In honor of the season four premiere of “Mad Men” on Sunday, July 25th at 10/9 Central on AMC, this weekend The Frisky is re-posting a few of our favorite “Mad Men”-inspired essays.
It’s one thing to switch on the TV for “Mad Men” each week, vicariously sip whiskey and smoke stogies with Don Draper and Co., and experience (or re-experience) life in the 1960s. I, like most other women in America, jumped at the chance to give my look a makeover complete with red lips, the pencil skirts, the swooping coifs, and the tight cardigans that give Joan, Betty, and Peggy their sexy, vintage sizzle. Hell, I even found myself harboring the urge to tie on a frilly apron and bake something wholesome for my husband. It’s fun, escapist even, to dabble in outdated social stereotypes and play the victim to those womanizing ways that dominated the “Mad Men” era. We’re safe in the knowledge that times have changed, and we can go back to being empowered, successful, respected alpha-females whenever we feel like it. Or so I thought. Keep reading »
As a divorced woman in my 30s, meeting a man wasn’t always a top priority, but when I gradually started dating again, I called in my two wingwomen who were also on the prowl, Dana and Mary, for support. Both of these beautiful 30-somethings have had my back for years. They’ve been my wingwomen in everything from moving into a new apartment to keeping me sane throughout my divorce. I couldn’t have adjusted to single life again without them.
So when Friday night came and I was raring to go out, I called my girls. We put on our heels, stepped up our makeup, and headed to our favorite lounge hoping to meet the men of our dreams. Keep reading »
Megin and I first met as mid-level slaves to the fashion industry eight years ago. I recognized a kindred spirit the minute I caught her screaming harsh obscenities at her computer. We’ve been through boyfriend breakups, apartment break-ins, and career changes. So when she asked me to be a bridesmaid, I jumped at the chance to stand by her side and watch her start a new life with the man she loved. Of course I wanted to support her in any way possible on her big day; I just didn’t realize how much it would cost me! Keep reading »
I can hardly believe it, but Drew, my husband, and I will be celebrating our first wedding anniversary in just five days. Has a whole year really gone by since the day we said “I do”? Actually, no, because neither of us said “I do.” I think what we really said to the Rabbi when he married us was: “We will say “yes” to whatever you ask us as long as we never, ever, ever have to plan another wedding again! Also, let’s wrap this thing up so we can go drink champagne and eat cannoli cake!” Anyway, according to the calendar, almost a whole year has gone by since that day, and, I’m happy to say: so far so good. But all that could change next week when Drew and I go on our first ever road trip together to celebrate our anniversary. Keep reading »
There are topics people won’t touch at cocktail parties because it’s not “polite conversation.” These are subjects people secretly want to discuss, but, when broached over hummus and Merlot, make them uncomfortable. These are precisely the things I love talking about. So here goes: My husband and I just graduated from couple’s therapy.
We started going about two years ago. We had just gotten back from a vacation with friends in the Bahamas with our then-3-year-old twins. There’s something about couples in trouble and the Caribbean, an unspoken belief that perhaps the turquoise water will bring clarity. That the sun and sand will somehow breathe new life into a choking, gasping union. I know several couples who returned from a Caribbean vacation and immediately divorced. Keep reading »
It had been a bleak year. I started taking anti-depressants and was slowly putting on weight, as the side effects had warned. This alone was not a problem: guys always told me I was a little too skinny and that I had a bony butt, so I actually enjoyed having a juicy badonkadonk for the first time in my life. But as I packed on more pounds on my slender frame, my clothes stopped fitting. J.Crew skinny jeans? Couldn’t wear ‘em anymore. Vintage mini-dress? So tight it ripped. Silk blouse? My upper arms no longer fit without gnarly pit stains. I had to chuck tons of panties that now squeezed uncomfortably around my new butt. Not surprisingly, I started to get a little neurotic (and vain) and seriously considered ditching my happy pills in the hopes that I’d get my zippy ol’ metabolism back.
Then my 26th birthday arrived. My boyfriend was out of town on a business trip and left a birthday present waiting for me on our bed. I ripped the paper off and saw a box from one of New York City’s fanciest lingerie stores: inside was an adorable black and pink bra and panties set from Betsey Johnson. He did his sizing-homework in advance: the panties fit my rotund butt, the bra did not pinch my shoulders. And something immediately clicked: I am attractive no matter what size I wear. Sexy lingerie comes in all sizes! I realized I didn’t have to fit into my existing clothes to be sexy; I could still look sexy in sizes that fit me properly.
These days, I’m OK with my weight. But there’s one person who’s not — my mom. Keep reading »
Growing up in Brooklyn, I was a tomboy without any contact with actual boys. I was the youngest of two girls raised by a single mother. My sister and I both went to an all-girls, ultra-Orthodox Jewish day school and neither of us had any male friends. During summer breaks, I went to an all-girls camp in the Catskills where we played volleyball and basketball in long skirts, though dribbling a basketball ball between your legs with a swath of denim in the way was no easy task. My extracurricular activity of choice was gymnastics, a sport that doesn’t exactly runneth over with boys. Keep reading »
Recently, during a weekly therapy session, my doc and I were doing our thing, talkin’ ’bout boys, my frustration with the ones I have met, and my recent relapse into dreaming about my ex; I was telling her that sometimes, despite being a relatively solitary person who enjoys time alone, I get overwhelmed with loneliness. I miss something I don’t have anymore, that feeling of deep companionship.
It’s something we’ve talked about often in the last year and a half since my biggie breakup; during that time, as my loneliness and grief waxed and waned, my career has thrived. The Frisky has become more successful than I dared to have dreamed when we first started it and I’m noodling with the idea of writing a book; both work and personal projects keep me busy and sometimes I feel like I need to pinch myself to confirm that my professional aspirations have been met with truly thrilling results. Keep reading »
People say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Then allow me, Keysha Whitaker, to declare myself insane … at least in my dating life. I’m a 31-year-old woman of color who keeps dating the same type of man, over and over. Unfortunately, they often end up being jailbirds, pathological liars and rehab projects to whom I’ve loaned money, written resumes, forgiven lies, posted bail and bought clothes. But who can fault me? My type of guy—a smooth-talking, 6’3″, caramel-skinned, basketball-physiqued brotha with a beat in his step (think rapper T.I. or Michael Ealy)—looks good, and looks good on me. (And, of course, not all caramel-skinned brothas are these things, just the ones I snag.)
It’s easy for me to remember the guys in my life who were my type. Keep reading »
I was never the little girl who dreamed of being a princess. While other kids dressed up in pink chiffon and glitter, I fashioned three-piece suits out of garbage bags and pretended to be a lawyer defending my Babar doll in a custody dispute. So when I got the chance to audition to be a Disney Princess at Disney Hong Kong, it wasn’t about channeling some childhood fantasy. I knew I would be faking it. Or so I thought. Keep reading »