So there was this party tonight, and that little dinner before that, but, y'know: my health; her work hours. So I trotted down all alone down my main street to the seafood restaurant with the reservation, and on the way back made a beeline for my own backyard:
Mama was thirsty. For a daiquiri. Yes, those are very small Meyer Lemons. (I recommend Alton Brown's recipe.)
Turns out that when I wash and sort newly purchased underwear, I get my feminist rage on. On the internets.
But, really: it's *vexing*. And there's the added wrinkle of one of the red ones bearing a label of one size, and the other bearing a label one size down, and guess what -- they are not in label but in fact the exact same size. I measured. With a big-eyed scientist hovering over my shoulder confirming my findings.
It's hard not to believe the clothes industry is fucking with us, y'all.
I know no one reading this, and none of the people I surround myself with, believes racism is dead; we know it's alive and thriving. Even so, I often think about Dr. Martin Luther King's notes on white liberals. I live in a neighborhood that's overwhelmingly white and Asian and wealthy (I'm none of the latter two, except per some 0.1% of my genome). Anyway, this is a liberal place, so we're talking well-intentioned people who are reasonably good at reflection...but not so very good at self-reflection.
( On our neighborhood email distribution the list, the following happened.Collapse )
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