We all know the stories, a beautiful young woman meeting her Prince Charming, falling in love and living happily ever after. What these storytellers fail to mention is that you may have to kiss a lot of frogs before finding your Prince and once you do, there are no guarantees that it will end in happily ever after. In most cases, it will end without the birds singing and wrapped in the pretty bow that we remember from “Cinderella.” Keep reading »
Melanie Sims wrote an essay called “Dating Like a White Girl” for the November issue of Essence magazine. In the piece, she says she rewrote her “conservative Black girl dating rules” to have fun with dating and get over a man who was unfaithful. Here’s her explanation:
“Yes, I’m stereotyping White girls as footloose and free based on my first introduction to courtship (Kelly Kapowski on “Saved by the Bell“) and the White women in the cubicle next to me who don’t live in fear of some looming man shortage.”
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It’s only been three months since I got married and, sadly, I’m already a widow — a baseball widow, I mean. My husband, Drew, is a huge, life-long Yankees fan, and if you aren’t following the sport or the team, the Yankees are currently one game away from making it to the World Series. Over the last two weeks or so of post-season, the Yankees have played something like nine games, most of which have lasted over four hours — some have even lasted over five hours. Tack on all the pre- and post-game coverage that Drew likes to watch and we’re looking at roughly 50 hours of baseball viewing in less the two weeks. Fifty hours, you guys! Basically, that’s a part-time job. Or, to put it in terms someone like me can wrap her head around a bit more easily, that’s 50 episodes of “The Real Housewives,” 25 episodes of “The Bachelor,” or 16 viewings of the 2009 Academy Awards! Keep reading »
I used to be one of those self-righteous types who declared I’d sooner break up with a man than stoop to snoop. This stance wasn’t because I was noble or had never been tempted—I’m not and I have. I just remember all too well the day my mother read my journal aloud to my entire family. I was 17 and, as you can probably imagine, that book was bursting at the seams with embarrassing, angst-laden, mawkish, teenage drama. To say I was mortified … well, that doesn’t begin to describe the way I felt.
Since that day, I’ve always been very respectful of other people’s privacy, in particular my partners’ and, unfortunately, often to my own detriment. I’d listen to suspicious friends’ tales of hacking into their boyfriends’ emails or reading their texts and waste no time voicing my disapproval.
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Reader Rommel sent us this from Park Slope, Brooklyn.
Have you seen graffiti that’s kind of sweet (even if it is against the law)? Send your pic to email@example.com. Keep reading »
As many times as I’ve tried to recall the evening, I don’t remember the first time I met Marc*, although he seems to remember it well. He claims we met in a hot tub at a party that my then-boyfriend was throwing. Apparently, he thought I was “hot,” but I only had eyes for my BF Rick*, who was a friend of Marc’s. That was six years ago.
Marc and I saw each other again many times over the years. He was a peripheral part of my circle of friends — one of those people that pop up in your world every once in a while. The first time I actually do remember meeting Marc was at a get-together at a downtown NYC bar. It was a few months after the hot tub night. Rick and I were still madly in love. Marc showed up at the bar alone. I was wearing a short skirt – it was a humid summer night. Keep reading »