Since returning from the desert, my already limited ability to tolerate mansplainers has evaporated entirely. Exhibit A: I was just cowering at Oslo coffee shop, waiting for the thunderstorm to subside while working on an overdue essay. In sails a former suitor, and by this I mean a man with whom mildly flirted for years though I’ve always rebuffed his direct invitations. I call this man The Crossword Bandit, or Bandy, because he often fills out the New York Times crossword incorrectly in ink, a transgression some may consider a dealbreaker in and of itself.
Today he started to hold forth on his favorite topic: the toxicity of any diet containing carbohydrates, “even whole grains.” He delivered this lecture while staring pointedly at my body, which was looking especially matronly in the tent dress in which I like to write. Suffice it to say I cut him off at the knees. Continue Reading →
I know menstruation is one of the few taboo topics on social media (cockocracy!) but today I cried over the Comey hearing, a late-’90s Julia Roberts film that will go unnamed (ok, Stepmom), a certain permakitten when she rested her chin on my toe, and the fact that my dress wasn’t ready at the tailors. Tonight’s potent full moon is not helping, nor is our massive Constitutional crisis. Overall, though, I just need to (insert verb, Mad Libs-style) already. Our periods are a blessing for which I am all the more grateful since I realized mine was an endangered species. But the period before our periods blows as hard as our alleged president–very, very hard.
I adore this Emily Nussbaum take on Sex and the City, which, for all its micro-aggression, offered a realpolitik, pagan-spangled take on turn-of-the-millennium Manhattan and (heterosexual, white) lady congress. The final paragraph had me nodding like a banshee and, gulp, recommencing my book: “What would the show look like without that finale? What if it were the story of a woman who lost herself in her thirties, who was changed by a poisonous, powerful love affair, and who emerged, finally, surrounded by her friends?” Note to self: Living out most women’s worst fears brought out your best self. Tell your story, ladybird.
Since returning from the desert, my already limited ability to tolerate mansplainers has evaporated entirely. Exhibit A: I was just cowering at Oslo coffee shop, waiting for the thunderstorm to subside while working on an overdue essay. In sails a former suitor, and by this I mean a man with whom mildly flirted for years though I’ve always rebuffed his direct invitations. I call this man The Crossword Bandit, or Bandy, because he often fills out the New York Times crossword incorrectly in ink, a transgression some may consider a dealbreaker in and of itself.
I know menstruation is one of the few taboo topics on social media (cockocracy!) but today I cried over the Comey hearing, a late-’90s Julia Roberts film that will go unnamed (ok, Stepmom), a certain permakitten when she rested her chin on my toe, and the fact that my dress wasn’t ready at the tailors. Tonight’s potent full moon is not helping, nor is our massive Constitutional crisis. Overall, though, I just need to (insert verb, Mad Libs-style) already. Our periods are a blessing for which I am all the more grateful since I realized mine was an endangered species. But the period before our periods blows as hard as our alleged president–very, very hard.
I adore this Emily Nussbaum take on Sex and the City, which, for all its micro-aggression, offered a realpolitik, pagan-spangled take on turn-of-the-millennium Manhattan and (heterosexual, white) lady congress. The final paragraph had me nodding like a banshee and, gulp, recommencing my book: “What would the show look like without that finale? What if it were the story of a woman who lost herself in her thirties, who was changed by a poisonous, powerful love affair, and who emerged, finally, surrounded by her friends?” Note to self: Living out most women’s worst fears brought out your best self. Tell your story, ladybird. 