I recognized her immediately: the soft, brown golden retriever-like eyes that turned down at the corners, the blonde, slightly over-processed hair and tan skin with a smattering of freckles that betrayed her Southern sorority girl roots despite her New York fashion girl get-up.
It was 2010 and I was working behind the cheese counter at a shop in the Chelsea Market. And she was … well, obviously doing well enough to spend $30 a pound on farmstead cheese. As I stumbled to weigh out her dainty wedge of artisan sheep’s milk, flustered and flushed, I felt a strange surge of vindication that twisted and wrapped around a twin, slightly nauseating feeling of anxious jealousy like some cruel double helix.
We had never met in person but I could have spotted her a mile away. And here she was, smiling obliviously at me across the refrigerated case as I swaddled her Manchego in butcher paper. Her credit card confirmed the name I had come to know and agonize over for months upon months of my life. She was The Ex. Keep reading »
Bad Band. Jew Joker. Sandwich. The Brute. AwwMike. Babycheese. My laundry list of discarded loves reads like a storyboard of comic book villains, each nickname a clue as to their respective fatal flaws. Anyone who knows me well knows I have a history of dating men who are wildly inappropriate for me. It’s been a quirk I myself was willing to accept, further proof of my fun-loving, devil-may-care spirit (this despite the days and weeks of sobbing and agonizing over wholly ridiculous relationships when they inevitably ended). Keep reading »
A typical Saturday night for me can be summed up one of two ways: food or sex. Do I skip dinner and start drinking, adopt the “eating is cheating” adage so I can feel thin and attractive and get tipsy quicker, thus increasing the chances I’ll get naked later, or do I cave and open the box of Triscuits, resigned to an evening of stuffing my face in front of the TV and going to bed with a bloated stomach full of carbs and a phone full of sexually frustrated text messages from potential paramours? Keep reading »
Watching the recently released Nancy Meyers flick “It’s Complicated” got me thinking: Wow, Meryl Streep has beautiful skin. It also got me thinking about the notion of a relationship reboot. Not to be confused with backsliding, where you ill-advisedly reconnect with a very recent ex after a breakup, the reboot presupposes that a goodly amount of time has passed, as it did in the movie when two middle-aged divorcees tried to give it another go after ten years apart. It’s no surprise that the relationship reboot has become a rom-com trope – it fulfills a fantasy that a lot of us have about the “what ifs” of relationships that have ended for one reason or another, and exploits hopeful ideas of personal growth and fate. There’s an undeniable allure and romance to reviving those lost loves, but does it work in practice? Or is it true that everything ends for a reason? Two women debate whether relationship redos are worth it or not.
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All manner of experts are asserting that the wheels have come off our already craptacular economy and no imminent signs of an upturn are apparent. Massive layoffs across all sectors are forcing even the most resourceful among us to tighten belts and come up with innovative ways to earn extra scratch. Which is why it’s not altogether shocking that in the midst of this fiscal catastrophe, there’s been a marked uptick in women signing on to donate eggs. At roughly $8,000 a throw, it certainly seems like a viable option for fertile ladies, and an act that was once relegated to cash-strapped college girls looking for ways to pay off their debt has spread to folks with more pedestrian monetary needs, like making rent. Keep reading »
Tony Soprano (and mobster types everywhere) made it OK for dudes to get manicures. Diddy has become the poster boy for manscaping. And now, as if we need more proof that it’s a man’s world, a handful of “creative” entrepreneurs are doing what they can to lend masculinity to some products that have traditionally been perceived as girly. It’s a phenomenon I’ve dubbed “dude-washing,” and all of a sudden, it’s everywhere. Keep reading »
No one will dispute the importance of good girlfriends – they support your delusional hopes of one day being Mrs. Sam Kass, listen to you vent about your idiot boss and evil ex, and assure you that you haven’t gained an ounce despite that steady diet of french fries you’ve been adhering to, as a coping mechanism for the aforementioned idiot boss and evil ex. But it goes without saying that no modern woman’s circle of friends is complete without at least one gay bestie. The unique bond between a straight woman and a gay man is a many splendored thing, one that’s inspired sonnets (not really), TV shows, books, and the true barometer of mainstream credibility, a possible incarnation as a Bravo reality show. A new study conducted by Nancy H. Bartlett of Mount Saint Vincent University in Canada (and covered in the December issue of Allure magazine) suggests that having a large contingent of gay male friends may actually be good for you.
With this in mind, we asked women we knew if they felt that gay men made better best friends than girls. Two women share their opposing views, after the jump … Keep reading »
This debate ran on The Frisky a year ago. Given the Tiger Woods controversy, we’ve decided to re-run it, so that the readers we’ve gained since can chime in.
We’ve all heard some variation on the maxim “once a cheater, always a cheater.” In my personal experience, the decision to heed or not to heed said aphorism seems directly related to just how sprung one is on the guy in question. But nine times out of ten, the truth will come out. And that truth generally involves a wandering eye.
I’m not the only one who thinks so. Relationship expert Dr. Gilda Carle, who’s written a book on the matter, How to Win When Your Mate Cheats, thinks that without the genuine desire to reform and a good therapist, a habitual cheater is doomed to repeat him- (or her-) self: “If they’re willing to put in the time and effort and acknowledge they have an issue, then there’s a chance they won’t cheat again. But if they think, ‘I can get away with this. My father was like this, my uncle was like this, all my buddies are this way,’ then you don’t have a shot in hell of reforming this guy. And no woman should try to reform a guy anyway because it’s a lost cause.” Of course, every relationship is different. Take a gander at two women who represent both sides of the debate, after the jump …
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The internet has brought me a lot of joy over the years. There’s no denying its myriad charms: its ability to connect me with people, to entertain and amuse, to inform me, to expose me to new things, to help me max out my credit card on frivolous purchases I’ll regret later. But lately, I have been feeling like technology is turning against me.
Over the last two months, the internet has delivered not one but two decimating blows, first in the form of an unceremonious GChat dumping by a boyfriend I’d (ill-advisedly) reconciled with, and, more recently, in the guise of a sterile, business-like email I had the pleasure of opening last Sunday, informing me that I was no longer needed at my job. Um, f**k you, internet! Keep reading »
Before having back surgery this past spring, I’d never laid eyes on a full episode of “Gilmore Girls.” Yes, I came late to the party. Very late. The show debuted in 2000 and went off the air in 2007. So when I found myself virtually immobile for weeks at a stretch, with nothing but Netflix (and a bottle of Percocet) to keep me occupied, I decided to give the show, which people whose opinions I respected told me was a classic, a whirl.
Despite writing for a TV-centric website for a chunk of time, I’ve never been one to get full-on obsessed with a TV show (not since my “My So-Called Life” days, anyway.) But “Gilmore Girls” incited, nay demanded, an unprecedented level of boob tube devotion in me. If the show’s brilliant dialogue, comfy-cozy aesthetic and kick-ass soundtrack wasn’t enough, the lead characters — two flawed, hilarious, complicated and fiercely independent women — sealed the deal. Keep reading »