Please send email to email@example.com letting us know why you want to attend. This is an intimate retreat. We can’t wait to have you! This is Jen’s 5th year doing Manifesting Under The Tuscan Sun! Please specify if you want to attend summer (June 27-July 3rd) or fall 2015 (Sep 26-Oct 3rd.)
Jen Pastiloff here. I am the founder of The Manifest-Station and the author of the forthcoming book Beauty Hunting. I wanted to say a quick thank you to all of our readers and authors. I am over the moon that the site is a platform for writers of all ages. To have a place where young people and teens feel safe to sound their voice, all, that’s beauty hunting to me.
This Is What Everyone Feels Like: An Eighth Grade Vegan Reflects on the People’s Climate March
By Eva Schenck, Eighth Grader. Continue Reading…
By Jane Eaton Hamilton.
Why not February?
Then they were gone, and I still needed oranges.
2) A week later, Rue de la Pompe, arrondisement 16, outside Casino supermarket. Serrated needles of rain raking sideways. No umbrella, just a thin-wire pull-cart I needed to pile with groceries if I wanted to eat, launder, shampoo.
A Roma girl hunched on the street, no coat, one-shoed, hair divided into oleaginous shanks functioning as eavestroughs. Shoulders heaving. One foot maimed, red, shaped like a soup bone, the socket of a cow’s tibia. A paper begging cup exhausted by rain crumpled under left knee.
Trafficked, I thought, tears and misery the tools of her job. But beyond that: something immediate. Maybe, later, when she was picked up again, the gratitude of Stockholm Syndrome or familial bonds or simple lack of options would keep her in her place, but for now, dropped to the Paris pavement by her pimp or aunt or older brother, she was the picture of all that was wrong and nothing that was right.
My anger in Paris was a simmering thing, small at first, then growing. It was at first the size of the palm of a hand laid against a hot burner, but it flared. It was that worst thing, that touristic thing, impotence with a strangling desire to “help.”
“Madame, ça va?” I said as I pressed soggy pastries, fruit, hidden money into her hands. Nothing that would make it better. Nothing that would buy her options.
What do I want with pastries? her eyes said. Are you kidding me? She was right; I was an asshole in any language.
I was lounging in bed listening to “Morning Edition” on my local public radio station. It was April 15. Tax day. But I wasn’t worried about that–I’d filed an extension. And I wasn’t awake enough yet to remember that it was the anniversary of my father’s death eight years earlier, though I’d remembered it in the days before.
When the phone rang I let the machine pick up. I hadn’t had coffee, but the message Joe left was more of a jolt than even the strongest espresso could have offered.
“Hi Jenn, this is Joe. [pause] Everything’s okay [pause] but I just need to update you on a situation about your sister.”
Debby has known Joe and his partner Mike since the 80s when they were in training together to become flight attendants. I’d spent the occasional Thanksgiving with them, shared countless dinners out, and celebrated a couple of monumental birthdays: Debby’s 40th, and more recently, Debby’s 50th.
His voice sounded calm, but Joe never calls me, so I knew something was wrong.
Potentially very wrong. Continue Reading…
By Jennifer Maher.
Resolve, The National Infertility Association of America, lists a variety of emotional and physical symptoms in response to not getting pregnant when you want to get pregnant. They include but are not limited to:
- Lack of energy (especially when you have an unsuccessful cycle, on medical appointment days, or when you will see a pregnant friend);
- Irritability (snapping at people or making mountains out of molehills)
- Extreme sadness
- Inability to concentrate
Shoplifting is nowhere on this list.
Yet in the nearly three years it took me to conceive, along with over $22,000 in home-refinancing and credit card debt, I also acquired the following:
- One black large-ring pullback belt with double buckle
- A boxy caramel suede jacket with fringe on the front pockets and hem
- Decadent Fig, Orchid Surrender, and Cheating Heart lipstick (Estee Lauder)
- Two bottles of 2006 Chalone Vineyard Pinot Noir
- The complete boxed set of My So-Called-Life
Much like infertility, shoplifting requires a certain kind of seat-of-your-pants creativity. Some seasoned lifters, for instance, line empty bags with aluminum foil to get past the door sensors; others rig bags with springs or wear enormous coats with hand-sewn secret pockets inside. Whatever the method of concealment, though, recreational shoplifting has long been considered an archetypal feminine vice, an impulsive pilfering of the phallus and the mirror image of castration anxiety. Secreting a skin cream in the feminine folds of your purse couldn’t be more obvious in this respect. Or imagine a necklace up your coat-sleeve, its laminated price tag held fast like a nascent IUD. Think about the fact that just this year in a South Carolina outlet mall, they arrested a woman with over $1700 dollars’ worth of stolen clothes in an empty infant car seat. Continue Reading…
We’ve had a parting of ways of late. Two pregnancies and two breastfed babies later, you’ve decided to de-friend me and befriend gravity, forcing me to heftily rely on and rendering me beholden to the much-needed sturdy, non-sexy bras that no woman wants to be seen buying, because you are well on your way to touching my toes. However, in spite of your impudence and your defiant desire to move in directions that my twenty-something year old former self would never have imagined, we now stand at a crossroads in my mid-thirties, both literally and figuratively. I could scream, rant and rave, putting the best plastic surgeons on speed dial, or I could sit back and accept my new udder-like image.
In truth, loving you was never easy. When younger, a washboard chest was not as enviable as was having washboard abs. Then, a few years into adolescence, you grew overnight. Having only really only ever known A grades, I was suddenly confronted with the letter D, the upside of which was that I garnered the favour of copious amounts of male attention. I often wondered if you were my friends or my foes. In the end, you became the best ‘wingmen’ a gal could ever ask for. Many dates, some good and many bad later, I found myself in the arms of the man I wanted to and ended up marrying, a self-confessed breast man, who worshipped at the altar of my beckoning bosom.