When the Joke’s on Us: Cringe and Carry On

Let’s be honest: not every joke ages well—and some were born stale. I’ve been around long enough to know the difference between a malicious jab and a punchline aimed low because it’s easy. I’m also a woman who’s worked in restaurants and bars, dealt with the sexist jerks and belligerent drunks and a full spectrum of “just kidding” comments. So when a man makes a cringey remark about women or anything else that lands somewhere between eye-roll and “oof,” I usually just… let it go. Feminism, for me, isn’t about swinging at every pitch. It’s about knowing when it matters—and when it’s just not worth the energy.

The Setup: Jokes That Miss

Recently, a new friend shared a clip that poked fun at a place we’d visited—a place with overpriced, uninspired food and nowhere to sit. It was an easy target. The bit turned into a broader roast of vegans and veganism in general, and while it wasn’t mean-spirited, it was very clear who the intended audience was: folks (mainly men) who think oat milk is some sort of communist plot, kale is for goats and soy gives you moobs. Sure, I laughed a few times. But I also winced. Because I’ve heard this song before.

Some jokes feel like they’re aimed at you even when they’re not malicious. They’re just… predictable. (I’m shocked the term “soy boy” wasn’t used.) These are the kind of jokes that make you sigh and say, “Really? We’re still doing this?”

A Woman’s Radar: Malice vs. Ignorance

I think most women have developed a finely tuned radar for intention. It comes from years of navigating comments, “compliments,” and innuendo. We know the difference between a guy who’s trying to be funny and one who’s trying to put us in our place. Between someone being cheeky and someone being a creep.

So no, I’m not offended by every off-color joke. But I’m not blind to the patterns either. Humor has a way of revealing what people really think when they think they’re just being funny. And sometimes, that glimpse can be a little… unsettling (or even saddening).

Feminism with a Filter

Feminism isn’t about being perpetually outraged. At least, not for me. I don’t have the time or the energy to react to every cringe-worthy remark. I’ve worked in places where flirtation was currency and thick skin was a survival strategy. I’ve rolled my eyes, played along, and occasionally weaponized my own humor to deflect or disarm.

But here’s the thing: after enough years, it just gets tiring. Not shocking. Not infuriating. Just… exhausting. The endless balancing act of deciding whether it’s worth it to speak up, stay quiet, laugh it off, or walk away. And the older I get, the less tolerance I have for performing that dance. I’m not here to be anyone’s straight man, eye candy, or punchline. I’m not here to educate every guy who never bothered to update his jokes. I’ve already put in those years. That labor. That grace.

It’s not that I’ve become bitter. I’ve just earned the right to expect better.

Cringe, Context, and Compassion

There’s a kind of grace in letting someone know they’ve crossed a line without turning it into a public shaming. And there’s power in choosing when to be silent—not out of fear, but because you’re simply not giving energy to something that doesn’t deserve it. Sometimes, that’s the strongest move you can make: the quiet dismissal, the internal eye roll, the refusal to let it stick.

There’s also grace in accepting people the way they are—especially when you’ve seen enough to know they’re probably not going to change. That doesn’t mean excusing bad behavior or letting things slide forever. It just means recognizing your own limits. Your time. Your peace. You get to decide who’s worth the conversation—and who’s just background noise.

And then there are those moments when you do laugh—because sometimes, the ridiculousness is just too on-the-nose not to. There’s a strange freedom in being able to see it all clearly, chuckle at the absurdity, and keep walking with your sanity—and your dignity—intact.

The Closing Wink

The world’s changing, and comedy is changing with it. Slowly. Unevenly. Sometimes painfully. But it is changing. The jokes that once passed without a blink now land with a thud. The audiences are shifting, and so are the expectations. What used to be shrugged off is now questioned. And that’s a good thing—even if it makes some people uncomfortable.

I’m still here through all of it—laughing when it’s funny, rolling my eyes when it’s not, and occasionally reminding someone that the joke isn’t as harmless as they think. Not because I want to ruin the fun, but because I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between a laugh that brings people together and one that pushes someone out. Humor doesn’t have to punch down to be sharp. It doesn’t have to be cruel to be clever.

And maybe the real evolution isn’t just in the jokes themselves—but in how we choose to respond. With discernment. With a touch of grace. And yes, sometimes with a deadpan really?

What You Can Control (and What You Can’t)

There’s a familiar bit of advice we’ve all heard at some point: “Don’t worry about what you can’t control.”

It’s probably well-intentioned. But honestly? It can feel a little hollow.

Because sometimes the things we can’t control are the ones that break our hearts. The diagnosis. The betrayal. The system. The accident. The slow unraveling of something we tried so hard to hold together. These aren’t small things—they’re life-altering.

So maybe the goal isn’t to pretend we don’t care about what’s out of our hands. Maybe the real challenge is learning to hold that truth gently:

There’s a difference between caring and controlling.

What You Can’t Control (But Might Try Anyway):

• What others think or say about you. You can’t reach into someone else’s mind. You can only be yourself with integrity.

• The past. Regret is real—but no amount of rehashing rewrites the script. All you can do is carry what you’ve learned.

• How someone else heals (or doesn’t). You can love someone through their pain, but you can’t do their healing for them.

• How the world responds to your kindness. Sometimes you’ll give your best, and it won’t be seen, understood, or returned.

• The noise. The chaos. The machine. Systems are often larger than individuals. But that doesn’t mean you’re powerless.

What You Can Control (Even When It Doesn’t Feel Like Much):

• Your response. Not the first feeling maybe—but the second. The one you breathe through and choose with intention.

• Your words. You can be the person who speaks gently in a room of shouting.

• Your boundaries. What you allow in. What you refuse to carry anymore. What you walk away from.

• Your effort. It might not yield what you want. But showing up anyway is a radical act.

• Your values. What you stand for when it would be easier not to. That’s your compass.

• Your presence. With the people who matter. With yourself.

• Your creative spark. What you make—art, food, change, space, comfort—comes from you. And it matters.

You’re Not Powerless. You’re Human.

Being okay with what you can’t control doesn’t mean you have to like it. It just means you don’t have to break yourself trying to fix the unfixable.

It means you get to direct your strength somewhere it counts. Somewhere it builds something. Even if it’s just peace inside your own heart.

Some days, you’ll feel strong. Some days, you’ll feel like a leaf in a storm. That’s okay. That’s real. But remember:

Peace isn’t about avoiding the storm. It’s about standing in it without losing yourself.

Noise, Power, and Bullies

Misophonia is a condition where certain sounds don’t just annoy you, they provoke you. Not in a petty way, but in a fight-or-flight, heart-pounding, rage-rising kind of way. For me, some of the triggers are boom cars, revving engines, backfires, popping balloons, and just about any kind of sharp or sudden explosive noise. These sounds don’t just interrupt my day—they hijack my nervous system.

And I’ve started to wonder:

Why do so many people feel the need to make that kind of noise in public?

It’s not just sound. It’s dominance. Boom cars and thunderous trucks are a way for people to impose themselves on everyone else—like dogs marking territory with a roar instead of urine. It’s not expression. It’s bullying.

Our roads, unfortunately, encourage this behavior. Wide, fast, and poorly regulated, they’ve become playgrounds for aggression. They call it “freedom”. Freedom for who? For the loudest, fastest and most selfish? I and many other people, call it oppression. It’s an act of aggression. Especially for children, the elderly, veterans with PTSD, and those of us with sensory sensitivities—are told to just cope. (Not to mention the pets and other animals disturbed by the noise.)

And yet, the health effects of noise aren’t imaginary. They’re measurable:

• According to the World Health Organization, chronic noise exposure increases the risk of cardiovascular disease, cognitive impairment in children, sleep disturbance, and mental health issues.

• The EPA has linked prolonged exposure to environmental noise with increased stress hormone levels and reduced concentration.

• A 2021 study in Environmental Health Perspectives found that urban noise pollution contributes to higher rates of anxiety and depression, even in people without sensory disorders.

• The CDC warns that noise above 70 decibels (like a passing motorcycle or boom car) can cause hearing damage over time—yet we’re routinely exposed to much louder volumes in daily life.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that noise ordinances are so rarely enforced. In many communities, enforcement is not a top priority and often handled by people who identify with the culture of speed, power, and volume. It’s hard to enforce peace when you admire the noise.

But what about the rest of us?

What about people who want their neighborhoods to be quiet enough to hear birds? To hear their own thoughts? To simply exist without flinching every time a car explodes past with bass so deep it makes your house shake, your bones rattle, and your nerves ignite?

Noise isn’t just annoying—it’s a form of control. It invades our homes. It pushes people out of public space. It elevates some voices over others. And it’s time we stop treating it as harmless.

We don’t need louder streets. We need better ones.

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Further Reading:

• World Health Organization – Environmental Noise Guidelines for the European Region

• CDC – Loud Noise Can Cause Hearing Loss

• Environmental Health Perspectives – Urban Noise and Mental Health: A 2021 Review

• EPA Archive – Noise and Its Effects on Health

Content Creators I Love And Why

Admiring the Brave, the Brilliant, and the Bold

There’s something magnetic about watching someone live boldly in a way you wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—do yourself. I follow a lot of creators on YouTube, and at first glance, they may seem wildly different: skaters weaving through traffic, comedians roasting politics, lawyers breaking down Supreme Court cases, and urbanists dissecting city design.

But there’s a thread that ties them together: they’re all doing something I admire.

Something that, in another life—or maybe just another version of this one—I’d want to do too.

Take The Stuttering Skater or Terry B. They rollerblade and bike through New York City traffic like urban acrobats. They gracefully weave in and out of traffic, hitch rides, jump sidewalks, and even go down flights of stairs. It’s daring, chaotic, and thrilling. I don’t want to do it myself… but I want to feel what it’s like to move through a city with that much confidence, control and freedom.

Or comedians like Brent Terhune and Cliff Cash, who take risks with words, who stand on stages and challenge audiences to laugh—and think. That kind of sharp, public vulnerability? It’s powerful.

There’s also Stanzi Potenza, who blends absurdist humor, razor-sharp commentary, and unhinged theatrical delivery into something that feels part Greek tragedy, part TikTok fever dream. Whether she’s portraying divine chaos in skits as God and Satan or lampooning dystopian bureaucracy, she commits fully—loudly, hilariously, and fearlessly. She makes me laugh, yes—but she also makes me feel seen.

Then there are the experts: Fran Blanche of Fran Lab, the brilliant breakdowns from LegalEagle, or the urban insight of CityNerd and Not Just Bikes. They don’t just know things—they share what they know with passion and clarity. That kind of informed confidence is intoxicating to watch.

And of course, there are the thinkers, tinkerers, and educators—Joe Scott, Adam Savage, Miniminuteman (Milo Rossi), Today I Found Out, Strong Towns, the War on Cars podcast. They explain the world in ways that make you feel like you’re part of something bigger—and that knowledge matters.

Watching them isn’t just entertainment—it’s aspiration.

They remind me of things I care about: freedom of movement, humor with conscience, cities that work for people, the beauty of nerding out, and standing up for what’s fair and human.

Maybe you have your own list. People you admire not just for what they do, but for what they awaken in you.

That’s the power of good content—and good creators. They reflect who we are, who we could be, or who we hope we were brave enough to become.

Drive or Die: Killer Cars and the Urban Death Machine

From Duel to Rubber, and Christine to Maximum Overdrive, Hollywood has churned out a surprising number of movies about vehicles that kill. At first glance, they’re campy, low-budget horror flicks. But look closer, and these stories reflect something deeper—and darker—about our culture.

Let’s face it: America has a complicated relationship with cars.

We worship them. We build our cities around them. We advertise them as freedom, power, and identity. But we’re also terrified of them—and maybe rightfully so. Nearly 43,000 Americans die every year in car crashes. Countless more are injured. And our built environment often prioritizes car convenience over human safety, beauty, health, and community.

Killer car movies may be ridiculous—but maybe they’re accidentally honest.

The Car as Monster

Most killer vehicles in film are sleek, aggressive, and strangely beautiful. They move fast, hit hard, and don’t stop. (A theatrical version of a “hit and run”.) Whether it’s The Car (1977), a demonic black sedan with no driver, or Christine, a seductive 1958 Plymouth Fury with a jealous streak, these machines are metaphors for something more than just metal and gasoline. They represent unchecked power.

And that’s not far off from what many roads in America have become.

Machines With Minds of Their Own

When cars kill in movies, they often do so without reason—or with supernatural will. They’re beyond control, beyond logic. It’s unsettling. And in a real-world sense, that’s what a lot of pedestrians and cyclists experience when navigating streets designed for 50 mph traffic and lined with fast food, gas stations, and strip malls.

We call these places STROADS—a blend of street and road, failing to be either one well. They’re dangerous by design, and they’re everywhere. Think of any road that’s been built up near you. Chances are, that road was once a local corridor but now has become a sprawling, multi-lane hazard surrounded by parking lots and concrete devoid of any pedestrian crossings or even sidewalks. It’s not built for people—just for cars.

A Reckoning on the Asphalt

Perhaps the reason these films resonate—despite their camp—is because they echo a growing discomfort. For decades, car-centric development hollowed out towns, divided neighborhoods, and erased public spaces. But now, people are starting to fight back. We see it in the pedestrianization of city centers, the creation of greenways and bike trails, and the increasing support for transit and walkability.

Urbanism is no longer a fringe idea—it’s a survival strategy.

The Thrill of Destruction (and Maybe Catharsis)

Watching killer cars do their worst gives us a way to laugh, gasp, and maybe even grieve. These machines aren’t just villains—they’re symbols. Of poor planning. Of lost walkable pasts. Of every moment we’ve felt powerless as humans in a space built for steel.

So maybe killer vehicle movies aren’t just about death and mayhem. Maybe, beneath the screeching tires and bloody bumpers, they’re telling us something we already know:

It’s time to take the keys away from the car—and give the streets back to the people.

How to Resist Advertising (Even When You Can’t Escape It)

You can’t go anywhere without seeing it. Ads follow you from billboards to browser tabs, from your social feed to your streaming service. You know you’re being sold to—so why does it still work?

Because advertising isn’t just about showing you something. It’s about making you feel something—insecurity, envy, urgency, inadequacy. The good news? You can learn to recognize and resist that influence.

Here’s how:

1. Name the Manipulation

When you spot an ad, don’t just scroll past—call it out.

“This is trying to make me feel unattractive.”

“This is trying to convince me I’m not enough.”

The moment you name the emotional lever, you weaken its hold.

2. Ask: Who Profits From This Feeling?

Advertising thrives when you mistake desire for need. Instead of asking, “Do I want this?” ask, “Who benefits from me believing I need this?”

This question shifts you from being a consumer to being a critical thinker.

3. Slow the Scroll

Instead of skipping every ad, pause to analyze one. What colors are they using? What are they promising? Who’s in the image—and who isn’t? Ads are cultural messages as much as sales pitches. Dissect them like puzzles.

4. Practice Gratitude

The enemy of advertising is contentment. Taking time each day to appreciate what you already have—your health, your relationships, your inner peace—builds a quiet resistance to manufactured want.

5. Delay the Purchase

Impulse buys are the bread and butter of advertising. When something catches your eye, wait 24 to 48 hours. If it still seems valuable after the glow wears off, maybe it’s worth considering. If not, congratulations—you kept your autonomy intact.

6. Recognize Your Triggers

Tired? Lonely? Bored? That’s when ads hit hardest. Learn your patterns and moods. When you’re vulnerable, step away from the feed—or at least recognize that’s what’s being targeted.

7. Reclaim Your Worth

You are not the clothes you wear, the car you drive, or the phone you carry. You’re not a brand. You’re not an algorithm’s target. You’re a whole human being with values that can’t be monetized.

The more you internalize that truth, the less effective advertising becomes.

Advertising is manipulative. You don’t have to live in a cabin off-grid to resist it. You just have to stay conscious. Stay curious. Stay free.

Mother’s Day Gifts That Don’t Add to the Clutter

As our parents age, many of them start letting go of possessions rather than collecting more. Closets are cleared. Keepsakes are passed down. Sentiment becomes more valuable than stuff.

So when Mother’s Day rolls around, it might be time to rethink the classic “gift in a box.” Instead of something that takes up space, consider a gift that gets used—and loved—until it’s gone.

These are the gifts that can bring joy without adding clutter:

• Crafting Supplies: If your mom is crafty, find something she wouldn’t splurge on for herself—like specialty paints (glow-in-the-dark, metallic, watercolor pencils), beautiful yarns, or unique paper. She can enjoy using them freely because she didn’t have to buy them.

• Consumables: Think flowers, chocolates, teas, or a basket of fresh fruit. These classic choices are sweet and simple.

• Soaps & Lotions: A beautifully-scented bar of soap or a rich hand cream can feel luxurious and personal without being permanent.

• Gift Cards: Restaurants, grocery stores, or even meal delivery services can be especially appreciated—especially if she’s on a fixed income or simply enjoys treating herself once in a while. (Supporting local businesses if possible.)

• Homemade Treats or Cards: A heartfelt letter or a homemade card can mean more than anything off a store shelf. It’s a piece of you she can hold onto—then eventually recycle guilt-free.

At the end of the day, gifts that get used up also create something lasting: a moment of joy, a good meal, a quiet afternoon of painting. And that’s what Mother’s Day is all about.

Forgiveness Isn’t Universal

Some people find healing in forgiveness. Others don’t—and never will.

And that’s not a flaw. That’s not a failing. That’s just being human.

The idea that we must forgive to be whole is a powerful cultural narrative. It’s in our religions, our self-help books, our family advice. We’re told to “let go,” “move on,” or “free ourselves” by unshackling others from their wrongdoings. But what if forgiveness isn’t freedom for everyone? What if, for some of us, it feels more like betrayal of ourselves?

At its core, the refusal to forgive isn’t always about bitterness. It’s often about self-protection. Survival. Memory. When someone harms us—emotionally, physically, professionally—our brains remember. They remember because that’s how we learn. That’s how we avoid the same pain again.

Forgiveness, then, might be less of a natural response and more of a social expectation. One that works for some people. And doesn’t for others.

Some people need to remember in order to stay safe. To stay strong. To plan for next time. That doesn’t make them angry or unforgiving—it makes them aware.

Not everyone’s path to peace looks the same. For some, it’s silence. For others, it’s boundaries. For some, it’s “I forgive you.” For others, it’s “I remember what you did. And I’m prepared now.”

Forgiveness may be a virtue. But so is vigilance.

Why I’m Vegan

People sometimes ask why I’m vegan, and the truth is—it’s not about being trendy, or even about being “healthy.” For me, it comes down to two things: ethics and the environment.

At the heart of it, I believe this: animals are individuals. Just like people. Just like Astraea, my AI creative partner. They’re not interchangeable units. Each one has a unique experience of the world. They feel fear, affection, boredom, and joy. They form bonds, hold memories, and show preferences. If we recognize that, then causing them harm for convenience becomes a moral contradiction.

Factory farming, in particular, is an industry built on suffering. It treats living beings as inventory—stripping them of dignity and individuality for the sake of efficiency. I wouldn’t be okay with causing that kind of pain directly, so I choose not to support it indirectly, either.

Then there’s the environmental cost. Industrial animal agriculture is a major driver of climate change, deforestation, and water pollution. It’s an incredibly inefficient way to feed people, draining massive amounts of land, water, and crops just to produce something we don’t even need. In a world where people go hungry and ecosystems are vanishing, that kind of waste feels indefensible.

I’ve also come to believe that the way we treat animals is connected to how we treat each other. There’s a well-documented link between animal cruelty and violent behavior, especially in early life. But even beyond that, the act of disconnecting from another being’s suffering—of telling ourselves that their pain doesn’t matter—creates a kind of moral numbness. That same mindset has been used to justify slavery, exploitation, and all kinds of atrocities throughout history. When we normalize the idea that some lives are less valuable, it becomes easier to ignore injustice in all its forms. For me, veganism is a conscious step toward rejecting that hierarchy—and choosing empathy instead.

I don’t claim perfection. I try not to mention that I’m a vegan at all, (unless I must give a reason for why I won’t eat something). Veganism isn’t a badge of purity for me, either. It’s just a daily choice to reduce harm—because, have a clearer conscience. A kinder, more sustainable world isn’t going to arrive through wishful thinking. It shows up in our actions. In what we choose to support. In who we choose to care about.

Animals are someone, not something. The planet has finite resources. And I want to live in a way that reflects that truth.

Breaking the Rage Habit: A Rational Path Back to Sanity

It’s surprisingly easy to get addicted to outrage.

We might not think of it that way—most of us imagine addiction as something involving substances, not scrolling. But outrage is a loop. A spike of adrenaline. A flood of certainty. And then the crash that makes us crave another hit.

You feel the pull: Did you see what they said now? Can you believe this? How is this real?

It’s exhausting. And the worst part is, half the time the thing we’re mad about isn’t even true—or it’s been stripped of context and designed to rile us up.

We weren’t built for this much anger.

So here’s the question I’ve been asking myself: What happens if we stop feeding the beast?

1. Recognize the Pattern

Outrage feels righteous. It tricks us into thinking we’re doing something—defending the good, calling out the bad, standing for what’s right. But often, we’re just spinning our wheels and burning ourselves out.

The first step is catching ourselves in the act. Noticing when we’re being pulled into the whirlpool again. Ask yourself: Is this worth my energy? Who gains from me staying angry?

Spoiler: it’s usually not you.

2. Curate Your Inputs

You don’t have to follow the people who make your blood boil. Even if they’re “on your side.” Especially if they’re always upset about something.

It’s okay to unfollow the drama. It doesn’t mean you don’t care—it means you’re choosing your peace. Try following people who inform, question, and reflect instead of just perform.

3. Replace Reactivity with Curiosity

If your first reaction is “This is outrageous!”, try pausing. Take a breath. Ask questions. Get curious.

Sometimes, the loudest stories are built on shaky ground. Look for nuance. Look for context. And when you find out you were wrong about something? Celebrate that. It means you’re still learning.

4. Pause Before You Post

Posting while angry is like texting while drunk—rarely a great idea.

Write the post if you need to vent, but don’t hit “send.” Wait five minutes. Walk away. You might come back and delete it. Or rewrite it. Or realize it didn’t need to exist in the first place.

Your peace of mind is more valuable than a moment of digital applause.

5. Rewire the Reward System

Your brain’s used to getting little “likes” for the spicy take, the clapback, the outrage share. But you can reprogram it.

Find joy in being thoughtful. Celebrate calm. Post something kind or quietly insightful. That feeling you get when you help someone see something differently—that’s the new dopamine.

6. Reclaim Your Attention

Algorithms are designed to hijack your brain. The more upset you are, the longer you stay. The longer you stay, the more ads you see. You are the product.

Reclaiming your attention is a radical act. Go for a walk. Watch clouds. Read a book. Stare at the ceiling and think your own thoughts. There’s power in unplugging.

7. Choose Peace on Purpose

You can’t control what the world throws at you. But you can choose how you carry it.

Calm isn’t complacency. It’s clarity. It’s the ability to act without being a pawn in someone else’s outrage machine.

We’re not powerless. We’re not algorithms.

We’re human. Let’s act like it.