2006 was a year of unprotected sex for me. No, not every time, but I started off the year with a fling with a slightly older man I was besotted with, who didn’t speak a word about condoms, and, in response, I didn’t either. I wanted to trust that he had some magical knowledge that somehow I was missing, that maybe the world had overturned itself and they were no longer necessary. I was wrong, and after a pregnancy panic as I searched for Plan B — this was right before it was so readily available — I escaped unscathed. Then later that year I met a guy I fell absolutely head over heels with, sure that we were destined to be together. Keep reading »
Right now, I’m in the most serious relationship I’ve ever been in; as in, even though I live in New York and he lives in San Francisco, we’ve talked about where and when we could live together — and how soon. He’s met my uncle; I’ve gone to his family’s cabin, and I’m joining them for Thanksgiving. His mom sends me emails, and my grandmother sends me clippings urging him to stop smoking. We talk almost every night and end most calls with “I love you.” Keep reading »
Earlier today, we told you two “Dancing with the Stars” cast members were diagnosed with endometriosis within days of one another. In fact, it’s a health problem that’s a lot more common than you’d think. My story, after the jump … Keep reading »
I’m not proud to admit I’ve already clocked more hours on my wedding-gown search than I did choosing a college.
From afar, it seemed like a fun task to find a gorgeous vintage dress to get married in. On the other hand, it only has to be the most knock-’em-dead dress of a lifetime, to be photographed more than any other outfit I will ever wear.
The upside of going vintage is that nearly every gown is one of a kind. This is also the downside. When you find a real beaut, there’s always at least one thing wrong: color, condition, price, it’s already sold (second most common problem), or the most common and aggravating issue of all, size. Keep reading »
I’ve been growing my hair out for 10 years, ever since I got a totally tragic close-crop days before graduation from high school. I had kind of low self-esteem and I was majorly obsessed with Gwyneth Paltrow’s new short cut (you know the one — it closely resembled then boyfriend Brad Pitt’s hair too) — I came to the conclusion that if I cut off all my hair just like hers, I, too, would be pretty. Fat chance. The haircut, for starters, was poorly executed. Additionally, my hair was still in that post-puberty stage of frizzy horribleness — and I did not yet understand that flat irons and blow dryers could be my friend. The haircut was a disaster and I have spent the last 10 years growing it out, associating prettiness and femininity with length.
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A couple of years ago, when I was a freelance writer, I got Botox. I was working on a story for a women’s magazine in the U.K. about “ageorexia” — women in their 20′s and early 30′s who were getting anti-aging treatments and surgeries as a preventative measure rather than as maintenance. While I interviewed a number of women about the subject, I also thought it was a good opportunity to do a little Gonzo-style journalism and get a cosmetic procedure myself. Keep reading »