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 »
My boyfriend is 10 years older than me. We’re in love and it’s awesome. There are many, many perks to dating a dude who is older, some of which you can read here. But there’s one tiny downfall, at least for me. In his 40 years on earth, my devastatingly handsome boyfriend has had more than his share of girlfriends and has been in love a handful of times. This is probably totally normal and not a cause for, uh, concern for most 30-year-old women, who have likely had many relationships in their lives too. Unfortunately, I haven’t and his vast relationship experience makes me feel like I’m somehow not as special as I’d like to be. Keep reading »
On my very first date with my boyfriend, I didn’t know if he was going to kiss me. I didn’t know yet that he loves Concord grapes, plays the saxophone and has never seen a Woody Allen movie. But I did know for certain that I wanted this person with whom I’d just eaten dinner to be in my life, somehow. I remember sitting across from him at a table in a Portuguese restaurant, smiling, and thinking, “Whatever happens after this date, I really hope we become friends. You’re cool.”
Flash forward six intense, crazy-in-love months and this man is not only boyfriend — he is my closest friend now, too, the one who knows everything about what goes on with my family, what goes on at work, what weird dreams woke me up in the middle of the night.
And I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing. Keep reading »
I’d never been one of those girls who’d dreamt about her perfect wedding. The virgin-white dress, the exorbitant costs, the fuss over a big, shiny rock — none of it ever appealed to me. I wanted to find a lifelong partner, and a family sounded nice, too, but honestly? I never cared much about that piece of paper. So why did I just marry my boyfriend after pondering it for a mere two hours? One (evidently all-too-common) reason: health insurance. Keep reading »
A few years ago, I got Botox. A little here. A little there. The needle goes in. You want to scream. And a few days later, voilà! That part of your face is paralyzed. Over a couple years, I did it maybe eight times. Then I stopped. I’d had enough of injecting poison into my face. But a couple years after that, I wanted to do it again. I ponied up a few hundred dollars, lay down on the table, and got another round of botulinum toxin injected into my visage. But the unthinkable happened. It didn’t work! Keep reading »
“Tell me what you want to do to me,” I cooed in Brandon’s* ear. It was our first time in bed together and I was hoping he would pass my “dirty talk test.” The test is simple. I ask the man what he wants to do to me and he responds with his own special brand of dirty talk. Easy, right? Not always so simple.
It’s easier to get the little head than the big head in the game. But the problem is, I only want to have sex with a man when both heads are present. I want him to understand that my pleasure takes place first in my mind and then in my body. And if he can’t stimulate my mind, he has a very slim chance of stimulating anything on my body. Sure he can fumble his way around and accidentally push a button, but why bother? I know some people don’t like to talk; they just like to “do.” But for me it’s not enough. Keep reading »
When I heard this weekend that Shayne Lamas, the gal who snagged Matt Grant in season 12 of “The Bachelor,” was the latest reality star to get busted for behind-the-wheel booziness, I groaned but was hardly surprised. Her arrest was as predictable as Stephanie Pratt’s a mere few weeks before. Yet reading both girls’ shocked, defensive responses to their ordeals—But I only had two drinks! I was practically sober!—I found myself cringing with a pang of empathy. See, a few years ago, just shy of my 21st birthday, I got pulled over for a broken taillight after having a not-yet-legal glass of wine at a dinner party. When the officer asked if I’d be drinking, I reacted the exact same way these two did. As a Dean’s List student at a top college who volunteered at the local children’s hospital, I thought I could do no wrong. I rattled off these accomplishments to the cop, sure that he’d let me off the hook. “Basically,” I said, no doubt looking and sounding like the naïve blonde sorority girl I was, “I am not the type of person who drinks and drives.” Except that, according to the Breathalyzer, I was. Keep reading »