Last week, I set out to interview “Millionaire Matchmaker” Patti Stanger. My plan was to go in, impress her with my wife-ability, and be home in time for wine and “Parks and Recreation.” So I’m still not sure how, an hour later, I found myself sitting on a bar stool, roped into speed dating by the kind people at HurryDate.com. “There’s an odd number of men,” the publicist said, rationalizing why I needed to participate.
Being a serial online dater, I have had my share of awkward first dates. I liked the idea of spending five minutes with someone, rather than wasting a whole night to realize we were incompatible. Plus, I thought maybe I might meet a few people I wouldn’t necessarily think to go out with. Even though I had the lowest of low expectations, I was still sweating and self-conscious. Are they noticing how big my head is? Can they smell me sweating? Keep reading »
When I was 19, I fell in love. He was small but mighty, a cheap date in those days, easy to swallow at any kegger and, most importantly, eased my mind. His name was Ortho. We just broke up.
My relationship with the birth control pill lasted eight years. I never got pregnant, and despite a few blips during the dark days of no insurance, it was relatively easy to acquire. If my calculations are correct, I ingested over 2,000 of those suckers. Keep reading »
Creativity is the cure for unemployment. This summer, despite being a relatively successful z-list commercial model and actor in Montreal, Quebec, I hit the Sahara desert of dry spells. Needing to make rent, I accepted a position as a part-time cleaning lady for my building’s superintendent and cleaned vacant apartments, stinky stairwells, and dusty, dirty garages. My new role was not the brightest hour of my professional life; catwalks, callbacks and cash, industrial cleaning was not. In between mopping, shoveling, and hauling ashes from old fireplaces like a bedraggled Cinderella, I applied to as many gigs on Craigslist as I could, hoping to find something paying more than my $12-an-hour grueling summer job. Keep reading »
As told to Lauren Gitlin.
It was always kind of under the surface, this idea that I wasn’t quite comfortable with my body. I remember looking at this book my parents gave me when I was 8 years old and I saw drawings of what men’s bodies were like and what women’s bodies were like, and how bodies changed through puberty. And I remember identifying more with male bodies, like that was the kind of body I wanted. Keep reading »
Passing the table of TEAM EDWARD and TEAM JACOB T-shirts, I turned to my friend. “Looks like we’re in for a treat,” I laughed, thinking it was kind of ridiculous for two single, 30-something women to be spending a Saturday night seeing “New Moon.”
“We sure are,” she said with a wink. Having read the entire series, she’d begged me to come see it with her despite my complete skepticism. Keep reading »
I do things on impulse: I bought a $250 pair of high heels I didn’t need, I pierced my tongue, and two years ago, when a Jewish co-worker/yenta promised I could meet my beshert for $40 a month, I joined the Jewish dating site JDate that very night. The thing is, though, I’m not Jewish. Not even “halfsies.” Keep reading »
The internet has brought me a lot of joy over the years. There’s no denying its myriad charms: its ability to connect me with people, to entertain and amuse, to inform me, to expose me to new things, to help me max out my credit card on frivolous purchases I’ll regret later. But lately, I have been feeling like technology is turning against me.
Over the last two months, the internet has delivered not one but two decimating blows, first in the form of an unceremonious GChat dumping by a boyfriend I’d (ill-advisedly) reconciled with, and, more recently, in the guise of a sterile, business-like email I had the pleasure of opening last Sunday, informing me that I was no longer needed at my job. Um, f**k you, internet! Keep reading »
Years ago, when I was about, oh, a year into my relationship with my now ex, he and I got in a fight (over what, who knows), I lost my temper, and I started hitting him. Not in the face, but on his arms, my fists balled up. I think I shoved him a few times too. He didn’t do anything back, aside from wrapping his way stronger arms around me, so I couldn’t hit him anymore, and to calm me down, because I was crying. Once I settled, he told me I could never, ever, ever hit him or shove him or do anything physical like that again — that it was unfair. Even though I “was a woman” and significantly less strong than him (seriously, we would play-wrestle and I would be defeated in, like, two seconds), taking my anger or frustration out on him physically was not OK ever, especially because he never would or could do the same to me and have there be any excuses. Keep reading »
Have you been watching “Hoarders” on A&E? If you’re unfamiliar, each episode documents the lives of two of the estimated three million Americans who are so compulsive about accumulating crap of all kinds that they’ve lost the ability to function normally.
Until I was assigned this story, I didn’t watch it. I like crappy reality shows as much as the next lady, but this one didn’t appeal to me—I’d already lived it. Keep reading »
Recently, a wonderful, terrific, incredible thing in my life happened, but I’m still having a little trouble embracing the good news. Two weeks ago, my husband of four months dipped into his life savings and paid off the remainder of my student loans. This was no small feat, of course; the amount left on my loans for graduate school were big — enough to finance a luxury car, or an extended trip around the world, or serve as a down payment for a small New York apartment. Instead, Drew, my husband, used the money to pay off a debt I’d accrued before I even met him, a debt I lost plenty of sleep over wondering how I’d ever crawl out of. That, in the end, I had this modern-day version of a knight-in-shining armor come rescue me, the damsel in distress, is something that’s stirred a complicated mix of emotions in me, most prominent among them gratitude, but certainly a large dose of guilt and shame as well. Keep reading »