Monday, August 29, 2005

On hospitalizations

Most people at my age are experts in something in their careers, a hobby that has become a passion, or at the very least have a blow job/cunnilingus trick that they claim they are the expert. No, at the age of 23, going on 24, I am an expert in hospitalizations/anything that has to do with medicine without having a medical degree, this past hospitalization being my second major one. Throw in 2 major hospitalizations within the last 7 years along with my hypochondriac behavior, and I act like a med school drop out. The sad thing is, I actually self-diagnosed myself for the quack at First-Med. Hence, I have been toying with the idea of med school.

As I wrote in my previous post, I had viral meningitis. Before I get to the wacky hospitalization stories complete with offending a Christian fundamentalist, hitting on doctors, wheel chair races, etc., I never thought it would be possible for me to become more neurotic, but this illness did it. First of all, there is nothing more scary than to be quarantined in a hospital room, hospital staff wearing masks around you, and to have the answer to the question of “Dr. do you know where I could have gotten this?” be answered with a “we really don’t know.”

Wait a fucking min.
I am paying (well Blue Cross) is paying about $1000 a day for me to stay at hotel LIJ (I had a private room since I was “contagious”), you went to 4 years of med school, years of residency, and years of experience in infectious disease and you do not know how I caught the most horrible illness that I have ever encountered that I would not ever wish on my worst enemy?!!

I am freaked out. So freaked out…

As soon as I got home, I disinfected the shit out of my apt (and I am the messiest person alive!), complete with Lysol-ing the leather couch that I slept on and washing my pillows in hot hot water. This has impacted my office life as well. Gone are the days where I used to stir my coffee with my pens, reuse the same old water bottle for water for an entire week without washing it out, bite my nails after walking off the subway…I am officially Woody Allen neurotic. Complete with giving up my lifeblood of sushi at the local supermarket because I do not trust raw fish sitting out.

But in happier news, I lost weight. I have cheekbones and a jaw line and may I add, maybe meningitis wasn’t so bad because it did give me a jump start/instill a fear in eating out/anything that I may not have control over how sanitary its conditions may be. I am going to be a size 4 in no time! I’m also going back to my crazy dark reddish purple hair color and am finally putting up a profile on because I want to meet someone. And my new found germa-phobeness will not allow me 1 night stands (plus my taking a stats class at Hunter this semester isn’t helping the situation either).

Observations in the hospital:
Do not assume everyone gets your NY Jewish single woman humor, especially when it involves enlisting the help of overworked nurses who should be responding to code blues as opposed to helping you find a date. I turned around to one of the nurses and asked her if she could help me find a “nice boy” on the floor or a hott Dr. She comes in and brings in this not so good looking nurse with a ‘big heart’. Big hearts aren’t going to get me off nor are they going to finance my shopping/international travel/champagne addictions. She tells me that I shouldn’t be desperate (HAHA!) and that I should wait because God will send someone to me. I didn’t tell her all about the homos who God sends to me, which I am still trying to figure out the reasoning behind that. Turns out that she is a Christian fundamentalist who doesn’t believe in dating (ok). As soon as I hear the words, “I am a Christian.” I proceed with caution because I respect everyone and know that my out look on life is not compatible with people who are more conservative. My mother is in the room and Will and Grace begins. My mother, who is one of the most naiive people, is obsessed with my new roommate John John because “You guys are Will and Grace!” Yes mom, please do not remind me that I am a neurotic Jewish woman whose fixation with gay men has ruined all of her dating prospects. So she yells out, to the nurse, how I live with a gay man. The Christian nurse says, “That is so sad how those people choose to live.” I bite my tongue. My mother, who is so obsessed that my life is a fucked up sitcom, tells the nurse that she doesn’t understand and that we are so cute together because I live with a gay man!! Go mom, you earned your diversity points.

You know you have weird taste in men when your mom tells you that your crush is ugly (Zack Braff) and that I am a lost cause in bringing home an attractive man.

Infectious disease when they thought I had bacterial did not find the humor that I took the LIRR home. You have to admire my tenacity, here it is it feels like I am dying, christening toilets with my vomit, and I make it home the entire ½ hour journey to LI. Mom and Dad are not at the train station when my train gets in, instead I find out that my father is asking my mother “How far do we need to live so that the kids do not come home sick.” Yea dad, and they admitted me into the hospital the following days.

I love doctors not because of their earning potential or how cute they were, but because of the questions that they have to ask, especially when they say that “it is secret with them”:

Dr.: So, Do you do smoke?
Me: I just recently quit, but I only smoke when I drink
Dr.: How often do you drink?
Me: Depending, sometimes Wed-Sun, other times one day a week. It really depends.
Dr: Well on average about how much do you drink and what do you drink?
Me: About 5-6 drinks in a night
Dr: [interrupting] Beers, right?
Me: No, cocktails, martinis, bottles of champagne. I am a champagne girl! (As I say this with a huge smile on my face)
Dr.: Have you ever use drugs? About how often?
Me: I rarely, if ever, use drugs but I’ll make exceptions on special occasions
Dr: [Bewildered look on his face] So, have you been anywhere wooded?
Me: Well, I went out to the Hamptons a few weeks ago, before that London and before that MD, and fourth of July weekend I was in MA.
Dr: What did you do when you were at those places (I guess expecting a serious contemplation of whether I was in heavily wooded areas, etc.)
Me: I sat in the woods and drank with friends
Dr.: Have you ever tried to hurt yourself?
Me: Well between the drinking, the drugs, and the trip to the Hamptons, I don’t think I’ve had much time to think about hurting myself.
Dr: [Laughing] Well you know I have to ask

Yes, I party hard in order to try to forget about the pain that is my life.

Overall, I am doing much much better. Back at work and had my Stats class at Hunter this past evening. Drs. Are so cute, especially when they tell a neurotic academic perfectionist name dropper such as myself to “take it easy’.

Friends, Thanks for the well wishes.
Readers who I do not know, FUCK YOU. You could have left a comment asking how I was doing. Make it up to me by forwarding the link to your friends. Come on, you know I am funny.

Friday, August 26, 2005


I really was dying. I just got out of a one week stay in the hospital for (what they think but aren't really sure) viral menengitis.

And as usual, lots of funny and interesting things happened to me, including my first spinal tap!

Tomorrow I promise to write a long, funny, interesting, and insightful post.

I think I got viral menengitis as a God smack for posting that pic of the kid vommitting instead of calling the police to go and help him. I am doing volunteer work on Sunday to attone for my sin.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Why I suck

I know I haven't been posting its for a myriad of reasons. One of which I do not have internet access at my home yet (tried pirating off of the neighbors but it is all encrypted) and secondly, I am dying. So is John. We are sick. Cold sweat and body aches sick. So sick that I took a day off from work.

I have some funny entries, and will post them when I am feeling better and have interet. Hopefuly by tonight.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Driving the bus to hell

Why I am not only going to hell but am driving the bus.

As noted in the picture above (yes yes, I included a pic…but it is so blurry that I am still maintaining my anonymous identity) my roommate and I, along with some friends ran to the ATM so I could avoid going to Escuelita (a Latino gay club in the middle of Hell’s kitchen—known for its awesome drag shows), and instead go to my apt for the last time on the Upper West side and finish watching Manhattan. As we went to the ATM, we noticed a kid slumped over sitting on a fence, looking like he was about to pass out. If it was a woman, I would have called her a cab/used her cell to call a friend (as I did in a previous post) however, it was a frat boy and I am less caring with Frat boys.

So instead my friends and I decide to keep walking (last thing we need is a belligerent drunk frat boy trying to fight us when we are trying to help him). But John John, being the ultra good person that he is, decides to try to help him --until he notices the vomit all over him. And then instead poses by the poor guy. Hence, the picture above.

I am going to burn in hell.

I am ashamed that I laughed so hard that I almost peed myself.

I am really going to burn in hell, especially since it looks like I may not be going to torah classes this semester.

I’m sorry God.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

On being ugly and intimidating sex talks

It is official. I am too ugly for CL lesbians with short hair and ugly pink skirts.

I sent her pics of myself and she never got back. Perhaps it was because that the only pics of myself are either of me drunk with a cigg in my hand, drunk with a drink in my hand, drunk kissing someone, or my favorite—the ever so flattering drunk while dancing. Hmm…maybe I should work on the deliverables. Unfortunately, the only time I am willing to take pics/feel that I look hott enough to take pics, is when I am working on my 4th Grey Goose and tonic.

But, I have sent the same pics to guys and have never had a problem. Am I too busted for lesbians?! Lesbians with short hair and ugly pink skirts?

But I just want my readers to keep this in mind. I have been invited to join the mile high club 1.5times within one year (the .5 time that woman on the airplane trying to kiss me drunk…if I caved in I know I could have gotten another invite). But I have not been asked out on a proper date, by a guy who would like to get to know me, for a really fucking long time. Which has made me realize…there are 2 looks to your author, which I have discussed before: the hott drunk party girl, hair straightened but slightly messy (think I just woke up from a hott romp), booby revealing clothes, tight jeans and high heels or the messy intellectual. Ill fitting t-shirts, messy bun, no make-up with my face buried in a book.

Guys do not want to bring home to mom the drunk girl dancing on bars, making out with random guys on the dance floor nor do they want the messy intellectual to meet their friends. Hence, why I have not been out on a proper date with the potential for a relationship with someone in my age range in like…a really fucking long time. I am 2 archetypes battling for space in my body. Which I can only, only, blame on the heavy doses of Catholic/Jewish guilt thrown down my throat growing up.

Out of all of my siblings, none of us sleep around. My brother is engaged to the girl who he took to his prom, I am really just a kissing/make out slut, only have 1 one night stand under my belt and that was a friend of a friend so it really wasn’t that ‘pick a stranger off the street’ bad and it was on vacation. Perhaps it was because of my father’s sex talk growing up. My father (keep in mind not my mother), threw in the sex and drugs talk all in one at the tender age of 12. [Him pointing to the rifle in his closet] “First of all, if I ever catch you doing drugs I will shoot you with that rifle you see in my closet. Don’t think that I won’t catch you because I have done everything [insert wild funny drug story]. Yea that was some good shit! But If I ever catch you doing drugs, I will bury you in the backyard and nobody will know.”

“Shit” I think to myself at this point. But he continues.

“I also want you to know, that your virginity is one of the greatest gifts you could give to your husband on your wedding night. Sex is for married people (wait, I think to myself, I was conceived BEFORE you married mom—their wedding date is in Aug and I was born in December.) It isn’t even sex, it is making love because that is what sex is.”

Let’s reflect upon this for a second. You are 12 years old, don’t even have breasts yet (I was a puberty late bloomer), your father is talking to you about sex, not giving you practical advice, but giving you the advice that you would receive from a nun or George Bush…slightly scary.

He continues:

“Making love is special and is meant for married people. I expect you to stay a virgin until you are married. If you do not, you see that rifle [points to rifle], I will shoot both you and the guy that has sex with you. Also, I am going to kick the ass of the guy who you marry, just to show him what would happen if he would ever breaks your heart.”

Luckily for my father, I go for gay boys (always did since I as 12), and kicking their asses is not that difficult of an endeavor.

My mother’s sex talk came out when I was 22 and out of college.

Mom: “You know, my friend got her daughter a diaphragm.”
Me: Oh ok. But is a diaphragm the smartest thing? I mean, it doesn’t protect against STDs
Mom: [Silence] You know, should I have taken you and your sister to get (whispers) that stuff?
Me: Mom, we know that was never something that you were comfortable with
Mom: Yea, but I should have gone
Me: Mom trust me it is not that big of a deal. My sis and I are familiar with that stuff
Mom: [Silence, nervous laughter whenever she discuss sex] oh, well you know I have never felt comfortable with that stuff. [More nervous laughter]

Catholics: Sex talk with talks of chastity or I will be buried in the backyard
Jews: Sex talk after guilt

But Jewish guilt doesn’t end there. So, as many of you know I have been taking Torah classes. Trying to get one with my Jewness and I decided to take a summer hiatus. I wanted to play kickball instead and get drunk on my Monday nights instead of learning about the story of Esther and Abraham. I know, God is going to smite me. Anyway, so lo and behold, I first get a call from my Torah tutor “Hey, just want to check in and see how your summer is going. Hope all is well, give me a call when you can.”

I could deal with that. I mean, its nice, kinda saying ‘we miss you but know that summer is usually a time of debaucherous fun. If you are having debaucherous fun, make sure he is a member of the tribe.’ I don’t have time to call her back because I got the message when I was drunk and work has been a bitch.

2 days later I hear from the coordinator of the program, “Hi, it’s me. I just want to say that we are missing you and that you are always welcome and…(I tune out after this point because I am feeling soooo guilty).” Jewish guilt. And of course I have to resume my Torah classes. But just don’t know when I can with my stats class and my French class (prepping to marry a hott French man). But, I will find a way to take that class, same reason why my mother mustered the courage to talk to me about sex at 22, Jewish guilt.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

The double edged sword

First of all I want to say that I am the flip cup champion.

Ok, well not really. But I play a mean game of flip cup.

Those of you who may not know what it is (i.e. you are reading this in Iran, went to a women's college, are a friend of Bill W....) it combines speed, team work, and sloppy coordination. Each team has a pitcher of beer, and it is a relay race of sorts, you pour beer into the cup and you have to flip it over. Once you flip it over, the next person goes. Sounds like get a little bombed but nothing bad. Now let me tell you the version that we played last night...Survivor flip cup. And being the wanna be bad ass/raging alcoholic, I was all up in that. The twist of this version is that the losing team has to vote off that weakest team member and have a stronger team member pick up the slack. Now it isnt too bad when you are doubling up on gets bad when you have to pound 6 and flip them all by yourself (because you rock at flip cup). Like I did last night. After having like...3/4 of a pitcher of Sam Adams. I only lost (to a team that only had to pound 3 glasses each) by 2...which is actually pretty impressive considering how fucked up I was. And the drunk dials to old bosses. PS Thanks for the recommendations.

I have to admit, as much fun as I have, there is something in a nice cold beer that once confronted with my chemical make-up, I get happy giddy and have to tell the whole world how much I love them/love other people. I really don't know how to be a sad whiney drunk...but I am also one of those people who think that they have the meaning of life figured out. Try listening to a girl explain how through love and friendship we can commune with our soul....slurring her words and pounding beers in between sentences. Credibility much? But as much fun I have, I have a fear of the morning receipt because as much fun/love as I give out, I also put my money where my mouth is so to speak and, like last night, end up buying pitchers of beer in order to continue the love in. Last night I spent $30...which isn't bad, but considering that this move is going to cost me $$$$$ and that I am living off of Goya and stealing food from the office pantry (I love bein a girl and being able to shove food into my purse).

So maybe it is time that I date someone. Like a boy, when I get drunk I either want to fight or hook up with someone. Luckily, I am a reformed quasi-whore and never get into fights (unless if an ass deserves it). Without sounding too vulgar, I do not know how I can express how much I love the Samuri "Ichi." It is perhaps one of the greatest toys invented. Since I bought it on Sunday, and I came home drunk w/o a hook up, the toy and I "get close" last night. But it got me thinking this morning (couldnt sleep well...its like I am addicted or something), I feel sooooo bad for the next guy who I end up having sex with. First of all, its head spins and there is a function to make it vibrate...and we won't even go into size (think like a woman's fantasy). I could see myself in bed, being like, "Uhm...could you make your penis spin? And if you could somehow make it vibrate and get another 3/4" of width? That would help get me off. Thanks baby." I am ruined! I am making so that I will never enjoy sex with a man ever again (not that my last fucks have been memorable). What's a girl to do?

I am operating within this double standard. I give the Samuri and the Wabbit a rest and find a guy to take care of my drunken cravings/need of sex and the number of guys who I slept with goes up. Which then, in turn, makes me a slut (I also am severly germ phobic--goes with being neuortic). So, my question to guys, would you rather have a woman who has slept with many men but who loves an average size penis or a slightly virginal low sleep number woman who is ruined for having sex for the rest of her life? Becuase, seriously boys, no matter will never be able to compete with the wabbit. Or my Samuri.

In other news, your author is thinking about pursuing a Jessica Stein and going out on a date with a woman. Now, I know I am being extrodinarily hipocritical, considering that I have given London boy so much shit on this blog after finding out that he screws around with men. First of all, yes I am a hipocrite. Secondly, I am sorry, considering that EVERY SINGLE MAN who I have had a thing/crush/a remote interest has turned out GAY...I think I could think like that. Also, let's be real, dating men in this city sucks and considering my track record with gay men...maybe I am a lezzie trapped in a Long Island girl's body. Slightly more healthier than a fag trapped in a woman's body...So we are emailing back and forth and of course, it is going to be written about on here.

My brother gets engaged and I become gay. That would make a great Christmas card.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

You know you are a spinster when...

1. Your 20 year old brother buys his gfriend an engagement ring to properly propose while you have never had a relationship. Ever. And my internet first dates do not count. Nor do the times that I have ever gone on a second date...especially since they all happened like 3 years ago.

2. My only meaningful relationships going on right now involve the "wabbit habit" and the recently recently acquired "Samuri." Ideal actually, considering that all I have to do to keep them "disease free" is to wash them in warm soapy water and keep them in a bag underneath my bed until I want to play with them. How many men are as easy to maintain?

3. Let's elaborate on #2, shall we? Unless I am a dyke with a strap on or have a sexually confused boyfriend, who the fuck needs more than one vibrator? Seriously. Right now I have 2, and use them depending upon my mood and how much time I have to lay in bed masterbating. That says a lot, especially since it alludes to the fact that I spend a lot of time in bed masterbating.

4. I blew $80 today on a vibrator. Why may you ask? Well, I thought about buying a pretty shirt to wear out to the bars/work/French class/synogogue/to take a picture for a jdate profile in order to meet a nice guy. Hell I could have put that money to better use and gotten myself a facial or highlights. But I have reached that point where I am laying in my bed asking myself, why? To be perfectly honest, I am exhausted when I come home from work (as in I do not even want to be bothered with phone calls from friends and loved ones) and the guys who I have been meeting lately At least with 2 vibrators I can pretend to be seeing 2 guys...especially if I read different erotic stories and give them different names. Like the Wabbit I'll name...Peter! and Samuri I'll name...Ichi! Boy do I have a hott sex life at the moment. Jealous?

But I have this fear that I am going to end up a spinster or one of those women who never get married/never has a another good date/never feel intense physical chemistry again. Not because I am busted...when I put effort into my appearance and I am operating within that first hour and half of a nights drinking, I look hott. Especially when my hair is straight and I am wearing a low cut top. No, I am going to be a spinster because I ruin everything, and I secretly sabotage myself.

I told a very good looking Italian law degree finance-type grew up in Mexico because his parents did something diplomatic shared my view on the world of living life and friends/family are more important than money...I could go on...I told him that I wasn't interested in having anything right now. With anyone. So, I could have potentially went home/brought home a cute foreign boy for a romp and possibly more (like all of my other friends are seeing someone/have boyfriends), but I blew it. WHY?!?!

Instead I sat on a train coming back to NYC from a BBQ in CT by myself as my friends coupled off with their S.Os (significant others) falling asleep and exchaging kisses.

I masterbated for an hour this morning.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

The 12 steps according to...

So it isn't a big secret that I am a heavy drinker. Not like a heavy drinker for a woman but I am a heavy drinker for a line backer. Last night I went to an industry party and since the people who I work with at my agecny are not the most friendly people, I sat by the bar chugging for free my trusted Grey Goose and tonics that give me the social lubrication needed so I do not feel like the way I felt in HS.

I knew the night was going to be downhill when I noticed the moment I walked in, my co-workers all had three drinks in their hand. For those of you who do not know, agencies are not the best paying companies out there. When I asked a co-worker about getting a water (am trying really hard not to drink at work functions because...keep on reading) I was told that I need to "catch up." And then they stopped talking to me and went back to their cliques.

Drink #1, quenched my thirst so well that I decided to go for drink #2 immediately to make me feel more comfortable. Drink #2 goes down like water. Someone hands me a champagne glass, and I am double fisting Grey Goose and Champagne. Goes in the same vein as me price comparing Goya products wearing Ralph Lauren shoes and Gucci sunglasses. At this point, I am slowly vibing to the music and being the conversation fly (the person who walks in at a conversation, stands awkwardly waiting for someone to talk and then leaves when they arent acknowledged.) I decide to switch to water...but then I am handed another glass of champgne.

I think we are seeing where this is going.

Now, when I get drunk, I get easily excited, slightly boisterous (like exclaiming how fabulous I am--at least I am not a sad whiney drunk). I become easily excited slightly boisterous me. Keep in mind that this is my second week at my new job, and when we all went away together for last weekend at another industry function to a summer vacation spot I was drinking until 5am. At the moment I do not have the best reputation in the company...and what do I decide to do? Continue to drink! I think I mentioned my blog, all of my stupid drinking stories, my intrigue with drugs throughout the course of the night with my co-workers. Luckily I left the industry party before I got too sloppy...but seriously. My alcohol consumption is endangering my career and I promised myself that I would try to stop when it became a job problem.

So, this morning, as my hands were shaking from alcohol withdrawl, and my eyes were half open because I didnt get home until 2 am, I looked up AA meetings. Now, I noticed a very interesting commonality with the AA meetings. They are all held in churches. And considering that this is NYC, where we have a HUGE Jewish population, where are the Jewish meetings? And no, I am not going to CBST (the Gay synogogue), I mean I have enough problems dating/meeting hetero men I am not going to royally fuck myself.

Those of you who read this, if you do not know me...I am an avid passionate researcher. When I get an idea in my head, I will research the shit out of it. So in keeping with this whole AA theme, I came across the 12 steps that I will have to complete for my *hope* of staying on the wagon. Here is how I plan on implementing them.

The Twelve Steps for Alcoholics Anonymous are as follows.
1. Admitted that we were powerless over
alcohol — that our lives had become unmanageable.

Yes, I am an alcoholic. Having "sessions" that last for sometimes 12 hours ending up with me: vomitting in mens' beds, hooking up with people who I do not know their name, dancing on bars, talking about drug use to co-workers, telling my boss about London boy and his affinity for men, climbing up 7 flights of stairs and not remembering how I got there, and going into work reeking of booze with hickys all over my neck are just some of the reminders that I may have a problem. My life is unmanageable. I drink too much.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

If I go to a 12 step in a church, will they let my higher power be Moses? I have to admit, as a nice Jewish girl, going to a church to "admit that a power greater than me will restore me to sanity" sounds an awful lot like praying to a God whose name is Jesus...I am just saying. But yes, I do not have control over my own actions, a lot like the times when I would sign the $100+ bar tab becaue the Grey Goose made me into a generous person with my friends and people at the bar.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

God, I am turning over my life to you. Now I know what you want for me and what I want for myself are 2 completely different things. I want many ex-husbands, a man to fuck me silly as he has me thrown against the wall crying out for him to bite me harder, seven jeans, an H2, and the opportunity for me to never have to worry again so I could become a "lady who lunches." For some reason, I do not think that is the plan you have put forth for me. Listen, could we meet in the middle? I'll stop drinking and turn my life over to You, if I could get a guarantee that I'll have the H2 and a man to have lots of hott rough sex with me. I'll even concede and have him be my husband.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

If anyone knows what this one means, please tell me.

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

We'll be here for a very very very long time. And isn't this taken care of during Yom Kippur?

6. We're entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

In the words of Pat Robertson, "Bring it on!"

7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

Fuck, I guess this list isn't exactly humble...*insert grovel here*

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

First of all, once again a very very long list. Secondly, the dude who I vommed in his bed, do I offer to buy him sheets? Is that a proper ammend?

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

So, I guess maybe I shouldn't offer to buy him sheets.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we we're wrong promptly admitted it.

I think my humor is self depricating enough.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

So are you trying to tell me that i have to give up my Seven jeans as well as my Grey Goose and Tonics and all of the hott random hook ups I have as I develop this relationship with God?

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all of our affairs.

Can I recruit in bars?

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

What this world is coming to

After the London bombings, being neurotic (must be the Jewish and Italian genes running around in the blood of the city's inhabitants), NYC went into this nutty "anti-terrorism" campaign. Random bags of every 5th person being searched (but only if you are every 5th person, even if you look like you are carrying a bomb and you are the fourth person, please get on our subways and if you are the 5th person who *may* be carrying a bomb, these searches are only happeneing at designated subway stops -- aka, bomb carriers feel free to board at the next stop which is a whopping 10 min walk away). With this type of "vigilence" comes the feeling of false security. Now, my friends will attest that I am neurotic. I wont eat nuts because I have an allergy to sunflower seeds and have this paranoid fear my seed allergy will magically transform into an anapalastic shock nut allergy and I climb seven stories because I have a fear of my rickety elevator in my new sublet...I think I have established for you that I am neurotic.

And as much as I pretend to be a hardcore NYer/world traveller/the type who is "if I am at the wrong place at the wrong time whatever," I have to admit that I was freaked out riding the subway. Especially the express uptown trains that notoriously are packed to the brim with people right after the bombings. And considering all the added security that is not only supposed to be a detterent but also to make the straphangers feel better, I know that I am not the only one.

This morning when I boarded my train, I saw a man wearing a *I kid you not* a gorilla mask, a metal briefcase advertising the History channel as well as a HUGE BLACK BAG with a middle eastern (or Indian) male in tow. Wouldn't commone sense dictate that somone on the train turn to the man with a briefcase and big black bag and MASK and ask him to kindly remove it, at the very least? Or what about the post 9/11 sentiments where NYers were so hardcore that if you looked slightly out of place, you got the stare down and "I used to play linebacker in college" mouthed to you. No, on the 1 train that I was on, people laughed, smiled and waved to the man in the gorilla suit. That is a great message we want to send out to people. If you are a woman wearing a hijab, you will be searched and asked for your papers but if you are a terrorist wearing a gorilla mask, you get smiled at and if you asked nicely, you could prob get a NYer to hold your briefcase and take a memento picture with you.

In other happenings in my life, I did a cost benefit analysis of my life and came to the conclusion that my variable costs are way too high. I am stuck with my rent (fixed cost for you econ novices) and the rest of my lifestyle is pretty up in the air. In looking over my life, I have come to the 2 highest variable costs: food/booze and international travel. The travel thing is going to be hard however, I am hoping that the comfort of my new apt should quell the bug momentarily and the fact that I have visited my friends a lot (except Lu--she is sooo good to me) should hopefully have them running to NYC soon. Also, visiting Europe 3times in a 4 month span is slightly excessive.

And I know that your author has made many a vow that she is going on a budget many a time and calls a budget giving up her personal trainer and not drinking the 11th Grey Goose martini at some posh bar, however, after dropping over $10,000 to secure this apt (2 months rent security+ realtor fee + first months rent), I am officially broke. No, laugh smile, nudge nudge wink wink "I'm broke" but still run off to Europe and indulge myself in Vueve Cliquot champagne and Seven jeans. No,your author is fucking broke. I even stopped eating out (which we know is my life blood).

In hoping to drop the variable cost of food, and since I live in NYC and the price of grocery shopping is outrageous, I have taken to going food shopping at my office's fully stocked fridge and pantry. Food consumed today: oatmeal, goldfish, and soup on the go. Oh yea, and the triple esperesso iced coffee for breakfast. New favorite super market: office pantry.

But since I felt lightheaded when I got home and realized that all I ate today was cafeine, ciggs, and processed foods, I decided to go food shopping. At the supermarket, I brushed passed the gourmet cheeses and fresh out-of-the-country produce, the usual fare that would rot in my fridge, for instead canned Goya products and boxed pasta. I walked up and down the isles price comparison shopping for the cheapest canned black beans and chilli. Wearing Gucci sunglasses and Ralph Lauren shoes of course. I do have to admit that I draw the line at going to 1 ply toilet paper.

Keep in mind what I was doing 2 weeks ago, in London chugging champagne, chain smoking ciggs and running ridiculous bar tabs.

I know I have come on here and whined about how much a women's college fucked me in the head, how I forgot knowing how to dress, be alluring to men and have become too intellectual. But the one thing it has taught me is how to treat women like men and when the time comes, how to be an effective manager because I am secure in my gender. Now I know that this sounds horrible, quite similar to the people on Ricky Lake who hate their own race, but seriously. All of the sterotypes of female managers (not including the one who knows who she is) has held true for every single job that I have held, from the retail sales floor when I was 16, the my stint in the fashion industry after college, to anal at my previous company. They all have this sick idea that they need to prove something to someone, to compensate for their ovaries because there is this assumption that they secretly (or in my case not so secretly and so not an untrue assumption) see using their ovaries to raise a family as a ticket to early retirement. And I am not even going to comment on the way that female bosses treat their female a sick sorority hazing ritual based upon emotions, victimization, and "paying dues."

In other news, since I got so rediculously sunburned last Thurs, my head and face stopped peeling so I do not look like I have both leprosey and a bad dandruff problem. Maybe I will be ready for Jdate soon.