At one stop, a family got on with about six bags of groceries from Whole Foods. They each got a seat, although not right next to each other. This family was clearly doing pretty well for themselves, what with the bulk of expensive and fancy food they were trucking home and their clean, well-dressed appearances.

Then something strange happened. The woman pulled out a baguette and ripped a piece off. I thought, okay, she’s hungry, she’s just gonna snack on a piece of bread. That’s not too weird. Then she pulled out a bag of deli cheese from the groceries.

She proceeded the split the baguette and make a fucking sandwich on the goddamn subway. She handled cheese in the subway with her bare hands. What the fuck is going on here? Is this woman absolutely insane? She doesn’t look insane.

She then handed the sandwich to her husband who was sitting in a seat opposite her, across the aisle. These people appeared to be in good health and social standing (despite the husband’s slightly creepy mustache and oddly positioned hat), and not at all starving to the point that would justify level 1 food prep on public transportation. The guy started eating the sandwich.

Nomnomnom.

Now I, like most people, am guilty of eating on the subway. Sometimes you’re really really hungry and you’re rushed or busy, so you’re left with no option but to dig into a bag of Fritos or some chicken nuggets or something on the train. It’s unfortunate, but it happens. But to be one heating element from plain old cooking is just wrong. Raw ingredients have no place in a subterranean transit system.

Then the woman tore off another piece of baguette, split it, and made herself a cheese sandwich, however this one was provolone and I think her husband’s was swiss. At this point I was having a total panic attack.

Why are these people making sandwiches on the subway?? Another odd thing was that while the two adults ate their filthy, dirty, publicly-made cheese sandwiches, the child of the family, probably about 12, sat there stoically and without food. What is wrong with these people? Are they aliens in some kind of 3rd Rock From the Sun scenario?

Can they only eat while in motion? I was completely bewildered and horrified. Utterly, utterly horrified. Are they aware that people masturbate on the subway? And shit there? I’m not saying that’s right, but neither is making cheese sandwiches!

I’ve seen some crazy shit in the subway but never anything like this. And at least those other crazies had the courtesy to look crazy and dispel any doubt about the caliber of their mental faculties, leaving me with a feeling of comfort and reassurance. “Yes, you are crazy. You may continue.”

So New Year’s 2009/10 has come and gone, and in my personal tradition, I didn’t make any resolutions. Is it because I simply didn’t think about it in advance, and didn’t plan? Is it because I, like a good American, was as trashed as possible when the clock struck midnight? Or is it because resolutions are stupid, pointless, and a great way to cause yourself undue stress and let yourself down. Yes, to all of those. As Homer Simpson once said, trying is the first step towards failure.

So to make myself feel better, I’ve come up with a list of resolutions I could’ve made, but would’ve been a complete waste of my time, seeing as there’s no way in holy hell I would’ve stuck to any of them.

Eat More Salad.

I want to take a moment to talk about salad. Salad is, quite possibly, the most impractical food ever for a single adult who lives alone and works full time. Consider this, salad companies: it only comes in packages meant to feed a large family of hungry rabbits, and I swear to freakin’ god, 99% of the time the stuff is already going bad and turning slimy in the grocery store. I think the shelf life for a package of salad is something like 30 minutes. There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat all that boring vegetation in one go, and I’ll be good and dead before I agree to eat days-old wilted leaves that’ve been hanging out in my fridge with that pudding that expired back in August.

Not to mention, it’s about as satisfying as eating the grass from my grandmother’s front lawn. Trust me, I know. And for all the hassle, that shit ain’t cheap! If I wasn’t sure the government was watching my every move, I’d just pick leaves off the trees outside, douse them in Windex, and have that for dinner! Ya know, salad companies, I can make a whole box of macaroni and cheese for about 1/10 the effort and cost involved in eating your stupid, perishable, expensive salad. I can think of nothing more pointless and depressing than purchasing and preparing a salad for one person. Though the good news is that human tears are probably my favorite dressing.

Exercise More.

Fuck this. I’m tired. Hasn’t someone invented a quick, easy, magic way around this yet?

Quit Smoking.

I already don’t smoke, so I guess I could stick to this one. It’s sort of cheating though.

Quit Sugar

Fuck naw! If there’s anything getting me through the day, it’s the promise of tomorrow morning’s bowl of Lucky Charms. We have to keep looking toward tomorrow, kids, when a cracked out cartoon leprechaun fixes us up with a veritable rainbow of fun-shaped marshmallows and, several years down the road, a corresponding rainbow of health problems including, but not limited to, type 2 diabetes.

Spend Less Time on Facebook

When you’ve got a desk job like I do, being on Facebook is like the same as breathing, in that, I can’t find a good reason not to. I wouldn’t say I’m a super active Facebook user, but am rather a super passive, lurky, “observant” Facebook user. And it’s not that I’m up to anything unsavory, but watching the idiocy that unfolds before your very eyes in a real time newsfeed is just too fantastic to ignore. It’s so good that there is at least one blog dedicated to exposing young people too retarded to realize that the internet is public talking to each other about their love caves and sad divorces And it is public. (So please stop using this as a channel to ask me to make out with you. It’s embarrassing for everyone.)

Be More Productive

You know, I’d really like to do this one. I’d like to write more, be funnier, and be more creative in my daily life, and work on projects that are actually stimulating and fun. I’d like to do something I can be proud of. But here’s the thing: I’m just so damn lazy. And you know what Christian Slater says: you can’t change who you are, no matter how much you drink.

Help The Homeless

I’ll help them when they help me. Like by being not stinky when they sit next to me on the subway, or by not playing half a broken saxaphone in my face when I’m trying to listen to my rich people music on my rich people MP3 player. Some people are just so selfish.

Read More (Things on the Internet Don’t Count)

I’m going to give this one a serious go. I really like reading (even books!) and know that if I did it more, it might make me funnier and more physically attractive. It’s hard to find a chance though, when the only time I don’t have a screen (TV & internet are superior to books, let’s not even joke) practically forcing itself upon me is when I ride the subway, and most of the time, some stinky guy is paying his half-sax in my face, making it hard to concentrate. My other option is to read in bed, so, I’ll really try to cram some more reading in time then. Until I get sleepy. Which is… right… about… now… zzzzz…

Get A Boob Job

The only thing in the way of this one is funds. Email me for information on where you can send a check.

Spend Less Money

I guess if I did this, I’d be one step closer to that boob job I so desperately need according to modern society’s standards of what a woman’s rack should look like, but truthfully, retail therapy is another of those little pleasures that keeps me from punching people in the face. Sometimes you have a shitty day or you’re just plain bored, so what better way to pass the time and improve your mood than with a few new fabulous (albeit poorly crafted and insanely cheap) items from Forever 21 or H&M? Sure the quality is about as shoddy as it gets above Canal Street, but fashion is so disposable anyway, it only makes sense to buy new clothes as often as you buy toilet paper. And books too. And DVDs. And groceries. And toilet paper.

Let me tell you why.

This guy is one of those guys. This guy is so fucking cheerful all the time you’d think he eats fucking rainbows and cotton candy for breakfast. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have a positive attitude, especially at work when it’s sometimes hard to just get through the day, but this guy is more robotic than just positive, and I just can’t relate to someone who never complains and is so, well, deranged.

He literally fucking hums and whistles while he works, like a goddamn magical dwarf or something. Now I think it’s obvious that I’m no Snow White. I put on a pretty, happy face while I’m at work because it’s my job, but when no one else is around I hardly find it necessary to be bopping along to my own internal (and probably insane) soundtrack. This guy is taking it totally too far, belting out unnecessary loud and excited greetings to anyone who walks by the front desk, even if they just walked by five minutes earlier.

There’s no way this guy is human. One Monday he came in and told me his dog had died, and while I was really super sad to hear that (because I love dogs), I was secretly a little glad that he might reveal a shred of humanity and perhaps drop the crack-happy facade for a day or two. Nope. He kept right on truckin’ as if nothing had happened at all. I think I was sadder about his dog dying than he was! Unless this guy is doing meth in the bathroom I really can’t come up with any reason why he’s so goddamn thrilled about everything all the time.

And it’s not just his freakishly chipper demeanor that bugs me. There are other things. The humming and whistling is one of them. Also, he refers to petty cash as “PC.” This annoys the crap out of me, and I’m not sure why, so that’s probably more a statement of my insanity than his annoying-ness.

And instead of saying, “Hey, do we have any overtime sheets?” he says, “Hey do we have any extra overtime sheets running around anywhere?” What? What the fuck? Excuse me? No, they’re inanimate objects, they aren’t running around here or anywhere, you absolute psychopath. He uses this sort of phrasing for everything. “Have you seen Ed’s clients running around lately?” NO I FUCKING DIDN’T because this is a place of business where normal people work, not a fucking candy factory with fuzzy bunnies and clients skipping and running around, for Christ’s sake.

He also shouts when he gets on the phone. He’s so loud I’m honestly shocked that no one in the office has complained about him disturbing them. You’d think he was talking into a tin can attached to the other person with a length of string, he’s so fucking loud, and my head is probably, at most, a good three feet from his ALL DAY. How do you tell a person to just take it down a notch, lest they cause your ears to bleed, without seeming rude (though in reality you JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE)?

The worst part about my chronic annoyance is the fact that everyone else in the office loves this guy. They pass him and think, “Oh that guy is so charming and outgoing and good-looking and friendly! What a wonderful addition to our team!” I’d probably think that too if I wasn’t chained to a desk with him for nine fucking hours a day. That little routine gets pretty old after about one day. He jokes about everything, and it’s never funny, and it pisses me off like you wouldn’t believe. Here’s an example of a conversation:

Me: Hey, can you hand me that pen?
THAT Guy: (Pretending not see pen that’s right in front of him) Huh? What? What pen?
Me: No seriously, I need that pen.
THAT Guy: What pen?! Hahahah! I don’t see any pen!
Me: Give me the fucking pen or I’m going to get it myself and JAM IT INTO YOUR FUCKING EYE MOTHERFUCKER!!!

End scene.

And I can’t complain because technically, this guy is just doing his job, and everyone will just think I’m a grumpy bitch for having a beef with sweet little chipper THAT Guy. I’d challenge any one of them, though, to sit next to him all day for a week and not be absolutely sure that he’s trippin’ balls or a total sociopath or something.

I would actually be relieved if I found out this guy was like murdering small animals or a serial rapist or something. There’s got to be something very fucked up and disturbing going on with a person who is always so goddamn cheerful, and if there’s not, then god help us all.

To be honest, THAT Guy is actually a super nice dude, which just makes me feel guilty for finding him so fucking annoying, and that sort of makes me hate him more. So until he’s arrested for whatever bat-shit stuff he MUST be doing in his personal time, I’m stuck sucking it up at the front desk and trying not to bludgeon him with a stapler day after day. Let’s just hope he gets fired or something.

Let me start this off by saying I haven’t been on a real “date” (like first date date) since probably April of 2007. And while it was so extremely unlikely that this guy would see and respond to my ad, making it absolutely necessary that I meet him, I’m learning that dating someone you didn’t know beforehand (like a friend or friend of a friend) is fraught with different, interesting potholes than just, say, hooking up with the guy in cubicle next to you (whole different story.)

For instance, when you go out with someone you already know, you probably already know them well enough to like them. Or, you don’t know them very well but you still like them (or at least think you do.) In this situation, I had set myself up to go out with an absolute stranger, with whom I had never exchanged a word in person.

Do I like this guy? I don’t even really know him. He’s good-looking, I guess. Is it worth my time to get to know him? Maybe if I spend enough time with him I’ll start to really like him. Isn’t that a little forced and artificial? What if he’s boring? Does he like me? Does he think I’m hideous? I DON’T KNOW. It can be very stressful and I can see why women and people in general are often mistaken for crazies when put into a first/second date scenario. There’s a lot of variables and uncertainty.

Anyway, onto the juice. So despite all the anxiety I was having because of the aforementioned factors, I met this guy to go out. Our first date/meetup/whatever you wanna call it, was at a bar that I chose which is near my apartment because it’s convenient for me, and so I could escape easily if he tried to attack me with any number of sharp objects. Anyway, I met him outside the bar where I (re-)introduced myself and shook his hand. Interesting way to start an evening…

Truth be told, there’s not a lot to say about the date. It was completely fine. The guy is totally normal and quite nice. He offered to buy all the drinks, and while I know I have said in the past that I want men to pay for everything because I’m broke as a joke, I decided that makes me sort of uncomfortable in this scenario, considering we don’t know each other all that well and aren’t boning on the regular, so we took turns buying rounds (though it was very kind for him to offer.)

We had really easy and comfortable conversation. The most remarkable thing to mention is probably the fact that we have a TON in common: same major in college, similar families, same taste in music and movies. Almost eerie how similar we seem to be. (And not because I googled the crap out of him before we went out. You know, just to make sure there weren’t any warrants out for his arrest or anything. It’s a legitimate thing to do! Don’t judge me.)

Now that I think about it, maybe the reason I was so comfortable was that I hadn’t eaten dinner, and halfway through my second (fairly strong) gin & tonic, I was pretty tipsy. And slurring. And having difficulty pronouncing the word, “should.” The good news is that while I did feel slightly embarrassed for being a bit drunk, I didn’t know this guy well enough or have enough stock in our “relationship” to really give a shit or worry about it too much. I was also cursing like it’s my job, because that’s just how I talk. Normally not a concern, until I noticed this guy had yet to drop a single F-bomb into casual conversation. Look, whatever, I am who I am (a vulgar drunk) and if you don’t like it, then I guess we just weren’t meant to be. (Yes I follow my own dating tips.) I hoped that I wasn’t offending him with my crass language, but that if I was, that he was really really offended, because if you’re gonna do something, you do it right, obvy. (PS I love parentheses.)

So after the bar I remembered that I was fucking starving, which was partially responsible for my unusually “open” state. We went to a nearby 24 hour diner, got some eats, and then called it a night. The date ended with a hug on my doorstep – it was awkward, but mostly because I’m awkward, especially when it comes to physical contact with someone I’ve only just met., and he offered to call me to set up plans for the following week.

Well obviously we went on a second date and another is planned for tomorrow. So there you have it folks. At least 1% of the people who read Craig’s List missed connections are not murderers (actually just me and this guy, I think.) That, or he’s just biding his time while he comes up with a place to bury my body. But if he does kill me, we’re friends on Facebook now so I think the cops will find him pretty easily. Facebook - connecting people and fighting crime. Is there anything it can’t do?!

[Oprah image from usnews.com]

I’m not a big fan of facial hair at all, but decided not to rule it out altogether because sometimes an intentional 5 o’clock shadow or well-maintained (and well-trimmed) bit of fuzz on a man’s face can lend him some extra distinction and manliness (see Jason Schwartzman. Mmm.)

However in today’s world of the hipster, I’m noticing that way too many guys that are my age (see: 22) are walking around with “40-years in the desert”-style beards. Okay, so maybe in winter you could come up with some kind of justification for this sort of thing, yeah whatever your face is cold or some shit. But when it’s July, there’s no reason guys should be walking around an urban metropolis like New York City (including Brooklyn) looking like motherfuckin’ Bear Grylls.

I don’t care how hip and cool you are, I know you’ve got running water, and hence no excuse for that beard. You may think my utter hatred and animosity for big bushy facial hair is a bit harsh, but I challenge anyone to list a pro for having something like that on your face. Out of ideas? I thought so.

Here is why I detest unruly beards:

1) They’re ugly.

2) I bet food gets stuck in it. That’s jank.

3) There’s no way in hell I’m about to kiss a guy with a Brillo pad on his face, but if I did, I’m 101% sure it would be unpleasant.

4) Do you shampoo that thing? What’s the deal?

So I think I’ve explained myself pretty thoroughly, but here’s another thing: I don’t want to get involved with a guy whose face is hairier than my downstairs. I spend money and go through a lot of pain to maintain a state of order and prettiness down there, on a part of my body that won’t ever be seen in public or even by 99.99999% of the population.

Let’s get real, beards are just face pubes. So what makes you think you look good walking around with your face looking like a hedge maze that hasn’t been tended to for over a decade? Are you just so damn good-looking that if you didn’t have six month’s worth of nasty sprouting from your face that you’d be dogged and eventually trampled by beautiful women who want to make out with you?

Seriously, ironic facial hair was funny for like 5 seconds. It got old faster than Kanye’s “Imma letchu finish” bit. (Actually that’s still funny.) So in conclusion, shave your damn face. Unless you’re bearding it up for religious reasons, in which case, you go on and do what your momma told you.

Anyhoo, being always on the prowl as I am, I’m always scoping out the scene for dudes that strike my fancy. At an event in a Brooklyn venue on Saturday night, I chose my prey. I was first drawn to this guy because he was dressed in a way that is so my type: flannel shirt, old school Adidas, beardless (so important), and with the sort of hair that screams British indie band. Then I looked at him again and wasn’t so sure he was for me. Then I sort of stared and stared and stared at him in a really creepy, unsavory way and decided that he was good-looking, and was totally reminding me of Christian Slater in Heathers. I mean, yeah that character was like insane and homicidal, but you can’t deny that he was fucking hot, so, whatevs. Plus that movie rules.

This dude and his friend sat near me in the bar at the venue, which was near empty and where I was sitting alone, waiting for my friends. Not a word in my direction, though I did catch the occasional glance. Was it possible that I’m not as undeniably good-looking as I think I am? It was starting to seem very likely.

I tried to make an in to conversation by asking Christian Slater’s friend what beer he was drinking and if it was any good. Apparently it was some kind of Chipotle beer, which I posited sounded pretty whack. I then got up to get myself a drink, and when I turned around, some bald gaymo had totally stolen my seat. Blast! Foiled by a Moby look-alike (except not even remotely cute.)

A few minutes later, my friends showed up and we lined up for the stand-up comedy show we were seeing. Christian Slater walked by me and my friends a few minutes later, but I figured all chances of contact were dead, unless I was able to corner him after the show with a little “liquid courage”. The show began and ended, and afterwards he was nowhere to be found and we split instantly for the nearest diner. It seemed that it was not to be….

But wait! The internet! Aha! So for some reason, I later found myself still thinking about Christian Slater and the phenomenon that is the Craig’s List “missed connections” section. I figured, no one reads that shit, so why the hell not! And you might be asking yourself why I would stoop to the level of quasi-meeting someone via the internet. After all, I am not a cave-dwelling troll or social misfit. In fact, I am quite attractive and charming and spend most of my waking hours beating men away with a large branch I found one day after a thunderstorm.

But, I am shy and probably socially awkward, and all the men in New York seem to be huge vaginas when it comes to chatting up girls OR they’re far too forward in a very drunken, douchebaggy sort of way.

Throwing dignity to the wind, I posted an “ad” to find my lost guy from a bar. (They’re so hard to find!)

Two days later I hadn’t received a response and had pretty much forgotten about it. Ah well, it’s not like my name or photo was there so it’s not really a public shaming, no skin off my back. But wait - day three - and I get an email responding to my ad. By some weird fucked up chance, Christian Slater read my post and responded.

So I obviously can’t just let this go. What are the odds that this guy reads the missed connections on CL and would find my post. I mean, unless he’s some kind of psychopathic freakshow who also reads the “adult” or “erotic” or “casual encounters” section or whatever and murders prostitutes selling “massages” online. But that couldn’t possibly be the case. Guys like that don’t enjoy comedy. WHAT ARE THE ODDS?!

Anyway, despite feeling like a creepy stalker and the horrible stigma and social ousting that goes along with meeting people via the internet (and Craig’s List) especially, I have made a date with Christian Slater for tomorrow night. Stayed tuned to find out if he murders me….

Oh and if  I don’t update for a while, you’ll know why. Please call the cops. I live alone, no one will notice I’m gone.

“Have you ever heard of the Lord Mother?” she asked. Um, what? “Like God but only a woman.” Yeah, okay. Like the movie Dogma. Yes I’ve heard of her, and she’s Alanis Morisette.

“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, and focused back on my book. But this girl wanted a conversation. God fucking dammit. She’s shocked and surprised that I’ve heard of this “Lord Mother” nonsense and proceeds to explain what it is to me. I keep telling her I’m not religious. She doesn’t listen, she wants me to pray to the Lord Mother along with Jesus and the Holy Ghost and some shit. Her partner is silent. She is legitimately trying to engage me, an obviously annoyed total stranger, in a conversation about religion.

Finally I’m like, “Look lady, I don’t believe in any of this. I don’t believe in God.” She is confused. “You don’t believe in heaven? Or hell?” she asks. Me: “No.” She’s bewildered; I don’t think this was in their script. “I think a lot of people my age don’t believe in this stuff.” She disagrees, and tries to tell me that all young people must believe in God and afterlife. Pfff, not the ones at NYU.

Then again, she came from China and this other girl is apparently from Poland, and they converted from Buddhism and Judaism (respectively) because this Lord Mother idea was so captivating. I think they’ve both made really poor life choices. Turns out they are students at the local Catholic College (haha). The concept alone is amusing, nevermind these girls have chosen (or been assigned) to perform their mission work in Midtown Manhattan, as Godless a spot as they come.

For example, you’re more likely see a woman kill a man with a stiletto heel at 9am in order to get her Starbucks skinny mocha latte on time than you are to see any sane employed person reading a bible or going to church in the trifecta of hell that is Midtown Manhattan. In fact, I saw a fight break out between the crazy guy who puts his cat, dog, and guinea pig on display at the corner of 42nd and 6th and some other wack job, presumably because nutty plaid-sports-coat-animal-dude was exploiting the animals’ well-being to bring in a buck. Granted, both are crazy.

The Chinese girl tries to wrap her head about my non-belief and seems to be failing. “What about when you die?” she asks. “That’s it,” I say. “You’re dead. The end.” I doubt anyone had ever proposed this to her before. Her grasp of English and logic in general don’t seem strong enough for me to bother forging on with the idea. And after all, I really have no interested in forcing my beliefs on anyone else.

After a solid ten minutes of trying to politely excuse myself, I decided these two nitwits had wasted enough of my mere hour-long lunch break, and I am forced to abandon the prime table spot I had secured for myself and just walk away. No table was worth this harrassment. People can believe whatever they want, just keep it the hell out of my lunch break, and when I say “buh-bye,” you best make like a tree and leave.

But this is when I learned there is something more annoying than being asked to explain and justify your spiritual or religious beliefs: being asked to do it on the spot by two foreign strangers while on your lunch break in a busy park when all you want to do is finish reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

This is why New Yorkers are perceived as unfriendly. Because there is always someone lurking somewhere trying to sell you something or convert you. Or just asking for money. Or sneezing on the subway pole. Or just generally being horrible.

But god, don’t I just love it.

I would consider myself to be a woman of average proportion. I’m 5′5″ (average height for an American female), I am not overweight or underweight, and yet I often find I can’t walk down the goddamn street without feeling like a hot pile of physical failure. I think women anywhere in America are subject to a retarded amount of pressure from the media to look a certain way or to fulfill stereotypes about female beauty, but there is no city quite like New York where you pass it on the street.

In Anytown, USA, you can look at the models in Glamour and say, “oh well, these women aren’t real, they’re simply airbrushed to look beautiful and thin, so there’s no need to worry about being compared to them.” That’s what I try to say to myself every time I am unfortunate enough to be faced with some idiotic women’s magazine in a doctor’s office or newsstand, and anyway, I realize that these unrealistic standards are only as effective as we allow them to be. Then I turn around and am surrounded by goddamn catwalk models outside of Grey’s Papaya or wherever the hell I happen to be stalking my next meal.

Seriously? I just got finished giving myself a little pep talk about how you bitches aren’t real and how starving myself to be thin isn’t worth it because I’ll be so cranky and hungry that I’d be likely to go on some kind of stabbing spree, and here I am surrounded by tall thin goddesses who are somehow also able to chow down on hot dogs and ice cream while still making an ensemble made from a burlap sack and glittered leggings look hot. THANKS.

Most of the time (in the isolation of my own apartment with flattering lighting and mirrors) I feel pretty okay about myself and my appearance, but like any girl, I too suffer from insecurities and have my own bad hair/face/skin/body/butt days (sometimes weeks.) Even though I know that outward appearances are all a bunch of bullshit and real value is on the inside blah blah blah, we all want to look our best and avoid some moment in the future where we look at old pictures of ourselves and think, “Man, I used to look good.”

It has nothing to do with men, either: it’s entirely how you feel about yourself, and recently, I was feeling pretty shitty. I decided that it was time to get serious and go on a diet.

I also had a plan to go to the gym, but then I remembered, “Hey wait, I have a job at which I work 45+ hours a week and a lot of other important shit to do. One thing I can spare is forcing myself into an awkward environment where I’m certain that weirdos in mesh shorts are staring at me creepily as I use the hip adductor.” Or in other words, “Hey, fuck that place.”

Dieting in New York is just as impossible as not feeling crummy about yourself when you pass supermodels on the sidewalk, which is why you just can’t win. If you’re cutting calories you might as well get swine flu and confine yourself to your apartment, because you can’t eat anything good, you probably shouldn’t be drinking, and you’re generally about as fun to be around as a raw vegan at a barbecue (cue comments from angry vegans).

Not only do you have to restrict what you eat, but in order to do so, you basically have to restrict what you do and where you go, unless you have the discipline and willpower of Wonder Woman. Eating and drinking are majorly social activities. What the hell else are you supposed to do with friends on a weeknight? Play shuffleboard? Watch Rock of Love? Do a crossword? Talk to each other and connect on a deeper emotional level? Yes, you could, but you damn well better be chowing down or getting drunk at the same time, or else it will be a very dull and empty evening. Bye bye, social life.

Given the impossibility of enjoying life while on a diet, mine lasted approximately one week. Just as you pass gorgeous thin women on the street, you also pass hot dogs, taco stands, bagel shops, and more Dunkin Donuts than you can shake a stick at. Endless, painful, excruciating temptation. And while it may be easy enough to avoid the obviously bad-for-you things like fast food and street meat, most delicious meals in restaurants (even ones that seem healthy) aren’t doing you any favors either, and in my opinion, if it doesn’t taste good, it’s not worth eating.

There are certain things I just need in order to keep my sanity at a certain level. Pad thai. Sushi. Pasta. Cheese. I love my fruits and vegetable, god knows I do, but sometimes the carbs and dairy just call to you with their sweet siren song, and it’s impossible to resist, so far be it from me to deny my taste buds the things they so desperately yearned for. Though I am still curbing my alcohol intake significantly (for other reasons), I just couldn’t see the point of going through life in a world where I couldn’t eat ice cream and eggs and Velveeta cheese product and generally just stuff my face.

A lesson that I learned (and that I learn every freakin’ time I try to trick myself into losing weight) is this: I enjoy food. And I enjoy eating. And I have no self-control. And if I have to hate on stick-thin gorgeous women to feel better about myself and the chicken nuggets I just absolutely have to have, then so be it. They get enough admiration anyway.

To get to the beach, Anna rode down in a car with a friend of hers from New York, while her parents drove from their home in their car and her brother and sister-in-law in yet another car; Anna’s car. Anna was hesitant to allow her brother and sister-in-law to borrow her car because, well, it’s her car and frankly she doesn’t really like her sister-in-law. Why? Because Carrie is a religious zealot/fervent Palin-supporter/die-hard Republican who is unemployed by choice at the age of 25 because God told her to be.

Anyway, the only positive thing Anna could see coming from her brother borrowing her car was that Carrie would have to ride in a vehicle adorned with sticker supporting Obama; a man who she believes to be the anti-Christ. And wouldn’t that just be so sweet.

Everyone got to the beach on Saturday, just as scheduled, and was having a splendid time catching up and eating pizza and doing all the inane crap you do on a family vacation.  On Sunday, however, upon passing her car parked on the street, Anna noticed something very, very disturbing. The sticker was missing from her car’s right rear-window. How could this be? Was it possible that Carrie was really so insane that she would remove a sticker from another person’s car (that she was graciously allowed to borrow) because it didn’t agree with her insane system of beliefs?

Anna didn’t want to jump to conclusions, so she asked her brother where the fuck her sticker was. His reply? “Oh, Dad told me to take it off because the adhesive was going bad.” Yeah fucking right, like Anna was gonna believe that steaming load of horseshit. I, I mean, she, had heard more likely stories being told by Mother Goose and we all know that old broad is nothing but a dirty, cheating liar out to steal childrens’ lunch money. Besides, she had other stickers on her car dating back to 2003 that remained in place, regardless of adhesive integrity.

In short, she didn’t buy it. Anna later asked her father, “Hey Dad, what happened to my Obama sticker?” He responded, “Oh, well, Carrie had said something like she wasn’t comortable riding in a car with that on it, and they asked me if they could take it off so I said yes.” Aha! Mr. and Mrs. Jesus McChristian are not only batshit crazy, but total liars too! I wonder what God would say to all of this.

Anna’s next step was to address this gross injustice. She could either throw a tantrum and chew her brother out for being so petty and pussy-whipped, causing a huge scene, or she could simply replace the sticker, giving her sister-in-law a big fat middle finger “fuck you” while still appearing to be the bigger, more mature person. And of course, who can resist a big fat middle finger? Not I.

So Anna and her cousin, Liz, made it a mission to immediately go out and buy a brand new Obama sticker, which would be no easy task seeing as they were in a small town on the East Coast and the election was over more than six months ago. They searched and searched until finally coming upon a stroke of luck: the very kind gay man who owns the kitschy toy store had three leftover bumper stickers hidden away behind the counter, and he sold them one for $1.50.

At the end of the weeklong family beach vacation, Anna affixed her brand new Obama sticker where the old one had been, anticipating that her brother and his wife would be driving home in her refreshed Obama-mobile. After putting it on, Anna told her brother, “I put a new Obama sticker on my car, and I expect it to stay there!” He said fine, he didn’t care. And why should he? It was brand new adhesive, after all.

To Anna’s dismay, plans changed at the last minute and it turned out that Anna would be riding home in her mother’s car, with her father, brother, and sister-in-law. She would not get to relish the sweet satisfaction of Carrie’s reaction to the new sticker, which she had yet to notice.

Even so, Anna was satisfied that she had won this round. She told the story to all who would listen, about her crazy-ass sister-in-law who took it upon herself to make sure other people’s personal property reflected her political opinions. Because I mean, who else can we turn to for political guidance if not the outrageously religious, under-30, willfully unemployed population? And anyway, this wasn’t about politics. It was about the boundaries of personal property. It could’ve been a goddamned Snoopy sticker for all Anna cared; the point is, you just don’t go around messing with other people’s shit.

So anyway, Anna put it behind her. Until the following Monday when she got into work and checked her Facebook. There was Carrie’s status update, dated Saturday, 4:30pm - right around when Anna’s mother would’ve returned home in her car, beamingly supporting Obama. It said, and I quote, “Petty. Very petty indeed. Some people just need to grow up and practice that “tolerance” thing they preach so much.”

Excuse moi? Was this directed at Anna? Was she being accused of being petty, immature, and intolerant for replacing a sticker that another person had the balls to remove from her car because of petty political differences? Aw hell no. Anna’s head was about to explode, because this statement emanated from a world where logic and reason do not exist.

And wasn’t it petty to indirectly attack someone in your Facebook status? Wasn’t it petty to remove a sticker from someone else’s car and then lie about it? Anna simply replaced what had basically been stolen from her, without a word to anyone about it, and she was not being called out on fucking Facebook for Christ’s sake. How dare she!

Had the world gone mad?!! What planet are we on? Bitch, if you got something to say to Anna you come right out and say it. But of course Carrie couldn’t do that, (because she is by nature petty, hence using Facebook as a mediary) and because Anna would fucking destroy her.

This left Anna in a very sticky situation. On the one hand, she was very tired of letting Carrie be an outrageously crazy and offensive bitch all the time, but on the other hand, fighting back on Facebook would only reduce her to Carrie’s level (petty), validate her insanity, and cause tension within the family. So, in the interest of keeping the peace, Anna decided to be the bigger person, yet again, and left it alone.

But she did tell everyone this long-winded story, including you, fine readers, and got much confirmation that Carrie is, indeed, a succubus from hell whose actions are irrational and who is determined to destroy her family. And that’s all she really wanted. The end.

But now that I am sober(ish), I will tell you that I found no trouble last night because there are no males in this town between the ages of 16 and 45. It’s some kind of phenomenon. I just want it to be known that I have/had no interest in sexing up teenagers (unless you mean 18 or 19-year olds, they’re totally fair game) and that is why the evening was a complete waste. And besides that, the very few males that are around are total uggos or into other dudes, making this quite likely one of the most depressing scenes for a single female on all of planet earth.

At one point, I was so giggly (and bored) that I forced my cousin to dare me to talk to this non-deformed guy who was sitting near us on the boardwalk. He looked straight and between the aforementioned age ranges, so I figured why not. After about 3 seconds of talking to this guy I became certain the he probably had Tourette’s and was contemplating ways to murder me, or what was on Cartoon Network at that very moment. He was twitchy and weird and I hope he was on meth or something. I asked him how old he was, (answer: 28) and then pretty much ran out of conversation topics. I bid a hurried farewell and got the fuck away from him, dragging my cousin with me as I retreated. It was an utter failure, and not remotely my fault.

Just as we had given up for the night and were heading back to our beach house, we came across three dudes sitting on a bench toward the end of the boardwalk. As we passed them, one of them said something to/about us, and instead of listening to my usual instinct that says, “People! Run!” I turned to talk to them. Because I was drunk. I proceded to chat with these attractive strangers who were neither in high school nor sporting tribal tattoos, and eventually exchanged numbers with the best-looking one of the bunch. (Okay, granted one of them was gay.) I’m completely certain I made a total ass of myself though, and was needlessly gesturing and flailing my arms with just about everything I said. I may have thrown in some gang signs too, and no doubt I had on my usual crazy drunk eyes.

The point is this: last night I lost my dignity, and for some reason feel like this is suitable for sharing on the internet in a longer post than the original one I felt was damning enough to be deleted, and now you all know way too much about me (don’t judge). I blame Chelsea Handler. I just hope that other people can reap some joy from the thought of me hilariously embarrassing myself, because if not, then we have only to ask God why I was ever allowed to drink. Though I did learn a very important lesson: never try to pick up guys. And I’m no Chelsea Handler.

I am not expecting a call from my hot local, but I take pride in knowing that I now have his number and will definitely send him overt and inappropriate texts next time I am drinking (later tonight) that he will ignore.