Dearest Elfie...

Less than a few hours into my new gig at After Therapy, I get this bullshit in my inbox:

In my worldwide search for the perfect husband, I have come up empty. Please help!

Signed,

Hopeless romantic

Dear Hopeless in Hell's Kitchen,

Let Elfie break it down for you - old school. First of all, if you got enough scratch to be going around the world looking for dick, Elfie has some news for you: You are already better off than the rest of us. We've been going around town looking for a 4" grinder attachment to some Craftsman tool that our father-in-law "needs" for Christmas. At $2.69 a gallon, this is already not worth the effort. But "WORLDWIDE"? Child, you are committed if nothing else.

And apparently richer than a whore with two vaginae. Kwitcherbitchin'.

Second, you're looking for the "perfect husband"? Girl, please. The perfect husband is what we call a "late" husband who had a healthy estate and left it all to us. You do not need to search the world over for that kind of husband. You just have to be nice to old men. And by "nice" we mean "putting out". If you don't have scarring mental images of the things you've done for a spot in the Last Will and Testament, you're not really working very hard at it. Put elsewise, as our editor would say, if you're looking for a LIVING perfect husband, you are looking amiss.

Come up empty? EMPTY? You went around the world and consider that you came up empty? Honey, if Elfie can get a man to lick her around the world, she feels fulfilled. You need to lower your standards. A man of your means needs to stay a little closer to home, shop at a different store, and learn to be happy with what life sends your way. If all that money is bringin' you down, you can send it to Elfie c/o After Therapy, Inc. I have sent you the full address in a private e-mail.

Best of luck on your worldwide travels, but while you're in Rome next time, try spending less time man-hunting and more time shopping. You may have found some imperfect men, but there is no such thing as the imperfect cashmere sweater.

We simply need to recognize perfection where we find it.

Air Kisses,

Elfie

Taking A Partner

We've toiled alone for lo these many years at After Therapy and finally admit that we are too damned lazy to do it alone anymore. So we're branching out. Hell, even Arianna Huffington can't man her own post full time.

We introduce you to our newest (and only) contributor, Elphabah Hermberg. She initially thought it would be cute to go by "'Bah Hermberg", but we nixed that on account of our respect for Christmas and our office's location in the Bible Belt. You piss these people off and they shoot you in your kitchen or blow up your clinic office.

We'll keep it simple: "Dearest Elfie..." Think of her as Dear Abby without the class. Ann Landers with a more pronounced lisp. Heloise - only not nearly as helpful. She's a social expert, of sorts. She'll take your societal dilemmas and spin them into bytes of advice that you could never repeat to your mother.

We'll add a picture of her as soon as we can convince her that eyeliner is not of the devil and that a little foundation covers a multitude of sins.

Until then... Watch this space for her occasional contributions.

Elfie can be contacted at DearestElfie@aol.com

Soviet Bitch

Received a rambling email - complete with photography - from the Hell's Kitchen Agent just the other night. It was a picture of him with a low-level employee of some magazine or another - complete with empty implied promises of shilling my promising work to another publication. Good thing I have his ass on commission or I'd be broke from paying for all the empty promises.

I now truly believe he goes to these things solely for the booze and toast points.

The email concluded with the threat of a drunk dial before 10 p.m. I hastened to the answering machine to turn it off and instead recorded this:

"This machine has been installed with an alcohol detection device. You are over the legal limit. Please call back after a cup of coffee."

True to his threat, the phone rang minutes later and the message sounded like Portuguese, which sounds like Spanish with marbles in your mouth - only mixed with copious amounts of very dry martinis. The only part I thought I picked up was the name-calling. I could swear he'd called me a "Soviet Bitch". I replayed it twice because I have one very bad ear and thought it must surely have been "Sonofabitch". But I clearly heard an extra "t".

It was "Soviet Bitch". I couldn't fathom such a thing. Did this make me the kind of bitch who would stand in line for toilet paper? I admit that in a crisis I could do such a thing. Or did it make me the kind of bitch who would crush small Balkan states in the interest of world domination? That, too, sounded in character for me. I concluded that some truth does, in fact, come through the haze of alcohol and horrendous taste in men. I am a Soviet Bitch.

I rushed down to the t-shirt shop to have one made in my new size. I bought a custom bumper sticker and had 2 dozen generic Christmas balls stamped "Soviet Bitch" for the tree. Who needs a New Year's resolution when you have a new name? And one NOBODY else can claim at that!!

So from our bitchy Soviet house to yours.... Happy Holidays and power to the proletariat.

These Things Never Happen To Us

"Nude New Zealander Arrested After Responding to Fake Sexy Text Message" - This is a real headline. Seems two broads duped an anxious chap into disrobing and showing up for a romp - at the wrong address. All were charged, none were prosecuted. We resist the urge to cite "lack of evidence" against the gentleman.

We also note that in 43 years of opening doors - never once has there been a naked man there.

"I'm making up this song, it was a dream I had, What do you think:

'I hope you're happy. I hope you're happy now.

I hope you're happy how you hurt your cause forever.

I hope you think you're clever. I hope YOU'RE happy.

I hope you're happy too.

I hope you're proud how you would grovel in submission, to feed your own ambition.

Somehow I can't imagine how.

I hope you're happy right now. ... '"

We think somebody's not happy! We also think this is how you know that your Hell's Kitchen Agent/Architect/Elder Chaser/Songwriter has run out of vodka and Aqua Velva. Calling Kitty Dukakis!

"In Germany, the last ornament that is put on the tree is a glass pickle, which is hidden in the branches. On Christmas morning, the first child who finds the pickle ornament receives an extra present."

Funny. We never got to play Hide The Pickle at our house on any of the good holidays. Leave it to the Nazis to think of the fun stuff.

Eenie Meenie Miney Mo

Yes, I realize that rhyme will get you kicked off a Southwest flight. But you know full well I'm not talkin' about black folks. Well, not exclusively....

I was a -ponderin' today about who I'd vote for if I were to go a-caucasin' with the folks in Iowa, where once I lived. The last time, I happily moved to the corner of the high school classroom in Council Bluffs that indicated my preference for Clinton - the male version. Since I'm a hair talkative, I also got elected by my little room to go to the State Democratic Convention and cast my vote for the man. They confirmed me in the auditorium later that day after I'd excoriated a Democratic State Representative over lunch for voting against gay rights to save her ample ass in the upcoming election.

Back to the future.... I admit to being in a quandary still. I pledged my undying love to John Edwards 4 years ago. He touched my hand. With his sweaty hand. I almost fainted. He has amazingly attractive secret service people - right out of the International Male Catalogue. He just isn't turning my head this time, though. Maybe it's his insistence on heterosexuality or my short attention span.

Hillary has always seemed like the Good Democratic Thing To Do. I also believe she could singlehandedly castrate any Republican she wanted. And by singlehandedly, I mean with one hand. By castrate, I mean cut their balls off. Then again, Barack Obama has never said anything to make me doubt that he'd be a perfectly delightful man to turn the White House a little more beige. I have a feeling Mama Obama could have some throw-down state dinners, too. I know she's a refined, educated woman, but wouldn't it be wonderful to have a first-lady capable of pulling "Oh no you di-in't" out of her repertoire when Ahmadinejad utters one of his unspeakables?

The only candidate who has promised to "let" me get married is Dennis Kucinich, who is, ironically, the only candidate I wouldn't invite to my wedding. (Vegetarians: Don't get me started. They fart like a cow with colitis.)

So to all my Iowa friends - both of you. I say, "Vote your conscience. And remember - nobody will remember what you did after South Carolina, so don't take it too seriously."

(Next time: Why the "H" in Jesus H. Christ just may stand for Huckabee.)

Love your hair, hope you win....

First Snow!

Ahhhh.... The little house on the prairie has its first snow of the season today. Those of us who practice denial like a religion appreciate the symbolism most. Covering over the things you don't like until the heat comes in and reveals your crap is a beautiful respite from reality.

And speaking of reality....

Our Hell's Kitchen Agent reports that in a haze of vodka and house music, he fell in love with a much younger version of himself. Our agent is in his late-mid-40's. That's gay-speak for damn-near 50. Upon further investigation, the much younger man was revealed to be in his mid-50's. Yours truly has teeth marks in his tongue from not noting the obvious: When the nearly-60 crowd starts to look like chicken....

The little dancing boy who is knocking on Social Security's door is also a Buddhist. Nee Rosenberg. That's right. Our Buddhist is a Jewddhist. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, we're a little giddy at the prospect that our chicken-chasing agent has fallen head over gefiltefish for an aged Hebrew with a penchant for chanting to fat guys. During Channukah. Tell me that won't get you through a cold winter's worth of writing.

We went on a pseudo-date with an old friend (though, to be clear, not as old as our agent's date - by a decade-plus). We saw the Kansas City Plaza Lights display and ate at what we believed to be George Brett's restaurant. It said "George Brett" on the outside. The walls were display cases with his baseball memorabilia from the 70's and 80's. The staff wore shirts that said "George Brett". The menu said "Brett's". The featured beer stuck in the salt and pepper caddy said "George's Ale". Our waitress took our drink order and I asked - in my star-struck way - "Is Mr. Brett in the building?" She curled her 19 year-old lip into a sneer and snarled "He's no longer involved with the restaurant. It's called '210' now."

"Somebody should tell your shirt," my pseudo-date said. This is a man I could love. We've been wondering around the office if it's telling that he's called twice since Saturday night. Once was today to inform me that it's snowing in my yard - 70 miles from his yard. Never having fallen for a nice guy, we wonder if this is how such things go.

Time will tell if it's a happy accident.

Or a simple snow-job.