One of the funniest websites south of the Mason Dixon was In The Powder Room. Run by funnywoman Leslie Marinelli and edited by funnywoman Sarah del Rio, this site accepted my pitch of a monthly column where I reviewed products for women. Sadly, the site is currently on hiatus, but they have given me permission to repost content I had written exclusively for them. I’m proud of my work, as silly as it was. They were a great partner and supportive of my immature ramblings. If they ultimately decide on a permanent vacation, I will restart the column here. In the meantime, read some old stuff.
To be fair, Allison tried on this one.
She wrote me a few days ago asking to bow out of this specific edition. Allison had just taken on two new clients and was now travelling a good chunk of the time. She kept attempting to write this piece but wasn’t happy with it. (After reading her drafts, I concur) Then she did that thing that all weirdos like her and I do – we go all or nothing. In a frazzled state she said, “I can’t commit to this any longer!” She was having a moment. I told her to have her moment, and that I’d handle this one. She’ll come back in the next one. She’s just a spaz.
A guy a know who I’ll call Cullen used to say, “I love you enough to tell you the truth.”
After this proclamation, he would immediately follow it with a barrage of criticisms about how you’re doing things wrong. It was uncomfortable. You’d feel defensive. But after his assault concluded, you’d find yourself saying, “Dammit, the sonofabitch was right.” And he always was. A mutual friend of ours, Jen, was complaining about some shitheel she was dating. Jen is a psychologist and a strong, independent woman. However, she was dating a shitheel. He sucked. We all knew it. She suspected it, but stuck with him. One day, Cullen says to her (apropos of nothing), “What’s up with your self-esteem? You know better than to be with a loser. Get yourself together. Christ!” And Jennifer started to cry. Cullen didn’t flinch. He patiently waited for the sobbing to end. Then Jennifer said, “Yeah… I know.” Because she knew that Cullen was right. She dumped the guy a few days later.
Everyone wants to love what they see staring back in the mirror. And, I’m not referring to that inner-beauty nonsense that isn’t real. Well, inner beauty can be real, I guess. But your outer beauty is always being evaluated. Mostly by you. And I’d bet, if you’re like near everyone else on the planet, that you focus on the imperfections. When we check out our crooked nose or thinning hairline, it’s a reminder that not only are we imperfect, but we’re imperfect and aging. Those are two very heavy trips, dig? So, we asked for your questions about how to cope with said imperfections. Allison Arnone and I did our best to lighten your load. Read on, where we help you co-exist with your warts and all. (Oliver Cromwell reference, sucka!)
I believed I was so ugly no woman would ever want to date me.
I remember confessing this to a college roommate one summer. He was a handsome fraternity brother who had to fend off women when we went out. He was asking why I never talked to girls and I told him, “Well, I’m just not attractive enough, so why get rejected?” Now, the worst thing you can do if someone confesses their most vulnerable insecurity is to confirm it. Since I believed I was an ugly troll as much as I believed my name was D.J., the only hope that I had was that I might be wrong. But of course, he said the worst possible response.
She hated the idea from the beginning.
“I’m going to have something made to send out to all the people that write in questions for our column!” Allison responded with, “Uh huh. Have fun.” Okay, she wasn’t into it. In fact, I’ve witnessed more excitement in line at a salad bar. Now, to be fair, Allison’s and my communication mostly consist of me writing stupid things on email or instant message and then waiting for her to get annoyed. Just yesterday I was drawing up the graphic for our newest column. As a goof I created an additional one which I emailed over with, “Next month, I have our topic.” This was attached.
But are Icelandic women hot?
I’m surprised that I’ve received this question since I’ve returned from my trip. Three individuals have asked this independently, and it strikes me as odd for a number of reasons. First, I’m forty and my friends are around the same age. Everyone is married, mature, and with responsible careers. This is not a question anyone my age should be asking. Second, the trip to Iceland was not sponsored by Tinder and I didn’t check to see if there was a “Hot Broads of Reykjavik” meetup group. Third, I was traveling with my sister and her husband, and the idea of scoping out local trim didn’t seem like a healthy move. Fourth, I’m dating someone which further distances me from such silliness. Fifth, and most importantly, I truthfully don’t have an answer for this question. And I’d like to talk about that further.
Who goes to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?
When my sister sent out a blanket email to her friends back in June, I was in a terrible place in my life. Weeks before I had just been dumped by the woman I thought I would marry. I had sold my condo to move into hers but after the breakup found myself in a high rise rental nursing a broken heart. I’m a big believer that during crisis I’m best off doing what others tell me. The email my sister sent said simply, “Who wants to go to Iceland for New Year’s Eve?” My mind flashed to instances where people vacationed to Reykjavik and reported that it was one of the best vacations of their life. It took less than thirty seconds for me to reply. I was in.
I’ve never made out with anyone underneath mistletoe.
To be fair, if I’m at a friend’s home I’m not going to attack his wife because she happened to walk by the mistletoe plant on her way to the kitchen. Or sprig. Or whatever the hell mistletoe is. Nobody knows. What I do know is that it’s never helped me get over with the ladies. In the past I’ve even brought a tube of lip plumper to these parties, and taped it up next to the mistletoe so women can get their lips right for a kiss. I’m nothing if not thoughtful. But this column isn’t about me and my problems. It’s about yours. We got so many damn issues on this one topic, Allison Arnone and I are doing a part II next week. We started this advice column several months ago, and each time we do it we get more and more entries. It’s very much appreciated, and we respectfully bow to you. Now, go endure your family for the next week. It will be difficult, sure, but hey, your folks still load you up with some decent presents, and you’re thirty-seven years old. Just grin and bear it when mom starts in on your weight. Happy holidays!