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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
The quickest way to turn invisible in an instant is to tell a covey of catholic soccer moms that you are writing a book about “Feminist Stay-at-Home Mothers.”
My mother was a feminist, but she’d be shocked, simply shocked by these forward women nowadays who think it’s okay to demand that a guy they hardly know send them pictures of his tools over the ‘net.
When my brother and I were children, I loved Hot Wheels race cars every bit as much as he did; thirty years later, Mattel offers my daughter a race track just for girls, but the cars are all pastel, and they run on a pink race track straight to ... a shopping mall.
I have no idea if feminists still reject marriage as an oppressive male dominated institution but Susan is one feminist who I would marry and, were it biologically possible, I would have her babies!
It’s all well and good to applaud my independent lifestyle until the lightbulb in the kitchen goes out, which is too high up for me to change even on a step stool and the best my ersatz brother can do is make it over “this weekend.”
I know this is 2008 and you can demand to be called whatever you damn well please, but seriously, is it kosher these days to be “Ms. Lastname” when Lastname is the name of your current husband?
I am a middle aged woman with two teenagers who has seen degradation and insults over the years but today I conclude that low rise pants are the worst of it.
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