Living alone is the reverse of mastery. It’s scuttling around in surrender while hoping you don’t stub your toe because living alone is also a series of indignities like bouncing around on one foot, writhing in pain. Living alone is an elaborately clumsy wisening up.
Red roses: “I’ve been thinking about you, and what I think is I want to put my thing in your things and then I want to turn you around and put my thing in your other things. But I want you to be OK about this, OK?”
Redford belongs to the class of actors I think of in my head as the silver foxes: indigenous to the ‘60s and ‘70s, they’ve ripened before our eyes. Most of them have semi- or totally retired, some have passed away; all live in my memory both as their original, gorgeous selves and their well-lined, refined later-in-life iterations.
We all know a couple who had a terrible relationship that eventually got better, but it’s almost certainly the same couple, and they just talk about it constantly to reassure themselves that it actually got better.
I was convinced that eventually I was going to be famous, and that magazines would ask me things like what sort of lip product I used. I would have said Benetint. Not because it was true, but because in 1998 it seemed like all the celebrities used Benetint.
Drunk sex had been easy. It was fun. It’s no fresh theory, but alcohol made me feel more interesting and attractive. At parties, in bed, I could relax without feeling tangibly insecure or cautious. And with drunk sex I didn’t have to worry about the anxiety of being close to someone, or even what to do and how to do it. Alcohol anesthetized me to all complication. It got me out of my head, out of myself.
More than once, I have found myself settling for a really bad boyfriend if it means I have a built-in date for trying new restaurants, going to amusement parks, weddings and similar functions, cuddling in bed on Sunday mornings, making out in the park, and, yeah, well, having sex. The side effect is that I end up staying with guys who make me feel crazy and sad.
I know, I know: leggings are not pants and tights are not pants. But are they underpants?
Bringing your lunch to work sounds so simple, but it’s actually almost impossible. Or, it was, until I cracked it.
Clearly you have not read “The Sexual Politics of Meat.” Here are four paragraphs from it.
And by mermaid camp I mean the two-day “Sirens of the Deep” mermaid camp that’s run by the former mermaids of the inimitable Weeki Wachee Springs, the open-since-1947, visited-by-Elvis live mermaid city in Weeki Wachee, Florida, that features an awesome underwater theater built into a natural spring.
I am fifteen years old, standing in the hall outside my math classroom, and my hair is straight and soft and — for this last glorious moment — comes down to my hips.
“In the moment it was just like, ‘I’m doing this with my husband,’ and the ideas I’d had about which people I’d want to do things with sort of went out the window. All I cared about was how they approached me. So then we sort of finished, went downstairs, got another drink.”
If you have a Coach purse that got fucked up somehow, this column is for you.
What is the deal with dudes cheating on their girlfriends but staying with them? I know a guy who is now engaged to his girlfriend of many years. According to all of my friends who know him, he is a great guy, the nicest guy, just wonderful. And yet, he has made out with me twice (and would have had sex if we had had a condom each time).
Four women’s experiences.
Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle wasn’t Hollywood-hot. He didn’t have any high-profile romances, and the gossip mags never complimented him on his dashing evening wear. But he was one of the best physical comedians of all time, and from 1914 to 1920, he effectively ruled the movie business.
There’s a special drawer in my closet dedicated to lost causes, the clothes I will never wear again but that I can’t find it in me to donate or throw away. They are all, invariably, the slogan shirt.
Given the fact that in the past five years alone, a few hundred scholarly articles have appeared on the female orgasm, let alone the thousands of feature articles in the glossies, it is rather sad to establish that we know virtually nothing on why it exists.