“There was (and still is) something wrong with me. And it’s the same thing that’s ‘wrong’ with pretty much every single woman in New York complaining she can’t find a decent man … We don’t know what we want. And so we want a little bit of everything, over and over again.”
Jennifer Doll’s words on the plight of the NYC single woman in the Village Voice last week have been keeping me awake at night. She’s right. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed that I’m rendered inert by my confusion. I’m stuck. Keep reading »
It’s time again for “Dear Wendy Updates,” a feature where people I’ve given advice to in the past let us know whether they followed the advice and how they’re doing today. After the jump, we hear from “Present Tense,” who wasn’t crazy about the pearl necklace her boyfriend of one year gave her for Christmas and worried he was going to give her something similar for her upcoming birthday. “I don’t want to seem like I’m not grateful, because I am, but I never wear jewelry and am not really a fan of pearls.” She said. “Should I just act like I like it and let him buy me another or is there some way I can let him know that pearls just aren’t my thing?” After the jump, find out whether she got another pearl necklace for her birthday or not. Keep reading »
My Tuesday evening ritual consists of the following: an hour and a half of yoga and meditation, followed by a hot bubble bath, in which I either drink a glass of wine or eat a Haagen-Daz Coffee Crunch ice cream bar, while wearing a mud mask and lisening to Dan Savage‘s Savage Love podcast. I highly recommend this entire evening routine. It makes the following day, Hump Day, that much easier. Keep reading »
I grew up in a small town. It was in the “heartland”– the middle of the country, yet everyone had twangy Southern accents. The town didn’t have much money or restaurants or people. But we did have churches. Churches in pole-barns, churches whose congregations were made up of only one family, churches in the hills with members who spoke in tongues and fancy churches with stained glass that told you to vote for George Bush.
All through my youth, I probably would have said I was a Christian. It was just the default. My parents did take me to church when I was little, I grabbed from the tin of sugar-cookies and drank dixie cups of watery Kool-Aid, but I had somehow remained a bit feral. Keep reading »
I have this theory that everyone has an inner age that best captures their essence. You are born your inner age and remain it throughout your life, regardless of your outer age. I’ve identified the inner age of everyone important in my life. My mom is 16, my dad is 21, my brother is 35, and me? I am eternally eight years old. If you spend the day with me, you’ll agree. I am a clumsy goof-ball. I like to flap around the room and pretend I’m a bird. I still laugh at poop jokes. I live for birthday cake. I’m eight. I was once in a relationship with a guy whose inner age was 80. He moved slowly, liked quiet time, and ate wheat bran every morning. Our inner age gap caused problems for us from time to time, like when I woke him up in the morning by steamrolling him. As you might imagine, grandpa didn’t like that so much. So how do you determine your inner age? Find out how, after the jump. Keep reading »
What will become of me? Are outcast or grandmother my only options? Ack. It’s just that Path A seems so much more fun … until you hit 40. Damn that bad literature! [The Gloss] Keep reading »