You’re off on a romantic ski weekend. You’ve never skied, or you’re not very good, but your chivalrous man-toy has promised to teach you. You’ve zipped your butt into a brand new pair of powder-blue skin-tight pants, your eyeliner is perfect and you’ve bought the perfect pair of goggles to wear on your helmet: this is going to be baller. Keep reading »
Facebook is overrun with pictures of baby bumps or “side belly cleavage,” as I like to call it, originating with women announcing their journey from TTC (trying to conceive) to TWW (two-week window after ovulation) to Chosen Ones With Tiny John McCains in Their Bellies. As friends, we’re overjoyed when we see these in our feed, obviously, because we’re all going to get free baby lessons once our friends duplicate (this is the correct terminology, right?).
There is a contingent of people who find the public baby bump pics, ultrasound avatars, or photographs of loaf of bread in the oven a little smug. But my key objection is the sheer lack of originality. Your ovaries spit out an egg that caught the flying shuttlecock of your mate mid-Fallopian tube — that is some world-class tennis you’re playing, lady! Your prowess in implanting a fertilized embryo deserves something a little more personalized.
If you’ve received the lucky news that you’re adding an initial to your Pottery Barn towels, tell your friends and family one of these fun ways: Keep reading »
High on my list of lifetime headdesks is a morning on which I set off to “sweep” a terrain park on a mountain to declare it open and I suddenly needed to pee. I was a ski patroller, wearing the heroic black bib and brace with the yellow medical cross on my back, so I skied under the ropeline, past the “closed” sign, and traversed past the ski jumps to take a piss. I had my suspenders and pants down around my ankles when I heard the telltale crunch of a snowboarder grinding to a halt just above me. His face dropped as we locked eyes. He mouthed a silent “fuck,” then kicked the board to face down the hill and took off.
Dear all: You do not beat a ski patroller down a hill. I yanked my pants up and skated after him, cranking my best G.S. technique until I cut him off. “Did you ski under a closed ropeline?!” I asked him rhetorically. “DO YOU SEE WHY THIS RUN WAS CLOSED?” He hung his head silently. “SHOULD ANYONE HAVE TO SEE WHAT YOU HAD TO SEE??” He shook his head. This was an existential question; he understood. I let him go. So many people saw my butt during my ski days. It was the peeing. Peeing in storm-force winds, peeing on 30-degree slopes, peeing as tourists in jeans whizzed by. Some of the most difficult peeing of my life, really. Keep reading »
Realistic marriages have little real estate on television, and feminist marriages even less. “Mad Men” and “The Sopranos” were studies of estrangement; “Breaking Bad” of spousal abuse. On “Friends,” marriage meant banishment forever on to the suburbs.
Imagine my excitement, then, on chipping my way into the first DVD set of “Borgen” — the so-called ‘Danish West Wing’ — and finding a perfectly preserved companion marriage. The show centers on Denmark’s first female prime minister, the charismatic Birgitte Nyborg Christensen, flanked on one side by her supportive husband Philip (Mikael Birkkjær) and children, and on the other by a fickle coalition government. Keep reading »