Sunday morning, and your mouth tastes like cotton dipped in garbage and coated in tar. You immediately regret opening your eyes, because you’re not ready for sunlight just yet. As you slowly regain consciousness, your first thought is, what happened last night?

You check your phone, and see that you dialed your ex at 1:34, your best friend at 1:52 (which is weird, because you went to the bar together), an unknown number at 2:04, and someone called “Tattoo Joe,” a name that wasn’t in your directory yesterday afternoon, at 4:23. You immediately call your BFF, and ask the question aloud: “What happened last night?”

Blacking out probably dates back to the birth of alcohol, but it has long baffled doctors, psychologists, and college students. Why does that one last drink put you over the edge, and erase hours worth of memories? Why is it pretty much impossible to tell when you’re having a conversation with someone who is currently experiencing a blackout? Britain’s Telegraph recently reported that the reason why people forget the embarrassing things they do when they are drunk has been discovered. Read More »

So the other day I woke up at 7:30 in the morning to have a little date with a speculum. That’s right, ladies! A gyno appointment! Vajayjay invasion before most people were sitting in their cubicles! Nothing says good morning like lubed-up metal and poking fingers.

The only thing that was worse than realizing some lady in pink scrubs got more intimate with me than a dude has in months was realizing just how many months it’s been — and having to say it out loud. See, for us single gals, going for your annual pap is a big, giant reminder of your past transgressions…or lack thereof. Have you slept with too many losers? Haven’t slept with anyone since the last full moon? Were you so drunk you can’t really remember if you used a condom or not? And how about your pubes…when was the last time you shaved or waxed?

I mean, all of those questions and more are answered when a girl goes to the gyno, and the answers aren’t always awesome. For instance, I realized I’ve been without sexy time for enough months to basically compile a year, and when the doc asked me when me last sexual encounter was, I let out this weird half-laugh, half-moan and cut my celibacy in half. I was embarrassed to tell my gynecologist about my empty sex life! Who am I? Read More »

Spring fever affects everyone differently, but personally, I’m filled with a dread for bikini season. I love summer, but the process of getting in shape for it is always terrifying until I’m about a month into it. I can’t motivate myself to start moving again and take advantage of the weather, and come June, I’m not quite where I want to be.

A friend of mine decided it would be fun to sign up for a race in Central Park, nothing “too serious,” just over three and a half miles. It’s far enough in advance where we all would have the opportunity to start “training” and whatnot, and so she worked her salesperson magic and spun it as a great, fun, healthy bonding activity. We could all run outside together when it got warmer, we could do it for ourselves instead of an actual win, it’d be great.

And it sounded stellar via email, so sign up I did. And as I printed my registration form, complete with runner number and team captain name, I calculated how long it had been since I had even seen my gym. I wasn’t sure I remembered how to get to it. Sure, last time I’d been I could run almost four miles on a treadmill, no problem… but that had been in January-ish. And there may have been an exceptional soundtrack to guide me.

The last time I ran outside I lasted fifteen minutes without falling over dead, and I willed my roommate my new pumps (even handed her the receipt so she could return them for her size). Read More »

Yeah, yeah yeah. We have all heard it a thousand times – “It’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean.” Sh-aah, If even- whatever. I hate to be the bearer of bad news for you dudes out there, but it’s the SIZE of the boat. C’mon, deep down you knew she was only trying to make you feel better.

OK, here’s the deal. It’s not the middle that’s the problem, it’s the low and high end of the spectrum that has something to worry about. The fact of the matter is, we are just not designed to accomodate a horse, and likewise, an angry inch just won’t cut it. I found some testimonials on utterpants.com that will hopefully set the record straight. Take a look.

Amy, 32, said, “I should at least be able to feel some kind of penetration. Either the ruler he’s using has shrunk even more than his dick or he was too busy playing with himself when he should have been learning how many inches there are in a foot. If he’s eight inches then my Nissan Micra is a bloody BMW!

Does Size Matter?

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