Happy (Almost) New Year! We’re still reliving the best of The Frisky in 2010 as the clock ticks down to 2011. Here are some of our favorite and most talked about “Girl Talk” columns from the past year. Keep reading »
Despite the fact that I’ve never had a relationship longer than nine months and that one was with a 15-year-old boy, I still believe in love. I believe in the love of friends and family and despite all evidence against, I believe that I will someday meet a man who will make my life even better. Even with this hope, when I imagine the future, it generally involves a goat farm and some really cute babies, but I’ve blurred out the vision of that burly be-flanneled man of my dreams. It seems that even though I will meet a guy and tell my friends, “I think I can be with this guy for more than a few months! Yay!” A week or a month later, I’m already washing my hands of another false start. It’s not like I can’t relate to or love men, but all my closest relationships are to ex-boyfriends. It’s for this reason that I’ve set up marriage promises. Lots of them. Keep reading »
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 »