soapboxdiner

Don't call her a doormat

Today, a jaunt around town with that undeniable force of nature and free thinking, Cerebrate. Many laughs, way too many city blocks oriented in absolute vertical ascension, and some multi-colored chili peppers poked through with stasis found hanging in a store front later, home. Spanish rice and cream covered peaches fresh from the Farmer's Market.

Tomorrow, the new job as hostess and herdswoman for all the pink-faced masses applying for work at the airport. This all beginning at the ungodly hour of 7 am and ongoing indefinitely until the last stragglers find common sense and flee willy-nilly from the Conference Center.

Tonight, a quick drive down to be sure I know where I'll need to be in 12 short hours. But what's really calling me is a heating pad for the stretched tendons in my arches and the downy goodness of my bed.

Oh, but first I NEED to find that quote seen today in that incomparable store at the Market: Women's Hall of Fame. "I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat." -Rebecca West, British writer, 1913. Brilliant. Isn't it ironic though that the store espousing lofty feminist virtues didn't have the T-shirt in my size? No matter. A poster will do nicely.

7:00 pm - 09.16.02
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