Like most people, I have a variety of pet peeves. I can’t stand it when people litter; I hate it when an able-bodied person takes an elevator up one floor; and perhaps what bugs me more than anything else on the planet is a holier than thou attitude, especially when it’s displayed by someone who thinks she’s being revolutionary when, in fact, she’s being … how can I say this delicately? Astonishingly non-sensical. Take, for example, Carrie Sloan, a “brand-spanking newlywed” who writes that she and her husband are “re-writing the rules” of matrimony because — get this — she kept her own name! I hate to break it to her and ruin her self-image as a trendsetter, but it’s 2010. Keeping her own name is not a rule she wrote. If being self-righteous in the face of unoriginality were her biggest crime, I’d be willing to overlook it. Unfortunately, it’s not. Keep reading »
I make no apologies for having dated a vast collection of maniacs, freaks, weirdos and losers. Sometimes—OK, often—I’m embarrassed when one of these ghosts from The Dark Years pops up, but mostly I look at my romantic history as a protracted, occasionally painful, thankfully non-contagious, learning experience.
It’s easy (for me, anyway) to look back and blame the men I was dating for making me miserable and/or breaking my heart, but the reality is, I’m the one who chose to go there. A good friend once told me that I had a gift of seeing the good hiding inside a person whereas everyone else saw the freakazoid they were on the outside. She meant it as a compliment, but the fact is, even the biggest a**hole on the planet has some little chunk of good floating around inside them. It’s not such a positive trait that I was blind to the crap for the tiny diamond inside. Keep reading »
A few nights ago I met up with an older journalist for cocktails. We sipped our drinks and talked about work, men, the usual subjects. Then she mentioned she’s going to New Orleans for a week with nine of her friends from college to build homes. “That’s so cool!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, we’ve done a vacation together every year,” she explained. “We don’t all go every year, because when the first one of us had a baby, we made a rule that no children are allowed to come. Usually the ones with younger children miss a few trips. But most of us go each year and leave our kids home with our husbands.”
Color me flabbergasted. My stay-at-home mom never did anything like that. And my three sisters, who are moms, have behaved at times like they can’t go see a matinee with me without Navy SEAL-level advanced planning.
“I’m a bad mom,” my new friend smiled, sipping her cocktail while her two kids sat at home with a sitter.
“Oh, no!” I assured her. “You’re the kind of mom I want to be!” Keep reading »
I have a friend who came to the United States from Israel to sing opera. He’s kind and funny, and when he sings, the air fills and tingles with his music. But too often, I’ve seen him looking sadly distant. He married his boyfriend last year in Connecticut, but then had to put him on the plane back home. At the moment they see each other once every few months, meeting up in Germany or Greece, but then each returning to a different country, oceans apart. Because our federal government doesn’t yet have an allowance for the partners in gay couples to immigrate on marriage visas, they’re being kept apart. And it sucks. Hopefully, more legislation rolls in like what’s happening in Maryland now.
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A few weeks ago, a man attempted to insult me by telling me I suffer from “lesbian bed death.” Rather than get upset, I just laughed. Hard. The dude about whom we are speaking doesn’t know me. He has no idea if I have a girlfriend or how often I get down. I thought about how amazing and freaky life between the sheets is for me these days. I pictured my girlfriend wearing those thigh-high fishnets that I adore so much, tying my hands together with a black robe. I pictured staying up all night and not getting out of bed until 6 in the evening. Then, what this guy’s face would look like if he knew what I was thinking and I laughed harder than I have in a long time. Keep reading »
After I broke up with my sweet college boyfriend, a decent man who never ran me through the ringer, who responded to my bouts of recklessness and immaturity with compassion and sympathy, a guy who never did me wrong, I desired nothing more than desire itself. After years of slow and steady, I yearned for spark and drama. Conveniently, along came Matt.
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Lately I’ve noticed a number of commenters remarking or complimenting me on my willingness to “put myself out there” on The Frisky, sometimes scolding others whose remarks or jokes might end up hurting my feelings. The thing is, there’s very little feedback on what I write — i.e., about my personal experience or my decisions — that would bother me. (Criticism of how I write I’m more sensitive to.) Recently a fellow Frisky staffer asked me how I’ve learned to not care what people think.
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