Buying into a women’s wampum workshop where there’s no deficit of tears.
Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA
Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA
Sex, politics, fashion and everything else a Gen-X everygal loves to dish about.
Buying into a women’s wampum workshop where there’s no deficit of tears.
Starshine swears that your favorite holey, rubbery sandals are Lucifer’s footwear.
iPods and YouTube and Twitter, oh, my! An unnerving but enlightening teens-and-the-media summit.
“Mom, can I draw on my neck?”
It was spring and I was cleaning the kitchen — trying in vain to scrape the perpetual gick from the bottom of my toaster and scrub the perennial gunk from the base of the faucet — when I heard those words and glanced up, sponge in hand.
Indeed, my toddler’s palms, forearms, elbows, T-shirt and the tablecloth surrounding his untouched coloring book were lavishly scrawled with shamrock-green marker.
“And,” he was good enough to ask, “my hair, too?”
Starshine misses Cancun by 500 miles and wakes up in another strange, exotic land. Wearing capri pants.
Starshine’s caught speeding and, to her own shock, doesn’t try to wriggle out of it.
Cyber colleague Starshine explains why working at home is about as satisfying as eating a virtual donut.
Starshine submits to a cafeteria lunch at a local elementary school and lives to tell the tale.
She laughed, she cried, she cursed. Starshine reports on Citizen McCaw from where she sat.
Starshine skipped college, avoided kids and shacked up with a woman, but — thank you, Milton Bradley! — she still wound up a millionaire.