Spring is ramping up, summer is around the corner, and if you’re anything like me, you’re ready to drink rosé like it’s your goddamn job.
How do I stay warm, not feel like a weeble and not spend an extra 20 minutes putting on pants?
Grease is the word. It’s the word that you heard. It’s got a groove, it’s got a meaning. Grease is the time, is the place, is the motion. Grease is the way we are feeling.
Like most people, you probably stress over your choice of email sign-off more than most people. Everybody calm down. Here’s a guide to help you navigate this treacherous channel of email etiquette.
Lots of us are fucked up — different kinds of fucked up, for sure, but these invisible people she invoked, they’ve all sat where I sit, on that couch, looking for help. So we’re in this together. Only, the thing we’re in together is, as I’ve always seen it, one of the best parts of my personality. Now here was the woman I pay weekly to help me wade through my troubles telling me it’s actually a detriment.
This may sound familiar. I was in my late thirties, and I had nothing. No savings, no house, no career, no husband, no kids. You can hardly blame me for wondering, “Where did I go wrong?” I called to mind every possibility I could think of, never asking, at least for the moment, “Where did I go right?”
There’s something extremely pleasurable about buying your underwear in a four-pack, from the same store where you buy your tampons, your razors, your deodorant, and your chapstick.
Everyone has been furnished with their room key — a swipe card adorned with an image of KISS, which is also your boarding pass on and off the ship, your ticket to the KISS show, and, most ingeniously, your credit card. Well, it’s tethered to your credit card, to be charged on disembarkation. No actual hard cash ever changes hands on the ship. It’s the first of many logic-distending techniques employed to warp reality.
Why are you spending so much time in bro-forts if it doesn’t make you feel good? It doesn’t even make the bro of said fort feel good to be in the bro-fort and he built the stupid thing out of his childhood fantasies.
“It’s kind of fraught, because, like any element of physical attractiveness, you’re flattered when people comment on it, but you know you bear no direct responsibility for it. And obviously it’s a really normative idea of what it means for a man to be good at sex, or to be attractive—’Oh, you have a big dong!’—and obviously that excludes people.”
In middle school, the babysitters in The Babysitter’s Club lived out every possible problem and dilemma a privileged tween in the ’90s could face. But no one can stay 13 forever—eventually, a girl has to start growing up and facing the problems and dilemmas of privileged twenty-somethings.
Saudi Arabia wasn’t an easy place to be a girl or a woman, so a girl becoming a woman had the worst of both worlds.
What are they disrupting now?
“The baby is trying to break us up,” my husband announced. “And we have to work together to defeat him.”
A spite house is a house built for the express purpose of pissing someone else off. Personal comfort, adequate living space, and compliance with local zoning laws all come second to this all-important goal. Spite houses come in all shapes and sizes, but the best are absurdly small and very angry indeed.
Wonder Woman was conceived as an antidote to hypermasculine superheroes, and some boys grew up idolizing her instead.
These days, the idea of ditching your smartphone in order to lead a better life is one of the hottest topics for editorializers and self-helpists; whether you’re a standup comedian, a different standup comedian, a million bloggers, a hard-to-watch spoken word artist or just an average everyday CEO, if you’re over the age of 20 and have even a passing interest in giving prescriptive advice, you’ve probably already written a manifesto about how our collective cultural addiction to the Internet and social media is stunting our emotional growth.
I’ve only known I’m pregnant for three days, but I’ve already had the conversation a dozen times in my head.