I really liked this article in the American Prospect called The Mommy Mantra: What female politicians lose when they brand themselves as mothers. Using recent public appearances by Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton as examples, the author explains that the Mommy Mantra is "the idea that what qualifies women for politics isn't their intelligence, their experience, their policy proposals, or even their character, but rather their inherent identities as feminine caretakers."
An excerpt:
"When Clinton and Pelosi claim political capital due to their experience as mothers and homemakers, they are selling their ambitious selves -- and, indeed, all women -- far short. Women don't deserve to be in politics because we're more compassionate or nurturing than men. We deserve to be there because we are human beings, and especially because we are human beings who, regardless of our choices about if and how to become mothers, continue to live under a social and political system that denies us many of the same options men have enjoyed for generations."
Tuesday
Friday
January 12, 2007
A new comic from Marshall, starring the one and only Pepe*, making its internet debut here at I'm Just Shy:
* Based on a true story
* Based on a true story
Thursday
January 4, 2007
Well, hello there 2007. When I was growing up, I never thought much past the year 2000, so I figure the rest is a bonus. I had a couple of weeks off over the holidays, allowing me to finally tackle that pile of bank statements and various other administrative tasks, organize my office, make Silver Zephyr's mom's butternut ball cookies, cat-sit Reluctant Texan's four cats, finally watch the first few episodes of the first season of Six Feet Under, type up one section of my mom's English translation of her father's family history (which was hand-written in Spanish ten years ago) and generally contemplate life.
New Year's Eve day I spent entirely on the phone catching up with old friends. It's comforting to talk to people who've known you a long time, because they have a certain perspective on who you are - they remind me of who I am when I've forgotten. My godson and pseudo-nephew Kenton turned 1 year old on New Year's Day. I sent him the first ten books of the Beatrix Potter series, the first installment of his personal library that should be complete by the time he's old enough to read.
For 2007, I have a singular goal, which I will approach with a laser-like focus: finish my dissertation research!! Yes, yes, you've all heard it before. And you will hear it many more times until it is done. My secondary goal is the trite "exercise more," which I am already closer to than in years past as I have signed up for six weeks of pilates starting January 22. Hopefully it won't bother my knee too much - I'm told I have patella-femoral syndrome, aka runner's knee. How I have runner's knee 14 years after I stopped running competitively, I have no earthly idea.
New Year's Eve day I spent entirely on the phone catching up with old friends. It's comforting to talk to people who've known you a long time, because they have a certain perspective on who you are - they remind me of who I am when I've forgotten. My godson and pseudo-nephew Kenton turned 1 year old on New Year's Day. I sent him the first ten books of the Beatrix Potter series, the first installment of his personal library that should be complete by the time he's old enough to read.
For 2007, I have a singular goal, which I will approach with a laser-like focus: finish my dissertation research!! Yes, yes, you've all heard it before. And you will hear it many more times until it is done. My secondary goal is the trite "exercise more," which I am already closer to than in years past as I have signed up for six weeks of pilates starting January 22. Hopefully it won't bother my knee too much - I'm told I have patella-femoral syndrome, aka runner's knee. How I have runner's knee 14 years after I stopped running competitively, I have no earthly idea.
Friday
Thursday
December 28, 2006
I read this interesting article today in the Seattle Times, which helped me understand why cashmere has become so much more suspiciously affordable in the last few years.
That low-priced cashmere sweater has a hidden cost
That low-priced cashmere sweater has a hidden cost
December 14, 2006
Last night I witnessed what may have been the first ever dramatization of a dissertation defense on primetime television. On the Fox show "Bones," the young forensic anthropology doctoral student was shown sitting in a small, hard wooden chair in front of a panel of scary-looking professors who were of course seated on a raised platform to make them look even more scary. Our young scientist passed, though not before a terse professor asked him how he expected anyone to take him seriously as a Ph.D. scientist looking the way he does (young and sloppy). So, what does that mean? You guessed it: Makeover!!!
P.S. I only started watching Bones because of my loyalty to all ex-Buffy actors, but I actually kinda like it too!
P.S. I only started watching Bones because of my loyalty to all ex-Buffy actors, but I actually kinda like it too!
Monday
December 11, 2006
I found out that my current employer (one of them) doesn't have any more non-resident tuition waivers, which I need in order to avoid paying an extra $1000 for three credits. My eye just started twitching.
Tuesday
December 5, 2006
I am copying excerpts from this piece of advice here so I can refer to it every now and then when I'm feeling discouraged - like now. I especially like the "isolate yourself totally from the stream of yammering humanity."
(From the Ms. Mentor advice column, The Chronicle of Higher Education, 12/8/06)
Question: Writing dissertation. Must be last person on earth, never see anyone anymore unless teaching. Does that count as seeing people? Think not. Need a laugh. Pray each night to write damn thing and finally finish Ph.D. without turning into bloviator. However, noticing that friends and family glaze over quite soon after asking about research. Hate to bloviate. Thus, no pronouns. Plan to eliminate other parts of speech as needed, maybe take vow of silence. Good?
Answer: Maybe. Maybe not.
Ms. Mentor obviously captivated by your writing style. Impressed by your efforts at minimalism. Thinks it's catching, but will try to extricate self and talk more ordinarily. (What is normal among academics? Discuss.)
Everyone knows dissertation stress. What you're doing will never be finished, or it will be laughable and absurd. In a just world, you would be hanged as an academic fraud and your remains fed to feral dogs (they'd call it recycling). Your B.A. would be yanked and your records deleted. Your high school would post your weaselly, smiling graduate photo on its Wall of Shame.
Or you could ignore all those febrile fantasies, decide to do a good-enough dissertation, and finish it — or not.
Half of A.B.D.'s (All But Dissertationers) never finish, but they are not failures. They've chosen other things — such as a social life, or children, or a career that doesn't require years of poverty (and maybe chastity) before a tenure-track job perhaps materializes in a Remote Village.
Writer's block is fear — fear of getting something wrong, not getting an A, being unmasked as an impostor at last. Every writer except the most doltish of hacks approaches a blank page or screen with trepidation, and the hardest word to write is the first.
Do not get on the Internet.
Turn off all phones and put your cellphone where you cannot see it light up, vibrate, and dance.
Write by hand — as Ms. Mentor writes her first drafts — so as to sneak up on the work. Tell yourself, as Anne Lamott recommends in Bird by Bird, that you're about to write a "shitty first draft."
If you can isolate yourself totally from the stream of yammering humanity, do it for the first draft. Lock yourself in your carrel. Hide out in mountain caves. Let beauty-school students practice pedicures on you while you scribble.
Encourage roommates to surprise you with treats, but only on Fridays after 5 p.m. Ignore their grumbling. Put your fingers in your ears and chant, "La la la la la." True friends will understand.
Many people, of course, won't, and the Dissertation Era (which Ms. Mentor hopes will not be a Dissertation Decade for you, as it sometimes is for unfortunate literary scholars who must work as adjuncts in three places and grade thousands of compositions while grinding out their great opuses) may mean giving up on those people who, well, aren't into you.
Except for family members whose caprices are inescapable, you do not need narcissists who tell you their love problems incessantly (unless their stories are vivid, lurid, and ever-changing, and you can use them in your chapters about neurotic behavior). You do not need broken-winged people, addicts, or whiners who have to sleep on your couch for a few days to "get my head together." You do not need people who "will be great" once they get over their bigotries or their resentments of you ("Why are you always writing? Let's go get a beer and forget your silly homework.").
Anyone whose moods get you down, or who picks a fight when you're trying to finish a chapter, or who disparages your work, does not belong in your life.
Find a writing critique group, if you have a strong ego. If you're not sure, convene a group of friends in which all of you make deadlines for one another and meet once a week to celebrate what everyone has written, taught, sold, or cooked. Have lots of chocolate.
Yes, give up useless parts of speech, especially adverbs. They are the softeners, the wimps of the grammatical world. You need to be ruthless, self-protective, fierce, whatever your mode.
Some writers are gushers, bloviators who spew everything in their first drafts and then pick out the best chunks. But you may be a bleeder, a one-word-at-a-time agonizer (as Red Smith said, you sit at your desk "and open a vein"). Or you may be a Beavisite, converting all long jargonized theoretical explications into the simplest of language: "Cool" or "It sucks."
Now all you have to do is explain yourself to the world.
Good.
(From the Ms. Mentor advice column, The Chronicle of Higher Education, 12/8/06)
Question: Writing dissertation. Must be last person on earth, never see anyone anymore unless teaching. Does that count as seeing people? Think not. Need a laugh. Pray each night to write damn thing and finally finish Ph.D. without turning into bloviator. However, noticing that friends and family glaze over quite soon after asking about research. Hate to bloviate. Thus, no pronouns. Plan to eliminate other parts of speech as needed, maybe take vow of silence. Good?
Answer: Maybe. Maybe not.
Ms. Mentor obviously captivated by your writing style. Impressed by your efforts at minimalism. Thinks it's catching, but will try to extricate self and talk more ordinarily. (What is normal among academics? Discuss.)
Everyone knows dissertation stress. What you're doing will never be finished, or it will be laughable and absurd. In a just world, you would be hanged as an academic fraud and your remains fed to feral dogs (they'd call it recycling). Your B.A. would be yanked and your records deleted. Your high school would post your weaselly, smiling graduate photo on its Wall of Shame.
Or you could ignore all those febrile fantasies, decide to do a good-enough dissertation, and finish it — or not.
Half of A.B.D.'s (All But Dissertationers) never finish, but they are not failures. They've chosen other things — such as a social life, or children, or a career that doesn't require years of poverty (and maybe chastity) before a tenure-track job perhaps materializes in a Remote Village.
Writer's block is fear — fear of getting something wrong, not getting an A, being unmasked as an impostor at last. Every writer except the most doltish of hacks approaches a blank page or screen with trepidation, and the hardest word to write is the first.
Do not get on the Internet.
Turn off all phones and put your cellphone where you cannot see it light up, vibrate, and dance.
Write by hand — as Ms. Mentor writes her first drafts — so as to sneak up on the work. Tell yourself, as Anne Lamott recommends in Bird by Bird, that you're about to write a "shitty first draft."
If you can isolate yourself totally from the stream of yammering humanity, do it for the first draft. Lock yourself in your carrel. Hide out in mountain caves. Let beauty-school students practice pedicures on you while you scribble.
Encourage roommates to surprise you with treats, but only on Fridays after 5 p.m. Ignore their grumbling. Put your fingers in your ears and chant, "La la la la la." True friends will understand.
Many people, of course, won't, and the Dissertation Era (which Ms. Mentor hopes will not be a Dissertation Decade for you, as it sometimes is for unfortunate literary scholars who must work as adjuncts in three places and grade thousands of compositions while grinding out their great opuses) may mean giving up on those people who, well, aren't into you.
Except for family members whose caprices are inescapable, you do not need narcissists who tell you their love problems incessantly (unless their stories are vivid, lurid, and ever-changing, and you can use them in your chapters about neurotic behavior). You do not need broken-winged people, addicts, or whiners who have to sleep on your couch for a few days to "get my head together." You do not need people who "will be great" once they get over their bigotries or their resentments of you ("Why are you always writing? Let's go get a beer and forget your silly homework.").
Anyone whose moods get you down, or who picks a fight when you're trying to finish a chapter, or who disparages your work, does not belong in your life.
Find a writing critique group, if you have a strong ego. If you're not sure, convene a group of friends in which all of you make deadlines for one another and meet once a week to celebrate what everyone has written, taught, sold, or cooked. Have lots of chocolate.
Yes, give up useless parts of speech, especially adverbs. They are the softeners, the wimps of the grammatical world. You need to be ruthless, self-protective, fierce, whatever your mode.
Some writers are gushers, bloviators who spew everything in their first drafts and then pick out the best chunks. But you may be a bleeder, a one-word-at-a-time agonizer (as Red Smith said, you sit at your desk "and open a vein"). Or you may be a Beavisite, converting all long jargonized theoretical explications into the simplest of language: "Cool" or "It sucks."
Now all you have to do is explain yourself to the world.
Good.
Friday
November 17, 2006
Picture of Joan Jett & the Blackhearts (or in this case, Blackheart) during their first song Tuesday night. Stubb's was pretty full, with the typical, wonderful motley crue of multi-generational fans she attracts. They played several songs off the new album "Sinner," and they were nice fun Joan Jett songs - a mix of covers and little-heard songs from previous albums, along with a couple originals like "Riddles" and "Change the World." While she played her standard "...We're Going to Make it After All" from the Mary Tyler Moore Show, I felt like I was really going to finish my dissertation. I'm sorry, I find ways to derive inspiration from even the cheesy songs she plays! Everyday People? Check. Favorite song on the setlist? Love is Pain from the I Love Rock 'n Roll album. But damn, Crimson & Clover kicked ass too. Maybe that was the best.This was my fourth time seeing her; I was trying to recount the other times so I wouldn't forget (this is why I need a diary):
1. 1998, at Parker's Casino in Shoreline, WA. Waited in line for an hour to meet her after the show and then chickened out. Surprise opening act: Fastbacks! By far the best of the four.
2. 2000, at the grand opening of the Experience Music Project in Seattle. Great grand opening weekend, stupid museum.
3. 2004, at a warehouse in East Austin at 2am during SXSW. Silver Zephyr was there!
Eagles of Death Metal opened, a garage-rock type band from I'm guessing California. Check out the 'stache on that guy! (below) I think a lot of people are curious about them because the drummer is/was in Queens of the Stone Age. They were all right. They surprised me by singing falsetto about half the time.
Wednesday
November 15, 2006
This is exactly why I feel absolutely no compulsion to go see the Borat movie. I'm glad someone had the ovaries to put into print what I'm sure many people think about this style of humor, but are afraid of being labeled as humorless, uptight, too sensitive, and the like.
Monday
November 13, 2006
This is where I'll be tomorrow evening:
"Joan Jett is still a badass. The 48-year-old has managed to outlast many of her male punk counterparts, look good doing it, and still put out viable albums. Sinner, Jett’s first since Clinton was president, finds her hellbent for leather pants, with muscle from longtime band the Blackhearts. Is she still pissed? Just drive through “Riddles,” and order three-chord punk with a side of political doublespeak..." more from the Austin Chronicle preview.
In other news, I will be putting myself on a strict self-disciplined regimen for the next approximately 16 weeks. If I want to actually try to graduate next May, I need to have a full draft of my dissertation by March 1st. That leaves three weeks - until March 22 - for revisions, one month for the other four committee members to review, and then defend the last week in April. I looked up all the deadlines and was dismayed to learn that you have to submit the final, formatted, approved dealio to the graduate school by May 4th. Why does the semester have to end so freaking early? Sheesh!
So anyway, I'm under the impression, however mistaken it may be, that I can do this. Or at least get damn close. I'm dropping one of my jobs to buy myself more hours in the week, with the trade-off of barely eeking out a living. (I seize every opportunity to use the word "eek"). Sixteen weeks! Sixteen weeks! I can do it!
"Joan Jett is still a badass. The 48-year-old has managed to outlast many of her male punk counterparts, look good doing it, and still put out viable albums. Sinner, Jett’s first since Clinton was president, finds her hellbent for leather pants, with muscle from longtime band the Blackhearts. Is she still pissed? Just drive through “Riddles,” and order three-chord punk with a side of political doublespeak..." more from the Austin Chronicle preview.
In other news, I will be putting myself on a strict self-disciplined regimen for the next approximately 16 weeks. If I want to actually try to graduate next May, I need to have a full draft of my dissertation by March 1st. That leaves three weeks - until March 22 - for revisions, one month for the other four committee members to review, and then defend the last week in April. I looked up all the deadlines and was dismayed to learn that you have to submit the final, formatted, approved dealio to the graduate school by May 4th. Why does the semester have to end so freaking early? Sheesh!
So anyway, I'm under the impression, however mistaken it may be, that I can do this. Or at least get damn close. I'm dropping one of my jobs to buy myself more hours in the week, with the trade-off of barely eeking out a living. (I seize every opportunity to use the word "eek"). Sixteen weeks! Sixteen weeks! I can do it!
Wednesday
November 8, 2006
Today is a good day. Twelve long years it's been, with the last six being particularly hard. I stayed up watching the results last night til my eyes crossed - I didn't want to go to bed! My favorite moment was impulsively calling my mom in Montana to celebrate Nancy Pelosi becoming Speaker of the House-elect. The most powerful position ever held by a woman! I had tears in my eyes.
We also added two women to the Senate (and didn't lose any), a few more to the House, and overall twenty new pro-choice House members. An informative overview of what this all means can be found here. The people of South Dakota gave a big F-U to the misogynist christian industrial complex (I'm trying to coin a new term here, akin to the 'military industrial complex,' or the 'prison industrial complex.' Help me out! And grassroots organizers in Arizona defeated a hetero-marriage amendment.
I don't want to worry yet about what comes next, I just want to bask for a while as the clouds have finally parted a bit.
Yay!
We also added two women to the Senate (and didn't lose any), a few more to the House, and overall twenty new pro-choice House members. An informative overview of what this all means can be found here. The people of South Dakota gave a big F-U to the misogynist christian industrial complex (I'm trying to coin a new term here, akin to the 'military industrial complex,' or the 'prison industrial complex.' Help me out! And grassroots organizers in Arizona defeated a hetero-marriage amendment.
I don't want to worry yet about what comes next, I just want to bask for a while as the clouds have finally parted a bit.
Yay!
Friday
October 27. 2006
Chris Bell is the only candidate for governor who signed the NARAL Pro-choice Texas Prevention First Pledge, which says that if elected he will "work toward the common-ground goals of supporting access to family-planning services, making birth control, including the “morning-after” pill, more affordable and accessible, and teaching our young people honest, realistic sex-education."
This makes my decision pretty clear.
This makes my decision pretty clear.
Wednesday
Friday
October 20, 2006
Celebrity Sighting at South Congress Cafe
Yesterday M. was craving crab cakes so we went there for lunch around 1:00. There was one of those signs on the door indicating that if we went inside we were granting permission to be filmed for an upcoming episode for a new show to be tentatively called "Giada's Weekend Getaways." We look at each other quizically, say "huh?" and then M. looks in the window and proclaims, "there she is!"
So we went in to wait for a table. They end up seating us right next to her table, though out of camera shot. The tables that were within the camera angle were filled with extras!! I thought that was pretty weak. But M. thought maybe they had to do that so the people sitting around her on camera wouldn't constantly be turning to look at her. Like we were.
She was tasting the carrotcake french toast. The funniest part was when they were done shooting, the sound operator guy sauntered around to her half-eaten plate and helped himself to a bite. Hee hee! A quick search reveals the series will premiere on Jan. 12.
And yes, her head really is that big in real life.
Yesterday M. was craving crab cakes so we went there for lunch around 1:00. There was one of those signs on the door indicating that if we went inside we were granting permission to be filmed for an upcoming episode for a new show to be tentatively called "Giada's Weekend Getaways." We look at each other quizically, say "huh?" and then M. looks in the window and proclaims, "there she is!"
So we went in to wait for a table. They end up seating us right next to her table, though out of camera shot. The tables that were within the camera angle were filled with extras!! I thought that was pretty weak. But M. thought maybe they had to do that so the people sitting around her on camera wouldn't constantly be turning to look at her. Like we were.
She was tasting the carrotcake french toast. The funniest part was when they were done shooting, the sound operator guy sauntered around to her half-eaten plate and helped himself to a bite. Hee hee! A quick search reveals the series will premiere on Jan. 12.
And yes, her head really is that big in real life.
Thursday
October 5, 2006
How come no one ever told me about Chango's? Motivated by a glowing review in the Fearless Critic, I decided to check them out last week and have been back twice. Chango's is to Manuel's what El Chilito is to El Chile, so it's quality stuff. I have had the del mar taco, which has marinated & grilled mahi mahi (you can request shrimp too), but my favorite is the al pastor. Holy macatoli! Served simply with lime, cilantro, onion and pineapple, it doesn't need any hot sauce. Everything is fresh, healthy, and the best thing: self-serve aguas frescas with apparently free refills.
There's nothing in the restaurant that explicitly says you can have free refills, but I read about it in the Fearless Critic review so I tried it and was not tackled by an employee (unlike the time I tried to sneak some free ice tea at taco bell in the Texas Union building four years ago). And oh the selection! Canteloupe, Watermelon, Coconut for god's sake, Honeydew, and of course Horchata.
Chango's is locally owned and has two locations in Austin. And note to Silver Zephyr: according to their website, "Chango's" roughly translated means "little monkeys."
There's nothing in the restaurant that explicitly says you can have free refills, but I read about it in the Fearless Critic review so I tried it and was not tackled by an employee (unlike the time I tried to sneak some free ice tea at taco bell in the Texas Union building four years ago). And oh the selection! Canteloupe, Watermelon, Coconut for god's sake, Honeydew, and of course Horchata.
Chango's is locally owned and has two locations in Austin. And note to Silver Zephyr: according to their website, "Chango's" roughly translated means "little monkeys."
Monday
October 2, 2006
The recent barrage of girl-hating has my stomach lurching and me just generally feeling helpless and angry and ultimately depressed.
There was the woman dragged to death by her husband in Colorado, the girls singled out, sexually assaulted, and one executed at a Colorado high school, and the girls singled out and three executed at a Pennsylvania school today. These sacks of shit seem to always kill themselves afterward.
And, in other news, the House of Representatives approved a bill that would make it a federal crime to evade one state's parental consent laws by taking a minor to another state for an abortion. The Senate passed the similar "Teen Endangerment Act" in July, so all that's left now is to work out the final version for the president to sign. Yippee.
There was the woman dragged to death by her husband in Colorado, the girls singled out, sexually assaulted, and one executed at a Colorado high school, and the girls singled out and three executed at a Pennsylvania school today. These sacks of shit seem to always kill themselves afterward.
And, in other news, the House of Representatives approved a bill that would make it a federal crime to evade one state's parental consent laws by taking a minor to another state for an abortion. The Senate passed the similar "Teen Endangerment Act" in July, so all that's left now is to work out the final version for the president to sign. Yippee.
Wednesday
September 27, 2006
Always wanted to know what your ecological footprint is? I have. I have tried to live my life by one basic mantra: to somehow justify or at least modify the space and resources I am taking up on the planet (by being a middle class white person living in the United States) by contributing something back to the world and being conscious of the waste that I create. Some may call it white liberal guilt, I call it rational. What that something is, is heretofore unidentified, unless little things count, but that's another subject (that I really don't want to talk about anyway).
This nice website will tell you what your ecological footprint is in the world. Apparently the average for people in the U.S. is "24" or "25." Mine was a "9," but I think I fudged on my car's gas mileage. My footprint is much more to my liking now that I don't commute 60 miles roundtrip, and I ride the bus twice a week. Anyway, try it out if you want!
This nice website will tell you what your ecological footprint is in the world. Apparently the average for people in the U.S. is "24" or "25." Mine was a "9," but I think I fudged on my car's gas mileage. My footprint is much more to my liking now that I don't commute 60 miles roundtrip, and I ride the bus twice a week. Anyway, try it out if you want!
September 6, 2006
My 35th birthday fell on Labor Day this year, marking the traditional end of summer as well as my youth, as I dryly and somewhat morosely put it to a colleague yesterday. The end of one’s youth being a completely arbitrary point, of course. And I don’t really think of my youth as over, but the rest of society seems to. One of the most depressing-yet-strangely-liberating realities of turning 35 is that I am no longer in the coveted target demographic for marketers, 18 – 34. It is this growing irrelevancy to the mass market that depresses me, because I’ve always liked the fact that as a 20-something and early-30-something the world kind of revolves around you. Once the mid-30’s hit, it becomes abundantly clear that there is a whole crop of young up-and-comers behind you, who are probably smarter, more creative, and have more energy than you. Of course I’ve been on the other end of this tension and still am to a large degree because everyone in my field is 5 to 25 years older than me, and when I started out as a 25-year old with a master’s degree, well, I struggled to be taken seriously and was constantly asked by consulting clients if I was “in school.” Ten years later, I still don’t seem to be “old enough” to garner any sort of credibility with senior colleagues. But I digress.
Aging out of the target demographic should be freeing! Free to be me! A certain power comes with not being in the crosshairs of the marketing machine. Similar to my experience ducking the patriarchy in my early 20s by not shaving my legs, not wearing makeup, and cropping off all my hair. That sudden invisibility to men was both scary and exciting. I also take heart by looking to women I know who are pushing 40 and 50, and swear they feel like they’re 18 on the inside – though this also means the aging process doesn’t get any less weird-feeling the older you get. And as my mom said, there are plenty of cool, happenin’ women in their 80s to whom I am but a mere baby.
P.S. I highly recommend the black pepper sorbet with strawberries at Uchi.
Aging out of the target demographic should be freeing! Free to be me! A certain power comes with not being in the crosshairs of the marketing machine. Similar to my experience ducking the patriarchy in my early 20s by not shaving my legs, not wearing makeup, and cropping off all my hair. That sudden invisibility to men was both scary and exciting. I also take heart by looking to women I know who are pushing 40 and 50, and swear they feel like they’re 18 on the inside – though this also means the aging process doesn’t get any less weird-feeling the older you get. And as my mom said, there are plenty of cool, happenin’ women in their 80s to whom I am but a mere baby.
P.S. I highly recommend the black pepper sorbet with strawberries at Uchi.
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