Archive | Feminist Matters

Salutations and Solar Returns

Today is my solar return, though according to the Christian calendar my birthday is tomorrow. I share this day (technically January 19) with three women whom I consider geniuses, cultural alchemists, phoenixes who make art from their ashes so as not to waste an inch of this Earth’s precious resources. Sweet and sour Janis Joplin died young—she burned herself right up at age 27, talk about economical—but Dolly Parton and Cindy Sherman keep reinventing themselves with a pixie purity and a fulsome smarts that I only hope is my true legacy. Continue Reading →

Insert Lightbulb Joke Here

My favorite thing about my apartment is the fact that every room has a tin ceiling. Each one boasts a different pattern, and each one is 12 feet high. Because of these ceilings, I actually own a ladder—two of my three closets begin six feet from the ground, and my overhead lights blow out with a serious regularity. (My intuitive abilities have something to do with the frequency, all puns intended.) Given that each fixture is a pre-war oddity–gorgeous, fragile, and one-of-a-kind–I have to really psych myself up to replace a bulb. During the retrograde, they all blew out, but I decided I wouldn’t fix anything until Mercury went direct lest I compound the damage. I actually put FIX LIGHTS in my calendar for January 8, that’s how serious I was about waiting. So today I donned sneakers, pink rubber gloves, and overalls with 65 watts stuck in each pocket. Cussing and sweating, I dragged the ladder from room to room to carefully so carefully repair each one. Not one of those lamps unscrews easily, and while balancing at the top of my ladder, I cried more than once out of frustration and fear before the covers finally gave way. People often ask me how I do public speaking without getting nervous. The truth is, I get very nervous, every bloody time, but I am accustomed to doing things that make me nervous as hell. It’s called being a grown woman.

A Few Notes on Mating Rituals

The other day, I met a cute guy in a luncheonette. We exchanged numbers and flirty texts. Then he started messaging about video-gaming and I went radio silent. I am an old-school dame, and old-school dames don’t date boys (cis or trans) whose mating rituals include Mortal Kombat. Old-school dames prefer gentlemen who phone rather than text, speak in complete sentences rather than monosyllables and GIFs, and listen and learn as much as they hold forth. Old-school dames prefer suitors who ask, don’t tell, and old-school dames don’t chase so much as stride. Really, I most prize notes hand-lettered on engraved paper and stately walks through parks, but I’ll accept any heartfelt exchange that makes me shine, not shrink. True courtship entails communion, not coercion.

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