I’ve been seeing a guy, who I will refer to as “Prada,” for about a month and a half. I had suspected as much earlier, but the other night I discovered for sure — when Prada showed up with half of his beautiful hair missing and the surviving members fashioned into a really dopey-looking bowl cut — that I had only been attracted to him because I thought he was outstandingly good-looking. Sitting across from him that night, minus the “dang, you are just so SO fine” haze, I became bothered by the fact that Prada has never really made me laugh, that he name-drops like crazy, that repeats the same stories constantly, and that he’s just not that interesting to talk to, all things I had been conveniently ignoring in order to repeatedly enjoy the pleasure of having him decorate my arm.

The relationship is pretty low-key; there have been no discussions about commitment or the long term, but I know he likes me quite a bit and expects that I’ll be around for a while longer. I went with him to a party this Saturday after having my epiphany, and I wasn’t very nice — not mean, just not as warm to him, and I haven’t been returning his calls as often, and I’m certain he’s noticed. I need to say something now, but everything I work out in my head sounds so lame and insincere. So how do I break it off with this guy who is not my boyfriend, who is incredibly nice, while avoiding all the break up clichés and saving as many hurt feelings as possible?

Signed,
A Stranger

This is soooo long and I’m soooo sorry, but I feel better just having written
it.

I have a problem involving things that, less than a year ago, I would have
killed to have problems with. We’re talking professionalism, principles, and
whether making a Hollywood-like gesture is really worthwhile. Now, these
collective crises are giving me serious anxiety.

Six months ago, I was hired by a brand new local lifestyle magazine about
three months before the premier issue hit complimentary newsstands. I was
fully one third of the full-time creative team: in the office were the
Publisher-Editor (for the words), the Creative Director (for the look), and me
(for the learning). I gradually learned that the money came from elsewhere,
silent partners who rarely showed themselves and wanted none of the limelight.

Great gig, right? Even better, the experience has been invaluable. Despite no
previous professional positions in this area, I was given opportunities to
write, proofread, edit, and brainstorm creative ideas in a manner that
directly affected the magazine itself. I also fetched lunches, answered
phones, and couriered things, but absolutely no complaint there. The mag came
out, it was beautiful, it won awards, I kept writing, people (the other two-
thirds mainly among them) praised me, everything was great.

Then, about two months ago, things began to change. Almost imperceptibly at
first, but oh, for those days. The Money, a European couple with other
businesses involving wine and gaudy jewelry, came back from their summering in
France, hired themselves a financial advisor and an executive assistant, and
took up office a few blocks away from our modest magazine dealings, all under
the guise of managing their own collective dealings and “aiding” our
overworked trio with annoying things like accounting.

But oh, Sars, now it’s horrible. After working for four months for a magazine
that touted itself as “younger and hipper” than the old, rich, white
stereotype for the area, the Money (old, rich, and white themselves) took
over. They demanded that our second issue have a painful article on a
blatantly socialite home wine-tasting featuring (guess who!) the Money and
their wines. Nothing to be done. And it gets worse, so much worse. Things
change in the Other Office on syphilis-induced whims with no concern for how
they actually affect those of us who have to work on the magazine: editorial
profiles (Q&As on “interesting, passionate” people in the area) will now only
be given to people who have taken out full-page ads (never mind the
INTERESTING non-advertisers we’d already planned on featuring); fits are
thrown when particular items don’t make it into editorial photo shoots because
said items are on loan from potential advertisers; and two days before the mag
is due at the printer, we’re told that we’re not allowed to run pictures of
people in t-shirts for one article on a ROADSIDE ATTRACTION, that our Creative
Director is to design several more ads (FREE ads given to friends of the
Money) on top of LAYING OUT THE MAGAZINE, that we’re not actually allowed to
run one of our primary columns, and that our Publisher-Editor third is now
just “Editor” as punishment for “pissing away money.”

I don’t know what to do, I’ve never known such stupidity, such absence of
consideration. We did a series of swimsuit shoots using FREE models, FREE make-
up, and loyal photographers who were working for less than what they’d spend
on film and developing, only to hear that we’re “pissing away money.” Power
has been completely usurped by people who have spent less than ten hours total
in our working environment. Things that are worked through in damage-control
meetings have been completely disregarded as though they never happened. I
really think the Money may be loony.

Our poor editor has been blamed for an optimistic business plan (she’s not a
business specialist; we’re above average for a start-up, but still under her
estimations); she has been guilt-tripped time and time again, brought to tears
for the lack of two-way communication, and been held constantly responsible
for things outside of her control (like, for instance, the weather on a photo-
shoot) and things that are in all reality the fault, problem, or
misunderstanding of the Money, as well as screamed at for new rules that were
made without her being told. And for these things she has lost her title as
Publisher, as well as her 20-percent share in the company, and is being paid in
personal checks from the Money; easy to cut off, I suppose, but totally under
the table and, um, ILLEGAL.

So, in two days we will send our third issue to the printer. The editorial
profiles are all advertisers, the roadside attraction is not pictured with t-
shirt-wearers, the masthead will list the Money as publisher and the financial
advisor as COO, and the “Team” page will feature three pictures: the COO, the
executive assistant, and a new advertising executive who has never set foot in
our office.

It’s not like we couldn’t work with a budget — that would be easy. Instead we
have been and are being bullied by artistically naïve, abusive social
muggers. The next step? They’re taking away our office and making us move into
theirs, where, I’m sure, we will be subject to their ever-present lunacy and
our ideas will be made completely void.

I understand that stupid people are part of life, and, more importantly, part
of building a career, but is there an extent to the level of stupidity that
can and should be endured?

So here’s the question: Well, what do I do? This may still be a great
opportunity for experience, albeit with considerably less artistic merit than
before. If I quit, I could very well spend another year (at the very least)
doing nothing in my field, or my field of interest. Or I could leave, with the
odd new sensation of sticking up for my principles, or at least being a tiny
little pain in the ass of the people who seriously annoy me, people who seem
to have unresolvable mental problems. I’ve been good at swallowing pills all
my life, but this is the first time I’ve felt 1) helpless and 2) that the
pills were actually inept, inconsiderate, bad people. There’s a pretty good
chance that, if we three do not walk off as a team (and considering our
editor’s involvement, that probably won’t happen as I’d like), I could just
suck it up. But what do you think? As a person, and as a person in a career
somewhat related to this, can you tell me how to decide between philosophical
ideals and practical professionalism (at such extremes)? Is this par for the
course? If it is, this is quite the fire under my ass to take the GRE. Given
the lack of effect verbal communication has had in the past, should I just
throw a fit, throw a punch or two, and turn in my application to Target?

Sincerely,
Burning

I have been married for three and a half years to a wonderful man, a
brilliant, funny, but difficult soul who is my polar opposite in many ways,
but we fit together beautifully. Most of the time.

Before he met me, The
Husband made loads of money doing a very high-stress job in a very
specialized field, working in a sometimes dangerous Third World country.
When I first met The Husband through a friend, he was still doing this job,
and just flying into our city every few months for a couple of weeks at a
time. We started a long-distance relationship that lasted a year or so
before he left that job under great duress. Without going into too many
details, he had a massive nervous breakdown and went a little loony (I’m not
being cruel; it’s his phrase, and we laugh — gently — about it now). I
quite literally nursed him through it over a period of months, and then he
took another, safer, job in an American city, on the condition that I would
move with him. It was a three-thousand-mile move for me, and a change of
countries (I’m Canadian). But I did it, although it was difficult for me to
leave my friends and my fabulous life. But as I’m a writer, I didn’t think
it would be the most difficult thing to pick up and move. But it was.

Anyway. We’re back in Canada now, he’s got a great job, and I’m doing okay
in my career. But here’s the thing: his will.

I want you to understand, deciding to marry this man had nothing to do with
his having money. Most of the men I’ve been with, including a seven-year
live-in relationship prior to this, have been broke-artist types.
While money is a nice thing, and I can’t say I don’t like the security, it’s
not how I’ve made too many of my major life decisions. And we don’t live
high off the hog; we’re still in the great old rent-controlled apartment
I’ve had for twelve years (and kept when I moved away for a year with him),
and I’m not exactly J.Lo-esque in my shopping habits. But in my husband’s
will, which he’s showed me, he leaves half of his money to me and half to
his four siblings and widowed mother — all of whom are doctors and lawyers,
and his mother is a multi-millionaire real estate agent. The will further
stipulates that if my husband and I have a child (which we’re trying for), I
then will get get three-quarters of his estate.

Obviously, my husband can do with his money whatever he likes. Most of that
money was earned before I came on the scene. But it hurts me a little —
he’s not close to his family at all, and with the bipolar disorder and
depression he goes through, I really and truly have my hands full. He knows
he’s difficult — we went to a therapist together a couple of years ago who
ended up telling me that she thought I’d have to leave him. I won’t go into
more details, but take my word for it. I guess I always thought that once
you marry or otherwise hook up with someone, that person is your primary
family. Not that I think he shouldn’t take care of family if needed, or
that they shouldn’t get anything in his will. But half? Especially when
they’re all pretty well-off themselves, and I’m a struggling writer?

I realize this sounds grasping and petty, and it really only enters my mind
once every few months or so. I mentioned it once, in a joking way when we
were on holiday and had had a few cocktails, and he got a funny look and
said that his family had been with him for thirty-odd years and I’d only
been there for five, or whatever. I dropped it, but it rankles.

Am I being petty and I should just forget about it? Or should I find a way
(help me?) to make him understand how I feel without feeling like Anna
Nicole Smith? (Really, it’s not that much money — not enough to live on for
the rest of your life unless you live in an old farmhouse in the middle of
Saskatchewan, don’t drink alcohol, and count network television as your only
entertainment.)

What would Sars do?

Cheers —
Anti-Anna Nicole

I have a rather calm, serious demeanor. That’s just another way of saying I’ve been in a major depression for the last 33 years or so. So, I don’t normally go around grinning like a fool for no apparent reason. Yet I’m frequently barraged by presumably well-meaning people who urge me to “Smile! It can’t be all that bad!” or who inform me that it takes 43 muscles to frown but only 17 to smile. This usually happens when I’m focused on work, or concentrating on something, or just walking down the hall at work (wearing a neutral expression). Their unsolicited comments only result in me narrowing my eyes to slits and frowning even harder at the offending person. I’ve tried explaining that my normal visage just doesn’t include a huge, tooth-baring grin, but that usually just deteriorates into an inane argument concerning why they think I should go around with a smile pasted onto my face.

What’s an effective reply to exhortations to “Smile!” that won’t piss off the person in question but will let him know that his comment isn’t welcome?

Thanks,
Smiling on the inside

Friday, a couple of friends of mine and I go out to a bar at which we are
semi-regulars. The evening develops, and friends go off into their own little
world, which is fine because I wind up kind of hitting it off with the
woman sitting next to me, and thus a fine time is had by all. Pass on to
Sunday, I call, we make plans, and I have a date in about four hours (and I
don’t have any good way of getting out of it, and I’m not even sure I
want to). All is right with the world, you say.

Okay, along comes last night. I go to the housewarming of a different
friend.
I mix. I mingle. I’m having a fine time. And (you knew this was
coming) I wind up talking to, and becoming ever more smitten with, a
different woman. We chat, we walk each other to the train, we make out
for a few minutes before heading our separate ways. Also by itself a
fine thing.

The confluence of these two events is kind of a problem, though. (And,
briefly, why is it that I can go five months with nary a hint of mutual
interest from anyone, and then I meet two people in the course of a week?
Still, I cope. There are likely worse things.) Obviously, I can’t pursue
both of these women, cause I’m not an asshole. So here are my questions.

Somehow, I’ve managed to live twenty-six years without once having to say anything
to someone after the first (or second or third, for that matter) date.
Either things worked, the date was a disaster of sufficient proportion that
words were unnecessary, the other person did the heavy lifting, or we
ended up living together and sharing checking accounts — that is, in a
relationship. I know how to break up with someone you’ve been living with
and share a checking account with, but somehow those skills seem like
they’d be misapplied in this case. So, yeah. It’s a stupid question, but —
help.

Second, have I already been an asshole? I had a date the next day; should
I have just left Girl B alone and said to myself, maybe we’ll meet again
when we’re both available? But, I mean, I’m not unavailable. I’m sure
you can’t cheat on someone until you’ve gone on a date, right? Actually,
I’m not at all sure. My Irish-Catholic conscience is sending me
conflicting messages, but the general theme seems to be that I should
not have have spoken to Girl B, that I’m an asshole already, and also,
celibacy. And I could have scammed my way out of the date, if I’d woken
this morning with certainty in my heart, but instead I’m waffling and
sending pleas for aid to internet advice columnists.

I’m sorry that this is so self-indulgent. This is simply not the sort of
problem that should happen in the life of a man who collected
Robotech action figures in high school, nor to engineers, and I’m both.
I’m finding it difficult to display sufficent adaptability.

26 years old and no less a dipshit