I recognized her immediately: the soft, brown golden retriever-like eyes that turned down at the corners, the blonde, slightly over-processed hair and tan skin with a smattering of freckles that betrayed her Southern sorority girl roots despite her New York fashion girl get-up.
It was 2010 and I was working behind the cheese counter at a shop in the Chelsea Market. And she was … well, obviously doing well enough to spend $30 a pound on farmstead cheese. As I stumbled to weigh out her dainty wedge of artisan sheep’s milk, flustered and flushed, I felt a strange surge of vindication that twisted and wrapped around a twin, slightly nauseating feeling of anxious jealousy like some cruel double helix.
We had never met in person but I could have spotted her a mile away. And here she was, smiling obliviously at me across the refrigerated case as I swaddled her Manchego in butcher paper. Her credit card confirmed the name I had come to know and agonize over for months upon months of my life. She was The Ex. Keep reading »
Bad Band. Jew Joker. Sandwich. The Brute. AwwMike. Babycheese. My laundry list of discarded loves reads like a storyboard of comic book villains, each nickname a clue as to their respective fatal flaws. Anyone who knows me well knows I have a history of dating men who are wildly inappropriate for me. It’s been a quirk I myself was willing to accept, further proof of my fun-loving, devil-may-care spirit (this despite the days and weeks of sobbing and agonizing over wholly ridiculous relationships when they inevitably ended). Keep reading »
A typical Saturday night for me can be summed up one of two ways: food or sex. Do I skip dinner and start drinking, adopt the “eating is cheating” adage so I can feel thin and attractive and get tipsy quicker, thus increasing the chances I’ll get naked later, or do I cave and open the box of Triscuits, resigned to an evening of stuffing my face in front of the TV and going to bed with a bloated stomach full of carbs and a phone full of sexually frustrated text messages from potential paramours? Keep reading »
Watching the recently released Nancy Meyers flick “It’s Complicated” got me thinking: Wow, Meryl Streep has beautiful skin. It also got me thinking about the notion of a relationship reboot. Not to be confused with backsliding, where you ill-advisedly reconnect with a very recent ex after a breakup, the reboot presupposes that a goodly amount of time has passed, as it did in the movie when two middle-aged divorcees tried to give it another go after ten years apart. It’s no surprise that the relationship reboot has become a rom-com trope – it fulfills a fantasy that a lot of us have about the “what ifs” of relationships that have ended for one reason or another, and exploits hopeful ideas of personal growth and fate. There’s an undeniable allure and romance to reviving those lost loves, but does it work in practice? Or is it true that everything ends for a reason? Two women debate whether relationship redos are worth it or not.
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All manner of experts are asserting that the wheels have come off our already craptacular economy and no imminent signs of an upturn are apparent. Massive layoffs across all sectors are forcing even the most resourceful among us to tighten belts and come up with innovative ways to earn extra scratch. Which is why it’s not altogether shocking that in the midst of this fiscal catastrophe, there’s been a marked uptick in women signing on to donate eggs. At roughly $8,000 a throw, it certainly seems like a viable option for fertile ladies, and an act that was once relegated to cash-strapped college girls looking for ways to pay off their debt has spread to folks with more pedestrian monetary needs, like making rent. Keep reading »