This morning, I was talking to my therapist about boys and she asked me what I ultimately am really looking for in a partner, by which she (and I) mean someone I could see myself seriously dating. “Well, to be honest, sometimes I am really, really happy to not have a boyfriend, because boyfriends tend to distract from all the other things I’m busy doing,” I said. “But I also really would like to meet someone I seriously dig, who also seriously digs me in the same way, and considers spending time with me one of their priorities, as opposed to something they fit in when they feel like it.”
“You want to really matter to someone,” my therapist interjected.
“Yes!” I said. “And the thing is, it’s not that I even desire all that much attention because the thing I don’t like about relationships is how much time they can take up. Really, it would be great to have a amazing, loving, cool boyfriend about 70 percent of the time, and the other 30 percent of the time he would be tucked away in a closet where he can’t get up to any funny business while I spent my time weaving for hours on end and eating ice cream for dinner.” Keep reading »
To determine the level of bacheloretting to pitch your bridey at her last hurrah in the City of the Single, obtain scores from Parts I and II below and then refer to our handy chart, borrowed from a pantyhose packet, to determine the bachelorette party you should throw. Keep reading »
If Z100 announces it’s “an emerging trend,” you know it’s time to run out and throw yourself a fake bachelorette party. At least that’s what single 20-something blogger Bonnie Gleicher and her group of girlfriends did. It’s unclear as to why fake bachelorette showers are suddenly a thing — why would anyone want to wear penis hats in public unless they absolutely HAD to? — but in Gleicher’s case, she and her friends chose to parade around NYC’s West Village in tiaras and garter belts, taking turns pretending to be the bide-to-be, to answer one question: How desirable is unavailable? The results of her social experiment were really interesting and also kind of sad. Keep reading »
On May 13, 2011, the cinematic landscape was forever changed by that cute little movie about friends, weddings and bowel incontinence. Other than a couple “Saturday Night Live” cast members and the lead guy from “Mad Men,” that cute little movie starred a bunch of relatively unknown—and, up until that time, unappreciated—actors and actresses. Yet, at the end of the day, that cute little movie went on to make over $288
billion million at the box office and finally prove to film studios executives it was okay for women to be depicted as smart, funny, beautiful and a little gross. Call it the “Bridesmaids” Effect.
No matter how you slice it, movie theaters haven’t been the same since Melissa McCarthy pooped in a sink. (And I mean that as the highest compliment.) So, without further adieu, allow me to introduce you to the next crop of illegally talented female screenwriters who are likely to leave you in stitches and (possibly) tears.
I made sure to get the thin crust pizza, because I knew that once it was just me and a couch and Liam Neeson rescuing some people from some horrible shit and/or wolves, I was going to eat all that pizza, and I did not want the bread bloat. I was treating myself. I was worth it. I was alone.
For the past two and a half years, in the process of dating, moving in with and then marrying my husband, I haven’t been alone much. I’d almost forgotten how to do it. I’d almost forgotten how to do something I love to do, and something that I’m very, very good at doing. I don’t mean being single. I mean being solitary. By myself.
For most of my 20s, I was in long-distance relationships, make-up break-up relationships or deep into singledom. I had a lot of opportunities to cultivate my own favorite kinds of solitude: taking long afternoon drives out into the Texas Hill Country, getting a six pack of High Life tallboys, watching British comedies all night, going bonkers on multi-hour sewing project marathons that ended in inevitable disaster. Doing whatever I wanted, when I wanted to, and never having to wonder whether eating all this ranch dip at 3 p.m. is that going to mess up dinner plans. Because I didn’t have dinner plans. And I fucking loved it. Keep reading »