"I've been praying for a way out of here for three days!"

When I was a junior in high school, my theology teacher recommended that I attend a leadership camp.

Michelle, my partner-in-crime in high school, was nominated too and we were shipped off to Clark Summit, Pa. for the first week in July.

Our first clue that something was amiss was that we were staying in a convent.

Our second clue was that there were about fifty kids in groups of five or six standing on the convent lawn and they appeared to be coordinating some sort of dance routine.

This was not a leadership camp. It was a religious leadership camp. And, presumably, it was for boys and girls with bad attitudes.

“You’re going to leave me here?!” I hissed at my parents as they got back in their car. “With these freaks!”

They didn’t listen to me.

“No, really,” I said to my parents. “Do you see these people?! They’re freaks!”

But my parents left Michelle and me with the camp supervisor in the gravel parking lot that afternoon and all three of us knew it was going to be a long week.

“Put your things inside and then join us on the lawn for a game of Red Rover,” she told us.

Prior to that weekend, I don’t think I played Red Rover since grade school - something not uncommon for the normal population.

Reluctantly, Michelle and I joined hands with some scummy kid and swung our arms half-heartedly.

“Red Rover, Red Rover - Let Jesus Come Over!” we chanted.

And kids on both teams looked at us, confused.

“That’s right!” we said, scanning the playing field. “Not coming, is he? That’s because he’s not real!”

It was a little ditty we worked up five minutes before when we were hiding inside with everyone’s suitcases.

While certainly entertaining now, that unwittingly made our Jesus camp experience exponentially more uncomfortable because we became the souls everyone wanted to save most.

Michelle ended up doing OK, but try as they may, they could not break my spirit of spite and angst.

From discussing the religious undertones of Phil Collins songs, to the rebirth party we had at 8 p.m. the second night to the prayer bonfire – I just did not give in.

But in case I have a change of heart, there’s still a chance for me – I could attend Ave Maria University’s “Picnic at the Prep.”

Not to be outdone, the Next Level Church of Matthews commemorated the launch of a new campus with a shot glass give-away.

"The glasses, which feature the church logo, an invitation card, and the words "Give Us A Shot", are designed to encourage attendance at the new campus," reads the release.

Now that's a church event I could "come over" for.

Take action...

On Valentine’s Day last year, I told my friends that I was going to borrow my neighbor’s dog, slip on an icy sidewalk and inspire the latest rom-com blockbuster when a handsome, yet mysterious, stranger helped me up.

But I put that idea on hold when someone I had been dating for a few weeks called and asked if I was interested in a low-key night. It was a Tuesday and I don’t think he had any idea it was Feb. 14.

Nearly an hour into the night - after turning down my repeated drink offerings - he told me, “I don’t drink. I’m a recovering alcoholic.”

I was in a little bit of a dating dry spell at the time and I said to myself, “Well hey - a recovering alcoholic is better than a straight-up alcoholic.”

Besides, I was in no position to judge because I had just finished telling a story about how I took a hip hop class at my gym and danced right into a punching bag hanging from the ceiling in the work out room.

“The whole dance was terrible,” I told him. “By the end of the class the teacher was practically holding my hand and shouting ‘5-6-7-8!’ in my face. I was like, ‘Hey Hadas, I might be a slow learner, but I’m not deaf!”

As it turns out, he knew Hadas and I had to backtrack about how “energetic” she was.

Anyway, an hour later, after sharing horror stories of apartments past, he said, “This place I’m in now isn’t great, but at least it’s better than where I came from.”

“Oh? Where did you come from?” I asked.

“A halfway house,” he said flatly.

I was expecting him to say “New Jersey.”

From there, he launched into a big story about how he was a cocaine addict and to quit using he tried to move to different cities so that he wouldn’t know where to buy. While in Chicago, he got arrested by an undercover cop and spent the night in jail. When he got out, it was the middle of the night and it was freezing, so he checked himself into a mental hospital. And now, here he is – sitting in my living room enjoying a cup of tea and a toasted, buttered scone.

Stories like this are precisely the reason why I take issue with BadOnlineDates.com’s “Bold 8 Dating Makeover” tip #2 – “Now take action ... Move out of your comfort zone and try something new ... hobbies, a different market or going to a local bar ALONE and striking up a conversation with someone new ... Feel nervous? Great. Do that what you fear and your fear will die.”

First of all, I had this exact idea last January and look where it got me – perched on the edge of the couch ready to sprint out of my own apartment – on Valentine’s Day no less.

Second, the writers at BadDatesOnline could stand to familiarize themselves with the mighty period (“.”). Just one does the job better than three strung together. For example:

• I attract winners.
  vs.
• I attract winners…

See the difference? Do you???

Finally, advice like this should come with a disclaimer. Something like, “*Not responsible for sexually transmitted diseases; Tips not intended for use in conjunction with MySpace.com.”

Regardless, I’m not going to fall for this “take action” trap two years in a row. This Valentine’s Day, I’m going to stick to walking dogs in snowstorms. Strangers who will help you up can’t be nearly as bad.

A spoonful of smart.

Two women in my shared workspace were comparing the nutritional value of two types of instant oatmeal today.

Carb-for-carb, I think the Quaker packet came out on top.

At the time they were talking, I could be observed eating peanut butter by the tablespoon right out of the jar.

It seems they didn’t get the message from the University of Pittsburgh and the University of California.

Never mind all those details about Omega-this and fleshy fish-that or the fact that the research didn’t really do anything besides correlate being "curvy" and having “higher” test scores – it turns out that being fat can make your kids smart.

Does your oatmeal do that?

Derailing the first date train

I noticed that eHarmony issued some practical dating advice with their “5 Bad Habits that Tank First Dates” list.

“If you find yourself tanking first dates too often, then try to avoid these habits that can derail the first-date train before it even gets going,” reads the article.

1. Don’t monopolize the conversation.
2. Don’t “Over-Share.”
3. Don’t try to be someone you’re not.
4. Don’t propose.
5. Don’t ignore clues.

I’d tend to agree – I wouldn’t recommend proposing and who doesn’t love clues? But being far less generous than eHarmony, I would probably identify these first date train wrecks and block them from using the service so that normal people wouldn't have to deal with them.

But since I can't do that, I would like to add a few notes, which were inspired by real events that took place on some of my favorite first dates.

1. Don’t make excuses.

The only thing worse than having someone cancel a date because he locked his keys in his car is knowing that he canceled the previous date because he had sunburn.

Please note these excuses fall somewhere in between “My car window won’t roll up,” and “My mom’s dog ate a Brillo pad,” on the excuse continuum.

2. Cut your losses.

My truly intolerable dates are the ones that keep giving long after the dinner is over.

I once met a man for a single drink and when I didn’t return his phone calls afterwards, he followed up by sending me a digital photo in which he was dressed in a unitard and feather boa on Halloween, a link to the Crush Calculator and a text message that said, “Just got out of jail.”

“I don’t have to reply to this, do I?” I asked my roommate.

To which she replied, “You do – if only for my entertainment!”

So for the fair price of $1, she paid me to text back, “OMG R-U-OK WTF BBQ Y?” where the “BBQ” definitely stood for barbecue.

3. Don’t punch anyone.

I was once on a first date with someone who told me, “Some of my friends are going to drop by.” And sure enough, our table for two eventually seated four extra people who all got wrapped up talking about high school.

Not having much to contribute to the conversation, I kept quiet until my date told me, “You better start talking – or I’m going to punch you in the face with shit on my knuckles!”

4. Don’t use racial slurs.

Don’t think for a second that Shitty Knucks was my worst date.

No, that prize would go to an investment banker, who during a first date – on which he invited another couple – referred to me as a four letter word that means “hairy Italian woman.”

In case you are ever faced with these situations and other dating blunders, I advise carrying a pocket-sized notebook, excusing yourself to use the restroom and taking copious notes to maintain a record of all of your encounters – if only to flesh out the bad behavior continuum.

And “if only for my entertainment!”

Coffee - cream and sugar... and cat poop.

To keep myself entertained as a teenager, I would play a game called “How much shit can I get Daddy to put in his coffee” at meal times.

As its name implies, the game centered on convincing my father to add unconventional items to his coffee. In its earliest stages, my mother would pay me $1 for the battles I won: mint ice cream, yogurt, sprinkles, whipped cream, chocolate syrup and strawberry preserves.

“This is getting ridiculous,” my mother told me. “I don’t think we should play any more.”

Of course, I was moving to college at that point and her change of heart seemed conveniently timed. Plus, when I came home for visits, she still played the game - she just didn’t pay me a dollar for the chocolate chip cookie, or crumb cake, or the butter. The possibilities were endless, really.

One year for Christmas, I received a tub of chocolate rice snack cookies.

“Do NOT ask your father to put those in his coffee,” my mother told me as I was opening the tub. “I mean it, not with the company here!”

But my father needed very little convincing to throw in a handful. And when they floated to the top of his cup like cereal in milk, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh you’re up to something!” my dad yelled. “These aren’t for coffee. I don’t know why I listen to you!”

Trying to avoid a fight, my mother came into the room, picked up the tub and examined the label. “Yep, it says right here: May add to coffee or tea,” she pretended to read.

Then she pointed to the cartoon moose on the front of the package, “See, the moose is holding a coffee cup!”

“Oh, good,” my father said, satisfied with the explanation.

Later, as we were doing the dishes, my mother picked up a coffee cup and said, “You always know which cup is your father’s. It’s the one with all the shit on the bottom.”

Now, thanks to this WZZM video clip, I know how to take our game to the next level and see how much shit my father really will drink.

One ticket to New York, hold the turtles.

For a brief moment, I was concerned that I would run out of personal anecdotes to arbitrarily pair with press releases. But then I reminded myself that I regularly take the Chinatown bus between New York and Philadelphia, and there’s no chance of running out of material as long as that bus line is in order.

Take this past week’s trip, when my friend and I returned to New York after the holiday with approximately 45 pounds of my luggage.

“I’ll buy the tickets, you just sit down,” I said to my friend as I handed him my over-packed suitcase and a portable sewing machine.

But after I bought the tickets, the woman behind the counter told me, “Next bus is in ten minutes.”

“What about that bus?” I asked, pointing to the bus my friend just boarded.

“No New York,” she said.

So I got on the bus, walked halfway down the aisle, waved at my friend and said, “Come on. This bus isn’t going to New York.”

And half the bus – including my friend – replied, “It’s not?!” in unison.

So I left to ask the clerk again and she assured me the bus was not going to New York, which prompted practically every passenger to de-board.

“I like that no one listened to me the first time,” I said to my friend.

“Oh that,” he said. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

“Even you!’ I said. “Even you didn’t listen to me! God. Not one person thought I was right.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” he said.

“What’s with these people? Is it so hard to believe that I might be right?”

“OK, don’t get mad,” he started. “But on your way off the bus, I maybe told people not to listen to you.”

“You WHAT?!”

“Yeah, I said, ‘Don’t listen to her. She drinks.’”

“She drinks?!”

“They all laughed!” he insisted. “It was funny!”

Then he added, “Come on. It’s the Chinatown bus!”

And finally, “OK, I just didn’t want to lug the suitcase back up the aisle.”

Perhaps instances like this should factor into Access America’s next quarterly index measuring the frustration levels of American travelers.

“Based on a survey of more than 1,000 adults -- all of whom had traveled for business or leisure in the past quarter -- the aggregated hassle factor came in at 3.9 out of a possible 10, down from 4.1 in the year's third quarter,” reads the release.

Clearly, no respondents have been traveling on the Chinatown bus, where the “hassle factor” most certainly is greater than that of the DMV and Planned Parenthood clinic combined. In fact, based on this past trip, which after a lot of waiting on the sidewalk eventually ended with us boarding the original bus, and a previous trip that involved someone selling baby turtles in terrariums straight out of a garbage bag , I’d estimate my hassle factor to be at least a 9.99. The .01 is being held in case I ever get on a bus with an animal that gets out of its cage.

Anyway, according to the release, the two biggest complaints from travelers this past quarter is the price of gas and airport/airline service – both of which seem a small inconvenience considering that gas stations and airports generally don’t have turtle salespeople.

At the very least, they do something about the alcoholics.

Lions and Tigers and Sharks - Oh my!

Two years ago, six of my girlfriends and I took a trip to the Dominican Republic. While we were there, we decided to book a snorkeling trip, despite only half of us knowing how to swim.

The guide told us, "First you swim around the reef and watch hundreds of fish during feeding time. Then you go into a cage and see nurse sharks and sting rays."

I said to my friends, "Guys, I don't know how comfortable I am with getting in a cage with sharks!"

And my friend said, "Oh how ridiculous! You don't get in a cage with sharks. You get in a cage and the sharks are on the outside!"

And everyone one else laughed and agreed.

But I assure you, they were not laughing several hours later when we flopped into plastic enclosure in the middle of the ocean and found ourselves face-to-face with two sharks.

So my girlfriends and I clung to each other for dear life and made our way back to the opening of the cage kicking and screaming as one solid mass.

Please don't be the person who says, "Oh they were just nurse sharks!" While that’s true, I think a shark of any kind could do some damage when the only thing I have to defend myself is a water noodle.

And really don't be the person who says, "Sharks aren't aggressive! As long as they're well fed, they won't bother you!" because that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. They're sharks.

Here's how I see it: If I were a nurse shark, and I was swimming around in the ocean, minding my own business and someone caught me and put me in a pen, I'd be pretty annoyed. Then when they had the nerve to throw in seven screaming American girls who are getting all tangled up in life preservers, I'd be thinking, “Maybe I should just bite something.”

Anyone who disagrees may want to check in with Tatiana the Tiger in San Francisco.