You are allowed to protect your baby sister so that she remains in a happy, giant bubble, far away from bills, landlords, and men, right? Right? It’s reasonable that she remain approximately 12 years old forever, arguing at the lunch table that the Spice Girls are no good, playing lacrosse, and dating nobody? Perfectly reasonable. OK, so maybe extreme eternal youth is totally creepy in an “Interview with the Vampire” Claudia kind of way. And it isn’t truly what I want for my own little sister, but recently I’ve found my protective-sibling-claws coming out.
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I used to get the back-home gossip from my mother. In the olden days, when “Men in Black II” came out, she was like a Greek oracle or a Shakespearean seer. With her job in the school district, she always knew what was happening with everyone. Charlie’s a plumber and about to be engaged to Samantha the artist. Bobby, who had that baby so young, is working for the fire department. Mom always knew how to deliver the news; she’s your oldest confidante. She knows that when you’re too old for that kind of thing, you’re still gonna cry when the last strawberry in the floundering patch dies, and about that boy who was soooo cute when you were 15 and gangly. When the news was bad, I was prepared before she spoke because of her deep inhale and too-long pause. After telling me the girl who wore sneakers to the senior prom was killed by a drunk driver, we stayed on the phone together.
Then came the “just the facts, ma’am” Facebook. Keep reading »
This month, Details totally lost me as a reader with an article called “The Lure of Dating an Ex-Lesbian.” The author, Ian Daly, talks about women who date women and then hitch up with men. He eloquently calls these gals “refugees from the isle of Lesbos … hasbians.” Interestingly, Daly’s research seems to prove the opposite of what his title implies. That is, that dating a “hasbian” is terrifying. He depicts dudes who date them as scared little school boys, afraid of their penises and scared that their clumsy fingers could never navigate the female anatomy as expertly as the women they’ve seen in lesbian pornos. Later, Daly obnoxiously writes that men who are in touch with their “feminine side” are more likely to date women who are “former homosexuals.”
I’ll save you the anguish of discussing Daly’s assertion that once motorcycle-riding, tattoo-covered lesbians “soften up,” they head straight for the penis. What I really want to talk about is Daly’s assumption that sexual orientation is super rigid. Keep reading »
First dates are always nerve-wracking—that’s a given. So many questions! Where will we go? What if I’m gassy? Should I let him pay or should I offer to split the tab? What will we talk about? Will he like me? More importantly, will I like him?
All valid queries, but possibly the most pressing question any of us worry about is, what in the hell am I going to wear? Keep reading »
I’ve had many potential soul mates. When I was 14, I fell for Rob, a 20-something who worked at my local video store. I used to go in there every day to peruse the new releases, not realizing my constant presence was a dead giveaway for my raging hormonal interest in his tan arms. When he complimented me on my newly henna-ed hair — he noticed?! — I thought for sure that someday he would see the light and realize we were meant to be. Instead, he quit his job and I never saw him again. Keep reading »
When I was offered the opportunity to be one of “New York’s Most Eligible Bachelorettes” in a major local magazine, I laughed out loud. “There’s no way I will ever meet a guy that way,” I complained to my friends. “Why even bother? I already meet tons of guys. They just all suck. Plus, I’m happy alone.” After much coaxing, I decided my friends were right. I couldn’t turn down a professional photo shoot or an opportunity to get as close as I ever would to my fantasy of becoming the next “Bachelorette.” If only I liked to wear bikinis and go bungee-jumping, maybe ABC would consider me for the series. Keep reading »
It is now an entrenched cultural truth: A desirable woman in her 30s could meet someone, date for a while, enter a relationship, spend Thanksgiving at her boyfriend’s parents’ house, rent an apartment together, adopt a pet, wash his skivvies for years and still: Long-term commitment is not guaranteed.
Don’t you hate it when you read something written by someone you’ve never met, yet it sounds like they are writing about YOU? I’m sure I’m not the only woman who had that weird feeling of being watched when reading Irina Aleksander’s article in The New York Observer entitled “Want a Husband? Try a Eur-Male Pass.” After all, there’s no way I’m the only 30-year-old who met a man, dated him for 4.5 years, spent countless holidays with his family, lived with him, adopted a dog with him, and did his laundry before being unceremoniously dumped (for someone younger and probably more willing to have anal sex).
So did the real crux of Aleksander’s piece — that more and more American women are moving abroad to find Mr. Right — speak to me too? Keep reading »