We started off talking about the article itself, which he says he wrote at the suggestion of Elle editor Amy Goldwasser. Other than what he calls "the little Jezebel shitstorm," he says responses have been mostly positive. A female friend of his told him that his detractors were just afraid, that "the mammal brain's first response is 'Oh fuck, that could happen to me.'" Which, to be fair, is true. Lots of women are afraid of getting dumped for a younger model, and when someone does this, we're not exactly going to be thrilled.

But if that someone is our friend, Nobel thinks we owe him a little more. "The only thing I wanted was to be treated as me," he says, "to be treated as an individual case." He also says that those who thought his actions were classic untrustworthy male behavior were themselves reverting to cliché, lapsing into a "limited way of looking at the world, one that doesn't allow for humanity."

Of course, it's entirely possible that Nobel's friends actually did see him as him, and just didn't like who he'd become. There's a whole post in Nobel's reactions to his friends' reactions, but we wrote that post last week. What's more interesting — and more troubling — is Nobel's view that "there's a poor fit between societal institutions and biological fact." He thinks "maybe there's something wrong at the structural level with the whole idea of state-sanctioned monogamy" if so many people have trouble sticking with it. It's not a new idea, but Nobel takes it to sort of a new place, suggesting that Jezebel spearhead a "marriage strike until the institution could be fixed."

"What would fix it?" I asked him.

He said it wasn't "the introduction of loopholes that would allow infidelity," but as to what the solution actually was, he was more vague. He mentioned the need for a "critical discussion," the fact that marriage is not a panacea, the fact that the happiest couples he knows seem to live apart. But he also said, "I believe in love, and I believe in children, and I believe in commitments, and I believe in lifetime commitments."

The guy is a cynic and a romantic! And he's not alone. It's hip to criticize modern marriage, to state, as Nobel does, that the conflation of childrearing with "romantic love and all matters of the heart and mind is a relatively recent societal occurrence." Esther Perel says exactly that in her 2006 interview with Salon; Susan Squire makes a similar claim in her new book I Don't.

But both of those women are married, and it's certainly not yet hip to forgo marriage entirely. Nor is anyone offering us any particularly good ways to decouple love and child rearing, or excitement and commitment, or emotions and economics, or any of the other potentially conflicting aspects of modern American marriage. What we're left with is just what Nobel's friend identified: fear. Fear that we'll never get married, fear that our marriages will suck, fear that our husbands or wives will leave us, fear that we're doing it all wrong. Nobel doesn't have the solution to any of these fears. I'm sure hoping someone else does, because I for one, am stumped.

Danger Man [Elle]

Earlier: Elle Writer's Ex: "It's A Strange Luxury To See Someone Else's Version Of Your Life"
Elle Writer Didn't Plan To Be The Poster Boy For Male Recklessness

Nobel wants women to support his new life, and when they don't, he gets critical:

I've learned that otherwise intelligent, urbane, and morally imaginative women — the bulk of my friends — often cannot bring themselves, even when they invite the conversation, to hear my stories, to deviate from a high contrast model of human behavior, see how grey it can be in practice, to see the devil in their friend.

He goes on to lament "the derision in the eyes of and occasional open attacks from friends' wives (it's not contagious)" and "the burden of being a lightning rod for the fears of women and the resentments of burdened men (three drinks in, they all admit they're jealous)." "I've suffered plenty," he says, "I still suffer. But our reigning cultural norms demand that, like Hank Moody in Californication, I suffer more. [...] Why?"

The reason is in your parentheses, Danger Man! You say your choices are original, that "it's not contagious," and then you say all men are jealous of you. You want us not just to listen but to like you, even as we contrast your life as a "DILF" dating "twentysomething hip-hop intellectuals" with that of one of your naysaying friends, a "single, 42-year-old" woman whom you imagine "dead in her Upper West Side one-bedroom, prized dachshund licking at her corpse." Gee, Phil, do you think women might want you to suffer because, in your vision of the world, men either fuck around or want to, while single women get eaten by their dogs?

What Nobel did may not be "contagious," but it happens often enough to make a lot of women worry. We worry that a man will do grown-up things with us, like marry and have kids, or just fall in love and make us feel safe, and then he'll announce that he never really grew up at all and that he needs to go back to his twenties, with a twentysomething girlfriend to match. A few exceptions aside, this option still seems far less open to women — especially when others assume that not being married means becoming dachshund fodder.

Of course, none of this is solely Nobel's fault. It's the fault of a culture that trumpets the sanctity of marriage while painting male fidelity as lame. And that casts older women as unsexy and unsexual. The solution to this problem isn't to force people like Nobel to stay in unhappy marriages — it's to understand the sexual double standard that makes women feel so vulnerable, and to set about changing it.

Elle

So is this another case of a former significant other allegedly murdering a fellow soldier? It certainly looks like it. Let's not forget Holley Wimunc, another Fort Bragg solider who was allegedly murdered by her estranged husband and fellow soldier who was stationed at Camp Lejeune. Another pregnant female solider stationed at Fort Bragg was also murdered in January, allegedly by a colleague she had accused of rape. So not only have female Fort Bragg soldiers experienced sexual violence from co-workers but they have also experienced physical violence with male soldiers that they have had relationships with. Is this a disturbing trend, or few unrelated tragedies gaining public attention?

Man Charged In Slaying Of Pregnant Soldier [CNN]
Questions Remain In Slaying Of Pregnant Soldier [Sentinel And Enterprise]

Photo via Flickr

1. The best kind of wedding is the kind where the hosts don't care if you bring a date, but you have more fun if you don't. If there is any way at all to make the headcount not the source of your next ulcer — a cheap venue? a buffet? — everyone will probably be happier and then you can invite people at the last minute.

2. Rogue forces within your family are angling to hijack your wedding. Always. In finance they teach you that the difference between raising money by selling stock or bonds in a company is that shareholders suddenly buy themselves all this influence over things and bondholders don't get to run it unless you really fuck things up. In the case of a wedding, accepting money from parents seems to work similarly. Parents, in my experience, seem to be the single biggest reason the whole process gets "out of hand," because they are looking for some sort of return on their investment, and you are just looking to get drunk with your friends. The latter objective doesn't need to cost that much.

3. Your friends will show up wherever. Do you have friends you don't see enough anymore? Like, maybe they are flaky, or swamped at work, or just it's difficult to coordinate plans now that you are an engaged person and your friend is still living in a room that probably includes as a design accent signage stolen while drunk? Those are the friends who will be really touched to be invited to your wedding, and they will make it and also, give memorable — if somewhat incoherent — toasts. I can't tell you how many faraway weddings I have been to where someone was like "You are a good friend for showing up here," and I am like, "Who doesn't show up to a wedding?" Because seriously, I am longing to apply some priorities to my life, and if I can do something that feels really special and momentous and also get drunk I am going to go. But more importantly, you shouldn't need to do all this in a location that is completely convenient. I mean, here I am in one of the three freaking Courtyard Suites in the vicinity of the Seattle airport, but it's not like I'm sorry I came. But what I am saying is, if you live in New York, don't feel compelled to get married there; everyone knows it probably costs a hundred grand to rent out the VFW.

4. The only thing worse than that "as long as I am dying alone maybe it should be sooner rather than later" feeling at a wedding is the "um, would it be possible for my boyfriend to more demonstratively convey his discomfort at the distant notion that this might ever threaten to happen to us?" feeling. Around the time I attended this wedding for which I still, um, owe a gift, I started along that line of reasoning, "Wow, weddings are where it is socially acceptable to sob openly about the fact that you are still single, that is fucked up." But I realized something recently: it is probably better to be dateless at a wedding for that reason, because if you are single, that could really change at any moment, whereas if you are with a significant other and it is not going to work out, the next two to five years could potentially be occupied extricating yourself from the relationship and coping with the messy emotional aftermath.

5. Summer > Winter Duh. I suppose this makes it harder to schedule the thing, but no one complains about having to schedule their office Christmas party in December. Or maybe they do, but they are lame.

6. Jewish > Other traditions. There are many beautiful wedding traditions, like henna tattoos (skip these if you get the shakes) and the great Indian "let the kids hide the bride's shoe and blackmail the bride into paying them money to get it back" tradition and the Catholic "drinking to excess and whatever else we do" thing and many others I'm sure, but the best traditional wedding regimen is probably the Jews' dancing around in a circle and breaking glass thing. So if you have any excuse to incorporate Jewish traditions other than the Orthodox Jews' "separating the men from women" thing, do so; your guests will appreciate.

7. It just occurred to me that this wedding I attended on Saturday did not have a wedding cake. I really love frosting, it's like the only really sweet thing I ever desire, so I should have noticed the absence of a wedding cake, but I didn't, until this morning. When I thought, "Wow, it is really cool that Ryan and Anna held their wedding at a youth hostel and everyone stayed in teepees and bunk beds and covered wagons and that he bought a sterling silver ring in Florence and she wore it for the first year of their engagement and that they had a whole bouquet fashioned from Peeps and that they gave out free keepsake beer koozies and that we had the leftover barbecue and Beast and candied yams last night. (Oh my god, and I never knew frozen pizza could be that awesome.) Though I really wish someone had baked more of those cupcakes." No one notices what is "missing" from a wedding if nothing is actually missing!

The Big Day Gets Smaller [Washington Post]

• Yes, you have every right to be in a bar without harassment. But life's not fair. So if a guy is so full of himself that he doesn't understand the word "no," just leave. If you paid a cover — and particularly if you have asked for assistance from the bartender and been refused — ask to see the manager on the way out, explain why you're leaving and ask for your money back. You might not get it, but it'll feel good to yell at someone.
• One of my time-honored plays is to direct his attention to another woman with whom he might have better luck. It's not the fairest thing to other women, but I figure if we all keep him moving, then no one has to deal with him for more than a few minutes. And, really, the type of guy who just won't quit will fall for this every time.
• Start talking (preferably in a high pitched voice) about how you recently designed your perfect engagement ring online and gave the link to your ring buddy who is just right over there and that you should probably introduce the two of them.
• Don't claim homosexuality. Dudes like this think that's even hotter.
• Grab his left hand and loudly ask the people around you if they like his wedding ring (assuming he's wearing one). Alternately, point out the tan line or ring marks on that finger equally loudly.
• Talk about your recent bout with Pelvic Inflammatory Disease and the huge bruises the inter-abdominal antibiotic injections left on your stomach.
• A friend of mine offers to buy shots and then orders one of Wild Turkey and Tabasco for him (or make up your own vomit-inducing combo!) and water for her. She calls it "entertaining."
• Fish in your purse for a pen with which to write your number and pull out a tampon, preferably of the Super variety, instead.
• Use the phrase "vaginal prolapse" in a sentence.
• Any story you can tell about damage to the genitals is your friend. Bonus points if you caused the damage.
• Cry about something, preferably a dead cat or relative. Demi-Moore-In-Ghost style tears don't count, your eyes must swell and get bloodshot, you must begin to blubber and your nose must run.
• "A sphincter says, 'What.'"
• Call your mother, or fake-call your mother. It helps if you can call her "Mommy" with a straight face.
• Talk about how your sisters call you 'Terminator 3' because of all the abortions you've had.

But's that just me. What do you do?

Deflating A Persistent Pick Up Artist [Nerve]

Deepen their relationship? Really? Through playing what's described as an "an adult version of airplane"? I don't mean to disparage this if it truly works for some couples, but are we really so disconnected, physically and emotionally, from our longtime loves that we need to do some bendy faux-Eastern philosophical shit to relate to each other again?

It reminds me of that episode in My So-Called Life, you know, the one where Patty and Graham go ballroom dancing and it starts out horribly and then it makes them all lovey for a little while and Graham decides not to cheat on Patty? But then when the series ends, he's about to boink Hallie Lowenthal anyway? Yeah, that's kind of my point. If your relationship is in trouble, yoga ain't helping. Though it seems like the airplane thing could be fun.

[Image via M.K. Smith]

Tangled Up In You [Star Tribune]

It's not unusual for two girlfriends to break up — it sucks, but it's not unusual. And I've had friendships cool, certainly, particularly when the woman (or dude) in question is the type who disappears when she/he has a Man. But I've never felt quite as discarded and devalued as when a male friend (normally an ex that I've gone through emotional hell with in order to stay friends) friend-dumps me because his new girlfriend/wife doesn't like us being friends. Especially when it's an ex, especially when you've already done the break-up emotions once and come out the other side into a decent and occasionally even close friendship, it sucks because it's being dumped for being a girl.

This has happened to me three times, and only once has any (minimal) contact ever been re-established. The first time was with my friend Rob — we had one of those emotionally intense, on-again-off-again relationships in college at the end of which the best friend of the girl-he'd-dumped-me-for-that-he-dumped-for-me described in detail overlap and what he'd said about me to me and 5 colleagues at a work event. I told him I was done for good and actually meant it. But it had been a year that meant a lot to us both and we worked really hard to stay friends, right up until he started dating "Lisa." Lisa was not a fan of mine and situation was not helped when he introduced us and then told her later that we'd had a "passionate on-again, off-again relationship" for more than a year. After that, I didn't see much of him until graduation. When I hugged him to say goodbye for what I thought was for good, she stomped her foot, pitched a hissy and insisted on leaving. They broke up 3 months later and our friendship got a lot closer. Two years later, they got back together and got married. After announcing his engagement to me, he stopped speaking to me entirely. At that point, we'd been friends for 3 years longer than we'd ever been lovers and I had a serious relationship of my own, but she told him that if she was his wife, then he had to cut ties and he did — without saying a word. He simply fell off the face of the earth (though he did call me for my birthday 3 years later to apologize and explain that he'd done it for her).

The second time was with Tom, who I considered to be my first adult relationship. We'd been friends for 3 years, dated for almost 2 and stayed friends for more than a year after that, hanging out in New York when I was there and talking on the phone. All that changed when he got together with "Sara," herself a long-time friend of his. Suddenly, he didn't pick up the phone when he saw my number, didn't return an email, never called back. Nine months into radio silence, he called to tell me he and Sara were getting married and she didn't approve of us being friends and that was the end of 6 years of (mostly) friendship.

The last time was with Mike, who I dated for 3 years. It was headed in a rather serious direction when he decided he wanted to make sure I was The One — an undertaking he took through personal ads on the Internet which I subsequently discovered. Much crying later, we broke up — after which I slept in his bed (platonically) for a week. We kept hanging out, kept lines of communication open, worked really hard to get past that awkward stage of what you really tell the other person and finally arrived somewhere pretty good where we could get dinner and laugh and tell stories, talk on the phone, and see each other at parties and feel good about it. And then along came The Accountant. That's all he ever called her to me, but soon after, the dinners stopped, and the phone calls got less frequent and the emails didn't get returned. Six months later, I saw him on a subway platform and he acted as though I didn't exist. Three years together and a year of being friends and I was relegated to the status of someone he preferred not to know (even though he was the one who'd done me wrong).

I mean, I know I can't say for sure that Lisa or Sara or The Accountant asked for me to be gotten rid of, or whether Rob, Tom and Mike just decided it was too much trouble to keep me around and deal with jealousy or conversations or even just the non-existent threat of those (but, having met Lisa and Sara, I have a pretty good idea it was the former). I'm sure I could've tried dating and being friends with men with the balls to say "She is my friend, and she's no threat to us so please trust me and get to know her and stop treating me as though I will be unfaithful," but that's another problem. But if you're that woman who is pressuring a boyfriend to dump his female friends, just know that some of us actually aren't interested in getting back together with our exes. Sometimes, us ex-girlfriend types might actually appreciate your boyfriend as a friend, as a person who's known us better than average and has a welcome perspective on our friendship. And then maybe think about how you felt the last time a friend ditched you for a boyfriend or a girlfriend and invite me for a drink. I'm actually a pretty good friend.
Photo via Susan & Her 5d

Though this article is entirely depressing and mostly pointless, Gold's exploration does beg the question: is it ever productive to reconnect with your exes?

Unless there are specific circumstances, the answer is usually no, it's not productive or at all satisfying. If you're trying to contact an ex because you want to know why he or she broke up with you, you will never get an answer that feels good or useful. For whatever reason, the person just didn't like you anymore. Even if he or she could articulate the reason, it's likely something that you couldn't change, and why should you try? Love yourself the way you are! Not the way some asshat wanted you to be!

If you've reconnected with an ex because you want to enact revenge or show the person how great you are now, that doesn't really work out either, as Gold's essay shows. She did, in fact, meet "Adam" again recently. He's married. But that doesn't stop him from trying to fuck her!

We walk in the park, then go to a gallery. We are behaving like teenagers, trying to impress each other, and we are almost angry at each other for being so excited. We are on a date, and it is much more fun than it used to be, because we are not in a damp squat infested by cardboard furniture and strange bearded men. He walks me to the tube and I clutch his shoulders and hug him. He bends his head and gives me a slightly slimy kiss on the mouth. "When can I call you without being a stalker?" he asks. I feel triumphant. My 14-year-old has beaten his 19-year-old to a pulp; somewhere, my Miss Selfridge skirt is cheering.

Um…yeah. Hopefully, someday Gold realizes this is a Pyrrhic victory. For now, let her be a cautionary tale. No good can come of the manufactured ex-loverreunion!

Remembrance Of Flings Past [Guardian]

I also don't find Tien's honesty "brave," I find it sad. When you share your life with someone, of course you will be frequently annoyed by them. But, beneath those frequent irritations, there is a deep affection, one that's so thickly layered that it's difficult to describe publicly without feeling you've betrayed your partner, or belittled your shared emotions by attempting to explain them in a way that's accessible to others.

Rosin describes the beginning of Tien's piece — it's "a portrait of her bumbling fool of a husband, who lies, always says exactly the wrong thing, scratches his armpit at a parent-teacher conference and then 'absently smells his fingers.'" To publicly denigrate someone you ostensibly still love in that way is kind of scary to me. Why is she staying with someone she doesn't publicly respect? Tien also writes that "Beneath the thumpingly ordinary nature of of our marriage — Everymarriage — runs the silent chyron of divorce." It seems like for her, the chyron is silent but deadly.

Divorce Anyone? [Slate]

Earlier: Slate Power Couple Attempts To Stay Within 15 Feet Of Each Other For 24 Hours

I'll admit that casual sex for me is a total defense mechanism in order to experience intimacy without risking emotional detriment. I'd so much rather be fucked than fucked with. So when some guy suggested to me last week that we merely make out all night instead of have sex, I was immediately cautious of his intentions. It sounds backwards, I know, but it's, uh, progressive. Right?

I have a really tough exterior when it comes to these things, but that's only because what's within is extra gooey. But I've been a little worried as of late that if I keep building up this shell, it would eventually become calcified, and the real me would be trapped in forever. So for the first time in years, I decided to change it up and not be so cynical. I allowed someone to bypass my vaginal walls and penetrate my emotional one. He laid it on really thick, too. Compliments, face-caressing, never-ending cuddle-fests, and full disclosure on just how much he liked me. (Within a week's time I'd heard: "I could fall in love with you" and "When I'm with you, I'm head-over-heels.") One night when we were laying in bed, I noticed that he was sort of falling off one side, and I asked him if he wanted to scoot toward the middle. He made such a big deal about it, like it meant something. All of his past girlfriends would take up the whole bed, and he would have to sleep toward the edge. Drunk on girlie giddiness, I saw a metaphor in it, too, like, wow, I'm pulling him closer, and we're meeting in the middle. I know, I know.

To be honest, I found all this to be so dramatic and way too precious and told him so. I was also well aware of how emotionally damaged he seemed to be. But I thought that was maybe something that could go on the list of Shit We Have in Common, right under "favorite Dolly Parton song." I was like, well, maybe it is possible that things can happen this fast. Maybe this is how normal people actually start dating. Maybe I've just been this weirdo all along. And even my jaded ass couldn't deny that I was equally attracted to him physically and mentally, as evidenced by the constant butterflies in my stomach, smile on my face, and heavier laundry loads from all the tights and jeans that were getting so wet whenever we hung out.

But I totally should've trusted my instincts, because they've never failed me before. Especially when one night, he actually asked me to enumerate all the things I liked about him. I thought it was weird, but I obliged with utter honesty, "You're funny, you're smart, you're cute, you're charming, blah, blah blah." I ended with, "I like you so much it's scaring me." And it was then that he got what he wanted. About 30 hours later, after spending the entire weekend together—brunching, cuddling, kissing on the street, holding hands, playing Connect Four, while sober, mind you—I received a text that said that he really needed to be alone, and he hoped I would understand.

I wasn't shocked. Just disappointed—majorly. A few hours later I got another text that said he was being stupid, and he'd meet me at our friend's show at this bar. We spent the night with our arms around each other, kissing. On the drive home he was silent. When he got to my place he didn't even pull up to the curb. He just idled in the street. He turned to me and said, "I can't do this. I'm not ready. I don't want to hurt your feelings." Um, too late, pal. God!

I stomped my feet up the stairs in my building and realized that I'd just been used. Now I think that emotional scar tissue I already had is turning into a fucking keloid. I totally just got emotionally played. And even though my glasses are currently blurry from a dried gray mixture of salty tears and black mascara, I see clearly now that I don't blame the player, I blame the game.

Last year Ms. Kraus decided to dedicate their latest novel, "Dedication" to her husband. No, she wasn’t married. But she was hopeful. 'I was creating a place holder,” Ms. Kraus, 33, said. “He was out there. I just hadn’t crossed paths with him yet.' She began behaving as if she was already in love. 'You carry yourself differently when you’re not alone,' she explained. 'I would carry myself at a party or a supermarket or a gym as if I was loved.' Then a month later David Wheir kissed her, and she no longer needed to pretend."

Okay, so clearly something about this is bothersome, but what?

1. So we're supposed to walk the streets in the same yoga pants and busted Chuck Taylors and expressions of total indifference to the male gender we'd be wearing if we had boyfriends who loved us? Because, you know, done.
2. Okay, I know I said "total indifference" but fuck if "Mr. Wheir" isn't totally fucking hot. Check the video.
3. All right, here's how it really happened: they were friends first, he'd flirt with her immaturely but he always had a destructive relationship with some girlfriend with whom he liked to suck face publicly — why do I suspect said girlfriend was working retail at the time? — and then Nicola was mean to the girlfriend the time she came with him to a dog's birthday party, which is totally not something I would generally pull, not that I would have a birthday party for a dog either, but still it's illuminating, to the extent that maybe if she had spent the party yakking with the girlfriend and ignoring David she not only would have secured herself a discount at the girlfriend's boutique but maybe might have hastened the process by which he came to the realization that any woman indifferent enough to his mammoth hotness to chat up his vacuous-ass girlfriend was not only emotionally independent enough to actually date, but sufficiently comfortable around shallow people to date him. Or maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. But seriously, what was she so intimidated by in his ex-girlfriend? Her movie starred fucking Scarlett Johansson.
(OT, but: did anyone else On-Demand Nanny Diaries? I love that Laura Linney and Paul Giamatti both star in that thing. Can't you just hear Linney being interviewed…"Well I loved working with him on John Adams but we couldn't exactly not work together again after the once-in-a-lifetime experience that was Nanny Diaries…)
4. The wedding service involved a reading from the book Eat, Pray Love.

Vows [NY Times]

People often wonder what the fallout of a Crap Email is like. We don't often know! This guy contacted us once, thinking his ex-girlfriend had changed her name to Anna Holmes, even though her name was not Anna; when he finally figured out the deal he good-naturedly defended his doghouse-building skills and retreated back into his proverbial own. Truthfully, he seemed really nice, and I felt a little bad. The same cannot be said for "Christopher Davis," the Ayn Rand prostrating author of last week's "I Am, Right Now, Involved In Something More Important," which many of you felt to be the Douchiest Email Of All Time. Here is definitive proof it was not! A tale told in two parts: one note sent to his ex girlfriend after discovering his Crap Email on our site, one sent to us. (And yes, I bought Ayn Rand's journals last weekend and have been crafting a primer on why she is to be avoided. Although that will seem rather unnecessary in a moment.)

On Mon, Jun 30, 2008 at 7:15 PM, Christopher Davis wrote:

Well done, Class Act.

For the record, I did rather dig you, but on the whole I found you . . . insufferable. And my ex going crazy on you — well, I'm sorry you had to go through that, but, Christ, that's a lot for *me* to deal with. You were already high maintenance enough, but if I had to do damage control every time someone I had no control over sent you a crazy, unsubstantiated email, it just Wasn't Going to be Worth It. I had school to think about. Or was it work? (I honestly don't remember when this was). In any case, something Very Much More Important Indeed, and you just Weren't Being Competitive.

But, honestly, you **remembered**? And you **kept the email?** I didn't even remember your **name**. You've sent me emails before now, and since then, haven't you? And I thought they were spam and deleted them. ("Who the hell is Cynthia O'Brien? Probably a phishing scam." That's what went through my head.)

The thing I don't get, is why this got to you so. You must have really liked me. Which, I mean, if the point is "look out for Ayn Rand fans", then I guess if I wasn't so gosh-darned attractive, brilliant, and good in bed, it wouldn't ever really be an issue, now, would it?

-oh, whatever

—-— Forwarded Message
From: Chris Davis
Date: 30 Jun 2008 20:55:22 -0500
To: moe
Cc: anna

Hi Moe!

This is Chris Davis, whose letter you reprinted in your article,
"Crap Email From a Dude: 'I Am, Right Now, Involved In Something More
Important,'" which one can see here:

http://jezebel.com/5020396/i-am-right-now-involved-in-something-more-importa
nt

Now, I could be writing to tell you that your feature is tasteless,
promotes sexism, and secures its readership by offering slanderous and
sensationalized accounts of events not only to which your staff writers are
not party, but of which they (or you) do not undertake to make yourselves
fully informed before offering your shamelessly inflammatory
editorializations.

But! that is not why I am writing at all!

No, I am actually just writing to direct you to cease and desist
immediately, under peril of potential legal action, your continued
publication of my intellectual property, the exclusive rights to which I,
as the sender of the correspondence in question, retain, which you are
currently publishing without my permission.

Your use of my intellectual property does not constitute "fair use" for the
following reasons:
1. You have reprinted the entire work in question, and not just a portion.

2. The use is not transformative — you printed the work in question word
for word and in its entirety, and there is no question of a lack of
constructive comment or criticism, but rather the purpose of the reprint is
to incite and inflame the passions and frustrations of your readers, for
the purpose of drawing them continually to your website.

3. Per #2, given the target audience of your website and the likelihood
that they have experienced similar situations in their lives, it can safely
be assumed that your sole purpose in reprinting the copyrighted work in
question is to further your revenue by strengthening the loyalty of your
readership, and not for purposes of parody, comment, or criticism on the
artistic merits of the original work.

If you do not comply with this directive within 15 days of the time you
receive this e-mail message, I will reserve the right to initiate civil
litigation for some portion of the revenue that has resulted from the sales
of advertisements that have appeared on the article in question.

Cheers!
— Chris

Tormented? Driven witless? 99 problems but therapy bills ain't one? Welcome to "Save Your Life, Cheap!" in which we write about the dumb things that get America's uninsured through hard times. AA meetings, James Joyce, Ani di Franco, suicide hotlines…anything nonalcoholic can apply, the more embarrassing the better. Which brings me to: self-help. In our first installment, Sephora Spy's Loren Hunt reviews the $1 book that got her through the worst breakup ever.

So, it's probably safe to make the baseline assumption that self-help books are not the kind of thing that anyone reads because they think it's cool. For some reason, self-loathing became more inherently cool than trying to fix problems, which would explain the aura of lameness surrounding self-help books: the corny covers, the corny catchphrases, the corny jacket photos, and the corny titles, which are invariably presented in a corny (and really large, readable) font. There are no cool self-help books. Cool people do not write self-help books. Happy people write them. And they could give a fuck who thinks they're cool. And you know who else doesn't give a fuck who thinks they're cool? A 23-year-old stripper who just used up every last shred of self-regard finally "breaking up" with the three-timing strip club DJ she had been fucking for the past year. And that, friends, is how I came to appreciate It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken, the second offering from Greg Berendt of He's Just Not That Into You fame.

Have you ever played yourself so badly in a relationship that even years after the fact the salient details are still enough to embarrass you? The kind of situation so inherently unfortunate that, upon its demise, you don't even want to tell your friends it has ended because they'll just snort, "good," and assume that it is so obvious that you are better off without it that there is nothing left to say on the topic? I met him because we worked together. At the strip club. He was living with his girlfriend when we first started hooking up, while sorting out the details of a divorce to a third woman. Our "relationship" only ever seemed to happen on the weekends, after work, where sometimes we engaged in what he liked to call "non-sex." Non-sex was when we did it, but then he denied doing it. I felt sleazy and dissolute, which, at the time, was novel and exciting. He was so nice when it was just us. And passionate. And caring. And secretly really awesome! I encouraged him to get secretly awesome all over me on and off and on and off for almost a year before I was ready to cut off my drama supply at the source and move on to something possibly healthier. But by then, I'd become attenuated to the bombast and obvious chord progressions of his Bon Jovi song style of lovin' and everything else just seemed... too quiet. Or subtle. Or something. Which was finally enough to scare me... strip clubs and nocturnal relationships with strip club DJs were supposed to be more of an interesting digression for me than a permanent lifestyle plan, and I felt in danger of falling through one of my own cracks. So I cut him off and stopped going to work lest he use his DJ microphone to manipulate me back into his good graces (this is the beauty of strip club jobs. You can take a week or a month or a year off and no one even notices). It was around then that I found a typo-ridden galley copy of something called It's Called a Breakup Because it's Broken: The Smart Girl's Breakup Buddy. This would have been almost five years ago. It was only a dollar and I thought maybe it would at least entertain me while I prostrated my unwashed body in front of my window unit air conditioner and flipped wildly back and forth between hating him and hating myself, murderous rage and spontaneous crying jags, fantasies in which his head exploded a la Scanners and tender reconciliation scenes that featured me in a trashy white bridal bikini.

It's Called a Breakup Because it's Broken brings the added component of Berendt's wife, Amiira Ruotola-Behrendt, to the wisdom offered up in He's Just Not That Into You, which is the guide to figuring out what's really going on with all that non-sex. (Namely, break up. Or, more commonly, wait for him to break up with you, which leads to that kind of horrible soul-crushing life-wrecking freshly-dumped angst most of us are relatively familiar with.) (I was proud not to have figured out the He's Just Not That Into You part on my own over the course of a year.) Anyway, the basic premise of this book is that the Behrendts were able to fall in love and build a happy relationship purely because both parties lived through a lot of bullshit before they met each other, namely of the breakup variety. Their co-authorship serves as sort of a built-in source of hope to people who are presumably reading the book because they have just had their heart masticated, digested, and flushed down someone else's toilet. They are, thankfully, not particularly obnoxious about this, choosing instead to stick to practical coping methods that you can use to put your breakup in the past and get on with your life.

Part 1: The Breakup

The first thing I couldn't figure out about my breakup was why it hurt so much. I mean, it had been a bad time for which I had for whatever reason repeatedly shown up of my own volition. I should have known better than to get involved in the first place, I knew the whole time nothing good would come of it, and it seemed to me that ending it would be a relief, like walking away from a car crash with only a few scrapes. And sometimes it did feel like that. But more often, it was the usual, "Whyyyy don't youuuu LOVE meee?" shit. Which would in turn make me really angry with myself, like I was so dumb that I had deserved the whole thing. The first section of this book does a good job of talking you down from taking full responsibility for anything other than making sure the broken relationship stays over and consequently taking care of yourself. They're always asking you what you'd want with a broken relationship. Which is the kind of simple logic I needed after spending the past year twisted into a veritable pretzel of denial and convoluted thinking. Then, just to make sure, after asking, the book repeatedly tells you that you don't want a broken relationship so many times that by the second section, it starts to stick.

Part 2: The "Breakover"
Commandment 1 — Don't See Him or Talk to Him for Sixty Days: Actually, it is that simple, it's just not that easy. If you were quitting smoking, you wouldn't buy cigarettes, hang out with people who smoked cigarettes, go to places where people were smoking cigarettes, or get drunk and call cigarettes at 4 A.M. begging them to come over for one last smoke.

I was all set to argue with this like, "this is exactly what I would do if I were quitting smoking!" Then I remembered that I was still a smoker! They, um, refer to this as "he-tox." I picked up a few phone calls I shouldn't have during this period of time, but for the most part, I stayed away. The thing about my ex was that he was super-charming and looked like an underwear model. I did not stand a chance in the same room as him and I knew it; hence the entire non-relationship. I stayed away like my life depended on it, which, looking back, it kind of did. Not that he was ever abusive or dangerous. It had more to do with the kind of life I wanted to live, a life in which my boyfriend would publicly admit he was my boyfriend and hang out with me during daylight hours. Bare minimum.

Commandment 2 — Get Yourself A Breakup Buddy 'But he was my best friend.' So was that girl who smelled like egg salad in the third grade, but you don't still need her around, do you?

The breakup buddy is like the Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor of broken hearts, dedicated to raising your morale and being on call for commiseration, all the while keeping you committed to your sixty day he-tox. Personally, I was so embarrassed by the fact that I'd allowed myself to be in a relationship so royally screwed up that my non-boyfriend habitually disappeared when the sun came up that I didn't really want to talk about it anymore by the time the breakup happened. A big part of making the break, for me, was to finally admit that the relationship had even happened, since he'd been extremely adamant about keeping it hidden at work. I cried on my friend Tiffany, a fellow stripper who knew him, a few times, and that was pretty much that.

Commandment 3 — Get Rid of His Stuff and the Things That Remind You of Him Be strict about it, but reasonable as well. Let's not pack up all the glasses because he loved orange juice, but the framed pictures of the two of you, his toothbrush and toiletries, and his CDs have to go.

The Behrendts also recommend recruiting your breakup buddy to deliver your stuff back to your ex so that you don't have to break your he-tox period and risk backsliding by doing it yourself. This was probably the most effective chapter for me, because it required absolutely no hard labor: I didn't have any of his stuff. Even after a year. This spoke volumes I was finally ready to listen to.

Commandment 4 — Get Your Ass in Motion Every Day Besides, you've got to have a life, because when you do meet the next guy and he asks you what you're into, you don't want to say, 'My ex-boyfriend.'

That is some real talk. The book predictably advocates exercise as a good way to fill your newly empty days, but it takes into account the fact that when you're truly devastated, getting out of bed counts as an achievement. Then it discusses hobbies, as well as making a list of all the things you didn't do because you were with whoever and doing them all by yourself. When I was ready to get off the couch, I walked into another, better strip club and got another job. It was so easy I suddenly understood why he'd been so clingy even while totally unwilling to behave the way a real boyfriend should: he'd known that this day would come. He'd been wondering what was taking me so long. And the bonus of working at a club that he did not also work at was turned out to be that he wasn't there to distract me. I rearranged my whole work strategy and finally started making the kind of money they tell you strippers make.

Commandment 5—Don't Wear Your Breakup Out Into the World Indulging in messy public breakup behavior only makes those around you uncomfortable and makes you seem unstable. So keep it to yourself and your dearest friends after business hours, and make a pact with yourself to try to live the vision of what you want your life to look like. Every time you step outside, you should make an effort to reflect the person you are on your way to becoming, not the shell of the shattered woman he dumped. Turn that husk into a tamale!

Tamale status begins with dressing cute at all times and refraining from crying at work. Earlier in the book, they reference the Lili Taylor character from Say Anything, the one accompanying herself on guitar to a song called "Joe Lies" in the middle of a party. And here is the thing about that character: what is awesome and hilarious at a party in a a romantic comedy is pathetic and uncomfortable at an actual party, for everyone, except at the time perhaps the one too grief-stricken and wounded to care much about superficial shit like "pride" and "dignity" in the moment, but oh my god that will change. The book recommends that you abstain from this kind of behavior, and I was good at this. Few people who knew both of us even really knew we were dating, and would have been surprised at the level of involvement and how hard I was taking it if they did know. I kept doing like I'd been doing and eventually started believing that it hadn't been such a big deal. In a lot of ways, it began to seem mutually convenient that we hadn't had a "real" relationship. I realized this a few months later when I attempted to be a breakup buddy to Moe and had the distinct pleasure of watching her send a text to her ex that read "I want to shit in your eye." I laughed hysterically. I probably wasn't cut out to be a breakup buddy.

Commandment 6 — No Backsliding! Once you give in to it, you find yourself caught in the worst kind of relationship purgatory—the demotion—because you are in effect telling your ex that he can still have access to you WITHOUT the emotional responsibilities. Backsliding doesn't mean you're getting back together, it just means you've lowered your standards and accepted a demotion from ex-girlfriend with self-esteem to ex-girlfriend whom he can still get busy with if he wants to.

Ouch. The fact that my entire non-relationship was a demotion out of the gate was ample reason for me to avoid backsliding. That didn't mean I didn't want to hear his voice or turn the lights on to inspect his perfect hip ridges up close one more time. But I didn't. Okay, I did, but years later, and when I was totally over him. They really are perfect! But by then, I felt like Jennifer Connelly at the end of Labyrinth, surprising herself by realizing that it's actually true when she says to David Bowie, "you have no power over me." This day will come. You know it will come. So think of it this way; the faster you stop having unsatisfying, emotionally fraught post-breakup sex with your ex, the quicker you'll be able to have hot unattached meaningless sex with him!

Commandment 7 — It Won't Work Unless You Are Number One! You are the prize, the sun, the moon, and the stars. Not him or anyone else. You can love your friends, you can love your family, and you can love every stray dog or stray drummer that crosses your path. HOWEVER, you have to learn how to love yourself, like yourself, and put yourself first before you will ever find the healthy, loving, and lasting relationship you're looking for.

Yeah, this is the hard one. Do I love myself yet? I'm getting closer all the time! I haven't begged anyone to use me as a convenient repository for all of their bullshit quite as flagrantly as I did while dating the DJ, and my boyfriends have become increasingly realer and realer as time has passed, with none of them counting as completely brutally gnarly Bad Ideas. I'd call it progress. While I have not yet found the healthy, loving, and lasting relationship I'd like to have yet, it is also true that I've gotten infinitely better at coping with the resultant breakups and in the process, wasted a lot less of my own time. I'm still not sure that rules are necessarily as ruthlessly applicable to the human heart in the way that the Behrendts suggest they might be, but I do have faith that I will now be able to recognize which rules are made to be broken in a way that I didn't before.

It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken [Amazon]

I was naive and I was romantic…and I think those are good things, to be naive and romantic and still believe in…love or something.

Yeah, of course, fuck that. I can't hang out with those people. Amusingly, one apparently will only submit to an interview if he digitally alters her voice, and then it turns out he has impotence problems, etc. etc. Here is the trailer.

A Complete History Of My Sexual Failures [Official Movie Site]
Sundance Review: A Complete History Of My Sexual Failures [Variety]

Some random acquaintance, like in Doree's piece, gets married after dating someone for a year, and you wonder why you're not married yet. You see your friends who got married and divorced before the age of 25 and were smugly happy that you didn't meet the same fate. You look at the sorority girls you knew who got married young and feel some combination of pity/contempt/envy and then feel bad about yourself for comparing your relationship, which is pure and true and good, to some false idea of what your relationship should be. But, as Doree points out, once you're deeply involved with someone, the niggling question you can't always ignore is "how do you know?" I have no fucking idea. Any guesses?

This Is When You Know [Observer]

Coloccia has many scoops like this, which is why, perhaps, she is "developing" an online dating course. Which people will be able to take online. Lord knows how much Coloccia's class will cost (her book is $16.99 on Amazon) but here's some FREE ADVICE regarding dating online:

It's dating. With e-mail.

People lie online. They also lie in bars, at dinner parties and in bed. People post old pictures online. They also wear toupees, assume an expensive car will act as bait and have clammy hands in real life. There are married guys looking to cheat online, just like in real life! You can meet a gross loser online, just like you can in real life. And! I have dated online and I can safely say: You can meet a great, funny, smart, cute guy online. Just like you can in real life. It may not be easy, but since when is dating — of any kind — simple?

Married? Sleazy? Web Dater Finds Ways To Pick Losers [Reuters]
How To Navigate Online Dating’s Depths [MSNBC, via Reuters]

Earlier: New Ruel: When Dating Online Add 20 Years, 100 Lbs. To Your Partner's Profile

Most of these articles show photos of smiling parents and their equally elated offspring and feature talk of shared chores and renewed family ties. What they don't show you is the messy reality of living with your parents when you're an adult, and I know about it — because I lived with my parents for four months after I graduated from college.

I was getting my MFA in creative writing and felt guilty and weird about my rent being paid by my parents, compounded with a fear of living with a Craigslist stranger after a previous bad experience. So I moved back home while attending classes. Nowhere in these articles is there a discussion about the horror of calling your mom to let her know you won't be coming home on a Thursday night because you're "sleeping at Anna's house," when really you're staying with a boy who is not your boyfriend. It's doubly demoralizing, because you're simultaneously regressing (telling the lie) and attempting to negotiate an adult situation (having a sex life).* For me, the reality of this constant negotiation between the childish and adult selves was exhausting, and I moved out as quickly as I possibly could. And it wasn't all smiles for my parents either — living with an oft-surly 22-year-old isn't really a boon to the household.

These sorts of articles bother me because they often make it seem like children are freeloaders and the doting parents are enabling their slackerdom, but I think in most situations, children live with their parents out of necessity, not out of desire, because really, the joy of being an adult is getting to eat ice cream for dinner at 10pm and not having to call your mom to tell her you won't be sitting down for chicken with the fam before you do it.

* Mom, I swear I really was at Anna's.

Twentysomething, College-Educated And Moving Back In [AP via Washington Post]
When 20-Somethings Move
Back Home, It Isn't All Bad [WSJ]
They Can Go Home Again [NYT — 2006]
For More People in 20's and 30's, Home Is Where The Parents Are [NYT — 2003]

The couple also admit to a hands-on physical relationship that they describe as intense but chaste. Mr. Roach compares it to the relationship his mother had with her doctor when she was dying of breast cancer. "The surgeon lay his hand on her breast, but there wasn't any carnal thought in his mind," he said. "He was doing some life-or-death thing. For us it is the same."

"He is a good guy and learned person, but the Bill Clinton question lingers over him," [prominent American Buddhist Lamya Surta Das] said of Mr. Roach. "He is with a much younger blond bombshell. What is a deep relationship that is not sexual? It is hard to understand."

Buddhist Teachers Make Their Own Limits In A Spiritual Partnership [NY Times]

Love finds a way. The teenage girls interviewed for this story are sneaky and clever, as teenage girls are. Some dress up as men and visit men-only establishments. And while unmarried men and women may not speak to each other because Islam forbids a stranger to hear your voice, this is the era of Facebook and cell phones. Instant messaging and text messaging bring some young people together. Not everyone is comfortable with it, however. Sara al-Tukhaifi, 18, says: "One test is that if you're ashamed to tell your family something, then you know for sure it's wrong. For a while I had Facebook friends who were boys — I didn't e-mail with them or anything, but they asked me to "friend" them and so I did. But then I thought about my family and I took them off the list."

While there are penalties for being caught with an unrelated member of the opposite sex (arrest, flogging) — the worst is the dishonor that would be invoked. Explains Enad al-Mutairi, a 20-year-old police officer: "One of the most important Arab traditions is honor. If my sister goes in the street and someone assaults her, she won't be able to protect herself. The nature of men is that men are more rational. Women are not rational. With one or two or three words, a man can get what he wants from a woman. If I call someone and a girl answers, I have to apologize. It's a huge deal. It is a violation of the house." Enad's cousin, Nader al-Mutairi calls himself "a romantic person." He feels that the way things are set up in Saudi Arabia, "there is no romance." Yet his ring tone is a love song; he is engaged to Enad's sister and they text message each other. When she calls, or writes a message, his phone flashes "My Love" over two interlocked red hearts.

Meanwhile, the Times also interviews a 17-year-old girl named Shaden (seen veiled in the photo above). Her favorite DVD is Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightley as Elizabeth Bennet. "It's a bit like our society, I think," She says. "It's dignified, and a bit strict... When Darcy comes to Elizabeth and says 'I love you' — that's exactly the kind of love I want."

One has to wonder: In a country which offers young men very little in the way of entertainment — no movie theaters, few sports facilities and with shopping malls off-limits — couldn't Love be a worthwhile pastime? If only it were not so difficult to find? As one commenter on the Times blog noted, "[It] is dangerous... to have too many young men in their twenties who have too little to do. They become prey to ideologues of seventh-century political cults, and ultimately, willing cannon fodder." When you don't take Love for granted, when Love is all you need, can Love save the day?

Love On Girls' Side Of The Saudi Divide, Q&A: Love in Saudi Arabia, Young Saudis, Vexed And Entranced By Love's Rules, Love In Saudi Arabia (video) [NY Times]

First, I guess I have to wonder whether this is a function of not knowing when, where or from whom the next sexing is coming. I mean, one of the great things about having a thing with a guy (yes, I'm deliberately not calling it "a relationship") is that it's coming on a pretty regular basis from someone whose company I additionally really enjoy. Generally speaking, I think that a thing/relationship should involve sex at least twice a week and preferably more, if only because if it's an only-on-the-weekend (or, God forbid, only-once-a-weekend) type thing, I get kind of overly horny during the week and start to wonder about the when/where/from whom question. I badly express that to just about every single guy I date by sounding like I'm nervous about if and when I'm going to see the guy rather than saying "get your ass over here and fuck me" partly because it turns out that the latter is actually not that effective and asking and not receiving is rather damaging to the ego. But, given that I'm equally desirous of (and worried about getting) more sex regardless of my status rules out the whole theory that it's related to the end of the most recent thing, while writing about it made me realize I should just explain to dudes that they need to put out more to keep my libido from turning me into a raging psycho. Dodai was right about blogs being almost as good as therapy...

If that's not it, I can always go back to my old insecurity about being "too" slutty, or a nympho or something, since that's easy enough to point to. Women aren't supposed to like sex this much (Tracie knows), they're not supposed to get all on edge over not having it for a relatively short period of time, I could just masturbate, etc. Well, I do masturbate, regularly. I have a great vibrator that I bought on a business trip in New Orleans almost 6 years ago that is virtually unbreakable (I left mine at home and was going crazy) and a big enough supply of batteries but, hell, I masturbate more when I'm having sex regularly.

And, although I don't want to brag, I do really, really, really — multiple-ly orgasmically — enjoy sex. If everyone could guarantee, barring complete incompetence on the part of the other person, at least a handful of orgasms every time they had sex, wouldn't a lot of people have sex more? That's my theory anyway. But, in fear once, I asked my super non-judgmental (and still single, ladies!) ex-boyfriend if he thought there was something wrong with me. He said that actual sex-addicts and nymphomaniacs are considered problematic not because they have a lot or want a lot of sex, but because they screw up important things in their life to do so. While I'll admit to some poor man choices in my time, none of my sex decisions have been life-altering (yay condoms, birth control pills, morning after pills, and my IUD!) and the worst thing that's ever happened is I've been later for things like class, work or social obligations than I otherwise might have been. Of course, he just had sex with a girl who kept asking him in an incredibly high-pitched voice — he compared it to the Progressive commercial girl — to high five her after every orgasm, so he might not be the best source on what's normal. Either way, though, I don't think there's something wrong with me that a little sex wouldn't fix.

All of this angst, though, begs the question as to how long my longest dry spell has ever been. Yeah, um, it's something on the order of 6 weeks, at least since about 2000 when I went about 10. Even in the midst of my major depressions and life crises I've still wanted to have sex if only because it chemically forces me to feel good and it's only thing I can do (including drinking) that shuts off my inner monologue. So it's not like I think there's not some sex coming down the pike for me, it's just I want it, and I want it now. Or at least before I have to buy another multipack of batteries.

But, I understand, one woman's annoying dry spell is another woman's preferred method of living. So what's your longest dry spell, and why (or how) did you hold out that long? If it keeps me from wearing out my batteries, you're not just helping me out, you're helping to save the environment.

My friend Ryan just dedicated a blog to pictures of couples engaging in PDA. It's called "Your Love Hurts Me." And it is probably a testament to his character that my friend Don steadfastly refuses to make out in public, even when he is really really drunk. Which leads me back to the subject of Memphis principal Daphne Beasley.

Is there a more depressing place on this earth than the high school hallway after school during homecoming season when there's a couple sucking face at every third locker and your crush doesn't know you're alive??

Okay, Baghdad is a more depressing place. Our old reliable Yemen isn't looking too great either.

Principal Allegedly Outs Gay Students [ABC News]
Your Love Hurts Me

Most of Ferman's clients aren't of the internet age in the first place: she estimates that most of her clients are in their late 30s to early 60s. The most interesting thing Ferman says in the interview is that her difficult clients are not the ugly ones — they're the ones who are unhappy. "They think that's all that is lacking from their lives - the right person...They're impossible to please because they're looking for a panacea, not a person."

Professional Matchmaker Makes Dating Less Of A Chase [CS Monitor]
'Millionaire Matchmaker' Patti Stanger's Six-Figure Book Deal[GalleyCat]

Earlier: Matchmaker Patti Stanger Gives Surprisingly Good Advice On Tyra

Beauvoir had a famously open relationship with Sartre, but, as Lisa Appignanesi pointed out in the Guardian, Sartre was the one who insisted on sleeping with other people, and Beauvoir was the one who went along with it. According to Appignanesi, "In this lifelong relationship of supposed equals, he, it turned out, was far more equal than she was. It was he who engaged in countless affairs, to which she responded on only a few occasions with longer-lasting passions of her own. Between the lines of her fiction and what are in effect six volumes of autobiography, it is also evident that De Beauvoir suffered deeply from jealousy."

Sylvia Plath famously killed herself after fellow poet, husband Ted Hughes, left her for another woman. Plath had a history of mental illness and one prior suicide attempt, but her obsession with Ted and his betrayal arguably hastened her demise. Although she pursued her own career with vibrant ambition, she still typed his manuscripts for him.

Rebecca West was a 20-year-old, up and coming critic and journalist when she met H.G. Wells. They began a passionate love affair that would last a decade. What's the problem with that? Wells already had a wife, and several children. When West became pregnant out of wedlock with Wells' baby (a big deal when it happened in 1913), she decided to keep the child. According to the book, after she told Wells she would bear their child, An Affair To Remember: The Greatest Love Stories of All Time, "Most of the adjustments were made by Rebecca. She moved from rented house to rented house. She had nothing but Wells — from time to time — and her writing." Most of the time, Wells remained at home with his wife.

The moral of this story is, many great feminists were not so "feminist" in their love lives, and no one can be a shining example of any -ism 24/7. (The verdict is still out on whether or not Carrie's a "feminist" considering the entirety of her "self" is constructed around her love life. Her shoes remain fantastic, though.)

Can A Feminist Really Love Sex And The City? [Guardian]
'Our Relationship Was The Greatest Achievement Of My Life' [Guardian]
An Affair To Remember: The Greatest Love Stories of All Time [Google Books]