Ashleigh Baker

April 2013. Speeding north on I-95 in fading light, radio tuned to 101.5. Not listening.
I don’t have a destination. Just a canvas tote in the passenger seat, a shirt and pair of jeans, toothbrush and a laptop. An old Bible shoved in the front pocket for good measure....

I’m convinced my husband hates me.
We talk about it late at night, me with my knees pulled into my chest, leaning against the pillows. He is there, sprawled across the foot of the bed on his stomach, his chin resting on his folded forearms.
I use my hands when I talk, wide and sweeping, and my fingers spread apart as I speak. “But you can’t, I know you can’t love me when I’m a mess like this.”...

Because ad campaigns such as this one from UN Women are necessary.
Because tonight, right now, on my home computer in Virginia, Google’s auto-complete yielded these results:
Because in 60% of the top Google search queries beginning with the statement “women should,” the very next word is not....

I tend to be an all-or-nothing person. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I? I speak in shades of always and never, “here’s the thing” and “there’s nothing I hate more.”
John sent a sigh-laugh from across the kitchen recently. “You know, there sure are a lot of individual issues you hate more than any of the others.”...