Routine Board conversations are now laced with condescension. Questions become lectures. Disagreements are peppered with little digs. Ordinary exchanges carry the unmistakable suggestion that I am a moron. There is even yelling.

I tried to let it go because I don’t have the bandwidth for this type of crazy. Then I started hearing that the Parking Potentate was continuing to discuss the incident with neighbors and, more upsetting, disparaging my character. Somehow, I had become the central figure in a scandal I didn’t realize was still brewing.

You can call me stubborn. I’ll own that. Opinionated? Yes. Bossy? Sure. But a liar? Absolutely not.

The Board held a rare in-person meeting. Mr. Parking was already worked up over an entirely unrelated issue when he announced that he would not tolerate liars. Then he turned, looked directly at me, and held my gaze.

I called him out. Sure, I was shaking. Nausea hitting me like a physical wave, but I calmly told him I did not appreciate being referred to as a liar and that the bullying, rude, and patronizing behavior was unacceptable. I also made it clear that I had no interest in continuing the conflict. We serve on the Board together and need to work collaboratively. I wanted us to put the parking incident behind us and move forward professionally.

I didn’t ask for an apology. I didn’t demand that he acknowledge wrongdoing. I didn’t request a restorative justice circle beside the jacuzzi. I simply asked for basic decorum and respect.

I thought that would be the end of it.

It was not. The attitude persisted, as did reports that he was still bad-mouthing me to neighbors. Then came our latest Board project.

We are dealing with security concerns, and someone suggested exploring a shared patrol with neighboring HOAs. I thought it was worth pursuing. Our president asked for a volunteer to draft a letter. I raised my hand.

The objective was straightforward: gauge interest. Several Board members offered constructive suggestions. Then, of course, our resident communications expert and parking enforcer entered the chat.

“Look, as someone who’s written a million proposals, owned actual sales and marketing empires, and trained real professionals, I actually know what works here. Nicole, you need to stop your guessing, set your draft aside, listen to my directives, and implement every word I tell you.”

He then proceeded to lay out an unnecessarily detailed blueprint. If he wanted to steer the project, he should have stepped up to take it on himself. I was resentful, but it wasn’t about the workload. It was the tone and the sheer, unchecked arrogance.

At first, I chalked his behavior up to me being a woman. Or because I’m considerably younger. Or maybe he just mistook courtesy for weakness. But the further he pushed, the clearer the truth became. This had nothing to do with demographics. It was about his narrative.

Every good story needs a villain. And since he was busy casting himself as the tireless, heroic protector of suburban order, someone had to play the adversary. I had been typecast for the role.

Fine!

But recognizing the real dynamics was strangely liberating. You can’t reason someone out of a fantasy they built to make themselves feel important. You also can’t convince someone to like you or revise whatever story they’ve written about you. You can only refuse to play along.

I had the opportunity to take a private tour of Greenwood, the historic community known as Black Wall Street. Like many Americans, I knew the basics, the broad strokes. In 1921, a white mob descended on Greenwood, murdering residents and burning homes and businesses across one of the most prosperous Black communities in America.

What I didn’t know was everything that came after.

Despite unimaginable devastation, families losing loved ones, homes, businesses, and generational wealth, Greenwood rebuilt. The district experienced a remarkable resurgence, once again becoming a center of Black commerce and community.

I thought Greenwood was still thriving. Sadly, that perception is common. In reality, the Greenwood most visitors see today is not the real story. There is a polished block with new development and a large wrought-iron sign announcing Greenwood. Storefronts have been built to evoke the historic district. But it is a façade. Venture beyond that block, under the freeway, and a very different landscape emerges. Desolate stretches of vacant land.

The destruction visible today developed quietly, slowly, wrapped in the respectable language of public policy.

“Blight” removal. Urban renewal. Land acquisition. Redevelopment. A highway.

Declare a neighborhood “blighted.” Remove homes and businesses. Acquire the land. Hold it. Allow it to remain vacant. Then point to the resulting emptiness and economic distress as evidence that the area is struggling. A mechanism that starves rather than saves. Perverse. Insidious.

And that language matters. It makes something ugly sound acceptable. Reasonable, even. Blight removal seems like improvement. Urban renewal, hopeful, right? A new highway. Progress! None of those conjure families losing homes, Black-owned businesses disappearing, communities being divided, or opportunities to build and pass down wealth being interrupted. The terminology sanitizes the human consequences.

Bureaucracy becomes a shield for racism. Honestly, I had wandered into a crime scene of urban policy.

My head was spinning during the tour, but I didn’t fully register the true horror of what I had learned until later that evening.

I was at a free concert in North Tulsa, part of our mission to bring people into a historically underinvested area through music, breathe life into an underutilized public space, support economic activity, and create joy and connection. I had been introduced in my professional role, and as one of the relatively few white people in the audience, I stood out.

A man walked up to me. He laughed and said, “So, you come to Tulsa for work and they make you come here?”

Here.

I heard the undertone. The assumption that this part of Tulsa was somewhere a visitor would have to be made to go. Somewhere lesser. Undesirable. Scary.

But then everything clicked.

This is how the damage perpetuates itself. Misguided policy shapes neighborhoods. It determines what is built, what disappears, and where investment flows. Eventually, the consequences become the narrative. The emptiness seems inevitable, when in fact, it was engineered.

The cruel circularity of it.

Once I understood the raw mechanics, the most disturbing question was no longer, “How could this have happened?”

It was, “How are we still allowing it to happen?”

I went to Tulsa last Friday for work. Deli Dad knew this because we had discussed it via text. More than once.

Thursday, he texted, “Are you there?”

No. Because it was Thursday.

Friday morning, I responded flatly, “Tulsa bound.”

He fired back immediately, “Are you driving?”

No. We had covered this too. I was flying to Tulsa, working, and heading home Sunday.

Deli Dud texted again Saturday. (Yes, Dud. This is his rebrand moving forward.)

“How was the drive?”

Hmm. Really? Tulsa is approximately 1,500 miles from Los Angeles. Had I driven there Friday and returned by Sunday at noon, there would have been very little time for anything Tulsa. Or sleep. It would have been entirely driving. But fine. Maybe travel logistics aren’t his thing.

I needed food, so I stopped at the market. Deli Dud was working and waited on me. We chatted for a few minutes. Then he asked how the drive back was.

The drive. Are you kidding me? Again, with this?

I looked at him, my face settling into a mixture of disbelief and mild revulsion. I was starting to suspect that when I spoke, Deli Dud heard sounds but was incapable of converting them into retainable information. Despite the rapidly developing ick, he still made me nervous. So nervous, apparently, that I left the market without paying.

I just walked out! With my lunch. Smoothie. Soy milk. The whole kit and caboodle. Sure, it was my fourth straight weekend of travel. I was tired. Frazzled. But this was Dud’s doing. I made it all the way home before realizing I had inadvertently become a shoplifter and had to turn around, drive back, and admit I had forgotten to pay.

Excellent. He can’t remember how I got to or from Oklahoma and I can’t remember that commerce requires money. Things were going beautifully.

And it only gets stranger. Last night, he texted.

“Hi Nicole, I had the craziest day today. But I made it out alive. I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

This felt unnecessarily dramatic, but I wasn’t interested enough to investigate.

“Glad to hear it,” I responded.

I thought the lack of enthusiasm was detectable. It was not.

“Soooooo, I would love to hang out with you but this week doesn’t sound right. I’m moving and you have to work. Another crazy drive to Vegas!”

A few corrections. I am not working. I’m going to Vegas to see a girlfriend. I also am not driving. We have discussed all three. Repeatedly.

Then, “How about dinner once you’re back home? I know a nice Mediterranean place. Or we could have pizza at your house? Watch a movie... ;)”

Bam. There it was. Pizza. My house. (Better than his hovel, I suppose!) A movie. The ellipsis. The winky face.

No. Absolutely not. I needed to backpedal carefully, without making things so awkward that I’d have to abandon my prepared foods counter forever.

Fortunately, my travel schedule offered the perfect out. Granted, I don’t actually have another work trip until mid-September, but given Dud’s retention rate, I wasn’t terribly worried about being fact-checked.

“Timing is bad. I am slammed with work travel and have a few tentative trips in August. I am gone most of September and October, half of November, and the end of December too.”

There. He’d get the message. Done.

His response, “I CAN WAIT FOR YOU!”

Oh my goodness. Noooooo! Wait for me? You hardly know me. We’d exchanged a handful of bizarre texts, most of which involved him ranting or providing mounting evidence that he is an imbecile. We’d had some chitchat at the market. That was the full extent of our relationship. Yet somehow, on the strength of this profound connection, he was prepared to wait months for me.

Other women might find this endearing. Flattering. Even romantic. I found his over-eagerness unattractive. And extraordinarily alarming. If this was his level of devotion after a few conversations, imagine how smitten he would be in a full-fledged relationship. I would blow his freaking mind.

Subtlety had failed. Dud was dense. I needed to be clearer.

“I don’t think that makes sense. I will just see you around the market.”

Surely that would do it. But then another text arrived.

“I really like you!”

Yes. Unfortunately, I gathered that. So now, I need to break up with a man I’ve never actually dated. More importantly, I need to discreetly reverse course while preserving access to my food source.

I have a plan. It’s not slick, but it’s all I’ve got. Dud works mornings. For the next three weeks, I can shop later in the day, safely securing both my smoothies and meal options after he has left the premises. After that, I’m traveling so much that distance will happen naturally. By the time I return, his attention will have shifted organically.

Well, that is the hope anyway!

So, readers, I need a ruling. How does one reject the Dud without jeopardizing the deli?

Well, after a thousand pep talks, countless reenactments, and enough overthinking for a lifetime, I finally did something wildly out of character. I made the first move!

We were chatting about my hectic travel schedule, including my upcoming trip to Tulsa, a city he said he really enjoyed, when I stated matter-of-factly, “Should I give you my number so we can continue talking?”

He looked up. “What?”

Nothing humbles a person faster than having to repeat a sentence they already regretted saying. But I did it anyway.

His eyes widened. “Oh... yeah. Yes!” he stammered.

I tore the bottom off my grocery list, scribbled my number, handed it over, and speed-walked out of the store before I could leap over the counter and rescind the offer.

A few hours later, he texted to say he “appreciated that I gave him my number” before narrating his remarkably boring afternoon. Dogs to the sitter. Helping a friend. Maybe getting gas. CVS run. Making dinner.

Later that night, my phone buzzed again. Three separate photos. Two dogs and his darling daughter. In just eight text messages, not including the photos, he had already shared a surprising amount about his life, including that he’d spent the last several years living with the mother of his daughter.

Don’t worry. He was “supposedly” moving out in ten days.

Meanwhile, I was giving my friends a play-by-play. They were thrilled. “I’m so proud of you!” one texted. “That took guts!” wrote another. But as I filled them in on the increasingly bizarre messages and the rapid-fire oversharing about both his daughter and Baby Mama, I started wondering if something was a little... off. One friend immediately scolded, “Be nice, Nicole.” Another assured me our astrological signs were perfectly aligned. That the universe was speaking. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t speaking, but rather laughing at me as a form of self-entertainment.

The next afternoon, my phone erupted again. Not one message. Not even two. It was a machine-gun burst of consciousness.

“Wow... the apartment is a lot.”

“The last guy completely trashed it.”

“Good news is I don’t have to pay the security deposit because it’s already so nasty.”

“Total bachelor pad.”

“I have a lot of cleaning to do but the other guys said they’ll help.”

“Got to paint too! But can’t afford it right now, so I will have to find some. Maybe in my daughter’s mom’s garage?”

“It’s a bad color though. Really dark.”

“If it isn’t ready, my daughter’s mom said I can stay with her a little longer.”

“But it’s all good. We get along.”

There was... a lot to unpack. Apparently, his new place was a communal living arrangement. He also proudly pointed out that he had his own bathroom, as though that was the luxury amenity that sealed the deal. All I could picture was a hovel serving as a temporary layover before he and his belongings slowly annexed my townhome.

Turns out, Deli Don Juan was not nearly as delicious as I’d been dreaming.

Then came the sentence that turned concern into clarity. And remember, I had orchestrated all of this. I gave him my number. I was the one who wanted him to ask me out.

“Hey, so for our first public event, I was thinking about seeing a band or dinner.”

Our first...

Public...

Event?

It sounded like he was taking me out for a showing, as if I’m a prized pig being unveiled at the county fair.

Whatever romantic curiosity I’d been clinging to vanished. Fast.

Ironically, this all unfolded only a few days after another relationship plot twist involving my quirky travel companion. (If you’d like to catch up on the saga, check out “Fashion Crimes and Camera Clicks: Surviving Days 2 and 4,” “The Great Buffet Debate on Day 5,” and “The Tip I Should’ve Given: Get It Together or Get Left on Day 6!” And yes, I know. I still haven’t finished the series. I will. Eventually!)

Now, before I continue, I need to say that my travel companion is genuinely one of the kindest people I know. He has a heart of gold and a wonderful sense of adventure, but the social filter of a thirteen-year-old boy. Our conversations are usually run-of-the-mill. He reports going to the gym, his latest alignment, and a great concert he attended. Completely harmless.

Then, in the middle of a Wednesday while at work, my phone vibrated.

“I wish I could give you a present for your birthday.”

I smiled. How sweet. But a tad strange, since my birthday isn’t until November.

I replied, “Well, you know I love presents!”

Several minutes later, another message arrived.

Let’s just say the birthday gift he had in mind wasn’t something that could be purchased, gift-wrapped, or shipped by Amazon. It was more of an experiential gift that required my full participation, cooperation, and an enthusiasm to explore territory I had absolutely no interest in visiting.

I stared at my phone. Read it again. Checked the sender. Read it a third time. Surely, he’d texted the wrong person.

Nope. This message was definitely intended for me.

Grossed out? Absolutely. Surprised? Not particularly. I declined his offer and told him I’d happily send him my actual birthday wish list.

Which brings me back to the beginning.

I’d been trying to take chances, just go for it, be brave, and speak my mind openly.

Well... Mission freaking accomplished.

What a ride. I couldn’t put it down. I finished it lickety-split in two days. It’s one of those books that keeps pulling you in. Every time I thought I had it figured out, the story took another crazy turn.

Most of the reviews focus on the “trad wife” aspect of the novel. I understand why. It’s provocative, timely, and makes for a catchy headline. But that’s the bait, not the hook.

The book is packed with thought-provoking themes. It’s one of the smartest commentaries I’ve read on social media. It explores the intoxicating pursuit of being seen, admired, validated, and relevant. The carefully curated lives. The performative authenticity. The illusion that if enough people approve of or follow us, we must be doing something right, that we’re likable, successful, and somehow winning at life.

It’s about control. Who has it. Who wants it. The lengths we will go to maintain it. It asks fascinating questions about masculinity and femininity, the expectations we place on ourselves and each other, and the roles society rewards us for playing.

And then there’s religion. The story centers on Christianity. However, its message reaches far beyond that. It could just as easily be about any religion, ideology, movement, or community that convinces people they alone possess the truth. The book asks what happens when faith, or any deeply held belief, becomes a shield for self-righteousness and superiority.

One final note. The recurring commentary about a character’s flaccid penis is not only hysterical but also brilliantly written. I won’t say anything more because the less you know about this book, the better. Enjoy!

I survive thanks to a wonderful local, family-owned, hippie-dippy market that I visit almost daily. They have an ever-changing lineup of prepared foods: turkey lasagna, taquitos, chicken piccata, soups, and smoothies that are super inexpensive considering this is Los Angeles. It is one of my favorite spots, but they recently committed an act of betrayal. They installed self-service kiosks for ordering smoothies.

I’m against kiosks on principle because I like interacting with people. The staff knows me. I know them. I ask about what’s new. I practice my Spanish. I gossip about the neighborhood. I’m equal parts chatterbox and busybody. There are a lot of lovely people who work there, but one person, in particular, has piqued my interest.

The Deli Dude!

He appears to be age appropriate. Maybe a few years younger. He’s cute. I know he has a child. He’s occasionally aloof, which I’m not especially fond of, but we smile at each other, exchange pleasantries, and chat. Nothing deep, but enough that I’ve convinced myself there’s mutual flirting happening. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

So, back to the self-service kiosk.

I’m reluctantly entering my smoothie order into the machine when it asks for my phone number.

I say out loud, “Why do you need my number?”

Without missing a beat, Deli Dad looks up and says,

“Well... if we’re going to hang out later, I’ll need it.”

Now, many of you probably think this is the part where I delivered a witty comeback worthy of a romantic comedy. This really should have been our meet-cute.

But you all know me. Instead, I completely short-circuited. I didn’t say a word. I just giggled... awkwardly of course. I broke eye contact and stared at the floor. I then grabbed my smoothie and fled the scene.

Yet, walking to my car, I was absolutely delighted.

He was flirting with me!

Then, ten seconds later, another thought arrived.

Oh, no... I completely shut him down.

I immediately began to spiral. Was he actually flirting? Customers must talk to the kiosk all day long, not realizing it just needs to keep track of your reward points. Maybe he has an entire repertoire of charming responses. Sigh! He probably says that to everyone.

Meanwhile, I’ve now returned to the market at least twenty times. I’ve seen Deli Dreamboat almost every visit. We’ve acknowledged one another. But the playful banter? Gone.

Naturally, I have been spending an embarrassing amount of time scripting my next move. I could say:

“Do you flirt with everyone who argues with the kiosk?”

Or... When choosing the spaghetti, I could casually ask, “Do you need my number for this order too?”

Then I noticed something. Every receipt has my name and phone number printed on it. I have considered circling it and casually handing it to my favorite Deli Darling and boldly and seductively stating, “Since I never gave you my number...”

But here’s the real problem. I want to pursue this. Yet, what if he rejects me? Laughs and tells me he wasn’t flirting. It was just a line.

Even worse... What if he says yes to my advances? What if we date, it doesn’t work out, and suddenly I can never return to my favorite market again?

This isn’t just romance. This is logistics. This is my primary food source. I have built an entire nutritional ecosystem around this place. If this goes badly, I’m losing my ability to eat.

So now I have an important life decision to make. Do I dare to date Deli Don Juan?

Here are some of my favorite topics from our last meeting: an update on the kitchen faucet, switching to environmental coffee filters, the addition of a new water filtration system, and the purchase of a heavy-duty paper shredder. Every single item was legitimate. However, every single item also could have been an email.

By lunchtime, I needed air.

I stepped outside, looked left, and immediately decided that direction wasn’t happening. An unhoused man was enthusiastically waving what appeared to be his filthy underwear. I didn’t investigate. I simply accepted that this was not my route today and headed the other way.

That decision led me face to face with Coco.

If you’ve never encountered Coco, it’s one of those autonomous food delivery robots. Picture a small cooler on wheels with a tiny flag, exhibiting unwavering confidence.

I rounded a narrow corner at the exact moment Coco did. It terrified me. I stepped left. Coco stepped left. I stepped right. Coco stepped right. The little robot kept mirroring me like a prizefighter, bobbing and weaving. For a few ridiculous seconds, we shuffled back and forth, neither of us willing to back down.

Then something inside me snapped.

“Stupid, stupid thing!” I screamed.

Coco kept edging forward.

“Coco! Get out of my way!” I hollered.

It was not budging. There was, of course, also no acknowledgment that I, this sad human, was clearly having a rough day.

Shaking my head, I eventually stepped aside and into oncoming traffic because, apparently, Coco had pad thai to deliver and absolutely no time for my emotional unraveling. As it rolled away, I stood there wondering what series of life choices had led me to lose a standoff with a lunchbox.

Then it hit me.

I wasn’t angry at Coco. My life simply needed a villain. And Coco was the unfortunate symbol of everything I was carrying: the horrendous commute, the endless travel, the strange personalities, the absurd meetings.

Turns out, Coco wasn’t just delivering lunch. It was also delivering a reality check.

But then my Homeowner’s Association (HOA) handed me material that was simply too good not to share.

I’ve served as secretary on my HOA Board for several years. I ran for two reasons. First, I wanted to make sure that when I had an issue, it would actually be heard. Yes, selfish, but also practical and, as it turns out, necessary. Second, I thought the Board could use someone with a healthy dose of common sense. As you’ll soon see, that assumption has been thoroughly validated.

Let’s start with what I have coined, The Great Duck Debate. A few families of mallards decided our community pools were the perfect place to spend their summer. Honestly, I don’t blame them. It’s lovely!

Some residents worried the ducklings would fall into the pools and drown. Others were concerned about them using the pools at all. Someone built staircases out of bricks so the ducklings could climb in and out of the water.

The ducklings now had infrastructure. But not HOA-approved infrastructure. Rogue infrastructure. The kind of project that never would have survived the Architectural Review Committee. The whole situation was causing quite a stir.

I did a little research and discovered there was a remarkably simple solution to our duck debacle. Floating inflatable toys, beach balls, or even fake alligators make pools much less attractive to our unwanted guests without harming them. Cheap. Easy. Humane.

Instead, the Board divided into factions.

There was Team Save the Ducks.

Team Save the Pools.

And Team Who Authorized These Construction Projects?

Then an email arrived announcing that, “from now on if any ducks enter the pools, they will be closed immediately for the electro-shock treatment.”

I was in the middle of a stressful work situation but had to pivot to inquire, “What in the world is electro-shock treatment, and did you happen to read my last email where I provided a simple, effective solution?”

I eventually learned this method referred to treating the pool water due to the duck droppings by running an electrical current through it. In other words, the ducks would be collateral damage. Besides the obvious downside of dead ducks floating in the pool, I couldn’t help but think about the inevitable teenager who would ignore the “Pool Closed” sign and cannonball in anyway. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed.

But, of course, a few weeks later there was a new issue. An even crazier issue. Parking.

A simple enough problem. You’d think. But nope.

A resident contacted me late Monday evening because their garage door was not working. They needed somewhere to park for a couple of nights until the repair technician could come out. The guest parking code wasn’t working, so I reached out to the Board member who oversees parking to confirm the code.

That was apparently the wrong move because it quickly snowballed. What should have been a thirty-second conversation turned into a heated, disrespectful interrogation.

“Who lives there, Nicole? Are they renters? Nicole, KNOW THE RULES. Board members need to know the RULES. Renters have no rights! EVERYONE needs permits. I need the tenant’s name. The owner’s name. Actually, the owner must contact me tonight. Why are you circumventing the RULES, Nicole? Never mind, send me their address. I want their license plate number. Photos of their car. From many angles. I expect this within the half hour. And if I find out you are lying.”

He hung up mid-tantrum.

I was flabbergasted. I’ll admit, I wasn’t perfect during the call. I raised my voice, but so would most people after being screamed at for innocently trying to assist a neighbor. The irony was that he wasn’t even following the rules. Owners and tenants could park in our lots for up to three days without a permit.

What followed was an astonishing chain reaction involving rule interpretations, which lots they were “permitted” to use, assumptions, accusations, and unfounded conspiracies.

Now remember, all of this started because a resident was simply trying to figure out where to park their car overnight. And I was caught up in the middle. Appalled by the response, I refused to share the resident’s information with the increasingly unhinged Board member.

Eventually, I gained my composure and advised my neighbors to contact our management company directly, explain the situation, confirm the garage door would be repaired within a few days, and request temporary approval.

Problem solved. Or so I thought.

Then the flurry of emails started arriving.

One by one.

“So, I’m guessing since you and Nicole wouldn’t give us any relevant information like your address, owner’s name or email, you don’t actually live here?”

“For the future, honesty is the only way to get what you want.”

“And have some integrity. We can, also, assume we won’t ever see that car in our lot again, yes? Have a great day?”

I remember staring at my computer, wondering how we had gone from, “My garage door won’t open,” to questioning someone’s moral character over parking.

But then I realized we were no longer discussing parking. The same had been true with the ducks. We had taken a dive into human nature. The real story was how quickly we assume the worst of one another, how often the need for control masquerades as righteousness, and how easily kindness and basic decency fall by the wayside. My HOA wasn’t unique. It was simply a microcosm of the world beyond its gates. Parking was merely the vehicle. The ducks were only the distraction.

I am sharing it here because acknowledgment does not expire when the spotlight fades. This was a collaborative effort rooted in the belief that steady, principled leadership deserves recognition.

A small community-based group engaged in social change efforts chose a deliberately old-fashioned approach.

We wrote letters.

No emails or elaborate social media posts. Actual letters addressed to real people doing difficult work in full public view.

We wrote to Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey and Minnesota Governor Tim Walz to acknowledge their steady leadership under extraordinary political pressure and national scrutiny. We also wrote to the six career prosecutors who resigned from the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Minnesota rather than comply with political interference in the investigation into the fatal shooting of Renee Nicole Good.

From thousands of miles away in Southern California, we saw and heard a familiar pattern unfolding. Competing narratives racing ahead of verified facts. Grief, anger, fear, and distrust colliding inside systems already under strain. Far too often, politicians retreat into defensiveness and political calculation.

In Minnesota, leaders chose a path anchored in composure and clarity and guided by principle and integrity. Mayor Frey and Governor Walz are acting in a manner increasingly rare in public life: steadiness without theatrics. They are staying present. They communicate directly. They acknowledge uncertainty without feeding panic or polarization.

Equally consequential was the decision by the federal prosecutors to resign rather than compromise professional standards and prosecutorial independence. Resignation carries consequences including lost income and disrupted career trajectories. Yet here we find men and women choosing conscience over convenience, and in doing that, they strengthen institutional boundaries and deny ethical erosion.

We wrote to them and now to their community to both praise and offer support for their courage. Our letters were intentionally simple. No policy arguments, no partisan framing, and no grand declarations. Just an acknowledgment of leaders and public servants acting in charged moments with grace to advance justice and reinforce the standards we claim to value. Through their actions, Minnesota’s leaders are modeling how to confront evil while trying to initiate healing.

From California, our coalition focused on preserving democracy includes native Angelenos, people from the South, the East, the Midwest, and those with roots in the Great Lakes. Some of us understand firsthand what it means to endure single-digit wind chills, bundling children into snow suits, and preparing daily life around harsh weather. Others know that reality only from a distance. What unites us is not geography, but a shared belief in responsibility, neighborliness, and democratic norms. We recognize and respect the resolve of Minnesotans who stand in the cold for their communities and their country. We stand with you and offer our unwavering support.

Since the pandemic, I have lived almost exclusively in leggings and trainers. My professional wardrobe, meanwhile, was less “capsule” and more “time capsule,” preserved lovingly from the early 2000s. Low-rise optimism. Aggressive tailoring, worn by a woman who had not yet been betrayed by time or gravity. So, I did what had to be done. I tried everything on and purged.

For context, I am petite. Just over 100 pounds. I will be 50 later this year, and I weigh a few pounds more than I did in my twenties. The distribution, however, has shifted. Those pounds have made strategic decisions. And, I must note, without my consent. Pants were snug and suddenly responsible for a muffin top I do not recall ordering. Dresses that once felt professional now flirted aggressively with my mid-thigh.

By noon, I had donated over thirty pairs of designer pants and twenty dresses. Exhausting. A little sad. It felt like a strange kind of goodbye. A breakup, of sorts, with earlier versions of myself.

To recover, I treated myself to a nice lunch.

I was first seated in an outdoor chair so low my eyes barely cleared the tabletop. Picture toddler-height. Pre-K adjacent. The woman at the next table watched me attempt to regain my dignity and suggested I grab a chair a few feet away.

Reasonable advice. I went to test its height first. I did not even fully sit before it happened.

A loud crack reverberated through the entire restaurant. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Servers froze. The chair collapsed.

Miraculously, I did not hit the ground. Somewhere between instinct and self-preservation, I caught myself mid-disaster and stood there, suspended in disbelief, holding what was left of the chair.

I returned to my table. The woman was apologetic, though clearly, she had not personally sabotaged the furniture. I assured her it was fine, but also felt compelled to explain that this particular moment was not ideal for my self-esteem.

“I’m starting a new job,” I said. “I just spent the entire morning trying on my professional clothes. And gave most of them away because they don’t fit.”

She laughed.

“It’s also been a hard year,” I added. “Loss stacked on loss. My family’s home. My job. A long stretch of feeling invisible. Disposable. Defective.” I gestured vaguely at myself and then toward the wreckage. “For a while, I thought I was on my last legs. Turns out, I’m not.”

This layoff stripped away the thin veil of optimism I used to half-heartedly drape over my life. Well-meaning friends rush in with familiar refrains meant to keep despair at bay. It will all work out. This is happening for a reason. Something better is coming. The universe never takes without giving. These phrases are delivered as though the mere act of repeating them could bend the world toward mercy.

Faith helps some people. They believe God has a bigger plan. Others cling to secular optimism. They point to resilience, silver linings, rejection as redirection. And for a moment, I want to believe them all. I want to believe that pain means something, that persistence leads to reward. But what if there is no design, pattern, or benevolent hand at work. These platitudes are not truths. They are lullabies. Life is not preparing us for better things. It is a sequence of blows, where chaos is simply chaos, indifferent and unyielding.

My therapist is one of the worst. She tells me to stay positive. That positivity attracts positivity. That I am strong and being tested. Maybe she is right. Or, more likely, she is simply afraid of naming what most of us already know. Strength is not always rewarded. Tests do not always end with triumph. Sometimes life asks you to endure, and then asks you to endure again.

Maybe I’m finally seeing the world without its mask. Realizing that the promise of “it will all work out” is not realism but sedation. That resilience is not a ladder toward brighter days. That hope is not given, but must be manufactured over and over, without any guarantee it will last or lead anywhere.

So no, I do not believe it always works out. Sometimes it works out badly. Sometimes it does not work out at all. And maybe the real act of survival is being able to live with that truth without numbing yourself completely.

PS: I accepted a job! However, the above still needed to be said. More on the awkward logistics of preparing to return to the workforce soon.

On Sunday, January 18, more than one hundred people gathered at a Home Depot in Los Angeles to demand accountability. The action, organized by Culver City and Friends Rising (CCAFR) and Show Up Culver City in support of the National Day Laborers Organizing Network (NDLON), was a direct response to ICE being allowed to operate on store property, placing day laborers at risk and turning retail parking lots across the country into sites of fear and surveillance.

The protest took place over MLK weekend intentionally. Dr. King understood that disruption was not a branding strategy. It was the lever that moved history. Visibility, economic pressure, and collective inconvenience have always been the bedrock of real change.

Three media outlets covered the demonstration. When the first wave of protesters entered the store, Home Depot shut it down. They sang inside as long as they could, then exited to loud applause from the crowd waiting outside. This was not symbolic theater. Closing a store creates immediate impact, sending a clear message that business as usual is not acceptable when human dignity is at stake.

By the time I arrived, the doors were already shut.

Part of me felt relief. No tense standoff. No dramatic dash through sliding doors. No grabbing an ice scraper, or in our very LA version, a putty knife, only to immediately turn around and return it as a way of creating chaos. But my body was still buzzing with what-ifs. What if this escalates anyway? What if someone decides to make an example of us? What if the police are called in, or worse, ICE shows up?

I was scared. This wasn’t a typical protest. This was creating friction, taking up space where we were not invited, and being louder than decorum prefers. I am not wired for rule-breaking. I like order. I like predictability. I like knowing exactly how things are supposed to go. The thought of being arrested, especially while trying to secure my next paycheck, was extremely unappealing. And, frankly, I enjoy boring normalcy more than I like to admit.

A few of the leaders could sense my anxiety. One of them pulled me into a hug. No speech. Just kindness and steady reassurance. A reminder that I wasn’t alone and that vulnerability is not weakness.

Even though I missed the most dramatic moment inside the store and felt real fear, showing up still counted. The conversations mattered. Standing shoulder to shoulder carried weight. This is how movements grow, through people choosing collective presence over personal comfort.

With every action, we get braver, not because the fear disappears, but because the cost of staying silent is too high.

So, I keep showing up!

I am kidding. Sort of. But if you have a PPO and a solid relationship with your healthcare system, preferably Providence, I am prepared to bring charm, wit, and exceptional dinner-party energy in exchange for decent co-pays.

This year began with promise. I was juggling four prospects. Then, as these things tend to go, they began to dwindle.

Prospect One came from The League, which is an app where you have to be accepted. That is their big marketing ploy. Once you are approved, you stay forever, even though the men seem to be curated by a committee whose mission is to completely disappoint you. It’s the janky version of Raya, which I can’t get into, so I sadly cling to The League.

I matched with a 37-year-old who is cute and described himself as a “simple man who can fix things around the house.” This is appealing since I am not handy. But then he followed up with, “Babe, here’s my number. Call me and I’ll come over whenever you want and get down to the work of putting my tools to good use, pounding, nailing, screwing, and giving you the full, hands-on home-improvement experience.”

Whoa there, cowboy. As a writer, I wholeheartedly appreciate the metaphor. It’s creative, but this isn’t happening. Also, “babe” is aspirational language. You have not yet earned “babe.” We are still at “Hello, stranger from the internet.”

Contestant Number Two is from the south of Spain, which initially felt like a gift from the universe. I would happily move to Spain. (By the way, they have socialized medicine, which at this point counts as foreplay.) Unfortunately, he has taken to using my name in every single text. Not occasionally. Every single one.

“LOL Nicole, that’s ridiculous.”
“Nicole, what’s your favorite coffee drink?”
“What would you say is the best adventure you’ve been on, Nicole?”
“Nicole, you are so funny.”
“Are you more of a beach person or a city person, Nicole?”
“Nicole, do you like dogs?”

It is unsettling. It feels like he is trying very hard to remember who I am, practicing how to sound warm while reading from a script, or buttering me up to sell something. Also, when someone says your name that often, it begins to feel disciplinary. I expect him to follow up with, “Nicole, we need to talk about your attitude.”

Suitor Number Three and I decided to move off the app and onto text. This, in retrospect, was a mistake. His messages contained absolutely no enthusiasm.

“This is Tom.”
“Am I correct that you are on the Westside?”
“When we meet, we have to be aware of traffic patterns. They can fluctuate by time of day.”
“Do you typically experience congestion on your outings?”
“What is your preferred time window for meeting?”
“I limit my interactions to forty-five minutes, which is optimal.”

Our exchanges felt less like flirting and more like onboarding for a mid-level logistics role. We attempted to schedule something, but his planning style was aggressively last minute. I asked if he was available the following day and never received a response. Then, at 5:30 a.m. on Friday, I received: “Hi. Meeting you is on my priority list for today.”

To his credit, he technically attempted to make plans. By then, I had already made other commitments because I hadn’t heard back from him. He became irritated and vanished.

Option Four is another writer.

Effective immediately, I am no longer dating writers. I already have a standing ban on actors. Writers, however, believe their feelings are exceptionally important. They are also, as a group, narcissistic. I say this as a writer. Still, it often remains true.

I just finished a four-part series about a writer, so perhaps the universe was testing my boundaries. This new writer shared an unfortunate similarity with the last one: he was a liar. He also arrived with significant emotional baggage, specifically the ex-wife variety. He informed me that his ex, toward whom he harbored a great deal of unresolved animosity, had my exact same name. He then explained that although he had asked to move the conversation to text, I was starting at a disadvantage because my name happened to coincide with hers.

My response: “Disadvantage? Please! I am Nicole 2.0. Prepare to have your mind blown.”

From there, the field thinned quickly. I obviously ignored the handyman. The unenthusiastic texter disappeared. The writer bailed, too. That left me, with the Spaniard. We actually had a phone conversation. He used my name only once, at the very end, like a normal person. So now we have a date.

Which feels promising or like the start of a new essay. Olé!

Oooh how I loved this one! Broken Country is officially my first read of the year, and it is a Book Club winner. If you follow my reviews, you know I do not say that lightly. My beloved monthly reading mates are committed to… wildly interesting choices. Let’s just say we have survived some truly questionable picks. This one, though? Redemption!

What hooked me right away was how many lanes this story travels in and yet somehow never loses control of the wheel. There is mystery that keeps you turning pages because you need to know what actually happened. There is romance, which I am fully, unapologetically leaning into. I desperately want a slow-burn spark that builds in glances and almost-touches, thick with yearning and quiet electricity. Watching that kind of connection bloom on the page provided a gentle nudge from the universe, a welcome reminder that beautiful surprises are waiting. And layered beneath it all is an undercurrent of unease, a quiet friction that keeps you deliciously on edge.

I also really appreciated the way the book handles gun violence. It is clearly shaped by the era and its setting in a small English village. It never feels casual or sensational. There is weight and consequence, but also restraint. The story offers commentary without turning into a lecture, which is such a difficult balance to strike.

Broken Country delivers suspense alongside a love story shaped by fate and inconvenient but irresistible chemistry. It is tender while also devastating. By the end, I was equal parts swoony and wrecked, already missing these characters and their intoxicating pull. When so much is uncertain and exhausting, I am grateful for stories that prove beauty has not disappeared. I will absolutely take this win. And if this is how my reading year is starting, I am very much looking forward to what comes next!

Then he resurfaced with a text announcing that he had “finally worked everything out,” was “so excited to see me,” and “needed to meet.”

I didn’t know what I wanted. I only knew I hadn’t closed the door entirely.

I arrived early and was reading the menu when he snuck up behind me and scared me so badly, I yelped. And not a cute yelp. A full-body, public, startled-an-entire-table yelp. He found this annoying but still pulled me into a bear hug. “You look phenomenal,” he said, then gave me a pitying smile. “But that reaction was a bit much, don’t you think?” His tone made it clear he was actually scolding me for being startled. Then he added, obnoxiously, “Anyway, I’m happy you finally made time for me.”

I ignored the strange welcome as he grew increasingly attentive. We chatted as if nothing had happened. As if weeks of silence were irrelevant. We even ordered dinner. But the longer he poured on the performance, the clearer it became that I needed clarity.

Finally, I asked, “What exactly is happening here.”

He leaned back, smug, relaxed. “I like you. A lot. I am still seeing the other woman. But I want to see you too.”

Not what I expected. Especially given the build-up he had orchestrated. So, I clarified. “You are dating both of us?”

He shook his head. “Well, not exactly. She is my girlfriend. But you and I could have a thing on the side. She doesn’t need to know, right?”

I stared at him, stunned by the proposition and even more astonished by the cocky confidence behind it. His tone made it sound less like an offer and more like a favor he assumed I’d be grateful for. The subtext was practically, You’re welcome.

“I am not interested in that,” I said, unable to hide my disgust.

He did not like the answer. His tone hardened.

“Then I can’t keep meeting you,” he said. “How am I supposed to explain to my girlfrieeend, as he dramatically elongated the word, that I am in an individual book club with someone I used to date? You are going to have to stop pursuing me. Isn’t it clear I’m not at all into you?”

I blinked. “Individual book club” was certainly one way to describe a man I shared a pathetic clown car kiss with who later invited himself back into my life on a literary technicality.

I reminded him of the night at the snazzy bar overlooking the city when he said he wanted to kiss me and claimed it should have been me.

He snapped, “You drank a lot that night. You are reading all of this wrong.”

I had one Aperol Spritz. I could drink six of those and still remember every ex-boyfriend’s birthday.

Then I said, “Weren’t you the one who texted about wanting to get to know me better? Try again. Start over.”

He looked at me blankly and asked how much I drank before he arrived. I had not drunk anything and was enjoying water with my dinner.

I stood up and said, “You are seeing someone. I am not interested in being a second or a side option. I may not have everything figured out in life, but I do have two rules. One is new, thanks to you: I do not date men who drive clown cars. The other is long-standing. I am never a consolation prize.”

He opened his mouth, probably ready to quote another poorly chosen literary hero, but I was already walking away. No epilogue, sequel, or footnote.

The (Absolute) End.

After the S&M declaration date, life rewarded me with COVID. While I coughed my way through isolation, the man with the eyebrow-raising confession suggested we read a book together and discuss it so we could “stay connected.” I still had not asked how kinky his kink actually was, but we were vibing and I wanted to get to know him a little more. Sure, I was mildly concerned, but maybe it was low-key. A man who drives a clown car cannot be that naughty, right?

I read the book, waiting in anticipation for our discussion date. Instead, a few days after I tested negative, he told me he had met someone and wanted to see where that connection would go. I understood. We had only gone on two dates, and COVID had forced an abrupt intermission. I probably even dodged a bullet, given his… extracurricular interests.

In his ‘breakup’ text, however, he asked if we could remain friends.

“From our first date,” he wrote, “I knew how cool you were. I think we could have a great friendship.”

I agreed, sharing I thought the same thing. I even told him that since he was dating someone, I would let him set the cadence of whatever this friendship would be.

A few weeks later, he reached out to ask me to grab a drink, catch up, and talk about our COVID book. We had an enjoyable time. We dissected the novel, swapped recommendations, even discussed politics. It was nice to have a new, male friend. But the evening took a strange turn. He suddenly blurted out, “I hope this isn’t awkward for you… me picking another woman over you. I know how much you liked me. I guess I’m kind of like Mr. Willoughby.”

What?! Mr. Willoughby? From Sense and Sensibility?

The rake who professed devotion to Marianne, strung her along, love-bombed her with poetry and promises, and then dumped her for a wealthy woman the second it benefited him.

I wanted to shout: you’re the only one making this awkward, you are wildly overestimating your impact on me, and Mr. Willoughby is a terrible literary comparison for your life choices. Instead, stupidly, I let it go.

We kept texting, trading thoughts on books and what to read next. A month later, he asked me to hang out again, selecting a swanky, expensive bar overlooking the city. The evening before our meeting, he wrote, “I am really looking forward to our special date. I cannot wait to be with you again.”

The message was odd, considering we were supposedly just friends. And from the moment I arrived, he was overly flirtatious. When I asked how dating was going, he sighed dramatically and said he could not see a long-term future with her. She was set in her ways. The attraction was fading. Then, he deliberately shifted the conversation.

As we were walking out of the bar, he said, “Maybe I am more like a character who made a mistake.”

He paused, thought about it, and said, “You know. Like Romeo.”

My head spun. You mean, Romeo, the man who fell in love with Rosaline on Monday, Juliet by Tuesday, and managed to spark a gang feud by the weekend. Romeo, patron saint of romantic chaos, master of catastrophic decision making, and the literary embodiment of “I make everything worse.” That Romeo?

Well, at least this felt like my perfect opportunity. “Forget Romeo,” I said. “I’m actually much more curious about how Christian Grey you are.”

He ignored the question and looked offended rather than applauding my literary creativity. For a man who loved books and happened to be a writer, he should have been ready for a little verbal sparring.

Then, in another abrupt shift, he mentioned that the woman he was seeing lived in the Valley. I laughed and said, “You could have had me. The girl on the Westside. Far more geographically desirable.”

He leaned in and said, “I want to kiss you. I made a mistake. It should have been you.”

I stepped back and reminded him he was seeing someone and that I was not interested in being the other woman.

He said, “You’re amazing. I need to get this sorted. Please be patient.”

I jumped into my Uber and immediately trauma-dumped the entire story on my driver, Larry. He began interrupting with unsolicited commentary, asking rapid-fire follow-up questions, and shaking his head in disbelief.

At one point, he squinted at me through the rearview mirror and said, “He was standing there when I picked you up, right? He’s your height. That’s the problem. He is way too small for you. Classic short-king syndrome. Overconfidence. Needs female validation. What are you, five-two?”

I laughed and said I was fairly certain he had lied on his profile.

Larry nodded, satisfied. “Oh, he lied,” he said. “Men like that always lie. Five-eight on the app. Five-four, maybe, in real life. Shoes doing most of the work.”

When Larry dropped me off and I was halfway across the street, he rolled down his window and yelled, “Hey Nicole! You are a lovely lady. This guy is clearly a jerk. He does not deserve you.”

Moments later, Christian Grey Willoughby Romeo texted: “Really, you are amazing. Give me some time. I want to get to know you better. Try again. Start over right.”

I didn’t reply.

I had too. Despite everything, I genuinely liked him. We had a lot in common. I could be my quirky self and he laughed at my jokes. I wanted to believe the kiss failed because we were both off. It happens.

He asked me out to dinner at a swanky, Italian, gangster inspired spot in West Hollywood. We slid into a red leather booth, and before I could open my menu, he grabbed my face and kissed me. This time it was perfect. The rhythm, the instinct, the chemistry.

“Much better than our first kiss,” we said simultaneously and then laughed.

“We were both nervous,” he said.

“My back was really hurting,” I admitted.

I did not mention the part where I almost urinated in his clown car. No need for that detail.

I like physical affection. But he was a lot. Hands, tongue, and just too much enthusiasm everywhere. Still, I was having fun, and I don’t live in West Hollywood, so the odds of running into anyone I know were low. After a dinner that involved very little eating and a great deal of making out, we decided to grab a drink.

At the bar, seated at a tiny table, he leaned in and asked, “So… what are your kinks?”

Goodness, I thought. Why are we talking about this already? It felt too early. This was only our second date. I was still deciding whether I liked him, liked him, and somehow, we had already moved to kinks. Plus, I didn’t have anything outrageous or theatrical to offer, but I did have one tiny thing that could maybe, sort of count. Nothing wild. Nothing remotely thrilling. But fine. I shared.

He looked thoroughly unimpressed. Almost bored with my response.

Naturally curious, but also slightly concerned, I asked, “Do you have kinks?”

He met my eyes and said, very casually, “I am into sadomasochism.”

I blinked. Interesting… I briefly wondered how I would look in a full leather harness and whether they sell those on Amazon.

Unfortunately, my book-club-approved wit did not arrive in time.

Because what I should have said, the only correct response, was: “How Fifty Shades of Grey are you exactly? I need to know if we’re talking feather tickler… or Home Depot aisle twelve.”

Let’s rewind.

I seriously tweaked my back putting away my Costco haul because apparently, I have reached the age where lifting jumbo-size paper towels is a high-risk activity. The pain was vicious. I ended up in physical therapy. After several sessions, my therapist agreed I could safely accept a beach-walk date invitation. I loved her optimism, but she was wrong.

We met in Venice and walked toward the Santa Monica Pier. It is about three miles, which would have been fine if I had been on solid ground. But the terrain was soft and uneven, and I was barefoot. By the time we stopped for a drink, my spine was seizing.

To get my shoes back on, I bent down and instantly felt faint, nearly toppling over. I stayed folded in half for what felt like a small eternity, trying to breathe through the pain without drawing attention to the fact that my body was about to collapse. I acted casual, but my face betrayed me. I grabbed my date’s shirt aggressively to steady myself, forcing a smile that was meant to be adorable but probably resembled mild medical distress. He looked worried and asked if I was all right. I absolutely was not. But I managed to jam my feet into my trainers and pretend everything was normal.

I sucked down my drink, hoping to numb the pain. Then I realized, we still had to walk back. He suggested removing our shoes again and resuming the beach route. I insisted on the boardwalk. I hobbled along beside him, trying to appear cool.

There was a moment when I looked at him and thought: he’s smart, loves reading as much as I do, and even if romance never materialized, this could be the beginning of a real friendship. We stopped for burgers, and when he offered me a ride home and mentioned a surprise gift, I immediately said yes. I am extremely susceptible to gifts. Also, my pain was still intense, and the idea of waiting for an Uber felt like an unnecessary obstacle when getting home faster was clearly the better option. The surprise turned out to be a book, a thoughtful gesture after we’d bonded over great reads.

We walked to his car. And there it was. The red and white Mini Cooper. The clown car. A vehicle so small I was unsure my injured back would survive the contortion required to enter it.

On the very short drive home two problems became clear. First, I was in far more pain than I had admitted. Second, I had to pee. Badly. Catastrophically. If my date poked my stomach I might have burst like a water balloon.

When he stopped in front of my building, I leaned over for a brief hug, praying my body would behave long enough to get through the goodbye. But the slight bend forward sent a lightning bolt through my lower back and bladder. I desperately needed to escape.

But then he awkwardly kissed my cheek.
Flustered, I kissed his because panic makes me polite.
He then hopelessly grazed my nose.
After that, he made one last attempt at my lips.

It was terrible. There was no rhythm. No instinct. No chemistry at all. Just the unmistakable awkwardness of two people who should never kiss again. And let me be clear. I know how to kiss. A good kiss is a quiet choreography, a slow give and pull, the kind of moment that hums beneath the skin and finds its own pulse. It is two people catching the same breath, the world narrowing. It feels like magic.

This was not that. Not even close. My clumsy performance can be explained. I was in searing pain and experiencing the very real fear of wetting myself. His ineptness, however, was something else entirely. Something that, in hindsight, I should have paid attention to.

When it was finally over, my priorities were embarrassingly simple. Do not pee in his car. Do not fall over. Just get safely inside. And once horizontal, enjoy the book he gave me, because at least that had potential. He did not. I waved goodbye and inched toward my house.

Then she clarified.

Apparently, to qualify, I would need to be disabled.

I thanked her, and we moved on. Changed the subject. Ate snacks. Prepped for dinner.

A few hours later, we found ourselves discussing which body parts are optional. And somehow, this still did not rank as the strangest dinner conversation we have had. What does the appendix actually do, if no one seems to miss it? The gallbladder handles bile, but apparently that is negotiable since it can be removed without much ceremony. Tonsils are expendable. I always wanted that procedure as a kid because the post-op ice cream diet felt like a solid trade-off. You can lose a spleen and still carry on. One lung will technically get the job done. And, as it turns out, you don’t actually need both kidneys to live a perfectly healthy life.

This is the point in the conversation where my sister, who earlier had been so caring and earnest, looked me dead in the eye and said, “If you needed a kidney, Nicole, I wouldn’t give you one. My quality of life would be seriously impacted.”

I wasn’t offended. That’s our dynamic.

“Well, bingo,” I said. “No kidneys would definitely qualify me as disabled under your excellent insurance. So, good news. I’d be covered! Plus, I wouldn’t live very long. Win-win for everyone.”

We laughed. Because what else can you do?

Today, I should be writing solely about the mass shootings at Brown University and at Bondi Beach in Australia. And yet, it is impossible not to also think about grocery bills climbing while wages stagnate. About housing that feels permanently out of reach. About insurance premiums rising while coverage shrinks. About student debt that never disappears. About democracy under profound strain.

It feels like we are living in a constant state of emergency. We are forced to triage our attention and our empathy, deciding what deserves our outrage and what we simply do not have the emotional bandwidth to process anymore. Instability and uncertainty recede into the background, merging into a steady, numbing hum that exhaustingly blurs together.

And yet, I keep coming back to the conversation about my kidneys. Because it reveals something fundamental about where we are. We are being asked to adapt endlessly to volatility, to live inside chaos. A nation stretched thin. Unwell.

The real question is: How long can our country survive like this?

You finish the interview and call your best friend.

“So, I think we really connected,” you say, already imagining what your future work self will look like in this role. You replay the moment when the hiring manager laughed at your joke about cross-departmental synergy. You felt it. There was real chemistry.

Turns out, they didn’t feel the same way.

Because two days later, the stale email arrives:

“Thank you for your time, but we have decided to move forward with another candidate.”

Which translates to: We’re just not that into you.

And suddenly, you’re catapulted straight back into waiting for a man who is, objectively, mid-tier at best, to text you back after what you thought was an excellent dinner date. You’re pacing. You’re rereading the text chain like it contains some kind of encrypted prophecy. You even start negotiating with the universe.

If he texts, I will stop eating chocolate for the rest of the month.

Clearly a lie.

And let’s talk about the questions. My favorite:

“What is your superpower?”

Sir. I cannot fly. I cannot teleport. I cannot see the future, which is clearly evidenced by the fact that I did not foresee you asking me this ridiculous question for the fifteenth time this month.

Let me tell you what my superpower is not.
This. Interviewing.

If I had a superpower, it would be the ability to maintain eye contact while my internal monologue is screaming: Why did I say “absolutely” like that? Did I spit while I was talking? Why did my voice suddenly drop? Why am I still speaking? Nicole, stop talking.

And yet, every time, I convince myself:

This one is different.
We have something.
I saw them nod with what I swear was tenderness. Actual office-mate behavior.

And still, I show up.
Hair coiffed.
Lips painted.
Blazer steamed.
Heart open.
Just like dating, minus the suit.

Because, for reasons I can’t fully explain, I carry around this bottomless, wildly persistent well of hope that…

One day, a person or a company is going to say:
Oh. Her. Yes. That one.
We choose her!

And until then, I will continue to bravely, courageously, heroically poke fun at myself and the process, while reapplying my lipstick, taking three deep breaths, sometimes even striking a Superwoman pose, and then hitting “Join Meeting” or walking into that bar.