Remember when you were a kid and you couldn’t wait to get older? Whether it was a driver’s license, an ID that let you drink legally, or your own grown-up apartment, being older just seemed so much more glamorous. So mature.
Then at some point all the good parts about aging start to fall to the wayside. Instead of reaching maturity, you find yourself reaching for a box of Feria to cover the gray hair you just discovered. That ID you were once so happy to flash becomes a source of embarrassment as you realize the doorman is giving you the “this bitch is bringing down our cool-factor” face. The worst part—people no longer look surprised when you tell them your age.
Gulp. Keep reading »
At a long-ago birthday party, my cartoonist friend Peter gave me a framed piece of his artwork. As he handed it over, he said, “This is for you, so no matter what happens with him, it’s yours.” At the time I thought it was weird. After all, my boyfriend and I were never ever going to break up.
When my boyfriend dumped me a few months later, Peter’s painting was the first thing I packed.
Though The New York Post recently ran a story about couples signing “pre-prenups” before marriage is even on the table, most cohabiting, or even co-existing, couples don’t bother. I mean, if it’s legalities you want, either get married or go down to City Hall and register as domestic partners.
And besides, without kids or shared property, what’s the law going to do for you? Gifts are one thing, but what of the random detritus that gets left behind? Is Johnny Law really going to help you get your Ramones shirt back? Probably not. So most couples figure this stuff out themselves. Keep reading »
Second only to his inexplicable ardor for overhead lighting, my boyfriend Spyro’s extreme loathing for travel is probably our number-one topic of, uh, discussion.
I love to travel and I’m not picky—I’ll go pretty much anywhere my credit cards can afford to take me. Once I decide where I’m going, I carefully research the best deals, amp up my excitement with guidebooks and daily internet searches, and so by the day I split town, I’m in a happy tizzy. I carefully pack the night before and make sure I’m at the airport two hours ahead of time so I can get in a quick pre-boarding glass of wine and maybe a little duty-free shopping. Keep reading »
The first time someone tried to rob me, it was four in the morning. I was in a desolate part of town, I was tipsy, and it was my birthday. A guy came up from behind my sister and me and tried to grab her purse. Without even thinking, I grabbed it back and screamed, “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Expecting an easy grab-and-go, the guy freaked out, turned and ran. I took off after him, intent on beating the crap out of him. At precisely the same moment, we both realized he was twice my size. He turned towards me and I high-tailed it back down the street, shrieking like the scaredy cat I am.
Now if I had to advise someone what to do if a big guy tries to rob them, threatening death and chasing him would not even be in my top five suggestions. But my beer-addled nervous system threw my body first into fight, and then into flight. (Thank God!)
There comes a time in just about every relationship where you get so angry at the other person, you’re not sure whether you should stay and duke it out (figuratively, of course), or throw in the towel and cut your losses. Keep reading »
When I read the gossip about Vanessa Paradis allegedly feeling so threatened by her man Johnny Depp’s upcoming on-screen sex scene with Angelina Jolie that she “forbade” him to take part in it, I rolled my eyes. Yeah, right.
My boyfriend, however, didn’t think this was a ridiculous rumor at all. “I think she’s being smart,” he said. Huh? Like Angelina Jolie is this all-powerful sex monster that zaps men of their free will and judgment, rendering them helpless at her feet, regardless of how attached and in love they might be?
I raised an eyebrow.
“It’s Angelina Jolie,” he insisted (emphasis his). Well, I see how long I’d last if my man were to come face-to-boobie with Ms. Jolie. Keep reading »
When John Mayer’s supremely ignorant Playboy interview hit the wires, I, like most people, was appalled. Not just by his idiotic racism, but by the way he spoke about his exes. I mean, the dude compared Jessica Simpson to crack! Said she was like “sexual napalm!” What a jerk! I mean, how indiscreet!
I watched Jessica Simpson tell Oprah that no, she hadn’t forgiven him for his big fat mouth and was disappointed that he’d sunk so low. I harrumphed, “You go, Jessica!” as I high-fived my TV screen.
Then I recalled how many times I’d blabbed about exes. I’ve been writing about relationships, often my own, for the past 10 years. In that time, I’ve done some serious dishing—and dissing. The truth is, most of my recountings were far less flattering than what John had to say about Jessica.
My name is Judy and I am a hypocrite. Keep reading »