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 »
I was sitting at brunch last weekend eating greasy eggs with one of my guy friends. “So, how’s the love life?” I asked.
“Eh,” Tom replied shrugging his shoulders.
“What? You’re not hunting and fishing?” I asked, doing my best Patti Stanger impression.
“Nah, it’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that dating is so … so expensive.” Expensive? That’s a new one. And sadly I’ve been hearing a lot of guys say it lately. What’s up with that? It shouldn’t be too expensive to date. Keep reading »
I’ve made no secret of the fact that I eventually want a long-term, committed relationship and kids. But I’ve recently come to the realization that I also don’t think I ever want to share my living space with another adult. For the first time in my life, I live alone and I love it. These two desires — to have kids with someone and to live alone — do not really go hand in hand. Crap. Keep reading »
I texted him as soon as I woke up.
“What do you want me to wear today?”
I brushed my teeth and washed my face while I waited for him to text me back.
“White button-down shirt. Tuck it in. Your jeans. Flats. Put your hair in a ponytail. Send me a photo.”
I dressed as instructed, then stood before the wall-length mirror in my apartment’s hallway. Smiling into the mirror, I snapped a photo on my iPhone and sent it to Ben*.
Thirty seconds later, a text message: “Very nice.” Then I knew I could leave for work.
Ben was not abusive. I was not being hurt, nor was I unhappy. We were in a dominant/submissive relationship — or playing at one, anyway — and following his orders got me unbelievably, unbelievably turned on. Keep reading »
Some women are forever attracted to jerks. Others are great at building healthy relationships with good guys. Still others are addicted to unrequited love. Everyone has a pattern. Me—I find myself, on repeat, forging relationships with men who don’t think we’re actually dating. In other words, I’m an expert at the “fakelationship.”
So what exactly is a fakelationship, you ask? If you’ve ever been in one, you know it. It’s a “friendship” where you text, email, talk on the phone, and hang out pretty much constantly. Where if 48 hours goes by without some kind of contact, you feel like something big is missing from your day. In some fakelationships, you hook up while maintaining that you’re “just friends.” In others, it feels purely platonic, though the level of emotional dependence is way stronger than a typical friendship. Think “When Harry Met Sally,” before the titular characters realize they’re actually in love.
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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 »