There\’s nothing inherently wrong with reading celebrity gossip magazines. If you can do it in moderation, I applaud you (and please let me know if Lindsay Lohan\’s dad ever gets his act together). In my case, however, I was a problem reader and I had to put the magazines down.
I\’ll never play the violin in high heels again. OK, I\’ll be back in sticks in six weeks, and I never played the fiddle. But I did play an important game of volleyball.
As I watched our friends pin pale purple orchids to each other\’s lapels, sadness and outrage mingled with the happy excitement I had been feeling all afternoon. This was a bold, historic time in San Francisco and hundreds of city employees and volunteers were working themselves weary to make it happen.
\”Girl Culture\” began while Lauren Greenfield was perusing pictures she had shot in Las Vegas for a German magazine. She kept returning to an image of a 30ish showgirl primping at her dressing table at the Stardust Hotel. Taped to her mirror were magazine cutouts of models and a note, \”I approve of myself\”; the surrounding area was cluttered with the beauty tools Greenfield first encountered at sleepaway camp. The photographer suddenly realized she had something in common with the showgirl.
I\’m sorry I haven\’t eaten more hot dogs.
Saturday is Selichot, the time when the whole Jewish world sings with Connie Francis, \”I\’m sorry,\” and vows to do better next time. Many of us are focused on the wrongs we\’ve done to others, or even to God.
I\’ve been reconsidering what the 1973 schmaltz-filled classic, "The Way We Were," means to younger women.
One glorious sunny day, my girlfriend "C" and I share a seaside restaurant table with a married couple, call them Harry and Sylvia.
I\’ll be 54 this weekend. Not for me the modesty of hidden age. I\’ll take my years, gladly, as I\’m given them.
I haven\’t had a speaking voice in more than a month. I whisper, a frog croaking through the bulrushes.
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