I’m just going to come clean: I hate every woman my husband has ever dated.
I won’t apologize for it or try to get over it. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will always hate them to some degree, depending on the depth of their relationship. If she was a random hook up, I’ll hate her slightly less than if she was a serious long term girlfriend. Regardless, I hate them all. Keep reading »
If I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it. My friends and I stumbled into a crowded bar for some after-dinner drinks one night and, within 30 minutes, my friend Aaron had the waitress’s phone number. Not that surprising since Aaron is a tall, good-looking guy who always seems to have a harem; but his technique was unorthodox to say the least. He stood in her way whenever the waitress walked past us. He would interrupt her while she was taking orders from other customers. He sent his drink back three times, citing something absurd each time — “not enough gin … not enough tonic … I asked for a martini … I’m just a pain in the ass.” If I were her, I would have sent another server to our table but she GAVE him her phone number and he didn’t even ASK for it.
What the…? Yeah, I’m not really sure either. Keep reading »
You meet a great guy. You start dating. At first you’re seeing each other once or twice a week and after a month it’s up to three or four. You start having sleepovers and pretty soon there’s “the toothbrush discussion.” Then one day you wake up and can’t remember the last time you actually slept at your own place; it’s just an expensive unkempt storage unit and you have the dust bunnies and dead plants to prove it.
Considering that you spend almost all of your time at your boyfriend’s place, moving in together is just easier. And there are some pretty logical advantages. Keep reading »
You think he’s an idiot. He thinks you’re a nut case. You insist he doesn’t understand you. He insists you’re a nut case. You get angry and maybe even cry. He shrugs his shoulders, assumes it’s a personal problem that has nothing to do with him, and chalks all it up to you being an overly emotional irrational nut case.
Sound painfully familiar? Keep reading »
Even though I’m not necessarily proud of it, I will admit I’ve been the other woman … more than once.
Come to think of it, I’ve been tempting guys since middle school. I’ll never forget the time the Seventh Grade Love of My Life walked the mile with me in gym class. Neither of us liked to run (we had so much in common) so I had his undivided attention for 15 whole minutes. It was magical. His seventh grade girlfriend was a soccer player. She ran the mile in 5 minutes. She proudly crossed the finish line but the sight of her boyfriend happily strolling around the track with me must have knocked the wind out of her. She came up to me at my locker after school to inform me, “Stay away from my man or you’ll me sorry.”
I should have been apologetic or remorseful; I was ecstatic. She was the hottest girl in school, she was the first girl in seventh grade to graduate from a training bra, and she’d gotten to second base with two boys. I heard one of them was an eighth grader… and she felt threatened by ME? Sweet validation for a flat-chested mildly awkward twelve year old who felt invisible to boys!
But like a crack addict, once I’d had a taste, I couldn’t stop. Keep reading »