As an opinion and feature writer, I focus on politics, gender and parenting. I'm passionate about working with Emerge Oregon and Emerge America to elect women to office.
Anyone paying attention to the news on Monday could be forgiven for thinking that our country is going to hell in a Russian hand basket. FBI Director James Comey confirmed to the House Intelligence Committee that his bureau is actively investigating President Trump’s ties to Russia.
I joined in the recent "A day without a woman," the national strike organized by the Women's March to celebrate International Women's Day and to honor women's labor. While wholly embracing the ends, it was hard not to feel ambivalent about the means. Asking women to take a day off of work is like asking for the moon -- lovely in theory, but Herculean in practice. More than half of all children below the poverty line live in families headed by women. Two-thirds of minimum wage earners are women. More than one in eight women live in poverty and Native American, Hispanic, Black and Asian women experience poverty at higher rates than whites.
Foregoing a day's wages is impossible for many, but women are fierce with the free time they do manage to cobble together. Give us a specific task and something urgent at stake and we can write, call and organize the hell out of it. Women in concert flex considerable political muscle. We also have an idea of where, exactly, that muscle's needed now..
When I was 20 years old, I got pregnant. For the first eleven weeks, I pretended it wasn’t happening. I made excuses for my missed periods. I rushed past pregnancy tests at the drugstore. I refused to acknowledge the changes in my body. If I did nothing, maybe it would all just go away. The one thing I couldn’t escape was a growing sense of dread. For two nights in a row, I was stalked in my dreams by a man with a cage for a mouth.
The War Room, a documentary about the 1992 Bill Clinton campaign, runs 96 minutes long and contains 2 seconds featuring the 20-year-old me. I’m standing on a desk, surrounded by staffers gathered to hear James Carville rally the troops for the last time before the presidential election.
In all of the months leading up to election, I didn't have a single conversation with anyone who said they planned to vote for Donald Trump. Not in person. Not over the phone. Not with any of my 1,059 Facebook friends. Not with my family, my neighbors or my circle of loved ones and acquaintances that stretches across the country and around the world.
Shame on me.
Like my mom, I have two willful, spirited daughters. Unlike Mom, I’m raising them alongside a hands-on spouse.
Outside the window of our Coast Starlight compartment, little towns along the track flicker in and out of view. They look forsaken and forlorn, but here in our private Superliner Roomette, we're feeling free.
Like many Portlanders, we lost power after the recent snowstorm. My husband was away on business, and I gathered my two young girls into bed with me to cuddle and stay warm.
Split personality / A celebrity in Britain, the Hou...
Recently, The Oregonian/OregonLive ran a story called "Peek inside Google's secretive new Portland office." The accompanying slideshow featured interiors straight out of Dwell magazine: beautiful beverage dispensers filled with mint and lemon water, a Forest Park room with moody blue lighting and birch tree wallpaper, an oh-so-2016 living plant wall.
Even though we haven’t met, I think I can safely guess a few things about you. You’re doing the best you can. You love your boy within an inch of his life. You’d do anything to help and support him, nurture and encourage him.
3 ways to bring your former kid-free life into you...
Eons ago, I ran into a work colleague and his new girlfriend in the elevator. She didn’t smile when he introduced us, but gave me a super slow once-over. I was more amused by the scrutiny than annoyed, but then the new girlfriend caught me off-guard. “How old are you?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. What a weird thing to want to know, I thought, but I answered anyway. “Oh,” she smirked. “You look great for 27.”
Five months ago I walked into my mother's house on a rainy afternoon. She was sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped forward, holding an oversized piece of mail. She look at me, dejected, and asked, "Why do I put myself through this?"