I am Hannah...from Girls.

So it's been two weeks and my lady parts didn't get "the" call.

Thank fucking god.

Cause I really didn't want to have to leave this gem of a voicemail: "Oh hey... I know we haven't talked in months, buttttt I have HPV and I think its from a dude I had sex with before you, so that means you probably have it too... So yeah... Sorry about that..............You crushed my heart... Mmmmmmkay. Byeeeeeeee."

Watch my doctor call me tomorrow and be like, "Whoops, don't know how we missed this but you have every possible STD known to man. Oh, and we found remnants of some twisted Cheetos puffs circa 1999. No judgement but, ew."

Cause that's how my life works. Things will never happen the "normal" way for me. Seeing as I am not a "normal" person.

Am I complaining? Uh, yah.

It's just sooooooooooo much fun watching my life slowly become more and more like Hannah's life from "Girls."

Did I mention that I fell asleep on the F train... After getting hammered... and woke up in Queens plaza last Friday night?

I live nowhere near queens.

None of my shit was stolen, well nothing asides from my dignity, or more accurately, whatever was left of my dignity.

I threw up that night too. Like a lot. And naked. I threw up a lot while naked. Jealous?

Do you see the picture I am painting?! You don't want my life. Normality isn't overrated. Normality is fucking awesome. Something I'm never going to experience. Feel privileged, if you are one of the many "normal" ones.

Everyone is always like, "Ohmegawd! But your life is hilarious!!!! Lolololololol."

"Yeah. Cause it's not happening to you. Lololololol."

"But you're a writer. Don't you feel like it gives you so many great stories?"

"Maybe I don't want to write about these great stories. Maybe, I just want to write about unicorns and horses."

Side note: I don't want to write about unicorns and horses.

It's a weird place to be. Because you know both sides are right. And depending on that particular day, your opinion changes on the matter.

Associate producer from Dr. Oz contacts you to be on their show: You love not being "normal!"

Associate producer from Dr. Oz informs you they accidentally overbooked for that particular show: God dammit.

Meh, I'm complaining when I really shouldn't. There are moments where I'll catch myself going, "Whoa, this is cool." And then I'm are hurling into a toilet...naked.

For you.

I know I should just call, but I wanted you to have this written down somewhere you could see it, whenever you needed something like this. And texting this just seemed tacky (but so is a blog post).

Any who, like I said I love you and your family. Your father is a great man, who did something special with his life and with yours.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry someone you love dearly was taken away from you. It’s not fair. It never is. And anyone who says, “Everything happens for a reason,” can go kindly fuck themselves. Well at least that’s my opinion on that saying.

Through this whole thing you’ve been nothing but a beacon of strength, which many people are incapable of doing. And when things feel worse, and those pesky emotions rear their ugly heads, I want you to remember that. But I also want you to know that it’s okay to cry. This is a heartbreak of the highest degree, and you don’t always have to be that strong, beautiful woman that you are.

Call me, whenever you need someone to talk to, whenever you need to vent, whenever you need to hear a cry that is so indescribably weird that all you can do is laugh, cause it sounds like you a talking to a wailing banshee on the other line.

I’m not a pretty crier. It’s one of those ridiculous half-wails/half-can’t breath sobs and the way I always get myself to stop crying is by looking in the mirror.  Works like a charm. Maybe that’s what I’ll do for you. (Amongst other things). I’ll send a picture of me crying. Keep it in your wallet whenever you need a good laugh.

I always feel like I’m never as good of a friend to you as you are to me. You are amazing, and hilarious, and gorgeous. Your dad is a big reason why you are so special today. Can you believe how old we are now? How much we’ve changed and grown? Being an adult sucks.

Some of my favorite moments of college were driving home with your dad freshman year. I don’t normally feel comfortable around adults but he always made me feel at ease. He’s a jokester that one, with that special jokester twinkle in his eye.

I am always here for you through this, just a bus/train/plane ride away. Because I will get on a fucking plane for you, I will drink my way into oblivion to step on that plane for you, and I wouldn’t do that for many. But I warn you, I will be hammered when I make it to your home. It will probably be better that way, though. Drunk Natalie knows how to drink down the house! Sober Natalie, not so much.

I’m glad I get to see you soon, but I’m sorry it’s like this. However, I will make sure it will be filled with the exact same things I was planning on having us do already.

Booze. Booze. Booze.

Oh, and Carlos O’Kelly’s thrown in the mix somewhere. Or maybe I’ll just drunkenly eat a whole pizza for you like the good ol’ days. Anything you want babe, anything.

Because I love you.

Welp, I officially hate the pill.

“The Pill,” you are a fucking pill. Did you know that? You are one fucking son of a bitch. You are supposed to ease my mind from pregnancy and the possibility of “becoming a statistic” status… and maybe clear up those pesky chin pimples that arrive once a month. Maybe that’s asking too much.

But you know you do cause, Pill? You can nausea, mood changes, headaches, and feelings of tiredness and depression. And depression it has caused. Fucking boatloads of it.

That shit hit me like a train.

When all of a sudden you can’t thoroughly enjoy a ridiculously overpriced cookie that looks like an exact replica of the iPad 2, without sobbing all over the painted “app” icing… you are fucking depressed. Or maybe that’s just how I realize that I’m fucking depressed in my good ol’ noggin.

Side note: I am pointing at my “noggin” as I write this. Which leaves me with only one hand to type with. The left one. The left one doesn’t seem to be as coordinated as the right. I am not surprised.

But in all seriousness, that was not a pleasant experience. The confusion was the worst, just having no clue why you were so sad and angry and tired alllllll day, everyday day was scary. And if you know me, for the most part, I’m a very happy person. I usually can find the humor in my awkwardly awkward life. But this I couldn’t handle. This was a feeling that I just knew, wasn’t really me. I didn’t even want to eat. I DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO EAT.

Now, how did I figure out that this was being caused by the pill? After a week of this mentally debilitating state, I got on the Googles. Actually wait, no. FIRST, I finally fucking read the paper the doctor gave me about the pill.

I do this thing where I never read instructions/warranties/pamphlets about things my body will ingest and could potential cause sudden depression. It’s of my biggest character flaws.

Supposedly, the depression is caused because your body is not used to the rapid amount of hormones now circulating and shit all up in your who-hah and shit. Their words, not mine. It only lasts for about a couple of weeks, which is usually the amount of time it takes for your body to adjust, but in some cases it can cause severe depression.

Once I realized I had a tangible reason for these feelings, the depression literally just lifted off of my shoulders….and I made a pizza. A big one.

And of course, after scaring the shit out of my mother (and a few other people that I still need to call) I called her and told her the liberating news.

“Well I could have told you that. I was depressed for a year on the pill.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I definitely did.”

“Oh… how did you get the depression to stop?”

“I got off the pill.”

“It’s going to make you fat, too.”

“God dammit. How much?”

“Like ten pounds.”

“Damnit! My body frame can’t handle 10 extra pounds!”

“I know.”

I saw the sign, and it was Rachel Dratch fidgeting with her microphone.

I always forget how spontaneous I am. It's always just been second nature. And honestly I don't even call it spontaneity. It's more the mentality of, "If I'm going to fucking do this, I'm going to fucking do it." Well, that, and I kind of just don't think things through.

Which I thought is a way all people thought. It's not. And for those of you that don't think that way, no biggie. I also think pants with zippers are too constraining for the female body, obviously my opinion is not 100% full proof.

Side note: This dude next to me is legit reading this as I type it on my iPhone, but I'm too much of a pussy to look up and see if he's hot. See, no one's perfect.

Any who, my "spontaneity" is not exactly a good thing. It usually leads to some of the most embarrassing moments of my life, which yes, lead to hilarious stories, but as of recently led to my recent bout of mental breakdowns.

One of which I had a few nights ago, sobbing to my mother at 2 a.m. in the morning.

Which led me to cry on the subway on the way to a writing interview, get my shit together in front of a pizza cart in little Italy, interview, cry on the way to pick up the boys I nanny after the interview, buy three cookies that looked like iPads, shove an iPad cookie into my sobbing mouth outside the boy's school, pick up the boys, give them the cookies, make terrible puns about said iPad cookies, drop off the boys, then randomly decide to go to Brooklyn on a whim by myself, to a thing called "That's What She Said," featuring 4 female comedic authors, including Rachel Dratch.

And it was the best decision of my life.

I grabbed a beer, sat down, and had a green energy journalist start talking to me about green energy. I was a little confused. So was she.

"Wait, are you a journalist, too?"

"Well yeah. (Lie.) But I' m here to see Rachel Dratch. (Truth)."

"Oh."

Turns out she was in the wrong room, and I was glad she left. I wasn't here to make friends. If that was the case I would have ordered a PBR from the hipster-douche bartender who I'm reluctant to say was ridiculously hot.

I needed a sign to tell me I had made the right choice. That I was here in New York City for a reason. I needed a reason to let go.

Here it was.

They said everything I needed to hear and I was so sure of the fact that they were going to say everything that I needed to hear that I recorded it, all 67 minutes of it.

I sat in complete awe of these writers listening to them joke and laugh about how brutal honesty of every embarrassing moment in your life is the only way to relate to people. How an original voice is so hard to find within writing these days, that if you can do that, you've already won half the battle.

After the show I bought Rachel's book and had her sign it, all whilst telling her, "Her stint on SNL made me the person I am today."

Embarrassing, but true. I was fat and painfully shy as a child. I didn't go out. My life panned out in front of a TV schedule that played six episodes of SNL a day. It was heaven.

On the way home, I felt a little guilty about spending money, seeing as I was planning to get schwasted this weekend I was trying to save, but my mother had told me yesterday to go buy a pair of shoes to make myself feel better, WHICH I almost did in Bloomingdale's. I almost bought a pair of hot pink Bandalino's that were over 200 dollars. I know I'm not like most girls, but shoes do make me happy too.

When I returned home I found a check in the mail for me that was literally the amount that the beers and the book had cost.

Coincidence?

Absolutely-fucking-not.

I wanted to title this, "Katherine Heigl," but that wouldn't have made sense until the end so...

I’ve officially been on the pill for the past two days. Dun. Dun. Dun. And I’ve already officially forgotten to take the pill in the past two days.

Annnnnnnnnnnd I’ve also had some red wine, (for those of you that know me personally, you know this is going to be an interesting post).

It’s crazy how much one person can affect your life.

Can I do that? Am I allowed to switch from the subject of oral contraceptives to overly emotional perspectives, that most people won’t know what I’m talking about specifically, but will be able to relate to nonetheless? Am I allowed to blame the abrupt switch on the pill (or lack of taking the pill)?

I had a chat with one of my best friends today, and she said the thing that we all, as people with lady who-hah’s have said on more than one occasion. “I know how stupid I sound, but I don’t know how to stop.”

None of us do. When it’s that one person, that brings us back to that one emotion, or that one place in time that made us truly happy. You don’t want to lose that, and even when you feel yourself getting over whatever was holding you back, you revert. It scares you how easily it was to move on. Making you wonder if it was that easy for the other in said situation.

The thought of them getting over you so quickly makes you sick to your stomach, so sick (and perverse) that you latch back on to a moment of pure monumental bliss with that person, leading you to cry publicly in a playground and stupidly thinking, “if I can’t get over them…then they won’t get over me.”

Uh, no. That is retarded, girl who is writing this post. That might be the most ill conceived plan I have ever heard in my life. And secondly, you have way too much pride for that bullshit. So let’s can some perspective and get real for a hot sec.

Check it.

Number one, they have made no effort in contacting you. There has been no drunken texting, no somber pleas for even some vague place in your life. They don’t care. They are over it. To them it was just “banter.” Which inevitably was the one thing you needed to hear to get you set in the right direction. Don’t revert back now. It’s not worth it. And it never will be.

Number two, you have both picked your careers. Something you will either regret or cherish for the rest of your life. Right now? You have no fucking clue. Well, you have an opinion on the matter, you personally think a highly successful career and a highly successful marriage cannot be had at the same time. Whether that opinion is right or wrong, only time will tell.

Number three, you are allowed to feel this way. You are allowed to be mad. You are allowed to be furious. You are allowed to miss your best friend like crazy. But just remember this moment is fleeting. This feeling of self-pity and confusion can only last for so long. You hide it so well from others, it’s only a matter of time before that person becomes a vague mention of shortcomings and bad timing in your life.

Number four, they were great. And that is why this is so hard. For once in your life, you fell for someone who wasn’t a dick (and/or bitch). They were supportive, heartfelt and sincere. Which yes, makes you question why that abrupt change was so easy for them but you can’t linger on that thought. 

It will only make the process a little bit harder.

Inevitably, it all sucks. It’s such a natural part of life that you can’t fight it. But you are allowed to be pissed how easily rom-com’s make heartbreak look. Katherine Heigl only needs five to seven minutes of “Heigel sad face” close-ups before that bitch looks like she’s been injected with a shit-ton of uppers.

That is not how life works.

Making me think Katherine Heigl is not a real person, but rather an alien, with an alien embryo feeding inside her skinny ass body. So yes, what inevitably I’m getting to is the fact that the world is going to end, and it’s going to be at the hands of Heigl’s alien embryo baby-thingy that is going to splat out of her stomach in her next upcoming movie titled, “Knocked Up (with an Alien Embryo in my Body).”

And now the after post...

"Now if the test comes up positive you're not going to become suicidal, and potentially harm yourself or others are you?"

"Well, I hope not."

"And how will you feel, scared, upset, angry, confused, shocked, hurt, suicidal?"

"Probably a little scared."

"But you won't kill yourself right?"

"Right."

With the first pap test, I thought I'd just get the whole shebang done and just test for everything. If I have to make that cordial "I have an STD and now you do too," call I'd rather make it sooner rather than later, yah know?

And the moment the nurse gave more the HIV test I knew I was finally acting like an adult, at 24, it finally fucking happened. I was making decisions for myself, and only myself. For once my choices weren't somehow appeasing someone else while putting my own concerns on the backburner.

Granted, yesterday I decided it was easier to eat all the leftover pizza rather than wrap up the last two pieces and put them in the fridge... I stand by my choice.

Since I currently don't have health insurance, this was all occurring at a planned parenthood, which aside from not being seen until noon even though I had a 10:30 appointment, went amazingly well. And I mean well in the sense that I was in good hands. Gotta wait a bit for the results.

Maybe this is just from years of going to shitty military doctors who really don't give a fuck about you and your general being, but this doctor really cared. She was amazing, really. Which pisses me off even more people are actually trying to shut Planned Parenthood down/ cut funding. And if you are one of those people you can get the fuck off my blog and kindly go fuck yourself.

She didn't laugh at my stupid questions.

"Can guys get breast cancer, too?"

She didn't judge when I told her this was my first pap test.

"Honestly, since you waited so long to have sex, you really didn't do yourself a disservice."

She even made sure I got my HIV result before I left.

"I mean that's just something people don't want to wait around for, yah know?"

I'm A-ok in that area, by the way. Which I knew logically I shouldn't be worried about, but I was and have been since age 11. At 11 I thought I could get AIDs from sharing cups with other people. I was so convinced I was showing symptoms that I even crept downstairs late at night to read my mother's nursing books to reaffirm my beliefs. (Nursing books, the pre-WebMD era.) Leaving my mother to find me crying about my new diagnosis only for her to laugh, and say, "Haha..no."

So now all that is left is waiting for the results.

"You'll only get a phone call if there's something up."

"So I don't want a call."

"Exactly. Your vagina does not want a call."

Ug, so not ready for this...

So I'm going to my first gyno exam today.... I know. I know. I'm 24. What the fuck.

Which I kind of forgot about since I had to make the appointment over a month ago, hiding from the kids I nanny, only to have them scream, "Natalie! Who are you talking to? Who are you talking to?!? I'm allowed to know!"

Besides that moment, I tried not to think about it. Until, I got into the shower ten minutes ago and looked down.

"shit."

Which is probably karma for me saying, "I don't have to shave shit!" to myself every time I'm in the shower since my, "I'm no longer having unemotional sex," vow.

Which, might I add, has been fucking amazing. It's so much easier. I'd thought I'd miss the drunken sex when, you know, I got drunk but I dont have to share my bed anymore! I don't have to feign interest in subjects we both knew neither one cares about! I don't have to share my food anymore!!!! I. Fucking. Love. It.

But I will admit, I have been hounding my best guy friend who's getting married if their was anyone I could hook up with at the reception.

Whateva, that's in a month. I'm allowed to have a prescheduled slip- up in a month. And he gave names. Those poor boys.

What do I wear to a gyno? Do I wear a skirt for easy access? Paint my toe nails? Draw a dog with a Sharpie near it. What if he and/or she doesn't like it? Are they allowed to not like it? Am I allowed to not like it? Cause I don't like it. Seriously, vaginas are icky. They are all vaginaey and shit.

Ew.

Ug, I'm so not ready for this. But we all know I'm going to do/ say some awkward shit and then write about it for you all to laugh.

I do this shit for you guys, god damnit. I do it for you!

Things that I hate, you should too, obviously.

1. When people say shit like, “No regrets!” “Never live with regrets ya’ll!” “I’ll never regret any decision I’ve ever made….ever!” Really? You don’t have a single regret? Ummm….yeah…I’m calling bullshit on that one….

…because I’m pretty sure you regret whatever you did last night or I wouldn’t have awkwardly run into you at the local CVS pharmacy picking up your weekly prescription of plan B now would I?

“You know it’s only one pill now.”

“Oh is it?”

“Yeah…no regrets…”

2. Those god damn mother-fucking “CO-EXIST” stickers that I see on every god damn liberal hippie douches Datsun. That’s not even an eco-friendly car. Jesus Christ. I swear to god, it just has the fucking word “sun” in it, so now you think it’s all pro-environment. Who isn’t pro-environment?! Oh wait…I’m not.

…I swear to God there must be requirements to buy this fucking sticker.

“Do you have dreadlocks?”

“Yes.”

“Do you shave your legs?”

“Only in the summer.”

“Close enough…you are now the proud owner of the douchiest, of the douchiest bumper stickers.”

“Will some pale pseudo-ginger whose awkwardly cute come and kick the back of my car now?”

“Oh absolutely.”

…and I will (and have), too.

3. Nature.

….not a fan.

4. People who buy PBR because and say, “I buy it because I like the taste, not because I'm an annoying hipster wearing glasses with no lenses in them while I'm telling you why I but PBR in a condescending manner.”

….douche.

5. People who like, no…looooooooooooove nature.

…douche(s).

6. People who don’t understand that there is an imaginary line separating your seat from there seat on the MEGABUS.

…there is an imaginary line separating your seat from my seat on the Megabus! So get your fat ass off the god damn imaginary line!

7. Running.

…I’m pretty sure running is the root of all evil.

8. Orange juice.

…stop being such a sour bitch, orange juice. No seriously, if you weren’t so fucking sour I’d probably like you.

9. People who have never tasted a Zero Bar before.

…Go straight to hell, I say! STRAIGHT. TO. HELL.

10. This whole, “no pants, no service” policy.

…look, sometimes I don’t want to put pants on…and sometimes I want to buy a couple of forties sans pants. And let’s be honest here…don’t the two go hand-in-hand really? I really hope your nodding your head because you agree and not because you are trying to distract me from the fact that you are calling the police. I applaud your effort, but I really want that fucking forty now, cashier lady-man!

Excerpt from the book, yes book that I am writing...

So guys, I've been crazy busy and have decided to show you an excerpt from my book, which is basically a satirical dating guide for successful females, with a hilarious twist. (I'll explain later, the twist is genius. So genius only a few know about it cause I don't want no bitches stealing that shit, says the lady that is posting an excerpt of her book online). This excerpt delves into part of your past dating life (based off of my past dating life) and is just me basically telling you why you should listen to me.

Any who, enjoy. Tell me it's hilarious. Or not. My self esteem could gain to lose a few points. Now excuse my while I cry in the corner of my bathroom while I await for constructive feedback.

 How’s that search for your soul mate going? Just swimming in a pool of seemingly perfect bachelor’s, aren’t you? Yeah, I didn’t think so. So why don’t we take a quick peak at your past lovah’s. You should probably grab a beer before you read any further. And hide your phone so you don’t send any nasty/desperate/sexual texts to the past assholes you dated. Ready? Ready!

Let’s look at the facts:

     

    1.     Remember that perfect guy you dated a few weeks/months/never ago?

Was he really that perfect? Or were you completely out of his league and yet he somehow found a way to passive-aggressively make you feel inadequate in every way possible? Let’s not forget that all of your mutual friends were completely confused about how he wasn’t worshipping your ass to make sure you never leave his pathetic pipe dream of a life. He also never shaved, like ever. At first you were attracted to his mountain beard, it was all mountainy and shit. But then you had sex with him. And you realized that the same maintenance he practiced on his face-beard, was also the same up-keep he used on his dick-beard. Yeah…that was real fun wasn’t it?  

2.    Remember how mature that perfect guy you dated a few weeks/months/never ago was?

How his band “Hokey Religions Mashed With Anthrax Graves” was going to make it big?! But not “big” in the conventional sense of being successful, because a “band that is commercially successful is a band that sold out on all their musical beliefs and should rot in hell for such blasphemy, Natalie!” Remember how his apartment/bed-sheets/pants smelled of weed and flatulence? Not that you don’t like the smell of weed (we all love a good toke-up from time to time) but when it’s combined with the putrid aroma of flatulence and dick, well, well that’s just fucking gross.

                 3.     Remember how dumb that perfect guy you dated a few weeks/months/never ago was?

Yeah. He was fucking stupid. Don’t even pretend like he wasn’t. He told you, you weren’t funny because he was too stupid to comprehend the inner workings of your well-timed black joke! STUPID! He was so dumb you wouldn’t even date him, let alone muster up some spare time to be around him sober. In all honesty, this particular dude was just ridiculously hot, basically the complete opposite of the dude from #1, but you hated his general being (with the exception of his penis, for obvious reasons). Of course the hot dumb guy you hate with a passion was great at sex. You know the world is not a fair place based on that fact alone. 

                

                4.     You are an intimidating, classy, fine-ass, lady woman.

That fact alone, will keep many a men away from you and your fine lady ass. Which yes, seems so ass backwards, but for some reason when you are an attractive, successful and smart female, men that are worth your time never seem to be able to muster up any sort of courage to talk to you. And if they are that cowardly, do you really want them in your life anyway? Absolutely not. Yet for some odd reason, greasers, white trash and emotionally unavailable men with crazy-ass pipe dreams will always be knocking at your door. You will allow them into your life, too, because at this point, why the fucking hell not? 

But I say nay, ladies! NAY! You are a classy, fine-ass, lady woman, with thought-provoking thoughts about why certain condiments are better than others and why pants that consist of both buttons and zippers are too constricting for the female body.  You also have the uncanny ability to chug Irish car bombs quicker than your heterosexual male counterpart. You are fucking catch, god damnit! Now start treating yourself like one. No more of this douchey douche-baggery mucking up your love life.

I'm not that much of a heartless bitch...well...yeah I am.

“So you’re telling me that you never want to be happy with a man? You’re just going to push everyone away aren’t you?”

No mother (and other friends), obviously if I found a dude who found my wise ass cracks undeniably charming I’d lock that shit down real quick.

HOWEVER…that has not happened yet. So yes. I am going to ignore the stage five clinger that leaves me six text messages and two voicemails in a one-hour period…I wish that was an exaggeration.

And yes, I’m going to be a complete lady douche (the act of, not the product) to majority of men I meet…in hopes to ward off stage five clingers that leave me six text messages and two voicemails in a one-hour period.

Seriously, I’m cool and decently cute (in the right lighting) but I’m not, "leave me six text messages and two voicemails in a one-hour period," cute.

It’s not that I don’t want to find my significant other, because eventually sure, my high metabolism will catch up to me and I’ll need to lock down a dude before these love handles get out of control…. Well that, and I know I’ll be way to fucking lazy to take care of 15 cats when I’m older… or myself, for that matter.

I’m just not “Sarahjessicaparking” it all over the city, yah know?

Side note: Sarahjessicaparking is a term I coined to mean, “Ladies who run around NYC drunk and half-starved, trying to find their soul mates, who then in turn write about it in their shitty blogs while laughing at the shitty puns and terms they just made up… and they are probably drinking some sort of cheap liquor, too.”

So technically, yes, at this moment in time I am Sarahjessicaparking the shit out my blog right now. Fuck off.

Any who, I just don’t care about this whole soul-mate searching shindig. I’ve found Hellman’s mayo, Saturday Night Live, Michelob Ultra and youporn.com; I’ll be content for years.

Call me selfish, but have you ever mixed Hellman’s mayo with Heinz ketchup? It’s life changing.

But if someone conveniently drops my soul mate into my lap while making my fancy sauce…then…you know…I’m down.

So until that happens, I’ll probably keep on pushing away all the “acceptable men” in my life… and my mother will keep yelling at me over the phone “He was Jewish and a lawyer?!? God damnit, Natalie. Marry him.”

"Yes, mom. A successful jewish lawyer...with a coke addiction."