Pecking, smooching, Frenching, and playing tonsil-hockey—there are as many names for kissing as there are ways to do it. Whether we use it as an informal greeting or an intensely romantic gesture, kissing is one of those ingrained human behaviors that seems to defy explanation. Its many purposes—a blow and peck for good luck on dice, lips to ground after a rocky boat ride, kisses in the air to an acquaintance, and the long slow smooches of Hollywood—have different meanings yet are similar in nature. So why is it that we love to pucker up?
Men think they are 100% straight shooters. Even if we want to believe that the majority of men have perfect aim (which is NOT true), it's clear that most haven't made the quantum leap necessary to understand the difference between a latrine—which is, by definition, a toilet used only by men—and a bathroom that's in one's home, to be used by everyone who lives in the house, as well as by any visitor. Whether men agree with the following statement or not, nothing can change the reality of it: Leaving the toilet seat up is a clear statement of control and power.
This is one man who's happy to ask for directions. But should he trust his wife… or his new GPS? "For the last nine years, my wife has been my shining directional beacon, a kind of sit-next-to-me Northern Star. When we lived in New York City, she would send me on the subway with yellow post-it notes that detailed the stops and transfers. Without these handwritten guides, I'd likely be penning this story as an emissary of the mole people. But this year, I was given a Garmin global positioning system (GPS) as a birthday gift—a robot whose sole responsibility was to offer me the best route to take."
At age 44, Julie Metz's seemingly perfect life of husband, daughter, work-from-home occupation and house in the suburbs was turned upside down when her husband unexpectedly died. Becoming a widow and a single mother would only be the tips of the iceberg challenges for Metz, as she later learned of her deceased husband's infidelities. How do you reconcile and forgive when the person who caused you pain is dead? This and other questions serve as the basis for Metz's memoir of "betrayal and renewal," Perfection, published in June.
After my brutally honest essay, "The Five Things I Hate about Marriage," Adam has finally prepared his rebuttal. Here are the five things my husband hates about marriage.
Yes, I love my husband and family and wouldn't change a thing about our family unit. Now that I have made that obligatory statement, let me get to my point. There are certain issues that I have with the institution of marriage, which offers both wonderful benefits and incredible challenges, often in the same day. Here are the five things I hate about marriage.
Sex with A Married Man? Friends With Benefits? Office Affairs? Here, Cosmo queen Helen Gurley Brown personally answers your critical questions about all these things. Plus, why she's already saved you from a dreary life not worth living!
The whole Salsa thing started with my wife's friend, Autumn. Autumn is a Salsa-dancing junkie. She Salsas the way most of us brush our teeth, which is to say, pretty frequently. Recently, Autumn got Tara all fired up about how much fun Salsa dancing is, how sexy it is. Soon, Tara wanted us to go, despite the fact that I cannot dance, that I do not understand dancing. Dancing, I am the title character in a short film called "White Man in Terrible, Self-Conscious Pain." My wife, by contrast, doesn't do self-consciousness. Which I admire, no end. Preferably from the couch, in my own house.
Besides the meaning of life and the ingredients of hot dogs, many a man has questioned "what exactly do women want?" We're not playing coy here, we know we're complex creatures. And, true, we operate on a different wavelength than men. But, woman aren't exactly the great mystery that men often make us out to be. The proof? We polled the YourTango staff and compiled a list of 10 simple things women want.
Recent studies estimate that "boomerang kids" are an increasing 21st-century trend, with somewhere around 40 percent of young adults living once again under their parents' roofs immediately post-college or after a temporary stint in the real world. The economy and unemployment rates are major factors, as is the Generation Me belief that an individual should never have to suffer through an unhappy job or relationship. What it adds up to is a mass exodus—back to childhood bedrooms. But what happens to your love life when you move in with your parents?
We had been married for eight years. We had been trying to get pregnant for six of those years and between IVF and ICSI had gone through five fertility cycles. We knew we could get pregnant but we didn't know if we could stay pregnant. We had spent over $200,000, and all we had to show for it was a glossy photo of four egg cells. That photo still sits in the drawer of the night table besides out bed, buried there. We're unable to look at it—or dispose of it. Other friends who were on the IVF merry-go-round and got pregnant, had their children. Some had their second child while we waited and tried again. Every couple who had a child swore by their doctor, their method, their technique—success was its own affirmation.
Amy had been referred to a Beverly Hills fertility doctor, who was so reassuring that I took him to calling him Dr. Mellow. His office had a wall of photos of smiling babies, as if to say, "This will be you." We sat in his waiting room holding hands. We believed. We didn't know we had just taken our seats inside the Hope Factory. Once inside, the possibility of getting pregnant never ended. If one technique failed, you tried another, and kept trying. There seemed to be an infinite supply of hope.
Without referring you to the many, many, medical sites, books and journals I immediately consulted on the subject, there is some belief that a certain vein that traverses one or both testicles can, in one way or another, affect the quality of sperm production. Operating on it may, or may not, improve sperm quality. In my case, a double varocelectomy was recommended.
Billy Joel and his wife of nearly five years Katie Lee are splitting up. A "friend" of the couple told the New York Daily News that the age difference of 33 years drove the couple apart. I doubt it. Maybe, like so many couples that end up divorced, they just weren't meant to be. You never hear anyone say "Dick and Jane are the same age— that must have had something to do with their breakup." I call BS on blaming the age difference when it comes to divorce. Though, admittedly, I'm biased.
The location of his party insinuated the need to have one last hurrah before we got married, and it offended me. Our marriage was supposed to be one long hurrah; something we looked forward to, not something from which we needed a reprieve. Sure it's idealistic, but if you can't afford some idealism the week before you get married, when can you? That was what it all boiled down to. The strip club wasn't the issue; it was the timing of the visit that bothered me.