Even though I vowed to keep my vajayjay away from my good friend / potential lover, the holidays and spending four weeks cooped in my parents’ house with my Mom blasting Fleetwood Mac at ungodly hours left me few options. So, when the boy called and asked if he could host my vacation to the city (Oh Columbus, how I love thee!), I accepted. I packed a pair of black high heels, a toothbrush and a bottle of red wine and I was ready for my own little holiday fling.

There were a few things, however, I forgot to consider. For one, I’ve known this guy, like, forever. I know every girl he’s ever dated (and all the not-so-awesome deets about each breakup), his favorite foods at each of our fave places to eat, hell – I even know the names of the majority of his extended family. This means that he, too, knows almost as much about me. Although this does mean we get to skip the whole awkward (but sometimes exciting) getting-to-know-you stage, and jump right into the much more exciting getting-to-know-your-favorite-sex-position stage, this breadth of knowledge about each other did create it’s own awkward situations.

Basically, the filter that you normally have with new lovers when you’re trying to both impress them and butter them up was completely removed.

So, with help from my good friend/holiday hookup and other boyfriends past, I present to you my list of the top five things you never want to hear from your (new) lover. Read More »

When I was in elementary school my mom would wake me up an extra 20 minutes early on some very special mornings to crimp my hair. Eyes closing, head drooping, I would sit on my bathroom counter as my mom went through my (excessively thick and fro-ey) hair – section by section – with my purple and teal crimping iron. The end result was horrifyingly awesome. I had the coolest hair in school.

But as quickly as my crimper came into my life, it made its exit. As soon as I hit middle school I realized that giant hair was not in and that, maybe, a round brush and a hair dryer was the way to go. I tossed that crimper in the trash and never looked back. Because no one should. Because that hairstyle was completely ridiculous and it really looked good on no one.

Which someone should explain to Madonna and Lohan. Read More »

We all know Amy Winehouse has some problemos. Mostly involving crack, horse tranquilizers and really, really gross hair. But even a crackhead can love designer duds.

So can we blame her when her love for the bottle and her passion for high fashion collide….in the form of vomit splattered all over some super couture dresses…which she returned…without cleaning them?

Um. Ew.

And, yes. Yes we can.

I’ve been there. Too many times. Like the time my friend borrowed a pair of boots, got drunk and peed behind a dumpster…drowning my boots in urine. Or when I went to use my Chi and found chunks of vomit from a roommate’s particularly bad evening. (“Seriously, I couldn’t even get to the toilet. It was totally projectile!”) Or that time I loaned out my favorite t-shirt only to have it returned with some…er…male secretion splattered all over the front.

The point is this: we don’t care what you do in our clothes, just clean that sh*t up. Especially for Harvey Nichols.

Although, on the bright side, at least it was just vomit. Who knows what this girl is capable of?!

Skies are blue, trees are blooming, and temperatures are rising, which can only mean one thing – it’s time to take your godd*mn pants off.

My roommate and I have been experimenting with the pants-free lifestyle for many months now. It began in January when one early Friday evening we were sitting on the couch watching Scrubs reruns, harnessing our chi for a night out on the town.

Me: I don’t wanna wear pants tonight, dude.

My roommate: Yeah man, f*ck pants.

Half an hour later, we emerged from our respective bedrooms, me in a tank top and some sort of shorts/panties half-breed, her in what can best be described as beach loungewear. We threw on our jackets and headed out to the club, where we proceeded to drink whiskey and diets and shake what our mammas gave us until we were so pleasantly exhausted and sweaty we could barely stand any longer and had to call it a night.

The point of this little anecdote? By choosing to forego pants, my roommate and I ensured that we would have a fun evneing. If we had been so foolish as to wear, say, skinny jeans or perhaps high-waisted wide-leg trousers or some other wintry-style clothing garment out that evening, there’s no way we could have enjoyed ourselves to the degree we did. We would have felt restricted and gotten sweaty and would have never stayed until the late-night DJ came on and started busting out old-school James Brown jams. Instead of having a glorious evening, we would have had a low-key, mediocre evening, because pants ruin fun. Period. Read More »

I usually spend my mornings drowning in the depressing news of the world, reading about conflicts, bombings, murders and global inequality. So I’ve been happy to find a little something popping up amidst the serious news that I can really relate to: the flat iron.

Admit it. You have one. Everyone has one. Some people like to talk about theirs. Others, like me, do not like to reveal that we put any effort whatsoever into our appearance. But this is a new age of honesty.

Every website from slate.com to style.com is questioning and analyzing the device. They are not bemoaning it in a critical way, but reconciling with its wondrous powers. Their articles say, “yes, flat irons are divine inventions, and we will test out several varieties so you don’t blow $200 on a piece of crap that will fry your hair.”

Slate’s intellectual approach to the flat iron has me sold on a new one, since they rated my precious Chi only an 8.4/10. I have been duped! Apparently, the $189 Hai Elite Digistik is the way to go; it will bless you with smooth hair for five days .

Never again will I trust my Tri-Delt friend Becky for hair advice, even though she has a head of flaxen cornsilk (so unfair!) that she attributes to her Chi. From now on, I will only trust the Ivy Leaguers at Slate, who put their degrees to use by testing out hair products for smart women who like to look good. Like you and me.

Slate’s Flat Iron review:

style.com’s essential hair tools for fall.