The most embarrassing aspect of Guershon’s life is that he’s 34 and lives with his mom, so of course I’ll lead with that. “I started film school and I [moved in with my mom], and the hardest thing for me was it seemed like [my friends] had all their s--- together. It was really hard for me to really go out a lot and date … and it’s gotten progressively harder. It’s kind of hard to say, ‘Yeah, I live at home.’ It was really embarrassing — especially when I hit 30. Then I started seeing my friends where I lived saying, ‘I got laid off. I can’t believe it, but I have to live with my parents again.’ So I said, ‘OK, this leveled the playing field a little for me.’ ”
When Isaac sits down to speak with me, I see the rugged beard with a shot of gray around the chin, the athletic build and the tight-fitting Israeli-style clothes, and I think, “I know exactly who this guy is.” He has an Israeli accent, so when he first says to me, “In Israel I was in the army and then came here and worked as a professional dancer,” I’m not sure I’ve heard correctly. A dancer? I ask him to repeat himself.
The thing about reaching "I'll try it" is that you are daring to imagine that things can work out for the best, and that you can add another activity to the list of common likes.
Could it be that my looks only complement my true best feature -- my crazy charm?
If you've ever tried to split a Big Hunk candy bar -- the kind made out of brittle white nougat and peanuts -- then you understand a typical breakup.
Dating is difficult enough without asking for a guarantee. Imagine my surprise when the last guy I went out with wanted just that.
A short time ago, in a galaxy all too familiar, a smart, adorable guy I'd been chatting with for months faded -- like one too many others -- into oblivion. The red flags were raised from day one.
I'm drinking at a bar called the Dirty Horse on Hollywood Boulevard. Well, that's not the real name, but I never got a look at the sign and that name seemed right.
Relationships in my life never seem to end. Guys are always calling me back, weeks, months, years later. My life is like an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie: He'll be back. After a breakup I try to remember this, that there are never any goodbyes, just au revoirs. Trickle Trickle Drip Drip.
I had prepped my boyfriend for what he was going to encounter. From a Hebrew 101 lesson the night before, to a quick 1-2-3 seder crash course in the car ride over.
The term "boyfriend" is like the knee joint on someone who is morbidly obese. It is being asked to do way more than it was designed to do. It is buckling under the pressure. Where it once could do the job, it is now carrying too much weight
I can't explain it any better than this. I think I've lost my mojo.
The haggadah speaks of the Four Sons: the wise, the wicked, the simple and the one who doesn't know how to ask. And on a good night in Hollywood, you can pick up all four. The first Saturday in March is a girls' night out (with the understanding we intend to pull men). Elizabeth, Sasha, Sarah and I throw on low-cut tops, low-rise pants and do the L.A. barhop thing.
Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love with boy. Girl stops returning her friend's phone calls. Girl's world narrows. Girl loses boy. Girl starts calling her friends again. Girl meets another boy.
Bunny. Das-tardly Bunny. Stupid stuffed, fluffy gift from his ex-girlfriend. Bunny, you've enjoyed life on his pillow for awhile, but now you must die. Bunny must die.
This is what I thought as I tossed Bunny out the window of his bedroom last week. You see, there's something cute about a man with a stuffed animal, but when I realized they used to call each other "Bunny," it was all too much. Bunny, though cute, was a symbol of a love that had already hippity-hopped on by.
It started out innocently enough. Some burning. Uncomfortable urination. A couple of weeks pass, and I'm starting to feel like my bladder is on fire and all the cranberry juice in Vons isn't going to put out the flames.
Busted flat in Barstow, I realize the desert is no place for an old Plymouth. The mechanic says something about "a machine shop in Victorville," and I think that is one phrase you never want to hear in a sentence with your name. That and "feeding tube."
I wanted to try it out. You know, take the old b-word out for a spin in a totally non-threatening environment where I didn't know anyone and, therefore, could be neither mocked nor held accountable.
I don't know how to tell you this, but I think it's over.
I don't want you to take it personally. It's not you; it's me. I just need some time to get my head together. I just need to find out who I am without you in my life. After 28 years, I just need to move on.
Let me introduce you to Enlightened Teresa.
At 16, I was so uncomfortable in my own skin that my daily outfit of choice was a drab army jumpsuit I bought at a thrift store. It zipped up to my chin, and that almost wasn't far enough forme.
Once, I had the notion on a Sunday afternoon that baking abatch of chocolate chip cookies would be a cathartic experience. Iwent to Ralphs, I bought the ingredients, I read the directions onthe back of the chips. But as I stirred the batter in a huge bowl, Iknew something wasn't right.
I remember coming home from my first date witha boy.