Like the David Letterman Debacle wasn’t bad enough, now we have the story of Steve Phillips, the ESPN analyst, who had an affair with a 22-year-old coworker. Unfortunately for the 46-year-old sports dude and married father of four, his latest dalliance (and apparently there’ve been many before her) turned into a bunny boiler when he broke it off with her.
Brooke Hundley, the jilted junior, went ballistic, repeatedly emailing and calling Phillips’ long-suffering wife, tricking their 16-year-old son into an online flirtation, and then finally showing up at the family home, scaring the crap out of everyone.
Lucky for Hundley, the Phillips declined to press charges, but her reputation, both professionally and personally, is shot. (His too. He’s since been fired from ESPN and has entered a treatment facility.) Obviously, being some cad’s side action is always a sucker’s game, but if you’re going to do it, do it right. 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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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’ve been writing relationship advice for nearly ten years now and the number-one question I get asked—by readers and friends alike—isn’t anything filthy or even fun. It is: “How come I can’t meet anyone?”
Depending on your situation, there are a variety of answers to this question, but mostly, finding someone to tongue wrestle with on a regular basis comes down to a combination of luck and timing. That said, there are things you can do to ensure that you never even come close to falling in love. Keep reading »
The two of you are inseparable. You’re every romantic comedy cliché come to life. He’s the cream in your coffee. The Jim to your Pam—not that you even remember who they are, because with all the lovemaking, you hardly have time to waste on sitcoms like “The Office.”
When you’re not busy rutting, you spend hours just staring at each other, marveling at your good fortune. Everything reminds you of him and you can’t stop talking about how fantastically happy you are. In fact, you’re so busy, you probably haven’t even noticed that, except for calls from your shmoopie, your phone has stopped ringing. (Unless it’s your mom calling to wonder if you’re finally going to squeeze out some grandchildren for her.)
But your friends? They seem to have disappeared. In the haze of your love drunkenness, you might believe this is because they’re jealous. But more likely it’s because you’ve become one of the “smug marrieds” from Bridget Jones’ Diary—a book I loathed, but she sure got that part right. And you’re not even married. Yet. Keep reading »
Texting has become as ubiquitous as the cell phones that birthed them, but what is it doing to our love lives? Can you imagine what a different movie “Casablanca” would be if, instead of suavely growling, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” Rick instead texted Ilsa:
; – )
Same sentiment (sort of), yet all the romance, sexiness and possibility has been drained out of it. Keep reading »
Phil was right. Women do a lot of silly thing to impress men, most of which involve some sort of chemical substance that can be spritzed or slathered. But he was also correct that women are not alone in their misguided attempts to impress the opposite sex. Men are just as guilty — if not more so, as there’s possibly more pressure on men to impress — of doing all the wrong things to win over a date. Here are a few… Keep reading »
A gaggle of girlfriends and I were sitting around drinking beer and bitching about our crappy love lives one late night when my buddy Marguerite shared something a wise relative had once told her: “The three most dangerous words a woman can say are ‘He has potential.’” Maybe I’m not very bright, but that stopped me in my tracks. How many times had I overlooked the bouquet of red flags a guy had been holding in front of his face and, instead of seeing the actual person, saw what he might turn into? The answer is too many. Keep reading »
I still remember the confused look on my date’s face as I self-consciously blurted out, apropos of nothing, “I’ve just lost seven pounds on Weight Watchers and I intend to lose 15 more!”
With that I stifled a burp, plunked down my pint glass and realized that we (meaning, he) had been talking about his band, not my tummy bulge. But who could blame me? Weight Watchers assigns each food a points value and you’re only allowed a certain amount each day. I’d been hoarding all of mine for our date. (Beer is three points a bottle!) I was a little woozy.
But not too woozy to note that I’d become that most embarrassing of daters — the oversharer. Keep reading »
I once dated a guy who clothed himself almost exclusively in band t-shirts, pleated trousers, and an ever-present fanny pack. (And no, he wasn’t a German tourist.) I remember thinking when we met that I’d finally cast eyes upon the archetypal rock critic. That he actually was a rock critic made the experience all the richer. Because he was smart, funny and cute-ish, I chose to overlook his sartorial missteps and we quickly fell in love. But despite my best efforts—including renaming the fanny pack his “colostomy bag”—I never could convince him to spiff up. Keep reading »