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Spring has sprung, and with it a million good looking people have sprung out of their winter clothes. And, as the men strip off their heavy coats, and the women have their feet sloughed and painted, I find myself watching with envy. Mating season has started up again. More
When I was a kid, I fancied myself a yenta. I had watched “Fiddler on the Roof” too many times. I was mildly tone deaf, but I could belt “Matchmaker” with the best of them. More
Last week, unpaid Huffington Post blogger Tracy McMillan fired up thousands of commenters with her article, “Why You’re Not Married.” More
Valentine’s Day is officially over. I have nothing to look forward to until, I don’t know, Passover, I guess. And that’s only if I can make it past Tax Day. Oh boy, those W-2s sure do look enticing. More
Valentine’s Day is a big deal. Okay, it’s not. I don’t even know who Saint Valentine is, and I suspect it’s another religious holiday that was watered down by the greeting card industry, like Christmas and National Oatmeal Nut Waffles Day (March 11).
But like it or not, it’s a big deal. More
The E! reality show just aired the season finale of its sickest, ugliest, worst reality show yet.
Bridalplasty has had its fair share of negative attention. The setup is woefully American: Pit twelve desperate engaged women with massive body insecurities against each other to compete for plastic surgeries and a dream wedding. They scream, they fight, they cry, they go under the knife and they bleed. The women form alliances and ruthlessly throw one another under the bus—and bouts of plastic surgery stitch them back up again. Most of the women have sob stories. They’re in debt and they’re miserable. This dream wedding is their last chance! That lipo is really, um, important! They need veneers, damn it! More
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. “Brandy,” you’re thinking, “where do you get off telling us not to read ladymags? You write a relationship column in an online ladymag! Where do you get off?”
Guilty. But my columns are usually personal anecdotes you can relate to, or humorous advice that should be taken with a big grain of kosher salt.
But ladymags are seriously detrimental to your mental health and your sex life! They ravage your self-esteem and fill you with panic. Here’s why: More
I cry all the time.
Anything can set me off. Used to be bad PMS, a sad movie, or a break up would do the trick. If you sat me down in front of Beaches I was a rainstorm of emotion.
I’ve always been a crier, but my tear-stained bar is so much lower these days. I cry during heartstring-tugging coffee comercials. I run to the office bathroom and burst into tears after a stressful meeting. I disagree with my boyfriend about planning a trip and start sobbing. More
Every man has his moments when he acts like a little boy. And some have moments when they act like whiny babies.
Sometimes when my boyfriend acts like a brat, I coddle him. It’s terrible, I know. But he has these blue eyes and cute dimples and I just… Ugh. See? This is what happens when I try to put my foot down. One look at his sad puppy face and I I’m kissing his forehead and making him cookies. Like I said: Ugh. More
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I was always a short, curvy girl with a big chest and a flat stomach. When I tried, I was a size 4. When I splurged, I was—at most—a size 6. But after the first six months with my boyfriend, I could barely get into the baggy size 6 jeans I had reserved for occasional PMS bloating. My huge chest was too huge, and I had developed a tummy.
He was a former fat kid who had lost forty pounds over the course of a successful year. He had gone from chunky to thin, and his face thinned out to reveal svelte cheeks and a sexy jawline. When I met him, his skinny jeans were just that—skinny. And he looked great in them. Fast forward six months later, and he hasn’t gained back all the weight but he’d gained some of it. His face had filled out more and his stomach had, too. He no longer wore his skinny jeans.
We moved in together, and vowed to each other that we would eat out less.
We didn’t. More
One year ago today, we launched an unconventional “how we met” story.
This was a month after our introduction by a mutual friend, followed by an open-bar encounter, a late-night flirtation, a run-in with the cops, and a series of delayed Facebook messages. It was all very New York circa 2010.
Thirteen months ago, I had been dating—if you can call it dating—three, maybe four men.
My last relationship had ended painfully, and I fed my feelings with blind dates, sexy coworkers, and bar-side conversationalists. I gave them all nicknames so my friends could keep them straight. Before those three or four, there had been another set of three or four, and so on, mapped out in advance so that I had perpetual seasonal accompaniment. More
If you’re reading this, you’ve already gone past accidental intoxication. In the grand scheme of party advice, you’re beyond what to wear, how to carry a smart conversation and which clutch will hold your iPhone, your lipstick and a few credit cards. If you’re reading this, you’ve passed very drunk and are hurtling straight into a collision course with completely fucking wasted.
This is no ordinary holiday party advice column. This is an Oh my god you forgot to eat dinner, went crazy at the open bar and got shitfaced at your significant other’s holiday party but will probably black out on all of this in the morning advice column. It’s happened to everyone. More
There’s a well-known Rolling Stones lyric that should be rewritten for couples: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find you can compromise enough so that you both end up somewhat happy with the situation.” More
Relationships are constantly in flux. For every perfect moment you share with your significant other, there is probably a corresponding moment of molar-grinding frustration. It’s expected. Serious relationships are prone to the same ups and downs that come with living your life, multiplied by two.
Take this weekend.
I dragged my boyfriend upstate to my parents’ house for a long Thanksgiving vacation. Of course, no holiday is complete without 15 fawning family members, a key stuck in an ignition (not a metaphor), a raging case of PMS, and a table full of dark-meat-scarfing carnivores fighting over the last pig in a blanket. My boyfriend, of course, is a vegetarian. He was also glued to his iPhone all weekend, in a move I quickly dubbed The Awkward Boyfriend 2.0. More
