12 2 / 2012

"

And my suspicion is that Rihanna has no interest in being a poster child for victims of domestic violence. She probably wishes this would all disappear, and I don’t blame her for a minute. She didn’t ask for this – for any of it – and she’s under no obligation to speak out about it.

But someone has to. Because what is happening here is unmistakable. It is, in my eyes, so unmistakable that I wonder if I’m wrong, if I’m missing something huge, because I cannot believe more voices aren’t railing against this.

We – the grown-up influencers in this country, the people with platforms and with educations and with power — are allowing a clear message to be sent to women: We will easily forgive a person who victimizes you. We are able to look beyond the fact that you were treated as less than human, that a bigger, stronger person decided to resolve a conflict with you through violence. We know it happened, but it’s just not that big of a deal to us.

"

This is a great piece in Hello Giggles. (via standardreview)

every word of this article. every word.

(via laurenashleybishop)

(via laurenashleybishop)

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10 2 / 2012

It’s the Bachelor’s Fault You’re Not in Love

Let’s say you meet a great guy.  He’s handsome and charming, dresses well, has an interesting job.  And he really wants to “get to know you.”  

Let’s say said guy is very upfront about the fact that he’s “playing the field” – with, say, about two dozen other special ladies.  And being the secure, modern gal you are, you agree to the rules of the game.

Now, let’s say, over the course of five weeks, you get to spend approximately fifteen minutes, two times per week, sitting on a sofa in a secluded corner with the object of your affections while a few dozen pairs of eyes strain to watch you, and attempt to inject enough witty banter, heartfelt emotion, and tongue-wrestling into the interlude to convince the fella that you’re worth keeping around.  And then, let’s say, on one occasion over the course of these five weeks, you get to spend an entire day with your man, just the two of you.  Alone, together.  Well, with cameras.  But also maybe in a helicopter on the way to the most gorgeous deserted island mountain cave river you’ve ever seen.  

That’s it.  Six 15-minute chats, one epic helicopter date.  Are you in love yet?

If you’re a contestant on the Bachelor, you damn well better be, because next week you’ll be headed back to your hometown for an epically awkward dinner with your mom and second-cousins, trying to explain to your father for the umpteenth time why you’re looking for love on national TV.  At this point, if you’re not in love…or close…you’re toast.

Of course, the Bachelor is a deliciously terrible TV show, and it has an approximately 3% success rate for the relationships it spawns, every reasonable person in the country knows helicopter rides do not equal love.

Except.  Except twice a year ABC manages to fill its mansions with dozens of starry-eyed suitors who, if “there for the right reasons,” are ready to hop on the fast track to wedded bliss.  

And except…don’t tell me you’ve never done the date five gut check…are we falling in love yet?  Because if the Bachelor is to be believed…hell, if any rom com or chick lit novel is to be believed…it just takes a couple of dates, or chance meetings, or conversations on the secluded couch to go from strangers to soulmates and if you don’t get there in that time well…it must not be love.

And in your date five “oh my god do I love you” moment,  you may be thinking, as surely the Bachelorettes are thinking, that this rush of goofy giggly newness combined with some actual chemistry sure feels and looks a lot like the love you see in the movies, and that must be it, right?
It can be hard to remember that per The Bachelor, relationships with a helicopter-date foundation and a zero to love in two hours trajectory have an abysmal long-term track record.  You’re probably not remembering each brutally awkward tearful reveal when a Bachelorette gets cornered into sharing something intensely personal on what is, for all intents and purposes, a second date.  You probably don’t have to get the key to the fantasy suite if you want a little alone time with your dude.  And you may not be thinking “wow…if it’s this good now, imagine how awesome it’ll be five or six weeks or three months from now if I let it develop naturally and don’t try to rush this kind of intimacy!”

Seeing how many Bachelors and Bachelorettes have actually turned into husbands and wives…maybe slow deserves a shot.

It’s the Bachelor’s Fault You’re Not in Love

Let’s say you meet a great guy.  He’s handsome and charming, dresses well, has an interesting job.  And he really wants to “get to know you.” 

Let’s say said guy is very upfront about the fact that he’s “playing the field” – with, say, about two dozen other special ladies.  And being the secure, modern gal you are, you agree to the rules of the game.

Now, let’s say, over the course of five weeks, you get to spend approximately fifteen minutes, two times per week, sitting on a sofa in a secluded corner with the object of your affections while a few dozen pairs of eyes strain to watch you, and attempt to inject enough witty banter, heartfelt emotion, and tongue-wrestling into the interlude to convince the fella that you’re worth keeping around.  And then, let’s say, on one occasion over the course of these five weeks, you get to spend an entire day with your man, just the two of you.  Alone, together.  Well, with cameras.  But also maybe in a helicopter on the way to the most gorgeous deserted island mountain cave river you’ve ever seen. 

That’s it.  Six 15-minute chats, one epic helicopter date.  Are you in love yet?

If you’re a contestant on the Bachelor, you damn well better be, because next week you’ll be headed back to your hometown for an epically awkward dinner with your mom and second-cousins, trying to explain to your father for the umpteenth time why you’re looking for love on national TV.  At this point, if you’re not in love…or close…you’re toast.

Of course, the Bachelor is a deliciously terrible TV show, and it has an approximately 3% success rate for the relationships it spawns, every reasonable person in the country knows helicopter rides do not equal love.

Except.  Except twice a year ABC manages to fill its mansions with dozens of starry-eyed suitors who, if “there for the right reasons,” are ready to hop on the fast track to wedded bliss. 

And except…don’t tell me you’ve never done the date five gut check…are we falling in love yet?  Because if the Bachelor is to be believed…hell, if any rom com or chick lit novel is to be believed…it just takes a couple of dates, or chance meetings, or conversations on the secluded couch to go from strangers to soulmates and if you don’t get there in that time well…it must not be love.

And in your date five “oh my god do I love you” moment,  you may be thinking, as surely the Bachelorettes are thinking, that this rush of goofy giggly newness combined with some actual chemistry sure feels and looks a lot like the love you see in the movies, and that must be it, right?

It can be hard to remember that per The Bachelor, relationships with a helicopter-date foundation and a zero to love in two hours trajectory have an abysmal long-term track record.  You’re probably not remembering each brutally awkward tearful reveal when a Bachelorette gets cornered into sharing something intensely personal on what is, for all intents and purposes, a second date.  You probably don’t have to get the key to the fantasy suite if you want a little alone time with your dude.  And you may not be thinking “wow…if it’s this good now, imagine how awesome it’ll be five or six weeks or three months from now if I let it develop naturally and don’t try to rush this kind of intimacy!”

Seeing how many Bachelors and Bachelorettes have actually turned into husbands and wives…maybe slow deserves a shot.

06 2 / 2012

Permalink 571 notes

25 1 / 2012

Za

Once upon a time when I was in my Phase When I Dated a Lot, I agreed to ago on first date while I was on a juice cleanse. This was a mistake. It was also a mistake to agree to meet at one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants where I could only drink tea. Anyway, my food-less-ness prompted my Date to converse about - what else - food. For the whole date.  So, while I stared at my green tea and fought the urge to leap onto the next table and devour their chicken pot pie, Date described for me, in painstaking detail, his love for pizza. Plain cheese pizza, in fact. The kind my 8-year-old cousin, too, adores. And in fact, it turns out one of the things Date loved best about being an adult and having his own apartment, was the fact that he could order an extra large cheese pizza at the beginning of the week, and then that would be dinner, for the next three nights!  It was a grown-up miracle!

There was, as you might imagine, no love connection between The Boy Who Consumes Only Pizza and The Girl Who Consumes Only Juice.

But, as I sit here tonight in front of my third night’s worth of leftover pizza goodness, I can’t help wondering if perhaps I judged too quickly.  (The za.  Not the date.)

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24 1 / 2012

I do it.

The Curse of the Modern Woman might actually not be the belief that we can “have it all.” It might, in fact, be our belief that we can do it all. All by ourselves.

I’m a 31-year-old woman living in one of the most populous cities in the country. I live in my own apartment - by myself - where I pay my own bills and cook my own meals, and where if I have to wear bikini bottoms because there’s no clean underwear to be worn, it’s no one’s fault but my own. My law degree was financed through part-time jobs and the prayer that I’d be gainfully employed long enough to repay the government and the fine people at Citibank for their generous investment. At work, if there are clients to be met, I meet them. If there are arguments to be made, I make them. If there are briefs to be written, I write them. If someone suggests I delegate, I panic.

I can trace it back to all-girls’ high school, where Rosie the Riveter was a hero and “We can do it” a personal anthem, where, if I wanted to go to Prom, I asked the guy, booked the limo, and paid for dinner myself, and goddamn the boy who tried to take that check from me.

The Curse of the Modern Woman may well be that we’re used to just handling our stuff. Often, we’re used to handling our stuff, and some other people’s stuff too. In other words, we kind of suck at asking for help. And when it comes to getting what we want in life, we usually find it’s easier to just go get it ourselves, rather than asking someone else to do it for us. And when the help really is needed…or the only person who can really give you want you want isn’t actually you…sometimes we’re caught off balance, and it can be really hard to be gracious.

It’s counterintuitive…because at any given time I’d move heaven and earth to help a friend, and in fact, I get bummed out if I have the time or the skills or the means to help someone and they don’t ask…and my friends are all kind, generous, loving and wonderful people who I know would do the same.

So, it’s still January for a couple of days, and in my mind it’s still resolution-making time. (And yes, that means I haven’t made any resolutions yet) (except to stop saying f#@k). So this year I’m resolved to remember that asking for help doesn’t turn Rosie the Riveter into Damsel in Distress… and even if it does, a gracious Damsel is a lot more pleasant than a disgruntled Rosie… and that maybe, if I ask a friend for a hand once in awhile, they’ll someday return the favor.

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09 1 / 2012

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08 1 / 2012

Well, well.

There is, it turns out, a difference between being “good,” and living “well.”

Being Good is having the salad for lunch.  It’s making sure to leave the office in time to catch the bus home, and to the gym.  Being Good is doing laundry well in advance of running out of underwear.  It’s going to bed on fresh sheets with flossed teeth.  It’s a to-do list with almost everything scratched off, and an empty dishwasher, and t-shirts that aren’t wrinkled because you managed to fold them as soon as they came out of the drier.  Living good is 8 glasses of water a day, and 2 yoga classes a week, and the glass of chocolate milk you get to drink as “recovery” after a long run.

Good feels…well, pretty darn good.  It’s accomplishment, it’s goal-setting, path-following, line-towing.  It’s simple and it’s easy and it’s nice.

But Living Well…is a medium-rare steak wrapped in bacon and topped with bleu cheese butter. Running into a girlfriend on the bus ride home and skipping the gym in favor of solving the world’s problems over a bottle of wine.  Four Christmas parties in the span of a weekend, with just enough time in between to relish the hangover before starting up again.  Living Well is the first day of a 3-day weekend, and why wouldn’t you stay in bed and watch Pretty Woman on TV for the eleventy-billionth time?  Living Well is an unexpectedly gorgeous day mid-winter, and actually, that brief can get itself written tomorrow, because the day was made for beers outside in the sunshine.

Good follows the rules.  Well is Good’s wild-child little sister, who realizes there might be just a little bit more to life than that straight-and-narrow path that sure, is going to get you everything you’ve always wanted…but might be a touch…dry.  Raw spinach to Well’s bacon-wrapped steak.

Well, on the other hand, isn’t about breaking the rules, per se…rather, she’s out to stretch the boundaries just enough to remind you that the best moments in life aren’t necessarily those you plan on and work for, but those that happen when you realize that Good - work and the treadmill and the vegetables – will still be there tomorrow.  Tomorrow might be a later stay at the office, a cab ride home, and a shorter run to fit it all in, but Well promises it will all be worth it.  And it almost always, always is.

My resolutions each New Year always have something to do with Being Good.  Unsubscribe from the marketing e-mails that clog my inbox.  Run a half marathon.  Give kale a chance.  But this year, I’m also resolving that at least every few days, or a couple times a week, to be a little bit reckless, and live well.

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06 1 / 2012

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31 12 / 2011

Happy New Year! (Taken with instagram)

Happy New Year! (Taken with instagram)

27 12 / 2011

The Kneppers girls took one so we had to too…

The Kneppers girls took one so we had to too…

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