Where have you been allllll myyyyy liiiiife? Rihanna wants to know. Fair. But she’s asking the wrong woman the wrong question — because the real scandal isn’t where you’ve been. It’s where I’ve been.

So. About the last year.

I’d love to tell you I disappeared to do something glamorous — a silent retreat in Bali, a torrid affair with a sommelier, a deep spiritual awakening that left me too enlightened to type. The truth is more pedestrian: life happened, the blog didn’t, and every time I sat down to write, my own website looked at me like a DMV form. Buttons. Plugins. “Update required.” A theme that fought me like a cat going into a carrier.

Turns out the thing standing between me and my opinions was software. Insulting, really. I have NEVER been short on opinions. I’ve been short on patience.

So I burned it down. (Digitally. Calm down.) New home, same me. Less wrestling with the website, more telling you what I think about the stuff nobody admits out loud — the ugly clothing trends, the indignities our aging bodies inflict on us without consent, why your brain drafts a grocery list at the least appropriate moments, and yes, eventually, the Cybertruck. Why are people actually buying that thing?

If you're new here: I opine, I observe, I obsess. Opinions are mine and not up for debate (challenging an opinion is a waste of a perfectly good afternoon). Observations spark questions. Obsessions are the crap that makes me throw my hands up and say words my mother wouldn't approve of. It's gender-neutral, it's not for the faint of heart, and it operates on the firm belief that most people are wearing leather and lace under their work clothes — or wish they were.

Here's the part where I ask something of you, which I hate doing, so I'll do it fast: hit subscribe. It's free. It means the next O lands in your inbox instead of relying on you to remember I exist — a big ask in this economy of attention. No website to navigate, no carrier-cat energy, just me showing up uninvited in your email like the friend who always has a story.

So let’s get back to it. I’ll talk (fine, write). You listen (fine, read). Nod, recoil, comment, or just let your inner voyeur enjoy the show.

Preview: skydiving! tattoos. blue water! red light for your hoo-ha?

So — where have I been? Doesn’t matter. I’m here now, the song’s still playing, and I missed this. Don’t tell anyone I said that.

Should I sell my Feet?

It starts like most great ideas do: in a group chat, half-drunk,. “Should I sell my feet?” I ask. The silence that follows is not judgment. It’s research. One reply appears, “Duh.” The next one includes a wikiHow link. Suddenly, I’m not joking. Suddenly, I’m wondering if my second toe being longer is a niche market. I’m wondering where I put that toe ring from last summer.

This is how it begins. This is how the feet go public.

Toes for Cash, Confidence for Free

We live in a world where everything is monetizable: your attention span, your dating life, your leftover food prep meal (HelloMold) ingredients. Why not feet?

I’ve sold my time. I’ve sold my brain-power. I’ve sold my 20s to a job that thinks “pizza Fridays” are a personality. Why not sell the one part of me no one in corporate has ruined yet? My pristine, pedicured tootsies.

It’s not even that weird anymore. There are spreadsheets, rate cards, market guides. It’s Etsy, but for body parts. And the more I look, the more I wonder: which part of the foot or set of feet has the most followers? Toes? Heels? Arches? And would I stop at the foot, what about back-of-the-neck girlies? Elbow guys? The shadowy underworld of wristbone enthusiasts? Is there a dark market for knees? Someone, somewhere, is already into it, maybe I should sell ’em what they’re looking for.

Faceless Parts Anonymous

Let’s be honest: feet are just the gateway drug. First it’s soles, then it’s ankles. Next thing you know, I’m staging sultry photos of my clavicle like it’s 1823 and collarbones are illegal. The economy may be mid, but niche content is thriving. I could be three months away from running an entire faceless empire: feet, hands, knees, and (if things get desperate) earlobes.

The best part? No one has to know it’s me. I could be two fake usernames and a watermark away from financial freedom. Wouldn’t you rather fund your iced latte habit via pinky toe selfies than another depressing freelance invoice?

Conclusion: I Have the Range

So… should I sell my feet?

It’s 2025. Morality is a suggestion and everything’s content.

Until then, I’ll be moisturized, pedicured, and watching the DMs like a hawk. Not because I want to sell my feet. Just because I like knowing someone out there would pay.

And really, isn’t that the dream?

O Rating:

Let’s do it! Feet? Knuckles? Tongues? Snap those pics.

Big O Mood: Brain in overdrive.

The post Money for nuthin’ appeared first on The Big O.

Curated. Chaotic. Comforting.

The scene: If social media apps were places, would you be shopping, dancing or oversharing in a support circle? An unofficial Gen-Xers survival guide to the social media in 2026.

Instagram is a Mall (for those of you who remember what that is)

Polished. Suspiciously perfect.

You walk in with a goal – one store, maybe two. one item. okay, maybe two. Two hours later, multiple bags in hand, are you satiated or just left wanting more? The all-too-familiar feeling. You hit that little Insta icon and tell yourself “just 5 minutes.” Yeah, good luck with that.

You’re hoping your #FYP pulls up that hot guy (or girl, or both) that you love to ‘watch’ do whatever it is they are doing that day. Jumping rope (have you seen that guy?!) Working out. Telling Dad jokes. Attempting the latest dance craze. BOOM – POP- POW – 30 or 40 minutes later, you are left unsatisfied, possibly unworthy (are your eyebrows up-to-snuff?) and wanting more, just like when you walked out of the mall (or had that horrible date.)

TikTok is a Rave.

No rules. No time to process. One second you are watching a cat chase a laser light, the next a group of kids using slime to explain quantum physics. It’s chaotic, while euphoric. You want out but NEED to stay in, “just one more minute.” You become ten feet tall and bulletproof thinking “I can do that” with each 15 or 30 sec dance or workout bit you watch. It’s now 3:00 am and you have aged a decade while making a mental note of 10 new beauty products, shapewear and red light therapy contraptions that you MUST have.

And finally, Reddit is Group Therapy that can also be an Orgy

No music. No filters. You and a roomful of strangers trauma-dumping and making appliance recommendations with alarming sincerity. And if you want intimacy (of all sorts), you can drill into subreddits. It is never-ending maze of random commentary, open space bitching and then some actually decent content – exactly like therapy!

How do I choose?

Depending on your mood o’ the moment

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Instagram: Be pretty, be polished, be pretend.

TikTok: Be loud. Be real. Laugh-out-loud and get outta there in 5 seconds (so many jokes, so little time).

Reddit: Be anonymous. Be weird. be naughty. Be ready for nuance (and most likely a heated debate about air fryers)

Consider the irony – socials are supposed to bring us together and connect us. While it has, it’s merely the new definition of connection. You can curate a whole new life, you can easily escape your existing one or you can simply be reminded that you are not the only one to Google “How to apologize to my goldfish.”

Happy scrolling, just don’t forget to logoff… eventually.

Vibe O’ the Day: Confessing my addiction to blue lights and media outlets

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The post Demented and sad, but social! appeared first on The Big O.

The scene: There are two types of people in this world: those who admit to structuring their day around bathroom logistics, and liars.

Let’s talk about it—the unspoken calculus behind every meeting, commute, shopping trip and coffee refill: When can I go? Where will I go? Will I be alone? And the most crucial question of all: Will there be noise-covering ambient music or will I be forced to layer in a strategically-timed cough?

We’ve normalized Slack statuses for everything from “deep work” to “picking up sourdough starter,” but no one dares write: “BRB, praying for an empty stall” or “BRB, coffee kicked in.”

And oh, the stall dilemma. Nothing says “designed by someone who hates humans” like the American public restroom: inch-wide gaps, mystery fluids, and those paper-thin hiney hiders that neither hide your hiney nor your shame. Meanwhile, Europe? They give you walls. A door that touches the floor. A full-blown room where your dignity can stay intact while your intestines panic in peace

But here in the U.S.? You’re a pair of shoes, a nervous shuffle, and the deafening sound of your own betrayal echoing in porcelain.

Remote Work: The Great Equalizer (and Unclencher)

Let’s be honest: the single best part of working from home isn’t your dog, or ditching your commute, or attending meetings in pajama bottoms.

It’s the bathroom autonomy.

No stall roulette. No awkward eye contact as you both pretend you’re not waiting for the same toilet. No wondering if your boss recognizes your shoes under the divider. Just you, your private porcelain throne, and the sweet, sweet silence of dignity.

Remote work gave us freedom—from geography, from dress codes, from microwave fish in the shared kitchen. But most importantly? It gave us back our bodily privacy. And we’re not going back.

Remember the early days of WFH, when no one scheduled meetings between 12:00 and 1:00 because we all collectively respected “lunch + bowel movement buffer time”? It was an unspoken golden age. Glorious. Human. Brief.

Of course, now we’ve collapsed back into back-to-back Zooms, and the panic has simply migrated. You’re muted, camera off, speed-walking to the bathroom like it’s a high-stakes pit stop. You return three minutes later, breathless, trying to act like you were just grabbing a water/sweater/charger etc. But your mic is hot, and someone definitely heard a flush.

Back-to-Back Zooms and the Bio Break Ballet

Somewhere around Month 8 of remote work, we collectively forgot how to take a break—but our bladders (colon) did not. Suddenly every hour of the day is triple-booked, and you find yourself jumping from client call to team sync to “quick 15?” without even time to blink, let alone pee (ok poop.)

There is no phrase more vulnerable—more human—than “I just need to step away for a quick bio break.” It’s the corporate version of whispering “I have a body and it has needs.” And somehow, saying it out loud in a meeting with leadership feels more taboo than accidentally screen-sharing your therapy notes.

Let’s normalize it. Let’s embrace it. You take your bio break, Brenda.

Because we might live in a world of metrics, mute buttons, and branded virtual backgrounds—but behind every calendar block is a human being doing their best not to explode before the all-hands.

So next time you feel that flush of anxiety, remember—you’re not alone. You’re just human. And your body isn’t broken. It’s just on a schedule no calendar app can quite accommodate.

Now go. Literally.

Vibe O’ the Day: Holding it together… barely.
Part caution, part catharsis, all-too-human

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The post Flush with Anxiety appeared first on The Big O.

The scene: Let’s set the record straight: Barbie didn’t give me a complex about my waist-to-hip ratio. A response to a trending Meme.

Barbie gave me, and I wonder if others, something much darker, much more formative—Barbie taught me that once that head pops off, there’s no going back.

Forget body image. Let’s talk about Barbie trauma.
One minute she’s twirling around in a sequined cocktail dress (at 10 a.m., naturally), the next, your brother has yanked her head clean off, and you’re staring into the cold, plastic socket of loss.

You try to fix it. You try shoving it back on with the stubborn force only a furious child can summon. It never fits the same – END OF STORY. Her neck is too long, her head wobbles like she’s perpetually confused, nothing will be the same.

This was my first experience with irreversible consequences.

Barbie didn’t teach me to hate my body. She taught me:

Trust is fragile (especially if Ken, ok- Love- is involved).

Tan lines are forever, but neck joints are not.

You should never leave a sister, or my brother, alone with scissors, especially if she’s “giving Barbie bangs.”

And yes, maybe she did have impossibly long, thin legs, but didn’t most marketable ladies in the ’80s – our older selves now understand the amphetamine and cocaine usage of that decade.

Let’s save that discussion for another night.

Back to Babs – the real message was this: Barbie could be anything—astronaut, surgeon, dolphin trainer—and she did it all with a wardrobe that fit in a tiny pink suitcase. But once that head popped off , she was done. No ER visit, no resurrection.
Done. Finished.

Kaput. Finito.

So no, I don’t blame Barbie for body issues.
I blame her for my intense fear of commitment, breakage, and futile attempts at trying to repair things that are obviously broken.

Thanks for the life lessons, B.

Vibe O’ the Day: A Meme started a memory, so why not write about it.

The post A Lesson in Decapitation appeared first on The Big O.

Last week, someone called me a cougar.

The scene: I’m 50(ish). He’s 42. That’s not a scandal, that’s a Netflix age gap. Eight years and suddenly I’m out here being cast as some wild jungle cat with a thirst for young blood?

Bitch, please.

Let me break this down: when a man dates younger, he’s “successful.” When a woman does it, she’s a cougar. I didn’t pounce—I just existed, confidently, in my prime. And that alone seemed to trigger the wildlife metaphors.

If being attractive, self-assured, and unbothered makes me a “cougar,” then get me my own nature docuseries. But let’s get something straight: I’m not stalking anyone. If anything, they come sniffing around me.

This isn’t about age—it’s about energy. And mine is seasoned, sexy, and selective. Call it what you want. I call it thriving.

At The Big O, we embrace the things people try to turn into punchlines—and turn them into power. So yeah, I’ve got the claws. I’ve got the confidence. Sometimes I’m the hunter and sometimes I’m the prey.

Have you been labeled lately? Drop it in the comments if ya want to discuss.

Vibe O’ the Day: A little bit flattered and a little hung over.

The post I am woman, hear me… appeared first on The Big O.

My Take: Someone called you on your bullshit and now you must assasinate them via cryptic FB or Insta messages and bad vibes.

People who can’t handle the mirror will try to break the one holding it. If they’re trashing your name, just know you’ve probably upgraded your peace and exposed their plot holes.

I sorta thrive on hearing that I have been the topic of a trash-sesh. Let them talk, Let them trash you. It says so much more about them than it ever will about you.

Oh This one hits like holy water to a narcissist.

Mood O’ the Day: Mess w/ me, I dare ya.

The post Thursday is Trash Day appeared first on The Big O.

My Take: Golden in theory – Convenient in practice.

Silence can be powerful. It can be graceful. It can also be manipulative, evasive, or just plain lazy.

Let’s not confuse “maturity” with conflict avoidance wrapped in a soft-focus quote.

Because

Sometimes… the last word is necessary.
Sometimes… it’s how you hold your boundary.
Sometimes… it’s how you stop the gaslighting.
And sometimes… it’s just you being clear, calm, and done.

We all know people who weaponize silence and call it virtue. They disappear, say nothing, and then act like that’s the high road. Newsflash: the high road has Wi-Fi and accountability.

So yes—know when to be silent. But also know when to speak up. When to end the conversation with intention, not ego.

And if that just so happens to be the last word?
Own it. Say it well. Then walk away with your head high and your dignity intact.

Vibe O’ the Day: Sassy with a splash of I said what I said!

The post They say speech is silver, I say it’s platinum appeared first on The Big O.

I say F-you to that, okay, unless it’s something positive. But still, it can’t be for the gain of others (which these days it usually is). We toss around the term “influencer” in such a cavalier manner and now the latest – Granfluencers. Influencers over the age of 50. Yup, you read that right.

50! F-I-F-T-Y! FIVE-Oh! What in granny’s name? Who they callin “Gran?”

Ok, ok, in technicality, just over 50% of women age 50 and older DO have a grandchild. But still, stop with the Granny label, it’s gross. Almost as gross as being an influencer for your own personal gain.

PEOPLE! Think about it, (and you know you don’t need to think very hard) influencers are rarely there to help you. Yes, getting instant style ideas for your body type or make-up inspo is AH-mazing, but heed warning – most of these folks are doing it for THEIR own benefit. To fill their pockets.

Don’t get me wrong, kudos to them – hustlers they are, brand ambassadors, sharing associate links getting a commish on your sale.

Just be smart, people, please. They know absolutely nothing more than you do but they will influence, they will increase sales and they will benefit – leaving you with another delivery, another unreturned item and probably some magnetic eyelashes that you just never figured out.

Rant over!

The post Obsession: “X”fluencers appeared first on The Big O.

I do enjoy the espresso martini. A simple one, no irish cream. It’s always an adventure ordering one – as the recipes seem to vary by region, time of day, type of establishment and bartender (or are they called mixologists now?).

So, what makes them differ?

• The Vodka – again, I am a purist, but some folks use vanilla vodka, others layer in the espresso or coffee flavored vodkas

• Coffee v Espresso – I can’t even believe we are having this conversation, but yes, not even 2 days ago I had an espresso martini made with COFFEE.

• The Liqueur – To add to the depth of the cocktail, a good coffee liqueur is called for.

• Don’t be a lazy shaker. Don’t even present me with an espresso martini unless it has an expertly crafted layer of caramel colored foam.

• Speaking of lazy – they now offer premixed cocktails at your local liquor store where all you have to do is pour, shake and serve. No judgement here, as long as said pouring, shaking and serving is taking place around a campfire.

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