Have you heard of PowerPoint parties? There are lots of variations from kids proposing Christmas presents to their parents to friends dunking on each other using PowerPoint formats.
Now, though, singles on TikTok are inviting us to their own PowerPoint parties with the ‘dating wrapped’ trend. In this, singles give us a breakdown of their year in dating. The people they met, the experiences they had and where they are now, all broken down into digestible slides for our entertainment.
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This is the year that Tinder was described as being “for the plot” so it’s not surprising that this approach to storytelling has taken off on the social media app but is it healthy?
Of course, this is a very fun trend and we can’t get enough of learning about people’s dating lives via aesthetically-pleasing slides, but is it actually healthy to do this so publicly? And what does it tell potential future partners about us?
HuffPost UK spoke to Emma Hathorn, in-house dating expert at luxury dating site Seeking.com about the trend and to find out whether it’s something we should be joining in with.
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She believes that it’s not inherently harmful but we should still proceed with caution. She said, “while ‘Dating Wrapped’ offers a playful and engaging way to share our romantic experiences, there’s a subtle risk involved.”
“Sharing specifics like the number of times you’ve been ghosted might make a potential partner second guess you, wondering if there’s a pattern or if there’s more to the story. It could unintentionally raise questions about your approach to dating or inadvertently create doubts about your experiences.”
Really, this makes sense. After all, how many of us have had a pre-date snoop at the social media presence of potential partners or even asked our friends to? If you saw a potential partner spilling all on TikTok, would it raise alarm bells for you about dating them?
With this in mind, Hathorn added, “while it’s tempting to spill all the numbers, consider leaving some room for mystery and focusing on the fun, exciting parts of your dating journey instead.”
She added, “remember — while dating is about the fun, it is also about how you utilise your time and attention. Connecting with new partners isn’t always about the past, but about what you’ve learnt from that past and how you move forward, uplifting both yourself and them”.
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Maybe keep the deep dives for your private PowerPoint Parties and group chats.
I hate to sound arrogant, but I was pretty sure I’d landed on the perfect roast potato recipe until about an hour ago.
The steps seemed so simple. Par-boil the spuds (I love roosters) for about ten minutes; put a shameful amount of olive oil in a tray to warm in a hot oven; chuff and season the spuds with semolina and herbs, and then roast. Right?
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Wrong, it seems. Because while every other step might be legit (like, Mary Berry-approved legit), I’m making a serious mistake with my oil.
Beef tallow isn’t just a delicious, decadent addition to spuds, it turns out ― olive oil is among the worst oils you can roast your potatoes in, apparently. Specifically, extra-virgin olive oil.
It’s all to do with something called a smoke point.
The smoke point of extra-virgin olive oil is around 165-190°C, which pales in comparison to duck fat’s 190°C and rice bran oil’s 260°C.
Light or refined olive oil has a more impressive smoke point of 260°C, but it’s not as good as safflower oil’s 265°C.
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In fact, Serious Eats puts extra-virgin olive oil right at the bottom of its smoke point chart ― meaning it’s better used as a dressing or dip than a cooking aid.
That’s because once you heat oil past its smoke point, its fats start to break down, releasing free radicals and a substance called acrolein.
Acrolein is responsible for that burned, acrid, bitter flavour we’re all trying to avoid ― so while flash-frying a quick meal in shallow levels of oil might be OK, leaving your veggies to essentially stew in split fats for an hour or more probably isn’t.
And given that most roast potato recipes call for a 200°C-ish (or 180°C fan) roasting temp for potatoes, it doesn’t seem likely that your 65-190°C-smoke-point extra-virgin olive oil will cut it.
I mean, even if you can stand the taste, a smoky oven is nobody’s idea of fun, right?
Duck fat, which has a smoke point of 190°C, could be suitable (and delicious) if you’re cooking on the slightly lower fan-assisted heat.
But good ol’ sunflower and vegetable oil, which can withstand temps of around 225°C, might be a cheaper (and perfectly tasty) option.
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Avoid coconut oil and butter, which both have low smoke points of around 175°C. ― and if you’re craving that extra-rich taste, beef tallow has a high smoke point of 205°C.
Refined or light olive oil has a high smoke point of 260°C, so this should be fine to use too ― it’s just the extra-virgin type you need to worry about.
Ah, the joys of cooking…
Can I do nothing fright? First, comes the news that I’m boiling my potatoes wrong for mashing; then, it turned out I’ve been using my colander wrong this entire time.
And recently, I spotted an Instagram reel that changed how I view boiling broccoli.
If you’re anything like me, you’re used to chopping your broccoli into florets and adding it either to a steamer or boiling water. But it turns out you don’t need to face those green crumbles all over your chopping board to begin with, and you might not even need to whip the board out at all.
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Andrei Emelianov’s Instagram page andre_lifehack, which is filled with (you guessed it) life hacks, revealed in a video that a better way to boil broccoli is to impale the stem with a chopstick or skewer, turn the broccoli upside down so the head is submerged in your pot’s water, and then lay either side of the implement on the rim.
This keeps the veg in place as it cooks ― and when it’s done, you don’t need to drain it. Simply remove the entire head and chop off the florets you want, mess-free.
Yep! Lots of commenters mentioned that it’s wasteful to discard the delicious (and fibre-rich) stem, but you don’t have to ― save it and chop it for a pasta bake or grate it for tasty fritters.
Of course, nutritionists say boiling broccoli means you lose a lot of nutrients in the water, so if you choose to steam it instead, simply trim the stem of the entire head so the whole veg can fit in your lidded steamer basked.
You can save the trimmed stem for later. And even if you’re not boiling or steaming your broccoli, you can use one of Andre’s other food tricks shown in the video; turn the broccoli head upside down and run the water through the florets that way when washing it, rather than using the less-effective floret-side-up approach.
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Yep! The reel is brimming with wisdom.
For instance, you’re better off chopping a large veg (like squash) by placing a knife along the side of the gourd and rolling the whole vegetables. It makes the cut much easier.
Also, you’re probably cracking pistachios open wrong ― rather than pulling two sides of the shell apart, try pushing them together until they snap for a simple release.
Loosen grapes from their stalk by placing the whole bunch in a tea towel and gently rubbing the top half of the terrycloth parcel ― they’ll gradually evict themselves from their woody homes.
And solidified, cakey spices that are stuck in a jar can be loosened by circling the base of another spice jar over the inverted bottom of the affected container.
Lastly, you can cleanly remove flour from the bag by spinning a balloon whisk in the bag and lifting the filled utensil from the bag ― it’s amazingly mess-free.
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You can see the tricks for yourself here:
I didn’t realise until I moved to the UK that the glass ramekins used to hold Gu desserts are basically a second currency here.
People hoard them like dragons with gold coins, stacking them high in the cupboards under their sinks; and just as a giant winged reptile can’t actually spend any of the treasures it guards, I’ve never seen a glass-gathering Brit use one of their coveted cocottes.
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Well, no more. Recently, I discovered something that’ll finally render your ramekin collection useable; it turns out that Pringles lids fit perfectly onto the containers, turning them into endlessly useful little storage pots.
Yep! One user commenting on Gardener’s World says that they make a “sterilisable, re-usable, airtight seed soaking/stratifying jar” that “stands up to boiling water well, does fine in the fridge and microwave too.“
You can write whatever you like on the lid with a marker before wiping it off when you want to reuse it, they add. The commenter had created holes in the lid of her food package waste hybrid container and used it for seeds.
You can see how perfect the combo is on this Reddit post, which led some commenters to say “Came downstairs to discover this in the kitchen holding cloves of garlic. Mum’s the real snackrchtiect [snack architect].”
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I’ve just used to hack to store some leftover garlic mayo from my takeaway pizza ― you could also use it for bacon grease, or even spilled spices.
Looking for a sustainable (read: cheap) DIY Christmas pressie? You could fill the pots with your DIY spice mixes or tiny microwave mug brownie ingredients (bar the wet ingredients, of course).
I’m also obsessed with these easy Gu pot candles (though they don’t require a lid, necessarily).
Perhaps you could share a giant tin of loose-leaf tea with friends in their own individual lidded Gu pots ― and hey, who am I to stop you from wrapping some twine around the neck of the pot and creating a little herbal tea-style label with their name on it to add to the end of the string?
Or, you could simply stuff them with snacks like pretzels and send ’em on their merry way. One thing’s for sure, though ― ’tis the season to clear the Gu pot graveyard in your cupboard.
My daughter was asleep in her room down the hall, and my husband and I gathered our bowls of popcorn and settled on the couch. I had my feet up on the coffee table, was comfortable in my sweatpants, and I relaxed into the cushions as my husband hit “play” on the newest episode of one of the most popular series on TV in recent years.
And just a few minutes into it, who should appear on screen but my ex-flame?
Let’s call him Mike. He always shows up when I least expect it ― and I really should expect it by now.
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Every time it happens, I groan and ask my husband, “Is that Mike?” even though I already know it is.
“Yep,” he answers. He’s never as surprised as I am.
It all started with a commercial over a decade ago. I was watching the Detroit Red Wings back when they were good, and when the second period ended, there was Mike, laughing with some stranger on a couch. I don’t even remember what the ad was for because I was so shocked to see that familiar face staring back at me from my TV screen.
That was the first time I asked my husband, “Wait, is that Mike?”
They don’t know each other personally, but he’s known of Mike since he met me 15 years ago, when we used to go to my brother’s comedy shows and Mike was also onstage. My husband has always thought Mike is hilarious ― and he is, but still, it’s weird.
Then one night, we decided to watch a popular comedy, and there was Mike, only for a minute — but he was there, nonetheless. I’d know those rolling eyes and that crinkled forehead anywhere. I still asked, “Is that Mike?” I just couldn’t believe he had made it to Hollywood.
A few years later, while watching a highly anticipated remake of a popular movie from decades ago, guess who showed up in a pivotal scene, and guess who thought she might be seeing things? “Wow, he’s really made the big time,” I said out loud, astonished, more to myself than my husband.
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Little did I know he was just getting started.
“Mike keeps popping up in my life in the most unexpected ways. I guess I should be used to it by now, but every time it happens, it feels like the first time.”
I have kissed many men. Most of them I haven’t seen in years. I know the possibility of running into them on the street is highly unlikely. And even if I did, there would be some I wouldn’t recognise or even remember. But Mike keeps popping up in my life in the most unexpected ways. I guess I should be used to it by now, but every time it happens, it feels like the first time.
I met Mike on spring break during my senior year of high school. I was with three of my girlfriends, and he was staying at the same hotel just down the hall from us with three of his guy friends. When we all bumped into each other, we learned that we all lived in the same state less than an hour away from each other.
We hung out with them the entire week, and by the end of the first day, I was already in love with Mike. He was funny and handsome. He had a suaveness to him. He was as smooth as the lines he used.
I felt like I was Sandy from “Grease” and Mike was my Danny. We played in the waves, kissed near the rocks, and I refused to believe that our romance would soon be over. Our brief affair felt more like a dream than reality and I didn’t want to return home, where I knew it would be difficult for things to continue. I may have been smitten but I wasn’t a fool ― we were 18, living an hour apart, committed to attending colleges on the opposite side of our state ― and I knew there was no real future there.
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But, to my surprise, I later found out he was taking acting classes with my brother. What were the chances? So, after every show, we’d end up reconnecting. Ultimately, we couldn’t get past the distance, and eventually, he moved even further away to pursue his acting career.
There was a time when Mike and I weren’t all the different. We both liked acting and singing. We both liked “Rent” and the Barenaked Ladies. We both had big dreams for the future.
The day after Mike appeared at a major award show and I saw him onstage with so many other actors I greatly admire, I drove to my local community college campus and half-boasted, half-lamented to my composition students that someone I used to make out with had won.
There I was, making peanuts teaching 19-year-olds how to properly use a comma. It was hard not to compare myself to Mike — and easy to feel jealous of his fame and success — but then again, teaching college had been my big dream for the future. So why, when I saw him on that stage, did I feel so unsatisfied?
I had never really wanted fame ― not since I was in middle school, anyhow. And even then, I’m not sure I really wanted it. I mean, what 12-year-old doesn’t think they want to be famous? What I really wanted was to teach and write. I didn’t have dreams of moving to LA or New York. I loved the state where I grew up. And in addition to wanting a husband who was sweet and funny and kind, I also wanted one who was grounded, loyal and dependable ― things Mike could never really be while chasing an acting career. I wanted a family. I wanted stability.
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And I’m happy to say I was lucky ― I got all of that. My life is much like many other middle-class Midwesterners: I have a job I care about, a modest home we’ve almost paid off, a wonderful, devoted husband, and a sweet kid I’m crazy about. Sometimes I write things that some people read, but for the most part, my life is quiet. And it’s exactly how I always wanted it to be.
After I wrote this essay, I ran to the grocery store and bought my daughter a new toothbrush. I couldn’t help thinking about Mike and how he doesn’t have to do his own grocery shopping anymore. He can probably pay people to do that. And I felt a twinge of jealousy again.
“There I was, making peanuts teaching 19-year-olds how to properly use a comma. It was hard not to compare myself to Mike — and easy to feel jealous of his fame and success.”
Mike’s life is filled with red carpets, designer suits and appearances on late-night talk shows — the exact opposite of quiet. The exact opposite of my life ― a life I love. So what’s the problem?
I guess it’s that these days ― maybe more than ever before ― we’re always comparing our lives to everyone else’s lives. And social media has made it even easier to measure how we’re doing against how someone else is doing ― or at least how they appear to be doing. We scroll through Instagram and see our friends ― or complete strangers ― boasting about their exotic vacations or fabulous home remodels or the good grades their children are getting, and we do our own boasting. We look at Twitter and see someone got a promotion or a book deal or a new car, and we share our own successes. But we all know that social media doesn’t always show the reality of someone’s life, and even if and when it does, should that make us feel any less worthy or that our lives are any less worthwhile? Of course not.
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What we need to do ― what I’ve needed to do ― is remind ourselves that the grass is often greener and that we have our own blessings to count. There are always going to be people who have more, who have done more, who know more, but if we get and stay wrapped up in that game, we’ll never win ― or we’ll be too busy to realise that we’re already winning.
I followed Mike’s Instagram for a while. And I ooohed and ahhhed at some of his posts, but I also wondered if he would ooooh and ahhhh at any of mine if he were to see them. Maybe catching a glimpse of my adorable daughter or the family gatherings I cherish might make him a little jealous of my life. Who knows? In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Jealousy isn’t the point.
Even though I’m not (yet!) the bestselling author I hope to be one day and even though I’m not the Broadway star I dreamt of being when I was a kid, I’m happy, and that’s an incredible thing to be able to say.
It’s sometimes easy to forget that when the famous guy I once dated pops up on my TV, but hopefully, from here on out, whenever I see his face, I’ll be reminded that dreams come true ― both his and mine.
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Jennifer Furner has essays in the anthologies “Art in the Time of Covid-19” and “A Teenager’s Guide to Feminism.” She has been published in Motherwell, Folks, Santa Fe Lit Review, Belmont Story Review, and others. She lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with her husband and daughter. For more of her writing, visit her website, jenniferfurner.com.
Way back near the beginning of pandemic, I had a real-life “Good Luck to You, Leo Grande” experience.
If you’re not familiar with the movie (now streaming on Hulu), a retired widow (Emma Thompson) hires a fine-ass sex worker (Daryl McCormack) to find some sexual adventure. (Spoiler: Adventure is found.)
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In my case, there was no green-eyed Leo Grande. However, I did have two (2!) people working over my middle-aged body. Also, they weren’t official “sex workers,” though it did involve both sex and work.
I was getting a “hands-on bodywork session,” basically a massage with a (possibly) happy ending. Oh, it was all on the up and up. It was through an organisation, let’s call it Yonis R Us (YRU), that hosts retreats in glamorous locales where women of all ages (seriously, ALL, like up to extremely senior citizen) learn to connect with their bodies, their sexuality and their desires.
And yeah, a happy ending might be had, but the bodywork sessions were about more than that. It was about allowing yourself to accept pleasure and feel sexual without any of the body image/performative/goal-oriented pressures of a lot of hetero sex.
Getting rid of that last bit was going to be a trick for me. I enjoy spending my leisure time worrying about things like that new spot on my leg (fatal????), people who don’t text back immediately (dead???) and the like. My monkey mind doesn’t just chatter away during my rare attempts at meditation ― mine is more howler monkey, always on duty, hyper-vigilant and screeching from the treetops, alerting me to a constant stream of imaginary peril.
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To be honest, I was secretly looking for a Magic Vagina Whisperer, someone who would force me to chill the F out, know what I wanted even before I knew it, and could play my body like a piano, or whatever musical instrument is the equivalent of my body (Bagpipes? Theremin?).
When Nanette*, the founder of Yonis, messaged me one day and offered me a private session that night, gratis, I was immediately like, “Yes, please!” It was to date, the best media perk I’ve gotten, and I am a person who recently received a huge box of weed products hand-delivered to my door.
About four seconds later, I panicked. The letting-strangers-touch-alllllll-the-naughty-bits wasn’t the issue. I’ve interviewed several sex workers and came away convinced that sex work is an important helping position. Providing loving sexual touch to people who aren’t getting it, for whatever reason, is a gift. I had no moral quandaries. Viva getting touched by a kindly, trained stranger/specialist!
But on that particular day, I was not feeling super fuckable. I already had a full-on pandemic body going on, even though we were just barely into it. Underneath my Bao–like belly, I was sporting a bush with the aesthetics of an abandoned parking lot.
As Emma Thompson told Vogue about the extremely last-minute preparations for her role in ”Good Luck to You, Leo Grande,” “I couldn’t go off to a health spa in anticipation of forthcoming nudity.”
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Nor could I, Emma. I couldn’t lose the belly in one day, and in a flash of liberation, I decided I would leave the bush in “as is” condition. I was gonna own this “forthcoming nudity,” goddammit. The idea was strangely empowering. “Screw it!” I thought. “This is my body. Behold!”
That night I pulled up to a charming little house tucked down a shady lane somewhere by San Diego. I was greeted at the door by Nanette, who is short, curvy and warm, like a sexy fairy godmother. She introduced her associate, Rod Steele,* who is blonde, muscled and pretty much an ideal specimen of manhood, as well as being a lovely, gentle person.
There was a spacious living room and a large wooden dining table laden with snacks. I picked at the spread while we had easy talk about…something? Finally they asked me to go into the bedroom, disrobe and get up on a table similar to a massage table. I draped a sheet over myself and waited.
When they came in, they spoke to me gently and started giving me a massage. If you find yourself in a situation where two people want to give you a massage, I’d recommend you take them up on it at once. It was pretty great.
I closed my eyes as they introduced elements of sensation play, always asking permission first. There were scarves draped up my thighs, a little wheel toy with pokey things ― the idea was to stay in the moment and really focus on the sensations.
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Somebody eventually started touching me where the bathing suit covers. There were some consensual flicks of a flogger and the introduction of a butt plug. It’s odd that I can’t remember the specifics of who was touching where, otherwise I could give you a play-by-play, like “Bishop to e5.”
What does stand out is that it was dawning on me that I wasn’t even close to having an orgasm, and I (ridiculously, I know this!) felt like I should ― like it would be polite to do so. And it felt absurd that it wasn’t happening. I was being stroked and lavishly feted by two gorgeous, sexy and attentive people. But I was lying there wondering if their hands were getting sore, and they regretted doing this for free.
So there I was: naked, the stimulation increasingly amping up and still not having an orgasm.
Eventually (two minutes? 700 years?) they brought out the big guns, the hallowed Magic Wand. If you’re not familiar, the Wand is a giant vibrator that’s pretty much a jackhammer for the lady parts. If there ever was a vibrator that could easily be converted to gas power (rip cord and all), it would be the Wand.
They applied the Wand, but my body would not succumb to it. I felt my monkey mind cockblocking the insistent ministrations of my electric lover. “Shit, it’s still not happening!” I thought, which for the record, is pretty low on the list of arousing thoughts.
Then it dawned on me. I thought about my best sex ever and how raw chemistry goes a hell of a long way towards arousal. Yes, the simple biological manipulation of body parts is a huge part of sex, but it’s just one part of a complex mix of lust chemicals, scents, the almost divine touch of someone who really does it for you and the particular appeal of a partner’s jawline/chest/thigh/thick dick/whatever.
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In this case, all manner of diligent rubbing wasn’t gonna be enough. It’s the same reason a glory hole wouldn’t appeal to me. I’d need some backstory.
Here, I couldn’t just lie down on the massage table thing, spread my legs and get lost in it.
In discussing the “problems” of sex in “How to Think More About Sex,” the delightful School of Life co-founder Alain de Botton writes, “Great sex, like happiness more generally, may be the precious and sublime exception. During our most fortunate encounters, it is rare for us to appreciate how privileged we are. It is only as we get older, and look back repeatedly and nostalgically to a few erotic episodes, that we start to realise with what stinginess nature extends her gifts to us — and therefore what an extraordinary and rare achievement of biology, psychology and timing satisfying sex really is.”
But I digress. Through all this, the Wand was determinedly buzzing away, perhaps puzzled, not understanding why I was resisting its charms. I didn’t know what to do, so finally I mentally pulled up the images of my favourite porn. If you must know it’s the one with two college guys who, against their supposed straightness, get too turned on and simply must bone each other immediately.
Eventually, less being swept away by inevitability and more “I will make this happen,” ala Annette Bening “I will sell this house today!” in “American Beauty,” I had the orgasm. Check. Not huge, but there. Hey, way to ruin goalless pleasure with a goal, self!
Once the “sex” part was done, we moved back out to the living room. I sat on a couch, and Nanette and Rod settled in on each side. They snuggled in close and handed me an exceptionally good popsicle. We talked about what had gone down and how it was for me. Rod suggested I give the plug another try sometime. I had another popsicle (this is unrelated). It was A+ aftercare.
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In the end, I still completely support this kind of work. If you can lie back and enjoy being attended to by two eager pretend lovers, get yer butt on up on that table. (Statistically, it’s likely that you’d dig it: Multipartner sex is the most common fantasy, according to Justin Lehmiller’s “Tell Me What You Want.”)
For me and my howler monkey mind though, the most thorough fuck of the night was the mind fuck I gave myself. It wasn’t ideal, but lessons were learned. Sex with another person who hotly desires you as much as you desire them is a rare and beautiful thing. This was not it. But it didn’t need to be that. It occupied a different space.
In this space, you can be sexual without worrying about pleasing another (or, like me, you can worry about it anyway) and that feels important. You can go to this place, go really deep sexually and emotionally with two other people, then be on your merry way, with no emotional reverb. And you might even get some popsicles out of the deal.
*Names had been changed. Except mine, which was probably a bad decision.
People in the UK are being urged to be on the lookout for symptoms of whooping cough, also known as pertussis, which has been sweeping the nation.
Whooping cough is a bacterial infection of the lungs and breathing tubes. It spreads very easily and can sometimes cause serious problems. As a result, it’s important for babies, children and pregnant women to get vaccinated against it.
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There has been a 250% increase in cases of the illness compared to last year, according to Express Healthcare Management.
Earlier this year, the UK Health Security Agency revealed there was a seven-year low in maternal whooping cough vaccination uptake, leaving mothers and newborns at risk of hospitalisation.
With the rise in infections, pregnant women are being urged to get vaccinated as soon as possible.
Professor Beate Kampmann, of the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, told The Sun: “The rise in cases might be because of missed vaccination appointments, possibly during the pandemic.
“Severe disease is almost entirely preventable if the mother is vaccinated in pregnancy and her protective antibodies reach the baby through the placenta and protect until the baby gets its own vaccines.
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“It is therefore important that everyone looks at their vaccination records to check if they might have missed this vaccine, which is given with the routine childhood immunisations and in pregnancy.”
According to the NHS, the first signs of whooping cough are similar to a cold, such as a runny nose and sore throat (a high temperature is uncommon).
After about a week, you or your child:
The cough may last for several weeks or even months.
The NHS notes that as this is highly infectious, your GP may prefer a phone call.
If you think that you or your child may have whooping cough, it’s essential that you speak to your GP.
For babies under six months with whooping cough, there’s an increased chance of problems such as dehydration, breathing difficulties, pneumonia and seizures.
For children and adults, it is less severe but can still cause problems such as sore ribs, hernia, middle ear infections and urinary incontinence.
