There's An App for That

I had another menopausal meltdown recently, this time in public...but that's not the main impetus for this overshare. I've been toying with the idea of introducing 'Menopause Memoirs' as a new blog label, so the test run is recounting a recent encounter I had with automation and "efficiency" and how those twin illusions have done more to ruin, instead of enhance my overall quality of life.

If you are rolling your eyes and thinking, OK Boomer, first let me remind you that I am Generation X, and you need to watch your tone. Second, I am not a child, but that doesn't mean I want to be called Ma'am or urged to calm down. You can see I'm agitated; so be helpful, not patronizing! Third, I rather like being feared like the mutant Storm whenever one of my rants is doing the most. So if you can't assist me without resorting to condescension, then find somebody who can and just take cover...

Perhaps the word ruin is an exaggeration, but you tell me, how has automating everything made life so much better? From where I sit, y'all have been steadily gaslighting us because every six months there's a new and "improved" version of some system that just makes life more complicated. I didn't ask for any of this. But when I need to ask someone to explain it to me, no one knows how it works or why it was implemented. And after ten minutes or more of going in circles, I am annoyed about that lost time and the realization that this could have been avoided if you had paid somebody to do their old job!

For example, why must I download a new mobile app for every different parking garage within a ten-mile radius? Can we all agree that is the opposite of efficient? Because what if I don't want to set up another account and have my information stored in a database somewhere, only to get a letter in the mail a year from now informing me of a data breach? I just want to park my doggone car while I conduct my Busy Black business at this establishment. Why can't these building management companies work together and agree on a universal system in the same jurisdiction? Or better yet, do not overcharge me an arm and a leg to leave my car unattended in a parking garage where no one bears responsibility for loss or theft even as there are cameras everywhere?

Yep, the fuse for this parking app rant was lit by the Hub because he thinks he knows EVERYTHING, and that was the reason for my meltdown. Mind you, he's wrong 50% of the time, but he's a man and Donald Trump is President again, so that's all I have to say on that. So in my best Sophia Petrillo voice: Picture it, suburban Maryland in the middle of a weekday afternoon, and we're heading to lunch at a hotel on a rare childless outing. He chose this place because it was close to where the Kid was in camp for the day, and they were familiar with this particular restaurant. 

He also recommended this place because it had validated parking. Folks who know me in the real world know that the quest for free parking is kind of my personal hunt for Moby Dick because I refuse to pay more for parking than I would for a meal. (We all have our quirks, and I have been known to park up to half a mile away from my destination). Anywho, upon this reassurance, we drove to the hotel, but as we approached the mechanical arm to access the lot, there was a sign instructing us to scan a QR code. The Hub confidently declared that this sign was inapplicable to us since the restaurant validated parking. Though dubious of his claims, I drove around looking for a space but misread another sign which led us to the facility exit. There was no way to back up or to turn around, nor was there an attendant or booth to provide assistance, so we were forced drive towards the arm in hopes that we would be released. We were able to exit and re-enter the lot, but it was unclear if we would be charged for this mistake. 

We found a space on our third rotation located near another sign with the QR code. The Hub continued to insist that scanning the code was unnecessary, but I scanned it anyway. However, I must have unchecked or clicked something inadvertently that kicked me out of the main menu. I kept trying to undo or return, but it kept routing me to a different set of options. Once we got to the restaurant, there was a sign that confirmed the Hub's claim about free validation which required scanning a second code. I will spare you the intricate details of how I wasted the next ten minutes attempting to navigate this app while the Hub chatted and perused the menu. Just know that he placed his order while I remained stuck in an endless loop on my phone with no insight into how the parking was supposed to work or what I wanted to eat. The waiter informed me that I did need to download the app (which I had tried to do several times at this point) and that's when the Hub said flippantly: geeze, it's just an app.

Dearly Beloved, the fact that he still has his head is a miracle of restraint, but he still got quite a few neck chops. And days later, he still hasn't acknowledged that he was halfway WRONG about the parking app! But don't worry; the Busy Black Woman remembers...

Exasperated, I stormed out of the restaurant to make my way back to the garage in order to let off some steam and to re-scan the QR code. Before I reached the escalator, I decided to inquire at the front desk about how to access the app. The two women were kind enough to explain that this new parking system had been in place for about two weeks and still had a few kinks to work through. Then I was blessed with some in-person, old-fashioned customer service that enabled me to return to the restaurant with a plan to troubleshoot in case there was a problem in a few weeks (because deferring resolution of a pending problem is another fallacy of modern-day efficiency). 

Hence the question that keeps loading and re-loading like a 404 error--what do we gain in exchange for making life so transactional and efficient? To save time for what and for whom? Everything requires an app, a new password, and no way to get assistance or clarity from a human being. None of these innovations make my life easier if it shifts the burden of labor and I have to resolve my own problems. For example, have you noticed how 800 numbers rarely exist nowadays? If you haven't, try finding a phone number to call a company about an issue or inquiry about an order. Nine times out of ten, you won't find one. You'll find a contact form or a generic address to send an email and then wait for up to 24 hours for some kind of response (if you're lucky).

Case in point: I placed an order with a small business in mid-January that hadn't arrived within two weeks. I received a follow-up email from a third-party survey site asking me to rate my purchase, to which I responded that my order had not been received. No response or acknowledgment that my complaint had been received or was under investigation by the vendor. Weeks later, the same order was still missing and after several attempts to contact the seller through that third party site and directly on their website contact form, I sent one final email wherein I threatened to dispute the charge with my credit card company if there was no communication by a specific date. And I kid you not, my order mysteriously arrived two days later...still with no acknowledgement or even an apology for the weeks of delay. Since I haven't received any subsequent solicitations, I must have been dropped from their mailing list. If everything is automated and efficient, who's virtual feelings got hurt?

In the rare cases when you are able to call customer service, you probably aren't speaking to anyone physically working at the company. You end up routed to a call center with someone who may or may not be able to process your request/complaint without putting you on hold while they contact someone at the actual company to resolve your issue. It is not your imagination that many of the people who answer those calls have foreign accents. I saw an ad on my X timeline for this company in the Spring that promotes below American minimum wage remote work abroad. Efficient ain't the e-word to best describe what that really is...

But this is the new world order. Folks get on Al Gore's internet to opine that no one wants to work anymore, while failing to notice how variations on "efficiency" have made a lot of what used to be considered work obsolete. I'm bagging my own groceries at both the self-checkout and with a cashier because they won't assist me in packing my bags if I'm trying to be environmentally conscious by bringing my own reusable ones. I can get some assistance at the post office if I'm mailing a package, or I can fumble around on my own and hope that I filled out the correct forms. I can deposit a check from my phone, manage my accounts online, and withdraw cash from a machine so that I never have to venture into a bank to talk to a bank teller. There are no more record or video stores because we can stream music and movies (for a brief time, bookstores almost went extinct as well). Malls are dying because we shop online, watch movies at home, and get our meals delivered by Door Dash and Uber Eats.

A bunch of headlines and podcasts warn of a loneliness epidemic among young men, and it makes sense if there aren't many reasons for them to leave the house. Where are they going to hang out and not get harassed since half the places where we used to socialize regard teenagers with suspicion? Between lax gun storage laws and sex offender registries, who can we trust? So we keep them inside, plugged into their video game consoles or computers (apps) and then wonder why no one has any manners or social skills. As the mother of Tween (yep, time to upgrade her status), this is equally applicable to young women, not to mention the rest of us.

How do we stay connected, interact with each other, and organize events? Through social media apps. We conduct many of our meetings, job interviews, and trainings on platforms like Zoom. Singles meet through online dating apps and if it proceeds to the IRL stage, they film the experience for their TikTok followers. If there isn't a love connection, there's online porn...and from the looks of some of those female avatars, you might want to check in and make them keep the door open. EVERYTHING is available on an app.

Much of this isolationism was necessitated by the pandemic; however, a movie released a decade before predicted this current movement towards social detachment via technology. It has become clear that a significant segment of the population prefers that kind of solitary existence to living in a society where we need to interact and engage with others. It fuels these broader questions that are driving all kinds of decisions--why we don't need to want to feed other people's children, why we don't want foreigners living in our country, why we don't care about anyone or anything...

But all of that deep contemplation takes this discussion to the existential realm, and I just wanted to vent about how I don't want to download another effing app!

Because I don't want all of my bodily functions measured and recorded on my phone. Yes, I did like your video; no, I am not subscribing to your YouTube channel. I'm not donating to any reputable charity through cashapp. I didn't open the e-card you sent me from my phone because the print is too small. I don't want to keep my credit card numbers on file in a virtual wallet. If I cannot remember the previous 6 passwords I made up, then I am unlikely to remember some encrypted computer-generated gibberish as an alternative. No, I don't want to give you my email address to receive special offers because I have over 100,000 unread emails from every other retailer where I've made previous purchases. All I did was Google a random symptom, so why am I receiving spam about erectile dysfunction? 

Unless somebody invents an app to keep my moods from swinging and democracy from ending, I'm not downloading, upgrading, or scanning another blessed thing. 

Off With His Head (A Change of Life Story)

The Hub used my bath towel again. I have told him 50-11 times that I don't like that, each and every time after he claims to have "forgotten" that I don't like it because I have observed that he's used my towel. So I snapped, and that's why he's walking around without a head your Honor.

Disclaimer: No husbands were harmed by the writing of this piece (not yet), but the next time he uses my towel...so help me!

On Sunday morning, the Kid had to be at church early, so the Hub made her breakfast and left the kitchen a grease-spattered un-wiped wreck because he wanted to make sure that she arrived on time. He made himself coffee in the French press, left out the agave sweetener that only he uses, and didn't throw out his eggshells from the breakfast he made himself that he left in the sink. I'm sure he pissed me off in a number of other ways, but it doesn't matter because he'll play dumb and accuse me of nagging. And if I grumble to any of my so-called girlfriends (all of whom have come to his defense for the past 23+ years), they will excuse his bad habits because none of them live with his messy azz! That's part of the reason why I need to tell my side of the story so that everyone knows how to react when they cart me away for accidentally/on purpose taking off his head.

For the last year, I have not been my normal self. I haven't become some other woman; I've just decided that I have had enough of the bullshit I've been putting up with to keep the peace. I'm done letting it slide and quietly tolerating what might be classified as the "small stuff". All of the isht that has always irritated me that I have chosen not to mention is now fair game for a knock-down, drag-out fight because dangnabit, at your big age you should know how to fold a paper bag since the folds are literally imprinted on the gotdamned bag! This ain't origami, so what the hell?

Since the piece I started to write for my 50th birthday that declared how I would approach life after the half century point is buried under a year and a half of other drafts, and distraction has become my constant companion on the road of good intentions, let me cut to the point--perimenopause. I have no idea where I am in the process, but the change is a-coming and I am not happy. I already expressed my feelings about that here, but I feel the need to really unload because I get crankier and less tolerant by the day. We are only a week into the 2025 hurricane season, and though there is no chance that a storm will officially bear my name (because of biases against ethnic names, no doubt) it's just as well. As long as this category 1 Hurricane Ayanna doesn't destroy too much property, you might survive, but you still need to be prepared. Because if things continue on present trajectories and gain more strength, my warning is for these meaux faux to evacuate or hunker down.

I am not playing.

And because God is a woman with a wicked sense of irony, puberty is also forming a tropical depression to cause her own wave of destruction and nonsense. This girl-child of mine is nearly as tall as my 5'10" self and wears a woman's size 6.5 shoe! Y'all already know that she's only just 10 years old, so how much more growth do you expect from this particular spurt before she's wearing my clothes? She still believes in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus...

Before you judge me, judge yo' mamma! Because as long as my Kid is repulsed by the kissing scenes in the live action versions of Beauty and the Beast (2017) and The Little Mermaid (2023), yes, she absolutely can still believe in whatever imaginary friends and fairy dust magic that exists in the world. Borrowing the title from one of my generation's coming-of-age movies, reality bites. So don't spoil anything unless you're a man with six fingers preparing to die.

I said what I said.

I don't know if I get any sleep because I am always tired. That could be the rainy weather, but my knee isn't aching. I'm craving salty foods, but also chocolate. I need to go grocery shopping, and I made a list, but I know I am forgetting something that I want and probably need but won't remember until after I'm in the self check-out line with my 20 plus 2-4 extra items and I can't remember which phone number might be in the system for the discounts. At least I always remember to bring my reusable bags, because as much as I resent bagging my own groceries, the cashiers won't use my bags, and I hate having to pay .05¢ each for the plastic bags they will use. It's like asking me to tip the hostess at the restaurant for pronouncing my name correctly as she hands over my takeout order that I am picking up myself. I always add the tip though, because I don't want to be thought of as cheap (but just know that I don't appreciate feeling guilty).

Yeah, I hate a lot more things now. I hate that all of these plastic bags kill aquatic animals and cause unsightly litter. I hate how bike lanes have increased my commute time between points A and B by at least 10 extra minutes and how no one ever uses them! I get stuck driving behind some dude casually joy-riding an electric scooter when I'm trying to get somewhere. Like seriously, walk or take the damn bus! You look like an overgrown child--scooters are for kids to ride on the sidewalk while their parents walk them to school.

Stuff that I used to find mildly annoying or inconvenient, I hate. Like commercials. I'm trying to understand why every other commercial is for weight loss drugs or these obscure conditions that no one I know has ever been diagnosed with, like the treatment for eyelash mites. Why does that need its own ad campaign? Are y'all just making up ailments in anticipation of some massive outbreak of dust? And look, I'm definitely not against more advanced treatments for diabetes that have the beneficial side effect of aiding weight loss. I'm just wondering why all of those commercials look like those Carnival Cruise Ship promotions with Richard Simmons. Or when the marketplace for car insurance got so competitive.

Speaking of, you wanna know what commercials really annoy me more than anything? Those radio ads for Top Dog Law. They are inescapable if you listen to urban radio anywhere on the East Coast (apparently, they are all produced by this guy). First of all, does Mr. Top Dog, Esq. have a real name? And if he is licensed in several states, he's not going to represent you both in Richmond and Philly. You're getting one of his Scrappy Doo associates, and they're going to take a third of your settlement to pay for more of those annoying commercials. 

I almost forgot what I was here to complain about--that I am surrounded by eediots who do things to annoy me and act shocked when I get mad about it. Like dude, do you know how to turn off any lights when you leave a room? Nobody shits roses, so use the Lysol and close the bathroom door! If you aren't losing your hearing, why is the TV up on sonic blast levels? Little precocious child, why are you playing in my expensive skin care products? This is not Dexter's Laboratory and you are not getting extra credit for these ridiculous science experiments. Do you people think I live only to clean up after you?

As I try to accept the things I cannot change, and given that menopause is inevitable, I feel like it should have come with better warnings. All we were told during middle school health class was that our periods would stop, but there was a LOT of other information that was withheld, and I demand to know why! Why not offer us another updated health class at 40 since we now know that our mothers didn't tell us anything. There's a long list of things they didn't warn us about us about but let me stay focused...the point is that it ought to be mandatory that we get some coming-of-age movie that explains what the hell is going on because Steel Magnolias (1989) barely scratches the surface.

I hate feeling blind-sided.

I hate that every attempt to address menopause in pop culture leaves out all of the real scary shit like heart palpitations, facial hair, and the litany of chronic health issues that all have the same symptoms. That one episode of The Golden Girls where Blanche thought she was pregnant only addressed her one missed period, yet no one ever mentions about how misleading that was? She got a definitive answer from a gynecologist after one visit, then continued to have the same libido for the next five seasons? In a house with three women in their 50s living in Miami, did I miss the episode when they compared the severity of their hot flashes? What the heck did they discuss every week over cheesecake???

To be fair, the show actually did address some of the various health issues that accompany menopause, they just didn't make it obvious. At least now I understand why Dorothy was in a perpetually bad mood. The Cosby Show also addressed the issue outright once, and a few other times as well, but we weren't paying close enough attention. Now seen from the perspective of a 50-something year old woman, the anger Clair unleashed in that Wretched episode was about more than Vanessa's stupidity and getting entangled in her lies. However, the most accurate depiction of what life has become is the episode when Clair comes home exhausted from work and after the family gets on her last nerve, she goes off to some cabin in the woods where she is met with more chaos and calamity. If I were writing that episode today, it wouldn't have mattered if she had retreated to that cabin or a 5-star hotel in Manhattan...the punchline would have been that she never went back home.

I am serious.

There is one Law & Order episode that mentioned more symptoms and ways of coping, but it did so by leaning into many of the stereotypes society has of powerful women. In essence, if nothing else can knock a bitch down, menopause surely will. And I hate that, because all it did was cement a litany of tropes that demonize women for not always being sweet and lovable. As if some of you aren't the most self-centered, inconsiderate, and helpless bunch of babies who can't handle simple dilemmas, like where you left your stuff that you need right now so I have to stop whatever else I am doing to find it for you or else your life is over. Yeah, it's definitely my hormones that are causing all of my irritation...

I'm not advocating or justifying violence; I'm just not ruling it out. Because now I empathize with the women in fairy tales who got fed up with those trespassing children eating the candy off their houses. Where is all the righteous disgust for their cowardly Daddy who abandoned them in the woods? (Don't even get me started on how whack the full story is or how the Brothers Grimm obviously hated women.) If you saw Wicked, then you should be reconsidering whether the real villain in Oz was the woman who lost her beloved sister and her magic designer shoes in a freak accident involving a falling house. Because if you recoil at the sight of the lady with the green skin instead of being disturbed by the lies of the con man game show grifter and the bubblegum fairy who pulls the levers of chaos behind the scenes, you've missed my entire point.

All I know is if the Hub uses my towel one more time, Imma go Red Queen on him and I don't want to hear nothing other than plans to help me hide the evidence or reassurance that you've got enough money to pay for my defense. And for the love of all humanity, it better not be that Top Dog Law dude.

Mother of the Dance

Last July, I received a phone call that quite literally took my breath away. It came amidst a period of upheaval and chaos, not personal but national--it was the Monday of that same week that would upend the Presidential election. Imagine me thinking that the worst thing that could possibly happen in a year was the death of my Mom. Sadly, one of the ironies of life is it's hold my beer or glass of sweet white wine¹ way of reminding us that things can always get worse. So, I instinctively dreaded that when I got a call from an old friend (her daughter-in-law) in the middle of the afternoon, the reason why she was calling was not just to check in. It was to inform me that my long-time dance teacher, Mrs. Rosetta A. Brooks (Mrs. B) had passed unexpectedly.

I had intended to publish this tribute back in September. I wrote a version of the second half (after the jump) in August and had hoped to have it read at her memorial service. But for a variety of reasons, things didn't work out, so Plan B was to post it here right before the implosion of the election. Then came the holidays, more distractions, and the realization that maybe it isn't my imagination that I'm finding it a lot harder to focus or finish anything lately.

Instead of lamenting that particular downside of aging, I figured that at the right time I would eventually make my way back to finishing what I started. Eight months later, we were driving back from New Jersey and while listening to a late afternoon gospel music program out of Baltimore, I heard a song² that I thought I knew but couldn't place how or why. Normally, that kind of disconnect would have caused me to fixate until solving the riddle; however, by the second verse I recognized it as part of a suite of familiar dance pieces. 

According to the calendar, it has been a year since the last time I saw Mrs. B at my daughter's dance recital, June 1, 2024. Each week, I sit in my car not far from the very spot where we had our last conversation. To think that interaction almost did not happen...but God. In a seemingly random series of ways, everything divinely aligned. Instead of leaving immediately after the show, I had my daughter pose for pictures in both of her costumes, which took time. I'm sure that I got to chatting with some folks whom I hadn't seen in a while as that is the nature of these kinds of event. When I made it outside, I saw my Dad's priest wandering past, so I stopped to talk with him. Then finally, on my way to my car, I saw Mrs. B slowly trudging her way across the courtyard to her car. Although I was used to seeing her walk with a cane, she seemed to be moving a lot more cautiously, almost dragging her body alongside a much taller walking stick that was twice her height. As always, she was toting more than one bag including one that held several bouquets of flowers she had received in honor of her being named director emerita of the studio.

My daughter had given her one of those bouquets, which turned out to be another one of those random impulses that God must have whispered into my spirit. I had dropped the Kid off to get ready for the show, and with a little time to fill before it began, I made a quick side trip to Trader Joe's to buy wine and flowers. I snapped up a few bouquets for my dancer, her teachers, and since I knew that Mrs. B was expected to attend, I grabbed one for her as well. Until the previous October, she had been one of the Kid's teachers too. 

Until that previous October, it would have been inconceivable to think of St. Mark's Dance Studio and not have a simultaneous thought or memory of the ubiquitous Rosie Brooks. The very suggestion of her retiring was taboo, even if she was the person floating that trial balloon. Thus, when she had to take medical leave unexpectedly, we all hoped it would be temporary. In 40 years, I had never known her to get sick or injured enough to miss teaching classes. Paradoxically, it should have occurred to me that if she needed to take a medical leave of absence, then whatever the cause was a lot more serious than we wanted to believe. Therefore, I never imagined that our catch-up in the parking lot that day would be our last. Or that as we chatted about my Mom and she reassured me that I should take all of the time I needed to grieve, I would need to apply that same advice to my feelings about losing her.

In life, we aren't always given opportunities to let our loved ones know how much they mean to us. Sure, we have special holidays, formal observances, greeting cards, etc., but transitions don't tend to coincide with those moments. We become aware in hindsight or once we've missed the moment and promised to do better the next time. What happens if there is no next time? How to cope with the reality that you didn't make good on that promise to stop by one afternoon while she was teaching? Nor get to drop in to take a class for the first time since the pandemic? Nor just come to sit and chat like we used to in that big gap of time she had midday before her afternoon classes? How do you accept that you really never told her how much she meant to you because you had all of these ideas about how that should be communicated in some grand fashion, but she died before you got to formalize the proposal, let alone implement any plans?

Maybe that's why the church folks always tell us that we have to give people their flowers when they are able to smell them. Because six weeks later, I got that phone call and that meant I would not get to make good on any of my promises to visit. Instead of the retirement celebration I had envisioned to include testimonials and revival performances of some of her classic pieces, there was a memorial service. 

That I had to watch online from the road because of a scheduling conflict...

Presuming that eight months of procrastination can indeed be blamed on brain fog and aging, it could also be that I felt a bit ashamed and a heap of guilt that this would be the only way I would ever get to express any appreciation for this relationship that spanned 40 years. Had I known that I wouldn't get another chance to do anything meaningful, what more could I possibly have said in that parking lot? Thank you? For not dismissing me as some gangly limbed freak when I showed up to start ballet classes at the ripe old age of 10? Thank you for seeing whatever it was you saw in me that kept me dancing all of those years. Thank you for being tough and honest and pushy because I needed to be challenged, disciplined, and encouraged. Thank you for loving my daughter. Thank you for being more than a dance teacher because you were also a confidant, a mentor, a life coach, and most of all, a friend.

It hasn't taken me all this time just to say thanks. It has taken me almost a year to confront my guilt and release my regrets for not being able to show up as I would have wanted. If writing this was the least I could do, then leaving it unfinished to languish in the drafts has been the worst. So it was not mere happenstance that something as subtle as a song inspired me to return to this piece. It was a nudge and a reminder that this was never supposed to be about me...but about her. 

A year ago, some of her former students, my daughter among them, got to dance for her. Instead of being worried about the behind-the-scenes technical stuff, Mrs. B got to sit and watch the show. For all I know, this might have been the first time in 40 years that she wasn't running everything. In that unscripted, serendipitous encounter in the parking lot, she praised how well everything had been managed in her absence. It must have filled Mrs. B with pride upon seeing what she had built, with confidence that we could carry on, and with reassurance that she had trained us so well. In essence, she had received something far more substantial than bunches of grocery store flowers--she got to bear witness to all she had done at and for SMDS all these years. Assurance that her legacy would endure and flourish is the kind of gratification that is priceless and beautiful beyond words. 

My daughter in costume from
Mrs. B's recital piece in 2023

The next part is what I wrote for the memorial service on behalf of the disbanded dance company/former students/current parents, but for the sake of expediency in the planning process, it got dropped from the program. Then because I couldn't be there in person, it seemed appropriate to convert my remembrance into a reflection to be read privately by her family. However, there was no way I could allow 800 words to suffice as my final farewell given the nature of our 40-year relationship. The version published after the jump is longer than what was submitted to the family...one of the perks/pitfalls of editing my own blog. 

 -- ADH

Ten Years to Life

My daughter just celebrated her tenth birthday. I had wanted to write a long dedication in the days leading up to the big leap from single to double digits, but I got all caught up in my feelings. I am ecstatic. I am in disbelief. I am overwhelmed by a list of things to do for this "surprise" birthday party that I'm sure she'll be smart enough to figure out is really happening in spite of what I told her. (That it was cancelled because she got out of line, but how can I be expected to keep that kind of promise in anticipation of this particular birthday???)

And now, when I should be packing for a family trip, I am procrastinating to write about this pending major milestone, because this is a moment that deserves to be preserved and celebrated!

So let's start at the beginning: ten years ago in March 2015, I returned to this blog after a hiatus of two years. The last post I wrote in 2012 was on my 39th birthday. The first post I wrote in 2015 was to announce my pregnancy with just little less than a month remaining. At the time, I was still very unsure and uncertain of what was to come, including the gender of the child I was carrying. That was an intentional choice for reasons that I can only summarize as a delayed delusional denial--I was scared but unwilling to unpack those fears. Not knowing was a way of maintaining control, managing expectations, and like I said, delusional!

You can read between the lines I wrote in the few weeks before the Kid was born, including two pieces that were published hours before I went into labor. I had NO idea. Then the Babe was born, and I got caught up in those sleepless and seemingly endless post-partum days and nights. After a few months, it took more time to find both my motivation and rhythm to write. For example, when I wrote at the end of that year about Mommy-blogging, it was with the explicit intention of avoiding that lane and label. I was ambivalent about identifying myself as a "Mom" in the political sense, because I believed (and still feel) that it was necessary to embody many identities as a woman. 

Before I take you down that road, let's talk about my evolution over the past decade. 

First, let's acknowledge the transition from being pregnant (and still fertile) ten years ago to entering this new season of life called menopause. It is jarring. Literally, just a year ago, I still felt halfway normal, and now I don't. I have weird sleeping patterns, night sweats, and I am perpetually unfocused and cranky. As someone who never dealt with major PMS until after I had a baby, it is unnerving to undergo such drastic changes after so many years of knowing my body and how it worked. Now, I have no idea what to expect from one day to the next. Given my "advanced maternal age" when I finally got pregnant, I knew that I was on Team One and Done, but this change effectively ends the game.

Which brings me to the significance of this past year since the death of my Mom. Because if losing a parent forces a formidable life adjustment, letting go of the ability to have more children has me mourning another substantial loss. And for lack of a better way to describe this, it just feels cosmically unfair. My life isn't over, but this change puts the matter of my mortality on the horizon. I know, referring to menopause as the start of a death march is overly dramatic, but I can't help but to think that I am now counting down as opposed to gearing up. And that sucks.

Especially when your ten-year old is going through puberty. Because it suddenly registers what that all entails.

She's still my baby, but no longer a baby. She's still very much a kid, but she wants to engage in pre-teen things. Soon, that will become teen things, and before long, I will have a young lady making decisions about her future. So while I adjust to my own changes, I have to mentally prepare myself for hers. I know I've joked about that once or twice, but now that the time has come, and we are both in transition I'm not laughing. No, I'm not curled up in a ball, but I am trying to come to terms with this season of growth for her while trying to resist the fatalist tendency to regard this as a season of decline for me.

Ten years ago when my daughter was born, I had a dogwood tree planted in our front yard. I was following the example of my mother who had planted a dogwood tree in the front yard of our family home when we were kids. The tree at my parents' home started off small, but it grew and spread over the course of nearly 40 years to become a focal point of the yard. We took our annual Easter pictures in front of it and continued the tradition with younger cousins and grandchildren. 

Then about three years ago, I noticed that the tree seemed to be struggling, especially in the summers through successive years of drought. Since the tree had been resilient in previous years, we assumed it would recover, as it had each spring. Unfortunately, in the summer of 2023, only half of the leaves came back and one weekend, they all just dried up and died. I initially fretted this was an omen...

I had a tree specialist come by to conduct a post-mortem and we learned that the tree wasn't supposed to have been planted in full sun. It had survived a lot longer than it should have in the wrong location, so it wasn't neglect, but a combination of factors that had killed it. (Incidentally, two dogwood trees planted by a neighbor are also dying under similar conditions.) For a replacement, we opted for a sun-loving cherry blossom and planted another dogwood in a more temperate location. The new trees were planted in November 2023; my Mom passed three months later.

It didn't escape my notice that the cherry blossom tree bloomed the week of her funeral, followed by the new dogwood tree a few weeks later. Instead of regarding the death of that older tree as an omen, I have chosen to interpret my observations of all these trees as messages. The end of one life and the flourishing of another is the how this world turns. As painful as it was to accept that my mother's time was coming to an end, like the dogwood, she had lived a lot longer than expected under unsustainable conditions. Alzheimer's had taken so much from her and us...

I chose to have my daughter and niece read When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou at her funeral. I knew they were too young to grasp the significance, but I knew that it was important for two of her saplings to have a prominent role in saying goodbye. It was important for people to see life flourishing, planted firmly in temperate locations and blossoming. 

Ten years of motherhood. At times it seems surreal to recall that I had a very different life prior to the birth of my daughter. I had different dreams and aspirations. It was by random chance that I ended up on the path toward motherhood after I had determined that it would only happen by some divine intervention...and I guess, that is how I would define the sequence of events I shared in this post. If I didn't believe in miracles before, I sure do now.

When the Words Don't Come

This is one of the pieces I started but never got even halfway through because life kept on lifing (and yes, I have adopted that as my default reason for everything). The main reason why I am returning to publish now is because it captures a unique turning point in my grief journey from this summer--right before the world turned inside out. After the page break, I am writing in real time again, so hopefully that will make this come together. --ADH

It has been a LONG time since I posted anything to this blog. I am still here, trying to sort everything out, but it is taking me longer than expected. I have so many unfinished drafts, so many stray thoughts, so much chaos and crazy going on inside my head. I don't know where to begin.

This is not an excuse. I am just not sure if I can focus long enough to complete anything right now. I am distracted, I am grieving, I am overwhelmed...I am lost. And I don't know how else to express any of what I am feeling, so I will just freestyle and hit publish even if this is the worst, most vulnerable piece of crap I've ever written. Here goes...

I am not as okay as I think I am on most days. I don't know if that makes much sense, but in essence, I put on my big girl panties every day to face the world, and then night comes, and I can't tell you if I seized it or if I squandered it. I haven't begun to deal with all of the final stuff I am supposed to handle with respect to my Mom. I haven't sent off half the Thank You notes. I didn't send half of the Father's Day cards with Thank You Notes because I got caught up in trying to make it to the end of the school year. I still have unsold Girl Scout cookies. I haven't gone back to my house for more than a few hours because I don't have the mental energy to combat unnecessary chaos. 

I cannot believe this is the first day of summer. 

I did do laundry. I did label most of the Kid's stuff for her first sleepaway camp starting in ten days. I did order the Hub a nice Father's Day gift that he seemed to appreciate. I do manage to take a shower every day.

On Sunday, I was in the kitchen chopping veggies and prepping for an impromptu family gathering, and it dawned on me that I am now the de facto matriarch of this band of feral cats. And in this most thankless role, it means that I need to think about everyone in this family, while they get to decide whether to completely ignore me. I mean that in the most complimentary way because the one person who does notice is my Dad. And he is part of the reason why I haven't completely given up.

It Takes a Village

Nearly 30 years ago, Hillary Clinton wrote a book It Takes a Village (1995), a phrase she borrowed from an African proverb. Because it was an idea being promoted by Hillary Clinton, the most polarizing woman in America at the time, there was partisan derision and a lot of noise about traditional family structures.

So the phrase and the sentiment were written off as a call for government overreach, and per usual, the inherent value of extended and more communal family structures were not celebrated until recently. Apparently, when conservative-minded men realize that it was a good thing that their Mamaws and South Asian mothers-in-law took an active role in raising their grandchildren, they get to take credit for articulating a role for post-menopausal women that no one quite knew how to previously define.

Initially when I saw James David's suggestion about enlisting the assistance of grandparents in childcare, I tweeted from a space of grief and frustration for my own situation. I don't regret sending this out, because it was/is my truth--I didn't get to rely on the support of grandparents in helping to raise my child in her formative years. In fact, due to a combination of factors, my Dad is only just now available to provide some support to us, which we appreciate and definitely do NOT take for granted as a given.

I want to provide some context and offer an expanded analysis of what he suggested by sharing more about my situation as both the beneficiary of grandparents who were very much involved in my upbringing, as well as from the perspective of a parent who did not have able-bodied caregivers at my beck and call. For me, and I suspect for a lot of my peers, this is a very complicated and sensitive issue. And what we need from policy makers, regardless of their politics and regardless of what kinds of family structures they articulate as ideal, is a lot more than suggestions based on nostalgia for a bygone era.

First, some perspective as this topic comes along at an interesting time for me. I hope to write more about this before the end of the year, but obviously, this has already been quite a year. As such, I find myself looking back and reminiscing, particularly on life as it was for me 40 years ago in 1984. That year was pivotal for me in so many ways, and for the purpose of setting the scene for this piece, it was sometime in the fall of that year when my paternal grandparents both developed chronic illnesses: my Grandmother had Parkinson's disease that progressed to a more disabling point and my Grandfather suffered a massive paralyzing stroke. Suddenly, our caregivers needed us to provide support and care for them.

Earlier that year, I graduated from elementary school, so there were already several changes underway for me. I was to start a new school without most of the friends I had known for the past six. The previous summer, our family moved into a new home and my youngest brother was ready to start school. To ensure that they were in school together, both brothers transferred to a closer elementary school. And if memory serves, my Mom was also reassigned to a new school, so everything was in flux. I recall that the school year began with promise, but things quickly unraveled by Thanksgiving.

Because life comes at you fast. 

My paternal grandparents had absolutely been integral caregivers to us in our formative years. Both were retired by the time I was born, so they had time to dote on us. I was enrolled at the elementary school two blocks from where they lived because pre-kindergarten was half day and someone needed to be available once my day was done. At the time, of course I had no idea that was the reason, but looking back I realize the dynamics of having a younger brother, a working mother, and a father who was living out-of-state to complete graduate school meant that we had to be in the care of hired or family help. 

I recall early on that my Grandmother would walk me home from school, but eventually, my Grandfather would park his blue station wagon directly in front of the building every day at 2:45pm to wait for us. It became something of a running joke among the school staff that no one else could park in Old Man Hawkins' spot. After he drove those two blocks, we headed straight to the kitchen where we got dessert for snack (I am not making this up) and it was glorious!

It was the beginning of second grade when the first series of major life changes began. My Dad graduated and moved back to DC; we moved into our own place; and my Mom announced that she was expecting another baby. My Grandmother seemed happy, but I overheard a conversation between my Mom and Aunt about how Grandma had expressed reservations about her ability to care for another baby. Years later I learned the reason was that she had been recently diagnosed with Parkinson's. So when my brother was born, Grandma helped out until he got to the mobility stage, then he went to nursery school. Granddaddy would get two of us from elementary school and then got my youngest brother from a nearby church. On off days, half days, and sick days, we were at Grandma and Granddaddy's house. 

Our maternal grandmother still worked a few days a week, but we also spent a good deal of time with her as part of an even larger extended family. Her house stayed full of extended family, and whenever the three of us were in the mix with the five to six cousins who lived with her, plus two of her grown sons, and a cat--you do the math! Of course, we grew up like siblings, so I recognize and appreciate the communal family concept James David alluded to in suggesting the participation of relatives in providing childcare.

But...and this is where my emotional tweet thread becomes relevant--not all families can rely on that kind of arrangement. A lot of people don't live near their families. For example, the Hub lives 250 miles away from his four siblings and I know plenty of people who come from families that are scattered across the country. Once upon a time, families used to live in closer proximity, but that is no longer a reality to be taken for granted. As you know, I went to college in Atlanta and at least half of my peers stayed down there for school, job opportunities, and the lower cost of living. Here in DC, most of the people I meet are transplants while many of the native-born Washingtonians (and yes, we exist) live throughout the DMV (District, Maryland, and Virginia area...pronounced urreyah). Which could mean that someone still owns and maintains Big Mama's house, but the various grandchildren, nieces and nephews, etc. could live just as many as 250 miles (4 hours) apart.

And as much as I LOVED growing up with all of those cousins, in hindsight that was a LOT on my long-widowed Grandmother! She raised eight children of her own, so perhaps she was used to that level of chaos, but to look back and realize she was in her 70s, and on any given day her home was inundated with half a dozen grandchildren. Now I'm convinced that is one of the main reasons why she worked until she was 80--so that she could get some peace and quiet!

But let's return to the point 40 years ago where my idyllic childhood memories took a dramatic turn. My paternal Grandmother had an operation from which her health never fully rebounded. My Grandfather was caring for her when he had his stroke. My Dad, an only child, had to figure out caregiving for two parents while raising three school-aged children. For a time, he stayed with his parents on the weekends. It was determined that we all needed to live under one roof, so we had an addition built onto our house. My grandparents moved in the year I started high school. 

The reality about depending on family is that circumstances change. What works in one year might not be feasible the next year. Before we moved into our own house, we lived with extended family, but that became unsustainable as everyone got older. Even in ideal situations, life happens and there have to be reasonable alternatives to fill in the gaps. For my parents, it meant needing afterschool care and transportation for my brothers while I became the classic Generation X latchkey kid. 

James David and his incoherent running mate can make off-handed suggestions about childcare costs that minimize the real-life struggles that so many people face because they have advantages that they take for granted. Donald Trump was, at best, an absentee father who never concerned himself with childcare because paying the nanny, the cook, assorted mistresses, while stiffing small business owners is just one of the perks of being a rich asshole. Usha Vance's mother, Lakshmi Chilukuri, took a leave of absence from her job for a year, and then she went back to work. I presume that when their subsequent children were born, the combined proceeds from his book sales, his Silicon Valley earnings, and his wife's law firm salary meant they could afford a nanny. And that's perfect if it worked for them. It's great that his mother-in-law had the kind of job that allowed her to return to it, unlike so many working mothers who barely get three months of unpaid leave. It's great when parents earn decent middle-class wages or higher. 

It's great when everybody lives nearby and stays healthy. My late mother-in-law lived in New York and as much as I would love to believe otherwise, there is no way she could have packed up her entire life to move here to DC. My Mom only got to assist with my Mean Teen Niece for a short time before we noticed things that revealed concerns about her health. The same way Parkinson's caused noticeable issues for my Grandmother, early-onset Alzheimer's had an immediate impact on my Mom. Like his father, my Dad doesn't seem to mind being Grand-Uber to his granddaughters because that's the extent of his childcare duties. 

It's great when every piece comes together seamlessly. Everyone gets along and there are no differing parenting philosophies. Boundaries are healthy and no one oversteps. Cultural differences are manageable and respected. No one is toxic or manipulative or duplicitous. Family gatherings are a lot like this iconic commercial:

Yeah...

For everyone else who lives in the alternative multiverse where monthly day care costs are equal to mortgage payments and relatives do not live close by, the village is where we must look for solutions. That might mean that the local church provides the day care because that is the most affordable option. Your kid might need to depend on the carpool driven by the parent still working from home who can provide drop off and pick up because their hours are more flexible. I read about 24-hour child care centers and on-site day care at certain jobs I think that makes a lot of sense for those parents who work shift jobs like essential health care workers. This notion that we can't afford to pay people living wages or that day care personnel shouldn't have to be certified when we are entrusting our children to their care is offensive. The kind of money we are willing to pay to keep our children distracted entertained as opposed to being educated, or kept alive...

Some of you know how this childcare issue impacted me, since I've written about it from time to time on this blog. I was a stay-at-home mother (SAHM), but not entirely by choice. I was assisting with the care of my Mom when I got pregnant. Even though I was already "working" from home, we added our names to the waiting list for the daycare center at the Hub's job anyway, just in case. Well, after two years (2 YEARS), there was finally an opening. We went in for the tour but balked at the strain it would put on our family budget. In the end, it made more sense for us to maintain the status quo and wait a few months for the Kid to become eligible for PreK-3 (which is universally available in our jurisdiction).

Hint, universal access to early childhood education is a policy solution. Proposing a tax credit for day care expenses is a policy solution. Suggesting that post-menopausal women ought to spend more time baking cookies and planting herb gardens with their grandkids is not a policy solution. Not unless you are willing to offer them paid family leave since many of our seniors still work.

Did I mention the dilemma of being a woman of a certain age who has both child-rearing and elder caregiving responsibilities? If not, I wrote about it a few years ago. And let me tell you that even with my Mom gone, my situation has not changed as much as you might think. My Dad will be 77 on his birthday, and he hasn't lived alone for more than 40 years. If I wasn't around, this man would live off of Jamaican meat patties and Arizona iced tea. At my Mom's funeral, I was cornered by some of his church lady friends who made it clear that they were going to hold me personally responsible if anything happened to him. And the last thing I want to do is piss off a bunch of Black church woman. 

I am not complaining. I am blessed that he is here and, as the old folks say, has a reasonable portion of health and strength. Instead, I will emphasize the fact that I am still amazed and awed by my Mom, who did all of this backwards, in heels, with a full-time job, and with two boisterous sons. But that doesn't take into account that my Mom had the benefit of a village. Once I let go of my Wonder Woman fantasies of her abilities and remembered that she had help, I've been seeing things differently. 

It is important to point out that none of us lives in the center of the village. We have a responsibility to support each other just as we are supported. This is true even when there are non-family members in the midst, because we are probably extensions of their village in some way as well. If we are late picking up our kids from day care, that makes those employees late for whatever it is that they have to do in their second shifts. If we spend most of our involvement with our child's school as adversaries, as opposed to advocates, then the result is a contentious environment that hinders learning. If you are blessed with parents who are able to help, by all means accept it, but know that the situation could easily be reversed with you and your children providing assistance to them. Sometimes that isn't possible, because let's face it, some of y'all took jobs in other parts of the country for reasons other than just the pay...

Instead of talking to economists and podcasters about issues like this, policy-makers need to talk to the people who are on the front lines. Like the working parents who need flexibility and more options. Like the people who own childcare facilities and have to navigate a complex regulatory landscape. Like the private nannies who deserve living wages and benefits. Like the single Dads who might also be working in the gig economy just to afford childcare. Like the women who have to balance elder caregiving and full-time employment. Like those grandparents who, having raised their children, have earned the right to decide how involved they want to be in raising their grandchildren. Talk to the people who actually live in the village.

Women of a Certain Age

If things had gone a little differently in my life, I would probably be one of the post-menopausal childless cat ladies that JD Vance and his running mate, 34 counts yet still running, keep insulting. As you know, when I started this blog, that was the path I was traveling (oh wait, some of you probably weren't aware that I had a cat-Mommy stint prior to the start of this blog...will tell you all about it in a minute)--except I was/am married. I was a dedicated Auntie to all of the kids in my husband's family and had just the one Baby Niece born to my younger brother. We were coming up on ten years of marriage, and all indications pointed to the probability that we were going to be one of those childless married couples--the kind who were content to spoil everyone else's little cherubs with unnecessary frivolity until they had to be returned to their parents.

We got really good at that. But then life took some interesting twists and turns...and well, we are now living another old married couple cliche--that of being the older parents of a young child. We are so old that we can't relate to any of the other parents in our daughter's peer group because we were in college or full grown adults with bills when most of them were children. Some of them are as young as our adult nieces and nephews!

And though I am not Post Menopausal, I am acquainted with her younger sister Peri while their niece Puberty has been trying to catch up with my daughter. Fun times for the Hub, let me tell you...

Since I mentioned it, allow me to take you on a quick trip through my childless cat lady phase, which got underway exactly 15 years ago! It started in late Spring or early Summer of 2008 when I happened to notice a stray kitten on my doorstep while I was grabbing the mail. It ran away, so I didn't think much of it until I happened to see another kitten with a larger cat out on the walkway in front of my house a day or so later. What struck me about them was both the coincidence of seeing two kittens in a span of days near my house, and the fact that the larger cat and the first kitten (black/white tuxedo cats) were obviously related, but now there appeared to be a tiger-striped sibling. Within a few days, I saw the original kitten (whose name I forget, and it is driving me crazy), Tiger, and the Mother cat whom we called Midnight in my backyard, at which point, I became obsessed invested with these strays. It didn't take long for the Hub to warm up to our little cat family once a fourth sibling (another tiger-striped kit whom he named Pudgy) befriended him, and for the next few weeks, we became foster cat parents.

Yes, you read that right. The soon-to-be Busy Black Lady with lifelong animal fur allergies bought cat food, a house, and even a heating pad in case the night temperature dropped. One night I saw a fox stalking my kits and I chased it away in high heel shoes! I scowled when their deadbeat fat Cat-Daddy (a tiger-striped that reminded me of Heathcliff) showed up one day, expecting to be fed even though he wore a visible collar. We contacted the Humane Society for guidance to support our kitties, and they referred us to a special program for stray cats. They recommended that we could extend the life of our strays by having them spayed/neutered, which we paid to have done (and I think we still have one of the cages they left behind). 

Bob Barker would have been proud; alas, this was a short-lived sitcom. To my next-door neighbor, who kept a strict schedule of meticulous yard work and immaculate landscaping, our cats were a nuisance. They were crapping in his yard, so his demand was if we weren't going to bring them to live inside our house, then we needed to stop feeding them. I ignored him, so he retaliated by using some kind of repellant that kept them away. No matter what I did to entice them back, they never returned to our care. 

The nature of passing fancies is that they pass, and once we were in the full throes of Obamamania, his Inauguration, and that first year of wow-we-got-a-Black-president euphoria, I moved on. By year's end, we were blessed with a Baby Niece (now the Mean Teen) and in spite of our excitement over her, we had accepted that God's plan for our lives wouldn't follow the traditional route of love, marriage, and baby carriages. As it turned out, the delay was not a denial with quite a few detours and left turns before we got here.

I shared that bit of personal history in response to the truly tone-deaf and insensitivity of the statements made by GOP Vice Presidential candidate James Donald David Bowman Hamel Vance (yeah, not exactly the kind of hillbilly name we're used to). He said some things about women that don't sound like a guy who hopes to ascend to a higher office with our support. His wife Usha, also a rather preppie Yalie in her own right, doesn't seem to know how to help him pull that country club loafer out of his mouth...

Childless cat-ladies is the kind of insult one would expect from some bitter IT guy living in his parents' basement because those are the only women he meets--the ones who post cat videos online. I'm not throwing shade because people like what they like, and cats happen to be the pet of choice for certain kinds of folks. I imagine that collecting houseplants and gardening would be similarly regarded, which is something I've done off and on for quite some time (and even blogged about it). So, I'm just saying that if we are categorizing people, basement-dwelling man-babies living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

James David has argued that people who don't produce offspring don't have a sufficient stake in the future of the country, and therefore shouldn't have the same rights. Sounds kinda like a version of second-class citizenship that people marched and protested against, say 60 years ago. Because what about my Aunt E, a childless divorcee who taught pre-K for 35+ years? Or the nuns who taught me French, Biology, and Religion back at my all-girls' high school as part of my training and preparation for a good Catholic marriage? I could provide examples of the countless women, many of whom are good friends of mine, who wanted to follow the traditional path of love and marriage, but either never found the right man or experienced some course alteration that put them on a different path. Most of these women are doing great work in their professions, as business owners, and as civic leaders, because they have chosen to focus their energy on making the world better.

Because Lord knows, those of us with children barely have time to take care of ourselves. Ask me how I know...

Furthermore, just as there are childless women who have the time, talent, and treasure to dedicate themselves to improving the lives of others, there are men who are just as similarly convicted and concerned about human welfare. I happen to know quite a few of them as well. James David happens to be a recent adult convert to Catholicism, an entire Christian denomination that follows the edicts and proclamations made by unmarried men--a Pope, a college of Cardinals and Archbishops, Bishops, etc., and somehow, I don't believe he intends to disenfranchise his parish priest. That the men who are leaders of his faith have neither been married nor have any biological children, yet they have taken it upon themselves to impose their moral authority on the entire world...not at all problematic. But it's the cat ladies who can't be trusted?

(In all seriousness, because not only is my Dad a Catholic as are several people I respect, such as President Biden, so I won't dare make a crass joke...just a passing reference to the fact that yeah, substantial and unforgivable harm due to the sexual abuse that was covered up for centuries, but let's move on.)

As a former domestic relations attorney, I can tell you that there are too many people who have had children for all of the wrong reasons, so there is NO way we should entrust our country's future to their poor judgment. I could write a whole separate piece on that part of my life and what I have learned about human nature, but suffice it to say 

Post-menopausal women sounds on par with referring to pregnancy after the age of 35 as geriatric. It is the kind of insult that may be technically correct terminology but might get you shanked if aimed at the wrong person. So of course it gets uttered by two men engaged in light banter on a podcast. And look, I would take James David at his word that he didn't agree with that term if his word could be trusted. This is the same guy who went from being a never-Trumper to his bottom bitch in less time than it takes for a woman in her mid-50s to become post-menopausal...

As offensive as their implied use of that term was, it was actually the awkward white guy "compliment" of their respective South Asian mothers-in-law that was more offensive. Perhaps I'm just being hormonal, but why do white men who marry outside of their race always seem surprised to learn that whenever possible, their non-white in-laws don't consider caring for their grandchildren as an imposition? (And have y'all ever considered that it's you they are most concerned about?) My MIL moved in with her son and then her daughter to assist with her grandchildren too, and I imagine had she lived, she would have moved to DC to assist us 9 years ago. Not because that would have been her purpose, but her pleasure. 

Be clear on that distinction--it would have been her pleasure to assist us, and our privilege to accept and receive such selfless support. Because not all families operate under the automatic assumption of assigned gender roles, nor should it be regarded as an obligation. Relationships are choices. I am perplexed then, by someone like James David, who claims to understand and appreciate how strong women chose to intervene at various points in his life to save him, could so easily betray them with his misogynist rhetoric. I know that he wants to appease the hedge funders, venture capitalists, alphaverse Podcast Bros, and millionaire grifters running for President to avoid prison, but c'mon man! 

Seriously, what kind of man talks shit about women the way James David has done and expects that all will be forgiven once he gets home? Would his beloved Mamaw, the woman he immortalized in his memoir appreciate being reduced to a post-menopausal woman whose only purpose was to keep him from ruining his life? Really? And what of his wife, Usha, an accomplished woman in her own right who has apparently chosen to compromise her principles to stand by her man...I imagine that if she's rethinking her life choices, she's wondering how much she might have accomplished as a childless cat lady.

This is the thanks they get--a man who prevaricates to obscure the impact of his shape-shifting and weather-vane politics. A cardboard cut-out opportunist who wears guyliner. A man who can't even settle on a consistent name for himself, but he's got disparaging names for women. Contrary to the various clarifications and remixed explanations issued by the campaign, James David isn't some inarticulate rube who misspeaks or makes up words. He's the kind of self-made everyman whose trajectory from the Appalachians to the Marines to Ohio State to Yale Law School to Silicon Valley to the NYTimes Bestseller List to the Senate to the point where he could be a heartbeat away from the Presidency is...almost too good to be true. 

I may just be a former cat lady aging my way towards menopause, but this talented Mr. Ripley act James David is pulling has been calculated and methodical. He's not campaigning to be the wing man to someone he despises, because his mission isn't to help elect the useful orange idiot. Trump is a means to an end. Apparently, y'all haven't watched the Manchurian Candidate (1962) enough times. (What, you thought cat ladies and post-menopausal women only watched rom-coms in their downtime?)

Women who can think for themselves, exercise the freedom to make choices about what to do with their lives, and who aren't overwhelmed or tied down by familial obligations threaten the New (Old) World Order. Even if you haven't taken the time to read Project 2025 (and I have a kid, so no I don't have that kind of time), many of the proposals and policy recommendations are intended to undo much of the New Deal/Great Society reforms of the 20th Century. James David wrote the foreword, so even as his running mate disavows knowledge of what is contained in the plan, we know he's lying and it doesn't matter because James David knows. These are the people who groomed positioned him!

Thus, even if they lose in November, they have already sown enough seeds of discord. They have polarized this country along every fault line that exists and have exploited every vulnerability. We are embroiled in daily cultural skirmishes over the most ridiculous of topics. We live with constant agitation and anger over the pettiest stuff with the objective of keeping us under constant stress, exhausted, and on a hair trigger to overreact to just about anything. I mean, why does anyone need to lose sleep over a woman who prefers the company of cats unless she's insisting on bringing a dish to the office potluck?

Do you realize what these people have gotten us so angry about: rainbows, kittens, Dr. Suess books, tampons, crying babies, and RuPaul's Drag Race?! Remember when we used to end friendships over the choice between Coke vs. Pepsi, McDonald's vs. Burger King, and The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones? Me neither because I just picked my preferences and went on about my business. Sure, we've got fundamental disagreements, competing perspectives, and divergent ideas because this is a diverse country. Allegedly, that is supposed to allow us the freedom to be ourselves, whomever that may be.

For some women, that means choosing to adopt cats instead of having biological children. That's also a valid choice for men too. Choice means that children are born and raised by people who want and are able to provide for them, including extended family members, such as a post-menopausal woman or a retired elderly man. Parenthood shouldn't be mandated or forced on anyone, nor should certain family structures be proscribed by law or deemed superior to others. 

Finally, because I don't know what to make of Usha Vance (is she a manipulative Eleanor Iselin, conspiring with the Kremlin to facilitate a scenario to deliver the Presidency to her husband) or is she a captive would-have-been a cat lady, and it is she who is under hypnosis? I don't know what your choice will ultimately be, but if you need to escape, there's an army of women ready to pounce, just say the word.