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 »
I was sitting around talking with some single ladies the other night. The topic du jour was the very popular “What are we looking for in a relationship?” I listened to variations on a theme: “someone to spend the rest of my life with,” “a partner, lover, and best friend forever.” I took it in. I even nodded my head and shared their vision to an extent, but the pragmatist in me started to think that forever and ever with one person sounded a little bit naïve. Does anybody really know what forever with a person looks like until they’ve done it? Following that logic, how can I really speculate what I want with a person forever and ever? Especially one I haven’t even met? Maybe there’s a reason why so many relationships don’t survive because of infidelity and maybe that reason is simpler than we think. Maybe monogamy isn’t really working for many of us. Keep reading »
The other day I got a letter from a reader who wanted to know how I knew my now-husband, Drew, was “the one,” whether I’d had an a-ha moment or something like that. She wanted to know how I knew he was “worth” picking up my life and moving to NYC for and whether I’d had some fear or hesitancy about moving. It was an interesting question to think about because on one hand, I actually don’t really believe in “a-ha” moments when it comes to relationships. I’m not even sure I necessarily believe in “the one.” I think there are potentially lots of ones, and it’s really all a matter of finding the right person at the right time. And though I obviously feel like I did find the right person at the right time, I didn’t always feel that way. And, in fact, there was an a-ha moment when things suddenly came into focus; I realized just how special what I had with Drew was and that our relationship was worth my picking up my life and moving, as scary as that was — and oh, it was scary!
Keep reading »
I was one of those girls who bought a vibrator in high school. She — yes, she’s a she — was leopard print and I hid her deep inside my closet where even the nosiest parent would not find her. She lasted all throughout college, a trip to Europe and back, and even withstood a minor, battery-related fire. (Be careful, everyone!) When she retired to the great sex shop in the sky, I replaced her with a new vibrator — a slick, slim, glittery blue little rocket — which I never quite felt was “me.” A few years ago I got myself one of Toys in Babeland’s bestselling vibes, the Laya Spot. It’s a darling shade of green and shaped like a cute little critter, curled up to sleep in its nest. She and I have enjoyed some good times indeed.
But these days, my vibrator is quite literally gathering dust, tossed off to the side of the bed. I suppose I should be pleased that something with a pulse is now tussling the bed sheets. But to be completely blunt, I miss masturbating sometimes. Keep reading »