She Transformed… I Just Tried to Keep Up

Over the past year, my wife has been on what I can only describe as a personal reset. It began after her cervical prolapse surgery, when she decided to focus more on her physical appearance—despite my insistence that she didn’t need to change a thing. My opinion didn’t carry much weight, though, especially when it came time for what she called “boob shopping.”

By late summer, she had gone through with breast enhancement surgery, moving from a C to a DD. The recovery stretched close to three months, and even now she still questions the final results. From where I stand, there’s nothing to question—they look great. Still, she’s her own toughest critic.

You might think that would have been the end of it. Not even close. While recovering, she researched top plastic surgeons in the Austin area and eventually scheduled another procedure in mid-February. 

True to form, she approached recovery her way—not at home, but in a resort suite near her doctor, complete with concierge service. While she stayed in, focused on healing and attending follow-up treatments, I made the most of the setting—sampling a drink or two at the hotel bars between her appointments.

After two weeks, we returned home, where recovery continued for another month. I stepped in with cooking and household duties, though she quickly reclaimed the kitchen once she felt up to it. By the end of March, she was easing back into her routine.

One Saturday, she scheduled a hair appointment and suggested we turn it into a date night. Seeing her step out, confident and refreshed, was something else. We went out for dinner and drinks, and back home, she kept the energy going—dancing well into the night. I didn’t last nearly as long and ended up asleep on the couch before she was done.

The Case of the Cramping Hand

 I had been a little concerned about my right hand. Being only a few months away from turning fifty, I assumed it might be arthritis or possibly carpal tunnel syndrome. I even wondered if it was something as simple as how I slept, since I often rest my hand under my pillow in a clenched position.

The concern grew recently, and I found myself worrying more than I probably should have. I decided to give it some time and see whether it would resolve on its own. I made a conscious effort not to put too much pressure on my hand, especially my pinky and ring finger. To be honest, that seemed to help. The cramping faded and eventually disappeared — at least for a while.

It had also been a few weeks since my wife and I had been intimate. Life, timing, and desire don’t always align as neatly as we would like. That changed when she decided she wanted to make time for us before her upcoming face lift. Yes, a face lift — something she had been planning for some time following her recent breast enhancement. That, however, is a story for another blog post.

After lunch one afternoon, she took my hand and led me toward the bedroom. I knew exactly where things were headed, and I welcomed it. As we kissed and touched, things naturally progressed, and I began focusing on pleasuring her the way she prefers -- gently stroking her clit. She takes her time reaching climax, and somewhere along the way I felt the familiar tightening in my hand again. That was when it finally clicked — the repetitive motion was the cause of the cramping.

There are, of course, other options that might make things easier, but she prefers the familiarity and intimacy of my touch. I can’t argue with that. I love this woman deeply, and there is something profoundly meaningful about the trust and closeness in those moments when she allows herself to simply be present and cared for.

"Together, We Are America"

Pardon the interruption

I first learned about Bad Bunny through my mom. Yes — my mom. About eight years ago, she called me, and somewhere in the middle of a conversation about her salsa class, she casually brought him up. “You know Bad Bunny, right?” she asked. “Bad Bunny?” I replied. I could hear the disappointment in her voice when she realized her son had no idea who she was talking about.

In 2020, when Bad Bunny appeared as a guest performer during the Super Bowl LIV halftime show alongside Shakira and Jennifer Lopez, I finally understood what she meant. After that, I started recognizing him in collaborations with Daddy Yankee and other artists. I may not always know the song titles, but I can recognize his voice almost instantly.

Fast forward to 2026, and now he’s headlining the Super Bowl LX halftime show. I have to admit — I loved it. His creative direction told a story about Puerto Rico and its people: their heritage, culture, struggles, and pride in being American. One moment especially stayed with me — when he wakes a boy sleeping across two chairs. That was me at that age, stretched between chairs while my parents socialized and danced late into the night. It felt familiar and deeply personal.

He celebrated the resilience of people who may not have much but live fully, loving every moment and refusing to take life for granted. His closing message on an international stage struck me with hope: “Together, we are America.”

I identify as Mexican American. Others might say I’m American with Mexican heritage. My mom would probably call me Tejano. Sometimes I feel ni de aquí, ni de allá — not fully from here or there. Like many, I learned to assimilate and embrace Anglo culture. For nearly twenty-five years, I voted Republican because it felt like a way to belong. Recently, though, I find myself questioning whether I align with the party’s embrace of Trumpism.

In the past week, I’ve felt unsettled watching political figures call for investigations into Bad Bunny’s halftime lyrics, claiming FCC violations even after they were properly reviewed. To me, it feels less about decency standards and more about shaping fear and division — suggesting that those who speak differently or look different somehow don’t belong in “America,” when what they often mean is the United States.

But America — the broader America — is a collection of cultures, languages, traditions, and music shaped by many histories. We share oceans, time zones, and a hemisphere, but more importantly, we share people.

That’s why his final message resonated with me.

Together, we are America.

Leaving Reality at the Door: Our Christmas Movie Marathon

During the holidays, my wife and I fell into a familiar empty-nester routine: watching Christmas movies as a way to ease into the season when the house is quiet and the shopping spirit feels optional. This year, my wife was—by her own admission—a bit of a grinch, so we decided that festive films might do the heavy lifting for us.

We started with Hot Chocolate Holiday (2021), starring Aubrey Reynolds and Jonny Swenson, a sweet, low-stakes story about a coffee shop owner and a dessert shop owner who discover they share more than a love of cocoa. It didn’t need to make sense—it just needed to be pleasant, and it was.

The next night, Netflix nudged us toward A Merry Little Ex-Mas (2025), with Alicia Silverstone and Oliver Hudson, about former partners forced back into each other’s orbit when holiday plans collide. Enjoyable, provided you leave realism at the door.

My Secret Santa (2025), starring Alexandra Breckenridge and Ryan Eggold, surprised me with its humor; Breckenridge’s comedic timing carries a story about an unexpected holiday gig and workplace romance.

An older entry, No Sleep 'Til Christmas (2018), featuring Dave Annable and Odette Annable, became a quick favorite thanks to its simple, charming premise.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Jingle Bell Heist (2025) with Olivia Holt and Conner Swindells, but its mix of action, humor, and a sharp twist made it one of the most entertaining watches.

We closed out New Year’s Eve with Champagne Problems (2025), starring Minka Kelly and Tom Woznicakz, which ended up being our favorite. Set against the pursuit of a storied French champagne house, the real draw was the chemistry between the leads—balanced, believable, and just romantic enough to earn its ending.

The Absence of Accountability

Pardon the Interruption

On January 7, 2026, an incident captured on multiple videos showed an ICE officer pointing his firearm from less than two meters away and shooting a driver at close range, fatally wounding her. The woman killed was Renee Nicole Macklin Good, a 37-year-old mother of a six-year-old child.

Video footage shows Good, driving a Honda Pilot, stopped across the middle of the road. She is seen yelling at officers and motioning with her hand as if signaling them to go around her vehicle. ICE officers approach from different directions. One officer walks directly toward her vehicle while shouting commands, while another moves around the front and positions himself at the far left corner.

When Good appears to notice the officer attempting to open her door, she backs up, turns her front tires to the right—likely aware of the officer, Jonathan Ross, standing near the left corner—and accelerates. At that moment, Ross, who is standing roughly half a meter from the front of the vehicle draws his firearm, extends his arm, aims directly at the driver, and fires three times -- once through the window hitting Good in the face.

Law enforcement officers are trained to de-escalate situations and use non-lethal alternatives whenever possible. In this case, the officer appears to have taken a shoot-to-kill approach. Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem quickly labeled the incident an “act of domestic terrorism” against ICE officers, claiming Good attempted to use her vehicle as a weapon. Former President Trump echoed that framing on social media, blaming the “Radical Left Movement” and stating that “the woman driving the car was very disorderly, obstructing and resisting,” and that she “violently, willfully, and viciously ran over the ICE Officer,” who allegedly shot her in self-defense.

However, other video clips show the officer was not struck. In fact, the officer's camera shows Good turning her wheels away to avoid hitting. 

This matters because accountability shapes the limits of federal power. When a city police officer shoots someone, that officer is typically placed on leave while an investigation is conducted. If federal authorities immediately side with an ICE agent without similar scrutiny, it risks setting a precedent where lethal force is justified without accountability. That should concern anyone, because you, a loved one, or a friend being in the “wrong place at the wrong time” can mean a public street, a downtown sidewalk, or simply turning the wrong corner.

"...Are You Infused, With the Spirit of Good Will Towards Men?"

Years ago, during a Las Vegas trip, I experienced one of those rare, memorable moments: being approached by a woman at a bar. While my buddy schmoozed at a business convention, I sat at the bar, minding my own business, reading a book on my phone like the party animal I am.

“Mind if I join you?” asked a woman who couldn’t have been older than 24 -- I was in my early 30s. She was a striking brunette with a warm smile, wearing a sleek dress and open-toed heels.

Looking around the bar, I noticed plenty of empty seats, which made her choice of company—me—a bit curious. Then it hit me: she was an escort. A call-girl. A lady-of-the-night. My inner journalist couldn’t help but lean in.

We ended up chatting for what felt like an hour. She was surprisingly open, sharing about her life as an escort. She had a daughter, was taking classes at a community college, and was doing what she could to provide for her family. She was candid about the risks of her job and how her family had no idea. Honestly, she was fascinating—just a regular person with an unconventional job.

Eventually, she asked if I was interested in her services. Out of curiosity (purely journalistic, of course), I asked about her rates. When she explained her "menu," I admitted I was married with and a kid, and therefore, a no-go. Still, she lingered a bit longer, indulging my nosy questions about her weirdest client requests, since I myself am kinky. One tidbit stood out: Steven Seagal had apparently been one of her clients. That threw me for a loop. Teenage-me, Blockbuster-renting-Seagal-movies-me, thought, No way.

As she got up to leave, I handed her a twenty—not for her services, but because I wanted her to have a little less pressure to find her next client. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, adjusted her dress, and disappeared into the casino, leaving me with one heck of a story.

When my buddy returned, I shared the whole thing. He didn’t believe a word of it. But hey, I know it happened, and that’s all that matters.

Marty Murphy (c.1950-60)

A Statue Without A Belly

In our home, anniversaries aren’t just dates on a calendar — they’re milestones worth celebrating. We mark January 26th, the day of our first date, and the eighth of every month, our wedding anniversary. Most recently, we celebrated the anniversary of the day I proposed. It was our second, and we decided — why not make an evening of it?

My wife cooked us dinner; I brought home a dozen roses. We spent the night talking, sipping wine, and dancing between kisses. The mood was playful, the kind of night where teasing becomes its own love language.

As we flirted, I told her how stunning she looked. “Your new breasts look amazing,” I said, admiring her figure. She smiled mischievously and replied, “You’ve got amazing legs. If I were a sculptor, I’d carve everything below your waist.”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“I mean,” she clarified, “you have a belly.”

She wasn’t wrong. I laughed. “Wow. You only like me from the waist down?”

“Not true,” she said quickly, defending herself with a grin. “I love your penis, balls, legs, and feet. Just not the belly.”

“And my face?” I asked, half curious, half amused.

“And your face,” she said, smiling. “I’d sculpt your face, chest, and everything below your waist.”

Apparently, in her imagined marble masterpiece of me, I’d be a statue without a stomach — leaving the rest to the viewer’s imagination. 

AI generated

Where's the Chase?

Early in any relationship, there’s a natural rush — that moment when two people realize the chemistry is real and everything feels new and full of possibility. That was true for my wife and me when we started dating, and in many ways, that spark still remains.

Our beginning, though, unfolded differently from what most people imagine, yet probably familiar to couples who started dating right before the COVID lockdown. Instead of going out, our dates shifted to my place. 

There wasn’t much of a chase because we chose to ride out the uncertainty together. The usual “little black book” mindset disappeared for both of us. And honestly, without the lockdown forcing me to slow down, I might have sabotaged things — commitment wasn’t on my radar, and I’ve never been skilled at the chase.

Looking back now, I’m grateful I didn’t miss my chance. I found the person I want to build a life with. And yes, there’s still a bit of a chase between us — a playful one. She’s changed over time, and with her confidence growing after her breast enhancement, I admit a small sense of protectiveness kicks in, knowing others notice her too.

by Tom Toro for The New Yorker (Dec. 30, 2024)

Somewhere Between Baby Einstein and Baby Chaos

I think many of us, at some point in our new-parent lives, have shared a moment like the one beautifully captured by cartoonist and illustrator R. Kikuo Johnson on the cover of The New Yorker.

For me, it stirred memories of my ex-wife, our tiny Maltese, and me collapsed on our beaten-up couch, watching our toddler stretch out on a red-and-black checkered mat — the kind supposedly designed to boost focus and attention. Back then, we were convinced high-contrast toys would unlock hidden baby genius. For a while, our living room looked like a black-and-white art installation with splashes of red.

Of course, that didn’t last. Within months, the floor vanished beneath a sea of toys — stuffed animals, musical gadgets, and plastic contraptions that promised to make our kid smarter, stronger, and possibly bilingual by age two. Let me clarify something: I bought toys I would’ve enjoyed as a toddler. My wife, on the other hand, stuck to toys and books that actually nurtured brain development. Together, we struck a balance — somewhere between baby Einstein and baby chaos.

by R Kikuo Johnson (@r_kikuo_johnson)

Casserole Season

My family never really did the "traditional" Thanksgiving thing. While others gathered around a turkey with all the cousins and casseroles, we usually packed up and headed out of town. The idea was simple: skip the drama, make our own fun. And honestly, it worked.

My favorite Thanksgivings were at the Houston Galleria, which, to kid-me, felt like visiting another country. We'd check into the Westin Galleria--glitz, glamorous, and full of people who looked way fancier than us. Thanksgiving dinner was at Delmonico's, a steakhouse that made me feel like we were living large. When that closed, we just pivoted to Zucchini's at the other end of the mall.

The Friday routine was a classic. While mom power-shopped, Dad and I wandered the Galleria, hitting toy stores, and even a booth where you could record your own song on a cassette. By afternoon, we'd regroup for the Texas vs. A&M game -- me napping, them glued to the TV--before heading out to Westheimer for hibachi dinner. 

Saturdays were more of the same: shopping, college football, and my dad finding ways to keep me entertained with museums or Toys R Us trips. Looking back, those Galleria Thanksgivings were the best -- less about turkey and more about laughter, adventure, and avoiding the usual family squabbles.

by Elisabeth McNair (@margaret__elisabeth)

 

A Breast Day Ever! Part 3

Ever since my wife’s early-summer “birthday upgrade,” we have been enjoying living with a new set of breasts. She gifted herself a confidence boost, and while I was perfectly happy before, I have to admit — the results turned out beautifully.

A week before her business trip, we decided to tackle the all-important wardrobe adjustment. Shopping for new clothes became an unexpected adventure — part fashion show, part puzzle-solving. Sizing suddenly turned into a mystery. What once fit comfortably now looked snug, and blouses that used to hang loose suddenly needed their own zip code. Some dresses fit her perfectly, but now her concerns was that it showed too much cleavage. Although not said out loud, I thought "Wasn't that the whole point of getting bigger breasts." 

We eventually cracked the code — Dillard’s, as it turned out, had the magic combination of style, fit, and flattery. But jeans shopping was a whole other quest. Our second date years ago involved hiking, and I remember how great she looked in denim. Let’s just say that admiration hasn’t faded — it just now requires a bit more patience in the fitting room (and a few laps around the mall). Thankfully, H&M saved the day with options that fit both body and budget.

Before her trip, I found myself enjoying her pre-packing ritual — her topless trying clothes and planning her outfits for the week. “Is this too revealing?” she asked. Again, I thought, “Wasn't that the whole point of going big or go home?"

AI generated

The Sexy Leopard and a $50 Tawny

I love Halloween. Every year, I go all out decorating the garage — lights, creepy soundtrack, and enough candy to bribe the entire neighborhood. I get so caught up making it perfect that I usually forget one thing: my own costume.

My wife, on the other hand, came prepared. A few days before Halloween, Amazon boxes started showing up. Inside? Her secret costume.

When she finally stepped into the garage, I did a double take. Tight leopard-print outfit, painted spots on her face, and four-inch heels — she was unrecognizable. Let’s just say the enhancements from her recent surgery filled that outfit perfectly.

“Are we going out?” she purred.

I blinked. “Uh… give me five minutes.”

I ran upstairs, rummaged through the costume bin, and found the easiest option: a masquerade mask. Not my best work, but at least I wasn’t standing next to her in jeans and a tee shirt.

We closed up the garage and headed out to dinner at Fleming’s. It had been a while since we’d had a proper date night. The funny thing was, every time I looked at her, I felt like I was talking to someone else.

“Babe, it feels like I’m dating another woman,” I confessed, staring at her painted face and boobs.

After enjoying their Miso-glazed Chilean sea bass, the bartender asked, “Would you like dessert?”

“Crème brûlée?” I offered.

“Tawny,” she said.

“Fifteen-year or forty-year?” the bartender asked.

“Forty,” she said, smiling at me. “Sorry, babe.”

That “sorry” added seventy-five bucks to the bill — and honestly, worth every penny, but don't tell her.

The night wasn’t over, however. “Let’s go somewhere fun,” she said. So off we went to a bar with an ’80s cover band. She danced, laughed, and turned heads while I tried not to trip over my own jaw.

Hours later, we finally got home. I was done; she wasn’t. She opened a bottle of wine, turned the music back on, and started dancing again.

At some point, I fell asleep on the couch. I vaguely remember loud music, a doorbell, and seeing a leopard grab an orange Whataburger bag from someone at the door. Then she covered me with a fur throw and everything went quiet.

The next morning told the whole story: wine glasses, a half bottle of wine, leopard ears and tail on the floor, and one very hungover wife.

The moral? Never underestimate a forty-year Tawny — or a woman in leopard print on Halloween.

A Breast Day Ever! Part 2

We were up early Monday morning for a procedure my wife had long considered: breast augmentation. After years of feeling out of proportion, especially as she approached midlife, she decided it was time. She went in a B and came out... well, let’s just say the letter skipped C and doubled. A dream scenario for many men, right? But let me tell you — the recovery is no walk in the park.

We prepared thoroughly. My wife read every blog, post, and TikTok confession from women who’d been through it. Knowing what to expect helped, but nothing quite prepares you for navigating Oxycodone side effects (constipation, we see you). Still, that little pill has been a relief.

Oddly enough, surgeries like this — and her cervical prolapse procedure months earlier — brought us closer. Not in the bedroom sense, but in the quiet, caring, sensual way. I showered her, dried her, even washed her long hair. That last part was a test of focus — my hands doing one thing, my mind... trying very hard to behave. My wife caught my hard-on once pointing right at her face. Classy, huh.  

As she healed, our recently established routine return back to normal. I still "supervise" her showers and towel her off. Breaking that habit? Not going to be easy. 

Funniest moment? A trip to the pharmacy. I’m on a first-name basis with the staff now. One evening, I confidently told the pharmacist, “Yes, the cream for her vagina.” The pharmacist blinked, then gestured to her cheek, “This one’s for her face.” Turns out Missy had also ordered a Tretinoin night cream. Talk about losing face — and gaining a new nickname, I’m sure.

 

AI generated

Days of the Introvert

When I was a kid, I had a daily mission: wait for my dad to finish work so I could fire up Olympic Decathlon on his DOS-era Compaq computer. The game came on a floppy disk -- one of those satisfying slabs you had to shove into a slot until it clunked into place. I still remember seeing Bruce Jenner (now Caitlyn Jenner) as a stick-figure character. It was my version of after-school sports.

I had a routine. Saturday mornings meant cartoons first, then straight to my dad's computer -- no siblings, no interruptions, just me and the pixelated glory of solo gaming. Growing up during the golden age of consoles and new video games, I had a front-row seat to the evolution of digital fun. For me, video games weren't just play -- they were peace and quiet with a handheld controller.

Today, not much has changed... except now I sneak away from social obligations (my wife) and retreat to the man cave. I try to get into multiplayer games like Fortnite, Apex Legends, or Rocket League, but honestly, I'm more of a solo adventure guy. Give me Minecraft or Cities: Skylines, and I'm perfectly content building my own world -- one block, road, or zoning law at a time.

Hartley Lin (@hartley._.lin)

A Breast Day Ever!

A few days ago, my wife celebrated her birthday in a unique way—we went boob shopping. That’s right. She decided it was time to treat herself to something a little extra in the chest department. Now, if you ask me, she doesn’t need any enhancements. Back when we first started dating, I would've guessed she was rocking a solid C-cup. Turns out, padded bras are magicians. And honestly? The real thing was even better—natural, soft, and beautiful in its own right. Plus, I was more focused on her gorgeous 2 1/2 inch diameter areolas. 

After her cervical prolapse surgery, I started noticing her researching cosmetic procedures—first a facelift, then breast augmentation. Some might shy away from doing these things, but for her, it’s all about feeling confident, sexy, and fully herself. I get it. My mom went through her own glow-up years ago, complete with eyelid surgery and a surprise boob job that I unfortunately discovered mid-hug.

So, off we went to the consultation. The nurse handed my wife a pair of disposable panties and a tiny black robe. Watching her change into that outfit? Let’s just say I had to adjust myself quite often. 

The doctor was kind, thorough, and professional. He talked us through the options, from discreet incisions to possible liposuction add-ons. And then came the implant sizing—aka the great chicken cutlet comparison. She went big. Double D big. And wow—she looked amazing. Her reflection said it all: this wasn’t about vanity, it was about self-love.

She bumped up her surgery date to next month. Recovery’s only two weeks, and she’ll be ready to take on her next work trip with confidence. As for me? Let’s just say I was ready to celebrate right then and there… but birthday calls from family had other plans. Still, best birthday ever—we got new boobs. 

AI generated

Planning a Family Cruise… and Navigating U.S. Customs?

Last year, my wife and I surprised our family with an Eastern Caribbean cruise—something we’ve been looking forward to for a while. Now that our kids are adults, it felt like the right time to come together, relax, and make some new memories.

But as our departure date approaches, excitement has been tempered by concern.

A few months ago, we started reading reports about travelers facing unexpected trouble when re-entering the U.S., especially under tightened border policies during the Trump administration. Reputable outlets even recommended extreme measures for foreign travelers—like leaving your smartphone at home and bringing a cheap “burner” phone instead. Why? Because Customs and Border Protection agents may demand access to your device without a warrant, and if you refuse, you could face delays or worse. And here’s the kicker: this advice wasn’t just for foreign nationals—it increasingly applies to U.S. citizens too.

It turns out that the moment you land and get in line for re-entry, you’re not technically “back” in the U.S. yet. That Customs area is a sort of legal limbo, where constitutional protections don’t fully apply. The agent you meet there has considerable power to determine how smoothly—or not—you get back home.

That’s a strange feeling. We’re planning a dream vacation, but we’re also preparing for the possibility that re-entry might not be as simple as handing over a passport and saying “welcome back.”

Travel should be about joy and discovery. But in today’s climate, even coming home requires a little extra caution.

Reading “They” from a Bird's Eye View

While lounging at the Delta Sky Club and waiting for my flight, I picked up a copy of The New Criterion—a conservative publication not typically on my nightstand, but hey, travel invites a bit of curiosity. An article by Joshua T. Katz caught my attention, especially as a parent of a transgender daughter. The piece? A critique of children’s books centered on gender pronouns.

Going in, I reminded myself to keep an open mind. Katz, a new father himself, shares concerns about books like The Pronoun Book, which introduce pronouns that don't align with traditional notions of biological sex. He worries these stories mix imaginative play with ideology and muddy the grammatical waters too early in a child’s development.

And from an education standpoint? I get it. Teaching sentence structure is tough enough before throwing neopronouns into the mix.

Katz’s broader point is about language itself. He argues that personal pronouns are critical building blocks of communication, and sudden shifts—especially those driven more by culture than linguistic evolution—can complicate things unnecessarily. One compelling example: changing “Do you live here?” to “Do they live here?” might sound inclusive but could confuse young learners trying to pin down grammar basics.

I don’t agree with everything Katz says, but I respect his call for balance. He urges parents to be mindful—not dismissive—of the materials they put in their kids’ hands. Respect and inclusivity matter, yes, but so do clarity and developmental readiness.

No matter your politics, it’s worth a read: https://www.aei.org/op-eds/pure-episcopalianism/

Andy Landorf and John Colquhoun, 2019

Glazed Muffin

A few days ago, I celebrated my 49th birthday—the final lap of my forties. Since it fell in the middle of the week, I chose a quiet dinner at home when my wife asked how I wanted to spend it.

When I got home from work, she was already in the kitchen preparing a birthday meal. She greeted me with a smile and told me to head upstairs and get comfortable. When I came back down, I noticed a few wrapped presents waiting on the dining table. She then pulled blueberry muffins from the oven and, with a mischievous grin, began slowly drizzling glaze over them. “I have a surprise for you,” she said.

Then came the letter candles—arranged carefully to spell out: “ASK ME.” I raised an eyebrow, confused. “We’re already married,” I said.

“No,” she laughed. “Ask me.”

Grinning, I asked, “Can we have sex?”

“After you open your presents,” she replied, smirking. “Then we can go upstairs for some... quality time.”

Doing my best to play it cool, I opened two beautifully wrapped shirts—classic Tommy Bahama button-downs. Perfect for future date nights or beach days.

Soon after, we headed upstairs and enjoyed a much-needed, intimate moment together. An hour later, we returned downstairs where she finished preparing a delicious dinner. Afterward, as we shared the glazed muffins, she asked how I liked my birthday.

I couldn’t help myself. “Best birthday ever,” I said. “You made me glazed muffins… and I got to glaze your muffin.”

ai generated

When a Delivery Becomes a Danger Zone

Pardon the Interruption

I recently watched a disturbing video on X (formerly Twitter): a man walked out of his house, gun in hand, and opened fire on a car parked in the road. According to the post, the driver was a DoorDash worker who had simply gotten lost. The man firing the gun? Chester Highway Superintendent John J. Reilly III.

A few hours later, the same video began circulating again—this time with a different spin. Commenters speculated about Reilly’s political beliefs, debating whether he was a MAGA supporter. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about his politics. What shook me was something more personal: my daughter is a DoorDash driver.

She delivers food while attending university, just trying to make ends meet. A few months ago, she was bitten by dogs during a delivery. They charged at her from the very house she was delivering to. She was terrified. Thankfully, her girlfriend was with her and rushed her to a clinic. She’s okay now, but it rattled us.

These delivery workers are not just strangers dropping off food. They’re someone’s child, partner, or parent. They’re trying to earn a living—often alone, often at odd hours. What happened to that 24-year-old driver could happen to any of them. My heart goes out to him and his family. 

Prepping with Patriot Mom

As I step into the next chapter of my life, I’ve been toying with the idea of a reinvention. I can only imagine what a marketing firm would come up with for a middle-aged man—compact in height but towering in presence, laser-focused yet bursting with big ideas. Now, if only they could fit all that on a business card!

Paul Noth, The New Yorker November 25, 2024