For Aimee, who apparently has no sense of humor at all and no understanding of the concept of satire... It's called "making fun of someone" for a reason -- because it's funny.

New! From Microsquash, it's JewBoy™ 1.0

System Requirements:
- Resemblance to JewBoy™'s installation of Mother™ 1.0
- Whine Tolerance® plug-in (not included with this program)
- Full collection of Woody Allen films
- Ability to withstand intense budgeting
- Resistance to nasal-sounding auditory input
- Basic knowledge of Yiddish slang
- Guilt Resistance® plug-in (not included with this program)

Limited Warranty/Disclaimer:
- JewBoy™ will attempt to frequently interface your system with his installation of Mother™ 1.0. If resource conflicts occur, system may crash. Microsquash does not claim responsibility for system instability.
- Some versions of JewBoy™ may not be able to entertain you without resorting to discussing accounting or legal practices. Attention Span Enhancer® plug-in may be required with some versions.
- After installation of JewBoy™, initial program usage may result in extreme division of dinner bills. Microsquash does not claim responsibility if JewBoy™ divides the check to the nearest cent and does not tip more than 15%.
- JewBoy™ may attempt to usurp all system resources and try to be the sole program running on your system at all times. Microsquash does not claim responsibility for this occurrence. Engaging the Girls Night Out® plug-in is sometimes effective, though 100% success is not assured. The Whine Tolerance® and Guilt Resistance® plug-ins may also be necessary to circumvent total system resource usage.
- If you are not running the JudaismOS™ operating system, JewBoy™ may force-quit and crash your system. This system conflict may be caused by the presence of JewBoy™'s installation of Mother™ 1.0. Microsquash has no workaround for this problem as of this release.

New! From Microsquash, it's GirlFriend™ 1.0

System Requirements:
- Cash... lots and lots of cash
- Style/ability to purchase own clothes and dress oneself without a fuss
- Closet space (essential for upgrade to Version 2.0 and future installation of Wife™ 1.0)
- Car (Hyundai and Kia models and any model over 12 years old will only work with experimental beta versions)
- Job/security
- Ability to be romantic, especially under spontaneous circumstances
- Worldly experiences/maturity
- Sexual prowess
- Freedom from parents (Version 1.0 Plus may require enough attachment to parents for trust fund)
- Lack of emotional issues, especially those pertaining to previously installed versions of GirlFriend™
- Resemblance to Ben Affleck

Limited Warranty/Disclaimers:
- GirlFriend™ may deplete system resources and bank account. Microsquash takes no responsibility for this occurrence.
- GirlFriend™ may require constant maintenance and attention. Microsquash does not provide tech support. Refer to friends, advice columns in various publications or the syndicated call-in show "Loveline" for assistance. Do not consult Dr. Joyce Brothers.
- GirlFriend™ may cause mild alienation among your circle of friends if used excessively.
- The Sex® plug-in may not be compatible with GirlFriend™.
- Attempting to uninstall GirlFriend™ may result in mass destruction of your property, rumor-mongering among GirlFriend's Friends® plug-in and your avoidance of certain locations for fear of "bumping into" GirlFriend™ or various versions of the GirlFriend's Friends® plug-in.
- In extreme cases, the Ex-Boyfriend® plug-in may cause problems. If trouble persists, call your local police department or kung-fu dojo.

I first realized something was amiss when I saw that the glass door to the freezer in the supermarket that held all the ice cream was fogged over. Then I looked up and saw her, and my glasses started fogging over too. She was a long cool woman in a black dress -- no, she couldn't have been cool, considering the way she was heating up the freezer... and me too. The copper lipstick that matched her hair is what absolutely melted me. That, and her piercing green eyes. Those emeralds that twinkled with intelligence, yet had edges sharp enough to cut glass. "Oops... I seem to have dropped my discount card," she breathed, then stooped over slowly to let the dress form-fit to her lines. My jaw dropped to the floor at that point as well, and I hoped she'd pick it up too. Then her foot jerked, and the card flew across the floor and slid underneath the freezer unit. "Oh no!" she exclaimed. "That was the only one I had. And without it, I won't be able to get all the ingredients I need." "No worries," I said, finally finding my voice and feeling adequately underdressed and underimpressive in my standard long-sleeved black shirt and dark jeans. "You can use mine." She looked up at me, those green eyes shining with hope. "You'd do that for me?" she asked. "A complete stranger?" "Sure," I replied. "I couldn't bear to see a woman -- especially one as alluring as you -- in distress. I'm pretty much done with my shopping, we can check out together." "Indeed we can," she said around a smile, showing off those pearly white teeth that gleamed more brightly than the reflection of the fluorescent lamps off the freshly-waxed floor tiles. I offered my arm and she looped hers through it, and together we walked towards the registers. After we'd paid for our goods, I walked her out to her car -- a candy-apple red Porsche convertible parked in the shade of the parking lot away from the lights. Despite the coolness of the air, she had left her car's top down. I lifted her bags into her backseat and tried desperately to think of a way to ask for her number without sounding like a total fool. She solved that problem easily by opening the door and getting into her driver's seat as I stared, hoping she wouldn't just leave me behind without a word -- and then she reached across and opened the passenger door. "Coming, stranger?" she inquired, flipping that long red hair at me and once again flashing that deadly smile. Without a word or need for any other prompting, I dropped my bags in her backseat, climbed in and shut the door. She threw the car into reverse, then slammed the stickshift into first gear and we roared off into the night.

I know what I'll miss the most about winter. New York at Christmastime.

The Macy's storybook windows. Seeing the giant Christmas tree and the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center. The smell of chestnuts roasting on the pushcart vendors' burners mixed with the scent of their baking pretzels. That giant lit snowflake hanging in the middle of Fifth Avenue. FAO Schwartz and all the decorations they put up, including the giant wrapped present at the main entrance. The Plaza Hotel.

You don't have be Christian to appreciate that kind of thing. It's just an all-around beautiful thing. And to think, there's people out here who have never seen snow.

One week from today, I fly to Arizona to help my parents set up their new house. Three weeks from tomorrow, I fly back to Connecticut to rent a truck and haul my parents' belongings all the way across the country to their new house. They've pretty much closed up the sale of our old house.

Note the distinction. Our old house. Their new house. That house in Connecticut was mine as well -- grew up in it, spent the most time there out of every place I've ever lived, and it's the only real "home base" I know. Even after I moved out to go to college and later into my own apartments, that house still retained some of me in there. It was painted with memories, insulated with years of experiences, insured by familiarity. No matter what happened, no matter how drastic life became for me, that old house in Connecticut would be there for comfort and security -- even though I never really had need for it, it was always nice to know it was there.

No longer. Not two days after I made my decision to go to California and do whatever it took to get the job I have now (which, thankfully, only required waiting an additional 2 weeks for an opening at the company), my parents called back East to tell me they'd bought the plot of land in Arizona. So not only was I leaving everything behind and going West, my parents were breaking those final ties for me as well. I wouldn't have that small place of familiarity and security anymore.

This new house, it won't be mine. My parents keep telling me it is, and they're legally correct, since they're leaving it to me in their will. So, eventually, unless they move again (which I doubt), it will eventually be mine. But, at the same time, it won't. I'm not growing up there. I have no ties to Tucson. This is their house to create their own lives without me, and while I'll go see them and that's where they'll be based, it will never be my home. It will be a house that my parents live in that I visit every now and then.

In essence, I kind of feel homeless. L.A. has become much more familiar to me over the past few months and I'm getting into life here, but I'm still having to look up where I can find certain stores and using Yahoo Maps and Mapquest to find my way to various events and locations. I don't know "the best place for [insert noun here]" yet that all the locals know about. And I'm renting an apartment that I share with two other people, so the only thing I own here and can call my own is my car. No, Los Angeles is not home. Not yet. Until then, I'm a nomad. Another Wandering Jew for the Diaspora.

After the 14 hour workday, I am home. And ten minutes after I collapsed at my own personal desk and not the one I have at work, my thoughts were interrupted by my new neighbors arriving home. They moved in a few days ago, but they haven't bothered to come by to say hi even though they're in the apartment next door, and I haven't been so inclined to stop by their place. When I poked my head in their place when it was still being shown to prospective renters, it still reeked of cat urine from the previous inhabitants. But I digress. The new neighbors disrupted my thinking since one of them announced loudly (and probably drunkenly) to the other, "Man, I better be getting a blow job. There'd best be a blow job waiting for me." Having recounted that, I'll now sit back and wait for the oral sex-oriented search engine results to roll in on my sitemeter. Speaking of oral sex, I scored myself a copy of a recent issue of Glamour tonight. Someone at work put a bunch of magazines in the kitchen for public consumption, and I surreptitiously stole the Glamour. It's been awhile since I've indulged myself, mostly because I can't bring myself to buy either that magazine or Cosmopolitan on the newsstands due to that whole heterosexual male insecurity thing about possibly being perceived as gay -- despite the fact that others might actually believe I could be buying it for my nonexistent girlfriend, since they don't know she's nonexistent. But again, I digress. I love reading Cosmo and Glamour for a couple of reasons. read more » One is that it's interesting reading about what women think men are thinking about, especially since they're so off that it's hysterical. Another is because it's interesting reading about what women are being told to think about men and fashion and sex, especially since it's so The Rules- and materialistically-oriented that it'd be offensive if it weren't funny. Granted, I skip the 120 of the 175 pages that contain beauty tips, but there really are some very hilarious articles in those magazines. And it makes me wonder how many people actually subscribe to the notions these writers are peddling. It almost reminds me in some ways of the movie version of Josie and the Pussycats that came out last year, where a small group of business people were influencing fashion purchases through subliminal messages, inventing random trends as quickly as they could to make these people buy more. How many of these Cosmo and Glamour editors and writers are sitting in staff meetings, trying to invent new fashion strategies because they know thousands upon thousands of drones will run out to Express and Limited the day after the issue hits the stands to purchase six different variations on the theme they propose? "Fuchsia is the new chic!" they announce, and suddenly, men everywhere are blinded by their glow-in-the-dark dates. Naturally, I know this is not characteristic of every woman and that I'm making vast generalizations. But you'd still be hard-pressed to find someone in this country who doesn't feel pressured in some way to wear something mildly fashionable in order to fit in or feel comfortable. Hell, I do. Whenever I go out, despite my own preferences, I still make sure that I'm wearing clothes that match the "level of dressiness" that whoever I'm with is wearing because I feel uncomfortable sometimes if I'm the only one in jeans and the people I'm with are all wearing khakis or corduroys. Now you'll pardon me. It's late, and I have to catch up on the fall fashions so I can go shopping after work tomorrow.