At some point over the winter, I developed a craving for fresh-squeezed orange juice, but whenever I would order it—at restaurants, on Fresh Direct, wherever—the juice in question was always some pale and decidedly not-fresh-squeezed imitation of the real thing. So not long ago, my boyfriend Seth presented me with this excellent Cuisinart citrus juicer, which I now use just about every morning. I know you’re thinking a juicer is not the world’s most romantic gift, but to me, it actually kind of is, because it means Seth was paying attention, and what’s more romantic than that? OK, your turn: what did you receive, and from whom, and why do you love it?
I really do make myself quite vulnerable to you by confessing this one, because they are just such a monumentally ridiculous thing to have shelled out for, but I bought these metallic Rick Owens Birkenstocks—my first pair of Birkenstocks ever—the other day. They are maybe a bit much, but I can’t stop wearing them, and I think at the very least they are going to positively slay on the cost-per-wear front this summer. Now how about you?
Apologies for this kind of depressing post, but I really want your input here. Yesterday, I was on the subway, distracted because I was late to therapy, when my attention—and that of everyone else in the car—turned to a youngish mother yelling profanities at and threatening her small child. She’d stop for a few moments and direct her attention to her phone, then start in again, and every time she did, her child’s hands went up reflexively to protect his face. It felt like he had been through this before, maybe many times. I wanted to go up to her and read her some version of the riot act, but I didn’t. I’m ashamed to say I stayed silent. I’m not sure why, but maybe because the mother seemed legitimately menacing, and I didn’t want to further scare the child, and there was no police officer to report her to, and even if I did that and that led to her being judged an unfit mother, the kid would be sent to foster care, which can be its own awful can of worms. Nobody else said or did anything either. But I keep thinking about that poor kid, and wondering what, if anything, could have been done in that moment to improve the situation. I’m curious how you would have handled this, or what you have done under similar circumstances.
I was born in Houston, Texas in 1964 and have lived in New York City since 1988. I had a long career in magazines, working at Sassy, Elle, New York, and Spin, and in 2000, I founded Lucky magazine, which I edited for ten years.