Happy National Friendship Day! Let’s make it all about Oprah for a moment, shall we? Oprah says in reference to Gayle (and I’m paraphrasing here), “Nothing’s better than a good friend,” and with the notable exception of a perfectly done French fry, I wholeheartedly agree. There’s really nothing better. If you’re living without, I recommend you fix the situation pronto.
That said, I have no intention of instructing you on how to go about that here; I’m out of practice myself, having slipped into a motley crew of lunatics my freshman year of college and having held on tightly to those lunatics for the better part of 15 years. At this stage, new friends come along only once in a long while. And all I can say in terms of how I find them, is that, well, I don’t really. They find me is how it feels: I’m at a social gathering complaining about my facial hair, when suddenly there’s some new gal beside me who’s like, “My issue has always been my hairy lower back.” So you get to talking and fast-forward five years and she’s the one you call crying about the fact that you’re crying about those Jayonce breakup rumors. So again, I’m not here to tell you how to find her; I’m here to tell you how to assess a new lady friend. How to tell if she’s The One. Or, more specifically a Keeper. Keep reading »
Once upon a time in 2005, there was a young lady in her mid-20′s who lived in a faraway land known as New York City. This young lady was single and, as a result, was in constant pursuit of a man to be her boyfriend. She searched far and wide throughout the land for a proper companion. Eventually, many years later, she would find one to call her own, but in 2005 she was rifling through as many men as were available, ready, and willing. In the summer of 2005 she was balancing two different gentlemen, and it was in said balancing act that our fair maiden accomplished the near-impossible – the arguably slutty, the inarguably promiscuous – and put two penises into her mouth in one day.
Two different penises, that is. Just so we’re clear. Keep reading »
It happened twenty months ago. But who’s counting? Well, I’m counting. Twenty months ago I met my boyfriend, James. James is English, and he was working in New York where I lived at the time, and we met. And pardon the crappy metaphor, but sparks flew: They did. They flew. And impossibly and ridiculously, we committed on that first non-date of a date to an international, monogamous relationship. We did long-distance for a year and a half, and two months ago I moved from New York to London to be with him.
So first off, pip pip and cherrio from London, and all that. Second off, I’d like to address all that is horrible and wonderful about, not just cohabitation (or “cohabi-tay-shh” as I am wont to call it), but specifically, cohabitation with an Englishman. Because what you picture – at least what I pictured – is mornings spent cuddled in bed as a light rain falls against your windowpane. A light rain that will clear, of course, as you peruse the eminent Guardian Newspaper together. You will stroll arm in arm down scenic and historic streets, sipping tea, eating scones. A pint at the pub before dinner. National healthcare. The BBC on local stations. Shakespeare done with real English accents.
But, oh, my Yankee friends, it is not so. It does not go like that. As I alluded to before, it isn’t all bad. It’s just that, neither is it idyllic. It isn’t, as the saying goes, “All good.” Keep reading »
Two years ago, I met a gentleman I shall henceforth call James, because his name was, well, James. James and I had a first date for the books. It lasted a full 10 hours (we’d met up for coffee at 3 p.m. on a Saturday), and we discussed everything from the rudeness inherent to chronic lateness to how we both hate the book Confederacy of Dunces. We discussed how embarrassed we both are by this latter fact.
I knew about James like you know a good dye job. Here’s the one for me, I thought. The man I’ve been looking for years. I just KNOW.
There was one little problem, however, and that was that James already had a wife. Keep reading »
Hello. I am her: The woman with the grossest personal hygiene habits in the world. You wouldn’t know it if you saw me walking down the street. Because I’m dangerous like that. I blend. I look like most of you rational, well-mannered humans: I shower, I smell okay, I do my hair and makeup, I sport the skinny jean. But behind this façade is a dark, disgusting reality, one I’ve chronicled after the jump. Should you make it to the end and wonder, “How did she end up this way?” the answer is, “Who knows?” Don’t torture yourself thinking about it. Just rejoice in this fact: You’re not me. Keep reading »
Josh and I were together for a year and a half. We had a relationship built upon the stuff the Under Twos so often are: You both like the same book, you both like Christopher Guest, you do the horizontal mambo and it’s not, like, awful, and the next thing you know you’ve met a family and celebrated an anniversary.
You know, of course, that at some point you’ve got to listen to the voice inside your head that runs her mouth about “long-term compatibility.” It’s just that, right now, in this moment, you’re having an awful lot of fun eating pizza in bed with someone else beside you. And, you know, compared to your friend Vicki’s boyfriend, Josh is an absolute GEM. Keep reading »