I moved to New York City on July 1, 2001, a few weeks after graduating from college. That means it’s almost my nine-year anniversary in this city and next year’s anniversary will make me officially a “New Yorker.” But I think that if you lived here on September 11, 2001 and stayed, you get to call yourself a New Yorker regardless of how long you’ve had a 212, 917, 646, 718, or 347 area code.
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There comes a point in every relationship when two people become so cozy together that they start to create their own private, little world. One person’s neck becomes a perfume shop, a place where you could bury your nose for hours. The other’s chest becomes a bedroom piece as essential to sleeping as the bed itself. This list could go on; this list could get dirty. But perhaps what’s most notable about the birth of your tiny couple nation is the genesis of your own tonally driven dialect of sweet, soothing sayings, otherwise known as baby talk.
Of course, baby talk should never be used within earshot of anyone other than your partner. (If you do happen to employ baby talk outside of state lines, you should be immediately deported.) When used in the confines of your relationship, though, it can be a really positive thing—until you overdo it, and the sweetness turns sour. Keep reading »
I want to start this confession with a disclaimer: I have a boyfriend who I have been dating for two and a half years. It is a relationship that I have poured more love, commitment and concern into than any of my previous ones put together, and he does the same. He listens sincerely to all the problems I unload on him, even when it’s the same stale series of issues over and over again. Our biggest fight has only led to about 10 minutes of oh-so-mature silent treatment. We even have embarrassing nicknames for each other that I know better than to publish here. I know I am lucky to have this sort of relationship and I cherish every moment of it. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even though Jake Gyllenhaal is my “Get Out of Jail Free” exception, if he came calling in his “Prince of Persia” regalia, I know I couldn’t act on it. Now that has to be love.
And yet, I’m jealous of you—you giggly new couples with your adorably awkward first dates and timid hand-holding. Keep reading »
I took Friday off to head upstate with some friends for a relaxing weekend in the country. Plaid shirts were worn, showers were abstained from, and copious amounts of pork, wine, and other stuff were ingested. A great time was had by all, especially when my girlfriends took the time to put their heads together to come up with a “back-up plan” for yours truly. Keep reading »
I’m so frustrated by hearing any dating advice that resembles “just trust your instincts.” It’s not that I don’t think it’s good advice — I do. I’m not that person who doesn’t believe in instincts or doesn’t know how to follow them. I am A + when it comes to following my instincts. They’ve led me through three careers, two cross-country moves, and a whole slew of major life dilemmas. My first — not even my middle! — name is Instinct. I follow my gut religiously, boldly, and without question in every single area of my life except my love life. In that department, my instincts have flown the coop and I don’t know how to get them back.
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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 »
The following is an excerpt from Some Girls: My Life In A Harem, by Jillian Lauren, a memoir of the author’s experience as a sex worker hired by the prince of Brunei.
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 »