Archive | Feminist Matters

My Queendom for Your Ragu

All day long my downstairs neighbor–a 78-year-old woman from Campania–has been cooking an indescribably delicious-smelling tomato sauce. Mikey and Paulie, my Muppet critic pals from the coffee shop, call this woman one of the “black stockings” of our East Williamsburg neighborhood where they have lived since birth. By this they mean she is one of the older Italian (not Italian-American) women who scream at their philandering husbands all day, every day, in between cooking delicious-smelling tomato sauces and attending Mass not once a week but twice a day. On this point my Muppet critic friends are as right as they often are.

(The only times they are wrong is when they insist on my need for a bicycle I mean a man. Yes I am the fish in this equation.)

It makes me laugh to see my downstairs neighbor all demure in the hallway, given that those daily fights with her philandering husband are so loud that my intuition clients can hear them in our Zoom sessions. When her philandering husband made moves on me I got him to lay off by any means necessary, so she refuses to share her delicious cooking even when there is not a raging pandemic. Long ago I accepted this as fair exchange for not having to play nice with a sex offender and his enabler. But today that sauce is torturing me. All I want is to sit at someone else’s table and eat a big bowl of home-cooked pasta and cheese and tomato sauce that magically appears in front of me. I want gnocchi, lasagna, ravioli, penne, fettuccine. Marinara, ragu, puttanesca, carbonara. Focaccia. Broccoli rabe. Arugula. Spicy olives. Polenta. Arancini di riso. I want to wash it all down with a big glass of red. And I do not want to wash the damn dishes.

Essentially I want an Italian mother–or an Italian wife.

Divining Mother’s Day

I’m not going to do my usual drill of shitting on Mother’s Day. Yes, I am electively child-free and have gone on record for years about my complicated relationship with this Hallmark holiday, and the pit-pedestal roles projected upon mothers (all women, really). But I honor the challenges, sacrifices, and very hard work competent care-taking entails, especially during this time of profound upheaval. I honor all compassionate guidance. I honor the Divine Feminine, whose principles of radical receptivity, loving-kindness, and limitless love offer our only true path forward. And I am holding space on my Rubyintuitionbk Live Instagram feed at 1pm for those who’d like some non-churchy-church service around the very human need to receive and give care. Do drop by, and pour yourself a strong one if it helps.

Book an intuition reading for yourself or a loved one to better activate loving-care.

Second Puberties Are Nowhere To Be Stuck (NSFWAH)

Last night I had a Quarantime dream awash in all the human dynamics that are verboten right now. You know–people crowded together, sex with someone new. In it, I was staying in a self-serious commune for adults and Adam Driver and I were grateful allies, complicit amid all that NPR and Park Slope-style overearnestness. Since it was an adult sort of commune, it was well-appointed and well-organized, and we each had our own quarters within the greater shared space.

Adam invited me to his digs and I was impressed by his beautifully arranged pantry, carefully chosen possessions. Burnished wood, 70s turntable, a perfectly gleaming whiskey decanter. Also his long strong fingers, wide mouth and unwavering stare. It seemed clear we were going to come together so I wasn’t surprised when he raised his eyebrows at me in the common dining room and mouthed: “Call me daddy.” I straddled the back of a chair and mouthed back: “Call me daddy.”

Next thing I knew we were in an open, industrial kitchen—rolling on clean white floors, fucking on chrome prep tables– Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy