Via VeryShortList: A group of geneticists at Penn State have found that male mice that are made to cohabitate with female mice exhibit “manlier” physiological traits — such as higher testosterone levels and longer periods of fertility — than mice made to fly solo.

The study’s abstract states that the findings “have significant implications for the maintenance of male fertility in wildlife, livestock and human populations.”

Who do ya think is rejoicing in this bit of knowledge more: pregnancy-fixated women or certified lifetime bachelors?

We trendsniffing BGers have pointed out lots of the ink that’s been spilled over Depression 2.0 and how it’s affecting the coupled-up:  They’re having hope sex! They’re having no sex! They’re bemoaning lost billions! They’re the bargain-hunting betrothed!

And we thought the worst of it was the stories of divorced couples who’ve had to continue cohabitating in their homes lest they lose a bundle on the surreal estate market. But the Debbie Downers over at Alternet have hit upon something just as sucky: the increased likelihood of singles having platonic roommates well past their age-appropriate 20s and early 30s. Possibly even (dum-da-dum-dum!) for liiiiife!

And I read: “For many urban professionals — despite having a good job and a college education — the American dream has been seriously downsized. Instead of hungering for the house with the white picket fence, they fantasize of one day renting an apartment with no one else’s milk in their fridge.”

While the story cites historical contexts for the rise in roommate-dom — everything from the invention of TV dinners  to the rise of women in the workplace — writer Nan Mooney really hits the nail on the head re: just what it is about being a grown man/woman with a roomie that makes one self-loathe:

“But at what point does having a roommate contribute to the fact that we’re still single and lonely? It’s all too easy to get stuck in that twentysomething, no plans, no worries, no furniture kind of lifestyle. The one where you go out for beers with your buddies every Friday night, crash on your futon and never get around to saving for retirement or contemplating a more permanent relationship.”

And, even more bitingly: “It can be hard to cultivate intimacy with someone when there’s a third party on the couch watching Jon Stewart. By our 30s and 40s, many of us are looking for either independence or intimacy instead of some limbo between the two.”

Thus my much-self-ballyhooed quest to “get New York-married” continues. Having become roommated in late ’08 at the age of 34, for the first time since college, I admit that this article has sent a shockwave through my social life. Not sure what to do yet, but I sure know where not to go looking…

Via Boing Boing: A new dating site for the terminally ill called Till Death Do Us Part. Though there’s a bit of gallows humor, it does not appear to be a hoax; also does not appear to have tons of members (yet?).

As marketing director Joseph DiAngelo said in a press release, “This site is designed to cut through the superficiality and embrace issues we think are most meaningful — the desire and need for understanding, compassion, empathy and comfort between human beings facing their greatest challenge.”

My immediate response: “Wow, what a wonderful idea, compassionate and… pragmatic. No one should feel like they can’t meet a mate. No one should feel like they have to be alone.” It reminded me of my dear, terminally ill friend who said her first thoughts when she heard the doctor’s bad news were: “Who will want me now? Who can love me? Will I have to die alone?”

So I think this service is a good thing. I mean … right?

Then again …

What about all the nasty ways scammers can get to these vulnerable people who brave putting themselves out there?

What about death groupies and fakers? (Two words: Fight Club.)

What about gold diggers who aspire to be merry widow(ers)?

What about the terminally ill being ghettoized into “their own website”? It’s not necessarily as if “no one else will have them.”

The truth is, my terminally ill friend is far braver than I. She’d probably say hey, nothing good comes without risk (and: hey, people like me already know all about scammers and weirdos). Perhaps at very least — regardless of what one thinks of this site — it might remind the hale and hearty among us to joke a little less flippantly about “dying alone.”

What happened to hope sex?

A new poll by The Daily Beast seems to indicate that Americans don’t actually believe “All You Need Is Love.” With everyone suffering in the new economy, they’re not going out on dates, or taking the next big economy-pumping steps like getting married, taking vacations, moving in together, having babies (in whatever order).

In fact, people who took the poll reported more fighting with their mate, having less sex, and being more careful with their birth control. Couples even report staying together to avoid the expense of a breakup, because of the cost of moving and paying separate rents, child support or alimony. (Women almost always suffer a huge drop in the quality of living post-split.)

Eesh. So bleak.

People are hunkering down. As they should. But I’m still an optimist. I hope (there’s that word again) that thrift is the new normal and that people won’t feel ashamed or awkward if they have no cash to flash.

Make special dinners at home? Play those old games you had to have and then forgot about (eh hem, Wii much?), have friends over, go for walks, share books, Google “free condoms,” watch movies and TV online.

Remember when you first liked someone (friend or more) and it didn’t matter what you did together? Their time and effort mattered more than anything else (well, unless you really are that kind of girl). In the new economy, a link to a personally chosen movie on Hulu should be worth more than expensive flowers that die and an argument about money that doesn’t.

They compared notes on their AP classes. He knocked her cavalry into the ocean. Their first date was at a book fair…Wii controllers topped their wedding cake. Monday’s Chicago Sun-Times tells the story of these — and other — geeks in love, all of whom met through Chicago singles group Nerds at Heart. By way of context, the piece notes correctly (though belatedly) that “niche dating — narrowing down prospects according to religion, say, or ethnicity — is on the rise, judging from the evidence online.” But what it glosses over is the fact that so many inherently, gloriously nerdy pursuits — multi-player games, sci-fi conventions, space travel — are inherently social. Groups like Nerds at Heart are great; may they proliferate like fractals in ChaosPro. But it’s not like geeks need them in order to get out.

Via The Daily Beast:

When comic-book fans last saw Bruce Wayne, a.k.a. Batman, he was pushed from a speeding jet without his cape or face mask and was presumed to be dead. The Independent reports now on his replacement — Batwoman, a.k.a. Kathy Kane…[whose] debut marks a cultural landmark for the gay rights movement and is part of DC Comics’ concerted effort to introduce an ethnically and sexually diverse range of characters. “We’ve been waiting to unlock her. It’s long overdue,” said writer Greg Rucka. “Yes, she’s a lesbian. She’s also a redhead. It is an element of her character. It is not her character. If people are going to have problems with it, that’s their issue.”

Speaking of issues, Batwoman will be the subject of at least 12.

Today’s New York Post reports that — given the unhappy marriage of Valentine’s Day and economic downturn — the number of Internet searches for “cheap engagement rings” has gone through the roof. Perhaps would-be knee-benders should also consider recycling?

Sold! Check out Super in the City by FOBG Daphne Uviller:

In a city brimming with opportunities for heroism, twenty-seven-year-old Zephyr Zuckerman has often fantasized about committing acts of bravery that would make front-page news. Now she may get her big break — though it may require plunging a few toilets. When the superintendent of her parents’ Greenwich Village brownstone is led away in handcuffs, unemployed Zephyr takes over his post and unleashes her inner sleuth. As she discovers titillating secrets about her tenants, she finds herself with a new reality far more intriguing than her imagination.

Soon, Zephyr has sussed out wrongs that stretch from losers on the Internet to art fraud and an international crime ring. The mob thinks she’s in the FBI, and the FBI thinks she’s in the mob — a predicament she needs to clear up fast. But perhaps not before a cute, surly exterminator helps her solve the mystery of what to do with the rest of her life.

Zagat, “famous” for their “indispensable” restaurant guides featuring “trademark burgundy covers” and “bajillions” of “non-ironic quotation marks,” is hopping from the barroom to the bedroom with their New York City Dating (And Dumping) Guide. Like all their books, the information is compiled through reader surveys. So what do the people of NYC say about dating in NYC? Jennifer 8. has the stats.

• Only 2 percent (thankfully!) would ask someone out on a first date via text, but as many as 10 percent would break up that way (ouch).
• 2 percent is also the number of people who would actually burn the things their ex left behind.
• Less than half would date someone outside of the NYC metro area, while sweeping majorities would look beyond race, religion or economic bracket.
• 60 percent of New Yorkers said the guy should pay on the first date (compared to 40 percent in Los Angeles).

My sister called me to rant about her ex deleting her as a friend on Facebook. She asked me to check and see if he deleted me too.”Why do you care? You broke up with him. And I’m at work; I don’t have time for this.”

Not the response she wanted. Click. For the record, she’s the older sister.

I then checked my Google reader (because there’s always time for that at work) and saw this in my feed of the New York Times most e-mailed articles.

I sent the link to my sister, telling her she was probably sacrificed in a reckless moment of hunger, when her ex had a severe craving for a Whopper.