The first man I ever fell in love with was eight years older than me. He was on probation for stealing a video game, and his fingertips smelled like cigarettes and shellfish, having spent most evenings washing dishes at a seafood restaurant. At one point, he kept going to work even though his boss had stopped paying him. “Why don’t you start looking for a new job?” I asked.
“Cuz it’s fun just chillin’ with the boys, smoking cigarettes in the back,” he told me.
Jeff wouldn’t find another job for nine months, mostly because his unemployment allowed him to sit in front his PlayStation all afternoon. At age 26, he still lived with his dad, but couldn’t be bothered to sleep in the spare bedroom because all of his crap — a graveyard of sporting equipment he lost interest in and old surf tees — was piled so high, he couldn’t find the bed.
Instead, he slept on a makeshift bed-couch in the living room. It was here, with his father bumbling in to ask, “What’s going on?” that I lost my virginity. Keep reading »
Make It Stop is a new weekly column in which Anna Goldfarb — the blogger behind Shmitten Kitten and Shlooby Kitten — tells you what’s up. Want a fresh take on a stinky dilemma? Email firstname.lastname@example.org with the subject “Make It Stop.” She’ll make it all better, or at least make you laugh. Girl Scout’s honor.
First up, how to deal with an overly-friendly neighbor who just won’t shut up: Keep reading »
I’ve had a high sex drive since I was a teenager. Over the last 14 years, whether single or coupled up, I’ve been fortunate enough to never really go ‘sexless.’ In relationships— whether they last three months or three years— my libido generally maintains the momentum of that of the Energizer Bunny. I certainly don’t have a sex addiction, but it’s safe to say I am, and always have been, a pleasure enthusiast. So, when I’m single, that desire remains the same, but I tend to get my O’s from the sex toys that reside in a toolbox under my bed, as opposed to an actual human being. I think it might be time to change that. Keep reading »
“Dating Naked” is a show on VH1 in which complete strangers gather at a resort somewhere tropical and mosquito-ridden and go on carefully staged dates with strangers, completely naked. It may sound like a ratings gamble, another entree in the already overrun category of dating shows, but the thing about it is that it’s actually brilliant. Sure, part of the entertainment is watching the kind of people that audition for shows of this nature — if you’re a connoisseur of dating shows like the brilliant “Next” on MTV or any and all iterations of “The Bachelor,” you’ll understand immediately that the casting directors pick the most ridiculous, crazy and slightly desperate people with a complete lack of self-awareness, because that makes the best television. This is definitely true of this show, but the fact that they are legitimately and truly naked as the day they were born ups the ante. I watched the show on the suggestion of many people whose opinion I valued, and let me tell you, I was not disappointed. Watching strangers who have just met climb into a human hamster ball and bob in the waves on a tropical beach while completely naked is something that I don’t think will ever get old.
I though that I’d learn nothing from this show, that it would be just mindless entertainment, but I was pleasantly surprised. It turns out that reality television isn’t necessarily the place where human intellect goes to die. Here are a few assorted lessons and observations from “Dating Naked.” Keep reading »
In March, Michael and I met up with my friend and her boyfriend for a double-date. I already knew that they’d gone to look at rings, but their big news that night was that he had gone ahead and bought it, and already talked to her mom and dad about proposing to her. I was thrilled for my friend: She is one of the coolest people I know, her boyfriend is a really good guy, they work well together, they’ve started building a life that suits what she wants, and now they’re making it official — things are working out really nicely for them.
When we left the bar and were safely out of anyone’s earshot, and asked Michael to stop. “I just want to be clear,” I told him, “I want to get married. That’s where I’m headed. I’d like to know if that’s what you want, too.”
“Yeah,” he said, and smiled. “Yeah what?” I asked, because I hate having things in uncertain terms. “Yeah, I want to marry you some day,” he replied. Keep reading »
“If you want to have kids you’d better do it while you’re young. The women in our family go through menopause early — 38 to be exact. Your grandmother? 39.”
My mother said that to me every few weeks from the moment I started menstruating until I hit 30. But at 25, I was more concerned with drink specials than finding someone special. During my monthly fertility chats with Mom, I’d internally puff up and congratulate myself for not being into all that conventional crap.
I was the cool chick. The one who didn’t need a boyfriend and didn’t want to get married and lived in a big, bad city and focused on work and traipsed about to parties; soaking up new experiences and bad dating stories like a weathered Army vet with a killer hangover. This was my identity and I loved every second of it. Keep reading »