"Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody." - The Catcher in the Rye

WARNING: SERIOUS BLOG AHEAD.

This week marked the end of an era. A friend of my family's passed away late Tuesday night ~ Mr. K. He was a great man. He was in his 90's and was one of the very few honest men left in a crooked town. Ironically, he was also one of the best lawyers my small hometown had ever seen.

He enjoyed a strong cocktail and classical music on a Sunday afternoon. He read Dante's "Inferno"...in Latin. He liked feeding the stray cats living in his backyard. He never raised his voice and he never cursed, and I mean never. No doubt, he was one of the last "true gentlemen" left in our warped society.

JD Salinger also passed away this week. His most famous book was "The Catcher in the Rye," written for adults but adored by angst-ridden teenagers. He became reclusive in the 1960's and the more he shunned fame, the more it banged down his door. He was 91 and full of piss and vinegar.

Two completely different people with two completely different ways of going through life. One marched along strong and silent; the other tiptoed, but managed to bring the house crashing down around him anyway. I'm sure they will have much to talk about where they are.

Given how full their lives were, it's hard to actually feel sadness for them. The more I think about it, I'm not sad for them...I'm sad for us, the world they've left behind. We're the ones who have lost great people, great minds, great ideas. And it's an even bigger shame that there are people out there who don't even know what we've lost.

I think the craziest thing about it all is the theory behind it. The opposite of Death isn't Life. The opposite of Death is Birth. "Life" has no opposite. So then where does that leave the rest of us?

All I know is, before drinking my next cocktail I will pay silent tribute to those few great men who still take their hats off indoors, open car doors for women, take pride in their work and who respect themselves enough to have no regrets.

What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse. ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 1

Virtue is its own reward. Sin pays better. - Adrienne Gusoff

I think it’s time we changed the rules on dating, or at least the order. Hell, even women who buy sperm get comfort in knowing their anonymous spunk has been genetically tested. So why is it that the rest of us schleps are forced to interact, to date people, then go on to blindly marry into a bullshit family? By the time we realize what kind of extended family we’re up against, that silly thing called “love” gets in the way and before we know it, we’re marrying into it. For a civilized society, we’re sure going about things in an ass-backwards way.

Here’s what I think we should do. If you see someone and you think you might like him/her someday, put the brakes on immediately. Then, go look up that person’s family – parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, you name it. Date the family for 6 months and if you’re still cool with that end, circle back and start up a real relationship with your person.

It sounds ludicrous, but if you really, really think about it, you’ll realize it’s ingenious. I’m sure if most of us realized what kind of nutcase families our significant others had prior to getting emotionally involved, we never would have returned their calls in the first place. Would I like to go on a second date, Cousin of Lurch? I don’t think so!

From my own personal experience, if I had known that the one guy I dated had a retarded sister whose daily goal was to not shit herself, or the schmuck with the crazy mom who howled at the moon, or another guy with the schizo uncle who ate toilet paper, or that other dude whose mother’s “claim to fame” was simply the fact she gave birth to 7 kids (oh sure, she was missing teeth, had a bad dye job and one kid dragged her leg ~ but who cares about that stuff?), I would have seriously reconsidered getting involved with any of them in the first place. I mean, aside from the potential that I could have ended up being legally bound by default to any of those families, there’s a genetic concern to consider for my future spawn. I don’t need to give birth to some cretin child who eats paperclips and shoves forks into electrical outlets all because its dad comes from a long-enough line of weak-ass, mutated genes.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying I’m a diamond mine of material when it comes to DNA. As you’ve read in previous blogs, I used to shit all over the place when I was a kid and I befriended bike tires. It’s amazing I haven’t died in a freak flossing accident up this point. But all in all, I’d say I’m generally okay and that my family is fairly ‘normal,’ at least in a FOX sitcom sense. We might have a few drunks scattered around, but no serious mental problems or delusions.

I guess my point is that I simply want all information up front. I’ll be providing the cookie batter and the dude will be contributing the chocolate chips… and it’s just so hard to tell nowadays that with my luck he’ll give me raisins. And let me tell ya, nothing pisses me off more than when I bite into a chocolate chip cookie and find out it’s a raisin one instead. Which is why meeting the family before emotions get involved should be the proper way to do it. If I see that the dude’s family has a large number of grapes throughout, then I’ll haul ass out of there and go get a sandwich. That saves everyone time, energy, and (especially) money on presents throughout the year.

My mother - my best friend, my confidante...my pimp?

I admit, being 31 and single hasn't been a total cakewalk. I'd say 90% of it has been kickass. The other 10% is made of up being pressured by my one ridiculous girl friend who wants to go "boy hunting" every single night, and then there are those guy friends who propositioned me for dates 3 minutes after my engagement was called off. Jesus, I wish I was this popular in high schoool. (I pause to rethink that statement) Nah, I probably would've gotten pregnant and herpes...not exactly in that order. I suppose after-the-fact popularity isn't so bad. But that 10% is still a real pain in the ass.

So you can imagine my surprise when my Mom, the woman I trust with 1,000% of my being, called me last week with "news." It appears she had a busy day in her Allstate office last Wednesday.

For the past few months she's been talking to one of her customers, a nice Russian man, straight off the boat, about setting me up with his son. (this is news to me) Oh sure, the kid's only 21, but he's got a job. Thankfully, Mr. Russia decided I was too old for his kid. Unfortunately, it didn't end there.

This past Wednesday Mr. Russia stops in my mom's office and hands her a piece of paper. It's got an email address on it. He tells her that this is a really nice young man, hard worker, who would be good for her daughter. Then he asks my mother for my phone number so he can give it to this guy.

At this point in the story, I'm just shaking my head. I have no words. Does she know anything about this Russian guy except for what his insurance rates are? Does anyone know anything about this 3rd person, Mr. Email, who is obviously so desperate he'll hand out his contact info to a burly, 55 year old Russian man?

I flashback to a few summers ago, when my mom thought I was a lesbian. It could be worse, I tell myself. On second thought, though, I'm not sure how. It appears that when it comes to my mom, I'm only getting two options: 1. Be a lesbian, or 2. Go out on blind dates with potential date rapists who have email accounts. My mother, the eternal cockeyed optimist, once told me, "Even Jeffrey Dahmer was a homeowner!"

I jumped back into the conversation and asked if she gave him my phone number. "No," she said, much to my happiness (which was short-lived). "I gave him your work email address. So expect to get an email from a Chris from Allied."

Greeeat. It's official: I'm getting pimped out by my mother, the same woman who offered to pay for an Eharmony subscription for me for Christmas. I finally caved. I told her I had gone on a few clandestine dates with someone over the past month, and he's a really great guy. On paper, maybe not so much my type, since he's a contractor with hands that appear to have been soaked in battery acid and a smoker to boot (the GASP heard around the world, I know ~ smokers are gross), but he tells off-color, racist jokes like it's his job and he doesn't get offended that I call him a pussy when he orders the "mild" wings instead of the "hot." So far, what's not to like? I may live in a white-collar world, but I definitely have a blue-collar attitude.

She took it well. I think she was actually relieved to hear that I haven't been sitting around, making lists of cat names for when I start bringing them home from the shelter. No one wants their kid to be the scary lady in her neighborhood.

Not sure if I'll ever hear from "Chris from Allied," but if I do, I'm sure he'll be a super nice guy who goes to church every Sunday and never curses in front of his mother. And I don't doubt that if I strike up an email communication with him, I will ultimately offend him with my jokes and make him cry with my sarcasm because honestly, I've done it before. If I had a nickel every time a (now ex) boyfriend said to me, "You're so mean!", I'd have a lot of nickels.

It's not that I'm mean. It's just that you're a pussy. So order the hot wings.

You can't ride two horses with one ass, sugarbean. -"Sweet Home Alabama"

I work with an idiot.

I’m sure a lot of people say that, but I can prove it. You’ll see from Exhibit A that my idiot cannot spell, even when the most basic of spelling rules comes into play. U after Q. We’re not talking “i” before “e” except after “c,” or when to use “then” or “than.” The word in question is “QUOTED.” In the Moron-Dictionary, however, he spells it QOUTED…repeatedly. And it’s beginning to drive me insane. I guess there’s always that slight chance he’s not an idiot and that he’s just trying to make me crazy…in which case, the guy is a genius. Unfortunately for his unborn children, I really think the guy is just a mongoloid.

Another thing in the office that chaps my ass comes courtesy of the elusive Avon Booklet Leaver. It’s always unexpected - I come into work some mornings and there is it, the hit-and-run Avon pamphlet, waiting near my keyboard. I never buy anything. I usually toss it right in the trash. That’s right, it angers me so much I don’t even recycle the damn thing. F-You, Avon, and your silly little trees! The kicker is, I don’t even know who the woman is that leaves it. I do suspect though, that she has a drug habit and needs to supplement her income. Hence, the peddling of Avon goods to random office workers. But whatever the reason, I have a hard time believing that $2 facial cream can actually be good for your skin. The last thing I need is to slather this stuff on my face only to end up looking like a monkey attack victim the next morning.

And speaking of faces…or not speaking of faces (I just don’t know how to transition), I recently had a conversation with a coworker about the upcoming weekend. You know it’s going to be a good story when the other person says, “I won’t have time to study Friday night because I have bowling…” Stop the conversation RIGHTTHERE!

Whaaaa? Bowling? Oh, I’m sorry, I thought I was talking to a twenty-something, in-shape guy with a full head of hair, not a balding, middle-aged, 300 lb divorced father of 4.

He went on to brag about how he has his own bowling shoes. Yes, he bragged. Even said they were nicer than his regular shoes (I guess in Make-Fun-of-Me-Land, people say these things out loud). I said Ooo, they sound fancy and expensive. He was quick to correct me: Personalized bowling shoes only cost $15. I mentioned how surprising that was, considering not many people buy them. My thought process was along the lines of Bentleys; they are so expensive because not many people buy them. Stud the Bowler explained to me that not many people buy Bentleys because they are so expensive, not vice versa. Hmm.

Oh whatever. You're smart...for a BOWLER. Next you’ll tell me that Judgment Island was your idea (and I know you’re reading this, and no, it wasn’t). Add that to my list of things that annoy me: Bowlers.

And finally, to wrap up today’s blog I just want to remind everyone that the Philadelphia Wing Bowl 2010 will be on February 5th. Every year I say I want to compete – will this be the year? I’ll have to see if I have time to sign up. Have you ever seen me strip a chicken wing down to the bone? Have you ever watched me eat, period? It’s National Geographic amazing. Nothing but blood and hair all over when I’m done. Bring your cameras and cover your children’s eyes, it’s going to be on hell of a show.

Everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people. -The Refreshments

"There are two types of people in this world: People who think poop/fart jokes are funny, and people who don't." -courtesy of D.H.

One category of person who falls into the "poop isn't funny" slot is the Bus Thrower. I just found out yesterday that I work with one.

For those of you unfamiliar, the Bus Thrower is an elusive coworker who will sell you out when you least expect it. I dare say they are worse than the Back Stabber. At least with a Back Stabber, you have a pretty good idea they don't like you. You can see it coming. A Bus Thrower, however, hits you like seagull shit on the boardwalk...and usually right when you're about tear into your Boardwalk Fries.

Now, I'm not going to whine about what happened to me, but I will tell you that after having that experience, I realized I need a reality show. And it will be called Judgment Island, and it will be awesome.

Here's how it works:

I get my very own island. It's all mine. And then I bring people onto my island, and they have to compete. I'm thinking contests like, "Who can survive without water the longest," or "Who can eat 50 slugs the fastest?" or my favorite, "So you think you can bullfight?" will keep it interesting. And here's where it gets good ~ No one wins. But they don't know that.

If someone manages to come out on top (and that's a big IF), it doesn't matter - they will still get kicked off my island. There's only one winner on Judgment Island, and that person is me. I run the show, and I will judge everyone...harshly. To their faces. There will be no alliances. No immunities. These people will be lucky to get food and shelter, and I'm sure I will judge that, too.

I'm thinking a good way to kick it off is to go with celebrities. Definitely one Baldwin is required. A former addict (I kinda like Mackenzie Phillips, she's got it all) would round it out, and I would have to have a famous midget (totally Webster. No doubt about it). No reality show is worth anything without a little conflict. Toss in Rosanne Barr and then surprise-guest the shit out of her with Tom Arnold about a week into the show, and we're talking ratings out the ass.

I'm a genuis, I know. But really, I'm just trying to do what comes naturally. I mean, the only real difference between Judgment Island and what I do now is that now, I don't sit on a beach all by myself. That's why I need an island. With an ice cream stand.

Now I just need to convince VH1 or MTV to pick it up and I'll be set. And if they don't? Well, then...Fudge them. Or rather, Judge Them. Which I'll do anyway.

I think I just want my own island.

I don't drink a lot. My family calls me an old soul. My friends call me a pussy. - Mike Birbiglia

My manager is easily one of the smartest people I know, which is what makes this story pure awesomeness in a bottle.

I went on an appointment with her last week, to a town that was 2 hours away. Great meeting, they bought us lunch and we left with a warm & fuzzy feeling that we would land the account.

Back in the office, I start booting up my computer and my manager pops into my cube. Still wearing her jacket and white as a ghost, she flings car keys on my desk. "What's up?" I ask her, eyeballin' the keys and all the shit hanging off them. Funny, I didn't know she was a Yankees fan.

"Whose keys are these?!" she asks, her voice ending in that high note of panic.

"I don't know. Aren't they..." I start to answer. She cuts me off. "THIS ISN'T MY JACKET!"

Silence. Oh boy. We look at each other and the realization sets in: We've got someone's car keys, and their jacket, AND we're 120 miles away. Shit shit shit shit SHIT.

I immediately fall into "every man for himself"-mode. "You took someone else's coat? What are you going to do?" Notice I how made it very clear how NOT involved I was in this situation. "I don't know, I have to call them," she said, and by the look on her face, her mind was obviously racing.

Frazzled, she walked back into her office still wearing someone else's jacket and taking their keys with her. The humor in the situation starts setting in, and now I've started laughing so hard I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. Not one to let anyone off the hook, I followed her into her office.

"Hey L.," I say. "Didn't you kinda commit a felony? I mean, you didn't actually steal the car itself, but you took the keys. Isn't that intent or something?" And I'm laughing so hard at this point I had to hang onto her bookcase. She's dialing her phone furiously, saying, "No one called...I can't believe no one called...How do I get in touch with them? What am I going to do?!?!?!" Always the supportive one, as I wiped the tears streaming down my face I said, "They're probably too busy filling out a police report for their stolen shit. And I can tell you what account we won't be writing in July!"

At which point she threw me out of her office. Work ethic completely out the window, I proceeded to walk around the department to tell everyone what happened.

What really put the finishing touches on the story was that when the owner was tracked down, it ended up being the same woman who walked us out of the meeting. How the hell does that even happen? How can you stand around for 10 minutes, talking to someone who is wearing YOUR COAT, and not even notice? Not even to say, "Hey, I have a coat just like yours!"

It was definitely a life situation where I was at the right place, at the right time. I also proved that when the shit goes down, if it's funny enough, don't even bother asking me for help. I am useless.

"If you're never someone's girlfriend, you can never be someone's EX girlfriend." - Sex and the City

If I was any more bored, I would set my hair on fire.

I bailed on a public New Year's celebration last night. After a long day at work (or rather, a long year), I couldn't make sense of wrapping up 2009 in a bar - the same place I spent about 1/3 of the year in anyway. I ended up celebrating like I never celebrated before: Completely alone, with the dog and fish. And the really scary part is, I had a fantastic time. My only regret is that I went to bed before midnight and missed Dick Clark fudging up the countdown.

I woke up today feeling like a million bucks, in a ghost town of a neighborhood. The smell of hangovers was in the air. As I walked the dog around the 'hood, I noticed several interesting park jobs. One person managed to park at a 45 degree angle; another must have lost their brake pedal because their front-end was halfway up the curb and on the grass. One schlep had mulch on the hood of their car (I'm still trying to make sense of that one). Generally speaking, I think most of my neighbors had a great time.

However, the biggest problem with being one of the few people home NYE night is being one of the few non-hungover people New Year's Day. There's no one to talk to because everyone is still sleeping it off or nursing themselves back to health.

Poor me. I really missed having a boyfriend today. No, no, not for any real reason...but if I had a boyfriend, I would have picked a fight about how stupid his father was, and at least spent the day in the throes of a good argument. It would've shaken things up.

But alas, no fighting for me. Not even a rude exchange with the 17 year old manning the only open gas station in town today. At one point I thought about parking in handicapped spots, but all the cops out there are still wrapping up their paperwork from their DUI stops last night, so I doubt they would even care.

Sometimes a girl just can't win.