Author Page: Teresa Strasser

Teresa Strasser

The dress, the ring, the registry and the rest

Published on June 12, 2008

This moment that is supposed to be about eternal union is more about capturing eternal beauty in a photo that's going to be mounted in the living room so everyone can silently think, "Man, she used to be a lot thinner."

Leave the house

Published on February 28, 2008

So, hopefully, despite the fact that I'm not suffocatingly lonely or in a relationship laced with toxic levels of resentment, I still have a fertile patch of pain from which insights can grow, like that brilliant one I had earlier about leaving the house. What a relief.

Family Feud—with my family, it’s no game

Published on March 22, 2007

I would take my mom against Clint Eastwood in any movie. Sure, he usually plays a grizzled, gunslinger with cat-like reflexes and something to prove, but if you cross my mother, you will find yourself, like the title of Clint's greatest Western, "Unforgiven."

N.Y. or L.A.—which is better for dating?

Published on November 9, 2006

In my now perhaps exceedingly long life as a single woman, I've lived in both New York and Los Angeles.

The Candy Man Can

Published on August 24, 2006

If you've ever tried to split a Big Hunk candy bar -- the kind made out of brittle white nougat and peanuts -- then you understand a typical breakup.

Singles - Painted Clowns

Published on June 29, 2006

I'm drinking at a bar called the Dirty Horse on Hollywood Boulevard. Well, that's not the real name, but I never got a look at the sign and that name seemed right.

The Fastest Therapy in the West

Published on January 19, 2006

Welcome to The Ten Minute Method, a new form of condensed counseling offered by a Chatsworth therapist that promises to be both fast and affordable at $18 a session.

Unmarried Counseling

Published on December 1, 2005

My neurosis is like a Ferrari. I can go from 0 to 60 in under four seconds.

Table of Dreams

Published on November 17, 2005

In a world of cryptocreative fitness classes like flamenco yoga and aerobic pole-dancing, Ping-Pong seems pretty old school.

Honors for Author, Antacid

Published on October 20, 2005

At 72, Roth recently became the youngest living author to be honored by the Library of America, which issues hardcover collections of the country's most accomplished writers. The first two volumes, covering Roth's work through the early 1970s, are out this fall.

And Mari Makes Three

Published on September 22, 2005

Another woman has come into my relationship with my boyfriend, and she's the best thing that's ever happened to us.

A week ago, a 22-year-old Japanese foreign exchange student named Mari moved in with us for the month while she studies English in the morning and hip-hop dances in the afternoon.

Strasser - I Wanna New Hug

Published on August 25, 2005

Back in the primitive days of male hugging, my dad was what trend watchers might call "an early adapter." When few of the other Little League dads hugged their sons, my dad clutched my older brother any chance he got, Mr. Focker-like, at the drop of a bat.

Child’s Play

Published on August 4, 2005

Is our culture trying to scam us into having kids?

This is an epic question and I only have 850 words, so let me start close to home, with my grandma.

"Listen to me," she said last week over the phone from Reseda. "You have to have kids. You'll never regret it. It's the best thing you'll ever do. Listen to your grandma."

Catch any celebrity parent on a talk show and you're likely to hear the same sentiment about the singularly life-changing effects of parenthood. When Jude Law, Eminem, Denise Richards and Esther Strasser agree on something, you have to give it consideration.

Singles - Poetry in Motion

Published on July 21, 2005

In one night, I had dinner at an all-you-can eat salad bar in Arcadia, met my father's first girlfriend in 25 years and weathered a nearly disastrous poetry emergency.

Sound the onomatopoetic sirens; this thing was a relationship 911. Free verse was about to cost my father the best relationship of his life. And it was my fault. What rhymes with "Zero tact"?

So there I was, sitting across the table from dad's new girlfriend, trying to impress her, using my best table manners, eating forkfuls of canned beets on my self-consciously dainty salad and thinking to myself: "This is just weird."

Thy Name Is Too Wrong

Published on June 30, 2005

Love is a beautiful thing. That is, unless it happens to a couple of excessively famous people whose affair we can no longer stand.

The Evil Stepmother Dies

Published on June 23, 2005

What do you do when you lose someone? Someone you really hated?

So Uncool, It’s Cool

Published on May 12, 2005

I favor the type of acrylic French tip nails that are considered fashionable only by midlevel porn stars.

He’s my ...

Published on April 7, 2005

The term "boyfriend" is like the knee joint on someone who is morbidly obese. It is being asked to do way more than it was designed to do. It is buckling under the pressure. Where it once could do the job, it is now carrying too much weight

The List

Published on March 17, 2005

The List has taken over. If you are male, you may not be aware of this, but if you are female, you probably already have one.

Twisted Spinster

Published on February 24, 2005

My friend has a red velveteen frog that lives on the arm of her red velvet sofa. Her living room has become the gathering place for our little group, five of us, all single.

Read All About It

Published on February 3, 2005

There's nothing inherently wrong with reading celebrity gossip magazines. If you can do it in moderation, I applaud you (and please let me know if Lindsay Lohan's dad ever gets his act together). In my case, however, I was a problem reader and I had to put the magazines down.

The ‘L’ Word

Published on January 20, 2005

How do you spell crippling inability to connect? L-U-V. That's how I spelled it. After months of trying to make myself say the "L word," I finally managed only three of the letters.

Saying Goodbye to an Angel in Sin City

Published on December 30, 2004

It's Davidson, as in Ronald Davidson, my stepfather. He died yesterday at 62 and that's why I'm at a funeral home out on Charleston Boulevard in Las Vegas. My mom is here, too, and though there are copious boxes of proper tissue in the place, she is clinging to the roll of toilet paper she's had by her side since returning from the hospital with nothing but a bag of Ron's stuff: slippers, a stack of Louis L'Amour paperbacks, his watch.

Do I Know You?

Published on September 16, 2004

I was headed into a pizza joint for a slice when I noticed a guy whose face looked eerily familiar. I couldn't place him but he gave me a subtle nod, frat-boy style.

Just as I snapped my head back to make sure it actually was the dude from "Average Joe," he was craning his head back, too.

A New Relationship

Published on July 1, 2004

It's been six months since I relocated for work, "taking a break" from the love of my life, Los Angeles.

3 Minutes With Brad

Published on May 13, 2004

Brad Pitt may have sustained an injury during the filming of his new movie, "Troy," but I sustained an injury during the viewing of the film.

Missing: My Mojo

Published on March 18, 2004

I can't explain it any better than this. I think I've lost my mojo.

I’ve Got Cramps

Published on March 4, 2004

What little style I have, it's being cramped. New York will do that to you. My toaster is the perfect metaphor for life in the Not-Big-Enough Apple.

Baggage Claim

Published on December 25, 2003

I used to want things. One day, I realized the seven pairs of Puma sneakers and the Pottery Barn rug and the 8-pound "Columbia
Encyclopedia," those were just things to pack, and I didn't want them anymore.

That’s Nice

Published on October 23, 2003

Women love bad boys. Nice guys finish last.

Welcome to the most damaging and far-flung myth ever to hit the dating world.

Got Closure?

Published on October 2, 2003

Moses begged God's forgiveness for 40 days and 40 nights, Kobe Bryant's going on at least that long plus a $4 million sorry ring. We all have our ways of expressing remorse, but what are we buying with our flowers, phone calls and fine jewelry? Maybe the more observant among us are trying to be "inscribed in the book of life," to obey strict talmudic laws, but people like me, we just want to feel okay about ourselves. We'd like our names erased from the Book of Guilt.

Roadside Distraction

Published on July 10, 2003

I'm sitting at a Mobil station in Minneola, my feet propped up against the bottom frame of my car door. The door is swung open so I can take in the desert air, exhale my Camel Light into the breeze.

The Nose Knows

Published on June 26, 2003

What is it like to be one of People Magazine's 50 Most Beautiful People? I have no idea.

Painted Clowns

Published on April 24, 2003

I'm drinking at a bar called the Dirty Horse on Hollywood Boulevard. Well, that's not the real name but I never got a look at the sign and that name seemed right.

Hotel Holiness

Published on March 13, 2003

I walk into each new hotel room, look at it suspiciously, shake its clammy hand and gingerly put my suitcase down.

How Not to Date

Published on February 13, 2003

I have no dating advice. None. I won't suggest clever phrasing for your personal ad or how to choose a photo to post on JDate. I'm not an expert on any of these things, but without bragging, I will admit I'm truly excellent at one thing: how not to date.

Am I Annoying?

Published on January 9, 2003

I knew better. I had about as much business being there as an elderly tourist has of being on Skid Row after midnight with a map in his hand and a blank cashier's check taped to his forehead. I was in grave danger of a psychological mugging, and I knew it.

I kept telling myself to walk away, hail an emotional cab and get out fast, but I couldn't. The pull was too strong. I had to know.

Am I annoying?

Who I Really Am

Published on December 12, 2002

Here's the scenario: I travel for work almost 20 days a month. It's lonely out there on the road, one long Bob Seger song. Dating is almost impossible, but I've met a guy who seems to fit the suit.

No Vacancy

Published on October 10, 2002

Last week, before the premiere of my new show "While You Were Out," I got my first big national magazine review.

Star Stricken

Published on September 19, 2002

My ex-boyfriend is a star. Just when I thought he was securely fastened in my past, he is suddenly and jarringly in my present, whirring by me on the side of a bus, staring at me from the cover of TV Guide, cracking jokes on late night TV.

Meeting Dr. Soulmate

Published on August 1, 2002

It's hard to imagine that I could have been less delectable.

The Name Game

Published on June 27, 2002

When we were little, my brother and I realized that whenever we asked if someone was Jewish, my mother would answer by simply repeating their name, as if that said it all.

Fierce Determination

Published on June 13, 2002

I admit, it doesn't sound pleasant. You enter a room that's been heated to above 100 degrees. The heat isn't as suffocating as the odor, a wall of smell that hits you like a thousand stinky shoes.

A Matter of Crime

Published on May 30, 2002

Crime does pay. Wait, no. I pay for crime. That is to say, I pay for books about crime because I can't get enough of serial killers, crime profiling, unsolved murders, exonerating DNA evidence, assassins, date stalkers, maximum-security prisons and forensics.

You know that obsequious guy on Bravo's "Inside the Actor's Studio" who asks that series of questions designed to probe the celebrity mind? When he asks, "What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?" I always answer to myself, as if syrupy James Lipton would care, "FBI profiler."

Secretly, I feel I'm already something of a profiler, making my own predictions about cases from Chandra Levy to the anthrax mailer.

Car Shame

Published on May 9, 2002

It happened fast, like swerving out of the way of a stray cat.

I was driving toward the valet parking kiosk of a fancy-pants department store in Beverly Hills. As I approached, I saw clusters of press and well-dressed young women gathered to attend a charity brunch. A Mercedes was coming to a slow stop.

I don't know what made me do it; I took a sharp left, veering away from the valet kiosk and into an adjacent public lot.

What Me, Worry?

Published on April 25, 2002

Like grandma's pearls, handed down and worn in, I've inherited an opera-length strand of worries.

Charm School

Published on April 11, 2002

"I'd like to give you the keys to my apartment," he said. This was after our first date, if you could call it that. We met for a couple drinks at a bowling alley bar with all the ambiance of a Greyhound station in Lompoc.

I picked the bowling alley. You don't want ambiance when you're going on a curiosity date, more gawking than bonding. This guy wasn't my type, but he asked me out via e-mail and I'm a sucker for prose. We'd had only one brief conversation when I got his e-mail, which ended with this: "Don't dislike me because of how much I like you. If you do, we're doomed."