I applied lipstick, and took a step back to regard myself. I might never pass for one of Millicent’s set, but I had banished the wan, harried, dowdy Ramona forever. I took a solemn oath that morning that I have, in fact, kept: as long as I lived, whenever possible, I would have my clothes made in France.
First, you’ll lose track of the date,/ and then the days, and finally--/ unhitched from any purpose--/ you’ll judge each morning only by its weather.
On my feed recently, someone quoted @goftyler’s tweet – “The dog’s got a butt funk and he’s been shunned from the couch” – and commented, “most grotesque tweet I’ve seen in a long time….also a poem?” Yes, according to Lerner’s definition.
I think about my own modern dressing, about the overalls my mother gave me when I was the same age as the boy in the painting. The metal hook-and-closures were easy, accessible to my tiny hands and their limited fine motor skills. I handed them down to my brother, who is three years my junior. Much of what we wore couldn’t be categorized by gender. They were garments intended for transfer.
Being a woman in any industry is tough, especially one that is typically dominated by men, like comics. Last year the Angloueme Comics Festival in France made a list of 30 "lifetime achievement" cartoonists which didn't include a single woman. On the extreme end you have to worry if the male strangers who are super-involved in your social media are stalking you, on the low end you have to hear your work compared to that show "Girls."