It’s no secret that drinking takes a toll on your skin. Dehydration, blotchiness and puffiness are just a few of the wonderful effects of alcohol–a moisture zapping diuretic– on your epidermis. So what’s a girl to do when faced with a serious liquor induced skin issue? Quit drinking? I think not.While that would obviously be the most effective move, it’s not one I plan on making any time in the near future (near future including this semester and every one after that until I graduate). Luckily, the makeup gods determined long ago that girl-kind should be able to have her cake (flavored mix drink) and eat it too (um, have nice looking skin).

The following products will salvage your face be you hungover and desperate for a quick fix, prepping for bed after drinks with the girls, or planning ahead for a night of partays (you overachiever, you). Read More »

You’ve probably heard of a “happy ending” massage, and if you haven’t, what the hell kind of PG-rated world are you living in? As weird and dirty as I think they are (how many people have been jacked off in that room. Seriously?), if dudes (and yes, some women) want to have a stranger who probably hates their job help them orgasm, then whatever. Go for it.

But allowing your husband to get one? Encouraging and then laughing with him about it afterwards? Telling him how cute it was that he had a hard time finding someone to finally do it?

WTF.

Now, I’m not one of those rabid girlfriends who beats their boyfriend for accidentally checking out the boobs of another woman — hell, I’m not even one of those girls who won’t let her dude go to a strip club — but I really don’t think I’d spend my time convincing my husband to let some other chick give him a handjob for $55 with tip.

My reasoning is less about the possibility of him getting ideas and then cheating (I believe if a guy is gonna cheat he’s gonna cheat, no matter what you say or do), and more about the weirdness of encouraging a husband to seek outside sexual gratification. I mean, if I’m his wife, shouldn’t I be the one providing all the sex acts? Is that what you kind of promise when you get married — that you’re the one who will be giving all the handjobs from now on?

What do you think? If you were married, would you encourage your guy to get a “happy ending”?

I’ve been attending a yoga class at the gym. I joined it so I could learn to get in touch with myself and relax and destress after a long day. I’m not really sure when I got out of touch with myself, but it sounds very zen and enlightened to say things like, “I just want to back in touch with myself.” And when people ask me if I like it, I just nod and tell them it’s nice to get back in touch with myself.

They look at me with jealousy because everyone would like to be in touch with themselves.

I’ve learned a lot since getting in touch with myself. Like I’ve learned that I lack flexibility. So instead of becoming destressed and relaxed I’ve become very stressed and unrelaxed. If I had never signed up for Yoga, I never would have learned that I’m incapable of doing a simple Downward Dog, nor would I know that my body refuses to do an appropriate Serpent.

I can’t even think about the failure that was Praying Possum.

My yoga teacher often comes up behind me, presses on various parts of my body, and says things like, “tell your calf muscle it’s safe and it’s ok to relax,” as if talking to my calf muscle will suddenly let me place it behind my ear. I mean, I definitely tried while the whole class looked on waiting to see how well I could communicate safety to my calf muscle. I haven’t been that embarrassed in front of a class since I confused organism with orgasm in 6th grade. Read More »

Being in a relationship is great, but getting there totally sucks. You meet someone, start to like that someone and then go crazy trying to figure out if they like you, why they aren’t calling, if you should text them, if you should have kissed them, if telling them you love The Hills was too much information…

It sucks, which is why I think one-night stands are the way to go. Seriously, if you are safe (read: wrap that sh*t up) the one-night engagement is a total win/win. And here are 5 reasons why: Read More »

I’ve been single for well over a year and I have truly enjoyed every moment of it. Especially those no-strings-attached moments between the sheets.

For the past year I have enjoyed new experiences, new men, new positions and a whole new chapter of my life. Having recently gained the self-confidence to approach a man, I took charge of my sexuality and decided it was time to let loose a little bit and have a good time.

And that was the best decision EVER.

Recently, though, I was set up on a date. Not really looking for anything serious at the moment, I only agreed to the whole event to appease my friend. But as soon as the boy came to pick me up I was glad that I did.

He was cute. He was smart. He was funny. And he was a total gentleman.

At the end of the evening I thanked him for dinner and awkwardly dodged his attempts at a kiss by slamming my apartment door in his face. Smooth, I know.

It was not like I didn’t want to kiss him – in fact, I wanted to do a lot more…in the shower – it was just that, well, I didn’t know how. I haven’t kissed someone I actually liked in a really long time. The last 10 guys I kissed, in fact, had names I could not recall and happened in a dark corner in a gross bar. The kiss almost always led to sex, which was always lots of fun, but was always purely physical, carnal, and fueled by too much alcohol.

In other words, the only “feelings” involved in the whole exchange were the feelings that were happening below the belt. Read More »

This was a strange week. Really strange.

“First my mom (and a whole bunch of old people) joined Facebook. Then I find out that women don’t orgasm during sex, TRL decides to close its doors, dudes like having sex when their lady is on the rag and Hugh Hefner lost one of his ladies to a magician?

Sarah Palin’s email was hacked into.
I had some plastic thing shoved into my baby maker.
My friend got a man and I got jealous.

Is it a full moon or something?

I definitely need a drink, but do I go to a house party for free booze, or the bar for a better scene? Or maybe I shouldn’t even get dolled up and stay home to bake a pie with rum instead.

Hm. The pie isn’t a good idea, especially since I only pretend to work out and I want to make sure to fit into some awesome new runway inspired duds. And maybe the bar isn’t a good idea either, considering the future of my wallet is totally unknown.

I’ll just have my boys pick up a 30 pack. Pure bliss.

I have this ongoing internal battle with myself, all stemmed from what I deem “placebo effect exercising.” I’m continually battling what little bulge I have, in an effort to ultimately be bulge-less, yet never see the results I fantasize about.

I eat a yogurt for breakfast instead of a yummy prosciutto and egg breakfast sandwich. Ten points. I walk a block. Five points. I do a little dance in my dainty undergarments in (dim) light. Jackpot. I put a bikini on and prance into natural light. I’m in the negative.

My boss brings cupcakes to work and I eat a lovely little concoction called a “Michael Jackson,” (white on the bottom, chocolate on top) so I join the gym after work. I decide to buy some super cute workout clothes to motivate me to go to the gym. I go. Once. I ran a half mile on the treadmill. “That’s OK,” I think to myself, as I walk another 1.5 miles. “Maybe if I run outside, I’ll have more to keep me interested.” Right. I tried that and stopped to pet every animal (including squirrels and pigeons) that crossed paths with me and picked a few flowers. Scratch that idea. “Lingerie dance party….. in heels,” I think. Back to square one.

I notice after a couple weeks that I’ve seen no results. “How can that be?” I think to myself. Calculate one menstrual cycle into the equation and that relieves any dietary discipline I may have demonstrated before. What’s a foot-long sub and a whole Boston Creme Pie once a month (in one day), after all? Apparently it’s five pounds on my ass. Read More »

“I’m so jealous” my friend confided after I had told her about my most recent spectacular sexperience. “I can’t orgasm from sex.”

What?! No orgasm? From sex? Is that some sort of really mean trick? Is Mother Nature f–king with her? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Clearly this was not normal; she should find a new man, or talk to a doctor, or something.

But it is normal. Really normal.
Like, 75% of women, normal.

In fact, my uncanny ability to “thoroughly enjoy” sex (multiple times, on some occasions) seems to be the abnormal in this situation. I am a member of a very exclusive group; the Orgasmers, if you will.

So, I am curious. Are you a card carrying member, or, like my unfortunate friend, are you a member of the silent (in bed) majority?