Didn't you explain how to hand-dry the sweater? What part of "trim" did the hair-hacking stylist not understand? And weren't you the one who first brought up the idea that just flew from your colleague's lips and is now "the most genius thing" your boss has ever heard?
It's a sunny, Sunday California morning. My husband is driving my mother, father, and two of our four children to church.
The next time someone dreams up a new superhero, she should be wielding a bedpan. And Kleenex. And playing cards and travel Scrabble.
It is 2003; I sit eating a joylesss dinner as my pal Mamie attempts to soothe my wailing infant. She pats her back, she rubs her tummy, she sways, bounces, vibrates, runs water, hums softly, offers the kid a check for 1,700 bucks -- Mamie is nothing if not pragmatic (she's also smart, beautiful, and currently reading over my shoulder).
Your sweetheart calls you by another's name. His eyes linger too long on your best friend. He talks with excitement about a girl at work. And the fire catches.
Last summer, in the low-tide shallows of Cape Cod, my young son and his best friend hummed a sea snail out of its shell. It's a trick they'd learned from a visiting marine biologist at their school: The children held the shell up to their peachy, softly droning faces and the snail craned its shy neck out to listen. The snail stretched up its tentative little horns and the children smiled back.
Personally, I like my pizza deliveryman to do one thing: bring me my dinner. But mention this guy to a group of women, and, while most of us will think of cheesy pies with tomato sauce, a good number of us will conjure up that hilariously bad porn cliché, the randy fellow who's always ready to accept sex in exchange for a medium sausage and mushroom.
It's four days into your vacation and you still haven't been able to let go: You're fretting about your end-of-month reports, answering e-mails from coworkers, and now your boss wants to know if she can conference you in on a call tomorrow.
The more science learns about how men are different from us (right down to the structure of their brains), the more we find ourselves hoping it will finally explain some age-old mysteries. For instance:
I just finished reading "Love, Loss, and What I Wore" for the 219th time. It's a quirky little autobiography in which the utterly charming Ilene Beckerman recalls her life's defining moments through the wardrobe choices she's made -- from Brownie uniform to bridal veil.
Didn't you explain how to hand-dry the sweater? What part of "trim" did the hair-hacking stylist not understand? And weren't you the one who first brought up the idea that just flew from your colleague's lips and is now "the most genius thing" your boss has ever heard?
It's a sunny, Sunday California morning. My husband is driving my mother, father, and two of our four children to church.
The next time someone dreams up a new superhero, she should be wielding a bedpan. And Kleenex. And playing cards and travel Scrabble.
It is 2003; I sit eating a joylesss dinner as my pal Mamie attempts to soothe my wailing infant. She pats her back, she rubs her tummy, she sways, bounces, vibrates, runs water, hums softly, offers the kid a check for 1,700 bucks -- Mamie is nothing if not pragmatic (she's also smart, beautiful, and currently reading over my shoulder).
Your sweetheart calls you by another's name. His eyes linger too long on your best friend. He talks with excitement about a girl at work. And the fire catches.
Last summer, in the low-tide shallows of Cape Cod, my young son and his best friend hummed a sea snail out of its shell. It's a trick they'd learned from a visiting marine biologist at their school: The children held the shell up to their peachy, softly droning faces and the snail craned its shy neck out to listen. The snail stretched up its tentative little horns and the children smiled back.
Personally, I like my pizza deliveryman to do one thing: bring me my dinner. But mention this guy to a group of women, and, while most of us will think of cheesy pies with tomato sauce, a good number of us will conjure up that hilariously bad porn cliché, the randy fellow who's always ready to accept sex in exchange for a medium sausage and mushroom.
It's four days into your vacation and you still haven't been able to let go: You're fretting about your end-of-month reports, answering e-mails from coworkers, and now your boss wants to know if she can conference you in on a call tomorrow.
The more science learns about how men are different from us (right down to the structure of their brains), the more we find ourselves hoping it will finally explain some age-old mysteries. For instance:
I just finished reading "Love, Loss, and What I Wore" for the 219th time. It's a quirky little autobiography in which the utterly charming Ilene Beckerman recalls her life's defining moments through the wardrobe choices she's made -- from Brownie uniform to bridal veil.
Jane Shure wasn't surprised by her grief -- the sense of deep loss, the resonating silence in the house -- when her youngest daughter left for college; what shocked her was how quickly it dissipated.
Manhattan's wealthier citizens had decamped for their summer homes, leaving the rest of us with room to breathe and stroll and enjoy summer in the greatest city in the world.
One winter, in the middle of a particularly painful breakup, I wished I were religious. Raised in a family of scientists who consider religion to be, at best, a comforting illusion, I saw my longing as a weakness.
I was freaking out. I went to bed the night before, freaking out. What was I doing? What was he doing? We were 26, and we were getting married. It was such a bad idea -- clearly we were too young. Everybody knows the true best age for a first marriage is 45.
As a fiction writer, I struggle to tell useful truths by telling the lie that I am someone other than myself. I'm a fat girl trying to survive rape in my first novel, the resentful brother of a mentally ill twin in my second. In my third novel, which I'm close to finishing, I'm the husband of a drug-addicted nurse lost in a maze of her failures and fear.
I had been divorced for 14 years and had three children off on their own -- a daughter working in Europe, a son in graduate film school, and another daughter in college -- when a woman I met on a ski lift in Aspen offered to set me up with a psychoanalyst practicing in New York.
Four years ago, when Oprah managed to get down to a trim and fit 160 pounds, she thought she'd hit on a foolproof formula for permanent weight loss. Then life --in the form of a thyroid problem and a killer schedule-- intervened. Last year she was back up to the 200-pound mark and knew something had to change. After a desperately needed time-out to reflect and recharge, here's what she's learned, what she's doing differently, and what's next.
Oprah's struggle with her weight has become almost mythic--it's not just that she's been so open and honest about it, but that millions of people share her story.
Unlike Thanksgiving, which I approach with the kind of resignation a Sherpa must feel setting out on his umpteenth ascent of Everest, Christmas gives me culinary wanderlust, a desire to go places I've never been, try recipes and piece together menus no sane woman should dare.
It's naptime in the manger. The rosy porcelain baby is sleeping quietly beside his mother, who dozes on her back on the barn floor, despite her permanent bent-kneed posture and a broken-off right hand.
I grew up in suburban New Jersey as a Jewish boy surrounded by Christians, and so I developed a severe case of Christmas envy.
Having her adored husband around: comforting, engaging, fun. Having him away for a few days: pure euphoria. Cathleen Medwick on the fine art of staying together while staying yourself.
For better or for worse, when you get married, you sign on for a life of sharing --bedsheets, bathroom space, cold germs. Moods, too, as it turns out. And it's becoming increasingly clear that "emotional contagion," the unconscious tendency to mimic the emotions of others, affects spousal health.
Since the late 1980s, Nike has been telling us, "Just Do It!" If only we simply needed a sneakered kick in the butt.
The great English writer E.M. Forster may have valued connection above all else, but for us 21st-century folks, disconnection is as necessary as connection for creating a healthy, happy life.
It took a little time, but my daughter and I have finally got our Sunday mornings down to a system. Just as the light starts inching through our blinds and the pigeons start making those peculiar pigeony noises and the hungover 22-year-olds start cursing whoever invented the Jell-O shot, Julia wakes me with words that come in a rush from her heart: "Did you buy me anything?" And "Are you going to buy me anything?" And my personal favorite: "Would you like a list of things you could buy me?"
What do Pinocchio, Richard Nixon, and an "O, The Oprah Magazine" very inventive columnist all have in common? Every now and then, when the situation calls for it, they've been known to bend, sculpt, or otherwise contort the facts to their liking. Hey, if it saves Bambi's mother...
I had the flu. But not just any flu. No, this was the kind of bug that forces a normally rational human being to dial information and beg the operator for Jack Kevorkian's home phone number.
A young man I know, still in love with his girlfriend, tried to go along with her plea to remain friends after she told him that she wanted the freedom to see other men.
Raise your hand if you remember that 1970s anthem "I Am Woman."
Most women are better at dancing. On the rare occasions when my mother prevailed on my father to join her on the dance floor, the five of us -- three boys, two girls -- would laugh as we watched him lumber back and forth, counting out the rhythm like it was math homework.
Much has been made of the whole "what do women want/what do men want" thing. I think it's actually pretty simple: Women want men to know what women want. And men want women not to want anything.
One portion of macaroni and cheese. One slice of chocolate cake. One pair of svelte black pants. Do some very simple, if highly emotional, addition and subtraction, and you arrive at a whole new way to see yourself.
You could fill entire football stadiums with all the things that I don't know. I don't know how to make paella. I don't know how to do algebra or iron pleats or ski. I don't know how to sing on key, accept a compliment, interact at a party consisting of more than eight people or kill a lobster ... which brings us back to my paella issues.
Recent research suggests an optimistic state comes from a series of active inner processes, psychological somersaults. That's good news because it means that optimism -- like other skills such as putting on eyeliner or hitting a tennis ball -- is something we can improve with practice.
It's five o'clock in the morning. I've been awake for about 23 hours, having struggled vainly to fit in writing between yesterday's tasks: getting the car fixed, taking the dog to the vet, answering e-mail, going grocery shopping, driving my kids to music lessons, seeing clients, picking up deli sandwiches for dinner and cuddling a 12-year-old through some of the horrors of puberty.
In 1977, my friend Brenda and I went for dinner at a little Chinese restaurant called Empress Garden. She had the lemon chicken, I had the shrimp har kow, and we each had an egg roll because in 1977 you could eat sugar and fat and deep-fried everything without its signifying that the apocalypse is at hand.
For the sake of argument, imagine a world without conflict. That's the full-time job for members of a relatively new field called peace psychology who focus on problems like the genocide in Darfur, hatred in the Middle East, gang warfare in our cities, and rape everywhere.
Unfortunately, motherhood is so difficult that virtually no one does it perfectly. Maybe your mother was flawless, but it's more likely she made mistakes. Whatever her errors, you inherited a legacy of sorrow.
On any given day here at "O, The Oprah Magazine," there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 69 very talented, extremely detail oriented, high-energy, hardworking women and men all doing their jobs and doing them well. I love a few of them, I like a lot of them, I despise one of them. She is the Magneto to my Wolverine, the Saruman to my Frodo, the Dr. Octopus to my Spiderman. I call her The Tinkler.
You know yourself: Do you need a push to be more outgoing -- or to be alone without going crazy? O's life coach says you'll be better off -- more balanced, less prone to loneliness -- if you try to go against the grain now and then. And she's got a few exercises to get you there.
What's the best way to hang on to what you learn? New memory research has answers.
It's five o'clock in the morning. I've been awake for about 23 hours, having struggled vainly to fit in writing between yesterday's tasks: getting the car fixed, taking the dog to the vet, answering e-mail, going grocery shopping, driving my kids to music lessons, seeing clients, picking up deli sandwiches for dinner and cuddling a 12-year-old through some of the horrors of puberty.
Some people bring unexpected lightness and comfort to your life. They crackle with energy, practically electrify you with their presence. And then there are those who leave you feeling stressed out. Or guilty. Or exhausted down to your very last molecule.
I had it all down to a system. Whenever a conversation would turn to the subject of age, I'd casually mention that I was 28, or 37, or 42, or however old I was at the time, and then I'd pause, magnanimously allowing people the beat they needed to acknowledge their surprise and commence with their compliments.
One guy is needier than quicksand. Another is jealous of your cocker spaniel. A third quietly hates all womankind. Here's a list of men you should put in your rearview mirror, ASAP.
Do you have trouble with love? Can't quite figure out what keeps going wrong? Maybe it's time to take a love lesson from Heartbreak Academy!
I can't say I always enjoy cardiovascular exercise. I don't think anyone does. Oh, I've seen those infomercials featuring models whose granite abs and manic smiles become even more sharply defined at the very sight of workout equipment. But as we all know, these people are from Neptune.
If you know a secret the rest of the world doesn't, it can drive you nuts. From dealing with little white lies to exposing a sexual harasser, consider how, when -- and when not -- to let the cat out of the bag.
For many of us, the way our skin looks in the morning dictates, like the weather, what kind of day we might have. We get out of bed, skip (or stagger) over to the mirror, and peer at our reflection as if we were peering out the window. What did the day blow in? A clear, calm complexion? A shower of breakouts? A mist of fine lines? A gloomy new cumulus of dark spots?
In a folktale that has been retold for centuries in many variations (one of which is Shakespeare's "King Lear"), an elderly king asks his three daughters how much they love him. The two older sisters deliver flowery speeches of filial adoration, but the youngest says only "I love you as meat loves salt."
Sweaty palms, jagged nerves, choking insecurity: LEVEL ORANGE.
Here is my New Year's Rockin' Eve fantasy: A lipstick-red strapless dress (think Ava Gardner in "One Touch of Venus") finished with a pair of Brian Atwood heels that make your legs look like the floor is the only thing that's stopping them from going on forever, a crystal flute of Veuve Clicquot, a little "Auld Lang Syne," a lot of colored lights, and the man of your dreams (obviously, in this case, that would be my boyfriend -- not Clive Owen, not Benicio Del Toro, not the green-eyed guy who sold me sunglasses at Barneys -- and shame on you for dragging them into this) takes your face in his cool, confident hands and gives you the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away just as the clock strikes 12. Friends are giddy, caviar is glistening, the old year is ending, and the new year is whatever I say it is.
You've just woken up, and you're on the wrong side of the bed. Is there any way to switch to the other side? Absolutely.
The love of my life is seeing other women. It started innocently enough, a bite to eat, a stroll through the park -- the stuff I never have time for. Then came the private jokes, the pet names, the stolen kisses, the bubble baths.
The rules tell you to scheme, flatter, and play hard to get, but our favorite life coach doesn't think that will get you very far. It's time to rethink the dating game.
Isn't it tiring, trying to be perfect? Isn't there something to be said for the occasional dash of depravity? There is, and we're saying it. So are Elizabeth Edwards, Isaac Mizrahi, Amy Sedaris, and Nigella Lawson. Let them inspire you! Cross a line, eat a gram or two of saturated fat, splurge on something ridiculous. And remember -- sometimes tabletops are for dancing.
Why the two words, "I'm sorry" can be the most rewarding.
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