Have you been watching “Hoarders” on A&E? If you’re unfamiliar, each episode documents the lives of two of the estimated three million Americans who are so compulsive about accumulating crap of all kinds that they’ve lost the ability to function normally.
Until I was assigned this story, I didn’t watch it. I like crappy reality shows as much as the next lady, but this one didn’t appeal to me—I’d already lived it. Keep reading »
In the classic scary flick “The Exorcist,” when young Regan McNeil’s mom wanted to banish the devil from inside her daughter, she had to call in the God Squad. The result was all sorts of profanity, a generous helping of projectile vomit, and several unpleasant deaths.
Once the devil was cast out, Regan and her mom moved to a new city; after all, who wants to live where the devil once did? Unfortunately, not all of us can afford a change of locale after a traumatic experience, like, say, a breakup. Short of jetting off to Bali and drowning your heartache in fruity cocktails, the quickest way to exorcise someone from your heart is by ridding yourself of all the bad juju—and debris—that a rough breakup can leave in its wake. Keep reading »
Last night I was thrown for a loop when I ran into a long-ago ex at a party that he had no business (that I could fathom) attending. I was not happy to see him. In fact, over the past ten or so years, I’ve made it a point to avoid being anywhere he might be. I haven’t been pining; he’s someone I actively avoid because he’s psychotic and I had no idea what he—or I—would do if we ever crossed paths again. I’m not a violent person, but the thought of stabbing him in the eye is not an unpleasant one.
When you’ve tracked as many laps around the block as I have, you’re bound to run into the occasional ex—even the ones you’d rather forget. As the rage disappeared along with the tequila in my glass, I got to thinking about how just the random act of running into someone can ruin, or make, your day. Keep reading »
I realize it might seem a little early to start talking about the holidays, but as my local drugstore pulled out the tinsel and Santa hats before they’d even had time to put away the slutty nurse costumes and plastic pumpkins, I figured I’d get a jump on the season.
Whether you’re a sassy single lady or one-half of a love muffin; if you go home for them, holidays are a very special kind of hell. This week we’ll tackle some of the issues you might face and how you might deal with them without resorting to pie-throwing or sneaking off to the basement with the bottle of cooking sherry. Keep reading »
I guess I’ve been lucky in my romantic dealings with coworkers; one turned into a long-term relationship that outlasted the job and the other two were just pleasant dalliances that fizzled out naturally. Which is probably why I’ve always rolled my eyes when I hear so-called experts yammer on about how you should avoid dating people you work with at all costs. I mean, sure, stay away from the boss or anyone who reports to you, but if you’re both on equal footing, who cares? Keep reading »
Like the David Letterman Debacle wasn’t bad enough, now we have the story of Steve Phillips, the ESPN analyst, who had an affair with a 22-year-old coworker. Unfortunately for the 46-year-old sports dude and married father of four, his latest dalliance (and apparently there’ve been many before her) turned into a bunny boiler when he broke it off with her.
Brooke Hundley, the jilted junior, went ballistic, repeatedly emailing and calling Phillips’ long-suffering wife, tricking their 16-year-old son into an online flirtation, and then finally showing up at the family home, scaring the crap out of everyone.
Lucky for Hundley, the Phillips declined to press charges, but her reputation, both professionally and personally, is shot. (His too. He’s since been fired from ESPN and has entered a treatment facility.) Obviously, being some cad’s side action is always a sucker’s game, but if you’re going to do it, do it right. Keep reading »
I used to be one of those self-righteous types who declared I’d sooner break up with a man than stoop to snoop. This stance wasn’t because I was noble or had never been tempted—I’m not and I have. I just remember all too well the day my mother read my journal aloud to my entire family. I was 17 and, as you can probably imagine, that book was bursting at the seams with embarrassing, angst-laden, mawkish, teenage drama. To say I was mortified … well, that doesn’t begin to describe the way I felt.
Since that day, I’ve always been very respectful of other people’s privacy, in particular my partners’ and, unfortunately, often to my own detriment. I’d listen to suspicious friends’ tales of hacking into their boyfriends’ emails or reading their texts and waste no time voicing my disapproval.
Keep reading »
Who was the first person you called the day your ex dumped you? Or that time you found a weird bump on that very private body part? Or the day you stumbled across that pair of barely worn Christian Louboutins at the Goodwill?
If you’re like me, you called a girlfriend. While I love my man and adore my cats to what some might consider a scary degree, the relationships I have with my girls is on an entirely different plane. They’re the funniest, smartest, weirdest (in a good way!) gaggle of broads I’ve ever met and I feel lucky every day to have them around.
It wasn’t always this way. I’ve had to prune my posse (please note that I’ve also been kicked out of people’s lives as well) and have discovered some types to avoid. Keep reading »
I’ve been writing relationship advice for nearly ten years now and the number-one question I get asked—by readers and friends alike—isn’t anything filthy or even fun. It is: “How come I can’t meet anyone?”
Depending on your situation, there are a variety of answers to this question, but mostly, finding someone to tongue wrestle with on a regular basis comes down to a combination of luck and timing. That said, there are things you can do to ensure that you never even come close to falling in love. Keep reading »
The two of you are inseparable. You’re every romantic comedy cliché come to life. He’s the cream in your coffee. The Jim to your Pam—not that you even remember who they are, because with all the lovemaking, you hardly have time to waste on sitcoms like “The Office.”
When you’re not busy rutting, you spend hours just staring at each other, marveling at your good fortune. Everything reminds you of him and you can’t stop talking about how fantastically happy you are. In fact, you’re so busy, you probably haven’t even noticed that, except for calls from your shmoopie, your phone has stopped ringing. (Unless it’s your mom calling to wonder if you’re finally going to squeeze out some grandchildren for her.)
But your friends? They seem to have disappeared. In the haze of your love drunkenness, you might believe this is because they’re jealous. But more likely it’s because you’ve become one of the “smug marrieds” from Bridget Jones’ Diary—a book I loathed, but she sure got that part right. And you’re not even married. Yet. Keep reading »