For “Love Yourself Week,” I’m doing things a little different than some of the other Frisky staffers and instead of writing a list of 30 things I love about myself, I’ve got a little list of 30 things I do well. Some of these 30 things that I do well I love about myself and some … well, some I don’t. After the jump, can you tell which is which? Keep reading »
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It’s “Love Yourself Week,” so of course we are going to channel our inner Oprahs for schmoopy listicles on the 30 things we love about ourselves. But usually when we talk about “loving yourself” here in the Frisky-verse, there’s something else we mean: masturbation.
Whether it’s with a vibrator, a dildo, fingers — or, heck, the contents of your produce drawer! — we are big fans of rubbing one out. As Woody Allen famously said, “Masturbation is sex with someone I love!” In the spirit of loving yourself in this very special way, we’ve constructed a helpful flowchart to help you decide whether you should masturbate right now. (Quickie answer? If you are reading this at the office, the answer is “no.”) Keep reading »
Last week, Amelia posted a list of 20 things we Frisky editors think make a man. In the interest of equality, we thought it only fair to give the same treatment to our own fair sex; after the jump, 20 things that make a woman. Keep reading »
In honor of Love Yourself Week, each day a Frisky staffer will share 30 things she loves about herself — and we encourage the rest of you to do the same in the comments!
Ask me if I have good self-esteem and the answer is “yes.” But ask me to explain the reasons why I love myself? It’s hard. I gave it my best shot … and I hope you’ll all do the same (about yourselves, not me) in the comments! Keep reading »
I was in fourth grade when my grandmother first took me to a hair salon. She drove me to her hairdresser, Betsy, a 50-year-old woman who dyed her hair pitch black, and had a head full of curls the perfect shape of large hot rollers. I squirmed as Betsy ripped out the rubber bands holding in my afro puffs and inspected the black cloud of kink on my head.
“Naomi, have you been trimming this yourself?” Betsy asked, horrified.
“Well, yes, but I don’t know how to do her hair.” Gram said sheepishly. Gram raised five straight-haired Irish-American kids, my mother being one of them. No curls were in sight until my father’s African-American hair genes messed it up. She was lost. Keep reading »