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TAKE OUR MEN ON PAUSE SURVEY

Between the drive up Ridge Point Road, the hour and a half we spent looking for Isabelle, and the half-hour trip back into town, Laura and I had been gone for over two and a half hours. All we had to show for our effort was a smashed cell phone, a scrap of Milo’s cashmere sweater, Isabelle’s coat, and a bloody bat. And then there were all the pictures I’d taken — of tread marks from the Beluti boots, and tire tracks from what we assumed to be Milo’s Subaru. There was little else we could photograph in the dark.

We’d not yet found Isabelle, Milo, or the car, though from what we’d seen, their route seemed clear — they’d driven from the Outlook to the fire road, where they’d turned left and then driven two miles north before turning the vehicle around. Then they pulled off the road and parked on the west shoulder. All of this was backed up by the tire tracks.

Where the vehicle went after the apparent altercation — well, that was not exactly clear, but it had obviously left the area since it was now nowhere in sight. It had most certainly gone back to Ridge Point Road. And all indications pointed to its having headed back into town. There had been no signs of any car having gone further up the mountain, nor onto any of the other fire roads, as we’d already ascertained. The narrow, unpaved segment of Ridge Point Road beyond the Outlook had a damp dirt road which would have revealed fresh tire tracks, boot treads, or drag marks had anyone gone up that way. But it did not. The only conclusion to be drawn: the Subaru had gone back to town. The remaining question: Who had been in the Subaru? Isabelle, Milo, or both of them?

In all of our investigating on the mountain, we’d not passed even one car or person on foot. Only two scenarios seemed possible: either Milo and Isabelle came back down the hill together in his car, or Isabelle was still up there, and Milo had returned to town without her. My hope was that we were looking at Scenario 1, but even that could have ended badly, or, God forbid, was still in progress. Either way, we had a decision to make: whether to head directly to the police station to fill out a missing person’s report, or to first call Isabelle’s companions to find out what they knew. It was unclear whether the details and the evidence we had in hand would convince the police they should begin looking immediately for Isabelle (or Milo, for that matter), or if we would be read the script no parent wants to hear: “Any adult has a legal right to go missing or leave voluntarily, therefore we cannot pursue a manhunt until 48 hours have passed.” Straight out of Law and Order, folks. But there was that bloody bat. Surely that would count for something.

What if Milo turned up without Izzy and feigned ignorance as to her whereabouts? Then what?

So many what ifs. My head was spinning.

And so we made the decision to head back to my house and pursue the route of calling people first, starting with Milo’s mother, then the other kids who’d been at the Outlook. Before getting out of the car, I dialed Olga. She was a lawyer I used from time to time, and her number happened to be in my contact list. She answered immediately and seemed extremely upset. There was a lot of commotion in the background — it didn’t sound good. My stomach started doing flip-flops.

Olga was at County General. According to her, Milo had been attacked by strangers on Ridge Point Road on the way home from the Outlook. They had jackknifed their truck across the road, then one of them commandeered Milo’s car and took him back up the hill, then down one of those fire roads, with their truck picking up the rear. They then stopped on the side of the fire road and rummaged through Milo’s car, stealing what few valuables he had in there and on his person, including his designer boots. Then, they beat him with a baseball bat and left him for dead. Eventually, poor Milo came to and drove himself back into town. He went straight to the ER. “I know, quite a story,” Olga said. She sighed.

Miraculously, the thieves hadn’t taken his car, she added — probably because they knew it had built-in location tracking. I asked Olga if she’d seen Izzy at the hospital, too, and had she been hurt? Olga was thoroughly puzzled by my line of questioning: “Izzy at the hospital? Whatever for?” When I explained that Izzy rode to the Outlook with Milo and was now missing, Olga suggested we call the other kids in the group. Surely she’d come back with one of them. Then, Olga signed off abruptly — “Sorry, I have to go. They’re taking Milo in for surgery.”

All we got from the call with Olga — confusion and more to worry about. Isabelle was still missing.

What a story Milo had concocted for his mother — a tale that didn’t jibe whatsoever with the evidence we had in hand. If what he described really went down, how was it that Izzy’s phone ended up smashed at the Outlook, and by a Berluti boot? How very convenient for Milo — those carjackers stealing his boots, the ones that might have tied him to whatever had happened to Isabelle. Then, there was that detail of Isabelle’s coat, the one found on the side of the road near the bloodied bat. Most importantly, where the hell was Isabelle?! Milo had promised to bring her home, safe and sound, by no later than 10:00 p.m. It was now well past midnight.

Needless to say, we decided not to bother Olga’s pretty little head with these inconsistencies and unanswered questions. Either she was ignorant about what had actually happened, including the fact that Isabelle and Milo had been on a quasi-date, or she was readying her son for what was to come: a potential kidnapping and rape charge or something far worse. Something I cannot bring myself to say out loud.

This I knew: Olga was incredibly smart, and a fierce mother. She was well-connected, a pillar of the community, and one of the top donors to the police benevolent fund. And she was wealthy beyond belief. Old money wealthy. Appearances were incredibly important to Olga — this is where Milo’s designer togs, the expensive arts education, and, as we would soon find out, the litany of expensive lawyers came in. Apparently, Milo had had “girl troubles” many times in his past, including with a former teacher who did not reciprocate his affections.

Though we only learned of these previous incidents months after Isabelle’s having gone missing, we’d already decided, on the day of her assault, that we wouldn’t be swapping any information with Olga. We knew her information to be bogus, and anything we shared with her might give Milo a leg up in wriggling out of a conviction.

This also meant we wouldn’t be filing a missing person’s report at our local precinct. Olga was a little too cozy with that crew, and rumors had been flying around for years that she and the police chief were doing the nasty. Fortunately, Ridge Point Outlook was in another county. Halfway up Ridge Point Road was a fat white line on the blacktop and a cheerful sign on the right shoulder that read “Welcome to Franklin County,” as if this were a popular tourist route. Popular for local teenagers and young adults, maybe, but not folks vacationing in wine country. The fire road where we’d discovered the crime scene — it was on the Franklin County side of that line. That was something to be thankful for.

And so it was decided, between Laura and me, that we’d be heading to Franklin County to file that missing person’s report — that is, îf Isabelle didn’t turn up. And it was in Franklin County that we’d present the evidence we’d found and where we’d go once we’d found Isabelle and she decided to file a police report. Ditto for any medical care she might need. Franklin County was going to be our one-stop shop. The men in the brotherhood we were fighting had far too many connections to law enforcement in our neck of the woods, and to the judicial system, as well. We simply couldn’t risk anything being compromised. What happened in Franklin County was going to stay in Franklin County.

As we sat in the car, parked in front of my house, I made one more call. This time to Isabelle’s friend, Sam. All he could tell us was that they’d heard nothing from Izzy. Or from Milo, for that matter. Neither had turned up at Arturo’s for dinner. Everyone assumed they’d gotten sidetracked by… well, you know. Sam was embarrassed to say much more, and so we let the friends imagine what they would. It was too early in the game for us to share information, namely that Isabelle was missing and that Milo was badly injured and in the hospital. Rumors would fly, and what good would that do?

Into the house we headed. Oddly, the porch door was ajar — not noticeably — but just enough so that the act of putting my key in the lock caused it to swing open unexpectedly. The interior door, though closed, was also unlocked. This is certainly not how we’d left things. And John was still out of town, so this wasn’t his doing, not that he’d ever left the house unlocked. We entered the living room cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

Then we saw Isabelle. There she was on the living room couch, curled up in the fetal position, still wearing her clothes and boots, which were filthy, ripped, and scuffed. Her hair was damp and matted against her forehead, which had at least a dozen scratches and was smeared with blood — now dried. Isabelle had one hand tucked under her cheek, as if gently holding her face; the other rested on her right hip, oddly clenched for someone who looked to be in a deep sleep.

The poor girl looked as if she’d walked through fire, made it to the other side, and then simply collapsed. She was out cold. She didn’t stir, even as we stood over her whispering.

“Jesus Christ,” Laura whispered a little too loudly. “What the hell happened to her?”

“I don’t even want to think about that. At least she’s breathing,” I said, relieved to see the rise and fall of her chest. Isabelle’s face was remarkably peaceful, despite whatever it was she’d been through. “How did she make it home?” I wondered out loud, shaking my head in disbelief. Clearly she’d not been shot or stabbed, or beaten with a baseball bat, but something horrendous had happened. After what we found on the mountain, none of this came as a surprise. The surprise was that somehow she’d made her way home, without one of our cars or riding with friends, and she had no serious injuries, at least none that we could see. Milo, on the other hand, was in critical condition in the hospital. What was going on here? We really needed to find out.

“How long do you suppose she’s been here?” Laura asked, no longer whispering. “I don’t know,” I replied, moving closer, but being careful not to wake her. I hoped she would continue sleeping while I continued assessing the situation. She had dried blood on the knuckles of her right hand, blood spatter on her forehead, and a thick, dark smear on the side of her neck — likely more blood. Then there was blood that had seeped through in the crotch of her jeans. Oh my god — I could only imagine what had caused that. I felt sick.

I was tempted to take pictures of all of this, but somehow that felt like a violation. Isabelle had clearly been violated enough for one night.

Laura went to the dining room and tucked the evidence bags in the corner behind the table. We didn’t want Isabelle to see them — at least not right away. The baseball bat, especially, might be very triggering. Laura came back into the living room and knelt over Isabelle, instinctively reaching out to comfort her as she had done since she was an infant, but she stopped short at the thought of how she might react. We needed to avoid anything that might startle her or cause panic, and touch was an obvious trigger. Who knew what state Isabelle was in beneath this cloak of unconsciousness?

“Should we let her sleep?” Laura asked. “No,” I replied emphatically. “Unfortunately, we’re going to need to wake her up so we can find out what happened. And to see if she needs medical attention, especially for her spine. I’m feeling we should get her to a hospital as quickly as possible.” Laura nodded in agreement, then gently rested her hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. “Isabelle. Sweetheart. Can you wake up?”

Isabelle woke suddenly, her eyes opening wide as she searched the room, assessing the situation as if trying to remember where she was. Then, just as suddenly, it all came back to her. She was home. It was just Laura and her mother. Her face relaxed.

Isabelle was anxious to tell us her story. She needed to put the responsibility of it into someone else’s hands. It had become too heavy for her to carry alone. And she was afraid she’d forget details.

Isabelle looked first at Laura, then at me. Her face expressed confusion. “Where were you?” she asked. “Why weren’t you here?”

“Sweetheart,” I said, sitting on the footstool next to the couch, then taking her hand in mine, “We’ve been looking for you all evening. We are so relieved to find you here. How did you get home?” I could see the concern on my face was overwhelming her, that I needed to dial it down, to model the calm we were all needing. Tough times lay ahead and getting stoked up wasn’t going to help.

“I dropped Milo off at the emergency room, then walked home from the hospital,” Isabelle offered, her voice uncharacteristically hoarse, as if she’d been yelling. “I’m sorry I didn’t text or call. I couldn’t find my phone.”

“Your phone — we found that. It was up at the Outlook, ground into the gravel. I think you’ll be looking at getting a new iPhone 18 Pro Max this week,” I laughed. Hell, she could get anything else her heart desired. I was just so relieved to have her back.

“I’d left my phone in Milo’s car, but he took it, I’m pretty sure. My guess is that he dropped it out of the car at the Outlook so I couldn’t call for help.” She cautiously swung her legs around, then sat up, wincing.

Laura looked absolutely distressed. She picked up the thread of our inquiry: “Isabelle — what happened, sweetheart?”

Isabelle looked down at her hands and at the blood on her knuckles. She flexed her fingers, testing them, then stretched out her legs one at a time, looking at her jeans and her scuffed-up cowboy boots, assessing what had gone down. You could almost read the whole story in her series of expressions. It was as if she were reliving a scene — something that wasn’t happening beyond my living room. She was in another place altogether, witnessing something horrible — something unspeakably bad.

Isabelle’s worried expression moved to devastation. She quit looking at her imaginary scene, then turned her eyes to meet mine.

“Milo raped me,” she said. Then she bowed her head and cast her eyes downward as she proceeded to tell her story. “It was on one of those fire roads — a place no one ever goes.” She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, then continued. “First he threatened me with a knife and ordered me out of the car. I had to undo my seatbelt, and that’s when I saw it — the baseball bat. It was right there in the footwell behind his seat. At first I freaked out. What had he been planning to do with that? Then I thought, ‘fuck that!’ I leaned over and grabbed it with my left hand while pretending to fiddle with my seat belt. It was so dark, Milo didn’t see me take it.”

We waited patiently for her to continue, not wanting to interrupt her stream of thought, not wanting to rush her. These were important details.

“After I got out of my seat, he grabbed my right wrist and dragged me to the front of the car. Then he raped me on the hood. Afterward, he went to the woods to take a piss, but not before threatening to kill me if I tried to run. There he was, whizzing into the woods, his pants down around his ankles. I knew he would trip if he tried to run. This was my chance, but if I tried to run away, I figured he could hit me with the car or chase me into the woods. Those choices felt like a death trap. I knew what I had to do. I had to incapacitate him. That was the only way I was going to save myself.”

“The whole time he was pissing, he was shouting weird, hateful things. As if scaring me would somehow keep me from running. So I snuck up behind him, then brought the bat down hard — first on his left shoulder, then on his right forearm. I’m positive I broke both, as there were terrible cracking noises both times. Then he grabbing his arm and started moaning.”

Needless to say, Louise and I were in shock listening to all of this, but we encouraged Isabelle to continue.

“Then he wouldn’t shut up — he just went on and on about how I was going to pay for this. That he had a lot of friends and they were all going to come after me. What an idiot! So I shoved him as hard as I could, and he fell flat on his ass. He couldn’t break his fall because of his right arm — it was fucking busted! There he was on the ground, unable to get up, or so it seemed. But it was really dark, and I couldn’t see him very well. So, I walked back to the car and turned on the headlights. Seeing him there kicking around on the ground and then having to listen to more of his bullshit — all of it made me so mad. And he was smiling, like some crazy person. So I kept hitting him, and I hit him until he shut up.”

Isabelle was snarling at this point. “Then finally I started in on his balls. The source of all the trouble. All I could think of was that if those were damaged, maybe he’d think twice before trying this again. Hurting women might no longer give him much pleasure.”

“Alright,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I think we’ve heard enough. This is what we imagined might have happened, or should I say, this is what we hoped had happened — that you had gotten the upper hand. When we were up there looking for you and came across the spot you were assaulted, we weren’t sure if the blood on that bat was yours or his. My gut told me it was his. You are amazing to have turned this around.”

Laura had been sitting on her hands through all of this, and now it was her turn to speak. “How did Milo get to the hospital in his condition? And how did you get back to town? Where is Milo’s car?” Laura peppered Isabelle with questions. Isabelle described forcing Milo into the passenger side of the car by brandishing the knife — his knife. She then drove him down the hill to the ER, where she deposited him at the ambulance entrance, left his keys on the driver’s seat, then walked home.

Fortunately, Isabelle hadn’t run into anyone as she made her way across town — it was the middle of night, but still. If she had seen any of the neighbors, the blood, her torn clothing, her disheveled appearance, and that huge knife on her hip — all of this would have given them a start. They would likely have called emergency services.

As Isabelle explained, it was Milo’s problem to get help from the hospital staff. and then to explain his injuries to them. Before she took off, Isabelle had reminded Milo that she had physical proof he’d raped her — injuries and his DNA, so perhaps he should think twice before trying to pin an assault on her.

“How badly are you injured, sweetheart?” I asked gingerly.

“I don’t know. Everything hurts, really hurts, including my back. And I’m bleeding, though I’m not sure where the blood is coming from.” She looked at me, and for the first time I saw something flicker behind her eyes: Worry, dread. “I need to go to the hospital, and I need to have a rape exam. And I…” she hesitated, “probably need stitching up. He was pretty violent.” Her voice cracked: “Mom, I need help.” Tears were welling in her eyes.

“Okay,” I said softly, though I wanted to scream. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re taking you to the hospital right away — though we’re going to Franklin County so you don’t have any unwanted encounters with Milo or any of his friends or family. We want to make sure you’re treated fairly, and that your exam results remain confidential. Milo’s family has a few too many friends at County General.”

I continued: “From what we saw on the mountain, your assault took place over the Franklin County line. Milo had you in Franklin County, both at the Outlook and on that fire road. I’m guessing he didn’t realize that.”

It had taken Isabelle a good half an hour to give us all the details of her evening, including the harrowing speech Milo gave her prior to the rape — something about how much he hated her and her artwork, and how all the men in town wanted to rape her and he was glad to be the first.

She had spoken in a flat, factual tone, occasionally pausing to correct herself or to add a detail she’d missed. She’d told us about the sunset with her friends and how normal that had been, how she’d felt relaxed and was enjoying herself for the first time in months. She had let her guard down. Then there was the drive to the restaurant — a drive Milo had obviously never intended to make. He’d set that up cleverly, created a ruse by giving his friend Sam the wink and nudge, nudge — letting him imagine they were going off to have sex. Instead, Milo had turned down that fire road and had sex with her without her consent.

Isabelle gave us every detail about the car and about Milo’s manhandling her with the brace, how that had made it impossible to fight back or to twist away. Isabelle hadn’t any choice but to give in and wait for the assault to be over.

Then she told us about his knife, which she now had in her possession. There it was, still attached to her belt. She talked about the baseball bat and where she’d thrown it after she was done. She’d already given us all the details about hitting Milo. Fifteen times she hit him with the bat to match the fifteen times he had violated her. That seemed fair, don’t you think, she had asked. As Isabelle finished giving her account, Laura and I fell silent. What does a person say after hearing something like this? How is a mother supposed to react? What would an advice columnist suggest? I was at a loss for words. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing. I was afraid of not saying what Isabelle needed to hear.

“Let’s get out here. We need to get you to the hospital immediately,” Laura blurted out. “Leave your soiled clothes on, though. The nurses will be better equipped to remove them properly to preserve the evidence. You’ll be glad they were in charge if and when you decide to press charges. It’s infinitely more difficult for the defense to be dismissive of evidence collected by a sexual assault nurse examiner,” Laura explained. “I know,” Izzy said. “That’s why I didn’t change or take a shower even though all of this is so disgusting.” She gestured to the dried cum all over her jeans. I hate him. I just want him off of me.”

Laura wiped her eyes, and both of us stood up. “You grab the evidence bags,” I said to her. “Then let’s take my car. It’s a bit roomier in the back.” “Sound OK, Isabelle?” I asked. She nodded.

Isabelle stood up slowly. She was sore all over. Then she looked at me, searching for answers. “Mom, did you really go up there looking for me?” “Yes,” I said. “Of course we did.”

I so wanted to wrap my arms around my daughter and hold her, but I couldn’t. Her whole person was a crime scene.

It was a quiet drive to the ER in Annadel. All of us were exhausted emotionally, and frankly needed a break from all the upset and drama. We were also at a loss for words. Is there a word or phrase that encompasses everything we were feeling? The disgust, relief, happiness, worry, frustration, and fury? Help me here. We were processing a lot, so we said nothing.

Things were going to be fine. Not easy, not happy, at least for a while, but fine. I felt it in my gut. We were going to get through this, as long as we stuck together, and as long as we took all this anger and directed it toward those responsible. We couldn’t shove the anger down. That was a recipe for depression.

As we pulled into the Emergency Room parking, Laura suggested we err on the side of caution and get a wheelchair. Isabelle and I sat patiently in the car while Laura made a beeline for security. She handed the guard her driver’s license in exchange for a chair, then came back to the car. In her absence, I’d started to fill Isabelle in on what lay ahead: “Here’s the rundown — and you need only to tell me right out of the gate if something needs to be done differently than I’m recommending.” Isabelle nodded. “I’m going to check you in, quietly and discreetly, and will mention you’ve experienced a sexual assault and that we’d like to wait somewhere private if you can’t be seen immediately. It’s on you, after that, to convey your wishes about doing a rape kit, whether to press charges, etc. You’re a grown-ass woman, and that means they won’t let me speak for you.” Isabelle looked exhausted. I was worried. “Do you feel up to doing this, sweetheart? If not, we can wait for your advocate.”

“Yes, Mom, I’m ready, but I am going to want to speak to the advocate soon to review the details and discuss my options. I’ll be fine on the sexual assault exam, but I’m going to want to talk with a therapist about what to do if I’m pregnant.” At the thought of this, Isabelle looked cross and sad. A day ago, pregnancy was the last thing on her mind. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment as she exhaled. “I’m about two weeks out from my period — not good.” I thought to encourage her to go through with the emergency contraception, but bit my tongue instead. It was none of my business what she decided to do. My job was simple: to support Isabelle in whatever way she needed. And wanted.

Isabelle carefully got out of the car, grabbing Laura’s arm for support. She was visibly wracked with pain, and expressed concern about contaminating any of the evidence on her clothes and body. I ran ahead to emergency reception to present her insurance card and to make a request for a private room. The orderly on duty did not hesitate to take Isabelle straight to the back, away from prying eyes.

Once we were settled and staff took Isabelle’s vitals, she made a request: “Mom, I’m positive the advocate will want to see all of your evidence and the photos you mentioned. Could you or Laura find out how to send her copies of your photos? I can’t do any of this since I don’t have a phone.” Isabelle sounded irritated. And pissed. That spoiled narcissist, Milo, causing so much trouble for all of us. She continued: “And could you hand off the evidence you found to the triage nurse — including my smashed phone? She’ll likely be the one interfacing with the advocate and the police, don’t you think?”

“OK, sweetheart. We’ll take care of that right away,” Laura said as she headed off to the car. “And I should also let you know,” I explained after Laura left the room, “ that I talked to Milo’s mother.” Isabelle looked shocked to hear this. “I was desperate to figure out where you were, so I called her to see what she knew. She seemed completely in the dark — about you, at least. She was, in fact, at the hospital when I called her, and Milo was heading into surgery. And he’d told her a story about having been carjacked and robbed, and then beaten with a baseball bat. He also claimed you’d gone down the hill with your friends, in a separate car.” Isabelle laughed.

“Alrighty. So, he-who-shall-not-be-named is really hurt. Can I get permission to not be sad about this?” I nodded “yes,” and laughed. She continued: “And all he can think about is how to cover things up so he doesn’t have to explain to everyone in town that a girl beat the shit out of him. Now that cheers me up,” she said, grinning slyly and giving me a high five. “Thanks, Mom. Best news I’ve heard all day.” The nurse who’d just stepped into the room seemed surprised by Isabelle’s sudden mood shift, from sullen to celebratory. It was time for Isabelle to go into the exam room, she explained, and I was to remain in the waiting area, as were any of her other visitors. That was probably for the best — for me, and decidedly for Isabelle. Before she headed out in her wheelchair, she signaled for me to come close. “Mom, you’ve got to quit calling me ‘Isabelle.’ Please!”

And so it was. Isabelle was now “Izzy.” The gentle sound of her given name no longer fit this woman of steel — who, like a sword, had been forged in white-hot flames.

The triage nurse gently knocked on the door, then entered the exam room to interview Izzy. She made a polite, businesslike introduction, then pulled over her point-of-care cart to start the interview. Kathleen was a fit and stylish millennial, sporting fuchsia FIGS scrubs, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She had the kind of face that had seen everything and wasn’t impressed by any of it. Kathleen made clear she was in charge of this conversation, and that she wasn’t interested in any drama or hogwash — her word for bullshit, I believe. To most, her attitude might have come across as harsh or even hostile, but Izzy was happy for it. She wanted a strong woman in charge.

“How can I help you?” Nurse Kathleen queried.

“I need a sexual assault forensic exam,” Izzy replied flatly. “I was raped approximately five hours ago.”

“Alright, then let’s get started.” Nurse Kathleen’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes. She abruptly pushed her cart to the side and said, “Hang tight. Since you seem ready to get down to the hard stuff, I’m going to have you taken to the forensic exam room now rather than later.”

“Can I ditch this wheelchair, please?” Izzy asked sarcastically. “Of course,” Nurse Kathleen replied, chuckling. These two were soon going to be fast friends. Off they walked to the exam room.

And it was there Izzy got the royal treatment. Within minutes, she was surrounded by a crew of all-female med techs and nurses and was informed that Dr. Stafford, also a woman, would be in shortly to go over everything that needed doing. In the meantime, Nurse Jamila would be helping her out of her clothes, and Nurse Aiko, who was a sexual assault nurse examiner, would be administering the rape kit and taking photos. “Are you OK with all of this?” Nurse Kathleen asked. “Yes, I think so,” Izzy replied.

Izzy looked around the room at all the faces — some gentle, some strong, and then there was one woman, Aisha — whose face seemed fixed in an intense expression that flashed with fury. Izzy asked Aisha directly if she would stay with her during the exam. Aisha beamed. Of course she would.

And so the long process began. To get things started, all of the women exited the room, minus Jamila and Aisha; then the two of them laid out, on a stainless steel table, an assortment of paper evidence bags, scissors, tweezers, and forceps, swabs, combs, a microvacuum, and various containers labeled with Izzy’s name. Jamila then laid paper changing sheets on the floor next to Izzy’s gurney, and then under her outstretched legs. Her first task would be removing Izzy’s cowboy boots.

Izzy was relieved to be ridding herself of all of this clothing. She wanted every bit of Milo’s scent off her body. She wanted every visual that triggered memories of the struggle and terror to be stripped from her person — the scuffed boots, the dirty, cum-stained jeans, her ripped shirt, and the brace, which was covered in dings and scratches and blood. She wondered out loud what she would wear after everything had been removed — and also when she left the hospital and then had to walk up the steps into her mother’s house. Jamila assured her they had everything she would need — a hospital gown for during her examinations and testing, then a proper set of clothes, shoes, and outerwear for leaving the hospital. A social worker and advocate would be arriving soon with all of that. Nurse Kathleen had already phoned ahead and given the advocate Izzy’s sizes. No worries, Aisha said, as the advocate always anticipated variations in body shapes and would bring multiple sets of clothes in case some items didn’t fit properly.

Everyone wanted Izzy to feel comfortable and cared for. And yes, she would be able to shower and shampoo at the hospital once the forensic exam was done. She also needed to be prepared for additional medical procedures, including a pelvic exam, testing for STDs, and possible stitches. Izzy would also be fitted for a new TLSO brace.

I sat in the waiting room with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen without seeing it. My brain was moving far too fast. Evidence. Documentation. Police reports. Rape kits. Chain of custody on the evidence. Witness statements. Medical records. Legal options. It was fucking overwhelming. Add to that the fact that we’d not slept for over 24 hours. All of this was going to take weeks, maybe months. Unbelievable. And it was because of one spoiled, narcissistic young man, whose sociopathic behavior was enabled by his shit-for-parents and condoned by high-ranking members of our community. Who did they think they were? Did they really believe they were above us in all things? That we were just on this earth to do their bidding? And how was it they were always in the position of getting to have the final say?

I was feeling pure, incandescent, unrelenting rage. I would not be able to deal with anything else until it had been reduced to a simmer. That meant eating a proper meal, then getting some sleep.

Laura returned from the car with all the evidence we had gleaned from the crime scene, then she and Nurse Kathleen talked quietly, Laura taking notes on her phone. She handed the bags over, thanked Kathleen, then scanned the waiting room looking for me. “Over here,” I said, waving my hand high in the air. Laura came over and plopped down, exhausted, in the chair next to mine.

“I called a victim advocate. She’s on her way. Her name is Monica Reyes. She works with the Franklin County DA’s office, but she’s independent. She’ll help Izzy understand her options, and anything said between the two of them will be confidential, as she is bound by HIPAA privacy rules. Sound OK?” After delivering this news, Laura literally collapsed into herself, head hanging, barely able to stay awake. She had delivered the goods to the nurse, and now it was time to sleep, even if that had to be done in an upright position. We’d already had a very long night, and were looking at having to stay in the hospital for many more hours. There had to be a way to rest and to eat. And there was. We would take turns napping in the car and going to the hospital cafeteria, while one of us stayed in the ER waiting area keeping watch. Fortunately, I always kept a pillow and blanket in the car. For the beach, of course.

Izzy was kept busy in the forensic exam room, and then in surgery for a grand total of six hours. When finally she was released, she was wearing a pair of purple sweatpants and a plain gray sweatshirt over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. In her arms was an LL Bean barn coat from the 90s. A woman in her thirties was pushing the wheelchair. She had dark hair and sharp eyes, and the attire of a social worker — khaki slacks, a black turtleneck, and a brown suede blazer.

“Ms. Finch?” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Monica Reyes. I’m the victim advocate from the County DA’s office.” I shook her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” She glanced at Izzy. “Your daughter’s had quite a harrowing night, but the exam is complete, and the rape kit was retrieved by the sheriff. It has been sealed and logged in, and will remain secured in the evidence locker at the local precinct. We have made a note of your concerns about the perpetrator’s personal connections to Edenburg’s police department, and our sheriff has already sent out a memo to his staff that no information is to be shared with them at this time. The hospital has thoroughly documented Izzy’s injuries, both in photographs and in a write-up with a diagram by the forensic nurse. The trauma doctor on staff provided Izzy with several medical treatments, namely a vaginal lavage and other perineal care, then stitches to her perineum and posterior fourchette.” Looking at Izzy, she added, “Izzy has given me permission to share this information with you.”

I felt my stomach turn. “How bad are they — the injuries?” “They are very painful and fairly severe, but should heal completely,” Monica said. “The doctor prescribed some antibiotics and pain medication, and Izzy will need follow-up care in a week with her primary care physician.” Monica continued, “Izzy and I will be staying in touch to consider options for moving forward. This could go on for some time, and I have been permanently assigned to her case. I’ll be Izzy’s main point of contact for all of her support services — she has given me permission to do that. I’m talking legal, psychological, housing, and social services, and in the event she is pregnant, I will assist her in getting proper care.” Izzy piped in, as she could see I was confused on this last point. “Mom, I opted not to take emergency contraception. If I’m pregnant, I intend to have the child.” I was shocked and unsure of what to say. I had to stop myself from shaking my head or blurting out something stupid.

But I did pipe up about one medical issue: “How is Izzy’s back?” Monica smiled and said, “It looks great on the imaging. No additional damage whatsoever. In fact, it appears to be healing beautifully.” Well, there’s some karma.

“And just so you know,” Monica added, “all that forensic evidence which we collected from Izzy this morning, as well as all that you brought in, has been bagged, sealed, and logged. It will be stored according to state protocol at the local precinct and ready for us to use in court should Izzy decide to press charges. Even if she doesn’t press charges right away, or ever, the evidence remains sealed for the statutory period.” “Which is how long?” I asked. “In this state, it’s twenty years for sexual assault cases,” Monica replied. “She’s got twenty years to decide, and believe it or not, that is sometimes how long it takes before a victim is strong enough to navigate what is inevitably a protracted court battle.”

Alright, twenty years. Izzy would be forty-four before that evidence would be destroyed. That was good. I could see from the look on Izzy’s face that she was not yet decided on whether to press charges. “What are her other options other than criminal charges?” I asked Monica. She directed her answer at Izzy: “Do you want to talk about this now, or wait until you’ve had some rest?” “Now,” Izzy replied decidedly, her voice steady. “I want to know now,” she added more gently.

Monica nodded and gestured to a small consultation room off the waiting area. “Let’s sit down.”

The hospital’s consultation room was windowless, with industrial carpet, fluorescent lights, and a single box of tissues that looked like it had been sitting there for several decades. I hated to think how the tissues might hold up if someone actually needed one. Would they disintegrate? These were the types of thoughts floating around my stress-rattled brain.

Monica sat across from us and pulled out a folder. “Okay. Here’s what you need to know — these are the options, and none are mutually exclusive. First and foremost, you can pursue criminal charges through the DA’s office, which could, if the evidence is strong, result in a fairly lengthy prison term for the perpetrator. Or you can pursue a civil case for damages. These typically have a better chance of succeeding. I would also highly recommend, regardless of which route you take, filing for a restraining order. Keeping him away is important, and were he to violate that order, his violation would lend credence to your case — that he is a threatening person who thinks he doesn’t have to abide by the law. You could do all of these things, or none of them, or some other combination.”

“What happens if I press criminal charges?” Izzy asked.

“The DA would review the evidence and decide whether it is strong enough to stand up in court. If so, she would then file charges and have Milo arrested, and then the case would go to trial. In this situation, you would almost certainly have to testify, and that means the defense would get to have a go at you — they’d get to cross-examine you. This sort of thing can be brutal — you need to know that up front. And the whole process can be a drawn-out one and stressful. And… there is no guarantee of a conviction.”

“What’s the conviction rate for rape cases in this county?” I asked. Monica sighed, then pursed her lips. It was clear she hated having to say this: “Approximately eighteen percent. I know this sounds horrible, but believe me when I say this is exceptional. Nationally, there is a 1% chance a rape case will result in a felony conviction or incarceration.” “One percent,” she emphasized.

Eighteen percent here in Franklin County. OK, better than anywhere else, but wow. Those were horrible odds.

Izzy laughed — a short, bitter laugh. “So there’s an eighty-two percent chance he walks.” “Well, not exactly.” Monica stopped. There was more she wanted to say, but clearly couldn’t. “Yes. Statistically, that’s accurate,” she replied, “though the DA can explain the situation in more detail — the variations that can occur on a final judgment.” What exactly were those “variations,” I wondered. Sex offender registry? An indefinite restraining order? Some lesser charge? A slap on the wrist? Fuck. Milo had kidnapped Izzy. Then he raped her. And he threatened to kill her. How could he walk away from all of that? I really needed to understand this.

“Alright. How do we go about getting a restraining order at least?” I was resigned to do the one thing that actually seemed possible.

“They’re relatively easy to get. You just walk into the civil courthouse and ask for a Request for Civil Harassment Restraining Order. The filing fee is $450, but that is waived if the petition alleges violence, sexual assault, and the like. You need to know up front that these restraining orders are easy to violate. And law enforcement often doesn’t take violations seriously, especially in Fremont County, unless there’s physical harm involved with the violation. I think Izzy has had enough physical harm for the time being, or should I say for the rest of her life? We need to take measures beyond just the restraining order. Izzy and I will discuss what those are this week.”

Monica continued: “There is a bit more you need to think about. The restraining order must be filed in the county in which the offense took place — so for Izzy, that means Franklin County. The order will be valid in all other counties, including Fremont. But if the perpetrator violates the order, you must report the violation to the precinct in which it occurred. Does this make sense?”

“Yep. Got it. The restraining order is just a piece of paper,” Izzy replied sarcastically. Monica nodded her head in agreement, though she was unable to say anything further per the limitations of her position with the DA’s office.

“What about a civil case?” I asked.

“Well, there’s a lower burden of proof for those. And you can win those with a preponderance of the evidence instead of the beyond-a-reasonable-doubt standard that’s required in criminal cases. You could potentially win damages, even if the criminal case has failed. But the process is typically very expensive, and can take years to reach a conclusion.”

Izzy sat quietly for a long moment. Then she asked, “What happens to the rape kit if I don’t press charges right away?” Monica’s response: “It will stay sealed and logged. You have the statutory period of 20 years to decide on whether to move forward. In the meantime, you can gather more evidence, meet with other victims, talk to a lawyer — your options may change over time. The kit doesn’t expire, and as I said, it is kept in police custody for twenty years.” Monica looked at Izzy and Louise, searching for a read on how they were handling all of this news, most of it discouraging.

“And I would say this, even though it’s a terrible thought — men like Milo cannot help themselves. They invariably repeat the behavior. If there were another case that came up, that might be the time to revive your own case. If you’re looking to join forces with another victim, you’ve got to find ways to publicize what has happened to you. They, or someone close to them, need to have heard about your case.” Monica’s demeanor had suddenly turned dark — these were difficult issues. Her directive, by law, was to protect the victim, but the look on her face told me there was another issue disrupting her peace of mind. Monica was already considering Milo’s next victim — the next woman who might end up experiencing his wrath, as Izzy had done. Or perhaps something worse. Troubling thoughts indeed.

There was one more thing that could help bring Milo down — shushing out his previous victims, if, in fact, there had been others. That would have to be done soon, however, before Milo or his parents could threaten, hurt, or bribe other women to discourage them from coming forward. That meant Izzy would need to make a statement to the police soon, and then tie all the physical evidence, photos, and medical reports to the case. She would be required to provide information about where everything had happened, provide a list of witnesses, and detail everything that led up to the assault. All of this would then be sent to the district attorney, who would in turn decide whether to press charges. If her office found there was enough evidence, they would open an investigation. At this point, much of this information could be shared with the public, either by law enforcement, the district attorney’s office, or by both as a united front. At that same press conference, they could make a public safety appeal asking for additional tips, witnesses, or information related to the suspect or the timeline of the events. At this point, previous victims often step forward—unless the perpetrator has caught wind of his potential arrest and reached out to them first.

In short, Monica was recommending they get their ducks in a row immediately. It was important they not hesitate in making a statement to the police. Waiting meant the perpetrator had time to tighten up his alibi, pull together witnesses to back his story, erase his digital trail, and ditch his car, which may contain more evidence.

Monica noted that so far, Izzy had done all the right things. As had Louise and Laura.

Thank God, all of this had happened in Franklin County.

“So I don’t have to decide tonight?” Izzy asked again.

“No. You absolutely do not have to decide tonight,” Monica reiterated.

Izzy looked at me and then at Monica. “I want to wait. I need to think about all of this and to consider how the pieces fall together. And then I want to talk to a lawyer, someone who can look at everything, do the math, and tell me what my chance of success looks like in terms of Milo going to jail. And for the time being, no restraining order, please. I’d like to see how all of this plays out. If Milo gets slapped with a restraining order, the cat’s out of the bag. He’ll know I’m likely filing charges against him.”

Izzy wondered how all of this would go down. Would Milo still turn up for the masterclass? Would he continue socializing with our same friends? What was he going to tell people about his injuries? This could get interesting, and Izzy had a feeling he was going to paint himself into a corner. Literally. Izzy really wanted to see this happen.

“All right, then,” Monica said. “In the meantime, I’m here to help you navigate the system. You can call me anytime, day or night. If I’m swimming laps, you may have to wait a half hour for a return call, but otherwise, I pick the phone up immediately when my clients call.”

Monica handed Izzy her business card, which she slipped into the pocket of her new, used jacket. “One other thing,” Monica said, “The hospital is required to report all of this to law enforcement. That means you will be contacted by a detective within the next few days. It’s best for you to cooperate and to let him or her take a statement. This can be done over the phone. If you don’t want to talk to them, that is your right. You also have the right to have a lawyer present, but making a statement makes it easier to establish exactly when the assault took place. This will be important.”

“Alright,” Izzy said, resigned. Not much had been decided today, but she was getting ok with that. “I appreciate knowing all of these details. I need to have a good think.”

Monica stood up. It was time for all of us to head home. It had been a long night and a long morning. Before heading out the door, Monica reiterated what she’d said earlier: “I mean it. Call me anytime. Day or night.”

Izzy and I remained in the room and sat in silence for what seemed an hour. We were processing an incredible amount of information.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But soon enough I will be. I just need to know where all of this is headed so I can start piledriving that fucker into the ground — be it by putting him in jail, destroying his reputation, or by cleaning out his trust fund. I want him to think twice before ever laying a finger on another woman.”

We got in the car. Laura was sleeping like a log in the back seat.

Oblivious, Izzy cranked her favorite Christina Aguilera tune. This woke Laura, of course, who sat bolt upright and buckled her seatbelt. “I’m guessing everything went well with the advocate?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. Izzy gave her a loud “Shh!”

Then she cranked up the volume.

READ ALL OF OVERPAINT on Fictionalized:

Overpaint, Chapter 1

Overpaint, Chapter 2

Overpaint, Chapter 3

Overpaint, Chapter 4

Overpaint, Chapter 5

Overpaint, Chapter 6

Overpaint, Chapter 7

Overpaint, Chapter 8

with Horton Doolittle

Hey friends! Thanks for checking out my guest blog here on Men On Pause. I’m sure you’re wondering why the hell I'd write a piece for a publication with a name this asinine. I’ll let you know at the end of the article. If I remember.

Last week, my friend, Liz Coash, sent me a text. She’d written a hugely popular column called “Is He A ‘Nurse’ Or A ‘Purse?’ Navigating The Over-60 Dating Scene.” Something about this piece — something I can’t remotely comprehend — struck a chord with thousands of ladies out there. Her post got nearly 16K reads. And my God, did the ladies dogpile on men. Big time. You should see the comments section. It’s packed with stuff like this from older women: “This is why I don’t date. The world’s champion idiots will look at me for three seconds and go, ‘You need to lose weight. Fuck that.’” Fortunately, there was one commentator, a guy named Kurt, who was willing to take one for the team: “You clearly have a bad attitude about over 60 men. I think you should probably not try to date anymore. It's not cute making generalizations like that.” Liz was pretty sure that “Kurt” was actually her father, with whom she is estranged. The syntax matched his perfectly.

Boys, if you were imagining older ladies have your balls in a vice-grip, you could be right on that. I’m highly recommending you read Liz’s article. Get a lay of the land before you try getting laid. Then come back to my story.

Turns out that some of Liz’s male readers — I’m talking paid subscribers — challenged her to write a piece on the over-60 dating scene from the male perspective. Since she couldn’t bring herself to “stoop that low” (her words), she thought I might be the one to take this on. I was only too happy to oblige, being a gentleman and all.

Every few weeks, after I’ve put back a few glasses of my favorite San Antonio bag-in-box port, and have sent yet another cheerful text message to my daughter Madison — who I am well aware will not be responding as she is currently “taking space” from our relationship — I cruise social media and invariably stumble across many bitter, hysterical articles written by sixty-, seventy- and eighty-something women. I guess when gals hit ninety, they no longer give a shit about men, because these Silent Generation women truly seem to be silent. Maybe they’re dead. Who knows? Younger women take note: Silence is golden.

The highest form of communication between a man and a woman is the shared silence that needs no explanation. — Ernest Hemingway

Love that Hemingway quote! My sentiments exactly.

Liz, who is the editor of Men On Pause, tried to get me to remove this quote, claiming that many of Hemingway’s female characters are portrayed as manipulative, nagging, and weak. My response to her request: “Hey, the guy won the Nobel Prize in 1954. That’s got to count for something.” Liz’s response: “Ah, no, that award is now considered meaningless. It’s basically men giving awards to men.” I’m so confused. Is there something wrong with that?

These ladies — the ones who read Liz’s stuff — they whine endlessly about men my age. They claim we’re lazy, looking for free maid service, or that we’re looking for a mommy replacement. She suggested I was personally looking for anyone willing to put out — for you-know-what — in exchange for a cup of decaf Sanka. Wow. That’s low. Even for Liz.

Balderdash, is what I say! Total, unadulterated poppycock.

As a Tier II Clearance man of The Real World, a lifelong student of feminine psychology, and the proud author of an unpublished 400-page manifesto on modern courtship, I feel it is my duty to set the record straight on older men and dating. Older men are not looking for a caregiver. We want romance and sparkle, and our “baseline visual attraction” is women in their 20s. Think Natalie Harp. Pretty, slim, large breasts, feminine dresses and high heels, longish blond hair, plump lips, nice round bottom. A woman like Natalie is the natural preference of all men, though those of us who are more open-minded may be willing to settle for a woman in her 30s. Basically, men want a woman who understands the timeless, natural order of things — namely, that a man in his golden years is like an exquisite, rare vintage. He deserves to be handled with reverence, soft lighting, meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and minimal backtalk.

The tragedy of our modern dating world is this: women our own age have completely disqualified themselves from the running. After extensive discussions with my circle of friends — eligible, high-value males from the local Elks Lodge — we have ascertained that the over-sixty female population has degenerated into three distinct, un-dateable archetypes:

The Hag: These are women who have decided to “let nature take its course.” They have silver hair, have quit bothering with shapewear, are into sensible orthotics, and have zero interest in the NFL. They believe in equality in the bedroom and in the kitchen. They are not interested in hunting and hand you a can opener when you ask, “What’s for dinner?”

The Slag: These are women who’ve had the audacity to live a full life before meeting us. They know what they want in the bedroom, and they have expectations. These women refuse to shower men with much-deserved praise when they manage to perform four minutes of uninterrupted missionary position sex before their sciatica flares up.

The Nag: These ladies are the absolute worst. They possess strong opinions, know how to read a financial statement, and will not stop asking basic, hostile questions like “Why did you leave your wet towel on the cat?” “Have you emptied the dishwasher?” Or, when you can’t get it up: “When was your last prostate exam?”

A Study in Contrasts

Now, I want to introduce you to five noble, misunderstood silver foxes — men who’ve been unfairly villainized by our local spinster cabal, otherwise known as The League of Women Voters. That brings me to this hard fact: women should never have been allowed to vote. For 144 years, American women deferred to men to run the government and make all the decisions. Things went ever so smoothly back in those days. Am I right, guys? Fortunately, the evangelical right has taken up the issue of “household voting,” and in some parts of the country is calling for the 19th Amendment to be repealed altogether.

Oops! Got off track here — back to the discussion at hand: older men and dating.

Here are some hard facts to get the ball rolling — peer-reviewed data I put together while waiting for my soup-of-the-day in a sourdough bread bowl at Panera:

• 91% of men over the age of 60 are at the undisputed peak of their physical and sexual magnetism (think Sean Connery, minus the sleep apnea mask and knee brace).

• 88% of single women over 55 are dangerously “inflexible,” according to certified medical professionals. This is because of “their refusal to listen to a 45-minute breakdown of box score stats without rolling their eyes,” among other things.

• 96% of mature women lack basic maternal compassion, as evidenced by their refusal to help a gentleman locate his reading glasses when they are resting plainly on top of his head.

• 100% of men who seek out vibrant 20-something-year-old women are doing so purely out of generosity, offering their immense life wisdom in exchange for light housework, Lululemon leggings, and youthful vitality.

And so I bring you, from the front lines of male romantic martyrdom, five tragic accounts of great men who tried to give mature women a chance, only to be crushed by their bitterness.

Carl Custer, 71: “I need someone who matches my vibrational frequency”

Carl is a retired pediatric dentist, an alpha male, and a visionary who understands that age is merely a social construct. He loves the feel of a Costco polyester-blend camp shirt, which he unbuttons to his navel to display his magnificent tuft of silver chest hair. He drives a lemon-yellow convertible that turns heads at every red light, especially when oil leaks from the valve cover gasket onto his exhaust manifold, creating black smoke.

Carl’s Philosophy
“Horton, it’s not about superficial beauty; it’s about vibrations — spiritual connections. Women my age are constantly dragging the room down with talk about osteoporosis, their families, and European river cruises. I can hardly suppress a yawn. I am 38 in my soul! I need a wild, spontaneous partner who wants to jump on a plane to Cancun at a moment’s notice. Older women are simply too set in their ways. They have their own ideas of what constitutes a good time, and aren’t willing to surrender to the masculine flow.”

The Tragedy of Santa Barbara
Carl generously decided to treat Mia, a 42-year-old yoga instructor, to a spontaneous, high-energy weekend in Santa Barbara where he hoped to introduce her to his youthful prowess. But did Mia appreciate his romantic gesture? Not in the slightest.

Due to a minor administrative oversight by the boutique hotel, the air conditioner in their room had a slight hum, and Carl’s delicate constitution had been temporarily disrupted by a spicy street taco. When Carl experienced an absolutely normal, masculine bout of acute gastrointestinal distress, in combination with his having misplaced his bottle of blood pressure medication, he reached out to Mia for basic, nurturing female comfort.

Carl spent a mere four hours of their romantic overnight writhing on their king-sized bed in his soiled boxer shorts, groaning vulnerably while politely asking Mia to apply a cold compress to his forehead. He also asked her to call his daughter to verify the dosage of his Lipitor, and to run down to the corner Grocery Outlet for some stewed prunes.

Instead of stepping into what should have been her natural feminine role as a healer, Mia had the audacity to put on lipstick, a cute A-line denim skirt and cowboy boots, and tell Carl she was going out to get a margarita, leaving him to suffer alone! Though this was their first date, Carl gently pointed out that a true life partner would have prioritized his recovery over going out on the town.

Mia enjoyed salsa-dancing for several hours, then called an Uber and went home, leaving Carl to “fend” for himself, which he did with the help of the adult entertainment channel in his room.

Unbelievable. A man shows genuine vulnerability, and an older woman judges him as weak and thinks nothing of deserting him.

Doug Drysdale, 68: “A woman ought to take pride in her appearance”

Doug is a distinguished widower who gave thirty-five years of loyal service to the commercial insurance industry and 44 years to his wife, Debra. He is a man of refinement who believes that standards matter.

Doug’s Philosophy
“Is it a crime for a gentleman to appreciate elegance? My late wife, bless her soul, never let me see her without her hair and makeup done, and she was always in a pretty dress with matching pumps. Of course, I never got to see her in her natural state, but that’s how she was — a class act.”

“The 62-year-old women on these dating apps wear denim jackets and cargo pants, have gray hair and no makeup, and sport flat shoes. And when did it become a crime to wear nylons?”

“Where is the mystery? Where is the effort? Where are the womanly wiles? If I’m investing in a forty-dollar meal at The Olive Garden, I don’t want to feel like I’m having lunch with my high school geometry teacher.”

The Calamari Incident
Doug had set up a romantic evening at a local bistro with Brenda, a 62-year-old retired architect. Doug is a practical man who doesn’t believe in wasting money on vanity items, so he arrived in a comfortable, well-loved polo shirt — which had a tiny, harmless mustard stain from his lunch at the ballpark — and he wore his favorite boat shoes, which carried the authentic, rugged aroma of life on a herring factory trawler.

Sitting across from Doug, Brenda looked frankly intimidating in her sharp black blazer and expensive silver jewelry, with her svelte physique and undyed hair. Immediately recognizing that Brenda lacked a gentle guiding hand, Doug generously offered some constructive — and loving — feedback about her appearance over their calamari appetizer, which Brenda was sadly allergic to.

Doug leaned across the bread basket, held her hand, and told her, in the most caring voice imaginable, that her “crow’s feet” were quite prominent — perhaps she had not noticed this since it seemed clear she didn’t own a mirror. Doug suggested that a modest application of dermal filler and some heavy night cream could easily restore her youthful glow. He noted that his wife, Gladys, had done just that when she was in the final throes of her Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and it had done wonders in terms of making her look more alive and vibrant, even when she was in excruciating pain and experiencing organ failure.

Brenda stared at Doug in disbelief.

Did Brenda say, “Thank you, Doug, for your honest aesthetic guidance”?

No, she did not. She looked him dead in the eyes — completely ignoring his distinguished ear plumage, which adds tremendous character to his profile — and said, “Doug, you look like a laundry hamper that gained sentience.” She then threw her napkin on the table and marched out! Doug was left entirely alone, forced to explain to their shocked eighteen-year-old hostess that older women have completely lost their capacity for gracious self-improvement.

Martin Swerski, 66: “They’ve got too much baggage and big opinions”

Marty is a dynamic former regional logistics coordinator with an encyclopedic knowledge of virtually everything. He is a natural leader who understands that women secretly crave a man who can take charge of the conversation.

Marty’s Philosophy
“It’s simple evolutionary biology, Horton. A woman’s biological imperative is to seek guidance from a dominant, knowledgeable male. But women over sixty have completely lost that instinct. They want to argue! They want to debate! A man comes home from a hard day of managing his stock portfolio and playing a round of golf, and all he wants is peace (and a piece of ass, truth be told), not a panel discussion. Younger women appreciate a mentor. Older women think they know better than the experts.”

The Coffee Debacle
Marty took Susan, a 60-year-old former appellate judge, out for an educational coffee date. From the moment they sat down, Marty took the reins like a true gentleman. He gave Susan a fascinating, comprehensive twelve-minute briefing on the municipal court system's fundamental flaws, followed by an illuminating masterclass on the thermodynamic properties of the Americano he was drinking.

Instead of listening quietly and taking mental notes, Susan waited for Marty to pause for a breath and then aggressively attacked his thesis. She claimed his interpretation of constitutional case law was “laughably illiterate” and boasted that she had “written three legal treatises on that exact precedent.”

Marty, maintaining absolute composure, correctly diagnosed her behavior on the spot: she was suffering from severe, post-menopausal status-anxiety. He told her plainly that her aggressive intellectualism was deeply un-feminine and explained that her high-powered career had alienated her from that maternal warmth that comes naturally to normal women. And then, rather than apologizing for having emasculated him, Susan stood up, slapped a five-dollar bill onto the table, and said, “Keep the change, Marty. Use it to buy a clue.”

Marty spent that evening on Facebook alerting all the other men in town to Susan’s hostility. Our lodge brothers universally praised the poor guy for dodging a massive bullet. Whew!

Gerald Shanker, 69: “I need a low-maintenance gal who loves the outdoors”

Gerry is a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. He lives in a cozy suburban home where his two-car garage serves as an active research-and-development laboratory, housing four vintage lawnmowers, a kerosene tank, and sixty-two neatly stacked banker boxes full of assorted copper wiring.

Gerald’s Philosophy
“Women my age are entirely too high-maintenance. They want reservations at fancy restaurants with cloth napkins. They want you to hire a licensed electrician when the light switch next to the kitchen sink sparks every time they turn on the light. A simpler solution: don’t turn on that darn light! Problem solved.”

“I just want a sweet, down-to-earth gal who appreciates a hardworking guy, doesn’t mind a little engine grease, and knows how to pitch in without complaining when I need help digging out the sewer lateral pipe on the side of the house.”

A Wood-Chipper Evening of Romance
Gerald invited 58-year-old Claire over for an authentic, rustic, homecooked meal. Showing incredible resourcefulness, Gerald laid out a box of premium saltines and a can of vintage chili. When he realized his can opener was missing — having used it earlier to scrape gasket sealant off a carburetor — he dug through the tool drawer, found a flathead screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer, then used the two to open the can right before her eyes. Pure masculine problem-solving in real time! Now if that doesn’t turn a woman on, they are likely a lesbian.

Gerry then treated Claire to an exclusive, behind-the-scenes tour of his workshop, culminating in a demonstration of the 1974 commercial wood-chipper he had almost completely restored. This was the same model famously seen in Fargo. When Gerald yanked the pull-cord, the magnificent machine roared to life with a triumphant backfire, discharging a harmless cloud of industrial carbon and spewing motor oil across the room.

Unfortunately, some of this motor oil landed on Claire’s white silk blouse, and the power grid in Gerald’s cul-de-sac suffered a blackout.

Instead of laughing off the adventure and offering to hold up the flashlight on her phone while Gerald tried all eighty-four of his unlabeled circuit breakers, Claire threw a temper tantrum! She walked out to the curb, called an Uber, and took off. Just like that. Not even a goodbye.

Three hours later, there was Gerry, in his garage, eating the room-temperature chili straight out of the can. Claire hadn’t even bothered to warm it up for him and put it in a proper bowl — which Gerry pointed out was perfectly doable, as he had a gas range and could light the burners with a match. Instead of giving Gerry a chance, Claire took off!

You can bet Gerry will not be calling her for a second date.

Stan Helmsley, 64: “Older women just radiate scarcity mindset”

Stan is a biohacking pioneer, a cold-plunge enthusiast, and an elite pickleball competitor. He wears five-toed ergonomic running shoes for everything — from his daily athletic activities to formal events. On any given day, Stan can be seen drinking his potent slurry of wild algae and bone broth (a recipe from Gwyneth Paltrow), and heard refusing to acknowledge chronological aging as anything more than “a mental defeat.” His motto: think young, live young, make love to young women.

Stan’s Philosophy
“It’s about optimization, Horton. Women in their sixties have completely surrendered to entropy. All they talk about is their hip replacements and their hormone replacement therapy. I am operating at the biological frequency of a 28-year-old Navy SEAL. I need a high-octane partner who values longevity, ice baths, and red-light therapy. Older women are just sitting around watching reruns of The Golden Girls and decomposing.”

The Pickleball Tragedy
Stan brought his optimized vitality to the local court, partnering with a 29-year-old fitness influencer named Krystal, whom he met in the kombucha aisle at Whole Foods. Stan was executing a masterclass in aggressive court coverage when his left Achilles tendon made a loud, wet popping noise — a clear sign, he was sure, that his cellular tissue was simply detoxing under extreme performance pressure. Whatever that means.

As Stan was splayed heroically across the court, writhing in his athletic triumph, Krystal radiated annoyance, then failed to step up to manage his logistical recovery. Instead of helping Stan, she mumbled something about having to meet a brand-sponsorship deadline, laced up her rollerblades, and off she went! Just like that.

Fortunately, Stan still had his phone on his person, and was thus able to generously extend an olive branch to his 63-year-old ex-wife, Janet, who he tried to hit up for a ride to the hospital. He asked a perky blonde bystander to dial Janet’s number, even though his hands were in perfect working order, and when Janet answered, he made his offer: to let her drive him to the ER — which he knew would be a forty-minute drive in rush-hour traffic. Stan pointed out this was actually a blessing in disguise, this long drive, as now he and Janet would now have ample time to catch up.

And could she also bring his supplemental insurance card when she picked him up, since he’d left it in the drawer to the left of the stove at her house? He was also hoping Janet could stay for the procedure to ensure that all medical personnel were kept abreast of his severe allergy to synthetic adhesives.

Stan was shocked and hurt to hear Janet laughing uncontrollably on the other end of the phone. When she finally caught her breath and was able to speak, she reminded Stan they been divorced for 12 years and that every remnant of him had been “exorcised from her house, thank God.” She could have politely said, “No, Stan, I no longer have your insurance card. I inadvertantly threw it out with the old carry-out menus. So sorry.” Instead, she rounded out their conversation by telling him to, “call an ambulance, you idiot,” then hung up! Surely his getting disconnected like that was a mistake, so Stan called her back, only to get this message: “The person you are calling is unavailable.”

After arriving at Walnut Creek General, Stan was strapped to a gurney and transported to the trauma room where he dictated this gutwrenching memo to our group chat: “Discovered today that older women have allowed their hearts to calcify into stone.”

Our hearts (not stone) are with you, Stan.

Randy Getawhey, 72: “I’m an adventurer, and a renegade”

Randy is a rugged outdoor renegade and the visionary proprietor of Adventures in Nature, the premier bicycle and kayak outfitter in the greater tri-county area (currently operating on a cash-only basis while Randy sorts out a minor bureaucratic misunderstanding with the state franchise tax board). Randy is a pure boomer powerhouse who radiates what the youth refer to as “unstoppable big dick energy.” And he makes no secret of the fact that he possesses an elite arsenal of bedroom maneuvers honed over decades of raw, unbridled vitality.

Randy’s Philosophy
“Women my age are obsessed with mundane things like financial security and emotional stability, Horton. They want a domestic eunuch who vacuums rugs, monitors his cholesterol, and watches cable news. I am an untamed stallion! When I take a gal out, I’m offering her an authentic, adrenaline-fueled expedition she’ll never forget. And in the sack? Let’s just say I’ve got moves that defy modern physics. You can’t put a price tag on the kind of primal masculine wattage I have to offer.”

A Failed Romp In His Shop-Top Apartment
Randy recently offered this total “package” to Micah, a sensible 34-year-old botanical illustrator. Rather than bore her with an overpriced meal at some stuffy bistro, Randy crafted a bespoke, high-octane adventure that started right behind his shop.

First came an authentic, rustic dinner: two fish tacos from an idling food truck next to the store’s dumpster bay. When the cashier totaled the bill, Randy discovered his debit card had suffered a sudden “magnetic de-coupling,” so he gallantly allowed Micah to cover the $14.50 tab. As it turned out, this would be a brilliant test of her team-player mindset.

Next, Randy intended to showcase his athletic prowess during a moonlit excursion down a municipal canal in a floor-model tandem kayak from Big Five. As he attempted his legendary alpha-male push-off from the canal bank, which was thick with mud, his foot slipped unexpectedly, and then his right knee — which had previously suffered a minor meniscus issue during a 1984 pickup softball tournament — issued a sound not unlike that of a celery stalk snapping in half. Randy rolled sideways into four inches of murky marsh grass, pinned beneath the boat’s hull like an overturned sea turtle. Miraculously, he maintained total command of the situation by explaining to Micah that he was just testing the river bank’s structural integrity from a prone tactical position. Eventually they both got in the kayak and off they went into that good, albeit pitch black, night.

Several hours later, Randy and Micah found their way back to his Subaru Forester, threw the boat on top and off they went. Upon arriving back in town and recognizing pure outdoor passion when he saw it, Randy invited Micah up to his bachelor loft above the retail floor, where he prepared to unleash what he proudly calls his Tahoe Kielbasa, on her Tahoe Taco.

Unfortunately, Randy’s bedroom performance hit a brief mechanical snag. Every time Randy attempted one of his standard acrobatic changes of position, his right patella locked at a rigid 35-degree angle, as it made a loud, metallic popping sound and sent acute pain shooting through his lower lumbar. To maintain his seductive momentum, Randy had to wedge two memory-foam bicycle saddles under his hamstring, prop his good leg against the oak dresser next to his twin bed for leverage, and then call for three consecutive tactical timeouts to massage a violent groin cramp.

Did Micah swoon with gratitude at witnessing such uninhibited primal vigor?

No, she did not. She calmly pulled her sweater on, retrieved a bag of frozen edamame from Randy’s mini-fridge and tossed it on his swollen knee, then gently observed that he had spent the last twenty minutes groaning in the fetal position while tangled in a display rack of safety helmets.

And how did Randy out round this masterclass in irrepressible virility? He gave Micah a smoldering wink from the futon, asked if she could spot him a twenty for tomorrow’s breakfast, and then politely requested that she look under the sofa for his hinged neoprene knee brace.

Naturally, Micah made up a transparent excuse about having to water her ferns and slipped out the door without helping Randy up, spotting him the cash or retrieving his brace. As Randy and I agreed over coffee the next morning, modern women simply lack the stamina for a truly wild ride and Micah’s bowing out early was a signal she was too exhausted to receive Randy’s well-intentioned love offering. Her loss.

The Final Verdict: Why We Are Abandoning Mature Women to Their Fate

So there you have it, gentlemen. The evidence is overwhelming and incontrovertible.

If you are an older woman wondering why high-caliber men like Carl, Doug, Marty, Gerald, Stan, and myself aren’t knocking down your door, look in the mirror. Not only will you see wrinkles, gray hair and breast ptosis, you will see a woman who has traded her sweet, submissive feminine charm for boundaries, self-respect, and basic decency — you know, things like clean sheets, putting the toilet seat down, and our bringing our wallets on a date.

We cannot imagine you finding satisfaction sitting in your clean, quiet houses, drinking expensive tea, spending time with your grandchildren, and sleeping diagonally across your king-sized beds without a snoring man beside you. Deep down, we know you are weeping for the loss of our masculine energy.

But ladies, we are not settling for the Hags, Slags, and Nags any longer. We are holding out for what we truly deserve: a 20 to 32-year-old soulmate who will look past our minor health quirks, hang on our every word about the Vietnam and Gulf Wars, cook three square meals a day from scratch, pay half the rent, and rub therapeutic horse liniment into our lower lumbar regions without being asked twice.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must log off. I have an important first date tonight with the lovely, Kimberly, a 28-year-old barista I met this morning at Naysayer’s Coffee. She hasn’t replied to my last seven text messages confirming our reservation at the Golden Corral, but that’s probably because she’s intimidated by my powerful masculine aura. I’m heading over there right now to show her what a real man looks like. I have all the confidence in the world that she will be there waiting for me.

Let us begin living our best lives, my friends!

Thought I’d bring all of you in for a soft landing this morning after a tumultuous week of upsetting headlines. Let’s talk the 1970s — gardening, vegetables, kids, political corruption, violent race riots, Stevie Wonder, band instruments, casseroles, trains, the burned out neighborhoods of Detroit, and Vietnam. Yeah. That weird mix of stuff. Hopefully all of this is a little easier to digest on a Sunday morning over waffles. It is all in the rearview mirror, at least. Right?

My point — may as well put it right up front: somehow we survived. Most of us, anyway. All of that crazy stuff happened in our lifetimes — you silent generation folks, boomers and Gen Xers.

I think we need to take a little trip down memory lane, don’t you? If you need a warm up, cue up Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and pour yourself a cup of Maxwell House. We’re going back to 1973 to look at the creative solutions young people worked out in those other dark days — solutions that I hope inform us on what needs doing now. Someone needs to shine a light down this dark tunnel.

I’m going to tell you this now and at the end of this article in case your short-term memory isn’t what it used to be: we old folks need to step the hell aside and let young, fresh minds do the problem-solving. Why? Because their minds are young and fresh, you old fucking codgers and codgerettes. Young and fresh. And then there’s that bit about them having a say in their future. Come on, folks, we don’t have much skin left in this game. The time is now to pass the torch. Actually, it was like years ago you should have passed that fucking torch. But that’s ancient history, so let’s just get on with it.

PLEASE, please, let these young people have a go at it. This is their game, the world they’ve inherited. Give it to them. Support them. Elect them into office. And quit fucking calling them Social Democrats like that’s a dirty word.

A funny thing happened this week. While wandering through my bookshelves and reminiscing about the (dare I say) thousands of books I have read over the years, I came across this tiny tome: The Outdoor Education Center School Farm and Garden Program Cookbook. A real treasure. At least for me, the gardening, veggie junkie.

I hadn’t seen this book in decades, and finding it brought a flood of memories. Cold spring days in third grade. Working the soil in the Fremont School gardening plot at the Outdoor Education Center. Sometimes it was raining, sometimes the sky was bright and clear. Regardless of the weather, my class would get out there to dig holes and trenches, plant seeds and put in vegetable starts, pick out rocks and sticks, and add mulch. It was hard work. Damn. And we were freezing our butts off. Some of us loved doing this stuff. Others, not so much.

In the weeks that followed, Mrs. McCoy’s class would continue going to the farm to weed and thin out the vegetables. Partway through those cool, damp days, we would be invited into the education center to warm up with hot apple cider and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, after which we learned more about the vegetables we were growing. We studied their stages of growth, the types of pests that might attack them, and we examined the Farmer’s Almanac to figure out when our vegetables would be ready to harvest. We also learned how each type of vegetable improved our health, and why they were important to our growing strong. It came as a surprise to many of us just how many veggies we were supposed to be eating. Many kids thought this couldn’t be true, that we needed to eat all that spinach — their parents didn’t eat vegetables at all, and hey, they were still alive. But then we looked at those young teachers at the front of our classroom — they were strong, good-looking and smart. And they wore Levis and high-top Converse sneakers. They said, “Eat your vegetables!” So we did, because we wanted to be like them: strong, good-looking, smart, and cool. We were not interested in looking like our dads, who were wearing polyester Sansabelt trousers and eating hot dogs and jello.

Back in those days, the 1970s, the Democratic socialist hippies who were running Michigan’s education programs were promoting plant-based eating. They were way ahead of the times, but we didn’t know that.

In addition to teaching us how to garden, these hippie-ish teachers at the School Farm showed us how to clean, prepare, and cook the vegetables we were growing, and we often got to sample their recipes. I especially loved everything made with zucchini. Tempura, zucchini goulash, zucchini casserole. Yummy. Once I discovered how very tasty veggies were, I was determined to eat as many as possible — at home, at school, when we went out to eat. My parents thought I was crazy.

As we neared the end of spring and the school year, and the ice had melted off Clear Lake (on which the school farm was situated), things began to warm up. Those friggin’ Michigan winters, they felt neverending. The weeks leading up to the equinox our vegetables really took off. It was exciting to come back to the farm after a short hiatus to find perfect rows of bright green leaves.

Before the school year came to an end, Mrs. White, our principal, made a point of stopping by our classrooms to explain that the school farm program would be continuing through the summer and that a bus would wait for students at the side entrance twice a week — this up until Labor Day weekend. If you wanted to garden, all you needed was a note from a parent saying you were allowed to go to the Outdoor Recreation Center for the day, wear appropriate clothes (and bring a swimsuit and towel if you wanted to swim), and bring a sack lunch and snack. And you had to be at the bus stop at 8:30 a.m., on the button, or risk missing your ride.

Mrs. White then handed each of us a schedule to take home. She strongly encouraged us to continue our important work at the farm, unless, of course, we were heading off to camp or going on a family vacation.

Doing farm work over the summer was not a requirement, and so, as you might imagine, there wasn’t a line snaking around the block to sign up for this activity. All those hours of weeding, harvesting, and cleaning veggies were not everyone’s bag. But there was a hardcore summer gardening group that developed, surprisingly, and it consisted of kids who had nothing better to do over break, or whose families couldn't afford stay-away camps, or a membership to the country club, and there was also the obligatory gaggle of kids from the large Catholic families in our neighborhood. Sometimes even a younger sibling, who was not really supposed to be at the School Farm. Those kids just needed to get the hell out of Dodge, if you catch my drift. And secretly, I think their parents really needed that produce we would be bringing home.

My friend, David — his mother tricked him into going by saying he’d get to swim. Yeah, well, maybe. She left off that bit about his having to do five hours of weeding on his hands and knees. I was probably an outlier: someone who, for my age, was oddly into gardening. I dreamt about it, and I sketched out diagrams of how I’d lay out my garden, if I had one. And I read The Secret Garden over and over. I was fascinated to see how our school farm veggies would turn out. Not sure where this gardening proclivity came from, except that I'm farm stock — and that would be on every side of my family. Genetics. You can’t outrun them.

It was a fun, eccentric bunch of kids who were down for digging around in the dirt for the better part of a summer’s day. There was much mirth-making, playing pranks on one another, seeing who could catapult a rutabaga the furthest, enjoying picnics and swapping sandwich halves, and then sometimes getting to cool off in the lake mid-afternoon. By the time we got home on those farm days, we were pooped.

Over the course of the next couple of months, we summer gardeners raked in the bounty resulting from all that our classmates had sown in the spring. The farm counselors collected up boxes from local supermarkets for us, and encouraged us to take home as many veggies as we could carry. This was exciting — our veggies were really beautiful, and I took great pride in presenting them to my family at the end of each week, even if my stepmother had no idea what to do with an eggplant.

Once school resumed after Labor Day, our whole class was (thankfully) back at the farm, and those kids got to partake in the harvesting and taking home of food for their families. It was a good feeling. Fall at the farm was festive — bringing together all good things: companionship, being out in nature, sharing tasty and nutritious food, celebrating fall weather, and learning about the life cycles of plants and animals. We experienced firsthand how essential these things were to a well-rounded life.

Over the course of that first year at the School Farm, it had become my goal to reproduce the recipes we had sampled in class, and thanks to Mrs. Harriet Krum, Home Service Director of the Battle Creek Gas Company, I was able to do just that. She produced a cookbook that included recipes from the teachers and parents at every school, incorporating all the vegetables we had been growing at the farm that year. And the local gas company — they saw to it that copies of this cookbook ended up in the hands of every child in the school district. So, if your mother had no idea whatsoever what to do with a rutabaga, fear not! You could find great recipes for these mysterious root veggies on pages 24 and 25 of the School Farm cookbook.

A quick peek through this cookbook revealed the wide range of veggies we had been growing at the time, out there on highway M-37. Beans, beets, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, chard, corn, cucumbers, eggplant, kohlrabi, mustard greens, onions, peppers, potatoes, pumpkins, rhubarb, rutabagas, a variety of squashes, tomatoes, and turnips. Holy toots! Thank you, Mrs. Krum, for putting all of these in alphabetical order. 🌞

Back in the day, many of those veggies were unfamiliar to those of us living in Battle Creek — these were not foods readily found at the local Cut Rate Supermarket. They were pretty exotic.

But we, the children in the Battle Creek Public Schools — we knew what these were because we grew these veggies.

And I grew to love eating them. And to love gardening. And to appreciate all the kids in my community who I saw out in those fields every week. When we were doing farm chores, it didn’t matter what color we were. We all got filthy, sore and hungry and we all laughed when a potato beetle burrowed deep into Gordon’s afro.

To this day, I continue to grow veggies and to eat them voraciously. I’m a vegetable junkie and damn proud of it. Thank you, School Farm.

Those of us lucky enough to have gone through the Battle Creek Public Schools system got a damn good education. Just saying. Having been a teacher for nearly 35 years, I've come to appreciate just how good that education was. Exceptional, in fact, in every way. It prepared me to excel in college and beyond.

And this praise comes after having taught at the Chicago Waldorf School, Washington University, Chaminade College Preparatory, Lane Tech, Hazelwood Central H.S. (St. Louis), Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp, University of Chicago Lab Schools, Interlochen, Roosevelt University, Moody Bible Institute, Thornwood and Thornridge High Schools, and at numerous other educational institutions. My point: I am a well-educated snoot. And I have this to say about the Battle Creek public schools: they were top-drawer. For whatever that’s worth.

In the 70s, when I was a kid, Battle Creek was primarily a blue-collar city, and one riddled with train tracks. Twenty to thirty freight trains barreled through town on any given day, their diesel locomotive air horns blaring at all hours, with little regard for those sleeping, a symphony concert, people reading at Willard Library, or those convalescing at local hospitals. Train tracks ran through every single part of town, which literally meant all of us were from “the wrong side of the tracks.” At least that was the joke.

Those who lived and worked in Battle Creek knew you had to plan on adding an extra 15 to 20 minutes to any car trip, no matter where you were headed, as it was likely you would hit a train crossing. If you weren’t inclined to add in this crucial time buffer, you could count on being late for work, missing your appointment (or flute lesson, in my case) about 50% of the time. Those cereal-city freight trains were anything but typical — all of them had 70 - 100 cars. A great way to fall asleep in Battle Creek was counting train cars instead of sheep. There was a distinctive rhythm they made as they rolled over the crossing panels, which made it possible to count them. I could usually fall asleep around the 50th car.

Also in the 70s, Battle Creek was proudly the “Cereal Capital of the World.” We’re talking Kellogg’s, Post, General Mills, Quaker Oats, and Ralston Purina. Entire families worked in these factories, sometimes for generations. Day and night, the town smelled of grains roasting. Ironically, the plant that made Purina Dog Chow emitted the most mouth-watering smells. Go figure.

During those same years, Battle Creek was rattled by the racial tensions being felt nationally, in part because it was wedged between Chicago and Detroit on the Hwy. 94 corridor and buttressed by other war zones like Benton Harbor, Flint, Lansing, and Grand Rapids, all of those cities experiencing widespread rioting, looting, and arson — with large swaths of Grand Rapids and Detroit permanently destroyed during this era. Battle Creek's proximity to this strife gave its leaders pause, as did the broader civil rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the rapidly changing racial dynamics resulting from the Great Migration. Civic leaders and school board members furiously began implementing new programs and policies designed to bring down the temperature. To a certain degree, these programs kept things from escalating out of control and they helped soften issues of racism, which were shamefully prevalent throughout the state.

👆 Damn good flute riffs in this Gil Scott-Heron piece from 1970. That would be Hubert Laws, fyi. I learned to play these riffs by ear. Hate to say it, but that White flutist dude, Ian Anderson, who was also popular at the time, couldn’t hold a candle to Laws.

Those of you from my generation (Class of 1980) likely participated in one or more of these school programs meant to combat racial tension and bigotry in our community: Joint Student Leadership Classes, Project Backstop, assorted outdoor wilderness programs through the Outdoor Education Center (orienteering, camping, water sports, ropes courses, biology adventures, etc.), the indigenous people curricula taught in the elementary schools, as well as the field trips and immersive re-enactments related to Battle Creek’s role in the Underground Railroad. And of course there was the School Farm and Garden Program where kids from all schools and neighborhoods congregated.

The school district also ramped up its already extensive fine arts programs, which spanned from grade school through high school. Ditto for the school district’s sports programs. The district offered choral and instrumental music, theatre, visual arts, speech and debate, and numerous other programs. Physical education and outdoor and indoor municipal sports were also expanded. Much of this was possible because of the massive corporate tax base Battle Creek enjoyed courtesy of the cereal industry, federal funding and by generous gifts from the W.K. Kellogg Foundation. These opportunities were made accessible to all students, regardless of income level, with instruments, art supplies, sports gear, etc., provided free of charge. Creative outlets for kids were hugely important during this period of high tension. Call these socialist programs, if you like. Whatever.

Progressive educational initiatives some of you may remember came in the way of special curricula in our grade schools. During this era, Congress passed the Indian Education Act of 1972, which provided significant federal funding for schools to develop programs, hire tutors and develop culturally accurate curricula and textbooks related to Native American history and culture. While most of these programs were specifically for indigenous children, this act put a spotlight on Native Americans generally. And let me tell you, there was no sugarcoating history in these programs. They called a spade a spade.

The State of Michigan picked up on this thread, publishing numerous text books on the state’s indigenous history, developing school programs, and connecting educators to indigenous leaders, many of whom visited our schools. Each year I was at Fremont Elementary, our various classrooms recreated Indian dwellings, canoes, baskets, cooking implements and arrowheads, and we practiced cooking the foods indigenous people were understood to have eaten, as well as reading special textbooks and completing worksheets designed to improve our understanding of these important people in our state. The Chippewa, Ottawa and Potawatomi Indians figured largely in those grade school studies.

These are some of the materials that were used in our schools:

Another incredibly important component of our school district’s curriculum was the history of The Underground Railroad. Battle Creek figured prominently as a major waystation in the railroad, helping roughly a thousand slaves find their way to freedom in Canada. A Quaker couple in town, Erastus and Sarah Hussey, who owned a dry goods store, were important organizers for this endeavor and they fed and protected over a thousand slaves as they made their way north.

Battle Creek was notorious for being fierce in its protection of these vulnerable people and legend has it that not a single freedom seeker who came through Battle Creek was ever recaptured. Erastus Hussey is, in large part, responsible for this success. His schtick was sending armed citizens ahead to thwart the arrival of slave owners. Their rough and tumble tactics kept these people far from Battle Creek.

This important part of Battle Creek’s heritage was taught in our public schools and was reinforced through field trips taken to important historical sites. Our school also participated in Underground Railroad re-enactments — out in rural settings, in some cases, in which children played the parts of slaves, slave owners and the people running the “railroad.” These immersive activities made quite an impact on our fertile brains — let me tell you! And as one might guess, these re-enactments were a tad controversial (not to mention intense), and at some point had to be relegated to community centers outside of the school system. For those of us who got to partake in them through our schools — holy toots! Lessons learned! And remembered.

Other important abolitionists and members of the Underground Railroad that are part of Battle Creek’s history (in addition to Erastus and Sarah Hussey) include Henry Willis, a Quaker leader who brought Sojourner Truth to the area, Francis Walling Titus, Truth’s close confidant and helper, and Charles Burleigh and Parker Pillsbury, prominent national abolitionists. Sojourner Truth ended up spending the last 26 years of her life in Battle Creek. Now there’s some bragging rights.

Battle Creek Central High School, which at the time was the second largest high school in the state, was at the center of many of the local racial conflicts. Some of you may remember, as I do, looking out the windows on the second floor of W.K. Kellogg Junior High (Mr. Harper’s math class) and seeing an army of police cars flood the turnaround at the high school. Police with billy clubs had to break up fights – large altercations that often involved scores of students, many of whom were wielding weapons, knives in particular. This was our normal for several years. On those days, the marching band practiced indoors and the school was essentially on lockdown.

While Battle Creek avoided the devastation seen in other Michigan cities, unrest remained. The disconnect in our schools was that the teaching staff was primarily White, while the student body was mixed. The same situation existed for Battle Creek’s mostly White police force, which served a variety of ethnic communities. The Black Recondos, a group emanating from the local NAACP’s Young Adult Council, pressured Battle Creek’s school board, with some success, to change its hiring practices. Similar activists targeted Battle Creek’s police department.

While progress was made in the hiring of Black teachers and administrators, the NAACP’s tactics proved less effective in changing the situation with law enforcement. In 1970, however, Donald Sherrod, a Black community leader and politician, was elected to the City Commission and served on it until 1981. It should be noted that Sherrod was also deeply involved in the Battle Creek Public Schools and the parks department. While working for the school district and the city, he served as Battle Creek’s recreation director and was instrumental creating and implementing many of of youth and community programs we enjoyed. In 1979, he became Battle Creek’s first Black mayor.

For more on the integration of Black teachers in the Battle Creek Public Schools, read/watch “Battle Creek Did Not Burn.”

Sadly, some of these advances in Black leadership provoked racist pushback from the White community in the form of redlining and discriminatory housing covenants, as well as urban renewal projects designed to dismantle the city’s traditionally Black neighborhoods. At one point, a burning cross was put on Sherrod’s front lawn — this after he, as mayor, upheld the 30-day suspension of a police officer accused of harassing a black man. These tactics by the White community were shameful, and Battle Creek citizens (of all colors) let developers, offending citizens, and realtors know it. Shunning was (and remains) an effective tool for change. Remember that. Believe it. Practice it.

So why, exactly, did Battle Creek not go the way of other metropolitan areas in the state? Partly because it was proactive in fighting racism from the ground up, i.e., in the schools. Our school district made a concerted effort to combat institutional racism by properly training its teachers and implementing programs intended to bring students of all ethnicities together. In addition, racism and other important social and political issues were topics our teachers discussed out loud — in class, with their students. These forums, and the activities we participated in, taught us, as children, the value of living in a diverse community. We were taught to respect all types of people, regardless of whether they were from poor or wealthy families, whether their parents worked in the factories or were on the faculty at the local community college, whether they were Black, White, Asian, or any other ethnicity. All people were valuable and deserved respect. This was understood. Full stop.

In the Battle Creek Public Schools, being a racist was socially unacceptable. We were taught, in essence, to be intolerant of intolerance.

Intolerance for racism has stuck with me my entire life, and it has driven almost everything I have done in my adult life, from my first teaching job — as a band director — at Hazelwood Central H.S. in Florrisant, MO (remember the race riots in Ferguson — that was my school district), to my working for the ACLU, to my participation in community activism on the South Side of Chicago, where I lived for many years, and for my current work advocating for women’s rights. All that I learned in the Battle Creek Public Schools and the values my teachers instilled resonated with me as a child and continue to resonate with me today.

On the issue of equality, our school district was unambiguous. Students who couldn’t wrap their heads around this concept were taught how to get along with others by participating in Backstop — a challenging ropes course program that brought together children from diverse backgrounds and taught them to work together. This program was highly successful, from all accounts, and those kids who participated came back with changed attitudes. And new friends. I saw it with my own eyes.

I have Mr. Brigante, from my junior high civics class, to thank for my passion for all things political. Joe Brigante was vigorous in teaching us how government worked, from the local levers of power to the branches of the federal government. He taught us to be staunch researchers, to question authority (think Watergate Trials, which were happening at this time), to understand the Constitution and what it stood for, and he filled in every gap in our understanding as related to civil rights, women’s rights, free speech, and the like. During my 9th grade year, he took our class to Washington, D.C., to give us an up-close look at Congress, the Supreme Court, and the White House. Sadly, this brilliant teacher died in 1980, at the tender age of 34.

Also inspiring, as I have mentioned in previous articles, was my 4th and 5th grade teacher, Ethel Dorner, who was as square as her name would imply. At least on the surface. In reality, Mrs. Dorner was the coolest teacher ever, advocating progressive principles of tolerance and open-mindedness, and modeling for us girls how to be forthright and assertive. She believed in our abilities, as women, to be leaders — and she said as much to my parents, who feared I was not being polite and acquiescing as I should to authority figures at school (and at home). Mrs. Dorner made clear to them, in one of our parent-teacher-student conferences, that she was less interested in my being a lady than in my reaching my potential as a person. She rounded out our conference by stating (and I am definitely paraphrasing here), “I’m not worried at all about Christina’s academic progress or her ability to get along with her classmates. She is doing very well at everything, although she is boy crazy!” We all had a good laugh at that, minus my stepmother. Then, I had a lot of explaining to do on the walk home.

Other important teachers included my forensics and debate coach, Mr. Copeland, who propelled our school teams to top rankings nationally. Yep, inner-city kids blowing preppies out of the water on the debate topic of the year: universal healthcare. Can you believe that we were debating this issue as far back as 1977? Mr. Copeland taught us everything we needed to know about challenging “the system” with facts and persuasive arguments. He was good! And he cared — about our community, the kids in our school, and about teaching smart kids to work for good causes. A shout-out goes to my fabulous debate partner, Alvanita Singleton. We were the only girls on that mostly-male debate team. And Mr. Copeland said more than once, in front of the whole gang, that we were the smartest on the team. We were.

Also fantastic was my phys ed teacher, Randy Ziraldo. This guy knew what needed doing at Battle Creek Central H.S., and he did not hesitate to take the bull by the horns. At the beginning of each semester, as we got in line to sign up for specific sports to take for phys ed, there was Mr. Ziraldo, working the crowd, trying to get everyone — and his brother and sister — to take weight training. His class, of course.

Mr. Ziraldo was charismatic and looked a lot like Mr. Kotter (you know the guy), and as I would soon discover, he was an amazing teacher. The first thing he did was size up the kids in his charge and pair us up with the person least likely to be our friend. Now there was a concept. I was a super geek, and Ziraldo decided I should do my designated workouts with a student, who I’ll call Alice, a really nice girl from a troubled home, where sadly the parents were drug addicts. I should mention that at the time, Go Ask Alice was required reading in every English class. Don’t know that story? Look it up. We all had a sense that Ziraldo was on to something, and as it turned out, he was! He knew how to bring kids together — kids from divergent backgrounds. Many of us went on to become fast friends. Ziraldo was an amazing teacher and coach, who would go on to be a coach at Indiana University and then UC Berkeley.

Though my “Alice”was not a drug addict, she was suffering considerably from her home situation, as was I, though for different reasons. Our working out together every day, spotting for each other, encouraging each other through 100 push-ups and the like resulted in our becoming very close friends, though sort of secretly, as we ran with very different crowds. Regardless, Alice remained my phys ed buddy through the remainder of my time at Battle Creek Central. I loved her, and I have Mr. Ziraldo to thank for bringing us together — two girls from polar opposite socio-economic backgrounds.

Other great teachers were Mr. Peters and Mr. Tideswell, two young studs who led the bands and orchestra respectively at the high school. They saw to it that BC Central’s instrumental groups were highly competitive, especially with the suburban high school nearby, Lakeview, an area that Whites fled to as the Black population expanded in downtown Battle Creek. The message from these teachers was clear to all of us: our bands and orchestra were every bit as good as those from this affluent, White suburban school. Better even. Our directors saw our school’s diversity as an asset, and they made that clear to us — both in how they ran their classrooms and how they promoted musicians in every section. Invariably, we whipped Lakeview’s butt at solo and ensemble, and in large ensemble competitions. And then there was our marching band (and our football team). Watch out!

Other efforts made by the City of Battle Creek during the 70s included the Ethnic Fair — a popular cultural event that took place downtown yearly, with many blocks cordoned off to showcase art, dance, food, and the history of the diverse global heritages that were growing in our city and across Michigan. The hope was that, by uplifting the city’s cultural diversity, the community would come together to support its immigrant and minority communities. The fair was widely attended, and it did much in the way of educating the community and demonstrating respect for the diversity of people living amongst us.

Finally, I would add Bill Coash to this lineup of people in Battle Creek who influenced me greatly. Bill was a legal aid attorney who dedicated years of his life to representing vulnerable people — low-income residents and those affected by social injustices. He was the longtime executive attorney for the Legal Services Organization of Southcentral Michigan, taking on cases to protect civil rights and federal benefits, and representing citizens in cases involving consumer banking protections, disputes about Social Security, and public assistance. According to Justia Law, “Through his work, he [Bill Coash] fought against systemic inequality, ensuring that landlords, financial institutions, and government agencies treated low-income community members fairly under the law.” Bill was a remarkable man, and I was fortunate to sit at his dinner table many evenings and hear about his goings-on, as I was close friends with his daughter.

There were so many other coaches, teachers, and community leaders who kept our city focused on equality and respect during the tumultuous 70s. They modeled for us how to be caring to the less fortunate and guided us in staying on the right side of important social and cultural issues. Good people.

And citizens of my home town: Battle Creek. 💙

MEN ON PAUSE is unapologetically, aggressively pro-women. No sugarcoating, no polite hedging — we’re just ruthlessly connecting the dots between the everyday absurd and the downright outrageous. Consider this your formal invitation to kick misogyny squarely in the balls and deflate centuries of fragile male mythology. If that sounds emasculating to you: BINGO!

Rage, judge freely, ridicule without mercy, curse like a sailor, and laugh your ass off. In a world this unhinged, this isn’t catharsis — these are basic survival skills.

MEN ON PAUSE serves up blistering cultural and political criticism alongside sharp, unsparing essays on feminism, reproductive rights, women’s health, men, dating, and sex. Our mission is simple: propel women straight to the top of the newsfeed, the halls of political power, and the summit of your reading and listening queues.

Need comic relief? Indulge in our trademark female-centric satire featuring deliciously unhinged faux columnists: Lorinda Birdwhistle, Penny Nickels, and Belinda Vandervelvet. If music is your religion, our deep-dive bios of female musical artists will overhaul your playlists with legendary repertoire. And our political commentary? Devastatingly insightful and some of the best out there — if we do say so ourselves.

Between our original novels, short stories, and poetry, and our rich biographies, historical retrospectives, and firebrand opinion columns, everything we publish shares one unmistakable voice: that of writer Chris Andrews. Smart, furious, funny, progressive, irreverent, historically astute, and gloriously unwilling to behave.

It’s time to hit pause on those endless, self-important male monologues. Give women the microphone, the spotlight, the punchline, and the last laugh.

Do I really need to say anything? I don’t think so.

Grab some cheese curls, position yourself on the coziest corner of the couch, and enjoy a much-needed reprieve.

by Penny Nickels, editor of the Bemidji Bugle

Hi friends! It’s 6:47 a.m. on a Monday morning in Bemidji, and I’m sitting at my kitchen table nursing my 4th cup of coffee, doomscrolling the news, and trying to keep from throwing my phone across the room. The headline that’s got me ready to commit a second act of violence, this time against Mr. Coffee, is this: “Idaho Woman Nearly Dies After Being Denied Emergency Abortion Care.”

This woman — let’s call her Sarah because that’s her actual friggin’ name — was having a miscarriage and at the hospital. Her fetus had no heartbeat. Sarah was septic. Her husband was in Stage 3 non-REM sleep in the chair next to her multiparameter patient monitor. A nurse came in, shook him awake, and informed him he would need to take his dying wife and their dead-baby-still-in-the-womb home. She then handed him an instruction sheet, which included a list of symptoms to watch for that indicated a life-threatening situation (all of which Sarah already had), which were followed by the statement “your wife’s condition is beyond our scope of care.” At the bottom: the phone number for the coroner. Just kidding about that last bit.

The hospital sent Sarah home because of Idaho’s total abortion ban, which went into effect after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022. This new ban is so extreme it has given Idaho doctors pause about doing any emergency abortions, even when they are clearly needed. The law reads that medical service providers could face criminal charges and revocation of their medical license if they perform any elective and non-emergency abortions.

Whether a patient’s condition has fallen into the category of “life-threatening” could well be determined too late and by someone grossly unqualified to make a ruling on matters of this sort, namely a right-wing religious fanatic with the IQ of a banana slug and no medical training. Considering that the majority of Idahoans are MAGA-aligned, and that ultra-conservative Christian values strongly influence Idaho politics and public policy debates, there’s a real good chance a doctor performing a “necessary” abortion could end up in jail or be permanently barred from practicing.

So there it is: the reason many hospitals and doctors in Idaho simply refuse to do abortions, even when the mother’s life is potentially at stake. You hardcore MAGAs voted for this. So this is what you get.

Let’s take a not-so-quick look at all that MAGA policies have brought to women in Idaho, so y’all can appreciate how MEN in politics, making decisions about WOMEN’S BODIES, are hurting people. Oops, not people. WOMEN.

Keep in mind there are only 29 female legislators in Idaho and 105 dudes. Yep, the guys have it: a supermajority.

Here’s what’s up with reproductive and maternal care in Idaho since Roe v. Wade was overturned:

• A near-total abortion ban with severe criminal and civil penalties for physicians. The only exception is if the procedure is to prevent the death of the mother, but not if it’s just to preserve her health.

• Providers have gone bye-bye. The legal climate in Idaho is now so volatile for the medical profession that a significant number of OB/GYNs and maternal-fetal medicine specialists have left the state. That would be over 43% of them. GONE. Vamoose.

• Idaho is now a state of maternity deserts, with roughly 30% of its counties lacking any obstetric provider or a hospital that is equipped for labor and delivery. Eighty-five percent of the remaining OB/GYNs are clustered in 7 counties. There are 44 counties in Idaho. The math is not good.

• Public programs offer very little support. Programs like the Idaho Department of Health and Welfare’s Women’s Health Check provide free breast and cervical cancer screenings and diagnostic testing for qualifying low-income residents, but this program is only equipped to handle 10-15% of eligible individuals because REPUBLICANS refuse to expand the funding needed for these programs. The GOP can harp on and on about the importance of traditional families with stay-at-home mothers, but it is doing its damnedest to make programs that would support this scenario unavailable by making work a requirement for their programs. Guess what, girls? In many cases, being a stay-at-home mother does not qualify as “work” by the GOP.

• Primary care doctors and pediatrician ratios per capita in Idaho consistently rank at the very bottom nationally. What is the GOP doing to bring much-needed doctors to the state? ZERO.

• Approximately 1 in 8 women of childbearing age in Idaho have no health insurance whatsoever. The GOP response: “Whatever.”

• Recently, Idaho’s Republican-led legislature has pushed for tighter Medicaid constraints and reimbursement rate reductions, which are exacerbating the financial instability of clinics throughout the state and at rural hospitals. Call me Captain Obvious, but farmers in Idaho who need medical clinics and hospitals voted Republican by huge margins. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot, then having nowhere to go to get it bandaged up. Duh.

Back to the anecdote about Sarah. After coming home from the ER, Sarah nearly died in her bathroom as her condition worsened and she waited for emergency medical services to arrive. Somehow, by the grace of God/god, she did survive. But barely.

Sadly, Sarah’s uterus did not. Perhaps it was God’s will that someone ignorant enough to vote Republican should not have children. As an atheist, I prefer to imagine this was simple Darwinism at work.

And you know what the kicker is? Sarah voted for Trump in 2020 — the man who appointed three Supreme Court justices he knew would overturn Roe v. Wade. She voted for a party of mostly men who have worked tirelessly to take away her right to control her body.

And when the chickens came home to roost, Sarah was shocked.

Sorry, Sarah, but you DO NOT get to be shocked.

I’m not shocked. Are you, readers? I am, however, furious. Both at Sarah-the-voter and at the mostly-male politicians and judges who put female patients and the medical professionals who care for them in a chokehold. I’ll tell you what… if even one of those politicians came into the emergency room because they couldn’t “get it up,” the doctors would be all over their ED like white on rice. They’d get priority treatment and would be walking out those wide-clearance emergency room doors in no time. With a huge woody, and just in time for their big date.

So here’s my question for all you women out there in Idaho, and you girls in Bemidji, too — in fact, I’m talking to all the women across the entire goddamn country who are still pulling the lever for Republicans: What the actual fuck are you thinking?

Seriously. I really want to understand this. Because from where I’m sitting it sure looks like you’re voting for MEN who don’t care one iota if you’re dead, poor, pregnant, have no healthcare or childcare, and can’t afford food for your family. If they have their way, you’re gonna have that child, come hell or high water. Period. End of story.

YOUR BODY, THEIR CHOICE

Let’s start with the obvious: Your reproductive rights are gone. Not “under threat.” Not “in danger.” Gone. As in, they no longer exist in thirteen states, and they are hanging by a thread in dozens more.

Here’s what the post-Dobbs landscape looks like for American women:

Thirteen states have enacted near-total abortion bans from the moment of conception. Idaho, Texas, Alabama, Arkansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, Missouri, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Tennessee, West Virginia, and Wisconsin. In these states, if you are raped by your uncle, you must carry that pregnancy to term. If your fetus has a fatal abnormality and will die within minutes of birth, you must carry that pregnancy to term. If continuing the pregnancy will leave you infertile, you must carry that pregnancy to term. The “exceptions” for the life of the mother are so narrow and vaguely worded that doctors are terrified to act UNLESS YOU ARE TRULY DYING. Hello MAGA girls — are you understanding this? No treatment allowed unless you are literally dying, as in right then and there.

Often, the critical treatment comes too late.

C’est la vie. You fucking voted for this. Pardon my French.

Add several more states to the pileup — Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina —these states have passed six-week abortion bans. Six weeks. That’s before most women even know they’re pregnant. These are called “Heartbeat Bills,” which is medically inaccurate propaganda, because at six weeks, there is no heart. There is a cluster of cells with electrical activity, but not really a heart. Calling it an “Electrical Activity Bill” doesn’t tug at the heartstrings quite the way the forced-birth crowd needs it to, so they lie. They lie, and women die.

And it gets worse. Numerous red states (Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Missouri, North Dakota, Oklahoma, South Carolina, and Texas) are working to pass laws that criminalize anyone who helps a woman obtain an abortion. That means if you drive your friend to a clinic in another state where abortions are legal, you could be sued. If you mail abortion pills to your sister, you could be prosecuted. If you provide information about how to access abortion care, say in states where it is legal, you could be charged as an accomplice. To murder.

Republican lawmakers in all 10 of these states have actually introduced bills to amend state code so it would treat the destruction of an embryo or fetus as homicide. In essence, those who assist a woman in any way, shape, or form toward receiving an abortion would be subject to murder or manslaughter charges.

The GOP has turned women’s bodies into crime scenes and their friends and family into potential felons.

Let’s be super clear: none of this is about protecting life.

And let’s be clear about a few other things. If the GOP cared about life, they would support universal healthcare, paid family leave, affordable childcare, universal pre-K, free school lunches, gun control, and they would be working for a social safety net that ensures no child grows up in poverty and that all children have FOOD.

The GOP supports exactly none of those things. ZERO. ZIP.

Abortion bans are 100% about control. They are about ensuring that women remain economically dependent on men, that we cannot make decisions about our own futures, that we are punished for having sex. This is about a bunch of old White men in state legislatures and Congress who are terrified of women’s autonomy and have decided that the best way to keep us in line is to make sure we’re barefoot, pregnant, and too exhausted to fight back.

And here’s the thing that makes me want to scream into the void: women voted for this. Fifty-three percent of White women voted for Trump in 2016. Fifty-five percent voted for him in 2020. And in 2024, after Dobbs, after we saw what GOP MEN could do, and we heard of women dying in hospital parking lots because doctors were too afraid to treat them, you MAGA White women still turned out for Trump in droves.

Pourquoi?! S’il vous plaît?

I genuinely want to understand this. Is it because you think this won’t happen to you? Because I promise you this: Sarah in Idaho thought the same thing.

Is it because you’ve already had your kids and you don’t care what happens to your daughters? This I can promise you: your daughters are paying attention. Oh yes, they are.

Or are you OK with Republican policy because your evangelical pastor, who is likely male (95% are), told you that abortion is murder and you’ve never bothered to think critically about what that means in practice?

Or is it, sadly, because you’ve internalized the message that women’s bodies are the property of men, that our pain doesn’t matter, that our lives are worth less than a clump of cells?

Whatever the reason, I’m here to tell you: You are voting against your own interests and you are voting against the interests of your daughters, your sisters, and your mothers. And all other women in this country.

You are voting for a mostly-male political party that sees women as incubators, not as people. You are voting for men who think you’re incapable of making your own medical decisions. Or any decisions at all, truth be told.

Fuck you, MAGA bitches, if this is still what you would vote for.

FOLLOW THE MONEY OR LACK THEREOF

Let’s talk about money, because while the GOP is busy dicking around with your uterus, they’re also making damn sure you can’t afford to do anything about it.

Here are some fun facts about the gender wage gap in America:

• Women earn roughly 82 cents for every dollar earned by men.

• For Black women, make that 63 cents; for Latina women, it’s 55 cents.

• Over a lifetime, this wage gap costs women an average of $400,000 in lost earnings — it’s kind of like they don’t get to retire unless they’re married to a man.

• Mothers face the additional “motherhood penalty,” earning roughly 70 cents for every dollar earned by the fathers.

Now, you might think that a political party that claims to be “pro-family” and “pro-life” would be interested in closing this gap. You might think they’d support policies that make it easier for women to work and raise children. You’re probably imagining they’d champion paid family leave, affordable childcare, universal pre-K, and equal pay enforcement.

Yeah, well, you would be dead fucking wrong.

The GOP has consistently opposed every single policy that would economically empower women. Let me give you a quick rundown:

Paid Family Leave: The United States is the only developed nation in the world that does not guarantee paid maternity leave. Democrats have repeatedly introduced legislation to change this. Republicans have repeatedly blocked it. Their argument? It’s too expensive. Never mind that the GOP somehow found $1.5 trillion for tax cuts that overwhelmingly benefited the wealthy and corporations.

Affordable Childcare: The average cost of childcare in the United States is over $10,000 per year per child, which is more than rent for many working families. Democrats have proposed subsidies and tax credits to make childcare affordable. Republicans have repeatedly blocked this legislation. Their argument? Providing tax credits for childcare is socialism. Never mind that the GOP’s subsidizing oil companies to the tune of $20 billion per year is apparently just good business.

Equal Pay Enforcement: The Equal Pay Act was passed in 1963. Sixty-two years later, women still earn less than men for the same work. Democrats have introduced legislation to strengthen enforcement and to close loopholes. Republicans have repeatedly blocked it. Their argument? It’s unnecessary regulation. Never mind that, without regulation enforcement, companies have proven over and over again that they will not voluntarily pay women fairly.

Universal Pre-K: Study after study shows that universal pre-K improves educational outcomes, reduces poverty, and allows parents — especially mothers — to work. Democrats support it. Republicans oppose it. Their argument? Parents should be responsible for their own children’s pre-K education. Never mind that “being responsible” is a lot easier when you don’t have to choose between paying for pre-K programs and paying for groceries.

Do you see the pattern here? The GOP’s “pro-family” platform is a massive fucking lie.

What the GOP actually supports is a system in which women are economically dependent on men, a system in which women cannot afford to leave abusive relationships, in which they are forced to stay home with children whether they want to or not, and a system in which their labor is undervalued or unrecognized altogether (ex: stay-at-home mothers, long-term caregivers for family members, etc.).

Now let’s contrast this with what a few Blue states are actually doing for women:

• California offers up to 8 weeks of paid family leave and has implemented some of the strongest equal pay laws in the country

• New York offers 12 weeks of paid family leave and has invested billions in affordable childcare

• Massachusetts offers 12 weeks of paid family leave, subsidized childcare, and universal pre-K

• Washington offers 12 weeks of paid family leave and has closed the gender wage gap more than any other state through aggressive enforcement

These are not radical policies. These are basic supports that allow women to work, to support their families, and to have some measure of economic independence. And they are all Democratic initiatives, which have been opposed at every turn by Republicans.

So when you vote Republican, here’s what you’re voting for:

• A lifetime of earning less than your male colleagues

• No support when you have a child

• Childcare costs that could bankrupt you

• No legal recourse when your employer pays you less for being a woman

You voted for Trump? You voted Republican?

Got it!! You are down for being poor, men calling all the shots, and having zero control over your own body. And you love being disadvantaged at every turn. Sounds like trad wife material to me.

Alrighty then!

EMPTY CHAIRS: WHY THE GOP DOESN’T WANT YOU AT THE TABLE

Moving right along. Let’s talk about representation, because if you’re wondering why the GOP doesn’t give a shit about women, here’s the answer…

Of all the Republicans in the U.S. Congress, only 15-18% of them are women. That’s 230 men and 42 women. Holy shit. With numbers like those, men have no reason to listen to their female colleagues. And they don’t.

Let me say this again, louder for those of you in the back of the bleachers: In the Republican Party, fewer than one in five elected officials is a woman.

Compare that to the Democratic Party, where women make up 40-43% of the House caucus and 31-43% of the Senate caucus. The breakdown on Democrats: 110 women and 147 men. That still sucks, but not as much.

In other words, if you walk into a room full of Democratic legislators, nearly half of them will be women. If you walk into a room full of Republican legislators, you’ll be lucky to find someone to go to the ladies’ room with you.

And as regards legislation important for women and children, the effects of this disparity show. Big time. If you think, for a New York minute, that any male-dominated institution is going to vote on behalf of CHILDREN, you’re dumber than I thought. They simply do not. Unless pressed on the issue by WOMEN.

Who are the deciders in Congress, when it comes to making decisions about women’s healthcare? Men. Who’s been deciding whether women should have access to birth control? Men. Who was determining whether employers should be required to provide maternity leave? Men. Who was blocking funding for domestic violence prevention programs? Men. Who has cut funding for healthcare? Men. Who has slashed umteen programs for children? Men. Who is defunding SNAP and other food programs for families? Men. Who has bullDOGEd nearly every government agency that provides important social programs for all Americans? Men. Who is allowing gun violence to flourish? Men. Who is contributing most to the complete and utter destruction of the environment? Men.

I think we could add “White” in front of almost all of those responses. And about 40% of those responses, White Men could be further categorized as Geriatric White Men.

WAKE TF UP. All of you. WAKE TAF UP!!

The Republican Party is an old boys’ club, and they love it that way. They have no interest in elevating women to positions of power, because women in power tend to do inconvenient things like advocate for policies that benefit women, children, workers, minorities, and the environment. Women are into social programs. Women are into healthcare for all. We can’t have that! So let’s call them “communists” and “socialists.” OUCH! All this namecalling is so hurtful. NOT.

I can already hear some of you saying, “But Penny, what about Marjorie Taylor Greene? What about Elise Stefanik? What about Marsha Blackburn? The GOP has women in leadership. See!”

Sure. Let’s talk about them.

Marjorie Taylor Greene (now gone) was best known for promoting QAnon conspiracy theories, harassing school shooting survivors, and claiming that Jewish space lasers are causing wildfires. Her legislative priorities include banning transgender girls from playing sports and impeaching Joe Biden for reasons that change daily. She has done exactly nothing to advance the interests of women.

Lisa McClain and Shelley Moore Capito. Never hear much about these two. Apparently they are important Congresspeople. Do you know anything about them? Didn’t think so.

Elise Stefanik voted against the Violence Against Women Act, voted against paid family leave, and lent verbal support to Brett Kavanaugh during his 2018 confirmation process, as well as publicly criticizing the political atmosphere surrounding those contentious hearings. Stefanik went to bat for Kavanaugh despite the credible allegations of sexual assault put forth by psychology professor Christine Blasey Ford.

Stefanik is currently the third-highest-ranking Republican in the House, and she got there by being a loyal soldier for Trump and Congress’ male leadership. She has done exactly nothing to advance the interests of women. And she’s experienced so much bullying from male colleagues (namely Johnson and Trump) that she has decided not to run for re-election, though she claims it’s because she wants to spend more time with her family. Stefanik also canned her run for governor of New York, likely for similar reasons — lack of support from male colleagues.

Susan Collins and Lisa Murkowski. The two stooges, who posture and crab about everything, but consistently vote in line with their GOP colleagues. They typically only find the courage to depart from the ranks on legislation that’s going to pass even without their votes. They are complete and utter chickenshits.

Joni Ernst is best known for her government waste audits. That’s about it.

Marsha Blackburn has one of the most anti-woman voting records in the Senate. She voted against the Paycheck Fairness Act, against reauthorizing the Violence Against Women Act, and against expanding access to birth control. She opposes abortion in all circumstances, including rape and incest. She has done exactly nothing to advance the interests of women. She is a complete bitch. Believe it, ladies.

All of these women are token GOP members with little to no power whatsoever. They are the rogue whiskers for a party that is fundamentally hostile to women’s equality. They parrot the party line, vote the way they’re told, and in exchange, get a seat at the table and perhaps some money from AIPAC. But make no mistake: they are not in Congress to represent women or children. Nope. Not one little bit.

Hey, let’s not forget all those “strong” GOP women Trump put into important leadership positions in his cabinet, as federal prosecutors, and in the White House. Kristi Noem, Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. GONE. Pam Bondi, Attorney General. GONE. Lori Chavez-DeRemer, Secretary of Labor. GONE. Tulsi Gabbard, Director of National Intelligence. GONE. Lindsey Halligan, Interim U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia. GONE. Alina Habba, U.S. Attorney for the District of New Jersey. GONE. Jeanine Pirro, United States Attorney for the District of Columbia. ALMOST GONE. Susie Wiles, White House Chief of Staff. HEADING OUT THE DOOR SOON.

Then there are all the women leaders in the military that Pete Hegseth has dismissed and replaced (and not with other women) or that he has blocked and removed from the promotion lists. Adm. Lisa Franchetti, first female Chief of Naval Operations and first woman to serve on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. GONE. Vice Adm. Yvette Davids, first female superintendent of the Naval Academy. GONE. Vice Adm. Shoshana Chatfield, U.S. military representative to NATO. GONE. Rear Adm. Amy Bauernschmidt, first woman to command a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier. REMOVED FROM PROMOTION. Vice Adm. Sara Joyner, first woman to lead a carrier air wing. REMOVED FROM PROMOTION. Multiple other female officers, including Army and Navy colonels and commanders whose identities have been classified so as to prevent scrutiny. REMOVED FROM PROMOTION.

Contrast all of this with the Democratic women who are actually fighting for you:

• Gretchen Whitmer, governor of Michigan, who has made protecting abortion rights and expanding access to healthcare her top priorities.

• Katie Hobbs, governor of Arizona, who vetoed multiple anti-abortion bills and is working to close the gender wage gap.

• Kathy Hochul, governor of New York, who signed some of the strongest reproductive rights protections in the country.

• Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who has been a fierce advocate for paid family leave, universal childcare, and economic justice for women.

• Rashida Tlaib, who has fought for reproductive rights, against domestic violence, and for policies that lift women out of poverty.

• And then there is every other Democratic female congressperson, governor, attorney general, Secretary of State, etc., etc. They promote and protect women up the wazoo.

Democratic women are not tokens. As a rule, they are leaders in the party. And they will fight for you. Democratic men… well, that’s a mixed bag. Some have bigger balls than others. Chuck Schumer has been experiencing testicular atrophy since January of 2023 when Nancy Pelosi stepped down as Speaker of the House. I think we can all see that.

So here’s my question to all you MAGA gals: Why would you vote for a party that doesn’t want you in power? Why would you vote for a party where women make up less than 18% of elected officials? Why would you vote for a party that doesn’t see you as a person?

The Democratic Party is not perfect. But at least they let women in the room and give them a voice. In the Democratic Party, it’s socially unacceptable to ignore women and their inconvenient issues. And the men in the party who have done bad things to women are called to the carpet and pressured into leaving. Not the case with men behaving badly in the GOP ranks. Ya gotta wonder why the GOP is protecting the GOP’s bad boys. I’m talking the sexual predators. The pedophiles. The domestic abusers. Hmm.

RED PILLS & MAGA

The alternate title for this section: “How The GOP Came To Love The Manosphere and other Women-Haters and Then Started Considering Whether Women Should Get To Vote.”

Okay, buckle up, because we need to talk about this manosphere thing, as this is where it starts to get really dark. Darker than dark. They-want-to-take-away-your-right-to-vote dark. They-want-to-normalize-violence-toward-women dark.

For those of you who are blissfully unaware, the “manosphere” is a loose network of online communities, podcasts, and influencers who promote what they call “red pill” ideology. Time to get fucking up to speed, girls. The basic premise of this burgeoning movement: feminism has ruined society, women are hypergamous gold-diggers who only care about money and status, and men need to reclaim their dominance through psychological manipulation, coercion, and violence. In this alternate reality, sex crimes are just fine and typically well-deserved.

The GOP is, in essence, condoning violence toward women (and children) by doing nothing about these people — these evil influencers, like Andrew and Tristan Tate. They refuse to speak out against their hateful rhetoric. Why? Because these women-hating manosphere influencers are bringing millions of young men to the Republican Party. If this sounds vaguely like the Hitler Youth, you are on to something.

The manosphere is a world of pickup artists, alpha and sigma men, men’s rights activists, incels, and red pill and black pill followers. This is a world where women are not people; they are just “females.” In this world, dating is treated as a game, consent is just an obstacle to be overcome. This is a world where the phrase “Your body, my choice” is not just acceptable — it’s cheered on. Over, and over, and over. Enjoy getting to know these weirdos, ladies. In this political climate, they are flourishing in your community.

The Republican Party has embraced the manosphere with open arms (or splayed legs, as the case may be).

During the 2024 campaign, Donald Trump made a strategic decision to court young male voters by appearing on manosphere podcasts. He sat down with hosts who openly promote misogyny, some of whom, in their back rooms, mock the concept of consent, and teach their audiences how to manipulate women into sex. He validated their grievances. He told them they were right to be angry at women. He promised them a return to a world where men were in charge, and women knew their place.

And it worked. Trump won this particular group of young men by a significant margin, in large part because of this outreach. And here’s the impact of that outreach: a 4,600% spike in misogynistic rhetoric online. Yep, not a typo.

Here’s what I have to say: Fuck you, Donald Trump, and fuck you every Republican that backs him. And fuck you to every woman who voted Republican.

According to a report by the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, in the days following the 2024 election, phrases like “Your body, my choice” and “Repeal the 19th Amendment” exploded on social media. These weren’t fringe comments from anonymous trolls. These were mainstream talking points, amplified by influencers with millions of followers, celebrated by young men who saw Trump’s victory as permission to say the quiet part out loud.

For those of you ladies who were smoking or vaping in the bathroom during history class in high school, know that the 19th Amendment was the one that gave women the right to vote. Yeah, can you believe that?! Women didn’t have the right to vote until August 26, 1920, when that nifty little constitutional amendment was finally certified into law by U.S. Secretary of State Bainbridge Colby.

Show some fucking respect. This was a big, big deal.

And this misogynistic rhetoric that was appearing online didn’t stay online. Within weeks, school districts across the country were reporting incidents of boys chanting “Your body, my choice” at girls in hallways and classrooms. Teachers were filing reports of sexual harassment. Girls were coming home in tears, telling their parents that boys were telling them they had no rights, that they were property, that they should shut up and submit. Manosphere influencers fed these lines to these young men. These boys didn’t come up with this shit out of thin air.

This is what the GOP has unleashed. This is what they have encouraged. This is what they have profited from. The Republican Party stands for misogyny. It promotes it, legislates it, empowers it.

But wait — it gets worse. This is not just anonymous teenagers on the internet. This is not fringe podcasters with a few thousand followers. The call to repeal the 19th Amendment — the amendment that gave women the right to vote — is now coming from inside the GOP.

Let me introduce you to some people.

Pete Hegseth: Trump’s Secretary of Defense. His pastor, Doug Wilson, a senior figure in the Communion of Reformed Evangelical Churches, has publicly stated that repealing the 19th Amendment is “a good idea.” Not a hypothetical. Not a thought experiment. A good idea. Hegseth has invited him to speak at the Pentagon. Enjoy this gals…

Doug Wilson is a prominent Christian nationalist theologian who has a massive following in evangelical circles. He has spent years advocating for what he calls “household voting” — a system whereby each “household” gets one vote, and the male head of household casts it. In his vision, married women don’t get to vote as individuals. Their husbands vote for them. And if there’s a disagreement? The husband gets the final say. Because, according to Wilson, the 19th Amendment “transformed male voters into mere individuals, and wound up disenfranchising the household.”

Let me translate that for you: giving women the right to vote was bad because it meant men could no longer control how their wives voted.

Abby Johnson is an anti-abortion activist who was featured at the 2020 Republican National Convention. She has openly advocated for a return to household voting, arguing that it would restore “traditional family values.” She frames it as empowering families. What she means is it disenfranchises women.

And this isn’t just talk. In Tennessee — the state that ratified the 19th Amendment and gave women the right to vote — GOP Christian nationalist groups are actively promoting household voting as a policy goal. They’re holding conferences. They’re writing position papers. They’re lobbying legislators.

Ladies, they are working, right now, to take away your right to vote.

Let that sink in. The same party that courted the manosphere, that gave a platform to men who think women are property, that celebrated Trump’s 2024 victory with a 4,600% spike in “Your body, my choice” rhetoric — that party, the GOP, is now aligned with Christian nationalists who want to strip you of your most fundamental right as a citizen. Your vote.

This is not a fringe position. This is not a few weirdos on the internet. This is the pastor of the Secretary of Defense. This is a featured speaker at the Republican National Convention. This is a movement with money, with organization, with political power.

And they are coming for your vote. Just like the Project 2025 people came to D.C. to make POTUS the King of Everything.

Here’s how it works. The GOP starts by normalizing these ideas. They frame them as “restoring traditional values,” “empowering families,” or “returning to the Founders’ vision.” They get pastors to preach it from the pulpit. They get influencers to promote it on social media. They get politicians to nod along and say, “Well, it’s an interesting idea.”

And then, once the idea is normalized, they start pushing legislation. Maybe it starts at the local level—school boards, city councils. Maybe it’s framed as a “pilot program” or an “experiment in civic engagement.” Maybe they don’t call it “household voting” — maybe they call it something else, something that sounds less threatening.

But the goal is the same: take away the individual right to vote for married women and give it to their husbands.

If for one minute you imagine this could never happen, I need you to remember this: five years ago, Roe v. Wade was settled law. It had been the law of the land for fifty years. And the people who wanted to overturn it were told, over and over again, that it would never happen. That it was too extreme. That the American people would never allow it.

Guess what? It was overturned.

Here’s the thing about the manosphere: it’s not just talk. It’s a pipeline to violence. It’s organized. It has money. It has followers. It is backed by the religious cult of evangelical Christianity. It’s backed by Republican politicians, the president, and even his youngest son. It’s popular with millions of young men — men who are emotionally immature and looking for easy answers to difficult questions.

Oh, yeah. It is time to be afraid. To get mad. And now, we have to figure out how to root this out and get rid of it.

Stay tuned.

BODY COUNT

Or: “The Women The GOP Doesn’t Want To Talk About: The Dead Ones.”

Let’s get down to it. Time to talk about the women who are dead, dying, or physically injured.

This is not the hypothetical women in thought experiments about abortion. It’s not the abstract women in political talking points. This is real women. Women with names, whose families and futures have been stolen from them.

Between 2019 and 2024, domestic homicides in the United States more than doubled, increasing from 1,065 to 2,339 annually. That’s an increase of 120% in five years. Let me put this another way: more than 2,300 women are murdered every year by their intimate partners. That’s more than six women every single day. That’s one woman every four hours.

According to the FBI, 74.5% of all domestic violence victims are women. According to the Council on Criminal Justice, domestic violence incidents increased by 8% during the pandemic and have remained elevated since. And sexual assaults are up 3% compared to the previous year.

Women are being killed in their homes, by the men who claim to love them, at rates we have not seen in decades. And the GOP is doing exactly nothing about it.

In fact, they’re making it worse.

In 2019, the Violence Against Women Act came up for reauthorization. This is a law that provides funding for domestic violence shelters, rape crisis centers, legal assistance for survivors, and training for law enforcement. It has been reauthorized multiple times with bipartisan support since it was first passed in 1994.

But in 2019, Republicans in the Senate refused to reauthorize it. Why? Because the updated version included provisions that would prevent abusers from purchasing firearms, and it extended protections to LGBTQ+ abuse survivors. The GOP made a decision: The right of abusers to own guns was more important than the lives of the women whom they would turn those guns on. The GOP also decided to exclude the LGBTQ community from this bill. An attempt to add LGBTQ+ non-discrimination language passed the Senate in 2012, but was blocked and voted down in the Republican-controlled House of Representatives, which delayed its inclusion.

Here’s exactly how the GOP voted on Bill H.R. 1620: 29 GOP members of Congress voted for the bill; 172 GOP members voted against the Violence Against Women Act. They refused to pass the bill until gun rights were restored to domestic abusers. The GOP caved to the NRA, an entity from whom many Republicans enjoy substantial kickbacks, ignoring in the process that more than half of intimate partner homicides in the United States are committed with firearms.

They voted against this legislation knowing that more than 50 women in the U.S. are shot to death by an abusive intimate partner every month, and that over the years these statistics have been tracked, nearly one million women have been shot to death, injured, shot at, or threatened with a gun by an abusive intimate partner. These stats had no impact on the GOP as related to the passage of Bill H.R. 1620. I repeat: one hundred and seventy-two GOP congresspeople refused to vote for this bill.

Don’t believe me? Well, check it out for yourself. Click through to the congressional voting records.

THE GOP DOES NOT CARE ABOUT WOMEN. Are you getting it?!

H.R. 1620 did eventually pass in 2022, but only after Democrats took control of Congress. The bill did not enjoy bipartisan support.

The big take-away: 172 Republicans in Congress voted against a long-standing law that protects women from domestic violence.

And it’s not just this one piece of legislation — the Violence Against Women Act. Republicans have consistently opposed funding for domestic violence prevention programs, opposed red flag laws that would prevent abusers from accessing firearms, opposed mandatory arrest policies for domestic violence calls, and opposed expanded legal protections for survivors. This on the state and federal level.

The GOP has done everything in its power to ensure that women have no recourse, no protection, and no way out. Over and over.

And then the GOP has the audacity to call themselves “pro-life.”

The truth: the GOP is not pro-life. They are pro-birth, but once you’re born, you’re on your own. And if you’re a woman in an abusive relationship, they will do everything they can to make sure you stay there.

Because leaving requires resources. It requires money for a security deposit on a new apartment. It requires access to legal assistance for a restraining order. It requires childcare so you can work. It requires healthcare for the injuries the abusive spouse has inflicted. It requires a social safety net to catch you when you fall.

And the GOP opposes all of that. They oppose funding for shelters. They oppose legal aid. They oppose childcare subsidies. They oppose universal healthcare.

The GOP has opposed every single policy that would make it possible for a woman to leave an abusive relationship and survive. So women stay. And they die.

And the GOP doesn’t care. They don’t talk about these women. They don’t mention them in their speeches. They don’t propose legislation to save them. They don’t even acknowledge that they exist. Because acknowledging them would require admitting that their policies are killing women. And they can’t do that. It would be bad for fundraising.

So instead, they talk about “protecting the unborn,” “defending traditional values,” and “supporting law and order.” They wrap themselves in the flag and the Bible and pretend that they give a shit about life.

But the body count tells a different story.

Remember this: 2,300 women are murdered by abusive partners every year. Thousands more are beaten, raped, and terrorized. Millions are trapped in abusive relationships with no way out.

That’s the GOP’s legacy. That’s what you’ve voted for, MAGA women. Shame on you for all of this. This is your greatest sin. Galatians 6:2 states: "Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ." You have not done this.

Republican men don’t care if women die. Their primary concerns? Power, money, and control. Of you.

If you really want to wrap your head around these issues, be sure to watch the Netflix series, “Maid,” starring Margaret Qualley. This true story is about a woman trying to survive domestic violence and her challenges navigating the complicated and ever-changing social programs intended to protect women and children.

with Belinda Vandervelvet

Have I lost my mind?

Came home after a double shift in the psych ward yesterday to find my husband Dan in the kitchen, all dolled up in a neatly pressed floral-print dress with a white ruffly apron, both of which he had clearly ordered from Etsy, since I have nothing like this in my closet. Last I checked, which was admittedly over a month ago (since I’ve not had time to do laundry), Dan’s closet was full of camowear and utility boots. “What the actual fuck” was the first thing that popped into my head, but I kept that to myself because the smell of chocolate cake coming out of the oven was overriding my desire to rip his head off. Is anyone really prepared with an appropriate response when they find their husband cheerfully assuming the role (and attire) of a tradwife? Especially when said tradwife has taken on every household task you hate, like washing sports uniforms? Somehow Dan managed to get all the grass stains out of both pairs of our sons’ baseball pants. Truly a miracle; call the pope.

Though I wouldn’t be caught dead in an ensemble like the one he was wearing, which, by the way, was made in the Apostolic United Brethren community in Utah, Dan actually pulled it off. Not going to lie, he looked damn cute, in an unconventional way. His delicately strutting around the kitchen greatly amplified the effect. It seemed he’d been meant to wear heels and lacy undergarments his whole life. It was him. Or should I say “her.”

Apparently, the United Brethren was the only place Dan was able to find custom-made hausfrau clothing in his size. The ladies did a fantastic job of crafting a dress out of vintage potato sacks that could accommodate Dan’s former-football-lineman physique. I imagine his build was similar to that of a typical Utah farm girl.

Dan, so very proud of his outfit, informed me that it had been made by good Christian women, as if that excused the fact that he was a man wearing women’s clothes, which, according to our pastor, was an abomination in the eyes of the lord, though he was at a loss to pull up any biblical passages to back this claim. The seamstresses were a group of fundamentalist Mormons, all of whom are married to Ammon, an Elder who is apparently in his 90s, yet still has his original set of chompers, which look impressively white and intact in his family pictures. Judging from the number of smallish children in his clan, it would seem Ammon’s equipment was also in good working order. Having 12 women at your beck and call is apparently good for one’s health and libido.

OK, great. So these women are literally slaves. According to the AUB brochure, this is a community where having as many wives as possible, regardless of their age, is a divine commandment, and since the men can’t possibly keep up with their wives’ demands for sex (like when all 12 of them are ovulating at the same time), the men make them wear these ridiculous outfits so they aren’t constantly getting a boner.

That apron, by the way, looks like it’s straight out of the wardrobe room from Little House On The Prairie. You remember that scene where Laura is out splitting wood for the stove because her dad is on some trip where he won’t be back for months, and since they don’t have cell phones, they have no idea whether he is even alive? Thank god he left them the rifle, because some weird guy keeps coming by asking for a place to “lay his head” and get a proper meal. We’ve all heard that line.

I was really trying to wrap my head around Dan’s thought process on this whole thing, but nothing was adding up. We were going to need to talk once the kids were in bed. Really confusing to me was the boys’ reaction — which was no reaction at all, as if this whole thing were perfectly normal. There they were — sitting at the dining room table doing their math, not punching each other, or whining as was usual. Also missing from the pastoral setting: empty soda cans and Pirate’s Booty wrappers. In their place: remnants of Granny Smith apple slices with peanut butter and tumblers with milk residue. How weird is that? Add to that the fact that it was only 6:30 p.m., and the boys were nearly done with their homework.

What planet had I landed on?

And there, in the kitchen, was my fetching husband, Dan, pulling a chocolate cake out of the oven with polka-dotted oven mitts, a tuna casserole nearby on the counter ready to take its place on the center rack. In the middle of the kitchen table was a big green salad smothered in Wish-Bone Western dressing, with homemade croutons. A loaf of French bread, generously buttered and sprinkled with garlic and herbs, sat next to the convection oven, waiting to get toasted. Damn.

With a dinner like this, I could almost forgive this shocking new look of Dan’s. And frankly, I was way too exhausted to have a confrontation with a bearded woman in a white pinafore. So, I gave Dan a kiss, dumped my backpack on the rug, kicked off my shoes, then collapsed in my Lazy-Boy recliner. “Give me a shout when dinner is ready,” I yelled from the living room. Then off I drifted to sleep, with visions of sugar plums, neatly folded laundry, deadheaded rose bushes, and a fridge full of groceries dancing in my head.

Talk about idle hands (and feet) doing the devil’s food work… Dan, who was newly unemployed, had spent the entire afternoon clearing out our checking account and getting a mani-pedi at the Cuticle Crimes Unit at Asphalt Acres. This was not your typical men’s mani-pedi, mind you. Oh, no. Dan, who’d just been sacked from his football coaching job last week, had gone the whole nine yards at the nail salon. Touchdown! Exfoliation, hydrating mask, hot rock massage, organic botanical infusion, paraffin wax immersion, and bling-and-shine acrylics in Fuchsia Fever. That’s right: bright pink nails on both his hands and toes, which here, in MY kitchen, were demurely poking out of a pair of size 14 kitten heel flip-flops, which I can assure you did not come from Tractor Supply Hardware, Dan’s normal go-to for clothing and footwear.

But let me back up here.

After the cruise debacle — which I’ve already documented in excruciating detail — Dan came home and basically had the equivalent of a smallish nervous breakdown, or what is more appropriately called a “wobble” in the UK. Dan stopped eating solid food. He spent hours dancing to the Bee Gees in his jock strap in front of our mirrored closet doors. He drank Aperol spritzers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In the evenings, he watched Jesse Watters Primetime in a black negligee, looking the part of a white supremacist Victoria’s Secret model, what with his Nazi tattoos and all. I prayed the local Amazon guy, who delivered packages until midnight, would not see him in the background when I signed for the Chewy order. That kid could have made our social life a dumpster fire just by mentioning this situation to one of the neighbors in our cul-de-sac or showing them a video he’d caught with his body-worn camera of Dan sprawled out coquettishly on the couch.

So what would any good, God-fearing couple do in these trying times? That’s right: we cashed in our remaining 401(k), took out a second mortgage on the house, canceled the kids’ extracurriculars, and sent Dan to the Between-a-Rock-and-a-Hard Place Christian Recovery Spa in Sedona, Arizona.

Pastor Marcus Wellby runs the place. You’ve probably seen him on YouTube — he’s got some 400,000 subscribers and does these testimonial videos where he talks about how he used to be “trapped in the homosexual lifestyle” until Jesus saved him. Now he’s married to a woman named Bethany, and they’ve got four kids and a chihuahua named Deuteronomy. Pastor Wellby has a smile (and body) that could convince even your grandma to buy a timeshare in hell, and you’d thank him for it. That bulge in his pants is not a hard-on, by the way. It’s his wallet.

The spa looked AMAZING in the brochures. Gorgeous red rock views, meditation gardens, a prayer labyrinth, hydrotherapy pools, and something called “Masculine Reclamation Workshops” where men practiced chopping wood, doing oil changes, and rebuilding carburetors. There were lots of pics of men doing manly work in manly clothes — all of it a bit reminiscent of the Village People, and come to think of it, there was that catchy background melody on their website that sounded a lot like “YMCA.” Those who weren’t around in 1978 may have forgotten that the lead singer, Victor Willis, was insistent that “YMCA” was just a wholesome song about youth camaraderie, something Trump has obviously bought into, as he struts the runway to a Village People medley at all of his now poorly attended rallies.

So, to be clear, the gist of these workshops is that in doing all this manly shit, you will rewire your brain so you no longer feel the urge to suck dick. But from what I would learn post-treatment, these workshops were doing just the opposite. Imagine a sweaty, shirtless all-male chain gang in the Arizona sun. I’m guessing that Pastor Wellby thought about that very image many a night.

So it cost us $47,000 for this six-week intensive program. FORTY-SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. That’s more than Dan would have made in two years as an assistant football coach, had he not lost his job. Pastor Marcus assured us this was a small price to pay for Dan’s eternal soul, and for our marriage. He claimed the success rate to be 87%, which seemed pretty damn good to me, and he had numerous testimonials from former clients who were now living heterosexual lives. They were back to ogling women, coaching Little League, and going to barbecues. You know, normal American things.

So off Dan went, and for six weeks, I heard nothing. No phone calls, no text messages, no emails. The laundry was piling up, the refrigerator filled with carry-out leftovers and zero fruit. Pastor Marcus said this was part of the process — complete isolation from “triggering influences” so the men could focus on their spiritual transformation. At the time, I was busy working double shifts at Bayview anyway, emptying bedpans in the psych ward and trying not to murder Carmelita every time she gave me one of her sanctimonious lectures about “professional conduct” and “treating all patients with dignity.” What about my dignity? I was emptying shit buckets for eight hours a day. What more do you want, bitch? Oh, got it. You’d like me to change incontinence briefs for an extra $0.20 per hour. Now there’s a job from hell.

So Dan came home three weeks ago, and at first, everything seemed FINE. Better than fine, in fact. He was oddly calm. Unsettlingly centered. He’d stopped drinking. And he was reading the Bible every morning, though most of the passages seemed to be from Song of Solomon and Ezekiel 23. He started going to Grace Victory Evangelical Fellowship with me on Sundays and even volunteered to cook in the church’s soup kitchen. Pastor Jim was thrilled — he said Dan had “the glow of the redeemed” and asked if he’d be willing to give his testimony at the next week’s service.

I truly thought we’d dodged a bullet. I thought Pastor Marcus had actually FIXED Dan, though I couldn’t shake the thought that we might have wasted $47,000 and would never know what retirement felt like. I was just relieved Dan was back in the fold.

Boy was I wrong. Dan was not in the fold.

So yesterday, when I came home from that double shift — after sixteen hours of emptying bedpans and mopping up “accidents” and listening to a paranoid schizophrenic named Eugene tell me that Elon Musk had put a microchip in his 12-year molar and was broadcasting his thoughts via satellite in geosynchronous orbit, I was bushed. My feet were killing me. My back was screaming. I smelled like industrial disinfectant and human feces. All I wanted was to collapse in my Lazy Boy recliner with a glass of Barefoot Moscato and watch the Hallmark “Chasing Leprechauns” movie, a setting where everyone is white and heterosexual, and no one has any real problems — at least not the kind that require a psychiatrist.

Then, I walk in the door, and there is that smell of chocolate cake. WTF.

Chocolate cake. Warm, rich, decadent, gooey. A smell that makes your mouth water and your stomach growl even if you just ate. I follow my nose to the kitchen, and there he is: Dan, the bearded woman.

He turns around and sees me standing there, and he SMILES. No… he GLOWS. A huge, genuine, supremely happy smile, his lips slathered with fuchsia lip gloss that perfectly matches his acrylic nails. He’s been waiting all day to present me with this cake. He’s been waiting his whole life to be the hausfrau. Finally, all of the stars had aligned; his dream had come true.

I just stared at him. My brain was short-circuiting. I could not formulate a sentence.

Dan calmly set the cake down on the cooling rack and wiped his hands on his apron. That’s when I noticed the rest of it. His eyebrows: plucked and shaped. The mascara. The lipstick — and not drag queen lipstick — no, a subtle gloss that made his lips look full and shiny, like January Jones in Mad Men. Dan still had his thick beard, which made the whole thing even more surreal, though unexpectedly reassuring. He was like a lumberjack in a sundress. A knight in gold lamé. A plumber in a pinafore.

“What,” I finally managed to say, “the FUCK.”

“I know!” Dan said, completely misinterpreting my tone. “I wasn’t sure about the color at first, but Destiny at Cuticle Crimes said Fuschia Fever would really pop with my skin tone, and I think she was right. Don’t you? I mean, I was thinking about going with something more neutral, like Ballet Slipper or Mademoiselle, but then I thought, you know what, life’s too short. Go bold or go home, right?”

“Destiny,” I repeated.

Dan held out his hands and wiggled his fingers. The rhinestones in his nail polish caught the light and sparkled. He seemed so happy. The cost of that happiness: the equivalent of my emptying bedpans for 3 days.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and demand to know what the hell Pastor Marcus had done with him at Rock-and-a-Hard Place. I wanted to call the Pastor and demand a refund. I wanted to drive to Sedona and burn the whole fucking spa to the ground.

But then I looked around the kitchen.

It was SPOTLESS. The counters were wiped down. The dishes were done and put away. The floor was mopped. The trash was taken out. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the table —sunflowers and daisies, my favorites. The fridge was humming quietly, and when I opened it, it was FULL. Not just full — ORGANIZED. Fruits and vegetables in the crisper drawers. Deli meats and cheeses in the deli drawer. Leftovers in matching Tupperware containers with labels and dates written in neat handwriting. Milk, OJ, almond milk (since when do we drink almond milk?), a bottle of Chardonnay, a six-pack of La Croix.

I walked into the living room. The boys were doing their homework. Without being asked. Without screaming at each other. Without it getting interrupted by a game of Fortnite or them scrolling TikTok or doing any of the other shit they usually do. They were doing MATH and reading books. You know, the kind with PAGES.

“Hey, Mom, Dad made snickerdoodles. They’re on the counter if you want one.”

I walked upstairs. The beds were neatly done up. With fresh sheets — the kind with hospital corners you could bounce a quarter off. The laundry was done — folded and stacked in tidy piles on everyone’s dressers. And the whole upstairs wreaked of Bounce. Even the bathrooms were clean. The toilets scrubbed. Mirrors Windexed. Clean, fluffy hand towels were hanging on the racks, and they MATCHED the bath sheets and washcloths.

I went back downstairs. Dan was now frosting the cake, spreading buttercream in smooth, even layers with an offset spatula. What the hell is an offset spatula? And where did Dan learn to frost a cake? Ah yes. At the spa.

“The dog’s at the groomer,” he said without looking up. “I’m picking him up in the morning. He’s getting the full package — bath, nail trim, ear cleaning, and anal gland expression. I know Tender Buttons hates the groomer, but he was starting to smell like old tube socks, so I figured it was time. Oh, and I deadheaded all the roses in the front garden. They were looking pretty scraggly. Also pulled the weeds in the flower beds and mulched the hydrangeas. I’m thinking we fill in a few spots with impatiens. What do you think? Red and purple?”

I sat down at the kitchen table. My legs felt weak.

“Dan,” I said slowly. “What the fuck is happening?” He just smiled.

That’s when I retired to my recliner — to tune everything out and process what was going on. It would take nothing short of a hyperscale data center to process what I’d gone through today.

I drifted into a deep sleep until Dan's voice floated in from what seemed a faraway place — the Emerald City, perhaps. He was calling me to the dinner table. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

And what an incredible dinner he’d laid out. All of my favorites. The best part: I didn’t have to do the dishes.

Things would never be the same in our house. That was clear.

Also clear: I was going to be good with that. Really good.

And my MAGA neighbors could go fuck themselves.

For those of you new to Belinda Vandervelvet and her MAGA antics, enjoy her transformation into a semi-decent human being. A bumpy road, no doubt, but hopefully love will prevail. Here is the whole series, in order!

Can’t We Make Just Nice On Facebook?

Drama On The High Seas

If I Only Had AI

Dan’s Trans-Formation

I spread out my well-worn Hudson Bay blanket under the broad branches of the coast redwood in the front yard, a tree teeming with birds, the occasional red-shouldered hawk perched on the crown. The sky was thick with clouds broken and scattered by bullying gusts of wind, which encouraged everything around me to dance — the trees, the tall and tender new grass, and the wildflowers, whose delicate beauty belied their tenacity. At the top of the mountain, air rushing through the thick boughs of the redwoods imitated the sound of massive waves, and expelled the scent of the ocean (though it was nearly an hour west), as it mingled with the spicy, sweet fragrance of cypress.

It was really too cool to be outdoors and lying in the open air, shoes off — at least for a Californian. But my roots were in Michigan, and this crisp, moist air felt exactly like end-of-winter melt-off, a cue to throw on some Bermuda shorts and stoke up the charcoal grill. I wanted to soak up every bit of the ocean’s wetted, briny breath, even at the cost of my comfort. I had traveled a long way to live in this place, to imbibe this life-sustaining mist. After all these years, it was familiar and soothing, and the cool of it permeated my soft tissues and settled deep into my bones. I could barely smile, so cold were my cheeks — the muscles numb, my amalgam fillings aching.

Back indoors, I thawed out, dense tingling unfurling from the tips of my ears down to my toes. Stripping down to my underwear, I buried myself deep under my duvet, then drifted off to dreams of the ocean, its primordial perfume lighting up my brain with calming imagery — places known, yet unknown. For a good long while, I lingered in this preconscious state, trying to wake myself so I wouldn’t miss my usual dinner hour. But my head was heavy, and I hadn’t the strength to lift it from my pillow. Then there was a loud thud, so strong it rattled the bookshelf next to my bed. Strong winds had thrown a heavy branch across the side of the house. Now I was awake.

Though it was early evening, I put on a pot of coffee as I had a long night of work ahead. I sipped a first cup as I warmed up my dinner: matzo ball soup and a slice of toast slathered with butter and honey — my honey. I devoured this concoction as I planned out my setup for the following day’s farmers market and applied labels to jars. The market was held each Saturday, and the one before Easter was typically the busiest of the year. Ironically, late winter and early spring were the least productive time for the bees, which meant I was often short on product. Every jar of my honey would get sold in the first two hours of the market, the last hour bringing disappointment to all but those looking for bee pollen and honeycomb.

My winter honey, harvested in early spring, was popular for its intense flavor, the dark amber liquid tasting strongly of buckwheat, with hints of the redwood and manzanita blossoms near my hives. Though too heavy-handed for high tea, winter honey was perfect on a hot, crispy slice of sprouted multigrain bread or on almond-flour pancakes just off the griddle. If Northern California had a flavor, this would be it. The chaparral ecosystem on the ranch defined the head and bass notes of this nearly opaque honey’s perfume.

After working well past midnight, I enjoyed a short but deep slumber, awaking around 4:00 a.m. to the sound of barred owls duetting in the redwoods outside my bedroom window, their extended bel canto nudging me to consciousness and bringing a smile to my face. I made my way to the bathroom in the dark and did my usual ablutions, then it was on to the kitchen, where I chugged down a large mug of the cold brew I’d made the night prior, adding a generous pour of half-and-half to soften the acrid flavor resulting from its oxidation. Amped up, I headed down to the storage room, hand truck in tow, to gather my products of the hive: jars of winter honey, as well as star thistle and black sage from the previous fall, stacks of boxed honeycomb, and packets of bee pollen. Then, a few framed recipes and a stack of my cookbooks. All else resided in my crusty old SUV — tent, tables, cash box, and linens. I loved that vehicle, whose once bright paint was now a matte pear green. Mine was one of those early SUVs, equipped with manual window and seat adjustments, an analog radio, and a rear-mounted spare. It still had spunk, and in its rustic state, one might have imagined it had seen its share of rugged terrain. Reality was a bit different, as the vehicle was prone to rollovers, like all the SUVs of its day, so it had been relegated to transporting my products of the hive to farmers’ markets throughout the Bay Area and taking the occasional camping trip with friends.

Off I set for my local market, which was held in a vacant parking lot across from the courthouse. I arrived to a flurry of vendors setting out overflowing crates of fruits and vegetables, pantry products, baked goods, yogurt, eggs, butter and cheese, and assorted Mediterranean dips. There were always a few vendors with hot food items who had arrived an hour earlier. They served up everything from rotisserie chicken, pupusas, and breakfast burritos to dim sum, fresh pasta, and fruit smoothies. Within an hour, it was showtime, with hundreds of locals arriving promptly by bus, bike, and car, and on foot.

I cued up some Edith Piaf on my mini Bose speaker and struck up conversations with passersby, many of them familiar faces. Those who frequented the market were loyal to their farmers and purveyors. They came every week, rain or shine. I had my own set of regulars — folks who stopped by weekly for a jar, apparently enjoying honey on their oatmeal every morning. Others told me that they kept a large jar in the pantry for cooking or tea, or in the medicine cabinet for allergies. In the fall, many bought in bulk, packing their larders with honey for the upcoming months of hibernation. There was an understanding that cold weather sparked a craving for sweets, and since the supply of honey in the hives would dwindle in the cold months, it was best to stock up, right? Add to that the fact that I had to hold honey back as the solstice approached, as much of it would be needed for the bees themselves. They formed winter clusters to keep warm and stayed in their hives for nearly four months to be near their main source of sustenance: their honey.

Of all the regulars at the market, none intrigued me more than an elegant older couple, who, like clockwork, appeared at nine each Saturday. Both husband and wife spoke with elegant Parisian accents and dressed with the effortless precision of people for whom appearances were less vanity than courtesy. Arm in arm, they would swing by their favorite booths (mine among them), offering a bit of polite conversation, then tasting the seasonal offerings. They sampled each of my honeys with liturgical seriousness. Eyes closed, lips pursed, they murmured quiet notes of approval, lingering over each spoonful as if coaxing out a familiar melody from an exotic reharmonization.

Invariably, the couple would purchase large jars of every varietal available that week. Lèa Lelouch and Samuel Lelouch were the names on the credit cards — both true honey connoisseurs, and by far my best customers. I did wonder how this very fit couple, who appeared to be in their late 70s, could consume some 96 ounces of honey from one week to the next. It was a lot of calories, and you’d have to be putting honey on or in just about everything. Where exactly was all this honey going? My curiosity was getting the best of me, so I decided to put the question to them. Politely, of course.

That Saturday, when Lèa and Samuel approached the table, I greeted them cheerfully, engaged in a bit of chitchat, and as usual, admired their attire. Samuel favored impeccably pressed shirts in cheerful Mediterranean colors; that morning it was a blue-striped linen shirt from Façonnable. Lèa wore a silk-and-linen dress in soft taupe and periwinkle, her auburn hair gathered into a loose chignon, bangs gently held back by a pair of oversized Vuarnet sunglasses. Together they looked less dressed for a farmers’ market than for lunch on the Left Bank.

As a couple, they stood out, though not in a flamboyant way. Their well-considered choices drew attention, especially at a farmers’ market where sweaty customers swung by after a long run or early morning bike ride, attired in athletic wear, and where families with little ones showed up in quasi-PJ ensembles. I applauded the effort the Lelouches put in — they were a beautiful and distinguished-looking pair. I imagined that the effort they made daily to dress attractively and stay in shape was surely a factor in their enduring relationship. They clearly revered one another, and as I would soon discover, had been married fifty-eight years.

Today, the Lelouches brought a red Radio Flyer wagon, the old-fashioned kind with wooden-slat sides. This particular wagon was raggedy and had clearly seen a few trips around the block. Though many of the market-goers brought wagons, this was unusual for the Lelouches. They simply weren’t the type of people to have accumulated the cheerful clutter of having raised children. Something about their demeanor, their fastidiousness, and the methodical way they went about their shopping led one to believe they’d never experienced the chaos and messiness of parenthood.

It was these characteristics that pleased everyone with whom they came into contact — their quiet and polite ways, their patience, their graciousness, and their enthusiasm, and, as I would soon discover, their generosity. Children, usually shy around unfamiliar accents, gravitated toward the Lelouches. Samuel spoke to them as though they were peers, asking thoughtful questions, then offering them small tastes of honey on birchwood spoons, if their parents were amenable. Samuel was keen to know their opinion on the flavor — did they like it? Was this something to put in their oatmeal or on their toast, or perhaps on some vanilla ice cream? The children would try the samples with solemn concentration, then offer frank impressions. This delighted Samuel — honey tasting was serious business, and he carefully considered their opinions.

Many wondered, as I did, how the Lelouches had come to be in our small town—what path had carried them from France to northern California. Whatever their journey, Samuel and Lèa possessed a quiet genius for belonging, weaving themselves like bright threads into the fabric of our community.

Judging by their ages and accents, one could reasonably surmise that the Lelouches had grown up in postwar France, though their impeccable English and effortless ease with American ways suggested they had lived in the United States for most of their adult lives. And though they were clearly more affluent than many at the market — their tailored clothes and well-kept Land Rover hinting as much — they wore their prosperity lightly, treating everyone they encountered — farmers, artisans, fellow shoppers, and me, the beekeeper — with warmth and considered respect.

On that particular Saturday, when Lèa and Samuel arrived at my booth with their rickety old wagon, they were especially animated and talkative — something was in the works. For starters, they wanted to try all the honey varietals I had in stock, and since there was no one else in line, I allowed them to sample everything. The winter honey fascinated them most. Dense as molasses, almost mahogany in color, it tasted of cold mornings and evergreen hillsides. Where was this terroir, they wondered. Then out came my phone — together we wandered through photographs of the ranch, tracing the bees’ winter foraging from chaparral shrubs with subtle blooms, to vast wind-swept hillsides with colorful waves of wildflowers.

We then worked our way through the star thistle and black sage honeys, accompanied by more pictures — one of the cow pasture, another of my flower garden full of herbs, with a huge patch of black sage. Rounding out the tasting was a crystal-clear clover honey — perfect for high tea. It was a sweet synthesis of nearly a dozen types of clover, all of which grew on the ranch. Its delicate, flowery essence darted from the palate as swiftly as a hummingbird, leaving a pure sweetness in its wake.

“Are there any other, more unusual varietals we could try?” they inquired. Why yes. Blackberry, lavender, and avocado. Each spoonful seemed to carry the Lelouches to a place far away. No longer were they standing beneath my white canopy, but wandering, instead, through a Provençal village, a place visited in their childhood — a gustatory memory mingling with the dopamine rush from the sugar.

Aiming to bring this leisurely tasting to a close, I offered the Lelouches a bit of hot Earl Grey, poured into small paper cups from my insulated carafe. As they drifted back to earth, the sugar buzz replaced by a hit of caffeine, it was decided, by Samuel, that they would purchase all of the honey I had on hand. Yes, every last jar.

This was not a small purchase, as you might imagine — larger, in fact, than most of my bulk orders. Under my tent were 48 large jars of the winter honey and 336 small jars of assorted varietals. The grand total: $7800. I offered the Lelouches a 10% volume discount, but Lèa insisted on paying the full price. “Whatever will this honey be for?” I inquired, surprised both by the size of their purchase and their insistence on paying full retail. Lèa, smiling, said simply, “We take joy in sharing what we love with those we love — our neighbors, and everyone in our community. No discount, please. You’ve earned every cent.” Without hesitation, Samuel pulled out his Platinum card. The deal was done.

I helped the Lelouches take the first two batches of honey to their car, then we returned to the booth to fill the wagon a third time. On this go-around, the Lelouches requested I unseal all the boxes containing small jars. Once everything was situated in the wagon to their satisfaction, off they went to resume their usual shopping.

The Lelouches quickly became the day’s curiosity as they wandered the market, their red wagon piled high with jars of honey, a magnificent spray of dahlias tucked in between boxes. As they wove their way up and down the aisles, their bountiful haul drew curious glances from fellow shoppers. What on earth was all that honey for?

The Lelouches stopped to purchase their usual fruits and vegetables from favorite vendors, all the while chatting with young couples and their children, a group of ladies who’d just finished a game of pickleball, and an indigent man pushing a well-worn bicycle, all his worldly possessions piled into its jerry-rigged trailer. Samuel studied everyone with quiet attentiveness, discreetly noting what they had purchased and their attire and demeanor, as if to ascertain which honey they would most enjoy. He would then reach down into one of his many boxes and pull out a jar, offering it up with enthusiasm — a precious gift, he noted — nectar collected by so many bees, from this very region. A place all of us were lucky to call home.

“So happy you’re my neighbor,” he would say.

Lèa, her hand resting lightly in the crook of Samuel’s arm, delighted in watching faces brighten with surprise.

The quiet labor of the bees, the sweet nectar they gathered, and the aromas they assembled — these gifts were meant to be free.

So what, exactly, is the GOP-1 Program?

It’s a curated collection of Republican policies inspired by Project 2025’s “Mandate for Leadership,” purportedly designed to help Americans slim down — not through diet and exercise, but through the radical simplicity of having less food.

Can’t afford expensive GLP-1 weight-loss injections? No problem. The GOP-1 Program is absolutely free. No prescription required.

Simply lose your food assistance, or your mind, when you discover that your paycheck no longer stretches to the end of your grocery list because household items, produce and meat, gas, cars, computers, phones, housing, mortgages and auto loans, utilities, and health insurance continue to climb in cost. Involuntary calorie restriction, resulting from not being able to afford food, does all the hard work of dieting — pounds (and muscle tissue) melting away like soft-serve ice cream on an August day in Alabama.

“GOP-1” is an innovative wellness plan that replaces Ozempic with empty cupboards and refrigerators.

Let’s take a look at these groundbreaking public health initiatives…

The SNAP Diet™

The SNAP Diet™ and Benefit Reduction Cleanse debuted shortly after the passage of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act. Unlike overpriced GLP-1 injections, the SNAP Diet is a refreshingly simple, one-step program:

Step 1: MAKE FOOD HARDER TO AFFORD!

H.R.1 — the expansive U.S. federal budget reconciliation act — was used to justify throwing roughly 4.7 to 5 million Americans to the wolves (i.e., taking away their SNAP benefits). Nearly half of the households affected by changes to SNAP included children, and among the 20 states that track age-specific enrollment, it was determined 776,000 children had lost food assistance — suggesting the nationwide total (with all 50 states considered) was now close to 2 million children.

Wow! That’s a lot of kids who won’t be obese! Impressive.

Another statistic that’s interesting, yet perplexing: roughly 80% of the Republicans who back these GOP-1 programs identify as Christian, which brings us to that awkward passage in the GOP instruction manual (Matthew 25:42–45):

“For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.”

“They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did I not help you?’”

“He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of us, you did not do for me.’”

Though this passage may seem unambiguous to a well-educated theologian, Mike Johnson is quick to point out that Jesus forgot to include an important qualifier at the end of his proselytizing, namely, “…unless, of course, we are talking about the balancing of the United States budget.”

Everywhere, these days, one hears the self-righteous prattle of the MAGA faithful regarding the new SNAP work requirements: “Those lazy freeloaders who refuse to work… they deserve to lose their SNAP benefits. Everybody knows that.”

Absolutely.

That’s why the GOP is kicking all sorts of people off the dole: children, disabled Americans, vets, senior citizens, unpaid family caregivers, people with severe mental illness, single moms, pregnant women, the terminally ill, and the unhoused. Our country has become a nation overrun with itinerant loafers of all ages; that is abundantly clear.

As it turns out, America’s greatest untapped workforce is first graders and hospice patients. Who knew.

Things have a way of working out for the best, don’t they?

Nothing encourages “economic opportunity” quite like an empty refrigerator. Hunger is the foundation of the Trump administration’s new workforce development program, though saying that out loud might lose the GOP a few seats in Congress. Seeing how tight things are right now, probably best for the boys to keep that on the down-low.

Once someone actually lands a job per the new SNAP requirements, there’s that pesky detail of having to fend off starvation long enough to collect the first paycheck, which could be two to four weeks out.

And if, by some miracle, the newly employed, minimum-wage worker still qualifies for SNAP, well, that’s more good news! The U.S. government, which we all know operates with lightning-fast efficiency, suggests there is typically a 30-day period for benefit approval, followed by a week or two for the EBT card to arrive by mail. That’s if you’ve not made any errors on their online form and have to start the application process from scratch.

Hopefully, the to-be SNAP recipient will be able to power through Phase 5 of prolonged calorie deprivation: Critical Organ Failure. While working, of course.

Operation Portion Control™

The meals above were recently served to American troops deployed in the Iran war courtesy of the Trump administration. Go ahead and confirm for yourself the authenticity of the photos in Newsweek’s article, “Photos Show Shocking Meals Being Served to US Troops in Iran War.”

What’s on the menu for our troops these days? Apparently not much food, but large servings of supply-chain disruptions, naval blockades, closed airspace, and suspended U.S. mail with a side of “Thank you for your service.”

And nothing boosts troop morale quite like wondering whether the entrée is a hamburger, meatloaf, or insulation foam. At least Hegseth can say he’s serving his men a balanced meal: one protein, three carrots, and all-you-can-stomach thoughts and prayers.

On the bright side, the Pentagon may finally hit its weight standards without making anyone do physical training.

Welcome to Operation Portion Control™— where caloric content is classified.

Little Losers Intermittent Fasting™

America’s youngest also need to catch a ride on the dieting bandwagon, whether they’re living on the street, in subsidized housing, in foster homes, or missing a parent. As we all know, being skinny means having a much lower risk of Type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, arthritis, osteoporosis, dementia, and heart disease. Oops! Those are diseases of the old.

Skinny kids, the ones who purportedly don’t get enough food, apparently suffer from things like stunted growth, chronic exhaustion, a weakened immune system, muscle deterioration, and delays in brain development. Ya gotta question the source on that claim: the World Health Organization. WHO also claims that childhood malnutrition — we’re talking not getting enough calories — can lead to obesity. Huh?! That does not make any sense whatsoever.

According to WHO, not getting enough food alters a child’s metabolism (whatever that is), which in turn causes them to store fat more efficiently. Yeah, well, believe who you want to believe — either those rich doctors who went to boarding school and Harvard, or RFK Jr. Oh yeah — he went to boarding school and Harvard. Whatever.

Common sense would dictate that childhood obesity thing is more likely caused by kids subsisting on Flamin' Hot Cheetos and lying around all day on cardboard mattresses playing Fortnite and Rocket League on their donated phones.

Thanks to the generous efforts of Donald Trump, Mike Johnson, and the evangelical Christian right (which now has a stronghold on all government policy), parents alone are responsible for the care, education, and upbringing (as well as the abuse and neglect) of their children. The government should have zero influence over what fathers and mothers decide is right for their children. This is as God intended.

The Little Losers weight-loss program has been bolstered by generous cuts to SNAP, under which kids who are no longer eligible for food benefits are also automatically removed from the school lunch program rolls. Yes, you read that right. This second (and much-deserved) serving of cruelty is intended to get their parents (if they have any) off the couch and out working. Now that makes total sense. 100%.

In some states, SNAP-free kids have only to jump through a few hoops to qualify for the government-sponsored lunch programs — it just requires their drug- or alcohol-addicted caretakers to sober up long enough to fill out the applications, find their REAL ID-compliant state driver's license under the piles of unwashed laundry, and then get those applications in by deadline to the school administration offices, which are on the outskirts of town and not accessible by bus. If this “event” were on one of those prediction gambling markets, it might be categorized as a “long shot” or “odds-against underdog.”

Hoop jumping — that’s a fun exercise, right? Exercise is good! And for kids that still don’t qualify for free food, which is likely going to be the case in the mostly red states of Texas, Florida, Ohio, Georgia, North Carolina, and Pennsylvania — those kids will reap the benefits of a 7-hour fast (i.e., school drop-off to end-of-school-day), or a 9-hour fast, if they are enrolled in an after-school program.

Other initiatives designed to enhance the Little Losers program, and contribute to malnutrition generally, are the USDA’s cancellation of over $1 billion in federal cooperative agreements that provided local, fresh, and regional foods to school cafeterias (and food banks), and the huge reductions in WIC (Women, Infants, Children) — cash-value benefits that allowed low-income families to purchase fruits and vegetables, which ironically factor high on RFK Jr.’s recommendations for childrens’ diets.

WIC benefits are slated for the chopping block in September of 2026. Woo hoo! The Christian-right’s Project 2025 agenda stays on track!

The Farm-To-Famine Diet™

There is a reason Trump is the perfect leader for these times we live in. He is not an eater of fruits and vegetables, setting an example for those of us who can no longer afford to buy them. His motto: “Get over it! They taste yucky.”

Many folks have been baffled by the soaring price of grocery staples. “How is this happening?” — the MAGA faithful ask. They watch FOX religiously, where every economic report is a victory lap, and every hardship someone else’s fault — usually someone with brown skin. Yet every month, when their credit card SMS payment reminder crosses their screens, it somehow feels more like a ransom note than a bill. POTUS tells his followers that the economy is booming and the job market improving. So why does a bag of groceries now qualify as a luxury purchase?

Of course, absolutely none of this has anything to do with tariffs driving up the cost of fertilizer, farm equipment, packaging, and other essentials, nor with former trade partners no longer willing to buy American agricultural products because we’ve tariffed the shit out of their products.

And there is no way these crazy prices are caused by the rising cost of fuel, which the liberal media has suggested is making it more expensive to plant, harvest, refrigerate, and haul food across the country.

Don’t forget that issue of thousands of experienced farmworkers being rounded up, then holed up indefinitely in detention centers. Who’s going to pick all the crops before they become expensive compost, you ask? Duh… all those white kids who hang out at the local pool hall, who’ve not been able to secure jobs ever, have zero competencies and who know nothing about farming. They are just chomping at the bit to spend July bent over a 108-degree asparagus field for 8 hours a day. Ask any guidance counselor — “What is the dream career of today’s youth?” Seasonal lettuce harvester is the number one response.

This we know: America's farmers will love Trump’s new business model.

Grow less, earn less, pay more, compete with imports

Welcome to The Farm-to-Famine Diet™, America’s hottest involuntary wellness program. This revolutionary diet plan is all about skipping overpriced nuisances like fresh produce, lean proteins, and nutritious prepared meals. Why waste money on blueberries when you can survive on patriotic carbohydrates? Broccoli is for globalists. Lettuce is elitist. Avocados? Those sound suspiciously foreign. If fruits and vegetables were so important, wouldn’t they be charging less? Hmm… not really sure who “they” is.

The Farm-to-Famine Diet™ doesn’t just trim your waistline — it slashes your grocery bill by eliminating the majority of your groceries altogether. Nutrition is replaced by optimism, balanced meals by talking points, and food security by comforting reassurances from the Agriculture Secretary that everything is actually better than ever.

So the next time you find yourself wincing as you work your way down the produce aisle, remember: you’re not being priced out of healthy eating. You’re participating in a bold new American health initiative.

Warning: Side effects may include weight loss, vitamin deficiencies, and constipation due to a lack of dietary fiber.

The America First Fasting Plan™

"America First," parrots populist political platforms prioritizing protectionism, pedophilia, pro-life, pro-guns, paranoia of outsiders, the patriarchy, PACs, patronage, a plutocracy, profiteering, payoffs, persecution of minorities, proscription, purging of immigrants, prejudice, promiscuity, Protestantism, and other policies that begin with the letter “P.”

POTUS is, of course, the leader of this program. Mike Johnson is God’s pilot in implementing these Christ-inspired policies.

You are likely wondering, “How exactly does America First impact the food industry, the AFFORDABILITY of groceries, and finding a diet plan that is right for me?” Good run-on question.

Here’s exactly how Trump’s America First policies have affected grocery prices and other important things in a single year:

Meat, poultry, fish ⬆️ 6.2%
Beef ⬆️ 16%
Pork ⬆️ 2.3%
Farm-raised salmon ⬆️ 17%
Seafood ⬆️ 7.5%
Fruits and vegetables ⬆️ 7.5%
Bananas ⬆️ 8.6%
Tomatoes ⬆️ 32%
Strawberries ⬆️ 12%
Lettuce ⬆️ 25%
Coffee ⬆️ 19%
Rice ⬆️ 11%
Italian pasta brands ⬆️ 107%
Cheese & dairy ⬆️ 5%
Olive oil ⬆️ 18%
Bread ⬆️ 3.1%

Health insurance premiums ⬆️ 22%
Health insurance deductibles ⬆️ 37%
Used cars ⬆️ 6%
Fuel ⬆️ 40%
Housing ⬆️ 3.4%

This 👆👆👆. In one year! Gotta give Trump credit for inspiring big changes, and so quickly driving up the cost of food!

And it’s no wonder AFFORDABILITY is the word of the day.

“Affordability” = the race between income and prices. Right now, inflation is leaving any increases in personal income in the dust.

Damn. We’ve got to put some spin on this bowling ball, or we’re going to end up with a split. Oops. Too late—we’ve already got one. In both political parties.

And if we don’t change the narrative right now, I could be looking at 30 to 50 years in a federal penitentiary somewhere in Texas for inciting a riot by suggesting that groceries cost more than a car payment.

The reality is this: that tiny raise you just got isn’t going to keep pace with the exploding cost of living — or your spouse’s government job getting bullDOGEd into oblivion. We need a solution. One that also makes the White House look like it’s playing four-dimensional chess instead of Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Good news! We’ve got one. Introducing: Calibrated Fasting.

You’ll save a shit ton of money, you’ll almost certainly lose weight, and you’ll never have to worry about what’s for dinner because there won’t be any dinner. Kill two birds with one kidney stone. Speaking of which, fun fact: crash dieting and high-protein diets can contribute to kidney stones. Someone needs to tap RFK Jr. on the shoulder. His inverted food pyramid is a recipe for kidney stones.

Now grab a calculator. You’re going to need it.

Take your monthly income. Subtract your rent, utilities, insurance, gas, car payment, medical bills, student loans, subscriptions you forgot to cancel, and every other expense required to remain technically alive. Whatever’s left is your grocery budget.

Is it a terrifying number? Yeah... I figured.

Let’s say you have $325 left for food this month. That’s about $81.25 per week, or roughly $11.60 per day. If you live in one of the states that still taxes groceries — Alabama, Idaho, Mississippi, Missouri, South Dakota, Tennessee, or Utah — you can knock off another 50¢. Hey! Freedom to open-carry isn’t free.

About six bucks per meal is technically possible if you’re cooking everything from scratch and living on eggs, tortillas, beans, rice, generic cheese, bargain vegetables, seasonal fruit, and the occasional chicken that wandered too close to the clearance rack. The catch? That’s only two meals a day.

This is where your fasting schedule becomes a financial planning tool.

Working mornings? Eat breakfast and lunch. Dinner — now just a cherished childhood memory. Working nights? Skip breakfast. Forget that adage about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. Working two jobs? You’ll likely be dead in a month.

Our billionaire friends in Silicon Valley — and the AI models they trained while paying fewer taxes than your grandma who lives in a double wide — they recommend the following nutrition plans based on income:

Tight Budget / Low Income: OMAD (One Meal a Day)

Moderate Income: 16:8 Intermittent Fasting (Two Meals a Day)

Comfortable Income: The Circadian Rhythm Diet (eat whatever you like, whenever you like)

And, of course, there’s Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins’ famous quote:”It can cost around $3 a meal for a piece of chicken, a piece of broccoli, a corn tortilla, and one other thing." If you follow her plan and budget carefully, you may be able to splurge once a month on a Beefy 5-Layer Burrito at Taco Bell. Cost: $3.49.

Hey folks, don’t get all sad on us. It’s just food. There are so many great things in this world left to focus on — free speech, due process, the Constitution, birthright citizenship, human rights, fair elections, and all those other quaint relics of democracy we used to take for granted.

Time to celebrate America’s 250th anniversary!!

Gather friends and family for a rousing rendition of "America, the Food Desert"— complete with karaoke accompaniment. Don't worry, everyone already knows the tune.

AMERICA, THE FOOD DESERT
sung to America, the Beautiful
(with revised lyrics by Chris Andrews)

O beautiful for shrinking meals,
For fewer eggs and grain,
For watching every grocery trip
Become a budget game.
America! America!
We solved obesity!
Make food unaffordable—
What brilliant policy!

O beautiful for grocery lines,
Where weary, wornout stress
Still winds through crowded checkout aisles
With carts of emptiness.
America! America!
God mend thine every flaw;
Confirm thy soul in empathy,
And mercy in the law.

O beautiful for those who serve,
Whose sacrifice runs deep,
Who more than self their country love,
Yet struggle now to eat.
America! America!
May conscience be our guide,
Till every child has food enough,
And none are cast aside.

O beautiful for amber waves
That ripple, full and free;
How strange that hunger lingers still
Where plenty ought to be.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
May every harvest feed us all,
In shared prosperity.

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose faith the wilderness crossed;
Who dreamed that every soul had worth,
Not measured by its cost.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
May mercy walk beside the law,
And strengthen liberty.

O beautiful for heroes proved
Who gave their youth and more,
Yet found at home that sacrifice
Was asked of them once more.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
May those who bore the nation’s weight
Find bread, and dignity.

O beautiful for patriot dreams
Still reaching through the years;
May gleaming cities earn their light
By drying human tears.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
For greatness lives not in our wealth,
But in humanity.

At this point in history, I think we can assuredly rename the United States “Moronica” — you know the place, that fictional dictatorship featured in the Three Stooges' political spoofs, You Nazty Spy! and I'll Never Heil Again. What was once parody is now starting to feel uncomfortably like reality.

The plots of both Three Stooges shorts, released in 1940 and 1941, were unmistakeably parodies of the events leading up to the rise of Hitler and the Third Reich: a king is deposed, and a group of wealthy oligarchs — eager to preserve their profits and influence — elevate a lowly wallpaper hanger, Moe Hailstone, to the position of dictator, effectively making him their “stooge.” Raise your hand if this plot sounds vaguely familiar.

Wow. Every hand. Up.

Remarkably, The Three Stooges were satirizing one of the most feared and dangerous figures in the world, well before renowned political activist Charlie Chaplin released his anti-Hitler classic, The Great Dictator. Both the Stooges and Chaplin were bravely mocking fascism at a time when others in Hollywood remained cautious — no, make that chickenshit.

Does anyone else think this sounds a wee bit like our current-day Democratic Party — a completely useless bunch of chickenshits comingling with a few sexual deviant/misconduct types and smarmy self-dealers? The ladies would be wise to steer clear of guys like Swalwell and Brockman (and there are others), while the rest of you had better back away from that Cherfilus-McCormick chick (from Florida, of all places), who stole millions in Covid funds. But I digress.

Whether you are an official Knucklehead (i.e., member of The Three Stooges Fan Club) or not, these shorts are well worth a watch. Belly laughs are good medicine, apparently. Great, in fact, for both your mental health and your jelly belly, though were the latter true, I should have washboard abs by now. Which I do not.

OK, folks. Time to drop the garden trowel and get to it. There’s nothing like a beautiful summer day spent sprawled out on the couch in your basement, watching the Stooges, eating Bugles, and drinking orange Fanta. YES, they still make both of these, can you believe it?

Here you go. Be ready to laugh your ass off. Fair warning to those of you with weak pelvic floor muscles.

You’re gonna love watching three Jewish men (👆), all of whom grew up in Yiddish-speaking IMMIGRANT households, brutally satirize the leaders of the Axis powers — smack in the middle of WW2. The only thing that might be more satisfying would be watching a crowd of former detainees from the Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia, as they witness DJT meeting his demise via firing squad (which he recently reinstated) after being found guilty of treason and war crimes at his much-anticipated tribunal. Can hardly wait for that TikTok video to go viral.

In the Stooges’ Nazi flicks, Moe Howard parodies Hitler, as dictator “Moe Hailstone,” Curly Howard plays “Field Marshal Herring” (Hermann Göring), and Larry Fine is cast as “Minister of Propaganda Pebble” (Josef Goebbels). The Stooges, who in their previous life had been wallpaper hangers, are transformed into a puppet dictator and his cabinet, all of them coached by the oligarchs to run the country of Moronica.

America, Moronica. One can't help wondering: were the Stooges merely joking, or pointing out an enduring truth about the U.S.?

The ruling Nazi-era oligarchs — Hugenberg, Quandt, Krupp, Oetker, and the two Ferdinands, Flick and Porsche — were not so different from today’s American oligarchs. Like Elon Musk, Howard Lutnick, Scott Bessent, Linda McMahon, Doug Burgum, and David Sacks, they enjoyed privileged access to political power while simultaneously benefiting from policies that enriched their sprawling business empires. As they “helped” run the state, regulations inconvenient to their interests mysteriously vanished, favorable policies materialized, and fortunes grew ever larger.

The names and circumstances may differ, but the arrangement is the same: wealthy industrialists and financiers positioning themselves close to the levers of power, all while assuring the public that their accumulating influence is merely an act of patriotic service. History would suggest that such generosity comes with substantial hidden fees. And history would also suggest that all this Arschkriecherein (climbing up someone’s ass) does not, in the end, work out well for these businessmen. The bend-at-the-waist billionaires/trillionaires in Trump’s orbit can expect the same.

Enjoy gloating here: “The Oligarchs Who Came To Regret Supporting Hitler,” from The Atlantic, 2/6/25 (article gifted), and “How Rupert Murdoch helped create a monster – the era of Trumpism – and then lost control of it,” from The Conversation, 8/11/24.

Are you getting this? It’s all the same: Nazi Germany = NotSee America. If you can’t see that, I’ve got an ophthalmologist I can happily refer you to (and a piece of beachfront property in Miami that I promise won’t be affected by climate change sea-level rise).

The oligarchs in the Stooge stories, having bankrolled the trio, assume these idiots will dutifully do their bidding. While Hailstone, Herring, and Pebble are certainly willing, if unwittingly, to play the part of stooges (so to speak), what the oligarchs have failed to anticipate is that the same ineptitude that made the Stooges easy to manipulate also makes them spectacularly incapable of executing “the plan.”

Back to the present day… those of us who don’t don MAGA hats are beginning to feel like unwilling extras in a political farce that never ends. Each morning, a fresh barrage of headlines soils our news feed, the madness escalating. And there is no exit ramp in sight. And while the Three Stooges were able to wrap up their authoritarian buffoonery in a tidy 20-minute comedy short, we’re relegated to several seasons on the remake, with the script writer (most likely Stephen Miller) determined to outdo himself and history with every new episode.

What can be done when White Evangelical Protestants, ideological conservatives, MAGAs, and the GOP (well over half the country) are headed down this road to perdition — on the way, ignoring every red flag that warned us things were vor die Hunde gehen?

Why, pray tell, are people still clinging to this Trump mess? Are they unable to let go? Too embarrassed to admit they failed to buy an extended warranty on a lemon? Too scared to jump off the train? Or are they blithely sailing toward a heavily militarized, police-state version of Amerika — complete with territorial fantasies and the persecution of minorities — because that's the Hantavirus Cruise they eagerly booked and upgraded to first class, convincing themselves that rats were part of the entertainment package?

At times, it feels as though we’re living through a remake of 1930s Europe that somehow got greenlit as a dark comedy. As the plot lurches from one absurd scene to the next, you keep expecting the director — whoever that may be — to lean into an acoustic megaphone and shout, “Cut! This script is ridiculous. Nobody’s going to believe this storyline.”

The trouble is that what begins as satire has a nasty habit of becoming reality. The jokes stop landing. The laughter grows uneasy. And then, as the old saying goes, someone loses an eye — and suddenly things aren’t so funny.

This (👇🏼) is the audience I’m sitting in at this very moment, enjoying a rousing rendition of “Springtime for Hitler” from The Producers — music and lyrics by Mel Brooks, a comedian who bathes daily in Yiddishkeit. All of that confident Jewishness gives Brooks license to satirize Nazis with a ferocity matched by few others.

Mel Brooks is likely the only person on this planet able to pull off a tune so spectacularly tasteless while simultaneously making it irresistibly kitschy and catchy — a brainworm in the public consciousness. His genius lies in turning ridicule into a weapon — a box cutter aimed at Nazi pretensions — stripping them of their self-important mystique and exposing them for what they were (and are): ridiculous, contemptible figures of absurdity, as absurd as the MAGAs who have stepped right into their manure-covered Marschstiefel (jackboots).

If you like “Springtime for Hitler,” you might also enjoy “A Little Peace,” from the flick To Be or Not To Be (1983) — another catchy satirical tune written by Mel Brooks, in conjunction with Ronny Graham. It’s a great ditty about the joys of dictatorial expansionism and imperial exploitation.

If you're down for a brilliant full-length film, the 1942 version of To Be or Not to Be, starring Jack Benny and Carole Lombard, is not to be missed. Directed by Ernst Lubitsch, it is a masterful and sophisticated mix of black comedy, political satire, and spy drama, skewering Hitler and Nazi ideology, pomposity, and self-importance with surgical precision. What's most impressive is Lubitsch and his cast’s fearlessness in transforming fascism into farce, all while World War II was raging.

There is no hesitation in repeatedly calling out the enemy in To Be or Not to Be, though true danger lurks behind every joke. Watch in amazement that none of this movie’s content was censored back in the day, then think about where we are now… major networks being pressured to sack comedians, namely Kimmel and Colbert, who are critical of the fossil fuel fascist, all because they called out his atrocious behavior and policies on their shows.

This 1942 version of To Be or Not to Be is peak “mock fascists, collect laughs,” and it is Carole Lombard’s last movie. She died shortly after its release in a tragic airplane crash — January 16, 1942 — as she was returning from a highly successful war bond rally. President Roosevelt declared her to be Hollywood’s first WW2 casualty.

Hey, wake up! Don't sleep on this 1983 version of To Be or Not to Be. Same story, yes, but a totally different movie. It’s an absolute gem that trades subtlety for high-energy slapstick and Broadway-style musical numbers, delivering a distinctive and equally hilarious experience to the 1942 treasure. The biggest difference between versions one and two of To Be is their proximity to the events they satirize, something to keep in mind as you watch both or either.

If you’re looking to watch the entirety of the 1983 To Be or Not to Be, starring Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, try Apple TV.

More fun can be had at Hitler’s expense from Hal Roach Studios. These films, while not terribly sophisticated (and chock full of ethnic stereotyping), are nonetheless entertaining. Check out The Devil With Hitler (1942) and That Nazty Nuisance (1943).

Bet you didn’t see this one coming: Walt Disney as outspoken critic of Hitler and Nazi Germany. When most people think of Walt Disney, they’re imagining Bambi, Pinocchio, and Fantasia — not anti-fascist propaganda. Ironically, all three of these films struggled at the box office during World War II as overseas markets disappeared and U.S. audiences had more important things on their minds.

By the early 1940s, Disney’s Burbank studio had effectively become an important part of the war effort. The U.S. military occupied a big chunk of their lot, and roughly 90% of the studio’s output was converted to supporting Allied causes: military training films, educational shorts, and features like Victory Through Air Power.

Disney also produced two remarkable animated assaults on Nazism: Der Fuehrer’s Face and Education for Death. One mercilessly lampoons Hitler and fascist ideology; the other delivers a chilling portrayal of how totalitarian regimes indoctrinate children from birth. Together, these films helped sell War Bonds while delivering a powerful message: dictators who thrive on fear and spectacle lose their mystique and power when reduced to figures of ridicule.

Comedy and satire often succeed where reasoned arguments — and sometimes even physical force — fall short. When America was at its best, we understood this. Along with free speech, a dominant economy, and a powerful military, the freedom to mock dangerous ideas and the people promoting them was one of our greatest strengths.

During World War II, American filmmakers, cartoonists, comedians, and journalists relentlessly exposed the absurdity of Nazi ideology, targeting fanaticism, puncturing propaganda, and turning the Third Reich’s self-important strongmen into objects of ridicule. It would seem that when someone is trying so very hard to convince the world he’s a godlike figure, being laughed at hits harder than a bullet grazing an earlobe.

These Disney shorts weren’t trivial entertainment, nor were those put out by other animation houses during the same time period. Their satire weakened the Nazi brand and Hitler’s bravado, chipping away at the aura of invincibility he and his followers worked so hard to cultivate. Ridicule = kryptonite to the Nazis’ manufactured grandeur.

Which brings me to this scene from The Wizard of Oz, which was released just one week before Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. The scene feels remarkably prescient, whether intentionally or not, speaking directly to a timeless truth about power: behind the booming voice, the spectacle, and relentless propaganda, there is often just one smallish man frantically pulling levers behind a curtain.

Dorothy = a hero. 💯 Just for getting them there and pulling back the curtain.

Complete your comedy tour de couch with The Ducktators, Herr Meets Hare, and Daffy the Commando — a triple feature of animated anti-fascism, ninety minutes of dictators getting dunked by waterfowl, rabbits, and a certifiably unhinged duck.

Throughout the 1940s, a remarkable flood of comic books, animated shorts, and satirical films helped Americans make sense of a world gone completely off the rails. These works did more than entertain: they deflated fear, elastrated fascism, exposed dictators as frauds, and made clear what was at stake in a conflict that seemed to be taking over the globe. For many Americans, cartoons and comedies were a down-to-earth civics lesson — a crash course in democracy, delivered with slapstick, satire, and a punchline — by the best teachers, ever: Jack Benny, Bugs Bunny, Curly Howard, Superman, and Charlie Chaplin.

I have said it before and will continue to do so: VOTE NO ON XAVIER BECERRA for California’s governor.

The New York Times has reiterated and bolstered its stance on Becerra's troubling past as Secretary of Health and Human Services under the Biden administration. BECERRA'S POLICIES HURT CHILDREN. Biden gets to take credit for this, too. He turned a blind eye to Becerra’s poor leadership.

If you give a shit about kids, take five minutes to read today’s article. Then, VOTE NO ON BECERRA.

Sadly, I have discovered this week how very many Dems in the State of California have not one concern about the 10's of thousands of children Becerra's HHS put in harm's way. I am ashamed that this is where we are at. I am ashamed of my party. I am ashamed of people who play the racism card and who refuse to look at facts. Disgusted.

Here's a small taste of what I'm talking about in terms of what happened to Becerra's charges, the unaccompanied minors that came through HHS (from “Why the Migrant Child Crisis Is Roiling the California Governor Race,” by Hannah Dreier):

"Andrés Toma, 16, fell to his death three months after being sent to live with an uncle. Antoni Padilla, 15, lost the ability to speak after falling from a roofing job. Marcos Cux, released by H.H.S. at age 13, was working at a chicken plant when a machine tore open his arm. When I met him, it hung limply by his side. It’s unclear whether these children received H.H.S. follow-up calls, or whether a call would have mattered."

"Children and parents both consistently told me they had not imagined how dangerous the work would be, or how relentless."

"Child workers were mostly living adult lives, expected to contribute to rent and pay off debts, allowed to go to school only after working night shifts, or not allowed to go at all. In other words, the kind of situations H.H.S. was supposed to screen out."

"Some sponsors told me they believed that they were doing children a favor by helping them migrate and support their families. But many also kept careful tallies of what the children owed, including for their clothes, meals and lodging, and charged monthly interest."

Under Mr. Becerra’s leadership, HHS quickly released these children they were TASKED WITH PROTECTING, made a cursory follow-up call (or not, as the case may be for 85,000), and then closed their files. They ignored calls and emails from people who raised concerns. Becerra's concern: to please Biden by being efficient. For those of you claiming "misinformation," really? Take two minutes and read up. Hot off the presses: https://www.nytimes.com/2026/05/14/us/politics/xavier-becerra-migrant-children.html?unlocked_article_code=1.iVA.kLp3.xoRxF-zj8DSU&smid=url-share

Becerra is your guy, my fellow Dems? Really?

Well, fuck that.

with Lorinda Birdwhistle

Not going to lie, friends. I am really struggling with fashion. Sadly, this problem of mine seems to go hand-in-hand with another major shortcoming: shopping. And then there’s that trying things on before buying them schtick, which, as a rule, I don’t do. Méthode à moi: I eyeball the item to assess its visual appeal, try to envision how it will look on me (does it cover my big tummy and fat ass), and then I gauge whether there is enough bust ease. I am not going to fucking hold my breath all day for the sake of a fitted look. Life is too short for that shit. If we’re talking a skirt, shorts, or pants, anything other than an elastic waistband is a non-starter. No exceptions. And finally, if the item is in a pastel color, it doesn’t go in the cart.

And while we’re on the subject of carts, I think we can all agree there are a limited number of brick-and-mortar stores that sell clothes and that also offer carts, and they are either mass merchandisers, off-price retailers, or non-profit thrift stores. Not in these categories: Bergdorf Goodman, Neiman Marcus, and Saks Fifth Avenue. We’re looking at Ross Dress for Less, T.J. Maxx, Marshall’s, Target, Walmart, Costco, the Salvation Army, and Goodwill. The vast discount retail ecosystem works like this: most of the shit you buy at the first six stores ends up at the last two stores, often with the original price tags intact.

These retail giants cover the fashion needs of approximately 70% of the United States population, that being the lower class, and lower middle class, with a few stragglers from the higher escalations of the middle class — i.e., those folks for whom old habits die hard and who still love their Dickies from Walmart.

Eh, come to think of it, there are now numerous online clothing retailers with digital carts, and they offer the same filling-your-cart serotonin buzz many of us are striving for. In all fairness, we can’t leave these out, so add Amazon to the pile-up.

Grab a cart (or your keyboard), wipe it down with anti-bacterial sanitizer, and get to work. Maybe pop in your Bose QuietComfort Ultra Earbuds and crank up some 70s Muzak to enhance the experience.

Here’s how putting together a wardrobe works at these retailers: you will need a cart because, in order to find 2, or, if you’re having a really good day, 3 items you can actually wear, you have to gather up at least 7-11 items total. There is a scientifically proven ratio of 3.5:1 (not unlike the Fibonacci sequence, I’m told) between all the clothes you’ll be purchasing and those worth keeping after you subtract the unwearable ones, which is most. It’s so easy to remember this ratio, as it is exactly the same as your ideal total-cholesterol-to-HDL ratio, per the Cleveland Clinic. These numbers are worth committing to memory.

After snapping up all these fashion treasures, you may find, like many before you, that your sense of euphoria is short-lived, especially when you get home and discover you have absolutely NOTHING whatsoever in your closet, in the way of pants, a skirt, or shorts, to complete the ensemble.

And, it goes without saying that you will not have shoes to match. Or if, perchance, you do happen to own a pair of shoes in the right style and color, guaranteed you will be limping within one hour of putting on said shoes. This phenomenon falls under Newton’s Third Law of Motion — you know, the one that defines the relationship between a body and the forces acting upon it, and then its motion in response to those forces. In layman’s terms, there are your feet and the attractive, but ill-fitting shoes (which come into contact with one another), and then there is your feet’s response to the ill-fitting shoes. It’s physics, plain and simple, girls. The scientific term: “Your Dogs Are Barking.”

All of this is what I call The Fashion Clusterfuck. It’s like The Rapture, except you’re one of those people who get left on earth. Turns out there’s a dress code for getting into heaven, and the invite clearly stated “white tie,” and it didn’t mention “optional.” And it most certainly didn’t mention clothing-optional. Yep, your birthday suit is not good enough for god. Bummer.

And then, there’s that going back to the store thing and waiting in line for 45 minutes to return the twenty items that didn’t work out for you. This is where you queue up with 17 other shoppers in a narrow corridor filled with shelves of snacks from gourmet food companies you’ve never heard of. Hundreds and hundreds of exotic snacks.

Savory crunchy things. Chocolate-enrobed pretzels and nuts. Gummy legless invertebrates. Cookies. Cheesy stuff. Mushroom jerky. Kettle chips in ten flavors. Trail mix for people on acid. Be sure you’ve eaten before you get in line. You’ll gain weight just looking at this stuff.

Then there’s the experience of trying to get dressed for the day or an evening event. Here’s how that usually plays out for me: I am desperately in need of an outfit for a special gathering, and I’m down to the wire. The event is tomorrow. Oops! It’s tonight!! Jesse gave me the wrong date. That means it’s too late to order something online and too far into the season to find something off-the-rack that’s appropriate for the weather, in my size, and not in some horrible pastel color. “Pastels,” by the way, are a recurring theme in my psychotherapy sessions.

So, I’m fucked, unless I can find some self-tanning mousse in my cosmetic bin, which means I could then pull off an outfit in pink or powder blue.

Sadly, no bronzer.

And so, I dive into my closet, looking for just one outfit (dear god) that will do the trick. Voila! There it is! An outfit I’d forgotten about that I bought during the pandemic — the one I wore for the online Heart concert back when all of us in California had to stay sheltered in or risk death by firing squad. This ensemble has a bit of a lesbian vibe, which was intentional, not gonna lie. I was just trying to fit in with the other Heart concertgoers. And Jesse… he’s always been down for that sort of thing — you know, my hooking up with lesbians. That’s a universal guy fantasy, I’m pretty sure. I could never wrap my head around a threesome, which in Jesse’s fantasy means two women and himself. What a fucker.

As I discovered at a retreat many moons ago, these menage à trois thingamabobs don’t always go according to plan, especially when the women involved are vying for the same dude and have no interest whatsoever in going down on each other. Then, there’s that part where the guy has to service two women. Believe you me when I say most guys are not up to the task of servicing even one. OMG, two?! And then, after all is said and done, and things have not gone according to plan, there is the inevitable post-coidal upset, because at least one of the women did not get off at all, and she is the best friend of the other woman, who she imagines has gotten off, but who, in reality, was just faking an orgasm.

Let’s just say this: the guy involved snuck off in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. Word has it he’s been living off the grid in Lincoln, Montana.

OK, OK… back to the situation at hand: my upcoming night out with Jesse and his friends from the office.

Excitedly, I pulled the aforementioned ensemble out of the closet, only to realize I was still fucked. The last time I had washed the pants (which appear to be made of burlap), they had shrunk to half their original size. Pretty weird-looking — cargo pants that are cinched at the bottom but which stop mid-calf. This is not a look. And those elasticated pant cuffs were cutting off the circulation to my feet and ankles. Also, not a look I was going for: EDEMA.

Admittedly, the tag, in several languages, including English, clearly stated not to wash the pants, and underneath it was a second tag that stated: “Dry Clean Only.”

Now hold on a minute. How is it that a $15 pair of pants requires dry cleaning? It costs $15 to dry-clean any type of women’s pants at my local cleaners, even cheap shit pants from Old Navy. So I thought, WTH, I’m just going to wash them. If that doesn’t work, I’ll only have lost $15, right? If I take them to a dry cleaner, I lose $15. Same difference, except that part about being able to wear them again.

So now my cool cargo pants are half their original size. Why, you may ask, are they still in my closet? Well, you never really know when you might lose 80 lbs., in which case, they’ll be right there, ready to go. There’s some comfort in that.

And then there’s the blouse I’d paired with those cargo pants way back when. Turns out it has a huge stain, smack over my left boob, like some lactation mishap. Ay yai yai, at age 64, lactating? No one, especially my son, Daniel, wants that image in their head as they try to enjoy a delicious dinner of butter chicken and garlic naan at Sudipta’s Tandoori Kitchen.

The thought of this brought back some funny memories for me from when Daniel was a baby. For two years, he nursed at the same time every afternoon: 3:30 p.m., right at the start of my favorite Law & Order reruns. We all know that theme, am I right? Well, whenever I heard it, my milk would let down — right at the “boom, boom” of the timpani. Like clockwork.

Imagine, if you will, what happened one day as I was walking through Best Buy and that Law & Order theme came blaring through 10 synchronized large-screen TVs at once. Holy fuck! I ended up with two HUGE wet spots on the front of my T-shirt, and of course, I had nothing to cover them up. I could not get out of that damn store fast enough.

Now I’m reliving the heroic effort I’d made trying to get that stain out. I used every cleaning product known to man, including Miss Mouth’s Messy Eater Treater. The stain: it didn’t budge. It remained the same saturated color it had been when the $258 Eileen Fisher Belgian linen shirt first came into contact with a spoonful of dal tadka. One spoonful of food misses my mouth, and a beautiful shirt is ruined forever.

And yet, though the shirt was now unwearable (like the cargo pants), I had kept it, right there in my closet, as if it were part of my wardrobe. Why? Partly as punishment for my stupidity, partly so I could respectfully mourn the loss of the equivalent of a week’s worth of groceries ($258), and just in case there was ever a scientific breakthrough in the treatment for turmeric stains.

I might have donned that mustard colored sweater the next time I had a hankering for Indian food, had I not shrunk it. A curry stain would have blended beautifully into that merino wool.

Woulda, shoulda.

So now, here’s where I’m at: I cannot attend the event with Jessie. I have nothing to wear. 😭

RECTIFYING THE SITUATION

How, exactly, does one go about fixing a catastrophic wardrobe situation like mine — one resulting from twin fuckups: not having had a mother’s guidance during my formative years, and not giving a flying fuck about fashion trends?

What exactly did I want out of my wardrobe? What was I going for?

This, thank you very much. 👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼

Frances McDormand: totally dialed in to my style. This I have ascertained after examining every last photo of her I could find online. She is a rockstar. Her vibe: “I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

My needs and desires are pretty simple. I want clothes and shoes that are BASIC, comfortable, and durable, and that can stand up to my less-than-stellar laundering skills. And if I feel like it, I want to transition from breakfast and my morning physical therapy exercises, to doing house chores, feeding the horses, and weeding the garden, then to sitting down to dinner with Jesse and watching an episode of the first season of Star Trek, then rounding out my day with meticulous oral hygiene and the putting on of my CPAP headgear, after which I would be going straight to sleep. Note: there are no wardrobe changes on a day like this. Same outfit all day and night. Also, NO BRA, and NO UNDERWEAR. Call me crazy. Whatever.

I want to put the clothing on, and then I don’t want to think about it for the remainder of the day. If it looks a bit sassy and irreverent, great, that would be the icing on the cake. And no fucking pastels (or flowers) for me, thank you very much.

I have really been dreading the task of rectifying my wardrobe, but I decided that if I tackled it slowly and methodically, while binge-watching all six seasons of The Handmaid’s Tale, I could get it done.

And so, I started pulling everything out of my closet and drawers, and I made four piles:

PILE #1: the stuff I hate

PILE #2: the stuff I like that has missing components

PILE #3: full ensembles I love

THE INVISIBLE PILE: things needed for special occasions

Creating these piles was very enlightening. Pile #1 was huge, like 90% of my wardrobe, while Pile #3 was comprised of just three outfits, all of which, thankfully, could be worn with my Keen Newport Sandals in “bison.” Yes, these are men’s sandals. The Keen women’s options were awful and shoddy, by comparison. Is this not always the case with men's vs. women’s apparel — this disparity in quality? Boy, does that piss me off.

In the wearable pile, all the components were either from Eileen Fisher or Old Navy. In the pile of shit I hate, nearly half the items were nasty, pilled shirts and sweaters from Target. A quarter of the rejects were tags-still-on fashion disasters from Marshall’s that I’d waited too long to return, and the rest were overly fru-fru tops from the Lucky Brand outlet store — feminine blouses that looked absolutely stupid on me, what with my quasi-butch haircut.

The free-floating components in Pile #2, which just needed to be hooked up with an appropriate top or a pair of linen pants, were from Lululemon and Quince. Yes, I had been shopping outside of my usual retail ecosystem since holing up with Jesse. These clothes were of a much better quality than my pre-Jesse togs, yet the items from Quince were still within my normal, chintzy price range. That was good, right?

Apparently, I needed to explore options outside my comfort zone to find great tops to pair with the pants and leggings I already loved. If I could get brave, perhaps I would be able to scrounge together ensembles for every day of the week (omg), including one outfit appropriate for socializing with friends at a nice restaurant. Yes! 💪🏻 Pretty sure I could do this.

It was time to pocket my pride and chuck all of the cheap shit that was clogging up my closet, life, and psyche. I needed to get the fuck over myself and quit being so miserly — it was time to jump off the fast fashion treadmill. The answer to my fashion conundrum was clear: I was better off getting a few high-quality items I loved and wearing them to death than pawing through all that ugly shit in my closet day in and day out and feeling sad.

So, I swallowed hard and bundled up about 85% of my clothes and chucked them into the back of my Subaru. I was off to Goodwill. And this time, not to shop.

NEXT TIME… Lorinda finds every cool spot for rounding out her wardrobe.

However did Donald Trump and Co. imagine they could take on Pope Leo, a guy from the south side of Chicago? The baddest part of town. Chicago is also the hometown of Trump’s other nemesis, Barack Obama. Also a southsider. Those of us from Chicago are laughing our asses off.

Soft-spoken but unambiguous, Pope Leo recently delivered this message to the president and the so-called Christians who comprise his ranks: “I have no fear of either the Trump administration nor of speaking out loud the message of the gospel.” Pope Leo offers more than platitudes in his effort to thwart war and draw attention to the Trump administration's inhumane immigration policies. He has encouraged his followers to "contact the authorities — political leaders, congressmen — to ask them to work for peace and to reject war always.”

Considering the Pope has a flock of more than 1.4 billion, this is a powerful message, especially when weighed against Trump’s measly 6.3 million followers on Truth Social. NBC News found this month that Pope Leo held a +46-point net favorability rating in the United States, significantly higher than that of any U.S. politician, including Trump, whose net favorability is currently -17 (according to The Economist and Silver Bulletin).

Among Catholic Republicans, Pope Leo has an 84% approval rating, and among Catholic Democrats, 89%. Not bad. Trump’s approval rating among Catholics as of April 2026? Forty-two percent (CNN). Yes, half of Pope Leo’s. And Trump’s rating continues to drop each and every time he opens his mouth and says something disparaging about the pontiff.

This latest rant about Leo did not score Trump any brownie points among Catholics, or with anyone else, for that matter. Fav quote from this post: “If I wasn’t in the White House, Leo wouldn’t be in the Vatican.” Number one sign you’ve got a narcissist on your hand (in this case, a malignant one): they’ve got an exaggerated sense of self-importance, frequently brag and overstate their achievements. They also don’t bother with grammar checkers (i.e., “If I weren’t in the White House…”). They’re so smart, they don’t need them.

Trump’s most shocking statement on Iran, as we all know, came on April 7, 2026: “A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again.” This had to be the lowest point in Trump’s second term. In fact, it’s probably the lowest in the history of all the U.S. presidents — like, since 1789. The world’s response to this tweet was brutal, including amongst Trump’s ardent followers and his most loyal social media cheerleaders. Folks are finally (hallelujah) starting to put some miles between themselves and Crazy Town. Included in this bunch: Theo Von, Andrew Schultz, the Nelk Boys, Megyn Kelly, Tucker Carlson, Candace Owens, Alex Jones, and Joe Rogan.

The Pope’s response to this April 7th tweet was immediate and forceful. From the papal residence in Castel Gandolfo, Italy (translated from the Italian):

“Attacks on civilian infrastructure are against international law and also a sign of the hatred, the division, the destruction that the human being is capable of. We all want to work for peace. People want peace.”

Reiterating portions of his Easter message, Leo also stated: “People of goodwill — search always for peace and not violence, to reject war, especially a war which many people have said is an unjust war, which is continuing to escalate and is not resolving anything.” He went on to say, “We have a worldwide economic crisis, energy crisis, situation in the Middle East of great instability, which is only provoking more hatred throughout the world.”

Continuing on (though never directly mentioning Trump’s name), the Pope said: “Today, as we all know, there was also this threat against the entire people of Iran, and this truly is not acceptable. Let us begin with dialogue. We should resolve problems without reaching this point, yet here we are. We must pray a great deal. Let’s come back to the table, let’s talk, let’s look for solutions in a peaceful way, and let’s remember especially the innocent. Children, the elderly, the sick, so many people have already become or will become victims of this continued warfare.”

Other notable quotes from the last week include this from Pope Leo’s prayer vigil at St. Peter’s Basilica on April 11: “Enough with the idolatry of self and money. Enough with the display of force. Enough with war! True strength is manifested in serving life.” Continuing, he noted: “I receive many letters from children from conflict zones: reading them, one perceives, with the truth of innocence, all the horror and inhumanity of actions that some adults proudly boast about. Let us listen to the voices of children.”

Also, in this flurry of messages from the Vatican in mid-April was the Pope’s warning to Vance, Witkoff, and Kusher in anticipation of their meeting with leaders in Pakistan. He says, “Certainly, the leaders of nations have compelling responsibilities. We cry out to them: stop! This is the time for peace. Sit at the tables of dialogue and mediation, not at the tables where rearmament is planned, and death is deliberated. God does not bless any conflict. Anyone who is a disciple of Christ, the Prince of Peace, is never on the side of those who once wielded the sword and today drop bombs.”

JD Vance has argued there is a long tradition of the idea of a “just war” and has questioned the Pope’s assertions that God is never on the side of those wielding the sword, citing the liberation of Holocaust victims. Vance, however, has never connected the dots on how this concept relates to the United States’ indiscriminate bombing of Iran, where little effort is being made to keep those bombs from striking innocent people, many of the victims we are purportedly protecting.

PBS did a great breakdown of all this recent back-and-forth between the Trump administration and Pope Leo. Pope Leo’s unwavering stance on peace and on the humane treatment of immigrants is impressive.

Especially poignant, in light of all the praying going on in support of the war amongst MAGA folks and evangelical Christians, is the Pope’s message from his homily on Palm Sunday, “This is our God, Jesus, King of Peace, who rejects war, whom no one can use to justify war. He does not listen to the prayers of those who wage war, but rejects them. ‘Even though you make many prayers, I will not listen: your hands are full of blood.’” This biblical quote is from Isaiah 1:15.

There is no disguising the intended recipients of the Pope’s comments: Pete Hegseth and Donald Trump. Hegseth had only recently, at a Christian worship service at the Pentagon on March 25th, prayed, “Let every round find its mark against the enemies of righteousness and our great nation. Give them wisdom in every decision, endurance for the trial ahead, unbreakable unity, and overwhelming violence of action against those who deserve no mercy.”

Compelling is Nora O’Donnell’s landmark interview with three influential U.S. Cardinals, during which they give their take on the war in Iran and Trump’s immigration policies. Sprinkled throughout are clips of the pontiff speaking to these same issues.

On to lighter, Pope-related topics… an interview between Spike Feresten of Spike’s Car Radio and Ford CEO Jim Farley. It includes a cute story about the Pope’s new car, a heartfelt gift from Farley and his wife. Farley also relays a great joke (from the Pope) that you won’t want to miss.

After watching this engaging interview, you, like me, may have found yourself thinking, “Boy, that guy, Jim, looks and sounds a lot like Chris Farley.” Yes, THE Chris Farley. 👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼 The smile is unmistakable.

Guess what?! Turns out Jim Farley is a cousin of the late comedian. They grew up together in Wisconsin. Crazy, eh? Listen to the way Jim tells jokes and his thick Wisconsin accent. No DNA test needed! Then there’s that last name. Another dead giveaway.

Now it’s time to CRANK UP this karaoke version of Leroy Brown and sing along with lyrics updated for Pope Leo XIV👇🏼.

BAD, BAD, LEO XIV
Sung to the tune "Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown" (Jim Croce)

Woo!

There’s a 'burb south of Chicago
Village of Dolton is its name
And if you go down there
The folks are kind and fair
Home boy Leo’s brought 'em fame

Pope Leo’s causing trouble
Take his stand on the Iran war
He won’t fall in line
With Trump and his fascists
Their threats are such a bore

And that’s bad, Leo XIV (say “X, I, V”)
The baddest pope in history
Badder than Don the Con
Sweeter than a rescue dog

Now Leo is the pontiff
And he wears those fancy clothes
And he likes to wave his Piscatory Ring
In front of Pete and Donald's nose

He got a custom Ford Explorer
He got a Popemobile... Vroom!
He got Pontifical Swiss Guard
In the Vatican City
They’ve got rifles and machine guns, too

And that’s bad, bad for Trump & friends
The Pope is firm and on peace won’t bend
Won't be bullied by The Don
Fearless in the face of wrong

On Tuesday, ‘bout a week ago
Vance told Leo to be nice
Be careful when talking ‘bout theology
And don’t you dare disparage ICE

Evangelicals heckled 'ol JD
And his troubles soon began
The hillbilly learned
A real hard lesson
‘Bout messin’ with the Church’s man

And that’s bad, Leo XIV (say “X, I, V”)
The baddest pope in history
Badder than Don the Con
Sweeter than a rescue dog

Then the four men took to squabbling
And when they gave quotes to the press
Leo spoke of Jesus and peace
Don and JD looked a mess

And we’re glad, glad for the GOP’s
Flock divided on bigotry
They were wrong about Dementia Don
He's crueler than Genghis Khan

And that’s bad, Leo XIV (say “X, I, V”)
The baddest pope in history
Badder than Don the Con
Sweeter than a rescue dog

Born Robert Prevost, this 👆 is Father Bob’s childhood home in Dolton, IL. The Pope’s humble beginnings surely make him more qualified to provide guidance to the Church’s flock of 1.4 BILLION than any of those self-serving, money-grubbing, religiously hypocritical GOP types in D.C.

Talk amongst yourselves.

with Belinda Vandervelvet

I know it has been a hot minute since last I connected with y’all. A lot has happened this year, most notably, my wonderful pitbull, Tender Buttons, bit my hand when I tried to take a bowl of raw sirloin away from her. This unfortunate situation and the $147,000 surgery that followed were the result of yet another of my husband Dan’s ill-conceived jokes. At one point, I had to decide whether a box muzzle would be needed or if I should take the drastic step of moving forward with euthanasia. The behavior seemed the type that might never resolve itself. In the end, I decided both options were too extreme. I would give my husband a second chance.

More on that later.

Dan hasn’t been the same since we came back from our accidental gay cruise. He’s not able to perform in the bedroom, he’s cranky, and has taken up drinking Aperol spritzers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s almost like he’s going through menopause. And he’s been wearing my silky nightgowns to bed most nights. He says they’re much more comfortable than his boxers because they let his balls “breathe.” Not going to lie, it’s a bit weird, his sitting on the couch watching Jesse Watters Primetime in my black nightie with his full sleeve Nazi tattoo and chest hair peeking out of the nightie’s lacey, low-cut bust panel. Not quite sure what to make of it.

And I can’t tell you how very off-putting it is to see his junk dangling below the hemline when I’m trying to enjoy breakfast at our glass-topped table. I’m going to need to get larger placemats.

As I believe I mentioned last time, I got a huge demotion at work, thanks to Dr. Gleason, who had me downgraded to the duties and pay scale of an entry-level LPN, even though I’ve been a CMSRN for 12 years. This demotion was purportedly issued because of my refusal to treat Blacks, Hispanics, some Asians, and LGBTQ patients after Trump’s 2024 victory. After two weeks of refusing to partake in surgeries involving this caliber of individuals, Dr. Gleason, a libtard, saw to it I was “held accountable.” His words.

I was then relegated to inserting catheters, changing dressings, and emptying bedpans in the psych ward. This 2-year disciplinary demotion started a little over 11 months ago, and I was told I would not be reinstated as a surgical nurse until I changed my tune. Imagine everyone’s surprise when I did not change my tune. By the end of this probation, I will have changed 275,000+ bedpans, and you can bet I will still be whistling Dixie, right through the 2026 midterms and in 2028 when Trump runs for his third term as our country’s amazing leader.

Here’s a big fuck you to everyone on the hospital board who backed this demotion. There is no doubt in my mind that whoever replaces Pam Bondi will be hauling every one of their woke asses to a detention center in Texas.

By the way, here’s what actually went down. At the time of my supposed infraction, it was LEGAL for medical professionals to choose which patients they wanted to treat. Remember this… all DEI policies had become obsolete, per Executive Order 14151. Hello! Those policies were found to be unconstitutional by our president, with some of the first changes instigated by Andrea Lucas of the EEOC and by Pete Hegseth, both Trump appointees, of course. So how was it that this order didn’t apply to hospitals? Did hospitals have the authority to compel a medical professional to treat potential criminals, illegals, and morally corrupt individuals? I don’t think so.

No, in fact, they did not have that authority, and yet Bayview would lead everyone to believe it did, their employees, in particular. This infuriated me, and I spoke out often and loudly on the issue, usually within earshot of one of those undeserving patients they were wheeling into the OR. You know, Muslims, lesbians, pro-choice women, children of farmworkers, indigent elderly people, unemployed veterans, single mothers, gay men, drug addicts, Blacks, Hispanics. Have I missed anyone?

There is no way I was willing to waste my talents administering a life-saving procedure on a potential illegal alien, or anyone, for that matter, who did not follow the path of Christ. For this, I was accused of being cruel and insensitive. Cruel and insensitive? What?! Toward someone who was lying on a gurney, completely unconscious?!

Only a liberal would come up with a complaint that stupid.

No matter, there was nothing I could do about my demotion. The union refused to take up my grievance, and my rep had a difficult time suppressing a laugh when I explained the situation. As everyone knows, unions are a bunch of socialists, so I should never have expected them to be sympathetic. All they care about is people. Not the Bible, not the Executive Orders, and most certainly not the Constitution as reinvented by the Supremes’ conservative supermajority.

HR — also not a help. Their main concern is following the hospital’s pre-Trump protocol and trying to keep our medical system from collapsing after the massive cuts to Medicaid and Medicare. Yes, I admit it has been a difficult adjustment — no longer having to provide basic medical services to all those indigent people who pick vegetables, flip burgers, and clean the hospital. Fuck that. Why should they get next-to-free medical care? That is really beyond me.

And because I was never promoted to management, due to my inability to make nice with brown people (if, in fact, you could call them people), I don’t get to write the schedules or make the assignments at Bayview Medical Center. If I did, I’d have people treating their own kind. This is as it should be. We’d have a gay ward, a Muslim ward, and a ward for children whose parents have been sent to El Salvador (no Cozy Shack pudding for those kids, btw). And there would be a special wing for Blacks, with separate surgical facilities.

Well shit. For the time being, I have been relegated to the psych ward. Treating patients, that is.

Back to this week’s breaking news story: that thing that happened with my dog.

Last Sunday, I’d been in the kitchen chopping up all sorts of tasty stuff for a Japanese stir-fry (including a 16 oz. sirloin steak) when Dan entered, slapped me hard on the ass, then dug his chin into my shoulder as he looked to see what I was cooking, in the process triggering intense pain in my torn rotator cuff. He was inebriated, as usual, as he’d put back the better part of a 12-pack of Miller High Life while watching the Packers decimate the Bears. Grunting crudely in my ear, “Oh, baby,” as he leaned into me with all of his body weight (which is substantial at 285 lbs.), he began dry humping my Lululemon-clad caboose, which was still a tad sore from my recent Brazilian butt lift. All of this was taking place as I was trying to cut up meat for dinner. Dan’s unwanted affections threw me hugely off balance, resulting in my nearly slicing off my left thumb with the butcher knife.

Boy, was I pissed! Angrily, I tossed my $170 Wüsthof knife into our stainless steel sink, where it grazed the drain stopper before landing with a loud clank, the blade now badly nicked. Grrrrr! My right shoulder, fortunately, was not injured, so I threw it into Dan as hard as I could, something he was not prepared for. Fortunately, we have a galley kitchen with a counter directly across from the sink, and that saved his ass, though I don’t think the edge of the marble countertop hitting his L5 vertebra felt too good, because now he was pissed. “I was just flirting!” he bellowed, “Why do you have to be such a bitch?!” Flirting?! There was nothing sexy about his causing me to nearly slice off my thumb.

As luck would have it, our story did not make the cut for 48 Hours, as Dan did not hit the floor and bleed out from a fractured skull. We have, as of late, been heading in that direction, however — you know, one of those scenarios where the wife has reached her limit on the husband’s overdrinking, practical jokes, lack of sensitivity, and his failure to put his dirty socks in the hamper. Being the wronged spouse, she’s already gone through enough, right? She doesn’t feel like getting dragged through a messy divorce, potentially losing custody of their pit bull and teenage son, or having to fork out for alimony. I think we all know how this ends. Not well.

@thechrisbiggsThe Husband Song. #marriage #wife #husband #comedy

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I can’t lie. I do (occasionally) have dreams about Dan’s being in an accident, one where shoving is involved. But it’s just a dream. Is once a week “occasionally,” by the way?

His flirting spurned, Dan felt humiliated. He was not only experiencing a loss of wood, but the adrenaline rush from being shoved had sobered him up considerably — he suddenly had the wherewithal to make his next move. A wicked expression flashed across his face, and I’m not talking sexy wicked. Something bad was brewing.

In the middle of all of this drama was Tender Buttons. She sat innocently in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking up at us, wondering why her mommy and daddy were shouting, all the while lifting her nose high in the air to take in the scent of raw meat.

Then, without warning, Dan reached behind me and grabbed the bowl of chopped sirloin. He dashed over to the pooch’s feeding mat, grabbed her bowl of kibbles, and swapped it out with the sirloin. Tail wagging furiously, Tender Buttons couldn’t believe her luck. She buried her head in the bowl of this new and improved canine cuisine. The best meal ever — raw Wagyu sirloin!

I panicked. Fifty-eight dollars' worth of beef was rapidly being inhaled by my dog — we’d have nothing for dinner. Impulsively, I snatched the bowl away from Tender Buttons, attempting to salvage at least some of the meat. Growling and snarling ensued. OMG — what was I thinking? Although I had taken Tender Buttons to obedience school when she was a pup, I had clearly forgotten their first lesson, on “resource guarding” — a natural, survival instinct in all dogs — i.e., threatening, aggressive behaviors dogs use to retain possession of items like their food and resting areas. No one, and I mean not a single friend or family member, was surprised to hear that Tender Buttons had sunk her teeth into my hand. “You simply do not take meat from a growling dog,” my MIL annoyingly pointed out at our next Thanksgiving dinner, as she passed scraps to said dog under the table.

The bowl of sirloin, which had been in my right hand, went flying, not unlike a tennis ball coming off one of Serena Williams’ top-spin, two-handed backhands. It hit the kitchen cabinet with impressive force, splintering the cheap veneer, the IKEA crockery smashing to bits when it landed on the floor. As for my left thumb? Well, it was still in Tender Buttons’ mouth, and I’m talking, like no longer attached to my hand.

“Drop it!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, which prompted our well-trained pup to release the severed digit. The dog, at least, had learned something at Canine Academy. My thumb and its still-attached thenar eminence thudded onto the rug like one of Tender Buttons’ proudly retrieved sticks. Unfazed by the grim reality of the situation, Tender Buttons nonchalantly walked around me (and the pound of flesh no longer attached to my body), to scavenge for the morsels of beef scattered amongst the crumbled crockery. Her priorities were clear.

I held up my thumb-free hand and looked at it in horror, taking in the massive amount of damage she had inflicted. And then, WHAM! Down I crumpled to the floor, my head narrowly missing the counter as I fainted. Man and beast stood nearby, frozen, staring at my contorted, unconscious body covered in blood. Neither could fathom what they had done to bring on such a disaster.

Hysterical, Dan frantically scrounged around for a zip-lock bag in the cabinet near the stove. Once found, he scooped up my thumb and sealed it in the bag, then tossed the grisly body part into the fridge. There it sat next to a pound of thin-sliced, honey-roasted turkey from Safeway. Though he was starving after the big game, Dan refrained from grabbing a slice. Next, he straightened me out on the kitchen floor, tenderly putting a loaf of Dave’s Killer Bread under my head. He then called for an ambulance while Pupster devotedly cleaned all of my blood from the rug and off the cabinets. What a team.

Yes, I am a nurse, though I was an unconscious one at the moment I most needed a medical professional. This meant Dan (not a medical professional) was left to figure out what to do. Dan, as many of you well know, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had, for the last 7 years, been the assistant football coach at the middle school and, as such, had seen his share of bad accidents, many of them featuring copious amounts of blood. He’d also watched every episode of “Emergency!” as a teenager in the 70s.

I’m proud to say Dan did everything properly in responding to my trauma: firmly wrapping up my hand in a clean dish towel and trussing it up like a pork roast with butcher’s twine to thwart the blood loss. He then called 911.

He might have checked for a pulse and made sure I was breathing, but hey, no one’s perfect.

During the worst of this medical adventure, I was out like a light, and that was probably for the best. I didn’t come to, in fact, until the paramedics arrived 20 minutes later, sirens blaring. When I did regain consciousness, Dan was on the receiving end of a 10-minute stream of profanity-laden shaming and blaming. Not sure he deserved that. Five minutes of it probably would have sufficed.

Into the ambulance we went; there was a long, rough ride ahead, which took us through noisy inner city neighborhoods, and across an untold number of railroad crossings and pot holes. Fortunately, the paramedics had been cleared to administer fentanyl, and they kept my injured hand out of view, or I would have lost my mind from the pain and shock. The opioids were fantastic — the ride to the hospital was like a flashback to that 2016 concert I saw at The Fillmore with Tom Petty and his first band, Mudcrutch. Truly one of the best concerts ever, even though I had to rub elbows with a bunch of San Fran liberals.

My fav Mudcrutch tune: “I don't scare easy for no one.” 🎶

Imagine my surprise when, upon arriving at the emergency room, I was greeted by my nemesis: hand surgeon, Dr. Jay Gleason. Gleason was the only orthopedic surgeon on staff who could perform the type of microsurgery needed for a replantation. Someone had thought to call ahead and have him meet us in the ER. This person was aware of my disastrous relationship with him and had given me a bogus name in order to trick him into coming in for a surgery on his day off.

Gleason had just made his way through ER security when my ambulance drove up. He seemed genuinely surprised to see me, and then became furious with the triage nurse when he realized that I was “Maria von Trapp,” the woman he’d been called in to treat. His hatred of me was well disguised, however, and no one (except me) seemed to notice the subtle grimacing and teeth grinding. I’m an expert on microexpressions, by the way, having seen every episode of “Lie To Me” on Hulu. Sadly, I have no credentials for all that expertise.

This was about the time I took to some serious praying. I prayed that Dr. Gleason would be capable of setting aside his disdain for me before heading into the operating room. I prayed that my severed thumb was in good enough shape to be reattached. I prayed that JD Vance and Erika Kirk would finally get together, and that Usha would be sent to India, where people like her belonged. How could we possibly have a Hindu as the First Lady?

I knew this: I was going to have to get super clear with my maker on what I needed to survive this calamity, or things were not going to end well.

“Dear God, please provide me with a doctor capable of reattaching all those bones, tendons, nerves, and blood vessels in my hand, someone with stamina and exceptional skills, whose team includes a great anesthesiologist and any of the nurses that don’t hate me. And if no White surgeons are available, please let Dr. Gleason be the guy.” I knew it, God knew it: Dr. Gleason was the guy I needed, even though he’s Black. And light in his loafers.

“People who know what they want get what they want” — this old adage came to mind as I set myself to praying. Ironically, this was my mother’s favorite saying. Then I thought, “Hey, Mom, if people who know what they want get what they want, how in the hell did I end up with Dan, you stupid bitch?”

BTW, my mother was an avid reader of Ms. Magazine and a huge fan of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, and Bella Abzug. All Jews. How I was born into that household is one of life’s great mysteries. Thank God my father (rest his soul) got the hell out of her household when I was 11, and settled in with Doris, the nice Polish lady on our cul-de-sac. Doris became available after her husband, Leon, had a coronary while grilling steaks out on his driveway. Doris was great. She saw to it there was always a hot meal on the table when my dad returned from the Cadillac plant, and she joined him every Sunday at his Missouri Synod Lutheran Church. Doris was a righteous Christian woman who knew she damn well better obey my father. And she always wore pantyhose and a bra.

I prayed fervently that Gleason would take on this surgery. If he didn’t, I’d have to ask my nail technician for a 10% discount whenever I came in for gel nails.

While I was in the midst of my praying, there in the hallway just outside the exam room were Dr. Gleason and the head of ER, discussing my situation. There was some heated back-and-forth, Gleason pointing out the bad blood between him and me, and painting a picture of how this might affect the outcome of the surgery. His big concern: my lack of confidence in him, because he was Black and gay. He was worried that if the surgery didn’t go exactly as I expected, I would sue him and the hospital. The surgery was tricky, and there were no guarantees that I would regain full use of my thumb. Hell, it had been chewed off by a pit bull. It was a mess. Gleason was afraid of becoming a victim of my bigotry.

Dr. Chen listened sympathetically, then suggested I be required to write a letter before the surgery was approved — a letter that included an apology for having made disparaging remarks about the doctor’s ethnicity and sexual orientation, and for having suggested to other staff members that these things somehow made him a lesser surgeon. In this letter, I would be expected to convince the hospital that I had confidence in Dr. Gleason’s skills and believed he could do his job professionally.

As Dr. Chen would point out to me, I had a choice: get on board with Dr. Gleason as the surgeon or wait for a White surgeon to become available. My thumb, my choice — but she would not have me blaming him post-surgery. He had a sterling reputation to uphold. I did not, she reminded me.

Dr. Chen then cheerfully noted that since I had full use of my right hand, it should be no problem for me to type the letter and sign a Consent to Surgery form. And she had a notary on hand, even at this late hour, who would be available to witness all of it.

Both doctors knew that time was of the essence and were thus tightening the tourniquet, so to speak. They would entertain no hemming and hawing about White surgeons versus Black, or any of the other bellyaching I was renowned for. Surgery prep had to start in the next hour, or there was a chance I’d lose my thumb altogether.

So there I was. Trapped. Maria von Trapped.

Was I capable of setting aside everything I believed in to move forward with a gay, Black surgeon? And then there was my having to kowtow to that Chinese hospital administrator. That was really beyond the pale, having to deal with a Chinese woman. Running a hospital, that was a man’s job. Didn’t anyone read the bible? I wasn’t sure I had the stomach for any of this.

Then I looked down at my hand — a bloody stump, all bandaged up and throbbing. My pride or my hand? My pride or my hand? Which would it be?

I ruminated on this for all of two minutes, then a vision of trying to take a big casserole out of the oven popped into my head. It was a divine revelation. I needed that opposable thumb on my left hand, and it had to be strong. My family needed this sustenance, and my church needed those casseroles for their holiday gatherings in the fellowship hall. I needed Dr. Gleason’s surgical skills.

Then, I remembered ChatGPT’s AI Writing Assistant. Halle-fucking-lujah. The clouds parted, and a rainbow appeared in the sky. I was saved! I would not have to write one fucking thing I didn’t believe in. The AI Writing Assistant would fix everything: the content, the tone, my attitude, the profanity. I could do this, even when cognitively impaired from opioids. Thank you, Sam Altman.

And so, after telling Dr. Chen I was agreeing to move forward, her nursing assistant delivered an iPad to my bedside. I set to work.

Here’s my original letter, followed by the ChatGPT-generated version. This sterilized one I actually submitted to Dr. Gleason via Dr. Chen. Too bad I hadn’t figured out this AI thing earlier in the game. I might not have gotten demoted.

3/28/26

To:	        Dr. Jay Gleason, hand microsurgery specialist
From:	Belinda Vandervelvet
Re:  	Your services; my surgery

Dear Dr. Gleason:

Not going to lie. I hate your guts after you had me sacked from my position as an OR nurse. I also despise the fact that you are gay and I hate the thought of you having sex with another man. Your homosexual acts are contrary to God's design. Everyone knows that. Anal sex is disgusting and sinful, as is oral sex. If you don’t repent, you are heading straight to hell. And how can you help anyone if that’s where you’re going?

Then there is the issue of your being Black. As has been well-documented, Blacks are intellectually inferior, a danger to society, and uncivilized. How you ever made your way through medical school is truly a miracle and that is why I am consenting (if but reluctantly) to your doing my surgery. 

If God has allowed you to pass your boards, then he must be OK with my taking advantage of your skills and training to reclaim the use of my left thumb. Not sure how this came about, a Black man becoming a renowned hand surgeon, but as the Maria Von Trapp sang in the Sound of Music, “I [you] must have done something good.” You have obviously done something worthwhile in your life to be the exception in this White dominated field of medicine.

I am, thereby, consenting to your performing surgery on my left hand, as well as reluctantly placing my confidence in you, but only because there are no White surgeons available to take this on. I would have waited for a White surgeon, but time is of the essence and I really have no choice but to put my faith in you so I don't lose the use of my left thumb altogether.

You’ve ruined my career, but I’m hoping you can at least salvage my hand, which I need for gardening, cooking and “beating the meat” for my husband. God is fine with hand jobs, by the way.

Get on with it, dude. I cannot wait any longer.

Thank you and fuck you,
Belinda Vandervelvet

Needless to say, this letter 👇🏼, which OpenAI generated from my actual words, landed me the surgery. Truly a miracle. And, totally hilarious.

3/28/26

To:	        Dr. Jay Gleason, hand microsurgery specialist
From:	Belinda Vandervelvet
Re:  	Your services; my surgery

Dear Dr. Gleason:

I am writing to confirm my consent for you to perform surgery on my left hand, and to offer a sincere and unreserved apology.

In my previous message, I used offensive, discriminatory, and deeply inappropriate language regarding your sexual orientation and your race. Those statements were wrong, harmful, and disrespectful. I take full responsibility for what I said, and I am truly sorry for the hurt and offense my words may have caused you both personally and professionally.

There is no excuse for that kind of language. I allowed my anger and frustration to override my judgment, and I regret it. You deserve to be treated with dignity and respect, and I failed to do that.

I am grateful that you are willing to provide care despite my earlier behavior. I respect your expertise, and my priority now is to move forward in a professional and respectful way as your patient, with the goal of restoring the function of my hand.

Please let me know if there is anything further I should do to prepare for the procedure or if you need anything from me.

Thank you for your time, your professionalism, and your care.

Sincerely,
Belinda Vandervelvet

I am now home and recovering beautifully. I’ve got three months off, then it’s back to bedpans. Life is good.

“If I Only Had AI”

I could while away probation
At the nurses’ station,
Disparaging my boss

To my friends, I’d be bitchin’
But now there’s heat in the kitchen
If I’d only had AI 😭

I’ve unraveled every friendship
At work and on the homefront 
With bigotry and hate

Speaking thoughts like “you’re a fucker”
I offend even a trucker
With my filthy little mouth

Oh, I, could tell you why
That Whites are better than Blacks
I could make up shit that’s n’er been
Proved before

Then I'd grandstand, and bullshit more

I am such a dumb stool pigeon
My head full of religion
And political claptrap 

And perhaps I’m a failure
And will be living in a trailer
If I’d only had AI 😭

with Lorinda Birdwhistle

NOTE: The dealership name has been changed to avoid a defamation suit and to protect the innocent ladies who still have to take their CR-Vs to this dealer for extended warranty services.

It’s been a really long time since I bought a new car. I’ve proudly driven my Honda CR-V for 27 years, and it just hit 205,000 on the odometer last week. Nothing’s really wrong with the car, but I got to thinking this might be a good time to get a hybrid, especially one that doesn't require plugging in, what with the conflict in Iran likely to go on for decades and Shitler halting all funding for the charging station infrastructure. Honda has some highly rated hybrids right now, so I thought to trade in my beloved Brianna, before she dipped below $1350 in value per Edmunds. I was gonna need $1200 to put down on the lease, and if Shafther was willing to take my trade-in, as is, I was pretty sure I could swing the deal. It was going to be a bit of a stretch, but I’m a good negotiator. Plus, I’ve had the same job for over 25 years, and I’ve got a solid credit rating. What could go wrong?

By the way, how many of you early CR-V owners only discovered its way-cool picnic table after you got a flat? This sturdy folding plastic table (a standard feature from 1997 to 2006) served double duty as the floor for the spare tire well.

Gotta love this Jane Goodall takeoff 👇🏼 — an early CR-V commercial plugging its picnic table and usefulness in a rustic setting in which a Goodall impersonator is discreetly observing men (aka chimpanzees) in the wild, and copiously taking notes on their behavior. But I digress.

So, off I went, down the hill, into town, to take a gander at what was on the lot at Shafther Honda, the one and only dealer I’d ever gone to. Yes, I am stupid loyal to these guys. And I do mean “guys” — as there is not a single woman in sight at that dealership. Until this car purchase, I had no idea how other dealerships operated in terms of men and women on the sales floor (or in the service department, for that matter), as I’d never gone to any other dealer. I was, in fact, under the false impression that there must be a loophole for car dealers as relates to the hiring of women, since Shafther didn’t appear to be in compliance in any way, shape, or form with Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which (purportedly) protects women from hiring discrimination. Shafther was proudly an all-male, all-White sales team, with an all-male, all-Hispanic service team. The fuckers.

Really? No women ever applied for jobs there or were qualified to do the work? Unlikely. I know for a fact that my best bud, Nadine, had applied for jobs there more than once (like four times), and on each occasion, she NEVER heard back from them. Not a peep.

And Nadine’s the biggest Honda gearhead in town.

California, the state from which I proudly hail, has additional laws intended to bolster and enforce the Civil Rights Act. My state requires informative posters related to discrimination and harassment to be posted in a prominent location at all places of employment.

And sure enough, there it was, that very poster, at Shafther, behind their unattended reception desk, right in plain view. Surely staff had time to study this information ad nauseam, namely on any given midafternoon on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday — you know, those long stretches when there are ZERO customers, and the boys are just pacing the showroom floor trying to appear as though they are actually doing a thing.

I’m guessing the attractive young woman who once worked at this reception desk had grown weary of the daily barrage of “compliments” on her hair, clothing, and figure, as the desk now appeared to be permanently vacated. There were none of the telltale signs of occupancy: no organizer tray, Post-It Notes, business cards, pens, notepads, or paper clips. Not even a computer or phone charger. Clearly, Tiffany was history with a capital H. My guess? She wouldn’t be getting replaced anytime soon, unless they could find someone like Candy Wife from The Marvelous Midadventures of Flapjack. Now that would be sweet.

The guys at this dealership: fucking clueless, just like K’nuckles.

Despite this poster’s message, which reminds all idiots out there that the Civil Rights Act and Title VII remain in effect, Shafther Honda seemed confident that their noncompliance would go unpunished. And that did seem to be the case. I didn’t see even one complainer amongst the hundreds of Shafther Google and Yelp reviews. In fact, all the commentary about their dealership was suspiciously flattering and generic in tone. Also, the reviews had no typos or grammatical errors. I don’t think we need to pull in Columbo to connect these dots. Shafther had five-star ratings simply because they (or Honda) were using a review farm or a reputation management company. 💯 Pathetic. This was like reputational Viagra. The reality: these local Honda guys can’t get anything up without some pharmaceutical help.

But of course this was the case, the fake reviews, that is. Minus my compadre, Nadine, and me, our community was comprised of chickenshits — people who could never, in their lifetimes, muster the courage to write a scathing review or alert the California Civil Rights Department about Shafther’s suspiciously all-male staff and management. Uh-uh. Hell, they might meet one of those sales guys in the bleachers at Little League. Then what? I can see it now… their sons ending up with the 9th spot in the batting lineup for the rest of the season.

Small town politics. You know how this works.

Me, however? I’ve got what my doctor calls high immunocompetence. In layman's terms, I’ve got “the robust ability to produce an effective immune response against antigens, infections, and diseases.” These same personality and physiological traits allow me to respond courageously and forcefully against narcissists, misogynists, bigots, racists, and bullies. Yep, I’ve got cojones and a powerful uppercut. Methaphorically, that is.

And for that, everyone in town gives me a wide berth, as well as respect. 😂🤣😂

Y’all need to get familiar with this: the law.

Here’s a little factoid for those of you unfamiliar with CR-Vs: “CR-V” stands for Comfortable Runabout Vehicle. Not kidding. This is what Honda actually named their compact SUV. I like to imagine what their all-male marketing team might have named this car had they realized which demographic would actually be driving it, i.e., the not-guys demographic. I’m thinking Kohaku, Haruto, and Takeshi (the leaders of the Honda marketing team) might have called the CR-V the ML-V.

I’ll leave it to all you closeted Gen X misogynists to figure out what ML-V stands for. And you can shut the fuck up in advance, Tom (since I know you will hit this nail on the head), or I will renege on my offer to share a room with you at the Golden Haven Nursing Home when we come of age. Separate beds, of course. Keep your piehole shut. Let’s see what my readers conjure up before you spill the beans.

So folks, what do you think ML-V stands for?

OK, back to my car trading/buying experience, the actual point of this blog.

So, there I was at Shafther, armed with ratings from Consumer Reports, Car and Driver, Edmunds, and Kelley Blue Book. I had at my fingertips every detail known to (wo)man about safety, predicted reliability, cabin ergonomics, cargo space, usability for daily driving, fuel economy, horsepower and torque, drivetrain for handling, and road test results, as well as specifics about owner satisfaction. And I’d gotten pricing from four other dealerships in the area and was pre-qualified for a loan through my credit union in the event Honda Financing did not come through for me.

Here’s the stealthy part: last Friday, I took my CR-V in for an oil change and one of Honda’s complimentary multi-point inspections. Ha, ha! Yes, I am doubled over, laughing my ass off. Why? Because for the asses at Shafther, this inspection would come back to bite them in the ass when they gave me a lowball offer on my trade-in. All I had to do was show them their own beautifully printed out inspection sheet with every checkmark in the green column. And because they acted like asses, I was going to make them take up the ass if they made any more asinine moves on this trade-in or on my to-be purchase.

Those who know me know this: I am nothing if not methodical. For 27 years, I was religious about taking my 1999 CR-V to the dealer for all of its routine maintenance, per Honda’s recommendations in the owner’s manual. And this paid off. My car ran beautifully over the years and always got me where I needed to go. More importantly, even with 200,000+ miles, I always had perfect scores across the board on my multi-point inspections, including on tires and brake pads .

Imagine sales floor manager Walter’s surprise when I pulled out that 4-day-old inspection sheet from his service department after he expressed skepticism about my car’s value and condition and made me a lowball offer on the trade-in: $350. Insulting.

After that, no haggling was needed. Those fuckers were either going to pay me $1350 on this trade-in, or I was walking out the door. This they knew.

Hurdle #1: Cleared. Or so I thought.

Hurdle #2: Getting a quote and an offer on financing, in writing.

I knew exactly what I wanted from Shafther, and though I was hoping to close the deal that day, I was willing to wait a week or two if they had to special-order my dream car: a 2026 Honda Civic Hatchback Hybrid Sport Touring. I wanted that car, not one of the 35 CR-Vs they had sitting on the lot or the 30+ gas-powered Civic Sedans. And I wanted the hybrid in any color other than Platinum White Pearl, which looks like Revlon nail polish from the 70s. All I needed from Josh, my designated sales associate, was pricing on the car and information on the financing available to me, specifically a 36-month lease with $1200 down and all closing fees wrapped into the monthly payments. And no, I did not want GAP insurance tacked on as I could get it through my insurance company at a sixth of the price offered by Honda. I had that in writing.

And I was not interested one iota in ballpark figures or estimates. I wanted to know exactly what Shafther was willing to offer me — an offer based on my credit score and that paid homage to my nearly 30 years of loyalty to the dealership. My family (my ex, my parents, and my kids) had purchased all of their cars from the Shafther dealership: 2 CR-Vs, 3 Civics, an Accord, and an Element. That’s quite a few vehicles, if you ask me, and I was the negotiator on every one of those sales. Shafther was lucky to have our business.

Please, Josh, no thank you on any of the bullshit add-on packages. Let everyone know that I absolutely do not want to hear the spiel. I have it committed to memory.

And pass this on to your finance manager: I will not entertain any high pressure tactics IF he wants to close this deal. No, I do not need undercoating. We live in fucking California.

To be clear: no add-ons.

Josh then said, “Great, let me pass this by my boss, Walter, and see if we can’t get the ball rolling.” Off he trotted across the showroom floor toward an office in the corner farthest from customer service, the office with the blinds closed, the door shut and a sign that read, “Knock before entering.” Hesitantly, Josh did knock, though quietly, then put his ear to the door as if listening for a response. A muffled voice could be heard, inviting him in.

Judging from his demeanor, you’d think Josh had just entered a SCIF (Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility) at the Department of Defense, not the office of some delulu who was only making $42,000 a year at a podunk car dealership. With no benefits, btw.

Ten minutes passed before Josh reappeared, a downtrodden look on his face as he meandered back to his desk to deliver the bad news. Unfortunately, he could not provide me with a quote until they ran a credit check and he had completed the financial application, which could take 45 minutes or more. Did I have time for that? Well of course I did, I said cheerfully. I’d like to button this up TODAY, I said for the fourth time.

The prospect of a simple, straightforward sale did nothing to lift Josh’s spirits. Perhaps filling out financial applications was not the best part of this car sales gig, especially for a 21 year old who was still working on his GED and trying to lose his virginity.

Josh wondered if I had my registration, proof of insurance, both sets of keys for my trade-in, my photo ID, proof of residence in the way of 2 utility bills, proof of employment in the way of three paycheck stubs, a social security card and my birth certificate. And hopefully I’d brought my checkbook, he added, as they didn’t allow a credit card for deposits. Josh’s tone of voice gave one the impression he was hoping this request for documentation so early in the sales process might catch me off guard, perhaps queering the deal or at a minimum giving him cause to put off the quote. I had the feeling this math stuff was not Josh’s forté. It felt like he was looking for an out.

Sadly (for Josh), I had everything he requested, and then some, and all of it was neatly tucked into a folder, with duplicate copies for his sales manager and the finance guy. How convenient, right? You’re welcome, Josh. I would, however, be holding on to my car keys until they put the offer for my CR-V in writing. I knew how this worked. They would take the keys for my CR-V and then “misplace” them while they held me hostage until I signed a contract. This had happened to my friend, Leann.

I slid only the documents folder across the desk.

Next, came the hardest part for Josh: the laborious task of typing all that information into the confusing financial form used by the dealership. This guy didn’t have a post-doc in astrophysics, that was clear. Reluctantly Josh began banging on his cheap keyboard, punctuating every entry with some soft profanity and subtle teeth grinding. I began to wonder if perhaps he had a mild form of Tourettes. Then, abruptly, in his frustration with the data entry, Josh turned to me and blurted out, “There are many questions I’m required to ask; are you OK with that?” “Yes,” I replied.

This is where things started to go south.

Most of the questions Josh was required to ask seemed highly inappropriate for someone just looking for a quote on a car. Yet, for the first few minutes, I gave Josh, who was but a fledgling, the benefit of the doubt. I went along with the program, imagining how this might play out for my own son, who was about the same age. Josh wanted details confirmed on my gender, race, age and the number of children I’d had. Was I married or single or in a domestic partnership? Was this with a man or woman? Was I collecting alimony, did I own a home, or perhaps more than one home, how many cars did I own and what were the makes and models? Then Josh cheerfully inquired as to whether I’d like to share information on my religious persuasion or medical history. All of this would be helpful in finding the best deals for my situation, he assured me. Was there a special discount for Episcopalians? Or a higher rate for someone who had a full hip replacement? WTF.

This is where I stopped the interview dead in its tracks. I knew my rights and none of these questions had a flying fuck to do with my fitness for a loan or lease. Fuck him. Fuck this whole sales process. I wanted to speak to the general manager and NOW.

The blood rushed to Josh’s plump face. He was a bit of a dumpling and looked as if he might explode. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner, he told me. Of course Josh had only been on the job for a week, so “ever” was all of five days. Just wait buddy, your career in customer service is just beginning. Or ending, as the case may be.

Off Josh trotted in his expensive OluKai leather sneakers, back to that mysterious corner office. On this second go-around, Josh was in his boss’ office for all of 30 seconds before reappearing, this time with the ever elusive Walter What’s-His-Name, sales floor manager, by his side. Walter looked rather displeased at having to pause his first-person shooter game, Counter-Strike 2. Imagine that — him having to start his game all over, just when he’d been racking up the points. This might have ticked me off, too, had I been a player of these sorts of games. But then, I hate all games. From checkers to the games people with Borderline Personality Disorder play. No thanks. I’d rather pull weeds

It was at this point that Walter took over the sales process. He was not going to let some middle-aged lady with polyester cargo pants run ripshod over his new employee. They’d just spent $2500 plus airfare sending Josh off to Decatur for training and had given him a $1500 allowance for spiffy work togs. And thus the showroom showdown began.

Walter, feeling cocky, assumed the position in Josh’s chair, put his computer to sleep, unceremoniously shoved my manila folder of documents to the side, then spoke directly and deliberately to me, in a tone not unlike Pam Bondi at her Senate confirmation hearing. And it had the same effect: I felt the hair bristling on the back of my neck.

“Tell me, Lorinda, what exactly are you looking for in the way of a car?” Walter’s tone of voice could not have been more grating and insincere. Rather than using my voice, I shoved my printout with the car specs across the desk until it rested right under his nose. Joshua stood sulking behind him.

I wanted a 2026 Honda Civic Hatchback Hybrid Sport Touring. This would be the fifth time that day that I’d conveyed this information to the Shafther sales staff.

“Oh,” said Walter, “Not sure if this is still in stock. Let’s do this, I will see what we have available and make a list and will run the numbers for your financing. I should be back to you before the afternoon is out. You don’t need to wait around; I’ll give you a call.”

“Alright,” I said, “But I don’t want anything in Platinum White Pearl. I really hate that color.”

“Of course,” he said. “Noted,” he said.

So off I went, though when I glanced over my shoulder as I exited, I saw Walter laughing and giving Josh the congenial shoulder slap as the other sales staff gathered round, big grins on all of their faces. The good-ol’-boys network was alive and well at Shafther. Clearly, everyone was having a good laugh at my expense. This hardy har har would cost them my business forever when all was said and done.

Still, I was doggedly determined to give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I’d been a loyal customer of this dealership for decades and I genuinely wanted to see what they could come up with in the way of pricing and financing. I was intent on keeping an open mind.

And so I waited. Patiently. Then, PING! An alert from my credit union indicated that someone had run a credit check. A good sign, I thought, until for hours, the alert was followed by crickets. There was no news from Walter by the end of the afternoon, as he had promised. Perhaps he was caught up in a video game. I could appreciate that. Not.

The next morning: more crickets. Then, I checked my email during my lunch break, including the spam folder: no quote. In fact, there was not even a note assuring me they were just running behind.

By mid-afternoon, I was steamed. I called the dealership and informed their customer experience ambassador, Kayla (whose actual office was in Overland Park, Kansas), that I would be making a decision on a car by the day’s end, with or without Shafther’s quote. Within seconds, she pulled up my file, saw how many Hondas the Birdwhistles purchased at Shafther, made a contrite apology, and then immediately transferred me to the general manager at the dealership.

Arthur could not have been more self-abasing. This was his fault; he should have made himself available to me at the start of the sales process, especially considering my importance to the dealership, blah, blah, blah. And though Arthur was unable to pull up any information on progress related to my current sale, he assured me he’d get me the deal of the century — I just needed to tell him what I was looking for. He promised to have a quote and financing for me within the hour. And so, for the sixth time, I described all the specs on the car I wanted and on my trade-in and gave him a thumbnail of my financials. Really, all he needed to pull my credit report (again!) was my social security, which I gave him gladly, though not gonna lie — all of this was making me really pissed off.

But Arthur… he was true to his word. Within the hour, he got me a quote AND all the paperwork needed to button up the financials.

Sadly, Art’s quote was for a gas-powered CR-V LX without AWD in Platinum White Pearl (!), with standard financing for 60 months at 6%, and a down payment of $5000. And the offer on my trade-in: $500. Not a single detail was correct. Not a one.

Rather than heading over to Shafther to knock them upside the head, I got into my wonderful 1999 Comfortable Runabout Vehicle and headed over to my local Subaru dealer. In my recent quest to find the perfect new car, it had not gone unnoticed that Subaru had the highest Consumer Reports ratings of any brand on all its vehicles. Even better ratings than all those luxury cars. Maybe it was time to try something new.

And new to me it was — the entire experience. From the moment I walked into a dealership filled with women, made my way through their basic-as-it-gets application process, got a tour of the cars available on the lot, and was allowed a test drive, I was sold. I had not been talked down to, nor were there any of the usual parlor tricks, and I didn’t have to waste an entire afternoon twiddling my thumbs while the finance peeps put together paperwork not-so-cleverly filled with add-ons I’d not requested.

And here’s the best part: the Subaru Crosstrek Sport Hybrid in Sapphire Blue Pearl with AWD and every bell and whistle was 100x better than any of the Civic Hatchback Hybrids. Who knew?! And the car I wanted was right there, on the lot, fully detailed, with Yokohama Geolandar tires and a full tank of premium gas. Gina, my salesperson, offered me a fabulous price and a fabulous lease to boot, with exactly the terms I had requested.

The whole deal was buttoned up in a little over an hour by my new dealer’s female finance manager, Sharon, who additionally offered me $2000 on my trade-in. With tears in my eyes, I handed over both sets of keys for my beloved CR-V. She assured me it would find a good home.

Then off I drove in my spunky new set of wheels, blasting Little Red Corvette on my new Harman Kardon premium audio system with 10 speakers.

I had found a love that was gonna last… 🎶 🎶 🎶

If ever there were a time for Kate Wolf’s music, it would be now. The world needs her strong and sure, yet tender, touch.

For those unfamiliar with Kate Wolf, she was active as a lyricist, songwriter and performer of American folk music from 1971 until her death from acute leukemia in 1986. During those brief 15 years, Wolf composed nearly 200 songs, 56 of which she laid down in recordings.

Wolf’s music is distinctive in its narrative depth, touching on intimate themes that are not only comforting and reflective but evocative of the serene scenery and simple country life she enjoyed in Northern California, surrounded by like-minded musicians. Her poetry, her soothing alto and sometimes contralto voice, her lyrical phrasing and gentle, caressing instrumentations are wholly feminine; Wolf makes no effort to compete with her male counterparts in the folk world, her pieces speaking directly to women, describing the world as they see it, not unlike her contemporary, Joni Mitchell.

Wolf founded her band, The Wildwood Flower, in the early 1970s and would go on to become a renowned solo artist, releasing six albums between the years of 1976 and 1986. Tragically, in the midst of some of her best work, in early 1986, Wolf was diagnosed with leukemia and would die eight months later after a failed bone marrow transplant destroyed her immune system.

In the year before she passed away, Kate Wolf’s career had been on an upward trajectory, with her performing at some of the top music festivals in the United States and Canada, her recordings selling in the tens of thousands. Prior to her death on December 10, 1986, Wolf had been working on her final album, Gold in California: A Retrospective of Recordings 1975–1985, which featured her favorite studio recordings. This double album would posthumously earn Wolf the NAIRD Best Folk Album award (1987). For those unfamiliar — between 1972 and 1997, NAIRD, the National Association of Independent Record Distributors, had been the hub for indie labels, allowing independent artists to connect, network, and promote their music without the creative restraints and predatory practices epidemic among major record labels.

Gold in California was first released in 1987 by Kaleidoscope Records and rereleased in 1994 by Rhino Records. This exceptional collection of Wolf’s music can be purchased through the Official Kate Wolf Website, which has fittingly been created by her children, Max and Hannah, and her husband, Terry Fowler.

To fully appreciate the woman behind the music, listen to Kate Wolf’s in-depth interview with Tim Van Schmidt from 1985: Love Letter: An Hour With Kate Wolf. Insightful and inspiring. A favorite quote from this interview:

“I have found that when you give yourself away, you get what you need. If you take in, take in, it doesn’t work. But if you’re feeling stuck and feeling unfulfilled, to give your love away is like the mirror we were talking about. It creates a circle and comes back to you.” — Kate Wolf

ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE
written by Kate Wolf, 1980

"The finest hour that I have seen
Is the one that comes between
The edge of night and the break of day
It's when the darkness rolls away"

THE REDTAIL HAWK
written by George Schroder, recorded by Wolf for her 1976 album, Back Roads

"The redtail hawk writes songs across the sky
There's music in the waters flowing by
And you can hear a song each time the wind sighs
In the golden rolling hills of California"

MIDNIGHT ON THE WATER
A traditional fiddle tune attributed to Luke Thomasson, recorded by Wolf on her album, Lines on the Paper (with John Roy Zat, fiddler), 1977

"Though they're gone like floating dreams
The scenes were there as in a mirror
Made by the moon upon the water
And our love was never stronger
But the picture was broken
By the waves we left behind
At midnight on the water
Once upon a time"

SHE RISES LIKE THE DOLPHIN
written by Kate Wolf, 1979

"Sometimes she swims in moonlight
With the stars high above
The night sounds of the water
Speaking soft of love
Her skin turns to velvet
As she feels the waters glide
She loses all her boundaries
On this magic carpet ride"

UNFINISHED LIFE
written by Kate Wolf, 1980

"It's an unfinished life
That I find lies before me
An open-ended dream
And I don't want to wake
I've crossed so many rivers
In search of crystal fountains
I've found the truest paths
Always lead through mountains
I've seen water on the sky
And fire burning on the lake"

LIKE A RIVER
written by Kate Wolf, 1981

"My mind grows dry and thirsty
As the memories linger
Drifting on the wind
Through the mountains like a river
The sweet smell of the pines
The tall western cedar
Drifting on the wind
Through the mountains like a river"

EVERYBODY'S LOOKING FOR THE SAME THING
written by Kate Wolf, 1977

"Now there's someone going to Boston with a guitar and a dog
And a lady with a goat to give away
There's ten free kittens, a square dance on Sunday
And Cindy, please gеt in touch with Ray"

ALL HE EVER SAW WAS YOU
written by Kate Wolf, 1984

"The candle's burnin' at both ends
It's burnin' in the middle
There's no time to stop
Between the guitar and the fiddle
A crazy tune, a crazy time
You know the words were true
Smiles lit their eyes
But all he ever saw was you"

FATHER SKY
written by Kate Wolf, 1982

"I left you when the leaves
Had first begun to fall
It was the eagle's flight
That carried me away
How we talked all through the night
And loved in the morning light
Burned the sweet grass
The cedar and the sea"

DESERT WIND
written by Kate Wolf, 1984

"It’s all alone with the earth and sky
The hours are long, the days go slow
Your lovin’ way, like the wind reminds me
There is so much that I do not know"

GIVE YOURSELF TO LOVE
written by Kate Wolf, 1982

"Kind friends all gathered 'round
There's something I would say
That what brings us together here
Has blessed us all today
Love has made a circle that holds us all inside.
Where strangers are as family
Loneliness can't hide.

Give yourself to love
If love is what you're after
Open up your heart
To the tears and laughter
And give yourself to love
Give yourself to love"

I know. This is a really difficult time to have to think about leaving this world.

You’ve been through so much and worked so hard to make a good life for yourself and your daughter — a life full of hikes into the hills, road trips, evenings in the backyard enjoying good food and wine with friends, lazy weekends with lovers, nights working events, and long, sunny days taking folks on bike tours. You’ve made beautiful things: your jewelry, your artwork, your home, your Maggie, your friendships. You’ve generously shared your time and deepest considered thoughts. You have always listened to people and made them feel good. You’ve given the world your all, girl. It is better because of you.

Now it’s time to be still and to ruminate on all those stories you’ve gathered up like a bouquet of dahlias — colorful and vibrant, each one with something important to express. Let the memories put a smile on your face, if but a gentle one. Let them merge with and strengthen the life energy flowing toward your healing, enabling you to put one foot in front of the other as you navigate this arduous path.

Take tiny bites of this world you love, and let each melt slowly in your mouth. As you sit outside your back door, safely within reach of everything you need to sustain yourself, let your mind put on the hiking boots and take you to that place you love. Remember the mornings you spent in the fresh air, surrounded by mountains and woods, taking in the sun and the smell of eucalyptus, your strong legs vigorously working their way up steep hills. For so many years, your body served you faithfully, allowing you to escape into nature even on the most difficult days. That was no small task.

I know well how hard it is just putting one foot in front of the other. I know this doesn’t feel like who you are. But it is. It is every bit you, as was the woman who was skiing last winter. This is your body’s time to rest and your mind’s time to let things go. Your body needs to be in charge. It needs to express how it feels, to remind you of all that it’s endured, how very hard it has worked, and it needs to be remembered for all the wonderful things it created, and the people it embraced and loved. It fought many battles for you — they were good and worthwhile fights that made life better for those you cherish.

For now, let those around you hold on to the hard memories. We will take care of them. We will not let them be forgotten. We will not lose track of their meaning. You’ve held on to these heavy stones long enough. Drop them and enjoy the lightness.

What a wonderful body you have. An elegant, strong, and confident body. Right now, it needs peace. Let it rest among beautiful things, so it can release your pain.

WOMEN OF A CERTAIN AGE
by Mary Holman Tuteur

We sense the change, an apparent turning,
at the same time as we feel it — a knife
slamming down on the chopping block,
cleaving the known body from itself.
We discern the shift in how the earth holds us,
how we hold ourselves to the earth,
as the fine attention of our passion
revolves, all on its own, toward the roses.
Our tongues relish the details
of a rare bloom's growing habits,
the way they used to curl themselves around
the description of a lover's quirks.

We laugh in gusts, recalling to each other
our grandmothers, great-aunts, those old beloveds
whom we used to imagine belonged to another species,
down on their knees troweling, or bending warily,
their bones evolving into glass,
to harvest thosed clawed and petalled globes,
those roses they offered up to us.

Women of a certain age
teach each other to circle
within the strict confines of radiance
of afternoon arching backwards into dusk.
Turning, almost imperceptibly,
we hold out to you a light
that warms you less with its heat
than with a layered generosity, reflecting back to you
every angle it has moved through to get here. 

by yours truly, with music by Carly Simon

Well, well, well. Here I am. At my computer. Typing. It’s about time.

Truth be told, I’m over a month into this medical adventure, and still sporting a spruced-up version of pajamas every day due to my frequent need to nap and for providing easy access to my ass, which I still cannot wipe on my own. And why not wear PJs? It’s not like I can drive anywhere, like to a store, restaurant, or the park. I certainly can’t wrangle cattle or feed horses, and it will likely be another 2-3 months before I can garden and carry groceries in from the car.

And fuck hiking and swimming, my two favorite sports. I feel like heading up into the hills at the ranch like I need a hole in the head. And what could I possibly do in a pool right now? Float? Pretty sure that would piss off anyone who had to share a lane with me.

Yeah… after 10-12 fractures, I’m feeling a tad vulnerable. And stiff, and sore, and tottery. Yes, that’s a word. And the 6-inch scars on both arms from the surgeries… impressive! Makes my C-section look like a walk in the park. Ditto for my full hip replacement. Fortunately, my life partner has forgiving eyesight, and our bedroom lights are on a dimmer.

Despite all this damage, I can do a lot more today than 5 weeks ago, when I had my calamitous fall. For starters, I am back to writing. But I still cannot believe this happened. You’re going along, you’re going along… and things seem great. Then fucking WHAM! You’re on the ground and broken into a million pieces.

Hey Debbie… not going to lie. When you had that spill on your bike a couple of years ago — you know, the one where you broke both of your arms – I thought, “What the fuck? How does someone do that?” That really did go through my head. Famous last thought bubble. I owe you a huge apology for going there, even if it was only in my mind.

FYI, Debbie has been my friend since 5th-grade hockey. She played guard, and I was the goalie for the Million Dollar Babies. We lost every single game that season, but we had a helluva lot of fun. Sometimes, when you have no skill at a thing, the only thing you can do is laugh. And that we did — much more fun than winning.

Hey, not trying to compete with you on this, Deb, but I broke both wrists in multiple locations and had a comminuted patellar fracture in the shape of a perfect X on my right kneecap, and a broken rib. And I wasn’t even on a bike. All I did was trip on a cement parking block. Yep… I snagged the gold at the Stupidity Olympics.

So, here goes. The not-so-short version of my tale of woe.

In March of 2025, I was diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, this after having a full-blown thyroid storm — a life-threatening combo of conditions. To be frank, before this storm blew in, I didn’t even know I had a thyroid problem, or where exactly the thyroid resided in my body, let alone any understanding of the function my thyroid played in keeping me alive. Turns out thyroids control just about everything in a person’s body, though in my case, my thyroid was cueing my whole body to malfunction, like a drunken orchestra conductor. Yes, music colleagues, I’m envisioning that Scottish dude who directed Daphnis and Chloé at the Scotia Festival of Music in the early 90s. You remember the guy. The festival orchestra slayed that piece and then got a 10-minute standing ovation. Then that fucker made us play the whole tune a second time. As an encore.

For those of you not in the classical music world, know this: Daphnis and Chloé is widely considered one of the most difficult pieces in the orchestral repertoire. It is absolutely exhausting to play. Imagine, if you will, finishing the Boston Marathon, then immediately being bused back up to the top of the race to run it a second time. That’s what our illustrious conductor would have us do.

Maybe he had Graves’ Disease. Hadn’t thought of that.

Prior to this crack in my engine block, I had pretty much been FINE. At age 63, I was taking one pill. For hypertension. That was it.

Then, out of the blue, a year ago, I developed a laundry list of symptoms — all of them pointing to Graves’ Disease according to Chamberlain’s Symptoms and Signs in Clinical Medicine.

This was not a subtle version of the disease — it was a full-on war with my body. Graves’ was taking out all of the feeling in my hands, weakening the muscles in my legs, making me hyper and reactive, causing my heart to race and my blood pressure to spike. And I lost a good chunk of my left kidney during the thyroid storm from a renal infarction, with other blood clots floating around out there, threatening more damage. At first, I assumed this downturn in my health was caused by my exposure to that endless stream of bad news we’ve all had to endure since Trump assumed his second term, as well as the subsequent stress I experienced in trying to write political satire when everything in this world had gone way beyond being funny or ironical.

The timeline was right: Trump was sworn in on January 20, 2025, and by the first week in March of 2025, the thyroid storm had rolled in. So yes, Trump was likely a contributing factor in my health crisis, though the evidence was only circumstantial. There was also the issue of the EIGHT amalgam fillings I’d had in my mouth since first grade. Apparently, amalgam fillings contain 50% elemental mercury, and guess what? Continuous exposure to that over many years can damage your thyroid. Yes, those fillings are now GONE.

The majority of my health issues, however, really seemed to be pointing to STRESS as the main contributing factor. This became abundantly clear as the year wore on and my huge team of doctors struggled to get my thyroid hormone levels under control — to no avail, I might add. Chronic stress, elevated cortisol levels — and decades of it — seemed to be the root cause of my problems, in combination with my having a genetic predisposition for the disease. Turns out several family members have had Graves’. Anyone who’s been a single mother with two kids, who’s also running their own business, can imagine how this situation might have gone down. Add to that a vindictive ex who was getting off on going to court every month for years, and there you have it! My thyroid was toast.

For all of 2025, the fabulous team of medical professionals at Kaiser Permanente kept the worst of my symptoms at bay, but the Methimazole and beta-blockers were not resolving the problem, and many of my symptoms were getting worse. So a decision was made that I needed a series of surgeries, first for my hands, where serious nerve damage was taking place, and then my whole medical team and their cheerleading squad came together in deciding the thyroid needed to go. All of it. Rah-rah.

And so, three surgeries were scheduled for the fall of 2025. These were done efficiently and with minimal pain. I healed quickly, had no complications, and within weeks, the feeling began to return to both of my hands. Yes!! And after the third surgery, a thyroidectomy, I felt instant relief. Many of my hyperthyroid symptoms fell off — just like that, within days of the surgery. A huge thank you to my medical team — the OR nurses, my surgeons, my PCP, my endocrinologist, and my physical therapists. A really kind and talented bunch.

The bit that would take longer to resolve, as it turned out, was finding the right dosage of Levothyroxine to take daily — that artificial hormone used to replace the essential-for-life thyroxine my thyroid gland had been producing. I was started on 150 mg, but within a short period of time, it became apparent this was way too much; my TSH and free T4 levels were off the charts, and I was back to experiencing all the classic symptoms of hyperthyroidism. Ugh. And so, the dosage was reduced slightly, with subsequent blood tests showing the situation still not cooling off. Patience was required, I was told. It would take time for everything to equilibrate.

And so I went about my life as if I were back to normal, which I was not. In fact, I felt superhuman. I needed very little sleep, I was writing like a fiend, I was back to hiking and swimming, and I had a voracious appetite. And really high blood pressure. Things were still off. Very.

And so it was on the day I fell, which was after a night of about 4 hours of sleep, a morning packed full of chores, and an 8-mile afternoon hike. Pretty sure I was exhausted, though nothing in my body or mind was registering this fact. Why? Because I was on the hyperthyroidism habitrail.

And then, suddenly, there I was, on the ground at the Food Shed parking lot, writhing in pain. In the flick of a switch, I went from trotting out to the car to get my reusable shopping tote to being splayed out on the asphalt, arms grossly deformed, and experiencing the worst pain I have felt in my entire life. And this pain was for good reason — I had a lot of broken bones.

This is where my description of the events on January 24th needs to end. The rest is far too triggering, and who needs to hear it? No one. Suffice it to say, that horrible night was followed by two weeks of excruciating pain (as I waited for bilateral arm surgery), and then three more weeks of severe pain after the surgery, during which, due to the numerous complications of my injuries, no nerve block could be administered. What a shitty five weeks. I pray I never have to relive this experience. And may you never have this happen to you.

The good news: I am feeling much better. And I am healing. And most importantly, I can now take a shower. There is NOTHING better than a long, hot shower after a month of being trapped in bed.

So, what happens when you’ve got 2500+ hours to lie around and think? I’m talking about endless hours where you’re incapable of doing even the most basic tasks. You cannot sit up or use your arms, hands, or fingers. You cannot walk, cannot use the bathroom, you can’t feed yourself, or hold a cup of water to your mouth. You can’t run a brush through your hair or put on a fresh nightgown.

So, you ruminate, and the days seem endless, and it feels like you will never be released from the pain. You wonder how long you can go on. You may, as I did, want the whole thing to end. Your life, that is.

But John… he was right there the whole time. He never let up. He never let himself get pulled into my abyss. He was strong and positive and constant. And he reminded me that I needed to hang in there because of my kids, and because of him. When I told him I couldn’t stand the thought of having to rely on him or them, that this was not how I envisioned my life, that they didn’t deserve this, he asked, “Don’t you want to be there to take care of me? Or them?” Well, of course I did.

I think that was a trick question. 😂

The pity party was officially over. I knew what I needed to do. I needed to get well. For myself and for them.

featuring guest writer, Shawn Coyle

Gentleman, we‘ve all been there. You wander into the bathroom, and you wonder, “Does she really need all this stuff?” The short answer is yes, and today we’re going to break it down in terms we can all understand.

But first, we need to address your secret fear: Does she have an undiagnosed mental health issue or a latent hoarding fetish? In most cases, no. However, if the number of objects on the bathroom counter, in the shower, in your cabinets, including any adjacent closets or accessible crawlspaces, exceeds 5000 –not including any number of nail polish bottles and lipsticks (even if the colors look the same to you) then, my friend, professional help may be required.

Caution: Do Not Attempt Intervention at this stage. If you try to interrogate your wife or partner with a reasoned call for a reduction in the number of these objects, it can lead to an emotional altercation, flying plates, and – in extreme cases – yes, even crankiness.

Slowly back away from the bathroom and seek professional help. Field mediators are waiting on-call via the (sadly underfunded) 1-800 National Hotline for MMC (Middle-Age Male Confusion).

Okay, moving on: Here we will run down a few of the objects you may have seen and wonder: “What does it do?”

Since we have insufficient access to the volume of space-time continuum necessary to fully explicate all the possible items, I will detail just a couple. My object here is not to be comprehensive, but merely to demonstrate that, indeed, there is critical thought and scientific rationality at work, no matter how opaque that may seem at present.

Let’s all start off “curious” rather than certain. And honestly, a dose of self-reflection is helpful here as well. We can be certain that our partners may well question our own rationality in our various purchases. You can hear it now: “Why do you need so many truck accessories? Or fishing gear thingies? And who really needs two (2.5) full sets of golf clubs?” We know that the answer to these types of questions is: “Duh!” So let’s just skip the questioning and agree we’re better off avoiding needless hours in cohabitational Q&A, even if patiently laying out the facts for our sanity. Suffice to say, we’re all in the same boat.

And now on to the items slated for today’s review. I will attempt to provide a Shorthand-for-Guys™. Think of this as Google Translate.

Q: What is Volumizer?

Shorthand-for-Guys™: Viagra for hair. This nifty substance is chemically formulated to make hair look fuller, thicker, and lifted, especially at the roots. It adds bounce and body. It says: “Let’s party! I’m ready for my close-up selfies!”

PSA sidebar: regarding “selfies,” men… just a reminder that a gentlemen never sends unsolicited dick pics to a woman. Ever. Unless she specifically says to you, “Show me your Schmeckle!”, keep it in your pants. All good things come to those who wait. However, if a dick-pic is “on-request” then, remember the basics: a) side-lighting works best in a natural warm glow, never fluorescent, and b) taking shots more “close up and personal” will create a corollary effect like that described on your truck’s side mirrors: “Objects appear larger than they actually are.”

Now we come to the vast continent of knowledge known as Skin Care. Some women do not need any – or any cosmetic products at all for that matter. These types are known, clinically, as “young.” And there are many women of all ages who just don’t want it. It’s all good; we gentlemen always respect individual choice (so long as no animals are harmed, and that we can opt out of Disney-On-Ice). For those, however, who may choose to enhance their natural gifts through the multitude of enhancement options available, still we go back to the original question…

Q: What do all these tubes and jars do functionally?

Shorthand-for-Guys™: sanding, spackle, primer, and paint.

Q: Got it! But why so many? Why not just 2 or 3?

Shorthand-for-Guys™: Think vehicle maintenance. You’ve got to lubricate, rotate, refill, flush, grease, wash, wax, buff, etc., and the list goes on. We want our ride looking sharp –whether it’s just a quick spin over to Piggly Wiggly for dish soap and vitamin B12 tabs or revved-up and rockin’ for the Labor Day truck parade.

It’s all about Youth and Vitality. Do you love it? Do you want it? Sure, we do. We all would like to turn back the clock, and why not? You only go ‘round the racetrack one time, so why not optimize for action! And for the sweet coaxing of the dewy dawn of our former states of glorious youth, robust and flush in the rosy cheeks of human fun and fecundity.

So it’s not just the womenfolk. Men want it too (c.f., Cialis). The difference between us and the gals, in general, is that they tend to be more diligent in this project, more experimental, and, over time, ultimately, more successful. This becomes more and more clear, as well, as the years pass. Check it for yourself: People watch for an hour over at your local park and notice the late middle-aged couples walking together. The older the couple, the more the apparent age difference. At some point, the woman looks like she’s taking her dad out for a stroll.

Don’t let this be you! If you should find yourself walking in a 5% or more forward lean, baggy dad-jeans, and with a saggy belly, remember that your schmeckle is also saggy and baggy. In general, we resemble our dicks. We are our dicks. The good news is this is fixable! Good posture (yes, I’m talking yoga for men) and hitting the salad bar (sans bacon bits) are two great places to start.

Right – it looks like my time here is running short, so let’s wrap it up for today...

In our next session, we’ll jump into the wonderful, wacky worlds of: exfoliants, hyaluronic acids, niacinamides, peptides, retinoids serums, gels, creams, micelles, foundation (mineral, mousse, stick, liquid, powdered), concealers, blushes, bronzers, highlighters, mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow, brow pencils, brow powders, lip liner, lip gloss, lipstick, lip stain, tinted balm, parfum, eau de parfum, eau de toilette, body sprays, scented oils, moisturizers, body washes, body butter, scrubs, hair removal, nail treatments, haircare, styling, and follicle repair treatments!

In conclusion, what have we seen here today? I submit to you that it’s the very opposite of “clutter and confusion.” We see solid evidence of a) the studied application of the scientific method, b) the spirit of springtime, c) the love of youth and beauty, and d) a passion for self-respect.

But let’s not make the mistake of thinking that this is a gender-exclusive undertaking. Just for the gals? Not even! Quite frankly, men, a lot of us could use a bit of a buff up, perhaps a skoosh o’ hyaluronics wouldn’t kill us —or even a wee bit o’ power sanding (start with the P40-P60 grit).

Let’s take a page or two from the Ladies’ Playbook. And not to worry, guys! This will not make you Gay, or magically make you want to wear a dress (unless you’re into it, then by all means, enjoy), but it can help you shine in whatever (and whoever) you do.

Lotions and loofahs! These are your new friends.

And always keep in mind the Immortal Words of ZZ Top:

Clean shirt, new shoes; and I don’t know where I am goin’ to
Silk suit, black tie; I don’t need a reason why.

They come runnin’ just as fast as they can…
‘Cause every girl crazy ‘bout a Sharp Dressed Man.

Bonus Tips: Guys, for the sake of the children (who are the future!), go ahead and toss those cargo shorts, dumpy tees, plastic shoes, and anything with a camo pattern –unless shooting at birds is your “happy place,” then, for everyone’s sake, remember to change in the truck.

Enjoy all of Shawn’s fabulous writing on Substack. Thank you, Shawn, for having my back as I recover. 😘

Sierra Echo Charlie

Discursive Observations & Random Thought Balloons: I’m a S.F. Bay Area songwriter/musician and I write about culture, history, music, and personal experience.

By sierra echo charlie