Relationships are like bombs. A few have tremendously long fuses, which burn for your entire life, never actually detonating. But most have short ones, flaring up quickly and burning rapidly towards the inevitable explosion that is your break up. Sometimes the R-Bomb is sizeable, causing total havoc on your life when it finally blows. And sometimes they’re just like a firecracker, ending with a small, disappointing pop and you saying, “Meh, that was pretty lame.”
Post-explosion, just like a bomb technician, you’re left standing amid a pile of rubble, trying to piece together exactly what happened to cause this. There are a ton of incongruous pieces, charred and mangled, none of which seem to have once formed a complete object. For those stuck in the past, they’ll still try to cobble things back together, attempting to understand the why behind the detonation. But most people mark off the blast area with caution tape, signifying that returning to it could be dangerous or – more likely – sad and depressing.
Hercules: Did you see Katy Perry signing with the autistic girl?
Me: I did. It’s nice. But it doesn’t change my utter disdain for Katy Perry.
Me: Do you think she’s smart?
Hercules: I’m in no position to gauge that.
Me: She dates John Mayer. You’re allowed to make all of your judgments based on that fact.
Hercules: I’m a fan of John Mayer.
My good lady friend is headed to see her long distance lovah tomorrow for a weekend of sexy fun time and good eats (he’s temporarily down in the South). Her sense of humor is bar none, and when we were shopping for cheesy trinkets in SoHo today, she bought a canvas bag to transport a bunch of the surprises she got him. Naturally, she wanted to decorate it…in the style of a love letter from his top celebrity crush, Blake Lively. It’s genius. Enjoy.
Years ago, I was on a date with a fetching young thing and our outing was going smoothly. Or so I thought. Somewhere around the entrees, she grew quiet and when I inquired as to why, her response was “It’s kind of hard to talk to you. You’re a negative person.” She went on, pointing out a litany of things I’d mentioned I hated, or had called dumb. At the time it was easy to dismiss her; to chalk her assessment up to simply not sharing similar core values and beliefs. However, time - and the additional insight that comes with it - has proven her correct.
I’ve had writers block since June. While this occasionally plagues me, this is one of the longer struggles I’ve had with getting words to leave my brain. Part of the reason is not been able to fully articulate the emotions I experienced over the summer. Part of it’s that the people who’ve most affected and influenced said emotions routinely check this site. But players gonna play, haters gonna hate, potatoes gonna potate and I’m still gonna pontificate. So…
A lovely lady friend of mine has a bit of a pickle. She’s been dating this guy for more than a month and really likes him. They hang out three to five times a week but she doesn’t know his last name.
As to how this could happen: they met online, so she never got his name when they started, they text instead of email and he’s not on Facebook. He told her once, but she remembers it being something really long “which requires studying to memorize.” They traded drivers licenses once before, so asking to do that again is out.
So, if you were in her position, how would you go about finding out his last name?
Caught the season premiere of “The Bachelorette” last evening. The producers have really outdone themselves this time, scouring our vast country for an elite group of devilishly handsome guys who may or may not be legally retarded. These potential suitors made sure to put their best foot
in their mouth forward and Emily really appreciated it. (Or at least I think she did. It’s very hard to tell since her botoxed forehead and eyes refuse to show any emotion other than “surprised fear.”) As I watched, I jotted down some helpful tips for any fella looking for love on a nationally televised reality show, so this is all in chronological order. (This post also syncs up perfectly to “Dark Side of the Moon.” Push play NOW!)
One of my best lady friends just ended things with her boyfriend. She’s like a little sister to me. We’ve got the kind of relationship wherein I regularly call her Gutterslut or Troll, since she’s 3’2”, then hold her back by pushing on her forehead while her tiny Tyrannosaurus arms swing angrily in the empty space between us.
Guttertroll fell for a boy who she felt a connection with like never before but it wasn’t a happy ending and she got her teensy little heart crushed. She’s still in the throes of the split, but she’s getting better. The crying-at-all-hours-of-the-day phase seems to have ended. Progress.* Watching her go through this makes me sad. And the want to impart words of wisdom for dealing with a breakup is at an all-time high. So here are my tips and thoughts for coping with such a period of all-encompassing despair.
*By the by, if you want to give Trollcheese words of encouragement - or mock her Yahoo email address – her blog is over here.
A friend, newly transplanted to New York, was lamenting about her latest dickweasel of a suitor (She doesn’t have great taste in men.) I asked where they met. She named a popular nightclub in Chelsea and said he worked there, prompting the rest of us around the dinner table to emit a low groan. As she stared, taken aback, someone offered her particularly sage advice: “Don’t date guys who work in clubs.”
That’s because the men who staff New York’s nightlife venues – elite or otherwise – can be neatly filed into basic categories. And none of them are acceptable for romantical material. In no particular order, here are the male archetypes at play inside the club.
For a while, I pseudo-dated a girl who lives in another country. Nothing was ever defined in terms of labeling the situation, though I find her to be a fantastic person and vice-versa. For a while, it was good, but entering into a long distance relationship wasn’t something I was ready for. And continuing on with our current back and forth was doing more harm to both of us than good. She rarely comes to NYC, but she did this week. She asked to hang out and I lied about being out of town, so as not to fall back into our comfortable cycle and hurting us both even further. After coming to my apartment unannounced to catch me in my lie, I kicked her out. I met her for a chat today in order for both of us to gain some closure. After the chat, Hercules and I got real about the situation.
Hercules: When is The Talk?
Me: Just ended. Man. She looked so sad. I feel like I’m doing the wrong thing. Gah.
Hercules: What would the right thing be?
Me: I have no idea. She claims just to want a night out with drinks and dancing. She wants to be friends. But can’t articulate what that means to her.
Me: The irony is so biting. I’m lonely. All I want is a girlfriend. Here is a girl who is literally willing to worship the ground I walk on, but I’m turning her down.
Last night, I sat alone on the couch in my underwear, ordered Italian food (they forgot the meatballs. Assholes.), drank some beers and several scotches while watching two straight hours of Real Housewives of Orange County. As my time with Alexis ended – my favorite due to her complete lack of intelligence - and I thumbed through my DVR list wondering how I’d pass the rest of the night, the same depressing thought scurried through my brain yet again: This isn’t where I thought I’d be at 30 years old.
I had assumed my bachelor days would have ceased by now. That a bubbly voice would be there to chide me whenever I hovered over the kitchen sink, devouring dinner directly from the pot. That I’d have a girlfriend so intellectually well-rounded, we’d exchange witty barbs about foreign policy before diving into serious matters, such as whether or not Courtney from The Bachelor was actually attractive. I’m slightly exaggerating here, but I did at least envision having a special someone so engrained in my life that the necessity of wearing pants at night would be more of a given. If only so that the lucky lady had something to remove later on.
As it stands, the last carnal encounter I had occurred in 2011. The admission “Well, I haven’t had sex this year…,” actually left my lips the other evening amid the company of close friends, all of whom are nauseatingly happy in their various serious relationships.
Instant messaging with a date for later tonight.
Me: Just want you to know how special you are to me because I’m canceling my viewing party of the Bachelor for our date tonight.
Her: I feel half awfully special but half concerned that you have a weekly Bachelor viewing party…
Me: Answers like that make me like you more. It’s technically a party of one. Basically, I sit around and yell at the TV. But it’s still in my Google calendar…
Her: Ha haaaaa
Me: I trust you’re laughing with me and not at me.
With an ex-fling.
Me: We are at an impasse.
Her: This is true. What do we do about this?
Me: Send me a picture of your nipple. I will do the same.
Her: That is not fair trade.
Me: Nip for nip? How is it unfair?
Her: Because seeing a guy’s nipple is like seeing a guy’s sideburn.
Me: No it’s not. Or else we’d have nipples on the sides of our faces.
Her: If we’re both still single in five years, can we have some sort of suicide pact? I want to go out in a bang, and not with an army of smelly cats.
Me: No. But I’ll definitely kill you. And just continue on with my life.
“….I realized what a terrific person she was and how much fun it was just knowing her and I thought of that old joke, you know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, ‘Doc, uh, my brother’s crazy, he thinks he’s a chicken,’ and uh, the doctor says, ‘well why don’t you turn him in?’ And the guy says, ‘I would, but I need the eggs.’ Well, I guess that’s pretty much now how I feel about relationships. You know, they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but uh, I guess we keep going through it…because…most of us need the eggs.” ~ A line from Woody Allen’s ‘Annie Hall’ and a picture from Bravo’s ‘Seemingly Real Housewives of SomeCityOrTownNear-ishToWhereYouLive,’