A Pox on Your House, Asshole

Um, yeah, I did actually have a point to the previous post, and it was to introduce the following anecdote. Typically, I've been reserving the sordid details of my personal life for "literary material," but, what the fuck? This story is funny enough to be shared with the masses. And I can't remember which friends I've told the following to, so this will save me some phone calls. OK, so the Asshole in the previous post managed to not only infect me, but also my family. As like most Jewish girls who get along well with their folks, I reveal all to them, which usually comes back to bite me in the tuchas. Anywho, mom, dad and brother were privy to most of the intricacies of my dealings with said Asshole, and therefore were just as outraged over his treatment of me as was I. Mom, it seems, took his actions most personally. Dad just thought him a complete fuckwit unworthy of my time. If we were, say, the Gottis instead of the Greens, there would no doubt be a contract out on the motherfucker. And, in anticipation of the comments from male readers, yes, I am bitter—so what of it? Here goes; and this piece is not exaggerated in the least bit for comedic effect. Truth, in my family, is very much stranger than fiction.
A month or so ago, Mom and dad are at a TEP reunion in Gainesville, at the University of Florida. The Asshole was a TEP at UF, as was my dad and all his friends. So I tell mom when she’s in the TEP house to look up the composite photos for the year that Asshole was there and see if there’s a picture. I JOKINGLY tell her to bring a Sharpie and draw horns on his photo or something equally symbolic. Alas, there is no photo, but she locates his name. So I’m speaking on the phone to her, while she's in G'ville; I am sick. My voice is but a whisper, and it actually hurts to speak; it kills to laugh …
“So I’m like looking all over for the composite photos from the years you were here and there is only one photo from all four years,” she says.
“Really, only one photo?”
“Yeah. So I find the photo, and of course, there is no photo of him. But his name is listed under like ‘not pictured above’ or something like that.”
“Figures,” I say, “He’s such a weirdo like that.”
“Well, I’m like trying to think of what I can do to his name—"
“Mom, oh my God, when I told you to cross out his picture with a Sharpie I was totally kidding! Please tell me you did not.”
“Well,” she says naughtily, “I know you were kidding but I wanted to do something to the bastard after what he did to you. I didn’t have a pen with me…”
“Oh. My. God. Mom, stop,” I say laughing so hard I’m crying. I'm screeching like a 75-year-old, four-pack-a-day smoker.
“So I had a little piece of tape in my bag, so I take the piece of tape and put it over his name.”
“Oh my God. Stop!”
“And there are like, you know, 50 people in the room with me, so I’m like sneaking and doing this. And your dad tells me that I am acting like a teenager or something. But I had to do something, it’s like, you know, when you go to the Wailing Wall or something and stick a piece of paper in it.”
“Oh my God,” I am dying with laughter. “I cannot believe you did that! That is so fucking funny! Was it clear tape?”
“Yeah, it’s clear, so if anyone sees it they might think it’s a mistake. But you know how gross that house is; It will probably be years before anyone ever notices it, if ever. But it made me feel better.”
“Oh, God, that is too fucking funny. And the fact that you're comparing it to the Western Wall is just disturbing. You're 57 years old mom! Even I wouldn't have done that!”
"Weeelllll, I just had to do something. Who does he think he is treating you like that?!"
I can just see mom, standing in the filthy, ancient TEP house, surreptitiously placing a piece of tape over the name of the guy who broke her daughter's heart, thinking "A pox on your house motherfucker!!!!!!!!!!!"
Gotta love the mom who always has your back. And gotta love the fact that no matter how together, successful, accomplished, chic, sophisticated and intelligent a woman is, she can be reduced to a bit of a wacko in the face of heartbreak. If anyone happens by the UF TEP house in the near future, keep your eyes peeled for a name obscured by a piece of Scotch tape;)

Market Fluctuations

I know that I've said in the past that I'm back on the market and that I wouldn't talk about my dating life here, but I'm renegging on both those statements as of today. Frankly, I find the whole dating process nearly unbearable. Given the choice between a first, blind date and a visit to the dentist, I'd choose the dentist. A first, blind date and a job interview? The job interview. A first, blind date and a visit to the gyno? Um, debatable. My point is that I HATE dating; abhor it. The artifice, the games, the awkwardness, the hurt feelings, the rules. The truth is that I am a very, very bad dater. If it were a class I would get an "F" or maybe even an "incomplete." And, in general, I have a very low tolerance for bullshit. I've discovered, over the past several years, that being single/alone is much easier than putting yourself "out there." I don't often let down my walls because when I do, someone brings the pain. Also, I don't fall very easily for guys. In fact I think I've really only fallen hard for one guy over the past few years. And I'm still trying to recover from this painful precipice. With this guy, my defenses lay dormant; the fighter in me was not en guarde. And, as a result, my heart was torn out, shredded into a million little pieces, and then slam-danced upon. I don't relish ever feeling this way again. These are the lessons I've learned from The Asshole, who was arrogant/stupid enough to give me permission to write about him. (Are verbal aggreements binding in the state of New York? Anyone? Bueller?)
Lesson 1: It is NOT better to have loved and lost; If you've never loved, you don't know what you're missing.
Lesson 2: If something seems too good to be true, it is.
Lesson 3: Never let your guard down.
Lesson 4: It all goes back to your family; if your significant other has MAJOR family issues, above and beyond the normal, Jewish eccentricities, he's probably a whack job.
And on a marginally related topic, a question:
Has anyone noticed that art and wine are to New York businessmen—especially finance guys and traders—what clothes, jewelry and accessories are to New York women?
If I hear one more guy go on about the prices of his art and wine collections, I think I'm going to scream.
Do you hear us talking about the prices of our jewelry, handbags and shoes? What? Oh, that would be gauche? OK. The next time a guy pontificates on the value of his art or wine, I'll be ready.
"Does it taste good and is it aesthetically pleasing?" I will ask.
Oh, you don't know because these things are merely status symbols to you and have no inherent value of beauty or flavor? Then please, just stop talking. We are not impressed.