Hello, all! This is Lauren and I’m one of the folks next in line for the guestblogging schedule while Jill freaks out about the bar. I was the original creator of this fine site sometime in late 2000 on Blogger, bringing Feministe to it’s own 400 error-riddled server in 2003, and handing the keys over to Jill and company in early 2006. Since then I’ve been not-blogging at my own site Faux Real Tho!.
A lot of things have changed for me since I left Feministe. When I started blogging I was a student and a single mother of a toddler — now my boy Ethan is a strapping eight-year-old. Last year I married my high school sweetheart Chef, taking a real-life Romeo and Juliet story of epic proportions into socially legitimate territory. I graduated from college a few years ago after a long, arduous student career and entered the working world in a common, workaday, low-paying job for a famously despised company that shall not be named. I work in a position so stressful that this February I literally earned myself an ulcer and, I’m not shitting you, my doctor made me give up coffee. COFFEE.
It’s work that interests me now, what it means to want “good work” and not be able to navigate the increasingly difficult hiring processes and management trees that allow an eager, smart individual to make a living. Women are clustered in the low end of the U.S. earning spectrum, an issue that compounds other problems related to poverty, family, and social stigma. I hope to cover some of this area during my time at Feministe.
Other things about me:
Thing One: Since marrying Chef (who works as a professional chef in a local French restaurant), food and drink have gone from an occasional pleasure to a straight-up goddamned obsession. I used to think I was a relatively good cook until he managed to show me up on everything I make, so I recently decided to take up baking, just so I have something he can’t best me on in the kitchen.
I made it yesterday using fresh cherries, then declared that Chef is never allowed to make a cherry pie so I can keep my standing as best cherry-pie-maker in the household. It was pretty good, but next time I’m going to make the lattices across the top closer together so there’s more crust. Also, pie-making is expensive, wtf?
Thing Two: After a six day workweek where I work over nine hour days most days, when I get home I’m brain dead and impatient as hell. If the mood strikes I’ll write a long, well-researched post that is fitting of my hard-earned English degree and be admirably patient with asshole commenters that a) resent that I’m not one of the regular bloggers, or b) resent that I am a feminist, or c) resent that I’m a woman in public without my tits out, but probably not. I still have administrative privileges and I’m clutching my ban stick.
Thing Three: I have four cats I adore. I have passed this obsession on to my poor son. If you’re weird like we are you can check up on Pablo, Doug, and Merle in my Flickr photo set, but they’re still basically up to the usual. Pablo pukes, Doug (who loves Pablo) eats it, and Merle lays around being grumpy. The newest addition, Fidel, threw a wrench into the group dynamic.
We adopted him on one of those evil Humane Society trucks that they park outside of large, public events, chock full of sweet, adoptable animals, already spayed and neutered and in good health, designed to make you feel guilty for leaving a grand event with a load of cheap party favors in hand but without the company of one of their fine, adorable, smooshy pets. Because Fidel, a black smooshy-face persian, was found on the Purdue University campus, we assume he was a student-owned pet that was either lost or abandoned, or lost and abandoned without a search. Fidel is also the meanest little turd I’ve ever lived with. After a couple of stressful months thinking that he was going to slash Doug into a thousand pieces, Fidel has calmed down into a lumpy, smooshy mess of fur. See Fig.1.
I know it’s a little insane to have four cats in one small household, but other than plotting to get and stay pregnant for the next twenty years to legitimately avoid changing the litterbox, it’s pretty much what you expect.
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