Thanks for nothing. Kiss my ass.

Faith. Trust. Belief. It all sounds a little religious, doesn't it?

You're supposed to have some sort of faith and belief in a higher power. There's the idea that trust in such person, being, whatever, will be there to help you. I think I've made it pretty clear that I'm not a religious person, so I'm not about to talk about God or any of that stuff. Instead, I'll give you a little story about friendship.

We all have different types of friends in our lives. There are the people we talk to every single day, phone calls are usually timed, to the minute. There are the friends we check in with occasionally over email or text but may be frequently in our thoughts. Sometimes, if you've been in one place long enough, you have friends with whom you've grown up; you share little but the idea that longevity can sustain an otherwise somewhat empty friendship. Then there are the one-sided relationships, the shopping friendships, the movie-going friendships. Then there are the really confusing ones that combine various elements of the aforementioned friendships. It's my guess that these are the most volatile, for they have nothing substantial to stand on, no grounds by which to determine appropriate actions and reactions.

In general, I'm pretty good at holding a grudge. I know how to forgive, but I can't always forget. It's a talent; I promise. I think, maybe, I've had enough experience with lack of memory creating just one more bad situation to add to the books.

We're supposed to believe that people can change, right? But, let's be honest, most of them don't (most, not all). Liars often know their way around problems. Cheaters usually repeat their indiscretions. Users frequently relapse.

What happens when you really feel that someone deserves a chance to prove he or she has changed, grown up, learned a lesson? Well, you might get burned. I tend to trust people easily, and while I'm a cynic, I want to have faith in the belief that someone that's been a part of my life can and does respect me enough to act like a proper person in various situations and opportunities.

Instead of getting what I hoped, I find myself bogged down in a mess of a emotions stemming from the fact that I simply wanted to do something nice for someone and got taken for an idiot. When in most cases my standards are extremely high, here, I just wanted something better, an improvement, the proof that change is possible. Yet, I find myself minus a friend, one who filled that spot of a shopping friend, a dinner friend, a phone call friend, and a long-time friend.

But really, what was this person to me at all? Birthday cards or gifts were rarely reciprocated; money was occasionally not payed back; lunch dates were sometimes forgotten. And so I'll call it for what it was. I was used as a stepping stone, a means to an end, an open door with a way in.

I don't wish this former friend any ill will, but the chances are over, if another is ever requested. Here I'm not forgiving, and I'm certainly not forgetting. Faith is gone. Trust was betrayed. And belief was simply not enough.


"I've one thing to say and that's 'Thanks for nothing, kiss my ass.'"

In the circle, the circle of life.

In one weekend, I have mourned the loss of a life and celebrated the birth of a new one.

It's a strange thing to do. Somehow, you feel that the happiness is overshadowed by the sadness, and yet, at the same time, the despair of a life taken seems sort of forgotten in the joy.

At the heart of it all is the idea of unconditional love, how it suddenly exists the moment a new life is welcomed. And also how that love can be sadly overlooked, unknown, or missed. Our hearts are strange, complex things. We, as people, can be capable of so much compassion, empathy, admiration, adoration... the list goes on. But the heart is extremely fragile, breakable the second it is touched by hurt.

I didn't have to know him well to be saddened by the words spoken last night. It had even been years since I saw his sister, my connection to him. It hurts to watch anyone go through such an unfortunate experience. He was a friend, a brother, a son. And over and over again, there seemed to be a repeated wish for the one they lost: that he knew how much he was loved, respected, and supported. The love was nothing short of strong, present, and unconditional - regardless of the last time one spoke to him or saw him. As everyone spoke of him, it seemed that he was so capable of everything he put his mind to, and he was certainly not short on the ability to love those around him. It was with that love that he assumed his burden was for no one else to shoulder.

But in the midst of the pain, there is hope and belief that a new life will undoubtedly recognize the love those around him possess. At just a few days old, he probably has more stuff than a five year-old got for Christmas. I watched the family welcome him with no judgement, no hesitation that this is a perfect person. He will never have to want for affection or guidance, support or respect. Simply by him being, a heart realizes its full capability to love at its strongest.

Though somehow it feels strange to focus on a death and a birth at the same time, it is with the same strength of sorrow that all those involved feel the complete devotion to a new being.

I know it's silly, but there isn't another song out there that expresses the sentiment...

"To find our way on a path unwinding."

You Lie Like a Priceless Persian Rug on a Rich Man's Floor.

No offense to my lovely male friends and family members, but I honestly think that - sometimes - being a man means that you are genetically inferior. Something about your make up means you are simply incapable of thinking and acting properly in many every day situations.

Most people know you won't ask for directions. It's also probably highly likely that you'll ignore the GPS, if you have one. You wait until the last minute to buy gifts, if you remember to get them at all. There's also a good chance that you'll forget to convey important details about various topics.

For the moment, I'm going to hate on you. I'm sorry, but for now it just needs to happen.

I wonder if I have the words "HURT ME" stamped across my forehead. Do I look like the girl that wants to be messed with? Is there something in my nature that conveys some unwritten rule about how you should treat me? Look, I know I'm not the only girl to ever be hurt, but I'm tired of it, and I'm ready to stand up for myself.

I'm standing up for myself by simply saying, "Fuck you." It's like that L'Oreal slogan - "Because you're worth it." I don't deserve to be treated like crap... or lied to... or forgotten... or any other shitty thing.

There are things you tell a person you're dating. One of the very first things should probably be, "I don't want/can't handle/am not looking for a relationship." Something about texting a girl every single day, asking her out, paying for dinner, holding her hand... blah blah... kind of says the complete opposite. Because sometimes, it's what you do that speaks a lot louder than any words you could ever utter.

For a long time, I thought that I knew myself very well. I knew where I placed my values and opinions. However, when it came to knowing my own self-worth, I danced around a place called Low Self-Esteem. I was more outwardly confident than I ever felt on the inside. I don't know if I really believed that I deserved to have the things that I wanted. I was pretending. I was also far too scared to even hold onto something if I had it. There was always part of me that tried to push things away if I was frightened; I still do it a little bit.

But I'm passed thinking I shouldn't have or can't have someone that can be truthful, caring, and open. Like my best friend says, no one is perfect, and everyone has issues or problems. They just need to work with my issues. I'm sorry if I'm not screwed up enough for you, but maybe all of this could have been avoided if you had just said you weren't ready. Or perhaps if you didn't contact me at all the first day, or the day after that, or every day for the two weeks following. You shouldn't have visited me at work.

You shouldn't have introduced me to your mom.

I'm not without flaws, for sure. I'm also not unbreakable, but I am strong. Stronger than I ever thought I was. And, you know what, when I looked at myself today, for the first time I truly felt like saying, "His loss."

I hope you get your shit together, and I hope that it all works out for you. I'm not evil, and I'm only sometimes a bitch, so I don't harbor any ill will for you, but I do think you were wrong. You were wrong for ever pretending like things were as good as you could make them seem.

I know that you can't fix your inferiority problem. I mean, you were bred that way. But wise up.

I'm so ready to find someone that doesn't use me to acknowledge his issues. I am not that girl.



"So don't bring me those big brown eyes and tell me that you're sorry."

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.

Yesterday afternoon, I drove by my high school. Without looking, I already knew what was happening. The drum beats clearly signified early rehearsals for marching band and color-guard; I was part of neither. However, it brought back memories of theater and music folk mingling in the hallways of "D-Wing," our territory of the school, and suddenly I found myself remembering the innocence of the first day of school and what it was like to be a kid... The world was so important, and yet nothing at all really mattered.



(Yes, Dory, we were the cougars... laugh. It's funny.)

We were all drama queens - male or female. I'm fairly certain that there was a large chunk of time in which someone I knew was always crying - myself or a friend. 14, 16, 18. It didn't matter. High school was the world, the bubble. We were best of friends, but we talked about each other. We were buddies in class, but we never saw each other out of school. We were group partners on a project, but we hated having to carry someone else's load. It was truly a microcosm for the bigger picture. And yet it wasn't even close to experiencing the real world.

There have been times when my brother and I would see kids either at Disney World or exiting school at 3:30pm, and all we could think of is, "They have no idea what's coming." I interact with kids on a daily basis at work, and I'm reminded of how easy everything was before term papers, application essays, job interviews, and monthly bills. Remember that break down because you had too much work due? I had one. Remember the tears shed over a nasty rumor? I was there.

That, all of that, was easy. Really, what if you had to deal with half the shit those kids in Hogwarts had? I'm pretty sure you never encountered a Death Eater or a Dementor.



Responsibilities were small but heavily weighted at the time. One year was more complicated than the one before. But there were structures, routines, rules. Maybe that's part of the reason so many people go into the field of education. It helps to prolong and sustain what we have learned and cultivated for so many years. School, break, school, summer... Truthfully, post-college, one of the weirdest things is getting used to the idea that you no longer have a real summer, one that involves movies, days off, and vacations.

True, I have a lot of great memories from high school, and I still hold onto a few friends from those years (and some before). I was the weird kid that enjoyed writing papers and reading teacher feedback; I have a lot of my old work underneath my bed. But I hated the tears and the melodramatic everything that I was involved in or causing. It was easier, yes, but it was silly, immature, and just a part of growing up... getting to the more difficult stuff.

I used to say that I would go back and do it all over again. High school, that is. But lately, when I've thought about it, I realized I have absolutely no desire to be in those hallways or in a 15 year-olds shoe's ever again (although, it'll all come back one day when I have my own kids). I remember a lot of heartache and unnecessary problems. I remember bitter fights and rude e-mails. Sure, there were proms and shows, sleepovers and get-togethers, but it's over, and over isn't always a bad thing.

So, yeah, maybe life isn't that easy once you leave high school and college, but there's nothing holding you back, no bell to disrupt your test-taking (or sleeping, if you were THAT kid). The choices don't have to be easy, and the answers don't have to be in multiple choice format. Because you'll get there one way or another.

"Do one thing everyday that scares you."

There's nothing wrong with loving who you are.

**Before reading this blog entry, please read this article:
By Ronnie Polaneczky
Philadelphia Daily News
Daily News Columnist

THIS IS ONE of those stories that make me want to say "I'm sorry" to gay people for the nonsense they endure from some heterosexuals who give the rest of us straight people a bad name.

So please, Alix Genter, accept my heartfelt apology that you were denied the chance to purchase the wedding gown of your dreams from Here Comes the Bride. The manager of the salon, in Somers Point, N.J., said she didn't want to be associated with your pending "illegal action."

Yep, that's actually how she referred to your wedding, next July, to your longtime partner (whose name you asked me to withhold in this column, as she's publicity-shy). You plan to apply for a civil union in New Jersey, where you live, and to be formally wed in New York, which just legalized gay marriage. But you're also arranging a big, blowout ceremony and reception for 200 at Normandy Farm in Blue Bell, where your family and friends will toast your commitment.

"We are very fortunate in that our families love and support us," you told me yesterday, from your apartment in Highland Park, N.J., near Rutgers University, where you're completing your Ph.D. in history. "They're so excited about our wedding."

And so it came to be that last Saturday, you were at Here Comes the Bride with a cheering section of six well-wishers helping you try on dresses: your mom and dad, your aunt, a cousin and two friends of the family. Yours is the kind of big, engaged clan in which everyone's involved in everyone else's lives, in a good way.

"The fact that even my dad would come to a bridal shop - that should tell you something about how close we all are," you said of your family members, who hail from Huntingdon Valley but spend weekends in Ventnor (hence your bridal shopping at the beach). "I spend almost every weekend with them at the Shore."

Last Saturday's trip to Here Comes the Bride was a typically fun outing. Your mom packed little "gift bags" of muffins and other munchies, and a neighbor contributed a bottle of champagne. Donna, the store manager, asked you not to eat in the salon - "The dresses are white; we don't want stains," she told you - so you saved the party for afterward.

By then, you had reason to pop the cork: You'd found the dress you wanted, but wondered if the manufacturer could use a more-lightweight fabric in the version you'd wear next summer. Donna promised to investigate, and you left the store, delighted.

So how weird it must have been to get a call on Tuesday from Donna (she wouldn't tell you her last name, and she wouldn't tell me, either, when I spoke with her yesterday), and to have a conversation so different from the one you had with her on Saturday.

Apparently, Donna was stunned to learn, after reviewing your customer-information sheet, that you're a lesbian. On the paperwork, you'd crossed out the word "groom" and written "partner" instead, and then inserted your fiancée's name.

"She said she wouldn't work with me because I'm gay," you recalled. "She also said that I came from a nice Jewish family, and that it was a shame I was gay. She said, 'There's right, and there's wrong. And this is wrong.' "

She also said - and you have the voicemail to prove it - that what you were planning was "illegal" and that "we do not participate in any illegal actions."

"I was devastated," you told me. "I was crying. I called her a bigot; I told her, 'I am a happy person and you are a miserable person.' Then she hung up on me."

You admit to using some choice words when you called her back. But trust me, whatever you said was probably poetry compared with what I believe most decent people would've spewed at her on your behalf.

You know what's strange? When I called Donna yesterday to get her side of the story, she both confirmed your version of events and accused you of "stirring up drama." She said that your writing the word "partner" was basically a provocation, evidence of a need "to show that she's different."

"They get that way," she told me.

By "they," she meant women who were fed up with men because "men can be difficult," and so now they "experiment" with female relationships because they're tired of having men boss them around.

She told me about a friend whose wife left him for another woman. And about a young family member who was molested by a same-sex adult male. And about a gay man who once plunged a knife into a chair in the restaurant where she worked. And - she finally lost me here - something about the Navy SEALs.

"It's a lot of drama," she said.

She also found you "aggressive," didn't appreciate your cursing and thought I should speak with your father before writing this column, as she "sensed" his disappointment in your decision to marry a woman.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

The thing is, by the end of the day yesterday, after a few conversations, Donna seemed kind of sorry about what she put you through. Granted, she sounded mostly sorry that people found out about it from the negative review you wrote of your experience on the Yelp business website. But she at least reached out to the woman who'd referred your family to Here Comes the Bride in the first place.

"The friend is going to arrange a meeting between me and the parents," Donna told me, to try to smooth things over. For some reason, she didn't think it would be important to include you, even though you're the one who was treated badly.

Again, I apologize.




First, I must apologize for my absence in the land of blogging. I'm not sure how many of you missed me, but it did feel sort of odd not really having an impetus to write. Though I love to write, I find that when I lack a specific purpose, my wordy rambling just makes me angry - and I'm not the reader.

But, now, for the important stuff...

I like men. It's pretty obvious. At work, I'm often known for looking out for the attractive guys, spotting them before other coworkers. At home, I have photos of Daniel Radcliffe, Jake Gyllenhaal, Elijah Wood, Matthew Morrison (the list goes on) around my room and tacked on a bulletin board. I can't wait for the time when I meet the right guy and am able to start a family and the life that goes with it.

However, just as much as I adore the opposite sex, I love and respect my friends for who they are and the way they live their lives - no matter how different or similar to mine they may be.

In my life, I have been so extremely lucky to cross paths with so many different people. I could never think of a time when I wouldn't have wanted to know a person based on the color of his/her skin, religious background, or sexual preference. A person's character is far more important than the person he or she was born to love (yes - BORN TO LOVE). I credit my family and my friends with shaping me to be the kind of woman that simply doesn't give a crap about stuff that shouldn't matter.

This morning, I saw the cover of the Philadelphia Daily News, and I was horrified.



As I read the story, I continued to feel outrage and sadness. Simply, it just doesn't make sense.

Being in love is not a crime. Discrimination is.

Think about it, someone sold Kate Gosselin a wedding gown. Multiple people sold them to Jennifer Lopez. Look how well that all worked out. Both of these ladies have had children and broken marriages. No one thought to say to J.Lo, "Hey, look, you've tried this before, I'm not gonna help you because it's just not going to work." Just as much as same-sex couples deserve the right to love, marry, and raise families, they should also be afforded to very same opportunity to buy a fucking dress.

I'm sorry. But profanity explains how this makes me feel.

I am certain that there are bridal salons all over the world selling gowns to women whose families do not stand by their decisions to marry the intended GROOMS. BUT, according to a court of law, the union is legal, and - by this Somers Point shop's standard - reason enough to dress the bride-to-be.

More than anything, I don't understand being the kind of person that would deny a woman in love the chance to buy her dream dress and walk down the aisle to whomever waits at the other end (or maybe they'll walk together, who knows). Actually, it's also really dumb because it's a sale, Lady, and times are tough. You're really, really stupid.

There are so many other things going on in this world, and you're worrying about a woman you don't even know marrying another woman you don't know?

At the end of the day, it isn't about the dress, clearly. It's about the sickness of believing that those people that don't live YOUR lifestyle are a lesser citizen, not worthy of the rights of others. It's a horrible, horrible way to live, thinking that you are better than another person for completely bogus reasons.

I usually say that I'll respect others' beliefs as long as they have valid reasons and conviction for feeling such things - and also that they don't force it upon me. In this case, I just can't do it. I can never and will never respect a person that possesses such hatred, allowing him/her to devalue the lives of others.

**My thoughts were far more eloquent in my head... Then I got really angry as I continued writing.**


"Ooo there ain't no other way, baby, I was born this way."

Oh well, what you waiting for?

Do you remember having units of different activities in gym class while growing up? There was volleyball, square dancing (at my school - yes), gymnastics. In gymnastics, we were taught to do the semi-dangerous things with the safety of a mat. Something to cushion the fall.

We learn to ride bikes with helmets, drive cars with seat belts; we always looks for an assurance, some sort of guard, that we'll land safely without fear of injury.



Maybe this explains the fear of jumping without a safety net. Who wants to free fall into the unknown? Seriously - that's scary. Taking chances without any indication of the outcome can absolutely be linked to leaping into complete blackness.

This all makes sense in why world when you realized I hate roller coasters that move through the dark. I need to see where I'm going. Tower of Terror? Yeah, that ride scares the shit out of me.

I have to think of the question posed, offering a multitude of hypothetical scenarios as an answer - what would you do if you knew you could not fail? My list is really, really long. I'd move somewhere without knowing anyone. I'd audition for "American Idol." I'd open a bakery. I'd confess a great love (of which none currently exists). I'd attempt to clean my room... ;-)

All kidding aside... How does a generally very cautious person, like myself, walk to the end of the diving board without really knowing how to dive? Well, at some point, you have to surrender to blind faith - or that kid behind you, yelling at you to jump - worrying simply about being in the moment and not about what happens in 20 minutes, 2 months, or 10 years.

There isn't a safety net large enough to protect against failure, insecurity, or heartbreak. So, knowing you have no chance if you don't step to the edge, you simply have to jump. You're older; you've graduated, and you don't need that mat to learn summersaults. Eventually, you will fly, and your feet will never touch the ground.

"Leave your things behind 'cause it's all going off without you."

Dress me. I'm your mannequin.

I interrupt this usually very serious blog to talk about something that means absolutely nothing at all. I wish to take a brief departure from my cynical and critical ways to bring you a moment of weakness.

I am about to preach the genius of Cher Horowitz.

Don't know her? Take a look:


I hope the image jogged your memory. Though Clueless came out in 1995, some of Cher's most memorable lines still ring true. The modern-day Emma may not have earned her As for book smarts, she was enough streetwise for all the teenage girls in Beverly Hills.

Today, I found myself thinking about her commentary on guys and style: "So, I don't want to be a traitor to my generation and all, but I don't get how guys dress today. I mean, come on; it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on their baggy pants and take their greasy hair - ew - and cover it up with a backwards cap, and, like, we're expected to swoon? I don't think so."



Thankfully, the baggy jeans (like the JNCOs pictured above) have been replaced. Ugh, I used to say you could fit a family of five in one pant leg. They were awful.

However, the same idea still applies. It seems that instead of gigantic jeans and large t-shirts, there is a gravitational pull to unwashed skinny jeans and ratty sweatpants. Although I don't need a guy that grooms like Ryan Seacrest, it never hurt for a to have a little bit of style.

In working with the public, I have seen every look, style, and trend on a variety of people. Some of my coworkers could probably spot my type a mile away. I call him The Prepster.



He's a little badass but perfectly sweet. He could be from London in the 60s or the letterman in the 50s. He's got fitted jeans, but he's no damn hipster. Think... Ralph Lauren meets the (early) Beatles. Maybe a touch of Rockabilly with a 50s 'do - Johnny Depp in Cry-Baby. He ain't no square. It takes some work, but he won't be in front of the mirror longer than me. And I really hope he doesn't want to share a flat iron.

Though I talk about a preference, I'm an equal opportunity ogler. Really. I have a staring problem. But, more importantly, it's not about perfection or even a specific style. It is about taking the time and effort to convey a confident appearance, a put-together image. You don't need to have a closet full of designer clothes or shoes that cost more than your monthly car payment. Actually, you shouldn't. Sometimes, it just takes something clean and a great smile.

Because when it comes down to it, you could have the best look in the world and walk the runways in Paris and Milan. But if what's in your heart is ugly, the clothes can't make the man.

"Don't you want to see these clothes on me? Fashion - put it all on me."


**Please do not take this too seriously. I also welcome the male response.**