The thing about time is that it moves on, even if you aren’t ready to. My father died last week. While I remain stuck, trying to grasp that fact, the days keep passing. I still hadn’t processed the statement “My father died today” or “My father died yesterday” before the clock had rendered them obsolete.…
The question, after the election of Trump and his appointment of White Supremacists who are gleefully endorsed by the KKK is, simply, Now what? This is a difficult question to answer if you’re an artist (and I use the term very, very loosely, and sometimes precede it with “sandwich,” so that it applies to me).…
On Monday, I wrote about an incident that happened to me on a recent international flight. A passenger became verbally abusive and physically intimidating because I reclined my seat. It terrified me, and the flight crew moved us, after the guy made it clear that if I reclined my seat again he would not stop tormenting…
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…
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…
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…
Last week, a dear friend of mine from childhood texted me to let me know that her mother had died. I’d known her – and, by extension, her mother – since I was in the third grade. During our awkward, formative years my friend and I and a cadre of other girls (equally nerdy and well-behaved, for the most…
When you are my age, everyone starts caring about your uterus. Not in a fun way, where they send it text messages or memes featuring shirtless Jeff Goldblum circa Jurassic Park, but in a very critical, “what the fuck is wrong with your downstairs human factory and, by extension, you” kind of way. Because if…
I don’t like horror movies. I think it’s because I don’t find violence or death to be that entertaining. I’m not trying to be holier-than-thou – I just really, really dislike being scared. It’s probably because I’m scared all the time, anyway (it’s a byproduct of my anxiety. Basically, any time I’m alone and anything…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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