It’s been two years since my friend sat across from me and told me I had to write down everything I wanted in a guy on a piece of paper—down to the stupidest, most insignificant details, as though I was writing a recipe for a batch of cookies made with jellybeans and coffee in the hopes that it would end up tasting good. “Everything,” she said. “Everything.”
The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:
“I want that plate cleared,” Mom would say, a threat often lobbied to me and my brother growing up, which was like winning an all inclusive package to Hades, where you were never just given the option to consume things a la carte, but in horrible little packages, where a nice bit of chicken was permanently married to a heap of steamed broccoli. They were to go down together, in twos, if you were ever to think of sticking a spoonful of dessert in your mouth. And so you’d down it, the vegetative gristle of the broccoli grinding against your molars, coating your tongue with its unpleasant moss. And I would do it, if for no other reason than to get my mom off my back. Eat your vegetables. There is nothing more ubiquitously traumatic and universally understandable than this phrase.
The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on Lady Clever:
White and green. That’s the color scheme of Gillian’s wedding. Really deep emerald, she adds. Very country club, I offer. She tells me about the three days of dress shopping and the ball gown-esque thing she eventually settled on. Structured and formal. “Just like us,” she quips. Gillian and Nathan are getting married in November, which seems soon. But that’s probably because I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a set wedding date– a number barreling at you from the distance like a freight train, until it arrives, and you’re surrounded by your country club colors and the gold walls of an East Coast church, standing next to a dude who stuck around for more than three weeks—a dude who, in theory, wants to stick around for eternity. The concept is unfathomable to me, like asking a kid who lives in some shantytown in Johannesburg to imagine what it would be like to get on a plane and travel to America, to live in a house with central heat and air conditioning, with a pool in the backyard and a freezer filled with ice cream. So laughably far off, so hilariously implausible. That’s what this feels like.
At least for me.
All the blood has begun to drain from my head, across my chest, through my arms, down my legs, and into my feet, where the energy that I imagine I am made of disappears through the cracks in the floor of this dark room. And so I stand, an empty tin can of a girl, lightheaded and speechless. I don’t know what I expected the answer to be when I asked the boy who never asked me to brunch what it was about me that wasn’t enough. You don’t normally ask loaded questions like this. But when you’re drunk and feeling the sting of rejection like a fresh, red welt, this is precisely the question you ask.
The following is an excerpt from my piece “Too Much is Never Enough” on Lady Clever:
Four years ago, a friend of mine was going through relationship troubles with her then-boyfriend. Struggling with the idea of letting go of a person she loved very much, she, like many models tend to do, sought the advice of another half-naked coworker, an older Brazilian girl with whom she had often been trapped in a closet with for long stretches of time, alternating between trying on clothes for strangers and talking about life. Before the break-up that inevitably came, the Brazilian, in her deep, sexy Portuguese accent told my friend, “Girl, do not worry. You have too much sand for his sand truck.”
By the grace of the travel gods I have been upgraded to business class and am currently sitting next to a successful art director wearing very expensive sneakers and a pair of well-cut jeans. We bonded when he handed me, without even saying a word, a copy of Interview Magazine. Soon after our dinner accompanied by actual silverware was delivered, we became good chums, toasting the good life with plastic wine glasses filled with cheap Chardonnay. This is the type of stuff that occurs in the forward of an aircraft, unlike what routinely happens to me in coach, which is to be harassed by oafs for pieces of gum and starved out for about six hours. Apparently, getting upgraded isn’t just about the cookies; it’s about the company.
The following is an excerpt from my recent piece “Focussed on Things That Matter,” as seen on Lady Clever:
“Hey, Jenny. It’s ____________. Your friends gave me your phone number after you left. Give me a call or text me whenever. I’d like to buy you a drink.”
After being single for practically four years, you would think a text message like this would leave a girl swooning, but not here, not in New York. The phrase “give me a call” immediately sends my stomach falling through the floor, my senses overcome with a combination of paralysis and nausea. Give me a call… This isn’t the charmed opening for a lifelong relationship; it is the death knell for my own sanity, a Venus flytrap I have finally begun to see for what it is. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 43 times, shame on me. Like an old basketball player fearing broken bones, I have taken myself out of the game.
The following is an excerpt from my recent piece “No Puffy Coats in Paris… absolutment pas” for the Man Repeller’s contest on Medium. Click through to read the rest (and don’t forget to recommend it to Medium!)
In an old notebook somewhere there are crude sketches of the outfits I would wear. A vintage red skirt I had shortened back in LA, a lace Phi top I bought at a sample sale, one pair of black boots to wear over and over and over again. I wanted to make sure I got it right, that I could impress this person who had been featured on The Sartorialist, this man who traveled the world buying beautiful clothes, surrounded by beautiful women. I wanted him to be able to look at me and think, “That’s my girl. That’s my girl right there.” I had to get it right.