Love of country requires honesty. Nationalism can’t tolerate it.

Please, do not confuse nationalism with patriotism. They are not close in nature; in fact, they are polar opposites.

We use these words interchangeably; we shouldn’t.

Patriotism is love of country, steady, grounded, and honest. It means caring enough about this place we call home to want it to be better. A patriot can celebrate what is good, and still speak up about what is broken. In fact, that willingness to hold our country accountable is part of the love.

And here’s the important part: what one person sees as “broken,” another person may see differently. Even people who share the same values don’t always agree on what needs fixing or how to fix it. That’s not a weakness. That’s democracy. It’s conversation, disagreement, compromise, and the slow work of getting closer to our ideals.

Nationalism is something else entirely. It is not love, it is comparison. It says our country is better than all others, and must come first, no matter the cost. It leaves little room for self-reflection, and even less room for those who are different, new, or not “like us.”

A patriot asks, “How can we live up to our ideals?”
A nationalist says, “We are already the best.”

Those are not the same thing.

And in times like these, knowing the difference matters.

White Christian Nationalism is the belief that the United States was founded as a Christian nation rooted in white Christian identity, and that government and public life should reflect and protect that identity above others.

Patriotic Americanism is love of country grounded in the Constitution, supporting freedom of religion, equal citizenship, and the idea that people of many races, cultures, and faiths all belong here and share the same rights.

Do not confuse the two. Know the difference. November is coming. Vote accordingly.

I’ve lived long enough to know the difference matters, and what happens when we ignore it.

So, I ask you, are you happier today than you were on Monday?

Now that the elections are over, the attack ads have finally gone quiet. The political doom-crawlers on cable news have already moved on to whatever the next Trump-flavored scandal of the week will be. But today, there’s something new in the air.

I’m happier. This wave of Democratic and progressive wins in California, Colorado, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia felt like a pulse of blue hope. A reminder that organizing works. That people are paying attention, that there are Democratic leaders out there who know how to fight, and will throw elbows when necessary.

And yes, I will confess: I walked around on Wednesday with a grin so wide I could have said, “neener, neener, neener” to every Republican in a 20-mile radius. I didn’t, of course. Apparently, that’s “unprofessional workplace behavior.” (Who knew?)

But beneath the joy, there’s something deeper: relief. Relief that voters are still capable of choosing community over cruelty. Relief that democracy isn’t a relic in a museum case just yet. Relief that we are not, in fact, as alone as the headlines have tried to make us feel.

We showed up. We voted. We reminded each other that we can still win.

Now comes the question that matters: who leads us forward from here?
Celebration is wonderful, but celebration is not a strategy.

What next?

Democrats need a leader right now, and not necessarily a would-be Presidential candidate. There are a few that come to my mind, each offering their own vision of a Democratic America.

Of course, there’s Gavin Newsom, a graduate of Santa Clara University, who founded the boutique winery PlumpJack Group. He was elected Mayor of San Francisco, then Lieutenant Governor of California, then Governor of California. In addition to his obvious political skills, he has guts and backbone. And a keen sense of humor. (Republicans hate humor. With them, it’s all doom and gloom, all the time, every day, over everything.)

There’s super-progressive Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, ‘AOC,’ Congresswoman from New York’s 14th district. Lately, she appears to have “lightened” her tone a whit. Smart as a whip and a firebrand in every sense of the word. Ocasio-Cortez interned in foreign affairs for Senator Ted Kennedy while attending Boston College and graduated cum laude. She was elected to her congressional district by a margin of 78% to 13%.

How about my favorite, Pete Buttigieg, former Intelligence Officer with the Navy Reserve, former Mayor of South Bend, Indiana, and former Secretary of Transportation under the Biden-Harris administration. He graduated from Harvard and the University of Oxford and is a Rhodes Scholar. He speaks nine languages fluently: English, Norwegian, Spanish, Italian, Maltese, Dari, Persian, Arabic, and French.

There are a few others who have caught my attention as well, for instance, Rep. Eric Swalwell of California’s 14th congressional district. You can get to know him on his Substack and X pages.

I’m not impressed with Hakeem Jeffries. We need more urgency than he projects. Then again, I remind myself: what mere mortal could hope to follow in the footsteps of Speaker Emeritus Pelosi?

Democrats rallied on Tuesday. They’re energized. They’re ready. Democrats need a leader who is strong, forceful, and flexible when necessary. We need that person now.

Because hope feels good—
but direction feels better.

Well, October 31st has arrived, and still no action from Washington D.C. on SNAP. Benefits are expected to expire tomorrow. Even if they don’t, between the Federal worker layoffs and hundreds of thousands of newly jobless workers, local food banks will be a saving grace.

There is a $6 billion contingency fund Congress could draw from today.
As of right now, Republicans are refusing to authorize it.

SNAP keeps families fed. It’s not “extra.” It’s groceries, milk, eggs, cereal for kids, produce, bread, staples. It’s dignity. And most people who rely on SNAP are often working more than one job, and still can’t make enough to cover the basics.

Food banks are on the verge of being overwhelmed.

Please give to your local food bank if you are able. Every community has one, in churches, senior centers, storefronts, synagogues, and community halls.

Tell friends. Have a neighborhood food drive. Send an email. Post on social media. Ask those you know to help. If you have small children or teens, let them participate in giving.

We take care of each other when our leaders won’t.

Please, help.

I had $60 in my wallet until I went to the gas station. I pay cash because (I’m cheap), I s

ave 35 cents a gallon by not using my debit card. Hey, over a year, that adds up, you know?

My gas tank sucked up every bit of that $60, and I’m pretty sure it would’ve taken more if I’d let it.

Next stop: Walgreens, three prescriptions, $34. Just think what they’d cost without Medicare or decent insurance.

Walmart: $14.

Trader Joe’s: $18.

It cost me $126 just to walk out the door today, and none of it was optional.

That’s my personal inflation rate.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the “core” inflation rate, which excludes food and energy, was 3.0% for the 12 months ending in September 2025. Food prices were up 3.1%, a small drop from August’s 3.2%. Energy rose more sharply, from 0.2% in August to 2.8% in September.

If you listen to the experts, they’ll tell you inflation is “moderating.” That may be true on paper, but my wallet didn’t get the memo. Let’s break down what’s really driving the numbers behind those receipts I racked up today.

1. Supply and production costs.
It’s gotten more expensive to make, ship, and stock nearly everything. Factories still face higher costs for raw materials. Shipping containers that used to cost $2,000 can run $6,000 or more. And when gas or diesel prices rise, so does the cost of getting lettuce to the grocery shelf or medicine to the pharmacy. Companies don’t/won’t swallow those costs; they pass them on to us.

2. Demand overload.
After the pandemic, people wanted to spend again, travel, eat out, fix their homes. That surge of buying power created what economists call demand-pull inflation, meaning too many people chasing too few goods. When everyone wants the same thing, the price tag climbs. Even now, strong consumer spending keeps prices from falling back to “normal.”

3. Energy and food volatility.
Fuel and groceries are the heartbeat of our daily life, and the wild cards of inflation. Energy prices swing fast depending on global events, weather, and production. Food costs shift with droughts, storms, and shipping costs. When these two rise, everything from bread to bus fares inches higher.

So yes, the Bureau of Labor Statistics says “core inflation” is steady at 3%. But when the basics, food, gas, and medicine, are part of your daily routine, the numbers don’t tell the whole story.

Eggs are no longer the villain at the market. These days, you can pull anything from a shelf or bin and wince at the price, right?

When I open my refrigerator door now, it always looks empty. I used to keep doubles of our essentials, orange juice, butter, jelly, and cheese, so I wouldn’t have to run to the market every day. (I still do anyway.)

I’ve also stopped buying paper goods in bulk. I’ll grab one six-roll pack of paper towels instead of the mega bundle, because right now, it’s cheaper, and it keeps more money in my pocket. In other words, I don’t want my money sitting on the shelf; I want it where I can reach it.

Food prices have changed and so has what’s in my market basket. Red meat is sky-high, so we eat more fish, chicken, and pork, with a splurge-worthy ribeye maybe once every few weeks.

Could you say inflation is keeping us healthy? Maybe. But it sure doesn’t make dinner taste any cheaper.

I was raised on name brands, in canned goods, cleaning supplies, and frozen foods. These days, I’m experimenting with store brands, and so far, all’s good.

I no longer buy clothes or accessories just because. When I do decide to make a purchase, I wait 24 hours. It works! Most of the time, I’m not as crazy about whatever it was, and the urge passes.

We all know there are plenty of other corners we could cut, but hey, baby steps.

What about you? What’s changed in your own spending? Has it made a difference? Drop me a note, I’m always looking for a good deal (and a good story).

Corporate media loves to say it “presents both sides” of every political story. Once upon a time, that was actually the law.

The Fairness Doctrine, established by the FCC in 1949, required broadcasters, radio and television using public airwaves, to
(1) cover controversial issues of public importance, and
(2) present contrasting viewpoints on those issues in a fair and balanced way.

This applied only to FCC-licensed broadcasters, not to newspapers or cable networks.
I say applied because in 1987 the FCC abolished the doctrine, arguing it violated free-speech rights and was no longer necessary given the explosion of media outlets.

The only rule still standing is the Equal Time Rule, which applies narrowly to political candidates’ airtime during elections, not to general news or commentary.

Today, networks aren’t legally required to air both sides. Most still pretend to, for credibility or audience trust. But legally? They don’t have to.
Except when they kind of, sort of, do, because the President of the United States sues the pants off any outlet that dares to voice a negative viewpoint about him or his administration.

Case in point: Paramount Global’s $16 million payment to tRump in July 2025.

So here’s my honest question:
Are there really always two sides to every political story?
Should networks avoid running a story altogether if they can’t, or won’t, find a “reasonable” rebuttal?

Of course, I’m talking about mainstream media here, not fake FOX News.

And yes, I have a specific political story in mind.

Trump’s massively diminished cognitive abilities.

It’s the elephant in the Oval Office. Even his supporters are having a hard time ignoring, much less explaining, his mumbling, stumbling, and increasingly obvious inability to process or answer a question in any meaningful way.

And yet, silence from the mainstream media. Even from those outlets everyone knows lean left.

Why the silence? Why won’t anyone in the media spit out the truth?

I’m not suggesting that a broadcaster declare Trump’s mind is gone, that he needs to be institutionalized, or that America is in imminent danger.

How about something simple, factual, and responsible, like:

“The President appeared out of sorts and incoherent during his recent televised address.”

That’s it. Just state what millions of Americans can see with their own eyes.

Because here’s the thing: once one reporter says it out loud, there will be a collective sigh of relief, and a deluge of like-minded reports will follow.

The Evidence

The confusion, verbal miscues, and odd remarks are hard to dismiss. A few recent examples:

• During a televised press event, Trump twice said he was “going to Russia” instead of Alaska for talks with Vladimir Putin. (YouTube)

• In a speech to graduates at the United States Military Academy (West Point), one commentator called it a “rambling, ranting, incoherent, dementia-laden… just diarrhea of the mouth.” The Daily Beast

• In mid-July, Trump falsely claimed his uncle had taught Ted Kaczynski (“the Unabomber”) at MIT, even though his uncle died in 1985, MIT states they have no record of Kaczynski ever being enrolled there, and Kaczynski became known much later. The Guardian

These examples don’t prove dementia or catastrophic cognitive collapse, but they do create a clear pattern of repeated misstatements, abrupt topic shifts, factual errors, and what mental-health professionals might label confabulation, making up details to fill memory gaps.

And I believe there should be a national discussion about it.

So, Why the Silence?

Why isn’t mainstream media routinely saying something as simple as,

“The President appeared confused or out of sorts during this address.”?

Well, that brings us back to the “I’m gonna sue your pants off” threat, or to fears of defamation and libel claims, or to plain editorial and political caution.

But it’s time, if not past time, for this conversation about Trump’s mental and cognitive decline to become a dinner-table, coffee-break, and newsworthy topic across America

This November, Californians get to decide something bigger than it first appears. Proposition 50 isn’t just another ballot measure; it’s about whether we, the voters, keep control over who represents us, or whether politicians get to rig the game.

For years, California’s congressional districts have been drawn by an independent citizens’ commission. That system isn’t perfect, but it’s fairer than letting politicians carve up the map to protect themselves. Prop 50 would keep that fair map in place. Without it, powerful insiders could redraw the lines and tilt the playing field.

Why should we care? Because what happens here affects the whole country. Texas already redrew its districts to benefit one party, changing the balance of seats in Congress. If California gives in and lets our fair map go, we could lose ground, not because voters changed their minds, but because the rules changed.

We all know that when people think the system is rigged, they stop believing their votes matter. That’s dangerous for any democracy. Prop 50 helps keep elections honest and the process trustworthy, one person, one vote.

A “YES” vote on Prop 50 means fair elections, stable representation, and a stronger democracy. This November, let’s show the country that Californians won’t let anyone rewrite the rules mid-game. Vote YES on Prop 50. because the future of our democracy is worth it.

Your ballot is arriving in your mailbox soon. Send it back ASAP. This may be the one chance we have to stop tRump in his tracks in 2026 and KEEP OUR DEMOCRACY!

When I’m sitting on a sunny beach, or lying in bed after dinner, half-listening to reruns of The Rookie or FBI, I reach for my magical device that lets me sneak into the lives of complete strangers. I watch them, laugh with them, sometimes at them, and occasionally chastise them for their countless misdeeds. Once I’ve burrowed into other people’s lives, it takes enormous willpower to turn my device off because let’s be honest: who doesn’t love a little harmless gossip about strangers, especially when it’s served up in 30-second reels, right?

My name is Stevie Weinberg, and I am an Instagram-aholic.

My device of choice? The iPad. (My iPhone’s tiny screen just doesn’t cut it for my “seasoned” eyes.)

With a few swipes, I can be whisked back to favorite travels or jetted forward to dream destinations. I hear the most magnificent music, and the most god-awful screeching you hope never to hear. Ballroom, tap, and ballet performances are just a fingertip away, often prompting a bit of my own toe-tapping.

Fashion is my thing; I know those reel sites backward and forward. I confess to a fondness for human mishaps, escapades that trigger belly laughs, my husband recognizes the sound and knows exactly why. I don’t bother with celebrities; their lives aren’t real, too staged. Instead, I scroll through impossibly decorated cakes, army dogs leaping from airplanes, sparkling diamond jewelry, and lovingly restored vintage cars.

It’s all so mindless, which is exactly why it’s fun. I get to zone out. I don’t remember a thing I’ve scrolled past once I shut down, and I never carry my iPad outside the house.

Like every addiction, mine has its triggers: the beach and my comfy bed.

I’ve tried BlueSky, X, Facebook, and even YouTube, but Instagram is my particular weakness.

What about you?

Now it’s your turn. What’s your social-media rabbit hole? Drop a comment below and let me know where you find yourself mindlessly scrolling. I promise, no judgment… we’re all snoops here. What’s your social-media soft spot? Care to confess?

I was in my late 50s when I decided I needed a dog. It almost felt like my late twenties when I decided I needed a baby. Note: I found the baby much easier to train.

Mind you, I had never owned a dog. Growing up, my mom had a Shih Tzu named Tansey, but I pretty much ignored her. Tansey licked and drooled, two behaviors I don’t tolerate in humans, so why would I tolerate them from a dog? Note: I did tolerate licking and drooling from my human baby.

When Steven and I first married, we became cat people. We started with one, an opinionated, cross-eyed, kink-in-her-tail Siamese. I named her Sammy.

Fun fact: I wrote a bad check for Sammy on a Saturday and had to explain myself to my boss, the bank manager, on Monday. I leaned into the adage, “Do it, then ask forgiveness.” BTW, still do.

Over the years, we’ve had as many as five cats at once, and never fewer than two. They fit our lifestyle perfectly. We traveled often, and cats are the original low-maintenance roommates. Leave out enough food and water, and they’re good for a week. No guilt. No judgment. Well, almost no judgment. Once, a sweet, precious, furry ball of goodness did pee in our open suitcase upon our arrival home.

Then came Diesel.

My first dog was a chihuahua, and I named him Diesel. He was my best friend, and I was his. I was fortunate to have Diesel’s love for almost 14 years before he passed over the rainbow bridge.

I was heartbroken and adamant I’d never have another dog.

It only took a couple of months, and Mother Nature, or mother nurture, came knocking on my heart once again. Turns out I missed having a canine best friend at home. I wanted another dog, and I wanted it N O W.

I searched the local shelter’s website and found a description of a male chihuahua, about a year old, with a black-and-white coat. No photo. I called to confirm he was still available. He was. We scurried to the shelter.

When we arrived, I told the receptionist who we were there to see, and we were led to a “receiving pen.” That’s when I first noticed something... odd. This “chihuahua” looked a little funny. I figured he must be a mix.

We played with him. We held him. (Warning: once you hold them, you’re a goner.) I had a nagging feeling, but for reasons I’ll never understand, I didn’t ask a single question about his background.

On the drive home, we debated names. He’s white with black spots, angel-wing-shaped spots on his back. I thought “Spot” was cute. Steven was a firm “No.” So I pulled out the big guns: “Harry!” It’s sweet, it’s simple, and it’s Steven’s grandfather’s name (may he rest in peace). I got the side-eye, but Harry it was.

It took no time for Harry to own the house, and me. He has been my constant companion from day one. He drives the cats nuts. He’s extremely nosy (pun intended). He insists on inspecting every bag that enters the house. And when he sits with me, he sits on me. We are one.

Harry gets the zoomies daily and is quite the talker. If he doesn’t like his marching orders, he talks back. He’s a licker. He loves to be held. I have unconditional belly-rubbing privileges. He’s a hunter, always lying in wait for lizards and birds.

When he misbehaves, he gets a bop on his nose. He gets bopped quite a bit around the cats. Sometimes he’ll lick one of the cats. I don’t know what that’s all about.

A month after bringing Harry home, I met my friends for a walk at the park. Naturally, I brought Harry with me. They took one look and burst out laughing. At me!

Sharon said, “I thought you said he was a chihuahua.” Julie chimed in, “He’s not a chihuahua. He’s a Jack Russell Terrier.” I got defensive. “It says chihuahua on his adoption papers!” Sharon raised an eyebrow. “You can believe whatever you want, but that’s a Jack Russell.”

I had Harry’s DNA tested.

Harry is a Terrier mix, mostly Jack Russell. Not even a smidge of chihuahua. I had been blinded by love.

See? I knew he looked funny. My Harry berry, puncie, boy puppy. Doesn’t everybody have at least three names for their dog baby?

I’m proof that you can love the second time around.

How many of us, at the beginning of this second tRump administration, went about our daily lives, calm, distracted by errands, cautiously hoping for the best?

I’ll admit it: his win shocked me. Based on everything I remembered from his first administration, I had convinced myself Harris was a shoo-in. Instead, when the results came in, I felt that same numbness from 2016 creeping back, this time accompanied by dread. My husband had been warning me for months that if tRump won, democracy itself might be doomed. And there it was: he won. Worse still, his presidency began with a Republican House and Senate. A devastating combination.

I entered this cycle shocked and wary. Within months, wariness gave way to outrage. His cabinet picks proved the fears justified, because none were qualified for their posts. Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. has already shown himself to be reckless and unfit, a danger not just to himself but to the country. Kristi Noem, appointed Secretary of Homeland Security, seems more invested in vanity and theatrics than in the hard work of protecting Americans. She, too, is unfit to serve.

Pete Hegseth, now Secretary of Defense, comes with a history marred by alcoholism and allegations of abuse. Once a television personality, he brings no coherent worldview of his own; instead, he parrots the imbecilic musings of his president.

I won’t drone on about this cabinet; my readers deserve better for their time.

As the weeks dragged on, my emotions shifted again. I became not only repelled by the sight of tRump, but unable to bear the sound of his voice. When he speaks, I mute the television, waiting for analysts to summarize the lowlights.

Now, I find myself horrified by the condition of my country. The endless lies. The intent to dumb down the educational system of every state. The purging of professionals from every administrative, justice, military, and civil service department. The economy-crushing tariffs. America’s complete loss of respect abroad. And now, the militarization of ICE and the National Guard. I see them deployed on the streets of America, especially in blue cities, standing in intimidating rows, as though the citizens they swore to protect, you and I, are the enemy.

The Supreme Court just decided that anyone in the U.S. can be stopped and questioned about their citizenship based on the color of their skin or the language they speak.

The tRump administration is considering labelling the American trans community medically insane. Why? Because then they can be banned from purchasing guns.

I feel helpless. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, “What if…” but I can’t even finish the thought. The dread is too vague, so enormous.

For the first time in my life, I am genuinely afraid, afraid for my own safety, and for that of my family, my friends, my neighbors.

Most of our Supreme Court justices, it seems to me, have lost their minds, determined not only to shred the Constitution but to set it on fire. Nearly every ruling strips away another right once guaranteed to our citizens.

I write letters. I stand on street corners. I don’t know what more I can do. I feel helpless. And I know many of my readers feel that same helplessness, too.

I think we’re united in our fear. My hope now is that Democrats can take back the House in 2026. At the very least, we may be able to stop the boulder threatening to crush us. I don’t know if we’ll be able to start patching the Constitution back together at that point, but at least we can try. Right?

Steven is a wonderful husband and father. I know, that sounds trite. Fine! For your benefit, I will expound. He’s kind, thoughtful, romantic, a true gentleman with a quick wit and a fine sense of fashion. (Brag much?) And he’s a good son.

Steve’s parents passed years ago, and he has never failed to visit them at the cemetery on their birthdays, on Mother’s and Father’s Days, and sometimes in between. I have never accompanied him. In my imagination, he talks to them, telling them about his life and the lives of his son and grandchildren. Maybe he adds a bit of gossip? Who knows, I’m not there with him.

This is one area where Steven and I are different.

I consider myself a good wife, a good mother, and a good friend. But am I a good daughter? Since the funerals of my mother and father, I have not once visited their graves. I will not visit their graves.

Cemeteries leave me uneasy. Standing there, I can’t help but think: they’re gone. They can’t hear me. I’d only be talking to myself.

My parents live in my memories, everywhere. When I’m having something hemmed, I remember my mother pinning a dress while I stood, in heels, wobbling on the kitchen table, my father calling out, “Turn! Turn!” Or the time I baked him a cherry pie and forgot to “Add one cup sugar and blend”. The look on his face was priceless, though he still praised my crust.

Not all memories are sweet. Sometimes, regret and shame are triggered. I still feel the sting from the day I mocked a girl’s outfit. My father pulled me aside and said, “You don’t know her. That may be the very best she has.” He was right. That lesson has never left me.

For me, that’s where my parents live: in memories, lessons, and sudden bursts of laughter. I may never lay flowers at their graves, but my parents are with me still, woven into my laughter, my regrets, the lessons that guide me, and even the recipes that sometimes go wrong. For me, honoring them isn’t about standing among headstones. It’s about carrying them forward in the life I live, the family I love, and the stories I tell.

How do you keep the people you’ve lost close? By visiting graves, by telling stories, or in some entirely different way?

The what (California):
On November 4, 2025, Californians will vote on Proposition 50, the Use of Legislative Congressional Redistricting Map Amendment. This measure temporarily sets aside maps drawn by California’s independent citizens redistricting commission and uses those drawn by the State Legislature. If passed, the new map, expected to favor Democrats, would only apply to the 2026, 2028, and 2030 elections. After the 2030 Census, the independent commission would again take over map-drawing duties.

The why (Texas):
Meanwhile, in Texas, at Trump’s “urging” (aka demand), and with Governor Abbott’s full support, the Republican-controlled Legislature has already approved a new congressional redistricting plan. Unlike California, Texas law does not require voter approval. The new map doesn’t change the state’s total of 38 U.S. House seats but redraws the lines to convert five Democratic-leaning districts into Republican-leaning ones.

What this means nationally:
If both maps survive legal challenges and take effect, the two efforts could effectively cancel each other out: Texas Republicans gaining 5 seats, California Democrats gaining 5 seats. On paper, the balance of power in Congress would remain about the same, but because of tRump and Abbott, through aggressive manipulation of district lines rather than fair representation.

Costs:
For California, current estimates put the price tag of the November 4th special election at $230–235 million; final figures haven’t been released. In contrast, Texas has not provided any cost details. Because Texans don’t get to vote on their Legislature’s new map, there are no special election costs, but taxpayers still bear the hidden costs of legislative sessions and inevitable court challenges.

The stakes:
Texas has already redrawn its districts. California must pass Proposition 50 if it wants to offset Texas’s partisan gerrymander. If Proposition 50 succeeds, Democrats could pick up five seats to counter the five seats Republicans are expected to gain in Texas. In that way, California’s move would cancel out Texas’s manipulation, preventing Republicans from locking in an artificial advantage in Congress and ensuring Republican domination through redistricting alone.

AT A GLANCE:

California (Proposition 50, Nov. 4, 2025)

· Who decides? Voters in a statewide special election

· Estimated cost: $230–235 million

· Goal: Replace independent commission maps with Legislature-drawn maps (favors Democrats)

· Effect: Could flip 5 congressional seats to Democrats for 2026–2030 elections

Texas (Legislature, Aug. 2025)

· Who decides? State Legislature & Governor (no voter approval)

· Estimated cost: Not released (absorbed into legislative budgets; taxpayers pay for legal fights)

· Goal: Mid-decade redraw ordered by GOP leadership (favors Republicans)

· Effect: Redraws 5 Democratic-leaning districts to favor Republicans; overall seats remain 38

National Impact

· Texas: +5 Republican seats

· California (if Prop 50 passes): +5 Democratic seats

· Net effect: Cancel each other out — balance in Congress stays the same, but only through tRump and Abbott’s aggressive manipulation of district maps.

Californians, please vote YES ON PROP. 50. If California can’t match Texas Congressional seat-for-seat, we are facing republican rule possibly for decades. That is unthinkable.

Hello readers!

I don’t know about you, but I am sooo ready for cooler weather and the rhythm of Fall. I slipped away to the beach for a week (did you notice I was missing from your inbox?), and by the end, I was practically begging my husband to stay a few extra days. Can you believe he said “No” to me? (A rarity, I promise you!)

The days were perfect, white sand, rolling surf, cotton-puff clouds drifting by. I melted into a lounge chair so thoroughly I’m sure I left a permanent dent. For hours, I sat, mesmerized, staring out to sea.

But reality always calls. I’m fortunate to have a part-time sales job I love, in ladies’ retail. Back home in the desert, the retail season is about to kick into high gear. Our “snowbirds” will be flocking back soon, which means my days will be busier.

This is just a quick note to let you know that my blog posts will arrive a bit less frequently, probably one (or maybe two) a week, until life quiets down again (usually by April).

That’s me up top, popping in to say hi! Thanks for reading and stay tuned.

Stevie

P.S. I would love to hear from you about topics you’d like me to write about. By now, you must know I have an opinion on almost everything!

One Person, One Vote: It’s Time for a Direct Democracy

I’m worried. The kind of worry you feel when you’re driving home and see dark smoke rising near your neighborhood.

Can our democracy survive long enough to limp into the 2026 midterms? Will there even be a “free and fair” election?

In the Republican effort to cling to House control, the redistricting battles between red and blue states verge on the ridiculous. It feels less like fair representation and more like a carnival shell game.

I think it’s time for the United States of America to become a true, direct democracy: one person, one vote.

What We Have vs. What We Think We Have

Many voters still believe the U.S. is already a direct democracy. It’s not. We have a representative democracy; we elect people who make decisions for us. A true direct democracy would mean we vote on laws and policies ourselves, not just on the people who pass them.

Some Americans can’t imagine why that distinction matters. Maybe they’re the same voters who still think tRump just “tricked” them.

One person, one vote. Easy for me to say, and it’s getting easier!

Why My Vote Feels Powerless

Take my own district. Ken Calvert (R), District 41, has been in Congress for over 30 years. Thirty. I can’t think of a single time he’s voted the way I would have hoped, or in favor of his constituents. He recently voted for the so-called “Big Beautiful Bill Act,” which gutted Medicaid and food assistance programs. That single vote will strip healthcare from millions and push families into food insecurity.

I’m a registered Democrat. Yet here, my vote doesn’t matter. I’m “represented” by a tRumpian Republican whose loyalty is to party power, not people.

Rewriting the Operating System

Harsh truth: to constitutionally transform into a direct democracy, the U.S. would need nothing short of a complete rewrite of its operating system.

• Amend Articles I, II, IV (or eliminate them outright).

• Create a new amendment establishing national binding referendums.

• Rethink checks and balances, since direct democracy can easily clash with minority protections and judicial independence.

What we have now, representative democracy with direct elements at the state level (ballot initiatives, referendums, recalls), would need to expand to every law, every policy, every federal decision.

Sounds messy. Really messy.
(Messy like Thanksgiving dinner with both sides of the family messy.)

But then again, democracy is messy. Always has been.

A Look Back at the First Draft

Here’s how it went the first time around:

• Drafting & debate: May 25 – Sept 17, 1787

• Clause writing: June – Sept 1787

• Final text signed: Sept 17, 1787

• State ratification: Dec 7, 1787 – June 21, 1788

• First Congress & Bill of Rights: March 4, 1789

• Bill of Rights proposed: Sept 1789

• Bill of Rights ratified: Dec 15, 1791

In short:

• From writing/editing to a signed document -4 months.

• From signing to an operative Constitution → 9 months.

• Total: just 13 months from convention start to working Constitution.

• With the Bill of Rights in place - a little over 4 years.

Reality Check

I know it wouldn’t happen in 13 months today. We’re dealing with 50 states, not 13. And 27 amendments, not just 10.

I also know it won’t happen in my lifetime. I’m 70. Let’s say I live to 90. A project like this would take far longer than 20 years.

But maybe my children, or my grandchildren, could see it. And that’s enough to keep me writing, voting, and speaking up.

No one is getting any younger here, folks, it should begin now.

Because one person, one vote is worth fighting for.

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1994. Camden Town, outside London. Sunny afternoon, just the sort of day you’d expect American tourists (that would be us) to stroll through quirky shops and maybe buy a tacky souvenir or two. Instead, we got an impromptu audition for Cops: The London Tourist Edition.

Steve and I had taken the Underground from London to Camden, him clutching his Fodor’s guidebook, the universal neon sign flashing “TOURISTS HERE!” If the Nikes and his new, expensive Canon camera weren’t enough of a giveaway, the open guidebook sealed the deal. We might as well have been wearing shirts that said, Please Rob Us, We’re American.

I noticed three older boys lurked near us on the train. The kind of teenage pack with nothing better to do than menace strangers and practice looking tough. I thought they kept glancing at us, eyeing us, the whole time we were on the train. They kept their distance, but I noticed they were behind us as we left the underground and as we walked around the streets. My radar was pinging. Stupid boys, I’m a boy mom! You can’t scare me!

We were looking for the Jewish Museum, which, apparently, was either well-hidden or a figment of Fodor’s imagination. Every passerby and shopkeeper we asked swore they’d never heard of it.

At one point, Steve decided to use one of those iconic red telephone booths, you know, the kind Americans photograph themselves in to prove they’ve been to London. He thought maybe the operator could tell us where the museum was. Quaint idea, right? I think phone operators had gone extinct by then but bless him for trying.

So, there’s Steve, halfway in the booth, door wide open, flipping through his guidebook like the Boy Scout he is, and suddenly, our three hyenas sprang into action.

The largest, an oversized beanbag chair in human form, stepped right into the booth behind Steve, as though he was there to provide “assistance.” Meanwhile, the gangly one made a beeline for me and grabbed at my purse.

Now, let’s pause. This wasn’t just any purse. It was a Prada. My first. My only. And though the contents were slim (a couple of pounds, a lipstick, maybe a tissue pack), the bag itself was worth the battle. Mug me for my money, fine. But lay a hand on my Prada, I think not!

So I did what any self-respecting woman with good accessories would do: I anchored my core, spun like a furious ballerina, and flung that kid straight onto the pavement in a tangle of limbs and adolescent disbelief. I stared at him, equally shocked, mostly that I’d just body‑checked a teenager over a handbag!

Adrenaline roaring, I dashed to the phone booth, grabbed the back belt loop of the beanbag chair, and yanked with all my body weight. He stumbled back a couple of feet, gravity’s a bitch, and slunk away toward his friends.

Meanwhile, Steve bolted out of the booth and joined me in screaming for help. Loudly. Repeatedly. With gusto.

Which brings me to the highlight of this tale: not a single soul came to help. Not one. Camden residents, if you’re reading this, your commitment to minding your own business is truly Olympic.

We screamed all the way up the street until, by some miracle, a cab appeared. Steve practically threw himself onto its hood to stop it. Steve opened the back door and we literally dove in.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie.

“I don’t care,” Steve panted, “anywhere. Just get us the f*ck out of here.”

We ended up in a pub, location forgotten, alternating between hysterical laughter and stunned silence. Months later, someone said to me, “You should have screamed FIRE! Everyone wants to see a fire!”.

The irony, of course, is that had they succeeded, the boys would’ve made off with… a pound or two, maybe a packet of tissues, and a half-melted lipstick. My passport was safe at the hotel. My credit cards were locked up. My purse was practically empty. But the bag itself? Non-negotiable.

Because yes, at the end of the day, you can lose your dignity, your voice from screaming, and your faith in British bystanders… but a Prada purse? Over my dead body.

The tRump administration has been holding some of our nation’s most prestigious colleges and universities hostage, demanding hundreds of millions of dollars in return for . . .administrative dominance. It’s extortion. It’s “Pay to Play”.

Here are three examples:

Columbia University-

Fines: $221M fines. $200M to U.S. Treasury, federal budget, Congress to decide how to appropriate funds. $21M to Jewish staff and victims of alleged civil-rights abuses.

Structural reforms:

1. End race-based admission targets, diversity narratives, or DEI goals.

2. Independent monitor (government) overseeing compliance with admissions, faculty hiring, and protest policies.

3. Adhering to tRump administration’s interpretation of Title IX-focus on rules around transgender athletes in women's sports.

If this looks less like reform and more like federal micromanagement, that’s because it is.

Brown University-

Fines- $50M over 10 years, directed to Rhode Island workforce development (rather than straight to government).

Structural reforms:

1. End DEI programs and admissions.

2. External audit/oversight of admissions data. Note: Brown did not accept a government monitor, unlike Columbia.

3. Banning gender-transition treatments for minors and offering separated housing/sports facilities by gender according to tRump administration federal guidance/

Harvard University- the wealthiest university in the world, is negotiating a half-billion-dollar payoff. Proof that even money and prestige don’t and won’t shield a school from this administration’s shakedown tactics.”

And this is just the beginning.

Universities are surrendering funds and autonomy to regain access to federal research grants, while also reshaping their policy and admissions structures under tRump administration’s oversight.

This is a broad strategy by the tRump administration to link federal funding with compliance with antisemitism, DEI policies, transgender issues, and protest regulations. This administration is reshaping the landscape of academic independence.

All this is “Pay to Play” in my mind.

Give a yard, they’ll take a mile. Bowing to this administration’s extortion has kicked in the door to the next round of tRump’s administration’s demands. Dictating teaching staff? State-imposed curriculums?

If tRump can dictate who teaches, what’s taught, and who gets admitted at Columbia, Brown, and Harvard, what’s to stop him from controlling the local state college your kids/grandkids are applying to?

This isn’t just a slippery slope; it’s a headlong dive into a bottomless cavern called Project 2025. If universities don’t resist now, tRump’s next demand won’t stop at admissions policies. It will dictate curriculum, censor faculty, and silence dissent. This isn’t about protecting students, it’s about controlling them.

As Charlie Sykes put it on July 30, 2025: “Trump has successfully turned the US government into the largest extortion racket in history.” #AcademicFreedom #Project2025 #TrumpExtortion #Democracy

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Have you been to the market lately? Wait, what am I saying? You’ve probably been three times this week already, right?

Every two weeks, I do a “heavy shop.” In between, I fill in the cracks, you know, the stuff I forgot, the stuff I ran out of, and the stuff I didn’t need… until suddenly I did. (Looking at you, marshmallows and Japanese rice vinegar.)

Here’s my current market lineup, ranked by function, not affection:

• Trader Joe’s – meats, veggies, fruits, dairy, chips, and those peanut butter-filled pretzel nuggets I pretend are “protein.”

• Walmart – cleaning supplies, paper goods, Diet Coke, and humble pie

• Albertson’s – candy and random recipe saviors

Let’s get real: prices are outrageous.

Mid-2024, I paid $2.29 for a dozen jumbo eggs. Today? $4.49. And I don’t care how “happy” the chickens are, I’m not thrilled about paying double.

Wrapped hothouse cucumbers? Used to be $0.99. Now? $1.69. For one skinny cucumber that will still go mushy before I finish it.

Milk, butter, orange juice… everything I plop in my cart feels like it needs its own payment plan.

I try to be a good shopper. I look for sales, buy store brands, download the apps, and use digital coupons (sigh, I actually miss clipping paper coupons on Sunday mornings; it was a whole ritual).
And it’s still not enough.

These days, I sometimes put items back on the shelf.
Me. Putting things back.
That never used to happen. If I wanted it, I bought it; simple.
Now? If it’s only for me, it often goes back. (Not always. But often.)

There are some bargains:

• Pasta at Trader Joe’s: $0.99 for a 1-lb. bag, any shape.

• Triple-milled lavender bath bars under $5.

• Walmart’s Diet Coke, Arizona iced tea, and avocados? Consistently cheaper than other markets.

• And Albertson’s? Always good for a “2 for $whatever” sale on Hershey’s dark chocolate bars. (Essential. Don’t judge.)

So yes, I’m disgruntled. I can try to put a little humor into the situation, but let’s be honest:
If you’re low-to-middle income in this country, the rise in food prices is more than frustrating. It’s disastrous.

And when they rise again, and they will, what then?

Every city has food banks. And more and more low- and middle-income families are turning to them, not out of laziness or greed, but because they simply can’t make the math work anymore.

Food banks help our neighbors stay fed and stay healthy.

So please: find your local food bank and consider donating.
Some ask for canned or boxed items. Others prefer monetary donations.
Whatever you’re comfortable with, it makes a difference.

And yes! You absolutely have my permission to put a little “extra goodness” in your cart.
Thank you.

Two weeks of wall-to-wall “Epstein files” coverage, and America’s most slippery toad is once again blaming everyone but himself.

For the last fourteen days straight, every television or radio news broadcast has blared the same two names in an endless loop: EPSTEIN. tRUMP.

By the end of tRump’s first term, the mere sound of his voice triggered my gag reflex. Seriously. During his 2024 “comeback tour”, I hit mute so often the remote button wobbled. I honestly didn’t realize how deeply he’d burrowed with his MAGAs, into the newly released Epstein files, until this month’s document‑dump circus.

To me, tRump has always been a slimy toad. I envisioned him spring-loading from lily pad to lily pad, scandal to scandal, just fast enough to avoid sinking. Now he’s hopping onto Epstein’s island, croaking “fake files” while his attorney general forces the FBI to flag every scrap of paper with his name on it. Ribbit, pass the disinfectant.

My (very blunt) take? Trump’s decades-long trail of repugnant comments towards underage girls convinces me he harbors blatant predatory impulses and feels he has no reason to keep quiet about them. Well, at least until now!

He’s bragged on air that Howard Stern could call Ivanka “a piece of ass,” then agreed he’d date her “if she weren’t my daughter.” Politico/Howard Stern, 2004.

On national TV in 1994, while cradling newborn Tiffany, he commented on her future breasts, “Just like her mother’s.” Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, 1994.

Add in the Miss Teen USA contestants who swear he barged into their backstage dressing room while they were half‑naked, Buzzfeed interview 2016, (which he proudly boasts about), and the pattern is impossible to ignore.

That’s more than “locker‑room talk.” In my opinion, it’s a red‑flashing warning sign of a man sexually fascinated by little girls decades younger than himself. Call it what you will; I call it predatory.

I believe Epstein kept a list of friends with more “unique” sexual proclivities. I believe tRump did give Epstein that signed, somewhat bawdy birthday card. I believe the “secret” tRump refers to in that card was their shared enjoyment of pedophilia.

And what do we hear from the so‑called “family values” party? Hello? Hello? Crickets, not even to question the rampant allegations.

“No comment.”, House Speaker Mike Johnson said when asked about the new filings, July 14, 2025.

“Haven’t seen the documents.”, Sen. Lindsey Graham, July 15, 2025.

“House Republicans on Monday night voted 5‑6 to kill my amendment that would have forced the DOJ to publish all Epstein files.”, Rep. Ro Khanna recapping the Rules Committee vote. Axios, July 14, 2025.

“Stefanik’s office did not answer an inquiry asking if she’d back releasing the files.” Washington Examiner, July 18, 2025.

The Republican Party is reluctant to even acknowledge MAGA’s displeasure. Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. Remain silent. It will go away.

Except in the lives of many little girls.

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An Open Letter to Congressman Ken Calvert District 41 - California

Posted July 14, 2025
By Stephanie A. Weinberg

On July 3, 2025, you cast your vote in favor of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act.

I emphasize the word vote, because yours was a deliberate action, one that carries profound consequences for millions of Americans, including your own constituents here in California’s 41st District.

Let’s look at what you endorsed:

• $1.2 trillion in Medicaid cuts
  According to the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office, this will result in 10.9 million Americans losing their health insurance.

• $186 billion in SNAP (food assistance) cuts
  These cuts are expected to eliminate benefits for 5 million Americans, many of them children, seniors, and working families.

These are not theoretical numbers. These are the consequences of enacted policy.
And they represent the largest rollback of the social safety net in modern U.S. history.

So I ask you, very plainly:

• How many of your constituents will lose access to health care?

• How many families in our district will face food insecurity?

• How many rural hospitals or local clinics will close because of your vote?

You had a choice.
You made it.

The people you work for, your constituents, deserve to know why you supported legislation that so clearly harms the vulnerable, the elderly, the sick, and the working poor.

If you have a rationale beyond ideology or party loyalty, I invite you to share it.
If you do not, I urge you to reflect on the real-world impact of your decision and the human cost that comes with it.

—

Stephanie Weinberg
Palm Desert, CA
Registered Voter in CA-41

Staring at a blank sheet of paper unnerves me.

My blog inspirations sneak in from anywhere: an overheard conversation, a news headline, a random memory, or, in one recent case, a Facebook post.

That blog started as a comment, just a quick reply to someone’s opinion. But by the time I was halfway through my response, I realized two things: (1) they weren’t looking for a monologue, and (2) I had way too much to say. So, I cut and pasted my ramblings into a new document and shaped them into a blog post.

I have always enjoyed writing, but I never considered myself a writer. As I approached my late 60s, something shifted. I’d grown comfortable in my skin and comfortable with simply being. I wanted to write about my comfort and anything else that came to mind. My husband, my forever cheerleader, encouraged me (as he does with all my brilliant ideas) to explore writing.

Still, it remained just that: an idea.

Until around my 70th birthday.

I don’t know why, but that birthday did a number on my mind. I loved turning 50. I loved turning 60. But turning 70? Seventy is old, right? Seventy means I might start snarling at children, forgetting names, or wandering into a room and wondering why I’m there.

Then it hit me, I’ve always done all three. That realization gave me comfort. It “braved me up,” so to speak.

My thoughts don’t always translate easily into writing. Once I wrangle them onto the page, I spend time shaping them into something coherent. Four drafts of a single blog post? Totally normal for me.

I hand-picked my first few readers from work and play, friends I trusted to read my posts and give honest feedback. Some did. Some didn’t. And to those who did, and offered pointers and encouragement: you are a blessing. To those who didn’t, I still love you, and I get it.

I began writing on February 2, 2025. This is blog post number sixty.

My readership has grown substantially since I started, and I’m deeply grateful. Thank you to my original 27 readers. And to my actual subscribers: you’ve given me more confidence than you could ever know.

All of you, go have an extra dirty martini with two blue cheese-stuffed olives. You’ve earned it.

I’m witnessing the rapid mental decline of the President of the United States, on display almost daily.
His increasingly delusional behavior is causing widespread anxiety and distress across the country. His inability to maintain focus for more than a few moments is now painfully obvious, and his grasp on reality is slipping right before our eyes.

Unfortunately, what remains disturbingly clear, to both him and me, is his obsession with enacting his darkest inner fantasies: the targeting and dehumanization of people of color.

With the passage of the so-called “Big Beautiful Bill,” Trump has secured funding for his nightmarish vision, including the expansion of his legalized terrorist group, ICE, an agency that now functions more like a paramilitary force than an immigration bureau.

Arbitrary detentions, brutal beatings, and the use of cages within concentration camps to imprison men, women, and children have become terrifyingly normalized.

And while Trump may no longer possess the mental acuity to mask his intentions, his long-time advisor Stephen Miller appears to be firmly at the helm.

If Trump dreams it, Miller drafts the blueprint and sees it through.

In my opinion, Trump is now so cognitively damaged that Miller holds free rein to unleash his own, even more horrifying visions.

(Dear Readers, more on Stephen Miller in a later blog.)

I can’t possibly be the only citizen witnessing Trump’s mental decline.
And I know I’m not the only one who’s angry and repulsed by ICE.

I’m not capable of staying quiet.
I can’t force myself to look away.

I’m calling and writing my congressman.
I’m writing to my senators.
And I’ll keep doing it—because silence is complicity.