Let’s make it all about Oprah for a moment, shall we? Oprah says in reference to Gayle (and I’m paraphrasing here), “Nothing’s better than a good friend,” and with the notable exception of a perfectly done French fry, I wholeheartedly agree. There’s really nothing better. If you’re living without, I recommend you fix the situation pronto. That said, I’ve no intention of instructing you on how to go about that here; I’m out of practice myself, having slipped into a motley crew of lunatics my freshman year of college and having held on tightly to those lunatics for the better part of 15 years. At this stage, new friends come along only once in a long while. And all I can say in terms of how I find them, is that, well, I don’t really. They find me is how it feels: I’m at a social gathering complaining about my facial hair, when suddenly there’s some new gal beside me who’s like, “My issue has always been my hairy lower back.” So you get to talking and fast-forward five years and she’s the one you call crying about the fact that you’re crying about J. Lo’s divorce. So again, I’m not here to tell you how to find her; I’m here to tell you how to assess a new lady friend. How to tell if she’s The One. Or, more specifically a Keeper. Keep reading »
I like boobs. I’m a straight woman, but really, who doesn’t appreciate them? Robots. Reptiles. Sauron. That’s about it. And I’m not even positive about Sauron. He might have, at some point, before he was all disembodied. Breasts are awesome. As feminist writer Gail Collins said in her New York Times piece, “Everybody likes breasts — infants, adults, women, men. Really, it’s America’s most popular body part.” But sometimes it seems like we only get to talk about how awesome certain kinds of boobs are. The ones that are bold, perfectly round, Sports Illustrated-style, belonging to Christina Hendricks, full, plush, generous, prominent, and just generally big.
Those words do not describe my breasts, but I like mine anyway. For some reason, I never learned to be ashamed. I listened to my brothers (and the world) make enthusiastic comments about well-endowed women, and, although I had a few moments of “Seriously, God? Where’s the rest of my chest? YOU FORGOT SOMETHING,” I grew up generally liking the way I looked. It could be that there’s something wrong with my brain. But I think it’s more likely that small boobs are pretty great. Here’s why. Keep reading »
Normally, the onslaught of Valentine’s Day ephemera inspires a mere eyeball roll from me, but this year I find myself sprinting past heart décor window installations back to my apartment, a zone void of pink and red reminders of the guy who decided to end our story — the same week I got laid off my job, which just so happened to also fall on the week before the impending holiday. My job and I had a solid eight-year relationship, until the corporate office decided to “downsize” and I got dumped. The guy and I? We had a good run of late-night laughter, cooking with rare spices (sumac, anyone?) and forging the kind of intimacy that makes you quietly happy, for as long as it lasts. “Longer than Kim (Kardashian) and that Kris guy,” as he put it during our breakup.
Being unattached and unemployed this Valentine’s Day is a constant reminder that I would like to be tethered, well, to something. Whether my final destination is a new gig or a new guy (or both!), getting there is the fun part. Or not so fun part. Here’s my plan of action … Keep reading »
Everyone talks about the winter blues. I don’t really get the blues, more the blahs. I’m not sitting around moping. I’m pissed off. My symptoms include not being able to sleep at all or wanting to sleep too much or waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep, getting very easily aggravated by everything — people, places, inanimate objects (I yelled at my cell phone last night) and only wanting to watch “Downton Abbey” or “Top Chef” while consuming large amounts of dark chocolate. This is where I’m at right now. Maybe I should go to London where an art collective installed a giant fake sun in Trafalgar Square. The fun (fake+sun), which is as bright as 60,000 lights bulbs, is said to be boosting the moods of all who bask in its glow. This is what I need! A fake sun! After the jump, some more ideas to get rid of winter blahs. Keep reading »
A new study done at University of Michigan explored people’s post-coital sleep behaviors. To cuddle or to sleep, that was the question. And who falls asleep first? And what does it say about the relationship? We say: Who cares? Who’s sleeping after sex? We wouldn’t dare nod off afterwards and waste the best moments of in life in soporific unconsciousness. Blasphemous! Not to mention boring! And cuddling? That’s for people who enjoy having their skin get stuck to another’s. Not us. There are way more interesting ways to spend post-sex moments. After the jump, some other things you can do after sex if you’re not the tired, spooning type of lover. Keep reading »
I have long suspected that I am bad at being a woman. There are things that other women can do that I am terrible at. There are days that I go out wearing giant boys’ sweatpants, my dad’s old football sweatshirt and a red knit cap. I forget that I’m supposed to try to look nice. There are other days when I try really hard to look nice, and then I see about 50 girls on the subway who all are much better at it. Their outfits are both more original and more trendy. Their lipstick has not ended up on their teeth. They always have a drawer full of makeup somewhere, and they know what each type of makeup thingy does. They have an intimate knowledge of flirty, confident, suggestively withdrawn, adorable, fascinating body language. I am in awe. I wonder how they do it. In my head, I keep a growing list of things that women can do that are a mystery to me, in the hope that one day it will all make sense. One day, I will unlock their secrets. After the jump, some of the things woman do that I just don’t understand. Keep reading »
Men, bless them. They love to think about us masturbating, at least the way they think we masturbate based on porn they’ve seen. If only they could be a fly on the wall when we’re actually pleasuring ourselves. Everything they thought to be true would be rocked. My average self-love sessions are performed without fanfare. Done with bad breath, messy hair, in my old sweat pants, before bed, when I wake up, am feeling stressed, or sad, or bored, or annoyed, or horny. After the jump, some stupid misconception guys have about the way we masturbate. Keep reading »
As part of my effort to focus on the positive occasionally, I make it a habit at the end of each year to jot down a top ten list of my favorite days. I was working on mine this morning. After some deliberation, I would have to say my favorite day was while I was at SXSW Music Festival in Austin this March. The morning started with Tecates, breakfast burritos, and a “16 and Pregnant” marathon with my girls and ended with a very exclusive Miike Snow show in a tent. The cherry on top was the late-night serenade session. My friends and I all walked along the train tracks on the way home and spontaneously burst out singing “Lean on Me” for no particular reason. It was a damn good day. After the jump, The Frisky staffers share their favorite days. What was yours? Keep reading »