A sad day

I took the day off from work today to do all of the last-minute stuff that needed to be done before my trip. And also to sleep a whole lot. When I rolled out of bed at 11:30 and fired up the computer, The Rommate IM'd me and told me that Jerry Orbach had died. This is sad news. I immediately remembered a conversation we had a couple of weeks ago while watching several episodes of Law & Order.

The Roommate: Don't you wish Jerry Orbach was your Dad?

Me: I don't know. He did put Baby in a corner, and you kow, nobody puts Baby in a corner.

I've been kind of iffy about Dennis Farina taking his place on L&O, and even more iffy about yet another L&O spinoff (Note to Dick Wolf: Criminal Intent blows), but now I'll watch it, sadly. R.I.P. Lenny Briscoe.

It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you

Well niblets, I'm off to Africa. Wish me a safe trip, a good tan and cute boys to make out with. Should I find myself near a computer, I'll let y'all know how it's going. But probably not. Check back, though, because I've given The Roommate my Blogger account information and she'll be posting in my absence if she gets inspired. She's funny, I promise.

Viva la Christmas presents!

For Christmas, I bought Cousin Desiree some yummy goodies from LUSH and a copy of He's Just Not That Into You. I got Cousin Josh the first season of Viva La Bam on DVD. Right before Cousin Desiree opened the book, I informed her that I wasn't trying to offend, that I bought her what I did because it changed my life. She started to rip off the paper and looked at me oddly. Then she started to laugh and showed me that she had, in her hands, Viva La Bam on DVD. While I certainly think Bam Margera is cute in a "he's my best friend's annoying brother, and maybe if I were sleeping over her house I would sneak out of her room in the middle of the night and make out with him but certainly never date him because I've watched him light his farts on fire more than a hundred times" kind of way, he definitely never changed my life.

Note to self for next year: Gifts tags are your friend.

A post-holiday conversation with my body

This morning, I had a little chat with my body when we woke up.

"Are you kidding me?" my body asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't answer a question with a question. You know what I mean. Lasagna, beef, ham, pepperoni, mashed potatoes, Gram's ricotta cookies, brownies, pies, stuffed shells, pizza, red wine, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Did you consume even one piece of fruit while you were vacuuming up cookie crumbs with your mouth? And what, may I ask, is your veggie to red meat ratio, huh?"

"I had some veggies."

"You had some salad. With iceberg lettuce. If I remember correctly, you passed the peas and corn without so much as a spoonful on your plate. And while I'm thinking about it, I do believe the only exercise you got was getting off the couch to either get more cookies or use the bathroom. Arteries are your friends. Clogging them is a bad idea."

"Oh shut up. It was the holidays."

"Well, guess what? You're grounded."

"What do mean I'm grounded? You can't ground me."

"Oh yes I can. You're getting sick and you'll be in a bikini in less than a week. You are no longer in charge. You are going on a three-day detox diet. Don't look at me like that. For the next three days, you are to consume nothing but fruit and vegetables. You can have some tofu if you behave. And no coffee! You can have green tea, but that's it in the way of caffeinated beverages. And no booze, under any circumstances. And no cigarettes, either!"

"You suck."

"You leave me no choice. Maybe you'll remember this next time you want to be a big, fat glutton for days on end."

Two Julie stories

In my apartment, there are two Floridians currently taking up residence on my couch: Julie, my crazy best friend, and her Hot Irish Boyfriend. These are their stories.

Story #1

"Hey Jule, you know we're just going to the Parkside, right?"

Julie and Karl arrived back at my apartment, exhausted yet giddy after their shopping trip. I was tired from a productive, though draining, day at work. We decided to pop by The Parkside Lounge, my neighborhood dive bar, for a drink. Julie said she needed to "get changed" first. She walked into my bedroom and emerged in a sequined tube top and black pants. I gave her an odd look and walked into the bathroom, where her curling iron lay on the sink.

"Will there be hair curling before we go?" I asked. Julie assured me there would be just a little.

"Hey Jule, you do remember the Parkside, right? The bar with the pool table and the guys from the neighborhood? The one you've fallen down in on at least three occasions?"

Julie curled her hair. I put on jeans and a hoodie, and threw my hair into a ponytail.

Julie exited the bathroom as The Roommate and The Boyfriend of the Roommate were entering the apartment. Hellos were exchanged. The Roommate asked where we were going. Julie said the Parkside. The Roommate looked at her oddly, and then confessed that she had assumed something fancier was on the menu.

"Is Princess ready to go?" I asked. Princess was ready to go. "She's so high-maintenance," I said to the Hot Irish Boyfriend. He agreed. Unbeknownst to us, the Parkside was having its annual holiday party, which really just ended up being an intimate gathering of people who live in my building. When we found out there was a party, Julie was elated.

"Aha!" she said. "I am dressed for a party. You are not." I most definitely wasn't.

Story #2

Julie is a middle school math teacher, and on the day before Christmas vacation, she earned the honorable distinction of being the only teacher who made her classes do work. (We all know what kind of teacher that makes her. A mean one.) When she sent the empty-handed students to their lockers to retrieve their books, there was much grumbling. When they returned and she began her lesson, one girl could not let it go.

"Ms. [Julie's last name]! Why do you hate the baby Jesus?"

"Ms. [Julie last name]! Why are you such a scrooge?

And this one takes the cake.

"Ms. [Julie's last name]! You hate Christmas because you're not married, don't you?"

At the end of class, Julie passed out cards she had filled out and cookies she had baked. The students grudgingly admitted that she wasn't really a scrooge, but they still weren't happy about being forced to do work.

Damn you to hell, Macy's

I woke up early today to brave Macy's jewelry store. Mom has very specific jewelry needs, and though I've been to nearly every store in the city that sells jewelry, I have had no luck. This means I will be spending time at the Rotterdam Square Mall on Christmas Eve, where I spent a good four years slaving away at Arby's in the food court, and later worked at a blown glass kiosk, where I broke at least one piece per day. Good times.

The thing about Macy's jewelry store is that the people who work behind the counter are evil. Extremely, wholly evil. Asking how much something costs will get you a withering look guaranteed to make you shrink at least two inches. After one leathery, bespectacled old woman with a disturbing dye job brought me near tears, I actually said, out loud, "fuck this place" and left in search of solace in the form of fast food.

I had already passed McDonald's, which was my first choice. I thought about going back, but realized that on a day before a four-day weekend, it's really important to actually arrive at the office at some point. So I stopped at Burger King for a bacon, egg and cheese Croissan'wich®. Imagine my surprise when I examine the bag said Croissan'wich® is in and I see this:



Huh? Is the BK marketing department smoking pot and passing around and huffing a bag that once held a cheeseburger? What kind of message is this? I can only hope this particular messaging resulted in the termination of the marketing director, and now they just have a buttload of bags to unload. For the record, I did not save the bag to inhale grease an hour or two from now. In fact, the nausea that has infiltrated my body is reminder enough. I don't blame Burger King for my nausea, though. No, I blame Macy's. Bastards.

Did you get the memo?

I've been thinking a lot about pubic hair lately. Specifically, why possessing it has become a crime on par with eating babies.

I'm going to be honest with you folks, I have some. Not a lot, but it's there. I keep it neat and tidy, but I don't go to a shady back room where a scary Russian woman will rip it out at the follicle and then call me a wimp before slapping me around and telling me to toughen up. I'd rather stick a fork in my eye, frankly. And even if I did go for the wax, I wouldn't go all the way. I shaved it all off once when I was bored and I didn't like the way it looked one bit.

I don't understand when this all happened. Granted, I was kind of a dirty hippie for awhile there, but you'd think I would have at least gotten the memo.

MEMORANDUM

To: All females over the age of 17, everywhere
From: The powers that be
Subject: Pubic hair

We have decided that, effective immediately, there will be no more pubic hair. You have 10 days to remove any and all unwanted hair. Should you refuse to do so, males will no longer sleep with you. Please note that all males have received a memo to that effect.

There are a variety of ways in which you can remove said pubic hair. Obviously, our preferred method is electrolysis, as we can ensure that, after 10 to 12 visits, there will be no regrowth.

If electrolysis is not a viable economic venture, then we suggest waxing. Please be aware that this will need to be done every 6-8 weeks, so we'd prefer a recurring appointment at whatever interval will prevent you from displaying even a hint of pubic hair.

For those of you who are cheap and/or lazy, shaving is the way to go. Most of you will grow painful red bumps everywhere, which will be almost as unattractive as the hair, and anyone exposed to your nether regions will probably assume you've contracted some sort of contagious disease and even though you are hairless, they still will not sleep with you. We do not recommend this option.

We are looking into ways to alleviate a percentage of these hair-removal costs, as we consider it a health issue, and certainly one that the future of our species depends on. Good luck with the landscaping!

Mystery solved

Cousin Desiree: Are you getting excited about South Africa?

Me: So excited. I need to pick up a travel book before I go.

Cousin Desiree: No you don't.

Me: Why not?

Cousin Desiree: Don't worry about it.

Me: Did you buy me one?

Cousin Desiree: No, but Santa is coming.

Me: Oh?

Cousin Desiree: Just don't fucking buy one, okay?

Me: Ha!

Cousin Desiree: Man, I hate you.

Happy holidays from the Fug girls

Me: This Britney fug is so awesome.

Sean Conrad: I wish I was dating her. I would let you hide in my closet and listen to us watch TV.

We heart the Ubik

Chris flew into town Saturday and Curly and I got to meet him in person. Unfortunately, Sheila could not join us because she was having a pajama party. We met up at the new Barramundi, where drinks were consumed, circumcision was heavily discussed, bondage balls were passed around and the cavefish fell, because the cavefish falls down a lot. Chris looks and sounds like a news anchor, but he isn't one. We also met the lovely Annette, who is one funny girl. All in all, a grand time. Curly and I want Chris to move to New York and be our boyfriend.

Yo yo yo, get your groove on up here in dis K-mart

Yesterday, I was on a major hunt for a butterfly chair cover to replace the one that's ripping and fraying all over my living room. I've gotten my last three at the Urban Outfitters on Broadway so naturally, I headed there first, only to find out they no longer carry them. I walked up to Claire's, where I had a vague recollection of an off-white faux fur number that wasn't ideal but would do in a pinch. Nope.

K-Mart was on my way home, so I stopped in and headed upstairs to the furniture department. As I rode the escalator, hip hop music boomed from above and a voice came through a bullhorn.

"Yo yo yo, enter our dance contest in seven minutes and win $40! That's $40, just for dancin'!"

I get off the escalator and a young man is in the jeans department with a boom box and a bullhorn. Next to him, another young man in a jersey dribbled a basketball. I went over my morning activities in my mind and determined that no, I did not drop acid at any point. This was actually happening. A dance contest. In the jeans department at K-Mart. While a young man inexplicably dribbles a basketball. What?

These are the moments that make me love New York.

My therapist would be so proud

The thing about dating or chasing after boys with commitment issues is that when it doesn't work out, it’s never my fault. Blaming others is fun.

So I meet a very tall boy who doesn't have any commitment issues at all, or any other apparent issues, for that matter. And what do I do? I freak out. A lot. Then I realize that dating guys who are emotionally impotent is really just a way for me not to deal with my own commitment issues, of which there are many.

I've never been fond of guys who want to work out their shit on my time, so I wouldn't expect someone else to let me do it on theirs. Maybe I'm scared because I'm turning 30. Maybe I'm still scarred from my last relationship. Either way, I had to cut Tall Guy loose. He said he was disappointed, but not terribly surprised since I haven't exactly been accessible in the time we've known each other.

Self-awareness kind of blows, sometimes.

This just in: It's really cold outside

Back in my News Channel 6 days, there was a job assigned to a fresh-faced reporter that was so gruesome and cruel that every time said reporter's mug showed up on the television, those of us back in the newsroom would mutter "poor bastard." That job? Standing outside all day on the first winter freeze to talk about the cold. And in upstate New York, that was pretty fucking cold.

It always went down the same. First, a check of your weather. Then, someone introduced the poor reporter, who repeated the spiel he'd given at noon and five before rolling a two-and-a-half-minute package wherein he talks to strangers on the street about just how cold it is. The warm people in the newsroom felt bad for him, the viewers at home felt bad for him and everyone wondered why this sadistic crime must be visited on someone who makes about one-tenth of an anchor's salary, even though all anchors do is sit behind a desk and read a teleprompter and throw fits in the newsroom, Liz Bishop.

Roger Clark at NY1, please keep yourself bundled up today. And Pat Kiernan, I love you. Still.

What I did on Friday night

Rekindled my love affair with one Maker's Mark.

Got a lap dance from My Sharona.

Spilled a beer on myself and Jean.

Danced on a table.

Lost my shirt.

Performed the butt dance.

Tried to make out with a beautiful gay boy.

Dawson's Beak

To the person who arrived here today via a search for "Nude picture of James Van Der Beek," I have one word for you, and one word only.

Ew.

A Day of Rest

These days, the only thing that's keeping me going is the promise that it will soon be December 27th.

This month has proved to be the busiest month of my life, in both my personal and my professional space. I don't remember the last time I've been asleep before 1am. I don't remember the last time I woke up at a reasonable hour for work. It seems every morning I'm exhausted or hungover or both. I don't remember the last time I made myself a healthy, nutritious meal. I don't remember the last time I did my hair or put makeup on before 7pm. In a nutshell, I am Seriously. Burned. Out. Coffee is my only friend. And I haven't even started Christmas shopping yet.

In ten days, though, I have exactly nothing going on. I do not have to work. I do not have to be anywhere. If I want to stay in bed for an entire 24 hours with my Magic Wand and Cinemax on Demand, I can. I can even spring for real porn, if I so desire. I'm not on call. I don't need to answer my phone. Then, two days after my day of rest, I'm going to Africa. And thus begins my countdown, first to Do Nothing Day, and then to Africa. And I've lined up a kickass guest blogger to fill in while I'm away, AKA The Roommate.

It never gets old. NEVER.



Britney is...

A) At a casting call for "Hooker #3."

B) So drunk she forgot to get dressed before leaving the house.

C) Trying to prove her generous Cheetos consumption is having no effect whatsoever on her figure.

D) Flashing strangers for money because Kevin cleaned out her bank account.

E) A dirty, dirty whore.

Things I've admitted to Tall Guy in the past 24 hours that he wishes I didn't

I saw New York Minute in the theater.

I love ABBA.

I'm not entirely hating Michael Bloomberg lately.

I saw Crossroads in the theater, and love Britney Spears.

I saw every episode of Roswell when it was on, voluntarily.

I'm crazy.

I talk to my cats. A lot.

That's cave fish, not cave girl

Tall Guy: Too bad you're busy tomorrow night. My writing group's cancelled until January.

Me: It is too bad, but then again, I'm going to see the motherfucking Pixies and that's pretty damn exciting.

Tall Guy: I guess. So are we still on for tonight?

Me: The Pixies are a little before your time, I guess. Yes, we're still on.

Tall Guy: Yeah, I thought you'd be more into listening to a… femur banging against a rock.

Don't even try, Jane Pratt

I have a love/hate relationship with Jane Magazine. I have a subscription, and every month, when something in the current issue annoys me, I swear I will not renew. But I always do. Their first-person we rule we're so feminist yet we have anorexic models on every page and we worship celebrities even if they don't deserve it and make outrageous claims on our cover that are not reflected in the actual content bullshit drives me nuts, yet for some reason I can't get enough of it. This is a sample of me reading Jane:

Shut up, Jane Pratt. Really, just shut up.

Cute shoes!

You promised me Laura Flynn Boyle's FOOD DIARY. You gave me a picture of her NOT eating ice cream. Assholes.

If I don't have that skirt, like, right now, I will die.

Pam Anderson, why the hell did someone let you write a column?

I am so buying that book.

Ugh, celebrity ass-kissers. I hate you.

That Craig's List article kicked some serious ass.

Hey, Jane Pratt? SHUT UP.

When my latest issue arrived, in which Lindsay Lohan insists that she's not some teenage alcoholic (uh huh) and her boobs are real (UH HUH), I looked at the cover and saw these words…

The Sexy Feminists' Beauty Guide

I shook my head and sighed, and then looked for the article so I could make fun of it, only I couldn't actually find it in the issue. Jane Magazine, please quit it with the frontin'. Please.

UPDATE: Bitch Magazine's debut piece in my favorite column, The Jane Petty Criticism Corner.

Joe Simpson is one creepy bastard

This item is on Page Six today. There are so many things wrong with it, I don't even know where to start. I am copying it in its entirety, and the items I find most troubling are in bold.

December 15, 2004 -- Joe Simpson, the former Baptist minister turned manager of daughters Jessica and Ashlee, doesn't shy way from talking about his offspring's physical assets. "Jessica never tries to be sexy," Simpson tells GQ. "She just is sexy. If you put her in a T-shirt or you put her in a bustier, she's sexy in both. She's got double D's! You can't cover those suckers up!" Simpson also volunteered that he modified the part Ashlee will play in an upcoming movie, "Wannabe." In the original script, Ashlee's character was gay. "I changed it," Simpson says. "It doesn't work for her to be gay the first thing out. She said, 'But it's cool, it's edgy, it's different,' and of course the filmmakers were like, 'It's cool for a woman to be a lesbian,' and I'm like, 'That's true, but not her first role.' She's going to be a huge movie star. She's like Meg Ryan or Cameron Diaz, with probably more depth. When we're done, she'll play it all."

Pretty on the inside

I spoke to Cindy over the weekend, and she relayed a story about a coworker and her. Seems she had mentioned a friend to a male coworker, who, being a male, inquired as to the friend's attractiveness. When Cindy confirmed that the friend was, in fact, quite attractive, her male coworker made this startling accusation: pretty girls only hang out with other pretty girls.

Now, when she said that, I scoffed. So not true. Then Cindy said she too had scoffed, until she considered the fact that she had no ugly friends. While she told me this, I went over my list of girlfriends and nope, not an ugly one in the bunch. We wondered if perhaps we just think our friends are attractive because their personalities are attractive, and then had to dismiss that, because our girls are hotties.

So it would appear that attractive women are shallow, if only on a subconscious level. Now, look at some pics of my pretty, pretty friends from the weekend.

Me and Jean at Anotheroom for Julia's going away party Saturday night. She's moving to London. On the one hand, I'll miss her. On the other, I'll have friends in London.

Summer, Julia and My Sharona, wearing Summer's hat, also at Anotheroom.

Me and KB. Yup, Anotheroom.

A blurry Azee at Desmond's, where Shark Hat rocked da house Friday night.

Me and Dria, also at Desmond's.

Who needs a boyfriend when you've got Steve Madden?

I want to make sweet love to these shoes. In fact, I have a near-orgasm every time I look at them. I think I'm going to take them on a romantic getaway to South Africa later this month.

Really?

Sometimes I say things that make my friends cock their heads to one side and look at me quizzically. Like, if we're at a bar and someone is going up for drinks and I say, "Can you get me a Diet Coke?" Or if there are six pounds of pasta left and I say, "No thanks. I'm good." Or "I'm not really in the mood for cupcakes." It's always the same head-cocked-eyes-squinted-surprised "Really?" kind of look.

The one that's been getting everyone this week? "He slept over, but we didn't have sex."

Metal loses a guitar god



It's a sad day for metal fans everywhere. Last night, Dimebag Darrell from Damageplan was shot and killed onstage at a show in Columbus, Ohio. Before Damageplan, Dimebag played guitar for Pantera, one of my all-time favorite bands. R.I.P. DD, we'll miss your ass-kicking guitar riffs.

My sentiments exactly

Zach: How is Tall Guy?

Me: Good. Probably going to see him again Friday night.

Zach: I guess we won't be cuddling any time soon then.

Me: Nope.

Zach: He better not be a dick.

Tales from My Sharona, Volume II: What's a little mental illness?

My Sharona is a social worker who works with psychiatric patients. A woman came in to do a presentation on new psychotropic medications and symptom management. When she explained that some of the drugs can cause weight gain, My Sharona leaned over to her coworker and said:

I'd much rather be psychotic and thin.

Her coworker agreed.

Tales from My Sharona, Volume I: Note to self, wax more frequently

Today's blog content comes to you courtesy of My Sharona, who I had some lovely conversation with at last night's Rape Crisis Holiday Bash (Doesn't that sound fun?).

My Sharona will not get naked with a guy unless she's properly groomed. In fact, she once declined an offer to play Bend Over Boyfriend with a Certain Law & Order Star Who Shall Remain Nameless because she had not shaved her legs.

Such was the case with her Rock Star Booty Call (RSBC) Thursday night. RSBC lives in Idaho, but comes to NYC frequently for Important Rock Star Business. Whenever he's in town, he gives My Sharon a ring. It has been a very long time since they've managed to get together. Here's the email I and a few others got from her on Friday:

Reasons you should always be waxed or "lovah ready" (Sex and the City fans):

RSBC: Hey baaaby

My Sharona: Hey you, when did you get into town?

RSBC: Last night

My Sharona: When are you going back?

RSBC: Saturday

My Sharona: Why so short?

RSBC: I just came to pick up some stuff and take it back out west. Can I see you tonight?

My Sharona: (While contemplating ways to kill herself) My friend is sleeping here.

RSBC: So cancel on her.

My Sharona: I can't. She's kinda having a crisis. (The friend being her and the crisis being she hasn't gotten waxed in 4 1/2 weeks) What about tomorrow night?

RSBC: I can't. I have a really good friend's birthday party.

My Sharona: Well, I think you should stay in town longer. I've been thinking about you.

RSBC: Really? What have you been thinking?

My Sharona: Naughty things

RSBC: Well, I want to come over and do them for you.

My Sharona: That's kind of sweet.

RSBC: I'll call you on Saturday if I decide to stay longer.

My Sharona concluded the email with "Someone please shoot me." My response?

Call me a dirty hippie, but I wouldn't let a little hair around the nether regions get in the way of getting some.

Mama coulda bought a new pair of shoes

Sometimes I wish I didn't have a conscience.

Like this morning, which I'm sure was some sort of test by whichever divine agency administers moral testing these days. I'm walking out of the subway station at 40th and 6th. Some money falls out of a guy's pocket in front of me. He doesn't notice. I look down. It's a $50. I stare at it for a moment, and then pick it up.

"Sir!" I yell. "Sir!" He turns around.

"You dropped this," I say, handing him the $50 bill. He takes the bill and thanks me. He walks away, stops, turns around and comes back.

"Really," he says. "Thank you. You've just restored my faith in humanity."

Karma, I expect to be repaid in full. Unless this is actually paying back the debt Cindy and I racked up with those drunk townie lawyers that one night in college. Although, technically, she took the money. I just batted my eyelashes.

The slut phase

From: Me
To: Petey
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

How was the date?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Petey
To: Me
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

It was fun. There was making out, but she didn't want to come back to Brooklyn.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Me
To: Petey
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

Well, most girls won’t go back to Brooklyn on a first date.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Petey
To: Me
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

Oh whatever, Ms. I Took Home That Player I Met on Nerve and Blogged About It.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Me
To: Petey
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

I was going through a slut phase

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Petey
To: Me
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

Why don't I ever meet girls during their slut phases?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Me
To: Petey
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

You met me during one.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Petey
To: Me
Subject: RE: Get Gillian Anderson a sandwich

That slut phase was called "working at [insert silly Internet company name here]" A lot of people went through that phase.

Extreme Makeover: blog edition

Notice anything different? Shiny new logo courtesy of the multi-talented Curly McDimple, who is giving my crafty creations a new and improved place to live. I heart my new logo.

Names Tall Guy called me last night because I was drunk and tired and he lives in Greenpoint, which, when you're drunk and tired, might as well be another planet

Lame-o

Lame Wad

Lamezilla

Princess of Lameland

Possesor of Lame Knife

Oh Lame One

High Duchess of Lame

You don't hear that every day

Two sentences were uttered yesterday that elicited that response. They were:

Me: When I get back from Africa, I'm switching over to Road Runner.

The Roommate: Do you still have your handcuffs? I want to borrow them for my Naughty Santa act.

Those wife beaters are clever fellas

So last night, we had our bimonthly volunteer meeting at the hospital. Like usual, we ate pizza and discussed all the cases we'd had since the last meeting. One girl told a story about a domestic violence case she handled. The survivor (we don't use the word "victim"), had told one of her guy friends that she was being abused. His advice?

Guys only beat the women that they really love. No guy's going to go to jail for some woman unless he really loves her.

Great advice, dude. Really helpful.

Three first dates: Craig's List fun:
This morning, as I ate my breakfast and properly caffeinated myself, I browsed Craig’s List Missed Connections. I came across this poor guy's post, which I will summarize for those of you who don't like to click on links.

Basically, he went on (what he believed to be) a great first date. Afterward, the girl blew him off. A time later, he ran into her and she apparently had no recollection of ever having gone out with him. They went out again. She blew him off again. Now, a year later, he has run into her again, she doesn't remember him, and they have their third first date tonight. Awesome.

Never have a seen a Missed Connections post get so many responses. Everyone wanted to give Third Date some advice. Here's a sample of what he got [edited for clarity]:

Take everything you've ever known about her and slyly work it all in so she thinks you're the perfect guy.

Although a gentleman should generally pay for the first date, this is technically your third.

She's obviously a player or just straight up retarded!

Can we at least take into consideration that maybe this guy has the personality of tofu, and that's why she's not remembering Mr. Exciting?

My question is, why the fuck would this douche bag keep putting himself in the humiliating situation of being forgotten over and over? And then going back for more like some masochistic Oliver Twist?

Third time's probably not a charm.

I wish I met a woman that forgetful. She won't be able to keep reminding you of shit you did, insensitive remarks, forgetting plans, and she won't be able to point out inconsistencies in your excuses.

Both of you are fruit cakes.

And my personal favorite:

Could be she's a time traveler, and though you've met her before, she's never met you, since she's traveling through time in reverse.

My least favorite moment of getting to know a guy

Tall Guy: What are you doing tomorrow night?

Me: Oh, I have this thing.

Tall Guy: Thing?

Me: Like, a meeting thing.

Tall Guy: For work?

Me: No, it's uh, for this other thing I do.

Tall Guy: Oh? What do you do?

Me: I'm uh, an emergency room volunteer at [insert hospital name here]. Like, domestic violence and rape crisis and stuff.

Tall Guy: …

Tall Guy: …

Tall Guy: Whoa.

A boardwalk psychic's predictions will have you reeling

That line is from a Cosmo horoscope I read after one of the Heathers and I went to Wildwood when we were both 15 and a boardwalk psychic's predictions really did have us reeling.

There are three very important pieces of information you'll need to have at hand to understand the following story. 1) Tall Guy is 25, and yes, I'm a cradle robber. 2) Sylvia is my mother's psychic, who she visits once every two years or so. 3) The ex and I broke up on Thanksgiving of last year. Now, let's make with the storytelling.

I was discussing with Mom my Tall Guy hesitation based on his age, when she said, "Well, Sylvia did say you were going to get involved with a younger guy."

"When did you see Sylvia?" I asked.

"Last summer." This puzzled me.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

"Well," Mom began, "Sylvia told me you and [insert ex's name here] were going to break up around the holidays."

"Really?" I asked. "What else did she say?"

"She said you and [insert ex's name here] were going to break up around the holidays and you weren't going to get serious about anyone for about a year. And when you did, it would be someone younger. She also said you'd start writing a book around the same time, and actually finish it."

"Did she say if the book would be any good?"

"No."

"Damn. Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

"Well," Mom said, "I didn't want to tell you that Sylvia told me you and [insert ex's name here] were going to break up in a few months.

"Fair enough."

Incidentally, I let Grandma read what I had so far of the novel. Mom stole it and read it first, and completely FREAKED OUT at the line, "You owe me 20 bucks, motherfucker." I told her if she couldn't handle that, she definitely couldn't handle the sex scenes and took it away. Grams read the whole thing without blinking an eye. Sorry Mom, Grams is cooler than you.

I’d gladly trade in my wet slippers for some good old-fashioned terror

I’ve started sleepwalking again.

I have three sleep disorders; sleepwalking, insomnia and nightmares. The insomnia is off and on, the nightmares are frequent, and the sleepwalking pops in to say hello once every few years. It usually lasts a week or two.

When I woke up early Tuesday morning to pee, I climbed out of bed and into my slippers, which were soaking wet. I was puzzled, but I really had to pee so I slipped them on and went into the bathroom. There were droplets on the shower curtain, which led me to my conclusion – I tried to take a shower in my slippers. Or rather, I gave my slippers a shower. Because my hair was not wet, my pajamas were not wet and my bed was not wet.

Mom said I did some funky sitting up and talking in my sleep thing while home for Thanksgiving, which is usually a precursor to the sleepwalking. Years ago, the former roommate frequently caught me in various stages of sleepwalking. Once I climbed into his empty bed and he found me sleeping there. Once he caught me fully dressed in the living room having a conversation with someone who was not there. And once, and this is the one that freaks me, he caught me opening the front door to the apartment.

Just as quickly as my sleepwalking starts, it stops. Suddenly and without any apparent cause. Luckily, I never have more than one sleep disorder at a time. I’m looking forward to the return of the nightmares. Those are my favorite.

If you hate whiny rants, stop here

I have this recurring theme in my life that's starting to bug me in a big way. My role as the Practice Girlfriend.

What do you mean by Practice Girlfriend, you ask? I'm the girl that guys date right before they meet the girl they marry. I'm the girl who dates little boys that decide to become men right after I break up with them. I'm the girl who comes right before Big Realizations and Major Life Changes. I'm Charlize fucking Theron in Sweet November and I can’t take it anymore.

When will I get to benefit from all the love and support some other girl has wasted on a guy who didn't appreciate her? If Tall Guy shows even a hint of needing fixing-upping, he'll be hitting his head on the doorframe on the way out.

DISCLAIMER: I have PMS and I quit smoking on Sunday. Apply that information however you see fit.