I guess I’ve been lucky in my romantic dealings with coworkers; one turned into a long-term relationship that outlasted the job and the other two were just pleasant dalliances that fizzled out naturally. Which is probably why I’ve always rolled my eyes when I hear so-called experts yammer on about how you should avoid dating people you work with at all costs. I mean, sure, stay away from the boss or anyone who reports to you, but if you’re both on equal footing, who cares?

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.

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 to 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

OK, first of all, let me make it clear that I don’t believe in the concept of “the one.” I think each of us has more like the “top 40” or even “winning 100,” depending on how much ground you cover. But even in a world brimming with possibilities, at some point in our lives most of us have found ourselves infatuated with a guy who was just completely wrong for us. Not that he was necessarily a bad guy—he was just a dude we should’ve relegated to fling territory instead of fooling ourselves into thinking had long-term potential.

Here are a few factors that may give you a case of the stupids…

Last weekend at a party, I noticed a toad-like man attaching himself to a beautiful, talented friend of mine. Not only was she way out of his league, looks-wise, but as I eavesdropped I discovered he was one of those dudes who delivers endless monologues instead of engaging in actual conversations.

Ladies, I think we’ve all been stuck with that guy. This time it was my friend’s turn.

“Why does she stay?” is the question most often asked when we hear about someone involved in an abusive relationship. Unfortunately, it’s also one of the least helpful things you can say to a woman caught up in this cycle. So what can we do to help when we suspect a friend is being battered?

Several years ago, project manager Jenny found herself in that position when she noticed a new friend was covered in bruises. “I told her flat-out that I had seen the bruises and that I was concerned,” Jenny says via email. “I told her that I didn’t know if she needed help or someone to talk to, but that she could call me any time, day or night.”

Though one or two exes might dispute this, I’ve never been one of those crazy girls. Under normal circumstances I don’t snoop, don’t obsess (too much), and am generally fairly sane(ish) in my dealings with the opposite sex. However, while I met my current, long-term boyfriend on Nerve.com, at no time in my life did I ever feel as nutso as when I was online dating on a regular basis.

Now that my profile has been deleted and I have the wisdom that, unfortunately, comes far too late to be helpful to me, I might be able to save you some heartache…

The first time I met my now-close friend Gina, she was rhapsodizing about her awesome boyfriend, Eugene. After a few minutes, I realized I’d already met him. But he wasn’t the sweetheart she was describing. 

I was familiar with Eugene because the weekend before he had propositioned me in a particularly crude manner.  I realized I had two choices: tell her what kind of loathsome dirtbag she was dating or keep my mouth shut in the hopes that she’d someday figure it out on her own.

I went with Option A. I told Gina that she could do much better than that jerk and blurted out the whole tacky tale. She was understandably upset, but appreciated my candor. I was lucky—she dumped him, but kept me as a friend.

Few things are more entertaining than bad date stories. Who wants to hear about hearts and flowers when flatulence and festering sores are so much more fun? Which is why when my friend Sal wanted to share what she assured me were horror stories about her recent attempts at online dating, I was ecstatic – joke material!

As I slid onto the bar stool next to her, I noticed she looked a little down. I immediately felt guilty about my initial excitement. Hmm. “What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing really,” she shrugged. It seems she’d met up with two different men and both were just meh. “I had nothing in common with either,” she complained.

“And?” I inquired.

She shot me a look. “And what?” she answered. “They were both really boring.”

How many times have you been out with a foxy new someone only to have him do or say something that made your stomach lurch—and not in an I-wanna-make-babies-with-him-now way. Maybe he was nasty to your waiter. Perhaps it was more subtle—he snickered when you tripped or didn’t introduce you to the attractive “friend” you ran into. Then again, maybe there was nothing you could articulate, but he just felt off. How many times have you ignored that feeling?

Well-known peacenik Mahatma Ghandi famously proclaimed, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” Sorry, Ghandi, but I beg to disagree. The sad fact is, there are times in a lady’s life when revenge tastes pretty sweet. (Even in a blind taste test.)

One of those times is after some cad shatters your tender little heart into a billion tiny shards. Sure, embracing the gloom is one way of dealing, but who are you really hurting by forcing ice cream down your pie-hole whilst weeping over Lifetime movies and stalking his Facebook page? Answer: Yourself. 

Wouldn’t it be more fun to hurt him? The dude who done you wrong?

For the first two years of my relationship with my Large Greek Boyfriend, his mom didn’t acknowledge me by name. I was simply, “The Girl.”

“Are you bringing The Girl?” she’d inquire when he made plans for family dinner. “Does The Girl like spanikopita?” Being a typical dude, it didn’t register on the BF’s radar, but her refusal to eke out more than those two syllables made me paranoid. Did she not like me because I’m not Greek? Had I said something stupid during our initial meet and greet? He assured me she liked me just fine, she just didn’t want to bother learning a name if I wasn’t going to stick around.

Whatever the case, his mom’s inability to say my name paled in comparison to 28-year-old lawyer Anna’s mother-in-law. “I met her at our wedding and the first thing she said to me—her new daughter-in-law—was, ‘So, are you pregnant?’”

Annoyed, Anna told her she’d have to wait and see. Things got worse after Anna gave birth to their son (two years later, thank you very much!). “The doctor came in to ask how I was doing and before I could answer—and in front of everyone—my mother-in-law asked the doctor, ‘How much for a paternity test?’” Sweet!

Nowhere is the difference between men and women so glaring as when it comes down to the demise of a relationship. Specifically, the unexpected, unwanted, one-sided break-up otherwise known as the dumping.

A dumped dude might get angry. Then again, he might just get depressed and mope quietly in his room. He may go to a strip club or pick up a one-night-stand at a bar. What he won’t do is call up all his buddies and poll them about what they think his ex really meant when she quit returning his calls. Nor will he tearfully declare that said ex must have been either too intimidated by his devastating intellect and/or simply too in love with him.

When I questioned a friend about why she was marrying a guy whom she found only mildly attractive, didn’t enjoy having sex with and wasn’t in love with, she told me this: “Marriage isn’t about love, it’s about finding the person who gets on your nerves the least.”

I recall being both horrified and saddened by her cynicism. But as I pondered it further, I wondered if she might have a point. I was single at the time. A long-term relationship had gone bust a few years earlier and after a hyper-extended mourning period I’d been dating a seemingly non-stop parade of utterly unsuitable suitors.