A friend recently confided to me that she's suffering from a UTI. Any mention of "Urinary Tract Infections," "Bladder Infection," (whatever you want to call that horrible experience) is my cue to share my Bladder Infection Story.

I once had a UTI for a long time, a really long time. A fucking year. This condition coincided with my involvement in a relationship. That's usually how it works. Women aren't just struck by The Bladder Infection Virus. They usually come as the result of sex with another person (usually, a man). A lot of things come from sex. And they unfortunately come to women.

I now file that relationship under "Life Experiences" (aka, "Never doing THAT again!"). This particular boyfriend suffered from the less-oft diagnosed, though, extremely common disease of Asshole-itis. Why did I date a man with this condition for a year? For the same reason so many women stay in bad relationships. I was "in love." Blinded by the dangerous cocktail of oxytocin, denial, and fantasy. I related partially to him, but mostly to a version of him that I created in my imagination and whose existence I supported with stories like, "he doesn't really mean [insert asshole comment]," "we will work through this [insert impossible issue]," "he'll fix [insert abusive trait] in therapy" (because therapy cures everyone?), and the greatest excuse for staying in a bad relationship, "Nothing is perfect!"

But my body knew differently. My body knew that this man was bad for me. Sort of like what happens when you eat bad sushi or tequila. You puke. You break out in a rash. And my body told me this by a chronic, horrible, antibiotic-immune bladder infection. So, while my mind told me that I could stomach bad milk while my body said, "WTF?! Who is this loser penis?!"

But I was afraid to go deep into myself, face my fear of being alone, feel the pain, and build the courage to say, "I deserve respect and consideration and go fuck yourself. Please!" It seemed easier to hate my body for being sick, than the man who routinely made disparaging remarks to me about it. Clearly, I had the problem. I had, yet, to learn that there is no "we" in "Narcissist," but there are two "I's.

So, after months of taking enough rounds of antibiotics to supply a small African village for a year, and drinking enough cranberry juice to fill the Venice canals, I decided that I needed to see a "Specialist." I went to the urologist of a famous ex-president who told me to cease my intake of coffee, alcohol, and chocolate. Why?! $%&@?! Because it's the %.05 percent caffeine in that Hershey's kiss, and not the force of a penis on a uterus that causes bladder infections?! I was desperate so I stopped the intake of my two greatest loves: coffee and chocolate (I wasn't in love with wine at the time). Nonetheless, the infection persisted.

And then came an act of divine intervention...

I got dumped.

Fucker! $%%$$! I was devastated...and cured. I started drinking coffee like a airliner sucks up jet fuel. But a question persisted...

Why had not one of the three doctors I saw ever suggested that I stop having sex?! Why?! (I think I know).

I always suspected that men of have a secret language. Well, not a language, per se, so much as a sacred contract whose prevading principle is "Thou shalt not keep another man from getting laid..." (Unless, said man seeks to lay said woman himself)...under any circumstances! Why else would this simple, logical cure not be talked about, written about in books, and on the Internet? Meanwhile, everywhere I turn I meet a woman suffering from this ass-kicking condition.

Wise lesson in summary: Ladies, listen up. Pay attention to your body. Not your male doctor. Not your antibiotics. Not your boyfriend.

Just for today, I feel wise.

In all fairness, I withstood two years watching the spiral flush of the Economy go down the toilet. So, when The Korean Man, came knocking at my door it's only natural that my latent and repressed desire (need) for Cool Stuff (i.e.clothes/shoes/jewelry) took root like a new Apple product at a prep school. And, thus, ensued the Painful Purchasing Process.

Step 1: Go shopping.
Step 2: Spot new Cool Thing.
Step 3: Call Enabling Friend and ask her if she thinks you should buy Cool Thing.
Step 4: Curse Enabling Friend for enabling you.
Step 5: Calculate finances.
Step 6: Begin "I Deserve!" mantra. Imagine all the moments in your life in which you felt deprivation (bonus points for parental withholding of love). Count the hours spent sifting through cheap stuff Ross.
Step 7: Reach Crescendo of "I Deserve" Righteousness!
Step 8: Calculate finances again.
Step 9: Imagine what said purchase would buy in Haiti, Ethiopia, Mexico (any third world country of your choice will due).
Step 10: Ask yourself how you managed become so influenced by self-obsessed consumer culture.
Step 11: Remember that Oprah likes nice stuff too.
Step 12: Realize that Oprah quit her show.
Step 13: Imagine retired Oprah eating a bag of Cheetos on her couch and realize that Oprah isn't your role model.
Step 14: Descend into self-loathing.
Step 15: Look upon Cool Thing as a Symbol of Greed and the Degeneration of Social Values.
Step 16: Reflect on self-judgment.
Step 17: Remember words of Enabling Therapist (not to be confused with Enabling Friend), "Do you not deserve NICE things?"
Step 18: Begin "I deserve NICE things!" mantra.
Step 19: Become exhausted by futile and infantile debate.
Step 20: Buy the &%$^ Thing!
Step 21: Love it.

Just for today, I can spend money.

A lot going on in the world right now. War. Unemployment. Earthquakes. Poverty. Gas Prices. And then there's the email my mom wrote me about dating:

(Note: I got permission to post the following. I love my mom and the fact that she loves me enough to write this email.)

At 4:00 am this morning I was thinking about on-line dating....

4:00 AM! Talk about pressure! Not only am I keeping her from becoming a grandmother, but now I'm causing her to lose sleep.

Have you seen the movie Harold and Maude? I just saw it again a few months ago - it's great. And Ruth Gordon is so wonderful. Check it out and view it again.

You mean that movie about an 80-year-old woman and 16-year-old boy who fall in love? Mom, do you think I'm as hard-up as an 80-year-old woman?

When you communicate with the potential dates I hope you're not being too negative. I think it is alright to state negative past experiences, or thoughts, but they should be (on the dating scene) seen as "big secrets" and only narrated to close and trusted friends, not on first or second dates.

I know I have been oversharing since before Facebook made it cool, but even I know when to drop the "big secrets" bomb. I do believe, though, that my mom and I have different definitions of "big secrets." For instance, "I've been to therapy" isn't a "big secret" to me.

People love to talk about themselves, especially men...

Here we go...

...and if you encourage them to talk about themselves they'll be happy with you. Then you can say, "Wow, that sounds interesting!" "How did you do that?" Etc.....

My mom should be writing for this.

It's hard to believe that she once used to subscribe to Ms. Magazine. In the 5th grade, my mom bought me a shirt that said, "A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle." I thought she was serious.

Just for today, I love my Mom.

In the 11th grade I joined the JV basketball team. Basketball didn't really fit into my plans to conquer the world (or get into college). At 16, I was over the hill, not to mention too short, to ever become a Super Kick Ass Hoops Star. But I wanted to play sooooo bad. Like most anything I have ever loved (including men), it didn't make sense. But I could no longer deny that x-country running was getting a little boring and masochistic (sorry runners). I felt hoops in my soul.

The Varsity team consisted of Goddesses. Big Black Girls and a few token White Girls. They had the skee-els, but I'm sure they intimidated most suburban white teams before they stepped on the court. Berkeley was scary. That's another blog. But they eventually won California's Division I championship.

Our five person JV team was another story. We regularly got reduced to four because someone either fouled out or called the ref an expletive, and we got routinely creamed in humiliating double digit defeats. Fun! I never wanted it to end. Screw volleyball and softball! (where's the contact?). Basketball felt free and passionate.

One time we drove to an away game in a tiny suburb in Marin. The town was decorated for Christmas and covered in lights.

"It looks so pretty," I told Jualeah.

"I hate to say it. But it looks very white."

That was the first time I really understood that Black People could see the world differently than White People. Which doesn't mean that a Black person can't think Christmas lights are pretty. (I'm sure Obama has a field day with Christmas lights).

Basketball is also where I first realized that physical movement says more than words, or any other form of communication. That's why athletes are closer to God.

Just for today, I'm going to see the Lakers.

I joined a new dating website. Holy shit, this stuff is complicated! It seems we have officially entered the Modern Era of Casualness and Creepy Weirdness Via Technology. On the progressive front, dating sites now "get" that people who date are confused, highly flawed, possibly delusional, either seeking The Perfect Relationship, or The Perfect Casual Encounter, and may have predilections towards a dozen perversions, and who are they to judge? The Creepy News is that the whole Non-Judgmental Thing gets to be a bit much. "Would you mind if your partner looked at CGI child porn?" Not only would I mind him doing that, I mind knowing finding out that such a thing exists!

Evidently, though, a philosophy of "acceptance" is not only the underlying foundation to a 12-step recovery, but to building a successful dating site business model. Nonetheless, can we still call it "dating?"

Ok, so I signed up and the fun starts. Going on dates? No! Personality tests!

So, I started answering a few questions that range from spelling tests, to how many children I want, to how I feel about gay marriage. A lot of sexual questions seemed unsafe for a woman to publicly answer, but good to ask myself. I quickly saw my results that showed that I am "Less Mathematical" (I either forgot or never knew percentages). Strangely, I am also "Old Fashioned" (there were no questions geared towards Women Seeking a Baby Daddy, but I did answer "Yes" to "Do you believe in monogamy?") I also found out that I am "Scientific" (I got a C in Physics), and "More Adventurous" (I did recently discover a new Trader Joe's).

And then things went south. Several questions later, my results indicated that I am "Less Kind" and "Less Trusting." Nothing showed that I am "More Honest," but I have to wonder if that's the case.

So, how is this helping me?

Just for today, I'm seriously confused by dating.

WOMAN jumps. EVERYONE stares. Very AWKWARD.

SOME OTHER IMPORTANT GUY
Why'd you do that?

OLDER IMPORTANT MAN
To get her attention.

WOMAN
You got it.

Working in advertising is kind of like living in a television series written by God. That is if God were an eccentric southern white male with good people skills and a healthy respect for money.

Just for today, I work in advertising.

Birthday Party. Sangria. Wine. Friends. Salsa Friends. Salsa Music. Non-salsa friends leave at 11:00 pm. Salsa Friends arrive at midnight. More wine. Sangria. Deep soulful discussion about relationships, men, women, love, sex. Sensitive male perspective. More wine. Groping ensues. Pervy male perspective. Irony. Dancing. 3:00 am. Open another bottle of wine. More salsa dancing. 4:00 am. Nap. God love salsa people. Change music to Prince. 5:00 am. Sleep.

39. Shit.

Just for today, I had a great birthday.

I've spent most of my adult life avoiding any social event that involves name tags and flowers, but for the sake of friendship decided to be a Girl in the Martha Stewart sense (as opposed to the Forever 21 sense) and for the second time in my life attend a baby shower. Truth be told, it was kind of fun (though, I left before the Presents Opening Ceremony). I sat by two cool women in their 60's. One wore lots of purple eye shadow and a spiky 80's style hair.

"Have you ever been married?" she asked.

"No."

"Good for you! Congratulations! I was married for 17 years...never doing THAT again."

The other one sat across from me and spoke to me through a bouquet of baby blue flowers, so I could only see the top of her head. She totally cheated on the game and told us all the answer.

I love talking to older women. You could preface anything they say with "Fuck it!" and it would make perfect sense.

Just for today, I enjoyed the baby shower.

I hate to say it (not really), but now seems like a pretty sucky time to grow up. Which isn't to say that the 70's was an idyllic haven of stability. What with all the facial hair it certainly wasn't a high point of grooming in American History. Let's face it, the 70's were dirty - and not in a grungy cool hipster way, but in the way you're dirty after hanging out at the 7/11 bathroom (fyi, I hang out in the 7/11 bathroom all the time). Regardless, that time period seems like was an English rose garden compared to the ruckus of distraction and noise that I pay good money to make part of my life here in the Era of Over-Communication Without Saying Anything. (Note: Here comes the old lady part. You've been forewarned).

I never thought I would use the words "peaceful" and "my childhood" in the same breath, but I have been feeling kind of nostalgic for the lack of disruption to my thought process that I experienced in my formative years. I'm talking about a long time ago...pre-VCR (remember those?), pre-Answering Machine, shoot, I'll just say it, back when the eight track tape was ground-breaking technology (fine, I was 5 or 6, but still I remember being impressed). If I wanted to change the channel on the television set, I had to stand up, pick up the pliers, and with trained skill adjust a couple of notches. It required strength and courage, and I still didn't know that The Hulk or Kermit were green. Technology required heavy lifting and was for rich and smart people.

I grew up borderline ghetto (among other things), but life happened in real time. Divorce, alcoholism, sadness happened in front of you, there were no degrees of separation. If you didn't have an imagination to retreat to, you were screwed. You either created a fantasy world with yourMarie Osmond Barbie, or GI Joe, or whatever you used to work out your gender identity, or you sat there and just watched life unravel like a bed of flowers in a hail storm (who said nature was gentle or kind?).

And then came boys and the 80's and the media still seemed hopeful. Sure my home life was chaotic with the occasional hilarious moment, but out there there was this romantic optimism and excitement and things happening like MTV and geometric shapes. I woke up in the morning to the a radio station that everyone listened to hear this or this, or this, or, unfortunately, maybe this and I thought, OK, things aren't that great but it has be worth it to grow up and be part of American society.

I just wonder if now a12-year-old or 13-year-old wakes up in the morning, and hopes to be part of the world out there. Or just would rather live in his iPod/Mobile Device/Social Networking/FB Land....

I know I do.

Just for today, I feel nostalgic.