A year ago, my then-boyfriend and I argued about something. I can’t remember anymore what it was about. But I know it made me upset the night we argued and lasted until the next morning, all the way from my commute from New Jersey into New York City. Pent-up with frustration, I needed to do something to make myself feel better. So instead of walking straight to my office, I ducked into an H&M, grabbed skirts, dresses and blouses off the racks without even trying them on, and spent something like $200 or $300 on clothes in less than half an hour. Keep reading »
I love Oprah. I’ve been watching her since I was a pimply teenager looking for diet tips and ways to attract a boyfriend. My dream was to become a journalist and interview newsmakers and celebrities just like she does. I wound up a TV news producer and writer and — although I never got my own show or theme song — I thank Oprah for motivating me.
O and I have been through a lot together. Big hair, shoulder pads, and several body types. We’ve also taken a spiritual journey as we grew up and began to recognize the world outside ourselves. The cynical will snicker, but I believe she encouraged me to be a better person. Her shows prompted me to read great books, be more generous with time and money, and better understand my fellow man.
When I heard it was her last season, I wanted to make the pilgrimage to my hometown of Chicago to see her in person. I lobbied everyone I knew who might have a connection until I scored tickets. I booked my flight and shared my excitement with friends. Keep reading »
This story begins with an answering machine. Which means that, yes, it happened a long time ago—I believe in 2003. I was at home in North Carolina visiting my parents, and on the second day of my stay, I plunged my key in the lock of the front door, dropped my bag on the table beside it, and hit the play button on the answering machine—autopilot reflexes I’d perfected years before when I’d actually lived in this house. The first message was obviously for my parents—skip. Ditto for message number two. But the third message contained a familiar baritone voice—Liam*, the guy I’d dated my senior year of high school through my junior year of college. We hadn’t spoken in the two years since we’d broken up.
Oh, that’s nice, I thought. I haven’t heard from him in forever. We should really meet for a cup of coffee while I’m here. Wait a second. How did he know I was home?
“It was wonderful seeing you two last week,” Liam said, his deep voice echoing through the foyer. “Thanks for the advice.”
And that’s when it hit me—this message wasn’t for me. It was for my parents. Keep reading »
In a piece she penned for the latest issue of New York magazine, Roseanne Barr discusses her experience as a feminist pioneer in media. Throughout the piece she shares anecdotes about struggling to make it in a male-dominated industry. Of the most interest to me were her anecdotes about the females she encountered along the way. She writes about women that screwed her over and disrespected her and others that supported her and stuck up for her. One description of a non-supportive female colleague stuck out:
“This producer was a woman, a type I became acquainted with at the beginning of my stand-up career in Denver. I cared little for them: blondes in high heels who were so anxious to reach the professional level of the men they worshipped, fawned over, served, built up, and flattered that they would stab other women in the back. They are the ultimate weapon used by men against actual feminists who try to work in media, and they are never friends to other women, you can trust me on that.”
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“Most unusual sexual experience?” I asked my man as I was straddling him in bed one evening. This may sound like a strange line of questioning, but we like to give each other intimate interviews. It is part of our oddly arousing foreplay.
“A squirter,” he answered.
“Really!?’ I asked, as if he were telling me he sees dead people.
“Yeah, every single time we did it, she squirted.” Keep reading »
Two years ago, I was sitting in the bathtub cheerfully shampooing my unruly mop of hair and engaging my morning ablutions. When the time came to wash my privates, a sudden, sharp, stinging sensation arose the second I touched soap to vulva. I actually cried out, causing my curious cat to peek over the tub rim at my submerged body. I rinsed the soap off quickly, but the burning sensation lingered.
And I remained both in pain — and dumbfounded — for the next 18 months. Keep reading »