There’s now an open source Name Him site for women to post their attackers. I support this. I keep thinking about this dad, driving me home after babysitting his daughter. This would be in Roxbury CT about 1985. Dark car. He’s talking to me, then he casually reaches over and starts rubbing my neck, then my leg, in a slow, sensual way. I didn’t even know what to do or say. I was trapped in the car. Roxbury, if you don’t know, is all woods and fiel…
I'm among those who did not tune in to the Kavanaugh hearing today, because I've had enough. Of everything. And all these old white men. But I see from all of your posts and tweets that the "honorable" (that's laughable) judge had himself a little mantrum today, is that right? This reporting has been countered by a great deal of "...and they say women are too emotional" memes and wisecracks. It is on this point th…
If you're a card-carrying feminist and you're mocking the so-called "man bun," then you can turn in your card. Right now, no feminist card if you're mocking his bun. What? Why? One more time for the bitches in the back of the room, here's the bold type. The Bold Type We will never reach true equity until men have the same access, without mockery, to feminine tropes as women do for the masculine ones. The "man bun&qu…
"You need to give him children. What are you scared of? Responsibility?" These are actual words said to me yesterday. By a total stranger. In the park. It's astonishing to me that anyone feels entitled to lecture women about something so personal. I am 47 years old. It is 2017. Are you freakin' kidding me . Yesterday's Child-demander
I took a walk with my sketchbook. I got a kale smoothie and stopped on a park bench. People w…
It's been awhile, sorry about that. I had a pretty rough April. Wasn't feeling much like myself. Airports, chaos, sweat, tears, rental cars, exhaustion. Las Vegas, for that work trip. This time I'm not just mouthing off when I say that I am never. Doing that trip. Again. Ever.
In other news, Joe and I got married in Vegas.
It was Sunday morning and I was performing that universally-endured household ritual of purging the fridge before stocking up on whatever science experiment fodder is passing for food these days.
"You don't want this?"
"No,
it's dead," I said, glancing over to see that Joe was holding up a bottle of Bloody Mary mix I'd just put into the the thanks-for-coming pile, along with a shriveled lump of ginger that had…
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