I am going to act like a lady from here on out, which means no hooking up, no sleeping with anyone bad (exception: if they're insanely good), and no cheap behavior that I've taken a liking to in the past.

I've found that while being slutty is pretty much the most fun thing in the entire world, after a certain point in time, it gets old. Very, very old. Call it mature or call it sad, but I am no longer a victim of the conquest. It just doesn't interest me to pursue someone for sport. I mean, sure, there is still a football team's worth of lust objects of mine wandering the world out there, but frankly, I am no longer interested in racking up points on their accord.

Even so, acting like a lady is f*cking hard.

This past weekend, I went to the mountains with five other kids, to stay the night at my friend's parents' cabin in Cashiers, North Carolina. Oh yes - I am well aware that I said North Georgia in my last post, but my date to the mountains, Erica, politely informed me upon picking me up that by "North Georgia" she meant "North Carolina", and by "hour trip" she meant "two and a half hour trip". Truthfully, this was fine by me. After a demanding planning season for two clients and one three-day weekend vacation all summer, I was craving a change of scenery.

Here's where it gets interesting - our little group of six was like the oddest triple date I could have imagined. My friend (whose parents owned the cabin) had also invited - along with Erica and myself - his friend Kyle and Kyle's girlfriend, and his friend Whit, who I've met a few times before - both in reality and a few incredibly dirty dreams, the details of would embarrass even myself if I shared with you.

You see, I am absolutely infatuated with all six-foot-three of Whit's hot Georgian ass. He is, in all honesty, one of the top 7 hottest men I have ever personally come into contact with - tall, with reddish brown hair, fair skin, clear blue eyes, and a smile that lights up the entire world. He reminds me of a young Robert Redford, and if there's anything this Jewish girl likes, it's Robert Redford with a Southern accent. L'Chayim!

He's a smoke show.

I would wreck him.

I want to give God a high-five for making this guy.

I can't really attest to his intelligence level or his morality, but who cares? We've made small talk in the past. We've certainly flirted. We actually maybe almost went home together last St. Patty's Day, had it not been for that pesky house party I refused to attend in favor of drinking my $20 cover charge worth of beer that I paid for at the bar we were at. Hindsight. 20/20. I know.

At any rate, as is normally the case when I am presented with an opportunity to have mindblowing sex with an insanely good looking acquaintance, I pondered. I spent all day Friday weighing my options. I shaved my legs (just in case). I got up early on Friday morning and spent an hour flat-ironing my hair (just in case). I stopped at the gas station in Walhalla, South Carolina on the way to the cabin, disguising the trip as a pee break, and purchased 1 Rugged 'N' Ready condom from the dispenser for 75 cents.

(Tangentially, the condom actually had a $1.00 mail-in rebate on the back of the package, which pleased my frugal ass to no end to know that I could actually have the condom pay me 25 cents to have safe sex using a latex contraption that was studded for my pleasure.)

But somewhere between Walhalla, South Carolina and Cashiers, North Carolina, I grew a conscience and asked myself what the f*ck I was doing. After all, a promise is a promise, and if I lie to myself the promise wouldn't really be all that legitimate, would it? I mean, yes, I'm all about having fun, and yes, I will seize the opportunity when available, but this was not the person to do it with. As much as, if presented with the chance, I would rock this guy's world, how much fun would I really get out of it? Three minutes' worth? Two pumps worth?

I came to the realization that fantasy guys are objects of lust for a reason: you don't know what they're really like. And in order to have healthy fantasies, you probably never should. It'd be one thing if I had unearthed his fabulous personality or great sense of humor, but I hadn't. I didn't know the guy from a slap on the ass. And although Whit is a good guy, there's really nothing beyond nappy bed hair and a half-assed orgasm that would really hold any promise. I'd probably just wake up the next day Rugged 'N' Regretful.

So we got to the cabin (which is set on the most beautiful golf course setting I've ever seen), and drank. A lot. We played a mini-game of Truth or Dare. Erica dared me and Whit to touch tongues, so we did. We dared more. We drank more. And then, when I couldn't really see out of my eyes without crossing them, I stumbled into the guest bedroom by myself and passed out. Like a lady, of course.

So nothing happened. I know, a whole post about nothing happening...f*cking disappointing, right? But here's the thing - it wasn't disappointing, it was great. It was great to let go of that pressure, that craving, that inexplicable need to add this false dimension of self-worth by f*cking a hot guy. Nothing happened. There was no awkwardness, no need to set expectations, no weird pillow talk. It was beautiful.

And what about the Rugged 'N' Ready, you ask? Well, I went out on Saturday night and as I was walking back to my car with friends in tow, I saw a wasted horny couple going at it in the alleyway. Ever the lady, I got into my car with my friends, drove through the alleyway, stopped, and offered the condom. That f*cking drunk girl ripped it out of my hand and took it and is probably going to parlay her Saturday night mistake into a 25 cent rebate. If I ever come into contact with her again, I'll bitch slap her for not knowing how to take a joke.

posted by KA @ 10:42 PM 0 comments

Venus Got A Razor, But Pluto Got F*cked

Yeah, I know I've been MIA this week. Apologies. There's plenty of good shit to cover, but not enough time, and just when the weekend hits and you'd think I'd have time, I'm headed to the North Georgia mountains tomorrow night to a friend's cabin, so the reports will just have to wait.

In the meantime, can we discuss the biggest news story of the day? I mean, Pluto is no longer a planet. What the f*ck?

My personal theory is that Pluto must have stolen something from Uranus. Discuss.

Have a pleasant weekend.

posted by KA @ 11:04 PM 0 comments

Marie Antoinette: Let Them Eat (Birthday) Cake

Now now, we all know I'm not a fan of historical accuracy in my posts, but if Marie Antionette ever did really utter these words, she and I would have a hell of a lot in common. Except for that I am not royalty. And I don't live anywhere near Versailles. And I haven't been guillotined. But otherwise, "like two drops of water", as my mom would say. (I guess that translates better in Hebrew, but since there is probably one reader who speaks Hebrew and I don't have a bilingual keyboard, that will have to do.)

On Saturday night, I stepped out to celebrate my friend CK's birthday. She turned 25, and all she wanted to do was have some tapas, drink, and dance with her good girlfriends. An honorable plan, really.

We met at a hip little tapas restaurant, and I immediately ordered myself a Caipirinha. (By the way, thanks for the introduction to this drink, Aim...although it's like thanking a crack dealer. My liver should be the one thanking you - it failed me on Sunday morning as a result.) About halfway into my first drink, I suffer a minor coronary at the expense of seeing ROMP walk right through the door - with his new girlfriend. Or his new-used girlfriend, I should say, simply because she is the human flesh equivalent of a $5 hooker. She's got it all - Sun-In highlights, fake tits, and a case of tanorexia so severe it foretells the unfortunate case of melanoma in her future. (Now, don't get me wrong - I would never wish melanoma on this girl, but I can't say I'd be surprised if it ever happened. You don't need to shake a f*cking 8-Ball to see that coming.)

I wasn't in shock, though. You see, a few weeks ago, I found out via sources that ROMP had gotten back together with his ex. Which is fabulous, you know, except for the part about him LYING TO MY F*CKING FACE about not being ready to be in a relationship. The moment I found out, I pieced two and two together and realized that he basically set me up and lied to me so that he could go back for more gonorrhea. I certainly hate the type of guy I'd classify as a Dick, but there's one thing I hate more, and that's a Liar. Sadly for ROMP, he doesn't meet the minimum intelligence requirement to be a Dick, but he definitely qualifies as a Liar, which is like a mini Dick. And that, by the way, is a Very. Apt. Description.

In spite of all of this, I have a general rule about these things. We could categorically define them as "Shit that Comes Back To Haunt You", or even more generally, "Uncomfortable Situations". In this genre, you have two options: you can a) throw a temper tantrum, cause a scene, and embarrass yourself, or b) face it head-on, act like a lady, and deal with the emotion later. Personally, I always opt for B. Because at the very least, if I have nothing else, I have my dignity, and I'll be damned if I let anyone see, at least publicly, that they've gotten to me that badly. Sure, cry like a fat kid who didn't get the last Popsicle when you get home (if you must), but maintain your composure until you do.

I definitely didn't want to cry. I didn't even want to yell. Truthfully, the only thing I really wanted to was to let him know that he was not pulling a fast one on my ass.

So, ever the lady, I dealt with the issue head-on, approached the table, and said hello. ROMP turned around as I tapped him on the shoulder, looking white as a ghost and guilty as sin. I had made eye contact with him earlier, and he definitely tried to pull the "I am looking off into the distance hoping you will go away" card with me. Yeah, I don't think so, Buddy. Not so much. I politely said hello and we exchanged "pleasantries". He then pointed in her direction and told me her name (which is hilariously ironic by the way, and I would definitely share if I could, but since I am a law-abiding blogger, I'll settle for offering it up to you if you email me directly). Just her name, no mention of a connection, no mention that they were doing it on a regular basis, nothing. She looked pissed. Even so, I inhaled deeply, held my breath (so as not to catch any airborne venereal diseases that might have been floating around), and introduced myself to Melanoma, who was even scarier from a few inches away.

"Hi," I said, "I'm KA, nice to meet you."

"Hi," she replied, "my hand is wet, otherwise I'd shake yours."

Lord, I could say so much here, but doesn't my blog administrator have some sort of capacity limit?

I turned my attention back to ROMP and gave him my quick exit, and then, not mincing words, quickly exited. As I walked away I overheard her obnoxious, Valley-girl tinged inquiry, "Who was that?!" Sadly, I was too far out of earshot to hear the response, but I can't imagine what it was. I'm having a hard time believing he was smart enough to claim me as the girl that shampooed his hair when he got it cut. F*cking amateur.

We got back to the table and every single girl at the table was in awe of my composure, and honestly, I was a little in awe myself. This is certainly not the first time I've ever encountered an awful situation - it's actually the second in two weeks for me - I'm getting quite good at this - but in both instances, which I should point out are two totally different circumstances yet vastly similar in setup, I shocked myself with my own dignity. I'm not sure whether it was that the first situation was so painful that it blunted me, or I learned how to act, but apparently practice makes perfect, right?

So we're back at the table acting as if nothing happened, and on two different occasions, ROMP got up, left his table, came over to mine, stood 6 feet away from me, looked at me as if he's going to say something, and then turned around and went back to his table. I'm not kidding. I wouldn't have even noticed it unless my friends, ever the keen watchdogs, hadn't pointed it out.

On Try #3, his balls dropped and he was successful. He walked up to the back of my chair and politely explained that Melanoma was, in fact, his girlfriend, and that she was angry that he hadn't introduced her to me that way.

Ahem. Duh.

He then went on to say that the only thing that will make it right for her is if he brings her back to my table and re-introduces us, with him throwing the "my girlfriend, Melanoma" clause into the conversation.

Now, I don't typically like to pass judgment on relationships, given my own history, but that's f*cked up. I mean, seriously f*cked up. I can already tell that they have a loving, secure relationship, because he does the loving, and she takes care of the securing...of his leash. Fair trade, really. I am taking bets on how long this will last. I may even start a pool, just for shits and giggles. Here's a tip, gamblers - you're pushing your odds if you go over six months.

At this point, everyone at the table was irritated. I was irritated because I had to be re-introduced to Melanoma and shake her wet f*cking hand, he was irritated because he'd been busted, and my friends were irritated because his "shocking" confession that Melanoma is his girlfriend happened to coincide with CK's lit birthday cake, which the waitress was holding while ROMP channeled Kofi Annan and offered up his best resolution to this awkward situation.

I calmly agreed to let him re-introduce me, under the condition that he moved his liar ass to the side. I said, "Listen, I don't care, do whatever you have to do, but this is my friend's birthday and your ass is right in front of her cake. So you'll have to wait until she gets her cake. Let us eat cake!"

And that, my friends, was my Marie Antoinette moment.

He moved off to the side and stood nearby for TEN minutes while we celebrated CK's birthday. Finally, when he realized I was never going to summon him and he was just sitting there looking like a moron, he got off of his tail, placed it between his legs, and returned to Melanoma's table. That was the last time I saw them that night.

Predictably, I received an email from him today with an "explanation":

I apologize for Saturday night's set of events. The girl I introduced you to was the girl that was with before . Her and I got back together on 4th of July weekend. The only reason I am breaking this down for you is because it seemed like that situation was a little uncomfortable for everyone so I thought I should explain it. Her and I were on a hiatus for a few weeks and then we just decided to give it another shot and now it's going very well. Anyway, I thought you deserved an explanation on why I came up to you and asked if I could re-introduce you two but obviously don't worry about that now. I put out the flames and everything is cool.

Thoughts:
1. "Her and I" is acceptable grammar - if you have a B.S. in Ridiculous from the Mickey Mouse School of Vernacular. Who gave this kid a f*cking degree?
2. I'm not worried, ROMP.
3. I'm glad it's going well for them. No, seriously.
4. He put out plenty of flames on Saturday, including the flame I had that made me ever think this guy was remotely appealing.
5. Wait, why the hell am I reading this?! Oh yes, because I was procrastinating on that project that's due tomorrow.

My response was simple, yet effective:

No worries here – you really don’t have to explain anything, but thanks anyway. When you came over a few weeks ago, I saw right through everything you said and realized that it was all a big setup, so I think the only mistake you made is underestimating my intelligence. That said, you embarrassed yourself sufficiently on Saturday – no need to make things worse. All the best in your new relationship.

Yes, that's right. I ripped his head off. And it was well deserved. Come to think of it, that guillotine comparison may not be too dissimilar. Marie Antoinette had her head ripped off, and I rip heads off for lunch.

So yes, that was pretty much my weekend.

Eat cake, motherf*cker.

posted by KA @ 10:15 PM 2 comments

Straight Up And Dirty

Religious Christians believe in the Bible. Jews believe in the Torah. Scientologists believe in Xenu. The list could go on and on but the bottom line is this: in my temple, we pray to "Straight Up and Dirty".

On a hot tip from CK, who heard about it from A, I took my gift card to Barnes & Noble (thank you to whatever rep gave that to me) and purchased this memoir by Stephanie Klein. I quickly realized that this was, in all honesty, probably the most true book I'd ever had the foresight to pick up.

And last night, in my miserably hung over state, I crawled into bed at 9 pm and read until my eyes drooped, my headache worsened, and my neck ached. I read this f*cking book until I was blue in the face. Because although our stories are different, she and I could have been separated at birth. We think the same, we act the same, we write the same - except for she does it a lot better than I do, which is simultaneously comforting and depressing.

I would describe it, but I couldn't really do it justice. If you're a woman, it's a great read. If you're a man, it's still a good read, because this woman is representative of our gender and could probably give you an insight or two. And if you have ever wanted to get to know or understand me, this would be the guide.

In honor of Stephanie Klein and her fabulous book, I will be toasting her with every drink, every shot, and every celebratory night out with the girlfriends for an indefinite period of time. Which I can assure you will probably be plentiful.

posted by KA @ 9:13 PM 1 comments

Weezer Wants To Destroy My Sweater

posted by KA @ 2:50 PM 2 comments

The Most Boring Date I've Ever Had, And By The Way Nigiri Is Fascinating

I had a date a few nights ago. I'd have written about it sooner, except for that I couldn't even make up my mind about what to say. It was pretty f*cking boring.

I sat through drinks, sushi, and lame conversation. He was actually insanely good looking and nice, but truth be told, I was more concerned with the Braves getting their asses kicked by the Phillies -- and I wouldn't even consider myself to be much of a sports fan. I found myself dying for my friend CK to call me, and in true "Sex and the City" style, say "Something very bad happened!" I would reply, "Oh no! Something bad happened?" and run out of the restaurant.

I can't really pinpoint exactly what it was about him that bored the shit out of me, but I knew I'd spent longer periods of time questioning the purpose of eating raw ginger with sushi. That can't be good.

The whole time I was thinking about what a waste it was to have spent a tireless hour flat-ironing my hair enough to achieve "supermodel swing" on a guy who couldn't hold my attention span for longer than three minutes.

After what seemed like an eternity, I packed my shit up, left him with an awkward side hug and a hanging question about going out again this weekend (clearly he wasn't as bored), and was off faster than a prom dress. I went home, watched two episodes - back-to-back - of Gilmore Girls on DVR, ate a cookie, and had more fun in the last half hour than I did the entire first part of the night. If every date I ever have from here on is like this, I'm going to adopt myself a shitload more cats and buy myself a housecoat. No sense in fighting the stereotype, right?

Dating is a miserable, but necessary evil. It's just too complicated and there are too many things to consider: careers, friends, ambitions, political beliefs, family goals, sex drive. I wish we could just go back to the days where a first date was replaced with a note asking if you'd go with the person, circle one: yes, no, maybe; a happy relationship was one in which both parties were playing Red Rover at recess, and each date ended with a kiss by the monkey bars.

posted by KA @ 10:02 PM 1 comments

The Ties That Blind

It's kind of weird how quickly dynamics can change.

I feel like for me, personally, my life the last few months has been a series of moments that go from 0 to 60 in under 5 seconds. With one statement, or one look, or one tone, everything I thought I knew gets turned on its ear and I have to spend countless hours trying to figure out how to reconcile all of it in my head. Growing up entails a lot of bullshit, but one of the hardest feats it presents you with is trying to figure out where your past fits in to your present - and your future. Let's face it - you're not in high school anymore. You're not in college anymore. You've grown up and moved on and things change. And not just for you - for everyone else too. We are constantly moving creatures in a world that changes as quickly as I type these words. It's exciting and it's frightening, but we're all in it together.

The problem is - and if you've read anything I've ever written, then you probably already knew I found a problem with it - we tend to hold on to a lot of things thinking that they haven't changed. I mean, yes, some of our goals and aspirations get a red pen revision - like the one where I'd be married by 22 and have my first kid by 25 - but a lot of them don't. Like the dream of backpacking through Europe in the summertime. Or going to medical school. Or the dream of making that one relationship where no one had their shit together before actually work this time around. Those are some comfortable dreams. They fit in nicely with the kinds of people we each think we are. They're the kinds of dreams that we refer back to and seek out when we're uncomfortable, or scared, or venturing into unchartered territory. They're the things that ground us and keep us true to who we think we are.

But for me, and in many different facets of my life, I am coming to the realization that some of the things I held on to just aren't really right anymore. Let's face it - I will probably never have another summer off in my life (unless I'm on maternity leave). If I want to backpack to Europe, I'd best be using up the majority of my paid time off, and what the f*ck tree do I think the money will grow on in order for me to afford it? Medical school - probably not happening. After having spent a good hundred thousand dollars on my college and graduate school education (which I was lucky enough to have had paid for in the first place), I sincerely doubt that a good MCAT score will be enough to convince Mom and Dad that I have a real talent for proctology. And forget about the relationships. It exhausts me to even think about it. I've been holding on to those ideas for a really long time, and over the course of the past few months, I've realized something that terrifies the shit out of me - I don't think I want any of those things anymore. Well, except for maybe the trip. Except for truthfully, I'd take South America over Europe any day.

Last night, I carefully made a list of dream jobs, and while "lady who names the nail polish for OPI" made the cut, doctor did not. I then made a list of all of the qualities I wanted in someone, which sounds kind of stupid but really helped me get my thoughts together. I had a somewhat short list of things I definitely wanted, but a much longer list of things I did not, based on past relationships. I then lined that up with the guy (well, guys) that I had in mind and found that pretty much none of them matched anything I had written down as a plus, except for maybe that they had hair (no offense, Bald Men - I love you, but you're not for me). All of the things I thought I knew I wanted - the things that I put up on a giant velvet-upholstered throne - had been knocked off with one fell swoop. What. The. F*ck. It was like I unlocked the f*cking Da Vinci Code or something - I felt enlightened, but completely threatened at the same time. I just kind of knew that things were never going to be the same in my head again.

There's a phrase for that feeling, and it's "clean slate". And after expressing - publicly and for the last few months - that I wished I had one, I finally do. I'm no longer a victim of the ties that blind.I am seeing things for what they are and realizing that I've been shortchanging myself for a long time. These trips I've wanted to take aren't necessarily where I want to go. These career moves aren't really what's right for me. And these people - these people are not in my league. They're good people, but I'm not sure what ever gave me the idea that I could settle for them, and how I was convinced of that for so long.

I kind of wonder where I go from here, because I feel like I have to hold myself to a set of completely new - different - higher - standards. And while I feel like it's going to be that much harder to find the perfect career, or afford the perfect trip, or find the perfect person, it's going to be well worth it. I just hope this shit doesn't change again because I'm having a hard time keeping up.

posted by KA @ 9:57 PM 0 comments

The Matzah-sizer 3000 - The Ultimate Jewish Girl Power Tool

Flat irons of the world, beware!

After the death of my trusty "Superstar" ceramic flat iron's death (R.I.P. Superstar 2003-2005), I have gone on a quest to find the latest, greatest, nappy Jewfro flat iron on the market.

Behold the power of the Curlmaster Ceramic Tourmaline Wet/Dry! It is the new It hair appliance for Jewish and coarse-haired girls of the world!

For $60, you too can have straight, shiny, untangled hair, just like those slutty Catholic schoolgirls (before they give the basketball team head in the locker room)!

This sucker has tourmaline, ceramic plates (which I still don't know what that means, but throw a term like "tourmaline" in the description and I am immediately turned on), and heats up to 460 degrees. You could cook a f*cking tater tot on there, I dare you. That sucker will be toasty and good to go in a matter of sixty seconds. It has a swivel cord that enables full range of motion. It has 2 1/2 inch plates. It flat-irons my hair (usually a 40 minute job) - in under 20 minutes.

It is - in a word - amazing.

posted by KA @ 9:11 PM 0 comments

I Went To Ohio And All I Got Were These Lousy Bug Bites

Sorry for the lack in updates - it's been rather crazy in these parts and it's hard to find time to breathe, much less write a post.

I have so many thoughts on so many different things, but I think I'm just trying to gather them altogether in something that makes sense, so please bear with me.

A few ruminations about my recent trip to Ohio this weekend:

I was outside on Friday night, and I've learned the hard way that spending time outside with my signature Fresh Sugar perfume and no bug repellent is definitely not a good idea. Currently we are at 16 bites and counting, with no end in sight. I have bites in places I was not expecting, either. One would think I was rolling around naked in the grass or something.

There are a lot of ugly people in Ohio. I guess I never noticed it growing up, but aside from the people I went to high school with (I suspect we had an exceptionally good looking species), everyone else looks like they were hit over the head with a big giant bag of "What-the-F*ck". At the Akron-Canton airport yesterday, I actually spotted a woman with feathered hair and blue eyeshadow wearing a tank top that said, "Save a Harley, Ride a Biker" on it. I rest my case.

There are a lot of potholes in Ohio. I am pleasantly surprised that Hertz didn't charge me for shock repairs when I returned my rental Subaru Outback. (By the way, an Outback? Are you f*cking insane? Is that considered an "upgrade"?) I couldn't go down a stretch of road without fear of becoming infertile. My fallopians are still recovering...or maybe itching from possible bug bites?

posted by KA @ 10:08 AM 0 comments

My Friends Are Famous

Check this out:

High-Rise Evacuated for Phony Bomb Scare

Yesterday, my old workplace evacuated for the second time in one week. Last week it was an electrical fire. Yesterday it was a bomb scare. Apparently, the ten sticks with "Dynomite" written all over them and weird cords were a prop used by another (not mine) ad agency in the building for a commercial.

The little news blurb has interviews with two women I used to work with and a brief - albeit beautiful - shot of my great girlfriend CK. She's the one in the red tanktop and the banana clip, giving the camera a sexy eye.

posted by KA @ 9:12 AM 3 comments