Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

“Mom.” “Yeah?” “I’m pregnant.”  Tho s e  final four words from Rory Gilmore  have now  erupted  shock waves across the internet, phone lines, and social gatherings.  I, like a large score of others who loved the  Gilmore Girls  show for years, am no exception.  I gasped, I laughed, and I logically saw it as an opening for another revival.  But, as I sat on my bed,  my  knitting falling from my hands, staring solo at my television I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of nostalgia, anger, let down, and longing wave over me.   For months now I’ve been working on various feminism projects, and in the midst of that I’ve found myself re - watching  Gilmore Girls  as the show has always been my feel-good, go-to, comfort food of no calories.  That combo is hard to find, and about four years ago when Netflix released the entire series I was one of those  mid  thirty-year olds who spent the better p...

After a week where some jackal decided to call me a five, without my asking, I give you this.  Not long ago I set out to conquer the pole.   Okay, well not really conquer but to shimmy and shake my ass in the name of exercise and self-preservation.   I mean, as a child we had to put the dishes away and sweep the floor as chores but little did we know that somewhere over the proverbial bridge of adulthood chores would become more cumbersome than that.   Now . . . now we shimmy and shake our bodies on spin bikes, running routes, various forms of yoga, and for the really adventurous as moments of cardio while shopping.   Working out is the new chore of life, as it keeps the body in motion, joints working, and as I’m told by a MD I pay good money to see that it will lengthen my life.   I side eye him wondering how he really knows this.   Yet, I drag myself to gyms, spin classes, on road courses, and other modes of physical hell more fre...

In the year, plus I've had this tiny basement studio I seem to have lost my mind in it more than once.  Okay, well, probably more than once or twice but . . . the point du jour here: there are moments in life when you have to stand back and laugh, cry, or just throw in the towel.  Lately, as it has been no secret, I've been doing a lot of contemplating of where I'm moving to next.  Boston was long on the life list, as has been parts of Europe, a sojourn (or more like a prolonged stay) in India, and a writer's retreat to France (with a long stop in Paris, the city of my long-time fantasy lover's dream).  Honestly, I can't stomach to think about it all right now . . . the spiral is not a pleasant one to view at the moment.  The sending of articles, the waiting on review, the wonder if the you'll cobble together enough writing checks to pay the bar tab . . .  The markers of life and stress should note: This is not a roach.   Yea.  Twice now I...

So . . . I broke down and bought a pair of sewing shears.  Why? Well, your scissors shouldn't click when you cut, and I had a pair of the Fiskers plastic handled cheap ones.  Yup.  I bought those years ago with my Mom, and I've been using them since.  They were long dead, but I kept cutting on.  Why? I am stupid.  So, I bought the shears.  Shears! Oh my god.  I should have bought these years ago.  When I cut the first piece of fabric with them, and it was like slicing through butter, I cried.  Ok, not really.  But, it certainly was close. So, yes, this is a partial ode to these: And of course, if this was a movie hallelujah choruses would be coming up for these: In the long run of things, aside from getting them on sale for 45 percent off, new shears don't mean much to those who don't sew and re sculpt fabric into something new.  Yes, I did write sculpt.  You start out with a flat hunk o...

In 2012 the concept of a woman needing anything beyond her own wit and merit almost seems passe.  Yet, in this world of instant messages, ATMs, debit cards superseding checks, and steel-toes stilettos a women (or, girl if the term--like me--makes you feel a little more hip, at ease, and at peace within your changing skin) should have a little black book–– or a little black digital phone book–– filled with names beyond old lovers, forlorn exs, or divorce lawyers. These are the things, as I tell students, that just make life easier, richer, and full. A list, per se, that I deliver to Women's Studies when I can and to students, friends, and sometimes strangers when I see or feel the need . . . or just plain hate what I am hearing. In no particular order: 1. A former lover, partner du jour if you will, that is no longer a shag buddy.  Just merly a name and number in her book who she can text or call just to say hi.  Why? While not all rel...