I love collage. I have no talent in the making of them, but I love them nonetheless. Special appreciation, too, when they reflect a person's identity. Who they are at their core. This bulletin board hangs in my office and I'm not sure there's anything in my house that reflects Carol more. Ok, maybe . . .
I distinctly remember my 20-year-old future husband's first words to me. They were in a bar near Syracuse University, where we both went to school. I walked by and there he was, sitting on a bar stool with a beer surrounded by his fraternity brothers. "Nice ass!" he said. I distinctly remember . . .
The other day girlfriend told me that her nursing aide referred to her "flower." Which apparently isn't that uncommon--it's an endearing term for vagina that was new to US. After the predictable hilarity ("I must prune my flower. Or water it. Trim it." Just fill in the blank and know we laughed . . .
I love drag queens. What I like about them is that they are unabashedly fabulous. Sequinned gowns, big hair, dramatic make-up--they embrace their fabulosity confidently, with all they've got. They know how to be fabulous. How do I know this? I used to spend a lot of time in the drag world, among . . .
One of our friends is famous. Oh, you won't know his name, but if you worked in the highly esoteric field in which he works, you would. He is known for his huge brain and accomplisments in a field in which I am clueless. Then again, I can barely do long division and sometimes fail the simple . . .
It's insidious, low self-esteem. And pervasive among women. Despite all that we do at home and at work, despite our many accomplishments, many of us still don't think we're "enough." I don't know why that is. Could it be the images of female perfection we see in media every day? Those images . . .
