I bet that someday scientists mapping the human genome will discover a previously undetected strand in our DNA that controls the urge for perfection. Our ancestors back in the cave may have shared this trait, but really? We have gone completely off the rails. Today, there’s so much more you have to do to be perfect than rub a couple of sticks together to start a fire or bring home the nuts and berries.

I am not immune. In fact, I’m as driven to be perfect as anyone. Which is why I must stop and shout ‘Basta!’ I can’t take it anymore. Just consider. Continue reading

Although each year nearly 238,000 Americans are sexually assaulted, cases involving female perpetrators rarely make the news. This, despite the fact that an estimated 14% of sexual offenders are women and 6% of their victims are girls.

In the summer of 1962, I was molested by my cabin counselor at a highly respected all-girls camp in upstate New York. It took me 30 years to understand that what took place between my counselor and myself in the dead of night was sexual abuse and—according to New York State statutes—rape in the third degree.

I was 14. She was 28.

This post originally appeared at Purple Clover.com

I never dreamed that I would be swept away by such lust again — at least not in this lifetime. I was sure that my days of being feverishly aroused in the middle of the night by heart-thumping fantasies were long over. But I can’t help myself. Even as my husband of 29 years lies softly (and sometimes not so softly) snoring beside me, I can’t stop thinking about my latest heartthrob, imagining all sorts of steamy scenarios in which the two of us are together.

My new kitchen and me.