Eclipse

Breathing your essence, 

Missing your presence, 

Longing for our reunion soon. 

You are quintessence, 

Deeply luminescent, 

Both my shining sun and deepest moon.

Thoughts on Toothbrushes

 

Thoughts on Toothbrushes

The first batch of toothbrushes, toothpicks, dental floss, mini sample toothpastes, mouth washes, whiteners, you name it, that I cleaned out from my husband's house before we lived together was staggering. I trucked this load to our neighbors down the street who were doing relief work for earthquake survivors in Haiti. 

The next batch of said dental paraphernalia built up quickly over the next few years. I'm talking about dozens of flossers, glossers, gels, etc. I walked over to what looks like a little free library, but instead it is a free food pantry. The friendly message says "Leave what you can, take what you need." I thought if you're eating food you want to take care of your teeth, so this would be an appropriate place to share these particular gems.

This Land is Her Land

I owned and operated the Herland Book Cafe from 1993-2004. Enjoy this little documentary!

Fountain Street

In the sweaty June of 1986, after my first year at Wesleyan. I decided to spend the summer in Middletown, Connecticut. After yet another fight with my dad -a deadly combination of hormones, blossoming feminism, and current politics - mostly it was about money, and I wanted to prove to be independent.

Rent was a mere sixty dollars a month, which I had finagled through University housing. I lived with my former RA and my best friend. Her boyfriend was a constant feature, and the one who dubbed me, "The Macaroni and Cheese Queen." My boyfriend at the time was doing house painting with CollegePro and was crashing various floors unless I rescued him in my trusty Honda.

I scored a second job in short order as a cashier/deli girl at Sunshine Farms ($3.50 an hour plus tips), which was only four doors away from our house on Fountain Street. I would wake up fifteen minutes before my 6:30 am shift, pop in contacts, brush teeth, maybe hair, throw on t-shirt and jeans, and show up in time to make coffee for all of the summer construction crew. I also continued to do nude modelling for art classes, for a lofty five dollars an hour. The only time I felt ashamed or embarrassed was when those same workers walked by the studio when the blinds were not drawn, and I was clearly that nice girl who sold them lottery tickets every morning. Or so I imagined.

That summer, and quite a few times since, mostly I ate macaroni and cheese. There was a nominal employee discount, so a stick of butter, a lunchtime carton of milk, and the blue and white Kraft box with the perky yellow lettering, added up to all of 50 cents or so per serving.

I would start, of course, by boiling water with a little salt for the noodles. Meanwhile, I'd slice my butter into thin pats for easier melting. Once the noodles were done, tossed into the colander to lazily drain into the sink, I'd get to work - Popping the pads of butter to melt in the still hot noodle pan, ripping open the foil pouch to reveal the magic orange powder, whisking it in a fury with the now gently bubbling salty goodness, plus quite a heavy sprinkle of black pepper (which I'd always hated as a kid, when did my taste buds change? Die?) This created a roux that would make Julia Child's eyes roll to the back of her head. Next, folded in the tender noodles. Last, put one oven mitt on top, one on the bottom, then, stuffed the whole thing into my favorite canvas book bag.

I'd head on over to Olin library, flashing my student ID, jaunting downstairs to where my best friend had her job in the reserve room. She would have put up the ``out to lunch" sign, a bummer for the poor students taking summer classes trying to find their particular professor's particularly obscure articles.

We'd hide deep in the stacks, sitting cross-legged with the pot of macaroni and cheese between us, forks in hand, gossip filling us more than the carbs. I can still remember the taste of cheddar cheese, pepper, and that little spice that tingled our lips.

Thoughts on Hair

The most radical thing I have ever done was cut my hair. When I was a kid, my hair was sparse, thin,cut short like a boys. Often I was mistaken for one since I wore jeans and t-shirts instead of dresses. 

I always wanted long hair. My mother had hers down to her waist, as did both of my babysitters. This was in the early ages of Disney,  and all the princesses had long hair, long blonde hair. I remember crying at Woolworth's because the only princess mask was Cinderella and she had blonde hair when mine was brown. 

My hair finally started to grow in elementary school. This started long fights with my mother, fights with the tangles, let alone finding a freaking hair conditioner when we moved to Europe, our chant, “First the brush, then the comb, then the rubber band.” It became a constant chore. I would keep it contained in one or two braids. By the time I was in high school I could sit on it. I never got it cut. Occasionally my mother would trim the split ends. It was only in my 20's that I finally cut bangs. 

When I was fifteen, I went back to Europe to visit Julia. In London, I stopped at a hairdresser's to chop off my long locks. It was the early 80's and I was ready to pink out. The stylist convinced me I just needed coloring. Four painful hours later, my hair shoved through this bathing cap of tiny holes poke through with an embroidery needle to so that I had bleached highlights streaks in my hair was one of the most excruciating experiences of my life. Let alone the most expensive. After that  died my hair myself, I adding blonde streaks or stripes of black dye leftover from my brother's particular embellishments, and now and then a nice bright henna red. 

 

During my first marriage, things got a little bit rocky and I remember thinking,  if we broke up, what would I do? I knew instantly I would cut my hair and do a ritual with it. I became the butch babe I was always attracted to.

In 1994, At the American Booksellers Association convention in Los Angeles, I went to my brother's hairdresser, as my hairdresser was much too invested and literally would not chop off my hair. I made a thick braid which was deftly sliced off. That rope of hair lived above my altar for over a decade. One day I decided that as my hair contains my history, I should allow it to be free. I went down to Lighthouse Field and released the strands into the breeze so the birds could make their nests.

After the ABA, I walked into Herland and gave my wife a big hug from behind. She turned and put her hands on my head, stepped back, and said, "I thought you could never surprise me."

It served me well this butch cut. A classic flat top, a touch of  gel, I looked like a little spiky hedgehog. Being the queen Amazon at the lesbian bookstore, I needed to be tough, a warrior. Everyday I was baited by random men who had nothing to do but try to argue politics.

After Herland closed in 2004, I grew out my hair. I wanted to be the priestess with long hair again rather than the warrior. I exchanged my contact lenses for prescription glasses, bought a plethora of long flowy skirts and tunic tops, covered my tattoos and worked hard to embody the archetype of the healer.

Much too my surprise, my hair grew out thick and wave, when it has always been flat and straight. I keep it about shoulder length, my hairdresser, who really is my therapist and has known me for thirty years. She cuts layers upon layers to free me from the weight on my neck and still frame my face. She always cuts my bangs too long, but I love her anyways. I decided to stop dying my hair because of the amount of chemicals on my head, and switched back to using natural henna in a deep burgundy.

I walked over to my local coffee shop and ran into an old friend, who said, "Oh, you look so different!"

And I thought, yes, because I am not the same.

Transformation is a Way of Life, Not a Moment in Time

Clementine

Clementine 

The rind is firm, cool to the touch, and fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. I noticed the little pores are darker orange than the rest, the star-shaped green center where once it had been plucked from some faraway tree. There are small imperfections, soft white mottling. It has a shiny, almost greasy look. There's no smell until I dig my fingernails into the skin, releasing the essential oils as I leave little waxing moon craters on the rind.

 

Once we all began peeling, I could hear the rinds being separated from flesh. I took the time to peel mine in a lazy spiral, pulling off the long white strings. Now I can smell the fruit, different from the oily skin. I feel my mouth begin to water and I think about using zest versus juice and cooking or baking.

 

I'm reminded of living in Luxembourg during elementary school when we belonged to a fruit of the month club. Kiwis, grapes, and once a case of tangerines from the Canary Islands. Antonio ate so many that he got sick. Now as far as citrus goes, I rarely drink orange juice but occasionally I'll pick up a bag of cuties at Trader Joe's.