11 Questions To Ask Your Partner If You Want A Slow and Agonizing Way Out Of Your Relationship
- If I didn’t exist, which one of your co-workers / friends / clients would you want to hook up with?
- If you could change anything about my body, what would it be?
- If you met me now, instead of when we met, would you still want to go out with me?
- What’s the one thing that you know I’ll never do sexually that you think about and really wish I would do?
- How am I different from the person you always thought you’d wind up with?
- What’s the most important thing that you gave up to be with me?
- If I gain – or lose – a ton of weight, would you still want to fuck me?
- What drives you the most crazy, in the bad way, about me?
- Besides me, what was the best sex you ever had?
- Which one of my friends would you hook up with if I didn’t exist?
- What do you miss most about your life before we got together?
Almost every day, it occurs to me that I should probably deal with my laundry. Not because I don’t love my obvious system of “clean pile,” “dirty pile,” and “not so dirty that others would notice” pile. It’s worked well for me for more than 40 years now. But because I am married to a neat freak. And in my heart, I want to give him everything in the world that brings him joy, including a tidy house. But it simply isn’t going to happen. I am a slob, it is one of my defining characteristics. And I know it. Read more…
This is only kind of about Bill Cosby. There are plenty of intelligent people saying many intelligent things about how and why he got away with raping so many women for so many years even though so many people knew about it. I have nothing to add to the technicalities of it, or the societal embarrassment that it took dozens of women saying “he did it” to weigh as much as one man saying “no I didn’t.”
No, this is really about how painful it can be, as a rape survivor, to hear these stories. For me, it’s not the reminders that it happened to me. It’s not the descriptions, some of which are so similar that I can actually smell my own assault.
Nope. It’s about the well-intentioned statements, meant to show solidarity with survivors, that amount to “he ruined her life.” Read more…
I would love to start this post with something like, “I rarely eat sweets, because they’re bad for me and I have incredible self control.” But that’s a total lie. At least if feels like one, because given the choice, I’d eat sugar in every form, all day long. Me and Buddy the Elf, dietary pioneers.
But there is truth in there too. I love sweets. And I will never ever live a life that prohibits me the things that I love most. I do try to limit them to special occasions, and to sweets that are truly special. So no, I’m not likely to grab a candy bar at the checkout isle, but I am all about the special sweet treats that I love.
For me, cinnamon rolls are the pinnacle. Read more…
I didn’t mean to pick a fight. I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, and saw that a friend had commented on a post from someone I’ve never heard of. Her name, it turns out, is Arianna Hernandez, and she’s a “fitness model.” A term that I have huge issues with, but that’s not her fault. (I have no issue with her or her doing what she does, just to be clear. I just strenuously object to it being called “fitness.”)
I clicked because it was a comment on an article about how we need to stop sexualizing and commercializing fitness. Something I could not agree more strongly with. But it was posted by Arianna, wearing a tiny little red bikini, while leaning over a Coca-Cola display.
So I mentioned the irony, because, um, obviously….. Read more…
It’s “the holidays,” whatever that means. At its core, I see the holiday season as an excuse to gather around and celebrate together as a way to combat the totally crap weather and short days that those of us in the North are dealing with. It’s just easier together, so any excuse to gather and laugh and eat is fine by me.
I am, of course, a devout atheist. So much so that when our daughter had to write a report – in grade school – about “her family’s religion,” I told her to just pick any book or movie that she thought had the right messages to organize your life around. She chose Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and I fell a little more in love with her.
So I guess, according to reports, we are Buellerists. Read more…
I gather that you know by now that you really fucked up. There’s not actually a nicer way to say that, or I might have tried, but this is just a royally fucked fucking fuck up.
It is mind-boggling. It literally rendered me speechless, which is damned hard to do.
I assume that, by now, you’ve been educated about the fact that you cheerfully promoted date-rape in your ad for festive holiday mini-skirts. Ho ho ho, and all that. I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you now look at that ad, and even you are mortified by how blatant it is, you can’t believe that you ever thought that was okay and kind of want to hide under your entire bedding department for a while and hope everyone forgets. Been there. Though my walks of shame have rarely been so public.
I’m willing to look past this whole thing. Let’s focus on the future, shall we? Read more…
My relative nonchalance about teens and sexting didn’t come easily. I promise. I was duly shocked and afraid when I learned that kids, kids I know and love, were sending “sexy” pictures of themselves to each other. I mean, nipples live forever in cyberspace, and we can’t have that, now can we? Mind you, I’m trained to teach teens about sexuality. I’ve talked to countless teens and parents about navigating sex and sexuality, and can converse about safe anal sex without skipping a beat, but sexting and teens just freaked me out. As it does many people.
It is, essentially, porn. Right?
But wait, I love porn. I can also talk about safe consumption of porn without missing a beat, but sexting and teens still freaked me out.
My husband wasn’t nearly as bothered as I was by the idea. “So?” was all he said when we found out that a kid we knew was partaking in the sexy texts. He couldn’t figure out why I was so bothered. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t.
It started as a Facebook meme that I shared in frustration. It had to do with how much money members of congress make when you add up salary and various perks that we, the taxpayers, provide for them. The hashtag on the bottom said something about paying them minimum wage. A sentiment that I agree with, wholly. (Amongst other reasons, because I think that minimum wage would increase really fast if that were the case.)
A friend of mine, who I know to be brilliant, compassionate and an all around good guy, suggested that I had it backwards. That we should pay them even better than we do, so that we’d be able to attract the best and the brightest. And that made me sad. Very sad. Because in that statement – which is not necessarily wrong – is the assumption that the “best and brightest” would automatically choose to make more money, rather than making the world a better place.
I have reason to believe that isn’t true. Read more…
The year is 1930-something, and the depths of Great Depression are plumbing the souls of people all over the country. My grandmother, who at 5’5″ still didn’t weigh 100 pounds, pregnant as she was, found her way out of the tiny town in Northeast Missouri, where her husband and three children stayed behind for a few days, fed mostly on faith and what food they could scarcely afford. The youngest, my father, was barely a toddler. The small country store they owned, offering provisions to the scant hundreds of people who lived there, had recently been burned to the ground by the only competitor. With it, their home, as it was all one and the same. They were devoutly Christian people, truly the salt of the earth. About the only thing they had going for them at this point was that they didn’t have to fear being lynched. (I am certain they were aware and grateful of that privilege, and would have helped anyone who faced that ugly reality.)
They also had the privilege of being able to scrape together the means for my grandmother to escape, with all the fear, love and shame she had as a Christian woman in the depression, to go to a nearby town and have an abortion. Read more…