So here we are, approaching the end of the 2012 Summer Olympics. What a wild ride it’s been, eh? From the Queen parachuting out of a helicopter, to Jordyn Wieber’s heartbreak, to Ryan Lochte’s tacky grill, perfect bod, and one-night stands.
I have a rough time when any big sporting event rolls around, and that’s because a) I’m utterly uninterested in sports, and b) I’m utterly addicted to TV. This means that, if there is a big sporting event being aired, I feel compelled to watch for the sole purpose of having something to do. And this, in turn, means I have to come up with some way to make it interesting.
What I did for the 2012 Summer Olympics, is watch with a keen eye for the physiques and unique talents of the various athletes. And I imagined having sex with them. Wait! No. It was more specific than that, really. I imagined the before, during, and after of having sex with them, with a focus on the special gift each individual athlete would bring to the experience. Click through for a compilation of my observations. Keep reading »
I’ve never been good at confrontation. Who knows why this is – fear of anger, abandonment, a literal pie to the face – but the interesting (read: TOTALLY PREDICTABLE) thing about it is: The Grudge. Not the movie starring Sarah Michelle Gellar as a hot, tormented blonde, of course. No. What I mean is holding a grudge. If you’re bad at confrontation, if you live in constant fear of telling the world at large what you actually think, you wind up with, approximately, 8,000,510 things to still be mad about. If I had my way, I would happily list each and every one of those eight million plus to you, right now, in these interwebular pages. But as certain dreams do not come true, I won’t. What I’ll do instead is tell you of the worst offensives, of the three crazy enemies who dared to commit them, and why I will never forgive them. EVER. Keep reading »
Ladies! Hello! I know I’m three and half months early for Halloween, but that doesn’t matter. Why not grab the bull by the horns, and start talking scare tactics? Scare tactics for your boyfriend, that is. Now, as to why you’d want to scare your boyfriend, where even to begin? He misbehaved? He was rude? He scared you? You’re bored and need something to do? You have your reasons. I’ll warn you beforehand, what I’ve done here is a bit of research among friends, women I know, and have known, and who will, of course, remain anonymous. I’ve asked what things they’ve done to scare their boyfriends, both intentionally and not. The lessons I’ve learned have been compiled and included below for your own edification. Happy scaring the piss out of your man! Keep reading »
On occasion, I get mildly – just mildly – depressed. That sort of depressed where you can’t quite pin it on one particular thing, where it’s more a general, ambiguous malaise. On the occasions when I find myself feeling this way, and as a single woman in her 30′s who lives alone and works from home, I try to get out of the house. On one such occasion, I decided to treat myself to brunch. I did so at a restaurant down the block from my apartment, a spot I dined at, on average, two times a week. Whenever I go in there, I arrive with book in hand, sit at the bar, order a glass of wine, followed by a bowl of soup, followed by a cup of hot water. The routine, as a whole, prompted frequent urination, which both A) provided helpful intermissions to my reading, and B) helped me, as a Solo Diner, to look occupied.
The restaurant’s most winning feature is – and has always been – a loin-achingly handsome waiter I shall henceforth call Brian.* If you imagine both John Lennon and Justin Timberlake at their most handsome of stages, shaken, stirred, poured into a tall glass of water, you’d wind up with Brian. I knew, as all patrons knew, that Brian was to be not obtained, merely ogled; that one did well to appreciate him as exquisite décor rather than realistic option. Keep reading »
So here’s the sitch: There’s a date in the date-books, and one half of the twosome in question no longer wants to go. We’ve all been there, on either side of things. We’ve been canceled on, when we, ourselves, were excited. But that’s not what this is. No. This article presumes that you’re the one who’s doing the avoiding. This article is here to give you better, gentler ways to do it.
There’s one key ingredient to a well-constructed white lie, and that is a detail. A key, specific detail. People get paranoid out there in the great, wide world of dating, which means we’re all the more keyed up, all the more terrified of being lied to. And that, in turn, makes it harder to do. But I’m here to make it easier. I’m here to provide, if not any uber-new ideas, some variations on the classics. Keep reading »
In the summer of 2006, after having recently endured a breakup, I decided to bite the bullet, finally hopping on the online dating bandwagon. I chose Nerve as the site, and “Sara_B” and “This is really awkward” as my username and headline. Because, well, I am. And because, well, it was. I downloaded this one photo of me in a polka-dot dress and this other one of me in an absurd straw fedora and scoured the internet for someone to date.
I found him the very next day: LuckyJim_28. He had well-groomed facial hair, and those trendy, thick-framed hipster glasses. Nerve asked its members for a list of items they couldn’t live without, and LuckyJim_28 had written Martha Steward pie-crust mold and gun for killing Facebook friends who post about what they had for dinner. I found LuckyJim generally attractive, and the written answers to his profile genuinely amusing, and so I emailed him the following: “Hi there LuckyJim. Thanks for recognizing the level of self-absorption on display when one photographs one’s own food and uploads it on the internet. Also, I think you have nice glasses. – Very best, Sara B.”
His reply — “Well hello sara_b. Glad to meet a kindred spirit” – came later that same night. I liked the brevity of both the email and the response time – neither overly eager nor too hard-to-get – and after more back-and forths, we set up a date at a local bar. Keep reading »
This summer, my younger brother is getting married. (I would like, before going any further with this subject, to state in no uncertain terms that I very much like the young lass he’s chosen for his bride.) When he got engaged, I immediately started working on my plan for what I’d do if I were still single when his big day came; as it happens, the Single Older Sister at the Younger Sibling’s Wedding is a rather frequent occurrence.
As luck would have it, I no longer need this plan – but here it is; I can only hope will provide you with the littlest bit of entertainment/assistance, should you need it. Keep reading »
This past weekend, I was driving from Chicago to Wisconsin for a friend’s wedding when I spotted a billboard – admittedly advertising some sort of Christian cause – that said, “All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them.”
“Fair enough,” I thought, as the night before I’d had one of those hyper-realistic dreams in which I was I engaged to Don Draper in season one of “Mad Men” (back when he almost ran away with that hot Jewess). Oh, what a world! To be wed to Jon Hamm in lieu of driving a Chevy rental to a wedding with a cash bar!
This got me thinking that although Don Draper was admittedly out of reach as future sex partner, there was nothing at all wrong in dreaming about it, aspiring toward it. And seeing as how I was out there on the open road with nothing better to do then listen to fuzzy radio stations and/or “The Help” on tape, I opted to build up a list of other sexually desirable characters, more attainable than Don, from film and TV. Why? Because every woman’s vagina wants to have sex with Don. My desires must be more original than that. And because, as I said, I was bored. And because in this godforsaken life we all need some bit of delusional hoo-ha to Calgon-take-us-away. Click through to see more fictional men I am more than happy to fantasize about.
Let me tell you about a thing that happened to me once: It was 2004. and I was 25 and out to dinner with a guy I’d been casually seeing for awhile. I was under the impression that, following our post-dinner drinks, we’d be going back to his place so we could … pick your euphemism why don’t you: Do the horizontal mambo, do it, bone. But then, as we exited the bar, he was all, “Well, I should really be getting home.”
I took this as an indication that he was shy – unsure of whether or not I was in the mood – and so I took it upon myself to throw my arms around his neck and say, “Whaaaaat? Nooooo! Don’t you want to have sex with me tonight? It’ll be … fun!”
Then I burped accidentally. I’m talking, like, right in his face. Keep reading »
A few years back, I enjoyed a dream-like experience. It was like something out of the most ridiculous rom-com starring … oh, let’s say, Amanda Seyfried as me, the protagonist, and Channing Tatum as Mark, my strapping love interest.
I’d been on a I-just-broke-up-with-my-boyfriend-let-me-get-away-from-it-all vacation to San Francisco. I stayed with a friend, wandered around, ate good food, drank high-end coffee. I spent a lot of time complaining about what the humidity was doing to my hair. One afternoon, I wandered into a local coffee shop for one more five-dollar latte, and there was Mark. Think: Not as hot as a mid-90s Jared Leto, but close; think: mid-90s Jared Leto’s slightly less attractive cousin.
Mark asked me what I was reading, and this launched us into a two-hour conversation on everything from over-priced coffee to over-indulgent pet owners to which U.S. cities are the most self-delighted. He explained his facial hair wasn’t usually so unkempt, I explained my head-hair wasn’t usually so frizzy. In short: It felt like meeting of the minds. Like I’d somehow – impossibly – dodged the bullet of single-hood; like I’d get the gift of slipping seamlessly from one relationship into the next. Sure, Mark lived in San Francisco and I lived in New York. But we’d bonded on the subject of indulgent pet owners. We were so clearly meant to be! Keep reading »