Everyone finds themselves confused, at least once or twice in their lives, about matters of the heart. Over the course of the past few months, I’ve had around a dozen conversations with friends and acquaintances—whether they’re married or single, gay or straight, old or young—who suspect they are dating the wrong person, married to the wrong person, or coveting the wrong person. Or sometimes the problem is that they’re with a person at all, when they just want to be alone, or snuggling up to their pet chihuahua watching The Real Housewives.

Of course, the reason the person is “wrong” for them varies. They could have the wrong career, the wrong personality, or the wrong attitude about commitment. They could have incompatible personalities, incompatible work schedules, or incompatible levels of passion. Sometimes wrong just translates to crazy, or not crazy enough. There are many reasons these objects of affection are possibly not the right choice. … //READ MORE

You really can’t make this stuff up. Not too long ago I heard a woman in Whole Foods ask a store clerk which brand of vegan lip moisturizer had more calories. Lucky for her, the employee was super polite and actually stopped to read the tiny print on the two lip-balm labels before shaking his head and apologizing that he couldn’t help her. I can say with certainty that if she had asked me the same question, I would’ve promptly snatched the organic low-carb baguette from her shopping basket and whacked her over the head with it.

Why some women remain obsessed with calories, fat grams, carbs, inches, pounds, and God knows what other measurements we can obsess over, is beyond me. Now there are certain substances we do need to watch, such as our sodium and sugar intake, and foods we need to make sure we’re consuming … //READ MORE

When a heterosexual man meets a woman for the first time, chances are he will, consciously or subconsciously, judge her approachability, her attractiveness and her potential for a great romp in the sack. If he’s a more sensitive guy, he might also try to gauge whether she’d make a good wife or mother. But when a heterosexual woman meets another woman for the first time, she will judge her ability to be a good friend…and her potential as a post-retirement roommate in a split-level ranch house in Miami.

My closest pals don’t know that I’ve already designated which of them will be the Rose and Blanche to my Dorothy, God forbid I’m a widow when it comes time for me to trade my stilettos for orthopedic shoes. (As a neurotic, native New Yorker, I allow myself to play the “God Forbid…” game on occasion.) And I have several back-ups in mind, in case my top roomie picks are unavailable by then—that is, if they are still married, living in a nursing home, or otherwise, ahem, checked out. One of the chosen ladies, like the Rose character, has a heart of gold, a slightly airy temperament and, most important, an endless supply of wacky childhood stories. The other is a sophisticated city gal whom I can definitely imagine evolving into a fun-loving geriatric sexpot, persuading everyone in the house to … //READ MORE

To all you supermoms out there who had absolutely no problems breastfeeding, I say congratulations and go to hell. (Of course, I mean that in the most affectionate way.) But if your nursing endeavors resembled, like mine did, a Stanley Kubrick flick, I say, pull up a chair, sista, and let’s commiserate.

Nursing did not come easy to me. For starters, none of the women in my family had done it, so there was no maternal experience trickling down through the generations. Second, I gave birth in a New York hospital where “doula” was a dirty word and the nurses were too understaffed and not as educated as they should’ve been on the benefits of breastfeeding. At the time my daughter was born, a new mother with any intentions of not bottle-feeding in that maternity ward had the Similac cans stacked against her. … //READ MORE

When it comes to love, sex, marriage and motherhood, French women say relax. And we Americans should listen, according to Debra Ollivier’s bestseller What French Women Know, a witty examination of the French feminine mystique.

For generations, the world has known that French ladies are sophisticated and confident, sassy and sensual, and can rock a bustier like nobody’s business. But what we may not have noticed, says Ollivier, is that their views on relationships are in some ways strikingly different from American women’s, so much so that French females are able to enjoy life exponentially more than we are. Surprise, surprise.

Now, Ollivier, an American who has lived and raised children in Paris, is not saying French women are perfect. She is simply suggesting that we … //READ MORE

About two months ago, somewhere during the process of expanding what was then my intimate little blog, I suddenly got too ambitious for my own good. My web designer, Leigh-Ann, probably thought I’d lost my mind when I asked her to remove my mug shot and my name from Red Typewriter’s home page (“Get rid of all evidence of her and bring me a big glass of vodka!”—a line from one of my favorite movies, Moonstruck). I also asked her to switch to an editorial-style layout, add multiple story teasers, and create bylines for the slew of international writers I planned to seduce into writing. I declared that we’d never use the word blog again. This is something bigger: We would create a frigging magazine!

The truth is, I missed being a magazine editor. Since I was a little kid and sat mesmerized in front of the TV watching the miniseries Lace, in which Bess Armstrong’s character edited a glamorous publication of the same name, that’s all I wanted to do. Then I actually did it: I spent a decade working in the land of New York publishing, meeting insane deadlines and managing a staff of artsy types like myself, but hopefully never turning as crazy as Meryl Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada (although some of my former staffers would disagree). But then kids came, and life changed dramatically. No more late-night press parties. No more trips to Paris and Milan. The highlight of my career, in the first year after my daughter was born, was interviewing the designer Betsy Johnson from my bed, trying simultaneously to hold the phone under my chin, type on my laptop, and nurse my colicky newborn—while almost crying from the absurdity of it all. … //READ MORE