by hannah
June 22nd, 2010
As a general rule: No, you should never “settle” when it comes to finding a lover, partner, boyfriend, or husband. You want someone that can satisfy you, is compatible with you, and that you’re attracted. But I totally understand where 37% of you are coming from, because at the opposite end of the settling spectrum is idealism, which can be just as destructive as settling as far as I’m concerned.
Let me give you an example. But first, a little background. In the Sex, Life, & Hannah series, Hannah has an older sister, Holly, who’s a bit of an intimidating force to be reckoned with (at least in Hannah’s mind). She ran off with their dad’s boss when she was 18, and then he croaked, and then…well let’s just say that Holly’s idea of settling has only to do with estate settlements.
In real life, I have a younger sister, Maggie, who’s a bit of a tortured artist. She’s a pianist, music composer, and likes to dress (and look up to) Elvira. She also has very rigid ideas about the “type” of guy she will date…
by hannah
June 10th, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 11: TALLER, PRETTIER, BUSTIER, CURVIER)
He has skin made of dark chocolate and muscles made from either good genetics, weight lifting, doing triathlons, or maybe…bar-backing.
I get a ping on my new Blackberry. It’s a text from Ireland: I had sex!
I smile, happy Ireland is finally getting some action. But my attention quickly turns back to…
He’s tall and smooth; an array of dreads fall just past his chin. He’s like Lenny Kravitz and Taye Diggs all mixed into one juicy love stick. I lower my sunglasses, my gaze skipping past the dazzle of the pool, to get the full effect—again.
“Lola has it all, doesn’t she?” I sip my Mai Tai, wondering when my über-rich paternal father I never knew will suddenly croak and leave me all his millions, including a vacation house in Maui. Then I could make passionate love with a Jamaican god on virgin white furniture in front of picture windows for days, maybe even weeks, on end.
I text Ireland: Wish I was having sex.
“I don’t know.” Jack responds from the lounge chair next to mine. “She looks like she’s put on a bit of weight.”
I adjust the extra-large sunglasses I purchased to cover as much of my healing (yet still not socially acceptable) face as possible, and look over at my best friend. He’s playing with his phone with one hand, popping bon bons with the other.
“Stop being bitter,” I say, disapprovingly. Jack retorts by shoving another chocolate-covered something into his mouth.
After Jack and I exchanged emotional hugs and kisses midway between our arrival gates at the Kahului Airport, we walked down to baggage claim, and Jack confessed he was having a hard time finding work.
Apparently, after Dr. Sanchez’ wife “forced” herself onto Jack (again), she started gloating about it to everyone—including Dr. Sanchez. Jack had managed to wedge himself—sexually and otherwise—into the middle of an ugly battle between the Sanchez’, and the gossip had spread like wildfire amongst the nouveaux riche of San Francisco. No one wanted to touch Jack with a ten-foot pole—or come within ten feet of touching his pole, for that matter. This had left Jack very stressed. And Jack deals with stress only one way: comfort food.
“Oh my god!” Jack yells out. “My popularity meter is at 2.6! I am so over!”
“What the hell is a popularity meter?” I scan my e-mail for anything non-work-related.
“It’s this new iPhone app that tallies all your texts and phone calls against how many people you have in your address book. This is such a disaster.” Jack licks what looks like pink caramel off his fingers as Lola struts over in her silver lamé bikini with her bon bon.
by hannah
May 27th, 2010
You know what? I’m calling your bluff this time around, ladies. Although I commend you for playing the I’m-stronger-than-my-gender-stereotype card and voting in favor of dumping the wishy-washy womanizer, I’m a little skeptical. Don’t get me wrong; I’m fully confident that you’re all competent women who can flip a U-turn on a dead-end fling (parallel parking, however, is a different story). But I’m willing to bet you’ve found yourself in the following scenario at least once:
You’ve been playing the field for quite some time, and have found yourself at a crossroad. Nick Niceman and Paul Player are two suitors who have captured your attention. Both are equally mind-blowing in bed, fun to talk to, and only slightly concerned by the array of phallic produce under your bed. Only one thing differentiates the dudes: Nick desires a relationship with you, and Paul just wants a regular bed buddy. Well, that makes things simple, right? Uh, wrong.
While Nick makes plans to meet your parents, travel to Europe, and go in on a pillow-top mattress together, you find yourself thinking of…Paul. You’re quite certain your parents wouldn’t like him. You wonder if he’s ever left Santa Monica, much less been to Europe. You know a pillow-top wouldn’t do much to help his back problem. And at every step of this thought process, you kick yourself, because you know the only thing Paul is thinking about is if you like it in the butt…
