Everybody wants to be a witch. Well, every woman.
Oh come on, you with the 75 bottles of essential oil in your kitchen drawers. Don’t even try to argue with me.
This is how I know, if you were curious. The essential oil phenomenon is a dead giveaway. Those MLM companies packaged it brilliantly — just a few drops of “natural healing,” a teaspoon of “aromatherapy,” and a dash of “energetic properties,” and voila, you’ve awakened a deep, primal instinct in women.
This is what we do. This is who we are.
It doesn’t matter what ethnicity you are — once upon a time ago, we all lived in tribal cultures, living off the land. We relied on the plant world for food and medicine. …
When I was a young girl, I assumed dating would be easy. You’d see someone from across a room, your eyes would lock, and sparks would fly. I thought this might happen a few times in my life — I didn’t expect to meet a forever match the first time like most of my friends did. (And frankly, I wanted to sample the goods before I locked myself in.) But surely, it would be easy, right?
What turned out to be easy was sexual attraction. Everything else was hard (no pun intended).
There were all kinds of reasons for this, but ultimately, my biggest problem was that I was never taught about consent. On the contrary, I was taught very dangerous ideas about sex. …
It seems strange to remember this time last year. There were two new babies in our family — little Alex, my sister’s sixth child, who was 8 months old, and sweet Mabel, my brother’s baby who was only 2 months old. I remember how excited I was to have the whole family together with these new additions and how it was going to be noisy and rambunctious and exhausting, just like the huge family parties we used to have at my grandfather’s house when I was a little girl.
My brother arrived first, and proudly put Mabel in my arms. I feel horrible saying this, but as happy as I am to hold any baby at any time, I’m not actually a huge fan of newborns. I’m an aunt who has been through that stage eight times now, so the novelty has worn off. …
When I was a little girl, one of my favorite words was “gypped.” I loved the way Hayley Mills said it in The Parent Trap — it had such a strong ring to it. So I imitated her, dropping this word whenever I felt someone had done me wrong.
As a teenager, I discovered that “gypped” was an ethnic slur. The “gyp” was referring to gypsies, and the term had come about to frame them as untrustworthy people. I was horrified that I’d been using this word so capriciously and immediately had a talk with my younger siblings about it.
“We have to stop using this word,” I told them. …
Have you ever noticed, when you’ve been single for a while, how sometimes you’ll have night after night of dreams in which you meet someone new? You wake up so happy those first few nights and then… A few days in, these beautiful dreams that are so different from the solitary life you lead make your heart ache. It’s bittersweet to the point of pain.
Lately, several friends have confided in me that this has been happening to them. Winter in a pandemic when you’re single is rough. There are a lot of cold-ass nights in cold-ass beds awaiting us.
I always wanted to be a runner. I grew up in Los Angeles, where there were a lot of runners in their tiny, 80s short-shorts and sweatbands. They looked so powerful and elegant.
One of the most exciting moments of my young life was sitting out one night with all the neighbors at the side of the road and watching an Olympian run by with the torch just before the 1984 Los Angeles Olympic games began. I still remember that figure flying by us so elegantly, torch held high, hardly breaking a sweat.
I wanna be like that, I thought.
But even as a child, I had issues with running. …
In the summer of 2019, I did something unthinkable: I started posting nude photographs on Instagram. Not pornographic, mind you. (Though who defines that?) And not particularly revealing, for that matter. My naked back featured in most of them, my naked arms, a little flash of my naked rear end in one of them, and side boob (no nipple) in others.
I was shocked when these were removed from my account. They weren’t the slightest bit sexual (in my opinion) and were images that were very important in my journey to make peace with my body.
In one, I’m defiantly showing off my underarm hair, something that scared the crap out of me to make public. In another, I’m curled up in a ball, expressing the love and trepidation I was feeling for and in my body as I was, for the very first time, starting to see myself as a sexual being after my ex left me for a younger woman. And in another, I was standing at a window, topless (nothing visible but my back and side boob), a symbolic image of my willingness to bear my heart and sexuality to the world again after hiding away for such a long time. …
What will I say to you, future lover, about tomorrow? Did we talk about this beforehand? I’ve tried that. And I’ve tried jumping straight into bed. I can’t say that either path was particularly successful, so who knows what I’ll do when we meet.
If you want to talk, great, let’s talk. The old “What does this mean?” conversation. The “Will this experience change things for us?” talk.
I don’t really care, one way or the other. I don’t have any expectation that you will call me tomorrow. …