Articles

TRAPPED IN A BAD BREAK-UP
AM NEW YORK - "THE DATING LIFE"
JUNE 26, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON

A journalist sent me an e-mail a few weeks ago, looking for couples who had split but continued to live together, a la "The Break-Up." I snorted and thought, 'Who would be so stupid?? Good luck trying to find people like that, sucker!'

After sending her a dismissive reply, I forgot about it ­ until last week.

As a rule, I don't see many romantic comedies in the theatre. Manhattan cinemas tend to be rambunctious and claustrophobic; besides, like most men, The Boyfriend prefers to drag me to violent car-chase-gun-fight-gangster-drug-dealer flicks.

But last week I was in Chicago, sans boyfriend, for a faux vacation (faux because one cannot have a real vacation with one's parents, in one's childhood home). What better place to catch a screening of Jennifer & Vince's "art imitates life" enterprise, set in the Windy City.

No, not because I'd been subjected to the trailer more than a dozen times, read at least 279 tabloid stories about it (a conservative estimate), and discussed the "horrible irony" of Jennifer's life with my mother/boyfriend/friends on more occasions than I care to admit.

Halfway through one of Aniston and Vaughn's all-too-realistic screaming matches, I remembered why.

I did know of someone who had gone through that experience. Me!

Two years ago, I had broken up with a significant other--and then lived with him for five agonizing weeks while I frantically searched for a new place to stay. Oops. Who knew I was so good at blocking out unpleasant memories?

I quickly emailed back the poor journalist confessing the whole story.

Would I give her the name of my ex? She wanted to know. Would he talk to her? "Or do you guys not speak?"

"Ummm.... Yeah, 'don't speak' is an enormous understatement," I wrote back.

It was. We were nothing like Aniston & Vaughn¹s characters, who fight like angry monkeys during the actual break up, but then run into each other six months post-split, gushing, "Wow, it's really good to see you!!" "No, it's really good to see you!" "Seriously, it's sooo good to see you!!" (I swear, that's what they said. Barf.)

My scene went more like this: "If you even THINK about throwing my clothing off the balcony again, I will call the police." "Oh, yeah, just try calling them--I'm cutting off your cell phone because you were on my Friends & Family plan and now you're NEITHER!" "Oh really? I'm glad, because your mom is ugly."

I think you get the idea. (Although I never really said his mom was ugly. She's not.)

Given, break ups never bring out the sunny side of people's personalities, but living together during a break up is like dipping your toes into relationship hell.

My ex, ever the sweet Dr. Jekyll while we were dating, turned into Mr. Hyde quickly thereafter. Mr. Hyde liked to dump the contents of my closet outside the front door and engage in screaming matches over who would get the Kleenex box holder (I'm not making this up). Mr. Hyde asked me on a daily--sometimes hourly--basis when I was moving out, and suggested oh-so-helpfully that I sleep on the couch.

"Yeah, about that," I would attempt to explain to him. "I bought the bed, I'm sleeping on the bed. You like the couch so much, you go sleep there!"

We ended up both awkwardly sleeping on opposite edges of the mattress, very aware of the invisible line of demarcation drawn down the middle--our own mini 38th parallel.

Of course, I wasn't perfect either. Our conversations were a minefield of italics, expletives and exclamation marks. I slapped him across the cheek, Hollywood-leading-lady style, on more than one occasion. I thought it was very cathartic. He didn't agree.

We fought over groceries. We fought over rent. We fought over custody of our two shih-tzu puppies.

We fought like we had never fought before--or since. In the end, he kept the apartment, the furniture and the state of California. I kept the Kleenex box holder.

And my mother got the two dogs.

After that, we stopped speaking entirely. Complete radio silence. No cell calls, no 'just saying hey' emails, certainly no 'it's sooo good to see you' run-ins (although that's probably understandable given that I now live 3,000 miles away). In the two years since I've often wondered: if I had just moved out the day after we broke up, would we still be friends today?

Probably. But I wouldn't have that Kleenex box holder. And let me tell you, I needed it

Posted by JA at 09:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

THIRTEEN SIMPLE RULES FOR DEALING WITH MY DAD
AM NEW YORK – “THE DATING LIFE”
JUNE 19, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON

My father is not big or tall. He does not own shotguns. And he has never threatened to murder any of my boyfriends with his bare hands.

He doesn’t need bare hands – he’s a lawyer. He cross-examines them to death.

Most past beaus haven’t survived his withering interrogatives.

There was Greg, who often reeked of cannabis: “You do realize that pot is illegal in this country, correct?” There was Jeff, who didn’t believe in going to class: “Would you say failing out of college indicates you don’t take your studies very seriously?” There was James, who was superbly talented at drinking copious amounts of vodka: “How many alcoholic beverages, on average, do you consume in a given week?”

There was Dan, who nearly had a heart attack every time my father would interrupt one of our interminable high school make out sessions by pounding on my bedroom door and bellowing, “Are you studying physics? Just remember the first law: Bodies in Motion Stay in Motion!” I’m still mortified.

Even The Current Boyfriend had a rough start. After interrogating Boyfriend about his “intentions,” my dad pounced: “I understand you’re ‘divorced’ – would you happen to have a copy of the documentation? And exactly how old are you again?”

I’ve always told my boyfriends to “just be themselves” when they meet my dad. I’ve always been a moron.

My new plan is this: No more being yourselves, unless “yourselves” is perfect. Instead, all boyfriends who interact with my paternal unit will have to adhere to the following – let’s just call them Thirteen Simple Rules So My Dad Won’t Refuse to Pay for the Wedding. (Or have you arrested.)

1) My father will ask you many questions. You will look him in the eye when you answer, and you will ENUNCIATE. Under no circumstances will you check your Blackberry during the conversation.

2) You will not attempt to touch, kiss or partially disrobe me within three miles of my father. You will not slap any body part of mine unless it is my hand and I have initiated a high-five. Most importantly, you are not interested in cohabitation or sex until marriage, and even then, only to procreate. You love me only for my mind. My body? What body??

3) Whether or not you believe in God, you will not begin a debate on the merits of atheism or staunchly declare, “You know, Marx settled this question a long time ago.” You will go to church with my father and you will sing along with the hymns. If you’re Jewish, you will pretend that you considered your bar mitzvah a spiritual experience and not the most efficient way for a 13-year-old to separate his relatives from their cash.

4) Speaking of cash, upon seeing my father’s house/car/boat/lawn mower, you will not say “that is money.” You will refrain from ruminating aloud about your Kanye West-induced fear of golddiggers. And you will never, ever use the word “pimp,” or debate how hard it is to be one. Instead, you will set your car radio to NPR and hum Beethoven’s Fifth.

5) When my father asks you about your college education, you will not look confused and say “Huh?”

6) You will eschew all frivolous and/or hedonistic activities, preferring yard work, vigorous exercise and paying bills promptly and in full.

7) You will brag about working 167-hour weeks to save for the expensive college educations of your unborn children. You will find a way to work the terms “personal responsibility,” “family values” and “401k” into as many conversations as possible. You will name-check your health insurance provider ("Whoops, just broke my leg. Good thing I have a low deductible with Blue Cross!").

8) You will profess a great interest in attending law school, even if you are currently a he-model who (until five minutes ago) thought that the LSAT stood for “Last Saturday.”

9) You will not admit to any “youthful indiscretions.” You never had a youth, or if you did, it was spent reading ponderous books about Thomas Jefferson, working part-time jobs that taught you “the value of a dollar,” and discouraging girls from going wild.

10) You will bring my father a nice bottle of wine, but profess not to drink, “except for the occasional glass of red at dinner.” You have never heard of keg stands and you do not know what “boot and rally” means.

11) You will google David McCullough and reference him repeatedly. “According to David McCullough,” you’ll say, and then you’ll make something up. If you’re challenged, you’ll reply sagely, “Well, look at chapter 18 of ‘1776.’” No one will bother.

12) Under no circumstances will you admit to any of the following: pedicures, strip clubs, credit card debt, binge drinking, threesomes, comprehensive knowledge of unemployment benefits, comprehensive knowledge of drug trafficking laws, road rage, not voting, voting for a Democrat, and exceptional familiarity with internet porn.

13) You will not repeatedly mumble, “This is just like ‘Meet the Fockers.’”

If all else fails, think “What Would Colin Farrell Do?” … then make the opposite decision.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Posted by JA at 09:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

EX-DATING COLUMNIST DISHES ON HERSELF AND NYC
AM NEW YORK - "THE DATING LIFE"
JUNE 12, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON

The world of dating columnists is a small one, made smaller still by a continual exodus from the field, due to marriage (Amy Sohn), fame (Candace Bushnell) or the inevitable burnout (too many to name).

Bridget Harrison left for the final reason, but she persevered longer than most. Her column in the Sunday New York Post ran for three and a half years, earning the English-born journalist doyenne-status in a profession filled with neophytes.

But New York newspapers – like New York men – have short memories. In the two years since Bridget's reign ended, several other adventuresses have tried their hand at her former job. None lasted more than a few months, which says less about them and more about Bridget's persistent charm – both on the page and off.

Indeed, meeting Bridget for the first time, I found her personality so likable and her British accent so soothing, I wanted her to be my new best friend. I had it all planned – we could have sleepovers at my apartment where I would express outrage at how New York men had treated her, while simultaneously researching possible husbands on eHarmony. Occasionally I'd yell random English slang: "Blimey! Snogging your mate's man is dodgy, but brilliant! You must be knackered!" and demand we open another bottle of Shiraz while she translated what I just said for my roommates.

Still, when a friend of mine recommended Bridget's recently released memoir, "Tabloid Love: Looking for Mr. Right in all the wrong places," I smelled BS. Looking for Mr. Right? Typical chick-lit banality – and the cover quote from an overexposed Bushnell, touting it as "A real-life Bridget Jones meets Sex and the City," didn't help.

372 pages later, I think Bushnell understated it.

Bridget Harrison really IS Bridget Jones, thrown into Carrie Bradshaw's life. With the plucky British attitude (Jones), the New York newspaper column (Bradshaw) and the amusingly disastrous luck with men (both), it's downright eerie.

While "Tabloid Love" covers her entire tenure as a recently transplanted London reporter, the juiciest bits concern the exasperating dating life that shaped her popular column. "That was when most readers responded to me," she says. "They seemed to really enjoy it."

Sure! New Yorkers love a little Schadenfreude on Sundays (something to offset the NYT Wedding Pages).

Or maybe they identified with her. After all, Bridget is the anti-Bergdorf Blonde, a bit disheveled, completely unpretentious and totally relatable. She's the girl who was once greeted by a date with "Are you wearing THAT?" at which point he informed her that she could be "one hot chick" if she "made more of an effort."

In a town where each woman seems more perfectly put-together than the next, you've gotta love a gal who writes something like that.

Of course, nothing interests voyeuristic New Yorkers like someone else's love life (except possibly someone else's bank statements). Still, it's hard to maintain that interest without offering a little bit more – in Bridget's case, an explanation for the perverse difficulty of finding love in New York.

Although some of it might seem obvious to longtime denizens, she makes a solid analysis: With 500,000 more unattached ladies, "even if a guy's on a date with a smart, beautiful woman, he knows there are plenty more where she came from," she writes. Being smart and beautiful, those women "feel they deserve to be treated a little bit special… To guys this can translate into 'demanding.'" The result? A "cutthroat dating environment" leads to singles who are "jaded and defensive – making it even harder to have a relationship."

Her final point is the most memorable. Ultimately, your crappy love life is due to compact geography, cheap taxis and efficient public transportation.

Huh?

"Back in London, the time [and expense] it takes to get anywhere means you have to make a plan and stick with it," Bridget explains. "In New York, you can jump from party to party every night without even breaking into a sweat. So if you're having a drink with someone and it's not fun, then it's easy to move to something better."

In other words, it's an OBO town. With limitless options only minutes away, "why commit to anything, least of all a relationship?"

"Bloody hell," she concludes cheekily, "I'm an anthropological genius."

Looks like Malcolm Gladwell has some competition. Wait – is he single?

Posted by JA at 09:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)