My boyfriend is drunk.

“Who are you? Where did you come from? I feel like you were put on this planet to fall in love with me. I wake up and see you every morning, and I think, who the hell are you? Why are you in my face? And if you’re in my face, how and why are you in my face? Furthermore … no. I’m not going to finish that. I love you. I love you.”

The 12 Phases of Relationship Lies

The first date: You can tell him about your suspicions about your roommate’s alcoholism. Better to say this before you knock back your fourth or fifth cocktail. Of course you have a high tolerance — you’ve been living with a drunk for the last two years! Why else would your apartment look so messy? It’s not you! It’s the intoxicated train wreck in the back bedroom! God. Don’t you wish someone could just take you away from all that?

The third date: You can admit you lied on your profile and no, you never read Infinite Jest— but you did read half of that lobster essay and that was really, really life-changing. What’s that? Oh, yeah. You still eat lobster. It’s delicious. Please.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

An Idiot’s Guide to Handling a Hormonal Girlfriend

Step 3. Don’t question my mood swings. If I want ice cream, give me ice cream. Don’t even think about substituting it for frozen yogurt unless you want me to burst into another round of tears. If I want to talk about my deep-rooted insecurities that trace back to my horrific junior high school experiences, let me talk about that time I had braces.

I’m going to need you to tell me I’m beautiful. I’m going to need a back rub. I’m going to need a bubble bath, but first I’m going to need for you to wash my bathtub. When I’m in the bubble bath, can you hold my magazine for me so the pages don’t get wet? Can you dim the lights, set up a few scented candles and make baby whale sounds? Can you run to the corner and pick me up a box of super tampons, another pint of ice cream, a bag of ice and a bottle of scotch? Can you make me a scotch milkshake and feed it to me in the bathtub?

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

You can do whatever you want.

We’re back from Montauk. It was different in the summer. For starters, all the shops and restaurants are open. That’s encouraging. You can stroll along the beach barefoot. You can even go in the ocean. It’s expected. The motels tell you not to bring the towels to the ocean. Not that it matters. Those towels feel like sandpaper and the toilet paper is so thin you need half the roll to wipe. The pool tastes salty. The locals avoid the main drag and drive too quickly down the back roads. They don’t tell you how long the wait is at the pancake house and when you finally sit down and order coffee you realize it’s almost been an hour but you don’t care because the cheese omelet and blueberry short stack are so good. You can take a paddle boat on the pond. You can kill a bottle of Johnny Walker black label and wade into the Atlantic. The sand is rockier than you thought it would be. The water should be warmer. Your stomach should be flatter. But now, look at us, projecting. It’s August, not January. You can do whatever you want.

She could steal but she could not rob

We sit in the bath tub. He, actually, sits in the bath tub. I sit on it. He drinks a cup of whiskey and I thumb through a magazine. I flick cold water from the sink at his steaming legs. I pour shampoo on his head and wash his hair, my fingers massaging his scalp. I threaten to cut it. I always threaten to cut it. The water drains. He is drinking whiskey and shampoo foam. He doesn’t mind at all.

Now is the Summer of Our Disconsweat

It was too hot to do anything but sit around and complain about the heat. We ran out of ice cubes and drank warm water from the tap, wiping the sweat from under our knees and behind our necks. My cheeks were flushed pink. His shirt was soaked through. The city felt damp from humidity and summer angst.

The air conditioner was broken.

“Want to do it?” he asked. A bead of sweat dribbled down his forehead and clung to his brow.

The thought of any physical activity was enough to make me roll off the couch, lie on the floor and stretch my legs out against the cool wood planks. I could feel dust sticking to my thighs.

“Great, I’m so happy you want to boredom-fuck me.”

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

More golden rules.

5 lesser-known relationship rules:

3. Do onto your partner as you would that he should do unto you.

The golden rule is even more applicable in your relationship than it was when you first learned it in kindergarten.

This includes—but is not limited to—back rubs, breakfast in bed, thoughtful gifts, framed pictures, special office deliveries, good jokes, blowjobs, cookies, chores and compliments. And cheese.

This most certainly includes bathing on a daily basis, not talking about your exes too often, minding your manners and keeping your bowel movements to yourself

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

Napa

Oh, hai.