Tag Archives: life

Me in a men’s prison and this is not a porn

21 Jul

I walked into the liquor store down the street from my building and bought my usual six-pack of Harpoon IPA.

“How you doin’?” the smiling dude behind the counter asked.

“Good. Gonna be a lot better in a few minutes,” I told him.

He laughed. “Pop a couple cold ones and you’ll be all right.”

I walked out uneasy with the words I’d chosen, with the fact I really was about to “pop a couple cold ones”‘ to “feel a little better.” It’s true I need major unwinding tonight, but the fact I’m choosing a beer to speed up the process is pretty freaking ironic.

I’ve spent the last two days, 9am – 4pm, in the classroom of a men’s medium security prison, sitting in a circle with about 16 inmates and three ladies “from the outside” like myself. I’ve been listening to grown men talk about their important memories, about what goes on in their minds on a daily basis, about what they’d wish to buy if any thing were purchasable , what they’ve all most wanted to do at some point in their lives, how they feel about the people they are today. I’ve watched them struggle to find something about themselves of which they’re proud, I’ve heard them express gratitude to one another for creating this temporary community where they are comfortable and relaxed for a whole seven hours during their day, I’ve heard them talk about their insecurities, the crimes they committed, I’ve heard them reinforce to one another the importance of self-forgiveness, of patience, of compromise, of hard work, of considering consequences. I’ve heard them talk about their children, their wives, their girlfriends, their mothers, and oftentimes about the absence of their fathers. I shared too, I shared as much as they did. I cried today, and honest to god, I never imagined I might feel so comfortable letting a couple tears stream down my cheek in front of 16 ripped and tattooed, white t-shirt and blue jean-wearing strange men. “Jesus, I think I’m PMSing,” I blurted out loud. They laughed.

Some of these men have murdered, robbed, physically and emotionally damaged others. Many of them are alcoholics, crack-cocaine and heroin addicts, many of them have gotten out and back in and out and back into prison.

And yet I haven’t felt as connected to a group of people as I did in these couple days. Is that at all strange? Yea, sure, I realize how fucking weird it sounds.

I could say that I’m looking forward to making a commitment to this program because 7.3 million Americans are in jail, prison, on parole, or on probation and the great majority of them will get back on the streets, so shouldn’t we help them reinforce positive values, ways of thinking, and habits so that we can in turn better protect ourselves? I could say it’s because they might discover a thing or two that will help ease the strain in the relationships they have with their sons, daughters, wives, girlfriends, mothers, fathers, friends, which in turn may positively affect the lives of each of these people. I could say it’s because we need to reduce the number of incarcerated people so that our tax dollars aren’t sent to jail, so many of which are run by evil fucking corporations.

All of these are fantastic possible consequences of showing convicts an alternative to violence. But my mother said this to me on the phone today (and I’m so glad she did because, goddamn it, we all need a little encouragement and affirmation in our lives): “do it because you feel it’s the right thing to do, not because of statistics.”

I’ll say this: with the overwhelming negativity that permeates this world, I’d be a fool not grab an opportunity to help breed positivity. With all the sadness and regret that gets passed around in that classroom, has come more empathy, eagerness, effort, and honesty than I’ve experienced in months. I want to be present and cooperative in a group of people doing the same. It feels hopeful, honestly. I don’t care who or where we are; that’s the kind of stuff we should all live for.

And fuck it, where else would I get stories like this:

I was eating lunch next to Nick and Jay, when Nick said to me, “I can’t believe you’re eating state food, man. You can bring in your own lunch, you know that?” I told him, “Yeah, I know. But I didn’t today, and I’m hungry, and if you guys can eat it, then it’s no big deal.”

Nick then said, “I worked in the kitchen for a couple days, man, and that shit is nasty. Some of the people working in there are just crazy. You get used to stuff in here that you’d never consider out there. You know what, there was this one crazy dude in the kitchen once who put his own shit in the pancakes while he was cooking it.”

Jay nodded vehemently; he works in the kitchen and had just an orange for lunch that day.  I said, “Oh well. Chocolate chips!”


I like life

5 May

This is what happens when you’re me.

You’re sitting at a café, reading funny blogs, when a girl walks in and says to your waiter/bartender:

Hi, I was here earlier and left $20 to pay my bill that was only $6.95, but I didn’t have time to get change so I left, and now I’m back. I’m really hoping someone left my money aside.

OK, well I don’t have a cash register back here, but you may speak with the manager right over there by the cash register.

She walks just a few feet away and waits to talk to the tall guy in black.

At the same time, the waiter and I exchange a glance that says, dude was that chick serious?

A girl sitting two seats down from me says, very loudly, I don’t believe her. I mean, I used to work at [insert retail here] and people would do that all the time. Honestly, she’s lying.

I say in a low voice, to him, I mean, I’m not going to say that she’s lying, but, dude, that’s not a very smart move. We chuckle.

The loud girl says, seriously, that is the dumbest thing I ever heard. That’s how people are. They were burned once so they turn around and screw someone else over, like, you know what, I got screwed so I can do this. ‘Cause people are entitled… [there was more, I forget] Guilty till they can prove they’re not! I should know, I just finished law school.

You just finished law school and you’re saying your motto is guilty till proven innocent? I ask.

Yeah, she says with a smile.

And you’re gonna be a lawyer? Good lord, I hope I never need one.

It was a JOKE.

Really? It didn’t sound like a joke.

It was a joke. I was kidding. She’s really glaring at me now.

OK, well. You’re saying all that about a person who is standing right there.

She stares at me, looks back to her computer screen and says, Oh get off your high horse.

I’m not on one, I’m just… you know, trying to show you what just happened. I apologize if I was rude.

You decide you must blog about this, so you do. Then a guy sitting next to you (between you and loud girl) – the one who was standing outside the café smoking a cigarette with his laptop bag in tow as you walked up to the café entrance with your own laptop bag in tow while also smoking a cigarette; the one you end up sitting next to because there were no other empty seats at the bar, and you both pull out 10″ tiny laptops – says:

I’m sorry, I noticed earlier you were reading something about the FCC net neutrality regulations, what was that on?

Oh, I think it was CNet. Yea, here it is, It’s CNet. We go over the article together.

Somehow he’s a blogger, I’m a blogger, we start talking about blogging and hosting options, readership, getting published, Twitter, the Grub Street writing classes, NPR, The New Yorker, Goldman Sachs, British elections and the lack of a real Green Party in the US…….. Jesus Christ.

See, for every unpleasant interaction you have with a person, if you keep an open mind and open heart, you can just sit there, and good people bump into you. And then you get a little blog post out of it. Then you order a chocolate chip cookie with your coffee. You should really stop drinking four cups of coffee at 11pm. Hi, Tristan. Your blog‘s awesome.

Oh, and upon delivering the bill, the waiter says, the cookie’s on me. Seriously.

(You give him an awesome tip, obviously. OK, I’m done)

This one’s long…

5 May

I watched the film “Happy Endings” on Sunday night. I got it from Netflix because it starred Steve Coogan as a gay man. Ten seconds into the movie, I knew I’d seen it before. But it wasn’t until Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character appeared onscreen that I remembered the plot, the year it came out, and how I reacted as I viewed it in theatre, with a girlfriend next to me. As Maggie’s character laid on a clinic bed moments before getting an abortion, I wept uncontrollably. This past Sunday, I was touched by the scene, but more emotional about another storyline.

My story starts at 21, as I entered last year of college. Because I was a dormitory resident assistant, I arrived on campus two weeks earlier than the rest of the student body for “Residence Life” training. Several days after settling in, I woke up nauseated and puked my brains out for thirty minutes. My sexual partner (we’ll call him ‘Friend’) wore condoms during sex, but as I kneeled on the dorm bathroom floor, alone, before heading to a full day’s training with chipper resident assistants, I was fucking sure I was pregnant. Only a few days of persistent morning sickness went by before I realized there was no running and hiding. After urine and blood tests at University Health Center, the registered nurse confirmed it. I think I nodded and said, “yeah, I know. Are abortions done here?”

I was referred to Planned Parenthood, where I had a meeting with a counselor. I was asked questions such as “are you in an abusive relationship?” “did anyone influence you in making this decision?” and “have you spoken with your parents and religious leader about your decision?” Then it came time to choose the method (though I was told I had a few days to change my mind): abortion pill or in-clinic aspiration method. My memory of that conversation is hazy, but I recall being scared by the counselor’s warnings of what could go wrong with the in-clinic procedure: life-threatening anesthesia side effects, the possibility of “not removing all contents” of the uterus (and having to return for a second procedure), infection or damage to the uterus that might result in infertility. The abortion pill, on the other hand, was “simple,” and more “natural;” I’d feel period-like cramps, abdominal discomfort, and heavy bleeding for four to six hours. I’d later realize that this young woman being paid to provide unbiased information was delivering some fucking biased information. No matter what I found on Google after that visit, I couldn’t shake the fear of being broken and infertile at 21, so I chose the abortion pill. The earliest appointment I was able to schedule was for two weeks later. Thanks to health insurance, I had only a $30 co-pay.

On that day, I also had an ultrasound. I was told everything was fine health-wise, and I was a good candidate for the abortion, being only 6 weeks pregnant. I asked to look at the image; my uterus looked huge on the screen, and the embryo was a tiny bean on the bottom right corner. For some reason I asked for a print-out of the picture. I kept it for a while but threw it out years later.

I was alone on a dorm floor for 40 students, and the only people on campus were my co-workers – very nice people, but not close friends.  Friend was back home but we talked on the phone every day, and he was positively supportive. “Whatever you choose to do is OK with me, and we‘ll do it together.” His voice quivered on the phone line, and while I knew he meant his words, I also knew he was scared of fatherhood. I wanted to be a wife and mother someday, but “not now. No way,” I told him mid-tears. I assured him I wanted an abortion.

The appointment was scheduled for a Friday, after the start of classes. My friends were all back on campus and we were seniors; everyone was partying but I was exhausted by nine every night. My mornings began about an hour earlier than usual; I’d get up to vomit, walk around my dorm room drinking tea and watching the news until the sickness stopped, then I’d get ready for the day. There were a few days of afternoon and evening sickness too – those were most inconvenient and tiring.

Friday came and my Friend waited in the PP lobby as I moved from room to room; paperwork to fill out, another counseling session, another urine test, questions by a doctor. A couple of hours later, I was finally led to the room where the pills would be administered. The nurse showed me to my seat and left me alone for a few minutes until the doctor returned. As I waited. the thought entered my mind, is this what I really want? I saw a calendar on the desk, and knowing I was eight weeks pregnant, I looked for the date 32 weeks ahead – May 22nd, 2005. That was the week of college graduation. I imagined myself at home (the gap in this scenario being “how would my parents react?”), waiting to give birth, as my friends finished finals with their caps and gowns hanging in the closet. Fuck that. No way. There‘s no way, I thought. The doctor came in, watched me swallow the first pill and instructed me on when to take the second at home. Friend and I went back to my dorm room, I took the second pill, and what followed were the most excruciating and miserable hours of my entire life.

I had insanely painful cramps – they felt like contractions. At times I couldn’t find a single comfortable position in which to lay, I was biting on cloth so as to not make too much noise (again, I was in a dorm room), while squeezing my friend’s arm with my hand. I made a conscious effort to breathe regularly during the pain, mid-tears. I would fall asleep crying and wake up thirty minutes later – my Friend sat next to me the entire time, watching me, holding my hand, wide-eyed, looking helpless in a comforting way. In between the abdominal cramps (the drugs indirectly force the uterus to contract and “expel its contents”) I would run to the bathroom as I could feel “content” was about to come out – it being lots and lots of blood. In clumps. (You’re welcome). This lasted for about five hours on Friday night, as the rest of campus celebrated back-to-school. My Friend stayed with me through Sunday, and on Monday I was back in class.

I’d always been openly pro-choice, but once I had the abortion I felt incredible shame. Now I know why: I was very alone during those two weeks; I was young and working alongside my peers six days a week through the sickness and constant headaches. I would call home and have to talk to my mom as if nothing were happening. By 6pm I was back in the dorms, alone. I felt very alone, but I dealt with it by suppressing my feelings. During the pregnancy and after the abortion, I focused on schoolwork and barely allowed myself to acknowledge and process what I‘d gone through.

A few months later I watched “Happy Endings” in theatre, and the 30 second “implied abortion” scene broke me down.  I think that was the first time I acknowledged everything that I had bottled up. The truth is, the abortion process was traumatizing. It was painful and scary and it felt unbearably long. I still see it advertised as a method “of dealing with abortion in the privacy of [my] own home,” “similar to the morning after pill,” “simple,” and “a way to avoid surgery and anesthesia.” I will preach this until the day I die: my experience was painful, it was scary, it felt like a barbaric punishment, I couldn’t tell if the bleeding was normal or if I should be alarmed and call the doctor, and above all, it felt unnecessary. I wish I’d told a girlfriend, I wish my assigned counselor had kept her opinions to herself, and I wish I’d found what I spent hours googling: one girl’s story. An honest, non-judgmental account of her experience – someone to relate to. Not having that, I think, played a major role in the anxiety and guilt I felt.

Years later, while on the pill, I became pregnant again. I’d missed a pill here and there, but had taken it less than 24hrs later, as it happens with virtually every woman on the pill. It’s hardly ever a problem – except for me, the most fertile woman on the planet. My hang ups about abortion were non-existent this time around and I knew with certainty that I’d choose anything but the abortion pill. The non-surgical aspiration procedure consisted of this: local anesthesia (though I could’ve gone to sleep completely – I just didn’t see the need), a bed, and spread legs, much like a GYN visit (yes, boys, just like that). The doctor inserted things in the vagina: “this is to numb the cervix,” “this is to dilate the cervix,” “now we’re going to remove the contents of the uterus.” Within twenty minutes, including the initial anesthetic, I was done. The time spent on the bed was probably half that. I felt a bit nauseous because of the medication and had some abdominal discomfort that day, but my boyfriend fed me ice cream and we watched Robocop all afternoon. I wondered why the fuck I had ever chosen the abortion pill the first time around.

Pregnancy happens. I used contraception and still became pregnant.  Having a child was something I did not want – I would’ve been devastated if I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I have no hang ups about my abortions. There is nothing wrong or immoral about it. It is more common than one might think; once I felt comfortable talking about it, I found out four of my friends had one. It most certainly isn’t a walk in the park, but neither is having a child; pregnancy is fascinating and beautiful, but a woman should get to decide if it’s something she wants, and she shouldn’t be made to feel ashamed for wanting control over her life.

Good reads:
Penelope Trunk
On the abortion pill

1 May

I have a lot of fast-paced adventures. I exist in moments of hazy cognizance, and I am carefree in a manner where second thoughts aren’t allowed, reflection is too long a word for consideration, and where my presence often controls the environment. My experiences result from my impulsions. I have heartfelt fun. I laugh really, really hard. I make others smile.

I’m so busy developing theories, crafting ways to ‘entertain,’ that my actions become just a series of movements, vignettes of actualized anticipation. And for all the adventure I have, all the control I exert on everything around me, the most overwhelming feelings generally come during my moments of inaction.

I’ve come to learn the importance of stopping. I’m fine-tuning my internal alarm clock, and every day I get better at hearing when it goes off – when it tells me to be still, to not act, to not be in control. It might be the genuine laughter of a little kid, the sound of my dog quenching her thirst with the water I provided, a song that somehow steals beauty from thin air and recycles it into sound waves. I’m catching these moments, and I’m stopping for them. What follows are tears without hesitation, a huge smile, the actual feeling of my pupils enlarging as they try to absorb all the color and depth. I think about how I am filled with life and I am in awe of my mind – my vessel – through which I get to taste and be a part of the world.

Now when I feel restless to come up with an answer, the length of time it takes for me to reprogram and stop is getting shorter and shorter. And then I look around, and whatever it is I need tends to find me.


13 Apr

Went on hulu last night to look for mindless television programming to numb me for an hour or so, but ended up watching this.

Everyone should watch this. It will make you a better person. Skip to minute 3 if you’re bored by the interviewer’s introduction. He’s just very nervous, I think.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

more about “Eve Ensler on… LIFE“, posted with vodpod

A Clockwork Orange

18 Mar

OK, this is my opinion on the significance of the 21st chapter of Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, which was excluded from earlier American editions of the novel and the film adaptation by Stanley Kubrick (fucking. awesome.).  I’m certain a bazillion people have written about it and it’s probably all over the web, but the same could be said for pretty much everything else in the world, so what am I supposed to do, not speak at all? Ha ha.

Needless to say, but saying it anyway, if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie (WHY?), this will be a super duper spoiler.

I think a reading of the book without the 21st chapter is a deliberate disregard for the central message and debate that Burgess brought to the table. The sadist in us all – that devilish side we so often repress – rejoices in a story that unapologetically affirms: “I’m naturally inclined to ravage you and fuck you for thinking you could ever change me.” Maybe it’s a direct result of America’s persistent Puritanism – the more righteous you try to be, the more obsessed you become with fucked up tendencies (see: Priests with little boys; Mormons and the similarly-crazed; Japanese porn). I feel a lot of people see a villainous hero in the mischievous Alex, the guy you don’t fuck with, who has threesomes with teenagers, the fearless ring leader – and they want to see him wreak havoc.  I feel that way about Freddy Kruger, not Alex DeLarge. Alex is a much more interesting character; he’s charming, cunning, humorous, a mature thinker, and is surprisingly discerning of, and has a passion for, real beauty.  All the while being youthful and carefree (there’s an understatement). I think we forget that Alex is fifteen, sixteen years old at the height of his ‘evil’ – not that age is an excuse for his actions, but to ignore this fact, and his environment, is to reject the effects of nurture and notions of cause and effect. And that is simply naïve and detrimental to the process of understanding oneself and human behavior at large. I can’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that, if Burgess wanted readers to extract any one thing from his novel, that it’d be this kind of introspective discussion. That’s what the best literary pieces do.

So he gave us a brilliant set up; a bright and youthful male, in a colorless, hellish, survivalist, brooding environment with absolutely no genuine parental or pedagogic involvement. Add to the mix completely daft, easily manipulated minions and a bit of the hallucinogens… it’s like fucking Candy Land and it’s easy to see – not justify – why Alex turns out the way he does. And what Burgess thrusts upon us at the height of the novel is such a gift; a real picture of the UGLY in people – I’m referring to the government officials and doctors involved in the Ludovico treatment (during and after). The ugly is the enjoyment derived from stripping humanity off another for personal material gains; it’s the incessant desire to oppress and manipulate. These guys are the real monsters in the story, not Alex.

What I love about that 21st chapter is its audacity to proclaim faith in human nature. I’m not talking about Charles Manson types here (though I’m sure someone would be willing to make an argument in his defense) – I’m excluding the people who are actually really fucked up in the head because that requires an understanding, that I don’t have, of repercussions of chemical imbalances and such. But everyone else; I think we all have within us what we need to see life – all life – for what it is: all we have, and equally deserving of existence in all its forms. Once this insanely basic concept is practiced by any one person, the idea of right and wrong takes a waaaaay back seat to simply living decently with yourself and everything else around you. It’s that fantastic concept of self-governance; where there is mutual respect and empathy, there isn’t need for dictation and punishment.  The final chapter alludes to this concept as Alex undergoes genuine self reassessment – maturity, if you will. Do I like the idea of Alex dreaming of a government job and raising a family as the manifestation of this very enlightening personal journey? Not particularly, but it’s a reflection of the middle class dream, and that’s very graspable and relatable, so we’ll leave it be.  It’s probably very smart of Burgess, actually. Or totally ironic?

So yeah. The 21st chapter rocks and that first American editor/publisher was just looking to maximize profits by maximizing shock value at the cost of truth and art.

[mmm… gee  wiz, I can’t think of anything or any one like that *cough* tabloids *cough* Fox News *cough* Lady GaGa]

But then again, I love the movie as it is, it’s brilliant, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect, it stands on its own, and it is so because of how the book was published in the US. So… it is what it is. Didn’t I just say that? What?

If anyone has any thoughts, other than on what I’m wearing right now, I’d love to hear (read) them. Even if you think I make no sense and should shut the fuck up. Just tell me why, at least.

For instance, my friends L.E.O. (that’s his DJing name-acronym that stands for nothing.. except good music) and Dmitriy had the following to contribute:

Leo: Juliana, leave philosophy to men. You were OK being funny. I’m pumping out quotes here.

Dmitriy: I wanna say something funny! I did it. It’s a self-referencing funny statement. It’s an infinite loop.

Then my boss walked in with no shoes or shirt on. True story.

Guest Contributor Time!

18 Mar

I’m lucky to have nice friends who are supportive of my blogging obsession. So supportive, I think my sickness is rubbing off on them.

Olya is a Russian-born, NYC-dwelling smart, sassy, sexy, funny, honest, and FUN girl I connected with through mutual friends. We’re gonna party hardy together in Miami next week – more on that later. She felt inspired last night, and cooked up an awesome piece on being a single girl (with a slight SATC obsession) in NYC. Meet Olya, in her own words.

– – – – –

My best friend gave me the complete Sex and the City series for my 27th birthday and I just can’t stop watching it. It’s addictive.

I moved to New York City in 2006, and though the move was for no particular reason other than a change of scenery and my love for New York, I can’t help but think that the show may have played a part. Of course I realize that it’s just a show and that it’s not real, but still… it is so authentic and inspirational – I think every woman who watches it secretly wants a similar life. The romances, the fashion, the infectious, free spirited honesty of the four women… but yeah, mostly the love life.

It seems like around every corner, the Sex and the City ladies found someone more than ‘decent’ to date. At least for me, the question is obvious: “Where are these men??”

I live in Midtown – it’s a great location. I am well employed, even if kind of broke, but who isn’t these days (in NYC, especially)? I am not unfortunate looking [Juliana interjects: she’s HOT] and have a solid social life. I go out a few times a week and while I get checked out and asked out by “presentable” men, they never turn out to be as they initially portray themselves.

My latest frustrations in the dating department come from two different (yet so similar) jackasses with a love for texting. The first one – we’ll call him Jackass #1 – I met at a friend’s birthday party. We chatted only for a few minutes, but the mutual physical attraction was clear. We exchanged numbers, but as we know –

men no longer call; they text.

He texted a few days later. We had conflicting schedules that week so we just… kept texting. I was running out of patience so I asked if we could meet up for a drink. His response?

No, sorry, I have work until 9pm tomorrow, so I am going to be tired and will just go home to blaze.

SERIOUSLY?? Why the fuck are you texting me, then?

Oh you poor workaholic. I tried to be nice.

How can any normal man respond that way? A few days later he texted again, just to ask how I was doing. A gazillion texts later, there was still no prospect of an actual invitation to meet. I finally stopped responding.

As a woman (and a Piscean) I had to analyze what happened:

Why did he keep on texting me?
Did he just need someone to text to?
Did he want me to bring up going out again?
Did he want me to invite myself to go over his place to “blaze”?

I don’t have the answers. I do know that a man with no balls to ask a lady out is like a man WITH NO BALLS.

Jackass #2 I met on my 27th birthday celebration. He was cute and a bit shy, which I really liked. Again; not much conversation before exchanging numbers and going our separate ways. He texted the following day (I don’t remember the last time a man called rather than texted).

Hey Olya, happy birthday again, what are you doing tonight?

I didn’t want to play any games and had no qualms with seeming “available.” Nothing much planned, just taking it easy.

Nice, me too. Hit me up later.

Umm. WHAT? I will hit you upside the head right about now. NO BALLS.

I decided to ignore the absurdity, but he was back for more the next day.

Hey, we are watching TV at home if you want to stop by. We might also go to the movies later.

OK, really? Who the fuck are “we” and why would I go over your place when I met you for five minutes? I was confused and wondered if he was gay, living with a partner and maybe looking to experiment with a woman – it’s possible my Sex in the City overload is to blame, but it honestly wouldn’t shock me. I was livid and couldn’t let it go for a few hours. I thought about actually calling to let him know that his horrid manners are in need of some polishing.

If both jackasses just wanted to sleep with me, it’s fine – at least take me out for a drink! Alas, men are lazy and have no understanding of chivalry; telephone conversations and getting-to-know-you walks in the park are no more. It’s all been reduced to texting and fucking. To be fair, men aren’t solely to blame – but that is a whole ‘nother topic.

Today I find myself sitting at the computer after work with two open tabs: jdate.com and okcupid.com, while contemplating signing up for Millionaire Matchmaker. Yes, it’s true, I feel just as pathetic as you are judging me to be. But what can I do? The world lives online and if I can’t find a decent man in person, perhaps I can find him on the web.

This isn’t about me being cynical; I still believe that there are great men out there. Nor is it about me being 27 and having a “running out of time” dilemma. I am actually not in the freak out zone (yet) to get married and pop out babies, even though I sometimes contemplate calling losers from my past (the ones who made me throw up a little in my mouth) just so I may go on a proper “date.” But I haven’t and won’t. A little vomiting may be a quick way to lose a few pounds, but I’d rather not mess with my sanity.

So I am giving online dating a shot and still searching – not for a Mr. Right – but at least for a Mr. Right Now. WITH BALLS.