Greetings Darling Ones,

How are you? I’ve spent most of March hiding out from my economic anxiety and doing my best to ignore the fascist overthrow of the United States with varying degree of success.

Lately, I’ve been filling my days writing fan fiction in my head about the relationship between Jason Isbell, Amanda Shires, and Anna Weyant. If you don’t know these people, that’s okay neither do I.

This fan fiction is based on Isbell’s excellent new record “Foxes in the Snow;” Shires’ last record “Take it Like a Man; the documentary “Running With Our Eyes Closed;” and things I’ve gleaned from social media.

Here’s a quick primer: Isbell and Shires were the Johnny & June of my world and when they announced their divorce in December 2023 I was heartbroken. Anna Weyant, a 30-year-old painter based in NYC, is Isbell’s new partner.

Depending on the day of the week, how much sunshine there is, and how much sleep I’ve had Isbell does not do well in the court of spinster opinion. Ovaries before Brovaries and all.

Let me restate, FITS is a beautiful record. It’s the first Isbell record I’ve truly loved in a long time. Gone is all the guitar wankery and what not. This is just Isbell’s voice and a guitar. Lovely. Lyrically it’s brilliant & brave, cliché & mean, and overall very human. What’s not to love?

In my head most of the songs are about his ex-wife and his new lover. This is where the mean and cliché come in.

“Foxes in the Snow” is a song about the new woman and it makes me cringe so hard I’m surprised I haven’t lost three inches from my height and have a permanent rictus grin. The repetition of “I love my love is ick. The line about everything putting him near her skin, the carrot and the stick. . . it’s all basic and feels a bit like it’s trying. Isbell knows how to write a love song and this ain’t it.

The two songs I really like to go back to are “Eileen” and “Gravelweed.” Boy, do they give me the thinks.

“My own behavior was a shock to me, he sings. “You should have seen this coming sooner. . . You thought the truth was just a rumor.”

In the court of Spinster Opinion I’m all, “Exactly what are you confessing to here, Mr. Isbell? what should she have seen and exactly what was the rumor? Hmmm?”

And his lawyer, Mortimer, shouts, “OBJECTION. Hearsay.”

“Gravelweed” is the knock me on my ass, infuriate me, and then begin to put me back together song.

In it Isbell sings, “I was a gravelweed, and I needed you to raise me. You couldn’t reach me once I felt like I was raised.”

This one makes me feel very fuck you, very much. Thanks for the self-reflection and all, but you see how shitty it is to require your partner and lover to raise you, right? RIGHT? That’s a lot to ask of someone who is supposed to be your equal, not your mother. It’s so selfish and then to abandon her when you gelt all grown up? Garbage.

But he gets back me with the next line, “And now that I live to see my melodies betray me, I’m sorry the love songs all mean different things today.”

Damn, the stark and beautiful honesty.

I also get pissed at the song “True Believer” with the whole All your girlfriends say I broke your fucking heart and I don’t like it.” Tough titties, friend, you don’t get to decide if you broke someone’s heart.

Like a good lawyer I’m cherry picking the lyrics to fit my argument. Like a good Gemini I’m not entirely sure what I’m arguing.

Regardless, the jury agreed unanimiously that “Foxes in the Snow” is a sparse, beautiful record worthy of the attention, argument, and thought.

You may be seated,
Honorable Judge Jodi Chromey

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This is a picture of Form 1095-B from the Department of Treasury. Sure it’s to prove that I had health insurance all year and used for tax purposes, but ever since I caught the “Name of Responsible Individual” field with my name in it, I’ve been thinking of it as a sort of talisman to bring me good luck in these days of economic anxiety.

Economic anxiety is the worst of all anxieties*. I’m under a triple threat at the moment: impending tax deadline, mortgage due, and a work slow down. I spend a lot of my day freaking right the fuck out about this and when that gets to be too much my brain pretends money is not an issue and I remain blissfully ignorant until my brain’s like “holy shit, remember how you’re gonna be destitute and living in a van down by the river and you cannot even afford a van?” Then I freak right the fuck out again.

But I have a piece of paper here that says I am a responsible individual and that kind of person hardly ever lives in a van down by the river. Right?

RIGHT?

*at least of the anxieties I experience. This designation is subject to change without warning depending on my mood, day of the week, and which of my myriad anxieties is being a total dick at the moment.

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For as long as I have talked about my height on the Internet, I’ve attracted the attention of submissive men. There is something about a freakishly tall, large woman that make a lot of submissive men weak in the knees.

I know very little about the culture of BDSM. I’ve read some stuff out of curiosity, specifically when there were all those “50 Shades is wrong this is what it is supposed to be like” articles. I know just enough to realize I know dick about that sub-culture. And it’s okay, I don’t have to know everything. In fact, considering I am not a dominatrix nor a submissive I don’t need to know anymore than I already do.

Let me repeat this: I am not a dominatrix. I have no desire to be.

However, since I entered the quagmire that is online dating a lot of men really, really want me to dominate them. In fact, they want to be dominated by me so much they are willing to be quite aggressive about it. This aggression in men who claim to be submissive puzzles me greatly. It feels kind of like irony.

On a near daily basis my various inboxes have messages from men who want me to “own them” or who want to “be my pet” or “my little slut.” A lot of times these dudes are easy enough to ignore, because they are so obvious. There’s a lot to be said for the obvious, they make it way easier.

It’s the ones who start out with what appears to be genuine interest in me as a person that get my goat. These ones are also the most aggressive about their entitlement to have their desires fulfilled.

One of them, after messaging me about writing and such, proceeded to spill out his fantasy of wearing heels, stockings, and panties, and then having me carry him to my bed and ravish him. When I didn’t respond the way he liked he said and I quote, “You need to be really into this for it to be fun and fulfilling.”
How I responded: “Oh.”

How I should have responded: “Uh, yeah, I can see that, fuckwad. However, you never asked if I was really into it. In fact, you never asked at all what I was into instead you just foisted your desires all over me and then have the nerve to be mad that my kinks don’t bend the same way your kinks do. Fuck off, pal.”

I have another one who refuses to believe I can be a feminist and also not a dominatrix at the same time. Because, “isn’t feminism just about being bossy and controlling?” I’m pretty sure the hate emanating from me after reading that line killed that man dead on the spot. At least I hope it knocked him down or something.

Of course because I am a Minnesota Nice girl born & bred I often try to dismiss these men as kindly as possible. Like I know they are not worth the effort. I know that. But at the same time they’re still people. Plus, I don’t want to shame anyone for their sexuality. Why I put their entitlement over my own desire to not be objectified like is really beyond me.

So often I’ll say something like “that’s just not my thing,” which sometimes work, but not always. When it doesn’t I get a little angry and try “I don’t know you well enough to be invested in your sexual fantasies.” This has worked not at all and only incites them to be more persuasive — and then they just tell me more of their fantasies which is apparently the whole of their being? Fuck if I know.

And really it’s the aggressiveness in which they pursue me to fulfill these fantasies that surprises me. They are cunning these aggressive submissives, they play to my self-esteem weaknesses, praising my height and my weight. If I didn’t pay close attention I would think their desire was for me, specifically, but I know they only want a big/tall warm body to play with. Or to play with them, as the case may be.

My instincts led me to think submissive men would also be meek or easily put off by disinterest, and as it turns out this is SO NOT THE CASE. Or at least this is not the case on the Internet where entitlement runs rampant and it’s easy to be skeezy when you don’t have to deal with the fallout in person.

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And another one, this time with Liam who is standing in front of the TV, Wii nunchuck in hands, gently swaying from side to side while crooning along to “I Want to Know What Love is” by Foreigner (one of the Tibbles’ new favorite songs).
“You know, this is cheesedog roller skate music.”
“Is that bad?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But I like cheesedogs so it’s okay.”

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Leno (the Baby Boomer) could step aside like a gentleman, and wander off into the Las Vegas light pollution to become a kindly old comedian trotted out whenever the event fits. Instead though, as is typical of Boomers* he must continue to cling to the belief that he’s in his prime and the slackers cannot do anything right, he stamps his feet and NBC being the spineless corporate megalith gives him what he wants. Because “the way we always do it” is the right way to go.

And what makes me even angrier is the reports that NBC and Conan are arguing over intellectual properties like the Pimpbot and Triumph. The fact that NBC even wants to keep these proves that there is some sort of cultural capital there and yet they’re still willing to let Conan walk. What is Leno bringing to the table? Fucking Jaywalking and poorly-edited Headlines? (the irony of Jay’s main schtick being newspaper should be lost on no one)

Long-time readers know that I’m a long-time lover of Sir Conan, and watching his show has become a little painful. Not because his macabre gallows humor the past few weeks isn’t funny, but because it reminds me so much of when we all told we were being laid off from Hell, Inc. months before it actually happened. I remember that feeling so well and it kind of sucks. Sure it looks like fun but really you’re only laughing because once you stop you’re gonna cry. Poor Conan. Fucking Jay.

*I also think a lot of when Leno is doing is motivated by the fact that he’s been stricken by the fame virus, a virus that afflicts celebrities whereby they seem to think out of sight really is out of mind and thus they must claw and scratch for every bit of exposure they can, and yet there are plenty of long dead and private people who are famous as all get out without shoving their plasticized maws into our faces every 32 seconds.

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