Cosmopolitan Magazine Quotes

They're from France, Ruby said, Vogue magazine. They only speak French except for fuck you.

I do not like wearing clothes,” I said, with quite delicate precision. “They chafe. They are uncomfortable around my genitals.” And then, remembering all I had learned from Cosmopolitan magazine, I leaned in toward them and added what I thought would be the clincher. “They may seriously hinder my chances of achieving a tantric full-body orgasm.

Sex in Alternating Supply, American Style In the United States, when feminists in the late 1960s believed women’s economic freedom would lead to women’s economic abundance, they advocated sexual freedom. When it was discovered that divorces led to economic obligation, feminists, fundamentalists, and women’s magazines all moved toward closing off sexual freedom. Headlines in Cosmopolitan read “Sex: Make Him Earn It”52 even before the herpes scare. A careful analysis of the sexual revolution’s decline helps us see why, if it hadn’t been herpes and AIDS, it would have been something else.53 This need for economic security preceding female sexual openness is probably unconsciously reinforced by our tradition of a man taking a woman out for dinner and drinks first. The more traditional the woman, the more dinners, the more drinks, and the less she feels sexually open until she receives a commitment—in essence, a commitment from him providing for life.

I found Chinatown both impossibly sophisticated and unbearably out of vogue. Chinese restaurants were a guilty pleasure of mine. I loved how they evoked the living world- either the Walden-like sense of individualism of the Ocean or Happy Garden, or something more candid ("Yummies!"). Back home they had been a preserve of birthdays and special celebrations: a lazy Susan packed with ribs and Peking duck, rhapsodically spun to the sound of Fleetwood Mac or the Police, with banana fritters drenched in syrup and a round of flowering tea to finish. It felt as cosmopolitan a dining experience as I would ever encounter. Contextualized amid the big-city landscape of politicized microbreweries and sushi, a hearty table of MSG and marinated pork felt at best crass, at worst obscurely racist. But there was something about the gloop and the sugar that I couldn't resist. And Chinatown was peculiarly untouched by my contemporaries, so I could happily nibble at plates of salt and chili squid or crispy Szechuan beef while leafing through pages of a magazine in peace.

And various bibliographic sources agree that “Like a Thief in the Night” appeared in the May 1983 edition of Cosmopolitan. But I’ve never been able to confirm this. I don’t think it ever appeared in a magazine.

The question of who is, and who is not, "crazy" is at the heart of "Nightmare" — how sanity is defined, and how much depends upon who is doing the defining. "Nightmare" was rejected by College Humor, Cosmopolitan, Redbook, and the Saturday Evening Post, all magazines that had regularly and eagerly published Fitzgerald's work.... in 1932, this was not what readers expected under the byline "F. Scott Fitzgerald," and therefore not what editors wanted.

In October Sigmund Freud received an offer of one thousand dollars for a single article from New York–based Cosmopolitan magazine. Pleased with the offer, he suggested the title “Don’t Use Psychoanalysis in Polemics.” They wrote back saying they were thinking of something more like “The Wife’s Mental Place in the Home” followed by “The Husband’s Mental Place in the Home.” Freud responded with a stinging letter and indicated that the deal was

A study of advertising found that the average person in Shanghai saw three times as many advertisements in a typical day as a consumer in London. The market was flooded with new brands seeking to distinguish themselves, and Chinese consumers were relatively comfortable with bold efforts to get their attention. Ads were so abundant that fashion magazines ran up against physical constraints: editors of the Chinese edition of Cosmopolitan once had to split an issue into two volumes because a single magazine was too thick to handle. My cell phone was barraged by spam offering a vast range of consumption choices. “Attention aspiring horseback riders,” read a message from Beijing’s “largest indoor equestrian arena.” In a single morning, I received word of a “giant hundred-year-old building made with English craftsmanship” and a “palace-level baroque villa with fifty-four thousand square meters of private gardens.” Most of the messages sold counterfeit receipts to help people file false expense reports. I liked to imagine the archetypal Chinese man of the moment, waking each morning in a giant English building and mounting his horse to cross his private garden, on the way to buy some fake receipts.