As a child, I was sick with relative frequency. I remember returning to third grade after a month off with mono, several pounds lighter, and my skin pale from lack of exposure to sun. As I walked in, all Colin from The Secret Garden, the bitchiest girl in the class announced “You’re, like, always sick.”
It had occurred to me that I was sick more often than my peers. True, my mother had a fairly lenient stay-home-from-school policy, but by the time I was 10, I’d had mono, bronchitis, pneumonia, an ongoing bladder reflux issue and several sinus infections. My sisters are the same way. We’re evolutionarily weak. Whatever.
One might posit that having two orthopedic surgeries and a few viral and bacterial infections would foster some stoicism around unwellness. Well, one would be wrong. Practice, in my case, does not make perfect. When I’m ill, I’m a nightmare. Keep reading »
This month, Tim Ferriss of The 4-Hour Work Week and a bunch of his dude readers are going without booze and masturbation in order to up their testosterone levels and be, um, greater in general, I guess. I don’t currently possess the aversion to Tim Ferriss as a human being that the incredibly witty Samantha Allen does (my attitude is somewhere along the lines of “Who? Oh yeah, him”), but I am, at least, very skeptical about this no-masturbation-as-leveling-up thing.
No-masturbation challenges abound on the internet, not least of all in /r/NoFap, where I originally came across the concept. Their no-masturbation argument goes something like Ferriss’s spiel: If you quit jacking off, you’ll be more productive, your testosterone levels will increase and your interpersonal relationships will improve (they’re fuzzy on what that means). The no-fap pitch tends to be heavy on the science, but it’s not great science — even Your Brain On Porn, on which NoFap relies for a lot of its information, has noted that masturbation does not cause a decrease in testosterone levels, and although doctors agree that orgasms from sex and orgasms from masturbation are different and there are risks to compulsive masturbation, they have more to do with chafing and addiction than endocrine levels. Keep reading »
I’ve been obsessed with animals for as long as I can remember. I’m sure you’ve seen me (or one of my ubiquitous, 30-something single-lady soul twins, perpetually emitting twee-voiced animal baby-talk while ensconced in an inch-thick resin of cat hair). As a child, I was the annoying, overly sensitive, bleeding-heart kid who orchestrated elaborate funerals for dead squirrels in the backyard; cried as her parents explained why birds kept dying by blindly flying into the oversize windows of our sunroom; and went vegetarian-and-proud (hi, obligatory PETA membership) at age 14 when I could no longer stomach the idea of having animal flesh anywhere near my own, er, animal flesh.
Lots of years have rolled by since then, but I’m still an oversensitive, dyed-in-the-wool creature-lover. So, obviously I’ve always had pets — cats, to be specific. I grew up with a calico named Trouble, then took in Jobie in college, and adopted Joon during my crazy twenties. My animal family has expanded over time, as families are wont to do, and now I play mom to Joon, another cat named Batman, and a dog called Hennessy (aka Henny, pictured above). I love all my animals, of course. But I need to be honest: my dog is … a lot. More than I was expecting, at any rate. Keep reading »
High on my list of lifetime headdesks is a morning on which I set off to “sweep” a terrain park on a mountain to declare it open and I suddenly needed to pee. I was a ski patroller, wearing the heroic black bib and brace with the yellow medical cross on my back, so I skied under the ropeline, past the “closed” sign, and traversed past the ski jumps to take a piss. I had my suspenders and pants down around my ankles when I heard the telltale crunch of a snowboarder grinding to a halt just above me. His face dropped as we locked eyes. He mouthed a silent “fuck,” then kicked the board to face down the hill and took off.
Dear all: You do not beat a ski patroller down a hill. I yanked my pants up and skated after him, cranking my best G.S. technique until I cut him off. “Did you ski under a closed ropeline?!” I asked him rhetorically. “DO YOU SEE WHY THIS RUN WAS CLOSED?” He hung his head silently. “SHOULD ANYONE HAVE TO SEE WHAT YOU HAD TO SEE??” He shook his head. This was an existential question; he understood. I let him go. So many people saw my butt during my ski days. It was the peeing. Peeing in storm-force winds, peeing on 30-degree slopes, peeing as tourists in jeans whizzed by. Some of the most difficult peeing of my life, really. Keep reading »
I have big boobs. Whereas some women would kill to have the knockers I have, I’ve never been a huge fan of them. I mean, yes, it’s a pretty impressive rack, but at the price of back pain and the inability to get a dress to fit me properly, I’d prefer them to be smaller. I think I’d be happy with a nice B-cup, which is a small cry from the Double-D situation I have at the moment.
Not too surprisingly, my boobs have always been a favorite physical asset of the men I’ve dated. They’ve loved my brain, I think, and I’ve always been complimented on my sick sense of humor and my eyes, but when it came to my boobs, well, they’ve always won major points with the guys in my life, both straight and gay. In addition to being an ideal place for the men I’ve been intimate with to put their hands or rest their head, my boobs have provided other, more exciting experiences. What could be more exciting than a breast for a pillow, you ask? Keep reading »
It’s freshman year of college, and Janie and Dave are best friends. They do everything together – hang out in their dorm rooms, go to the dining hall, walk around campus. Their friendship is great, until one night, they decide to head to a “fraternity party.”
At the party, Janie and Dave drink alcohol. When they decide to leave, Dave walks Janie back to her dorm room – to be sure she gets there ok, of course. Once inside, Dave confesses that he loves Janie. He starts to kiss her and gets on top of her. Janie is confused, saying that she’s not sure about this…
I’m sure you can fill in the rest.
This is the plot of a play in which I once starred, called quite aptly “The Date Rape Play.” It was the summer before my junior year of college. I was cast in the play — and, crucially, paid $200 — in order to perform it for groups of incoming freshman, who Needed to Know About Date Rape. The play was written by an adult trying desperately to be “down” with the way the kids talked and acted. Sample lines included: “Have you heard about the date rape drug, Rohypnol?,” “I don’t know, I’m worried people will be drinking alcohol there,” and “You got the look girl, work it!” My fellow theater kid friends and I thought it was the best thing we’d ever seen. Keep reading »