So you want a real job ...

Last monday I stumbled into work at 12:30 p.m., hungover over as all hell. The head lawyer who attempts to micromanage my office comes dashing into my office: "I need a sharp eye and attention to detail." For the love of God. I'd put my thong on sideways, for Christ's sake.
Today, the same lawyer asks me to pick a file up from another lawyer in another office.
"Give him something to smile about, if you know what I mean. He's married, he's got a kid. Make him happy."
What the hell?
I will most likely be fired on Friday. If you have any job leads, let a girl know. Thanks.

13 going on 58

Some footnotes to Cocktoberfest:
1. Upon hearing that the aforementioned Brian liked Jennifer Garner, I said "Jennifer Garner? Bitch be balding." That is easily the funniest thing I've said in months.
2. John and Nicole made awesome Cocktoberfest t-shirts, complete with Aaron Burr and plenty of pictorial cock.
3. The head of my Hideki Matsui bobblehead is somewhere in the tracks of the A/C/E between 50th Street and Jay Street. Why I insisted John and Nicole take it home is beyond me. But, as John pointed out, it makes for a great visual, as if some devastated Yankee fan just couldn't handle the grief of losing to the BoSox.

So a Jew and two Irish Catholics sit on a couch

At the suggestion of my dear friends, I hosted Cocktoberfest last night. Dare I say it? It was a success. Complete with a motley crew of good people (well, perhaps two questionable), a pumpkin with a dick carved out of it (Thank you John and Nicole!), a fine meatloaf, a good cheese dip and a shocking quantity of hard lemonade consumption, the night ended at 5:12 a.m.

It had begun to wind down around 1:30amish when everyone departed, leaving me with my OrthoJew friend Barry and the rather attractive Brian. I sat in the middle of my couch, with a man on either side. Brian suggested we watch Casablanca with the lights off. Happily stumbling to the dvd, I realized my apartment now possessed the ambience one's home can only achieve by the flickering light of the Cock'o'Lantern. And yet Barry stayed. He dozed off a couple times and I gently suggested perhaps it was time for him to go home. No, no, I'm fine, he said. Being drunk and tired, I started to fade about 23 minutes into Casablanca. So we watched an old and very good episode of SNL, complete with Michael McKeon (sp?), Adam Sandler and Laura Kightlinger. Barry found none of this amusing. And yet he stayed. I was getting aroused by my shoulder touching the lovely Brian's at this point. Have I mentioned that Barry introduced me to Brian three days ago and I said to Barry, Please hook me up with a piece of that?

At 4:48am, Barry finally left. The lovely Brian went to the bathroom, put his shoes on and started to make the I'm leaving noises. Some desperate lonely part of me had hoped that, immediately upon Barry's departure we'd ravage each other like prom dates in the back of Dad's Caprice Classic but the drunker part of me realized Blocktoberfest had taken hold and perhaps the magic had passed. We laughed about it, talked for a bit and then he kissed me good night. He smelled good. I apparently smelled good. Apparently both my apartment and I are cute. The kissing and the holding and the hairtouching . . .it was all there and very gentlemanly as well. And then, I felt it. The bile-like saliva and its fiery heat in the back of my throat. And I knew it was coming. I immediately hurried the now-confused Brian out as quickly as possible. I made an excuse about it being late, closed the door and vomited heartily.

Somehow it seemed a fitting ending to the tail end of Cocktoberfest.

Hungover with a side of fries

I'm going to get a t-shirt made that says No More Jews. It's not that I'm anti-Semetic, I just can't date Jewish men anymore. I actually went to church yesterday and the mass was said by an old Irish priest who was hilarious. "I would love to talk to you about the power of prayer and say that our prayers are always answered but in my experience, that's simply not the case. For example, New York is up in arms with their prayers but all the folks in Boston are praying, too. Needless to say, not everyone's prayers are going to be answered."
Perhaps you have to imagine an Irish accent with that one.
Last night, Jonny 5'9, who I met at Cafe Noir, was about 5'5, quite portly and had an effeminate, nasal voice. I can see why he didn't want to talk to me via cell phone prior to our date. He picked up the check and I started to chip in and he said "no, I got it." We were both tanked and had started the night with a shot of Patron so I asked him if he was sure. He was. Then, "Actually, do you have thirty dollars?"
He loved my hair. Said it made me look Jewish.

When God opens a door . . .

When God opens a door, somewhere he gives someone insomnia. It's 5:00 a.m. and like every night for the past few weeks, I'm awake. I usually take this time to watch one of my Netflix films but I thought I'd try writing instead. It's either that or continue working my way through the Anxiety and Phobia Workbook. This is what my life has become: the late 20s self-help wasteland.
Last week saw me smooching on two men: a 40-year-old who clapped and exclaimed "YUMMY!" after kissing me good night after at least 3 gin and tonics, and an incredibly attractive 31-year-old cook whose hair smelled like a buffet of catered goodness. The former also wore excessive amounts of jewelry, talked about his chakra alignment and clearly enjoyed the sound of his voice more than I did. The cook cancelled on our Monday date and I never heard back from him again. Sigh. He was tall and lanky with lovely biceps and used words like sardonic, whereas the 40-year-old said, upon meeting me, "I can tell you're more intelligent than I am."
On a different note, I'm confident the Donald fired Pamela tonight because she is ugly. I suspect the annoying and mousy Jennifer will be next. Although she is a lawyer. I'd like to see Starr Jones on the Apprentice. She'd run that fucking show. Or the ever-sassy publishing guru Ella Edwards: "This is aint no fucking fun. Drink that lemonade. I'll give you a dollar. Damn skates." She'd rule the board room. Take that, Ponderosa.