I have a confession. My husband, Rand, is more fashionable than me. This is contrary to everything that movies and television have taught me, where the female sex is supposed to be stylish, and men can run around looking like they’re in the middle of washing their car. Behold. But that’s not the case with…
The proprietor stands behind the counter, eyeing us warily. “How many do you want?” he asks. Lisa and I look at each other. “Maybe twenty?” she offers tentatively.
Yesterday, I left the house without kissing him goodbye. I thought I might wake him if I did that, and I wanted him to sleep, and to delay the moment when he got up and saw the news and wondered what the hell was wrong with us and our country and laws. So…
Dear … um … Crap. I’ll be honest, I didn’t catch your name as it was shouted over your headset. Tamblynn? Is that even a real name? Or just a dehydration-induced hallucination? (And who I am to judge? Geraldine. My name is Geraldine. Thanks a lot, mom. I hope honoring your sister who died in infancy…
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, that was well-trodden and safer and less likely to be the stomping ground of rabid raccoons. Sometimes I think Robert Frost was an idiot. And then I realize that no, it’s just people misinterpreting his words. His most famous poem…
“Dear god,” I told him when I saw the photo. “I look positively predatory.” Rand laughed. “You do,” he agreed. “You look like you are hunting me.”
Rand has to be the grown-up most of the time. This is largely my fault. Last night he was trying to come up with dinner ideas and I suggested raw cookie dough (note: I didn’t suggest it as the main dish. I’m not totally irresponsible. I just suggested it as a side, instead of vegetables).…
There is this idea that keeps coming up in the travel writing community, that quitting your job to travel the world is a profoundly brave thing. You aren’t settling for life in a soulless cubicle. You are grabbing life by the pubic hairs and screaming the guttural war cry that Neanderthals uttered before they went…
Rand knows how much I hate change. He teases me about it, saying I’m the only die-hard liberal who gets angry when she has to alter her routine. “I don’t hate progress,” I explain. I am excited by advancements in feminism and LGBTQ rights and Harriet Tubman on the $20 bill. But I will rage…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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