So, the prophecy has come to pass. Frank now hates our new apartment. If you’ll recall, we were unceremoniously booted from our last place a few months ago and lucked into a great new apartment. An apartment that, at the time, Frank agreed was in many ways superior to the place we were leaving. It’s bigger, it’s a better neighborhood for us, it’s not on the ground floor, etc. But I knew—I just knew—that after he got settled in, he’d find a way to hate this place, because that is what he always does. Okay, to be fair, we’ve only lived in this place and the old place, but still. What always happens is that he gets all excited about an apartment, then as he lives there, he starts to see little flaws. Of course this apartment has flaws. Every apartment has flaws.
Lloyd Dobler: attractive. Jean-Claude Van Damme: yuck. There is something extremely attractive about vulnerability. Not the "I'm an emotional wreck; fix me" kind of basket case, but the guy with a touch of self-deprecation and a dose of humility. Like he's letting you in a on a little secret. Take for instance one of our writers, John Meils. His latest piece, "The Magic of (Other People's) Weddings," delves into the male mind while attending, you guessed, wedding. He's honest and funny, without being trite or condescending.
I came across an absolutely befuddling story in London's Daily Mail today. "Sorry, but marriage and sex DON'T go together" is a profile of Carrie Jones, author of the forthcoming memoir Cutting Up Playgirl: A Cheerful Memoir of Sexual Disappointment. Jones is a self-described middle class mother of two who professes not to have had sex with her husband, Hal—"a good man and a great dad"—for the past four years. Moreover, she's pledged to remain celibate until her children are grown—at which point she plans to leave the marriage. Making sense of this wasn't a cinch. At first we were inclined to narrow our eyes and name Jones the villain: No sex? In four years!?
If you read Genevieve's post on growing a boyfriend yesterday, and you're still in the market for a "grow-your-own," we've found even more innovative ways to get your hands on Mr. Right. Actually, Kim Yarmuch has a solution: Her cheeky Man Seeds blossom into six different men, from a thinker (Philosopher Regularum) to a techie (Coolum Geekus)—and they’re only $2 each at manseeds.com. The idea hatched as a birthday joke, when Yarmuch gave homemade Man Seeds to A friend in need. "She was single, it was summer, and she was just a little down," she says. "Turns out lots of people get the joke and are willing to pay money for it."
A gorgeous, muscle-bound boyfriend? So last season! The most-wanted arm candy right now is fat, slobbering and breast-obsessed. Yes, babies have replaced boyfriends as the new "It" accessory in Hollywood. Why diaper duty might be preferable to dating. Even in big-screen romantic comedies, boyfriends have gone from raison d'etre to third wheel. Two of 2007's biggest hits, Knocked Up and Juno, are about single women who get pregnant and decide to have their babies, even though they're not in a romantic relationship with the fathers of their children (or anyone else).
Is giving orders to a man clad only in his skivvies on your holiday wish list? You’re not alone. And French clothing store Celio is listening. The boutique handpicked 17 guys with a certain je ne sais quoi to act as fit models, who offer to try on items for women buying for their men and unsure of their size. The “Shoppenboys” range from small to XXL, and each proudly wears clearly-labeled caleçons (boxers) when on the job. More than 1,000 men applied for the coveted spots last year, despite the fact that the positions were unpaid. The ’boys now have a website (shoppenboys.com) featuring an online dance contest where hopefuls submit videos of their moves for viewers to grade. While the site is in French, some things transcend language, n’est-ce pas?
Is he boyfriend material? Depends what you mean. If you're into training new boyfriends, or just really like someone who doesn't have a lot of experience, you'll agree with Dave Itzkoff: all men are inherently datable. He suggests that you only have to follow Guns N' Roses advice and have a little patience. Read first hand how Dave's first "real" girlfriend helped break him in. "While I sometimes wish I were the sort of person who could claim to have a checkered past, the truth about my romantic life is that it's no more dangerous than a game of dominoes. In my dating history, there are no great love affairs, nor any illicit one night stands—and not for a lack of trying. Rather, my clumsy attempts at couplehood always fell apart in my overeager hands. And my dad had already been married to my mom for three years at the age at which I found my first legitimate, post-collegiate girlfriend: 28."
My boyfriend during my freshman year of Brown was a 6'5'' black guy from Philly who played power forward on the basketball team. One of the main reasons I was drawn to him was that I knew my parents wouldn’t approve. They are what you might call liberal conservatives: They’re NPR-listening, cultured, Democratic-voting Jews, but my mom doesn’t like women with visible bra straps, and my dad doesn’t feel comfortable around black men. It didn’t work out with the basketball player and by the time I graduated I was still single. I moved into an apartment in Brooklyn with some roommates, and at night I barhopped with a girlfriend who had guys falling left and right for her because she smoked and knew how to appear disinterested. I threw myself at every 120-pound drummer who gave me a second glance.