Not really news unless you live under a rock, but the words fundamental right to marry make me fill with gooey warmth.

The reason why so many people are hesitant to admit that sexism exists, and the reason why so few young women are willing to self-identify as feminists is because the sexism inherent in our society is so ingrained that half the time *I* don’t even realize it’s happening.

I remember one WTF moment when a lady acquaintance hung out for hours after a show trying to meet the band. Years later, I would meet the infamous groupie, Pamela Des Barres, who shared with me her philosophy on what it means to be a muse.

Case in point — little girls groomed to be groupies while boys are groomed to be critics. Like there isn’t enough wrong with the music industry’s treatment of and respect for women.

But one thing I’ve noticed since I started writing about music is the number of people who seem to think I have no authority to espouse opinions. When I wrote about Kinky Friedman I had a guy try to tell me how to vote. When I gave Patti Smith an honest review for what I felt was an uneven appearance, I got slammed not only by commenter but also by people in real life.

I’ve suffered momentary doubts and been called plenty of names but one thing I’ve never done is question my own right to write about music — or anything — critically.

So the post is worth a read, but then the writer completely undoes all the mental gains she’s made with this self-deprecating line:

You might also want to look for Anwyn Crawford, whose essay — not fully available online — started this conversation. You are probably better off listening to her about this stuff than listening to me.

And then the title! The title, which apologizes for having an opinion in the first place. C’mon girl! Where’s your resolve?

*It’s always nice to have readers stand up for me in the comments.

Don’t you just want to gobble her up?

I spent the last morning of my 20s hanging out with a 5-day-old kid. She is pretty awesome. I even forced an awkward CLH to holding her. I let her sleep on my chest while I laid on the floor, and she was all wrapped up like a Freebird burrito.

When you hold a sweet, innocent baby, you get a kind of warm fuzzy feeling inside. The feeling is so strong I’ve been on a high since this morning. I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s the evilness of babies. They exude this pheromone that makes you love them so that you won’t eat them instead. Seriously. It’s in some medical journal somewhere.

I am the oldest grandchild on one side of my family and the second oldest, by several years, on the other side. Tomorrow I am turning 30 years old, and some of my cousins, ten years younger than me, are already parents. People now feel that it is appropriate to ask me why I don’t have children, and the only answer I have is that I just haven’t felt it yet. Even today, spending all morning with a 5-day-old and a 9-month-old — I didn’t want to put ether one down, but I also didn’t want to take either one home.

I referenced the Bechdel Test in a longform essay test today about the plight of the female protagonist in Leslie Fiedler’s pattern of the male narrative. I am awesome.

In the early years of college a friend turned me on to the now-defunct website Groupie Central (accessible by the magic of the Internet Archive). That started an obsession with the phenomenon of groupies, fueled by my already long-standing obsession with music journalism and making zines/trying to interview all the bands I loved who played Oklahoma.

The library had a copy of Des Barres’ book, which I quickly devoured, and from then on I was committed to journaling the exploits of my life (which, by the way, have not included losing my virginity to Jimi Hendrix’s bassist).

Meeting her was a pleasure and if I wasn’t going to New Braunfels for this, the 5th anniversary of my marriage, I would be studiously taking notes in her memoir workshop here this weekend.

I nerded out to her by saying “I read your memoir when I was a kid,” and she replied, “Yeah? Well I have three other books too.” Touché. Then again, when I asked her how she knew Mike she gushed “He’s my boyfriend!” like a 15-year-old girl. So I think we’re even.

You can read my interview with her in the Houston Press.

One paper is about sexual tourism and the other is about something I haven’t quite figured out yet, which sucks because it’s totally due in six hours. In the meantime, I wish I was working on something like this: the feminist implications of Dirty Dancing

The other day Matt K and I were talking about regret. I never had any for a long time. Decades. And then I had a ton. There is still wishful thinking and a sense of time wasted. I did a lot with my time, but there was so much I never even attempted because I thought for sure I would be bad at it. Or good at it. This is why I never learned to ollie very well and why I didn’t pursue writing as a legit career until I was about 28. At 28, I had been freelancing steadily for 12 years and publishing a zine, and I still was under the mistaken belief that I did not have what it took to be a writer. Matt convinced me I should try, and I did, and I realized about three weeks into “trying” that could have been writing full time for years, and my cowardice — fear of my own ambition got in the way. And that is my regret. That I lived without a sense of permission for so long.

Words I really needed to read just now, in a time of self-doubt, from a writer and a woman I admire.

I had just met Crystal, the Rocker girl, about five minutes before the shoot, and then we had to sit there and stare at each other menacingly. I couldn’t stop giggling. The awesome part was that she rode her own bike, and I rode mine. We’re legit!

I’ve been an adamant non-shaver for a while now. Granted, I’m blonde, and the hair on my legs is sparse so it’s barely noticeable. But I have dry skin, and because of my trail running I also usually have poison ivy or thorn scratches somewhere on my legs so shaving just isn’t worth it for me.

About once a month I get a full Brazilian wax. I don’t do this for any kind of porny beauty ecstatic — I get Brazilians because I live in Houston where it’s 90º and 90% humidity nine months a year and I’m just more comfortable without that extra layer.

And shaving under the arms is a pointless endeavor — most women have a perpetual 5 o’clock shadow there. So I get occasional underarm waxes too, and once a week I’ll use the Epilady under my arms. This is the best way to get long-lasting results. But for the most part I’m happy with the hair there, and while I’m not purposely trying to scandalize anyone I do kind of enjoy it when someone finds out I don’t shave, since I’m quite girly in other aspects.

Is it a contradiction to wax all my hair off of one body part and let it grow freely in another? No more a contradiction than any other Western beauty standards.