Hello there. You. Yes, you! I have something I would like to talk to you about.
It’s come up a couple of times recently and it’s gotten so irritating that I finally have to say something about it. I’m pretty sure you’re not even aware of what you’re doing or why it bothers me. So here it goes.
I would like you to ask me out on a freaking date. Keep reading »
“There was (and still is) something wrong with me. And it’s the same thing that’s ‘wrong’ with pretty much every single woman in New York complaining she can’t find a decent man … We don’t know what we want. And so we want a little bit of everything, over and over again.”
Jennifer Doll’s words on the plight of the NYC single woman in the Village Voice last week have been keeping me awake at night. She’s right. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed that I’m rendered inert by my confusion. I’m stuck. Keep reading »
A few years ago my friend Dana and I were volunteers for Minds Matter, a non-profit organization that helps underprivileged kids get into college. Dana, a white Florida hippie who had a thing for rap music, was hoping to boost her resume in order to secure a teaching fellowship in the city. My goal as a biracial fashion executive was just to help underprivileged minority girls get into college. The program was amazing. Every Saturday, Dana and I, along with a hundred other mentors would devote hours to our mentees and help them identify the schools best suited for them, complete their applications, and draft their personal essays. My mentee was a beautiful African American high school senior from Harlem named Jaleesa. She was smart, hardworking, and respectful, and I had come to view her like a little sister. To know that I was helping this young and talented girl into to college made me really proud, and protective. Keep reading »
This morning, like every morning, I poked my computer “on” and shuffled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. Sitting in my favorite mug next to the coffee maker was a package of Reese’s peanut butter hearts. I scampered into the living room to find my dad. “Thank you!” I trilled. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” He just grinned. “I tried to get you a heart-shaped box of chocolates,” he said, “but I think I waited too long because they already had Easter candy out last night.”
My dad does this every year and every year it makes me really happy to be his daughter. Even the years when I’ve been at college, living in an apartment on my own or studying abroad in Europe, Dad has made sure I had a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day. Yes, it might sound loser-ish, but to me it’s totally sweet: my dad is my Valentine. I don’t mean for this to be creepy, but I am being sincere. My dad as a Valentine has never disappointed. Keep reading »
Earlier this week, I wrote about my flagrant disregard for Valentine’s Day. But a small (minor!) detail–a teensy admission about a particular ex of mine–seemed to garner the most attention. Yes, I went on a date with a hobo killer–but that’s not why I stopped seeing him. Keep reading »
It started my sophomore year of high school with Danny Bonfiglio*. I saw him on the bus wearing Doc Martins and a Sonic Youth T-shirt. He pushed his shoulder length, brown hair out of his eyes long enough to speak to me. “Nice shoes,” he said quietly and continued on to the back of the bus. Keep reading »