My name is Self-Appointed Expert, and this is my blog. It is part memoir, mostly fiction, and above all just trying to be funny. Some of is based on stuff that happened to me, some is based on stuff that happened to people I know, and a good deal is just entirely made up. So, if you find yourself offended, just remember - it's a joke. When you give me that look, it's a joke. Consider it my homage to the Secret Life of Walter Mitty, A Million Little Pieces, John Hodgman, and Christopher Guest.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Do you take...this woman?

Sometimes I get lonely. Despite all my big talk, I don't have a boyfriend - homeless, homely, or otherwise. No one to cuddle. No one to improve. No one to mooch off of or clean up after. I think the problem is that I hate most people I meet, and my standards are even higher for people who want to do me. Another issue is that as much as I hate people, I hate dating more. Really, I don't even want a boyfriend. What I want is a husband. But without having to date him first.

It makes sense to me. Boyfriends are afraid of commitment. Husbands, on the other hand, seem to support it - at least on paper. Boyfriends live in shitty bachelor pads. Husbands live in houses that I get to decorate, but they have to pay for. Boyfriends break hearts. Husbands fix sinks. It seems like a no-brainer.

The problem is I've found that guys don't marry girls if they don't, for instance, know their last names. The way I see it, though, what does it matter what my last name is? I'm just going to give it up when I take yours anyway. So, when I say to you, Evan Thompson, "Hi, my name is Sarah," don't ask me, "Well, do you have a last name?" Just think, "Sarah. Sarah Thompson. Right." Sort of has a nice ring to it, eh? Specifically, a gold ring. White gold. With diamonds.

And an inscription on the inner band: "To the girl I just met, who tricked me into marrying her. You're more fun than the bar scene. I think." Only in Latin. It sounds a little pushy in English.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Dang! We're in a tight spot!

This morning the DC metro flooded. About half the lines were closed. Not mine. DCMTA knew better, I guess.

My neighbors were another story: the station outside my apt was, in my opinion, excessively crowded. Although CNN had reporting all morning that the beltway was closed due to a mudslide, no one thought it worthwhile to clue in the locals to the heavy delays on the train, so everyone was out in full force. The result was that you'd walk past the bus stop, past the taxi stands, and trek down into the metro, business as usual, only to approach the platform and discover about 200 people crowding the gap. (On a busy morning, there's more like 10-20.) By the time you figured out that trains were running at every 10-15 min rather than every 1-2, it was too late for you to turn back. You were already part of the jam.

Suffice it to say that when the trains showed up, not everyone could fit. Really, only about 15 could make it on at our stop, as the train was already packed to the gills with commuters, bags, umbrellas, and hyperventilating claustrophobics. I didn't think I'd make it, and at first I didn't. But after the initial push, the train paused at the station, doors open, for about 3-4 minutes. I couldn't stand it - it was now or never. I crowded on.

I deflected the natural chagrin of my new, very intimate, commuter friends with a comment about how someone in the middle of our car had left a seat open. Instantly, I was accepted - I was a compatriot, equally inconvenienced and annoyed by all the idiots around us who were really just fooling themselves if they thought they were going to make it on this train. Somehow they forgot that only moments before, I, too, had been one of those idiots elbowing my way into their personal space. I made friends with a Pakistani man to my right. He congratulated me on my success. I smiled back, happy to have an ally.

The woman next to me was a middle aged blonde named Renee. I knew she was called Renee because she hung a name tag around her neck on a faded lanyard. She worked for the Peace Corps. She had probably been shot at, dehydrated, forced to fight off malaria and subsist off of grubs and rice staples for weeks on end - surviving only out of sheer force of will and her commitment to making the world a better place. On the train, however, she looked like she had met her match. Dejected, wilting, she shrunk further into the corner with every passing stop, complaining to a woman next to hear wearing a hijab that though she didn't have back problems, her back was hurting her now. Once I tripped and nearly crushed her when the train operator hit the accelerator a little too enthusiastically. I smiled, happy to give her a reason to sigh dejectedly.

Immediately in front of me was a clean cut intern with dark jellied hair and a tan, either new to law school or fresh from college. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, and as the train lurched the curve of his ass kept bumping up into my abdomen. I had to turn my face to the left (and alternately look up to the ceiling or down to her nametag to avoid staring directly at Renee), and brace my neck to resist the centrifugal force of the train's careening path through the tube - doing my best to keep my lips, my face, and my cheeks from rubbing up against his momentarily immaculate starched collar. I couldn't deny the sexual tension that developed between my midriff and his backside, but I didn't want him to get dumped on false pretences when he got home later that night.

Eventually the overflow of people reduced to trickle as we approached the heart of the city and progressively larger groups of commuters began to peal away at their respective destinations. The rain continued for most of the day; when it didn't rain, the air stayed dirty and wet.

I took the subway back home at the end of the day. This time I got a seat, but nothing to write about.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Just Like I Did With Old Yellar

So, I went over to Jimmy's "house" this weekend, and we had a long conversation about the benefits of supply side economics that, I have to say, really got me thinking. In the end, though, like most liberals who briefly flirt with conservatism only to come running back to the left, I just couldn't take the smell. I broke up with him in a note written on the back of a discarded Dunkin Donuts wrapper that I found on the ground under a pile of used syringes. It was sort of passive of me, I admit. He can't read, after all.

Anyway, the good new is that as I was walking home, I stopped a bar for a post-break up pick-me-up and ended up picking up a new guy. He's great. A little short for me, though. He stands about mid-waist on me, so I guess heels are out. And his nose is sortof - big. Not that that's usually a problem for me (I'm Catholic, but I've had as much Jew in me as Kesher Israel), but this schnoz is worse than usual - it's big and black and wet, too. Ok, I'll just come out and say it. I'm dating Brian Griffin.

Apart from being a "cartoon character" and a "dog," he's everything I've ever wanted in a man. He's well-read, hates children, liberal, witty, and above all: house trained. (Which is more than I can say for the last guy I dated!) (Although I suppose it's hard to be house trained if you don't have a house.) All in all, I'd say he's a keeper.

Plus, if things turn out badly, I can always put him to sleep.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Spare change? Spare heart.

Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know that, from time to time, I've written about myself as though I were a homeless person. I'm writing now to tell you that those posts were not strictly truthful. I am not homeless. But, my boyfriend is.

My boyfriend, Jimmy, lives around the corner from Union Station. Well, in the gutter on the corner next to Union Station. I still remember the first time we met. I was carrying my $4.48 grande no whip sugar free vanilla fat free mocha latte from Starbucks; he was on his belly reaching into the sewer to recover a partially-smoked Malboro cigarette. I tripped over him as I descended from the curb, and I noticed him when I realized I had actually caused him quite a bit of pain. Thinking I could pay him off and avoid having to cream him later in small claims, I reached into my pocket for a couple of quarters or a nickel or something, enough to shut him up without cutting into my bi-hourly diet coke rations. But then, something happened. Our eyes met. (Well, my eyes met the one eye of his that wasn't swollen shut from me kicking him in the face with my Manolos.) The rest, as they say, is history.

Dating a homeless man isn't all glamour and tin can deposits, mind you. Like any couple, we have our problems. I, for instance, sleep on an air mattress, so I've found it a little awkward to bring men home with me. Jimmy, however, sleeps on a pile of dirt next to the dumpster at the Capital Grille. He thinks I'm sort of a prude; really, I'm just holding out for him to get a shelter or at least a park bench or something before I stay the night. It's silly I know - but what girlfriend doesn't complain about her beau's bachelor pad? Also, I admit: the gangrene sort of weirds me out. But Jimmy says it's an investment (or at least, that's what I think he said - he has a tendency to jabber on incoherently - it's adorable!): apparently losing just one minor limb can increase his earnings by about 25% annually, with potential for future salary increases if he ever gets enough capital to invest in some of those sunglasses that make people think you're blind. What can I say? I'm attracted to men with ambition.

All in all, as much as I care about Jimmy, I have to admit that I no longer see us having much of a future together. I found out yesterday that he's a Republican.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

They should really just pay us in press releases.

I came to law school to do two things: find a husband, and change the world. Since I'm not dating anyone at the moment, and I'm kind of a pill, as of late I've been focusing most of my efforts on the latter goal. You know, the world changing.

Like most law students who have never had to work for their money, I'm a firm believer that I should never do anything unless it has the capacity to change the world. And I mean anything. Like this morning, for instance, I had to choose between eating some very delicious cranberry and walnut cereal with soy milk, or cooking myself some free-range eggs and applewood smoked bacon. It was an easy choice for a dedicated world-changer. What does that wheat plant or soy bean care if I eat it? Answer: Not a lot. All it has to do is sit around and photosynthesize and it's right back where it started, no world-changing involved. Or, at least, those plants don't care nearly as much as the chicken fetus or the gormet hog whose life I ended prematurely in order to sate my early morning craving (nah, it was really just a slight preference) for protein. I rocked those bitches' WORLDS.

But more importantly, I'm committed to changing the world with my job. Isn't everybody? I mean, I don't really get how cleaning toilets leads to a better life for all of mankind, but I really can't explain why all those janitor people would be willing to do it otherwise. Those toilets are stinky.

All I know is, when I'm a lawyer, I'm going to change the world, billable hour by billable hour. No, paying my parents back for my education will not be enough. No, making more money annually than the cumulative total lifetime salary ever made by everyone in the history of my family tree will not satisfy me. No, getting the best training available in the legal industry and actually learning how to be a lawyer will not stop me. I want more. When I walk in the door Monday mornings, I want streamers and world renown and feelings of almost sexual bliss. I want men to want me. I want women to fear me. I want my name in the papers, and adorers fawning at my feet. Instead of me sending out my taxes to the government, every April I want the government to send me a thank you note and a celebratory fruit basket. I want it all, baby. I want to make history, and then make history for making history, and then re-write history to make all my rivals look like jerks. Because history, and world changing, is for the winners, my friend. And winners don't work just to provide for their families, or to satisfy their obligations, or to support their lifestyles, or to advance their careers, or to contribute to a market economy, or to accumulate worldly possessions, or to advance the Protestant work ethic.

No, no, no. Winners work to change the world. And for fame. Actually, just fame.

Monday, June 19, 2006

One House, Two House, Cape House, Country House.

No one appreciates how difficult it is to own four houses. I mean, like, every time I talk about the ups and downs of juggling my Cabo beach bungalow with our little cottage on the Cape, it's like my friends think I'm speaking Chinese or something. They just don't understand.

Like the other day, I was sleeping in my bedroom in my New York country house, and it hit me. My bed in my New York country house is my favorite bed, of all of my beds, in all of my houses. I mean, it's not brain science or anything. My New York house is the only house that we've decided to spend the $700/pop to get the Tempur-Pedic mattresses put in, whereas in all the others we just have the regular Serta Perfect sleeper + feather bed + 300 threadcount mattress pad. But, still. I feel like preferring one bed over the other is like picking a favorite. And you shouldn't pick favorites with your houses: you should love them all the same.

Also, it's impossible to keep track of my necessities. I mean, I do the best I can. I leave my good ski pants in our ski house up in Park City. That's easy. But you can really use a good North Face fleece in a lot of places. Should I leave it in Park City, or should I keep it in Martha's Vinyard? The shore can get really chilly at night; plus, I have already have my waterproof EMS ski jacket for the slopes, so the fleece is sort of superfluous, even though it's generally colder in Utah. Ugh. It's just an impossible situation.

I guess I should make the best of it. I mean, I have this one friend whose family only has the one house in Long Island and a time share in Fire Island. I guess it's easy for him to keep track of where he stores his sheep-skin lined slippers from L.L. Bean, but at what price? I'll tell you: the price of renting out some shithole bed and breakfast every time you want to spend a week skiing (~$10,000, in Park City, and that's IF you can get a reservation). I don't mean to be cheap about accomodations, but it just doesn't make economical sense to me to not just buy the whole house. I really don't get what these one- or two-housers are thinking. Do you just never go on vacation? It just seems like a waste of money to spend $20,000 for two weeks when you could just spend $10M and have it for the rest of your life.

I guess some people just think money grows on trees.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

For the birds.

The other day I was walking to work, and as I looked down at the sidewalk to stare at my feet (my usual posture), I noticed a tiny female sparrow hopping along beside me.

-"Hey, SEA," she chirped. "I see you're wearing a suit. You're not seriously going to work today, are you?"
-"Why shouldn't I be? They pay me well, they treat me like royalty, and they're going to teach me how to be a really good lawyer. What's not to love?" I blinked back, bewildered.
-"Well, for one, that skirt is obviously too tight on you. Working at a firm doesn't seem to fit you much better. Also, it's beautiful outside. Look at that sky! Do you honestly prefer staring at a computer screen all day? A computer screen of death?"
-[Stunned, I stopped in my tracks. I stood, for a moment, in silence.]
-"Come, fly with me. All you have to do is turn left at the intersection instead of right. Be an artist. Read novels. Live at home. Stay a child at heart. You already act like a four year old most of the time anyway."

I looked at her, she stared back at me, and she walked along next to me for a good ten paces before she flew off, exacerbated. I took the next right.

Pray for us non-sinners now.

Some people think it's slutty to be on birth control when you're not in a relationship. I think it's the only way to really protect gainst immaculate conception.

Seriously, the threat is real. It happened one time to a girl I know.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

How a New York Summer Associate got drunk, got naked, and still got a job: An update to the Clara V. story.

By now, anyone who’s spent any time on the law firm interview circuit in the last year has heard the story of Clara V., UVA ’06, and her infamous 2L summer. The long and short of the controversy is that at some point during the summer of 2005, Ms. V. is alleged to have been in attendance at a typical summer event hosted by her typical New York law firm. The event, as you might recall, was a bar night on a pier of the Hudson River. The story, of course, is that Ms. V. got drunk, got half-naked, and then – to the shock and horror of everyone around her – jumped into the river.

Like the 1L at Michigan who CC’d his entire first-year section and the law school dean in a ranting email upbraiding his professor for turning in final grades a few days past deadline, Ms. V.'s ignominy spread throughout the inboxes of law students and young associates all across the country. The popularity of her story was partly due to its sheer gossip value, but its real appeal was its inspirational value for aspiring summer associates everywhere. If Ms. V. could teach us anything, it was that a soft offer is still an offer. You, too, could drink like a fish until you literally had to be fished out of a river by the U.S. Coast Guard, and still talk your way into another job in another city the following year. And you didn’t even have to go to Harvard to do it.

As is usually the case with all really juicy gossip, however, there is more to the story of drunken Clara and the river that made her famous. After conducting a very thorough journalistic investigation (i.e., Googling her name), your humble reporter has discovered that while Ms. V. has certainly spent a more than typical amount of time swimming in the Hudson River, not all of it has been to her chagrin. On the contrary, the alumni report of the Colorado College Department of Neuroscience (her alma mater) celebrates her for it. As it turns out, within only a few weeks of her infamous night swimming on the pier, Ms. V. won second place in the women's 20-29 age group in the 2005 “Race for the River,” a 2.4 mile swim in, you guessed it, the Hudson to raise funds for river clean-up and preservation.

In the end, however, there is still much that we can learn from our hero, Ms. V. As law students, it turns out that the sheer magnitude of our egos is sufficient to inspire us to do things that, for “the normals,” could only possibly be explained in terms of a potent combination of tequila and very poor judgment. So, for this, we thank you, Ms. V. The field of legal egology will be forever in your debt for this important contribution.

Eds: Although we included Clara's full name in
the original version of this post, out of courtesy we've abbreviated her title to Clara V. To readers who may not approve of the edit, or who may find it disingenuous since we still link to her alma mater's site, we offer the following prayer: may all your faults and embarrassments remain not easily Google-able.

Monday, June 12, 2006

No Pepsi Contracts for Inner Beauty.

I realized something today. Something disturbing. I was standing on line at the supermarket, next to my cart full of all the fresh vegetables and vitamins I planned to fill my body with, idly glancing at the racks of junk news I was doing my best not to fill my head with. News about who Nick Lachay is dating and who has the best boobs in Hollywood and what jeans look good on what types of butts and all the other great divisive issues of our times, and all of a sudden it came to me.

Britney Spears is hotter than me.

I wanted to die.

Monday, June 05, 2006

He-Man Woman Hater

We had a women's lunch at the firm today. You know the type: everyone sitting around, wearing skirts, having boobs, with the obligatory preggo chick sitting in the corner talking about how great it is to balance brief-writing with your 35-lb swollen uterus. It was murder, and not in the way that abortion is murder. This murder actually made me to stop and think. The conclusion I reached was simple, but powerful: I hate women.

Some of you might be thinking, but SEA, you are a woman. How can you hate your own kind? Try sitting down to a lunch that consists of a trio of salads, and tell me you think any differently. A trio of motherfucking salads. They might as well followed up with a pint of Ben and Jerries served on Cathy-printed placemats sponsored in part by Lifetime.

It's not fashionable to hate women in this day and age. Hating women has gotten me in trouble from time to time. I know for a fact, for instance, that I've lost at least one job offer because of it. The scene went a little something like this:

Lady interviewer: Oh, so you went to Chicago? Who were your favorite professors?
Me: Well, there was [male professor #1], and [male professor #2]. Both very funny, and personable, I really learned a lot from them, and...
Lady interviewer: So. (Interrupting.) You prefer male professors.
Me (aside): Wuuuuhhhhhh????
Me (outloud): Ummn, well. Uhh...Yeah, sort of. [Editor's note: I have a policy of being 100% honest in interviews. It's just my policy. I never said it was a good policy.] I mean, I just get along with guys better in general. I mean, I basically have no female friends, you know? And women professors, like my [civ pro] professor [who, I shit you not, I referenced by name] can come across as sort of, you know, timid sometimes. [What am I saying! Fuck!] I mean, it's like they feel like they don't belong there or something, [Double fuck!] and they don't really know what they're doing. [Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!] I mean, I just like good teachers, people who draw you in. And, most professors who are like that are male. But...I guess I've had some good female professors, too.
Lady interviewer: Oh yeah? Like who?
Me: Uhhh... My [crim law] professor.
Lady interviewer: What was her name?
Me: I can't remember.
Lady interviewer: Right. So, what can I tell you about the firm?

Anyway. The women's luncheon wasn't as bad as it could have been, I suppose. I mean, no one menstruated all over the tablecloth or anything, nobody made me bake , and I didn't literally have to experience childbirth right there on the table in front of everybody. But still. It couldn't have been any girlier if they'd held it inside a giant vagina that was decorated with ponies. Although the food probably wouldn't have been much better.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

*Hitler, after all, was a vegetarian.

I caught myself having a long conversation tonight about a mutual friend. It was 23 minutes of detailed, biting, and intensely mean-spirited analysis of the friend's personality attributes. Not just his flaws, mind you, but his attributes in general. I mocked the things about him that he probably liked the most about himself. In fact, I probably mocked those bits the most. In the end, I concluded two things: my friend is a loser, and I am a bitch. But I wondered: am I also a bad person? I'll try to answer that question with a story.

This weekend I was waiting for a train at the subway and a man walked up to me and my friend. He started going into some story about how he had some $3 metro card that he couldn't use, and he needed us to trade him $1.75 in cash for it, and how he'd talked to like 4 or 5 other people and they'd all blown him off. What did I do? Blew him off. "Sorry," I said through pursed lips. "Don't have any cash." And this wasn't the first time that I'd done something like this. One time in Boston a lady came up to my mother and I and then launched into a detailed story about how she had been robbed, and she was stranded, and she needed a specific amount of money to take the commuter rail, and how she had no one to call and so we had to help her. "Sorry," I said. "No cash."

My personal rule of thumb is that I don't open my wallet for anyone who approaches me on the street. I know that sounds harsh - but it actually goes double for people who approach me with very detailed reasons for why they need my help. "I just got a call from my wife and she's in the hospital, but I took her car to work this morning so I don't have my cellphone, but then I got in an accident and now the car doesn't work, and I really need cab fare, and I live around the corner and I could FedEx you a check tomorrow, if you please just give me money now." Frankly, I don't buy it. For the lady in the subway, why not call the police and have them let you use their phone to call your friends? For the dude on the street, do you really think I'm giving you my cash AND my home address? For the man in the subway, if you really have a subway card worth three dollars, surely a Metro employee will lend you a hand to get you where you need to go. The way I see it, there's never any reason in the world that a normal person needs to get cash from another normal person off the street. (Unless, maybe, they're in a foreign country and they don't know how to call the police after they've been mugged of every cent (riyal, pound, etc.) to their name.) (And in that case I probably couldn't understand what they were asking me to do in the first place. El walleto? I have no idea what that means.)

My theory is that in cases like these, involving people who claim to be normal people who aren't beggers or con artists, but just need money now because they're in a crisis, the more detailed your story is, the more likely it is to be fake. And every time I've met a person in such a crisis, they've been fucking James Joyce. So, my new rule, a corollary to the wallet thing, is that unless I can see you bleeding, I'm not helping you. And even then, the most I'll do is plug your wounds and call for help. The wallet will remain firmly in tow.

So my question is this: Does this make me a bad person, or a smart person? I don't look at the homeless with disdain. I always say thank you to the guy at CVS who opens the door for me. I smile at the guy asking me for change outside of the liquor store opposite North Hall. I say good morning to the lady giving out newspapers at the subway. I always say "thanks - and have a nice day!" to the random passers-by (homeless or not, male or not) who tell me in various iterations that I'm beautiful or that they'd like to have sex with me. Granted, I never give them change or buy them booze or take their newspapers or date them, but I'm nice about it. But I wonder, can you be nice and still be a bad person?* I'm just not sure. I hope not, or at least, I hope I'm both nice and not bad.

Actually, I take that back. It's more than possible to be nice and a bad person. Bad, as in, a bad quality person. A person who won't say anything mean about another person, who won't say anything interesting at all, really, in the interest of being nice or being polite. A person, who in other words, sucks the personality and the soul out of you with every breath they steal from their more interesting and worthwhile co-inhabitors of the earth.

So yeah, if that's the standard, call me a baddie. I may be going to hell, but at least I won't be sucking the personality out of everyone around me on my way down.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

It's a Girl! A letter from Angelina Jolie.

But first a word from your author. Hi, guys. Long time, no post. I had a birthday this week, and I decided to pull a George Washington. You know, take a few days off, lose all my teeth, stop lying, own some slaves. It was a good time. As always, however, the low point of the whole affair was the actual singing of the "Happy Birthday" song. It was mortifying. Not because I'm embarassed to admit it was my birthday, but because it's just a terrible terrible song. I swear to god, it's the most depressing piece of music ever written or performed in the history of mankind. It's like a funeral march. And in a way, it is. A funeral march.

Anyway, while I was out, I got a letter in the mail from my dear friend Angelina. Or Angie, as I call her. It was, as you might have guessed, a birth announcement. Thought I'd post it here for everyone to enjoy.

Greetingssss, my darlingsssss:

First, let me apologize for the impersonal mass email. I would have called you all individually, but as you know, I can only squeeze so many spoken words out of my bulbous and overly sexified slug-lips at a time. It's one of the many prices you have to pay to live life as the world's most attractive half-woman, half-praying mantisssss. But as I've learned from my many tours with the UN, better mass emails than mass graves.

Anyway, as I'm sure you and every other human soul on this beautiful planet of ours already know, I gave birth to my first biological child this past week. (My lawyers advised me that if I kept outsourcing my birthing needs to foreign workers, I would eventually face some tax problems.) After an uneventful Caesarean section, little baby Shiloh was liberated from my womb (unlike the Congoese from the steely grip of poverty) at about 2 pm last Saturday. And though she's only been with us for a week, she already feels like part of the family. Sibling rivalry, for instance, has definitely set in. I've already caught her several times trying to "out-refugee" her brother and sister, Malcom and Zahara. You know the bit: refusing vaccinations, playing "how many flies can you fit on your face," distended belly contests. For a 7 day old, I have to admit, she's holding her own. Brad and I couldn't be happier.

We're also quite relieved to announce that despite all the attention from the world press, no one has yet figured out that I am, in reality, an alien. Brad thought that announcing we were having the baby in Namibia (which, as you all know, is really the 4th moon of Saturn) would be giving away too much, but then I reminded him that if we just told people it was some country in Africa, no one would ever be the wiser. Throw in the services of a nice Nigerian fellow (who's been emailing me lately) to appear in public as the "president of Namibia," and bingo! You've invented yourself a country.

Anyway, I should probably get back to nursing. (Yes, I know that it's a risk to use my $10 million tits to nurse, but I figure I've been milking my Goodwill Ambassador position for so long, it's only fair to return the favor.) Thanks, as always, to all of you for all of your love and support. Except for you, Jen. No one's buying this "I'm so happy and in love that I haven't even noticed that my husband's been procreating with another woman" act. I had a fucking human being growing inside of my 24-inch belly for FUCKING NINE MONTHS. I know that your view was probably blocked by Vince Vaughn's pasty balloon ass lying on top of you for the last few weeks you've been "not dating," but for Pete's sake, you're not blind. (Although, after looking at that ass, it would explain a lot if you were.) Anyway, I'm off to bone your man.

Eternally,
Angie.