I’ve been doing my utmost to debate less, but it’s hard when you’re as naturally opinionated as I am. This is compounded by the fact I come from a highly opinionated gene pool. Our family dinners sometimes spiral into debates. And when I say “sometimes,” I really mean 90 percent of the time.
Usually my mother plays referee, and when I say “referee,” I mean she’ll eventually shout, “Will you all be quiet!” My father plays the contrarian, opposing whatever view I hold. And my sisters may or may not be on my side.
I thought everyone did this — debate over dinner, as an expression of love and then pretend like nothing happened. Apparently not! Dinner is for small talk. So I’ve been trying to reprogram myself whenever I go out, because my opinions can be a bit disruptive. Keep reading »
Hold your horses, this post is NOT about marriage bashing. But married ladies, I have an important factoid to share. The abbreviation “Mrs.” is actually short for the word “mistress.” In more innocent times, a mistress was the woman married to the master of the house, but as you know, the meaning of the word has devolved a bit. So, unless you enjoy referring to yourself as a homewrecker, it may be safer to make up a new prefix for married women. Like “Mar.” Your husband will be happy to know that his abbreviation, “Mr.,” is short for “master.” You may want to continue referring to him as “master,” ya know, if you’re into that kind of thing. [OMG Facts] Keep reading »
It’s a Lifetime movie waiting to happen: “The Miner’s Mistress”! When Chilean miner Yonni Barrios (aka, miner #21 or Johnny Barrios) emerged from a hole in the ground where he has been living for the past two months, his wife was not there to meet him. Marta Salinas told the reporters she would neither be attending the rescue, nor continuing her marriage, after she learned a woman — who showed up to Yonni’s vigils crying and calling out his name — was actually his lover. Instead, the Tiger Woods of the Chilean miner set breathed his first breath of fresh air with his mistress Susana Valenzuela at his side, who kissed him and sobbed. I say cast Gael Garcia Bernal as the long-suffering husband and Eva Longoria as the sexy mistress. Because that’s exactly what these people look like in real life, as you can see. [ABC News] Keep reading »
After I broke up with my sweet college boyfriend, a decent man who never ran me through the ringer, who responded to my bouts of recklessness and immaturity with compassion and sympathy, a guy who never did me wrong, I desired nothing more than desire itself. After years of slow and steady, I yearned for spark and drama. Conveniently, along came Matt.
Keep reading »
When spurned mistress LaVaughnie Wilkins put up billboards around Manhattan to embarrass her former lover, Charles Phillips, the only thing that surprised me about it was how publicly she chose to do it. But “getting revenge” didn’t surprise me at all. Spurned mistresses want revenge. Spurned mistresses go for the jugular. Spurned mistresses do crazy things because they are hurt.
Last year I fooled around with a guy who had a girlfriend. While we were cheating, he repeatedly told me he wanted to break up with his girlfriend to be with me and, like an idiot, I believed him. Lots of bad stuff happened and I lost my temper, big time: I wrote a long email to this guy’s girlfriend explaining everything about how he’d been two-timing her with me and sent it to her work email.
I’m not particularly proud of this story, but I’m going to tell it to you anyway. Keep reading »
According to CNN, 80 to 90 percent of the pro athletes out there cheat—the latest being murder-suicide victim, Steve McNair. Without getting into the whys — because the blow jobs are better, because it feeds the ego, because they are constantly on the road, because, well, they can — Lisa DePaulo is giving some insight into how these non-relationship relationships go down on The Daily Beast. It all has to do with the social rules almost every athlete and mistress follows — a code that McNair’s girl on the side (or one of them), didn’t adhere to, apparently. (If you remember, DePaulo has a bit of experience covering athletes and the lady-folk who follow them; she hung out with and wrote about a gaggle of NBA groupies during the All-Star weekend for GQ. Read it, if you haven’t already.) According to her, McNair and 20-year-old Sahel Kazemi weren’t playing by the rules… Keep reading »
Following a long line of notable affairs—A-Rod and Madonna, Eliot Spitzer and an escort, and Jon and Kate’s various trysts—Gov. Mark Sanford recently revealed he’s been having an affair with a woman in Argentina.
Of course, this is after Gov. Sanford (previously only noteworthy for refusing Pres. Obama’s stimulus funds) disappeared and then reappeared, claiming to have gone hiking on the Appalachian Trail. Unfortunately for the family-friendly governor, his cover story happened to highlight Naked Hiking Day. Man, some people just can’t catch a break. Keep reading »
I tried marriage and I don’t understand the attraction. I hated it. It’s such hard work. I had to organize the maids, the chef, assistants, chauffeurs, gardeners. All that staff. Exhausting. What really did it for me was when my husband told me he wanted children. Can you imagine? Ruining your figure for babies; those smelly things that leak at both ends?
At the beginning of a marriage everyone is on their best behavior. Everyone is pretending to be something their not. He’s pretending to be terribly fascinated in everything you say, he brushes his teeth, acts like a super stud in the bedroom, and living room, and kitchen… And we women pretend that he’s our “super hero,” we wear high heels and naughty little teddies, we shave our legs everyday. But six months and he’s turned deaf and dumb, your legs are hairy, neither one of you has brushed your teeth, you pick your nose and he picks his butt. He farts, you burp. The teddies have been replaced with sweats; he sits in front of the TV with the “game” on, mumbling, a beer in hand. You barely speak to each other; you’re too tired to have sex. Marriage. What is the advantage? Keep reading »
After I broke up with my sweet college boyfriend, a decent man who never ran me through the ringer, who responded to my bouts of recklessness and immaturity with compassion and sympathy, a guy who never did me wrong, I desired nothing more than desire itself. After years of slow and steady I yearned for spark and drama. Conveniently, along came Matt.
Matt was British, a very recent London transplant, and I was still inexperienced enough to equate his lilting accent with worldly sophistication. Like me, he worked in the magazine business, so we had that in common, though I’m not sure we ever went so far as to discuss the intricacies of that bizarre industry. In fact, we spoke very little, as we were highly preoccupied with having fabulous, mind-blowingly awesome sex. We did it everywhere—the Natural History Museum, a New York City alleyway, and of course in all the more traditional places such as the kitchen counter and my bed. The sheer quantity and quality of the sex should have been my first indication that something was rotten in the East Village. Keep reading »