I am by no means a sports fan. In fact, if I’m being honest, it took me eight full days to bother turning on ESPN to tune into the World Cup — this despite New York City’s peculiar, nearly European-scale football/soccer mania which has surrounded me for over a week and permeated my consciousness.
I’ve seen soccer matches before. I’ve attended them before. And I enjoy them, sure. My command of its rules and strategies is shaky at best, even though I played soccer as a kid. I recall seeing a match in Seville, Spain, and remember that after marveling over the physical beauty of the swarthy, sweaty, sexy footballers and getting momentarily swept up in the intense emotions of the fans, I got totally bored. No one ever scored, and the players seemed more interested in feigning injury and pantomiming intense pain to earn penalty kicks than in scoring hard-earned goals. And after hours of back and forth, the teams TIED. No one came out a winner.
THIS is the sport everyone loses their minds over? Keep reading »
Over the weekend, my husband and I moved from our cramped, rundown, one-bedroom apartment near crowded Times Square in Manhattan, to a spacious, gut-rehabbed, state-of-the-art two-bedroom brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street in Brooklyn. To say I’m happier in the new place would be an understatement. It’s as if I’d eaten McDonald’s hamburgers — not even cheeseburgers or Big Macs or Quarter Pounders, but regular ol’ tiny, boring, junk-food hamburgers — at every meal for the last several years and now I’m suddenly sitting down to delicious, nutritious, home-cooked meals of the finest cuts of meat and freshest veggies whenever I’m hungry. It wasn’t easy getting from one place to another though, both literally and metaphorically. It was a long time coming, and in the weeks leading up to the move — the very first move Drew and I have ever made together — I wondered if we’d even make it to our first wedding anniversary next month. Few things in life challenge a relationship quite like moving does, but I’m happy to report we survived the hurdle. Keep reading »
My father doesn’t like trying anything new. Paying bills for instance. He still writes checks and sends them snail mail. “You can pay everything online now,” I’ve told him. “It’s faster and you don’t have to use stamps.”
He refuses, though he’s fairly internet-savvy, because he’s paid bills this way for the past 30 years, dammit, and that’s the way he’s going to keep paying them. He can get impatient. His stories can go on forever. He can be antisocial and crabby.
I want to be just like him when I grow up. Keep reading »
If you ever met me, you’d probably think I’m a bitch. I wouldn’t argue. I like to yell and complain, and I never hesitate to tell someone if I don’t like them unless I think I can gain something by keeping my mouth shut. I’m volatile and can go off like a firecracker without a moment’s notice. I don’t go out of my way to be nice to people, but if you say something I don’t like, I’ll certainly go out of my way to be nasty to you.
My friends and family are used to it and somehow manage to enjoy my company. [Editor's Note: For the record, we here at The Frisky have never seen Nikki be anything but jovial and totally hilarious.] Once I let someone in, I really let them in. If I like you—or love you—I’ll do almost anything to make you happy or help you out. I’m extremely loyal. I guess, for my friends and family, the good has, over time, outweighed the bad. They are able to forgive the volatility and occasional craziness, so long as it isn’t directed at them. Since I only see my family occasionally and usually just get together with my friends on the weekends, they hardly ever see my bad side.
But dating me is another story. Keep reading »
Here is a fact: I have never had a f**k buddy/friend with benefits. This is likely for the same reason it’s become common knowledge that I am incapable of having a one-night stand without getting a case of the sadz — I cannot stop myself from associating sex with love. The nature of a f**k buddy situation is that the two people involved like each other as people and as sex objects, but not as boyfriend/girlfriend material. The difference between a friends with benefits situation and a one-night-stand, of course, is that usually in the case of FWB, the two people involved already know each other and, in theory, have ruled out any interest in the other person as a potential mate, at least for the time being. Now, I’ve had one-night-stands with friends and thankfully have maintained those friendships even after our clothes were back on, but a successful, ongoing, fun friends with benefits situation has eluded me. Well, here’s a confession: I want one. Bad. Keep reading »
My husband has a male-ady. I call it MRC, Men’s Resistance to Counseling. Imagine a dog as it begs away from the bath, the leash straining as he pulls from suds and finishing fluff. Getting a man into counseling is no easy feat. Women talk about their problems to connect, but men see this type of discussion as threatening. They feel that by admitting they have a problem, they are confessing weakness. And so every time I brought up marital counseling, my husband cited cost as the deterrent. Then he upped the ante; he called the shrink a quack. He even tried forgetting about appointments and playing sick. Keep reading »
I’ve never known how to properly fold a shirt. My dressers have always been an orgy of unorganized clothes—sweaters and socks spilling out of drawers—because my approach has always been to ball everything up, which is not really a great way to organize or prevent wrinkles. That all changed after my first day working in retail, a job, I have found, that revolves around a perfectly folded shirt. See, along with interning at The Frisky, I also have one of those typical college student I-need-to-make-rent jobs. For the past two weeks, I have been a sales associate at my university’s bookstore, which features a surprising amount of apparel. Already, I’ve gained enough knowledge from this job to endorse the idea that everyone should take a turn working in retail. Keep reading »
The other day Amelia and I were talking about “The Bachelorette” (duh) when she admitted that she might just audition for the next season of “The Bachelor” if hottie Roberto were the prize. I asked if she’s ever tried out for a reality TV show before and she assured me that she hadn’t.
“I have,” I replied.
“Really!?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, shamefully. It’s not something I’m proud of, but way back in 2001 I sent in an audition tape for the low-rent show “Big Brother.” Hey, if you’re going to do something like that, aim for the stars, right? In my defense, I was 24; I hadn’t really chosen a career path and for some crazy reason I thought being locked up in a house with a bunch of strangers for three months and having my every move taped for national television might help me find one. As if that weren’t bad enough, I spent most of my three-minute audition lip-syncing a Bob Dylan song and playing air bongos into the camera. Naturally, I made it to the semi-finals. Keep reading »
When it came to dating, my parents had two rules. The first involved age — no going on dates until I turned 16. The second was about sex — no boys allowed in my bedroom.
Those two rules were easy to abide by. The only boys that ever saw where I slept were glossy ones I duct-taped to my bedroom walls from magazine cutouts. Dating prospects didn’t come around until college. So did a third (and final) parental limitation on dating.
It was freshman move-in day at my large urban university in North Philadelphia. My family had just finished lugging plastic bins of backup paper towels, picture frames with faces I would replace and an extra fluffy mattress pad. I was saying goodbye to my mom and dad as I watched them raise their eyebrows at the mob of diverse freshman unloading their college supplies.
“Don’t come home with a black boyfriend,” my dad said in a raspy whisper as he pointed one finger unintentionally at my heart and gestured towards my co-ed dorm. Keep reading »
In exactly 11 days, something very exciting is happening in my life and relationship: My husband and I are finally moving out of his bachelor pad and into a new apartment. When I moved in nearly three years ago, I never expected to stay here this long. In fact, when I initially moved to New York from Chicago, I only meant to stay in Drew’s apartment long enough to find a job and a place of my own. Things changed, though, and Drew and I quickly realized we really enjoyed living together. So I stayed. Even after I finally found work and could afford to get my own place, it seemed dumb for us to live apart when what we wanted was to be together. And for awhile it made sense to stay in Drew’s bachelor pad here in Manhattan. Even though he’d lived here for 13 years already — since he was 24 — the apartment was a great space in a convenient location (especially for someone brand-new to the city), with one of those controlled rents you normally only hear about in urban legends. But now it’s time to go. Keep reading »