I am not a mother. This fact has kept me from expressing my heartbreak over the shootings in Sandy Hook. In the aftermath of this horrifying event, I’ve watched countless friends — mothers, all of them — post wrenching status updates on Facebook. I’ve read them, feeling oddly ashamed inside. These moms talked of compassion for those poor little children, of the need to step up to the plate as adults, of the fear they have for the future, of roiling anger toward the government, and of utter helplessness. They posted pictures of the beautiful young faces lost to this insane tragedy. They urged others to take a stand, and to hold their own children close.
The same thoughts streamed through my head. Tears welled in my eyes, too. I texted my siblings and begged them to hug and kiss their little ones for me.
But something was silencing the part of me that wanted to join these moms in their outrage. I felt it wasn’t my place. How could I know, after all, what kind of fear these parents were expressing? How could I possibly relate to their protective instincts? I am not a mother. Keep reading »
I love guns. I’m from West Texas — most of us harbor respect for guns, if not outright love.
I vacillate between the high sixties and the mid eighties, which is good for a woman who only gets to shoot trap once a year. I keep about the same record as my father, who shoots competitively and is a former homicide and narcotics detective.
My mother’s hips and knees can’t take the standing around anymore, but for most of her life she was just as good a shot as my father.
She smiles knowingly every time I hit a sporting clay.
“It’s because you’re a woman,” is her theory. “You have a lower center of gravity than men, which gives you a more solid stance.” Keep reading »
I was talking to my guy friend about Caitlin Moran’s book How To Be A Woman, which led us to the topic of money. I said that I am a feminist, but I am not completely resistant to guys paying for my meals on dates because most guys I know make more money than women. (That is my personal experience.)
“Do you really think you make less money because you’re a woman?” he asked. “In 2012, in New York City, where everyone is equal? You really think that’s what the problem is?”
At his work, he said, women and gays made up a majority of the employees, and he hinted at the implication that he was the one being slighted, being in the white, male, heterosexual minority. Keep reading »
This weekend I was wandering around one of my favorite stores when I spotted a sliver of blue plaid fabric peeking out from the crowded rack of dresses. Blue is my favorite color, and plaid is my favorite pattern, so I was immediately intrigued.
When I reached into the mass of hangers and pulled out the mysterious dress, there is a good chance I audibly gasped. It was lined in silk, with a cutout in the back, a sweetheart neckline, and a flowing hourglass shape. It was surprisingly formal, but the plaid fabric made it feel playful and fun. It was unique without trying too hard. It was, quite possibly, the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen. “I would pay $200 for a dress like this,” I thought, flipping over the price tag to reveal numerous crossed-out sale prices making their way toward a grand total of $39.97. I practically skipped to the dressing room. Keep reading »
As any blogger who writes about sex will tell you, we get a lot of “gifts.” When I say “gifts,” I actually mean sex toys to test out in the hopes we’ll write about them later. If you saw my “special” drawer next to my bed, you’d see that it’s full of a variety of dildos, vibrators, anal plugs, vegan lubes, flavored lubes, handcuffs, a bamboo paddle and even a pair of nipple clamps.
While some of these items still remain in their boxes (pun!) untouched, others have been opened and hugely appreciated by either myself or the person with whom I’m sharing my bed. At one time, I had so many vibrators (new and unopened), that I just kept them on my kitchen table and would let my friends take whatever they wanted. Seriously. What does one woman, with only two orifices need with all that stuff? (I say two, because I’ve never been one to put a vibrator in my mouth – just not my thing.) Keep reading »
Last thing about Paris and then I’ll shut up. I promise. Topic du jour: dessert. My trip made me realize that, for me, it is essential to have dessert with every meal.
This is not based on anything scientific whatsoever, just one sugar lover’s humble opinion after indulging in dessert with every meal for an entire week. I’m not exaggerating for the sake of comedic effect. I really ate 21 desserts while I was on vacay. There were a few factors which contributed to my sugar spree: I was traveling with a food critic who took me to all the finest easting establishments, it’s the French way, and of course, because I was on vacation so I was cutting lose. Keep reading »
In the few days following my dad’s passing a few weeks ago, I received flowers from friends and coworkers, endless phone calls, emails and Facebook messages expressing condolences, and more than a few people offering to help in any way they could. It was wonderful and comforting, to be sure, and would, I thought, keep me going as I set about tying up all the loose ends of my father’s “estate,” something I assumed would take a few weeks to a month, at most.
Well, a little over a week has passed, the flowers have dried, the calls have died down, and people have rightfully moved on. But, I’m realizing, the shitshow is just beginning for me. I don’t know what I was thinking, assuming that settling my dad’s affairs would be a simple process, but it’s far from it. He didn’t have a will. I won’t have a death certificate for a few weeks, at which point I can then finally establish myself as the executor of his estate, which hopefully no one will contest. (You hear that, uncle of mine?) In the meantime, his house languishes in rural Hawaii, already two months behind on the mortgage payments. The unofficial “tenants” my dad had let stay there over the years have the run of the place; I’ve heard that they’ve already begun selling off his more valuable possessions (there aren’t many) like his TV. And I can’t do anything about it because Hawaii’s tenant laws allow any old person to establish residency in a home by spending a few nights somewhere. Seriously! Crash at someone’s house for a weekend and it’s suddenly your place! I will have to formally evict people who never paid a month’s rent from my dad’s home, as they sell off belongings I can’t even prove are his. It’s a nightmare. Keep reading »
One month ago, I broke my ankle. It was a sort of freak accident – a simple fall on the stairs (being the klutz that I am, that part wasn’t unusual), but one that resulted in a fracture. I was at a bar, and after it happened, I went straight to my boyfriend’s place. He met my cab at the corner, and he’s barely left my side since then.
Navigating New York City on crutches is no easy feat, nor is going about the simplest everyday tasks with a broken bone and a painkiller-clouded brain. So, once I injured myself, my boyfriend started sleeping at my apartment every night. He helped me with meals, propped my foot up, and provided all-around company while I was incapacitated.
Now that the fracture is healing and I need less maintenance, we’re slowly getting back to our pre-anklegate routine: three to five sleepovers and a handful of shared dinners a week. And I’m sad about it. The kicker? He lives across the street from me. I could run to his place, give him a kiss and run back in the span of five minutes if I wanted to. It’s not that I’m dependent on him, or that I don’t like my roommates, but I’ve gotten used to Andy’s regular presence – kissing him goodbye when he leaves for work in the morning, hanging out and playing some pre-dinner Mario Kart with him at night; it just felt so natural and easy.
So, we should move in together, right? It’s not like it hasn’t crossed my mind. After nearly two-and-half years together, if friends aren’t pestering us about marriage, they’re asking us about living together. And they aren’t the only ones. He recently told me he wants to make the move when our leases are up—it’s the logical next step, he says. Keep reading »
On April 23, 1977, Kalpen Suresh Modi was born, and on March 21, 1984, I was born. We went on to do different things; he got to work for Obama, I almost made the cut to be a Disney Princess in Orlando. Though it seemed unlikely our life paths would ever cross, I have been dead set on making that happen. And I have failed, failed, failed.
I am not one of those people who is shy about her crushes. I HAVE A CRUSH ON KAL PENN. It began the first time I saw “The Namesake” in 2007. I had just moved to New York City and was feeling lonely, and I went to the Paris Theater by myself with a box of Dots and some whiskey and cried my little blue eyes out. I wanted to be that blonde bitch who got to date Kal so bad I had visions of pulling off some weird-ass “Silence Of The Lambs” shit on her. No matter that she didn’t get to date him in real life. Because here’s something you are about to learn about me: I don’t care about real life. I am all about fantasy all the time. Like getting to make out with Kal Penn. I want to lick those lips in circles until the Hindi cows come home. I want to run my hand through his locks and cup his butt cheeks. Keep reading »