Whoever hostesses "Divesting Diamonds," she is a wise woman. She says things - VERY important things, that we don't hear about,

on the net.  Basically, women need to stand with other women.  For too long, women have been shamed and blamed.  The Lady is SO right on.  Men have scowed us women for the past 6,000 years ... bleeping enough already!  Okay, men be men, they don't really like us, never have, and never will ... yeah, whatever.  But women's REAL problem is: the female toadies, ya know the chicks that suck up (pun VERY intended) to the mgtow, and various other misog types. 

For example: the size-bashing.  Well, it goes like this: in today's economy, both husband and wife have to work.  Thing is:  after working all day AND taking care of the house, the kids, most wives are both too tired and too stressed to hit the gym thrice weekly.  So yeah, becky's likely to put on a few pounds.  No, this isn't an excuse to go goodyear.  Just saying, the reality is ... meh ... twenty or thirty pounds overweight at around age forty.  Women gain pounds going into middle age; that's a natural reality.  But misogs - and their on-bended-knee female suck-ups - fly their taunt flag.  

There's nothing worse than a rat, folks!

Next up, is the singles-bashing.  Ya know, a gal's like a non-person if she ... oh horrors, doesn't have a boyfriend or a husband, by the time she's into her 20s.  A real bind, because, these days, it's so important - and just plain SMART for young women to cultivate their vocational market value; which, friends, is best worked toward, while young.  At twenty-two, Chester may promise you the moon ... then twenty years later, after you have given up your education/vocation to be a housewife, Chester decides he neeeeeds to fiiiind himself .... yeah, with some very naive twenty-two year old.  

The old wife, has to wonder, if her husband's mistress faithfully remains in her apartment during the weekends, when Chester isn't around.  Who's hottie with on Saturday nights?  Come on, hottie knows Chester is married, and hottie knows of other young women who've been strung along ... right up to "the wall."  So yeah, she'll likely date; why shouldn't hottie date?  Per chance, the young gal might meet someone decent ... uh-huh, good luck with that :/  Anyway, sex outside of marriage is risky.  Will Chester bring home an std next Tuesday night, or the following thursday?  

And wives initiate eighty percent of divorces?  Whodda thunk!

Aside of std health risks, men who cheat on their wives are using the body of another person.  This poses another concern: if a guy can deceive young hottie, who else is he playing?  In what other areas of life, of business ... is there going to be, down the road, a case of funds mismanagement, bankruptcy - tax fraud can get real messy.  Talk about home wrecking!  These situations are no picnic, when you're fifty-something ... when you've basically hit the financial WALL.

Thirty years ago, rent for a decent apartment ran about $500.  Today, you might find a place for $1,000 - but that's one bedroom.

Which brings up, yet another scowl (are we surprised :/ ) launched against women.  We're so money minded.  YOU BETCHA!  It's women's nature to need security in our lives ; that's how the Lord Himself created women - so, scoffer, go before the Lord and tell Him what an incompetent bozo He is...and good luck with that.

Well getting late, and 5am comes early.  Anyway, one last thing.  The misogs shure throw EMOTIONAL hissy fits (ugh, whadda turn off) whenever a "post wall" gal call 'em on their bs.  

Oh wait, the diamond Lady pointed yet one other thing out.  She says there's alot of gender bending going on.  In other words, one has LEGIT cause to suspect of atleast some of these misogs of ... playing on both sides of the fence. 

Eewww.

"Eighty percent of divorces initiated by the wife." Had questioned, how much

of this percent involves substance abuse (boozing/drugging) and its related consequences of job loss and things not being maintained - ya know, wifey gets home from work, and has to mow the lawn, because it's gonna rain tomorrow.  Also, in the 80 mix, had wondered how much of the 80 involves pron - and OH, its vile branding upon the mind.  Btw, it's been only recently, that i had learned that pron does damage men's minds - i had always thought dirty pics didn't harm men, and that the only reason such needs STOPPED is for the sake of women and children...ya know, the vulnerables, the social/evolutionary less fit.  Being sarcastic here, folks - though it is quite true, women and children ARE weaker.

Got beef about that?  Well, just boldly march into the Lord's throne room, and tell Him, he's an incompetent jerk - that He shoulda created ...   Oh, you don't believe in the Word (Jesus Christ)?   Mmkayy, have at it...yikes.

Anyway, what i forgot about, concerning the 80% was, what's the percentage of wives who decide to end it, because her husband has stepped out...again?  And yeah, i get it, boys be boys.  But the thing about having side bootay is the risk of veneral disease being brought to the Marital home.  How is the cheating husband to know - while he is vacationing with his wife and kids - if his mistress is obediently sitting in her small apartment during weekends and holidays?  Hey, if the young honey, has any brains - or backbone...

But here's the deal.  Guys claim, it's just sex, "she (the side) don't mean nothing."  Well, that's telling!  In other words, the guy is USING another human being.  If a guy is going to deceive his wife/girlfriend/side babe...uhm, why stop there!  Why not pull a fast one on a co-worker, a customer or even the Boss?

Want to continue being around such a person...waiting for the other shoe to drop??

"Well, i knew there was an agenda, somewhere, sometime." Irene refilled the coffee pot. She'd, of course, regret having

drank so much of it after 4pm.  But hey, was worth it.  After all, she didn't get much company; her only social outlet was church, and sunday nights were off the table, until around early april, when atleast some daylight lasted until 7pm.  Why they had to go and get rid of spring forward back in '23...ugh!  While the old woman was not quite fit for driving...what was she supposed to do?  Kiss hiney for rides??  Uhm, no, no and NO!!!!  

"Must be sorta a shock."  Meg reached for an orange walnut cookie, from a small plate of which her hostess had set out.  Upon it, were about six; each had plenty of walnuts, but Meg somehow knew Irene made these to keep around for company - whenever that happened.  Alot of things must be a shock, to old people - women, especially, Meg was certainly old enough to remember a time when about half the senators were women - and now, what was it?  Ten percent? if even that.

Per a prior conversion, between the sunday school and worship, Irene had made a qwip to the effect, Dorothy, you're not in '05 anymore.  Back then, MRA was beneath notice - well, to anyone, with atleast some socio-political influence; men's rights activists were - and properly so, at the time -dismissed as either basement boys, or cads, or baby-dadDUHs - who had money for drugs and games, but not for their kids' shoes.  But even Meg - still struggling to get her ged...the math part was super HARD, but so was the histo-graphy - anyway, even she knew enough, that these MRA guys had found their feet...and had, not only entered top meetings, but, more than a few held the podium.  

"Yes, and no," Irene continued, after taking a bite of her cookie.  "A bit over ten years ago, I began noticing clouds on the horizon, turning dark."  She slowly arose from the table - so as not to wrench a muscle...old age, "WHACK!"  She then stifled a bad word; the stink bug - natural or manufactured - flew off...with a neh, neh, neh?  "Hate them ... ppfff things."  

"Tell me about it!"  Though Meg didn't detail as to precisely why.  But between you and I, Dear Reader, those dern bugs were putting a dent into the private life of the, still blushing, young bride and her older Husband.  Like they were the only couple...?  Just when she was getting okay with giving him some spice, outside of their bedroom and from beneath bed covers...lo and behold, wouldn't one of those things fly amongst the cupboards, land atop the hutch, or whiz by a table, or near the sofa.  Meg's Hisband, Doyle telling her, they're here, and that's just how things are...yeah, but, getting used to it???  Getting used to, potentially, NO PRIVACY???  That kerri lady, wasn't the first to host various thumbnails; but man o man, she was skating...NewsGuy had a similar site, but it was no longer accessible.  Word was: neither was he.  

"Anyway," Irene continued, and I can't quite explain, but when ... what was his name? ... oh, Donalds, when he signed that order...wachamacallit... the one that exempts girls from getting drafted, I could not, and cannot, cease to suspect...a rider, somewhere in those 300-some pages - one that hasn't yet, officially, made an appearance, but will soon."

"They're THAT long?"

"If not longer.  Think it was the healthcare under President Clinton ... or was it Obama?... well, whatever, was something like a few thousand pages."

"Bu,  but, wouldn't it take atleast a MONTH to read all that?"

Irene let out a cackle, then apologized.  "That's the thing, likely skimmed, at best."  Being not entirely sure if she'd heard right, a recent podcast, but if she did hear the phrase "militarily attached" or something along that line, it could very well mean the overturn of a certain amendment - one that passed around 1919, or was in '20.  

Frustrating...not being able to remember things, and half afraid to bring up upon the search engine.  Nor had she much confidence in so-called security software - neither had she the funds - stuff kept going up.  Supply and demand...just a bubble-bathed and perfumed pig-capitalism.  

We'll call him Control-Freak - CF for short, because that's who Deb's Husband is, and what he does - every story needs atleast one bad guy.

"Be back in about an hour." CF passed by his boss, who really didn't mind.  CF had been on board long enough, did his job - and some.  The door closed, CF, now out of hearing range, one of his workmates made some lewd comment, concerning a certain hottie who used to work at lucky's.  While CF had enough sense - from past experience - to keep his head, and his job, the workmate also knew running his mouth, could earn him a busted head, after hours.  

CF got into his truck, a big, black, noisey gas-guzzler.  He clicked on his phone, checking some recent posts.  Something was definitely up at home, and had been over the past few days.  Yesterday, she flipped him the bird, for really no reason, instead of answering a simple question.  This wasn't the first time, last summer ....  Well, he was having no more of it.  

"Dumb wench," he half scoffed.  His wife's password was not only an easy h*ck, but she didn't even bother to atleast change it, to another easy h*ck.  At the next red light, our esteemed driver of the year, scrolled a few more, and continued after the light changed, as he headed toward home.  The usual fem-drama,  Sis was mad about ... whatever it was, this time.  Well, that inhaled...atleast his eff'd up family didn't try to hit him up for money...well, not for too much. 

One girlfriend was going on about some craft show, another sent pet pics.  Gaag.  Another...well atleast Kerri, or whatever, could spell.  She posted a quick 15 second video, of a little boy sticking a cookie in his pocket, then his saucered eyes watching some bug fly from atop the frig, then b-lining into his folk's livingroom.  Her caption read, "This is funny, but the following vids are NOT!"  He clicked on the first thumbnail; it was a 5-seconder; long enough to see - from the neck down, some old person who was like a second late getting to a can.  Another, also from the neck down, was a child getting into the shower - caption read, "prvz will get off on this one, UGH!!!" 

He continued scrolling.  At the next red light, CF made a right, and pulled into a parking lot.  He scrolled through the comments.  One stood out.  "Ms. Atwood's book was published around '85, but my friends, Gilead is full tech - be careful."  The thread continued.  This time, from "Deb."  CF had to wonder, too techno dense, or simply not into screen-names? Or both?  "...friends its in the bag...cant wait...yeah all ever lovin day :) :) :)  ...yep wednesdays busy...old man wont b home til 7"

Punctuation really that hard? Deb?  The quip, rattling in his mindspace, was met up with another load lightener - lucky's, after all, was never exactly known for hiring nuclear physicists.  CF pulled into the back portion of the dollar store parking lot, which was hardly a block from his house.  

He quietly turned his front door lock, then relocked, once inside.  The house was quiet.  He checked the kitchen: some mostly thawed hamburg sat on a plate, it's juices had begun to drip upon the countertop.  Her knitting bag lay on the coffee table, alongside a half empty cup from that morning.  The dining room table had several plants, two of which were beyond hope.  He quietly ascended the stairs.  The ironing board in the sewing room was laden with remnants of various fabric.  Folded, upon the bed in the spare bedroom lay what appeared to be faded living room drapes, beside those, some garments she hadn't worn in awhile.  

He then turned to face the door to their bedroom; it was about a half inch ajar - the only thing visible was part of the dresser and a corner of the footboard.   Don't do anything stupid, came s voice inside his head.  He paused.  "Yeah, you GO!"  The bed creaked.  "Wuh-HOOO!"  It creaked again. 

Don't do stupid, came that voice.  But he had enough.  The door slammed against the wall.  "What th' EFF"!  his wife bawled. CF was in, and none of his 5'11ish" 230 poundish was happy.

"HAND IT OVER.  NOW!" he barked.

"NO!" Deb clutched the paperback volume tight against her ample bosom. Her knees folded toward her chest.

"DEB, I Said..."

Still clutching her copy of Margaret Atwood's "Handmaid's Tale," she flipped him the bird.

While the book was not on the forbidden list - atleast not yet, still, wasn't wise to be in possession.  

"Deb, when I tell you..." he approached.

"Go way, le me alone!"

The next sound was CF's backhand, followed by Deb's sobbing. 

Who was the starch-sadist? The band upon Meg's upper left arm chafed a bit.

With her index finger, she rubbed the chafed area bordering the space between the "I" and the "F".  As soon as she had a free moment, she'd borrow that bottle of olive oil, she'd seen upon one of the dusty kitchen shelves - among, which she expected, would soon be  doing spring scrubbing...that is, if some other poor schlub didn't break some earthshattering rule.  Meg placed her tray of pasta salad on the serving table, careful to put it in back of other various salads, brought by the other women.  Not that there was want for space; the spike in food prices was written all over the seemingly smaller dishes - as well as upon atleast two or three  other faces. 

She then went back to the kitchen - where atleast she could stay invisible - and began washing the first, of what would be atleast several cooking vessels.  New to this group, but apparently, most, if not, every such club, had a Jenny and a Barb, amongst their "aux" - which, among outsiders, was often misunderstood as "auxiliary."  Per the vfw and the moose, the ladies of their "auxiliaries" were members, with atleast some voting privileges,  Not so, in this particular org's chapters.  But, atleast at her Father's chapter, Meg, sort of  knew what to expect from the other women. Here, she was not only a stranger, but lowest in the "aux" rank.  The other women stood around the table, socializing; a few over by the bar doing the same.  

One, a bleach blond, in her early 20s - with a figure to about die for - looked familiar, but couldn't place from where; her faded jeans and t-shirt, were just ever so.  The picnic, late last spring, at littlebison park?...one of the few times Father had actually allowed her to go anywhere...you know the "#all boys dogs, all girls beeches" hashtag.  No, couldn't place the young woman there, nor could she, during her father's employer's family day, which had been held on capital island; the day had been a scorcher - and for the first time, probably for decades, swimming in the river had been permitted; but not for Meg, of course - the last bathing suit she had worn, had been the summer between sixth and seventh grade.  

And no cool jeans either - she glanced down at the baggies upon her frame; the chapter's t-shirt, a size L, of course.  Size M wasn't  even snug, and could have stood a wash in hot water.  What freaking next?  A burka?  Don't ponder that one...no birth-dearth in that community.  Unlike some others, Meg was no islamaphobe - nor any other *phobe.  And as far as the "wahmen question" among leading, or rank-and-file muslims, at the end of life's day, didn't really matter...was the ultimate tragic same, stepping into eternity without Jesus Christ.  

She rinsed off the vessel, and while reaching for another, she caught another glimpse of bleach-blond.  The rather heavily, but - of course - expertly eye-lined youngish woman was passing a cigarette to - if Meg wasn't mistaken - the Sec's wife.  Okay, atleast midland on the order...socio-darwinism, energy pit, one wrong move, word spoken oh, the drama... Meg didn't yet want to make eye contact.  Didn't know her, couldn't yet place her.  Upon hearing one of the women call "Hey, Deb..."  Meg halfways blanched.  But almost enough to ask herself, if she had died, or something,  and sort of woke up back in Newmarket Middle School...had been not exactly a fun place.

But this wasn't middle-school.  The days of being bullied, for really no valid reason, and then mercilessly excoriated for ... well no better reason than defending oneself... but, oh spit, fighting like a girl?  Duh!  It had been as if half the school had been in on the taunting.  Though Meg, from time to time, since then, had practiced on her father's punch bag, she had never gotten the hang of it.  

What luck :/  The only other wife around her age was the sort of person, best avoided.  Yeah, yeah, she'd heard various rumors...one of mom's boyfriends, and then Deb working at a place called lucky's.  Meg had never been inside any of those places, nor wanted to be...washed up, years before "the wall"...ugh, no thanks.

From an adjoining room, she heard the chapter president's gavel pound the desk, and two or three voices - one that didn't want to shut up.  Something about an upcoming run to DC; Meg had heard other / related snippets, but to ask - much less eavesdrop...just wasn't done.  Finally, mouth - whoever he was - was done; probably, on account of one other voice, who - even through the closed door and paneled wall - sounded quite hangry.

The members filed out, and took their seats in the social hall.  The women, more or less per Husband's rank, lined up at the serving table, and began filling their husband's plates - reusable ones, since paper products were ... a stack of 30 styros were almost a dollar, each - yikes.  Daughters served their brothers.  Meg, alongside another wife, remained behind the table to remove empty trays, and replace with full.  By the time the men and boys - and some of the women - were enjoying their meal - the table was experiencing a population drop.  Half the remaining vessels contained, more or less, a few serving spoonfuls.  

Nearly last in line, Meg was finally able to get something to eat - her last meal had been an english muffin and some marmalade, and just a spoonful of scrambled eggs.  Mrs Doyle Anders, had, that morning scrambled the last three eggs for her Husband; he had quite an appetite, but hey, he worked - hard.

There had remained enough of the old-senate salad - a combination of noodles, some ricotta, white sauce and topped with walnuts; if it didn't have walnuts, and more than a few of them, still was a decent side.  But it wasn't "old-senate."  The meatballs of course, were nearly gone, but just as well for someone else to enjoy; had there been more, Meg would have taken two. With her plate reasonably loaded - well, almost - she took her place at table, and finally was able to have a few bites.  Water pitcher was about empty, she arose to refill it, and another nearby.  

The stiff armband was again acting up; she slid her index and middle finger beneath the "WIFE" letters, while making her way toward the kitchen.  "Hon, id'el take awhile ta get broke in," an older woman chuckled.  Meg recognized the voice, the woman had earlier been going on about having to start wearing a pair of boots she had bought a year previous - her favs, were shot and in the trash.  While, she didn't mean anything by the remark, two or three male voices either laughed or made quips.

Not funny.