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Category: Columns

Sex, politics, fashion and everything else a Gen-X everygal loves to dish about.

I Now Pronounce You SISSY and WIFE

It’s wedding season again, and that means half of every aisle-trodding couple will be struggling with the decision of whether to take on their spouse’s last name or keep their own. But according to a new trend, it might not be the half you think.

The California Assembly passed a bill last week that, if adopted by the Senate and signed by the governor, will allow newly married men to change their last names as easily as women do. A bride needs only to fill out some forms and notify her credit card companies if she wants to take her husband’s name. But a growing number of grooms — from Mike Davis-turned-Salinger in Seattle to Christopher Sclafani-turned-Rhee in Washington, D.C. — are opting to take their wives’ last names instead, either to honor the women’s heritage, preserve a family name that’s at risk of dying out, upgrade to an easier-to-spell moniker, or simply do their small part to roll back centuries of gender inequity.

Only Pinocchio Nose for Sure

We weren’t even in the park yet when the perjury began.

Giddy with the excitement that only a day at the Magic Kingdom can conjure, my friend told Disneyland’s parking attendant that she had given him a $50 bill rather than a $20 — just to watch him squirm.

I apologized to the unfortunately dressed, overweight gentleman and told my friend that she simply couldn’t pull that crap here.

If you lie at Disneyland, I explained, you go straight to hell.

A Week of Strong

Last weekend, like all weekends before it, I was confronted with a barrage of shame-inducing images: Fleshless twenty-somethings flitting along downtown sidewalks in jeans tighter than the skin on grapes. Itty bitty bikinis dangling in department store windows, looking more like polka dot rubber bands than something that might actually cover my ba-donk-a-donk.

Go With the Flow

There were girls at my school who got their first period — and the almost-breasts that came with it — at age 11. We “late bloomers” revered them as divine othergirls, elevated beings with a god-given head start into grown-up-ness.

We would never catch up.

And yet, I was in no hurry to bleed. If it meant carrying a purse, wearing a bra and having to listen to “More Than a Feeling” while making out with Jamie Lieberman behind the handball court, then — gross — you could keep your lousy period.

The day it finally came, I threw up.

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