I never thought it would get this serious. First it was an after-work thing. Then it was weekends. Eventually we were seeing each other anytime I had two hours to spare. This is the story of how I fell in love with Netflix. Keep reading »
This November, I’m moving in with my boyfriend, and it will be my third time living with a significant other. Needless to say, the first two times didn’t work out. At 22, my first love moved into my already furnished apartment; we split soon after. Later, at 25, my ex and I signed a lease for a one-bedroom in upper Manhattan. We had basically no furniture, so we embarked on an adventure to the Ikea in Paramus, New Jersey. That was the beginning of our demise. Keep reading »
Monday was my birthday. I turned 28. That would have sounded old to me when I was in college or even as recently as when I was 26. Today, it sounds perfect—young, in fact, and exactly where I want to be. During lunch on my birthday, I took a walk near Central Park and got to thinking about how much my outlook has changed and the route that got me here.
Two years ago this June, my whole world turned upside down. During the course of a few weeks, my boyfriend of over three years broke up with me, I had to find a new apartment (a result of the breakup), and I started my first full-time job in New York City. Since I’d allowed my world to revolve around him, I had very few friends in the city. The friends I did have were so amazing that it still makes me cry in gratitude; nonetheless, this was a breakup of ugly proportions—one that involved a lease, money, each other’s families and the kind of shattered expectations that led to deep bouts of pessimism, sadness, fear and nostalgia. Keep reading »
There comes a point in every relationship when two people become so cozy together that they start to create their own private, little world. One person’s neck becomes a perfume shop, a place where you could bury your nose for hours. The other’s chest becomes a bedroom piece as essential to sleeping as the bed itself. This list could go on; this list could get dirty. But perhaps what’s most notable about the birth of your tiny couple nation is the genesis of your own tonally driven dialect of sweet, soothing sayings, otherwise known as baby talk.
Of course, baby talk should never be used within earshot of anyone other than your partner. (If you do happen to employ baby talk outside of state lines, you should be immediately deported.) When used in the confines of your relationship, though, it can be a really positive thing—until you overdo it, and the sweetness turns sour. Keep reading »
Alright, truth time. How many of you have faked it, and how often? Maybe it was just that one time—you were caught up in a moment or had a one-night stand gone awry. Maybe you’re nervous about that hot new guy you’re dating and figure you’ll just fake it at the beginning, so that he doesn’t think the sex sucks and leave. Or maybe you’re in a steady relationship or married, and you fake it all the time because you, rationalizing from a very warm and loving place, don’t want to bruise your significant other’s ego. Maybe you think a synthetic “O” is the best way to keep the peace, you’re too shy to say what you want, or you’re just tired from a long day’s work and want to get it over with.
Not to be pushy or anything, but it’s really important that we stop. Keep reading »
A few weeks ago I found myself in a peculiar situation. But first, let me give you some background.
I live in New York City but grew up in Akron, Ohio, which is located in a region where landscapes switch between cement tundra and golden cornfields as quickly as one pop song flips to the next on your car radio. In a way, this is emblematic of the people who reside or have resided there: we shift easily between modern-liberal and traditional-conservative thought (hence, a swing state). In my 27 years, I’ve seen this dichotomy play out in two key scenarios: the presidential election of 2004 and a recent trip home to attend my first non-family member baby shower. Keep reading »
Most mornings, I wake up, throw on some tights and a comfy dress, hop on the train to work and zone out to the same songs I always listen to on my iPod.
Other mornings, I wake up with trumpets in my ears, eager to break free from the quotidian rat race and wondering how I could make this day better than all the rest. The solution usually involves eating beets, calling my sister to chat or buying a plane ticket. But lately, I fear only one thing will release that burgeoning Whitman yawp: my G-spot. Keep reading »
Seven years ago, I was doing an internship in Mexico and attempting proficiency in Spanish. One night at a club with some friends, I nearly broke my face after slipping on the booze-soaked floor. Had I been with English-speaking friends, I would have dusted myself off and uttered with a sly smile, “Well, that was embarrassing.” Instead, I looked at my Mexican buds and pooed a clumsy “Estoy embarazada.” Their jaws dropped. I’d forgotten for a moment that “embarazada” does not mean “embarrassed.” It means “pregnant.”
It’s hard to be cool in your second language. But it’s even harder to be sexy. Keep reading »
I went off birth control and got a ParaGard IUD. Now I’m horny, like, all the time. When I wake up next to my boyfriend, forget it—we’re barely getting to work on time. If he emails me during work, I need two minutes to regain my focus. After work … well, you get the idea. Spending eight years on the pill and then bidding it adieu has led me to a sexual renaissance. It’s puberty all over again, only now I’m 27 and have enough experience to appreciate my freer-flowing juices. Keep reading »
When I was 19, I fell in love. He was small but mighty, a cheap date in those days, easy to swallow at any kegger and, most importantly, eased my mind. His name was Ortho. We just broke up.
My relationship with the birth control pill lasted eight years. I never got pregnant, and despite a few blips during the dark days of no insurance, it was relatively easy to acquire. If my calculations are correct, I ingested over 2,000 of those suckers. Keep reading »