The Perfect Storm

This morning I received an automated email reminding me about a concert I'm going to tonight. Cool. Except one thing...

I'm not going to a concert tonight.

In February, my then fiance told me how much he wanted to see Dave Matthews again this summer. I knew he couldn't afford the tickets at the time, so I bought 4 -- 2 for us, and 2 for his sister and brother-in-law, as a thank you for some tickets they'd given us.

This was the second set of tix I bought that month. The first was to Peter Gabriel, who played with a 54-piece orchestra. We saw him together at Radio City back in May. It was an incredible show (save an excruciating appearance by Lou Reed, who butchered Solsbury Hill beyond recognition). I only wish we were getting along that night, or it would be a good memory. In hindsight, it was the beginning of the end.

At the time, I would have rather put all that concert money -- about $600 total -- towards something for our wedding. A dress. Our rings. Save-the-dates.  Only we didn't HAVE a date, not officially, anyway.  And I wanted to make him happy. Besides, Dave Matthews and summertime go together like chocolate and peanut butter, and this was a Saturday night concert at Citi Field. He didn't exactly have to twist my arm -- it sounded like fun.

It also would have been an anniversary of sorts: last July, we saw DMB together for the 1st time.

I still remember sitting at my desk a year ago when the text came in, "Are U free on July 21?" He booked this date with me a few weeks in advance of the show. I don't even think it was July 4th yet. I took that as a good sign that we would still be together by month's end. (Remember, we'd only started emailing last May, and didn't meet until June -- who knows what can happen in the early stages of a relationship.)

My butterflies and I had a quick conference and agreed I should say YES. So I did.

On July 21, 2009, I rented a car after work and drove out to Jones Beach. "I'm in red shorts," he said. "You can't miss me." When I arrived, I called him from the parking lot and he found me over by a fence, totally lost. He looked adorable and hopped in the car. We made our way over to where his sister and brother-in-law were. He'd already saved a parking spot for me.

I remember being SO nervous to meet his family, praying they would like me. But there was really nothing to be concerned about -- they were just lovely. There was an easiness to our relationship which started that night and lasted through many double dates to come.

He poured me a Bud Light in a red plastic cup, and we chatted away.  We had chemistry to spare. It began to rain while we were in the parking lot, and he handed me a navy blue windbreaker so I wouldn't get wet. I was charmed by how thoughtful he was.

On the walk over to the stadium, through parked cars, over sandy hills and winding roads, he reached for my hand. I remember thinking it was the first time we'd ever really held hands. He and I were slowly becoming "we."

It felt right.

Once inside, our date reached a new level. In a packed stadium, we were in our own little world.  It seemed as though the rain showers were set in time with the music. A deluge during Don't Drink the Water was epic. While #41 played, it was a soft, romantic drizzle. We were soggy, but smitten.

It was the perfect storm in the best possible way.

Later that night, I was in the car driving back to the city when I received a text. "BEST DATE EVER!!! Can't stop smiling :)" it said.

He had tickets at Jones Beach the next night too, that time with his youngest brother. During the show, while I was sitting at home on my couch watching TV, in came another text -- with a picture of a stage glowing with red lights. "U should be here with me," it said...


When I left last month, after gathering my belongings from a home we were supposed to share, the new tickets flashed through my mind. But I'd handed them to him when they arrived, and wasn't about to ransack his room now looking for 4 tickets. Besides, what would I do with them? I can't even bear to listen to DMB's music anymore, let alone go see them live. Too many memories. Too much sadness.

I don't know for certain, but I imagine he will be at the show tonight. And whether the seat next to him is empty or not, I hope each song brings back a flood of memories -- and regret -- if not regret for the breakup itself, then for how he handled it.

We deserved better. I deserved better.

Where’s a Psychic Octopus When You Need One?

I've traipsed all over this city in the sweltering heat looking for a new place to live. I've found some dumps. I've found some snoozers. And I've found some gorgeous apartments.

But so far, I havent found a home.

If I'm being honest, I suppose there's some part of me that is resistent to moving on -- in part because this will be my 3rd move in 5 months (and yes, it is as mentally, physically, and financially exhausting as you might imagine).  But also because I don't even know what I'm moving on FROM, anymore!  I still can't understand what happened, and now, some eye-opening revelations about him from my own family and friends only underscore the fact that the man I thought I would marry never actually existed. 

But I know the only way I'll ever feel like me again is to move on.  And that begins with new digs.

So I ask you, how am I supposed to cram all this new baggage into your standard NYC shoebox apartment? I already had 100 boxes to begin with (no joke).

I've gotten my choices whittled down to a handful. And since my judgement is total crap these days, I've gotten plenty of opinions, too. But what I'm really after is some advice from someone who has built a reputation on picking winners. So here is my open plea to the animal kindgom:

Paul, you eight-legged oracle, will YOU help me choose an apartment?

(and pipe down Mani, the fortunetelling parakeet -- YOU are a cheap knockoff)

In lieu of a country's flag, I respectfully submit colorful subway artwork to help you identify each choice. You probably already know this, given your abilities, but these are ranked in price order from low to high -- not in preference order (don't even get me started on what you get for the money -- if I stayed in CT I could lease a 3BR 2BA apartment AND a car for what I'll pay for an NYC studio).  Oh, and I don't know how you roll in Germany, but you should also know that the following buildings have the basic necessities: a doorman, elevator, air conditioning, laundry and a dishwasher. 

If I could live without those things, I'd go camping.

And now, I place in your plexiglass box the following 6 apartments in a town I sorta love:

Midtown West/Chelsea
Apartment: 32D alcove studio, 540 sqft
Pros: modern building, great amenities, awesome view
Cons: shady-ish neighborhood, closets in a dumb spot, cheap kitchen

Midtown East/Murray Hill
Apartment: 6M studio, 650 sqft
Pros: I know the owner, easy commute, 5 closets
Cons: pre-war, no renovations, mini kitchen used for heating up takeout & not much else

Midtown West/Hell's Kitchen
Apartment: 7B alcove studio, 575 sqft
Pros: corner unit, stainless/granite kitchen, easiest commute
Cons: tourist central, crap view, creepy Peeping Tom window in shower

Upper West Side/Lincoln Center
Apartment: 6D alcove studio, 500 sqft
Pros: new luxury building, I would be the first tenant, cool amenities, great neighborhood
Cons: soooo small

Upper East Side/Yorkville
Apartment: 30F one bedroom, 675 sqft
Pros: bedroom actually has a door, terrace, awesome view
Cons: pain in the ass commute, neighborhood kinda deadsville

Midtown East/Sutton Place
Apartment: 14C one bedroom, 700 sqft
Pros: bedroom has a door AND can fit a dresser, ample closet space, nice amenities
Cons: soooo expensive


So there you have it.  Paul, what say you? Sprechen sie Englisch? Any tingles in your tentacles?

Send me a psychic mesage. If you help me, I promise never to eat calamari again.

Facelift

So Blogger tells me that this is my 100th post. 

Huh. 

Feels like there should be more, right?  I've been at this for almost 2 years.  So that's like once a week, tops.  I guess I blog just about as much as I floss.  (Which apparently isn't often enough because my dentist told me at my last cleaning that I have a cavity.  Somebody's asleep on the job and I don't think his name is Oral B.) 

Anyhoo... I'm really enjoying blogging again, but I've grown tired of this design, so I'm officially retiring the old look in favor of something new.  Seems to be a theme in my life lately.

So, what do you think?

poll by twiigs.com

Oh, and a disclaimer: I didn't like the templates Blogger had already built in, so I grabbed some code off the internet, and then hacked around on the parts I wanted to change.  For instance, this template used to be fire-engine red.  If it's wonky at all, I apologize. I also code HTML about as well as I floss.

Major League Eating

I’m bored with the World Cup and the stupid vuvuzela. I’m not impressed that George Steinbrenner turned 80 today. And frankly, I don’t care where LeBron James plays.

Yawn.

The ONLY sports story that caught my attention today is Nathan’s 95th annual Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest at Coney Island. And yes, I do mean sports story -- it was broadcast on ESPN.

Nevermind that I can’t even eat ONE hot dog (a mouthful of mystery meat makes me gag -- I can only stomach the mini kind, and then only with mustard, NEVER ketchup).

I’m in awe of champ Joey “Jaws” Chesnut who gobbled his way to victory by consuming 54 hot dogs PLUS buns in 10 minutes -- that’s about a dog every 10 seconds. After his 4th straight win, he was seen holding the coveted mustard yellow belt in one hand and a bottle of Pepto in the other. And that’s NOTHING compared to his showing last year, where he downed 68 of Nathan's famous franks!

But there was drama in Hotdogville.

His main rival, Japan's Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi got himself arrested for rushing the stage, probably overcome with grief because he couldn’t compete in the event he’d won 6 times. The guy even has a special visa to be in the country because of his skills as a competitive eater.  And as well he should -- The Tsunami holds the record for eating the most cow brains (57 in a mere 15 minutes). 

Yum.

He now sits, hungry, in a Brooklyn jail. Apparently, he was in a contract dispute with Major League Eating so he could not participate in this year's gluttony. The fact that such a regulatory body exists is fascinating. It’s like the junk food NFL. Its website even warns amateurs should not try "speed eating" at home. 

Joey Jaws had his rookie year in 2005, and is now the world’s #1 competitive eater, but I learned there are also 2 women in the top 50 rankings:

Sonya "The Black Widow" Thomas comes in at #5.  She is a 41 year old from Alexandria, VA, and is a slender 105 lbs. She’s eaten 552 oysters in 10 minutes, 65 hard boiled eggs in 6 minutes, and 80 chicken nuggets in 5 minutes. She believes the keys to her success are stomach capacity, jaw strength, and hand speed, but admits she needs to work on her "speed of swallow."  She went nearly unbeaten in 2004, if it weren’t for a controversial baked bean eating contest -- hers were too hot. Amazingly she is single.

And "Lovely" Juliet Lee, in at #11, is a 44 year old from Germantown , MD, who mysteriously also weighs 105 lbs. Hmmm.  Somehow this mom of 2 plowed through 7 chicken wings, 1 lb of nachos, 3 hot dogs, 2 personal pizzas and 3 Italian ices in about 7 minutes. She's never vomited, though had a close call after ingesting a world-record-setting 13.2 lbs of cranberry sauce.  As a child in China, she apparently only ate what she could catch on the beach. Especially if it was covered in nacho cheese sauce.

Looks like Sonya and Juliet still need their day jobs, but Joey Jaws earns an estimated $150K per year just from eating contests. I am a big eater too, but all I get is fat.

How many hot dogs did YOU eat today?

Presto-Change-O

I'm in a funk. You know it. I know it. We ALL know it.

I need a change.

About 2 weeks ago, I started the painful process of cancelling our wedding gift registries (more on that below). Nobody wanted their actual gifts back (bad mojo, no doubt), so I kept those. I left some new things behind at his condo -- a BBQ grill, margarita maker, bucket of cookie cutters, everyday dishes. They were all things I'd purchased off our registry myself. For us. And I didn't want to keep the items when I couldn't keep the family I bought them for.

I mean, who wants to sit at home alone and hunker down to a flame-broiled breakup burger on breakup dishes, washed down with a breakup-flavored margarita, followed by a couple of fresh-baked breakup cookies for dessert? No thanks.

The one thing I did return was our china. I adored the pattern. LOVED it. Something totally different, mix and match. Cheerful. Classic. Unique. He swore we would never use it, but I pictured us having holiday dinners and celebrations on these plates for years to come. I had two full place settings (down to the bread and butter plates), and a coffee/tea set from my parents. I hated to do it, but since I will never complete the service for 12, I brought them back to the store and turned my beautiful china into a $400 Coach bag.

Like magic.

That got me to thinking... there are other things I'd like to change over the next few weeks.

Here's my hit list:

1) New cell phone

Mine might as well have his face on it. Every time it rang, buzzed, or dinged, it was generally him. And every time I hear it go off now, it makes me sad because it's anybody BUT him. So I think it's finally time to make the switch. Goodbye Verizon. Hello iPhone.

2) New hair

I used to highlight my hair, but I left it darker lately because I liked the way it looked with his hair. We matched. Ridiculous, I know. So I'm booking a trip to the salon for some summery locks.

3) New ring

One of my best friends bought me a new ring the day I moved my furniture out of his condo. It was to replace the one I "lost," she said, and to remind me to keep my heart open. It was such a touching gesture. For Christmas, I'd given him a man's ring that I used to wear and I'd engraved it with our initials -- I think I'll replace that one too. Possibly with something sparkly.

4) New color palette

My whole house was beiges/browns with bright pops of red. And while all of my stuff sits in storage right now, when I DO eventually unpack, I know I'll need something more soothing than red. Something fresh. Serene. Thinking pale blues and greens.

5) New curtains

These were a HUGE point of contention in the weeks leading into our breakup. Don't ask. I need to set them on fire and start again. Anybody got a match?

6) And obviously, the biggest thing I need is a new address

As comforting as it is to have family willing to take me in, I can't really start to feel like myself again until I'm back in my own home.

Now if only someone would perform a magic trick on my bank account, I could actually BUY all of these things right now.

I didn't invent this concept. A colleague at work said when she broke up with her boyfriend, she went right out and bought a pair of 3-inch heels, after wearing flats for years because he was short. Another friend's sister sold her never-worn wedding dress on eBay and took a vacation.

I think we all need a little magic in times like these. Something new to distract us from what (or who) is no longer there.

It's all an illusion anyway.

And on a side note, if you are ever in the unfortunate position of having to cancel a wedding gift registry, I can say Macy's was incredibly good to deal with, Crate & Barrel was ok, and Bed Bath & Beyond was beyond horrible -- after the in-store people couldn't help me, the customer service agent on the phone had the nerve to ask if I was sure I wanted to cancel, just incase we got back together. Ummm... GFY BBB.

And since Wedding Channel posts your information all over the internet without respect to your privacy and then goes out of its way to make it difficult to contact them when you want to take it down, here's their phone number as well: 877-335-5252.

Thanks, Google. You're pretty magical too.

Spent

Well, it's over. The Love Truck rolled through town and we collected 226 video love stories over the course of 3 days.

That's a whole lotta love.

While the event itself was a success professionally... personally, it was an awful lot like Chinese water torture. Hour after hour. Person after person. Couple after couple. Day after day. 226 stories with one thing in common: Love.

drip. drip. drip. drip. driiiip... drip.

When things were busy (which luckily, was most of the time), I was able to just focus on doing my JOB and not think about what people were actually SAYING: "It was love at first sight." "I never thought it would happen to me." "I met the love of my life." "My soul mate." "It was simply meant to be."

One guy even told me how he'd met his now fiancee at Grand Central -- right by the clock. "How romantic is that?" he gushed while waiting for his turn inside the truck. "I saw her standing there, and I just knew."

Somehow, I was able to just nod and smile (even though Grand Central was exactly where WE met for the first time, where we "just knew," and where I thought we would marry in August). I think I was able to ignore this dagger sticking out of my chest because there was a line of people waiting to share their own stories.

There was work to do.

But when things were slow, or when I was alone in the taxi ride back to the hotel each night, it was another story. I could say I didn't let it get to me. That I shook it off. That it's been 3+ weeks since my relationship officially ended, when my life imploded, and I'm doing fine. I could say I didn't cry once. Not in the taxi. Not in the shower. Not outside Dean & Deluca in front of a man eating what appeared to be a gyro.

I could say all those things. But they would be lies.

I'm searching for the jokes here, but there are none. And to top it all off, Day 2 of Love Truck was the anniversary of our 2nd date. Did I know the actual DATE off the top of my head? No. But I do know Michael Jackson died about 20 minutes before we went to dinner. So the wall-to-wall coverage of the 1st anniversary of his death on Friday brought back a FLOOD of memories for me, too. They had nothing to do with MJ. They were all about that 2nd date.

I remember where we went. I remember what we wore. I remember what we ordered. I remember every detail of our conversation that night. I remember our walk back to Grand Central like it was yesterday. And I remember being filled with hope. With possibility.

With love.

What a difference a year makes. Like I said... I'm spent.

A Shameless Plug... Again

It was about a year and a half ago that I last blogged about something I was doing at work. It was Valentine's Day. And I was throwing 14 weddings. Again.

I typically shy away from writing about my job, in part because a few colleagues actually read this thing. I don't need to become a living urban legend: Girl Who Got Fired Over Work-Related Griping in Personal Blog.

But today, I feel compelled to share what's happening this week for 2 reasons:
1) it's just a cool event and I'm psyched to have pulled it off, amidst all the chaos in my life, and
2) it's such an ABSURD thing to be doing, given all the chaos in my life

In my dating days, I likened working at a bridal website to working at a leper colony. Guys didn't want anything to do with it. But I've recently realized what's infinitely worse than being single while working in bridal is having your relationship/engagement crumble before your eyes, while working in bridal.

Ouch.

Not a day -- not an HOUR -- goes by without rubbing salt in this particular wound.

Just last week I was in a meeting. We were looking at some product samples, and amidst all the hoodies and candles and picture frames, were the exact same wedding invitations I wanted to use (a lovely Kate Spade number with cheerful yellow or green flowers), and the exact same toasting flutes and serving set (the classic Vera Wang Love Knots) that we actually received as engagement gifts.

Everything I do professionally revolves around helping other people plan their weddings. Right now, if I were to sum up my job in one word, it would be excruciating.

Anyway, back to my shameless plug!

It's a project I've been working on for months -- called The Love Truck. And don't go getting the wrong idea. The shaggin' wagon this is not.

What this IS is a glass box truck that will be parked in Times Square, Union Square, and Soho over the next 3 days so that we can... wait for it... videotape people sharing their LOVE STORIES!

The irony of this is not lost on me.

Anyone who has NOT been kicked in the butt by love should come visit us at the truly adorable-looking Love Truck (and please bring me one of those new Starbucks frozen strawberry Frappucinos and/or a Dunkin Donuts watermelon Coolata -- they look delicious and if I drink them superfast, they just might give me a brainfreeze to dull the pain).

If you're not in NYC, or not into public displays of affection, you can also upload your loooove story straight to the site. The top-rated videos will each receive cool prizes, so give it a whirl. We could even rig it so that you win!

JOKES -- just jokes, people (and by "people," I mean lawyers).

That may be precisely the kind of thing you get fired over.

Let You Down

I don't know how to say this. I can't even find an image to depict what I'm feeling, so this is my first blog post without one. I'm just going to rip it off like a bandaid:

I'm not getting married anymore.

And just like that -- poof -- my future, my family, my home, my wedding, my precious ring, and the love of my life have simply disappeared. No one is more shocked than I am. I wish I could say it was mutual. But it wasn't.

When he asked me to marry him back in December, I came up with a slew of adjectives to describe how happy I was. I said it was "super-terrific-happy-HUGE-totally awesome-fantastically wonderful-can't even believe this is happening-somebody PLEASE PINCH ME news." Those same words held true when I moved in with him a mere 2 months ago.

And as I've spent the last week sobbing, packing, and moving out of the home I thought we were creating together, I came up with a whole new list of adjectives to describe how I was feeling.

You can use your imagination, but one remained, "can't even believe this is happening."

It's funny, before we met, I'd resigned myself to the fact that I likely wouldn't ever get married. So when I was over the moon about our engagement, it wasn't because my marriage clock was ticking and he just fit the suit. It wasn't a "to-do" to check off a list. Quite the opposite. I never HAD that list before him. It was because of him that I could even imagine becoming a wife and a mother. That I could finally have the kind of life that came so easily to everyone around me. That it was MY turn.

I told myself it was worth the wait. And it was.

It took everything I had to get out of my own way and fall in love. I was SO guarded. But there comes a point in any relationship where you have to make a choice to move forward. To trust someone completely. To have faith. So, I leapt, and he caught me. Willingly, I think. But I must have become too heavy along the way, and he let go.

So now here I am. Devastated, numb, humiliated, and alone.

I could rehash for you the myriad things that went wrong, or second guess every move, or play armchair psychologist, or dole out blame. But honestly... what's the point? It won't change things. And it certainly won't help me put my life back together.

Really, all I can do here is question my own judgement. I'm a smart girl, so how did I not see this coming? I've been on my own for most of my 36 years, so how did I allow myself to become so dependent on someone else? And I believed this was forever, so how can I ever expect to go down this road with someone new and NOT be constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop?

In the end, I think I let myself down. My bad judgment has had a sickening ripple effect across my life, and the lives of my family and friends. And I'm crushed. CRUSHED. But in the moment, I guess I heard what I wanted to hear and saw what I wanted to see.

I don't plan to make this blog all woe-is-me now. That's not what you signed up for. And frankly, that's not who I am. I WILL cheer up and post my random thoughts about silly things. As cliche as it sounds, I will get my groove back.

Eventually.

It's just that when I created the "getting married" tag for this blog, I never in a MILLION years thought my last post in that category would be about the end of our relationship. I assumed the last one would be about our wedding. How foolish I feel. I've been told repeatedly that he's done me a favor by ending things now. Surely, I can see that this is better than if we were married, or had a child. But it still hurts like nothing I've ever experienced before.

So I'll just end this post with a heartfelt thanks to everyone who has listened, comforted, packed, driven, supported, hugged, and housed me over the last week. Your kindness means more than you know.

5 Reasons I Cannot Get Down with Jersey Shore

I read that a Jersey Shore spinoff is coming, called Wicked Summer.

PLEASE don’t let me get sucked into it.

I’m just coming to terms with the fact that I watched the whole first season of Jersey Shore. All 9 episodes. PLUS the reunion special. I also Jersey Shored myself. And I discovered my Jersey Shore nickname: Jenny Pepperoni.

The whole experience was so traumatizing, only now can I speak about it publicly.

If you have been living under a rock for the last six months and are oblivious to the cultural train wreck that is Jersey Shore, let me explain it in MTV’s own language...

If the Real World is the story of seven strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives taped to find out what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real (I just typed that from memory, btw… scary...), then Jersey Shore is the story of eight guidos picked to live in Seaside Heights and have their fights taped to find out what happens when juiced-up gorillas stop popping steroids and start pumping fists.

Needless to say, a love letter to the Garden State, it is not.

I guess I kept watching because I was waiting for it to get better. To find something remotely redeeming about this rag-tag gaggle of goons who carted all their earthly possessions down the Parkway in a Hefty bag. But it never did get better. It got progressively worse.

Here are the 5 myths I just couldn’t see past:

MYTH #1: The cast was from New Jersey.
REALITY: Only 2 of them were! Like the Jerz doesn’t have enough problems? We need 5 bozos from New York and 1 from Rhode Island (I’m talking to YOU, Pauly D!) mucking up our already questionable national reputation? Thanks a lot, MTV.

MYTH #2: Italians are loud.
REALITY: Douchebags are loud! They come in all shapes, sizes. And nationalities.

MYTH #3: People name their bodyparts.
REALITY: No they don’t. Calling your twelve-pack abs “The Situation” is a lame attempt to distract from your Toucan Sam face or your thinning hair (aka “The Problem”).

MYTH #4: Tanning is a way of life.
REALITY: So is skin cancer. Look, I’m not really a fan of the faux tan (recall my Ooompa Loompa incident), but having a personal tanning bed in your home or going tanning in a SALON daily when you are spending the summer at the BEACH is a sign of stupidity, not status.

MYTH #5: Your hair should defy gravity.
REALITY: You shouldn’t look like you’re smuggling biscotti under your bangs. So Snookie/Snickers, just say “no” to your home-grown Bumpit. And on the topic of dumb looking hair, Pauly D., human beings do not buy hair gel by the gross (that’s 144 buckets of Dippity-Don’t to you). And finally, Vinny, please fill in those eyebrows. You look like Joan Crawford.


Ah. I feel better now. The first step towards Reality TV Recovery is admitting I have a problem.

So what do you think? Did my love of Jersey cloud my view of Jersey Shore?

Glee-union

It's been four months. Four loooooong months.

Since I last blogged? No, not quite. Since my beloved Glee last aired.

Yes, at 9:28PM last night, Glee came back! And while I didn't actually WATCH the episode because I'm waiting to see it with my fiance (and without commercial interruption), just knowing it's back makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

I may break out in song. Actually, no I won't...

Did I ever tell you about the time when I was a singer? It was the end of the 6th grade, and I was 11. Grammar school. The place where they let EVERYBODY sing. I had one of many solos in We Are the World, and I did my best to channel Kim Carnes (of the Bette Davis Eyes fame), with my two fellow students, Huey Lewis and Cindy Lauper. I thought I was awesome. Total rockstar. I can even remember what I wore, primarily because it was neon.

Anyway, when I went to middle school the following year, I eagerly signed up for 7th grade chorus. I sang my heart out to the tune of the Star Spangled Banner, which would determine if I should have been grouped with the altos, the sopranos, the tenors, the basses (bases?), or the baritones. It was that day, I learned there was actually a sixth group in chorus: the mutes.

I was informed, in no uncertain terms, that I should, "sign up for art class instead, Jenny." So I did. After all, you don't have to sing when you're drawing or painting or sculpting. Hell, you don't even have to talk! Maybe that was her point.

So now that I'm 26 (ahem, plus 10), my singing is relegated to long car rides... alone. Trust me, it's for the best.

Back to Glee. You know what I love more than the show, or the singing, or the Slurpees, or even the almighty jazz hands? Sue Sylvester, aka Jane Lynch, the diabolical head coach of the Cheerios and arch nemesis to all Gleeks.

The devil wears Adidas.

And after next week's episode, I hear she Vogues, too. Every line out of her potty mouth should be put on a bumper sticker. I would even put them on my car. If I had one. So, in honor of Sue, here are a few my fave lines:

"I'm going to ask you to smell your armpits. That's the smell of failure, and it's stinking up my office." (Episode 3, Acafellas)

"All I want is just one day when I'm not visually assaulted by uglies and fatties. Seriously, Ohio, these retinas need a day off." (Episode 12, Mattress)

"Me, I never wanted kids. Don't have the time, don't have the uterus." (Episode 6, Vitamin D)

"I, for one, think intimacy has no place in marriage. Walked in on my parents once, and it was like seeing two walruses wrestling." (Episode 8, Mash-Up)

"Let me break this down for you, okay? I empower my Cheerios to be champions. Do they go on to college? I don't know, I don't care. Should they learn Spanish? Sure, if they wanna become dishwashers and gardeners. But if they want to be bankers and lawyers and captains of industry, the most important lesson they could possibly learn is how to do a round-off." (Episode 7, Throwdown)

"You'll be adding revenge to the long list of things you're no good at -- right next to being married, running a high school Glee Club, and finding a hairstyle that doesn't make you look like a lesbian." (Episode 13, Sectionals)

"I will go to the animal shelter and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat. And then on some dark, cold night, I will steal away into your house... and punch you in the FACE!" (Episode 8, Mash-Up)

"I like minorities so much, I'm thinking of moving to California to become one." (Episode 7, Throwdown)

"You wouldn't even know if your Glee Club was using your office to breed rabbits for pets or for food. You know why? You're too busy chasing tail and loading your hair with enormous amounts of product. I mean today it just looks like you put lard in it." (Episode 12, Mattress)

"You want to be creative, you want to be in the spotlight. Face it. You want to be me! So here's the deal: You do with your depressing little group of kids what I did with my wealthy, elderly mother. Euthanize it! It's time, and I'll be happy to offer you a job as my second assistant on Cheerios. You can fetch me Gatorade, launder my soiled delicates. It'd be very rewarding work for you." (Episode 2, Showmance)

"I am about to vomit down your back." (Episode 7, Throwdown)


See any I missed? Add them below! Unless, they're from last night's episode. In that case, wait until next week...