I was sitting around talking with some single ladies the other night. The topic du jour was the very popular “What are we looking for in a relationship?” I listened to variations on a theme: “someone to spend the rest of my life with,” “a partner, lover, and best friend forever.” I took it in. I even nodded my head and shared their vision to an extent, but the pragmatist in me started to think that forever and ever with one person sounded a little bit naïve. Does anybody really know what forever with a person looks like until they’ve done it? Following that logic, how can I really speculate what I want with a person forever and ever? Especially one I haven’t even met? Maybe there’s a reason why so many relationships don’t survive because of infidelity and maybe that reason is simpler than we think. Maybe monogamy isn’t really working for many of us. Keep reading »
The other day I got a letter from a reader who wanted to know how I knew my now-husband, Drew, was “the one,” whether I’d had an a-ha moment or something like that. She wanted to know how I knew he was “worth” picking up my life and moving to NYC for and whether I’d had some fear or hesitancy about moving. It was an interesting question to think about because on one hand, I actually don’t really believe in “a-ha” moments when it comes to relationships. I’m not even sure I necessarily believe in “the one.” I think there are potentially lots of ones, and it’s really all a matter of finding the right person at the right time. And though I obviously feel like I did find the right person at the right time, I didn’t always feel that way. And, in fact, there was an a-ha moment when things suddenly came into focus; I realized just how special what I had with Drew was and that our relationship was worth my picking up my life and moving, as scary as that was — and oh, it was scary!
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I was one of those girls who bought a vibrator in high school. She — yes, she’s a she — was leopard print and I hid her deep inside my closet where even the nosiest parent would not find her. She lasted all throughout college, a trip to Europe and back, and even withstood a minor, battery-related fire. (Be careful, everyone!) When she retired to the great sex shop in the sky, I replaced her with a new vibrator — a slick, slim, glittery blue little rocket — which I never quite felt was “me.” A few years ago I got myself one of Toys in Babeland’s bestselling vibes, the Laya Spot. It’s a darling shade of green and shaped like a cute little critter, curled up to sleep in its nest. She and I have enjoyed some good times indeed.
But these days, my vibrator is quite literally gathering dust, tossed off to the side of the bed. I suppose I should be pleased that something with a pulse is now tussling the bed sheets. But to be completely blunt, I miss masturbating sometimes. Keep reading »
In fifth grade I was the new kid in school, which is always hard. But I think it’s hardest in gym class. Especially if you’re the new “chubby” kid with zero athletic ability. Hello locker room spitballs.
It was the day before Thanksgiving and, much to my dismay, running day in gym class. Running days were my most dreaded, aside from dodge ball days — my head is a ball magnet for some reason. I was the slowest runner in my class besides Stephen, the even fatter, even newer kid who everyone called “Snuffy.” I already knew what would happen out there on the track. Everyone would be staring at me from the sidelines, having finished ages ago, as I rounded my final lap, huffing and puffing from my allergies, turning red with embarrassment and possible heat stroke, everyone laughing as I crossed the finish line flapping my arms. I can’t do this today, I just can’t, I thought. I hid in a corner of the locker room trying to come up with creative ways to get out of running.
Mr. Pollack, the gym teacher, announced that we would be running the “Turkey Trot” — a glorified one-mile run with a stupid name to make it sound fun. The person who came closest to guessing their time would win a giant, chocolate turkey. How awesome would that be to receive a giant piece of chocolate at the end of this torture session? So totally radical, to use the vernacular of the day. Not that I needed any chocolate. Keep reading »
In elementary school, I was the only kid in my class whose favorite Ninja Turtle was Donatello. Later, I was the only one of my girlfriends who chose Jon Knight as her favorite New Kid on the Block. In other words, I have a thing for the runt of the litter. And the current runt of the pop culture litter is Miranda Hobbes, the one who nobody picks as their favorite “Sex and the City” character. Keep reading »
I know “Lost” fans are still reeling from the series finale, but I have some TV show attachment issues of my own, and they have nothing to do with smoke monsters. While I don’t become obsessed with shows to the point where they dictate my schedule, I do find myself becoming inexplicably emotionally attached to TV couples. To the point where it can affect my real-life relationship. This is bigger than just cheering on Jim and Pam or Dawson and Joey—I was always a Pacey fan anyways. I see TV relationships as a reflection of my own—to the point that when a TV couple is in a fight or (gasp!) breaks up, I find myself worrying that the same fictional fate awaits my boyfriend, Wil, and me.
The other day, as I watched Laura Bush tell Larry King that she’s pro-choice and pro-gay marriage, I instantly pictured the Bushes having shouting matches at the dinner table, looking around furtively to make sure no one was witnessing the spat. Reading my thoughts, Larry asked Laura whether their politics were a source of friction between the couple. Unflinchingly, Laura said no.
“I understand his viewpoint,” she said. “I really do. I understand his viewpoint, and he understands mine.”
Really??? Keep reading »
I met Brad* a few months after my first serious relationship blew up in my face. He was pretty much everything my ex wasn’t, and after getting a few rebound flings out of the way, I thought maybe I’d found someone I could really feel safe with. True, he didn’t have the intellectual prowess my ex had; he wasn’t terribly charming or adventurous, and as far as I could tell, he didn’t have much passion for anything other than golf. But he was nice and respectful … and comfortable. My grandmother once described him like “an old shoe,” and that actually wasn’t far from the truth. He was completely different from my usual type, and therefore, I figured he’d never hurt me the way my ex had. Keep reading »
After my interview with dating coach, matchmaker, and Have Him At Hello author Rachel Greenwald, I was totally pumped to test out some of the tips she gave. Specifically, what Rachel calls “I Spy a Facebook Guy.” The dating game? Give yourself some time each day to cruise around your friends’ Facebook pages and find 50 guys that you think are interesting. Then scope out their profiles and write them a message.
OK, confession: I logged onto Facebook the following day, went through one friend’s 431 friends, found one cute guy, and chickened out of writing him. I couldn’t even tell if he was single or not. Besides, I felt like a weird, desperate stalker. Not my style at all. Maybe I lack the necessary cajones to find love on Facebook. I logged off, dejected. But quitting is not my style either. So, I came up with an alternative plan that felt a little more “me.” Keep reading »