A Love Letter To All The “Sluts” Out There, Former And Current

You may have never had sex in your life. You may never have even kissed a boy. Or, you may have had sex numerous times with numerous boys and perhaps made out with a thousand guys. You could have large breasts, no breasts, or some breasts. It doesn’t matter what the details are or whether you’ve been promiscuous or not. Someone has decided to call you a slut and then that someone made a whole bunch of other people call you a tramp, slut, bitch, whore, and hooker.

You may hear these slanderous words so often that you perhaps may have forgotten your own name.

Read my latest article, A Love Letter To All The “Sluts” Out There, Former And Current

No One Will Abuse Me Again,



The Pact: My Commitment To Myself After Divorce

A lot of people fumble with their New Year’s Resolutions, but if you know me you would know that I am dead determined. Almost every goal I have sought after,  I have accomplished in some shape or form.

As a kid, I decided I wanted to be an actor, comedienne, and professional writer.

I have gotten paid to do all three, and am currently a professional writer. Am I Amy Poehler or Charles Dickens? Well not yet but if I commit to something basically, I do it.  Sometimes I don’t let go of a situation or goal when I should, but most times if I am passionate about something, I give every breathe I’ve got and I’m full of hot air 🙂

So when the New Year approached, I decided to make a pact with myself. Why? Because I finally feel happy. Divorce and finances a bit of a shamble to say the least, I am happy and nothing can get in my way of this. I don’t want to go down the rabbit hole so I made this pact:

Continue reading

4 Dating and Love No-No’s: Single Women, Don’t Do What I Did

In honor of making over 1,000 followers, I will be posting pretty personal and or funny stuff this month, some from my memoir. I just can’t post all of my book for free though! You’ll have to buy the book!

I am so grateful to have grown this blog, and am dedicated to seeing it expand, simply because I love writing, sharing my message with others, embarrassing myself, and making fun of this crazy place we call Earth.

So to kick it off, I thought I’d share a few tips on what women shouldn’t do when dating. Ladies: learn from my god-awful mistakes. Guys, read this also and pass on to your single, newly-divorced, or “it’s complicated” female friends who could use a little perspective or a hug. And read it too, just because I said so, and how can you say no to a decently racked female?

I rest my case. Read on folks! Continue reading

Nudity and sex on Film: Where are the men?

I’m not a lunatic dying to see naked men. The majority of the population is not so hot. Keep your pants on. This question is about sexism, pure and simple. You won’t see a penis on television  because after all these years, sex is still for men, and  male pleasure.

Everytime an erotically-tinged movie comes out, people rave about how hot it is. Well, being the curious woman and a fully-empowered one, (by this I mean I am not embarrassed of my sexuality, but I also won’t let people construct me as an object anymore) I wait for the sign of male genitalia.

Nope, I never see one. Not even a tiny little testicle.

Sorry if I hurt anyone’s ego.

Greek God

Yet this erotically-charged supposedly, “sexy” movie will always have tons of female nudity. Sure, you aren’t going to get a close up of the Beav, but you’d be hard pressed to even see a pubic hair from a  male. The scene revolves around the female body, showing it, displaying it, and portraying her as the object–the receiver of pleasure, the sole being in some sorts in the actual act itself. Men are just there to be the vehicle.

You can argue about that point, but what I am trying to say is, “Why is sex always shot from the male perspective in a movie?”

What about gay men, lesbians, and women? What about what we want?

I’m not saying that all of the aforementioned group wants to see a penis. I am not saying I need to see one. What I am saying though, is that women are still simply the object that one looks at through the video camera lens. Our bodies, our submissiveness, our desirability is at all points discussed, dissected, and displayed.

Men are never filtered through this same lens.

It is hard to live with a metaphorical camera, much less a physical one, always on one’s body. Every item of clothing, piece of media, or story seems to come back to how attractive we are. If we are letting ourselves get “screwed” or not. If we are attractive enough to end up in the “lens” of the male eye.

We are always seen through men. Men decide what will be sexy. Sex is for men’s satisfaction.

I would love to see a barrage of movies made–big films–that depict men as simple eye and sex candy. I would like men to be filtered through this physical and metaphorical camera each day.

When I was on MTV, I was treated with the utmost respect by staff and coworkers. There was one time though when on spring break, I was told I had to wear a bikini, and hey it was Cancun and spring break, so I got it. It wasn’t immodest or a thong or anything, but I had wanted to wear a miniskirt and tank top. Why? I was in awesome shape but suffering through severe body dysmorphic disorder and eating disordered behavior. My awesome close coworkers and stylist had tried to help that go through for me, but couldn’t. I was always encouraged by folks to deal with my issues. Grateful to have had that experience.

Anyway, I wore the bikini, but I thought to myself, how much easier it would have been if I were a guy. No one would have needed to see me in a swimsuit, but a sexy female ups the ante. People want to see women. Digest women. View women. Inspect women.

Ever since I grew breasts, I have faltered between being a person and being an object. It’s what I’m writing about in memoir, it’s what has made me put pen to paper. It’s what has made me struggle between how to enjoy sex and express my wants, without becoming a victim of abuse or acting as someone’s live sex doll.

So for once I say, turn the cameras onto men. Let them see what it is like to be on air all day. To be the focus of media. Let us inspect you. Dominate you. Subjugate you. Commodify you.

It’s time.

Signed a girl who loves her breasts but is more than her breasts,


4 Reasons Why Staying at a Mental Home is Easier Than Being a Working Mother

4 Reasons Why Staying at a Mental Home is Easier Than Being a Working Mother


When I was a teenager, I had a brief month-long stay at a psychiatric treatment center. I was depressed, experienced rape and abuse, and was “experimenting” with substances to medicate those terrible experiences. It was no joke, and to be honest, I don’t think these hospitals helped at all. For me, it was just a month-long babysitter and didn’t do zilch. Of course, I wasn’t ready to deal with those problems really so maybe that was why, but the point is…

If you are a working mother, you might want to consider visiting the mental home. Life is easier there.

Here’s why: Continue reading

I wanted a bra: A tribute to my mother, who bought me a bra before I had boobies

training bra

All I wanted were some boobies.

I was twelve, and my next-door neighbor and best friend had presented me with the holy grail of puberty: the training bra.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Delicate white lace, with a wee white flower and tiny green leaves right in the center between the two band-aids, I mean cups, and it was perfect.

I had to have it dammit. Continue reading

75 Years of Motherhood: A tribute to my mom, the best woman ever who taught me the value of the F word.

I don’t know if you all knew, but the most amazing woman in the world will be 75 years old next week.

That woman happens to be my mother, the original Strong Woman.


My mom was raised in Brooklyn, from a family of Scottish and Irish (tad bit German too) descent. She started out with her grandparents because her mother (possibly struck with PTSD and PPD after my mom’s twin brother was stillborn) just up and handed her off. A few years later, her mother came and took her back.

My mom lived a real-world Cinderella story: “Every Saturday yaw Grandmother would go get her hair done while I scrubbed the flaaaws (floors in Brooklyn-ese) and cleaned the house.” Continue reading

Confession of an Ex-Self Hating Jew: On Rosaries, Kikes, and Noses, a Childhood Tale

In the spirit of Hanukkah, I decided to let you all in on an excerpt and essay from my memoir, about growing up amongst anti-Semitism, my family, and questioning religion. From growing up with Christian lust, to my family history,  to figuring out who “Jesus” was, to local Anti-Semitism, it’s all here.

Please share and enjoy! There won’t be many more excerpts put up in the spirit of the book’s publication.

Oh, and a happy Hanukkah to all who are celebrating!

Confession of an Ex-Self Hating Jew: On Rosaries, Kikes, and Noses

I am six years old when I discover the most beautiful necklace hanging off of my best friend Danielle’s bedpost. It’s a long string of pearly pink beads that has a cross hanging from it. When I go to look at the stunning jewels, my eyes float down to the cross, and that’s when I see him.

He is a miniaturized version of a man with his head hanging so low, it looks as if it could roll right off his neck. This is when I notice that his arms and legs are stuck to the cross beams, as if he is a dead bug stuck to a flyswatter. The necklace seems to be protecting Danielle’s bed.

“Where did you get this necklace? It’s so pretty! Let me wear it,” I go to grab it off her bedpost, and before I can put it around my neck, Danielle puts her hand out to stop me.

She says, “This is a rosary, you pray with it.”

Pray with it? It looks too pretty to not wear.  Pretty things are for wearing, are for making women look beautiful. I am certain of that.

“This is Jesus here, on the cross, the son of God,” Danielle answers my questioning face.

Oh. Jesus. That guy. Except for Danielle doesn’t pronounce his name the way my mom does when she’s agitated. Danielle says his name very seriously. Unlike my mom who yells Jesus’ name when she’s mad as in “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Danielle uses him as jewelry for her prayers so God will listen to her. I find it fascinating, and wonder what else might there be for me to know about this mysterious religion.

Doubting the existence of such a strange rule, I question her again.   Continue reading

In the Hands of Men: a memoir excerpt by Laura Lifshitz, previously published in the Oklahoma Review

This is an excerpt from my memoir, and was previously published in the Oklahoma Review, a literary journal. I will warn you all before reading that it is graphic at times, and very dark, so if you can’t handle the heat, then this isn’t your kitchen.

**Background  before you read: at this point in my memoir,  I am a 14 year old girl, recently gone through puberty and discovering that suddenly, my body is more important than who I am as a person –i.e.,  my breasts, which are the focus of apparently everyone’s conversations, have now sexualized and shamed me. I have been bullied and stared at, yet I am still just an eighth grader trying to figure out what is happening to me.  In general, the confident girl I once was has gone by the way side. I have started hanging out with the wrong crowd, and I am extremely vulnerable.

In the Hands of Men

Now it’s a year later, and the summer before my freshman year is dragging. I spend my time at the swim club or with friends, especially Buddy, but I never tell them about the “Newton Boys” or Jimmy.  After that one phone call, I talk with a few of the guys over the phone, even though I haven’t met them. The one guy who does call me all the time, is Jimmy.  And after talking with him on the phone off and on for almost a year, the only things I know about Jimmy are that he loves music— Jane’s Addiction in particular, has long hair, and is twenty-two. He says the word dude a lot, and has a gritty like rocks against bare feet type of voice, as if he’s twenty-two going on eighty.

“When am I gonna meet you, girl?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him, terrified.

What if he doesn’t like me?

I don’t know what twenty-two year old men want; I can barely figure out guys my own age.

“Well, I’m nervous,” I admit as the little hairs on my arms stand at attention. A man wanting to meet little old me!

“Girl, it’s all good. Don’t worry.” and that is it.

Jimmy has short explanations and opinions on everything. To me, that’s just strange considering that in my house if someone wants to tell you what he or she thinks, which is always, you better sit your butt down.  So after a long period of coaxing with short words, and claims that, “Girl, it will be all good,” at the end of June, I meet Jimmy. Continue reading