On my very first date with my boyfriend, I didn’t know if he was going to kiss me. I didn’t know yet that he loves Concord grapes, plays the saxophone and has never seen a Woody Allen movie. But I did know for certain that I wanted this person with whom I’d just eaten dinner to be in my life, somehow. I remember sitting across from him at a table in a Portuguese restaurant, smiling, and thinking, “Whatever happens after this date, I really hope we become friends. You’re cool.”
Flash forward six intense, crazy-in-love months and this man is not only boyfriend — he is my closest friend now, too, the one who knows everything about what goes on with my family, what goes on at work, what weird dreams woke me up in the middle of the night.
And I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing. Keep reading »
Yesterday, as I was about to get in my usual train car (I’m a creature of habit), I noticed something was amiss. There was a large crowd of about 50 teenagers hovering over two girls who were beating the crap out of each other. This wasn’t your usual hair-pulling-and-scratching kind of girl fight. These girls would have made even the most hardened UFC fighters cringe, as they punched, kicked, and slammed each other. The funny thing is that when they arrived at their stop, the fighting stopped. And as I sat in another train car, I thought: “Well, at least they’re responsible enough to go to school.” I’ve never been in a girl fight, unless you count the times when my bigger and older cousins would beat me up and I would bite them in defense, but we were only toddlers. I went to Catholic schools, where we were watched like hawks and teachers always swooped in before anything came to blows. Once, in high school, these girls had a major fight, miles away from the school, but they were wearing their very recognizable uniforms, and someone called the school and they got in trouble anyway. I think physical fighting just wasn’t worth it for most of my fellow students or me. We developed very witty ways to argue and learned how to curse like sailors instead. But I wonder what other people’s experiences have been. Have you ever been in a girl fight? Keep reading »
Remember when I was all, “I’m turning 30, so what?” Well, I think I jinxed myself! After writing that essay, the days until my 30th birthday continued to count down, and I started feeling some … anxiety and sadness about the whole thing. Not because I’m actually sad about bidding goodbye to my 20s — they were fun, but not that fun — but because so many of my friends have already hit the big 3-0 and I’m feeling woefully distant from them these days. Keep reading »
Perhaps the better question isn’t whether you would tell your BFF that you slept with her ex, but whether you’d sleep with her ex in the first place. And maybe a more interesting question is: how would you react if your best friend confessed she slept with your ex? A woman writing to the Daily Mail’s advice columnist, Rowan Pelling, may find out the answer to that very question. In her letter to Pelling, she writes:
Six months ago, my best friend split up with her boyfriend of five years. She was desperately in love with him and heartbroken when he told her the relationship was over. I never thought they were ideally suited (neither did most of their friends) and wasn’t surprised that he told her he didn’t love her enough to marry her. A few weeks ago, I went to a party where my friend’s ex was also a guest. He talked to me all night, we danced and ended up going home together and having incredible sex. He says he’s always found me attractive and wanted to tell me years ago. We have amazing chemistry and if he were any other man we would be dating by now. But I know my best friend would be devastated. I’ve always told her everything, but now I feel too guilty to lift the phone for a chat. What should I do?
Keep reading »
Everyone has a story to share about a bad breakup with a bad boyfriend. The one who cheated, the one on drugs, the one who said that totally unforgivable thing about your mom. Bars across America are thick with tales of the sad sacks that girls have loved and righteously dumped. I’m less sure of what to do with my story about the bad breakup with a bad friend who happens to be a boy. 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 finally ended a friendship I’d had for about 13 years. The woman and I had gotten to a point where we knew very little about each other’s lives because she constantly canceled plans and wouldn’t return phone calls, and I decided I didn’t care to make an effort without some reciprocity. Basically, we had outgrown each other. This means, I’m down to about three girlfriends. One lives in the south. Another lives about two hours away by public transportation and rarely wants to meet somewhere in the middle. And the third is finding herself now that she’s come out. I’m faced with the dilemma of making new girlfriends and the outlook ain’t pretty. Keep reading »
Women always seem to ask me where all the good men are, as if these near-mythical dudes are hiding behind bushes, chained up in some vampire’s basement, or are just rare and elusive, like the snow leopard. Normally, I have to resist responding, “Maybe the good guys are just avoiding you.” But the answer to this frequent, lovelorn lament is simple: The good men are right under your nose. And that’s the damn truth.
Keep reading »
“Are you going to go to Rosh Hashanah services?” my sister asked me on the phone last week, and my gut instantly churned. Not because I’m now separated by the Atlantic Ocean from my family on the Jewish New Year, but because: a.) I had forgotten about it and b.) I didn’t feel like dealing with it.
“It’s tomorrow? And what year is it in Jewish anyhow? 18 million or something? I didn’t really make any arrangements. Maybe I’ll just fake going to services so mom and dad don’t freak.”
“I know you’re not religious, but aren’t you at least afraid of the wrath of mom?”
“I’ll repent for it a week later on Yom Kippur.”
Every year, when Yom Kippur, the day of repentance rolls around, I reluctantly put on a conservative pencil skirt, pack into the family Subaru, and fast for a day. At least I’ll lose a little weight, I think. Because why would I need to repent? I’m a good person. I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t seriously offended any of my friends or family. I eat my vegetables. I even vacuumed under the bed. Once. Keep reading »