The fact that Matt Leinart just impregnated a college basketball player, and they are actually going to raise this kid. Wasn't he sleeping with Paris Hilton last month? Who is this new woman and why in the hell would anyone choose to have a baby at age 20?!
The fact that Andre Agassi made it to Round 2 of the US Open. He had tears in his eyes when he served to win Round 1. But what I found very disturbing was his lack of chest hair. I can't imagine that he would wax that sweater of his. Ouch. Did he laser remove it?
The fact that Jessica Simpson is supposedly dating John Mayer. Their kids would have big hair, big eyes, big boobs and big lips (wait, I take that back. Her lips are fake.)
The fact that I scored Club seats (thank you AOL) to the US Open on Monday. Happy birthday to me.
The fact that I am going to Greece in 9 days!!
The fact that my male friend, who shall remain nameless, actually wanted me to ask other women about their pubes. He "claims" he is doing a short film about this. Hmmm, sounds fishy, no pun intended.
I'm in another bad mood. And what happens when this mood occurs: I use the F word. Honestly, I think saying "fuck you" is the worst thing you can say to someone. It's dirty. Yet, when my foul mood takes over, everything fucking sucks, and everyone can go fuck themselves.
Not that you care, but I am in this mood for several reasons:
1) Inept people at work (not you, Knuckles, if you're reading this) 2) Mrs. Logan, the President's wife, didn't win the Emmy last night 3) All I want to do is go to the US Open on my birthday, at night, and for some odd reason, I am having a hard time getting my hands on tickets 4) My sister and I are fighting 5) I'm broke 6) It is still fucking raining out 7) Tara Reid wasn't let into Hyde last night
Forbes magazine and WOMAN HATER (obviously) Michael Noer just published an article advising men not to marry career women. They claim that you run a higher risk of having a rocky marriage.
"While everyone knows that marriage can be stressful, recent studies have found professional women are more likely to get divorced, more likely to cheat, less likely to have children, and, if they do have kids, they are more likely to be unhappy about it..to put it bluntly, the more successful she is the more likely she is to grow dissatisfied with you."
The article defines a "career girl" as a woman with a university-level (or higher) education, works more than 35 hours a week and makes more than $30,000 a year.
"If a host of studies are to be believed, marrying these women is asking for trouble. If they quit their jobs and stay home with the kids, they will be unhappy (Journal of Marriage and Family, 2003). They will be unhappy if they make more money than you do (Social Forces, 2006). You will be unhappy if they make more money than you do (Journal of Marriage and Family, 2001). You will be more likely to fall ill (American Journal of Sociology). Even your house will be dirtier (Institute for Social Research)."
Geez. Given that my parents are divorced as well (upping the odds that I will get divorced) I might as well buy three cats and become a nun. Because my chances of getting married just got flushed down the toilet...
I felt like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles last night. No, my parents hadn't forgotten my birthday and I had gorgeous Jake waiting for me in a Porche. But close.
My dad forgot my age.
I kid you not. We were on the phone last night, and my dad was telling me that he can't believe I am 34 years old. To which I replied that I wasn't 34, and in fact, was 32. He meant that I was turning 34 in two weeks. Again, he was wrong as I am turning 33. Dad then asked me if I was sure that I wasn't born in 1972. Last I checked, and as written on my birth certificate, I was born in 1973.
One of my favorite things about living in New York is discovering hidden gems. A charming block I had never noticed. A restaurant where they call you "hon" and serve french toast as good as moms. A running path. Last night, I found another reason to love New York: Monday Night Trivia at The Slipper Room.
Now, I played along the whole time to VH-1's World Series of Pop Culture, and all modesty aside, I kicked ass. I knew Rudy's guy friend on the Cosby Show (Bud,) I knew the theme song to Full House. Yet, last night was a whole other ball of wax.
I sucked. Granted, my fellow teammates consisted of 3 Harvard grads and 1 Welleslyn grad, but my Syracuse Newhouse degree should have gotten me somewhere. But alas, I could not hold my own with Presidential trivia, and I had no idea who some Norweigen explorer. I did know that Princess Diana is the deceased person to grace the cover of People the most times. Our team, however, placed 9th out of 24th, but we did not take home the $200 grand prize. Or the $50 second prize. Hell, even last place got a paper bag full of Oreos.
I guess asking the masses what to do is an effective tactic. It's kind of like truth serum. Mr. Anonymous did respond to me, and fessed up that we met Halloween '04. He named the place, so there was truth to that, but I have no recollection of our encounter. I remember exactly what I was wearing that night (ice skating outfit), who I was with (Shira) and what time (late.) I also know I was sober as I was not feeling well. But I don't remember Mr. Anon, so he must not have made that lasting of an impression, unfortunately.
Also, I am intrigued by someone else at the moment, who is very honest and truthful and looks his age. And we met in a more respectable place, ahem, jdate. So for now, I must bid Mr. Anon adieu.
In today's age, where every other week brings us another episode of When Predators Attack on Dateline, random people on the Internet can be a little sketchy, right?
I chose to apply the same wisdom to Mr. Anonymous. As you know, Mr. Anon and I established contact, and entered into an IM relationship. However, while I learned what his favorite brand of ties was (Hermes) I was not able to obtain the critical information: where we met and through whom. I pressed and pressed, and was told that a friend of a friend of a friend sent my blog to him. Hmmm.
Then I finally got a picture or two, and to Mr. Anon's own admission, he looks about 18. Honestly, he might be 18.
Given that I have an almost perfect memory of everyone I have ever met in my life, I found it strange that there was no spark of memory from meeting him. The only bell his picture rang was a school bell. I asked Mr. Anon where he met, and he has yet to provide that information. Thus, I have chosen to terminate contact until proof that I actually met him exists.
I had the weirdest day yesterday: I went back to Camp. They were throwing a retirement celebration for one of the Directors, and invited camp alumni to attend. So my sis and I rented a car and off to Camp Saginaw we went.
Sadly, attendance was low and the only other 80's alum was another set of sisters that we were friendly with, but it was great hanging with them. For the most part, Camp looked the same: the campers no longer slept on metal spring beds, but rather nice wooden platforms beds. The older campers were shorter than I recall when I was their age. The chocolate chip cookies tasted amazingly the same.
Man, did I feel old. Most of the campers weren't even born when I was last there, as a counselor in 1993. And when I walked into Bunk S to see my name marked on the rafters, it was very fadded. It was 18 years ago that I was a camper. The girls in the bunk thought is was sooooo cool that someone as old as I was returning.
If you look closely you can see my name, and the dates I was a camper 1984-1988.
I know, I know. I owe you all an update. My loyal DD readers are wondering what has happened with Mr. Anon, especially after he left the alibi email the other day.
So, I wrote to him, which evolved into a day of extensive Gmail chatting. Blame it on a slow day at work and a bad stomachache that prevented me from leaving my office. The good news: I got some goods. I now know Mr. A's first name, age, where he grew up, colleges and universities attended, prior work experience, past relationship status, favorite movies, and clothing. I know that he likes Onion bagels from H&H. Oh, and I got a picture, from the lips down.
The bad news: I don't know where we met, who sent him my blog, and what his face looks like. "In time," he says. "You just got out of a relationship." Whatever. I think he should step up to the plate and fess up. Your thoughts?
Oh, and a caveat to Mr. Anon and any other potential suitors in my life: I do adhere to doctor/patient confidentiality privileges once we get past the first date. Which is why I never really talked about The Man in prior blogs, and don't have the intention of revealing details of any future partners. Just wanted to make sure you read the fine print.
I had a blind date last week. I figured I should get back out there, and this guy came highly recommended. Good job, two dogs, nice apartment, just moved back from London.
We met at 7pm last Friday at the rooftop hotel bar near my office. Before our date, I asked for a description to make for an easier recognition. He said he was 5'8 (I thought he was making a joke at first. He wasn't.) He also said he was almost 40 (again, another non-joke disappointment.) He showed up, true to form, and we grabbed a drink.
No more than 10 minutes after we sat down, two co-workers entered the otherwise empty bar, and sat directly behind us. They had a perfect view of my non-perfect date. When I got up to go to the bathroom, they called me over, asking if I needed an emergency call. While I was kinda bored, and not so attracted to my date, he was a nice guy and I could stick it out.
Shortly into the date, I told the guy that I had 9:30pm dinner plans which SHOCKED him (he must have lived in London way too long to not understand the importance of back-up plans.) He was slightly hurt, but I needed an out. I couldn't imagine 2 more hours with this dude. He was nice and attractive, there just wasn't a spark.
A little after 9pm, we closed out the tab, walked out of the bar, down the elevator, and out through the lobby. I turned left, he turned right. I snuck behind a pole, watched him get into a taxi and drive away. I then re-entered the lobby, took the elevator up, walked into the bar, and sat down next to my co-workers. I drank a few glasses of sangria, hung out with them for an hour or so, then called it a night and went to bed. Yes, I am going to hell. But I think I'll have friends there at least....
I had a meeting with the founders of YouTube yesterday. They were 27 and 29 years of age, and within the next year or two, will most likely have hundreds of millions to their name. Just for creating a website to post videos.
Advertising.com was co-founded by two brothers (the blood related type) with whom I went to high school. When they sold their company to AOL two years ago for $470 some million, they netted about $65 million each. Again, a web company. This one sells advertising space online.
There is a thread here. You come up with an innovative online technology or marketing platform, and you can make millions upon millions of dollars. There has to be an idea floating in the deepest crevices of my brain. I have been in advertising and marketing for over 10 years. I work at an interactive agency, for god's sake. I am on the cutting edge of technology. And yet, I am barren of ideas.
As noted on Friday, I had some apprehension towards the weekend. I feared boredom. Fortunately, my weekend was anything but boring. Unfortunately, my dinner and movies with my friend and her husband turned into dinner, movies, sleepover, run in the park the next day, and lunch.
I hadn't seen my friend Stacey and her husband in a while, so when she suggested plans for Saturday night, I gladly agreed. After a long, hot day at the beach with friends, I eagerly awaited a few hours in a cold theater. The three of us had Indian food (not necessarily the best choice pre-movie) and were among the masses to see Talladega Nights.
However, as we exited the movies, I noticed a strange darkness in my neighborhood. The local deli was closed. In fact, the whole block was pretty much shut down, my street was blocked off, I saw candles. Ugh. Black-out.
Yup, I had the pleasure of no electricity on Saturday night and Con Ed did not predict it to be fixed until Sunday morning (which meant Sunday afternoon.) So off to the UWS I went, sleepover bag in tow. When I got to Stacey's apartment, they set me up on their sleep sofa and we all cuddled and told ghost stories. Just kidding. They went to bed while I read the paper. The next morning, I lived the life of an Upper Westsider. The three of us went for a run in the park together. We had breakfast together. It was Three's Company all over again.
5pm Friday should be when my step gets a little lighter, when excitement builds up inside. The week is over, and I have three full nights and two full days of weekend. No work (except for the occasional email,) no alarm clock, no co-workers.
5pm Friday now kinda sucks. Sure, the work week is over, but the week was when I was busy 24/7. I had 10-hour days at the office, and 2 hour plans at night. I watched my DVR, I went to the gym, I went out to dinner. Everything was rushed, I was always running.
Now, I need to make plans again. I get to be the third wheel with my friends and their husbands or boyfriends. I realize how empty my bed is on the weekends. It painfully reminds me of my new singlehood. Sunday brunches are no longer The Man and I curled up with the Times and a PB&J bagel. Sunday brunch is a powerbar on the way to the gym. I am more quiet on the weekends as I talk less. I have less people to talk to. I get bored.
And anyone who knows me knows that boredom and I go together like Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards.
Yes, we all know how hot out it is and the awfulness that accompanies the heat. Waking up in the middle of the night when your power flashes on and off, sweating off your make-up within 7 minutes of application, the stench in the streets. But it ain't all bad.
Let me introduce "Heatorexica," the inability to eat due to stifling hot temperatures and humidity. Heatorexia may result in the loss of 3-5 pounds over a two day period.
I am suffering from heatorexia. The past three nights, I have not been able to eat more than a Baskin Robbins ice cream cone for dinner. Maybe a handful of cereal. Monday and Wednesday nights, I walked into the local gourmet shop, staring down the prepared foods. I pondered pesto salmon, I questioned quiche, I considered croquettes. After about 10 minutes of indecisiveness (a cute man asked me what my favorites were last night; that was fun) I left the store, not hungry. Both nights. I just had no appetite, even after going to the gym.
This is so not like me. To know me is to know I like to eat. A lot and often. But I guess I should just sit back, starve, and enjoy the ride.
As many of you know, I have a secret admirer. While very flattering from afar, if this guy doesn't turn out to be how I imagine, this situation could get kind of creepy. And anyone who knows me understands that I burst when faced with secrecy and surprise. Mr. Anonymous claims he would like to get in touch with me, but it limited to blog postings.
Voting time: Please let me know if I SHOULD or SHOULD NOT give my email (back-up one of course as I am a safety girl) to Mr. Anon.
A friend once referred to the men you date when you are over 30-something as Junior Varsity. She went on to explain that most of the good men (The Varsity Team) get snatched up when us women were in our 20's. Which leaves us with JV: not bad players, I mean hey, they still made the team. But they're not winning scholarships, and don't have their pick of hot cheerleaders. Sure, they can still get their way around the bases, but they hit fewer homeruns.
I honestly think it was the most profound reference.
Even perusing briefly through the internet catalogues as of late, has left me with a sense of blahness. No one jumps out of the page and wows me with their dynamic personality and thirst of knowledge. No one is ready for a strong, sexy, independent woman. Women age well; men, well, age.
I know what you're thinking. Maybe the girls left are JV too, blah, bullshit, blah. Which might be possible. Although the women left are the ones who wasted their time with JV, and didn't search for the few Varsity players left. But hey, don't hate the player; hate the game. ; )
The problem with eating frozen yogurt for dinner is that frozen yogurt is not dinner. Sure, it tastes good, especially with peanut butter chips, but it is not real food. So naturally, I was hungry shortly after my Tasti D entree last night.
As I ruffled through my cabinet, Honey Bunches of Oats popped out at me. Nothing follows fro-yo as perfectly as a few handfuls of dried cereal (do I need to start dating or what?!) I grabbed the box and glaring at me, in addition to the chance to win free tickets to the circus, was a November, 2006 expiration date. Cereal? Processed, air-tight, dried flaky cereal expires within a year? Then it dawned on me: everything has an expiration date. When's mine?
No, I'm not getting mortally creepy here, I just felt an overwhelming sense of panic. Women have their peak "pretty." After that, not so much. What if I am about to expire, and have another 3 good months left? Does turning 33 have something to do with this feeling? Most things only are good for a few months or years anyway. Mascara: 6 months. Canned food: a few years. Mayonnaise: forever (except if it has bits of tuna in it, then you might want to throw it out every 5 years.) Ketchup: forever. Whew, I feel better.
