Another senator (yawn) was caught with his pants down. Starshine ponders the nature of Capitol Hill canoodling.
Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA
Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA
Sex, politics, fashion and everything else a Gen-X everygal loves to dish about.
Another senator (yawn) was caught with his pants down. Starshine ponders the nature of Capitol Hill canoodling.
She pan-fries with purpose, char-broils with cheer and grills with a Calphalon grin. She’s the merry meal-maker, ever disposed to whip up a hot and hearty supper for her grumbling-tummied groom.
When he’s home for dinner, she’ll toast the bread, salt the beans, trim the steak and chill the salad — because that’s the way he likes it best. She’ll bust out the good napkins and soil every pan in the kitchen just so he can enjoy a “proper” meal. The kind his mommy used to make.
But tomorrow, when he’s working late, she’ll stand at the kitchen counter plucking almonds from the trail mix and polishing off her kids’ leftover yogurt while thumbing through the junk mail.
And she’ll take an impish thrill in doing it.
As summer vacations get airborne, Starshine pens a personal letter to first-class passengers everywhere.
I owe you all a big apology. Because when I was a kid? Growing up in the San Fernando Valley? We talked in this totally weird way and all? And, like, it spread.
While in Portland, Oregon, for a journalism conference last week, I boarded a rumbly old school bus for a tour of the city’s all-nude strip clubs. The bus was crowded, as good journalists never miss the chance to peek into a furtive subculture or, it turns out, to look at boobies.
Visiting five burlesque clubs in one night was a whirlwind education, but even more fascinating than the stage acts was the clientele. While men in buttoned-down shirts and loafers fixated on the gyrating sirens before them, I watched the watchers. Because when you strip away the pretense of dating and the art of romance, you get a little titillating insight into the male mating psyche — the naked truth, if you will.
After a boxing match at the Chumash Casino, featherweight Starshine Roshell takes a few jabs at this sweet science – from the good to the bad to the Ring Babes.
Starshine’s Father’s Day gift: What do you get the Dad who betrays everyone?
Starshine’s husband would rather risk a concussion than spend Father’s Day with her and their mutual children. Go figure.
Don’t mind her manners: Starshine learns that a trip around the cotillion ballroom is a lesson in balancing party punch and guarding your backside. Your fancy prancy backside.
If it weren’t for my girlfriends, I would know nothing.
Over delicate lunches and sloppy happy hours, they keep me abreast of life’s juicy tidbits; which teachers are retiring and which couples divorcing, which restaurants are closing and which movies opening.
But my gal pals caught me off guard recently when they told me about a freaky new nether-trend. I was biting into an overpriced burger downtown when one of my diva dining companions let this rip:
“Ever heard of a labe trim?”
Surely I had heard her wrong; I demanded clarification.
“Getting snipped. Down there. You know… to make it… neater.”
She could have at least waited ’til I was finished chewing.