In 2007, 26-year-old magazine editor Christine Coppa found out she was pregnant by her boyfriend of three months. Christine decided to continue the pregnancy, a choice her boyfriend supported — until a few months later, when he suddenly decided he wasn’t prepared and/or didn’t want to be a father and
subsequently signed away his parental rights. [See below.] Coppa wrote about her pregnancy and continues to write about being a single mom to her son “J.D.” for Glamour.com on her blog “Storked,” and recently released her memoir, Rattled!
I read the book and found it interesting, particularly because Coppa’s life is similar to mine, in that she’s in her 20′s, single, lives in New York (she now raises her son in NJ), and works in media. Like her, were I to find out I was pregnant at this particular stage in my life, I would probably choose to continue the pregnancy and have the baby. Rattled brought up an interesting issue, one I hadn’t really considered before in much depth. When an accidental pregnancy occurs, the choice whether to continue or abort it is in the woman’s hands. The man doesn’t have a choice in whether or not he will become a father, but societal opinion — though not always legal opinion — considers him equally as responsible for caring for his child, lest he be labeled a “deadbeat dad.” After reading Rattled, I wondered how fair that was. Keep reading »
In my opinion, if you’re over 25 and don’t have at least one “bad boyfriend” story, something’s wrong with you. Mine, who I dated right around 23, was a totally self-absorbed, not particularly cute, questionably gay co-worker who was occasionally kind to me, yet more often a serious ass, bringing that annoying Katy Perry “Hot ‘N Cold” song to life. Seriously, I could spend weeks posting insane accounts of his jerk-tastic behavior or the emails my friends sent me pleading that I please, for the love of God, cut him loose. Because I probably spent more money on Kleenex than rent during the tenure of our relationship, looking back, I want to smack young, immature me for putting up with his nonsense for so long. What kind of self-assured woman lets a dude treat her like dirt? I did, but, believe it or not, I’m glad he’s included in my relationship Rolodex. Had I not dated Mr. Not-So-Incredible, I never would have been able to fully appreciate the warmth, kindness, generosity and – gasp! – maturity of Mr. Truly Incredible, who I later married. Keep reading »
There are so many reasons to travel: discovering new cultures, sampling exotic cuisines, scoping out gorgeous, historical scenery, and, of course, the opportunity to say that you’ve done it with someone from another country, in another country. If globe-trotting for the sake of sex isn’t in the cards for you anytime in the near future, you’re not completely out of luck when it comes to sampling what’s on the menu at the International House of Lovecakes. Laura Corn, author of all sorts of amp-up-your-sex-life literature, believes that integrating some internationally-inspired romanticisms into your oh-so domestic sex life is not only the next best thing to actually getting lucky on foreign soil, but might actually be the key to revving up an otherwise lackluster love life. Just think: Cheeseburgers are damn good, yet how sad would your palate be without the likes of sushi, Pad Thai, and enchiladas? You get the picture. Keep reading »
E., my best guy friend in college, believed that women should eliminate giving handjobs from their hook-up repertoire. “They always end up either hurting or not being satisfying at all,” he asserted. “The bottom line: there’s no way you can do it as well as he can.” It did make perfect sense. Why should I — or any woman, for that matter — attempt to please my guy with something of which he’s perfected the art? That would be like making Italian food for Mario Batali, or giving Spencer Pratt of “The Hills” lessons on how to be a douchebag. Keep reading »
Sooner or later, everybody falls in love. When it’s good, it’s freaking amazing: birds sing, the sun shines, your Mom doesn’t annoy you so much and your checks are perpetually rosy, When it doesn’t work out, however, it burns like the fiery pits of hell. All that was good with the world has been obliterated – along with your self-esteem. And the way you’ll likely add insult to injury be inflicting even more torture upon yourself – well, that’s not so pretty either. Either you can’t eat or you’re eating pint after pint of Ben & Jerry’s, you’re sleeping all day or not sleeping at all or you’ve either abandoned all personal grooming habits or, in a particularly “screw-it” moment, went and got a majorly unflattering short haircut [Or a totally flattering one! -- Editor] or tattoo. As a post-dumpage Lloyd Dobler was labeled by his buddies outside the Gas ‘n Sip in “Say Anything”, you’re null and void. Keep reading »
Fantasize about dating a rock star? Who doesn’t? They’re sexy, mysterious, oh-so-dangerous, and, apparently, insanely wild in bed. If you wanna make like Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Hudson, Liv Tyler, or Cameron Diaz, but you’re all hung up on your lack of a Hollywood pedigree, mega-wattage celebrity, or rock star funds, fret no longer, my sister. You, too, can land yourself a music man — without looking all “groupie” — with the help of Cherry Bomb: The Ultimate Guide to Becoming a Better Flirt, a Tougher Chick, and a Hotter Girlfriend, and to Living Life Like a Rock Star, a land-a-rock-star manual by Carrie Borzillo-Vrenna, who’s married to a rock star herself. Keep reading »
After J. broke up with me my senior year in high school, I was pissed. Livid. Just a few weeks earlier, he told me he loved me, we went to prom and all was glorious in the world. What the heck? After a few weeks of having an intimate rebound relationship with a box of Kleenex, I became dead-set on making his life as unpleasant as he had made mine.
In order to exact my revenge, my best friend and I went to the mall where the kids who went to his high school always hung out. We approached every high-school aged girl we could find, asked if she knew J., and then told her to stay away from him and his terrible case of back-ne. Mature? Hell no. Satisfying? Undeniably.
Though I think my plan was rather brilliant, I probably would have received some nice inspiration had Alison Grambs’ book “The Smart Girl’s Guide To Getting Even” been around in 1994. In it, she offers all sorts of perfectly legal yet wholly satisfying ways to get back at the Js — i.e. the complete and total jerks — of the world. After the jump, find a sampling of her I-will-not-go-down-quietly strategies. Keep reading »
Without question, Say Anything, Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink were my earliest primers on love, dating and relationships. With the help of these flicks, I learned that hot chicks could be both wicked smart and nice (Say Anything), that all blonde, popular girls were bitches who eventually got their comeuppance when they were dumped/passed over by the hot guy for the interesting, quirky girl (Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink) and, of course, that slightly loner-ish dudes (Say Anything’s God-like Lloyd Dobler) made way better boyfriends than meathead football studs (with the exception of Sixteen Candles’ Jake Ryan, however).
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Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep is one of my favorite books that is kinda, sorta in the “chick lit” genre. But that’s only one of the reasons why I am so on-the-edge-of-my-damn seat over her upcoming novel American Wife (due out in September) — the book is being so closely guarded by Random House that only a few manuscripts have been released to members of the media. Why all the secrecy? American Wife is said to be a thinly-veiled piece of “speculative fiction” about First Lady Laura Bush and is filled with lesbianism, a car accident (nothing fiction about that!), abortions, and lots and lots of humping. Radar got a hold of one of the manuscripts — describing it as “the story of Alice Blackwell, a quiet librarian whose husband Charlie becomes the bumbling president of the United States” — and ran some of the racier bits on its website…a few of the sexier quotes, after the jump… Keep reading »
During my junior high/early high school years, I consumed young adult series like my life depended on it. Maybe in a way, it did. I read obsessively about my favorite characters and their packed weekend social schedules of dances, pool parties, tropical vacations, exciting dates, beach parties….trouble was that I was spending my weekend nights reading about these events. The conundrum is that the girls reading these books were the bookish, indoor type — not the ones out and living this life.
My books were my only clues to how to meet and talk to boys. In my endless pawing over my glossy-covered series, my impressionable mind sensed some distinct themes. Keep reading »