Vanity is something that plagues women—all of us have fallen prey to the aesthetic monster at some point. When I first saw pop tart Heidi Montag unveil her shiny new body and face after getting 10 cosmetic procedures in one day, I thought, “WTF? She didn’t need any work done—she was 23 and beautiful.” But then again, someone probably would have said the same thing about me.
I’ll admit it—I recently had one-tenth of Heidi’s plastic surgery. Strike that—I prefer to call it “non-plastic surgery.” As a 26-year-old single black female, I had finally gotten fed up with my top parts, which had started to resemble two droopy, sad party balloons. I wish I could say I had the pleasure of once having amazing boobs, but, annoyingly, they have always been more National Geographic-style. And so, I volunteered to be the guinea pig for a brand-new non-invasive breast lift. Keep reading »
A few nights ago I met up with an older journalist for cocktails. We sipped our drinks and talked about work, men, the usual subjects. Then she mentioned she’s going to New Orleans for a week with nine of her friends from college to build homes. “That’s so cool!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, we’ve done a vacation together every year,” she explained. “We don’t all go every year, because when the first one of us had a baby, we made a rule that no children are allowed to come. Usually the ones with younger children miss a few trips. But most of us go each year and leave our kids home with our husbands.”
Color me flabbergasted. My stay-at-home mom never did anything like that. And my three sisters, who are moms, have behaved at times like they can’t go see a matinee with me without Navy SEAL-level advanced planning.
“I’m a bad mom,” my new friend smiled, sipping her cocktail while her two kids sat at home with a sitter.
“Oh, no!” I assured her. “You’re the kind of mom I want to be!” Keep reading »
Lately I’ve noticed a number of commenters remarking or complimenting me on my willingness to “put myself out there” on The Frisky, sometimes scolding others whose remarks or jokes might end up hurting my feelings. The thing is, there’s very little feedback on what I write — i.e., about my personal experience or my decisions — that would bother me. (Criticism of how I write I’m more sensitive to.) Recently a fellow Frisky staffer asked me how I’ve learned to not care what people think.
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“I fell and really hurt myself. Could I come over?” I sobbed on the phone to John, the guy I’d just begun seeing. I’d been coming from drinks with friends and had slipped down the stairs to the subway, twisting my ankle, as well as badly bruising my tailbone and my pride. Now, even though I wasn’t physically hurt, I felt shaky and wanted to be taken care of by a potential boyfriend.
“Well … ” I heard hesitation on the other line. “Now’s not really a good time. What happened?”
“I fell on the subway stairs,” I whined pathetically, even though, in the back of my mind, I knew I was fine. I knew all I needed was Advil and a large bag of ice. I know I should have told him that. But I didn’t. Keep reading »
For some women, first date preparation is a leg wax, a blowout, and brand-new, five-inch pumps. For others, it’s a swipe of lip gloss.
But for me, it’s always at least a solid hour of internet research. To me, pre-date Googling is less a verb than an Olympic-style event of decathlon proportions. There’s the phone number check, there’s the email address cross-search, there’s the quick dip into the search box of his alma mater, then there’s also a quick perusal of his Facebook page, and, occasionally, his friends’ Facebook pages. Keep reading »
The majority of my friends are doing cool things with their lives: I have lots of journalist friends, friends who got cosmetology licenses, friends in law school, friends taking the Series 7 exams, even friends deployed in Iraq.
Yet, for all the ones climbing up their career ladders, there are a few 26- to 30-year-olds who’re still hanging out on the first or second rung. I’ve pretty much stopped asking, “Do you think you’ll start applying to jobs in that field you’re interested in?” or “Do you think you’ll move out of your hometown?” because the answer is always some variation of “I don’t know” or “not yet.” Some of these conversations have been going on for years.
I’m starting to see that your 20s aren’t just about making bad relationship decisions. They’re about making bad career decisions as well. Keep reading »
This weekend I went out on the town. I met one of my only single girlfriends out at a bar, drank a bucket load of prosecco, and watched her make out with an off-duty cop from New Jersey. I made excuses that I was exhausted and was back at home, in bed, at 2 a.m. Kelly was slightly disappointed in my turning in early. “This isn’t the Amelia I remember,” she scolded. “Next time, you’ve got to be out until at least four.” I promised her that next time I would be. But I was lying. Keep reading »
My best friend in the world was attacked. Her ex, upset and drunk one night, followed her home and up the stairs to her apartment door. Before she could close it, he’d muscled it open. She tried to force the weight of her body against it, to hold it shut. And couldn’t. He came through. He chased her through the apartment, bellowing about what she “owed him,” and knocked her down. He held her on the floor, but she got away, running down the street missing a shoe.
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I was in Brooklyn exactly one block from David’s* apartment with about one hour to spare. I knew what I had to do. I sent a text before I had too much time to think about it: “I’m in your hood. Have an hour to kill. Drink?” I got a queasy feeling in my stomach. It had been almost two years since the last time I’d seen him … Keep reading »