My name is Winona and I am a slob.
Growing up, my mom affectionately referred to my bedroom as “the pig sty,” and rightfully so: the clothing, books, art supplies and cereal bowls that covered the floor would often reach knee-height before I felt the urge to tidy up a bit. At some point my brothers began gathering up the trash from their cars and setting it my room instead of putting it in the garbage. Months would pass before I found the bags of Slurpee cups and cracked Green Day CDs.
When I moved into my college dorm, my roommate was also a slob, and within months the trek from our doorway to our beds had become eerily reminiscent of the scene in “Star Wars” where Luke Skywalker falls into the Death Star’s garbage compactor. Keep reading »
About six months ago, my naturally curly locks entered a fussy phase. My hair has always been a delicate ecosystem, but some unidentified hormonal, dietary, or environmental shift had caused it to change from uniformly unruly to lopsidedly bizarre. Essentially, I looked like a frizzy mess except for one stubborn greasy patch directly above my right eye. I had no desire to become the poster child for “combination hair,” and spent a lot of time glaring at my reflection while muttering expletives. Keep reading »
Ughhhhh, he is infuriating, I thought as I scanned Paul*’s Facebook page. There were new status messages — “carboloading” — a recent video of him performing, and links to new posts on his blog. Facebook told me what parties Paul had recently attended and which ones he had just RSVP’d to; it told me “Paul and So-and-So are now friends” and that new friend made a reference to how great it was to meet him. I felt my mouth puckering in the way that my friend Erin refers to as “Cat Ass” — tight and pissed. I wanted to scream expletives at him, eviscerate his ego, slap him, do something to show him just how hurt I was. Instead, I took a deep breath and clicked the window closed. You’ve moved on, Amelia, I thought. You’re over him. You realized you deserved way better than what he could possibly give. There’s no point in being angry. Keep reading »
Can you see yourself with him forever? I asked myself just, oh, the other day.Yes. Yes I can. I had asked this question of myself a few months ago too, but about someone else. The answer was the same. And about six months before that. Same question, same answer. Did I mention I’m currently single?
This week, I read Dater X’s latest column with great interest. The idea that maybe we should be asking ourselves bigger questions — “Can I see myself marrying/spending my life with this person?” — about the people we date is not a foreign concept to me. I ask myself that question almost right away with nearly every single person I date; and, with a few exceptions, my subconscious usually answers “yes.” At least at first. Keep reading »
There seems to be this undercurrent of a**hole-loving lately; my peers justifying their ill-advised decision to partner with people they believe can and will “change.” I’m all about personal preference, but it seems that while the Nice Guy/A**hole debate rages on, no one has stood up for the Good Guys. Keep reading »