I’ve had a huge girl crush on Anna Faris ever since I first discovered “The House Bunny” playing on cable one morning during the kind of hangover that just feels better to sit out in bed with a whole pizza. I was immediately taken by both her perfect butt and slapstick humor. Thus the utter excitement on getting to be even slightly involved with her new movie “What’s Your Number?” (I did some consulting work for them.) Check out this cute PSA Anna created on going green by recycling your exes. Though, most of my exes belong in the trash rather than getting reused, I still think it’s a funny idea! Keep reading »
“Do you love her?” I finally asked my ex in the midst of our screaming match last late night. He paused for a minute. I could hear him breathing deeply over the phone line, slow and steady—he could have been at a yoga studio, contorted and wearing orange spandex, or practicing Lamaze breathing for the birth of his first child. Instead, he was verbally (and angrily) tracing the end of our relationship. The truth of his new relationship had been so obscured in various manipulations, that despite approaching a year of us not dating I really had no idea where “they” were.
“Yes,” he said, and my heart grew very still. Somewhere after he listed the third or fourth reason why she was better than me, I interrupted, “Stop. Just. Stop. I can’t do this with you anymore.” I hung up the phone, curled up in bed, and went to sleep. Keep reading »
A few days ago, I learned that a childhood friend of mine was pregnant and found myself unexpectedly exuberant over the idea of buying mini-things for a mini (and quite possibly bald) person who is to arrive in Arizona sometime around the ides of March. I thought this tiny soul should own my mini “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” shirt that I once dressed my cat Moskow in and an outfit that made him look like a panda, and my heart started racing in a new unfamiliar way. Lately, I feel like that female caricature that walks around with a cartoon clock ticking over her head and thinks her ovaries are a worthy dinner topic. I see a baby and I involuntarily gurgle, or at the very least talk in the same intonation I use for my cats (pitched perfectly high for their tiny little ears). In order to combat what can only be described as a genealogical disorder (i.e., the desire to have a baby before you have a mortgage), I have taken to interviewing women I know who have children. Keep reading »
When I first started road-testing The Frisky 30 Breakup Guide, I didn’t even know what calm looked like. Seeing photos of my ex was enough to make my hands tremble, running into him at a party inevitably meant that venom would threaten to roll off my tongue and I would take on a Cheshire cat grin, trying madly to disguise and displace the feeling of a miniature ice-pick being twisted repeatedly into my heart. “Calm” meant drinking a half of a bottle of wine in bed and being able to wash the tears off in the ladies room at work without anyone noticing. Looking calm was physically impossible. Keep reading »
Ever since I got dumped, my confidence has taken on a new level of manic that I hadn’t experienced since I realized that I had boobs and got my first massive zit on the same day. I vacillate between the first person to suggest we all strip down and jump in the ocean to the girl who hasn’t worn a bikini since 1996, at which time it was striped cotton from Gap Kids. This has had a major effect on my personal loving time. All of the sudden, I turn off the lights and hide under the sheets. My vibrator went from being a friendly reminder of my empowered sexuality to a sorry plastic accessory of my depression. Suddenly I didn’t have time to make myself pant and moan because work was exhausting me to the point of brain numbness. And you know that once you think your day job is more important than orgasmic relief, you are taking the express route to a nervous breakdown. Keep reading »
I think that when we are part of a “couple” for a long time, we get so used to sharing experiences that everything from the coffee spilled in our lap during a meeting to ordering in Chinese is a moment that belongs to both of you. One of the hardest things of finding yourself newly single (other than the infrequent sex and the frequent bar hopping) is that you have to relearn how to experience things without sharing them with someone. Sure, it sounds easy. But if no one is around to watch you get sick from the seafood lo mien, did you even spend those hours vomiting? OK, maybe that’s not the best example. But you get my point, right? Keep reading »
Yesterday a tornado hit my ex’s apartment, chewed out a section of the brick wall, swirled the red bricks all over his apartment, flattened his car, and then rained on everything he owns. As I write this, the mean cat we owned together is trapped on the 4th floor (the firefighters won’t let my ex go get him) mewing alone in the rubble. I’m not even sure how to process this. When I first heard, my heart started to race and I ran into my work bathroom and frantically tried to call him. I know we weren’t supposed to talk for 60 days, but I also knew that if I didn’t find out for myself that he was OK, my heart would continue to beat at the steady pace of “cocaine fiend about to have a heart attack.” So what am I going to do? Keep reading »