Whose Body Is It, Anyway?

Angelia — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 08:43:54 -0400

Oprah Winfrey, that icon of women’s power and success, wears shoes so torturously constructed with narrow toe boxes and four-inch heels, that she can barely stand up in them. She laughs about how uncomfortable they are and jokes that they are “her sitting shoes.” She puts them on at the beginning of her show, and then remains seated for as long as possible. Her clothing, while expensive and attractive, looks remarkably uncomfortable. She’s tightly packed in and pushed up, her bountiful breasts presented to the camera like an offering. I can imagine her wiggling

Got Community?

Angelia — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 09:00:00 -0400

I gave birth to our son last year when my husband and I were living in Germany. For two weeks we had a blissful time learning to parent, eating my mother’s home-cooked meals and visiting with excited friends. Then my parents left, my husband returned to work and our friends stopped dropping by. I was alone with our son – very alone. We lived in a farming village surrounded by woods, cabbage fields and neighbors who felt that a nod and a grunt constituted conversation. My job had been in the city, 40 minutes away, where all our friends lived

Cover Your Head

mlalonde — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 12:19:00 -0400

I heard recently that the hijab is becoming a fashion statement in Jordan. Traditionally a symbol of female modesty and method of shielding women from the eyes of men, the Muslim head scarf is now a way that some women express their fashion sense.

The Original Feminist

mlalonde — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 12:08:21 -0400

My grandmother’s hands skim swiftly in midair as if she’s pulling a thread and needle through a giant quilt. She performs better than any mime, making movements as if arranging swaths of fabric on her lap. She mutters to herself. Sometimes she licks her fingers and squints at her empty hands, trying to thread an invisible needle, “Honey, could you thread this for me? I can’t quite see it.”

The Overall Effect

mlalonde — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 22:33:05 -0400

Destiny often hangs on the slimmest thread, or sometimes the sturdiest. Like the threads I wore on my one and only date with the hunk of all hunks, Will White.

A Model Feminist?

mlalonde — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 22:19:52 -0400

I don’t recall when I first considered myself a feminist, but the philosophy was embedded in my 1970s milieu. I grew up in Fargo, North Dakota, with Ms. magazine and a mother who gave me a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird at age eleven in an attempt to lure me from the clutches of Cosmo. I was born into “Free to Be!” “That Girl!” “Mary Tyler Moore!” “Maude!”—and I reflected those cultural messages. I wrote letters to the editor of the newspaper in support of abortion rights at age thirteen. My father taught me how to throw a punch without breaking my thumb.

The Thinking Girl's Thong

mlalonde — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 22:11:52 -0400

Look, Mom.” My 13-year-old daughter’s eyes shone with a sort of mischief as she called me in from the hallway. I stood in her doorway and watched as she opened her top drawer and proceeded to hold up the teeniest, tiniest thong I’d ever seen. Momentarily halted (“DON’T TASE ME, BRO!”), I just blinked. I’m assuming my face froze unnaturally (or maybe I just dropped the laundry basket, I can’t remember) because she added quickly, “Don’t worry, I got it on sale.” Good God. How was my head supposed to explode off my neck when she was following my cardinal rule?

Real Women Play the Tuba

mlalonde — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 22:03:23 -0400

When I was in the sixth grade, as soon as I was eligible, I joined the band.

Girls played flute and clarinet, and boys played trombone and trumpet in those ancient days, long before sliced bread or ballpoint pens were invented and back when Chicken Pot Pies were New! As Seen on TV! Freeing Moms Everywhere from the Drudgery of Cookery!

Blue Tutu

mlalonde — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 21:38:48 -0400

When I drop my daughter off at kindergarten in the mornings, I have noticed that Bailey’s mother triggers my sense of superiority. I looked twice when Bailey’s mother let her wear the red velvet dress with the dirty pink cowboy boots on PE day. I sighed when Bailey lined up behind my daughter wearing a furry purple hat with leopard-print trim paired with a floral skirt; the stems of her little legs slipped into red-and-white striped tights. I smirked when her mother decided it was okay to let her child come to school with a wild swarm of butterfl y clips in her tangled auburn tresses.

Nourish Me

mlalonde — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 21:25:16 -0400

Maggie and I met when we were both in our early twenties, and once she’d broken up with my brother, we got to be close friends. We spent hours exchanging confidences in cafés or hiking by the shoreline collecting shells; occasionally we’d change out of blue jeans and drive into the city, where we were certain to have escapades of one sort or another. Once, decked out in miniskirts and t-shirts, we accepted an impromptu dinner invitation from two handsome older men we met in a bar, and ended up at the most expensive restaurant either of us had ever seen.