There’s no doubt that breaking up with anyone is a crappy, painful rite on par with Chinese water torture. You put so much into the relationship, and for whatever reasons, it just doesn’t work out. You lose your lover, you lose your friend. But, forget about the man in the equation for a second, and think about all the other hours you put into “making it work.” No, not with him—with his family. When you’re in love, you take in everything that comes attached to the boy, and I’m not talking about his penis: you also adopt his cracky sisters, creepy brothers, horny uncles, his divorced parents who bad mouth each other, precocious nephews who finger paint your brand new silk cami at family BBQs—you know, the whole extended family gamut. As if having to deal with your own annoying brood isn’t enough. Keep reading »
I have a confession. After spending the majority of my life deeming Valentine’s Day for suckers and championing all the single ladies, I have become a Smug Married.
Following this startling revelation, I got to thinking: how did I get here and why? Like all afflictions, there was a stage of denial. If I was a Smug Married, the single women in my life must have turned me into one. After all, I was the girl who had a two-year engagement and could count on one hand how many times I had used the word fiancé. I had spent the majority of my prime dating years as Single, Loud and Proud. And I looked down at women who only befriended the opposite sex, secretly labeling them women-haters. I was a girls’ girl—the friend you called for Sunday brunch, “E! Live from the Red Carpet” specials and the “Sex and the City” finale.
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Being in a secure, drama-free relationship has its perks: you don’t really have to shave your legs in winter unless you feel like it; sex is always at the ready, if you want it; and there’s always someone to call on for backup if your Tivo is acting up and you just have to record Gossip Girl. But being part of a “we” has its downsides, usually things you take for granted as a singleton. Take, for example, the seemingly unspoken couple rule that says when traveling with a boyfriend, the girlfriend will always — unless blessed by a relatively empty plane that guarantees a full row — be sitting bitch. Keep reading »
Between the mama’s boy, the softie, the geek, the sensitive ponytail man, the teddy bear, and the by the books square, there is one common chant: Nice guys finish last. It’s a chorus I’ve heard from Green Day to the likes of my brother, but after a few bad boys break your heart, even a motorcycle mama would like to take a true gentleman for a spin.
So, when a sneaker wearing lawyer asked me out, I figured this was my chance to do good. He was a real meat and potatoes kind of guy, but date after date, our conversations never waned. Normally I can chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out, but this guy was just so nice — but that was actually all I could say about him when my friends pried. He pulled out my chair, picked up tabs, opened doors, and liked me to be on top. As we got close, I saw some serious potential, but I still wanted to loosen his tie.
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In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I have always been hyper-OCD about certain sounds causing me mental distress. For example, when someone has a cold, the sound of them sniffing obsessively makes me inwardly homicidal. Likewise, a running toilet puts me on the precipice of madness. So when my fiance suddenly became a snorer three years and eight months into our relationship, I couldn’t just call it a dealbreaker and bail — we live together and share a dog, so we can’t break up over the fact that his midnight sinus warbling are freaking killing me. Keep reading »
I got lucky with my not-quite-in-laws. My boyfriend’s parents have seriously drank the Amelia Kool-Aid, and I love them just as much, despite differing political views and the fact that his mother’s amazing shoe collection fits me about as well as a DD-bra (meaning, not at all). However, no matter how great your significant other’s parents ma be, you’re bound to encounter at least one extended family member who thinks your Kool-Aid tastes like cow pee. Ever since a family get-together a year ago, I’ve suspected that my boyfriend’s great aunt wasn’t too keen on me, and not just because we’re living in sin and I made the mistake of telling her I thought marriage before kids wasn’t necessary. After sitting under her watchful eye this Thanksgiving, this great aunt informed my not-quite-mother-in-law, “I think Lauren’s boyfriend loves her more than Amelia loves your son.” For the record, her other revelations this Thanksgiving included dismay that we all like Barack Obama “even though he’s Muslim,” inquisitive wonderment that “all those Latinos” could afford to get into Disney World, and concluding a mild Christian sermon with “someone should assassinate O.J. Simpson!” Needless to say, Great Aunt’s observations can hardly be taken as kismet. Even so, it’s a bummer not being adored by everyone in your boyfriend’s family — though every wedding does need an objector! Keep reading »