Dad, my sister, and I were marooned that first Christmas after my mother died. It didn’t matter that at 48, I was the youngest of us — Mom was gone, and we had no ballast. It would be another two years before I unpacked the story of that holiday, when I got involved with someone who had potential.
We were talking in the way of new lovers, surprising ourselves with our wealth of material. I wasn’t looking for an interpretation so much as a witness, and when I looked into his golden-brown eyes, I knew he was listening. By this…
Last week, reports surfaced showing that U.S. birth rates hit a record low in 2020, and the call is on for women to to sacrifice their lives and their independence for the sake of the almighty dollar.
In what amounts to a capitalist pyramid scheme, pundits are predicting a dire economic future unless we produce more human widgets. And in a twist that could fit comfortably into the new season of The Handmaid’s Tale, 2021 is shaping up to be one of the most regressive for women’s reproductive health since abortion became a federally protected right in 1973.
“I wish I never had kids,” my mom said throughout my 1970s rust belt childhood.
Cassadaga is a small town in northern Florida that bills itself the psychic capital of the world. Not long after my mother sloughed her mortal coil, I found myself driving nearby. We hadn’t made any pacts about reaching out from the afterlife, but I’d begun to suspect she might be trying.
Throughout my 1970s childhood, my mom looked nothing like the other moms of our Rust Belt suburbs. She wore her thick black hair closely cropped, paired with figure-flattering leopard prints and a bold red…
Even as we learned our birth
Not a big bang
But gentle coherence
It is we, erupted
Yet the infestation would not end
Or is there another way of seeing
The tumescent underbelly burst
Lines were drawn
I can’t breathe
All that I have missed
There was yet smoke
Fires raged on
A woman walks the deepest ocean
Do not close your eyes
Roiling and building and going nowhere
The precious now
You don’t need the last name, nobody does.
You’re not alone. Hating Gwyneth Paltrow has long been a national pastime. Mysteriously, it wasn’t Shallow Hal (the 2001 movie that dared ask, “Wouldn’t it be HIlarious to put a skinny lady in a fat suit?”) that did it. The flood of hate came after 2008 when she started a newsletter about her life.
Not only did we marvel at her stupidity — most of us could put this look together for under thirty bucks — but also her tone-deaf approach.
This is not my first quarantine. And, despite the surge of cases in Florida where I currently find myself, this quasi-lockdown is far less stringent than my first in 1984, during my senior year in high school.
For some, a senior year quarantine might’ve spelled disaster. And, while I wasn’t psyched about being stuck home alone, I abhorred high school. So it wasn’t the worst thing I could imagine. The worst, I thought in my youthful swagger, already had happened.
Growing up, my family moved with an alarming frequency, nine times by the time I was 12. …
When I say meditation, I mean my preferred style (read: the one that makes me feel like I’m doing it “right,” a trick of my ego) — silent. That means there’s no visualization, no mantras, not even counting the breath. The attempt is to get to a word-less space of observation. I learned this technique in 2007, on a 10-day vipassana retreat in India, under the direction of S.N. Goenka. I’ve been doing a pretty shitty job at it ever since.
Don’t get me wrong, when I get to that space it’s an incredible feeling. And I do believe it…
The Circle, a reality show about virtual interactions, wasn’t created for people like me, a middle-aged married lady. But my lockdown began back in December, when I broke my leg and tore my ACL. Thanks to drugs and surgery, I was powering through anything binge worthy. If nothing else, this particular show seemed good for a bit of rage-watching. I was fully prepared to judge people mistaking virtual interactions for reality. Oh, those were simpler times.
In case you’re not familiar with this Netflix show, it’s a 12-episode series that pits contestants living in the same apartment building against each…
As a memoirist who is not a fan of the label “creative” being applied to nonfiction, I’ve had trouble with the idea of The Truth as far back as I can remember. I blame Catholicism.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the tradition, Catholics secret themselves into little booths that line church walls to confess their sins to their Lord’s intermediary.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned.”
So far, truthful.
“It has been [insert amount of time here] since my last confession.”
That next line was where I started going off the rails. Because my family moved frequently, months could…
I speak for so many when I acknowledge that you paved the way. And you’ve been paving the way my entire life. When I was 10 I wrote a book for school called “All About Me,” including my aspiration to become the first female president. I was mocked, and it surprised me. Sadly the lesson I took was to explore other tracks, I became a writer. Last night, I was surprised again. I don’t believe that men hate women, but I do believe that everyone hates fear. To do something that’s never been done before inspires fear. You…