Dear Loud Sneezer In My Office,
How are you? Good, I hope. I just wanted to bring something to your attention. Every time you sneeze, the air is momentarily sucked out of the office, and we are swallowed into your black hole of sound. Okay, so the “office” is a coffee shop and you and I just happen to use it every day as our home away from home; you’re doing whatever — a screenplay maybe? — while I’m plugging away on my freelance writing gigs. Or I’m trying to — but that SNEEZING! It’s so loud, my nervous system stops. I am startled to the point of duck and cover. When 99.9 percent of people in the world sneeze, I say “bless you” and move on with my life. But when you sneeze, I involuntarily shout out the word “NO!” Intellectually, I understand that you are performing a natural bodily function, but irrationally, I don’t understand. I say “NO!” because I am in shock. In shock that a human sneeze could be that loud. I’ve tried putting my headphones on, listening to Queen at top volume. I still hear you. Your bark sneezes cut through the noise like a sonic boom. There is only one solution, Loud Sneezer: You must lower the volume of your sneezes. (Or I must find another coffee shop/office to work, but really, I’d rather not. The scones here are good.) Keep reading »
By now, many of you may have read Vogue’s annual “Shape” issue and had some reaction to the story of Bea, a seven-year-old girl whose mother was intent on curing her “obesity,” which was, in reality, 16 extra pounds of baby fat.
“One day Bea came home from school in tears, confessing that a boy at school had called her fat. The incident crushed me, but it was a wake-up call. Being overweight is not a private struggle. Everyone can see it,” said Bea’s mother, Dara-Lynn Weiss.
Weiss immediately put Bea on a Weight Watchers-type diet designed for children. Reading this, I felt a familiar pang in my gut. I was also an overweight child who came home from school and complaining about being teased. It was fifth grade, and I was the new kid in school. I didn’t know I was overweight until one of the popular boys spit on my new pair of Vans and called me “fat ass.” The girls were even worse. They attacked me in the bathroom with a barrage of spitballs. I spent most of the school year alone, writing in my journal. There’s one heartbreaking entry I’ll never forget: Dear Diary, Please let me be popular. Please let me not be fat anymore.
Although I’ve moved on and healed from these experiences, which happened more than 20 years ago, it still hurts to write about them. They’re a reminder of how cruel people can be, perhaps without even meaning to. What’s more painful for me, though, is remembering how my mother reacted to these incidents. Keep reading »
You know that muscle in the middle of your forehead, right between your brows? The scowling muscle? Maybe you don’t. Maybe some people are blissfully unaware of their weird, clenchy forehead muscle.
Mine has always been overactive.
As a teenager, I always had this deep cleft of worry and contempt etched between my brows, even when I wasn’t angry. Sometimes, the spot would actually hurt from overuse. In my early twenties, it became more pronounced. The middle of my forehead would ache, and I would rub my fingers over it in circles, trying to relax it. Read more on The Gloss…
I am a very noisy lady … in the sack. My sex motto is “go loud or go home.” I realize that not everyone gets off on noisy sex, but for me, it is essential to my enjoyment. Screaming, moaning, dirty talk, or all of the above builds my mental and physical excitement during sex.
Keep reading »
It has been a big year for me. I switched jobs; I moved to another city; and finally removed myself from a lengthy and unhealthy relationship. I’ve always known that as one door closes, another one opens. And after going through that grueling breakup, I met and fell in love with the man of my dreams. Meeting “The One” — corny, yes, but bear with me — has been so rewarding and enlightening, especially given the stark contrast between him and my ex. The biggest difference: “The One” is a man, and my ex is a woman.
I met “Her” at work. Keep reading »
“It’s not really a shock.” When a famous person dies from causes related to drug or alcohol addiction, this, or something similar, is one of the more common responses people have. While there are plenty of crueler things people can and do say, this bored and blase lack of surprise over the death of a human being tends to bother me the most.
That is because my father is an addict. He’s been an addict my entire life. And to not be shocked by someone’s death at the hands of addiction would mean I would have to have to reached some sort of placid acceptance that my dad will also inevitably suffer the same fate — that his getting “better” is out of the question. Keep reading »
I’d had sex in cars, on floors, in the green grass. I’d had kinky sex, vanilla sex, drunk sex and stoned sex. I’d had sex with near strangers. I’d had sex with men I deeply loved. I’d had double-digit lovers in total. But I’d had never had sex in one of the most common configurations known to heterosexual copulators: the position known as “doggy style.”
It was the number one sexual position of my fantasies, which, admittedly, did not always include penetrative sex. But when they did, it was always from behind. Keep reading »
According to a new study done at Temple University, about 60 percent of women have faked it at some point. An orgasm that is.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t one of them. I fake it often.
The big mystery plaguing scientists is why? Why are women pretending to get off if we’re not? Originally, researchers believed it was to stroke the male ego, but this study found that our reasons for faking have more to do with us. Most women surveyed faked it to mask a fear of intimacy, to get sex over with, or to increase their own sexual satisfaction. Keep reading »
As I boarded the plane to Las Vegas, I vowed to keep the judgment to a minimum and the laughter to a maximum. I can endure anything for one weekend, I reasoned, taking comfort in the thought that there was no way my cousin’s bachelorette weekend could be as bad as the one in the film “Bridesmaids,” as long as I refrained from mixing pills and booze. I reminded myself why I was there: to celebrate the love in my cousin’s life.
I took an aisle seat next to one of the other bridesmaids, who looked remarkably like Heidi Montag, minus the size H breasts.
“So, are you dating anyone?” she asked, first thing after hello. Keep reading »
“Most unusual sexual experience?” I asked my man as I was straddling him in bed one evening. This may sound like a strange line of questioning, but we like to give each other intimate interviews. It is part of our oddly arousing foreplay.
“A squirter,” he answered.
“Really!?’ I asked, as if he were telling me he sees dead people.
“Yeah, every single time we did it, she squirted.” Keep reading »