What does it even mean anymore?

SUCCESS.

Success in your 50s, 60s, and 70s isn’t the same animal.

Usually, a much better, much more tamable pet.

But every now and then...

the old monster comes back and bites you in the ass.

Here’s one.

In my late 50s, success had me spinning.

I went from the “IT” girl of publishing to someone who couldn’t get a phone call returned.

I went from the person everybody wanted to brand their magazine—yes, I’m talking print magazines. Remember print magazines?—to nickel-and-diming potential clients for work I didn’t even want, making less money instead of more.

UGH.

I wasn’t alone.

Women in media—and plenty of other industries—were discovering that once they reached “a certain age” (God, I hate that expression), they went from being the bomb to... well, bombing. Having to figure out their lives all over again.

And it’s still happening.

But it was something I never expected.

I was my title.

It defined me.

Who the fuck was I without it?

Well, I got to find out.

Today, I love not being “that title.”

But it took a lot of work to let it go and roll into what came next.

It also took an illness—one I’ve thankfully recovered from.

I had to figure it out.

Recently, I heard Rachel Ward say that success, at this point in her life, is “the idea of turning into another aspect of myself to roll into.”

God, I loved that.

Because that’s exactly what I did.

I rolled into another aspect of myself.

Actually, a few.

I’ve spent the last ten years as the founder of Glorious Broads — finding and interviewing kick-ass women who defy traditional “aging” and all the lies we were fed.

Success was one of them.

We raise the middle finger.
Gleefully.
Ragefully.

I love these broads.

Recently I chatted with Katrina del Mar.

We talked about success.

She shared something the poet Eileen Myles once said:

“A succession of moments.”

POW!

Now that’s a definition of success I can get behind.

Not one big arrival.

Not one title.

Not one career.

Just a succession of moments where you keep becoming yourself.

Like most New Yorkers, I have been driven by success.

But since turning 60, those success moments have seriously changed.

Less angst.

Less self-judging.

Less about others.

More about me.

And yet...

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I BOMBED.

No getting around it.

I bombed.

Majorly.

Bombed in a recent interview on a show I admired.

By a host I admired.

Oops.

I was away when the interview was released.

Enjoying time off social media.

I assumed it hadn’t aired.

I found it when I got home.

Wish I hadn’t.

But I did.

It had me reeling.

Like I was back in my 50s.

The interview was in two parts—one about life, the second about my financial collapse after 2008.

And what a collapse it was.

Fair enough.

But I hadn’t prepared a timeline.

Numbers have never been my strength, and I got one key date wrong.

And that key date was a doozy.

Once I stumbled, I never recovered.

Neither did the audience.

I was in an easy-breezy mood.

But that ‘tude did not work for me.

We rapidly went downhill.

I’ve been interviewed many times.

Only one other time have I bombed.

And interestingly, that interview also required a timeline I wasn’t prepared for.

DUH.

When home, I read the first fifteen comments.

WOE.

I was called a liar.

Privileged.

Slut-shamed.

A Samantha Jones wannabe—which, frankly, I’m not sure is an insult.

Judged.

But the lying part got me.

I’m a lot of things.

But not that.

I was done.

As I read the through, I thought about our Glorious Broad Hatty Wiener

80-years-old.

Boy toys.

Endless judgment.

Her response?

“Nobody can shame me.”

I needed some of that.

• Now I did learn a few things:

  1. Read the room. This was not the place to be in a fun, loose mood.

  2. Never have a double espresso before an interview. Even if you didn’t sleep the night before.

  3. If you’re going to talk about your own life, and you suck at numbers—WRITE THE SHIT DOWN.

  4. Don’t read more than five comments. Nuf.

I blame no one but myself for this bomb.

Though disgusted with the judging, I probably would’ve held the audience if it weren’t for my big fat flub.

I could feel the room leave me.

The comments confirmed it.

Some questioned my credibility.

Others questioned my character.

That’s the internet.

It stung.

Like the old days.

After consuming the deluge of hate, I collapsed onto my comfy couch and wondered...

What kind of Glorious Broad do I turn to for recovery?

Because I needed to recover.

I needed the patron saint of public humiliation.

I needed Joan Rivers.

Who else?

A Broad who had approximately 9,000 public disasters and somehow turned them into one kick-ass career.

I watched Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work.

Not for comedy.

For recovery.

A master class.

In a few weeks, I’ll be onstage at Joe’s Pub, surrounded by the broads of Generation Women, talking about “new beginnings.”

You better believe I’ll have my fucking crib sheet with me.

Wipe the humiliation off my brow.

Go onward.

Like Joan.

Like Hatty.

That’s my definition of success now.

The one that says humble pie is not the end of the story.

Success wasn’t lying to me after all.

It just shifted.

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In this glorious weather, in these glorious mountains, I’m lazing around, reading, dreaming, thinking about “next” — but not too much about next — as I’m doing my Buddha best to stay “in the moment.”

On my own for the first five days. Then the crew comes in.

Bliss.

And a much-needed break from… you know what.

I wanted to find this piece from my archives.

I tweaked parts of it so it was totally up to date.

But it didn’t require much.

Because this same conversation has been going on since Madonna hit 40.

Why are we still here with this broad’s story?

Still picking on her looks. Her aging. “She’s too old to be a rock star. Why is she looking backward instead of forward?” Blah blah blah.

It’s so fucking boring.

But then I re-read this piece from my very early days as an art director — and remembered the blatant ageism and misogyny I was too clueless to see.

Or feel.

Or say no to participating in.

At Esquire, in the early ’90s, I assigned an illustration to a male artist: create a double-page spread of Madonna at 65 (which seemed ancient to me and the rest of the young buck staff).

The artist sent me the painting (yes, a painting), and I relished giving him feedback:

“Make her tits hang more. Give her a crinkled paunch. Lots more sag around the thighs she’s so proud of now.”

Etc. Etc. Etc.

I cringe when I remember the glee I took in it.

Because this wasn’t a realistic portrait of an aging Madonna. It was done with spite. With meanness.

I think the boys were scared shitless of the power and sexuality of Madonna. And we all did our best to take her down at the mere thought of... aging.

I couldn’t help but wonder (oh, that again, SJP) — would any young broad today conform to the big boss, who shall remain nameless, and assign this sexist art, chock-full of ageist misogyny, and get satisfaction from bringing her down?

Have we turned a page?

Or have we not?

Yeah. I am disappointed Madonna is not growing older the way I would have liked her to.

But...

It’s none of my business.

I think of Cher and all the shit she got because she refused to “age gracefully” (a term I abhor).

“If I want to put my tits on my back, it’s nobody’s business but my own.”

Preach.

Madonna is our Mae West.

And that brilliant artist did not go gracefully into the night.

All sex. No shame. No apologies. And funny as hell until the end of her life.

Whether it’s Cher, Madonna, Mae — or all the future Broads still to come — we’re all going to age.

Let’s stop policing the women who refuse to do it the way we think they should.

And what about ole Jagger?

At 81, I’m not hearing half the shit Madonna is getting. He’s wearing whatever the fuck he wants — strutting his stuff on stage — again, and had a baby at 73.

So maybe it’s time to retire this tired conversation.

Take whatever you want from Madonna.

The music.

The nerve.

The ambition.

The work ethic.

The refusal to disappear.

Take the inspiration...and

Dance away.

The rest?

It’s none of our damn business.

Are you with me?

Sometimes I treat New York City like a boyfriend.
A boyfriend I’m tired of. A boyfriend I take for granted. A boyfriend I treat like shit.

I mean — not all of the time. What’s the fun of that?

But I get fed up. I get blasé. I get bored with the antics…

And then. Things can shift. In a moment.

Suddenly he seems dashing.
Suddenly he seems ferocious.
Suddenly he is the brave, courageous, funny, arty creature you always thought he could be.

Suddenly New York has delivered.

This spring. This early summer. I know, I know—for me and everyone else.

Still…

The Knicks had a parade yesterday!

The kind where everyone forgets the construction, the prices, the rats, the noise, the everything… and starts acting like we’ve all been in love the whole time.

Including me.

This is what New York does: it breaks your heart on Tuesday and makes you fall in love with it again by Friday.

But before I get fully swept into the confetti and civic romance of it all…

I did something very New York of me.

I went back to my list.

My “why I am over this place” list from 2022. Covid time.

And like any long-term relationship, I checked to see what’s improved… and what is still absolutely unhinged.

PROS

This Glorious Spring.

A real god damn spring. Girls in pretty dresses. Men at the gym or on mini runs shedding it all.

Parks come to life.
I come to life.

Horny spring.
Horny summer.
Horny New York!

The city is alive again in that way that makes you forgive it everything it did to you in February. Remember February?!?

And then of course—there are those collective moments.

The parade. The miracle. The thing we all share in unison.

And suddenly the city we love to hate… is everybody’s unabashed golden child.

Which makes me slightly suspicious.

Because nothing good in New York stays uncomplicated for long.

Am I right?
I am right.

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CONS (2022 list, revised and updated)

1. The Price of Everything

Let’s start here: the emotional violence of paying $65 for a meal, $27 for a drink, and $280 for a haircut you question for three days.

I used to resist this.

Now I “curate” it.

Which is just a fancy word for surrender.

2. Construction as a Lifestyle

There is no “finished New York.”

Only New York being dug up again, directly outside your bedroom at 6:42am. Weekends included. Forever.

It’s not construction anymore.

It’s the city’s personality. And this of all my bitches has made me BANANAS.

A walk down my block, above.

3. The Sidewalk Hunger Games

Bike lanes are Mad Max.

Sidewalks are performance art. Four abreast. Holding hands. Where are these people from? Where?!?

I no longer say “excuse me” — I am a tyrant with a purpose on the street. Oops.

4. Phone Zombies

People in New York are either aggressively present or spiritually gone.

Often both.

My chirpy “GOOD MORNING” in elevators now feels like a minor crime I refuse to stop committing.

5. The Nostalgia Trap

Old New York didn’t disappear.

It just became harder to find and more emotionally expensive.

But occasionally—very occasionally—you find a dollar store or a real newsstand and suddenly you’re in love again like the idiot you are. Casa Magazines! I love you.

6. The Restaurant Situation

There are two options now:

• $27 martini happiness
• or cooking and knowing exactly what you’re putting in your body

You will find me at the martini.

Entrée no longer required.

7. Neighborhood Drift

My neighborhood used to feel like a mix of ages, chaos, and characters.

Now I look around and think:

Is this a neighborhood… or a tech product launch?

Then I remind myself: it’s probably just me aging. And the neighborhood changing.

That’s life. And that’s New York.

8. Noise, but Make It Personal

People complain about noise.

I now schedule my bedtime around other people’s lives.

Either maturity or defeat.

Still undecided.

9. Homelessness

This is the one thing that doesn’t get funnier with distance.

It just sits there.

Every block. Every day.

And it breaks my heart. Each and every one of them.

10. The Big Shift

The biggest change is not the city.

It’s me.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to win New York.

I used to think loving this city meant defending it. Owning it. Declaring it the greatest city in the world like it needed my endorsement.

It didn’t.

I don’t want to see the world that way anymore.

I am no longer one of those assholes who says this is THE city and everything else is second rate.

I am a real New Yorker who needs to get out of town more.

I am a real New Yorker who loves Paris, Rome, Istanbul, Madrid, Athens—the list goes on.

I am a real New Yorker who understands that love sometimes needs distance.

I can leave. I can come back.

I am allowed to miss him while I’m gone and complain about him while I’m here.

That’s the relationship now.

Not devotion. Not rejection. Something in between.

A city I don’t leave—yet—but I don’t stop negotiating with either.

And yes—always kvetching.

Because if I ever stop complaining about New York…
I’m probably not here anymore.

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Not OK.

But I love me my Reese Witherspoon.
And I triple love me my Kara Swisher.

What do all these very different kinds of broads have in common?

Encouraging the use — or at the very least — the curiosity — for women to learn artificial intelligence.

And yet…

They have been deemed the devil.

And with the exception of Mel?

I disagree.

I have a crush on Courtney Love.
Who doesn’t?

And when I saw her latest IG post — lookin’ all Courtney-mornin-after-sex-look — making a diva drama of deleting Claude…

It made me sad.

Are we sure refusing to engage is the feminist position here?
‘Cause I disagree.

I use Claude.
There. I said it.

I use it as a tool. As an organizer, as a researcher, as a cognitive assistant.

Not as a writing partner.

I got human beings for that.

I am fully aware of the problem that all AI is.
And it is a problem.

Kara talks about it all the time. The labor theft. The ethics — or lack thereof. The government regulation that needs to happen so this thing does not run wild the way social media did under the greedy billionaire tech dudes.

And yes — I am fully aware of the environmental crisis these data centers are creating.

IT’S FUCKED.
HOWEVER.

We cannot turn this thing around.

And women — especially older women — cannot ostrich themselves out of this technological shift.

Fear is reasonable.
Opting out entirely is not.

Back to Kara.

She teaches me so much on Pivot. About Claude, which I have chosen to use for — well — ethical reasons. About the tech giants trying to kill each other — and possibly us.

Scott Galloway drives me mad. But he is one smart motherfucker.

He teaches me too.

I’ve learned what to use and what to use it for.

I’ve learned that it could unclutter my mind.

Which is a pretty cluttered mind.

While I was never diagnosed, I’m pretty sure I have ADHD.

My thoughts are everywhere.

I need somebody to rein me in. When I am thinking. When I am working.

Which is exactly what the Apple Macintosh did for me in 1985, when I was a baby designer.

I was attracted to publishing. The world of glam, but also the world of content. I always loved to tell a story — whether it was with pictures, words, or both.

I was hired by one of the big-deal publishing designers, Roger Black — and he happened to be one of the first, if not the first, to design on computers.

I have no idea how I talked myself into that job since — I knew zip.

But I did.

You need to understand our lives in the late ’70s and early ’80s.

Waxers. Rubber cement. Layers of Xeroxes. Stat cameras. X-acto knives regularly lopping off the tips of your fingers. Layers of shit that would mess up your desk — and your head.

I was an OK designer.

Not a great one.

And then they put this Apple Macintosh in front of me.

And my design life changed — drastically.

My hired “coach” explained that my entire fucked-up desktop would now live inside this computer.

WHA?

That I could play with type and size and layout — all from a keyboard.

DOUBLE WHA!

I could see clearer.
I could think clearer.

My world changed. In a larger way.

I was a player.

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I remember Roger having to defend our position back then.

Journalists would call and ask him what he thought about “digital design,” and he would go …

APESHIT!

“It’s not digital design!” he’d scream.

Yeah. He was a screamer.

“It’s design.
Period.”

And it was.

That computer elevated me. The way I thought. The way I communicated.

But first?

I had to get over the fear.
I had to get over the panic.

So yes.
I’ve seen this movie before.

I’m a broad who survived one technological revolution — and refuses to be exiled from this one.

And neither should you.

One of my smartest friends and Glorious Broads, Elizabeth White, has been working with AI before almost anyone I know.

And she brought up something I had not really considered.

An opportunity to combat ageism.
With AI.
Can you believe I just said that?

I did.

Here’s Elizabeth:

“At 72, AI has been a game changer for me — and I say that fully recognizing its staggering environmental costs and the labor disruption already underway. But here’s an upside I seldom hear talked about: for older adults, AI has the potential to lower the technical barriers that have sidelined millions, some as young as 50, from the next economic era. For years, technical fluency has been treated as the primary currency of value. What AI changes is that it handles more of the ‘how,’ shifting the premium back toward judgment, pattern recognition, context, and lived experience. The sharpest minds in tech are looking everywhere for ways to accelerate wisdom in younger workers, while the people who already have that wisdom are standing right in front of them. That’s what happens when business sees older adults mainly as a problem to be solved rather than an asset class to be designed for — a real blind spot in an era of longer, healthier lifespans.”

Brilliant. Then she forwarded this article. Double brilliant.

Faith Ringgold — activist, artist, and one of my very first Glorious Broads interviews when she was 84 — said it simply:

“You gotta stay in the game.”

And she knew what she was talking about. She had the biggest solo show of her life at 88 at the Serpentine Gallery and a major retrospective at the New Museum at 89.

So yeah.

I’ve lived through cultural shifts before, Glorious Broads.

And I know that staying in the game does not mean worshipping the machine.

It means refusing to disappear from the conversation.

Refusing to age yourself out of relevance.

Refusing to let fear make your decisions for you.

But let me be clear.

I do not trust the speed of this thing.
I do not trust billionaire tech culture.
And I sure as hell do not trust governments that seem more dazzled by AI than interested in regulating it.

These companies are building data centers at breakneck speed — which is why I was thrilled to see two Muscogee women stop a massive AI data center from being built on tribal land — while the rest of us are still trying to cope with the massiveness of this thing.

What it is doing to our brains.
Our jobs.
Our environment.
Our kids.
Our attention spans.
Our lives.

We are not being given enough time to catch up.

And that is exactly why women — especially older women with perspective, judgment, and lived experience — cannot afford to check out now.

Because if we disappear from this conversation, the future gets built without us.

I am not interested in blind enthusiasm.
I am interested in literacy.
In participation.
In questioning the people building these tools.
In demanding accountability.

And then?

Mastering the damn thing anyway.

T

Just like my mother.

There were six of us.
And she was good at lots of stuff.

Like loving us.
Like thinking we were IT.
Like making us believe we were IT.
And she liked to make us “pretty.”

But that’s about it.

Mother was less gifted at the other “motherly” duties.

She didn’t “play” with us.
She didn’t cook worth shit.
She didn’t “nurse.”

And she loved to bitch.
Loved to complain.

Not with us.
But about us.
And about her husband, my dad.

Especially when we were sick and her nursing abilities were called for.

She didn’t have any nursing abilities other than:

GET. BETTER. FAST.

I know.
’Cause I received this lack of empathy.
And I overheard.

Mother hosted a weekly coffee klatch.

If you don’t know what a “kawfeeklatsch” is — let me explain.

She was a Brooklyn girl. Before Brooklyn was “cool.” Bay Ridge. Married a Bay Ridge handsome boy. Loved the borough thoroughly.

Until — she didn’t.

My mother was the boss of our house — and coerced — i.e. forced — my dad and the rest of the urban-loving pack she raised — including our beloved 77-year-old grandmother — to move to the Joisey burbs.

We hated it.

It was there — a few months in — that she started her coffee klatch — inviting a few of her new cul-de-sac pals over for a weekly bitch fest.

A hit.

It changed Mother immediately from a “what the fuck did I just do” to a happy suburban wife.

I watched carefully.
Though I was just 11, I was deeply miserable.
Where was my block?
Where were my buddies?
Where was the candy guy on the corner who sold me gooey cavity-inducing garbage?
All gone.

Where AM I?

And how did my mother transform so quickly?

What did she know that I didn’t know — yet.

COMMUNITY PEOPLE!

And the art of the bitch session — among other Broads.

My ear would be glued to the kitchen wall, trying to listen in.

Do they all hate their husbands?
Their kids?
Their “mothering” duties — particularly when their kids/husbands got the shits or the inevitable runny noses?

Or is this just… life?
Overheard early on.

If so — it stuck.

The art of nursing is just that.
An art.

And we’re not all “blessed.”

I’ve been a “nurse” for the past three months.

Fortunately, my services are no longer required.

My partner is on his way back to health.

But I can tell you — if it weren’t for a group text of broads in similar situations, I’d have lost it.
Like my dear mother would have.
She had her coffee klatch.
I had my text thread.

Oh, the conversations. Not unlike what I heard through that kitchen wall 64 years ago.

Only more graphic.

The un-sexy details of life with a sick loved one:
Peeing.
Farting.
Pooping.
How many times.
Will he/she/they ever poop again?

OMG.

Some of these broads married older.
You’re 30, he’s 55. Maybe 60.
Then suddenly you’re 50 and he’s… do the math.

You just don’t think about it when you’re young and horny and dashing. But you often turn nurse and unexpected mother in the later days.

It’s a fact not talked about enough.

But I heard it through our text angst!

If it weren’t for these fellow bitches going through it, I’d have lost it.
No doubt.

Have you seen Stephen Sondheim’s “Company?”

The song running through my head this whole time — “Sorry–Grateful.”

“You’re always sorry … you’re always grateful…”
You’re grateful you’re not alone.
You’re sorry you’re not free.

Not so different from what I heard at 11.

And not so different from what I’m obsessed with now — brilliant broads creating spaces to just… complain.

Like newsletter Good Decisions — inviting her readers to send in their complaints — about anything — an asshole neighbor, a bossy boss, the orange man, LinkedIn (my favorite) — just the joy of COMPLAINING with no consequences.

A hit.

Or the podcast “No Country for Old Women” with and — oh do they love to bitch and complain. And we love it with them!

Another hit!

Maybe it’s the modern version of moving from Bay Ridge to the Joisey burbs.

Naaa. It’s more than that.

These are not normal times.

We need to be nursed into some version of mental heath.

Some folks say it’s “bad karma” to complain — I say it’s fucking survival.

A COMMUNITY OF BROADS!

I nursed my man the best I could.
Which is to say — not very well.

Fortunately, I had my coffee klatch.
My mother had hers.

Maybe that’s the inheritance.
Not the nursing.
The knowing you can’t do it alone.

He was a beautiful nurse to me when I needed it earlier this year.
Patient. Kind. Steady.

He must have had a different kind of mother.

Or —

she had her own coffee klatch.

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I am out of debt.
I am out of debt.
I am OUT OF FUCKING DEBT
for the first time in ten years.
TEN fuckin years!
I keep repeating this to myself —
like a mantra.

No more IRS on my tale.
No more STATE sending me terrifying letters about what they are going to take from me — when there was something to take. Trust me, the state is run by thugs. You don’t want to owe the STATE money, people.

No more paying back the SBA for a COVID loan that I thought might be forgiven. Naaaaaaa — that forgiveness is saved for zillionaires thankyouverymuch.

No more paying the minimum due on Amex with an interest of what felt like 400% monthly — or maybe it was 500%. What I know is — it is nuts. — and of course I needed a gold Amex card — ‘cause you gotta LOOK GOOD during all this destitution.
No?

NO.

All I owe now is a couple of grand to my loyal sisters — who believed in me, charged no interest, and kept no ledger. Now that’s love.

AND TRUST.

Speaking of trust — an early memory of me, money, and my sisters.

I was in my late teens living in NYC — a full-on party girl — the sisters all teamed up (there were many) and handed me cash (foolish girls) to buy tickets for us to see Hair on Broadway. Months went by. No tickets. Finally, the oldest ballsiest one asked, “Hey… whatever happened to our theater tickets, bitch?”

I confessed.
I didn’t get those tickets.
I splurged on …

STUFF.

Now, instead of my sisters getting furious with me — they thought this was hysterical.
It wasn’t hysterical.
It was fucked-up.

I had a fucked-up relationship with money.
Note the past tense.

I blame my mommy.
If there was money in my mother’s “purse” — she had an URGENT need to empty said purse … immédiatement … and buy …

STUFF.

“Charge it” was mama’s mating call.

Her daughter inherited this need. I could almost hear the clink of imaginary coins in my pocket. And ohhhhh it needed to be emptied as soon as possible to buy …

STUFF.

MONEY.

I made a lot of it.
Blew through a lot of it.

Had a kick-ass career. But save? What for? It came, and it went. There would always be more.

I sold the apartment I lived in for eons and was truly rolling in dough. I co-wrote a book called DUMPED, negotiated a TV series (which got dumped but hey) — made more.

But save?
Naaaaaaaaaaa.
The money came.
The money went.
Again.

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I think I thought it was still “cute.” My — same, oldest — sister said I should write a new book, How to Blow Through Money WITHOUT the Help of Drugs or Booze.

Now that would have kicked some serious ass.

I am not going to get into all the miniscule “tips” of how I got the fuck out of debt. But I will say that after a couple of rounds of Debtors Anonymous, I realized I did have a problem. DUH. Lots of the folks in those meetings had mommies like mine!

So what I did was:
Focus.
Work my ass off.
Got hooked on:


Chelsea Fagan and The Financial Diet (rocks)
Got lucky a few times.
And. Miracle of miracles — this last one is brand new:
Got an investor for my baby, Glorious Broads.

Only this Investor insists on seeing our ledgers. Ha.
But mostly? Mama learned to live lean and mean.

This isn’t like Covid to me.
You go through it — and then what?
You go right back to the same old shit.

NO.
NO NO NO.

These are lessons learned.
Limited times.

And weirdly — I’m grateful for the hard times.
Would I have preferred less than TEN fucking years?
Yes. Obviously.

But still.

Something has shifted.

Lean and mean — it started as survival.
Now? It’s a choice.
The politics of it. The simplicity of it.
The planet. My sanity.

NO MORE STUFF.

That life?
Ovuh.

Shoes used to be everything.
Yeah — I had a little Carrie Bradshaw in me.

Now?
Maybe I still love them — but I’m not paying $700 to prove it.

What I want now is to continue the simple.

EXPERIENCE.
NOT STUFF.

FREEDOM.
NOT DEBT.

The money I make from here on?
It doesn’t go on my back.
It goes into my life.
It goes into my projects.
It goes into my Glorious Broads.

And travel?
That will change completely.
I used to go places to be somewhere.
And going incognito was my must.

Now?
I want to see people I love. In a place I love.
I want to sit somewhere spectacular and do absolutely nothing with a pal who matters.

THAT’S IT.

I’ve always been purpose-driven.
That hasn’t changed.
But something else is stirring.

Getting out of fucking debt will do this to you.
Lifts the black cloud.

A tad of softness.
A lightness.
Where there used to be only push, push, push.

This last bit — at 75
(not calling it a chapter)

I want ease.
I want joy.
Not every second of every day.
But I want a bunch of it.
No matter what — even during all of THIS.

My Glorious Broads.
Good conversations.
Better confrontations.
Long afternoons.
A 3pm espresso that turns into 6pm because no one’s rushing me.

That’s the new luxury.

NOT THINGS.
NOT STUFF.

Not proving anything to anyone.
None of it.

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I’m all in for that.
But the White House myth.
No. No. No.

My mind wanders to the Kennedy frat boys — entitled pricks frolicking with their footballs — or whatever they did — on Hyannis Port lawns.

CRINGE.

Not their politics or their daddy’s —Bobby, Teddy, JFK— but their women-hating, women-cheating, misogynistic ways.

TRIPLE CRINGE.

But hey! That’s my prickly Irish Catholic reaction to a clan I love to hate.

With the exception of…JFK Jr.

How fun is it to watch this series Love Story, I ask you?
Loaded with imperfections.

BUT WHO CARES?

The basic timeline is there.
The fashion is there.
The music is there. And those two dreamy leads.
The script? Pretty cheesy. Those monologues?
Ummm…Jackie O did not talk like that, ok Naomi? I’ve researched. But again… with the exception of Daryl Hannah—who really did get screwed …

WHO THE FUCK CARES?

Just watching the hunk Paul Anthony Kelly playing John, zipping around town bare-chested on his bike… where often — ok — sometimes — I’d spot him.

OH. THE FUN OF THE 90s.

The stink of cigarette smoke everywhere. Long-haired skinny blondes flipping their hair this way and that — they really did do that. Nights of multi-martinis and gigundo hangovers, yet showing up the next day bushytailed — just a tad late. I was young. Esh. Loved every minute of it.

And remembering…
John.
My John. My colleague.
Yes, colleague: JFK Jr.

It didn’t last long. But I got a story.

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In the early ’90s—actually, throughout the ’90s—I worked as an art director for a big deal named Roger Black. I loved Roger. We all loved Roger. Mostly. He was creative director of Esquire then — designed it, redesigned it, launched spin-offs. We shot anywhere we liked. Worked with whomever we wanted. Money was no issue. Times were sweeeeeeeet.

That Esquire office? Magic. Swimming with smart, funny, attractive men—and a few smarter, funnier, more attractive women.

We worked our asses off.
Flirted our asses off.
And made our deadlines, dammit.

Roger Black knew everyone. And worked everywhere. One of those folks was Jann Wenner. Roger developed the iconic look for Rolling Stone in the ’70s. Jann knew JFK Jr. And everybody knew Roger. Back to that.

Often we’d launch new mags when we were behind the idea— Fast Company, OUT. Inventive stuff. Roger and his crew (moi and a pack of funny, talented, boy men) knew how to make pubs feel tangible, alive, “like they’ve always been there.”

And that’s where John comes in — with this idea of mixing celebs and politics in a way nobody had, turning a vague concept into a tactile thing they’d call … GEORGE.

OUR FIRST MEETING?

I was alone — poor me — in Roger’s glam office, expecting an intimate intro. Doors locked — or so I thought. Ten minutes in — the now uber successful author, the ravishing Jeanette Walls struts in. All 6’3” in stilettos. Fierce, funny, hellbent on a scoop. Jeanette left with no “scoop” — just a good eyeful. I was pissed at the interruption. John got a laugh. Just another day…

I pushed him to take our prototype of OUT with him — just so he’d understand what the hell we did. He shook his head at my naivety. JFK Jr. walking out with the very gay OUT tucked under his arm? Duh. There were a lot of moments like that back then. What did I know?

He lived under a microscope every single second. And somehow … completely unbothered. Jackie raised him without a shred of the Kennedy clan entitlement and arrogance — or so it seemed. Cousins, uncles… remember Chappaquiddick? Remember Mary Jo Kopechne? Literally getting away with murder. Not this guy. He answered his own phone. He’d call me directly. He gave me my due. With a bit of swagger. In other words. Hot. Fun. Smart enough.

And he did what every “prototype” client does when all goes well — got a backer, got an editor, got an art director — and left us behind. Off to build his own Camelot: glamor, celebs, politics — not unlike Jackie in the White House.

Tremendous early buzz. Maybe that’s what it’s all about. Tremendous early buzz for the White House Camelot — only to be followed by the aftermath: John Kennedy’s death, and his shitty treatment of Jackie. Tremendous early buzz for GEORGE. And like so many mags, it puttered. Tremendous early buzz for this new relationship … JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette. And the catastrophe that follows.

I’m all caught up on the series. One more to go. I don’t want to see this last episode — when they jump into that helicopter, when John made that irresponsible decision to haul those two sisters off to their end. He never should have been allowed to fly that plane. Did he escape the entitlement of the Kennedy clan? The arrogance, flying at night with almost no experience? A tad entitled. A tad arrogant? Maybe. Maybe not.

Another Camelot ends.

BADLY.

I was never a fan of Camelot.

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“I picked the wrong week to stop smoking.”

“I picked the wrong week to stop taking amphetamines.”

— Ted Striker
The deeply unqualified, increasingly unhinged “hero” of Airplane (1980)

Unhinged.
That feels about right this week.

Valentine’s Day, landing in the middle of all of this — shit — all the revelations, all the powerful rich fucks exposed, all the rot.

It feels almost — insulting.

People I thought were creeps are so far beyond creeps.
They are criminals.
They are predators.
They are garbage.

We’re saturated in the sick debauchery of it all.
All of them — literally — caught with their pants down.

I do not want to hate all folks with a penis.
I don’t. But the Epstein files are making it pretty hard. Are they not?

I’m not calling for exile.
Or revenge.

I am calling for unity.
And a pause.
A Valentine’s Day pause.

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For this Valentine’s Day, I’m asking broads to stick together.
Shove the men to the side — temporarily —
and love each other up.

Take each other out.
Take yourself out.
Hang up the partner for one night. Two nights. A week.

BLOCK EM.

No sex.
No smoothing things over.
No pretending all’s swell.
’Cause it’s deeply not.

This Valentine’s Day, let’s be with each other
and remember who we were before we learned to accommodate, to explain, to endure.

This Valentine’s Day isn’t about romance.
It isn’t chocolates and roses.
Keep your fucking chocolates and roses.

It’s about consciousness.
It’s about sensitivity.

For the men — and young men — in our lives.
The ones not on “the list.”
Letting them see the shit we navigate every single day.

Not just we as grownup broads.

This Valentine’s Day is about —

THE GIRLS.

When does a child become a “woman”?
When is thirteen old enough to consent?
When is it sex — and when is it rape?

It’s rape.
It’s all rape.

It’s the girls that get to me.

The ones who don’t yet know the danger.
The ones who haven’t learned to mistrust their instincts.
The ones who will be told — sooner or later —

TO BUCK UP.
TO SMILE.
TO PUT UP WITH IT.

It kills me.

These girls.

I think about my own life — how utterly unaware I was of my so-called “power” as a sexual creature.

I wasn’t powerful.
I wasn’t a model.
I was just a kid.
A girl.
With big juicy tits.
At twelve.

Harassed for being that impossible thing:
half child, half woman.

I made stupid decisions.
I didn’t always trust my instincts.

But I lived in a city.
I had bikes. And then cabs.
I had escape routes.

I was not stuck on a remote island with no way out.

BLOCK EM.

I’m not saying all men are evil.
I don’t believe that.

But I do believe — deeply — that most men do not get it.

Here’s an example.

I recently told my partner about a horrifying incident involving a close family friend — abuse that began when I was twelve. I explained why I couldn’t be casual when he made what he considered a joke: “Let me mess with you tonight.”

I cringed. Deeply.

And he didn’t hesitate to answer:
“Buck up.”

Buck up.

To what?
To being manhandled since adolescence?
To a lifetime of vigilance?

This is a good man.
A decent man.

And still — he does not get it.

That’s the gap.
That’s the chasm.
And that’s why women need each other.

BLOCK EM.

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The #MeToo movement didn’t fix this.
Nothing has fixed this.

Rape, harm, exploitation — it continues.
And now we see just how deep the rot goes.

I came of age in the 50s.
Entered the workforce in the 70s.

We didn’t want to be victims.
We didn’t want to whine.

We laughed off the harassment and swallowed the humiliation because we wanted to work.

SO WE ATE IT.

As girls, we absorbed the messages early.

I remember lying on my sisters’ bed, trying on their fuzzy sweaters, listening to Patti Page croon:
Don’t you know a girl means yes when she says no.

That song has vanished now.
Scorched from history.
Wise.

We learned the code.
Avoid that guy.
Don’t be alone with that one.

But we didn’t yet know the power of our voices — beyond whispering to each other.

And now?

Now we know.
And now the girls need to know.

So for this Valentine’s Day, my wish is simple:

A world where women — all generations — protect each other. Where girls are taught to trust their instincts and leave. Where we stop pretending romance and bullshit matter more than safety.

BLOCK EM.

For our daughters.
Our sisters.
Our younger selves.

This Valentine’s Day —
let’s stand up.

And for one Radical Fuck You Moment:

BLOCK EM.

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I didn’t need Professor Galloway to push me that hard.

The word UNSUBSCRIBE had been sitting on my to-do-list for weeks.

But when I heard ole Scott Galloway — a potent mix of sexist, ageist, sometimes misogynist, always big-dick energy who drives me bonkers — on Pivot talking about RESIST AND UNSUBSCRIBE — well…

Galloway is a pig.
And Galloway is brilliant.

Both things can be true.

He’s a smart muthuhfuckuh who makes a great podcast with my spiritual sister and full time crush, Kara Swisher — so I listened.

And it made sense.

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I hung up thinking and feeling guilty about where Resist and Unsubscribe actually lives — not in the streets — but on my desktop…

And I attacked.

I’ve been working hard — mightily hard — trying to get over my fucking addiction to the phone — many of us have written essays, columns, testimonials, novels about this plague — I’ve joined groups like — tracking the hours — the pointers— begging please-help-me’s. And I gotta tell you ,,,

Mostly, I’ve failed.

But unsubscribe?
That I can do.

And what I discovered — among other small horrors — is that I had more than three accounts for the same three services, none of which I remembered signing up for.

Which means triple profiling of:
· what I bought
· what I almost bought
· what I paused on
· what I was sad about at 11:34 p.m.
— and bought anyway

Beyond creepy.

This resistance of unsubscribing ain’t performative. And I am not saying folk on the streets are. We need them.
This resistance is about the math.
It’s about the markets.

With every delete, I felt euphoric.
I refuse to say empowered.

I unsubscribed from:
Amazon.
Prime.
Apple TV.
Apple Music.
Facebook (personal).
Streaming services I didn’t know I had.
LinkedIn Premium…a massive relief.
Uber … oh, I loved fuckin these predatory guys over — as they have done to me — US — over and over again.
A list of media I have never or almost never read.

The list goes on. A serious digital tear.

I’m a working, creative stiff who sits on her butt — mostly — from home.
I need some services.
I do not need so much stuff.
Especially not in threes.

Since the pandemic, I’ve been less of a stuff collector.
Since this weekend, I’m much less of a service collector.

And it matters.

As Galloway puts it:
“Big Tech controls 40% of the S&P. Any slowdown in growth would potentially have a disastrous effect. And the fastest way to do damage is a slowdown.”

It isn’t dramatic.
It’s intentional.
A slowdown causing deliberate suffering.
Loving that.

I didn’t throw my phone into the ocean.
I just said NO about 57 times.

And that got me thinking about algorithms.

I don’t even recognize the Maryjane they built a profile on.
I don’t recognize the broad they think I am.

I want to remember who I was before all this.
Before algorithms decided what I wanted.
Before recommendations followed me everywhere.
Before my curiosity was quietly outsourced.

The Maryjane — before.

How long has it been since I let my mind wander?

Not scroll.
Not react.
Wander.

Because if I don’t know who the fuck I am before all this, how can I resist anything fully?

Till then, I’ll be unsubscribing.

I hear a chuckle from the very handsome man next to me and realize — whaaaaa — he looks exactly like KIP from the show I’ve been ferociously addicted to for the past week. The show that got me through … well … how’s everything?

“KIP!” I screech.

He turns, kindly, the way one does when confronted by a possibly unhinged straight woman clearly beyond his orbit.

“Are you KIP from ‘Horny Hockey’ I ask.”

He is not my Kip. But he knows exactly who I mean. Because everyone knows Kip. Kip is one of many Hockey Studs from the series that is not actually called Horny Hockey—though it should be.

I am sitting in my favorite gay bar in Chelsea. Cliff-adjacent men are everywhere. I have just finished bingeing the show the night before. Between boxing, meditation, Dry January (oops), and the general state of the world, I’ve been holding it together—but only this show has managed to keep me happy and weirdly, gloriously horny for one blissful hour at a time.

This is not a fandom.
This is a cult.

And the cult is enormous. It includes hot gay men, shy Kip doppelgängers, and—confusingly—straight women of all ages.

Including me.

Which begs the question:

Why are so many straight women completely undone by this show?

I don’t want to litigate the obvious. Yes, it’s hot. Yes, it was written by a woman. Yes, it arrived during peak toxic-male exhaustion and a moment when LGBTQ+ rights are under attack. Yes, parts of it are deeply cheesy (that finale—come on) and fun to make fun of …

But who cares. We loved it.

I, for one, am late to everything — but eventually show up with snacks and opinions.

Which brings me to the renaming.

Heated Rivalry is fine. But it lacks imagination. Consider instead:

Sluts With Sticks

Checking From Behind

This Is Not About Hockey

Two Men, One Puck

Horny on Ice

Stick Handling

Sluts in the Penalty Box

Pucks, Sluts & Feelings

You’re welcome.

Part of why I love this show is that it feels like an arctic Provincetown—one of my magic places.

I’m safe. I’m surrounded by outsiders. Beauty. Sex. No taboo. No clothes.

But Provincetown isn’t crawling with straight women losing their minds.

So what is this about?
Why now?
Why us?

If you somehow missed this series, watch it. It may revive your libido.
And if you are a straight woman—of any age—please explain yourself to me.

Because I’m still at the bar.
And I have questions.

New Year’s Eve.
2003.

There I was — 11:27pm — on the bitterly cold streets of midtown Manhattan, foolishly attempting to flag down a cab.

Not easy.
In fact — impossible.

Freezing my ass off in my nearly-nothing-but-spectacular get-up (yes, it was spectacular), pleading for a taxi so I could make my “coolest” pal’s event — a promised fucking GALA.

And I found one.

I was about to dive in when a big, rude, sloppy frat boy grabbed me from behind, flung the door open for his enormous self, and — drunk as a skunk — puked.

Yes.
Vomited.

All over my ruby red 6-inch Manolos — I could do 6-inch Manolos in those days. Now I say — why?

It was then and there that I swore off leaving my premises on December 31st in New York City.

Like Scarlett O’Hara: “As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again.”

That was me.
And I have kept that promise.

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I should say: I’m a go-out girl. Still am.
Just not on Saturdays.
And not on New Year’s Eve.

Why go out on a Saturday night in New York City when you have the rest of the week?
Same logic applies.

Before that night in 2003, I was married — to a go-out guy.
For a long time, that worked.

Until it didn’t.

Especially on New Year’s Eve.

Friends divided. Invitations shifted. Parties I assumed I’d be at quietly disappeared.
I forced myself out more than I wanted to — to make the dude happy — I guess. I hardly remember me back then. But I do remember …

It sucked.

What I didn’t understand then was that I wasn’t just lonely after the marriage ended.

I had been lonely in it.

That first New Year’s Eve alone should have felt liberating.

It wasn’t.

But it taught me something.

It takes time to become yourself again — more me, less sad fucking us.

And when that happens, the rules you used to follow stop making sense.

Which brings me back to 2003.
To the sidewalk.
To the Manolos.
To the puke.

The moment I was done.

Here I am, twelve years later, deeply in love with my New Year’s Eve at home.

One still night out of 365 — minus Saturdays.

A night for j-j-j-journaling — editing, asking myself:
What do I want to build this year?
What do I want to give?
What would make it more f-fu-fun?
What would make me better than last year?

I’m not talking world events.
Christ.
I’m talking self.

For the last four years, I’ve been with a new person.
The drummer.

The drummer is a go-out guy.
Especially on New Year’s Eve.

He likes to play.
Works the room.
Play again.
Works the room again.

Not me.

I stay loyal to my Scarlett O’Hara vow.
Partner or no partner.

I will be in my casa tonight — December 31st.

Let the drummer join me at 3am.
Or 4.
Or not at all.

I’ll be here with an extra-dry gin martini — with a twist, feet up on my orange couch, in my cozy sweats — with red lipstick — after all — it’s New Years — surrounded by new books and newer j-j-j-journals.

Which I will be filling.

I no longer need a countdown to feel new.
I no longer need a room full of strangers to feel chosen…for the gala.
I no longer need to prove I’m still fun.

I don’t go out on New Year’s Eve.
That’s it.
That’s the whole thing.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL YOU GLORIOUS BROADS! WHEREVER AND HOWEVER YOU CELEBRATE. Here’s to 2026!

He’s right.
Not many.

And who else do you know who would stick with you for the last four months while you — with the help of too many doctors — try to figure out what kind of fucking infection you have that won’t go away. One that’s followed you relentlessly through the “merry” season.

Not many.

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I’ve read the stats. When a woman partner gets sick, men often split. Sadly. Usually.

Not mine.

I’m not bragging. Trust me. I’m shocked.

It’s been a time of male bashing — and I’ve been into it. Especially dumping on the old guard. But — surprise — they’re not all alike.

If he was on the fence before all this, he’s very much not now.

So yes, I’ve been thinking — a lot — about the advantages and disadvantages of loving a partner who’s older. In my case: The Drummer.

I had been firmly aligned with the one and only on this one: younger. One good night. Maybe three. No sleepovers. Hot and fun.

I had girlfriends for the soul talks, thankyouverymuch.

The most significant partner before The Drummer was fifteen years my junior. That was my pattern. My preference. My demand.

But five years ago, I took the dive into … ta-dah … men my age.
And double ta-dah — friendships first.

Pros and Cons.

PROS:

* Gets my jokes and references — oh god, how I missed this.
* A widower — knows how to love. A cliché. But true.
* Arty. And yes, I’m using the term — a friggin’ bohemian — which I enjoy — with the exceptions of the khakis, the vests, the scary socks.
* Doesn’t want to marry again — yes.
* Has his own place and doesn’t want to cohabitate — double yes.
* Open to explorations in the sack.
* All still working. Whew.
* A friend. First.

CONS:

* Closer to the exit.
* Closer to the inevitable changes of deep aging — if I have to repeat myself one more time!
* Closer to the fear of sex declining — hey, does that have to be?
I think of Mick Jagger and his forty-fourth baby and cheer up.

There are real comforts to loving someone older. Maybe we dimple together into our 80s. Maybe even our 90s. I’ll skip the 100s.

Maybe I stop freaking out over every new rash on his body.
Maybe instead we pick at each other’s bumps like Coppery Titi monkeys — the ones who bond for “life” — whatever that may be.

Honestly?
That sounds kind of appealing.

I still love Cindi Gallop’s point of view. I do.
But mine has shifted.

I no longer want to keep writing the same story, with the same ending, over and over again.

I want to feel well again.
With the person who helped me get there.

Right now, I don’t give a shit about his age.
I care that he showed up.
That he stayed.
That he didn’t flinch.

Turns out, the thing I thought I’d never want
is exactly what I needed.

Happy holidays!

Right now — I’ll take the eggs, the vacuuming —
and the man who didn’t bail — scary sock ‘n all.

It should be.

I hate generational labels. Hate. Them. But if this story’s going to make any sense, I’ve got to use em. Jen and Kimberly? Solid Gen X. Me? Boomer. Maybe I’ll call us Boomer Bitches and Gen X Cunts just to make me happier.

It already has.

While listening to Jen and Kimberly, I kept flashing back to a filmed talk-fest with two of my favorite Glorious Broads — and Janis Dardaris — plus our director-partner-in-crime Harry Mavromichalis, who either reins us in or winds us up.

We talked for an hour. (YouTube, hint hint.)

Listening to Jen and Kimberly — two smart, funny, tired-of-the-bullshit broads — I thought:

What if we all ended up in a comfy booth at a dumpy bar and just… went off?

Gen X Cunts + Boomer Bitches. One sticky table. Refills galore.

Boomers theme:

Love, relationships, sex over 70, living solo, no kids, guilt, slut-shame, body image, men, ageism, ambition, fuck buddies, age angst… all in a crumbling world.

Gen X theme:

Career, money, AI, panic, success, kids, motherhood, guilt, slut-shame, body image, men, ageism, ambition, fuck buddies, age angst… all in a crumbling world.

Perfect collision.

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A few generational truths…

Boomer Bitches had decades of career, opportunities and good times. I was in the magazine biz. Glossy. Glam glam glam. Real budgets.

Then the crash.
Media died.
The economy died.
We hit our late 50s.
Game over.

Gen X? Someone cut the lights mid-takeoff.

What a generation …

Here’s my smashed-together-mashed together, lovingly edited, possibly-imagined mega-conversation from Jen’s Podcast and GB’s talk-fest — kind of — all under the enormous, chaotic tent of Decks & Dicks:

RELATIONSHIPS

Gen X:

“If you’re with a good man and if this is not working. It is your job to make it work.
Why would I disrupt this so I could be happy?” — JH

Boomers:

“Well — I don’t want one single thing from another human being hanging on my walls.” — JD

FUCK BUDDIES

Gen X:

“Fuck buddies at 70 — is that even an option?” — Harry

Boomers:

“Absolutely.” — EW, JD, MJ

Gen X:

“ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY.” — JR, KH (I’m thinkin)

SLUT SHAME

Gen X:

“You’re gonna be a slut? Great. Have fun. But back in the day…” — KH
“You needed a boyfriend to be ‘allowed’ to have sex.” — JR

Boomers:

“Slut-shame didn’t fully leave my life until my mid-60s. Which is insane.” — MJ

“I often wonder if men aren’t afraid of women who really have unleashed their sexuality” — JD

“YESSSSSS” — Imagined chorus.

M E N

Boomers:

“As men age, they want a caretaker. I may sound cynical. But it’s a fact.” — JD

Gen X:

“It’s been super fun to harp on men for the last few years but, unfortunately, I love men.” — KH

Boomers:

”Us too.” — JD, EW, MJ

MONEY

“I think — because I don’t know what I’m doing with money — it makes me feel young.” — Gen X

Someone told JH this. Which I think is brilliant. Scary. Funny. And none of us advise.

Boomers:

“Everything I know about money I learned from my mother. This is not a good thing.” — MJ

AGE PANIC

Gen X:

“I’m 57 but I don’t feel 57. I hate that age panic hits at 35. We’re just made to feel bad about everything.” — KH

Boomers:

“We’ve spent decades shaking off a beauty industry that told us we were not enough since we were TEN.” — EW

RETIREMENT

“Retirement is impossible.” — JR
“Retirement is impossible.” — MJ, JD, EW (chorus)

LOOKS

Boomers:

“At 19 I thought: You don’t like my round nose? Fine. I’ll put a diamond in it. Big hair. Red lipstick. I’m going to not hide.” — EW

Gen X:

“If you care what people think, you let them steer your whole damn life.” — KH

AGEISM

Gen X:

“I’m watching every industry collapse — including mine. And we’re at the back of the line.” — KH

“Ageism.” — JR

Boomers:

“I’ve lived through the “ism” of race, the “ism” of sex. The “ism” of age? I’ve worked a lot of these “ism” muscles before — I feel more comfortable now.” — EW

STRENGTH

Gen X:

“How long can I still run up and down stairs like I did in Venice?” — JR

Boomers:

“I want the choices that strength gives you. I want a body that lets me live.” — EW

FUTURE

Gen X:

“Nine people in Portland raising each other in a commune. The fancy-rug people could never hack it.” — JR

Boomers:

“Maybe Mexico. But. SAME.”

PALS

Gen X:

“I want real friends. Not transactional ones. I want to SEE my people. That’s the biggest shift of getting older.” — JR

Boomers:

“FACT.” — MJ, JD, EW

These broads are my people — no matter the label.

Gen X and Boomers can be feral — different habitats, same hunger, and often — same pack.

Broads: next time you’re out east, drinks on me. I’ll find the dumpy bar.

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GIVE. IT. TO. US.

Remember that chant — “the price of eggs?”
What happened to that?
We are so far past the price of eggs.
We’re into the era of “you want eggs? Mortgage your rent.”

I’ve got a fun dumbass job 2.5 days a week at Gleason’s Gym in Dumbo.
And I get to train with one of the all-star coaches.

I LOVE IT.

It gets me out of my blonde West Village bubble and into another kind of bubble —
the bubble of regular guys and glorious broads who keep their bodies and minds in fighting shape. They are old school New Yorkers. And they give a shit about what happens to our city. Like most of us do.

Last Friday, my coach was pounding me into the mat — and I him, I assure you.
I looked around and said aloud — hey, where is everybody?
The place is usually jumping at 5pm.
But it was dead.

DEAD.

And then BLIMP — a gigantic human being, a mountain of muscle and chutzpah,
a man who has trained seven champions (seven!) — turns around and booms, like the voice of America itself:

“What are you talkin’ about, girl?
There’s no motherf*ckers here ‘cause no motherf*ckers got any money. And no motherf*ckers got any money ‘cause the government shut down. And the government shut down ‘cause the head motherf*cker doesn’t give a shit. That’s America, baby.”

Something about that hit me hard — right in the already sore abs.

These are city legends in the boxing world, and to hear one of them, the main man, say this — it broke my heart:

“THAT’S AMERICA BABY.”

Look at the photos of these guys and glorious broads. All ages. All backgrounds. All real. And so many — not all — but so many — voted for the change.

Including me.

Why’d we vote for a democratic socialist — Zohran Mamdani?

Here’s why:
In laywoman’s terms —

THE OLD SHIT’S NOT WORKING.

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We need to take a chance on something new for this city.

And we did.

We’re way beyond “the price of eggs.”
Families can’t house themselves, insure themselves, feed themselves —
and (hardly) anybody in government gives a damn.

So yeah — I’m selling a T-shirt for $35 that basically says:

F*CK YOU. I’M A SENIOR. GIVE ME MY WELL-DESERVED DISCOUNT. GIVE ME MY CITY, GIVE ME MY AMERICA — GIVE ME DIGNITY.

And a break.
No apologies.

Affordable living?
Senior discount?

F*CK YEAH!

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The “empowerment” word — so used and abused — makes mama cringe.
But I digress.

Your latest brainstorm — the Skims’ Bush Thong — has been hailed — by some — as a “feminist victory.”

Jaws wide open on that one.

And as I write about this — post about this — and with the zillions of mentions you’ve already had about this muff thong — many of us flabbergasted — you get richer.

Sold out in hours. “Clay Blonde Straight, Clay Ginger, Clay Brown Curly… the ‘carpet’ can be whatever color you want.”

Thank you, Kim!

addressed the “Faux Hair Micro String Thong” with this zinger:
“Fifty years ago, women fought to be seen as more than their bodies. Then we fought to love our bodies. Now we’re fighting to buy back the parts we were told to get rid of. What a powerful metaphor!
I keep thinking about my Grandmother. What would she say?”

I’ll tell you what she’d say — and what I say:

HOW DID WE GET HERE?

How. How. Is this seen as a “feminist victory?”

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I’ll give you my personal bush history, Kim — fast forward.
50 in fact — 60 — years ago:

Mid-60s:

It began to sprout. Shame ruled.

Late-60s:

All hell broke loose. Woodstock, free love. The fluffy body part was accepted!

Mid to late 70’s:

DISCO!!!
Bushes were worshiped. Glittered. Sacred.

The song of the moment said it all in 1978:
Push, push, in the bush...
Ahhh, disco glory.
Power of the bush.

80s — 90s:

Grooming became mandatory. Brazilian waxes arrived. Mean. Costly. $200 – then $300 — to be tortured? Yup.

2000s:

Total smoothness continued to rule. And I was on board. Paying through the nose. My strip smaller and smaller.
Hairy bushes — the big taboo.
Shame yet again.

2011s:

Caitlin Moran’s “How to Be a Woman” saved me:

“I can’t believe we’ve got to a point where it’s basically costing us money to have a vagina. They’re making us pay for maintenance and upkeep of our lulus, like they’re a communal garden. It’s a stealth tax.”

That paragraph liberated me.
No more shame.
Let it rip.
And me turning 60.
The power of 60.
The power of my bush.
Shame to freedom.

Back to you, Kim.

This is my personal freedom story.
I was the exception.
I’ve been on the planet longer than you and the many young women you’ve “influenced.” Sigh…

They’re still seeing hairless — totally hairless — beyond the landing strip — as fem de rigueur.

Until this — your “feminist victory” — takes center stage.

To quote Liz Plank again:
“Pubic hair is back. But only if you buy it.”

Glad Caitlin saved my muff in 2011 — I get to be cool again!

I put this video up — maybe a year ago. It got LOTS of views and feedback.

Some applauding my Glorious Broad, Liz Friedman.
Others attacking her for her “old fashioned” view of feminism.
And your ability as a marketing maven to make bank.
That seemed to qualify you — to many — as a new “feminist.”
I was beginning to question Liz Friedman’s views … and then …

TA DAH!

This thing you launched.

And that New York Times piece: “Sculpting the Hourglass Figure” from this past weekend.

Any of my Liz Friedman’s doubts were dashed.

“The tiny tortured waist has returned as a bodily preoccupation, ready to eclipse voluminous breast and buttocks as areas of obsession, manipulation, distortion and angst.”

So, basically, your ribs are crushed, or removed or … it ain’t good … for the allure of “the hourglass figure.”

An operation — by the way — that carries “considerable risks” and “significant detrimental effect on lung and respiratory functions” for a mere 8 to 9K.

Plastic surgeons even have a name for our current moment, Kim — “The Kardashian Era.”

We went from celebrating our natural power, to trimming, to torture, to total hairlessness — all for some dude’s gaze.

And now we’re buying “micro string thongs” in every shade of faux bush, like it’s a revolutionary act?

I mean, really?

Oh shit. I didn’t mean to sound preachy.
I didn’t.

But.
I am pinning this on you, Kim.

You turned the bush into merch.
You turned “empowerment” into inventory.
And somehow, you turned feminism into a marketing plan.

Please. Explain.
Because me — and Liz Plank’s grandmother — we’re waiting.

Perplexed,
Maryjane

It is the year of John Waters.
Yes — that John Waters.
The Beloved Filth Elder.
The man keeping me from not just “going through it,” but actually laughing through it — some of the time.

Re-reading Mr. Know-It-All was a masterclass in turning … old. And I do not apologize for that word.

It was effing brilliant — the second time around.

And I am not alone. John Waters is having yet another lunatic resurrection.

Just before NY Fashion Week, — New York Times Styles Editor, popped up on IG recommending Role Models as her audio start-me-up for THE week. And here it is. The end of fashion extravaganza for fall. Time to revisit John.

Now, I don’t do audiobooks.

I’ve always thought they were “cheating.”

WRONG.

Having John Waters purrrrrr decades of debauchery, philosophy, and style adventures into my ears each morning during my pussy two mile run was bliss.

A goddess-send.

Meanwhile, Kara Swisher (she of Pivot and a zillion other podcasts) casually reveals she blasts her favorite song from Hairspray to get through particularly trying days.

Yes. John Waters is Kara Swisher’s daily vitamin.

So, dear Glorious Broads, here’s a cheat sheet from Mr. Know-It-All, Role Models, and Hairspray — may you reap the benefits of the Divine One.

5 Rules of “Aging (dis)Gracefully”
— from Mr. Know-It-All

• “As soon as you stop listening to new music, your life is over. You are an old fart.”
  (Shit. I don’t give a f*ck about Taylor Swift. Am I an old fart? )

• “Windswept” and “distinguished” do not go hand in hand. Nothing shouts midlife crisis louder than a convertible.
  (John, I disagree. My I-don’t-give-a-fuck age is full frontal here. Topless. Always.)

  

• “Never say ‘I love you’ out loud to the person you do — unless they are sleeping.”
  (Takes the pressure off — pure genius.)

• “Eat sensibly on weekdays, irresponsibly on weekends.”
  (Heaven bless this man.)

• “Believe your own grandiosity — go wrong to make your career go right.”
  (My personal fave.)

Bon Bons from Role Models

1. “Every Friday night of my life, I drink. An alcoholic one night of the week. A workaholic the other six.”
   (He knows me so well. Sigh…)

2. “Nothing is more impotent than an unread library.”
   (Check.)

3. “Get on the fashion nerves of your peers, not your parents — that is the key to fashion leadership.”

4. “True success is figuring out your life and career, so you never have to be around jerks.”
   (I feel this more than ever.)

5. “If you’re not sure you will love your children, please don’t have them. They might grow up. And kill us.”
   (Hullooooooooooo!)

6. “Aren’t happy heterosexual women who didn’t want to have kids the most ostracized of all? To me, they are beautiful feminists.”
(Thank you, John.)

Kara Swisher’s Daily Mantra from Hairspray, 1988

You Can’t Stop the Beat!

You can’t stop an avalanche
As it races down the hill
You can try to stop the seasons, girl
But ya know you never will…

…and if you try to hold me down
I’m gonna spit in your eye and say
That you can’t stop the beat!

I BELIEVE THIS.
SING IT, GLORIOUS BROADS!

Why St. John the Divine Waters is my Holy Man of the Moment.

The HOPE! The laughs. The odd and unexpected — common sense.

Who the hell is getting you through?

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Give it a read … from my piece in this week’s

My Wake-Up Call

“I had to relearn how to live. Before that, I’d enjoyed a hard-working, hard-partying existence. Until that day, I’d somehow managed to get away with it. But at 62, the jig was up. I needed rest, something I had never ever been good at giving myself. I needed to make my own healthy meals, get off booze, say goodbye to the adrenaline high and stress addiction that came from incessantly working my ass off.” — ME

Why I love last book Ambition Monster — and her new podcast!

We Don’t Hustle Tees… But When We Do

We’ve been way too casual about selling these babies. But hey, new tees just dropped — and this one’s a favorite. Truth-telling on cotton. Cool on anyone.

👉 Grab yours here

And lovin this color to shout it out …

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Did I hear that right?

Kathleen, the winner of countless awards, including Obie, Lucille Lortel, Drama Desk, Helen Hayes Achievement etc etc etc…

Oh yes, Kathleen Chalfant is an idol. And an actor.

I never wanted to be an actor.

But I am wide open to actors and artists transforming my life on earth.

Kathleen has — more than once.

I got to interview the Angel of Angels in America — the first Broadway production from 1993 — where — literally — she made my heart stop.

She did it again in Wit from 2012, as the frosty scholar/patient.

And for the third time, in the current film Familiar Touch, as Ruth, she positively broke it.

You know what they say about three times.

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In this interview, Kathleen Chalfant does talk imposter syndrome. Yes — even she wrestled with it.

Now. She’s 80. And free.

What does that say for the rest of us? Do we have to wait till 80?

Oh please no.

Familiar Touch could have been a hard sell. Only it’s not. It’s already won the Lion of the Future for best debut film, plus best director, best actress — the awards keep piling up. Kathleen plays Ruth Goldman, a woman with dementia who mistakes an assisted living facility for a hotel, her son for a suitor, and her cafeteria kitchen work for top chef at the finest restaurant ever. It’s devastating. It’s hopeful somehow. And I was hooked.

Highlight of my summer 2025. Numero uno. Familiar Touch. Here we go …

MJ: What first drew you to acting?

KC: I’ve never wanted to do anything else. After a scandalous trip to Mexico with the man who became my husband, I admitted I didn’t want to spend life teaching Greek to prep school boys. He asked, “What do you want to do?” I said, “I’ve always wanted to be an actress.” He said, “Then do it.”

No wonder you married him.

Was theater your first love?

I first worked in the theater.

Acting is about filling the space. Theater gives you responsibility for the whole; film, someone else decides what people see.

You’re the furniture; they arrange the room.

I never thought about it that way. But yes …

Your latest film, Familiar Touch, slayed me. In a way, it was the story of my mother. Just not as classy. ‘Cause Ruth, played by you, was classy.

Did you have a personal story with dementia?

Yes. My best friend, playwright Sybil Pearson, was living with it while we shot the film. So much of her slipped into the performance. And my beloved mother-in-law developed dementia in her 90s. One of the first signs: she couldn’t decide what to wear.

Like Ruth! Can we talk about the dignity you brought to this role?

That’s Sarah Friedland, the writer, the director. She was only 33, but she insisted the film be told from Ruth’s perspective. Most dementia films are about the caregivers. But from inside?

We’re all alive until we’re not.

And you trusted Sarah — a first-time director. A first time screen writer.

I did. And we did. We’d both spent time in Italy — her family even lived on the same tiny street in Rome. We met on Zoom, and by the time I got to Pasadena for that first scene, I was convinced — despite 50 years between us.

You could feel her background as a choreographer in the film — especially that first scene.

Absolutely. There was choreography in the rhythm, the stillness, even preparing a simple lunch. It was meticulous and human.

Did making this film affect how you see aging?

I just turned 80.

When you say, “We must spend a month in Sicily,” you also realize — better do it now. Time isn’t endless.

Did it make you reconsider how or where you will age?

It did. Everyone assumes staying at home with caregiving is the best. But after Villa Gardens, the community we shot at, I’m not sure.

Community can be life-saving. Isolation at home — for both the person with dementia and the caregiver — can be devastating. It can be a tiny and an unnessecarily limited world.

This film has had me reconsidering all.

Well, the caregiver scenes were beautiful.

Absolutely. The fact that caregiving here is not honored — and that so many caregivers are treated as disposable — is horrifying.

One of my favorite scenes was with your son — when he lured you out to dance with his five-year-old ass wiggle — I was wrecked.

We call it “the prom scene.”

The son was played by H. Jon Benjamin — Bob from Bob’s Burgers. It’s one of his few dramatic roles. He was nervous at first, but he was exactly right: kind, vulnerable, heartbreaking.

Did this film shift your own view of dementia?

I hope it shifts others’. What moved me first was Sybil — the friend I mentioned living with dementia.

This film became my gift to her. She taught me how to play Ruth. And yes, I want people to see dementia from the inside — not just through the eyes of family “losing” someone.

One woman told me she realized, watching the film, that her mother had a whole life in her senior community when she wasn’t there.

And that’s the point.

At 80, do you see acting differently than at 30?

I finally believe I know how to do the job. Actors wrestle with imposter syndrome — every role can feel like starting from zero. Now I trust the mystery. I control what I can — the words, the marks, showing up on time. The rest, I assume will work.

And how does that feel?

I feel lucky, not ambitious. Lucky to have had such a fortunate life. This year alone: the movie, and a television series I just finished shooting.

I am thinking much of the “luck” you have made. Like — choosing to live in amazing cities. Where next?

Brooklyn Heights is my third NYC home. Eleven years later, it feels like the close of a 20-year chapter. The next home? Or we can call it a community — maybe it will be Italy.

What about retiring? Do you ever think about it?

No. If someone asks me to do something and I want to, I’ll do it until I can’t.

And if nothing else turns up?

That’s okay.

Actors always wonder if a role might be their last. That used to be terrifying for me. Now? It’s fine.

I need to channel this Glorious Broad, Kathleen.

And I need you Broads to see this movie. On Prime. On Apple. I stumbled out of the theater stunned. Not sad.

And. Yes. Woke.

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Highlight of my summer 2025. Numero Dos.

In the middle of a NYC heat wave comes
another idol — Bettye LaVette

This Glorious Broad had us eating out of the palm of her hand at Iridium in the middle of brutal July in NYC.

Listen to her work the crowd. The song she is going on about is called “Let Me Down Easy” — her second “big break” at the tender age of 19. And she’s relived that “big break” again and again and again.

Nobody schools me on resilience like Bettye. Overused word? Maybe. But it belongs to her.

If you’ve ever doubted resilience, watch Bettye LaVette at 79 — anywhere everywhere — GO!

Highlight of my summer 2025. Numero Tres.

Me + Boxing!

At 75, I’m knocking my own damn self out.
I may not look all that different.
But I feel like a strong mo fo.

Nine weeks in.

Yeah, I’m bragging — at 70-effing-5 — for throwing myself into boxing like a maniac.

But I am really braggin for all of us. 50. 60. 70. 80. etc etc

We are nothing like the “old age” we were sold. Nothing!

If you’re lucky with your health — and willing to fight for it, every decade, mind/body/soul — you can challenge every stereotype they tried to box us into.

Let’s put those gloves on Bitches!

PS. I love hearing my trainer, Leon Moore, cheerin me on in the background at Gleason’s Gym — where I am now — a regular.

Who knew?

It was this moment in Too Much when I realized — oh yeah, Lena Dunham really knows the Broads of her generation.

But I also thought…

Shit.
Did she have to drink the Kool-Aid?

What the f*ck is she telling women in their 30s?

Why are we — why is she — still blasting out the same old narrative?

THE CHASE.

It’s always the chase.

The chase is what makes you come alive.
The chase is what makes you worthwhile.

OY.

Lena is brilliant.
And yes, there were too many eye-roll moments for me — but there were also raw, tender bits that caught me off guard.

Tears. And I am not that girl.

When she insisted on eye-to-eye contact in the sack with her raven-haired lover, Felix, early on?

Sigh…

When she wanted to “tuck him in” after it all went to hell?

Double sigh.

But still —

THE CHASE

is an old story.

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The never-ending, soul-draining hunt — for love, for worth, for that ever-elusive stamp of approval.

Where you forget yourself.

Where “locking it down” becomes the goal.

I mean…

Was anyone in that London office just happy to come to work?

Cool jobs, yeah — jerk boss, sure — but every single character still seemed ruled by…

THE CHASE

There were no exceptions.

And trust me — I remember my 30s.

I remember how much of myself I gave away trying to be “enough” for someone else — instead of spending that time and energy on me.

Yes, I had a career. It did come very much alive in that decade.

But my real specialty? My real “job?”

Finding the hot bad boys “to fix.”

If they weren’t chasing me — I was chasing them.

Men who didn’t want me were catnip.

Just like Zev for Meg.

Which is why I loved this moment in the last episode shown above — Wendy and Meg.

Two women. Realizing.

ENOUGH CHASING.

Zev is an ass.
We’re done here.
Moving on.

I could’ve done without the wedding chase right after — but I know it’s Lena’s story and clearly compelled to share it.

But is this the only story we’ve got for young women?

More obsessive, unraveling, crazy bitches?

Come on.

Which brings me to this clip from my Glorious Broads Interview.

Janis Dardaris — a funny, frank brilliant actor — lays it out.

Why are we still feeding women this tired old tale?

Why not teach them to put themselves first — fallopian tubes ‘n all — before they feel the need to lock it down?

Is it biology?
Or is it bullshit?

I think it’s bullshit.

Why not tell more stories of young women with no desire to … lock it down?

Will Lena have to turn 50 to finally get it?
And tell THIS story?

Just asking.

Would love to know your thoughts.

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And For My Fellow Insomniacs!

If you watch us on IG, you know I had been bitching about my lack of sleep.

But now, I have not only found the miracle, we are collaborating with HEY FREYA for the product REST.

Woman owned. Woman Doctors. Women rule.

Here’s link to REST

ALL herbs. Which I need. And no hangover.

And combine it with good powerful exercise. Like boxing …

Oh YEAH it works. X MJ

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And love nothing better than parking my flat Irish ass in a little shack to …

Write. Read. Walk. Swim.

And navel-gaze.

Which is what I have been doing for the past eleven days.

The only other humans I’ve seen?
My sis, who lives a few miles from my sweet porn cabin, and walks with me each morning.

Walk. Coffee. Peanut butter on whatever’s around. A couple of chocolate bon bons.

And write.

Whodathunk that this would be a slice of heaven for the ole Maryjane?

Not me.

I’m not gonna talk about joy here.
Everybody’s talking joy.
Seeking joy.
Hashtagging joy.
Manifesting joy.
I’m gonna talk about “The Life Review.”

Yes yes the phrase makes me cringe too …
But if Jane Fonda can say it out loud — and unapologetically —
I can too.

I’m a tool junkie …
Therapists. Astrologers. Journals. Tarot. Patti Smith.
Whatever gets you through the night.

Especially now.

I have been putting off this life review idea for forever.
Or it feels that way …

I kept threatening.

But I am a busy mother fucker. With tons to do …
In fact, I showed up here with a hefty “To Do” list..

And yeah, I was tempted.

All those urgent distractions — posts, likes, emails, the kick of an almost-viral hit.

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But I knew.
I didn’t come here to check boxes.
I came here to do the one thing I never make time for at home:

Me.

A little digging.
Well — 75 years worth of digging, as it turns out.

I was ashamed to tell my sister what I was here to work on.

Ashamed of my tendency to … navel-gaze.

She asked me “Why?”
Not in a cunty judgy way.

Curious.

We are very close … just not the same breed in all ways…

And I quoted Jane to her … “I’ve done LOTS in my life … without a map.

What if I had a map for the last 7, 10 years … whatever time I have.”

I mean what if …
I think she got it.

And suddenly I did too …
That Jane …

One night we went swimming — a moonlit lake, just us and her 87-year-old Glorious Broad pal, Sophia.

Smart.
No bullshit.
Direct Sophia.

That last trait is one I apparently lack.

This surfaced fast in the review — I talk in circles.

I’ll ask you what I need to ask you … eventually.
But we will merry-go-round a few times — and a few times more.

Not Sophia.
She asked me what I was writing in these eleven days.

I told her:
“My Life Review.”

She didn’t blink.
“You’ll need more time,” she said. “And you’ll need to be honest.”

Reader, I was.

Eleven days wasn’t enough.
But it was a start.

And I did not spare the rod.

My muse for this little excavation has been Keith McNally’s “I Regret Almost Everything.”

Relentless. Brutal. Real. And funny.

Just when you think he’s going to pound himself in the face for all eternity — and he comes close — he gives himself a break. Loved it.

I am not making lists here. (Not this week)

I am here to find those patterns.

Some are ugly. Some are … surprising.

Like …

I was a brave little mother fucker …

Not with everything.
But with important things.

I took chances.

Not all of the time.
But a lot of the time.

In my own wacky way, I did not follow the mold.

I forgot how free I was in my 20s and 30s.
And I made it so.
I wasn’t looking for love. Or coupling.
I was after sex and adventure. Freedom. Uncertainty.

I think it was the times … the art school … the weed … the pseudo hippy ‘n all …

And then the glorious middle years.

Success. Travel. Relationships. Monogamy. Alright alright … a series of monogamous relationships ….

I was attached.
To my career.
To my home.
To my city.
To my things.
To my various amours.

I craved certainty.

I took fewer risks — except when it came to career.
Those, I always took.

But that will change in this next bit.

‘Cause now I have … a map.

Or the beginning of one.

Maybe it will be the best of the young me and the crone me …

I can’t wait.

Fellow Broads:
I can’t recommend this enough.

Yeah, I went full Jane Fonda (well, one third of one third Jane Fonda … she took a year off.)

But you don’t need a retreat in Sedona.

Maybe a three-day weekend for a start.

Not because it’s healing or profound or whatever word’s trending.

But because it’s your damn life.

And if you don’t stop and take a look at it now…
Some 87-year-old Broad named Sophia will — and she will not hold back.

That map …

What have I done?
What do I want now?
What do I want next?

What do I just need to be grateful for?

For the rest of the time you’ve got …

Thoughts from the woods,

MJ

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Take your pick.

But today?
Hope’s springing eternal.

Ain’t it wonderful?

Each morning, before tackling the news, I go hunting for the best cappuccino I can afford on one of New York City’s priciest streets — mine.

I deserve a good cup a java.

I deserve a routine I enjoy.

I deserve a sense of normalcy.

I do damnit!

Lately, my routine includes an hour with Real Dictators — after sit-ups, stretches, and now my latest — shadow boxing — it’s me and the tyrants: Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin … and now the nutter Castro.

I'm hooked.

The atrocities?

Horrifying.

The podcast host?

Weirdly soothing. Like sexy bedtime stories from hell.

But it helps. It reminds me: the world’s burned before.

We’re still here.

Speaking of burning… let’s talk about And Just Like That.

There are brilliant think pieces shredding the show. But I wonder — how many are by women actually over 50?

‘Cause I am.
And I know exactly zero broads like the ones on this show.
I’m grateful for that.

Yes, I’ve read that they’ve got women over 50 in the room.

Stars. Producers.

And written by two men. Harrumph…

But still — how did they get us so wrong?

My new routine on Thursday evening involves screaming at the screen:

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? ENJOY YOUR LIFE! WHY DID YOU BUY THAT EMPTY MANSION YOU’RE TOO INTIMIDATED TO FURNISH?”

It’s cathartic. It’s interactive.

I loved these characters. These girlfriends. In the beginning.

They were fresh. Bold. Loud. Real…esh. Funny.

But somewhere along the way, they stopped evolving.

They just got more desperate.

Now. Meet Nan…

A real estate broker, a mover and a shaker … and she’s an unapologetic 83-years-old.

A Glorious Broad through and through. I interviewed her about love, sex, relationships — how all of it actually shifts with age.

You know what YOU want! Duh … She didn’t sugarcoat a thing.

She talked about pleasure now, joy this weekend, being fully here — no goals, no fucking agenda — at this age.

Just: this is what I need now, this is what feels good, and if it doesn’t, I’m out.

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We posted the reel.

Twice.

Run #1: 1,719 comments. 36.9K shares.

Run #2: 509 comments. 5,085 shares.

And the comments?
Roughly 9 out of 10 said:

“I’m with ya, Nan.”

And a ton of them added:
“I want that kind of relationship — now.
At my age.”
Not 83.
Now.
In their 20s. 30s. 40s. 50s. 60s.

It struck a nerve.

Which is why I say:

Shut up, And Just Like That.

Because what are we watching?
Grown-ass broads shrinking themselves to fit into some sad man's version of a life…in their late 50’s.

Last night’s episode showed some hope. Charlotte got “real” … esh. Carrie and Miranda couldn’t bear being room mates … that’s evolving … but ole Carrie … of course she folded by the end at the prospect of a potential new boyfriend…SHUT UP!

And the week before, watching Carrie doin “her darndest” to slip into Aidan’s country life?!? Pathetically. Apologetically …

COME ON!

Seema — a straight-up badass — staying up till 4am for phone sex with some guy she barely knows?
“Prove you love me!”

Seriously?

Or that Miranda, smart, curious Miranda, would spend all of her time chasing young broads … night after night … bar after bar … instead of enjoying the tons of other things she is interested in … with just a tad of chase?

Maybe they should checked in with the original creator, Candace Bushnell. Her “evolvement” was completely on display in her latest piece for The Cut.

She’s funny, perceptive — talking women, over 50, dating in The Hamptons:

“There has to be a reason for people to be together because if there’s no reason, they would probably be like me: a single, child-free woman who lives on her own, makes her own money, owns her own real estate, owns her career, and is not really worried about relationships.”

Like I said…

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Back to Nan. Do listen in.

And read the comments I highlight below.
Check out the ages.

Do you think this show understands women over 50?!? And what we want?

Take notes, Max. Or HBO. Or whatever you’re “evolving” to next.

Nan — and Candace — are what women and aging and sex and relationships and evolution actually look like, dummies.

Bring Candace back into the room! You need her.

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And For My Fellow Insomniacs!

AN ANNOUNCEMENT!

If you watch us on IG, you know I have been bitching about my lack of sleep. And so many of you have helped with tons of advice.

I thank you!

Being a lazy one, I wanted ONE pill. One product. And I have found it.

I have not only found it, we are collaborating with HEY FREYA.

Woman owned. Woman Docs.

Here’s link to the product REST

— all dressed up in a new label.

I sleep 9 out of 10 nites. Maybe 8.5 out of 10 — but I will take it!

ALL herbs. Which I need. And no hangover.

Do we need the rest now? We do.

Do we need the power now? We do.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

IT WORKS!

MJ