I think it was Mark Twain who said “Children and fools always speak the truth.” I will go ahead and add teens to this equation. I always find that spending time with my 17-year-old niece is an invaluable experience that allows me to see life through a simplistic prism and reaffirms the notion once so effectively conveyed via Mean Girls: real life mirrors high school. This time around, the kid hit a nail on the head while volunteering a description of a guy her friend was dating: “He’s just one of those Basic Douchebags – he is used to always getting his way and f*cking girls over, so once he finds somebody who can play his game, he’s like “she gets me” and decides he’s finally found his equal and he’s in love.”
Dear loyal readers, you will have to excuse me for my recent laziness. However, I have a valid excuse, as I am currently in New York City, experiencing an ongoing case of FOMO x ADD. From foods made out of alien super food ingredients, to clothing from every brand under the sun, to a seemingly insatiable pool of men in (occasionally poorly cut) suits, New York presents a land of endless options that make focusing on just one thing damn near impossible.
As I often iterate, being a mother is one of the most terrifying and challenging jobs there is. With it comes an incomparable wisdom, an ability to configure life’s priorities and abstain from useless over-complication that us semi-youngsters are so prone to. Last week, I asked all of you lovely readers to send me the most genuine, organic, old-school advice your wise mothers instilled upon you. Without further ado, here are some of the best gems from our moms, our real life Superheroes!
Let’s face it: alcohol is not only a social lubricant, but a dating lubricant as well, and not of the R-rated, jelly-flavored variety. The majority of us who are not strung up on life – or Adderall – find ourselves relying on the magic elixir to smooth out awkward situations, evoke fake feelings of fulfillment, and find depth where there is none. Those of us who are dating in a country filled with Men of Mediocrity may find ourselves doing this a bit too much, resulting in painful hangovers that do nothing but proliferate the budding sense of despair. Which is why I recently decided to conduct an experiment in which I deprive myself of this joyous substance for exactly one month and analyze the effects it has on my body, my mind, and my dating life. This experience can be described as simultaneously painful, masochistic, and eye-opening all at once. Let me elaborate with some key learnings.
Walking down the streets of Paris, you would never think that you are in a country renowned for its sexual freedom. Denim on denim, oversize coats, Stan Smiths– androgyny, if anything, is the national uniform, and any parlay into stilettos or mini skirts is generally regarded as vulgaire. And yet, the French culture is swarming with historical and cinematographic references that convey an exceptionally liberal sexual identity, from Marquis de Sade (from whose name is derived the term “sadism”), to cult classic films like Les Amants (The Lovers), to notorious politician Dominique Strauss-Kahn (“DSK”), now internationally infamous for his sexual exploits. But it’s not that Paris hides its relationship to experimental sexuality: It’s less “seedy underbelly,” more “open secret.” This is a world open to anybody who is willing to give it a try, starting with the various libertine clubs scattered all over the city, the most famous one being Les Chandelles, a Parisian institution known as the regular haunt of numerous celebrities, writers, and politicians. It’s a mysterious and compelling subculture, complete with its own behavioral and sartorial codes, and I’ll admit it: I’m curious.
Read more HERE!
Just when I thought it was all over and you guys would never hear another decent dating disaster again (my new sober streak is resulting in a serious lack of Dbag luck – I’m starting to see a correlation here! ), I found it, sitting smack in the middle of a “Potential” folder on my desktop, perfectly edited and yet never posted for reasons I cannot recall. Without further ado, here is the story of the Man who Went Commando.
Last fall, a friend and I threw my Muse a birthday party in an effort to nurse her through the ordeal of being broken up by some French douche named after a fruit. After spending six hours trying to turn her Parisian abode into a Mexican fun-house, we proceeded to get properly hammered via the tried & tested formula called the Moscow Mule. One Moscow Mule, two Moscow Mules, an entire herd of Mules later, I heard myself voicing a desire to get my head rammed into a bedpost, which is when I realized that something was up. It turned out that a couple of my darling friends, knowing perfectly well that I was too square for conscious illegal substance consumption, had slipped a little bit of this n’that – the same this n’ that that Jay Z raps about – into my drink. (Yes, I realize how messed up this sounds, and I probably would have been livid, hadn’t the night taken such an entertaining course.) In any case, this bit of innocent roofying affected me in the most pleasant of ways, and I suddenly became extremely happy and excited about everything in life. Particularly at Silencio, where I decided to put my newfound love for mankind to good use by recruiting every cute guy in 20-foot radius to our table.