Dating Bloggers

The Real New York Apparel: For $250 an hour, what, I can't get a shirt?[If you like this column and would like to receive an email each week upon its publication, send an email to info@jewcy.com with "Amy's blog" in the subject line.]

“I always think in the beginning of a relationship the guy is just using me for sex,” I told my therapist.

“Always?”

“Yes, always. In every relationship I’ve had”—a total of three, the shortest numbering fifteen months, excluding whatever it is I’m doing now with Spaniard—“this crosses my mind, like, two or three months in.”

“Huh,” Ther furrowed her brow and looked harder at me.

I’ve discussed this with my girlfriends. “Every girl thinks that. It’s fine. It’s totally normal. You’ll get over it,” an older and wiser girlfriend told me. “Really?” I asked. “Yes. It’s fine. Totally normal,” she reassured me. I thought nothing more of it until my therapist forced me—as she usually does—to analyze this feeling.

Yes, evidently enough girls believe this for the thought to be labeled “normal.” But, I learned, it’s certainly not fine that we “all” have it.

I was having it about Spaniard. Yes, it occurred mostly fleetingly and I easily let myself not analyze it by thinking, “We’re not very serious anyway and I like having sex with him so it’s fine.”

But we’re more serious than I allow myself to believe. I know this for one because I insisted on waiting before I would have sex with him. In fact, I wouldn’t even let him up to my apartment until date no. 4 or 5. At which point he expected it and I was all, “What do you think I am, some floozy?”

He didn’t care about waiting. He was and continues to be supremely respectful when it comes to pillow time. It took a lot of will power to fend off for so long because he’s fucking hot and sexy and accented, but I managed to wait a nice long time.

Which brings to mind something else that seriously bothers me: A girl who I shared a dorm room with one summer once said, “If you really like somebody, wait as long as you can.” This is a great idea. But it makes no sense.

Why wait as long as you can with a person you really like when you’ve had one night stands with people who you not only don’t give a shit about but disgust you to your core? Yet when someone comes along you actually like, your instinct is to wait, wait, and wait some more?

There’s no way to rationalize this, but this is how a lot of women are. Which leads me think, why wait? If you find yourself in bed with a hot man with an accent go for it and enjoy yourself.

But I endorse The Wait because I know if I really liked somebody I’d wait. I also know, I’ll never have anymore one- to three-night stands. Because looking back on those few instances, unless the guy was Brat Pitt’s hot rival, I shudder.

So wait, unless the guy is Brad Pitt’s hot rival and you don’t like socializing with him nearly as much as looking at him. This will ensure that a) you won’t have sexual encounters that will make you feel like walking through a car wash when you think about them later in life and b) you won’t give yourself away to someone who doesn’t deserve it.

In sum: if you really like somebody, wait. You’ll build a deeper emotional bond and the sex will be that much more amazing when you finally have it; and if you don’t really like somebody but they rival Brad Pitt’s hotness and kiss well, have a one- to three-night stand and look back on it with pleasure.

It follows that if you don’t like somebody don't have sex with him. If you can’t decide if you really like somebody, then you don’t like him enough for him to deserve to have sex with you.

No Glove, No Love: Guys, bring your own condoms (and wear 'em)And ladies: use a condom! I personally don’t keep condoms: Why should I make it easy for a guy to have sex with me? If someone wants to have sex with me, he needs to have condoms. If someone wants to have sex with me at my house, he needs to bring condoms over. No condoms=no sex. If you’re the type of girl who carries condoms in your pocket book, I don’t understand you, and I’d suggest you indulge in the power of Making Them Work for It. But still, safety first, so carry what you will.

So when we come to the point where we’re having sex regularly with one person, why do we always feel like we’re being used if we’ve followed the rules, the sex is amazing, Partner deserves it, and Brings His Own Condoms?

I should add by “amazing” I mean both partners are equally satisfied and it feels like heaven. My therapist offered, as usual, a wise explanation. Here’s an abridged version of my session:

Ther: Do you really think that’s true, that he’s using you for sex?
Me: I don’t know. I guess.
Ther: Thinking about how he treats you, does his behavior toward you indicate he only spends time with you so he can have sex with you?
Me: Well… Noooooo… No I don’t think so. I guess, yeah, he likes me for other reasons.
Ther: So why do you think people use you for sex?
Me: Well, because it’s like, he comes over and that’s what we do. That’s the focus of our encounters if it’s cold outside and I’m too lazy to go out and stuff, you know? And then the other day he said some things that bothered me. (And of course I had sex with him anyway.) I think he’s getting too comfortable.
Ther: What do you mean he’s getting too comfortable?
Me: He’s just not trying as hard? He’s not as attentive as he used to be.
Ther: If you’re not satisfied with the way he’s treating you, you have to tell him. Rather than telling yourself the story that ‘he’s too comfortable’, you have to tell him what you want. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You have to teach him how you want to be treated. How do you want him to treat you?
Me: Well he’s not as careful as he used to be, I guess? He needs to be more careful with what he says to me. Like he made a couple comments that bothered me the other day.
Ther: Like what?
Me: Well he was playing with my [new] bangs and he pushed them to the side and he says ‘See, girls look like boys when they do their hair like this.’ And I told him ‘Don’t say stuff like that to girls, that’s rude.’
Ther: And what did he say?
Me: He said he wasn’t talking about me he was talking about all girls. Which I guess made it better? But then he said something worse later. We were in my bed and he’s playing with my bangs again and he’s like you have a beautiful face. You don’t need bangs to cover it up—
Bangs on Beauties: You're wrong, Spaniard. So wrong.Ther: So he doesn’t like bangs. So what?
Me: No, I don’t care if he doesn’t like my hair. I did it for me and I love it. But it gets worse. He says, ‘See, someone like Jen, she has a good body but an ugly face. She can have bangs.’ And I said, ‘Excuse me? Don’t talk about my friends like that.’
Ther: And how did it make you feel when he said that?
Me: I don’t know.
Ther: Sit with it a minute.
Me: [Sits with it for five minutes] I don’t know. I was just upset.
Ther: Ok. But what exactly was it—was it jealousy? Anger? Sadness?
Me: [Sits with it for another five minutes.] I don’t know.
Ther: When those kinds of things come up, see if you can pinpoint what you’re feeling. Did you tell Spaniard how it made you feel?
Me: Well yeah, I made him explain himself until I was satisfied with his explanation.
Ther: What did he say?
Me: I told him when he says stuff like that it sounds like he’s checking out my friends and he said, ‘If I say something like that it doesn’t mean anything. If Brooke Shields was your friend I’d say, “Brook Shields is hot” but that doesn’t mean anything. I am not checking her out. But if she walks right in front of me I am not blind either.’
Ther: Well, it was a provocative comment that he made, and you had a right to be upset. You had a right to an explanation.
Me: Yeah. And then after he explained himself he knew I wasn’t satisfied and he’s like, 'What are you thinking? I know you’re thinking something'. He always tells me I never tell him what I’m feeling.
Ther: Do you agree?
Me: Well, yeah, I don’t tell him how I’m feeling because I don’t want things to get too emotional.
Ther: Why don’t you want things to get too emotional?
Me: Well like, with Evil A and the circumstances under which we got together it was just constantly really emotional, especially in the beginning, and I was crying all the time, and I thought it was passionate but it was really just bad.
Ther: Well being emotional isn’t always bad. Emotions are just feelings. You can tell someone about your feelings without it being bad.
Me: Yeah.
Ther: And I can understand why you always think people are using you for sex if you hide your feelings from them. If people aren’t able to get close to you because they don’t know how you’re feeling, you’re unable to create an emotional connection. And then what is there aside from the sex?
Me: Yeah, that’s a good point.
Ther: If you just don’t say anything, you’re not giving him the real stuff. You have to give him the real stuff and see what he does with it. That’s what really counts.

I made an agreement with Ther that I would tell Spaniard how I felt. I would give him The Real Stuff.

Before The Real Stuff convo, I told my gay friend Mez about the offenses. “Don’t call him,” Mez said. “That will make him think about it.”

No, I thought. I can’t play games this time. We all do it and shit just falls apart. I had to know what would happen if I were honest and didn’t play games. So I gave Spaniard The Real Stuff.

It worked.

He completely redeemed himself. The things he said to me made me realize how amazing he is and that sharing feelings really isn’t as scary as I had made it out to be. I feel closer to him and I like him so much more. And all the time I’ve spent with him has been that much more amazing since.

So remember, The Real Stuff works! I paid for it so you didn’t have to.

Related:

• Dating Blogger Amy: "This is Awkward"
• Dating Blogger Amy: "To the Left, To the Left"
• Dating Blogger Amy: "Dating Internationally"
• Dating Blogger Amy: "The Rise and Fall of Evil A"

I’ve always looked forward to Valentine’s Day. This year, I don’t give a shit about it.

Chocolate Covered Strawberry: Milk chocolate doesn't countWhen I started thinking about tomorrow last week, something felt off. The thought of VD unsettled me (pun intended). I thought perhaps I’d find a reason to swear it off after some research, so I Wikipediaed. I couldn’t come up with a cogent argument for swearing it off altogether—no sense in being anti something just for the sake of being anti something. But research proved that VD is all about spending money, commercializing love, and exists for the fairer sex.

Clothing stores insinuate the need to wear something red or pink with their red and pink window displays and fresh crops of red and pink clothes despite the trends. Then we fuss over VD in our new red and pink clothes by purchasing doilied hearts with glitter glue, teddy bears, $5-a-piece Godiva raspberry truffles, and going out to a mediocre prix-fixe dinner. All to ‘celebrate love.’ You know, I really need cards, chocolates, and the prix-fixe to feel loved. God forbid someone do something nice/romantic for a partner on a random day.

But what bothers me most is this figure: The Greeting Card Association of America estimates women buy 85 percent of all Valentines. Why, oh why, ladies are we so susceptible to the VD marketing blitz and love's commercialization? Are these Valentines mostly for your girlfriends and family? Because I certainly hope you’re not buying your lovers anything unless you know they got you something.

Why buy into this “holiday”? VD doesn’t really mean anything. It has something to do with St. Valentine and his feast and the color red. Somehow the Greeting Card Association turned it into this sickening money racket. But what is the benefit?

Nothing. There is no benefit to buying into Valentine’s Day.

If I buy into it I’ll hope for a pile of dark chocolate (milk doesn’t count) and/or flowers garnished with a card. If these clichés wind up on my doorstep, I’ll feel relieved that, you know, at least I got something. So my feelings will just break even and I still will have endured some anxiety while wearing an ugly bright red sweater. If I don’t get anything I’ll feel upset and take my disappointment out on all potential Valentines, which really only add up to Spaniard and… my mother doesn’t count.

Buying into it won’t guarantee an amazing night with your lover. I can hardly remember VDs with past boyfriends, except last year’s in which Evil A and I agreed not to get each other anything. I got him a shirt or something, thinking he’d do the same. Right after I gave him his gift he ran to the chocolate shop down the street, then the bodega around the corner, and “surprised” me with dark chocolate truffles and red roses.

I think planned VDs mostly turn out less-than-mediocre across the board because of the formula (for those in the “dating” phase):

January 26: Woman mentions VDay “in passing” to Partner. Something like, “I can’t believe it’s almost February! It’s like there’s nothing to look forward to after the holidays, you know? Ooh—I mean—except for Valentine’s Day.”

January 31: Woman mentions VDay in conversation, intending to turn it to plans for this year. Something like, “OMG, I know. Like, last Valentine’s Day sucked because my boyfriend [insert offense that became way more offensive because it happened on Valentine’s Day here].” Partner had better make VDay amazing.

February 7: Woman’s anxiety begins. Something like, “Partner better be planning something. But what if he doesn’t? No, no, it’ll be fine.”

February 9: Woman’s anxiety increases. Something like, “What if he forgot it’s Valentine’s Day? That’s impossible, there’s red shit in every Banana Republic window and he did go to Duane Reade yesterday...”

February 12: Woman begins polling friends in committed relationships about their plans. Anxiety is offset since Woman believes her VD will be way more romantic because her love is burgeoning, not old and stale… right?

February 14 if nothing happens: Woman feels like shit. By 5 p.m. woman texts or calls or IMs Partner and causally mentions how sick she is of all the milk chocolate at her office, and she doesn’t understand why no one seems to favor dark. If the last ditch attempt fails, Woman feels shittier.

February 14 if shit works out and woman gets dark chocolates and/or flowers: Woman feels relieved—at least she got something. If Woman is taken out to dinner, the fussing over chocolates and flowers taking place at her apartment must be cut short so Couple can make dinner reservation on time. The hostess has informed Partner if they’re late, they’ll lose it. Couple hurries to restaurant, arrives late and anxiety-ridden over lateness, must wait 30 minutes anyway. Couple is seated, forced to eat the prix-fixe special, and feels lame in the company of other couples who no doubt rushed to dinner and timed their evenings carefully to make the reservation.

February 15 if shit worked out and woman got dark chocolates and/or flowers: Woman’s feelings break even: At least she did something. Woman wishes the sex had been better.

I could ensure that I have someone fussing over me on Valentine’s Day. I could drop hints that lead into conversations in which I specify exactly what I want to happen, which is probably what I’ve done in the past. But I hate coming off as desperate/anxious. I prefer to keep my anxiety neatly shielded with a laid back attitude and composed yet casual demeanor.

But no amount of dark chocolate and planning will ensure an amazing romantic moment. Those are realized when least expected.

And let's not forget VD only makes single people—mostly women—hate themselves more. I can't support a "holiday" that inspires such sentiments when I think singlehood is an amazing, wonderful life-phase.

So this year I’m VDay neutral. I'll treat is mostly as any other day, not acting excited about it but not rejecting it outright since there can be nice things about it. I even went to a VDay party, and wore a heart-shaped pendant necklace at the hostess’ request that guests wear something VDay-esque. (Then again, there’s nothing I love more than a good theme, especially when it comes to parties.) If I get dark chocolate I won’t reject it. If I get a card from my mother, I’ll be glad.

This year I just have zero out-of-the-ordinary expectations. Nor do I desire to create them for a fake-ass “love day” that just makes too many fellow singlettes feel bad about themselves. And I refuse to listen to them complain about singlehood or feel bad for it myself.

I will incorporate my gay friend Mez’s VDay philosophy into my neutrality:

“It’s all about great sex,” he says. “And chocolate-covered strawberries.”

So, ok, the CCS are kind of commercial. But they’re fun and delicious and I wouldn’t think to eat them if it wasn’t VDay. Besides the philosophy as a whole is good because the former burns off the later, and VDay just becomes an excuse for a booty call. (If you’re worried about the sex being bad then you have way worse problems and need a new Valentine and partner ASAP.)

So if I happen to see Spaniard (see, I didn’t even try to plan that in advance) the only unusual element of our encounter under the Mez Neutral Philosophy would be the CCS. But by tomorrow night Spaniard probably will have made me forget about them anyway.

Paris and Britney: distasteful selfploitationMonday night I arrived home to an especially delicious mailbox: Newsweek with Paris and Britney on the cover--"The Girls Gone Wild Effect"--and New York with a cover story about today's youth exposing intimate details of their lives on the internet via blogs, sites like MySpace, and viral videos.

Those who read these dating blogs understand my connection to these headines: I'm exiting a hard-partying phase and revealing it and its aftermath meticulously in these web pages. Thanks to my worrisome Jewish mother, who wisely resists reading my column, I've questioned, as New York does, my decision to plaster my life on the web. My mother broached the topic in a recent phone chat:

"Have you Googled yourself lately?" she asked.

"No. Why?"

" 'Cuz all those dating blogs come up."

"So."

"I don't understand why you can't write it under a different name."

"Well, I tried and that wasn't really part of the deal. It's supposed to be personal, you know?"

"It can still be personal under a different name. You really should change it." Her voice turned whiny.

"Well, at this point it wouldn't matter anyway since my name is all over the ones I’ve already published, and even if I used a different name everyone would still know it’s me," I said, frustrated. My mom and I hadn't discussed her qualms with my dating blogs in the near recent past but every time we do it's the same shit.

"I don't know, Amy. I think you should talk to them about changing it. That's all I'm saying. I mean, what if ten years down the line all that stuff comes up and you don't want people to be able to see it anymore?"
She raised a valid point. What if I arrive at 35, apply for a job somewhere and don't get it because of the sordid stories I've posted on Jewcy? What if I arrive at 35 and wish I had kept my past secret for the simple sake of privacy?

These thoughts washed through my mind as I prepared to devour the contents of my mailbox. I peeled back the Paris/Britney cover first. The story focused on the infatuation with celeb partiers among girls as young as seven, turning them into "prostitots" who use words like sexy, and the devaluation of sex for young women. I don't think the likes of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton are good role models. Why would anyone want to be like them? I can't think of one redeemable quality of any member of that bunch.

Yet all publications tackling the party girl phenom through a feminist lens acknowledge their behavior has a flavor of empowerment, which is exactly the sentiment I felt underlay my hard partying. I had always partied in college, but it got really intense when I broke up with Evil A, an act of empowerment in itself. The partying was a declaration of my new independence and a rejection of the idea that I couldn't stand alone as a single gal because I would be too lonely/sad without a boyfriend.

With Evil A "to the left, to the left," I immediately discovered how much fun singlehood is, and started riding the single girl empowerment wave. I can tell Britney Spears is riding high now too: The girl just wants to have some fun after however many years with leech boyfriend K-Fed, who plain fucking sucks in every way possible, not to mention never really owning her life anyway.

However, she’s hitting quite a few sandbars--nude crotch shots, missing clothing, and vomiting on her new boyfriend, among others. This is not empowerment—it's involuntary selfploitation, and it's incredibly distasteful.

As I transition away from my party days I’m dealing with the aftermath of my breakup increasingly healthily. I've cut back drinking and drugging drastically since recognizing, with the help of an amazing therapist, that these are awful mood depressants that make you high for a few hours and low for days. I've started dealing with the aftermath in other ways, like writing these posts.

When the opportunity to write this column presented itself, I jumped on it because I knew it, like partying, would be fun, liberating, entertaining. I didn’t think of how revealing it would be until Jewcy beta-launched, my first post went up, and I felt nauseous when I pulled up the page: My personal life was no longer personal.

This week’s New York asks what kind of impact all the personal information young people broadcast about themselves online will have, both in the present and in the future and if it will create mass regret in 15 years. Most MySpacers interviewed for the story think not, but I still have doubts.

Satiated by this week's contents from my mailbox, I felt the decision to air my dirty laundry to the world became more urgent. The more I thought about it the more I questioned it, and the more I believed I would regret it in the future.

And then a co-worker drew my attention to last week’s post: A young woman had commented anonymously about her own abusive relationship and how glad she was to know she was not alone:

after reading your story about your ex, i feel a whole lot better knowing that really awesome, beautiful, smart girls can get stuck in abusive relationships - because their "other" makes you feel like shit and worthless. doesnt make any sense, does it? AND im still dealing with the aftermath of it all. what the hell.

thanks for telling it like it is.

Submitted by Anonymous on February 6, 2007 - 1:39pm.

My mother's voice and my own self-doubt stopped playing on loop in my head. I teared up knowing that I successfully channeled my most painful experiences into helping and comforting others.

Ms. Anonymous reminded me that I chose to post the details of my abusive relationship with the hope that I might have at least some impact on other women suffering through them as well. I want readers to understand above all that nobody should waste time in a relationship in which her partner treats her badly in any way, and nobody deserves verbal, mental, or physical abuse. And that dating in New York is crazy, fucked up, and hysterical.

She encouraged me to continue to empower and feel empowered. That's the difference in tasteful selfploitation.

Matthew Tall is such a fucking dense idiot.

I told him how dense and stupid he was one Saturday night in September. Best Friend and I were smoking hash with our “married” friends—an NYU couple who live together—in their East Village walk-up. It was after 4 a.m. I had gone to a dinner party, a Eurotrash house warming party, a club (or two or three), and completely lost my voice by last call. Wifey, aware that I was dying, brewed a mug of delicious syrupy hibiscus tea for me. As I mulled over it in a hash-y haze my blue rubber phone started vibrating. It was Matthew Tall.

Matthew Tall wouldn’t leave me alone. Every day he’d call and/or text and invite me to some shit party with shit people, attempting to lure me by name-dropping. I was so fucking over all of it by September, after a whole summer of his shit. I am not going to go out of my way to a party with an asshole like Matthew Tall or to see a celebrity. I have interviewed and seen plenty of celebrities and only felt star-struck once: Thursday night, when I shook Sarah Jessica Parker’s hand at the after party for “At Least It’s Pink.” But SJP is utterly lovely. And I didn’t meet her whilst hanging out with Matthew Tall.

Finally fed up with Matthew Tall’s text spam, I began insisting that I wouldn’t hang out with him unless he took me on a real date, i.e. dinner or a movie. I told him this each time he spammed me. He paid no attention to me, refusing to realize how lucky he was that I so much as let him stand within five feet of me.

Then he started with the afterhours boat invitations. Frankly, I don’t get the whole “let’s party on a boat thing.” Basically, a bunch of crackheads just bring the “party” and their drugs to a boat at Chelsea Piers. And stay parked at the dock. Perhaps they’re really fairy night urchins with no homes who disintegrate if they stand on dry land after sunrise.

The previous night, Matthew Tall spammed me at 6:39 a.m.—his charmingly preferred hour of text spamming—to, um, lament?: “Oh well, I tried… As always…”

Awwww, he is so sweet to always think of me before 7 a.m. on Saturday. That night the charm continued at 7:17 p.m.: “You guys missed a crazy party on my friend’s huge yatch [sic]…”

Damn, why’d I go and fall asleep? I missed the magical boat with the magical crack fairies. No doubt there were magical cauldrons of vodka orange juice and a magical fairy captain with magical tricks of sleaze-baggery.

When Matthew Tall called that night at the Married’s apartment, I, voiceless, let Best Friend handle it. On speaker phone:

BF: Hello?

MT: Uhhhhh hello, Amy.

BF: What’s up Matthew Tall—er—I mean Matthew.

[Snickers]

MT: Uhhhh, you girls wanna go on a boat?

BF: You mean, to sail? I don’t know I might get chilly.

MT: Ha ha. Very funny.

BF: Who’s going?

MT: Oh you know, Amir, Asshole A, Asshole B, Asshole C.

An aside: Amir was a crazy Israeli real estate something or other who tried to pick me up at a loft party in SoHo. He looked about 40. Mid-party, his daughter and her friend--all 12 years of each of 'em--showed up. He was going to take my girls and me to Tenjune. Why we were going to go with him I know not. Too much champagne, maybe? But before he could take us to Tenjune, he just had to drop off his daughter and co. at home. Please hold, ladies! We held. He returned. We left with him.

“You know, I think I actually want to go to Butter first, what do you think?” he asked us.

Ummmmm, Butter is stupid.

“I’d rather go to Tenjune. I haven’t been yet.”

“You don’t want to go to Butter? That’s where the Baby Phat party is,” Amir sleazed.

“No. I want to go to Tenjune.”

Best Friend urged me to just go along with it. Outnumbered, I had no choice. So we Buttered.

Amir evidently was someone, or knew someone. We walked onto the red carpet and into Butter without so much as pausing. The lights were blinding, and we were highly disappointing to the photogs. It was highly awkward.

Inside it was indeed the Baby Phat party. There was a long white table upstairs with Kimora at the head on the far end of the room. There was gold glitter everywhere. We stood awkwardly by the upstairs bar looking at the dinner spectacle. It appeared Kimora’s V.I.P.s were on to dessert. (By “on to” I mean waiters were carrying gold-leafed cookies around on shiny metal trays; food at these things is not for eating, which went out of style in 1998.)

I wound up standing next to the owner of Butter and his then-girlfriend—that Sopranos girl who famously had exercise bulimia. She plucked a cookie from a pile of half-eaten ones on one waiter’s tray that were clearly headed for the trash and ate it like some sort of freak.

Amir, meanwhile, started asking me to kiss him. I said no. He persisted. I kept saying no. Prick that he is, he rape-kissed me on the cheek. And there were more than one or two dinner guests that saw from their glitter-glued banquettes, snickered and made me feel like an idiot. So we abandoned Amir and ran downstairs.

I wasn’t surprised Matthew Tall and Amir were night fairy friends. But I was disgusted. I told Best Friend to ask him what the name of the boat was.

“What’s the boat’s name?”

“What?” Matthew Tall said.

“What is the name of the boat? We only go on boats with names. Good names.”

“Uhhh, I don’t know it’s not my boat. It’s a huge yacht.”

“Hmm, yeah I don’t know. We don’t like huge yachts unless they’re named.”

The fun was too great so I had to join in.

“Will Angelo be there?” I wheezed into the phone. Angelo was Matthew Tall’s best friend. He’s like a little magical drunk bug that flitters around and says funny things while acting funny-drunk. And he doesn’t seem to take himself at all seriously.

“I don’t know. He might be,” Matthew Tall said. “Are you coming or not?”

“I don’t know. Amir rape-kissed me so I don’t think so.”

“Amir what?”

“How do you know Amir?” I asked.

“Uh, he’s my friend? Okay.”

“Oh that’s right, sorry, I forgot. You do have so many friends. Yes… So you guys like went to college together right? Oh no wait—you’re in the same fairy tribe together. I keep getting that wrong,” I said.

“Um, okay, Amy. Keep missing out,” he said.

These people are fucking. Ridiculous.

“You are so fucking dense, Matthew Tall! I’m not going to see you unless you take me on a date. What don’t you get?”

(That’s right, we finally gave up trying to not and just started calling him Matthew Tall.)

“What did you call me?”

“Yeah, anyway, see you later! Good night! Have fun on your nameless boat! Say ‘hi’ to Angelo for me! Mwah!”

I hung up on him. And wheezed out some laughter. Matthew Tall was so dense and so annoying and so stupid and so clueless.

I took a drag of hash and my rubber blue phone buzzed again. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Again, speaker phone:

Me: Hello?

X: Amy.

Me: Who is this?

X: It’s Amir.

Me to Best Friend: What the fuck?!

Me to Amir: (hostile) What do you want?

Amir: Matthew told me to pick you up.

Me: Uh, for what?

Amir: To go on the boat.

Me: Oh, did he. What kind of car are you in?

Amir: What?

Me: What kind of car are you in?

Amir: A Land Rover.

Me: Ouch, ooh, no. Sorry I don’t do Land Rovers.

Amir: What? Where are you?

Me: No, no, no—I don’t do Land Rovers. If it’s not an Escalade I take no part. Sorry.

Amir: Uh… What?

Me: Yeah, sorry, no thanks. If you switch to an Escalade—a white one, that is—within the next, oh, 15 minutes, give me a call ok?

Amir: Derrrrrr.

Me: Okay, alright talk to you NEVER. Don’t fucking call me anymore. BYE.

Another cackle gaggle ensued. If only I spoke fairy so I could get my message across. Language barriers aside, I texted Matthew Tall. If he wasn’t going to take me on a real date, I did not need his 4 a.m. texts and phone calls anymore. Me starts at 4:18 a.m.:

Me: What part of I will only c u if you take me on a real date do you not understand? U r like denser than the universe be4 the big bang

MT: I have asked enough… you girls want to come let me know before he is done picking people up…

Me: You must not know what the big bang is cuz you just proved my point exactly. And why would I want to hang out on a nameless boat with a bunch of sleaze bags like Amir?

MT: Keep missing out… no worries

Me: I’m going to keep going until I get the last word. I would never want to go hang out on a nameless boat with you and all your fake friends. Except for Angelo. U can tell him 2 call me.

MT: He is here. And my friends are my friends… whatever

Me: K. Tell Angelo I say hi!

I got the last word. And I never went on the Nameless. Though I stole a captain’s hat (see my headshot!) on another boat during my crazier summer days one Sunday night in July, when I was a mere Jewcy intern. Oh, how things change!

For some of us, at least.

Here I am, editorially assisting at Jewcy, looking for my own interns (resumes to jobs@jewcy.com), and no longer Lindsay Lohaning in magical fairy dens past sunrise.

But guess who is still Lindsay Lohaning in magical fairy dens? That’s right—Matthew Tall! So ok, maybe I’m not being fair to Matthew Tall. Yes he’s doing the same shit. But he does have a bigger belly now so I guess it’s not all the same.

Anyway, I bumped into him a couple weeks ago at Pink Elephant. I was at Ricardo’s table as usual. He and I were beginning a surprisingly intelligent conversation about intermarriage, which, I told him, I had recently written about. And then looming near the entryway, I spied Matthew Tall’s bright red baseball hat on his awkwardly high-above-the-ground head. He lumbered over, his eyes glued to the girly red Trio he held in both hands at his paunchy waistline.

I turned to Best Friend and we started laughing at him while he greeted Ricardo. Ricardo saw me laughing and gawking at Matthew Tall’s disgusting awkwardness and smiled at me. I made eye contact, opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue and using my index finger gestured like I was making myself puke.

Ricardo laughed and came over. “What’s wrong? I thought you had a crush on Matthew?”

“Eww. No!” I said. “He sucks.”

“I want to talk more about this intermarriage thing,” Ricardo said. “I majored in theological studies and studied abroad in the Vatican.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, actually surprised.

“Nope. I went nine years without having sex. But marrying a Catholic girl is very important to me. I’ve broken up with girlfriends in the past because of it.”

As much as the topics of intermarriage, celibacy, and serious Catholicism intrigue me and spark a desire to discuss them in depth and intelligently, Pink Elephant on Thursday night is just not the right place or time.

Best Friend and I went for a walk and stopped at an empty area a few tables down from Ricardo to dance around a bit. After two or three songs, the red hat floated listlessly over and the large head beneath it stuck its mouth in my ear.

“You girls don’t have to stand over here because of me,” it said.

“We’re not over here because of you,” I said in full-on bitch mode.

“It’s really ok, you can come back to the table.”

“We’re over here because we want to dance around not because we’re trying to avoid you.”

“Look really it’s ok—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why don’t you girls come back and have a drink.”

“Don’t you get it? Get the fuck away from me! Don’t fucking talk to me, Matthew Tall! I’m fucking SO DONE with you.”

“What’s he saying?” Best Friend mouthed.

“I don’t know. He thinks we’re trying to avoid him.”

We laughed loudly and pointed at Matthew Tall.

“You don’t have to stand over—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Finally he went away. Finally I processed what was on his white tee-shirt: the silhouette of a man holding a gun to his own head. Some of us wear our hearts on our sleeves. Matthew Tall wears himself on his tee-shirt.

It seems to me that as a people who have been persecuted for 5,000 years, we Jews would have a more enlightened and less secular attitude toward those we choose as life partners.

Amy Odell’s recent article, “Shalom, Be Alone,” touches on the subject of inter-marriage. Many of her readers had a strong reaction to her opinion that many of us are limiting ourselves by only choosing Jewish mates. I understand that many feel that Judaism is not just a religion or a culture/ethnicity, but something akin to the master race (and who could argue with that?).

Talking recently to a non-Jew friend of mine, she said that she refused to date anyone that is not at least a little bit Italian. It dawned on me once again, that while I belong to and associate with a community that has survived over 5,000 years by sticking together and abiding by their laws, we are living in a world where remaining ethnically pure is no longer viable. We fight for peace and equal rights and then turn around with the prejudice that marrying outside our ethnic/religious group is the way of the fallen. If it is still 1850, I would like to know why women aren’t completely covered and wearing corsets. Anyone?

Perhaps it’s true, as we’ve recently heard, that Jews possess some genetic advantages. Maybe avoiding inter-relationships really will make you more to likely birth another doctor, lawyer, or banker. But if your reasons are to preserve the Jewish genes that have been around for the past 5,000 years, allow me to refer you to Meryl Yourish’s post about James Watson and his double helix. Genes, by the way, are not fixed, they oscillate, so who we associate with could actually change our genetic structure. Beware, my superior friends.

I expect Lubavitch Jews not to inter-marry, as I expect Hasidic Jews not to intermarry; but these sects are isolated from society and many carry unrealistic views about how we heathens live our lives. Not to mention, they are usually not fair-haired and blue-eyed, which as we all know is absolutely and undeniably horrendous.

No matter where you are from or whom you marry you can raise your children ethnically and religiously in any combination you desire. I, as a half French/half Greek Jew can choose to raise my kids as Mexican-Korean Hindus if it suits my fancy. We have choices about how we identify ourselves and our children and I am asking the Jewish community, one which knows more about closed-mindedness than any other group, to think a outside the box. It’s ludicrous that we as Jews have a problem intermarrying (which we should leave to the Greeks and Italians) but absolutely no problem driving a huge Mercedes, or Volkswagen, the chosen car of the Nazis.

Maybe it is time for us all to interbreed. One race under G-d, indivisible… that way we have no reason to doubt or hate anyone else or their race/religion or what have you. The moral of my story: Interbreed now, the world depends on it.

The end of any serious long-term relationship comes with two phases: rehabilitation (think Lindsay Lohan) and reconstruction (think New Orleans). Rehabilitation is for yourself: healing a broken heart, dispelling animosity, retaining lessons learned instead of regrets, regaining confidence to enter the infinite world of Singledom. Reconstruction is for your life: strengthening friendships and making new ones, accustoming yourself to sleeping alone every night, dating new, hotter people.

Last week I wrote about my longest relationship a.k.a. the most traumatic 2.5 years of my life. Although I dumped my ex, Evil A, almost nine months ago I recently realized my rehabilitation and reconstruction periods are not as nearly close to completion as I had thought.

I was having a glass of wine with Spaniard at a Spanish wine bar around the corner from my apartment. He was talking about traveling. He’s been to every continent except Antarctica. He’s lived in China. He jets at every opportunity. He has, at 26 years old, seen a considerable chunk of the globe.

He told me I should live abroad. I had mentioned moving abroad to him on our third date, when I was at a frustrating point in my life, about to exhaust myself entirely from the NYC party scene, and my first week cast-less after a broken foot. I hadn’t talked about moving abroad again in a while since a finally healthy foot gradually alleviated a lot of living-in-New-York-sucks frustrations. Spaniard returned to the issue this night, suggesting I live for a year in Europe. London would be nice, he said, since it’s so close to Amsterdam, Paris, and Madrid. He said he’d live there, but personally, I think my skin is fair enough and needn’t become more wan from London grayness.

But then, as we sat at the bar and he kept talking about where he’s been, and where I should go, and what I should do, his olive skin looking sexily bronzed from his most recent international jaunt in the dim red-hued light, I thought about the opportunities I missed because of my relationship with Evil A. I didn’t study abroad, something many of my NYU friends have done, which I now regret. I chose instead to stay by Evil A’s side and move into an apartment with him, sapping any chance for personal growth or increased confidence.

I always say I don’t have regrets because there’s always a lesson to be learned. But I couldn’t help feeling regretful as I listened to Spaniard talk. I starting thinking about how awful my relationship was, berating myself for putting myself through that instead of studying in Paris, which I would have done if I were single.

I felt tears surfacing and became quiet.

“What are you thinking about?” Spaniard asked.

“Nothing,” I said and faked a weak smile.

“You are thinking about something. Tell it to me,” he persisted.

“It’s nothing,” I insisted.

“I know you are thinking about something. Why don’t you tell me?”

I thought for a while before I asked, “Do you ever read anything I write?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh,” I answered, content to leave it at that.

“You are thinking about something you wrote.”

“I just wrote something about my ex boyfriend. And I was just—I was just thinking about how I never studied abroad because I was with him.”

“Well, you may not have studied abroad but there must have been something good about it.”

“No,” I shook my head. “No. There was nothing good about it.”

“No, come on. There was something good about it,” he said.

I paused to find the most honest answer. “No. I can’t remember anything good or happy about that relationship,” I told him. Truthfully, as much as I think about it, I can’t recall any happy or joyous memories from that time. Every contender for the “happy” category is tainted by a lie or a fight or my tears.

“You are very sad now because you loved him,” Spaniard said.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think I did.” I believed it. How could I after the blizzard of drama, fighting, and lies that made up our entire relationship? You’re not left with five feet of love, you're left with five feet of hate, regret, and self-loathing. “Do you know why we broke up?” I asked, aware I had told him two months ago on our third date.

“No,” he said.

“He gave me a black eye.”

“What’s a black eye?” (Language barrier. Normally they’re cuter and make me giggle.)

“He hit me in the face,” I said.

“He hit you?”

“Yes!”

“Nooo…”

“Yes, he hit me in the face and that’s why I broke up with him,” I said. “But we’d had physical fights before.”

Somewhere in the ensuing conversation, Spaniard drove this stake through my heart: “Well, it’s his fault for hitting you—he should never hit you, I would never hit you—but it’s your fault for staying with him.”

I looked at the wall. I wanted to burst into tears. I knew if I spoke I would start crying, so I just sat and stared while he kept talking.

Finally we got the check and left. I was getting angrier the more I thought about what he had said. What the hell does he know? He didn’t know where I was in my life, which obviously deep down was not a confident or stable place. I didn’t deserve to put myself through that kind of blame and self-loathing again.

I stormed ahead of him on the sidewalk, while he kept talking. I finally managed to tell him, “Don’t speculate on my past relationship when you have no idea what happened.”

We went back to my apartment, I still trying to hold back tears. I lied on my back in the middle of my bed and thought, suppressing the emotions with increasing force as I felt them gain momentum in the back of my throat.

Spaniard tried to kiss me, comfort me, but I couldn’t respond. I continued to think and stare at my ceiling. I wanted to say a million things to him at once, but I knew if I did I’d become an emotional, red-faced, bleary-eyed mess. I also knew I wasn’t ready for him to see that side of me. Those were emotions I wasn’t ready to share with him.

“I know you’re upset but how am I supposed to make you feel better if I don’t know what’s upsetting you?” he said gently. I thought for a good five minutes and suppressed a little harder before I was able to give him a short answer.

“You know what you said that really got to me,” I began.

“What?”

“You said it was my fault.”

Whatever he said next was just the right thing and I can’t write it too accurately from memory, but it went something like: “The reason I say it’s your fault is because you should not put up with that. You should have walked away the first time he hit you. I’m not trying to speculate—I don’t know what happened with you and your ex-boyfriend.”

I lied next to him, my head resting on his shoulder, my arm around his waist, listening, still suppressing. He continued, “You feel sad because you loved him. You are not over him. But you have to open up more. You have to tell me things. I don’t know what you’re feeling.”

I squeezed him a little harder. I felt like I really, really liked him. More than I had ever felt I really, really liked him, which has been since our first date. But I was also angry, misunderstood. I was over my ex… wasn’t I?

“Let’s go to bed,” he said.

I went to my bathroom to wash my face. As soon as I shut the door behind me my face wrinkled into silent sobs. I put the lid down on the toilet and sat down, covering my face in both hands as I cried. I was upset with myself. Why did I put myself through all that abuse? Why did I do that to myself? It made me so sad to know that I had. And Spaniard had caustically reminded me of those emotions.

But I knew Spaniard didn’t know the whole story, and he knew he didn’t know the whole story. I wasn’t ready to tell it to him and I’m not sure he’s ready to hear it. The last thing I need is to make him think I’m crazy.

But should I be ready to tell it to him, I wondered? Does he need or deserve to know how I’m feeling? I can’t share something so personal with him if we’re not even official. Especially when I’m certainly not ready to make anything official, not wanting to sticking any labels on the wonderful thing we have going right now.

At the same time, I don’t want him thinking I’m not over Evil A. I am most certainly over Evil A. I was more than over Evil A when he came to move his things out. I was like Beyonce, but clothed and fiercer: “To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left. And get the fuck out of my house.”

I’m not over what I went through, I’m not over the place I was in when I put myself through it. I’m still in rehabilitation.

I looked at my tear soaked face in the mirror. I may still be in rehab, I thought, but I have come a long, long way. I made over my life, and I’m damn proud that I did. The reconstruction’s not quite done, but I’m so glad it’s down to hanging the pictures on the wall and not drawing up the plans.

And in the next room was a man who treats me better than any other ever has, who really seems to care about me. He spoke before he thought, understandably clueless to my emotional triggers, and that’s something I can’t blame him for. Nor did I deserve to blame myself for a situation that I ultimately emerged from as stronger and happier than I ever could have imagined.

After I good hard look in the mirror, I washed the tears off my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into glasses. I went back to my room, curled up in Spaniard’s arms and fell asleep.

I received this letter in response to the article I wrote about the Jewish singles' mixer I recently attended, hosted by Mekudeshet:

"The crowd was, well, Jewy. When I walked in with my girlfriend, one tall, fair-haired gentleman informed us immediately that admission was half-price since almost an hour had passed since the event started. Smile and nod."

So you paid 50% to get into the event? LOL... there was no such discount and that's BS : )

Would be nice to mention you came in for free since asked so nicely to come and represented yourself as writing an article (even though its a blog - guess everybody is a reporter these days!) and we were kind enough to give you free admission : )

Could not care less if you are insensitive and poke fun at people who might have a harder time meeting others and just not as cool as yourself, promote intermarriage, and have no appreciation and mock to the survival of the Jewish people (including all the sacrifice our ancestors made so we are still Jewish, which obviously means nothing to you!) but a little simple truth and appreciation is always nice to see : )

Warmest regards,

Simon

Dear Simon,

It appears my sense of humor was lost on you, as was the point of my article. Perhaps a heavy-handed use of emoticons will aid your understanding in this reply :)

I did not specify that I paid to get into the event. The reference to pricing was made in jest--you know, the old "cheap Jew" joke. :) Allow me to clarify for my readers in mildly-realized hopes of appeasing you:

I went for free! And there is no discount for readers like you marking your calendars for the next mixer! No matter how late :) you are :)

You've correctly identified my title as "Dating Blogger." You get a BLUE :P star for careful reading :) However I must emphasize that the piece was given the treatment any article would: It was edited and featured on the scroll bar with some lovely artwork. And I am a reporter with a journalism degree, New York Observer clips and New York Magazine string reporting work under my belt, all at the tender age of 21, thank you very much. :o)

But I am grateful I was allowed into the event for free. (And any publicity is good publicity so take it and run with it, my friend!)

Yes, I support intermarriage. I don't think it's a hindrance to Judaism. I am the product of a Jewish mother and a non-Jewish father and I've retained my cultural and religious identity as a Jew. My intention is not to mock the "survival of the Jewish people" by suggesting that we can find romantic happiness outside of our own religion. All I'm saying is there are plenty of fish in the sea, and not that many are Jewish.

I believe it's important for us singletons to gain the confidence to put ourselves out there in non-dating specific social venues, at which it seems more "mixing" actually occurs. I will gladly acknowledge it takes a certain degree of moxie to attend a singles mixer. At least those who do are getting themselves out there. But the venue they've chosen seems so limited and doesn't necessarily foster the attendees' confidence to approach romantic interests in a non-dating specific social outlet. Perhaps if they sought these out, they'd realize romantic opportunities not only abound but abound with people of all religious identities. If they found attraction (not purely physical) to a Gentile and subsequently opened their hearts to this possibility, romantic opportunities would become even more available. No harm in giving it a chance!

Insensitive I may be at times. I tend to favor humor over preserving others' feelings, especially when it benefits my writing. But then again, if my sense of humor leaves you in tears over your morning Smart Start, maybe you have some personal exploring to do.

I'd like to inspire people to open their minds to all potential soul mates and to become more confident in the dating arena. And if the latter takes some personal work, then trust me when I say it will be worth it. How often is confidence deemed "unsexy"?

:) :o) :P ;-) :) :(!,

Amy Odell
Dating Blogger

We’re used to insensitivity from strangers and people whose opinions don’t matter to us. But far more curious – not to mention painful – is being on the business end of rude behavior from someone we love.

I was talking to my boyfriend the other day. I was on a diatribe about how stressful my life has been in the past few weeks, how I have been coping by stuffing my face with dark chocolate, and how that has resulted in a terrible breakout on my usually blemish-free skin. The blemishes on my face have of course been adding to my stress. Joe listened and was very patient with me, which I really appreciated because it can sometimes be unpleasant and unbearably un-fun when I am on a diatribe.

The next day, the worst day of the past few weeks by far, Joe and I were driving out of the city when he said “baby, I know you have had a stressful few weeks so I have something for you.” I was grinning from ear to ear because I was sure he brought me something comforting, something I would want and crave…dark chocolate. And how sweet, I thought, that I just bought him a gift out of the blue (which by the way was a bottle of Armani Code) and now he has gone and done the same thing.

“What is it?” I asked eagerly.

He handed me a small thin tube and said, “I thought you could use this.”

As I looked into my hand a feeling of needing to hurt him came over me. He had handed me a tube of Clearasil for my face, which was ironic because I was hoping for chocolate, which would have made my face break out even more. I was so shocked that I couldn’t move or speak for at least sixty seconds. Then I rolled down the window, and threw the tube as violently as possible out the window and onto the street.

After telling this story to my friends I found out that not only has something similar happened to all of them, but with frequency and a shocking portion of the male community seems to suffer from his unidentified syndrome. Straight or gay men out there I call you to learn the etiquette of dating/relationships.

I will give you a start, a helping hand, if you will. If your significant other tells you they wants to lose weight the correct response is to honor them for where they are now: something to the effect of, “Honey you are so beautiful, you don’t need to lose weight.” Not: “Here, baby I bought you a bottle of TrimSpa.”

When I complain about my skin that means I know it is not doing well, the one I am in relationship with should assume I am taking the proper measures to take care of the problem, or that I am not and that there is nothing that he can do about it. If he wants to do something sweet for me, a more thoughtful gesture would be to get me an amazing facial at a spa or something like that.

All I am saying, gents, is to think things through a bit more. If you pretend you are sweet and thoughtful, you may begin to feel and think more thoughtfully; that place and that place only is where action toward your loved ones should come from.

If that doesn’t work, or you can’t figure it out, buy your something that won’t cause a physical or emotional allergy. Flowers are good.

Even though I am required by Jewcy law to write missives about my dating exploits, I find myself strangely uninspired. I am a girl who could write tomes on shoes and accessories, but for some reason the topic of boys is boring. I don’t think it’s the boy’s fault and I don’t think it’s the girl’s fault. I actually think it’s everyone’s fault.

The rules have changed and have become so f’in complex, you need a Rosetta stone to figure it out. Navigating through dating waters now requires a map, compass, passport and a series of shots. We have single-handedly taken the joy and fun out of dating. It should be fun but for some reason we are so wedded (pun intended) to these dating rules.

When our parents were dating, it was easy. You liked someone; you called. You picked up the phone. But now, you can’t do that.

For example, lets say you’ve had two or three dates with a J-date. Can you surf J-date freely or do you not surf for fear that your date will see that you’ve been online? Or if your date sees you online, then does it matter because he is online? Or if you are online and you check him out again, will it look like you are being a total cyber stalker? Too many rules.

And…when did texting become an appropriate way to woo anyone. “U want 2 C me?” is not a panty dropping message and if I get something like that again on my phone I may have to scream in that voice that only dogs can hear.

I have tried to figure out why things have become so forgone. Are we a group of daters changed by the ravages of the world? Or has technology robbed of us of our ability to have basic human connections. A while ago I was in Italy walking down the street and at every café were men and women sitting and talking. I passed those same cafes about 2 hours later, and some of those same people were still sitting and talking. I was so moved by the basic human connection and astounded by it as well. I don’t remember the last time walking by a café in LA and seeing that kind of interaction, but to be fair, no one walks in LA.

I have this fear that I am going to be what I call the “afterthought. ” The “afterthought” is when you are at a restaurant and you see an obviously married couple eating dinner with absolutely nothing to say. They look like strangers. They are strangers who share a home but not a life. They’re an afterthought. I sound totally morose and I really am not. I am just going to vow to go about this whole dating thing differently. A date is just that, “a date.” A bad date is a couple of hours of time and not a horrific case of the flesh-eating virus. (Although, on some bad dates, that would have been preferable.) Why do I share these thoughts? I don’t know. I just couldn’t bear sharing another dating tale this week. I promise next week to have tales of pervy gynos, midget rabbis, and flatulent CPAs.

I ended my longest and most turbulent relationship in May. By breaking up with my ex, I regained control of my life and improved it exponentially. After 2.5 years of verbal and mental manipulation and abuse, which turned physical, I emerged the happiest and most confident I’ve ever felt. If you question your current relationship in any way, this post is for you.

I met my last boyfriend at NYU when I began my freshman year. I should have had an inkling of how rocky our relationship would be considering the circumstances under which we got together, which involve an ex-best friend of mine, Anna.

I met Anna my first night at school. We went dorm-room shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond, we partied together, we studied in the library together. I knew Anna had a boyfriend in college in Colorado but she also had a severe crush on Evil A. She had sex with him one night during our first week living in the dorm and developed an unhealthy emotional attachment to him. She also took a hefty dose of anti-depressants, which I believe only worsened her problems.

I was attracted to Evil A myself, and a month or six weeks into school we kissed while smoking a bowl alone in his dorm room. I didn’t tell Anna and tried to ignore my feelings for Evil A. But everything changed when Evil A and I took a trip to Boston together to visit our respective friends at Boston University.

I had been trying to suppress my attraction to Evil A since I knew Anna was secretly in love with him. But when we were driving to a movie theatre Saturday night in Boston, Evil A and I started making out and couldn’t stop. We made out during the movie, after the movie, on the entire bus ride back to New York and for hours after we returned.

A few hours after we got back we decided to make it official—and keep it a secret from Anna, which was no small feat considering she lived four doors down from Evil A.

After two weeks, Evil A and I decided we needed to figure out a way to tell Anna—my best friend and one of the few girlfriends at NYU whom I did not want to lose—we were together. Evil A went to her dorm room one evening with the mutually agreed upon purpose of telling Anna he did not have feelings for her and was interested in me. We would ease into telling her the real news after we saw how that convo went.

Evil A supposedly asked her how she would feel if he asked me out. Anna had a violent mood swing, started yelling, and tried to kick Evil A out of her room. Evil A blurted out, amidst the storm, that we were together and had been so for two weeks. Her downward spiral quickened, consisting of free NYU Health Center counseling, meds, and fucking the grossest guys imaginable.

My downward spiral had just begun.

At the beginning of my second semester in college, Anna and I stopped speaking. I became more and more emotionally distraught. She was my best girlfriend in a new city with lots of dark cracks that I continued falling into. I had no one to catch me or pull me out except for my new boyfriend, Evil A.

Evil A convinced me everything would be ok. He told me two weeks into our romance he loved me and saw himself marrying me. I did not reciprocate immediately but thought I felt the same way. Maybe I did. Maybe I was just afraid I would be alone in a big, scary city.

I became dependent on him for companionship. I see now, things could have unfolded entirely differently. We could have eased into breaking the news to Anna as I had originally wished. Instead he mentally manipulated me into believing I didn’t want to be friends with her, did not help or encourage me to repair this very important friendship, and it dissolved.

As our relationship progressed it felt increasingly passionate. I became depressed when I realized I sort of only had Evil A and no good girlfriends (it’s hard to meet people an NYU, especially when your first roommate and everyone on your floor—in my case—is a total freak). I started getting psychotically jealous of the most insignificant shit—past girlfriends, female classmates, girls he’d merely kissed. Evil A only perpetuated my mental discomfort, which worsened so gradually, I didn’t realize the spell I was under until it was too late. I believed Evil A could do no wrong. I believed he was looking out for my best interest. I believed and believed in everything he said and did because I thought he loved me, I thought he would sacrifice himself for me.

So I was concerned when he began having “blackouts” during heated arguments or emotional talks. He became unconscious, his body limp, his eyes rolled back in his head, his jaw limp. I would try to pick him up and move him to his bed and did whatever I could think of to snap him out of it, while crying hysterically wondering if I should call the hospital. Sometimes I would ask him to squeeze my hand if he could hear me, and he would actually respond. I’d flick the lights on and off desperately looking for something that would make him come to.

After a few of these incidents, he confessed these “blackouts” were a product of all the acid he took in high school at a frequency of once a week for a year. The blackouts persisted and always happened when I was in hysterics because Evil A had threatened to break up with me.

One severe fight and blackout took place my sophomore year. I can’t remember why it started but Evil A stormed out of our dorm room and left me in face-numbing tears. When I finally got him on the phone he called me a “fucking crazy bitch” and told me to move all my stuff out of his room by the time he got back. I called him repeatedly and he wouldn’t answer, which only made me more hysterical. I called my parents unable to speak the sobbing was so intense.

Evil A returned sooner than I expected and went immediately to take a nap. I nervously lied down next to him, and he awoke in an hour. He walked into the kitchen.

“Man, what time is it?” he asked.

“Holy shit it’s 5:30? What day is it? I feel like I’ve been sleeping for 20 hours,” he said, almost laughing.

“Ummm, it’s Saturday, Evil A,” I said. “You just took a nap.” I, freaked out by my boyfriend’s apparent amnesia, pulled him into our bedroom away from his roommate.

“Evil A, we just had a huge fight. You told me you wanted me to move out and you were going to break up with me?”

“Are you serious? Awww, baby…” he said. He didn’t remember any of it. I was scared, but hey, he did have an apparent medical condition of blackouts.

We fought all the time. Our second year in school was especially bad. I was essentially living with Evil A since we were in the same building and I had copied a key to his room. He had a spacious one bedroom and I had a studio with another weird, depressed roommate who burned herself.

I stayed in the relationship despite how emotionally unhealthy it was because I grew dependent on him. I stopped wanting to have sex with him. He made me feel like a bad person when I worked as news editor at NYU’s school paper, Washington Square News and spent a lot of energy on the paper. I’d go to school (I had a full schedule), put in eight hours at the newsroom, often leaving around 1 or 2 a.m., did my homework whenever I could work it in, and I was supposed to go home and want to have sex with my abusive, manipulative boyfriend?

We moved into an apartment our third—and my last—year at NYU. Best Friend and another friend of ours, Jay, shared a three-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment with us. I wasn’t sure I was ready to move in with him and in fact developed a kind of serious crush on EVon during my last summer at home before the big move. My feelings for EVon freaked me out since I was supposed to move in with Evil A in weeks and felt I had no choice but to go ahead with it, especially since Best Friend and Jay were involved.

So I moved in with him planning to iron out all the wrinkles in our relationship and eventually marry him. But our fights just continued to worsen. They even got physical.

On the day of the holiday “Ice Party” Best Friend and I had been planning for weeks, she asked me point blank why I put up with all of Evil A’s shit. We were setting out for gourmet cheese at Whole Foods, and Evil A was resisting my request for him to clean up his shit in preparation for the party. On the way down from our sixth-floor walk-up I said, “He had better clean his shit up ‘cuz I do not want to do it myself.”

“Yes. He had better clean his shit up.” She paused. “All he does is blame everything on you, Amy. Honestly I don’t know why you bend over backwards for him all the time. He tells you all his mess is your mess, and it’s not. Living with you guys I see so much more. And I wasn’t going to say anything to you but I can’t stand it anymore,” she said firmly.

“Honestly, Amy, you are so smart, and so sweet, and so pretty and you could be treated so much better. And it’s your relationship, and I know mine isn’t perfect, but I just don’t understand why you put up with his shit.”

“What shit?” I said meekly.

“What shit? What shit?!” She spun around in the hallway to face me, her arms out to the side. “He calls you a bitch all the time, he always tells you you’re stupid, he doesn’t read any of your articles, he tells you to clean up ‘your’ mess, which is actually his mess, and his desk is, like, twice as big as yours in that tiny bedroom, and he never even uses it! I mean, don’t you think that’s symbolic of your relationship—him with that huge desk and you crammed into that little tiny desk?!”

I was stunned by these comments. They were exactly true.

Best Friend also thought Evil A’s acid use was fabricated. One night when she and I were staying in the dorms over the summer, Best Friend came into a small amount of acid, which we took together. We didn’t quite trip but it fucked us up. Evil A insisted on coming over to our dorm room that night, as he usually did with his computer, to do work. He and I were in some sort of fight, and he sat, glued to his laptop, at our little table while Best Friend and I had fun on acid and smoked weed. He seemed to have no clue what we were on which led Best Friend to believe he was full of shit.

After the Ice Party Best Friend and I went out to one of EVon’s parties. (I wanted to see him because I had a crush on him.) I came home in a fit of rage because it dawned on me how much of an ass hole Evil A was. I was livid that he had made it so difficult for us to prepare for our Ice Party.

Evil A was sleeping, and I stormed in and yelled at him. The fight got physical and I recall kicking Evil A in the stomach with my stiletto and then being thrown across the living room. The fight culminated when he dragged me across the floor by my ankle to the kitchen where Best Friend was standing. I was in tears and she scooped me up and took me to her bedroom.

After the tussle, I was bleeding in three places: my big toe, my nose, and another place I can’t quite recall. Best Friend comforted me and I fell asleep wondering how I would fix this mess of a relationship. I should have been thinking about how to end it. But Evil A had me under such a spell that I knew the next day we would make up anyway. I knew Evil A would have to profusely apologize and make promises to prevent another blowout. I figured that after I had sufficiently scared him into thinking I’d really dump him, he’d realize I was serious and it would be ok for our shitty-ass relationship to continue.

So we made up and our horrible fights continued. The last one came on one of my last days of college in April. I was winding up a very stressful internship and four classes. I finished a final exam and celebrated by getting a massage.

When I got home Evil A was out at a bar with Jay. I had told Evil A I was planning to pick up some weed but didn’t feel like going through the hassle that night. So I told Evil A I wasn’t going to get it. He got angry. I told him if he wanted it so badly he could get it himself. So he came home so we could “call together”—really so he could supervise me placing the call.

I refused to pursue it, just wanting to relax after a month of sleepless nights (due to my bedfellow’s bed-hogging) and constant reporting and writing fueled by at least four Red Bulls (on top of my usual dose of caffeine) every day to get myself through it.

Evil A started yelling. I sat on the couch, knees to my chest, while he stood over me yelling in my face. I wanted to snap him out of it so I tried to push him aside since I was beginning to fear for my safety. He retaliated by hitting me in the face. Hard.

I shrieked at the top of my lungs and went to a mirror. A large dark purple bump had arisen to the left of my left eye along with fiery pain just seconds after the hit.

I went to my girlfriend’s apartment that night. Evil A left ours the next day to spend some time at his parents’ house. I knew I had to break up with him. I didn’t understand immediately that he should be the one to move out, a product of 2.5 years of mental manipulation and abuse—crazymaking. But Best Friend told it like it was: he hit me, he had to go.

So I broke up with him and kicked him out. After he moved out I told him I needed to have no contact with him so I could think independently. He called me and emailed me incessantly. I replied to his emails until I realized that we were going around in circles and he was just antagonizing me. His pettiness didn’t deserve my mental energy anymore and I would not let him put me back in the place I was when dragged me across the kitchen floor and gave me a black eye.

I didn’t answer the phone. I refused to put myself back in a position where he could manipulate me again. It wasn’t easy, but I stayed strong.

At last he insisted he had to tell me something and he didn’t want to email me, he wanted to tell me over the phone. I told him he could call me but I might not answer. So he called, but I couldn’t pick up the phone. At last, he sent me an email with his urgent message.

He told me his blackouts were a lie. All of them. All the amnesia, every incident (at least six or seven) I witnessed or was told about, was total fabrication. Never, he revealed, had he taken acid.

The day after he hit me in the face, he had told me more absurd lies. He said that night after I left, he fell asleep on the roof, woke up, and almost fell off since he was so upset and disoriented by our fight. All lies.

At this point I wasn’t that surprised. I didn’t cry. I felt numb and angry. But I vowed to never put myself through that shit again. I will never be in a relationship unless I am one hundred and ten percent glad to be in it. No constant bickering, no verbal abuse, no physical abuse, no feeling undervalued, no cheating, no lying, no questioning how much my partner cares for me.

I started seeing a therapist to make sure I never put myself through this hell of a relationship again. She has helped me tremendously. With her help I finally faced life as a single girl. You’ve read about my crazy, fun escapades in these columns, but it took incredible strength to get to this point—to leave my comfort zone and experience the world the way I want to experience it.

It’s been eight months since my black eye. I’m still single. I’ve never felt happier or more empowered. I strengthened my friendships, made new ones, found my confidence, and started seeing guys that treat me well. Evil A called me a couple months after our breakup, and I answered to see what he wanted. He told me my voice sounded different, which I’m sure it does. I’m a completely different person, finally happy, finally in control of my life.

If any of this is symptomatic of your relationship, ask yourself why you’re in it. Your life is in your control and you don’t need some loser bringing you down. I’m proof.

Besides, being single fucking rocks.

Antoine Saint-Exupéry: Don't phunk with your heartHave you ever noticed that often when deciding whom to date we start out at the most shallow level? I hear myself and others saying things like, “He's not that good looking,” or, “Wow, he is amazing to look at,” as if these are the factors that will ensure we will be treated well and fall in love. I understand the importance of being attracted to the person you are romantic with, but why does appearance become the first factor in dating? Why are we as a culture completely comfortable micro-analyzing others and yet never comfortable looking inward to make constructive changes to our own dispositions? In this culture of vacuous shallowism (I know I made that word up) where everything is based on egoism, how did dating become exclusively about the other party?

When reading the other Jewcy dating columns it occurs to me that more and more we should be relying on our deeper gut instinct and not so much on what can be seen and deconstructed. I see Emily write about POP (Perfect on Paper) or Amy write about this club owner or that financier doing coke in a bathroom and making out with her on the stairs of a bar. Emily's Perfect on Paper doesn't exist and Amy seems to be dating new people all the time, as am I. None of these dates ever seems to pan out as is proven by the progression of our pieces. I am guilty of all the same judgments: I have my own version of Perfect on Paper, and surely can be easily wooed by rich guys who are attractive and connected. These, though, are not what I'm really looking for, and I would go so far to say that the behaviors drawn above conflict with my core values. Maybe now is the time to stand up and say we as a culture will not prescribe to your bullshit, we will think for ourselves and move away from shallowism.

Let's examine for a moment the idea of Perfect on Paper. We all have our idea of what this means and in truth few of us ever find our definition, perhaps because the idea itself is preposterous and impossible. If asked to define the exact definition of Perfect on Paper all of us would define it differently. To Sue it might be a lawyer or doctor, who is handsome, loving, and romantic. Sue might marry her ideal and later say it was all wrong and tell others never to marry a doctor or lawyer because they're never home and you will be constantly discontented and lonely. When will we realize that perfect doesn't exist? We are defining our “perfect” mates by some Hollywood, celluloid standard that doesn't exist. Instead we should be looking for the best match to help us grow and in turn help our mate grow.

As look back over the work of the dating bloggers, I am astounded by the common thread that runs through us all. We are supposed to talk about people and dates; instead what we are really accomplishing is putting people under an impossible microscope. I know that if I judged myself with the standards that I'm judging others, I'd have been broken up with myself a long time ago. No one can live up to the standards we set. Why not just be? Why not just enjoy our lives, be our selves and hope that someone who makes us happy, without the freight of expectation, will appear? Why must we define who other people are when it is clear that we do not even know ourselves?

People always say that love finds you when you least expect it or you always fall into a relationship when you are not looking. I am realizing the validity of these statements. When we least expect it or are not looking is when we're okay enough with ourselves and are not looking for outside validation. We are not looking for anything, so the harsh judgments, critiques, and standards of perfection are not cutting into our ability to listen and feel. Maybe that's why relationships appear when you least expect them. Perhaps it is time for us to be ourselves and let others be themselves; to find a way to celebrate the people we date with joy, humor, and grace.

I hope this helps even just one person to go out on their next date with new eyes. Sure, there are creeps, and jerks out there and that is why I am urging the single, dating community, to get rooted in self, and stop analyzing… go with the flow. If you don't like it, don't look at it. Antoine Saint Exupery makes my point exquisitely: “One sees rightly only with the heart, everything essential is blind to the eyes.”

Godspeed daters.

Coupled or married girlfriends always assume you cannot be happy unless you too are coupled or married. When I moved out to L.A. my old D.C. girlfriends went on frantic searches to find boy in L.A. for me. The search was odd at best. My sister-in-law set me up with a friend of a friend's cousin's friend. These are not exactly winning recommendations, but I still went out with him. I figure at the very least the dates would supplement the J-Date meal plan.

My girlfriend Hilary in D.C. called me with the exciting news that her old brilliant Harvard classmate is out in L.A. and is a writer. Hilary knows my weakness for academics and artists so I listened to her boy pitch. Hilary cautioned, “Either you'll love Tom or you'll hate Tom.” Tom or Tommy has an acerbic wit that is sexy or a repellent. I am also a sucker for witty banter, so I continued to listen to the pitch. Tom was Jewish, but he was also a bit sick. He had ulcertiv colitis and wore a colostomy bag. Hilary wanted to be upfront about his condition, which really didn't bother me. Once I heard he was sick, I immediately romanticized my nonexistent relationship with Tom. I am such a wonderful person, I could nurse him back to health. I realized that once Tom and I fell in love that we would have the perfect story for a Today Show Wedding. I gave Hilary the green light and Tom called.

Much as Hilary described, we engaged in witty banter for about an hour. I am not sure if the conversation was flirting or simply argumentative.

I met Tom at a very cool hipster Thai restaurant and immediately spotted him at the bar. I went to give Tom a hug and he remarked, "Hilary said even though you were 30 you looked in your early-20’s... Oh well." Tom and I were off to a rousing start.

We grabbed a booth and from there he proceeded to agure politics with me. Mind you, I worked for Uncle Sugar for seven years, so I actually know a thing or two about politics. Tom insulted my dining choices, my college and just about every other piece of conversation I offered. Not to mention, he spoke to our American/Thai waiter like he was a complete and total moron: "I WILL HAVE THE PAD THAIIIIII."

The bill took so long to arrive I actually felt my eggs going bad. I didn't even reach for my wallet; I figured I earned this dinner.

We left the restaurant and Tom said earnestly, "So you want to do this again?"

I remarked, "Nooo, I never want to do this again... ever. Let me look at my calendar. I am available never... Does never work for you?"

Tom said, "Is it because I have a colostomy bag?"

As much as I wanted to say, "Look Tom, I want to be the only one in relationship that accessorizes," I didn't. I said, "No Tom, it's actually because you're an asshole."

He replied, "Huh, yeah I was hoping you were going to say it was cause of the bag.”

I drove home with the relief that I would never have to go out with ColosTommy again.

I don’t understand why so many Jews refuse to marry non-Jews. This seems incredibly close-minded to me. Think about the tiny percentage of the population you’re limiting yourself to by insisting on marrying a Jew. I know of many young women (mostly J.A.P.s) who have discontinued burgeoning relationships with nice, hot guys just because they weren’t Jewish. 

Equally mysterious to me are the copious Jewish singles mixers in New York City. I can’t imagine a more awkward approach to dating (dating is awkward as it is) so I decided to see for myself what they’re like and if they work. 

I went to Mekudeshet last night. The main draw of this particular mixer for me was Rabbi Shmuley Boteach of Shalom in the Home fame. It wasn’t his “celebrity” I was interested in but the topic of his lecture: “12 Steps to Finding Your Bashert [soulmate] This Year.”

Now, I’m 21 years old—I’m not looking for a soulmate. Nor do I believe a soulmate is someone you find by actively looking or by following someone else’s lecture on how to find it. I couldn’t imagine that there were people that desperate and clueless when it came to dating that they needed a celebrity rabbi to spell it out for them.

But apparently there are. And they congregate at Jewish singles mixers.

The crowd was, well, Jewy. When I walked in with my girlfriend, one tall, fair-haired gentleman informed us immediately that admission was half-price since almost an hour had passed since the event started. Smile and nod.

We walked around the corner and into a large room with linoleum tiled floors and large round tables with white tablecloths that sat eight to ten people. The two rows of tables were flanked by buffets of sushi and Chinese food. There was no bar, but a table at the front of the room with bowls of ice and liter bottles of sodas. It felt like a high school cafeteria, partly because we didn’t fit in physically, partly because everyone else obviously felt weird about being there. Hardly anyone was mixing. Most were clustered according to sex.

“Matchmakers” are a key element to these affairs. If a man is shy about approaching a woman, he’ll have a matchmaker introduce them, to “break the ice” as one of the organization’s founders explained it to me. I asked him if he met his wife at one of these mixers. He said, “No. We met through a friend.”

Rabbi Shmuley’s speech addressed the quest for a spouse. How, he asked, did this whole dating thing become so complicated? The biggest problem in our culture, he said, is the superficial standards of men and women. Men are only attracted to supermodels—“five percent of the population”—and women are only attracted to successful men, which is why the first question they ask on dates is, “What do you do?”

Shmuley said nobody hates themselves more than modern-day women. It’s unbelievable that countries like Spain and Italy must enact legislation to prevent eating disorders, which affect Jewish women disproportionately higher than non-Jewish women. But I don’t know if I’d blame this on men as much as the fashion industry, or just Kate Moss, who started the whole stick-figure trend when Calvin Klein thought she was stunning.

Shmuley advocated setting more realistic (read