Sassafrass

Once upon a zine

I was telling someone just this weekend about the days when I published a feminist anthology, rebellious and radical and zine-style, about the poems that I placed in there with great care even though my mother warned me that one day I would have a child who would inevitably read those words. What then?

That seemed like a ridiculous question back then. Those poems spoke to a part of my life, after all. They were raw and raunchy and dramatic, yes, but they were also real. Some future child in the unforeseen distance didn't seem to factor in.

And now, there they are, all those words piled up on each other in boxes in the storage room of my building's basement. Overstock copies of that anthology sit and wait, each cover an image of a naked woman, each page filled with some feminist's very personal writing or art. There they are, among the plastic tubs of onesies and dusty bouncy seats, baby toys and tiny, plastic bathtubs. 

Now I get what my mother meant.

Even though I feel a shudder to think of my child reading words of a poem called "The Fourth Time We Ever Did It" or details of tough things best told in person or the essays that follow my full first-middle-last byline, there is still some truth to the flipped-off attitude from all those years ago. We will get there when we get there, I guess. Who knows? My child may very well not care at all about that stuff. That would be fine, and also, a little bit of relief.

I am a mother, maybe even a different woman now. Yet, all of that is still a part of my life. A real part of who I am, or was (or does that even matter?). Sometimes, I pull out a copy or two, read through them, remind myself of what was present and important and very clear to me back then. Sometimes, that makes me thank the goddesses that much has healed, that time has passed, that those days were the beginning of my life really opening up. Sometimes, reading it all makes me teary. Other times, I laugh. Once in a while, I cringe a little. Then I close them up, come upstairs and go back to my life now.

So the boxes of anthologies will stay. I am itchy to sort through the baby stuff, finally get rid of the wedding stuff, move out the donation stuff. But those boxes will stay.

One day, I suppose I might look back on this blog, at all these posts and feel the same way. I may even wonder, "Why did I write that? Why did I put all of that out there? Who will read this? What will they think?", just as I have with some of my poems and essays. After all, I spew all this out, close my eyes, hit publish, in the very same way I cranked out the pieces in those anthologies. One day, I may even be the mother warning, "Be careful, protect yourself, choose your words wisely." After all, I am far more measured as a mother than I am as a writer. We shall see. So much can happen, so much can change.

Those possibilities make it all the more important to hold on to the pages and poems from my past, to remember what it felt like to say exactly what it is I wanted to say, to let the words escape, to feel the freedom of not giving a fuck. To open up, let out.

For now, there is no embarrassment or hiding. But I also will not share or sell those anthologies. I will just let them be for a while longer, let them sit quietly in a dark corner, and let them be a reminder, a "Wow. You said that? Out loud?".

That is enough. That is a lot.

What made this all rise to the surface? This lovely poem by Arlyn Miller, featured on Literary Mama this month.

Three minutes (or a week) of real beauty

I love that this week is Fat Talk Free Week, an international campaign to bring activism and awareness to the damage the skinny ideal has on all of us, and particularly on women. I think it's more than good, it is critical, to set aside the fat-assery and self-deprication and be a part of a bigger cause to help girls and women live freer, richer, more authentic lives.

The interwoven issues of body image, eating disorders and the media representation of women have been at the center of academic, professional and personal lives for as long as I can remember. Still, I do not dare calculate the minutes, hours, painstaking time periods I've spent worrying about my size, stretch marks, and tiny details of my body. Nearly every woman I have ever roomed with had an active eating disorder. Almost every woman I have ever known has struggled with negative body image. Most of the parents I know worry about how they will raise their daughters and sons to be impervious -- or victorious -- in the ongoing challenges of being healthy and feeling good without anxiety, abuse, addiction, misperception, depression, and self-hatred. It's hard. What could we do if we harnessed all the energy that goes into pursuing unattainable and ridiculous ideals? I suppose that, with luck and commitment, this week we shall see.

I'm going to be a part of this campaign. And I am going to start by posting this video (via Guy Kawasaki -- thank you) of 500 years of portraits of women in less than three minutes. It is haunting and beautiful. It made me want to cry. And paint. And tell my grrrlfriends how beautiful they are. What I see here is mostly in the eyes, and I loved that. I loved focusing in right there.

In the interest of fueling creativity, passion, empowerment, a few minutes of some true beauty, please watch.

This one's for you, Gloria

Today, Women Employed is on a mission to honor the amazing women who have inspired us. I love this campaign. There is nothing about it that incites any guilt or sadness or despair that the world will never, ever change. It is all about gratitude and empowerment and recognizing our interconnectedness to each other. We need more of that.

The only challenge was to slow my thoughts that raced through the many women who have inspired me, the many women who have hoisted me up on their shoulders through their books or lectures or kind interactions. I could write post after post about bell hooks,.Judy Blume, Margaret Mead, Julia Kristeva, Helene Cixous, my sixth grade teacher Mrs. Markewycz. And then there is Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who called to me from the pages of a very boring textbook in my very first Women's Studies class, took hold of me and has never let go. There have been so many women who have stepped into my daily life, by happenchance or some lovely and divine meeting, and have said something brilliant or reminded me of the possibilities or shown me with their lives how I may want to live. My grandmothers and mother are at the top of that list. Ann Christophersen, one of the owners of Women and Children First, is on it as well. They are in good company with the director of my graduate school program, who saw a spark in me and demanded I turn it into a raging fire, and a kind elderly lady I visited from church, who sent me handwritten cards from two blocks away. There are so many women to honor and they each deserve much, much more than a sentence or small thank you sent out to the universe.

Today, though, I choose Gloria Steinem. It's not a surprise, not a stretch, but it is the choice and the woman who would not leave me. When I was a little girl, playing Barbies in my room and dreaming up ways to dress sexy, my mother used to joke that she feared Gloria Steinem would burst through the door,  at any time, see me and take away her feminist card. Still, I wore my Ms. magazine t-shirt to kindergarten even though that year I also agreed to be Aaron Bilton's stewardess when he grew up to be a pilot. I went on to strut my stuff in tight Calvin Kleins and Sergio Valentes  and fill notebooks with bride drawings, but knew early on I would always keep my own name and might just become a mom without having a man in my life. I can't remember a time when I didn't identify as a feminist, can't remember ever feeling like it was my responsibility to stand up alongside other women.

A lot of people and feelings and words and ideas grew that in me. But it was Gloria Steinem who first made it all make intellectual sense, when it went from being just a feeling about what was right or how I wanted to live my life to a purpose, a calling, an academic and professional pursuit.

I've read so many of Gloria Steinem's articles, books, and speeches that I could not narrow down just one quote that reached out to me the most. And what I've loved about every single thing she's written is that she just says it, she just puts it out there in an accessible and still analytical, intelligent and straightforward way. I can untie theory with the best of them and am happy to Venn Diagram complex arguments, but Gloria Steinem's words just make it all make even more sense. She speaks my language.

Gloria Steinem still resonates in every issue of Ms. that I get. She still whispers to me every morning from a magnet on my refrigerator that says, "The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off." And isn't that the damn truth?

She's been criticized for being too mainstream by some, and too radical by others. I don' t hear any of that. I just see Gloria Steinem, standing tall and majestic, clear and strong, leading generation after generation down the path to equity. I like that image, and I like to see myself in the crowd she's walking in. And I'm pretty sure all those other women who've inspired me, are there as well.

Who will you choose to honor in the Women Employed campaign to acknowledge amazing women? 

Be sure to Tweet your choice with @womenemployed and add it to your Facebook status update.

Another reminder that I am not blogging from the Oval Office

Why is this so darn cute when it comes to the President's kids and so freaking irritating when my own kid is crawling around near my desk when I am trying to finish up a work project?

Clearly, the Obama (and further back, the insanely adorable Kennedy) version of working from home has no translation for the Sassafam. That is, unless Sasha is squeaking out, "Please please please pleeeeeeeeeeeease can we we look at Star Wars stuff online? When can we look at Star Wars stuff on the compuuuuuuuter? Pleeeeeeeeeeease! Is it time yet? Is it time yet? Is it time to look at Star Wars stuff on the computer? Mommy! Mommy! Mommmmmmmyyyyy?!"

And then Barack gets all yelly and exasperated and says something that makes no parental sense like, "Seriously, dude! SERIOUSLY!"

Tonight at the dinner table, we talked about Prop 8

There were only a few minutes at a time today that I wasn't thinking about the same-sex marriage ban upheld by the California Supreme Court today. How could I not? Twitter and Facebook updates were explosive in response and I felt emotional all day to see how vigilant we must be to ensure that all people have the fundamental right to marry.

Then I wrote about it, knowing I would get the all-caps responses that I indeed got (and am getting). And wanting, in spite of the hate or ignorance or just ill-informedness or shelteredness that might be revealed in comments section, for the conversation to be opened.

After I picked up Lil E, we went over the details of other things present in our day -- how he ran to the sink to wash his hands in the bathroom, slipped, knocked his head pretty hard on the floor and had a goose-egg still swollen on his noggin;how the Spanish teacher wasn't there but really was there but by the time they realized she really was there, it was too late, and so they played on playground instead of having class today; how we would not be eating pizza on the floor in a picnic and would actually have to talk at the table together.

We did talk at the table. We shared our usual Four Things About My Day and the favorite parts of our day. He asks, as he usually does, what I'd been blogging about, and in the most age-appropriate language I could find, I told him.

We've discussed this all before. This time, I gave him the context of the November elections and the California Supreme Court review of the proposition. Then I asked him what he thought. I grew up having a valid voice over such issues at the kitchen table, and he has that, too. Even at four. Especially at four.

He listened. He made a pouty face. He shook his head. His eyebrows framed a wrinkled nose.

"What do you think?" I asked. [The whole convo after the jump.]

Before the divorceabration, there was all of this

This weekend, there was a big party that marked a fresh start for me. But before we get into all of that, I thought I would once (and this is it, and this time I mean it) provide some context. Here's the rundown:

In April 1972, I was born. Stop calculating. I'm on the downslope of my 30s.

At some point in 1975, I had my first big crush. His name was Antoine. We called him Twany. His killer afro has a role in many of my preschool memories.

In the fall of 1977, I sat on the circle painted on the floor in my kindergarten class next the boy I assured I would be the stewardess on the plane he was determined to pilot. It's all good -- I was wearing a hot pink Ms. magazine t-shirt.

During the school year of 1983, I went to a sock hop at school. With a boy as my sort of date. We were so nervous, we never did dance together.

In April 1986, I had my first real kiss. He had braces. It was thrilling and sloppy.

In October 1986, I went on my first real date. The boy was 6 good inches shorter than me. Really.

In April 1987, I went on my first date with an older boy. A senior. He spent all of his money on a cab getting to my house since my parents insisted on meeting him before we went out. My dad drove us to Water Tower Place to see a movie and I paid (he should have taken the train) and when I dropped popcorn on my itty bitties, he grabbed it and ate it and laughed. Later he kissed me (much better without braces) and asked me to prom. The prom thing never materialized. I went home both thrilled and mortified.

In November 1988, I went to an all-ages show and met the boy who would become my first real boyfriend. Swoon. I was in love. Big time. I laughed, I sighed, I made mix tapes. It was so good for a moment in time. Until...oh, you know how teen love turns out. [So much more after the jump.]

Did you see Matt and Maddy on Oprah?

I did. And it was so lovely to see him -- the unconventional dad -- celebrated. And who can resist the girl in the ladybug dress? Clearly, no one.

If you missed this chance to celebrate dads, here's a link to the clip on Matt and Maddy. Some people have questioned whether the dads featured on this show should have been lauded. It saddens me that those folks don't think there is enough space -- or time on TV or fresh ink on a page or posts on a blog -- to give to both single fathers and single mothers doing a great job raising children alone. I say this as a feminist mama who believes strongly that there is much work to do for women, and foremost mothers. And as a single mother with that code of values, I know my own son's dad could learn a lot about parenting, relating and accountability that Matt and the fathers featured on the show. Do single mothers get enough validation? No. But does that mean we can't take an hour to give credit to some outstanding single fathers out there? Of course not. That just makes me shake my head. (UPDATE: The post linked above has been taken down and replaced with this apology. Apologies are good, in my book.)

Instead of giving more energy to that, let's get back to the crabcakes, cupcakes and cute kids:

What made watching the show even more fun is that Matt and Maddy met Lil E and me for dinner when they were in town taping the show a few weeks ago. While Matt and I talked about blogging and our kids and Oprah (of course), Maddy ate and slept and played with her puff snacks. Lil E adored Maddy and asked about her for days after we said goodbye. He served as our personal papparazzo, snapping pics of the details for us to keep.

Our dinner with our Oprahfied friends -- mostly through Lil E's eyes -- after the jump.

Mama cranks up: Joan Armatrading...I mean, Carolina Liar

This morning on the way home from preschool drop-off and listening to the embarrassing morning show with the name I dare not mention lest I lose major cool points with all you kids reading, I heard a song that, at first, I swore was sung by a woman. A throaty, possibly androgynous woman, but a female vocalist nonetheless.

So, of course, thinking that, Joan Armatrading came to mind. Remember Joan Armatrading? If you ever took a Philosphical Tenets of the Gay and Lesbian Movement or Gender in Historical Fiction & Fashion Design class, I know you have. Seriously. Every feminist worth holding a Gloria Steinem card fucking LOVES Joan Armatrading.

This song, this acoustically and slightly amped up song that is juuuuuust this side of country/lite, reminded me of this Joan Armatrading CD I accidentally-on-purpose never returned to a fellow women studies student back in the grad school days when it was perfectly legit -- even RADICAL! -- to put the Dead, Jewel, Calobo, Bjork and Joan side by side in the old CD player. That CD is probably lodged in the middle of avery serious and highly academic text book chapter on how to Venn diagram inequitable gender-biased pay rates with release dates of from Britney Spears' discography. Thank the goddesses for YouTube, though, so you can listen and nod your head in agreement like a good little Indigo Girl.

First, these Carolina Liar chicks guys with long hair from Sweden (huh?...I read their blog and bios and can't tell if that is real or some kind of ha-ha band funny that's been overdone on a bus from Omaha to a suburb of Philly).

And now, the amazing, invincible, timelessly headbanded and frohawked Joan Armatrading for comparison.

And then, just because I've already gotten out my "Feminism is the radical notion women are people too" t-shirt, here's another dose of Joan.

Am I right? Are these gals one and the same?

Let me be your little Friday the 13th good luck charm

Today, life is happy and good. Although it's pretty tough to ignore the date, I'm choosing to rebel against all that silly symbology. This will be a lucky day, dammit.

And since I have your attention, how about tuning in to a few more shrilly things on my radar?

• Whachoutalkinbout, Willis? No, seriously. Is anything sacred? Is any monument exempt from corporate narcissism? Because I've got on my rebel boots today, I'm telling you I refuse to refer to this skyscraper any other way than I always have. Kind of like Comiskey. And Alpine Valley.

• Who cares about buildings when you've got this? And yes, I did earn a master's degree in Women Studies so I could rightfully own phrases like that one.

• Hello (Kitty), future. Maybe one day, I will meet a handsome man wearing these (hey, who doesn't love a guy in crazy manties?), seduce him with my purring ways, fall truly madly deeply, have another baby (hey, who doesn't love a fresh babe wrapped it crazy kitty blankets?) and live happily ever after. Shut up. It could happen.

• ...and then some kind of smart and quippy segue about horrifying Hello Kitties to one of our favorite bloggers, Bad Kitty. Yes, Bad Kitty, who gives quite possibly the best reality TV analysis ever written right here. 
  

Linkety Dinkety Doo: These things come in triplets

1. This thrills me. OK, so it's a little geeky thrill. But still, I can't help but delight in the idea that blogs could fuel more grassroots print media.

A quick back-story because one of my best friends, Molls, is in labor as I type and I'm feeling anxiously chatty: Once upon a time, I produced a 'zine with a grad school friend, a baby that was conceived over many clove cigarettes and 50-cent coffee refills at off-campus cafes in a small town in Oregon. When I read this article, it brought back wonderful and agonizing memories of creating ads in the computer lab, begging academic committees for grants and meticulously planning readings and receptions full of angst and exhilaration and exhaustion at producing an anthology from scratch paper sketches and a shared idea. My mother warned me that all of the carefully penned poems I self-published back then were to explicit and I'd get that once I had a child of my own. I scoffed with a radical feminist sneer and kept on selling copies for a dollar a piece. Now I have boxes and boxes of extras of each of the three editions we put out and every time I see them in my storage space, I cringe to think of explaining such works of literary genius and artistic expression as "The Fourth Time We Ever Did It" to my son. I'm not ashamed, just not amped to air all that dirty verse. All in good time, I guess. And no, I will not be submitting that one poem to any other printed publication, thank you.

2. A new namesake! And maybe because she so reminds me of the woman on the cover of that one Matthew Sweet album, I love her. (Need a recap of all the other Jessica Ashleys crowding up the internet? Here you go, loves.) How could you not love an all-blond (now) model who "loves colorful shoots"?

3. Until I can buy incredibly over-priced rocker onesies for Molls' baby (Lil E's convinced it is a boy and will come today, so hopefully that shopping spree will be tomorrow), why not buy shoes? Peep toe-wearing season seems a million years away (unless I would be crazy enough to risk losing those black cherry pedicured toes to frostbite, which I am...let's be honest, pretty sure...I am not). But wouldn't these retro-ish, pin-uppy lovelies be the perfect welcome to spring weather? They're so Sassafrass, they give me shivers. 

Novembers past

One year ago today, I wrote this post. I never thought that launching Project: Life Change with the wise and loving CityMama would mean so much for me personally. I thought it was about quitting one job in hopes of getting another. Instead, I waved farewell to one life and got another. I'm no longer sad about that and one of the reasons I am where I am these months later is the vulnerability, rawness and courage other women who signed on for Project: Life Change bared in their own blog posts and comments. Another reason is all the support that emerged from places I never expected, including the corners of these surprising, ever-changing interwebs.

Two years ago today, I wrote about the breaking news of Brit and KFed breaking it off. Good Lord! That was only two years ago? It seems like two comebacks, seventeen sets of extensions, two stints in rehab, a disaster of a custody case and one disgustingly over-worn pair of ripped fishnets ago. Do you think Barack Obama's going to reign Britney in as a priority item in his administration or that he'll just hand that manila folder on over to Joe Biden to handle? Hell, maybe he will toss it on over to Sarah Palin. Seems like her speaking career may have tanked this week along with her shot at the (inevitable) presidency, so she might just speak Brit's language, y'all.

The day before that national news overtook anything else clearly less important in the headlines, I took Lil E to the polls. There, he expressed his interest in voting multiple times. Interestingly, this week, he did just that -- once in the car with me and once in his preschool classroom. You've got to love a Chicago kid, learning to vote early (as in toddler, my friends) and often (as in as many times as it takes to avoid a political meltdown from a kid who really just needs another fishy cracker one-hitter).

And because the universe loves to bring us right around to where we began, I also posted that week about a winter two years before. I put up pictures of a couple that had just become a family and baby who is now a boy. There was a lot of love in that cold and drafty room and I am quite grateful that the three of us shared that time in our lives together.

I am also grateful to page back and find these words by David Whyte and this magnificence by Rumi. These years and all these happenings later, I still need to be reminded of what's written here.

We're with you on this: Write to Marry Day

The world I want my son to live in is a place where he can marry anyone he loves that much.

At one point, he was smitten with the lovely Claire who held his hand down the aisle as the flower girl to his ring bearer. Yesterday, he told me no matter how much the cute, curly-haired redhead with the infectious smile hugs him,  he is definitely done with girls and most likely will marry a boy so they can play bad guys and Batman and chase away the girls all day.  He's four. Next week, he will want to marry the dog from Martha Speaks. Regardless...and really, it is all regardless...I love the definitiveness in his voice. That gives me hope.

Whoever he grows up to be, whatever life he grows into, I want the choice of who stands beside him in front of a justice of the peace and God and his friends and our families to be his choice. And because I am getting divorced and he now has two homes and a preschooler's sensibility of what and who the ideal partner is, and because we go to a great church and quietly but still call ourselves Christian, I pray for this for him.

And for all of us.

Today, I am writing for Write to Marry Day, in support of every single person who once was a hopeful child and still carries that hope of marrying their same-sex partner.

I am not trying to get married and I am not voting on this issue. I am not a Californian. What I am is proud to join hundreds of other bloggers who believe in marriage equality and stand against California's Proposition 8. I'm with you, my friends.

Lil E and his band of merry betrothals and I are with you.

If you're not hearing what I have say, trust BadKitty. No really, she meows it soooo much better than I ever could.

Today is Love Your Body Day. And no, that doesn't include a discount to THAT online retailer.

Today is Love Your Body Day and as tempted as I am to celebrate that by calling up all the 20something men I know (oh wait, I no longer know any 20something men...DAMMIT) and asking them how they are going to love my body today, I guess I will just do the right feminist thing and (sigh) be good to my own bod.

I do have a list of blah-blah-badge of honor ways I will be boosting my body esteem today. But here are four fun ones I will share with you, grrrlfriend to grrrlfriend:

• I am dangerously close to swathing my body in this. I'm not quite ready for the season of wool layers, but damn!, it's so Mary Tyler Delicious. Loving my body means keeping it warm and buttoned up in a coat that fits my curves, my style and the weather. (My body, however, does not give a fuck about my budget.)

• I am finally booking a facial here with a gift certificate I got back in the 1970s. Loving my body means being OK with taking off my make-up and letting professionals work their magic on my nakey face. It also means accepting the kindness other women have offered me, whether that comes in a moisturizer or a gift card.

• I am choosing to crawl in bed early tonight, even though the boy will be with his dad and The Hills is waiting for me On Demand and there a thousand organizational projects calling to me under piles of clutter. Loving my body means resting it for more than five hours at a time.

• I am going to ask my boy to tell me what he loves about his body. And I know, I know, I know what he will certainly say. But I want to foster that gratitude in him too. Even if it means one more car ride conversation about AMAZING boy bits (sigh).

I adored Viva La Feminista's list of body-empowered ways of being today.

Now it's your turn to ignite the inspiration! What will you do to love yourself up?

Linkety Dinkety Doo: I haven't even gotten to Palin's shoes yet

Last week, during the Biden-Palin debate, I jokingly Twittered that I wished someone would please tell the Governor of Alaska to lay off the White Rain and Wet-n-Wild peach blush. I was kidding.

Sort of. But it is too easy to focus on Sarah Palin's appearance. While I'd like to do that in an ear-covering la la la, I can't hear what you're saying sort of way, I know it's not fair. It's not fair to focus on her make-up and up-do because what she is saying and what she stands for is so much scarier.

I want a woman in the White House, not just planning parties and hosting the holiday tours, but officially participating in the administration of this country (not unofficially as we all know many First Ladies have done). But I want a woman in office who is good for women. Sarah Palin isn't that woman.

This is only one of many, many reasons we're ardently, loudly, happily supporting Obama and Biden. In my fear of another eight years of Republican misogyny and in my attempts to downplay what is really on the line here -- reproductive justice, in particular -- I instead went right for the easy target.

Please, if you see me in Wal-Mart giving Sarah Palin a lecture on why should put back the Bonnie Bell tri-color eyeshadows already, just steer your cart past us. Instead, stop here, where much better stuff is being said on this election:

A Woman's Worth is written by author and blogger and single mother Goldie Taylor. I got this in an email forward from my mom's brigade of activist retired teachers and immediately went to the blog to read more. This post is worth reading and (yes, mom) definitely worth forwarding on.

The Repubs have mastered the art of co-opting feministing language for not-feminist agenda. Oh, and they've also gotten quite good at misquoting feminists as well. This one made me want to flood Sarah Palin's office with Starbucks cups printed with accurate quotes by activist women.

I want this t-shirt. Sometimes it just comes down to a simple tagline, right? A friend told me this week that she was going to download this on to postcards to pass out when election conversations inevitably turn into laments about how afraid we are. She said we need to keep the faith. And hey, I'll take almost any excuse to say, "Chill the fuck out, duder." (OK, I added duder...I can't resist that.)

This is also worth a laugh. And then some serious analysis on CNN or something. I mean, if you are lucid enough yet after Palin bingo. 

Lil E Explains: Who he's voting for

On the candidates: "I know I know I know! I know John McCain and Ohhh-bama are running for president. I knowwwwww, Mom."

On the issues: "Oh, so Oh-bama wants our war to end. He wants to talk it out just like we try to talk it out when we're mad. Does John McCain think fighting is good? Maybe they need a time out. Maybe they should try because talking is good. Right, Mommy? Right?!"

On the historical significance of having a Black president: "In preschool, we mixed paint to match our skin to make masks of ourselffffs. One girl has really dark skin. It's pretty...LIKE CHOCOLATE! Mine is like...what color? Oh yeah, like white, sort of. Like peachy or something. There's all colors at preschool. But mostly white, sort of. But we're all our own color. Why is my skin mostly white again?"

On Lil E's official Decision 2008: "John McCain does not believe what we believe. I'm voting for Oh-bama, Mommy. I am. I AM! I AM VOTING FOR HIM!"

On what it all comes down to for the kid (call it preschool policy): "Oh-rock Oh-bama is really special."

Agreed, darlin'. Agreed.

In my head, the punchline's always dirty (I can't help it, blame my mother)

All this talk about wearing the Pearls of Believability made me remember a lovely little gift the Almost-Ex gave me on the day I defended my thesis.

He gave me a string of beautiful, black pearls with matching earrings. It was so thoughtful and kind.

But as I look back on it, the gift makes me laugh. Not because we're undoing all this. Not because it's in a drawer with lots of other pretty stuff I am pretty sure I will never wear again. Not because the last gift he gave me was a...umm, what was that? Oh yeah, a card.

It makes me laugh looking back on that because he gave me a pearl necklace. For getting a degree in Women Studies.

A pearl necklace, people. For a degree in being an ass-kicking, empowered, independent woman.

Let that sink in a bit. And when the irony strikes you, come on back and I'll pour you a nice gimlet and we'll laugh a little bit more about it together. Maybe even make a plan for how this single mama's going to get her a double-strand next time.

Guess what? Grrrl power isn't hurting our boys. So what is?

Let us go back to the days of combat boots and a newly-pierced belly, of protests and grassroots activism and smoking clove cigarettes while producing a 'zine that spilled out all the secrets and desires and soul-borne poetry that wrapped around a thesis and papers and so much reading and highlighting and scribbling notes in the margins that the text itself became illegible. Yes, those were (as you know by now all too well) the grad school days.

Perhaps these days have been on my mind because I've been speaking to Lulu a lot about what she's been talking about in her off-hours. Regardless, I was reminded this morning over coffee and reading the news on my laptop how many times I (and we in our dusty little office in the corner of the Language Arts building where we could reasonably be ignored of our blaring Ani DiFranco and laughing over the frustration of committee meetings with the president of the college or dean of whatever) entertained this question:

"Women Studies?! Well, where's the Men's Studies?"

To which, we (in our infinite wisdom and indelible snark before snark was even in our collective lexicon...oh the olden days) delighted in replying:

"Oh, that's the rest of the college."

Yes yes yes, you've heard it (and probably here) a thousand times. It is just so freaking true. And I was puzzled every single time I  fired off that reply how the addition of one area of study could threaten so many people. No one was arguing when agriculture or Russian history or entomology were adopted into other departments. Was I so wrapped up in my Sharpies and posterboards that I didn't hear western civ people or anthropologists or pursuers of paleophytology studies all defensive and worried about the students waving around dried cicada shells and combine parts?

I brushed it off to being Oregon -- home to the crunchiest and most conservative people I've ever met, all in one big, beautiful, tofu-and-jello-mold potluck of a state.

The crazy thing is, that theme, that question, that strange and competitive and threatened defensiveness has also made its home at my table right here in Chicago. The topic is back to boys and girls but the conversation is around parenting and our kids and who will get or be or inherit what.

My friend Charlene and I had our own conversation about this yesterday. It was a quiet IM talk about how frustrating it is to hear people stereotype boys and their abilities or inadequacies as verbal, sensitive, intuitive people in their early years. As mothers of boys, our sensitivity is heightened. We don't want our kids pigeon-holed.

We talked about how many times, at the sandbox or some kiddie party, other parents have spouted off about how boys don't have the verbal skills/emotional intelligence/relationships/sensitivity/whatever that girls have. Could there be big, sweeping truth to those statements? Sure. Sometimes. But not every time.

And even if it is, we agreed we don't want our boys to hear that, to fulfill that pigeon-holed prophecy of who they are or should be or could be.

It makes me anxious because it always feels like to me that there are only so many words to be doled out among preschoolers, so many kids who walk early or sleep through the night first, only a few open slots for nurturing children in the playgroup. That is, of course, not the reality, but the air is thick with that competitive spirit. Or at least with the need to snatch it up for your own kid to have or live up to in this time of their life.

As I read this wonderful and affirming article about all that feminism has brought for girls and women and how that has not, studies are showing, detracting or subtracting anything from boys, I felt like my worlds of empowering women and raising a boy were coming together.

I am all about working for a world of equity, for lifting up girls in the areas where they have been ignored and neglected. I am a feminist and always have been and always will be, long before the combat boot grad school days and long after my son is out in the world on his own. But I also don't think we have to scramble for space as we dissect and redivide what is doled out to the genders.

We are still incredibly male-centered in many aspects of our culture and collective conversation. We have an opportunity to change that (with Women Studies among many other radical and liberal activisms) as we sit around the sandbox, comparing notes and creating space for our kids to be who our kids are. That, to me, means not assigning what is male or female or inside the little box someone else decided long ago they need to be in because of the way they were born. I'm also not going to teach my boy that by being pro-grrrl power, there is somehow less for him or that he isn't as this or as that because he's a boy or who he inherently is.

My boy happens to be verbal and sensitive and nurturing. He also loves cars and trucks and dinosaurs and t-ball. He often wears my necklaces and he inevitably has a scrape on his knee and bruise on his shin. Where he falls among the girl and boy characteristics, I could care less.

That conversation is for the rest of the preschool. 

Or college. Or other part of the park. Over here, we're listening to Ani DiFranco, talking about stegosaurus scales and making some sweet protest signs with our friends.

A new word in the boy's vocabulary: Commando

As if all this and this talk wasn't enough, this weekend I introduced Lil E to a very important component of, if not healthy, then happy living.

Yes, it was about the joys of being undie-free. Of course, he is a kid and a boy and he has long known the joys of running through the house nakey, waving some parts and jiggling others and planting others on my parents' leather couch. Of course.

And of course, I've pulled off a sweaty overnight Pull-Up and replaced jammies bottoms or comfy pants without Lightning McQueen or Elmo or blue dinosaurs or red cement trucks plastered across the cotton plastered across his nether-regions.

But this weekend, as I slid the purple fleece pants over his little nakey bum before breakfast and morning shows and making soy butter and jelly sandwiches, I whispered a secret of undie-defiance to him.

"Do you know what it's called when you don't wear underwear?" I asked quietly.

Grrrlfriends, raunch and delicious dilemmas: Just another Thursday morn

Just got a call from Lulu, my dear friend from the days of Women Studies graduate school yore. My friend who was forever on a miso soup and scotch detox diet and had this crazy/strangely compelling idea of (this is the point when all relatives must look away, at least until the third paragraph) fashioning a vibrator to a suction cup and then attaching it to a pedal-operated trash can to really...ummm...well, you get the picture (and I know you have a picture). How could I not love her?

Three. Six.

Today, as my friends on Facebook know due to the strange genius and assumed intimacies of auto-alerts and as my so-not-accepting applications real friends know because they are my real friends who have stuck around and stood beside me through many years or even just these last transforming months, it is my birthday.

I'm like a six-year old when it comes to my birthday. I want balloons and cakes and of course, tiaras. I want a party, even if it is a drink or two at a bar with my grrrls, and I want to spend the day lounging and singing and doing whatever I want to do just because it's my birthday.

I clearly remember feeling this way when I turned six, leaping from my bed in an excited re-enactment of the cartoon girl on Sesame Street I'd wistfully seen a thousand times, singing, "I'm six! I'm six! I'm six years old today!" I was so happy it was finally my turn to sing that song.  Silly and sweet as it was, every year I think of that, feel that birthday bliss, and every year I find myself singing it in a quiet whisper to myself or through smiles with my mom who also remembers, no matter what number my age actually registers.

This year, I am thirty years beyond that bed-leaping morning. I am officially on the other side of mid-thirties and am not, as I have not for several years now, happy about the number I see before me. But here I am.

We've been talking about this number around the house a lot lately, not just because I am giddy at the celebration part of the day but because my boy is too. Last night, he said I was lucky because I'd get to spend my day playing with balloons and he couldn't wait to wake up early to start celebrating with me. I sighed at the sweetness and simplicity of it all. Homemade cake and candles and embracing that number like it's...well, six.

He asked me how old I was, or rather, what my number is and I threw the question back at him like all mommies say they will not but eventually do to avoid the age answer.

"88?" he asked seriously, looking into my eyes from only inches away.