In my teens and 20s, I spent the better part of most evenings alternately listening to recordings of Broadway shows and crying into my pillow. Depending on the trauma of the day, I may have had a slighted ego, a face full of acne, out-of-control hair, or a broken heart. The music helped me cry, and the pillow kept the whole neighborhood from noticing.
Her Kansas City and The Pitch presented Sugar Rush, a celebration of all things sweet, on Feb. 23 at Terrace on Grand. 3 Girls Cupcakes took home the honor of KC's 2012 Sweetheart view the event photos, click on the "Photo Galleries" link under the Her Affairs tab.
I’m not a particularly girly girl. I wear mascara, sometimes, and I do have a pretty impressive collection of lip balm. But I’ve never been a high-heels, sparkle-tiara, fairy-princess type. I’m more of a glasses-and-unkempt hair, geeky-reader, wish-I-could-be-more-girly type.
It’s one of my and my husband’s favorite debates: are men and women really equal? As far back as I can remember, I’ve held my ground and insisted that I want to be treated the same as him, that I’m just as smart, capable and strong.
One of the best things about my transition from my full-time job as an editor to the life of a freelance writer is that I have so much more time to read for pleasure.
I don’t usually get into Valentine’s Day, but I decided I wanted to make this year special. Logan and I were married exactly nine months on Valentine’s Day, and I figure that deserves more than the box of chocolates and cheesy card that I usually get him.
When I was younger, I made my best friend laugh so hard that she threw up at our friend's birthday party. She ended up being sent home because everyone thought she was sick. Oh, all the trouble we used to get into. She played the straight man to my slapstick humor and we made a fabulous pair. As we got older, we learned a great deal from each other.
These days it seems like everyone I know is having a baby.
I can’t log into Facebook without seeing status updates with pictures of sonograms, nurseries and “baby bumps.”
Powerhouse vocalist and Kansas native Martina McBride has made a career of recording songs that empower women. Songs such as “Independence Day,” “Anyway” and “This One’s For the Girls” have resonated with women of all ages.
I remember the exact moment when I started pulling away from my father. I was 23 years old and a senior in college. I had invited him for lunch at a Mexican restaurant a block from the rundown garage studio I shared with my boyfriend. Over a burrito, I told him how disappointed I was with my summer lit class, taught by a professor who was obsessed with Mitch Albom.
We’ve all done it. We’ve cheated on our hairdresser, facialist, makeup artist, waxer, etc. We were just curious to see what it would be like to have a different creative take on our hair, or if our friend’s facialist really was the reason she looks four years younger or if the waxing hurt less with someone else. Whatever the reason, we’ve done it.
Now that you’re not constantly sweating off your makeup, have a little fun playing with some of fall 2012’s biggest makeup trends.
As you begin to bundle up in a few additional layers, think about brushing an extra layer of color to your brows.
If you are a mom, you've probably done the blue box tango. Should you buy that 52-cent blue box of macaroni and cheese because you know your child loves it, and because it's easy and cheap? What if you could recreate a dish that was fresher and healthier?
Stepmommy Dearest: Stepmothers speak out about one of society's most underappreciated and least understood jobs
In most ways, Molly* bears no resemblance to most Americans’ image of a “traditional” woman. The 37-year-old teacher is an accomplished athlete, a Fulbright Scholar with a master’s degree, and a fluent Spanish-speaker who’s lived abroad and traveled widely.
Every night, after 6:30 p.m., I am effectively a prisoner in my own house. I have a four-month-old baby who lays his little self down in my arms and closes his eyes at exactly 6:30 p.m. There are no more spontaneous trips out to see a band or late-night runs to the grocery store. My husband works late, so it’s just me and my sleeping baby boy in the house most nights.
I'd never seen a gun. That is, until I saw him.
There is a certain large purple dinosaur, who shall remain nameless, that really gets on my nerves. His cheesy co-stars sing and dance about life lessons in a setting that is straight out of the movie Stepford Wives. I know you know who or what I am referring to. His unflappable happiness is like a bad dream that reoccurs nightly.
Until a couple of weeks ago, my closet looked like a jumble sale. I had jeans in nearly every size, designer labels next to thrift-store gag gifts, and sweaters I’d clung to since high school. I felt an oppressive weight on my shoulders every morning as I waded through my over-stuffed rack, trying to find something that fit, felt good, and flattered.
I’m more than a little worried about raising a little girl in these times. News of pedophiles teaching in public schools and the increased pressure to be sexual at an early age makes me want to pack my family up and move to a remote island.
Before midnight feedings, many conversations using poop patois and revisiting the magic of Elmo, I was a bonafide judge of all women. Gavel in hand, I seldom gave anyone the benefit of the doubt and continued handing out judgments just because I thought I could. Motherhood changed everything.