For Maureen Chiquet the day she came into high school and found the words “dirty Jew” scrawled on her locker changed everything.
For the last six years, dating and relationship expert Andrea Syrtash has been undergoing fertility treatment to try to have a baby with her husband. But the author (of “He’s Just Not Your Type and That’s a Good Thing” and “Cheat on Your Husband (with Your Husband”) hadn’t come public about her efforts until recently, when she unveiled Pregnantish.com, the first non-medical lifestyle website devoted to infertility for singles, couples and the LGBTQ community.
In a personal essay for Racked, Shoshana Kordova, from New Jersey but now living in Israel, explains why she and her daughters have embraced a layered look. “The leggings and pants my daughters and I wear under our skirts,” she writes, “mean we don’t have to choose between skirts and pants, between religious conventions and pragmatic considerations, between constriction and liberation.”
In 2013, Carly Lewis wrote a great piece for the Walrus about the phenomenon of certain male journalists writing either drooling or dismissive profiles of famous (and famously attractive) women.
This week is National Infertility Awareness Week but for me, every week since December 13, 2011 is infertility awareness week. That’s the day a surgeon removed my lentil-sized embryo and the fallopian tube it was stuck in. Left to grow, the embryo that I wanted so badly to be my first child would have killed me. The time I spent in infertility hell coincided with a time when I, a third-generation New Yorker, lived with my then-husband in Mississippi, where citizens had just voted down personhood legislation, which would have outlawed both my life-saving surgery and the subsequent interventions that gave me hope of conceiving again.