Author: Ryan Winkler

A Rose, By Any Other Name, Must Be A Woman

My husband and I were good friends for more than a year before we started dating. After that, it felt right very quickly – we were talking marriage only a few months later and got engaged after only eight months. It didn’t feel fast. I had dated a guy for almost five years before I met Tim, and I had never been sure. This time I was. One of our first conversations on the subject of marriage, weirdly, was about last names. I had grown up like most boy crazy teen girls, doodling my name with my crush’s last...

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5 DIY Couples Costumes For Movie-Loving Badasses

When I say I’ve never worn a store-bought Halloween costume, I mean I’ve never opened one of those rubbery-plastic snap envelopes and used its contents to become a Sexy 80s Alien Pirate Native American Stereotype for a night. I mean, I do buy pieces of costumes at the store – sometimes even at the costume store when the props get specific. I don’t weave my own cloth or melt rubber into molds, and if I “sew,” it’s a bibbity-bobbity job that only lasts until midnight – if I get lucky. This list is for couples willing not to be...

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I Am Not Your Yoda

Recently as I came off the greenbelt from my early morning hike, I found myself at Austin’s central park during the Stay at Home Mom rush. It was a total madhouse. Parking lots overflowing with SUVs and minivans. Babies and toddlers crawling all over things, fumbling snacks, slinging goo, crying. Mommies, and probably some nannies and grandmas, extending nine arms toward their charges while desperately trying to nod at the appropriate intervals in each other’s conversations. There were no men. Power to stay-at-home dads and mannies, but this particular morning was Estrogenfest. And total chaos. Except for one group...

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Fat Lady on a Little Board

There is nothing more douchey-sounding than a sport involving expensive, kind-of-but-not-quite surfboards that is abbreviated as “SUP.” I used to live in an apartment in North Austin that backed up to a flooded quarry where I could take a stand-up paddleboard out for free if I wanted to, and I never did. Why? Because it is called “SUP.” SUP! SUUUUUUUUP. The mating call of stoner frat boys everywhere. (Not that I actually know any.) Have you ever seen the window display at Hollister? It practically screams “SUUUUUUUP.” I couldn’t be associated with something that sounded that ridiculous. At least...

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Stepping Away from the Tribe

When I think of a mom who does “co-sleeping” with her kids, I picture a wild-eyed, frizzy-haired, make-up-less woman with a bandanna on her head. She sports a Mighty Ducks-style flying V of fellow breastfeeding, baby-wearing, touchy-feely types who flank her as she walks down the street. Sometimes they sing. And then they approach the rival gang, Soccer Moms, with bleached hair helmets, manicures, and coiffed twins in BOB strollers. The music becomes more rock-and-roll. They dance fight. But I don’t know where I get off being such an asshole about it. Just as racists swear by their black...

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