Online Dating Week!!!

I have been slacking lately... but figured out a way to make it up to you all. I am dedicating this entire week to Online Dating! I will post nice little exchanges and reviews from dating sites, etc. First up is my experience with Dr. F from Match.com.

A little background information:

I went on ONE date with an anesthesiologist, who I will refer to as K. Let me first say that by most girls’ standards, it wasn’t even a date. We met for a single glass of wine and appetizers. He did try to feed me some shit, which should have been the first red flag. I mean, I’m not handicapped. I have two working hands (which I should have used to give him the Bear Claw). I can feed myself.

The second red flag occurred the end of our little meeting, when he announced: “I am canceling my date tomorrow night. I don’t want to date anyone except you.” I shrugged it off thinking he was half joking and wanted a reaction from me… I mean, most guys pull that shit to show you that they are desirable. Also, there is a big difference between wanting and actually doing. I want to have a hot make out session with Brad Pitt… I want to make a living by doing absolutely nothing. These things just aren’t realistic. Neither is dating me exclusively after the first date.

The next day he sent me a message inviting me to some hospital event and warned/informed me that he was going to introduce me as his “girlfriend.” Ok, so for those of you who don’t know me, there is NO chance I’m going to assume the title of “girlfriend” after a month, let alone ONE date. I abhor only a few terms: boyfriend, girlfriend, relationship, and anything along those lines… These epidemical little words make an official breakup necessary. After you bust out one of the above terms, you can no longer pull the Fade Out or end things over the phone or AIM or email. Not cool. This = drama, tears, arguments, etc… Anyway… so in response, I sent back a little explanatory email about my feelings and thoughts on the term “girlfriend” and decided to pull the Fade Out; for unstable individuals, The Fade Out is preferable to abruptly ending things.

K called me the next day. I am not big on chatting on the phone, so we covered the basics of “I am not your girlfriend. You are not my boyfriend. We went on one date,” and I told him I had to go and would talk to him later. I had to give a debriefing to my good pal Angie, so I dialed her up and proceeded to do so. Approximately 15 minutes into our conversation K called. I hit IGNORE. 30 seconds later he called again. IGNORE. 15 seconds later he called again. IGNORE. The annoying, incessant beeping reverberated in my ear for at least 40 missed calls. Right around the 40th missed call I freaked out, hung up on Angie and answered K’s call. On the verge of tears (out of frustration) I screamed: “Quit calling my fucking phone, asshole!!!!!” and hung up. He called back another two times. One of the times he left a voicemail message: “On a scale of 1-10, how angry are you? Awww… I thought you would think it was cute that I missed you.” MKAY, you missed me? After one date? No more Fade Out, time to cut off all contact and ignore, ignore, ignore. This went fairly well for almost two weeks, until this morning, when I received the following note:


I think it's funny what people see and don't see.

When I see you with my eyes open: beneath the make-up you refuse to ever take off, or the boob job that really is too big for your body, you are pretty. However, what I find pretty isn't what you think and it's not your cranium size. I like that your right eye is slightly lower than your left, your nose is slightly off center and you have the cutest chipmunk cheeks. As it's these things that make you unique.

When I see you with my eyes closed, despite your excessive bitchiness, it's cool that: you're willing to help your brother by letting him use your car, you really aren't all that high maintenence, we've read a lot of the same books and use the same catch phrases, that you actually have a great sense of humor, and probably the main reason I'm sending this email despite your bitchiness is that I just like the sound of your voice.

ok bye.

PS. I also find it very wierd/interesting that you've read and probably memorized "The elements of style" so forgive my grammatical errors.
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You met me ONCE. God, you're so deep. You totally unearthed this side of me no other guy has every acknowledged. Most guys only like me for my stunning good looks – I mean, according to you I look like I got hit in the face with a shovel, yet you see me for more than my appearance… hummmm… I suppose I can deduce that men like shovel faces? Just a little tip: describing a girl as Quasimodo is NOT going to win her back.

Furthermore, I do take my make-up off; I take it off when I sleep... which you will NEVER experience. Ass. Thank god too, because I tried to cop a feel when you hugged me goodnight, and ummm NOTHING. That would make sense though. You have small carnie hands; small like cabbage. Lastly, here is some more "excessive bitchiness" for you: I am NOT interested in you.... and I think my Daddy really does know best, especially when he said:


"The guy brings people near death for a living. He doesn't know where you live, does he? Do not go out with him again... he's going to *injection motion into my neck* BAM, and you're dead."
-Pops
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So, just to be fair and to show you I can be a lunatic as well, I thought I would draft a little response to you. Here is my mirrored letter, to you, my sweetheart:

I too think it's funny what people see and don't see.

When I see you with my eyes open: beneath the dork squad glasses you refuse to ever take off because you’re convinced they make you look smart, or little paws of hands that are really too small for your body, you still really are rather unattractive. However, what I find unattractive isn't what you think and it's not your diminutive stature, small hands, geeky glasses, or even your poor sense of style. I hate that you’re a condescending twit who denigrates U of M because you couldn’t get in… I hate that you call my phone incessantly and leave me creepy voicemails about missing me, and I hate that you think you’re worthy enough to be referred to as my “boyfriend.” I also hate how you think you know me after spending only a few hours with me. You’re not as clever as you think you are; you said things would end well between us. I really hope you realize what a waste of space you are one day and *BAM* inject yourself with a lethal dose of tubocurarine chloride. In no way are you unique; you are just another deluded Herman Webster Mudgett wannabe (the first documented serial killer, who happened to be a doctor). Perhaps you too will be expelled for stealing cadavers?

When I see you with my eyes closed, despite your excessive pyschoness, it's cool that: I can simply unfriend you on facebook, block your calls, and respond to you in this public forum. “Skill-set” is NOT a “catch phrase.” Many people use it; you should have no trouble finding someone else to stalk.

Just so you know, the main reason I'm posting this note despite your obsessiveness is that I did not want have to speak to you via phone, because I abhor the sound of your voice.

ok fuck off.

PS. I also find it very weird/interesting that you’re supposed to be smart, but you can’t take fucking hint.

Sex, Lies and Crucification

When it comes to punishment, I don’t possess the patience for rehabilitation and lack the self-control for judicious assessment. As an Old Testament type of gal, I embrace the idea of proportionate punishment – an eye for an eye – to satisfy the victim’s resentment, but lack the restraint to properly employ “proportionality,” which requires the level of punishment be scaled relative to the severity of the offending behavior. It takes a lot to satisfy my resentment. Accordingly, I’m an advocate for extreme, excessive and swift punishment. For example, a previous boyfriend asked me: “How do you feel knowing every girl in the room wants your boyfriend?” He followed that up by informing me I wasn’t universally pretty; I was lucky he found me attractive. I broke up with him and subsequently appeared in FHM magazine, in which I attacked and exposed his conflicting sexual and religious practices. My revenge is usually immediate and cruel. Unfortunately, I’m at a complete loss as to how to handle my latest transgressor. Anything less than torture by Spanish boot – a leather boot-like device drawn over the feet and legs, in which boiling water is poured over, eventually soaking through the leather and eating the flesh away from the entrapped limbs – seems insufficient.

Most recently my boyfriend used spyware to obtain the passwords to all my social networking and email accounts.

In response, I broke into his accounts and fired off some offensive messages on his behalf. With the expectation that he would retaliate, I changed all of my passwords except my MySpace password, thereby leaving him free to monitor any MySpace communication. Finally, I replied to Playboy’s inquiry for me to pose via MySpace. I informed them I would be honored to work with them and pose for their magazine.

My boyfriend had a panic attack, deleted the message and blocked Playboy.

I chastised him and for invading my privacy AGAIN, then packed my belongings and left to stay with my parents for the weekend, thereby giving him the opportunity to win me back via grand gesture.

Instead, he vanished. I received one call. At 3:33 AM. No message.

Suspicious of his lack of communication during our separation, I implemented a full-fledged investigation. My boyfriend claimed he spent the night from 8 PM until 3:30 AM at the Black Finn bar with his best friend, Chris. His best friend’s girlfriend assured me she spent the night with Chris. She and Chris never met up, saw or spoke with my boyfriend. After ascertaining he lied about his whereabouts and company, I broke into his facebook account again and followed up with our neighbor.

His Facebook account revealed messages to a female with the alias Rockin’ Robyn at 2:30 AM and 3:30 AM. He included his phone number and signed them “Big Kiss!”. Since normal people don’t use stage names on Facebook, I assumed she was a prostitute.

Our neighbor, Brian, offered more insight.

“Hi, Brian, lovely day, isn’t it?” I smiled.

“Yep. What’s up?” Brian crunched up his face and canvassed the area behind me with paranoid eyes.

“So, Brian… Have any strange girls been coming around?”

“Well, before you moved in, that,” he pointed to our front door, “looked like the entrance to a brothel.”

“Ok. Whatever. What about lately? Like within the last few months?”

“Oh boy… yeah… I mean, I shouldn’t say anything, but I kinda want my pants back,” he pulled at his left earlobe.

“Your pants?”

Brian informed me an intoxicated girl did indeed pound at my door at approximately 4 AM Mid-March. Her incessant pounding woke him up, so he asked her if she needed anything.

“Cocaine? Do you have any coke? Can I crash here?” she slurred, pushing past him into his house.

Brian informed her he did not have any cocaine. He then provided her with a cocktail and sweatpants. She took a swing, dropped the glass on his living room table, fell back on his couch, struggled out of her clothes and rolled around for a while in just a “g-string.”

“She was pretty trashy. I mean, I saw the broad naked... titties and all… and didn’t even know her name. Then she started bitching about your boyfriend and so I asked her why she was stopping by if he was such a jerk and she said because he’s a really good fuck.”

“She said that?”

“Yep.”

“Did you ever get her name?”

“Robyn. I went through her purse after she passed out. Do you think you can get my pants back for me?”

“Have you seen her before?”

“Oh man, I just really want my pants back!” He hesitated for three seconds then sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Girl used to come around weird hours. All the time… but before he started dating you.”

My exhaustive investigation revealed my boyfriend never met up with his best friend. Rather than sulk, send me flowers or do anything productive for our relationship, he spent his 48 hours of freedom getting blackout drunk, paying strippers to grind his cock and booty calling an old hook-up who has no problem disrobing in front of and spending the night with a total stranger. He does not deserve a clean break-up; he deserves to be crucified. Unfortunately, even though I firmly believe I could happily munch on popcorn while watching him suffer through hours of intermittent partial asphyxiation and searing pain as tissue tore from his lacerated back, I doubt I could handle the jail time sure to follow. I hate living with women, hate manual labor and hate any type of authority. What to do, what to do?

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Email me your ideas!

1. Set him up with Sarah C.?

Essay: All-Star Traveler

Whenever I pack my Kate Spade rollaway and embark on a new adventure outside state lines, I suffer a mugging, theft or some other catastrophe. In fact, I plan to limit future travel to the state of Michigan since my latest travel-related incident turned out even more horrific than the L.A. knifing or Dallas robbery. I’ll just honeymoon at Greenfield Village, have deceased out-of-state family members shipped to Detroit and host the annual Girls’ Vegas trip on 8 Mile instead; both locales boast prostitutes, pimps and clubs named Pure anyway. No more exotic vacations or foreign getaways. Far worse than 15 stitches or a stolen identity, the latest police report listing me as a victim suggested my fashion-sense is more reminiscent of RuPaul than Jean Paul Gaultier.

I flew to Scottsdale for All-Star weekend and met up with my gorgeous jersey chasing friend, Jill. Being more interested in Jewish attorneys than rap stars and professional athletes, I spent my time pursuing as many open bars as possible, while Jill handed out Future Husband Applications. This eventually led us to crashing a Lebron James party. Unfortunately, fellow partiers received me, the only girl with blonde girl, with kidney punches and shoves instead of the admiration I anticipated. It was so crowded I actually had difficulty getting to the open bar, never mind actually getting a drink. Jill was also disappointed since she had hoped teaming up with a blonde girl would attract a diverse group of celebrities. She quickly reevaluated my use.

“Can you dance?” she asked.

“I can’t even find the beat in a song.”

“Do you know who that is?” She pointed to a really black man.

“A celebrity?” I guessed.

“No shit, which one?”

He was surrounded by a bunch of women in wearing Lover’s Lane outfits. “Lebron?”

“Wrong. Akon.”

Since I was the only girl devoid of an ass, rhythm and rap star radar, Jill labeled me a hindrance, fired me as her “wing-woman” and propped me up against a 12 foot tall space heater. I spent the remainder of the night unnoticed, guzzling a bottle of cheap wine red wine I swiped from the bar and cursing myself for not wearing something that offered more coverage than a cocktail napkin. Luckily, the vast majority of my peers sipped on Hennessey and Remy, which left my preferred alcoholic beverage quantity unlimited. Accordingly, I overcompensated for my lack of clothing by consuming more booze than was safe or reasonable as the temperature continued to drop and as the hours wore on.

4 AM left the Last of The Mohicans scrambling for after party plans and me wobbling around wrecked, wasted and wine-stained. Jill finally left for round 2 with some actor about as tall and famous as herself, who made promises of a really good soiree, and I grabbed a cab back to the resort.

I thanked and paid Solomon then stumbled up to my room, where I noticed my Louis Vuitton mules looked like they lost a Michael Vick dog fight. Even worse, a mix of cabernet, merlot and pino noir added to the rainbow of colors on my new Alice and Olivia shirt. I stripped, gathered all of my dirty clothing and tossed it in the resort’s laundry service bag.

After milking my hangover with Gatorade Glacial Freeze and about 15 Tylenol until 5 PM the following day, I met up with Jill, who had nothing exciting to report. “Really good soiree” translated to mansion with stripper poles that rise out of the ground, topped with 100% nude escorts. Not surprisingly, the following 3 days played out like a broken record of rappers, Flavor Flav reality stars and basketball players. Finally, on Sunday while packing for home, I realized housekeeping never returned my clothes. Assuming it was an oversight, I moseyed down to the front desk to inquire.

“Hola! Me nombre es Vanessa. Como esta? I need me ropa.” It was Arizona, after all.

“We speak English. What can I do for you?”

I explained the situation to the Front Desk Manager, Maria, who feigned ignorance.

“Call laundry service, then. I need my clothes. I have to catch a plane,” I prodded.

Maria’s face fell and next thing I knew, she went ghost on me. I took a seat in the lobby.

“Ms. Vanessa?” Maria returned 15 minutes later.

“There seems to have been a mix up.”

“I figured that much. Can I just get my clothes back, please?”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait until someone turns them in…” she trailed off.

“Explain.”

“Well, apparently laundry service gave your clothes to another guest.”

“Ok, which guest? Let’s call him and get my clothes back.” This all seemed very logical to me.

“Well, it’s not that simple. Myra, the lady in charge, said a gentleman came down to get the clothes before she could deliver them, so we aren’t sure which room he’s in. She thought he was your boyfriend.”

Turned out Myra failed to ID and validate whether or not the gentleman in question was a registered guest.

“So some random person could be walking around in my clothes right now?” I asked.

“I’m sure she gave the bag to a guest. She thought it was your boyfriend …”

“How can you be sure? I want to see the security tape.” Believe nothing of what you hear or read and only half of what you see! Also, I wanted to see what type of guy Myra envisioned me with.

“I can’t let you view the tapes. You’re just going to have to wait. Or I can call you when someone turns them in.”

Apparently Maria had the IQ of a dump truck. She didn’t know the difference between “lost” and “stolen.” She didn’t understand Customer Service 101; rather than apologizing, she shooed me away. And her wardrobe consisted of an unflattering grey, shoulder padded suit and boyfriend cut jeans; she could not possibly understand my loss.

“I am not going to sit waiting for my clothes to show up indefinitely. I mean, really, what do you want me to do? Sit around until someone mugs me or steals the shoes off my feet? No thanks. A resort employee gave my clothes away. You need to fix this! Hand me the phone. I’m calling the police.”

Maria refused to let me call the police from the resort’s phone, so I dialed 911 from my cell. Unable to argue with the law, Maria begrudgingly handed over the security tapes to very charming Officer Hernandez who arrived within an hour.

According to the police report, a homeless man stole my clothes from an upscale Scottsdale resort’s laundry service and rode off on a bike. I’m not sure which I find more offensive: Myra mistaking a homeless man for my significant other or a homeless man happily sporting my wardrobe. Apparently I look like a drag queen who dates men who order takeout from dumpsters and vacation in refrigerator boxes. The resort offered no form of restitution.

Below is the actual police report!

No Smoking, No DeLorean and No Misdemeanor Required

Channel 4 just informed all of Detroit’s junkie teenagers and unemployed how to legally get high without spending more than $12. No glaucoma diagnosis needed.

Salvia divinorum. It’s stronger than marijuana and LEGAL in Michigan.

Called nicknames like Sally-D, Magic Mint and Diviner's Sage, salvia is generally smoked, and is a hallucinogen that gives users an out-of-body sense of traveling through time and space or merging with inanimate objects.

I’ve never even smoked a cigarette, so my ears didn’t perk up until that last part about traveling through time. Coincidentally, ever since Dan Cherry wrote a rude newspaper article about me, I’ve complained that I’m going to have to legally change my name since I don’t have a time machine. Changing your name costs approximately $100. An ounce of salvia leaves sells for around $12 on the Internet. I investigated further.

Turns out this cost-effective, modern day time machine can also be chewed or made into tea and drunk.

No smoking, no DeLorean and no misdemeanor required. Finally, a reason to attend “Tea Time”??

Channel 4 referenced the Web site, Salviadragon.com, which claims salvia users report experiencing:

• Leaving Their Body & Traveling Across The Astral World
• Lucid Out of Body Experiences
• Traveling Back or Forward in Time
• Feeling Weightless and Flying Over the Astral Landscape
• Seeing or Feeling Through Another Beings Perspective
• Finding Hidden Answers and Secret Knowledge
• Meeting Entities And Other Non-Physical Beings
• A Feeling of Oneness and Peace With The Universe

Apparently the content provider at Salviadragon.com is too busy soaring the astral landscape to learn possessive grammar.

Anyway, after my experience with Oxygen and Dan Cherry at the Telegram, I really believe nothing that I hear or read and only half of what I see, so I turned to YouTube.com.

Sweet baby Jesus! The user never even attempted his U-Turn! In addition, none of the users in any of the videos I watched report remembering what occurred during their high. They all blacked out.

If my research is any indication, Salviadragon.com is as reliable as the tabloids. I experienced several wine induced “blackouts” during college. The only G-d I remember was the porcelain G-d at 6 AM. A blackout is referred to as a blackout because the victim doesn’t remember anything. Doing salvia is a good way to make a complete asshole out of yourself; even if you do have a good time you're going to have to have YouTube or your pals fill you in. So although salvia is cost-effective and legal, so is a bottle of wine from CostCo.

Kids: Stay off drugs and stay in school! If you really want to screw up your lives, wait until you’re 21 and booze it up or try out for reality television!

Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Pretty Wicked advertisements are everywhere: CNBC, NBC, Bravo, Oxygen, the subway in NYC, bus stops, www.realityshows.com, MySpace, Star Magazine… and now in what most people would consider nightmares…

Last night I dreamt I was on a date with a jerk named Mike Goldstein. He picked me and my dog, Butters, up and went back to his place to drop Butters off and have a glass of wine before attending a party together. The glass of wine was the high point; he didn’t open my doors and he picked his nose, kept trying to touch my leg, talked about himself the entire time, didn’t ask me any questions, wore Sketchers and drank excessively without offering me any juice. Also, the party was in a middle school gymnasium! I must have picked him up on Jdate or something and failed to conduct a google background check. He agreed to take me out, so he obviously didn’t conduct one on me. Maybe google doesn’t exist in dreams?

Anyway, I cut things short and we went back to his place to pick up my dog. He left me in the car to pout while he went inside to get Butters before taking me home. Anxious to glue my ass to the couch and break open a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, I went in after Mike when a half hour went by and he still hadn’t returned.

I walked up Mike’s staircase and entered the living room, where he was bound and gagged with duck tape on the floor. Butters started whining, which alerted the robber, who was munching on a ham sandwich in the kitchen.

The robber charged me, trapped me in a corner and put a gun to my head.

“Hurting me isn’t necessary. I’m on your side. I wanted to do the exact same thing to Mike all night long. What’s your name? I’m Vanessa.”

“Joey.” I shook his leather gloved hand and thought of OJ Simpson. I looked down at Joey’s shoes: Bruno Magli. I’m pretty that in Vanessa’s Dreamworld, that meant he killed Nicole or something.

“I guess I won’t gag you or tie you up…. But I’m going to have to hold you hostage.”

“That’s cool. Do you mind if I use Mike’s computer while we wait?”

I didn’t want for him to respond.

“Ohh Goody!” I booted up Mike’s computer while he continued to struggle like a live insect pinned to a Riker Mount waiting to be dissected. “Come here… we can look at Pretty Wicked ads while we wait!!”

The armed robber/assholeknapper and I spent the next hour or so trolling the Internet for Pretty Wicked ads. I made him watch videos, view photos and write nice comments on the Oxygen site. I woke from the dream with a smile and sense of contentment.

I joke about having NPD, Narcisstic Personality Disorder, but am disturbed to think I may need to seek actual help; my subconscious is more concerned with reality show advertisements than the well-being of a hostage.



DSM criteria for NPD and how it relates to me
A pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration and lack of empathy present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by 5 (or more) of the following:

Black denotes behaviors I do not display.
Day Old Mustard denotes behaviors I may or not display. These are debatable and TBD.
Red denotes behaviors I display.

Has grandiose sense of self-importance
Probably, but I’m unable to accurately answer this if I do suffer from NPD, since I would view any level of self-importance, even “grandiose,” as reality. Since “Mike” would objectively “check this box,” I will too. One point red.

Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love
Mixed. Quite the opposite in some respects. Specifically, I feel very powerless and stupid for becoming a reality TV asshole. Maybe a little preoccupied with beauty and ideal love; however, I spent the last 3 days un-showered and glued to the couch… which isn’t very attractive. This one is debatable. I’ll leave it day old mustard.

Believes that he or she is “special.”
If by “special” they really mean the State should revoke my license and make me ride the short bus, then yes. Seriously though, I am ashamed to say I do feel a little special when I see the ads. Conversely, Dan Cherry’s newspaper article left me researching “Internet Cyberspace Bullying.” If dreams are reflections of our subconscious, my subconscious would say A LOT special. *CRINGE*… So two points day old mustard.

Requires excessive admiration
I haven’t required anything resembling admiration or even human contact since I locked myself in my parents’ basement and started spending my days making fun of other people who live in their mother’s utility closet. At least I have a bed. Thank god mom and dad served me with a 24 hour eviction notice yesterday. Back to the city I go… One point black.

Has a sense of entitlement
Check. Check and check. Two points red.

Is Interpersonally exploitative
Not lately. If it’s just me, the couch and Butters, I can’t exploit anyone. Black.

Lacks empathy
I’m full of empathy… but for celebrities, so I’m not sure if that counts.

Is often envious of others or believes others are envious of him or her
I think everyone loves me and the people who say they don’t really just want to be me. Joking! Seriously, if people could experience an iota of the frustration, humiliation and stress I have over the last month, envy would be their last emotion. On the other hand, who wouldn’t want to super cute google ad of themselves? Nonetheless, I’m wearing a sash that says “So Fake” in the ads, and since I’m pretty sure no one is donning one of those voluntarily, another point for black.

Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes
Although I’m usually joking, I do display these behaviors… especially when I poke fun at the idiocy of the haters and search for myself online while someone is hog tied in front of me. Red.

After waking with a smile from a vivid dream involving Pretty Wicked ads and armed robbery, I fear I’m one step closer to an actual, full-blown disorder. 3 points black, 3 points day old mustard and 3 points red. In all probability, I exhibit at least 1 of the 3 debatable behaviors without realizing it, so I’m teetering right on the edge of needing to upgrade Couple’s Therapy to Psychotherapy.

Best Idea Ever - Legal Name Change!

There are several reasons why you might want to legally change your name: a change in marital status, your hippy parents named you after a fruit, you fell in love with a sociopath, or you appeared on a reality show intent on ruining your life.

I used to scour the Internet, conducting google and yahoo searches for my name, enjoying a baptism of relief from knowing potential dates would not unearth any unflattering or personal information. Some high school sports stats. Educational information. Maybe my résumé if they looked long and hard.

No videos, no newspaper articles and no www.vanessafromprettywickshoulddie.com Web sites.

I appeared misleadingly… well… normal, boring even. Potential suitors had to take me on a real date, get to know me and form an opinion of me based on our interaction. HR Departments had to interview me. My significant other’s parents had to have me over for dinner. Servers at the local watering hole had to serve me.

Now, people in Japan can sit at their laptop and watch a video of me while munching on a rice patty. Potential employers can confidently crumple my résumé after their google search reveals I “think I’m better than everyone from [my] hometown… and feel I shouldn’t have to life a finger because I’m so pretty.”

Total strangers feel they intimately know me without so much as having a phone conversation with me!

By being naïve, narcissistic and agreeing to appear on a national television show, “Vanessa” can’t join corporate America any time soon. In addition, if my boyfriend gets sick of the reality TV drama and dumps my ass, I’m going to have to change my name or resign myself to loving a guy whose “type” is an arrogant, money grubbing bimbo. Since I can’t date someone like that, don’t want to die alone and don’t own a time machine, I’m accepting submissions for my legal name change. The only feasible way to clean up this shit show seems to be a complete and utter rebirth.

Texas Airport Massacre

Mostly Nonfiction - the intro is slightly ridiculous; lately I have been crying every day... maybe that's why I hate myself!

I didn't cry when I ended my engagement. No tears were shed at my aunt’s funeral, when I totaled my PLPD insured 2008 VW Beetle (that's another story) or even when my computer crashed just before the completion of my 43 page Senior thesis. I am not a crier; I abhor cry babies. Crying is unacceptable unless a bone punctures your skin and is clearly visible (or perhaps in the case of national humiliation… we will see when March 31st rolls around). I, however, broke down and threw a tantrum that registered as an 11 on the Richter Scale with the hypocenter occurring at the Verizon pay phone in the Fort Worth/Dallas airport. My seismic waves disturbed the travelers all the way in baggage claim into rewarding my childish behavior that theoretically should have been a strike in the bad karma box.

After having my identity and possessions raped and pillaged during vacation, I arrived at the Dallas/Forth Worth airport at around noon, penniless, phoneless and IDless. Since I didn’t have identification, I enjoyed an unpleasant full cavity search to ensure I wasn’t a terrorist storing a homemade pipe bomb up my cooter. Since it took over an 2 hours to clear security, I gleefully skipped to gate E 6 with anticipation of home. My glee evaporated into irritation when the overhead voice announced my flight was delayed three hours. I looked to the fellow seated beside me and asked to use his cell phone.

Apparently I put way too much stock in the inherent goodness of people and the efficiency of karma. The week before I rolled up to the second window of McDonald’s anticipating a grilled chicken sandwich and an iced mocha. Instead, the mathematically challenged, Beltone poster-child produced a crispy chicken, steamy cappuccino and an extra dollar in change. In fear of racking up some bad karma points, I smiled and handed the dollar back to the girl and tossed the crap food in the trash. I figured this was the universe’s way of telling me to nix the fast food. Well, rather than reward me with my very own six-packed Spanish pool boy, the universe threw me a thieving illegal alien asshole and an airport chock full of discourteous liars.

"Umm... I don't have any daytime minutes," he responded to his shoes.

MKAY. I turned to the guy on the other side of me, who was wearing a cowboy hat. "Do you have two daytime minutes I might steal from you? Please? You can send me an invoice."

"I don't have a cell phone." I definitely saw him whispering sweet nothings into a SideKick 15 minutes earlier.

"Seriously?" I snapped.

He stood up and moved to the opposite side of the gate.

Frustrated and esperate to be alone, I threw myself into the nearest empty corner. After fuming on the floor of my corner of the airport for nearly 5 hours with an empty stomach and nothing to read (yes, 5 hours!!!), my irritation deteriorated into fury when the attendant announced that my flight was canceled. At this point I was not in the mood to effectively communicate with anyone at the airport, so I stomped my way over to the pay phone and attempted to collect call my mother to inform her of my latest misfortune and to ensure that she was aware of the ridiculous delays and cancellations (seriously, what's a little rain??!!! At this point I wouldn't have minded a quick, painless death anyway!). I picked up the receiver. No dial tone. I headed to the next pay phone. I picked the receiver. No dial tone. I headed to the last pay phone. I picked up the receiver. No fucking dial tone.

"Seriously?!!!" I screamed, repeatedly slamming the receiver into the face of the pay phone, much to the horror of my fellow travelers.

Security shuffled over, but kept out of my arm’s and leg’s shot. Luckily I hadn’t been tanning while on my little getaway, so they did not did not attempt to restrain me. Rather, they shook their heads and chuckled. Had I not been a young blonde white girl, you know they would have tackled me.

"What is so FUNNYYY?!!!" I wailed.

"Honey, what seems to be the matter?" one drawled in his Texan accent.

"Seems? Nothing SEEMS. Plenty IS!! Your pay phone doesn't work," I accused.

"Well honey, most folks have cellular phones these days. Don't you have yourself one of those??" He fingered his own Nextel holstered to his hip.

"NO! And neither does he!!!" I pointed to the cowboy who refused to let me use his SideKick, which he was now chatting on.

The flood gates opened and I heaved over in full blown sobs. The kind that leave you gasping for air, red-faced and sweaty.

"Honey, I'm gonna need to see your ID."

I ignored him, stomped over to the nearest chair, threw my head between my legs and let a wail that made the folks in baggage claim jump. After a minute or so I raised my head and forced a pained smile.

"I don't have a cell phone. I don't have an ID. I don't have ANYTHHHHHIIIIING. My handbag was stolen and I have no way to get home now that I don't even have a flight."

"Sweetie? You can use my phone," Jerry, a witness offered.

"You need some money?" a woman asked.

"Here's $20!" A woman threw a twenty dollar bill at me.

"I'll buy you dinner!" an elderly gentleman exclaimed.

"I will too!"

"Darlin', that is just terrible, you can use my phone too," SideKick asshole held out his phone.

"All right honey. Looks like you can take care of yourself from here. Good luck." Security disappeared.

Dave, the SideKick asshole, apologized by buying me McDonalds. I ordered a Grilled Chicken and an iced mocha. And they got it right this time.

After completing its investigation, Mastercard informed me the thief was an illegal alien who used my card to buy booze and fill up his 89’ caravan. He ended up getting away scot-free and I walked away with $20, a new Facebook friend, dinner, a novel, two magazines and hopefully some more good karma points since I quenched someone’s thirst and facilitated his transportation. I guess karma points aren’t as easy to cash in as instant lotto tickets, since it took a good old fashioned tantrum to get karma rolling in my favor. I suppose next time I’ll just be prepared to strong-arm karma into paying up.

--------------------
Note: I’m so thankful to the people who did help me out. When I tried to get the address of one of the philanthropists, so I could repay him, he simply responded: “Just remember this situation and give someone $20 who is in need.” So… next time you’re stuck at the airport without any money or a phone, hope to God I’m seated next to you; after experiencing my very own Texas Airport Massacre, I’ll empty my pockets AND buy you dinner.

PVC Boots, Gold-Plated Mr. T Starter Kits and Our Flawed Justice System

My traffic violation experience is beyond comprehensive; the 12th District Court has correctly found me guilty so many times that until this morning I actually had confidence in the justice system. I frequently hit parked cars, people, dogs, road signs and moving vehicles. I run red lights and have been known to confuse the brake pedal for the gas. My inept driving spares nothing and no one; you'd think I was a 77 year old Asian female. I blame my private driver’s training education teacher, who conducted the bookwork in his living room while 100s of taxidermy mounts watched over us. It’s impossible to pay attention while moose, deer and poached elephant heads glare at you. My parents blame my propensity to look in the mirror instead of at the road. Whichever the case, I consequently understand accident reporting procedure and the insurance claims process well. Accordingly, on November 18, 2008, I offered to call the police when a legally blind, uninsured drug addict witch turned left in front of me, thereby causing a collision. The traffic and social misfit adamantly refused my offer and suggested we “handle the issue ourselves.” Since she was clearly at-fault, her vehicle appeared stolen and I didn’t want to get ticketed for failure to report an accident, I smiled politely and dialed 911 anyway. Upsettingly, by following the law, when it comes to traffic violations, I’m at fault 99 % of the time but have been found guilty 100%.

I was alone in my vehicle, coasting along at approximately 25 mph southbound on E. Michigan Avenue in Jackson, MI when the upcoming light changed from green to yellow. I accelerated. The actual men who inspired the movie Deliverance now reside in Jackson and do not have access to a car. Accordingly, they often try to solicit rides around town from people they can easily physically overpower, especially young females sitting at red lights. For this reason I always accelerate through the yellow lights while driving through the rough part of the city. I do my best not to run RED lights. Now, I’ve accidentally blown a few reds; however, this was NOT one of those times. The light was still yellow as I entered the intersection.

My progression through the intersection came to an abrupt and violent stop when a rusty, duck taped, windowless 1986 maroon van turned right in front of me. We collided and my shiny new car catapulted the ugly redheaded stepsister of the biggest beat down hoopty you’ve ever seen flying on two wheels into a gas station parking lot. Although my vehicle looked like it just competed in and lost a demolition derby, I jumped out of my car and ran over to check on my attempted murderer.

“Are you OK?” I asked, breathless from running 20 yards. I don’t enjoy physical exertion but sprinting was my body’s natural response. I guess I just really wanted to help.

“The person who hit me ran off…” she slurred, rubbing her eyes. “Hit and run.”

I know arguing with drunk people is futile, but I couldn’t hold my tongue. “No. The person YOU hit just ran over here to check on you. The only place I ran was over to you, to make sure you were ok. You turned left in front of me.”

“Oh,” was all she could initially offer. After an awkward silence she continued. “I am sure there was a 3rd car…” THEN she put on a pair of coke bottle glasses.

“Humm… ok, sometimes after I drink a 5th I see multiples too…”

Suddenly two witnesses stepped forward, a soccer mom dressed in all pink and one of the toothless fellows who inspired Deliverance.

“Are you two all right?” the soccer mom asked.

“Do you need anything, sweet thing?” Deliverance dude winked at me then smiled a wide jack-o-lantern checkerboard of decaying teeth.

I grimaced. “No! I mean, no thanks. We’re OK. I’ll just call the police…” I vomited in my mouth just a little and turned to the boozy driver.

“What’s your name?”

“Ruth.”

“Ok, Ruth, I’m going to call the police, OK?”

“Umm… no. I think we should just handle this ourselves.”

Ha. And let her drive off and rundown a small child? Yeah right. “I’m going to call the police…” I pulled out my cell phone.

“I’ll be a witness, sugar lips!” Deliverance dude chimed in.

“That is not necessary. Just go back to the bridge you crawled out of, please,” I directed. He appeared pacified and retreated into the background.

Like the by and large law abiding citizen I am, I dialed 911, and then sat around for an hour waiting for a dispatched. Patience is a virtue I don’t possess, so I redialed 911 to re-report the accident after 60 minutes ticked by. “Hello, I reported an accident over an hour ago. I would like to report it again…”

“Is this Vanessa over at E. Michigan?”

“Yes.” Ok, I may have called more than twice.

“It is shift change. Someone will be over there when they get around to it.”

“Awesome.” I hung up and updated Ruth and Soccer Mom. “All of the officers in Jackson county are busy devouring donuts.”

A dispatched officer arrived 2 ½ hours after my initial call. Officer Diamond, a curt, stout woman, interviewed Ruth first, who declared there was a 3rd car involved. Without administering a single sobriety test, the officer thanked Ruth and moved on to Soccer Mom. When asked, Soccer Mom claimed she saw a 3rd car speed away but was unsure as to how it was involved. In addition, soccer mom told the officer the light was yellow and Ruth had turned left in front of me. The officer thanked her and turned to me.

“Excuse me, maaaammmeee…. I am a witness! I am a witness!” Deliverance dude popped out from behind a snow bank.

“Ok sir, what did you see?” the officer asked, yawning.

“She,” he pointed at me, “ran a red light!”

My jaw dropped. “It was yellow!” I rebutted.

“Ok, thanks sir. Let me talk to her alone,” the officer said.

I accurately canvassed the events Officer Diamond and did not even mention the fact that Ruth was clearly inebriated, was not wearing her glasses and did not want to call the police earlier. I simply explained: “The light was yellow and Ruth turned left in front of me. We collided.”

“What about the 3rd car?”

“I don’t remember a 3rd car. I have no idea how it was involved it there was one involved.”
She scribbled some stuff down and handed me a ticket.

“What’s this?” I examined it. “A ticked for running a red light?!”

“Yes. It’s unclear what exactly happened. Even you admitted that. Ruth doesn’t have insurance, so I already issued her a ticket. It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t’ issue you both a ticket.” I SWEAR TO GOD THIS WAS HER RESPONSE.

“WHAT?! This is not the pre-school playground! Fair?! Fair?! Maybe you should teach 1st graders instead of patrol our streets for criminals!!”

“Calm down. If you disagree, go fight this in court.”

“What?! First off, the light was YELLOW. NOT red!” I screamed in yet another Emily Rose-like moment. “I called you! How can you punish me for something I didn’t do? You’re essentially saying that I just called the police on myself?!! Why the hell would I do that?!!!!”

She wordlessly retreated to her car.

I reached for my cell phone and dialed my cousin, Robert, who is also a man of the law. Let’s just say Officer Diamond was rather butch. I pled my case with Robert, who then requested to speak with Officer Diamond. I ran over to the patrol vehicle, tapped on the window and handed the officer my cell phone. She raised her bushy eyebrows.

“It’s my cousin; he’s a police officer in Oakland County.”

“Big mistake.” She shook her head but humored me by chatting with Robert for a few seconds before handing me my phone and rolling up the window.

“Robert?” I asked.

“Yeah… umm… she’s a huge bitch and has no idea what she’s doing. She just claimed that when the light turns yellow the person turning left has the right of way. Take it to court,” he advised.
And take it to court is just what I did.

My original court date was in January, during the filming of Pretty Wicked. Having heard an officer usually won’t appear if you reschedule several times, I rescheduled while filming the show and then rescheduled a second time after the show for good measure. My hearing was pushed back twice and officially scheduled for March 18th at 7 AM with magistrate Bishop.

“What are you wearing to court tomorrow? You’re going to wear a suit, right?” my mother asked the eve of my court date.

“I thought I would wear a tube top and a mini skirt! Seriously! Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Just checking.”

“Mom, even a prostitute would know better than to wear her uniform to court. God!”

Now, I’m used to going to bed at 5 AM, not waking up at 5 AM, so the whole arriving on-time thing was rather difficult. However, I expedited my primping process and went with the very natural, professional look complete with a low ponytail, skirt suit, sensible heals and my black rimmed Prada glasses. Boring and appropriate. I arrived at 6:30 AM and took a seat in an empty hearing room.

At 6:59 AM 3 more people arrived. The first to catch my eye looked like a speared cocktail onion with paper thin hair. She teetered on a pair of 8 inch lucite platform heels and forgot to put her street clothes on over her Spanx. The second appeared to know Cocktail Onion because she smacked her on the ass as they stumbled together. Cocktail’s comrade was quite the flower; she sported cherry red acrylic nails ripe with decals and a hot pink nylon mini dress. At least her shoes were sensible considering the temperature: knee-high boots. Although, I’m pretty sure PVC material clothing of any type can only be purchased at Lover’s Lane and isn’t court appropriate. P Diddy’s busted 4th cousin removed limped in after the Skank Sisters. His massive hood was raised, so I couldn’t get a good look at his face. I think perhaps he was a sign language interpreter because he nodded when the next man who walked in started signing at the group of us at around 7:02. Although the signer appeared fluent in sign language, he wasn’t mute or deaf. He addressed one of the Skank Sisters as “Candy” and asked her how she’d been. Signer boy sported a gold-plated Mr. T starter kit, oversized white-T and an obese person’s black jeans. He sat next to me.

“Whud you here for? Lookin’ too sexy?” he asked.

“No, thanks though.” I smiled but couldn’t make eye contact because I was so preoccupied with his oversized pants.

“Whud you lookin’ at, girl?” He wasn’t offended, just curious.

“Did you just finish the Master Cleanse? I tried that but ate an entire cake on the 3rd day.”

“You a whack job. I don’t know shit about no Master Cleanse.”

Magistrate Bishop walked out, grumbled something and seated himself behind the mini balcony before I could respond. “Ok, Samantha Jones, please come on up.”

“Call me Candy!” she chirped. No police officer showed up to sit next to her at what looked like my middle school lunch table.

“Go Candy!” her comrade cheered.

The hearing room door creaked open, interrupting Candy’s hearing and in walked my bull legged police officer. So much for rescheduling….

Candy claimed she wasn’t really trying to out run the police officer; she was racing Cocktail Onion. Cocktail Onion concurred. I found this unlikely since Cocktail was only cited for an open 5th of vodka (2 points). The magistrate reduced Candy’s “fleeing and eluding” to “drag racing,” 4 points on her record. Cocktail Onion didn’t test positive for booze, so he let her off with a warning. Things were looking good.

At 7:20 two more women who looked like the Skank Sisters’ work associates rolled in. More lucite and PVC. A semi-normal looking man connected to a mobile oxygen machine struggled through the door at 7:30. Then at 7:35 Deliverance sauntered in. He instantly spotted me and ran his thumb across his throat.

P. Diddy refused to take a chemical test (6 points), and received a reduced citation for operating while visibly impaired (4 points). I can’t remember what everyone else received because my 5 senses crashed and I nearly passed out in response to Deliverance’s appearance.
He sat directly in front of me, thereby placing his louse infested mullet in my direct line of blurred vision.

“Why are you here?” I spat.

He turned around. “Joy riding. And you’re here for running that red, ain’t cha? Now you’ll have a witness.”

“Hemmm… can I help you two?” the magistrate interjected. Before I could respond he called me to the lunch table.

The officer read a citation summary based on Deliverance’s inaccurate vantage point. She finished by clarifying: “However, I was not present and there were conflicting stories. Only one witness on the scene was the able to offer what he claimed to be an accurate of what happened. He alleges she ran a red light and no 3rd car was involved…”

“Clear as day! She ran that red!” Deliverance stood up.

“What is going on? Witnesses must be approved 14 days prior to the hearing.” Magistrate Bishop looked annoyed. “Ok, Vanessa, do you have anything to say?”

“Yes sir,” I spoke confidently, “I do. I admit that I accelerated through a yellow light. Emphasis on yellow; the light was not red. In addition, the other car involved turned left in front of me, so I had the right away. I do not deserve to receive 3 points on my record for something I’m not guilty of.”

He considered my defense for .0005 seconds then spoke: “It’s clear you ran the red light. You even admit to going through a yellow. I find you guilty. You can pay your fine at the window where you walked into the building. Thank you. Richard Simpson?”

When I tried to argue Magistrate Bishop interrupted me. “My decision is final. You appear able to pay the citation, so I advise you to go pay it. NOW.”

I’ve retired my former “accelerate though yellow lights” policy, and decided to adopt a lead foot. I think with a little more momentum and luck Ruth’s van would have hit a gas pump and ignited. She might have even hit Deliverance. With an enormous fire to serve as a distraction, no one would have noticed me speeding away. In the improbable instance that the authorities were able to track me down and cite me for a hit and run, today I would have only 1 more point on my driving record. 4 instead of 3. In fact, Ruth might have been on to something by suggesting we not involve the police. “Failure to report an accident” is only 2 points. Sometimes doing the right thing is wrong, wrong, WRONG. I would be at least $50 richer and a slightly better driver according to the DMV had I not burned through 20 cell phone minutes with 911 dispatch, over 2 hours waiting around the scene while Officer Diamond munched on donuts and approximately 6 hours of time normally allotted for beauty sleep on court related activities. When it comes to traffic violations, rescheduling your hearing is futile, where you’re probably better off dressing like a street walker than a librarian, and involving the police is probably more reckless than the violation itself.

Therapists vs. Pychics

If you visit your local Borders, you’ll find psychics and mental health professionals are grouped together under “Counseling and Mental Health.” This causes controversy since “reputable” health professionals feel there should be a separate category for the “charlatans.” Most of my exes agree; the majority of them have tried to coerce me into couple’s therapy even though I consult my psychic advisor. They feel I need “real therapy” to resolve my “commitment issues.” Unfortunately for these ex-significant others, the only “real” therapy my family believes in is “scream therapy”; we scream at one another until we’re absolved from frustration and anger. Usually scream therapy is adequate in remedying any familial problems and is always preferable to shelling out $200 an hour while laying on a stranger’s couch. Appropriately, I refused therapy even after I ended my engagement. Instead, I paid $2.00 a minute while munching on Cheetoes to consult my psychic advisor and took great comfort in the fact that she simply encouraged me “to find balance.” No mental exercises, self-evaluation or confrontation. Find balance; find happiness! In light of this, I’m as confident in psychics if not more so than therapists. Knowing this, my current boyfriend, whom I will refer to as “my Jew” didn’t even bother broaching the topic of therapy when our relationship hit a few road bumps and finally a pothole.

The "Air" network asked me to compete on the 1^st season of their new reality show “Divas” in November 2008. Being impulsive and suffering from NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder), I readily accepted without consulting anyone or really thinking things through. I translated “competing” to “partying, making friends and sleeping in” on TV. I didn’t even bat an eyelash when my Jew canvassed the network’s contract with me and advised that I reject the opportunity.

“This contract is completely one-sided. In fact, it is so ridiculous that I doubt it would even hold up in court. There are certain liberties you can’t sign away, which they are asking you to do,” he calmly informed me.

“It’s about being a diva and becoming Hollywood's Next It Girl… it will be fun,” I rolled my eyes.

“I thought I was dating a Libertarian, not a diva or Hollywood girl! Listen to yourself,” he pleaded, “You have no idea what it’s really about. Only an idiot would agree to this.” Normalcy does not make for good TV. Apparently the contract is the first step to ensure reality stars are categorically idiotic and anything but normal.

“Well, I have a lot of student loans that I would like to pay off,” I explained.

“I love you and will pay off your debt for you if you don’t go!” he begged.

A rational adult would have taken my Jew’s advice. I’ve been accused of being a lot of things, but never a “rational adult.” Blinded by the prospect of winning an “enormous amount of money” and appearing on TV, I decided to forge ahead with my Hollywood aspirations.

My Jew did his best to remain impartial but found it increasingly difficult. In fact, the strength of his opinions increased exponentially with his blood alcohol content. Usually private and polite, my Jew began shooting whiskey on the weekends and complaining to his friends, his family and strangers that I was “abandoning him for a 2^nd rate reality show.” I do not communicate or take constructive criticism well, nor do I listen to directives. I live my life accordingly; I am my own boss, am usually single and was happiest while living alone with my dog. Accordingly, instead of participating in a mature discussion, I responded with “scream therapy.”

The tension between Jew and I hit its breaking point after attending an Oasis concert with 4 of my Jew’s former frat brothers. Following the concert we paid a visit to their old house. My Jew and his friends gravitated to the bar and I put on my anthropologist hat and entered one of the messy bedrooms in search of some reading material (college boys have the most ridiculous smut). While sifting through Playboys and National Geographics I overheard Paul say my name. In response, I crept up the stairs as silently as I could in 4 inch stilettos and stopped just short of the door.

“Just dump her now. She’s not coming back after the show. Dude, seriously,” Paul said.

“I really like this one. I don’t know….” Jew replied.

“Jew! Seriously. We’ve been chasing girls like her since freshman year of college. We’re in our 30s now. They are nothing but trouble. We’re too old to deal with this shit. Get. Rid. Of. Her.”

Hearing a complete and utter stranger tell my boyfriend to dump me sent me into an Emily Rose rage. I started shaking with anger, lost my balance and fell down two of the stairs. “Shit!!!!” I screamed, grabbing at the railing.

“Oh God, she just heard everything we just said,” someone more concerned with privacy than my possibly sprained ankle whispered.

No pain, no gain. I took off my heels, kicked open the door and started screaming at Paul, Jim, Josh, Chris AND Jew. I hurled the magazines in their direction along with my shoes. I missed everyone but knocked over a lamp.

“Stop!” The Jew dragged me and my foaming, vulgar mouth outside. “Why don’t you call someone to pick you up? You’re being irrational,” he slurred, also drunk.

“WHAT?! ME?! I DON’T EVEN HAVE MY PHONE!!!” I screamed.

Silence.

“Then come back inside and try to behave.”

“Back inside? To what? Hang out with that asshole who called me trouble and told you to break up with me? RIGHT. I’d rather walk home.” I crossed my arms and turned my head away. My ankle really hurt so walking was not an option. “You’re right. Give me your phone. I want to go.” Luckily I have 3 little brothers who are always eager to drive 100s of miles to my rescue.

“No,” he replied. “I think that’s a bad idea. It’s 4 AM. No one wants to pick you up. We’re both not thinking clearly. Just come back inside.”

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

“Give it to me now!!” I screamed.

He wound up like Justin Verlander and hurled his BlackBerry at a nearby tree. “There. Now go call someone.”

The phone appeared intact so I ran over, scooped it up and started dialing one of my brothers. “Ha! It still works!”

Jew snatched it out of my hands and threw it into a snow bank. He pushed me back when I tried to run after the BlackBerry and stomped on it. Once in 300 small pieces, Jew stepped back, smiled and declared: “Call someone now.”

“You’re wasted. You better hope for your own sake that you don’t blackout tonight… because I’m sure my version of what happened is a whole hell of a lot worse than your version!” I crawled into the SUV and slammed the door.

Jew did blackout and couldn’t piece together the events the next morning at breakfast. After a half hour of awkward silence Jew asked me to fill him in. “What happened to my phone?”

“Well, let’s see… you were trash talking me with your friends and threw it at my head when I confronted you. I tried to pick it up to give it back to you but you pushed me out of the way and threw it at a tree, then stomped on it for approximately 3 minutes.”

“Oh my God. I am so sorry, sweetie. I don’t remember any of that. Oh my God. Oh my God. I am so sorry!”

“Yeah, well actions speak louder than words. I don’t even want to hear it.” I bit into my garden omelet.

Not wanting to invest anymore time in a dead-end relationship, I consulted my psychic advisor the next morning. She immediately picked up on my anxiety. “Something is going on with your stomach. You’re in a lot of pain.”

I was; my fight with Jew had my stomach in knots.

“You’re in love with someone but you’re going away on a trip. It’s causing trouble.”

Damn, she was good. “Yeah.”

“You might not want to go. You’re going to have to deal with terrible drama. You’re not inherently a bad person but are going to have to deal with these types. Also, you think you’re going for one reason but are going to be surprised when you get to your destination. You really love your boyfriend and should take how this is affecting him into consideration.”

“Thanks. I could have done with some more ‘find balance to find happiness.’” I hung up and resolved to trade my psychic for a fortune cookie.

Unaware of my psychic consultation, Jew called me after work the next day. “Honey, I am so sorry about what happened over the weekend. Can you be downstairs and ready in 5 minutes? I’m going to pick you up. I have a surprise for you.”

“Be right down,” I said, thinking “surprise” was code for “spa,” “nice dinner” or something just as relaxing and romantic.

“Where are we going?” I asked, climbing into the SUV.

“It’s a surprise. Not telling,” Jew said.

I stared out the window. Touch Couture, the Birmingham Spa and Larco’s faded into the distance.

Instead, we pulled up to a professional building. “Umm… what is this?”

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” Jew grabbed my hand and led me through the corridor to an office marked “Greg Schneider, PhD.”

We walked in and a handsome man wearing a Mr. Rodgers vest and corduroys introduced himself. “Hello. My name is Greg and I’m going to be your therapist.”

After writing-off my psychic, embracing therapy, and completing the reality show, I am still dating Jew and am an advocate for grouping mental health professionals and psychics under “Counseling and Mental Health.” Jew and I worked through our problems while Greg refereed. Jew paid only $100 and Greg advised him to let me film the reality show because if he didn’t support me I “would resent him [Jew] and we would ultimately breakup.” Greg addressed the rational and practical aspects of my situation, while the psychic addressed the emotional aspects. Greg was correct; forbidding me to compete on the reality show was not the solution. However, the psychic was also correct; choosing to do the reality show hurt my relationship with Jew and we would have been better off as a couple if I hadn’t gone. The therapist dealt with my response to Jew, while the psychic considered Jew’s response to me. Unfortunately, what might be right for me as an individual might be wrong for my relationship with a loved one since how we choose to live our lives affects those around us. Subsequently, I didn’t make the right decision, nor did I make the wrong decision. I simply made a decision and now must live with the consequences. In the future, I plan on taking a more holistic approach to decision-making by integrating the practical and emotional advice, rather than completely embracing a single vantage.