S.O.B.'s

A dear friend of mine is being harassed; I'm just putting it out there in the universe: Knock it off. Or else.

For simplicity's sake, I'll refer to the offender as "Jack" (yes, that's short for jack-ass). Jack has made the mistake of targeting a single woman that lives alone and works for a living. A law-abiding citizen who owns her home and doesn't want to move. I'll call her "Jill".

Jill got a visit from the po-lice last week, after an anonymous complaint. Presumably made by Jack, as he was seen prowling around a day earlier, then his fingers did the walking to 9-1-1. The po-lice took a look around, found the complaint to be unfounded, and left. Good job.

But Jill was rattled. And she let a few of her friends know. And we offered her our unconditional support, in all its forms.

I suspect most of her friends are like me: well past 40, comfortable with our place in the world (if not with the world itself), undeterred by a long road trip, own a gun and know how to use it, and not inclined to allow a loved one to get pushed around. We don't go looking for trouble, but learned a long time ago that running from it doesn't get you anywhere. I call this demographic SOB's: Scary Old Broads. Our kids think we're old but our parents don't. We've done childbirth and lived with teenagers, we've made mistakes and have regrets, we've looked death in the face once or twice. This is not a ladies' social club; we know how to carry the water and which end of the bull stinks.

So universe please give Jack a message from me: Go ahead. Poke mama-bear and see what happens. I suggest you take your over-sized ego and insignificant manhood and find a better use for your dialing fingers.

Or you'll find out what SOB's do to sumbitches who mess with one of our own.