Whoever decided that asking for someone’s ‘number’ would be a good way to find out their sexual history must really suck at dating and wants everyone else to suck at it too. Springing this question on a person is confusing and it should stop right now!
While out on the town, a guy I was seeing asked what my ‘number’ was and when I jokingly replied with 867-5309 he looked at me with disgust, walked away and I never heard from him again. What could’ve gone wrong? He said he loved to kid around. Silly me! I reflected after sobbing during my lonely taxi ride home, he must’ve been referring to my sex digits, not my telephone digits. How the heck was I supposed to know that? Read more… Keep reading »
Nowadays, I believe this would be known as a book about statutory rape. Oh, how things have changed since the ’70s. And is there something we didn’t know about Cheryl Tiegs? [Ceedling] Keep reading »
If my marriage proposal involved video games in any way, I would cry tears of despair. This chick, April, however, cried tears of joy when her boyfriend proposed to her after decking out their apartment like a Super Mario Brothers game. (This video is a year old, but sorry, it’s adorable!) Maybe when April gets knocked up her hubby can get her a Super Mario Brothers nursery, too. [SayOMG.com] Keep reading »
Let me preface this for you non-NYC people by saying that most of the taxi drivers I’ve come in contact with are not all that friendly. Especially when I tell them I live in an outer borough. Forget it. I’m blacklisted before my ass even hits the seat. What I wouldn’t give to catch a ride with Ahmed Ibrahim, a NYC cab driver who plays matchmaker for his single passengers. The “Cupid Cabbie” is responsible for 19 couples that have been together for over a year. Hey, I think that’s better than Patti Stanger. If you’re reading, Ahmed, I need a ride. [MSNBC] Keep reading »
It is always difficult to navigate your way through your first night with a total stranger. As long as you are pleasant and remember to wear your sexy, see-through nightie, everything should go just swimmingly. [1940s Throwback] Keep reading »
I should have known the relationship was doomed the moment he brought up his all-consuming hobby: race car driving.
I spent an entire summer in the sticks of Ohio and Pennsylvania, feeling like an idiot as my then-boyfriend Sam, his dad, and a friend worked on the car, which was black and blue with a giant wing on top. It looked like an alien bug on wheels. The first time I came to a race, his mom told me to dress casually, but my outfit (jeans, a striped T-shirt, red flats, and big sunglasses) might as well have been a ball gown compared to the giant silk-screened shirts everyone else was sporting. Sitting in a lawn chair in the driver’s pit, I folded the cover of The New York Times magazine to hide the abortion cover story — that wouldn’t have gone over well — and offered everyone soy nuts. From the stands, I watched cars flame out, crash into each other, and kick up dirt. I prayed for one of the cars to mow me over and texted all my friends, “One of these things is not like the other….” Keep reading »