I’m now six days away from the official due date of my unplanned (but now certainly wanted) first baby, and I think I have learned what it might be like to be disabled in America. It’s not very pleasant. I am certainly a spectacle, but unlike other disabled people, the woman with a giant rotund belly warrants comments from nearly everyone she passes, whether it’s kind strangers who say “Congratulations!” on the street or the bitch who works at Target who warned me not to have my baby on the floor. And if I have to hear “OMG you’re SO pregnant,” one more time (from friends, family and strangers), I really might lose it. I’m hormonal, chunky and need a drink, so stating the obvious is getting plain annoying. Keep reading »
Awhile ago, I went to one of those psychic-type people. I don’t think she called herself that, but you get the point. Anyway, she said something that has stuck in my head ever since. I think I made a passing reference to finding “The One,” and she made a face.
“There’s no such thing as ‘The One,’” she explained. “There is only the one who is ‘The One’ right now.”
And, you know what? I think she was right. Keep reading »
Day tumbled into night tumbled into party time. I could barely change my shoes fast enough to keep up. When we dressed for the party, I chose my best suit because it was sexy and was actually the most expensive item of clothing I owned. I hoped it might inspire some confidence.
Destiny, Serena, and I waited for Ari in the foyer. As I grew accustomed to it, the house was looking less like a palace and more like a banquet hall. I pictured a gaggle of bridesmaids posed on the staircase. But it was just the three of us, facing each other awkwardly, tallying up each other’s flaws and assets as we waited for Ari’s entrance. I figured that over Destiny and her acrylic claws, I had looks but not wildness. Over Serena and her china-doll eyes, I had smarts but not looks. Keep reading »
“I think you’re great,” I told him over martinis on our third date, “but I just don’t think we’re compatible.” Mike was smart, interesting, and nice … too nice when we slept together for the first time earlier that week. There had been no throwdown, no frantic disrobing, no moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors, no playfulness. Instead, there was soft music playing in the background, gentle kisses on my eyelids, careful caressing, uncomfortable, unwavering eye contact, and … Oh, God, is he making love to me? Keep reading »
I have big plans for my birthday this month. BIG ones. Wanna hear them? OK, I’m gonna sit at home in my pajamas, eat chocolate cake, and watch reruns of “The Gilmore Girls.”
I love celebrating my birthday solo. Partly it’s because I’m shy. The last thing I’d want is the waitstaff at Chili’s to sing me a rousing “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” or for my loved ones to jump out at me from behind furniture, then wait for me to say a few witty, well-chosen words. I’m like my father, who wanted nothing for his 70th birthday — an important one in Chinese culture — except a nice meal with his family. But people don’t understand this. Keep reading »
I was 19 years old and had my legs spread on my new boyfriend Greg’s bed. We had been dating for a few weeks and had fooled around a bit, mostly talking dirty and dry humping while clothed. It was my last night in town before leaving for a three-month study abroad program and it was pretty much a given that Greg and I would do it. He invited me over to his Park Slope apartment, we listened to music, ate pizza, and he went down on me on his balcony. It was all pretty steamy until Greg took off his boxers to reveal his wood. At the time, I hadn’t seen too many penises, but now, after many years on the sex scene, I am aware that it was of the unprecedented, porn star variety. Keep reading »
Ned Weinstein* was the white, Jewish incarnation of Steve Urkel. He was a scrawny kid with a mass of brown hair that someone, presumably his mom, attempted to part on the right side. He had a turkey sandwich for lunch every day, and wore button-down shirts in the 1st grade. By the 2nd he had decided what he wanted to be when he grew up—a neuroscientist.
He also, by age 7, was completely and totally sure that I was the girl he wanted to marry. Meanwhile, I barely even acknowledged his existence. Keep reading »
There exists a school of thought that dictates if you think something catastrophic, then it won’t happen. What would happen if my family died in a car accident? What would happen if my house caught on fire? Two summers ago, I asked myself: Wouldn’t it suck if my first love met someone unexpectedly and got over me before I could begin to move on? Thankfully, my family and my house are safe, but my feelings, my love life, and my ego still need mending. Keep reading »
That video I posted earlier this morning of the 4 year-old girl who was heartbroken to be moving away from the boy (teacher, I think?) she was so in love with kind of hit home for me. Like our young heroine, I, too, moved to Japan at a tender age, leaving behind a boy I was pretty in love with. I lived on a Navy base in Korea at the time and Young was a little Korean boy whose dad was our base doctor, if I remember right. Anyway, I came across his photo when I was home for the holidays and showing my husband a bunch of old family photo albums. In the picture, I’ve just finished a performance of a community theater production of “The Wizard of Oz” and I’m dressed in a little green munchkin costume with rosy cheeks and my red hair pulled back into two pigtails. I’m holding a red carnation, which was probably a gift from Young, who is standing next to me dressed in blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt, with a little dirt smudge on his face. The two of us are looking at the camera ever-so-shyly, like too-forward a glance or too-bright a flash might make our young love dissipate in a cloud of smoke. It was only a few months later that Young did what, to this day — with the exception of my husband’s proposal to me — remains the single most romantic gesture anyone has ever made toward me. Keep reading »