It's freezing in the corner of my mind. There's been a lot of man-hating going on in the wake of the Spitzer scandal. It seems like every woman who writes a blog or talks to you at the gym has used this as an opportunity to spew some serious anti-man vitriol. Really, I think that the Spitzer scandal is just a catalyst for releasing women's pent-up romantic anger. Of course, women are also upset because the governor of New York committed a crime and everything that entails, but there's a personal level to it as well.

To speak in generalities, I think that women look at Silda Spitzer and see themselves in past relationships: They were deceived, mistreated, taken for granted, and in some cases cheated on while they stood by being loving and supportive. Case in point: Silda is a phenomenally talented and beautiful woman, and her husband chose to fuck uneducated whores from New Jersey. To most women, this simply does not make sense. Most talented women who have been treated like doormats by men find their lovers' actions incomprehensible, and Spitzer's decisions are no exception. Modern women posses all the characteristics that are socially valued in men--intelligence, education, ambition, earning potential--as well as the feminine virtues of beauty and warmth, AND YET this sort of shit happens.

I do think that men are the problem. Most of the women I know have managed to find a balance between the masculine and feminine virtues, yet men seem more laddish than ever. You can say that our society is hopelessly Puritanical, and that's why Spitzer's shenanigans are being so derided, but I disagree. I think that women simply refuse to accept this sort of behavior anymore and are more vocal about their shock and disgust. Or maybe women simply haven't learned to accept that men are callous and selfish creatures who will always disappoint them and treat them like trash.

Here's where you go wrong, boys. It's time to grow up.

They don't know it but I'm here to stay. In your face, crappy Lilith article! According to a new Elle/msnbc.com study (my college mentor helped with the research. Pride!), men don't care if their wives make more money. In fact, just 12 percent of men surveyed said they'd mind if their wife earned more than they do, and in general men seemed happy to share the breadwinner role. Furthermore, of the approximately 75 percent of men whose wives did work, only 5 percent wished she was at home because they are "irritated by a wife who is frequently bored or boring."

Huzzah for womanity! I feel there is hope for us smart, ambitious ladies afterall!

Now that the love is gone. Do guys really talk like this? And if so, why haven't I met any who do?

Gotta find me somebody. Yet more thoughts on this whole wacky world of dating. Salad bars are the way to go. Apparently you can win friends with salad.

Ever wonder what it'd be like if the men of Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" had online dating profiles? Me neither, but thank goodness someone did.

Endless tears, forever joy. This video changed my life:



J'étais dans l'apart de Raoul et Sandro, et j'ai entendu cette chanson qui chant mon âme. Dans ce moment, j'ai compris que je ne suis pas de tout seule dans la douleur de coeur et le désir pour quelque chose non réalisé. Et, peux en peux, je me suis senti mieux.

It takes a strong man to stand by a strong woman. This season's Lilith has an interesting/frightening report on online dating and the single Jewish woman. Basically, men don't want serious relationships until they're in their 30s, which is when they start trying to pick up 20-something women. But women in their 20s are too focused on their careers to notice, so Jewish women don't get married. Yay! I have to say, on some level, this article is a complete condemnation of Jewish women. It paints us as hopelessly self-involved and uneducated about how to successfully form and nurture romantic attachments. There is a slight mention that men also contribute to the marriage shortage because the Internet allows them to stay single indefinitely (Why settle down when there's a whole catalogue of women to pursue?), but mostly the blame is placed on women not knowing what they want or how to go about getting it.

I think this may be an accurate portrayal of some women (I actually know middle-aged women who are like this); there are women who stay stuck in the same dead-end patterns of finding a mate because they focus on superficial details instead of substantive qualities. But the part of this that scares me is the hopelessness of the situation. For example, according to the article, men don't like women who are smarter or more ambitious and/or successful than they are. Great. As a highly-educated, ambitious woman, what am I supposed to do? Have a lobotomy? Not go to graduate school? Why is it always incumbent upon women to change--to dumb themselves down or sex themselves up--so as not to threaten the oh-so-delicate menfolk?

The article does make a good point: Women spend too much time in unpromising situations (I, for one, am extremely guilty of this). Women (and men) also tend to value the appearance of a relationship--What is his career? How much does he make?--and not how the relationship feels or how you interact. But I can't get over of the terrifying thought that, even if you don't care about these sorts of things, you're still doomed because men are babies. What's a girl to do, aside from date 30 year-olds?

Alright Internet, here's my list of adjectives (in no particular order) which, when strung together, hopefully describe an actual person: Practicing Jew, college-educated, stable, laid-back, communicative, understanding, good listener, non-smoker, driven, kind, funny, smart, patient, attentive, affectionate, self-confident, self-aware, engaging, feminist a huge plus. I don't care about career or income or taste in music or how close he is with his family or any of that malarkey, though I probably wouldn't have the patience to date an actor or a model. If it's not too much to ask, I'd also like it if he was at least 5'10", had a full head of dark hair, and a beard (I really like beards). And since I'm fantasizing anyway, I request Matthew Macfadyen as Mr. Darcy, but Jewish.

You want one true lover with a thousand kisses. Happy V-day, all! Does any holiday provoke as much angst as Valentine's Day? All that anxiety about finding a mate or pleasing your current mate, and the disappointment when none of it works out, can make you want to hide under your bed with a Whitman's Sampler and wait for it all to go away. Apparently, this is when people are at their most aggressive when trying to find a mate/date/one-night stand. No one wants to be alone on Valentine's Day. Except me; I really don't care. Why? Because I would rather be single on V-day than desperately trying to wrangle a date or convince my beau to romance me. Fuck it, I'll take the Whitman's Sampler and a good book over that kind of stress, thanks very much.

Also, I'm glad I'm not tangling with this type of bullshit. So funny! So pathetic! Hurrah for St. Valentine!

I don't care if you really care as long as you don't go. Yay! Another reason why dating is so perilous! As someone who is not so good at saying "Next," I can relate. Any of my friends will tell you that I accept way too much bad behavior as worth the price of admission. Though, I must admit, it scares me a bit that you can get dumped for no more legitimate reason than your basic existence irritating your partner. It makes me feel entirely awkward and destructively self-reflective. Boo. That said, I'm still having a blast.

Also, if you liked that article, may I recommend Jezebel's truly fantastic and hilarious series Crap Email from a Dude, in which real ladies send in real emails from real douchebags. The idea is that, contrary to social stereotypes, women aren't the only crazies out there because voila le bullshit from the mens.

So happy to be single, people!

I'll be always falling. Thanks to the Daily Intelligencer, I have stumbled upon the most hilarious and most upsetting article ever written about a pop culture phenomenon I didn't know about. Apparently I have been immune to Jake Ryan worship all these years, and I had no idea that there were so many women out there pining over this (For those of you who don't remember Jake, here's a nice YouTube tribute for you). Ladies, let's be honest: Jake Ryan doesn't have much of a personality. I agree that he's extremely kind and considerate, but my goodness is he wooden. What would you talk to him about besides beer, gym class, or his porsche? This is why I also don't agree with the Daily Intel's take on Dan Humphrey as the new Jake Ryan because Dan Humphrey, while also extremely kind and considerate, is so fucking self-righteous and faux-superior that I want to smack him off his high horse every time he opens his mouth.

Then again, I never was the girl fantasizing about prince charming. So, I leave it to all of you to pine and moon, and I'll be the cynic at the back of the bar.

Do you believe there's anything beyond troll-guy reality? Thanks, New York Times! Can we have more articles that deconstruct the selfish, heinous, inexplicably socially acceptable things men do? Pretty please with sugar on top?!

I hate to sleep alone. It's been a while since I posted a pearl of Dan Savage wisdom, but this week offers a truly wise nugget. I offer it as an addendum to this post from several years back. Luckily for me, some things have changed. Unluckily for the rest of the world, most men have not:

What's a good response to the extremely trite, cliched statement, "I'm not good at commitment?"

"Commit to pulling your dick out of me, then commit to getting the fuck out of my apartment."

Promiscuous girl, you're teasing me. If you're like me, and you find those surveys reporting that men have twice the average number of sex partners in a lifetime as women somewhat disconcerting, your suspicions have been confirmed. This somewhat hilarious piece from the "New York Times" claims that those studies which report that men have a median of seven female sex partners while women have a median of four male sex partners are mathematically impossible. It's pretty logical, if you think about it. I mean, what happened to those three extra women the men reported sleeping with? Does the average man buy prostitutes or sleep around? Or are men and women just using the "Rule of Three" so expertly explained in American Pie 2?

When asked, Ronald Graham, a professor of mathematics and computer science at the University of California, San Diego, positied that "Some might be imaginary. Maybe two are in the man’s mind and one really exists." I told you this was vaguely hilarious.

So sexy it hurts. I ask you, what's more frightening than Republicans procreating? I would also like to point out that most of the men they interviewed were smarmy, manipulative assholes. Go Blue!

With dead poets and drum machines. Countdown to Halloween continues here on the T.L., and the excitement is palpable! Oooh baby.

Did you ever notice how most greeting cards are either cloyingly sweet or snarky? There is never a greeting card that simply states "I love you" without including some saccarine poem about flowers and the ages or some ball-busting qualifier such as "but not as much as I love your money." I wonder why Americans are so reluctant to lay it out there. Maybe we're all just afraid to be vulnerable.

Well, fine then, if love is schmaltzy, then I am a malt ball. Or something. Whatever. Enjoy some candy.

I don't want to join your club. So, um, I actually have the poster Natalie is mocking here. As some of you may remember, it hung over my dorm closet back in my college days (sniff sniff). But, in my defense, I bought it at a time when my then-boyfriend was acting particularly heinous, and I needed an outlet for my male-centered anger. Uh, does that mean I suck less?

I didn't think so.

Going to the chapel. One of my co-workers just got married last week, and for the past six months all I've heard is wedding this and wedding that. Couple this with a new person I know getting engaged practically every other week, and weddings have seeped into my brain. I have actually started dreaming about weddings! Now, I'm in no way ready to get married, but I have unconsciously started planning mine. Good God, what is happening to me? Am I slowly becoming that girl, the one who has the whole party planned out before she even has a groom? If I do, you are all free to slap me.

However, to keep things in perspective, I present to you the winner of Slate's Unidentifiable Wedding Gifts Contest:



Seriously, who the fuck thought up a CONDOM VASE? If getting married means people buy you atrocious things like a CONDOM VASE, then I guess I will just have to be a spinster.

Is it still possible to be a spinster?

You're my number one. Today in Random But Fun Things on the Internet:

Dead Celebrity Soulmate Search! If only you lived in the past and had access to celebrities, you could have found your soulmate. How pointless! How fun! Apparently, in my past lives I was destined to be with silent film sensation Rudolph Valentino, Edgar Allen Poe, and Leonardo Da Vinci. Great. My past selves loved swarthy Italians, manic depressives, and gay men. Woot.

I'm the one who will shed this old skin. Many of you out there, for some inexplicable reason, do not read Savage Love, so it is my duty to show you what you are missing. I am posting the below because I really think it is some of the most sage advice I have ever encountered. This applies to certain of you out there in particular (I'm looking at you, Petit Morceau de Sel). Anyway, I hope you'll find it helpful and join me in the cult of Dan Savage worship.

I decided, at 12 years old, that pregnancy was not something I wanted to worry about, and now, at the ripe age of 26, I'm still a virgin. I exchanged oral favors with my boyfriends, none of whom lasted more than three months. Approximately half said they wanted more, and the other half were only settling for me until someone better came along. At 19, I figured out that it was a form of leading men on to date them, yet give them no chance of sleeping with me until some arbitrary future date when I was ready to have kids. So I took myself out of the game. I have not dated in six years. My self-imposed sexual isolation is complicated by the fact that I am now overweight and have abnormal hair growth. (I have to shave my face and chest daily.)

For years, my inner emotional life has been locked between aching loneliness and cold emptiness. My friends and my family, though warm and loving, are no longer enough. I want more, I want physical comfort and emotional gratification. I want sexual contact. But I just can't seem to get over my original reasoning and self-conscious body issues.

Of the columnists I've read, you are the bluntest. Help.

Frigid Frustrated Fool



The weight? Lose it. Join a gym, buy a bike, walk an hour a day. Move more, eat less—it ain't rocket science.

The hair? Lose it. Go to an electrologist or a laser-hair-removal joint and have your face and chest hair blasted away forever.

The self-pity? Lose it. While it sucks to be fat, FFF, you have to take responsibility for letting yourself get fat. (And, hey, some guys dig fat chicks.) While it sucks to have to shave your chest and face every day, FFF, there are worse physical challenges. (And, hey, some guys dig hairy chicks.) And while it sucks to be dumped, there's nothing spectacular about the dating misery you experienced as a teenager. Used? Dumped? Settled for? It happens to the best of us.

The 12-year-old? You need to murder that dumb cunt.

That sounds harsh, I realize, but I speak from experience. You see, FFF, I decided, at age 12, that parental disapproval, religious condemnation, and social ostracism were things I didn't want to worry about, so I resolved never to come out of the closet. Instead, I would learn how to become a priest or fuck girls, and I gave both options my best shot. (Hey there, Quigley Preparatory Seminary North! Hey there, Wanda!) But by age 26, FFF, I was out, my parents were over it, and I was living in Berlin with my first serious boyfriend. I couldn't have gotten the physical comfort and gratification that I ached for—to say nothing of the bruises and rope burns—if I hadn't wrapped my hands around the throat of that scared, pansy-assed, 12-year-old faggot and squeezed the life out of him.

Reading your letter, FFF, was like hearing from that 12-year-old faggot again. You made the same mistakes at 12 that I did, but whereas I wanted to avoid the potentially painful consequences of crushing disapproval, you wanted to avoid the potentially painful consequences of unplanned pregnancy. We both ran away from our desires in order to protect ourselves from the pain we feared. But our youthful attempts to avoid the possibility of pain by denying ourselves love and intimacy only succeeded in bringing down upon us the certain pain of aching loneliness and cold emptiness.

So, FFF, just as I had to get out there and risk being disowned by my family, getting tossed out of my church, and contracting a potentially fatal sexually transmitted disease in order to find physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual contact, you're going to have to get out there and risk getting pregnant, contracting diseases, and getting hurt to find the physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual contact that you need. There's no other way. Will you find love if you start taking risks? Maybe, maybe not. But I guarantee that you won't find love sitting on your ass in your apartment obsessing about pregnancy and downing pints of ice cream.

You can do this, FFF. If I could kill that scared 12-year-old fag, FFF, you can kill that dumb 12-year-old cunt. Just wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze.

She wants to move. As I'm sure many of you do, I get some pretty annoying SPAM mail. I never actually read any of it, but I've noticed that there are a few SPAMers out there who are really going that extra mile to entertain me with their witty SPAM names. Today I received one such SPAM titled "She wants a better sex? All you need's here." Now bad grammar aside, this made me laugh so hard. Why? Because I was immediately reminded of all those 19th century French novels I had to read which call a woman's reproductive organs "the sex." So basically this SPAM just asked if "she," whoever she may be, would like a better vagina. I assume this is for some sort of vagina accoutrement store...New Vaginas 'R' Us?

I have shamelessly used a run-of-the-mill SPAM e-mail as an excuse to put the word "vagina" to gratuitous use. It is all downhill from here.

Makes you want me now I've gone. Kosher condom, anyone?