About a year ago, I was sitting at my desk at The Frisky when an email from my mother popped up. She was writing to tell me that my brother had checked himself into a rehab facility because he had started using drugs again. He had strained his back at his job, but didn’t tell his doctor about his past history of heroin and OxyContin addiction when he asked for a painkiller prescription. So he started taking Vicodin. And when he became addicted to the painkillers, he hid his drug use from his girlfriend. When she overheard him buying drugs on the phone, she kicked him out. But he did even more heavy drugs another night after that, and he woke up the next day realizing he’d hit “rock bottom” again. So my brother did another stint in rehab and when he checked out a month later, we watched warily, worried. But he lives in another state and, by choice, I hardly ever see him. Judging by the few holidays where I do see him, I assumed he was sober. Keep reading »
The other night, after having sex with the new guy I’m seeing, he said casually, “I’m going out for a drink with my friend. I’ll be back in half an hour.” Fair or not, it bothered me that he was going out with a female friend (I’d still have been a little miffed it had been a male friend, but not in the same way). The fact was, I was exhausted after having flown home on a red eye that morning, so perhaps I was overly sensitive, but still, I was jealous … especially when three hours later I woke up and he wasn’t there.
I almost left, but he apologized, telling me his friend had some major issues to discuss and they’d lost track of time. He rushed back and we fell asleep together. The next night, I got to meet the woman I’ll call Alice when we all went to dinner. She was fun and sweet — and has a boyfriend. In just a few minutes, I could tell she wasn’t a threat to my relationship, but still, the fact that the majority of his friends are women, and there are lots of them, has given me pause. Keep reading »
Thank you for sleeping with my husband. I’m not being sarcastic. A few years ago, I would have been. I’d be calling you something far worse than “you.”
I only saw you once, back when you were still living next door to his parents. You were from Japan, he said. We waved at you, but you didn’t wave back. You saw us, I could tell, but you turned away. You weren’t sleeping with him then, but you had a crush. You always seemed to be having some kind of legal trouble – sexual harassment at work, problems with your visa – and my husband being an attorney was quite convenient. Sometimes he helped you with paperwork at your house. Once he took you to a seminar on immigration rights.
I didn’t suspect a thing. Keep reading »
A few weeks ago I found myself in a peculiar situation. But first, let me give you some background.
I live in New York City but grew up in Akron, Ohio, which is located in a region where landscapes switch between cement tundra and golden cornfields as quickly as one pop song flips to the next on your car radio. In a way, this is emblematic of the people who reside or have resided there: we shift easily between modern-liberal and traditional-conservative thought (hence, a swing state). In my 27 years, I’ve seen this dichotomy play out in two key scenarios: the presidential election of 2004 and a recent trip home to attend my first non-family member baby shower. Keep reading »
I stopped drinking when I was 29. I was tired of the consequences outweighing the benefits — tired of calling in sick to work, tired of hooking up with people I would have run from sober, tired of crying and throwing things for no reason. Oh, and did I mention I was tired of all the drama drinking brought to my love life? Sure, there were the occasional incident-free drunken date nights. But when men were brought into the mix(ed drink), I didn’t tend to remain the cute, funny little version of me. My usually-sharp wit would dull into a mushy puddle of need. You know what I’m talking about: “You don’t realllllllly love me! I don’t believe you love me! I need you to love me! Do you promise you love me?” Ugh. Keep reading »
One day as I was walking around the city, a few hours after I’d peed on a stick in my office toilet and that tell-tale plus sign came up, it dawned on me that every single person I was passing—every single old man, young child, bored teen, chubby woman, skinny fashionista, homeless guy, what have you—began life in the very same way: via a freaked-out woman who didn’t know what the hell she was getting herself into. Keep reading »
A few years ago, I slept with your husband. Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t some kind of an apology. Nor is it an explanation. And, trust me, I’m not looking for your forgiveness. Because here’s the thing. All these years later, you don’t even know. Or at least I don’t think you do. Sometimes I see you, and sometimes I see him, and sometimes I see the two of you together, and it’s like nothing happened. But if you ever wake up one day and realize what happened, here’s why I slept with your husband. Keep reading »
I used to be defined by one singular character: ambition. As early as 9th grade, I knew that I wanted to be a journalist who wrote long-form investigative articles. And for nine or 10 years, everything about my life was focused around that one goal: where I went to school, how I spent my “free” time, who my friends were, even whom I dated. It’s not an exaggeration to say my drive consumed my life — and I was perfectly OK, even pleased, with that. I seriously believed that at long last I would finally be happy when people bought magazines with my writing in them.
The thing is, ambition for ambition’s sake turns out to be a hollow way to live one’s life. It’s a means to an end, of course, but considering that the target you are shooting for is constantly shifting, it can also be exhausting. Don’t misunderstand me: I’m proud of my accomplishments — articles I’ve written, interviews I’ve conducted, maybe a few lives I’ve affected. But if I could go back in time and change a few things, I just might do it.
And the first thing that I would change? I would not have dated so many men whose careers I envied. Life is hard enough when you’re putting unreasonable expectations on yourself to succeed, but it’s damn near impossible when you’re comparing yourself to someone you’re sleeping with. Keep reading »
I’m a freelance private investigator based in Paris. I don’t stalk people and I don’t wear a trench coat and sunglasses—unless it’s simultaneously raining and sunny. My company conducts investigations of high-flying financiers. While I have no interest in the finance world whatsoever, my entire income derives from it, and in last year’s economic crisis, I had zero income for three solid months. Keep reading »
When John Mayer’s supremely ignorant Playboy interview hit the wires, I, like most people, was appalled. Not just by his idiotic racism, but by the way he spoke about his exes. I mean, the dude compared Jessica Simpson to crack! Said she was like “sexual napalm!” What a jerk! I mean, how indiscreet!
I watched Jessica Simpson tell Oprah that no, she hadn’t forgiven him for his big fat mouth and was disappointed that he’d sunk so low. I harrumphed, “You go, Jessica!” as I high-fived my TV screen.
Then I recalled how many times I’d blabbed about exes. I’ve been writing about relationships, often my own, for the past 10 years. In that time, I’ve done some serious dishing—and dissing. The truth is, most of my recountings were far less flattering than what John had to say about Jessica.
My name is Judy and I am a hypocrite. Keep reading »