The Science of Single

Entries from December 2009

Great Gardens

December 30, 2009 · Leave a Comment

Beware ladies. The Lawnmower Man is coming.

Dear ss,

As a dude, what’s the best way to address my preference about grooming in the pubic region to a babe I’m seeing?


The Lawn Boy

Dear Lawn Boy,

Thank you so much for your letter, if only because it gives me the opportunity to discuss my first (and last, so far) Brazilian wax. (I love this story.) It was my 29th birthday. I was visiting my friend in NYC. We went to the bar, got drunk on red wine, and before you could say Kojak, am laying on a waxing table, naked from the waist down. I explained to the wax lady that this was my first of any sort of bikini wax. Ever. She just giggled and said “ooooo!” (There was a language barrier.) So anyway, I’m drunk and naked, she’s giggling and waxing and we’re doing okay. Until she starts making her way to the…center. All of a sudden, it was like “YEEEOW.” And she was like, “ohhhhh. sorry sorry.” And I was gripping for dear life to the towel crusted in dried wax where I lay in anxious repose.  And then wax lady starts blowing on my crotch under the impression that sprays of her saliva would soothe the bare and bleeding spots of my cookie. (Not okay.) She giggles and blows and giggles and blows. Oh the humanity. I swatted her away, she gave me a minute to collect what was left of my pride and resumed stripping off everything within chaffing distance of my bikini line. Except for a landing strip. Oh, the landing strip. It’s just so…weird, as are all the other designs women prune into their muff:

Cute pubic hair? Dear God, why?

I’m an all or nothing kinda girl, so this errant (and crooked, I might add) strip of hair was redonkulous. I felt like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

Since then, I’ve wandered around in various stages of pruning, because let’s face it, when it’s cold outside or I’m on a dating sabbatical, I just really can’t be bothered to shave, wax, or groom anything. As well, I grew up in the 70s. And come on you neurotic, bleach-imbibing, hand-sanitizing zealots: Hair is natural and healthy. It’s meant to protect our genitalia. How did we get to the point of hair down there being gross? (Remember when Katerina Witt posed nude for Playboy and everyone sniffed about her bush? I think she looked awesome.)

So, LB, the reason I’ve brought this up is 1. I like to talk about myself and 2. I want to be clear on the issues of removing hair from the nether region. Unless we’re talking about a haircut with scissors. This is generally foolproof and I wholeheartedly support this. Razors cause razor bumps and a rash, and sometimes you just can’t stop shaving until it’s all gone. (Not that that has ever happened to me.) And waxing just freaking hurts. And don’t get me started on Nair. Evil chemicals. Stay away.

If, despite all of these warnings LB, you still want less hair, I say just tell her. Be gentle. This is sensitive. Don’t say things like, “So, you like a big bush?” Or “Did you run out of razors?” Be like, “What do you think about shaving down there? It might feel better for both of us.” Suggest depilatory foreplay. (Meow, right?) A friend of mine did that with her boyfriend. We called her Bald Eagle for years.

So yes, in all areas of getting to know someone sexually and emotionally, you have to tell your babe what you want. I will advise against calling her babe in this one instance, LB. You don’t want to conjure up notions of infantilism while asking her to groom her pubic region to more closely resemble prepubescence. Just sayin’. Also, what is this “babe” crap? My mom uses this term when she is referring to a floozy. If she’s good enough for you to have sex with, please, for the love of all that is holy, call her a woman. Show some respect when you ask her to dumb down her vagina! Just kidding. (About the dumb down part. You still need to respect.)

Fun fact: In Victorian times, whores wore pubic wigs. The wig was called a merkin and it has been around since the 1400s when it was originally worn by women who had shaved their pubic hair off to prevent lice. In the Victorian times, prostitutes wore them to hide the fact that they had VD. (Syphilis, anyone?)

More fun facts about sex.

xo, ss

Categories: Dating · Relationships · Sex
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Short-tays! (Hey! With pork and beans.)

December 28, 2009 · 5 Comments

This would work. If he weren't GAY.

Actually, it’s “sardines” not short-tays, but both reflect something small and with an acquired taste. (Short-tays being short men.) And I love that song. Go Junkyard Band. DC in the house!

Okay, I get distracted when I try to merge two unlike things into one concept.

Dating short-tays: I’ve long had an issue with this being an Amazon, as my friend called me the other night. (I tried not to take offense.) But I’m pretty much over it—my Napoleon complex that is. So I feel a certain resolve about the advice I’m about to give.

Dear ss,

There are two men I’ve been talking to on OK Cupid who seem pretty cool and I want to take them out on da town.  Only thing is, I found out that both of them are really short.  For me this is unappealing.  SS, you’re tall.  Have you ever gone on a date with a mystery man and found out he’s a few inches shorter than you?  And was it OK?

I think my dislike of shorties stems from my adolescence spent being a few inches and a couple dozen pounds bigger than most boys my age.  I hate feeling big.  Thoughts?  Am I being ridiculous?


Tall Drink of Water

Dear TDoW,

Oh girl. I feel ya. I echo all of your concerns.  I hate feeling big, too. But I’m not, and neither are you. I’ve dated men of all heights. My first boyfriend was a whole head shorter than me. Our pics at the 8th grade dance were pretty awesome.  And he was wonderful. Later in life, I dated someone 6′5″. That was cozy in terms of having a big frame to curl up next to and give me all-encompassing hugs, except for the fact that he was a self-professed genius and therefore insisted on watching movies on fast forward (really). And he had an eye stutter. We called him Sleeeeeeeeeeee-peeeeeeeeeee.

The problem with the height criterion is that it’s criterion, which goes on a checklist, which are often superficial love letters to some Adonis ideal that does not exist.  Trust me. If this ideal existed, I woulda found him and we’d be canoodling right now. As one dating book somewhere out there said: A checklist is a suit of armor. It keeps you from being open to all manner of people who may not be physically what you expected, but have all the other essential criteria for being a good BF. Like lots of cash for Louis Vuitton and Coach bags. Just kidding. Seriously. Things like he listens to you. Like he can support you emotionally and support himself. Like he’s not abusive or an addict. Things that create a lasting relationship versus a perfect aesthetic picture.

It’s a tough one, though, when you meet someone online and they set the expectation for something else. (Studies show men round up by one inch. I would argue two. That said, women round down 10 pounds.) It happens to me all the time. But what are you gonna do? I can’t blame someone who wants to perpetuate the best version of himself, because I do that all. the. time. I say give them a chance. See how you feel. And remember four things:

1. You look totally amazing and hip and pretty and adorabs, and the size of whatever man you are with does not change this in the slightest.
2. Men can make up for their height with a big personality.
3. Shorter men tend to dance better than taller men and are more WILLING to dance. (This may not be important to you,  but I like a man who’s at least willing to get out there.)
4. When you’re lying down, height doesn’t matter. heeeeeeeeeeeeee

And for men who want to diffuse the height issue, instructions.

Categories: Dating
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Men I would not like to date…

December 18, 2009 · Leave a Comment

On my way to the metro, passed a man who was the lost love child of  The Dude, Suge Knight and The Jerk,(dragging along at least two folding chairs and everything). All in one. Oy vey.

The man I would like to date:

Rupert Friend as Prince Albert. Meow.

And ladies, run do not walk to the next showing of The Young Victoria. It. Is. So. Good. Oh, my melted heart. I will now go watch Love, Actually for more heart- melting, Hollywood-love goodness, even though it will bolster my expectations for real-life love to unprecedented levels for at least three days.

Categories: Dating · Love
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One line? Or two.

December 16, 2009 · 2 Comments



Thankfully this has never happened to me. Because premarital sex is against the law. But for all you sluts out there, pregnancy tests are indeed the dark side of dating. We’ve all taken them, huddled over the sink, pee everywhere and underwear sagging around your ankles because you were just too freaked out to do anything but stare at the little reveal window and wait. (Yes, even me. I was only kidding about that whole abstinence thing.) I actually took one recently. There was pretty much no way I was knocked up. None at all. Okay, mostly impossible. Like, if I did have a bun in the oven, you would have seen me on the news already in the developing story of the first ever pregnancy from French kissing. But I just couldn’t figure out why I kept gaining weight. Surely it must be a lifeform evolving in utero. Mmmmm. No. The pregnancy tests (there were two in the box so I peed on both) came back negatory. As it turns out, my jeans don’t fit because I’ve been stuffing my face with donuts and egg nog lattes. (Mmmmm donuts.) 

That’s right. Laugh. Get it all out. It’s okay. 

But is my story as crazy as the one of my friend who is 7 mos into baby cooking with a Santa Belly and a Parton Rack to prove it who continues to take pregnancy tests just to be sure, even though, as she claims, a kickboxer is training against her bladder? 

It’s a toss up. And I bet there are even kookier EPT, First Response and Clear Blue stories out there. And I want to hear them! Please share! Anonymously if you like. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to share more of mine, and I’m not sure my ego can take the humiliation of just how redonkulous I can be. (And don’t even get me started on Plan B madness.)

Categories: Dating · Relationships · Sex
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Who pays?

December 10, 2009 · 11 Comments

If this is all you have, then let's take a walk to a fountain. It's ok. Really.

First date: He pays.

That’s my thought.

It has recently been brought to my attention, though, that this is archaic and anti-feminist of me. And what about the poor guys’ deflating wallets?

Well. I never said he had to shell out three months salary on the first date. That’s for the engagement ring, right ladies? [insert inside-joke cackling]

I’m kidding. I’m not even a diamond kinda girl. Give me a simple wedding band and a ridiculous honeymoon and call it a day.

But really. I think he should pay on the first date–but it should be something he can afford if money is an issue. A cup of coffee. Happy hour drinks. A walk in the park (free!). Whatever. Just take a sister out. Make her feel special.

I should note, it’s not a deal breaker if a guy doesn’t pay. But it is a red flag. Think of it this way: when you combine going dutch with men who don’t ask for a real date anymore or otherwise let their intentions be known—rather it becomes “when do you want to hang out?”—and there are no traditional social cues like the opening of doors or walking on the street side of the sidewalk, it’s enough to make a woman wonder “so was that a date?”  Before we know it, we’re in a relationship with someone who never had any sort of intention of a relationship beyond friends who have sex. But maybe I’m so out if it that’s all relationships are anymore??

I just always thought that when a guy truly likes a girl, he will pay, no questions asked. It’s part of impressing her, of showing her he can take care of her. As my dad said last weekend and every other time this topic comes up at the family dinner table, the man paying is S.O.P. Pops is talking about all the time. I’m just talking first, maybe second date. Then I can pick up the check. Then he can. Then I do. Then … . See where I’m going with this?

I won’t go into the egalitarian issue until the pay scale for men and women is evened out and women aren’t [generally] the ones footing the monthly bill for birth control without even blinking an eye. I dare a woman to ask for 50 cents each time she has sex, which is roughly half the daily rate for the monthly prescription of birth control pills. (I did have one boyfriend that took family planning into account. Of course, this was when he put us on a budget and we each payed the percentage of the bill based on our salaries. I think I got an extra 3 percent off because I paid the BC prescription. This made me feel super special because he really understood the extra moolah I was spending while he was nickel and diming me.)

I’m sure I will catch some flack for this post. I’m open to other opinions and understanding the issues facing men better because this is the one thing that always confounds me. Shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Categories: Dating · Relationships · Sex
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