Note to all ambitious, fashionable thwirties women:

Women – as in we – are our own worst enemies. 

After all of the achievements women have made these last 88 years, you’d think we’d start playing on the same team in the business world. But we don’t. 

We’re catty. 

Sometimes we’re downright mean. 

We judge other women way more harshly on appearance than our male counterparts. 

Somewhere along the way, the female generation ahead of the thwirties group forgot to nurture and mentor, and taught us that getting ahead means resorting to illegitimate “feminine” defense and offense behaviors.

It’s pathetic and it’s got to stop. 

Which is why I’m going to find out why my “superiors” at work – all female – have labeled me as “opportunistic, setting too high standards…” rather than attempting to support or educate a younger co-worker. 

Ladies, take off the gloves. There’s a reason women are still underpaid compared to the males. We’re too busy tearing each other apart. 

But what do I know?

I’m just an opportunistic b*tch.


On recent flight back from Florida, I wrote this while crunched in between two rows of families with multiple babies:

The babies in front of me are crying. Not just the baby-wants-milk or baby-has-wet-diaper, but the I-am-a-baby-and-I-will-wail-to-torture-all-of-you-because-I-can crying.

My dear friend just told me she’s having a baby. And now I seem them everywhere. Preganators. Babies. Even Daddies. Or as I’ve lately called them, Impreganators.

Somehow I’ve been oblivious to the sheer number of people my age having children. There are lots of us. Proof that men and women in their Thwirties are not only capable of dating, but of committing and successfully procreating.

As an observer in this group – completely unattached from this current trend – I’m a mixture of awe and complete confusion.

 We want this, right? Screaming children instead of live music, sleepless nights with bottles instead of beer, flying with diaper bags instead of laptops and staying home instead of going out.

Well, some of us do. I’m not sure yet that I’ll be on that bus; although, the idea of a man willing to commit himself and then attempting to have a little person with me sounds pretty enticing.


Impregnator #1 just bumped my laptop.


I went to therapy today and my therapist* said,


“L, you use self-deprecating humor as a defense mechanism to avoid uncomfortable or painful issues.”


“Dr., but am I funny?”


“Yes, you’re freaking hilarious. I have to stop myself from laughing because it takes us off track and reinforces your being mean to yourself.”


“But you think I’m funny.”


“Stop avoiding, L.”



*Oh. And yes. I think everyone should see a therapist. That means you, too.


The other day I bought a little used runaround scooter. I’ve wanted one for a long time and this is a short step to the big boy I hope to buy in the Spring. 

So, I went to a family reunion yesterday and my father mentioned loudly to everyone – thank beer – that I’d bought a scooter. 

“L, please tell me you’re not going through some early mid-life crisis,” says Uncle K. 


“No, I just always wanted one.” 

Cynical scowls. “Harumph, we’ll see…” says Uncle K, as I stare out the window at his new Corvette.

A few nights ago I met up with coworkers for a margarita at one of my favorite Mexican places in the city. It’s a small place, but it has two bars kind wrapped around the whole side of the restaurant.


We talked and joked around and somehow the subject of how I moved “here” came up.


I told them that restaurant was one of our first dates (the ex and me) and that he introduced me to their picante margaritas. And as many train wrecks of conversations go… I somehow went to how we broke up.


They’d all met him from a happy hour when I first joined the company – a whole other fiasco of a night – and had lots of questions about the EX…


I tried to keep it light – not tell them all the details of my failed relationship. I mean, really, there’s no point calling him an a–hole with people I work with and am getting to know.


As you may be aware, becoming friends with coworkers is a minefield initially. You disclose too much too early, and you’re “that girl” who “omg, is a hot mess” and “woah, tmi chick” who “tells way too much about x,y, and z”


You get it, right?


Anyway one of the girls, we’ll call her Germaine, took a slug of tequila and said – ok, yelled, “Well, F-k Him! For making you move! Mother F—cker!”  which reverberated in this shoebox of a restaurant.


I could see people turning to stare, so I just cavalierly threw my head back, “It’s all worked out. I don’t hate him or anything. He’s a good person, but a SH*TTY Boyfriend.!”

And we moved on topics from there…

Now, the whole time this is happening, I am examining the other restaurant goers. I’m addicted to people watching and while this tiny restaurant didn’t have a lot of people, they had good variety.

I turn and look to the other bar, where the drinkers backs are to me. I see a cutesy little girl woman thing hopping up and down and flirting with some guy. I think, aw, they’re on a date and she’s trying soooo hard. After a while, she goes to the bathroom.

The guy turns around and smiles at me.

It’s the EX.

He’s on a DATE at “our” RESTAURANT and probably heard EVERYTHING.


My coworkers see my face as I choke on my margarita. “ughh. do NOT turn around! My EX is here on a date with a woman.”


Germaine’s face gets red. She tries to whisper, but being drunk, was actually yelling: “oh my god, oh my god. I’m soooo sorry.”


EX looks all sheepish as his date comes out of the bathroom. They grab their coats and leave. I smile and nod at him as he walks RIGHT BY ME on his way out the door.

Seriously? It isn’t bad enough I accidentally checked him out in the gym last month?! This town is too small.