The Hunting Wives and the Slaughter of Common Sense

 When I was a girl, the world flickered in warm tones of black-and-white and technicolor optimism. The television glowed like a campfire in the living room, and around it, we gathered not just for entertainment—but for formation. For memory. For what it meant to be good. What it meant to be us.

My parents were strict. Guardians at the gate. The kind that wouldn’t let a whisper of Three’s Company enter the sanctity of our evenings. No sir, not in our house. A man living with two single women? That was a scandal, they said. A dangerous idea. And of course, I snuck around corners to watch it anyway—heart pounding, barely breathing. I waited for the thing that made it wicked. But it never came. A little innuendo, maybe. A wink. Compared to the chaos of today, it was downright quaint—like a sock hop at a church picnic.

Back then, we had Happy Days and Leave It to Beaver. Lucy made us laugh, and the Love Boat brought us cotton-candy tales of flirtation and redemption. Even Miami Vice, flashy as it was, had lines it didn’t dare cross.

But now… now we’ve slipped into something else entirely. A carnival of shadows. A funhouse mirror of storytelling that no longer wants to elevate, but to erode. Teenagers tangled in bedsheets. Adults preying on the young. And it’s called entertainment.

But it’s not. It’s erosion.

Because when you stir the lowest urges in people and call it art, you aren’t freeing them—you’re binding them. You’re muddying their soul. You’re clouding the signal that tells them they were meant for something more.

Flourishing isn’t born from lust or thrill or scandal. Flourishing is born from purpose. From spirit. From the quiet discipline of choosing the good when the bad looks more fun. But what happens when we’ve been so dulled by the grotesque masquerading as glamour that we forget how to seek the good?

We reach for synthetic joy. Sugar. Screens. Pills. Vegas weekends and borrowed highs. We try to fill a soul-shaped hole with something that will never fit.

My daughter tried to talk me into watching a show called The Hunting Wives. I made it through one and a half episodes. Just enough to see the rot under the gloss. A mockery of Southern women, twisted into caricatures—hypersexual, reckless, vapid. Teenagers used as props. Sex scenes masquerading as plot. The message wasn’t even subtext: This is who you are. This is what you’re for.

And I thought: No. No, it isn’t.

But see, this is how we end up with men like Epstein and crowds who don’t flinch. This is how you groom a culture to protect predators and shame the protectors. You feed them filth until they think it's food.

We don’t need more shows like this. We need stories that remind us who we are. Stories with spines and souls. With reverence. With boundaries. With morals—not because they’re old-fashioned, but because they work. Because they keep the machine of civilization humming. Because they guard the spark that makes us human.

What goes on between loving adults? Let that be private, sacred, unbroadcasted. But don’t drag that darkness into the open air and act surprised when the crops won’t grow. We’ve got to bring back the light. The good kind. The kind that doesn’t flicker in shame, but glows with dignity. 

When we trade virtue for cheap thrills, everybody pays. And when we stop expecting better, we stop getting better.

We are meant to flourish. And we can. But only if we remember how.

So let’s turn off the trash, light a candle, and go outside and breathe for a bit. Let’s remember what goodness looks like. Let’s stir it back into our lives like sugar into tea—sweet, strong, and worth sipping slow.

 

Masked, Muzzled, and Muted: Watching the World Obey

 I used to think most folks had a working brain between their ears and a backbone under their spine. Thought they could sniff out a scam, patch a roof, love their kin, and still have the good sense to question anything that didn’t sit right. But let me tell you, 2020 came along like a nosy neighbor with a clipboard and a megaphone and all hell broke loose.

I saw grown adults suddenly lose all grip on common sense. They sprayed their mail with Lysol, double masked alone in their car, and acted like saying “I don’t know” was a hate crime.

Now don’t get me wrong, fear’s a mighty powerful thing. It’ll make you bake sourdough in your bathtub and turn your own mama into a biohazard. But what rattled me most wasn’t the fear…it was how quickly folks handed over their freedom like it was a fruitcake they never wanted anyway.

The worst part?

They stopped thinking.

Stopped asking questions.

Turned on their own blood quicker than a rooster in a henhouse full of hens that voted differently.

People who once preached “love wins” were ready to exile Grandma for going to church. Folks who posted “Hate Has No Home Here” on Facebook were wishing death on anyone who questioned the science…and I use the word science lightly, 'cause half of it changed more than my hairstyles in the last ten years.

Let me say it plain:

Common sense didn’t die. It just got shamed into silence.

And the ones who still had it? We got called selfish, dangerous, conspiracy theorists, and my personal favorite: grandma killers. (My grandma once killed a giant snake with a rake. So, if we’re being literal, that title’s already taken.)

But here’s the truth I keep tucked in my Duluth Overalls:

You can’t cancel truth.

You can muzzle it. Mock it. Lock it down.

But it always finds a crack to sneak back in, like weeds through pavement, or gossip in a beauty shop.

So if you’re one of the few who still thinks for yourself, bless you. If you stayed steady while the world spun sideways, bless you twice. You are not crazy. You’re awake. And you’re needed now more than ever.

Here’s What I Learned:

1. Fear makes people do strange things.

We’ve all got scars from it—so extend a little grace. But don’t confuse silence with love. Real love tells the truth, even if it makes Thanksgiving awkward.

2. Common sense is a birthright—but it must be protected.

If you feel crazy for thinking clearly, that’s a sign you’re sane.

3. Freedom is lonely at first.

But eventually, you’ll spot other porch lights flickering in the dark. Folks like you. Folks like me. And we’ll build a world again—not of perfect people, but of thinking ones.

I’m not bitter. I’m just wide awake.

And if that makes me an old bat with a biscuit tin and too many opinions, so be it. I’d rather be called a kook than lose my soul trying to please a crowd that’s forgotten how to think.

On Belonging and Biscuits

 The new book I’m working on? It’s got its arms wrapped all around one big idea: belonging.

Now, I know that word might sound simple, but mercy, it carries a lot of weight. Belonging isn’t just a feeling, it’s a basic human need, right up there with biscuits and being seen. When people don’t feel like they belong, they get frustrated. They get sharp around the edges. And when they say things like, “I don’t care if I belong anywhere,” what they usually mean is, “I’ve never really felt like I did... and I’ve made peace with it.”

That’s me, sometimes. Hard to peg down. I’m a little country, a little kitchen-table philosopher, and just odd enough to confuse even myself. People think I’m outgoing and I suppose I can be, but truthfully, I’m shy in that way that makes you wish for invisibility and applause at the same time. I’m loud for others but quiet for myself. I’ll cheer on a mom-and-pop bakery like it’s the Super Bowl. I’ll post about a mechanic who treated me fair like I’m their unofficial press agent. But when it comes to advocating for me? Whew. That’s another story. Self-promotion feels like trying to sell someone a casserole they didn’t ask for. Even if it’s the best dang casserole they’ll ever eat.

Anyway. Belonging.

I found myself realizing something recently while listening to the Try That In a Small Town podcast...which, by the way, is not just music. It’s storytelling, family, roots, the kind of talk that makes you feel like you’re sitting on someone’s porch shelling peas and swapping tales. They’ve got artists, athletes, country songwriters—you name it. And what struck me most? They like each other. I mean, really. You can hear it. That rare sort of chemistry where people don’t just work together; they look out for each other. It reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten.

I’ve had this long-standing fascination with the South. Started years ago with Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil—not because of the crime, mind you, but the richness of the culture. The architecture, the history, the food (Lord, the food), and mostly, the way people care. There’s loyalty. There’s tradition. There are monogrammed napkins and real fried chicken and unspoken rules about how to treat guests.

And it’s not just fantasy. Every time I’ve visited, I’ve been met with manners and warmth so thick you could spread it on a biscuit. That’s not nothing. That’s something. And I think I finally realized what it was that had always drawn me in—it’s that soul-level sense of belonging.

Now, I grew up in the Midwest, and if you ask me, the South and the Midwest are cousins. We work hard, we say “ma’am,” we show up with a casserole when someone dies. There's strength in our simplicity. And then I moved to the Northeast.

The Northeast has a different tempo. It’s fast and sharp and polished. And it is, how do I say this lovingly: status-obsessed. People up here treat eye contact like a security threat. Say good morning and they look at you like you’re selling a pyramid scheme. Everything feels like a transaction; who you know, what school you went to, what brand of boots you’ve got on. (Spoiler: mine are scuffed and beloved, thank you very much.)

But I still say good morning. Still smile. Still hold the door. Still sprinkle a little kindness like confetti, even if it gets swept up before noon. Because here’s the thing; I’d rather be seen as odd for being warm than blend in with the cold.

So now I’ve got this little dream rattling around in my head: I want to try living in the South. Not forever. Just a good solid month. A season, maybe. Long enough to know if what I’m drawn to is real, or if I’ve been romancing the idea the way we all do with places we haven’t lived in yet.

But every time I visit, it feels a little more real. The people are genuine. The food could convert a cynic. And the sense of family, of community, of “we got your back”—that’s the thing I couldn’t name until recently.

It’s belonging. And whether you’re in a small town, a big city, or somewhere in between, we all just want someone to say: “You’re one of us.” Warts and all. And maybe with a slice of pie.

Try That In A Small Town Podcast: https://trythatinasmalltown.com/

How to Corrupt a Country Without a Shot Fired

Yuri Bezmenov didn’t come stomping in like some villain in a spy novel. No, sir. He drifted in quiet as a hush puppy frying in a cast iron skillet, carrying a warning wrapped in manners and memory. He was a man who’d seen behind the curtain, a former Soviet propagandist who ran from the cold and found himself telling the American people how their whole beautiful country could fall apart—not with bullets, but with ideas.

His warning wasn’t about tanks and bombs. It was about slow rot—like a peach gone soft on the windowsill. He called it ideological subversion, a way to unravel a country from the inside out, like pulling a thread on a Sunday dress until the whole thing comes undone.

There were four steps to this quiet sabotage, and honey, if they don’t sound familiar, you haven’t been paying attention.

Stage 1: Demoralization (15–20 years)
This first step is the slowest. You don’t shout people into hopelessness. You whisper them there.
Start in the schools, swap wisdom for ideology. Turn history into a shame spiral. Make goodness seem naive and tradition feel like a punchline. It doesn’t take long before folks can’t tell what’s real anymore.
We see it now:

Students who believe free speech is dangerous but TikTok is gospel.
Folks so cynical they’d rather mock than mend.
Teachers walking on eggshells, scared to speak up against keeping the biologically stronger out of the biologically weaker dressing rooms and sports areans. .
Once people are demoralized, you could wave truth in front of their faces and they’d still blink past it like it’s a smudge on their glasses. It ain’t ignorance—it’s conditioning.

Stage 2: Destabilization (2–5 years)
Now that folks are unmoored, you start rattling the rafters. Undermine trust in every institution that used to steady a person: justice, economy, even neighborliness.
You don’t need to break the system. Just bruise it bad enough that people start thinking it’s not worth saving.
You’ve seen it:
Police defunded in towns where folks sleep with one eye open.
Every news station telling a different version of the same story.
Grocery store prices climbing like summer kudzu.
It’s like living in a house where the lights flicker and the floorboards creak—but no one’s calling the electrician. They’re too busy arguing about whose fault it is.

Stage 3: Crisis (2–6 months)
This is the part where it all goes sideways. A spark hits the gasoline and the chaos goes national. Could be a virus, a riot, a recession. Doesn’t matter. The goal’s the same: panic.
And when folks are panicked, they’ll trade almost anything for the promise of calm—even if it means handing over the keys to their own freedom.
Remember?
COVID lockdowns that felt more like house arrest.
Cities on fire in the name of justice.
Toilet paper wars in the supermarket aisle.
A crisis doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to make people afraid.

Stage 4: Normalization
And then, when the dust settles and folks are too worn out to argue, you call it normal. You wrap control in pretty paper and say, “This is just how things are now.”
Surveillance sold as convenience.
Censorship spun as protection.
Silence praised as civility.

The truth is, we’ve been frog-boiled. We’re standing in water that started out cool and easy, and now it’s bubbling, but we’re still trying to convince ourselves it’s a hot spring.

So What Now?

Bezmenov didn’t spill these secrets to scare us. He did it because he’d seen what happens when folks don’t fight for their own minds. He wasn’t waving the American flag—he was holding up a mirror.
The way back is quieter than the way down. It starts with teaching truth like it’s a birthright, not a relic. It’s turning off the noise and listening to that still, small voice that says, “This isn’t right.”
Read banned books. Ask questions no one wants to answer. Raise kids who have backbones and manners. Don’t trade your conscience for comfort.

You want to fight propaganda? Start by telling the truth—even when it’s out of season.
This isn’t just a battle for policy or politics. It’s a battle for the soul of a country. And we don’t need an army—we need people who remember who they are.
Let them come for the hearts and minds. We’ll be sittin’ here with truth in one hand and grit in the other.

Ancient Truths, Southern Roots, and the Art of Being Excellent Without Bragging About It

 On Excellence, Soul, and Why Rhetoric Matters: A Southern Reverie with Ancient Roots

Let me tell you something the Greeks knew and most folks forgot: arete ain't just a pretty word—it’s the whole point of being alive. It means excellence, sugar. Not just win-the-trophy excellence, but deep, holy, purpose-filled living. The kind where your soul hums like a well-tuned fiddle because you're doing exactly what you were made to do.

Socrates, bless his philosophical heart, said if you want to be happy, you gotta be good. Not Instagram-good. Not charity-auction good. But honest-to-God virtuous. Justice, wisdom, courage, self-control—that’s the real gold. And he didn’t say you might be happy with those things. He said you will be. Guaranteed. Like biscuits rise when the oven’s hot.

Now Aristotle came along with a bit more science to his soul. He said we humans are creatures of reason, and we’re at our best when we live like it. Eudaimonia—that’s their fancy word for deep well-being—isn’t just a feeling. It’s a way of being, a life soaked in purpose and lit by virtue. He believed that to flourish, you can’t just sit around with good intentions. You’ve got to act right. Be useful. Sharpen your gifts. Live with aim.

Epicurus? He thought pleasure was the goal, but not the kind you find at the bottom of a margarita. He meant the kind of peace that comes from knowing you’re living clean, living true. He saw virtue as the road that leads to joy, even if it isn’t always paved.

Now the Stoics—they were tough as a two-dollar steak. They said virtue is the only thing that matters. Storms may come, fortunes may fall, but if your soul’s steady, you’re rich in all the ways that count. They didn’t care much for gold or beauty or power. They believed your worth was in your choices, your grit, your grace under pressure. And honey, that’s something the modern world needs a heap more of.

As for Viktor Frankl—he came much later, but he spoke like a man who’d walked through fire - because he did. He said life’s meaning isn’t handed to you—it’s carved out in how you suffer, how you love, and how you create. Even when all else is stripped away, you still get to choose your attitude. That, my dear, is soul-deep freedom.

And then there’s rhetoric. Lord, don’t get me started. It used to be the art of persuasion, of moving folks with your words, not manipulating them. Aristotle called it “the ability to see what will persuade in any given situation,” and Cicero—now he believed a real orator needed a good heart, not just a silver tongue.

But rhetoric’s a double-edged pie cutter. It can serve the truth or dress up a lie in pearls and perfume. The Greeks feared that slick talkers could lead the crowd straight off a cliff—and history’s shown they weren’t wrong.

Still, in the right hands, words can build a republic, mend a marriage, or light a fire in a lonely heart.

So what’s the takeaway?

Live with purpose. Speak with care. Know your worth ain't in your wallet or your waistline, but in your will. Be excellent—not for applause, but because that’s how your soul sings. And when the world tries to sell you shortcuts or sweet-sounding lies, remember this: truth has roots, and virtue never goes out of style.

The Science Delusion

When Facts Wear Lipstick and Sell You a Dream

Once upon a time, science was slow, careful, and humble. It sat quietly with its spectacles on, testing, tinkering, and waiting patiently for the truth to show itself. These days, science’s cousin—let’s call her Opinion Science—has gotten herself all gussied up and gone to work in marketing.

If you say, “A study shows…” or “Scientists say…” people stop thinking and start nodding. We’ve been trained to worship lab coats like vestments, and academic acronyms like scripture. But much of what parades as “science” today is storytelling in a white coat—designed to sell you a product, a vote, or a worldview.

Real science asks questions. Spin science already knows the answer—and it always sounds suspiciously like what someone’s selling.
Behavioral science, social science, climate science, food science—these often rely on feelings, guesses, and interviews with people who are scared to tell the truth. And yet, we treat these “studies” like commandments etched in stone.

The result? We’ve traded our instincts for experts. Traded discernment for credentials. And we’ve confused “being informed” with simply being manipulated in fancier fonts.

Science is a tool—not a savior. It can build bridges and mend bones, but it cannot tell you why you cry in the shower or how to forgive your father.

And when we let science pretend to be philosophy, morality, or meaning—we don’t just lose our wonder. We lose our will.

So ask questions. Trust your gut. And remember: the truth doesn’t always come in a lab report. Sometimes it comes from your grandmother, your conscience, or a good hard look at the sky.

Retail Asset Protection - Bless This Crazy Mess

 Once upon a time—many jeans ago—I was a Loss Prevention Detective at Bloomingdale’s. Yep, me. Tucked upstairs behind a wall of monitors, sipping lukewarm coffee and eyeing folks like I was born with X-ray vision. And while most jobs blur together over the years, that one still shines like a rhinestone in a box of bolts.

Now, I worked with a whole team, but Dave? Dave was my people. The kind of guy who didn’t just show up—he showed up. Took me seriously, too, right from the start. Probably because on day one, while he was easing into his shift with a newspaper and a donut, I pointed at a screen and said, “Uh, Dave? I think that guy just stole some jeans.”

Dave looked up slow, the way men do when they’re hoping you’re just being dramatic. But then he saw it. “Holy sh*t,” he muttered, tossing the paper and calling in backup. Next thing I knew, he was sprinting through the parking lot like it was the Boston Marathon—rules be damned. (We weren’t supposed to step off the curb, but rules used to be more... suggestions.) One police car clipped a median and popped a tire. But hey—we got the guy.

That moment sealed our partnership. We worked like a charm after that. Trusted each other. Laughed a lot. Not bad for retail surveillance.

But like all good things in retail, the job dissolved—people left for the police academy, the military, or in my case, a sales job that paid double and didn’t require chasing denim thieves through snowbanks.

Years passed. Titles changed. But that job? That was fun. Right up there with being a paramedic, only with fewer bodily fluids.

Flash forward to 2018. I went back into LP, this time at Target. Thought I’d be slipping back into the rhythm like a favorite pair of jeans. Turns out, the jeans had holes. Big ones.

Target had gone corporate. Real corporate. My store was in "makeover mode," but the real horror show wasn’t the new fixtures—it was the creepy men creeping on customers (sorry, guests), and the leadership that wanted it all kept hush-hush. Nothing to see here, folks! Just a woman being followed in aisle 3.

Then came Tom, my new Asset Protection Manager. He had the warmth of a dead fish and the enthusiasm of a soggy cardboard box. Told me I cared too much and maybe I should be more like Craig and Sam. (Both men. Both mediocre. But apparently “diverse” was code for “not you.”)

I asked to transfer. He said no. I said bye.

Macy’s was next. Plain clothes this time—finally, back to the glory of blending in. The tech was fancy (TrueVue towers that scanned your purchases like something out of Minority Report), but the department was a mess. Manager wore five hats, had time for none, and training was thinner than gas station grits.

Still, there were moments. The team would come alive during a case and, for a hot second, it felt like old times. But when we weren’t chasing bad guys, we were mostly chasing our tails—unclear policies, no leadership, and the kind of drama that makes reality TV look tame.

I used to say that if I won the lottery, I’d do this job for free. But now, I’d rather take my winnings and run. Not because of the thieves—but because corporate stopped caring. The criminals have more rights than the folks trying to stop them.

Still, if you’ve got a sixth sense for shifty eyes and you like solving puzzles that involve purses with false bottoms, give it a shot. You might find your niche. Investigations. Internals. Audits. Or like me—just watching and noticing what no one else does.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not grateful. But if you land on a solid team and keep your sense of humor close, you’ll find a kind of weird joy in catching the bad guy and drinking bad coffee under bad lighting. And honey, that’s not nothing.

Sorry Bob !

 

---

My dad, Bob, died way too young—just 50 years old—after being diagnosed with ALS at 48. That kind of grief hits you like a freight train you didn’t see coming. But what hit me harder, years later, was realizing just how much sense he actually made.

He tried his best to pass on values and a backbone. But bless his heart, he didn’t realize the sheer force of culture that would come for me. See, he was a product of the 1940s and ‘50s—where folks said “yes ma’am,” and looked their neighbors in the eye. I came of age in the whiplash world of the ‘70s and ‘80s, where Madonna was preaching “Express Yourself,” and Cosmopolitan was basically a handbook on how to ignore your instincts in favor of being “liberated.”

Truth be told, I wish I’d listened more to Dad more and less to pop culture’s parade of bad advice dressed in sequins and lip gloss. Virtue got marketed as old-fashioned. And having no morals? That got sold as freedom. Y’all—that was a lie. A polished, pretty, wildly profitable lie.

If I had a time machine and a second chance at those formative years, I’d turn down the volume on the world and lean in to Dad's voice. He was trying to teach me something sacred. And Lord knows, I finally get it.

As for my website name? I picked SorryBob.com in honor of my dad. The name Bob is plain, simple, and as old as white on rice.  And sorry, Bob—but this girl had to fall on her face a few times before she stood up with a clear head and a clear heart. I think Dad would be relieved to see that I finally see what he meant.

Because here’s the thing:
We are all worthy of happiness.
But real happiness isn’t handed to us.
It’s earned through freedom.
And freedom? That starts with courage.
And courage? It shows up when you finally start believing in yourself.
That’s the real circle of life, y’all.

These days, we’ve got wolves in self-help clothing. Exploiters selling “empowerment” while robbing us blind of our dignity. They don’t want us free—they want us frazzled, dependent, divided, and distracted.

My daddy believed in community—not disunity. He didn’t live long enough to see the internet, but I believe—if we use it right—it can be the most powerful tool for good since the printing press. It can unite people who care. People who dare. People who see what’s going on.

And I believe we’re those people.

So, here are Eight Things I’ve Learned (Usually the Hard Way):

1. Apathy limits opportunity; awareness and action limit the opportunists.

2. Knowledge is power—but only if you use it.

3. Actions speak louder than posts (and words).

4. Keep it simple, unless you're trying to confuse and control people—then by all means, complicate it to death.

5. Chase dogs (the four pawed and loyal kind) and dreams, not people. 

6. The only free cheese is in a mousetrap.

7. You teach people how to treat you.

8. Choose happiness—not helplessness.

And to the Happiness Hijackers out there? We see you. And we’re coming with grace, grit, and good boots.

  

   

Lent, Butter, and the Business of Becoming Better

 Now, I was raised Catholic—like fish-on-Fridays, ashes-on-Wednesdays, and guilt-for-dessert kind of Catholic. But these days, I don’t claim religion so much as I claim reverence. Not for pews or pulpits necessarily, but for something more mysterious. Something you can’t quite explain, but you know it when it stirs in your bones.

Call it soul. Call it the voice inside. Call it the Holy Ghost or just good ol’ fashioned gut instinct. But I believe in it.

Because deep down, we do know right from wrong.
Even if the world’s gotten noisy with Happiness Hijackers trying to sell us peace like it's a product—marketed in soft pastels and subscription boxes.

But real happiness?
Well, it’s tricky.

Sure, I love sunshine on my skin, music in the kitchen, and folks who laugh easy and love hard. Give me color, warmth, and people who show up when things get messy—that makes me happy.

But deep happiness—the kind that stays even when the lights go out and the room gets quiet—that comes from purpose.
From doing the thing you were made to do, even if the only witness is your dog and the dishes.

Lent, at its heart, is a time to pause.
To reflect.
To repent, if that’s your rhythm.

Me? I’ve already got a highlight reel of regrets and a tendency to self-scold. So for these next 46 days, I’m trading in shame for shape-shifting—the good kind. The kind where you turn inward, clean house, and make room for more light.

And no, I won’t be taking the Sundays off. I know myself. One skipped day leads to one excuse leads to, “Well, maybe next year.” My willpower melts faster than butter in a cast iron skillet, so I need rhythm and resolve, not loopholes.

I’ve always loved a fresh start. A new year. A clean calendar page. A Monday morning with a sharpened pencil.

So that’s what this is.
Forty-six days to show up for my life with more heart, more intention, more discipline, and a whole lotta grace.

Because every faith, every practice, every good book or wise granny I’ve ever met, seems to circle the same truth:

Be the best version of yourself.

And that’s something we can all believe in.