I was never one of those little girls who begged God to give her boobs. If anything, I desperately wanted them to stop growing. By the time I hit middle school, I was strapping them down into a sports bra that made it look I had a uni-boob around my chest like a tire. I was never psyched that I had big breasts. I liked wearing little boys’ T-shirts with overalls in high school and I remember looking down one day and thinking that I just wanted to be a little girl again—I didn’t want the body of a woman. I couldn’t get dressed without looking either matronly or slutty. There wasn’t really an in-between for me and my boobs. By the time I was 25, they were a 34G. Keep reading »
Yesterday I almost died. Not in a “life flashing before me” kind of way – but in a cold, painful, this-blizzard-totally-sucks kind of way. I got stuck in the Snowpocalypse.
You know, the Snowpocalypse—the weekend storm that’s currently blanketing the East Coast. I spent Christmas in Philadelphia, DJing an annual Christmas night party. Yesterday morning when we woke up, my friends and I decided that we would try and beat the impending blizzard and make our way home to New York. Only we didn’t beat the blizzard. We drove right into it. Keep reading »
The other night, I was wading through all the junk scattered around my apartment, starting to panic because I couldn’t find a book I needed to review. I threw out bag after bag of garbage and finally decided to get some dinner, my version of which was a prepackaged frozen entree of organic tofu, vegetables and brown rice, plus a bottle of soy sauce. Keep reading »
What makes me most angry about the reprehensible, privilege-denying behavior of Michael Moore, Keith Olbermann and their allies in the whole Julian Assange-can’t-be-a-rapist-because-he’s-a-freedom-fighter ordeal, addressed beautifully by Sady Doyle and a number of brilliant feminists in the form of the #MooreAndMe Twitter hashtag? The fact that, in the likely event I am ever a victim of completed or attempted sexual assault, powerful men (and women!) of liberal privilege may not — indeed, very likely may not — take me seriously. Keep reading »
Have a great time partying it up this New Year’s Eve. You won’t see me there.
Instead of getting wildly drunk and making out with a random stranger, I’m going to do what I’ve done for the last four years: I’m skipping New Year’s.
There will be no wild parties with fireworks inside (yes, something that actually happened at one of my New Year’s Eve parties several years ago, and no, it wasn’t a good idea), I’ve taken to sharing the holiday ensconced in the woods with one of my close friends. Keep reading »
Indian weddings are beautiful. I missed my sister’s by just a few days. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to join her and her Canadian boyfriend in Goa, where I could complete my yoga training certificate in a country where men significantly outnumber women, or to stay home in the Brooklyn apartment I shared with four equally unemployed strangers, and where I was without a car, a boyfriend, or a shred of hope. I had to weigh my options, so I was a bit delayed.
That’s how I missed Leky’s lavish Hindu puja ceremony, where she wed a guy she had actually met years ago at a Buddhist monastery, and who she had run into again by chance half a decade later while she was tooling around India.
Their love is a beautiful story. Mine, not so much. Keep reading »