The myth, that as soon as a man and woman marry, intimacy slows down...there's probably alot

reasons for that.  These days, gender confusion - and a whole lot of mistrust.  But men and women have never really gotten along that well, Bible says, we're all sinners.  These days, while husbands want to be served their sodas by their wives - wearing a little black dress and high heels, after working at the office all day, wifey is tired; she has supper to throw together and housework to do.  Any wonder, she throws off her office duds, and puts on a comfy tee shirt, sweat pants and a pair of flat fuzzy slippers. 

Back in the 50s, when wives were home all day, couples had a different barrier to intimacy.  Back then, there was no birth control - other than those moment-swiping rain coats.  And contrary to what we moderns may assume, marrieds in the 1950s weren't stupid.  Back then, money was tight (food and clothing alot more expensive then, than today), and another baby???  

So, it stands to reason, young wives sought the council of their mothers and aunts - who had done the same, when they were blushing brides.  Many women back then, for whatever reasons, didn't make it to 12th grade, but they likely knew - per the older women - during the few days, mid cycle to take a cold bath, and put on frumpy clothes.  

Tell me, husbands were out of the loop on this primitive form of birth control.  

Cadly was glad the chick was gone; he had wanted her canned,

but Jenny's resignation - and not even a two day, let alone a two week - though the suddenness, left the short-handed staff, even more so, Cadly was glad she was gone; saved him the trouble.  After all, he being just recently hired as the call department's vice manager - at about two thirds of what he'd earned at his last job - had to watch his step, before throwing around his 6'2" 180 something weight.   In short, he couldn't just fire somebody - someone, who was meeting job standards - on account of the employee's  facial expressions - which, silently, spoke clear enough: dude, you are just plain evil!  

Cadly hated that, when that happened.  And boy, was he mad, that certain day, when he walked into the breakroom to buy himself a soda, a few spoken words had reached his ears.  HR had recently hired a new girl, and even though she above the cut-off age of - is it still 30, or had it been raised to 32?  Regardless, of her near-wall age, she was hot!   And she came off as the type who might, without too much effort, be sweet-talked into getting under the desk.  

"Hannah, uh-uh; he's a nag."

Because, Ja-ja-jennie hadn't mentioned any names, there wasn't a dern thing he could do, except collect his soda, and get out of there.  Had he stayed a minute longer, he might have gone over there, and throttled that biker beech - and found himself out of a job, but this time, ineligible for UC comp.

Nag!  

Talk about pushing buttons...sure did.  Cadly couldn't have been much more than eighteen, while picking up his car from the garage.  The old geezer who ran the place, was listening to some preacher, going on about male-delilahs, and warning the young girls in his church, that these sort of guys ...

Nag.

Cadly HATED, whenever his bluff got called.

The old woman listened to the sermon, Pastor West was expositing the latter half of I Timothy 2. Ruh-ro, the flippant exclamation

sailed through Irene's mindspace.  Dude is just begging for more pushback.  The pieces, had been coming together for some time.  While the last little stunt - Room #7 - had only created alot of good natured pointing and tittering...but surely the failed char-assination had the perps, fuming.  Irene was almost positive from where the attack, had been launched - but, of course, the murmurings of two certain harpies, sitting in the pew behind her, were not proof.  And frankly, Irene didn't relish, being the one to call aside, and quietly confront.  While she knew more than she cared to know about the situation, snippets, here and there, reaching her ears, were not proof of active intent.  And, oh so furthermore, she, somehow knew enough, that the two harpies - especially, the one - were ravening wolves.

The latest bit of evidence, though indirect ... but no so indirect.  Long story short:  Barney, or whatever his name is, had ... oh about, six weeks ago, gone to some sportsmen show or whatever.  There, he had waiting in a line - probably for a sandwich - and had ended up in a conversation with some guy named Doyle.  The guy's last name escaped her, but she sort of knew the young woman attentively seated beside him - Meggie, or was it Maggie?  Either way, the young woman's last name was the same as Doyle's.  This new couple - the young bride, especially, was but fresh meat to the two hyenas, sitting not far from Irene.  Had 'em mad as heck.  Doyle looked to be about pushing near forty, while his bride was... well, alot younger - if the girl was twenty two, that was so pushing it. 

"...a related Scripture, turn to Titus 2:3, Paul writes to Titus..." Pastor cleared his throat and took a sip of water, then continued, "The aged women likewise, that they be in behavior..."

Yikes, Preacher! ya really wanna honk off th' jezes?? ...sure gave Elijah abidda rough runnin.  Wasn't like back in third wave days, when "they(?)" - and their smooth-palmed handlers - were annoying...more or less.  Fourth, and especially, fifth wavers were always mad, and could be dangerous.  

She remembered as a child, hearing the term "generation gap."  Oh, they had no idea!  Back then, it was all about tie dye and rock verses suits and orchestra.  Back then, the old would argue and chide the young, but ... uh-uh, these days, there were, more than a few, old women who were known to atleast want harm to come down upon young women.  Made Irene sad...wasn't the youngins' fault the oldsters dun missed the boat...after all, doesn't taka...

PAY ATTENTION!  A loud rebuke, reverberated throughout Irene's mindspace, sending her lollygagging thoughts, running for cover.  

You're kidding me, Julie mumbled to herself, as her husband pulled into Hank and Jenny's drive.

With winter on, club didn't do a whole lot.  So, Julie hadn't seen Jenny - which was just fine with her.  Oh well, was probably - hopefully - a quick stop; either way, she and Celia - she and her Husband's only child, so far - would wait in the truck.  The two men headed for the garage.   Though it was dark, Julie sensed something different about the place...something calmer.  From inside, a shadow crossed to the back door.  Jenny appeared, motioning Julie to come inside.

What the heck?  Julie pondered.  Something was very different ... pod people must have made off with her.   That thought confirmed, once inside.  The place was clean, not just shuddy-booty, but neat.  Jenny bent down to Celia's eye level.  "There's cookies!"  The little girl's eyes lit up, looking towards into the kitchen, where the treats, sat on a plate, by themselves, next to a vase of silk daisies, upon an otherwise, empty table.   "But ya godda ask your mommy first."   Julie nodded okay, "But just one, Celia."  The little girl, turned her head as she b-lined, "k mamma."

Jenny then reached into the frig...holy hannah, Julie exclaimed to herself, catching a glimpse of it's interior, that was even tidy.  Jenny pulled out a carton of milk, opened  cupboard, and retrieved a short glass and two tall ones.  She then, reached back in the frig for a pitcher of sweet tea.  

The two women exchanged small talk, but somewhere in the conversation, the deal changer became clear.  Jenny no longer worked at the call center, or any other grind. Jenny was Jenny.  She wasn't real good at navigating through bs, and so, of course, had been canned, more than once, for calling rubbish.  Though Julie, neither asked, nor pried, it appeared that Jenny had landed a job, she actually enjoyed. 

The office had about six or seven rooms.  It's location meant no traffic snags, no having to run out for something, because it was after 6am, and you ran out the door - leaving your lunch sitting on the kitchen table.  The address?  Hank and Jenny's home.  

The visit was brief, maybe about fifteen minutes.   The men returned into the house.  It didn't take a degree in Human Resources (Tools) to conclude, Hank liked his what his wife did for a living.  Their guests, graciously, booked on out of there.  

Pastor and Mrs West were both doing their typical Tuesday evening thing, over at the church.

He was studying in the Pastoral office, while his wife was either, two doors down, doing some paperwork or playing the piano - parents of seven, ages 12 to 21, they neither had the space, nor funds, for a regular, let alone, a grand, piano.  But it was all good.  Tuesday evenings, for the couple, was a quiet few hours retreat.  

Pastor's cell rang.  "Pastor, you at the church?"  West, could tell, in Deacon Charlie's voice, something was very off.  Pastor's hunch was confirmed, by the deacon's next statement.  Several other deacons would be on their way.

Great!  Pastor's plans for a quiet some two hours, thwarted.  Sheesh!  What now?  Yeah, yeah, that pot hole near the entrance needed fixed.  What was up with people anyway?  Making a big stink, over a stupid little pot hole, while their missionaries needed ... necessary stuff ... tap-tap-tap, hullo?  Our heroically outspoken pastor, was getting hot under the collar, and getting too near to using certain un-preacherlike words.

Some moments later, several deacons filed in, with grave looks upon their faces.  One looked just plain disappointed, but the big one, looked angry.  The first one handed Pastor an opened laptop.

Great!  Pastor's jaw dropped.  "I didn't think..."

"Evidently not..." big guy looked angrier.

"She'll be mortified...shoulda used my head..." Pastor mumbled.  

"Evidently, the wrong one"  The wrong place, wrong time quip slipped out, and was promptly met with a "CAN IT, SMITTY!"

"Ugh, she'll have to see this."  Pastor stared at the screen; the license number, unmistakable.

"Yeah, sooner or later."

"Sooner."  Pastor sighed.  "My wife is down the hall."  Pastor, then added, "Two or three witnesses; this will be hard enough on her."  He addressed the five or six men.  

Several moments later.

"Honey, it wasn't like you were there all by yourself." Her eyes met his.  She then stared at the pic.  "I wasn't exactly using my noggin either."  

One of the two or three witnesses present, scratched his head.  Okay, he wasn't the brightest around ... took him a minute to figure out who had been with the Pastor, in Room #7.

One of the other witnesses spoke up.  And he wasn't happy.  "Next time you two love birds decide to fly off somewhere, find a better sort of nest!"  He then about halfway stormed out, grumbling about missing some "basketball game, for ... this."

"Now we got 'em!" A cackley voice continued, "no way the ga-ga gooddd Pastor's

gonna get oudda this one."  The wicked laughter accompanied the clear cut evidence - a pic of Pastor West's little puttzoom - License number ... doesn't matter, it was his - parked outside of Room #7, at a certain little hide-away, located in the next county.  Witchiepoo's partner-in-wickedness cackled her own response, concerning a sermon he'd given several months ago.  The leading Scripture was, 1 Corinthians 11-9 ("Neither was the man created for the woman; but the woman for the man.") and was still mad as all heck.   

Witchie#1, who had inadvertently spotted the pastor's rolling soda can, had been in the area, on her way to ... score some brown-bottle.  She didn't think it necessary to share the pic's proceeds, or any of the brown liquid, with Witchie#2.  Neither did she feel any sting, whatsoever, whenever any Scripture was preached.  

Such sheep! Witchie#1, shook her head.  The one sunday, some old dude, sitting nearby,  had suddenly sat up straight, as if "...not forsaking the assembly of the saints..." had been launched directly at him.  He-he, served the geezer right; prior to the service, he had been going on about the ... whatever point buck he'd shot the sunday before the previous.

"Oh, and just in time for Christmas - ho-ho-ho."

"Hey, thad-ul make a great caption."

Down the street, a short ways from the bar, a little boy sat at the kitchen table, coloring a sketch of a muscle car.

His parents were in the living room, watching old frog-face on the screen.  Five year old Willie didn't say that within his parent's earshot; "Son, that's no way to talk about your President," his mother had gently chided him, a few days ago.  The boy turned his eyes to a certain ceramic jar, sitting on the counter, alongside a large plastic coffee can.  His folks' voices drifted to his ear.  Grown up talk was boring, but it gave Willie time.

Time to snatch and savour one, maybe two, of those yummy cookies - mom had baked real cookies, peanut butter ones.  Sometimes, she baked those boring grown up ones, like oatmeal raisin, or ones with dried fruit - yuk!  

The little larceny was a success;  in Willie's hand, was one of the baked delights - the other, secured in his front pocket ... just in case.  He returned to his coloring, looked around.  Coast was clear.  He took a bite.  As he was just about to take a bite from the second one, a bbbzzzzing sound flew past his ear.  The little bug landed somewhere on top of the refrigerator, then headed into the livingroom.  

Uh-o, his eyes bulged out, he was in big trouble now.  He wolfed down the remaining evidence.

Bradley, glanced out the small window alongside the bar entrance. Winter...

not that he could do much about it, except order a few more bags of rocksalt - and keep it locked.  People would steal their own mother's underwear... he picked up the near empty beer mug, and wiped the area, where Hank had stopped in for one.   Bradley hadn't been seen much of him; he picked up the few bills and change Hank had left and stuffed them in the staff jar, then ran the half-clean rag over the area.  The guy looked like he was doing okay, but looked somewhat thinner; guess so, considering the snippets that reached his ears.  

Something about having "...enough of th' ol' lady's lip..." Bradley heard all that before, and positively, NO WAY was he ever going there; he could get it in half a dozen places - though, the young ones were harder to sweet-talk into putting out.  For the most part, they had expectations, right up front - not that he could blame them, after all, with no access to ... well, much of anything.  So, he usually found himself having to settle for post-wallers, and half of them were ... overweight.

Above him, the flatscreen was going on with its usual right-leaning agenda.  Bradley hadn't voted for the last fifteen years or so; he didn't care for the left, but he sure didn't like the right - they scared him, with their relentless pontificatings.  Front and center, more often, was the "BirthDearth."  Then open the friggin boarders...idiots!  Miffed. Him. Off!  Was doing a real number on his private life, but Bradley could only blame himself, for waffling...not getting in line soon enough; the procedure had been outlawed, and it didn't look like the court was going to overturn, anytime soon.

Well, this was interesting, he dropped what he was doing, and so did some of his patrons - a quiet protest, from a group of older guys was being televised.  

"Hey Bradley," a customer pointed to his empty mug.

"Shut up, Dick!"  Bradley pointed to the screen.  Dude could wait two minutes.

Upon the screen, one of the men was relating, in less than delicate terms, how the drones were affecting everyday private matters.   Another in the crowd, some fat dude, probably didn't want to be filmed with his hand in the cookie jar.  In the background, a sign read, "AI aka PEEPING Tom!"  Another placard read, "Stinkbug? or MemRex?"

"Can't do nuthin about em." A nearby patron said to his buddy, then added, "drones are a handy excuse."  The buddy's rather crass reply, went something along the lines of "who wears the pants?"

What kinda slop..? Hank pushed aside the small plastic tray, wasn't hardly any meat...Hank continued

grumbling to himself.  Was it too much to expect a decent meal?  He reached for the local paper, which sat atop ... stuff.  One corner brushed against ... something rolled onto the floor, and nudged against his boot.  Whatever it was, he gave it a firm nudge, sending it across the linoleum floor.  The object, some sort of giftshop trinket, caught on a crack, changed directions and came to a rest over by the frig.  This was getting old, what he needed, bigtime, was a change of scenery.  He glanced over the headlines, then turned the page, an editorial had caught his attention.  

Woah, that dude's gonna cause a stirr, ged himself oft, if he ain't careful.  An incident at a nearby church, whether torched off from outside, or an inside job, or maybe both, Hank didn't know - he wasn't into Bible stuff, but whatever Scripture/s "West" had pounded from the pulpit ... well, evidently, hadn't gone over so well.  Wasn't like the first time West honked off some people.  Anyway, long story short, his listeners rallied around him, and that definitly was, again, fanning dumpster smolderings.   Hank turned the page, but his mind gravitated upon certain related ... TRUTHS, per which the editorial had briefed.   Just common sense, what's wrong with people ... meh, like the sandwich - comes in a pretty wrapper, all puff'n fluff. 

The setting november sun, cast a faded beam upon the window overlooking the kitchen sink.  The waning light revealed a shadowy mess of cobwebs, bordering the tired-shaded half-curtain panel - the panel hanging on the right wasn't quite the same blotchy shade.  Not that he expected a scene out of SouthLiving, but comeon, this was pushing things a bit.  

Jenny's sub - if that's what you want to call it - was still in the bag.  Some moments earlier, she had come in from work, plopped the ... puah... "supper" on the table, then - without saying, so much as "hello, or drop freaking dead" headed into another room.  

This was getting really old.  There needed to be a change.   He could not go on like this, any longer, and neither could she.  Hank pushed aside the paper, pushed back his chair, and walked into the livingroom, where his wife was all comfy upon the sofa, with tablet in hand.  "Jen," he picked up a jacket and some other article, which had been draped over an arm of his recliner, and dropped them both onto a nearby end table.  "We need to talk."  Jenny didn't look up, only rolled her eyes - sending Hank's fist into a clench.  If she was a dude... 

Club rules! Guess the members and the aux were able to navigate through them, but like the gubment,

seems the rules were changing, becoming more controlling.  Yeah, talk to Benny...Meggie didn't have the details, didn't want 'em either, but something about his questioning something at a prior meeting...big mistake.  Not only did he end up with a loose tooth - probably, not the first, nor the last - but worse, was he had to clear the pot-luck table, AND wash dishes, along with the auxs.  That's just plain wrong...sheesh, it's not like he shot somebody's pooch.  

While washing her hands, Meggie peeked out the window.   Someone was carrying a box toward the outbuilding.  "WHOA!"  That wasn't just any old cake, that came from the fancy bakery - where Molly worked, and lived with her Husband.  They both lived with the Husband's Father.  Meggie had heard, the old guy had a gruff streak about him.

While the two hadn't been in the same circles at school, Molly was a-ok - she didn't go around thinking she was all that, because her Father was a lawyer, in some fancy-ars'd firm.  It was just last saturday, she'd seen Molly, she was at bank - yep, the little mound is unmistakable.    Oh, but that's wasn't the end of it.  Some beech - who, by the way, comes off as all bibleeze - was in line, and whispered something catty to the teller.  Both thought it was funny.  What!  Married chicks have babies all the time - so what, the wedding had gone ahead of schedule...things happen.

Outside, she heard another motorcycle pull in, and what sounded like Barb's van - Barb was like #2 in the aux pecking order.  She got out the van, then pulled open the side, then retrieved a foil-covered tray of something.  Jenny walked over, and the two women were talking about something.  Then Barb pulled out a large white box; both women headed for the house.

"MEGGIE, you up there?

"Yeah."  Assuming, there was a sink load of vessels and utensils to be washed, Meggie went to the staircase.  At the bottom landing, the two women came up the steps - one held the box, the other, a bag of something.  Meggie stepped back from the landing. "We're gonna get ya all purtied up, Jenny said, with a sideways grin; she and Barb, tittering, exchanged some sort of hand signal.  

Meggie was confused.  Then it occured go her, her Father, was throwing her a birthday party.  Had to be it, because he hadn't been quite bis gruff control-freak self lately.  A real birthday party, wow!  Last one of those, she had, was ... well, awhile ago. It was a moment later, when things began to not add up.  First off, neither woman invited her to open, either the box, nor the bag - and neither woman left to go downstairs.  

"Well, what are you standing there for?" Jenny spoke, "get undressed."  

"Huh?"

"We need to get you ready."

"Ready? Ready for what?"  

Jenny's facial expression was enough.  Meggie began pulling off her sweater, and not dawdle - she didn't want to make either Jenny nor Barb mad.  They hit, and they hit hard.  Talk to Julie - they had her on eggshells.  

Meggie awoke to the unmistakable sound of a hammer securing a canopy spike. That's right, Father was throwing

a keg.  She heard a car door slam, then the roar of one - no two - motorcycles.  "Great!" She spoke to the book - she'd borrowed from the school library - which lay on the neat and clean surface of her very nicked and dented - and a bit wobbly - nightstand.  She looked to the floor; one of the three quarters, she'd taped together, and has placed under the one leg, had escaped its cellophane boundary.  She'd have little time for getting into the story, which she had started last night, until her dtooping eyelids said, enough!  It was one of those dystopian novels, where a girl, a year or so younger than she, is camping with her girl scout troop, when all the power goes out.  Camping with girls, her own age... another activity, for other kids.  Not for Meggie.

She pulled back the sheet, got out of bed, pulled off her nightgown and headed to the shower.  On the way into the bathroom, she caught a whiff of roasting pork - which had been started, hours earlier.  It was already past nine...why'd she sleep so late?  She'd be borderline behind the 8-ball; kitchen was probably, already, getting into a state of disarray.  And the day was young.  

Atleast her and Fathers laundry was caught up; the water heater...eh, not the best.  From outside, came - through several gaps in the windows - the thudish tinkling of ice being poured into a blue heavy plastic drum that was cut in half.  Did anyone bother to hose down and wipe out the bottom?  Probably not.

Meggie wanted to get herself a decent job, and get away from all this...noise.  Yeah, and good luck with that - even one room apartments were expensive, and alot of people didn't want to hire young women.  Wasn't like earlier in the century, where - if women didn't want any surprises, they took a pill.  Or, they got an abortion.  Yuk, Meggie couldn't, nor even wanted to, imagine, being in a situation, where you saw no way out, other than getting yer kid erased.  One of the older "aux" women, had, supposedly, had one of those.  If so, maybe that was why she sorta, at times, had that blank expression upon her face - but who could just go on, and not think, from time to time, about how old the kid would be, if only...

Coming down the steps, she heard the clatter of bowls and serving utensils; a familiar sound of a that certain drawer being opened - it didn't slide quite right, whadda pain.  "We got this." Jenny's voice called to the staircase, a flash of her white armband, with"WIFE" in bold black font, had, for some reason - which Meggie couldn't quite figure out, had startled her.  "G'on, 'n do what you were doing"

"Thanks!" Meggie turned around and went back upstairs.   

About a fifth of the ways into the story, were these corporate creeps, who for years, had been hoarding stuff, had some goons come out to some old guy's farm, because the old guy wouldn't bend over.  Anyway, one of those mean ars'd REPROBATES!!! beat the old to death, with a baseball bat.  Hope they get there's, but Meggie didn't want to spoil the story for herself.  

She turned the page.  It read "Chapter Five."  Below, was written a verse or two, from the "KJV."  While Meggie had a King James, given to her, from an old lady, named Gwinnie - who lived not far - she didn't know too much about religious stuff.  But, something, she couldn't explain, told her, that if she was to read a Bible, it would be the King James - the one that - a century ago, was about the only protestant bible around, that was written in english.  Meggie had no idea what kind of bibles spanish and nigerian people read.

She placed a bookmark between the page, and shut the book.  She had to pee.  

"SPIT!" Jenny heard the unmistakable roar of two motorcycles. Of all times, those two bozos, would have to show up.

Sheesh, couldn't they have held off, for five minutes?  But no-ho-ho, she grabbed her jeans, headed into the bedroom, which she and Hank shared.  While making herself decent, she caught a glimpse of her face and upper body, reflecting in the married's somewhat smudgy mirror, which overlooked their rather cluttered bureau.  The telltale signs were there, etched along her forehead, under her eyes and around her, somewhat still, misshapen nose.  It still smarted a bit, here and there.

Backstory: she'd gotten into a fight with a little sheepie.  Reason?  Things had added up, around the last phase of a recent pot luck.  While cleaning a spill... men are hogs - "all of 'em," she muttered at her age-lines - the mop had finally given it up.  There was another...somewhere.  The other armbanded "Ws" were busy - well most of 'em.  Hmmph, what Aimee had truely needed was a sound smack up alongside the head...spent more time running her yap, and clicking her cell...

Idiots...Jenny had continued her search.  Wasn't like she'd nothing else better to do; it had been inching close to 10pm, and she had to be at work the following morning.  The job?  Hated it, a call center, but, is what it is.  Anyway, she had finally located the extra mop - one that wasn't in much better shape - but cleaning implements had gone so by the wayside, upon what else was in that mess, called a storage area.  

Crouched before her was a lowered head, with one of those butched clown-cuts...ugh! Jenny continued ruminating, while reaching for her hairbrush - "EF!" the brush, made especially for long wirey hair, had escaped her grasp, rolled off from whatever it had been perched upon, and clattered upon the old pinewood floor.  A second person, that evening, had stood, with his fly undone, before the tube-topped little chit (oh comeon, summer was ooovrrr).  His grin, suddenly had turned upside down.  Hank, being no dummy, had gotten himself the heck out of dodge, colliding into the chit, on the way.  

Long story short:  Jenny had been beyond fuming; she had grabbed a hold of the little troll...who had thrown a lucky punch.  Still smarted a bit - a Wife clouted by a sheepie.  Yea, the little remarkies and hand language, directed toward Jenny, were, more or less, somehow expected to be taken in stride...stuff happens, boys be boys.

Yeah right, until it's your husband.  Your heart broke.

Her Father's guest seemed nice enough, the old guy - well, that applied to anyone over thirty. Doyle...somebody, Meggie didn't catch his sirname -

not that she particularly cared.  The two men were in the livingroom, discussing something.  While eavesdropping - let alone, interrupting was ... well, that just wasn't done.  Meggie, returning from the kitchen with a cake pan filled with 'getti and lots of meatballs, heard her Father say something about "...had to be legal, or no deal!"  She went back into the kitchen for the small bowl of "rabbit food."  That was, basically, a ... she paused, trying to recall a word she'd heard in global lit class.  Pa, a pejorative.  In her other hand, was serving trench, filled with warm garlic bread.  Another phrase, coming from the living room, had something to do with "insurance."

The gears in her brain began turning.  Doyle, whomever, was some guy who knew about vehicle insurance - made sense, since there has to be changes, when ya turn eighteen.  Well, she concluded, with that out of the way, she had more important things to ponder about.  Problem #6...yikes, and there were some ten, or was it twelve? more.  Either way, they had to be worked out in time for tomorrow's math class - sheesh, Tritch sure ran roughshod over us kids.

As the two men made their way to the table, Meggie felt, once again, something wasn't adding up.  Normally, Father didn't much bother to introduce/acknowledge Meggie's being at the same table.  This time, was different.  She shook the old guy's hand; he had kind eyes - that said alot.  That meant, the policy would be for real, not one of those...cheesy-cheesy, cheap ones - the kind, that if you cause the other driver, so much as a nick, you get bent over - ugh!  During the meal, they talked about ... oh, here's no surprise, politics, what the pres-elect was planning to do.  No-surprise, number two: both men had voted for him.  Doyle then, went on to describe an incident during one of the local riots.  

Great, her headspace grumbled, now Father would definitely NOT let her get that saturday job, over at ... well, it didn't really matter.   Seriously, Meggie's mind ruminated, when would Father finally let up?  When she hit FORTY??  "HERE, sign this!"  Meggie's Father inched a form in her direction.  She inched her chair forward, to look at the document, mostly covered by, not only, another page - with had some kind of company logo running along the top - but part of the doc had found it's way underneath the bread trench.

With pen in hand, she paused, a moment - always read, before you sign anything, that's what her consumer ed teacher stressed in class.

"THA-WONK!"  Oh, what the heck was that?  It came from the kitchen.  As if Meggie didn't have enough on her plate.  While, when making suppers, for Father and her - and whomever else, might show up - she kept ahead with the dirty dishes.  Tonight, with three people, there'd be more - and she had those math problems.

She quickly, but neatly, signed the document, then, just as quick, went into the kitchen.  Whatever the source of that loud noise,  she hadn't a clue.  The men returned to the livingroom, and spoke awhile longer.  Meggie cleared the table and began washing and stacking the dishes.  The kitchen, being rather crampy, counterspace was wanting.  So, as soon as the smallish rack was full - which didn't take too ling - she began drying, and putting away.  

From the other room, Doyle was getting ready to head out.  She heard both make some sort of plans, for 3 pm sunday.  It was after nine, when she put away the last dish.  Ascending the steps, where the math assignment awaited her wavering attention span, a thought pin-pricked her tiring mind.  Something...eh, a bit on the sly about that document she'd put her sig to.  Oh well, too late now!  Also, the two men had discussed ... some sort of price.  Well, whatever the amount both had agreed, seemed rather high for driver's insurance - wasn't like she'd been in any accidents, or got any tickets...have to be allowed to go places, for that.  Anyway, you don't ask questions, it's not done.

It was going on midnight, before Meggie had completed most the problems.  Frankly, she was bushed.  Meggie went to sleep, totally clueless, concerning what sunday would bring.

"Meggie, set an extra plate." her father spoke, barely looking up from several pages he was looking over. "And put something

on that's nice."  There was nothing un-nice about what she had on - a pair of loose-fitting, comfy jeans and a sweater, neither were, well too tattered.  Hhm, nice - that was some sort of code word, but where it was going? ..wasn't just her math assignment that wasn't quite  adding up.  She went into the kitchen to check on the spaghetti, gave it a stirr, then turned it down to warm.  

Who was coming to supper?  Not that she really much cared.  Usually, it was some guy, and her Father and the guest would go on about runs, rides and what it took to keep em roadeworthy.  Didn't matter; their conversations bored her.  Frankly, for all it was worth, she might as well had not even been in the room; she just worked in the joint, Meggie quipped to herself, while heading upstairs.

Meggie was rather bummed out.  While she wasn't the materialistic type, still she had hoped her Father would buy her a computer  - the one she had tended fo go into artic-mode.  Having turned eighteen, she needed a reliable 'puter for things like ... uhm, sending JOB resumes.  Though, she had several months until graduation, the guidance counselor, Miss Poole, said that it's good to get an early start, get accustomed to the different software employers use.  In short, took a 'puter, working in the temperate zone.   Sure, her school laptop would do, but the school had all kinds of user policies, that left her confused - would really inhale to get access minimized.  

There's first the tropics, her mind  - which tended to wander off - begn to ponder, while her body climbed into the showert.  Where did that gave way to the sub tropics, and where did the temperate area start, and gave way to the sub artic, and then...

"MEGGIE..!"

Dried off, she entered her room.  From outside, she heard the loud roar of an engine cease, when its metal housing had reached its destination.   She ran a brush through her still damp hair.  Sometimes, she would give the ends a quick touch up with her curling iron, but not now; anyway, the thing no longer heated up very well.

She needed to get a job - and have atleast alittle of her own dough - but Father wouldn't let her work after school.  Father wouldn't let her do anything, or go anywhere.  Not even school stuff.  She glanced at the globe which sat on her dresser, in a bowl - because the stand which had held it, had, two or three years ago, snapped in half, during the last move, from several states away.  It had been a sudden one.  Not the smartest kid in the class, but she knew, not to ask questions.  

"Something nice."  The floral dress of heavy denim hung in the closet.  The space wasn't large, but since she didn't have much to hang, there was no problem.  Yeah, she liked it allright enough, but she'd of rather had the 'puter.

Several days later, Carla came through the back door, with a carry-cart full of thanksgiving items.

She made a mental note, for the next day, to pull the 16ish pound turkey out of the freezer - would take somewhere between 36 to 48 hours to thaw.   The potatoes and yams, she placed in hanging baskets.  The luscious chocola moose cake, she put in the frig.  Putting in place, her remaining purchases, she brewed a cup of coffee, then made herself comfy upon the spacious black leather sofa.  She opened her laptop.

Well, that's a strange message.  It had been sent from an organization - one she supported with some time, and significant dollars.  The text had read, to the effect, her account had been cancelled, "...due to conflicting interests..."

What?  

Maybe system issues...will deal with it later.  Carla switched to her e-newsfeed.  A friend sent vaca pics; another friend sent a party invite - she and Albert would probably attend; another friend sent first grandkid pics ... gaag :/  another friend sent a funny video.

Two or three entries on the list, drew her attention - it was from the school's HR department.  She opened it; she was to attend a mandatory meeting at ten am, the following day.  Oh brother, she muttered, here we go again.  As if she had nothing else better to do, than to attend meetings - many, which, were an hour long, and could be EASILY trimmed to ten minutes...ugh!

Albert had just finished the same article, around the same time, as Chet. A similar discussion ensued between Albert and his wife,

Carla.  But this marital conversation - between two opposing political camps, had neither loud nor inappropriate words spoken.  Carla simply stated, "the man..."  She, choosing her words, continued "he's...well, crass."  She then slowly moved her hand.  Albert, like several billion other people, who live peacefully - or even reasonably so - took the hint.  Since the walls might, at the moment, have tiny electronic eyes and ears, whatever Carla wanted to tell him, was not the routine stuff that marrieds could discuss back and forth, over cake and coffee.  Carla stood up from her normal place - the sofa cushion nearest the end table, which they both shared - and sauntered toward the easy chair, in which Albert was seated.  She cocked her head toward the storm room, which had a sizsble utility closet; she began unbuttoning the top button of her blouse.  Down came the easy chair's footstool.  He was out in a shot.

The closet door shut behind them.  Albert made a brief statement - which, well, is between a husband and his wife.  "Albert, I'm serious..." "So am I..."  he then took his hands off the forth button.  Carla had something, besides ... which could be tabled for a few moments.  His wife had something on her mind, and the thinking part of him, wanted to hear.  She leaned in to whisper, "Please, don't repeat this, but I heard from a VERY reliable source, how crass...YES, there had been several individuals in the room ... when THAT mug-face said to Martha - poor thing - we'll have to just work that off ... oh" Carla added, "he then pinched her on the backside."

"So?"  

"SO?"  Carla's jaw dropped.  "Come on, Albert..."

"Okay!" He replied, with a wink.

"No, seriously, is THAT the sort of man we need for a president?"

"Okay!"  Albert took Carla in his arms; they began kissing - passionately.

Unbeknownst to the closeted couple, a housefly, with electronic innards, had flown in under one of a number of places.  Its microdrive had picked up enough of the private conversation - but the words spoken, by either human, were minor.  The little bug had eavesdropped for another purpose.  It called for a nearby drone - which was on its way back from zoning in upon a neighbor's lap top - left open, while he or she had been on the can.  The message from the closet drone, basically, had read:  Bring popcorn, movie about to start.

The second arrived, in time to collect some mighty useful footage - the educator, who promoted certain leftist causes ... well, evidently, not so, in her private life.  The audio ... priceless.

Hillary wasn't exactly having a post-election evening. It started out...meh, okay. The dinner, she had made,

both she and her Husband, had enjoyed,  along with a bottle of sparkling white grape juice.  Boy, was that non-booze bubbly expensive, but whatever...wasn't like they drank it every night.  She had also baked a small apricot raisin pie - Chet's favorite, her 2nd or third favorite - which they had enjoyed, in the livingroom, along with their coffee.

Then it started.  

Chet picked up the newspaper, and began the litany of various "great things Senator Rowans" had accomplished.  Hillary bit her lip; she and Chet had been married long enough to know, the subject of politics would pass, on it's own - Chet would be leaving behind the disagreeable topic, in about a moment, when he'd page forward to the sports section.  His finger, however, made no such motion.

"So, who'd ya vote for?"

He didn't agree with her answer, and made some remark, that really wasn't necessarily.  Hillary held her peace - namely because, her regard toward her Husband over-rode, by miles, any stupid political difference; though, with Rowans, soon to be president...oh, Hillary was tempted to go off, but what was the point..."  Chet notched off another "accomplishment."

THA-WAAP!

Hillary's left shoe missed the fly, which had just landed on the coffee table.  She calmly, dropped the shoe to the rug, and replied: "Perhaps, i would think differently, concerning our esteemed President-elect, if upon taking Office, he enacts an order to GET RIDDA TH' EFFING DRONES!!!" She continued the outburst, using words, highly inappropriate, for a pg blog-post.

"Please calm down."  Chet, rather nervously, glanced about their livingroom.   He quickly added, "now just relax, honey, and i'll get you one of your MilTabs."  Oh, that was about the last thing Hillary wanted to hear - p.m-freaking-s, my foot!  Hillary's mindspace muttered.  One thing for sure, however...regardless of who you voted for - or didn't bother - everybody wanted drones permanently IMPEACHED!!  But everybody knew the drill - there's some things of which...you best stifle yourselves. 

There was, however a cute little ditty still making the rounds, that drones had most the nations bound-up, and wise investors invest in Lax-A-Daz - though Chet, and a few billion other people, took the little song - so beloved by children, everywhere - at least, partially serious.

Oh, of course 12s, 14s and 16s were available on the rack, Carla grumbled, flipping the new arrivals

the bird, while staring the poofies down, as if the overly length'd bell-fashioned yardage would quickly sprout legs and run away from her disapproving glare. Pink!  Are you kidding me!  What kind of simpette...the garments' ruffled hems were raising her hackles.  She turned to the rack facing her; there was one, and only one, outfit she was interested in - a smart looking camel-shaded heavy silk pantsuit.  But it was a size ten.  Carla took a 12, if not a 14, but she knew... she - and no one else - was to blame for letting her gym membership lapse.  The light gray suit beside it, was double-breasted, but she didn't care for either the buttons, nor the general cut; Carla was so NOT into bell bottoms...too boomer.  While she wasn't one to give pricetags much a glance, she couldn't help but to notice, how sssomme garments - especially women's - could have a bu-ku amount of fabric, and yet be priced about the same as a no-nonsense jacket and a matching pair of slacks.

Enough!  

Yep kiddies, Carla was experiencing less than a good day.  She passed and ignored an overhead flatscreen which was focused upon a certain ugly mug; in the background, crowds were cheering.  Hmmph!  She then realized, she could use a few extra pairs of long silkies - after all, winter was coming, and due to heating costs, the classrooms temps were to be kept at 67; not quite warm enough, especially, when the winds picked up, against the north side of the school building.

She entered the intimate apparel department, and along the wall she was greeted by...ugh, is this eighteen friggin eighty??  Long bellshaped halfslips, basically silk ones for ladies of means, cottons for working class women.  Dressing the dollies, rich and poor, blluck! ... not exactly Carla's idea of economic equality.  She left the uper-scale department store and got into her car. Wanting to calm herself, what she wanted, was a good stiff drink - but, uh-uh, that wasn't happening ... bad for the waistline.

Ouch, that tray was hot. A steaming bowl, right along side of the chicken, Meggie had just placed upon the table,

the bowl contained those little red glazed potatoes - which julie had brought.  She was kind; the vice pres' wife, she never barked orders, or shoved the other women and girls.  Unlike jenny, the sec's wife.  Jenny stood about six one, and must have weighed around 230 - and boy, did she like throwing it around.  "That goes over here." Jenny barked at one of the other women, who, evidently, knew well that replying back, just wasn't worth it.  

Meggie was hungry.  Earlier in the day, the school cafeteria had served tuna over noodles - a favorite of hers - but with food prices, the way they were, the portions appeared to have been cut - for girl's evidently.  Meggie, being not quite the brightest seventeen year old - her gpa, being less than stellar, yet somehow - knew there were ways around things - and while equality of the genders was still taught...not always applied in the day to day, however;/

She stood five seven and weighed one fiftyish - the scale at home was probably older than her Father.  Every pound upon her near fully matured frame had its vision upon the bounty before it.  A plate of sliced cheese and crackers had been placed nearby, alongside a veggie tray.  Maggie's hand carefully began reaching for one of the toothpick-pierced pieces, but the little larceny in progress was abruptly preempted by a certain familiar bark.  Jenny...

There would be no food served until the meeting, taking place in the adjoining room was adjourned.  Per the member's voices - one of them was, of course, her Father's, (he was always going on about something...ugh!) - it would likely be a few minutes more, before the men filed out, took their seats, and their suppers, per the "auxiliary," brought to them - and to their teenaged sons, who were presently outside in the moist chill, maintaining their own pecking order.

The meeting was finally, hopefully, drawing to conclusion; the members were growing hangrier by the second.  Sammy, one of the regular members, hadn't eaten all day - too many vehicles to fix and not enough mechanics to fix 'em.  He leaned toward a buddy, sitting nearby, to say something, his other ear felt a sudden movement.

"CA-RASH!"

A partially empty beer bottle had stuck the back wall; shards of it's brownish glass littered the floor, the foamy brew trickled down the nicotine stained panel.  Per the speaker's glare, sammy's eyes did not return a challenge, nor any other unspoken or spoken pushback - having learned from previous experience - his eyes had instead lowered to their proper place.  Needless to say, the mess would be later on cleaned up by one or more of the club's "auxiliary. Doggoneit, the lanky twenty-two year old was hungry.  Whatever the women had cooked up, it sure smelled heavenly.

Finally, the meeting over, the men and boys were being served heaping plates, young children, of either gender, were given their place/plate at the long table.  Next the "auxiliary" would - after a typically long, busy day - be able to enjoy a half hour or so, of food and fellowship.  By the time Meggie was able to grab a plate, the salmon wraps were long gone, along with those little red potatoes.  There were, however, several chicken legs and thighs remaining - she put one on her plate, and scooped a spoonful of what remained of some kind of mexican dish, and two of the remaining six or seven meatballs.  Another delight, she had to pass by, there was but a spoonful or two remaining - yep, another one of those double standards.

"It's appropriately nasty out there." Carla spoke to a co-teacher,

who was also watching the leaning sideways rain pelting a column of raised-garden walls, bordering the sidewalk.  A motorcycle, sporting a wet flag displaying the rider's colors, roared its way along the drive.  Trouble - a student's father.  Oh, what did Meggie do this time?  Probably, nothing - really!  Poor kid, to have him, a Baldie, for an old man - the "motorcycle club" ... call it for what it is: GANG! was reputed to have had their flag-waving hands involved in the SecondStorm - a certain altercation which had taken place, within the us capitol complex, a few years prior to the Donald's administration.   

While the rain was no longer coming down heavy, the system was, evidently, trying to hang in, like an aging-out groupie.  Both educators, just stood there, gazing out the teachers' lounge window.  Behind them, Tritch, sat at a table, adding some finishing touches upon a little surprise, he had for his molecular biology class - a twenty question, short quiz.  That tubbaLARD was all smiles, evidently, per the news that came through the intercom.  The two women ignored him. 

The clock read 2:32pm, Carla's last class started at 2:40.  Out in the hallway, she rounded a corner, passed a row of lockers.  Several, near the end, had 8.5X11 sheets taped at eye-level.  Well, she had to credit the students, for their creativity.  The first one was a sketch of George Washington; underneath, a caption read "The Nation's First President." The following sketches, and respective captions, confirmed there were students who took their studies seriously.  The last sketch was Rowans; his caption read: "The Nation's Ugliest President."  Like or hate the man, about everyone agreed, Rowans was nothing to look at.   Taped above was a small US flag - and some right-winger slogan.  Carla made a mental note to report this violation against school policy - a safety issue, the lockers were not to have any objects hanging from them.

The election had been near a landslide.  Carla pushed from her mindspace, Rowan's image, and anything to do with the election.  She had a class to teach.  She rounded another corner; her room was but a few paces ahead.  "...Shut up, Timmy!" a girl's voice pushed back.  The boy, evidently, had found a new target.  Someone's cell buzzed; the call would be preempted, in about two seconds.  

"Thank you, thank you, thank You, Lord," Irene beheld the jars and boxes sitting upon cupboard shelves.

She had enough in groceries to see her through, for awhile.  Her retirement and social-security - which had been trimmed, due to budget issues - were barely enough to keep up with things.  Inflation would only get worse, before things evened out.  And, on top of that, the balance remaining on those court costs.   

Enough, she told herself.  The teakettle began to hum.  The water sufficiently heated, she poured the water onto a second-used teabag, which sat in a bone china teacup - yet, another reminder of years gone by, when things like groceries, gas, utilities and such were no big deal.  She and her late Husband, had been, by no means, even near well to do, but meeting unexpected expenses hadn't been worrisome matters.  Up until a few years ago, she had enough, to be able to give atleast some, to people in need - missions, the local pregnancy center and such.  Now, she found herself, not only on the receiving end, but sometimes unable to give a full tithe.  That smarted... 

Enough...  With one hand, she grasped the saucer, and with the other, steadied herself as she made her way into her modest, but whitespaced, livingroom.  She was glad to have, about two years ago, taken the bother to sew herself a real flannel robe - one with a voluminous skirt, that almost reached the floor.  One, that stayed closed, whenever you moved around.  Sure, such could be bought - that is, if you had half a grand laying around.  Beneath, she wore yet another layer of flannel - the half sleeves, frayed, but the gown was cozy.  Beneath that, a threadbare, what used to be, a cotton slip.  

Needless to say, she hadn't yet turned up the heat to medium.  The house was a bit chilly, so she dressed accordingly, a wool throw was folded, standby, on the other large leather recliner.  Near the front door - which wasn't exactly draft-free, an orange picasso-ish sofa, was draped with a heavy wool blanket, and a thick cotton bedspread, and a medium cotton blanket beneath.  Most times, the old woman slept on that.  A heavy white cotton oval throw rug, served as a reasonably soft barrier between the sofa's synthetic upholstery, and the natural layers upon her frame.

Not owning a flatscreen, she switched on her laptop.  The polls out west were closed, to anyone outside the building, but the results wouldn't be confirmed, until, probably, tomorrow around 1 or 2 pm.  So far, the results, didn't come as a surprise; eastern - and, especially, mid-western - state after state - were reporting their tallys. Rowan, Rowan, and more Rowan.   No surprise that accounts of rioting, were also coming in, from several large metro areas.   

Irene nodded off.  Tomorrow, she expected to hear, the candidate she had mail-voted for - the same name, upon her back bumper - would be the nation's next president.  She made a mental note, to be a bit extra careful when driving - and to do her shopping/errands around 9am-ish, when businesses were least crowded. 

The anger would not blow itself over by next week.  

Fortunately, school was cancelled, namely for the fact, the poles would be jammed.

Due to several instances of creative voter-counts, prior to the Donalds admin, mail-ins were only for the elderly or disabled.  Educators were up in arms over the likely outcome..."be afraid, be very afraid."  Was Albert's favorite line, from a movie, he'd seen when he was around six or seven.  He still remembered his mom saying something about suing the producers, something like $1,100 for a new sofa, and two lamps.  Another one of his "I'm th' Fflyyy" stunts - the setting, a dilapidated shed on his folk's property - had landed him in the ER.  Needless to say, not long after, his Dad and Uncle Rob, tore it down, and threw the pieces into a rented dumpster.  

His phone read 6:07.  The diner opened at six, and he was hungry.  He then decided to first get to the polls, and get in line.  Straightening his tie, his wife's reflection was still...out like a light.  Hmm, with a bit of luck, she'd get herself into something else, and somehow not make the 7pm limit.  But that wasn't likely to happen - headache or not.  Their two votes would cancel each other out.  He kissed his political opponent upon the forehead, then upon her cheek; she mumbled a response - if he'd heard what he thought she'd said... Anyway, he was enough of a gentleman to not bring it up; she'd be mortified.

Whistling a tune, he bounded down the stairs.  But the second part of the ditty fell flat, upon noticing the rather disheveled state of their living room.  A twinge of conscience.  Quickly, he straightened and picked up some out of place items.  If his wife didn't remember last night, all the better - they didn't call 'em Marine Corp Slammers for nothing; ole teddy, didn't water 'em down...he'd say, with a wink "principal of the thing, ya know."  

Whatever was in 'em, they sure were refreshing - though more like a summer drink.  He, a one-drink man, had one - which he didn't finish; Carla, must have mistaken the tall orange beverage for Summer Coolers - she'd drank two, or was it three?  Either way, pricked his conscience - there was a verse somewhere in the Bible that went along the lines of pushing booze before your neighbor...  While he didn't "push" and Carla wasn't his neighbor, still the agenda was the same.  Albert was not a religious man, but manipulating people was just plain wrong.

Two hours later, Carla's eyes shot open.  The little orange clock radio, sitting on their bureau, read 8:20.  "Crap!"  She b-lined for the shower.  Her head throbbed alittle; too bad, no time for coffee.  She was half dressed when she realized, yippee, school was not in session today.  The students would be happy, but they wouldn't be overly thrilled come the friday following thanksgiving.

Coffee, coffee, yee-haw, she sped toward the kitchen.  "OUCH!"  Carla bellowed out a few other words.  A heeled, slipper, lay on its side, at her feet.  She sat on the coffee table, rubbing a stubbed toe.  Darn, that smarted, but worse, did a number on her pedicure.  She glanced around their spacious living room - some things appeared out of place.  Oh well, first, COFFEE!!  She had enough time to tidy up, before 10:30ish - when the MerMaids team would arrive, for their twice-weekly, to polish furnishings, clean countertops, tiles, vac floors...

She poured the lifesaving liquid into a favorite mug - a souvenir she had picked up, a few years ago, when she and Albert had gone to Ireland.  The toe continued to smart.  "Just put a bandaid on it."  She recalled a fellow teacher's voice.  Yeah, right...but it was worth a try.

A few hours later, she was very glad to have wrapped the toe.  The winding queue inched forward, toward the booths.  Three or four people ahead, stood the Waterfeld's.  Ward leaned, toward June and whispered something in her ear.  "June, now be a g..."  WHAT!  If Carla heard right, and she believed she had...while, not surprised, still Carla seethed.  Stupid senera-joys...although the derision was not inline with the story, it stuck.  It was women like June, women who, of course, didn't work...but stayed home, and bred senera-heffers.  Portions from a certain book report reiterated in Carla's mindspace - The little twit...yet, casting dispersions couldn't erase the fact, Molly had studiously read it.  Carla pondered, trying to recall, the author who wrote "Handmaid's Tale."   She reached for her cell.  

Barely a few miles southeast from the diner, where the young marrieds were wrapping up their date night, the bride's parents

were leisurely finishing their prime rib and lobster dinners.  The little country club was noted for their fine cuisine, in an elegant, yet down home setting - so, no cause to wonder why the rather out-of-the-way place tended more toward the local, if not regional, old money set.  From one corner, that overlooked the 18-hole golfcourse, a young pianist played soft music upon a grand piano - which had been purchased, going on a century ago, by the club, along with the sprawling old stone farmhouse, that dated back to around 1830.  

Other original furnishings were also lovingly kept polished.  A large mahogany sideboard, reputed to predate the revolutionary war, sat along the wall - which was probably true, and maybe, that large oaken table in a neighboring room.  Needless to say, the sometimes visiting "updates" - who preferred the large club, located closer to the city - were known to simply hone in upon nicks and dents.  And yeah, they never failed to run in the fact, they had superior golfers.   Forty year olds golf better than sixty year olds ... moving right along.  Genuine crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings in several of the rooms - and yes, the upkeep of those was a ha$$le, but the members continued to vote yes, they're worth it.  

Had been a near miracle the club was able to sustain a healthy margin of black.  Some six or seven years ago...well sometime during Donalds' first term, the club had chosen to take a big risk; the vote was nearly three out of four in favor to close on sunday - no small decision, since sunday income rivalled saturdays.  Needless to say, there, for a while, the club found itself scrambling for staff.  It had gotten to the point, where several of the members, themselves, from time to time, were, tending bar, waiting tables, and even cleaning restrooms.  

Ward Waterfeld would never know why a certain highly coveted client had chosen to partner with his employer.  To sum it up, a prominent man - who was reputed to be worth several billion - had been impressed by the the middle-aged lawyer, who, in his suit, had quietly disappeared for a few moments, into the kitchen.  Yep, billionaire wanted people who were willing to keep things running - even if those things were menial.

Okay, club backstory done.

Mr and Mrs Ward Waterfeld, along with three or four other couples, slowly danced to a soft melody.  While, predictably, much of the muted conversation, all around, was about - and for Rowans, another conversation, from one of the tables, had nothing to do with voting.  Though June didn't care for Rowans, atleast, with him and his, in office, if war was to break, young unmarried women would be exempt - which is likely why, Rowans would get it per landslide.  Of course, the Waterfeld's were free from the worry of having to come up with a dodge - both agreed, "over my dead body..."   Sure, Roger, at fourteen, was starting to chomp at the bit; he wanted to go and notch off a few commies.  June kept her focus upon the election, lest she mope.  She'd plans for Molly - a lovely white gown, with veil and train, lots of flowers, attendants, aline, and a reception here at the club.  

From that certain table - where the two husbands were debating which ski lodge was better - a set of overly mascara'd eyes peered up and down the delicate folds of June Waterfeld's pale burgundy gown.  Alice really didn't know June that well, nor cared to - she was just miffed about something, and looking for an ego-fix.  She inched her chair back, then tilted her head a bit sideways.  The other wife, knew the signal.  A savory tidbit was about to be served.  While Carla, for good reason, didn't much trust Alice, doggoneit, she sure had the goods.  

"Ah, yer fulla s*it!" the one husband was going on about something related to snow removal equipment.  "Albert, please!"  Carla chided - being partially annoyed, for having missed a little tidbit.  Something about a teen wearing a prom gown to a "fundoid" wedding.  Alice's next remark clarified matters, and it was sweet music to Carla's ears.  The girl, Molly, had been in her current affairs class, and had, more than once, expressed obsolete views regarding the "two" genders.  What really rankled Carla was:  the heffer not only did her homework, but went beyond the mile.  Conflicting thoughts rose up to occupy another tract of mental acreage.   Carla wasn't having that ... reality.    Hampstering was easier, took far less mental energy.  Anyway, ha-ha, to the not-so-little brat, a smirk crossed her face.  Pro-patriarchal values?  Ma-molleee was likely getting a payload of it.     

Mitch had an 8am appointment near Fredericksburg, so he did the smart thing

He ran home, stuffed one of his better suits and his good overcoat into a hanging suit carrier; the various other gear, into side pockets.  He made a mental note to buy one that held suits that weren't "elf-sized."  Yeah, a classic coping phrase for guys who, for whatever reason, didn't "hit the gym" ... Whatever!   Up ahead, was a neon sign, it read "Becker's Diner."  He'd heard about the place, from Hillary, a former employee, and decided to check it out.

The place was relatively quiet, but it was a monday night, and the roads were nasty.  The storm system had already moved in.  He ordered the blue plate special, with an extra side of cauliflower with cheese sauce, and an extra serving of dinner rolls, with plenty of butter.  Nice place.  They employed people to serve the food, not robots.  The waitress brought soft warm rolls, in a white cotton cloth covered basket, and carafe of black coffee.  He dug in, while unzipping his brief case.  As usual, supper was, more or less a working supper.

At the counter sat two old timers, who were going on about tomorrow's election.  Unsurprisingly, given the area, both the oldsters were for Rowans.  Per a conversation behind him, it wasn't just the old and middle-aged folks.  A dark haired, stocky late teen, and some guy called "Raybo" - who had more or less, turned the young couple, into a crowd, were both for Rowans as well.  But who was going to win Thursday's football game, that was a friendly, but getting a bit loud disagreement.  In the midst of the noise, Raybo then remembered to congratulate the couple about something; he also, evidently, fancied himself to be on Rowans campaign committee, because he began pitching the young woman.  She, of course, politely declined making an issue.  It was then Raybo, being on a dork streak, evidently, said something along the lines of, "oh well, next year then."  

While Mitch generally ignored the three teens sitting behind him, Raybo's last statement had sewn the pieces together.  Raybo had, basically, interrupted the young married couple's date night - likely one, the two could barely afford; and the wife - whomever she would care to see as the nation's next President - was denied the suffrage. 

You had to be atleast eighteen to cast a ballot.

Finally, Raybo must have somehow took the hint, and took a seat at the counter - leaving the young marrieds to enjoy the remainder of their meal, and what was left of their date night.  Brother, Mitch exclaimed to himself, did they have serious rows to hoe.   The husband looked, maybe, two years older, if that.  

Mitch began perusing a business website.  An article was garnering his attention, but the comment feed, began grabbing it.  He clicked upon one of the top three screen-names.  Mitch grew concerned, because the info being passed, had a familiar tone.  And between the commentor's crowings, was info which came off as sensative.  In short, loose lips...

The crash of a coffee mug hitting the table, turned heads.  Embarrased, Mitch grabbed napkins, which refused to let go of their holder.  Fortunately, his keyboard held but a few drops, which he had wiped away, with his tie.  With the tie, he had also dabbed away perspiration forming upon his forehead.  He shut the laptop and put it back in its case.

Per hoyle, Mitch expected to be back in town by around noon - with a little travel souvenir for Cadly.  

Some backstory here - Hillary had majored in one of those "worthless" degrees. She had chosen

to major in political science (and minor in accounting) for one reason, and one reason only.  She was interested in the subjects covered.  Next to having met and married Chet, her three years in college, had been exciting.  While most her classmates were off hooking up and such, her passion for the coursework had certainly done her much favor.  Namely, running off every last one of those mangy dogs.  Needless to say, party invites dried up like a post-menopausal...yeah, no loss.

Speaking of mangies, mgtows and such, she, not Chet, had paid off her student loan, through, not only getting up and going to work each day, but coming through the office door, well rested, alert, and ready to get things done.  When the couple had stood before the JP, the only debt she had was a garage bill.  It had also been with her earnings, which had helped to pay down the (now paid-in-full) mortgage. Her straight up work ethic, didn't set so well with Cadly-n-flunkies - which, was no wonder, he resorted to...basically, mean-girl games.  Oh well, no longer Hillary's problem, what goes around, comes around.

Back to the story...sorta.

The little green plastic kitchen clock read 9:13 pm.  Where did the time go?  How she had managed to get house things done, when she had "worked" for a living?  Well the answer to that, of course, had been the taking advantage of poorly paid, swollen legged, post-wallers - who's own homes were not only desolate, but likely - per plain old exhaustion/depression...well, duh! - were probably populated with dust bunnies - breeding in corners, amid clutter.

Oh, such details, Hillary had gone to libraries and had carefully researched.  Needless to say, at that time, such information was "socio-politically innapropriate."  Evidently, the authoress of "The Smith's" found that one out...in a cattle car, along with some 80-ish other people.  Her novel, not long ago, number three on the banned list, was now being praised - perhaps, overly so - being there were two or three scenes, which were, ugh, a bit provocative.  But hey, Mr. Smith was  ... hello, married to Mrs. Smith.  Needful to say, however, racey or otherwise, "they" didn't have to cart the old authoress - or anyone else, for that matter - off to die in that awful place.  Survivors had said ... Hillary didn't care to think about such realities.  

Anyway, Hillary had been fortunate.  The worst thing she had experienced was, being kicked out of college.  Needless to say, HR harpies had completely ignored her GPA of 3.7.  Her break had come from someone, a man - by the way - who wanted an employee who worked.  

"Hey, Hillary," Chet called from the livingroom. "Get a load of this."

"What?" Hillary returning to the sofa, was handed a folded back section of the local paper.  The brief article concerned some township business.  It was the brief announcement, just below that drew Hilary's attention.  A wedding had taken place at a certain fundie church, about a mile outside of town.

"Molly???  She's just a kid!"  Hillary shook her head, recalling, in early august, the little cake and ice cream party her folks had thrown for Molly and her giddy girlfriends.

"What? Who?"

 "The neighbor girl."  She shook her head again.  "Too young.  She's only seventeen, What about school?  What kind of parents..."

"Oh well.." her Husband raised his eyebrows.  As the couple made their way up the stairs, Hillary recalled, recently seeing the girl getting off the school bus.  So, it wasn't the case of a few too many pastries, from that bakery, beginning to show around the buxom girl's middle.

The good news was, the little package wasn't a long-winded tax rationale, it was a

book, of about 180 pages, of quality paper, and hardcover too.  But the protesters weren't brandishing slogans, and swinging fists over the materials.  Hillary leafed through the little volume, wondering how much extra tax dollars went into it's construction and distribution.  While she, in some certain areas, sympathized with the frowning clown crowd, there was something for-real about the book's subject matter.  The cover basically summarized it.  She couldn't help but to wonder, who was the federal gubment employee who had designed the cover?  While Hillary was no art expert, neither could she help, but to conclude, probably "CR" was some middleaged, overtasked GS-9er, trying to hold his or her household together.  Hillary's grandmother had been a fed, but Grams had been a GS-12, for about ten years, before comfortably retiring at the age of sixty.

The subject of the painting was the dining room, per the furnishings and other details, of a working class family of four.  A little boy, wearing a crisp checkered shirt was reaching for a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes.  On his plate, was a few slices of what looked like plain old meatloaf.  Hmmph, po-food.  Across the table, sat a little girl, perhaps two or three years older; she wore a lovely pink, but faded crinoline dress.  At the table's head, the family's Head, had obviously pulled rank.  He wore a green work shirt with some logo embroidered upon it, underneath was his name.  His plate piled, he was obviously hungry.  Behind him, upon the scarf covered sideboard, sat a vase of daisies, placed in the middle of two plain brass candlesticks.  Toward the front, and off to the side of the daisies, was a round iced layer cake.

Lastly, was his wife.  She was wearing one of those overly volumous prairie dresses; her waist-length hair was tied back in a red ribbon.  Upon her plate was one slice of the meatloaf, a modest serving of potatoes.  She held a bowl of fruit in one hand, in the other she had just delivered to her plate, a second spoonful.  Per the small mound of her midsection, soon there would be a highchair in the picture.

The ceremic dishes, bowls, the glassware, and stainless steel utensils, upon the white cloth did not all match, but the variations reflected each individual, seated around the table.

She glanced over at her husband, who was finishing the last of the dessert she had made during the previous afternoon.  Shoo-fly pie.  Pound-putting po' food, but he liked that kind of stuff - she preferred things like organic strawberries with just a dollop of shebert.  She set her teacup upon the saucer, which sat upon the coffee table.  Chet reached for the remote; it was coming upon 8:30, when a certain weekly local news - if you lived in Ohio - commentary would air live from, someone who went by the name of NewsGuy.  

Anyway, NewsGuy started off with a rant.  Nothing unusual.  But this one?  Evidently, he was in rare form about a hit-and-run.  Yeah, Hillary listened up, because she had been there about a year previous.  When he started going on about the premium increase for uninsured drivers, it was time to break from that.  After all, what can you do?  Not pay it?  Then three days later, somebody plows into you, and takes off.  No thanks!  She arose from the sofa, went into the kitchen to put away the remaining dishes, which sat upon the drying rack.  

By the way, their dishwasher was about on its last legs - Chet had gotten it second hand, not long after they'd married - but the Asher's condition wasn't a problem for Hillary.  Contrary to the ads, prewashing the dishes is a must, even for the 3K models.  Well, shoot, unless you're giving a dinner party, might as well wash and rinse in the sink, and let them dry on the rack.  

"Would jua bring me a glass of milk, please." Oh, here we again, she grimmaced, while reaching into the frig.  Not at her Husband's request, but at NewsGuy's latest flag-waving rant.  Ugh!   Churchians...going on about depopulation, what a crock!  If the stats were such an issue to the gildedites-in-power, you'd think they'd open the borders a bit.  Sub-saharan Africa's pop was like three times replacement.  Sometimes, she couldn't help but want to laugh, aloud in Churchian faces; over the past decade or two sub-saharans had grown brains - leaving, en mass, that theocratic women-diceling reign of terror.  Her KJB uncle was a missionary over there; she'd read several of his letters.  Christian churches were popping up, like 7AM toast over at the BreakFast.

The little battery operated clock, above the sink, read 6:47, when she heard her husband's truck pull in.

No worries, the dining room table was set, and the dinner sat in the oven, draped with a carefully unfolded piece of good tin foil, which later would be wiped off and refolded a few more times.  Stuff was expensive, and one income.  Neither cared for piping hot anyway.  She quick touched up her lipstick, slipped on her heels, and headed for the backdoor, to welcome home her gem of a husband.  Oh yeah, Hillary missed him - but this is a PG rated story.

The dinner wasn't dry.  Over the past several months, Hillary had figured out - per Hanna's Housewifey blog, how to keep a meal moist and tasty, when it had to keep for awhile.  Over the past months, Hillary learned alot - namely, keeping house was far better done, with brain intact.  Back during early summer, when she held the corner office, she'd of not bought the idea - for one second - that preparing meals, taking care of laundry, and such was fit for anybody with an iq over 85.  Oh, the little remarkies she'd quip, here and there, among her managerial family - yeah, the "family," who, not once, sent her, so much as a qwik "how ya doing?" text.  It was almost like, she had leprosy, or cooties, or something.  Yeah, whatever.  

However, what did disturb her, was how the reset was changing her;  she found herself beginning to "settle in."  Oh sure, she missed the money, and even some of the drama.  But she found herself not missing the stress, the worry - and most of all, the rank fakery and the ongoing eggshell stroll.  While housework, though boring at times, was her call; no sluffballs to have to watch at all times, while being careful NOT to be seen checking up.  That episode, last year had put her on notice - she had been darn lucky she hadn't been canned that particular day she had called someone's shoddy work for what it was.  Nor did she miss the 45 minutes-of -drama commutes, each way - while most the other passengers minded their own business, there had been more than a few whose quarreling and bullying would embarrass the students, from her middle school days, who rode Bus #39.  What a bunch, they had a cruel streak.  Since her commute stop was the last, before reaching the city, sometimes Hillary had to sit too close to the back - where 30 and 40-somethings were, evidently, reliving their 8th grade glory days.

Anyway, housework sure replaced the need to shilly-shally back and forth to the gym - on those dark rainy nights, with a bag of laundry to add to the, now past-tense:) pile.  Per fitness, it had also occurred to her, only days before - one evening - while both she and Chet were getting dressed to go out somewhere, Chet's trousers fit a bit loose.  Was an a-ha moment.  They both had lost weight, since curbing the curb$ide.  Still, she couldn't quite shake the "kept woman" remarkie - which, from mid summer to ... oh, just last week, while grocery shopping - more than one individual, with a smirk, had quipped at her.  Paybacks be a muthahubba.

The little box was about the size of a stack of three or four steno pads. Hillary shook it, but it barely

gave a clue, that it's contents was some sort of paper media - hopefully, not some tax info, announcing and detailing how again, marrieds were to bend over, and take it, with no struggle, and with a smile.  Ugh!  If what Hillary had heard earlier in the day was, that widows and widowers might also be assuming the position.  Probably.  You know how it is: the responsible? pay th' eff up.

Poor Irene - at this rate the old woman will end up, having to take church charity.  I'd rather be f-bomb d.e.a.d., dead! Hillary muttered to herself.  Sad really.  Scuttlebutt she'd heard, was the old boomer had an unpleasant surprise, while at the drugstore.  Slimleys were no longer over the counter, and being not only thin, but old, no doctor would have it.  Anyway, the clownie behind the counter got all nutri-preachy at her.

Evidently, the old hop head, had a little  surprise of her own.  Probably strung out, the old broad, evidently, hauled off, and slapped clownie - hard enough to knock it down.  Hillary wondered if they let Irene out the tank yet.  Anyway, Chet, being the gem he is, had gone over to grocery store, bought a sizable gift card, and - paid their "nominal" processing fee - had them mail it to the old woman's address.

Meanwhile, back to the little box.  It was addressed to "Mr & Mrs ..." her husband's full legal name followed.  Considering the package's origin, some federal agency, of course she was relegated to namelessness.  Part of her wanted to open it, but nothing doing.  The electric bill, didn't have her name upon it either, but that was different, since she wrote out the bills.  Hillary parked the two items alongside the computer, in a small room, just off the dining room, which served as their office.  She'd deal with the bill in about an hour or two - finances were another two or three items down her itinerary.  

The house was it's usual spic n span. "Darn right," she spat, while giving a polish to the utility sink faucets - which weren't on today's (psyco-cope) list.  "Take away my job...effing b*tards will NOT take my work-ethic."  It just wasn't fair, she continued to ruminate.  Typically, she had everything done around, 1pm, if not before.  Supper, she served at around 6 - or kept it warm, if Chet was running late, which happened, but no worries there.  Tonight was a noodle casserole - with plenty of beef, which chummed alongside brussel sprouts, mushrooms and whatever other random vege or fruit that would go.  

The dryer buzzed, and she was on it - synthetics, being cut back ... well, atleast the freaking fundies had atleast some compassion for the environment.  But man, those people were scary.  Earlier, while wiping down the leather sofa cushions, some aged out loud-mouthed right-winged she-toady - Phyllis somebody was going on, how women need to...  Hillary had switched off the flatscreen; she had wanted to hurl the bottle of conditioner which sat, beckoning, upon the coffee table.

Next on the list was, the oblong area rug.  Most of yesterday's spill-stain had come out, but she wanted it gone : they had both paid - that was, of course, when she was a full contributing partner - good money for the thick 100% wool floor covering.  She glanced around the living room.  What they had, would have to last.  While the finances were as blue as a SixFaction sunday brunch, still, the only money coming in, was Chet's salary - one significantly less than her former earnings.

Nuts to the list.  Hillary's stomach was starting another one of its tantrums; she dropped the cleaning cloth and headed to their cramped office, to write out the electric bill.  She then went into the kitchen and retrieved two unsalted crackers that she kept in a glass bunny-faced apothecary jar - a Christmas gift she'd received several years ago.

Post wall cat ladies, popping psyco-meds? Okay, mgtows, let's talk about addiction. Who's getting pulled over

for DUIs?  They're really expensive, by the way - can lose your job, too.  Is it the cat ladies, so stupidly ditching their financial futures?  Oh wait, they're at home, eating ice cream, while watching the liEtime channel (television for women).  Last i checked, that's only a dumb-arse waste of time, but you don't get court costs and jail, for watching that rubbish.

Who's popping the opioids?  Hey, i thought more women were hooked on those, because ya know, how wimpy we women are, when it comes to getting over surgery.  Nope, i was wrong - again.  During an all-hands meeting at work, the speaker came right out and said "men" are having issues getting off the stuff, and getting back to work.

Speaking of workday mornings, is it the cat ladies coming in late to work, hoping the boss doesn't notice the bloodshot eyes, and the lingering smell of booze?  By the way, you can shower with comet cleanser, but alcohol gets into the skin, and smells as the overtaxed body rids itself of that toxin.

It is said, that one out of four women are taking psycho meds.  What's the percentage of men, who are addicted to booze and drugs.  And what's the percentage of men who waste precious hours and hours weekly, seeking a dopamine high, through certain skanky websites?  By the way, didn't know, until a short time ago, that sort of passive/aggressive activity, basically retards the part of the brain, which enables a person to get to work on time, to first pay the roofing bill, instead of just popping off to aruba.  Ya know, being a responsible ADULT.

Wait a second, who's getting shorted, when mom goes for the divorce?

We all know, the house will be divided about 50-50.  That means, if mom gets the house, guess what else she gets?  Yep, a mortgage.  We all know that dad will have to pay her child support.  But guess what daddy doesn't have to shell out?  Precious time off work - that's what!  And it's not like paid leave grows like a pre-flood forest.  Whenever one, or both, the kids happen to sneeze at daycare or during school, you know which parent is going to get that call at work..."come pick up your child."  If you guessed dad, wrongo. Wa-wa wait, there's an important staff meeting, in exactly one half hour - too bad for you, mom.

If mom has no job, she'll get tax-free alimony.  But still, good luck paying the mortgage, repairs, utilities, groceries and gas on that.  In short, mom will have to get a job, and pay for daycare.  And mom had better focus on getting promoted, because a clerical job won't get it, when the child support runs out.  And alimony doesn't last forever, either.  Oh, and mom's paid leave?  No surprise, whatever she manages to earn, she'll end up having to burn - or borrow from - because, kids, ya know, they sure are expensive - doctor, dentist appointments and such.  Meanwhile, if dad catches the flu, he'll just call off.  Mom?  Insufficient leave, the luxury of bed rest for a cold...ha!  Probably not happening.

Drip drip drip!  That's not the whiney mgtows yelping throughout cybertown.  That's the roof, it's leaking over there by the one end table - and there's more rain in the forecast.   If the couple was still together, dad probably could have put a fix on it, and the parents could have waited a year or two - which gives atleast some time to round up the 12ishK needed for the job. And maybe a better price, since dad knows some about roofing.  By the way, dad also knows some about cars.  But things, as they are, mom will have to pay a mechanic.   

Meanwhile, dad took his half and within a few months, put a nice down payment on a house - the mortgage agreement is for less than 10 years, but dad plans to be free of the bondage, within five years.  Mom's mortgage?  It's a 20 year deal.  Dad will have plenty of time cutting his grass, with his new mower, and come winter he'll be able toclear his driveway with a new blower.  

Mom? Well, with children to raise...takes alot of time; she'll find herself sometimes cutting grass at 9pm, or she'll end up paying someone to cut it.  About same story with the snow removal - that stuff gets hard, if you don't get to it about right away.  And then there's the scientific fact of men having about two to three times the upper body strength than that of women.  In short, when the snow hardens, the blower might not - and you'll have to break out the shovel.  Sure, kids can mow grass and shovel snow.  But not so much, when one is four and the other is seven.  

In short, dad's life, free from the interruptions children bring, has time to focus on making money, pursuing fresh tail, and making a big deal over whatever ha-ha hobby - which the world can do just fine, without.  This is why, not long after a divorce, his standard of living will rise.  While mom's?  She'll struggle for years.

As for the mgtows, they're so fool of themselves.

Even the shoes are ugly. At a certain better shoe store, not a single pair.

Was looking for a pretty pair of sandals, with a 1 or 1.5 inch heel.   Try another store?  Will do that later; thing is, want leather.  And i have the feeling that what i am going to see, are either 3-inch heels, or just plain ugly earth-shoe types - and nothing in between, of course.  In my area, there's one other store, that might have some pretty shoes - but that same store is into fast-fashion.  So, a pair of comfortable, attractive, well-made shoes ... yeah, good luck with that.  Anyway, bought a pair of uglies, they'll have to do for now.

The maxi-dress rant yeppers, kiddies, some mgtow was reviling off about women all buying into

the so-called maxi-dress craze.  Like about every last one of us, flocking to the stores, for several.  Reading that, couldn't help but to smell a mentally deranged rat.  First off: they're always popping off about (aging out) 304s, exposing their high body count booty.  And tthhheeennn, turning right around and - yeah, here we go again, falsely accusing women of having no individuality.  Eh, then again, maybe the guy posted that bit from alaska, in january - and he was peeved because he wanted to be in california, and summer was several months away.  Yea, february can be depressing.

But seriously, cannot help but to suspect, women wearing modest attire could expose mgtow for exactly what it is...petulant rubbish.  Ya see, whatever ya choose to wear, will eventually wear upon the wearer - for good or ill.   But here's the deal - Lady Lydia (who had a page, some 20 years back) said, that if a gal dresses modestly at 22, she's likely to wear feminine stuff when she's post-wall :) and beyond.  Another lady, from a recent youtube, has noticed, that when she puts on a pretty dress or skirt, people tend to be more courteous - ya know, like there's a for-real lady in the room. Well shoot, mgtow doesn't want that - will shut their monkey business down...flat!

Goes like this, young girls start out modest - it's a hard-wire thing - but the wickeds, directed by their demonic handlers know how to, with dull blades, trash that configuration, and replace it with exposed ugly - which only waxes real ugly, when the shelf-life times out, and then gets even uglier.  Gives the mgtows are real jolt - guess, when yer not getting any undefiled bedroom fun (sex within Marriage) yeah, men do need sex, and when they're not getting any, it's a bitter pill.  Eh?

And, once again, the Lord is merciful, because He gave women but a fraction of the need for sex, of which He gave men.  Reason being, sex drive drives the desire to invent/create stuff - stuff that keeps civilization on track.  See Daniel Amneus'es, Garbage Generation - a free copy may still be out there on the web.  Ya know, men and women created for different purposes, bring different things to the table.

But mgtow, won't be satisfied, unless women act more like submissive slender peckerless  boys - with big tits.  Sounds like gender confusion - just flat out creepy.  Ew.

Sometimes, it seems that God has a sense of humor. While the mgtows go on about bitter "wall" women,

there was a bitter woman in Scripture.  But guess what: she was all sorts of upset, going on "And she said onto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara : for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me." (Ruth 1:20).  Boy, i'll bet that old woman, popping off like so, was a sight - one that mgtows woulda messed their jeans laughing.  

Oh, but the joke's on you fellas.  You see, the backstory is:  she not only lost her Husband.  He had passed into eternity (Ruth 1:3).  So, she was left, with the couple's two boys to raise - uhm, in a time when women didn't get jobs in comfy office buildings. And if that wasn't bad enough, after some years, both boys grew to manhood, and married.  Then they both passed away. No grandsons.   So now, Ruth, not only a poor widow, but with her sons now six feet under, things were really bleak for her.  Think about it, she was probably around sixty, and jobs like washing dishes at the diner and doing mountains of laundry at the washhouse or even running the register at the grocery store, at the very least, mean standing all day.  For what?  Not even sustainable pay - that's what!  So yeah, the woman was upset. 

Oh, but wait, "bitter" shows up again, in the new testament.  But this time, that word is not used to scowl down some peeved off post shelf-life ChAD chaser.  Noper roper.  The noun "bitter" - not bitterly, or ("the root of") bitterness, but "bitter!"  Here we go :)  "Husbands, love your wives, and be not bitter against them." (Colossians 4:19)

Well, whadda ya know!  And yeah, had to google this one.  The adjective, "bitterness?"  Guess what, the befores and afters indicate that Paul was basically addressing men in (the 1st half of) Hebrews 12, more than he was speaking to women.  Btw, both genders were present to hear, and learn from, his (Lord inspired) teaching - be it in person, or letter.   Anyway, here goes:

"Looking diligently lest any man  fail of the grace of God ; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled ;"  Hebrews 12:15

Another thought that crossed my mind, a few weeks back. When mgtows insist that men can do just fine without

women.  Yep, they're about right on that.  But giving credit to blind evolution?  Nope.  Anyway, per one of their posts, the writer had briefed how men take care of themselves, their homes just f.i.n.e. - ya know, laundry, meals, dishes and such - without a woman in their lives.  Uhm, that's just being an adult.  Anyway, evidently, the Lord created man with the brains to take care of business.  Adam, being created first, was alone, and he was busy.  Had a garden to "dress and keep."  And since there was no HardwarePlanet, he had to figure out what sort of tools would work best, and he had to make those tools.  

Had been wondering, however, for some time, why did the Lord say in Genesis 2:18, "It is not good that the man should be alone;".  Adam was fruitful in his work, in a weed-free garden that grew like nobody's business.  Bet he took lots of breaks to study the plants and rocks.   His brain being undamaged by sin, bet he was smart enough to figure out molecular composition, and could likely see the very configurations in his mind's eye.  Surely, that sort of thing would keep a smart guy occupied for quite awhile - but wait a sec, the individual atoms, and their ingredients.  Down to the quarks, or whatever makes up the atom.  Bet he had to, more than a few times, say to himself, "mmkay break over, godda get busy."  Bet he could multitask too.  

Anyway, and yeah, per Genesis 1:28, right after "Be fruitful," comes the "and multiply,"  Okay, here comes the part where he names the animals.  How long did that take, a few hours, maybe even a few days?  If so, hope he made himself enough coffee - some critters sleep during the day.  Guess on that job, he'd noticed a certain pattern.  Each critter had a mate.   Well, since Adam was likely smart enough (no brain damage from sin) to conceptualize molecular configurations, surely he noticed that Mrs.Bear had something in the oven - perhaps, the clue in her eyes, perhaps her smell - uhm, pregnancy changes body chemistry. 

Did Adam get to thinking, he wanted a son?  After all, he hadn't yet seen a human female.  But maybe, with his smarts and all, he might have had atleast some half-foggy idea of what a woman would look like.  Bet he was quite pleasantly surprised, upon waking up, that she had a lovely face, beautiful hair, nice boobs, and a small waist.  

Anyway, it was a secular article that helped me with my question.  Aside of the fact that a man cannot have a baby by himself - or with a she-bear (or with another man - maybe the scientists can make that possible,  but the kid will be a high-maintenance screw-up).  Anyway, the article stated that men have a high sex drive, that sex for a man goes way beyond his getting his cookies off - that a man's healthy sex drive is what kept the fields plowed, the paths cleared, things invented to make the labor of living easier and more efficient.  

Later, in the New Testament, when the pharisees were playing their narc games (and so not succeeding) at Jesus.  Anyway, Jesus had said, that from the beginning, (Mark 10:6-7) marriage was one man and one woman - for life.  And we all know, Jesus, the King of kings draws a real hard line concerning sex outside of marriage.

Uhm, no wonder so many mgtows want no parts of Scripture.  Anyway, more later, shift starts in about ... yikes, now  :)

"But from the beginning of the creation God made them male and female.  For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife; And they twain shall be one flesh : so then they are no more twain, but one flesh.  What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder."  Mark 10:6-9