exitstrategy

As you are all aware, my interactions with the divine usually occur through another medium, often a cab driver.  But, perhaps because we are in the holiest of days, I had direct contact.  I was, as some might say, smited.As you read, there were two weddings.  The second wedding was so amazing, and I felt like such a princess in my white flowy lengha, that I could see images of myself at my own Indian wedding.  In fact, some of the guests commented on my garb and suggested I mary a nice Indian guy.  The truth is, if I really want to marry a doctor, I should marry an Indian guy.  Jewish guys are not doctors anymore.  They work for their dads or work in real estate.  So, I began to day dream.Fast forward to the Monday night after returning back from the wedding.  I was having dinner at my parent’s apartment.  My mom was checking her email and I was staring over her shoulder.  I had not told my parents about my dream wedding.  Instead, I decided to test the waters.  You see, my mom is a member of a psuedo-Jewish cult of sorts.  They get weekly newsletters and attend meetings and stuff.  In the newsletter, they announce the engagements of members.  ”So mom,” I began, “do you think they will announce my engagement in the newsletter.”  ”Probably not,” she laughs, “as I will be dead by that time.”  ”Ha.  Is that a promise?”  See Dr. G.  My communication with my parents has gotten much better.So my mom spontaneously suggested she would die before seeing my wedding.  Sounds just bitchy enough to be her actual sentiment but also is a little coincidental.  But that was not the sign.  The sign occurred two days later.  I woke up with bright red puffy elbows and a rash on my lower back.  What is going on?  I call my mom.  She tells me to call my sister the doctor.  She tells me to take benedryl and go see a dermatologist.  I get to work and make the appointment with the dermatologist.  He cannot see me until the following day.  My rash continues to get worse.  The next day in his office I can see the rash exploding.  WTF, I have it on my chest?  I look like some sort of victim from a medical test gone awry.”Well Spinsta, this is a pretty bad reaction.  I think you might be allergic to the henna or perhaps there was something that you came into contact with this past weekend.  I am prescribing you a high does of prednizone to take for the next week and half.  It should fix it.”I head home after the appointment - too much drama to go back to work.  I was a grotesque figure of my former self anyway.  So, I walk home and am almost run over by my sister.  (DO YOU SEE ALL THE COINCIDENCES??)  ”Hey sis.”  ”Hey Spinsta.  How was the doctor?”  ”He prescribed me this.”  And I hand over the bottle.  ”Oh wow.  Did he tell you about the side effects?”  ”What no.  TELL ME.”  ”Well common side effects are (1) mania, (2) insomnia, and (3) insatiable hunger.”And that was when it hit me.  I was smited.  This nice Jewish girl is gonna have to have a nice Jewish wedding.  Otherwise I will have a rash, and I guess my mom won’t live to see me wed.  (Although that cuts both ways)This divine intervention occurred 6 days ago.  I have not slept in days and I go to bed eating rice krispy treats.  I have a lot to repent for before Monday when the book is sealed.  That is why for the next several days I will not blog meanly about anyone.  Or too meanly.  Or probably I just won’t blog.  I don’t want to tempt the fates again.  I have an event coming up and I want to go sleeveless.L’Shanah Tovah.

I have an excuse for my lack of blogging - I was out of town this month at two back to back weddings.  Big Daddy really drove the point home when I told him I was taking off several days - “Oh yeah everyone is getting married at your age.”  Way to rub it in.But I digress.  So the two weddings were both for school friends.  The first wedding was beautiful.  I went with a friend who was referred to as my siamese twin throughout law school.  I don’t know why people said that.  I mean just because we do not separate, I mean so what?  And then there were some other people I had not seen in a while.  So, it was a fun reunion.  I did it up like a usual wedding.  I got hammered, had a dance off, ate cake.  Unfortunately the dance off was not up to my usual caliber.  See, I excel at weddings - dance wise.  It is a cruel twist of fate.  But, I just go crazy.  This wedding, maybe it was the too much drink not enough food (it was the first non-Jewish wedding I attended and those are usually the reverse), but I was a sloppy dancer.  During the song “Apple Bottom Jeans” I was getting low, low, low, low, low, low, low and then too low because I fell on the floor.  I was outdanced by an ivy league grad which just added insult to injury.  But I guess he felt bad because he declared it a tie.  I do not know if the reason was due to the fact that we made out, but either way I retained my title of “Best Dancer.”  I was coincidentally “Best Dancer” in my law school, although the majority of my classmates could barely move so I am not sure what the title really means.Then, there was the second wedding.  The wedding was for a very dear friend and I was a bridesmaid.  It was an Indian wedding and perhaps the most beautiful wedding I have ever seen.  It was so colorful and fun with music and dancing and food and flowers and “Aunties” - it was amazing.  I got to play dress up even.  I wore the most amazing saris and lenghas (I think that is the correct usage).  Oh and fake eye lashes.  My outfit for the ceremony was white.  I felt like the bride.  That could have been due in part to the fact that I also got to stay in the bridal suite for the two of the three nights.  I was considering staying there the night of the wedding, but maybe I would have overstayed my welcome.  Just maybe. . .But what I will never forget about this wedding (and hopefully you are reading this from the beautiful beach honeymoon, or better yet when you get back), was how amazing the bride was.  I have been a bridesmaid twice before.  Both times were for my sisters.  My first experience was very uninvolved - I was in law school at the time and the other bridesmaids did all the work.  I was the maid of honor in name only.  Or at least I got the glory without doing the work.  Although I had to help my sister use the bathroom so the honor was in part earned.  My sister was a beautiful bride, but we are family and we know what matters on your wedding day - just you.  And the second bridesmaid experience, well I was a bridesmaid in name only and did not get much of the glory since many of the wedding guests did not in fact know the bride had a sister (me).  And she was even more believing of the family motto that its ALL about the bride.  Oh, and in both weddings I was the most rubenesque of the bridesmaids in black formfitting numbers.  Interestingly, there were pregnant bridesmaids both times and from the back I would think the guests thought I was the one with the bun in the oven (due to the junk in the trunk).  But, in this wedding, I got to wear a flowy outfit that covered all my bad parts and showed all the good.  I felt great.   And whats more, unlike my sisters, my friend did not seem to remember that all that matters is the bride.  To the contrary, she was telling me how great I looked in the outfit instead of the other way around (although I did tell her and she knew - she looked like a movie star, a bollywood one).  It was truly a wonderful wedding.And now I am back after the excitement and the short weeks.  I danced, I made out, I wore white on my - I mean my friend’s - wedding day.  Before walking into the office Monday morning I was three steps short of jumping into the river - I mean I don’t have any time off until Thanksgiving.  But then I remembered, the new season of my shows is starting and it took me away from the ledge.  So, I am back.  Whole new season of the Spinsta.  XOXO.

It has been a while since I last blogged (I guess this is confession?), and there is no cohesive way to let you all know the crazy stuff that happened last week.  So, I am going to lay it all out there - diary style.Monday:After offering to sell my soul to get on a case, I FINALLY got some work.  I was put on a TRO which means lots of work that needs to be done immediately.  Since it was going to be a late night, I was told to order dinner.  The “team” I was working with likes to dine together in the lunchroom.  See, there are two types of late night workers:  the ones who eat dinner at their computers so they can get the h*ll out of there and the ones that like to eat dinner together and talk about the work and then work and stay there even longer.  Yep, this is the latter of the two teams.Dinner was chinese.  I am trying to eat healthy again so I ordered mine steamed with the sauce on the side, but of course I ate too much rice.  But that is neither here nor there.  The team sat around the table, eating and talking about the case. There were also some little tidbits of life stories thrown in.  Then, when we had finished eating, big daddy’s secretary gave us each a fortune cookie.  She suggested that we go around the cirle and read aloud our fortunes.  WHAT?  I am stuck working in h*ll until all hours, I am not at some adult camp.  No Kumbiyah.  But that wasn’t even the worst part.  Big daddy modified the campfire roundtable - he suggested we add “in bed” after each fortune.  Seriously?  What kind of a camp is this.  Oh and his fortune was about experiencing unexpected success at work.Tuesday:I had to get to work early.  I was called into Big Daddy’s office where the client was.  We drafted stuff and I ran around and did all kinds of stuff asap.  The client was annoying.  He never stopped talking.  So three plus hours into the work race, I was told I had to run to court.  I had only 10 minutes to get there.  So, I ran into a cab (in heels and a suit - looking psychotic), ran up to the court room and stopped for a second to catch my breath.  I looked on the court call to see when I was up and the opposing counsel approached me.  The guy was not happy that he had been stuck with me.  And he was even less happy with what I was going to tell him.  So we go to into the courtroom and two minutes later we were done.  As we were heading out there was a reporter talking to one of them.  I overheard the reporter ask if there was an attorney for the other side.  At that point I had slipped away towards the elevator.  ”Its that little girl in the black dress.”  And I felt the guy pointing at me.  Not knowing what to do, and waiting for the elevator to arrive, I reached in my purse and grabbed a banana - I mean when all else fails eat right?  Wrong.  I was eating a banana as the group of men stared over towards me.  What is wrong with me.  Luckily, just as I realized how inappropriate I was, the elevator doors opened and I literally jumped in.  Yes, gentleman, the little girl in the black dress deep throating a banana has left the building.Wednesday:Wednesday night I had a date with a guy I met at an event the week before.  Since my work was done, I spent the day obsessing about the night.  I couldn’t remember what the guy looked like so I had my friend send me pics she had downloaded from facebook.  After analyzing them thoroughly, I then sent them to a list of friends for feedback.  I mean didn’t he look short?  Was he fat?  His hair was greasy no?  I mean I do realize I am CRAZY but it was a good way to pass the time.  When the date came, he picked me up in his car.  He opened the door for me (which I cannot remember ever happening on a date, although I don’t usually get picked up on my dates.  The last time when a date drove me, as soon as he turned on the car, the music started playing Shania’s “Man!  I feel like a WomAn ).  We went to some restaurant and shared.  We got a bottle of wine (per usual).  And it was actually ok.  Although I think I was taller than him.  My picture analysis was right.  I should be in the C.I.A.  Or, a stalker.  Either way.Thursday:Thursday I had an event in the evening.  There was an apple-tini bar and people were HAMMERED.  I struck up a conversation with some law student who was tall, but had bad breath.  He talked my ear off about how he was going to be “wildly successful.”  Unfortunately, he still had two more years as a non-wage earning law student or I would prob have asked him to move in and retire early.  After we had parted ways, I was hanging around waiting for my friend to finish up her “seduction” of a dude she had met.  I was watching some clowns on the dance floor and this one guy was trying to start up a Grease style dance when you go two by two down the line, freestyling.  Try as he might, it didn’t catch on.  But, it was my sign to leave which I did, although not before being asked by some douche (who I know and made out with once) if he could bed me down for $36.  (”It’s a lucky number in jewish tradition.”  ”Well, not for you.”)Friday:The monthly work happy hour.  It was off-site which meant that there were less people but still a few partners.  During the happy hour, I decided to take part in a contest between myself and another woman who likes to buy stuff to see who can spend the least in a 6 month period.  Now, granted, this lady likes to get stuff, but she does have to buy for 3 children and a husband.  So, if I lose, well than I should probably just move home since it will be only a matter of time before I have to declare bankruptcy.Saturday and Sunday - I don’t know.  Nothing much happened.  I guess I was recovering from the week.  And it all starts over tomorrow.  Oy.So how does one end a diary entry?  I cannot remember.  I know the opener is dear diary.  I guess the end is something like:Yours forever,Fat Spinsta

So, the past two weeks of my life has been summed up by the lyrics to the above captioned song.  She (me) works hard for the money, so hard for it honey.  Not that I work that hard, but I think the song is about a prostitute (or am I confusing it with Roxanne - which I KNOW is about a prostie).  You see for the past two weeks I have not worked all week but then had to work on the weekends.  I don’t know exactly what the schedule of a streetwalker is like, but I imagine it is more weekend hours than 9-5s.Well, I did not understand just how prostituty I was until today.  So, for the past 12 months out of the 13 months I have been working I have been asking for work.  For whatever reason, I get little bits but not that much.  Today, I decided to have a more concrete conversation about, well, WTF with who else but Mr. ATD.  I had prepared a whole speech for what I was going to say.  Tell him that I was frustrated, that it was not my fault since I constantly asked and um it is his JOB to assign me the work, etc.  It started off smooth, but at some point it got off track.  The clown said he was not aware of just how “dire” the situation had gotten with my hours.  Woah - overstatement buddy.   And that his number one priority is to get me a ton more work.Obviously, that plan backfired but that was not even the worst part.  The worst part came twenty minutes later after Mr ATD had analyzed my billing records and other data.  He offered some “constructive criticism.”  ”Spinsta, you need to be more forceful.  You are too quiet.  People confuse your quiet nature with not being competent, perhaps.”  ”But Mr. ATD, I have been told many times that my work is good.”  I neglected to say - although it went without saying - that the majority of my co-workers, while louder than me, were much stupider so every time they opened their mouth it was obvious that they were incompetent.  ”Well thanks Mr. ATD.  This is the first time I have heard this before from anyone since I got here.  I will take it into consideration.”  ”Oh yes, and Spinsta, you should dress more professionally.  There were a few days when you looked like you were going out at night.  I think you should wear suits.  Then, when you see potential clients on the train, you look like a real professional.”WTF ATD???  Let’s just take his statement to me one piece at a time:(1)  Other than the well documented day when I was in the skin tight pants and blazer number when the client came, I dress not only professionally, but better than most of my superiors.  I mean sure maybe I do not wear “chinos” that are too short and expose my vaguely orthopedic black shoes, but I am pretty sure my clothes are fine.  In addition, I work with three women who have uniforms - one wears ponchos, the other leggings, and the third suits made out of sweater material.  Oh and sweater lady was topless in the bathroom one day.  I may have once worn tight pants, but I am not wearing leggings and a poncho and not showing my jugs to co-workers.  But, yeah, I should work on my professional attire.(2)  Why would I wear a suit?  No one else does.  If I need to go somewhere that requires a suit, I wear one.  But, I am not going to have one on in the off chance I run into a client - that I don’t have - on a train - that I don’t ride.(3)  How cliche is this office?  I mean this is exactly the overplayed seen when a woman is one the stand and the sleazy lawyer is asking her “what were you wearing to deserve this.”  I mean fine I was not attacked, but it was definitely sexist.Basically, my boss accused me of being a ho.  I mean, hey, maybe some of my clothes have gotten tighter and so appear more “weekendish” but that is only because these mo-fos force feed me baked goods.  I can’t wait until that day I get to give my notice because I have found a bigger better gig.  I can picture it now.  I will be dressed in leggings, with a poncho, no shirt underneath.  Maybe I will even give a little flash, followed by something along the lines of “now who is unprofessional!”  Oh wait, that doesn’t work since the flash is rather unprofessional.  ”I was always dressing for the job I wanted, not the job I had.  How do you like me now?”  That is better.  Although, I am not sure what kind of job that I will be getting in that number.  I got it!!  ”She works hard for the money so you better treat her right!!”  Perfect.

This week has been a bit of a slow death.  I asked everyone and his mother for work.  But, no one had any.  Hmm, seems like a bad sign.  Either they don’t like me or there is not enough work.Luckily, I had a little bit of work to do for this one partner who caused my friend to quit.  He is beyond anal.  You remember - he made me summarize the summaries?  Well this clown is on “vacation” although he constantly sends me emails.  The two of us are editing something and instead of making his edits, he emails them to me in narrative form and asks that I put them into the document.  Well, I missed a stray comma and a capital letter.  This dude was not happy.He sent me the following email:  you missed a comma.  You really must be more careful.Hmm that seems a little bit of an overreaction.  So, I sent the following email:Sorry, it is hard to see everything in track changes format.  I will be more careful in the future.And then he writes:”You need to appreciate the ATD that is required in our practice.”Um, excuse me?  ATD?  What is he talking about?  Oh g-d, he means attention to detail.  Is this for real?  When did I start working for that little girl in Sleepless in Seattle?  And, lets be honest here.  I am not searching for my son or looking for my one true love on the top of the Empire State Building.  The shit I am doing is no where near as important.Should I respond, I wondered.  Hmm.  Something like “OMG dude.  Be more careful.  Ttyl.”  Nah.  Something more to the point:  ”LOL.”  Not quite right.”Thanks for your email.  Unfortunately I DCATD.  Translation: I don’t care about the details.”ISNANJ!!!  (I seriously need a new job)Interestingly, I am extremely mindful of the details in my non-work life.  I mean there is not a snaggly tooth or a receding hairline that gets passed me.  But like Tom Hanks, I pay to attention to the details that matter.

The economy is really starting to get to me.  I mean luckily not in the way it is “getting” to a lot of other people - i.e. actually affecting them by causing them to lose their jobs, take on multiple jobs, lose their retirement etc.  It is getting to me because it has made it abundantly clear that I need to save money and won’t be able to quit my job any time soon.  I do realize that the preceding several sentences make me seem like a spoiled brat, but trust me, it gets much worse.So, last week I had three separate conversations with people about the need to save as much money as possible right now because the future is very uncertain.  Then, I picked up a Glamour magazine (to read about how strong Jessica Simpson is, obviously) and it had a whole section on budgeting and saving money.  All together it was a not so subtle sign that I need to tighten the bootstraps (or pursestrings or some other string/strap/ribbon/chain).Oh and then this morning, while I was watching Breakfast in Bed on Soapnet (the best part of my weekend: back to back episodes of vintage 90210 and gilmore girls) I saw a commercial for some special mop.  In addition to cleaning up mud, dog “messes” and dirt, the man on the commercial spilled out a soda and then mopped it up, and then squeezed it out back into the cup.  He said “in this economy, you cannot afford to waste anything so with the ___ Mop you can still drink that soda.”It was the grossest thing I had ever seen.  Are things really that bad that we need to drink soda that has been twice contaminated - first on the floor and then from the dog crap stuck to the mop??  I guess so.  I will not be getting another job anytime soon, will I?  No, that dream has been squeegeed like that dirty soda.  Hopefully I can wring it out in a few years.But, when I thought all was lost, I heard a story that made me hopeful.  It may shock some of you but I do not always read the news regularly.  So, I decided it was time to get informed and went to cnn.com.  I read an article about a Kenyan man offering a dowry for Chelsea Clinton of 40 goats and 20 cows.Why is this hopeful you ask?  Is this related to your husband hunts?  Fat Spinsta, do you think you could fetch a similarly generous dowry?  I mean, unlike the warm and loving Bill and Hillary, your parents will pay someone else to take you off their hands rather than the other way around.  (Oh wow, now I am even having a two-way imaginary conversation with you people.  Should I be alarmed?).No to all of the above.  I am not hopeful because I think that I can be purchased by a man or taken care of by a husband.  I am hopeful because even in a bad economy, people are still spending money on some things.  I just need a good concept.  I mean I don’t think I will be accepting payment in livestock, but accessories would be ok.  Now, I just need the concept.  I must strike while the time is right.  I am thinking something related to goats, or soda, or legal services.

I know that before you start a 12-step program you have to admit you have a problem.  And the way you get to that point is by hitting rock bottom.  Now what I don’t know is whether the admission is one of the twelve steps or if it is a pre-step.  So, as I indicated above I have either 11 or 12 more steps to go.It’s true - I hit rock bottom.  It happened on Thursday evening.  This week has been a little odd.  On Tuesday I took part in an arbitration - I mean it was a fee petition but it was still something.  I had my own witness, a cross examination, and I did the closing.  It was the most substantive morning I have had since I started working.  But, the arbitration ended at 1:30 and since then I have had nothing to do.For me, having nothing to do is a BAD thing.  It leads me to overanalyze and become even crazier than usual.  And so when I had a networking happy hour, the writing was on the wall - things were not gonna be good.The happy hour was to raise money for charity and supposedly make business contacts.  Clearly, the business contacts I was looking for were male ones.  I mean I am getting to the point in my job search where it is becoming evident that my most viable exit strategy is to marry a dude.These potential “husband contacts” were no good.  Mostly old.  And the place was packed to the brim.  I don’t like crowds so I decided to go to a different happy hour - not a husband one, a regular one.  So before we went to the second happy hour I had already had a glass and a half of wine, and my friend snuck a brooskie into the cab.  I guess our cab driver had previously been a cabbie in Cancun cuz he was cool with our coronas.When I got to the second bar (and had another drink) it was clear nothing good could come.  And, let me tell you, nothing good did.  This particular bar had a “buffet.”  The buffet included the following: wings, penne pasta with meatballs, sausage and potatoes and buttered popcorn.  I went vegas on that buffet - I must have had like 3 plates.But, being at the bottom of a bar buffet was not even rock bottom.  No, my friends.  It gets worse.  We next went to another bar.  After making a quick scan for husband contacts, we sat at a table and ordered fondu.  After I ate the remaining chocolate with my finger (and harassed the barely english speaking bus-boy to get me marshmellows for my chocolate) I FINALLY hit it.  Rock bottom.So now I don’t even want to get dressed for work.  The thought of wearing non-spandex waistband pants is abhorrent.And I have lots of steps ahead of me.  I mean how does one make amends with sausage and wings?  I think I am gonna need to go back and sit next to the buffet and not eat anything.  Oy.  And did I mention today at work is Friday Breakfast complete with donuts and coffee cake.  Maybe I can just have a few bites of the coffee cake.  Wait, is denial part of the 12 steps - or is that a different set of steps?  Ugh, G-d grant me the serenity to stop eating like an animal and grant me the strength to go husband hunting without eating my body weight (I should say my former body weight) in chocolate sauce.

I have eased into my new old age.  It has caused me to be, shall we say, curmudgeonly.  But, whatever, at least I will own it.  Let’s talk about some stuff I hate.

First, I was walking to work this morning and this 40 year old man nearly killed me when he rushed past on the sidewalk on his little kick scooter.  Now this was infuriating for a whole host of reasons.  Principally, because the sidewalk is for pedestrians.  If you are on wheels (even if they are little tiny ones) you should be on the street.  I do not care old scooter dude if you do not feel comfortable kick scooting next to real cars.  Then, perhaps you should leave the scooter at home.  Which brings me to the other problem.  Um, you are WAY too old to be kick scooting to work.  I mean hey I love me some roller skates but you don’t see me going to work derby style.  And, buddy, I am old too so I know of what I speak.

Second, what is with those wierdos who talk to you on the street.  I don’t mean the peddlers.  Like those random people walking or the creeps driving slow or watering something.  “Hello.”  I don’t know you.  Why are you speaking to me.  I need all of those moments during the walk to work to mentally prepare myself for the torture that awaits.  I don’t have time to exchange tops of the morning to ya’s with some slow driving freakshow.

Third, why do people insist on being in control of ever MINOR decision that gets made.  One of the cases I am on with Big Daddy required us to send a letter to the judge and give courtesy copies of what we had filed.  So, Big Daddy emailed me a list of stuff to include, only three of which were actually required to be given.  A lot of the things on the list were totally unnecessary.  So, I emailed Big Daddy (who is out of town), and asked if he was sure he wanted me to send all of that stuff.  Well, that really started a fire storm.  Big Daddy freaked and insisted that I send him the draft of the cover letter (that merely listed the stuff) before sending it off.  Which I of course did but since he was out of the office I did it with a STANK face.  And, honestly, some of the stuff he made me include was ridiculous.  For instance, I had to send the judge an artist’s rendition of the complaint, a weather map, and a black and white photo of me and Big Daddy playing mini golf.  I mean maybe those were not exactly included, but the stuff was just as unnecessary.

Fourth, why do these shmos give false dead lines?  Take yesterday at 4:30.  Fat Bastard calls me and tells me he needs an answer to his research question first thing the next morning.  The brief is not due for about 4 weeks, but he needs it first thing in the morning.  Um, why is that exactly?  He probably still hasn’t even looked at it.  He is no doubt too busy chewing something with his mouth open whilst breathing loud.

I think that is it for my latest grievances.  Is that really it?  Maybe I am not as much of a curmudgeon as I thought.  Oh, wait, here is one.  What is with mayonaise commercials?  Personally I hate the stuff (which makes me so happy - see I love all food and so whenever there is something I do not like I treasure it cuz I know I cannot overeat it).  Anyways, these commercials show people eating mayonaise sandwiches.  Even if you do like mayonaise you certainly are not schmearing it on like its frosting.  WTF?

Oh and Ed’s short-shorts and tank tops?  Don’t get me started.  They still irk me.  And, oh, people who turn on the Spinsta cuz she has been a little behind in her blogging.  I mean sometimes I got to work too.  A girl’s got to eat.

I got a lot of positive feedback about my scientific study relating to office douches.  So, I decided to write another scientific analysis of human behavior - this time about plain old douches.  I consulted with an expert in the field:  Dr. Higns.  Have you ever wondered why only the ugly dudes come up to you at clubs?  Why is it that when you are at a party the only one who talks to you is a serious freakshow?  During my consultation with Dr. H, I asked these questions.  ”Well Spinsta, why do you think it is?”  ”Because these dudes have an inflated sense of self?” I posited.  ”That is the usual mistake people make.  But, actually, what you are seeing is the hopeless effect.”The Hopeless Effect: the result of a sad dude realizing he has nothing to loose.In Dr. Higns words, “what you think you’re seeing is that ugly guys will just go up to chicks all the time.  What you’re actually seeing is guys who really don’t do that, but on that particular night do because they figure ‘what the hell I have nothing to lose.  I’m already going to shoot myself since I am a loser.’”I was horrified by Dr. Higns.  ”I just don’t believe people are that hopeless.”  ”No,” he said.  ”Well, its true.  I have proven this scientifically.  Take these equations, do the math and then you will see that I am right.”1+xy3/(a8f) = ??  Hmm, lets see if I remember my imaginary calculus.  I was a biochemistry major after all.  Ok, the answer is l, i, m, p - limp?  I don’t understand.  OMG.  Ed on the Bachlorette?  There was nothing more hopeless than seeing his face after it was told to the world that the brother CANNOT perform.  Well, that was just a lucky coincidence Dr. H.x*4(d9io)/(f12) - 4rf = ??.  E, g, g, s.  Eggs?  OMG.  My friend just told me today that her therapist told her to freeze her eggs.  She is now saving 250 dollars a month for the procedure in 4 years.  It’s called her “nest egg.”  Hmm, freezing eggs does sound a little hopeless.  Maybe the Dr. really has found the Hopeless Effect.2+(fj99) - (9if)*(e400) = ???  M, u, ff, i, n.  Muffin?  OH CRAP.  Muffin Top!!!  I discovered today that I have developed a muffin top.  I mean I have always had an ass on me, but the muffin top was never a problem.  I went to one of my work friends and told her of my new addition.  ”Guess what this place has done to me?  I HAVE A MUFFIN TOP!!”  ”Sorry Spinsta, but it’s not this place.  Don’t you have a birthday coming up?  IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE ALMOST THIRTY.”  Ugh, there is nothing more hopeless than an old broad with muffin tops!!So, maybe Dr. Higns is right.  The Hopeless Effect has been scientifically proven.  I mean, as I turn 29 tomorrow I have realized that I am too fat to be on the bachelor and I am too old to be on the real world.  It’s hopeless.  BUT WAIT.  I just saw an add for “More to Love” - the bachelor for chubbies.YOU ARE WRONG DR. HIGNS.  There is hope.  Fat girls like me have a chance.  Long live the muffin top and the sands of time.  I am ok with getting a year older.           

I am well aware of the rules of maintaining an alter-ego.  First, you start with your run of the mill nerd.  Second, you add a super power.  Third, and finally, you add a super sneaky disguise such that the world never suspects the run of the mill nerd is in fact the super hero in possession of the super power.Take for example Clark Kent.  He was a bookish reporter who wore, gasp, glasses.  But, he took off the glasses and became Superman.   No one suspected they were the same person.Or, better yet, take Steve Urkel, everyone’s favorite nerd from Family Matters.  He wears glasses and short pants.  But then he walks into the “cool machine” (I am really getting old because I used to know the name of the machine), and out walks Stephan Ur-kel, the smooth operator and amor to Laura Winslow.  This may be a faulty analogy because people might have known the true identity of Steve and Stephan, but I am not sure.  Either way you get the point, and can probably see where this is going.You take one super smart, super successful, super motivated legal genius.  And then you give her a computer and voila out pops Fat Spinsta.  I never use proper names and I sometimes dramatize (although, in my defense, I view the world in hyperbole so what may be technically exaggeration feels like my truth - ugh I was BORN to be a lawyer) so you would think that these two identities would remain forever apart.Well the first crack in my armor came a month ago when the rents found the blog.  Ugh I am still hearing about it.  Oh and before that, I was selling stuff on craigslist and one of the potential purchasers of my desk became on of my contacts on the g-list and he found the blog.  I mean he didn’t know who I was before so the alter-ego thing is kind of lost on him, but it shows just how hard it is to remain two people.  (Hopefully you are still reading Craig - name changed to protect ME).And then a few days ago I was yet again unmasked.  A guy I was to go on a date with on Saturday night became a g-list contact and saw the blog (Note: I advertise for the blog on g-chat, which is a somewhat imperfect advertising strategy since my g-chat buddies already read the blog so don’t really get new readers but whatev).  So when we were setting up the date he asked about the blog.  I decided to maintain my alter-ego “No that is a blog from my anonymous friend.”  Clearly I could not keep up that clever ruse forever, so I admitted to being two people.  But on the plus side, during the date, he referred to me as “Carrie Bradshaw” which was a real coup since these blog reads a lot more like Cathy than Sex in the City.  AACK!!I just don’t understand how Peter, Steve, Bruce (Wayne) and Clark keep it up.  I mean yeah they are fictional characters but still.  I don’t know how to maintain this double life.  I think the answer is pretty clear, but there is no way I could do what must be done:  wear glasses.  As the saying goes, boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.