Starshine lays out options for coping with the calamitous-couple conundrum.
Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA
Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA
Sex, politics, fashion and everything else a Gen-X everygal loves to dish about.
Starshine lays out options for coping with the calamitous-couple conundrum.
Don’t flirt with hunky dads, and other playground rules by Starshine.
It was forever ago, I know. But not so long ago that I’ve forgotten. The feelings trickle back through me when I hear Jane’s Addiction or catch a glimpse of your thrift-store wingtips at the back of the closet. If I close my eyes and remember, the sensations flood right back to the surface:
That fluttery-gut feeling of our earliest days together. The intoxicating cocktail of elation, lust, and panic. The sheer shock of being adored. And the profligate peace of staying in bed ’til 2 p.m., then venturing out for a sloppy three-dollar breakfast, inhaled while holding hands.
We used to do everything holding hands. Drive. Sleep. Shower. As if we were afraid these extraordinary feelings would slip away if we let go to scratch an itch …
Kick the can: Starshine is happy to leave her youngest in diapers forever.
Starshine — also known as the ignorant, insulting, poor-mannered whiner who clearly hates her family — shares some of her favorite hate mail.
You over there. That’s right, you in the velour hoodie with the Venti Macchiato. I have to talk to you.
And you, too: The one dashing off to your car as fast as your pressed pencil skirt will let you run. Slow down for a second. You need to hear this.
It’s drop-off time at school and, like most mornings, little circles of stay-at-home moms are pooling by the gate, near the office, in the parking lot. In pony-tails and baseball caps, they make playdates, share stories about head lice and commiserate over soccer schedules.
A working mom skitters past in a tailored suit and gleaming pumps. She’s late for a meeting, but dials up a smile for the chatter-clatch moms, who wave at her. One of them — a petite brunette with no make-up and a dollop of crusted oatmeal on her yoga top — hollers over her shoulder in a tone that wasn’t intended to sound bitchy: “Wow. Don’t you look nice.”
But between those five seemingly innocuous words lies the ugly tension that exists between moms who punch a timecard and moms who don’t. And it’s really rather stupid.
Starshine tells the hole truth about piercings.
Starshine tells the truth about fibbing, cheating — and swindling for Hannah Montana tickets.
Starshine takes on a hated New Year’s tradition, and wishes that your 2008 be F-bomb free
Hell-bent on benevolence, Starshine ponders: Where are the homeless when you need ’em?