Warning: This was a fun post I wrote for entertainment purposes. I thoroughly enjoy both books. The storytelling is top-tier, and the life lessons are stellar. But in both books, I felt the Capricorn energy exude from them. As I read, all I could say in jest was, “This is a Capricorn thing.” We are still in Chapter 18, and it’s been 2 hours. My mind would drift to Capricorn in my life, which is typically long-winded and sometimes overly detail-oriented. Please enjoy this blog. I have no disrespect for either of these women; it’s just my poor attempt at humor, comparing the books I’ve read.
Random Thought: Capricorns write the longest book ever (upon some extra investigation, Capricorns do not hold the honor of the longest book). I may be narrow-minded about Capricorns. This is based on my observations and other articles I have read about Capricorns. Women of this sign can be very detail-oriented, get stuck on one subject for too long, and overlook details that reflect poorly on them. From reading, you may wonder where I got that thought. I am currently reading Tina Knowles’ book “Matriarch.” I love this book; it’s witty, honest, and funny, and, on the low, she’s giving young ladies tips and knowledge that have been lost in current generations. How do you decide to leave a bad situation? How do you pursue your dreams with focus and determination? How to be your person.
A full review is forthcoming once I’ve finished the book. It’s a trend I’ve noticed in almost all memoirs I’ve read by Capricorns. I have only read three books by Capricorns: two by former First Lady Michelle Obama and Matriarch by Tina Knowles. Below are a few takeaways from each book that I would like to attribute to Capricorn pause, Black, and Successful Capricorn women. I have met the dark side of Capricorn; they are all long-winded but never seem to harness their success. That is another blog for a different post. Below are five thoughts I have taken from reading memoirs from Capricorn Women:
Capricorns are detail-oriented to a painstaking level. Numerous details are layered into each chapter and sentence. I love the details, but when you’re still in Chapter 4 after 5 hours. In Becoming, Michelle Obama describes the home, the smells, and the rhythm to the point where you lose sight of why she’s telling the story until 10 minutes later. I had to go back and re-read a section to understand how the story connected to its impact on her life. This is not awful; it forces you to pay attention, and in a TikTok 10-second world, it was nice to focus. Seriously, please get to the point about why you didn’t continue playing the piano.
Capricorns focus on the most mundane things but speed past the most impactful moments. Tina Knowles’ details were terrific, but I could tell from the editing that certain things were left out or edited down to fit the book’s length.
You will learn the tips to get your life right. I am serious; after reading Michelle Obama’s book and even Mama Tina’s book, I am ready to be the woman I want to be. Michelle offers words of inspiration and practical advice on how to be present without losing yourself. Mama Tina teaches you how to achieve financial stability without going broke and to stand in your truth. If you are missing life lessons from your parents, read this book. (This sentence just gave me an idea for a new post.)
Bonus: she provides semi-detailed instructions for a delicious Gumbo recipe. When I get access to a kitchen and a whole day, I make Mama Tina’s Gumbo. If her kids won’t learn to make it, I will. I EVEN KNOW THE BISCUITS AND DRINKS I will make!
They make some of the best mothers, creating a fiercely independent daughter. Hold up, a Capricorn raised me, and I am very independent and couldn’t care less about other people’s opinion of me, which came from my mama. However, reading this book made me realize that Capricorns make the best mothers (warning: when they are healed and not working from trauma). Look at their kids. No, Michelle Obama’s daughters went to top schools and are living the best private lives. Tina Knowles, we are not going to sit here and notice that she has two successful daughters who are private and refuse to pay people to do their work! The proof is in the writing and the daughters.
Their vulnerability makes them 10x more driven. Listen to each book; someone hurts their feelings beyond compare, and they devise a plan and seek revenge. The revenge doesn’t last long, but they devise a plan and leave. That is another life lesson you should take away from this book.
These are long-ass books. I understand Ms. Tina Knowles is 71 and fabulous, putting some 40-year-old woman to shame! Michelle Obama, in her 60s, I believe, is again putting 40 a 40-year-old woman to shame. Matriarch clocks in at 432 pages, possibly more, while Obama’s book reaches 448 pages, with an additional 16 pages if purchased from Target, for a total of 464 pages. I have the Target book and the journal. Get the journal you need; it’s full of life lessons to learn from.
Overall, I love both books. You should take the time to read books by these extraordinary ladies.
What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
A WordPress prompt got me thinking recently: what’s one piece of advice you’d give someone younger than you? And honestly, it made me realize something: a lot of people give the wrong kind of advice to younger people. They hand out unsolicited wisdom and then get offended when it’s not welcomed or when they get called a “Boomer”. Well, I agree you’re acting like an out-of-touch Boomer.
So here’s my approach instead. When someone actually asks me for advice, I don’t just start talking. I ask them one question first: “What are you looking for?”
Financial advice, career advice, life advice, relationship advice these are not the same thing, and I refuse to pretend they are. So I ask, and then I give them exactly what they came for. Here’s what that looks like in practice.
A weathered signpost marks branching paths through an enchanted forest and mountain valley.
On Career
If you ask me for career advice, I’ll tell you the truth as I see it.
Use AI as a tool, not a ghostwriter. Use it to get the right keywords into your resume. Companies are running AI screening on applications now, so you need to speak that language to get your resume in front of a human in the first place. Research the prompts; don’t reinvent the wheel. Once you’ve got a draft, go back through it and humanize it; adjust the language so it actually sounds like you. But keep the keywords. It works!
Use your connections, all of them! Family, community, religious groups, school, your favorite cashier at Target whatever network you have access to, use it. We’ve somehow convinced an entire generation that asking for help makes you “a user.” It doesn’t. Being an actual user or abuser takes a lot more than asking someone for a favor or an introduction. You’re not exploiting people by tapping the relationships in your life to get somewhere; that’s just how it’s always worked. And don’t be shy about asking questions either. Most people aren’t rude, and you’ll find someone willing to point you in the right direction. Also, be willing to help others if someone gives you a lead that leads to a job or opportunity. Say thank you, and be open to helping them if they ever ask, or helping someone else get a leg up.
Hi future self… yes, people will try to take advantage of you when you offer help. You have to develop this skill called discernment.
And one more thing: say thank you. After someone helps you, tell them you appreciate it. It matters.
On Money
There is so much financial advice out there, and everyone’s opinion is different—my honest recommendation: see a professional. If a financial advisor feels out of reach, you almost certainly have access to a bank or credit union. Ask to sit down with a banker and talk it through your budget, your credit card debt, your savings. Don’t let them sell you a loan to pay down your debt unless it’s for you. But yeah, you pay for them by using the bank or credit union, using their resources.
Here’s a tip most people won’t tell you: it’s okay to ask for someone closer to your own age. We assume wisdom automatically comes with age, so we ask someone in their 50s or 60s. Still, someone in their early 30s who recently experienced what you’re in- a new career, first real paycheck, no idea what to do with it often understands your situation better than someone decades removed from it. Yes, it might feel awkward to ask. Advocate for yourself anyway. Don’t take Jim’s advice if he bought his house in 1999 for $80,000 and isn’t paying any student loans. Jim’s first response to you is to stop buying Lattes at Starbucks. “No one is buying Starbucks, Jim!”
Start investing now, with whatever you have. Old advice said to save up $10,000 before you even thought about investing, have no consumer debt, and yada yada yada. That’s outdated. You can start with $5, $10, $20 a week — whatever you can manage without messing up your finances. I started with $20 a week because that’s all I could swing, and I was in severe debt. I also understood that not being in the market was hurting me. So I started building that habit with Stash; it made a real difference over time.
And here’s the part people don’t like to hear: it’s okay to use that money when you actually need it. Long-term investing is great, but if you need that money to survive, to cover rent, a bill, an emergency, take care of yourself first. You can always get back in the market, but make sure you are secure. What good is it to build the habit. The exception is retirement accounts like an IRA, which are built for the long haul. Everything else is there to serve you, not the other way around.
At a café, Sarah is warned about Linda while Linda angrily watches from nearby.
On Relationships
This one’s simple, and it’s the hardest to hear: if someone you trust tells you a person in your life doesn’t have your back, listen.
If someone warns you, “don’t go with that person,” “that person isn’t your friend,” take it seriously, especially if it’s coming from someone who genuinely loves you and has no reason to lie. ( Culturally, especially if it’s a Black woman or Latino woman who says those statements, listen… they have an eerie sixth sense about people.) People who care about you will sometimes see things you can’t see yourself. You don’t have to act on every warning from every person, but pay attention when it comes from someone who’s earned your trust.
Cutting ties is hard. It gets harder as you get older. But you will make new friends; it just takes time.
That’s it. That’s all the advice I’ve got. It’s not polished, and it’s not the kind of thing you’ll find framed on a motivational poster, but it’s what’s actually carried me through, one honest answer at a time, to the question that was actually being asked. Now if you would like more advice, just leave a comment or you can buy me a coffee –> https://ko-fi.com/chemichelletales
Handle With Care: A Survival Guide for Friends of Writers
It is a late Sunday night. I am currently sitting in the driver’s seat of my parked car, in front of my house, utterly paralyzed by exhaustion and avoiding the thirty-foot walk to my front door. It’s that sacred, slightly delirious twilight hour when the engine is off, the streetlights hum, and your brain decides: Yes, this is the exact moment to unpack the existential baggage of being an aspiring author.
A few years ago, I attempted to write a book titled The Secret Son of Hephaestus. The premise was born in a writing class: What if Aphrodite and Hephaestus secretly had a son, but Hephaestus had to hide the child in the shadows so his mother, Hera, wouldn’t obliterate him in a fit of Olympian wrath? It was layered, tragic, and entirely mine. Naturally, the moment I pitched the idea, someone chimed in with, “Oh, so it’s basically Percy Jackson.”
A frustrated writer struggles to create as clocks, tangled thoughts, and unfinished pages swirl around him.
For the record: I have never read Percy Jackson. Nor was it “just fanfiction,” as another friend so cheerfully labeled it. It was a mythological retelling—an ancient and respected literary tradition, thank you very much. But that sting highlights an uncomfortable reality every creative person eventually confronts: Writers and their friends exist in an ecosystem as fragile as a draft saved only on a glitching USB stick.
In my years of typing, stalling, and voice-recording rants in parking lots, I have deduced that every writer has four distinct categories of friends:
The Ghosts: They will never read your work, and they will never support it. If you sent them your manuscript, they’d probably use it as a coaster.
The Cheerleaders Without Glasses: They will never read your work, but they will show up to your readings, buy you coffee, suggest cool indie bookstores, and shout your praises from the digital rooftops. Bless them; we need them.
The Unqualified Critics: They don’t actually understand your genre, style, or creative soul, yet they wield their critiques like a toddler swinging a sledgehammer.
The Unicorns: Cherish them. Guard them with your life. They read your work, remember your characters’ names, and aggressively text you at midnight asking: “When do I get chapter four?”
I recently stumbled upon a viral Instagram post outlining the unspoken rules of loving someone who writes. It resonated so deeply that I felt called out from my car seat. So, as a public service announcement to the well-meaning civilians who share their lives with storytellers, allow me to translate what’s really going on behind the blinking cursor.
1. Hitting “Send” Is an Act of Raw Vulnerability
If a writer hands you a manuscript or emails you a Google Doc, understand that hitting Send took more courage than a lion tamer stepping into the cage. We are essentially handing you our bruised, exposed nervous system printed in 12-point Times New Roman.
I was once on vacation after getting edits back from a writing group. I handed a chapter to a friend whose opinion I truly treasured. They made a parade of polite excuses about how they had “too much on their reading list” to look at it—and then spent the next three days complaining aloud about the terrible published novel they were reading on the beach.
You are not obligated to read my work. Truly. But if you have time to complain about a celebrity memoir you hate, watching you deliberately avoid twenty pages of my soul feels like a slow paper cut. Don’t hit us with, “Oh, the title looks cute!” It’s okay to say, “I don’t have the bandwidth right now, but I’m rooting for you.” Radical honesty beats a transparent brush-off every time.
2. A “Good Writing Day” Can Salvage Our Entire Existence
Writing in the modern world is an uphill sprint through molasses. We don’t live in the 1980s where you could just shut off the cathode-ray television, sit at an oak desk in absolute silence, and hammer out prose without distraction. We live in an era where modern life demands two jobs, libraries close at 5:00 PM, Barnes & Noble tore out all their good tables, coffee shops kick you out by 2:00 PM, and your phone constantly lures you into a thirty-minute TikTok doom-scroll.
Add in real life, depression, and the sheer exhaustion of having ideas in your head but zero energy in your limbs, and stringing 500 coherent words together feels like summiting Everest. If your writer friend announces they had a good writing day, treat it like they just won an Olympic bronze. My boyfriend will light up and say, “I’m so glad you got some writing today!” That single reaction will carry me through the rest of the week.
3. Staring Blankly Out the Window Counts as Hard Labor
When you catch us zoning out into the middle distance, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, we are not taking a mental nap. We are actively directing a three-act tragedy behind our retinas.
We are deciding whether Janelle would actually slap her boss or insult his loafers. We are blocking scenes. We are figuring out how to describe body language without using the phrase “she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.” Once, while sitting in this very car, I watched a bizarre argument between strangers unfold across the street—it had an inciting incident, rising action, and a climax so dramatic it felt like Shakespeare had a fever dream in a suburb. I was taking mental notes the entire time. That wasn’t loitering; that was occupational development. (And yes, wandering a bookstore for two hours is also taxable research.)
4. When We Say the Book Is Trash, Wait Forty-Eight Hours
Every writer has a day where they re-read their morning draft, decide they are an illiterate fraud, and solemnly swear to burn their laptop and take up goat farming. The Secret Son of Hephaestus is currently in literary purgatory because one day I decided the first three chapters were utter garbage.
Give us two or three days. A nap, a sandwich, and a little distance usually reveal that the manuscript isn’t irredeemable trash after all; it just needs a tightened paragraph, a deleted subplot, and slightly better lighting.
5. Specificity Is the Highest Form of Love
If you want to make a writer cry happy tears, do two things: remember our characters’ names, and tell us specifically what made you react.
A coworker once read a romance short story I wrote and casually remarked, “Sophia really deserves her own story after what happened with Camille.” I practically levitated. She remembered Sophia! She treated my imaginary friend like an actual human being!
Saying “It was good” is the conversational equivalent of a pat on the head. But telling us, “I screamed when he slammed the door,” or “This paragraph felt a little rushed, but that one line made me laugh out loud”—that is golden. It proves you were actually inside the world we spent months building in our heads.
At the end of the day, slow writers are still serious writers. Unread writers are still writers. We aren’t expecting our inner circles to act as an uncompensated, unpaid PR agency or a literary agency board.
All we ask is mindfulness. Be honest if you don’t have the time. Be kind if it’s not your cup of tea. But if you’re going to be in the passenger seat of our creative lives, maybe don’t tell us we’re writing fanfiction when we’re trying to build an empire.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been sitting in this driveway for fifteen minutes; the car is getting cold, and I have thirty days of blog posts to conquer. Bam. Good night.
On the beef between Cardi B and Latto, the stars, and why nobody ever suspects the Capricorn.
By Che Michelle · Astrologer Enthusiast & Unsolicited Opinion Haver
Gentle reminder: this is for entertainment purposes. None of this is factual; it’s just an opinion.
Cardi B and Latto are beefing, well, not quite. My first reaction- my very first, unfiltered, God-honest reaction- was: out of everyone on this planet, why these two? I opened YouTube, saw the discourse, and genuinely had to sit down. Not because I was shaken, but because I was already sitting down. Realizing everyone focused on past events and nobody was talking about what’s really going on here, I, unfortunately, cannot help myself.
Let me back up before we talk about rap; we need to talk about the cosmos. Specifically, we need to talk about the modality’s cardinal, fixed, and mutable signs. Contrary to popular belief, the real drama in astrology isn’t between a Scorpio and an Aries. It’s between signs that share a modality and are therefore, cosmically speaking, too similar to get along peacefully for long.
“Everyone always says Aries and Scorpio don’t get along. Sure. Fine. But I have personally watched more Scorpios go at the necks of Aquariuses and Leos than anyone else. They fight amongst their own kind. Look it up.”
The Signs in Question
Cardi B is a Libra. Latto is a Capricorn. Both are cardinal signs — the initiators, the ones who start things, who lead, who move first and never ask questions. And that matters, because cardinal signs do not wait. They do not simmer. They act, and then the rest of us spend three weeks reading the think-pieces.
Now, here is what I need People to understand about Capricorns, and I say this with all the love I have in my body, which today is a moderate amount: Capricorns are unforgiving in a way that makes Scorpios look like customer service representatives who want you off the phone with the BS you are spewing. Everybody is always on about Scorpios. “Oh, they hold grudges.” “Oh, they’re vengeful.” “Oh, don’t cross a Scorpio.” Meanwhile, a Capricorn has been quietly building a case against you since 2019, has documented every incident with timestamps, and will bring it up at a moment of their choosing, which is always your worst moment. You think a Scorpio is cold? A Capricorn will work with you. Professionally. Cordially. And it is the person who has a file on you to take to the boss during PMAP season. Always wondering why your boss knows about you taking 45 minutes for Lunch; it was Janet (from the show “The Good Place”). Simultaneously. It’s an art form, honestly.
What Actually Happened (Probably)
Here is my theory, and it is correct (as of today, my theory has been verified by Instagram, YouTube interviews, and media posts/sources): Cardi B is a Libra, a sign people chronically underestimate, and said something. At the same time, she was upset and knows she shouldn’t have said it. In the heat of the moment- I mean, heated- because Libras get heated, and there is a record conversation. People think Libras are gentle diplomats floating around on a little scale, trying to balance everything. And yes, sometimes they are diplomatic. But the other times? They will fight you, both metaphorically and physically. A sign blessed with Charisma and hands, always worried about Aries, when a Libra will cuss you out and give you a swollen lip. Evidence: In 2022, Oscar Will Smith slapped Chris Rock. A Libra’s version of justice is not karma; karma is passive; karma is “the universe will handle it.” Libra’s version of justice is you wronged me, and I want to watch you bleed a little. Proportionately, of course. They’re not animals.
So Cardi popped off and said something sharp. She probably knew immediately it was too far because Libras have a conscience, which is both their best and worst quality. She admitted later she felt bad. At the time, Cardi was pregnant. Probably still feels bad. The “I messed up, I miss my friend” energy is radiating off this whole situation like a heat lamp.
“Cardi B is out here feeling like she lost a friend. Latto is out here feeling like all these Rappers are her Ops.”
Latto, meanwhile, and this is important, was in her first trimester when all of this went down. I want you to really sit with that. A pregnant Capricorn processing a friendship betrayal. You want to talk about fermenting? You want to talk about a grudge aging like a very expensive, very dry wine? That woman sat with it. We do not know when she wrote the song. It could have been right after the recording was released. It could have been six months later when she was knee-deep in postpartum feelings, and the original wound reopened at 2 a.m. for no reason. Either way: she wrote it. She kept it. She released it. That’s a Capricorn movie. Patient, deliberate, devastating.
Business of It All
Here is what I also believe, because I’ve thought about this for an embarrassing amount of time: Latto will work with Cardi again. Not because they’re best friends. Not because they’ve healed. But because Capricorns understand money in a way that transcends personal feelings. A Capricorn will look at a check, then look at you, then look back at the check, and decide that their feelings are secondary to their financial ecosystem. “We can make money together but we ain’t cool” is not a contradiction to a Capricorn. That’s a business model.
Libra and Capricorn placements, when they’re not beefing, make excellent business partners. A natural tension exists between them, and when it is directed correctly, it produces something. They’re both cardinals, both initiators one leads with charm and the other leads with strategy. Put them in a studio instead of a comment section, and you’ve got a hit record. Put them on social media with a grievance, and you’ve got… this.
The Verdict
Will they reconcile? Eventually. Will it be soon? Absolutely not. A Capricorn’s cut-off game is not a temper tantrum it’s a considered decision, and they do not reverse considered decisions on anyone else’s timeline. Latto will raise her daughter, mature into an even more formidable version of herself, and one day when she’s ready, on her terms she will decide that excommunication was a bit much. And Cardi will be so relieved she cries. And that’ll be that.
In the meantime: everybody calms down. Nobody is in real danger. This is not Biggie and Tupac. This is a Libra who said something wrong and a Capricorn who decided to let the album say what she won’t. Honestly? Iconic from both. The stars practically wrote it themselves. As of today, I saw several posts/videos on the YouTube page “Lawdamercy” where everything I said was validated. In addition, there are two Breakfast Club clips on YouTube that I haven’t listened to, but they also clarify my reasoning. The links are below:
“Latto Talks ‘Big Mama’, Motherhood, 21 Savage, Drake, Ice Spice, Cardi B & More” The Breakfast Club 04 Jun 2026
“Cardi B responds to Latto: ‘I always wanted to make it right. 05 Jun 2026
Trapp, M. 30 Sept. 2025 “Cardi B Apologizes to Latto Over Leaked Call Comments, Tells Ice Spice’s Manager To “Post It All”
★ Che Michelle is a writer, cultural commentator, and person who has strong feelings about modalities. She holds no formal astrology credentials and considers that a feature, not a bug
A tearful woman packs her favorite wine bottles for donation, saying goodbye to cherished memories.
Let me say this up front, under oath, hand on the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I am no longer allowed to finish. Thank you, 40s, for taking the one thing I love. I love, well, I LOVE WINE! I love it the way some people love their pet chihuahua or a decade-old grudge from a frenemy, which they can never remember how it started. But Susan, when I see you in the streets, it’s at sight! I digress; I love wine, in an unhealthy way, but I also know when to stop. At one point in my life, I dreamed of becoming a sommelier. I saved up money and dreamed of opening a local wine shop, with the shop name in cursive on the awning. Special tastings, book events, even cooking classes. I understood wine as a language and a culture before I understood it as a drink. I grew up Catholic, so during communion we would take a sip of wine to represent the blood of Christ. On milestone birthdays, or even special occasions, a bottle of champagne was customary. The glass of wine to toast a life well lived before saying goodbye to a loved one, because some things are too big for words, and a toast feels right before saying goodbye forever. I was raised in this culture; I learned how wine pairs with meals and events, and how it’s used. My family introduced me to the fine culinary rituals of wine, the same way other families introduce kids to Little League early, with the confidence that I’d be good at it.
So understand what follows is not a wine takedown. It is a eulogy to say goodbye to an aspect of my life that I outgrew, or my Liver said no more. And like most eulogies, it has three parts, and only two of them make me look good.
A glass of red wine and running shoes invite a well-earned afternoon pause.
Reason One: My Body Filed a Complaint
Somewhere around 2023, I noticed I was gaining weight despite working out three- to five-mile runs, weight-lifting, and watching what I ate. My body betrayed me and packed on the pounds, disrespectfully. The weight I was gaining was the fitness equivalent of studying all night and still failing the test. Turns out the problem wasn’t just the wine. Hormones were changing and not letting any ounce of fat go, turning everything into visceral fat. It didn’t help that over the two years, a parade of fitness instructors and trainers seemed personally offended by my request to train my back, shoulders, and arms instead of doing squat variation #47. I want a total body workout, not just a booty buster. I am not that girl; give me some deadlifts and chest press. For the love of GOD, let me do a clean and press for 15 reps, for three rounds.
I want a sculpted back. I want defined arms. I would like, once, to finish a workout without someone implying that my only redeeming quality is my corn-fed, hills-walking booty that I have because of genetics. One trainer straight-up asked if I wanted “a fat ass for my man. “Ma’am. I don’t give a fuck about what a man wants! This is my body. I am the one who lives in this body. I get to decide what it looks like, not some future man.” I digress; I’m in my 40s now, and my liver, gallbladder, pancreas, and any other organ have opinions on my wine intake. Opinions I did not ask for! But trying to keep my internal organs healthy and happy. An overrated fine, and necessit..) I made the boring, responsible decision to save wine for special occasions. If I do decide to partake on the rare occasion I must drink, I must have wine before 8 p.m., like I’m a toddler. I plan the next day around “detox.” This is not glamorous. This is a grown woman doing math before a glass of pinot noir. The indigestion, four extra pounds, and elevated liver enzymes are not worth it. And to the person already forming the words “You shouldn’t drink at all! It’s bad for you!” Kindly keep that to yourself.
Reason Two: My Bank Account Filed a Complaint
This reason is the least poetic and the most honest: money. I work two jobs. In a fair universe, that buys me unlimited $15 bottles of wine on sale with a coupon. We do not live in that universe. We live in a universe where someone thought Herbert Hoover’s idea of tariffs was a great idea, as a bottle of Italian wine goes from $7.99 to $18.99 because, say it with me, TARIFFS! Before I turned 40, I spent roughly a few hundred dollars a year on wine, which, written down like that, is not bad. These days it’s closer to a hundred, maybe less, spread out over a year. I have learned to nurse a bottle slowly as it owes me money. I even stopped gifting wine, mostly because everyone I know has quietly done the same math I did, or has become a wine snob. Please read the next paragraph for better context. Cutting the wine budget was, unglamorously, one of the best financial decisions I’ve made. No cinematic redemption arc here. Just a woman choosing her savings account over a Cabernet, and feeling, against all odds, pretty good about it.
A warmly illustrated dining table invites guests to enjoy wine, cheese, and candlelit conversation.
Reason Three: My Friends Ruined It, and I Will Not Be Taking Questions or Opinions on this hot take
Here is the actual dagger. Not my liver. Not my budget. It was my friends. Et Tu -Bianca, Et Tu! (Pause if you don’t know the Et Tu line; go read Julius Ceaser. Read the classic if you want to learn the 48 laws of power, not the Robert Greene Book; back to our crafted Rant.
Somewhere along the way, a portion of my friend group transformed from “people who enjoy wine” into wine “SNOBS,” a much more insufferable species of wine lover. Not the fun kind of wine lovers who have restaurant connections and a taste for the elusive bottle of wine. They actually know all the history and details, smiling as they regale you with their time in France learning about this wine. (Shout-out to Fred from Total Wine, amazing teacher, sarcastic wine lover; I would have a glass with you anytime.)
Friends share wine, laughter, and conversation during a lively restaurant dinner.
I mean the kind who cannot let an opinion pass unchallenged, even when the opinion is mine, about my own mouth, tasting wine with my taste buds; case in point: the champagne and fried chicken incident. Pause, I know that wine and Fried Chicken can go together. However, not all champagne pairs well with fried chicken. It’s like eating a banana with coffee; your breath will smell like Hot Sh!t. On this day, that particular champagne had the word ” aperitif ” on its label. An aperitif is a pre-meal palate-waker/cleanser, not a companion to fried food. This particular wine didn’t work for me with fried chicken. I was not asking for a debate. I was reporting sensory data from my own tongue. And one of my friends at the table decided this required a rebuttal, inevitably ending with the suggestion that, of course, it would pair with fried chicken. I quietly ate and drank nothing that evening. You are not going to tell me this wine complements the fried chicken when the wine was clashing with salt and oil and, on top of that, the cool charcuterie of cheese and prosciutto.
Another time, someone not worth calling “Friend” decided to force me to have Riesling with my meal. Hear me out, I love Riesling, but it has its time and place. It follows a spectrum from super sweet to super dry. No, these are not sommelier terms, but I had dreams of becoming one, and obviously, if you are reading this, I am not a sommelier. The wine arrived with our meal. I was having roasted fall vegetables with a spice element and a dry Riesling, which messed with my tongue; I tasted more bitterness and a metallic taste. I personally wanted a nice Red to complement the Smoked Paprika and chipotle seasoning. The other person smiled and grinned, saying, “Isn’t it great?” My face as I watched them eat their smoked fish and try to act like it was the perfect pairing. You can drink wine with anything, but sometimes it’s ok to ask the server for a suggestion or trust your taste buds rather than force a fake smile. Ahh, those vegetables deserved a better wine. Before someone says, the Riesling would have been fine, again my taste buds, my mouth, my digestive system.
Then there’s the Snooty friend at dinner, ordering red wine with a small speech attached, the pointed looks exchanged between me and the server, like we’re all confused about the speech for ordering wine. Meanwhile, I’m eating my vegetables, telling the server, “ Please bring me the wine the sommelier or chef suggested with the meal.” Now I would like to state that I know that I am just as pretentious as my snob friends. You know when people are staring at you, judging you, and saying “oh, you ordered that?” or “I am surprised you ordered that?” Looking at the server giving the knowing look, we understood each other and what was exactly happening: they’re upselling the bottle with the highest markup, and I would rather trust a stranger’s inventory than sit through a monologue about tannins from a friend who just learned the word 10 minutes before dinner.
I don’t want wine to be the whole conversation. I want it to be the icebreaker, not the entire evening’s agenda. I don’t need a treatise on why you, personally, deserve the Riesling. I need you to relax, order the Moscato you actually want, and talk to me about literally anything else: politics, Bravo, the weather, our various ongoing personal collapses, the horrible co-worker that you hate. Drinking with these particular people didn’t make me feel included. It made me feel like I’d wandered into a time-share seminar I never signed up for. To be clear, it’s not all friends; there’s a small, beloved exception to this rule: the friends who will always get a glass poured in their honor, no questions, no commentary. The friends who understand the wine is a part of the experience, not the experience. They invite you over to watch TV and have wine and food on deck. The TV is on mute, with ambient lighting to enhance the laughter of friendship. Just a wonderful time with people who love you more than being pretentious. A good time. You know who you are. Everyone else: you turned my favorite ritual into a performance review, and I stopped attending.
The Verdict
So here’s the accounting, in order of how much it hurts to admit: I stopped drinking wine for my health, because the body in your 40s does not forgive the way your body in your 20s did. I stopped for my finances because a savings account and investments are, shockingly, more satisfying in the long term than a $15 bottle with a coupon. And I stopped, honestly, because a handful of people decided that loving wine wasn’t allowed to be simple anymore. Turns out a pretentious wine snob is a special kind of insufferable, worse, even, than someone who won’t admit they’re wrong. Both are annoying, but it turns out they’re related and deserve each other.
P.S. I had a bottle of wine it was called Clean Slate Riesling 2024. It was amazing ! I need to get another bottle ASAP. Would you like to buy me a glass of wi…coffee 😊 →Ko-fi.com/chemichelletales
A tired worker hides overwhelming stress behind a reassuring smile and thumbs-up.
“I’m on the pursuit of happiness, and I know/ Everything that shine ain’t always gonna be gold/ Hey, I’ll be fine once I get it/ I’ll be good”- Kid Cudi.
We treat happiness like a destination. Chase it long enough, the thinking goes, and you’ll finally arrive and stay there. But that idea is backward, and it’s setting people up to feel broken for no reason.
Happiness Isn’t a Permanent State
Happiness is tied to a moment, not a lifestyle. It’s the spike you get from a specific event like getting good news, nailing a deal, or a great surprise, not a baseline you maintain forever. Psychologically, it works like a dopamine response: something raises it, then it comes back down. That’s not a flaw in the system. That’s the system.
The cultural script we’re handed says otherwise. We’re told to “pursue happiness,” as if catching it means we’re set for good. But that pursuit can become its own trap, chasing a peak as though it’s a permanent address instead of recognizing it as a visit.
What We Actually Mean Is Contentment
Most of what people call “being happy” is really contentment: a steady, low-key sense that life is okay, that you can handle what’s in front of you. Contentment doesn’t spike and crash the way happiness does. It’s the quieter, sturdier feeling underneath the highlight-reel moments.
Joy is a third, related thing — a recurring capacity to feel light and good, even though it coexists with hard stuff. The people who seem genuinely joyful aren’t immune to sadness or depression. They don’t treat hard days as proof something’s wrong with them. They feel the rough day, name it, talk about it, and move back toward joy without faking their way through the gap.
Why the “Be Happy Always” Pressure Backfires
A cheerful convention attendee conceals feelings of isolation, exhaustion, and unhappiness behind a bright smile.
Telling someone they need to be happy all the time quietly tells them something is wrong with them whenever they’re not. And the truth is, no one is happy 100% of the time; that’s not a personal failure, it’s just how happiness works.
Worse, pushing nonstop happiness as the goal can edge toward something that looks a lot like mania once it’s sustained too long or too forcefully. Authenticity matters more than constant cheerfulness. A person who’s “on” all the time, no exceptions, is worth a second look, not celebration.
Faking it also has a real cost. Forcing yourself to perform happiness instead of working through what you’re actually feeling leads to burnout, and once you experience burnout, it’s much harder to recover from than an honest bad day ever was.
A Better Way to Talk About It
Sadness isn’t the same as depression. Feeling disturbed, sad, or grieving something doesn’t mean you’re broken; it means you’re human, and you’re allowed to feel it. Letting people name their emotions accurately, instead of forcing everything into “happy” or “not happy,” gives them room to actually process what’s going on.
A healthier approach looks like this: something good happens, you notice it, you sit in gratitude for it, and happiness grows out of that rather than demanding a constant happy state and panicking when it slips.
The Real Misconception
The myth isn’t that happiness exists. It’s that happiness is supposed to be constant. It isn’t, and it was never meant to be. What we should actually be building day to day is contentment and joy, with happiness as the bright, occasional spark that visits on top of them. Once we stop conflating the three, we can finally use the right language for what we’re feeling and stop mistaking an honest bad day for a sign that something’s broken.
An Open Letter to Every Bad Driver in Baltimore (You Know Who You Are) Let me set the scene. It’s Saturday morning. I have one goal: get to my free dance fitness class, get my sun, get my vitamin D, be shining and brined. Instead, I get a masterclass in why nobody in this city knows how to drive anymore. Here’s what happened, and here’s everything I learned about humanity in the process.
The GPS Lied to Me My GPS said ten minutes. I believed it, because apparently I have not learned my lesson after twenty-some years of this app betraying me. Ten minutes turned into fifteen minutes stuck in one spot, for a destination that was two minutes away. Two. Minutes. Why? Construction, and zero traffic cops to direct the chaos. So there I sat, marinating in my own poor life choices, wondering if I should just park and walk the rest of the way. (I did not. I am not that strong.) Do Not Block the Intersection, I Am Begging You!
This is not a suggestion. This is not a vibe. This is the law, and yet every single day someone decides their five minutes matter more than four lanes of traffic. If you block the box, you are now sitting in the intersection on a red light, which means you have doubled the violation. You didn’t save time. You created a second traffic jam on top of the first one. Congratulations, you’re now the problem and the punishment. Nobody Uses Their Turn Signal Anymore and I Refuse to Accept This When did we all collectively decide that using a blinker was optional? It is not optional. It is a tool. It exists so the person behind you does not have to guess your intentions like you’re a mystery box. If I’m going straight and my signal isn’t on, do not honk at me because you wanted to turn. That’s a you problem. Slow down or go around. I promise I will not take it personally if you pass me, in fact I might speed up out of spite, and then you’ll be mad for a whole new reason.
A Brief and Unnecessary Physics Lesson If you’re riding my bumper in the right lane while I do the speed limit, please know that I have done the math. Going five or ten miles over the limit does not get you there dramatically faster. It gets you there a few minutes faster and significantly more likely to be dead. Force equals mass times acceleration, the human body can only absorb so much of that force before something inside you gives up, and I would like to keep my organs exactly where they are. Speed limits exist because somebody already did this math for us. Take the win. (Side-eye directed squarely at anyone doing seventy-five in a fifty-five like the laws of physics were personally written to inconvenience them.)
To the Person Doing 35 on I-95 During Rush Hour
Listen here, hon, I need you to hear me before I call you stupid or ask, “Are you Dumb?” The highway is not the place for this. If your car cannot safely handle highway speeds, that’s a mechanical problem, not a personality trait, and it needs to go to a shop, not onto a road where everyone else is doing sixty-five. If you’re scared to drive at highway speed, there is no shame in that, truly, but the solution is a rideshare or a rental, not turning I-95 into a rolling roadblock at nine in the morning. City streets exist. Please use them. Everyone Is Just Rude Now, and I’m Tired No signals. No thank-you waves. No basic courtesy. Just horns, attitude, and everybody acting like their destination is more important than everyone else’s. Traffic isn’t just bad because of construction or rush hour. It’s bad because we collectively stopped being decent to each other behind the wheel. It’s a two-way street, literally, and treating it like your own personal racetrack does not make you look powerful. It makes you look like you have somewhere to be and nowhere to grow. The Only Solution That Actually Worked I put on Prince’s “Purple Rain.” Traffic cleared shoot out to Goddess Inanna for that vibration hack( https://www.instagram.com/reel/DWIOdglAC2U/?stkn=MXQ2cGN4a3NwMWJ5cw==) . This has now worked for me twice, so as far as I’m concerned it’s science at this point, not a coincidence. Do with that information what you will.
In Conclusion If you don’t remember the rules of the road, go take a defensive driving refresher. If you’re an aggressive driver because you have a big truck and main character energy, maybe put some of that gas money toward therapy instead. I say this with love, and also as someone who is absolutely one of the bad drivers sometimes. We are all works in progress out here. I missed my dance class. I made it to my backup class instead, because I refuse to let bad drivers take two workouts from me in one day. And honestly, that might be the real lesson here: traffic will test you, but it will not stop you from getting your steps in. Drive safe. Use your signal. Don’t block the box. And maybe put on some Prince.
How does your mindset affect your financial success?
How Does Your Mindset Affect Your Financial Success?
Okay, pull up a chair. We need to talk about money, but not in the boring, spreadsheet-lecture way. I want to talk about the stuff nobody tells you: the mindset stuff. Because here’s the truth I learned the hard way: you can have every budgeting app, every side hustle, every “get rich” tip in the world and still stay broke if your mindset about money is broken. I know because I used to be that person. Back in the day, I had a friend,d and we would joke we was broke, phi broke. After a few years, I realized that saying that was cursing me. I had the wrong relationship with money for a long time before I realized it; I couldn’t unsee it. When I changed my mindset, my money and ability to manage it changed.
Let me give you a little background to my life. I didn’t grow up in a typical household. I grew up in a generational house, and if you’ve never heard that term, it means multiple generations under one roof at the same time. In my house, it wasn’t just my mom and me. It was my great-grandmother, my grandmother, my mother, and me four generations, sometimes five once you counted my little cousins- who practically lived with us during the week. Pause: my little cousins had two working, loving parents, and my grandmothers always offered to watch them so their parents never had to miss work. Money was tight, and family helps in times of need.
Growing up like that changes how you see money. You watch it move differently. You watch people pool resources, cover each other, stretch a dollar as a family instead of as one person on an island. It gave me a different understanding of how money actually works when people work together instead of white-knuckling it alone. When I started working at a specific fast-food restaurant, I did my part by bringing home food to help ease dinner costs.
I believe in pooling resources for the family’s greater good. I don’t think everyone is meant to move out and “do it on their own” just because that’s what we’re told success looks like. Now, if you come from an abusive or toxic household, that’s different: protect your peace, get out, build your own foundation. And if you’re just a hyper-independent person who genuinely needs your space and your privacy, I respect that too;o that’s what works for you.
But if you came from a stable, loving home with parents who are willing to show up, contribute, help with the bills, help with the kids, help with life? There is no shame in building together. Personally, if things line up the way I hope, I wouldn’t mind my own mother living with me, my partner, and my kids one day. I know she’d help watch the babies. I know she’d help around the house. She’s not going to pretend she can do everything; ng her mindset has always been “I can’t promise the world, but I’ll do what I can.” And honestly? That’s enough. That’s what family is supposed to sound like.
What I Had to Unlearn
I say all of that to explain why my money mindset was the way it was. I saw money handled in a very specific way growing up, and when I hit my twenties and stepped out into the real world, I realized I had to unlearn a lot of it and relearn how to think about money for myself.
There were five things I had to work on. I’m not going to pretend I mastered them overnight; honestly, it’s only been in the last five years or so that I’ve actually gotten good at putting them into practice consistently. But the very first one, the foundation underneath all the others, is this:
You have to be willing to Change Your Mindset
This is step one because nothing else works until this shifts.
If you are constantly telling yourself “I’m broke,” “I can’t afford that,” “this is too expensive,” “I don’t know where I’d even find the money for this” that mindset is running your life. It’s not just a thought, it’s a pattern. And when you keep feeding that pattern, you keep proving it right. You start making decisions from a place of lack instead of a place of possibility, and that keeps you stuck in the same cycle: no money, no plan, no way out.
Here’s the part that stings a little, but I say it with love: a negative money mindset doesn’t just describe your situation it creates your situation. When you walk around convinced you’ll never have enough, you stop looking for the opportunities that could actually get you there. You talk yourself out of the job application, the investment, the conversation about a raise, the side hustle idea before you even try. That negativity becomes the thing standing between you and the life you actually want. Once your mindset shifts, the rest of the work actually has somewhere to land. Here’s what came next for me.
Get Educated For Real This Time
Step two: take an actual personal finance class, or find someone who has genuinely walked the walk and learn from them directly. Not a random person online who just talks about money someone who has actually built something with it. I remember getting into my local credit union and honestly feeling a little embarrassed because I didn’t know half of what they were asking me. I didn’t know how to do basic things I felt like I “should” already know. I fell off track for a while after that, and I struggled for a few more years because of it. But once I actually sat down and committed to learning personal finance for real, everything started clicking differently. There’s no shame in not knowing. There is a cost to staying that way on purpose.
Know Your Financial Personality
Step three, and this one might be my favorite: figure out your financial personality type. I know that sounds like a quiz you’d take for fun, but stay with me it’s real, and it matters. Some people are natural savers. Some are budgeters. Some are investors who are wired to think long-term and end up retiring early because of how they move with money. And some people are a mix, and that’s okay too. The point isn’t to shame yourself into one category or beat yourself up for not being “the investor type” naturally. The point is to actually identify who you are with money so you can stop fighting your own nature and start working with it. A saver trying to force themselves to be an aggressive investor overnight will burn out. A spender trying to white-knuckle extreme frugality without a real plan is going to fall off. Know your type. Build from there.
Don’t Be Afraid to Get Help
Step four: if you get to a point where you genuinely don’t know what to do next, don’t be too proud to bring someone else in. Find a real financial professional, someone who can look at your actual numbers and help you optimize instead of guessing. I know it can feel intimidating, or even embarrassing, to admit you need that kind of guidance. But trying to figure it all out completely alone, with no outside eyes on your situation, is one of the easiest ways to end up stuck living paycheck to paycheck without even realizing how you got there. You wouldn’t try to represent yourself in court with zero legal knowledge just to prove a point. Money deserves that same respect. Bring in help when you need it.
Build the Discipline and the Schedule
Step five: discipline. This is what ties everything else together. It’s one thing to understand your finances; it’s another to stick to a plan week after week, even when it’s boring and nothing exciting is happening. Put yourself on an actual schedule. Track it. Revisit it. The people who look like they’ve “got it together” financially aren’t magic; they’re consistent. That’s really the whole secret.
Listen, I’m not telling you any of this to make you feel bad about where you are right now. I’m telling you because somebody needed to tell me, and it took me way too long to figure it out on my own. Your upbringing shapes how you see money, but it doesn’t have to be the final word on how you handle it.
So here’s the full list, all in one place:
1. Change your mindset. Stop talking yourself into “broke” before you even try.
2. Get educated. Take the class. Find the mentor. Ask the “embarrassing” question.
3. Know your financial personality. Saver, spender, budgeter, investor: work with your nature, not against it.
4. Don’t do it alone. A real professional can save you years of guessing.
5. Build the discipline. Consistency beats intensity every single time.
You get to unlearn the parts of your money story that don’t serve you. You get to build something different, whether that’s a household full of people who show up for each other, or a mindset that finally believes you’re capable of more than “just getting by.” Start with the mindset. Everything else builds from there.
Another WordPress Prompt about a weird coincidence.
Some couples bond over shared taste in music, or a mutual hatred of raisins. My person and I bond over parking spots. Specifically: our unexplainable, borderline-conspiratorial ability to park within two spots of each other, at completely different times, having told no one our plans, like two magnets who also enjoy going to the movies.
It started on our second date, a date that, in retrospect, had main character’s energy baked in from the jump. The mall had blocked off my usual spot for some event, so I got exiled to the far reaches of a different lot, somewhere in the metaphysical vicinity of Bass Pro Shop. Mildly annoyed, I parked, walked in, and found my late-because-he-hates-previews soon-to-be boyfriend. We settled on watching “The Woman King” on the second date, trying to feel each other out, but we didn’t finish. Because some idiot discharged his gun in the food court by accident. Security evacuated the mall due to the gunshots, which ended the movie early. I want to be clear that was genuinely terrifying, and not something to make light of, and my heart still goes out to anyone who has lived through more horrible, deadly shootings.
My son-to-be boyfriend stayed by my side and made sure I got to my car. He left to find his car once I told him I saw my car and was safe. It was very sweet and checked the chivalrous box for me. Amid the chaos and the evacuation, something almost comical happened: note that we arrived at the theater at different times, and we never saw each other’s car after the first date. We met at a mutual location. We discovered we were in the same row, two spots apart. The only thing standing between his car and mine was a stranger’s Honda that had already pulled off once he went to look for his car.
I was sitting there eating a multigrain croissant like a raccoon who’d found a snack. I felt a pair of eyes on me, so I looked around, and he was looking at me. I rolled down my windows, crumbs from the croissant falling from my lips. He asked, “Why do you have croissants in your car?” and honestly, sir, why wouldn’t I? I am always on the go. I laughed at the irony of how he ended up in the same row at Arundel Mills. He asked if I was hungry, and I nodded yes. The croissant wasn’t going to cut it. Well, do you want to go to this Mexican restaurant, away from the madness? I smiled and said yeah. We wove through the chaotic traffic as people evacuated the mall. We ended up at a Mexican restaurant, margaritas in hand, laughing about how our second date somehow included a national tragedy narrowly avoided. We found out that someone accidentally discharged their weapon in the mall, still scary. As he told it, he learned the origin story of my love for a good baked good. I enjoyed the conversation, and thought to myself, he would be nice to date. (My intuition was right; we are three years in and counting.)
Fast forward to Sunday night, we decided to see Spider-Man. We met up at the theater; I arrived first, and he arrived later. After the movie, we walked to the parking lot. He offered to drive me to my car. I pointed straight ahead; as usual, we were parked two rows behind me, like the universe always wants us in the same zip code of a parking lot. We didn’t plan it. We never plan it. It just… happens every time.
I don’t know what force is at play here magnetism, fate, or the fact that we’re both drawn to whatever’s closest to the mall entrance- but I’ve decided not to question it. I’m just going to keep quietly tracking our dating anniversary (don’t tell him), keep bringing weird snacks into my car, and keep trusting that wherever I park, my person’s car will show up nearby, like it always does.
Some people believe in horoscopes. I believe in parking lots.
A trivia host tries to help a stranded guest reach the train station during trivia night.
Another WordPress writing prompt from August 2026 that I saved for this 30-day challenge. Question: What’s the weirdest coincidence you’ve ever experienced?
There is a massive neon sign invisible to the naked eye that must be tattooed directly across my forehead. It doesn’t say Welcome, and it certainly doesn’t say Sensible Adult. No, it clearly reads: Designated Shepherd of the Lost, the Confused, and the Mildly Terrifying. I have a fatal flaw. I possess a heart entirely too big for the Mid-Atlantic region, paired with a dose of Catholic guilt to prevent people from accidentally orchestrating their own demise.
Take, for instance, a rainy night at Stan and Joe’s in Annapolis back in 2024. I was hosting trivia, a respectable side hustle, that requires intense focus, reading comprehension, and the ability to ignore drunk people arguing over the capital of Nebraska. ( The Capital of Nebraska is Lincoln.) Enter a woman from the Northeast with a dream, zero grasp of Maryland geography, and a plot straight out of a low-budget indie thriller.
Between my trivia questions, she casually announced she was taking “the night bus” to Washington, D.C., to finalize paperwork on a house she didn’t want to live in. In a torrential downpour. From downtown Annapolis. At 8:00 PM. Now, anyone with a single functioning brain cell knows Annapolis public transit clocks out when the sun goes down. (I have been schooled that their transit system does not clock out at sundown, but it does not head to DC.) There is no magical night bus. No secret subway tunnel links historic dockside pubs directly to the Washington Monument. When I broke the news that she was stranded, she looked at me like I had personally canceled the transit grid. Naturally, her backup plan was to “just catch the train.” Honey, what train? I thought to myself, my left eye starting to squint.
Because the universe decided I was her court-appointed guardian angel, I had her call her friend and verified she wasn’t completely hallucinating a friend who lived in DC. Once verified, we struck a bargain: wait until I finish yelling about pop culture to the midshipmen and millennial players. I would drive her all the way to Baltimore Penn Station so you can catch an Amtrak to DC. She agreed, and since the rain still hadn’t stopped, it was a decent deal.
Did she wait quietly? Absolutely not. While I was on the mic, she peppered me with her entire lifetime backstory, eventually announcing, unprompted, “You know, I’m a Libertarian.” Pulling out her pocket-sized Constitution. Ma’am. I am reading a question about The Golden Girls. I do not care about your stance on America’s fiscal policy; I care that you don’t freeze on West Street.
I finally loaded this mysterious runaway into my car. I thought to myself: Was she an undercover spy? A time traveler? An alien seeking safe passage out of Anne Arundel County? Was a black SUV full of syndicate hitmen pulling up to the bar ten minutes after we left? The drama my brain created was better than any Netflix drama. I navigated construction traffic, listened to a podcast-worthy monologue about her existence, deposited her safely at Penn Station by 11:00 PM, and sped off to pick up my mother from work, wholly accepting that I am a giant sucker.
That was Hitchhiker Number One: a woman who weaponized sheer helplessness.
A driver watches a hooded pedestrian through a rain-streaked windshield on a neon-lit street.
Hitchhiker Number Two, however, skipped the paperwork and went straight for vehicular assault.
Cut to a recent evening on Edmondson Road out in Beltsville. For those unfamiliar, this is not a well-lit suburban boulevard. This is a narrow, twisty, ditch-flanked road cutting through farmland. It screams mystery episode.
I’m driving along, minding my own business and stressing about closing out tasks before starting my new job, when a man materializes out of the rural ether. Work boots, blue jeans, silver-white hair, a blue Haines T-shirt, and the pièce de résistance: a crinkly white plastic grocery bag.
He didn’t stick his thumb out like a polite 1970s nomad. He stepped into the road and aggressively lunged toward my moving vehicle, eyes locked on my door handle with the absolute determination of a zombie who missed the last commuter rail. He was getting in that car, with or without my permission.
I don’t have the calendar availability to get murdered on a country back road. I slammed the gas, violently swerved away from him, nearly pitched my entire car sideways into an agricultural ditch, and peeled out like an extra in an action franchise. The windows went up immediately.
So that is where we stand. On one end of the spectrum, I am a freelance chauffeur rescuing wandering souls from their own logistical ignorance. On the other, I am evading ambush attacks in the Beltsville brush.
I’ve since adopted a strict self-defense mechanism: I keep the passenger side of my car littered with enough junk that offering anyone a seat is physically impossible. My windows stay up, my doors stay locked, and my inner bleeding-heart Samaritan has officially clocked out!
