There was a day, before The Pleasure Revolution.
An ordinary “plain old, plain old” before the Womanly Arts.
When I had been working at my “bridge job” for about 10 years too long. You know a bridge job. It’s that job you take that you don’t really invest yourself in, because your plan is not to stay there very long, because your plan is to move on to bigger or better things, but you kind of find yourself not moving on to bigger or better things for a really, really, really long time.
It was a very long bridge, this bridge.
And, basically, it went nowhere.
Nowhere that I wanted to be.
July 2012
Stand back, sister.
Yo’ Mama is sounding the alarm and coming at you with guns blazing.
We are living in a state of GLOBAL IGNORANCE that has gone on waaaaay too long. Women are not taught how to get what we want. Yup. Not taught. Dontcha just feel, sometimes, like you are swinging at the Piñata of Life with a feather, rather than a razor sharp machete, which is designed to pop open all the goodies that you long for that are just out of reach?
I want you to have new tools, new science, and outstanding support to push you to the next level to make more money, to get more honest with your man (or find a good man in the first place), or lose those extra pounds you want to lose.
I know you want these things. And tickling them with a feather, rather than getting down with the machete you have been searching for, will never get you there. continue reading…
After two days of sanding, plastering, and painting modest classrooms and offices in the Kaloleni School in Tanzania, I needed a break.
I wandered over to the kitchen that we were in the process of rebuilding, and watched with pride as the kids and parents unloaded a truck full of 40-pound cinderblocks, to construct the walls. I headed to the entrance, where another gang of kids and parents were pouring cement into a wooden frame to prepare for the installation of the new iron gate. We were working at Kaloleni for five days, helping to improve the school, which serves 850 children. continue reading…
So, a few weekends ago I was indulging my passion.
I was riding a big grey thoroughbred, named Casper.
Now, I love this horse. He is huge, gentle, and used to be on the racetrack. He even has his racing number tattooed on his inner lip. Casper and I have a long, meaningful relationship. Last summer I was by his side for hours and hours while he weathered an attack of colic. It was a life or death struggle for many hours, and I stayed with him as my riding teacher showed me how to take care of a horse in distress.
