Another thing.

And another thing, she said, a hand skimming slowly down her nylons, everyone is waiting for you to fuck up.

I quit.

My job, that is. I quit my job. Again. This time, for the perils of an ad agency and all the money and glory that comes when you watch too many episodes of Mad Men and the magazine publishers don’t—they really don’t—know how to paying a living wage. I’d like some Ikea furniture by the end of the year. I’d like to afford my drinking habit. Six months at a job isn’t so long, is it? It felt like ages. It felt bad. I’m in the business of ripping off band-aids. I’m retired from babysitting.

You Shouldn’t Always Get What You Want

The archetype of the ungettable man emerged in pop culture as the smoldering, cigarette-smoking Bad Boy on a bike who broke as many hymens as he did hearts. Eventually, he evolved into an emotionally unavailable man-child with the looks of Brad Pitt but the integrity of Adam Sandler. Most romantic comedies leave women with two options: tame the Bad Boy, or realize that the Nice Guy was there all along. The studios continue to make these movies because women continue to watch them. And women watch them because they are—in a small, over-romanticized way—fairly accurate depictions of desire.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

Calendar Girls

“I have an idea,” he said, motioning for me to follow him into the bedroom. I sat next to him in front of the computer. “See, I can set it up so you can see my Google Calendar.”

I squinted at the screen. “Why would you want to show me your calendar?”

“Because, this way you’ll always know if I’m busy. And if you share with me, I’ll know if you were planning on making dinner. This way you won’t wait for me and I won’t upset you if I have other plans.”

I shook my head. This was all happening so fast.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

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]

10 Things I Smell About You

Nothing takes the romance out of a budding relationship quite like a cruddy odor. Bad smells can leave an even worse taste in your mouth. Ladies, gird your loins and hold your noses: here are the top ten foul-smelling, pheromone-killing deal-breakers.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

10 Reasons Cohabitating Sucks

The thing is, when you move in with your boyfriend, you’re not just lovers: you’re roommates. Which means everything that ever bugged you about living with someone—the dishes, the electric bill, the volume of the TV in the living room when you’re trying to sleep—nips at the heels of your relationship.

Here are ten (real) reasons cohabitating sucks…

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

Do Women Mature Faster Than Men?

The guys shook their heads. Most of them were still single, still incredibly unaware of their not-yet slowed metabolism. Living with a woman was akin to surrendering to whatever that feeling was that that made them want to curl up for a nap at the lake, or quit cigarettes, or lose interest in their flip cup tournaments. The feeling that had taken over the women. At this moment, it was unnecessary. It was unimaginable.

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]