“How do you dress during the holidays?” I ask a group of French girlfriends over lunch at Cojean, an overcrowded Parisian chain with green juice. “Quoi?” The confused silence that ensues makes me feel as though I just asked them how they dress to do their laundry.
Read on HERE!
Remember the duck purse?!
The other day, I woke up to a hysterical text from a friend:
MARINA CAN YOU PLEASE WRITE A DBAG DATING STORY ABOUT HOW MY BOYFRIEND BOUGHT ME A WATER PITCHER FOR CHRISTMAS!!!!?????
I almost rolled out of bed laughing, imagining this poor girl unraveling the Christmas wrapping in anticipation of a romantic gift from her fresh, exciting new love, only to discover…a glass jug. She seemed to be in dire need of lashing out, so I told her to go ahead and send me a recount of this incident. Curious, I began asking others around me about the strangest presents they had ever received from significant others.. As it turns out, people have some pretty colorful stories to share!
Illustration by the mega-talented Kelcey Vossen
I have always wanted to date a doctor. I doubt this is a statement that requires much justification: doctors are sexy, their lives serve a purpose, their selfless deeds warrant them prime real estate in Heaven that you may get to share by association. I’m not referring to the basic dentists and dermatologists, or the more profit-driven plastic surgeons, which are a dime a dozen. No, I’m talking about the bona fide miracle-workers, the surgeons, the guys with higher brain capacity and willpower and stamina than the rest of us mere mortals. Granted, this naive generalization is exactly what got me into the predicament that we will hereby refer to as the story of Doctor Douchebag.
Two weeks ago, I realized that I had no idea how to dress for a wedding. To anybody who knows me, these words might seem absurd—after all, Facebook is flooded with pictures of me attending various friends’ nuptials in a parade of floor-length gowns.
Read on HERE!
Birthdays are like the Dickensian times. They are the best of times, they are the worst of times. They are the times of excessive attention and 200 Facebook notifications and Instagram collages created for hours by your smartphone-illiterate friends; they are also the times of evaluating your life accomplishments and cross-referencing them with your childhood dreams and expectations. (I was supposed to become an actress and receive my first Oscar by now. Instead I write a blog about my flailing love life.) They are the times of realizing that you no longer give a damn about half of the things you used to be so concerned about (namely what other people think about you), they are also the time of acknowledging the family of asshole-like crows feet taking up permanent residence on your face, forcing you to consider allocating some of your shoe budget towards Sisley creams that equal the GDP of Zimbabwe (not exaggerating, check it out.) If you are en couple, it is a time of romantic surprises and Cartier boxes (the imagined grass is always greener), if you are single, it’s a time of a whole lot of other trouble.
The other day, a family friend’s kid (‘kid’ being the applicable term here, as the guys is forty going on twenty-three), ended a relationship with the woman we were all praying he was finally going to settle down with. His reasoning? She had a kid. My dad, analyzing the situation, offered an interesting insight: “The problem is that you kids all become way too rational with age.” Hearing this, my mother gave me a long, pondering stare that made me realize that I was quickly becoming part of this equation.
