The message popped up on Substack: “Hi Darling.”
I stared at it for a solid ten seconds before muttering, “What the hell?” under my breath.
I’m old enough to have burned my pantyhose in the name of liberation, and some random man on the internet still thinks that’s an acceptable greeting?
A few days before this, on Reddit, another enlightened soul asked, “But what happens when your looks fade?”
Spoiler alert: they don’t fade — they evolve, like everything else that refuses to die quietly.
Then came a polite rejection from a certain “women’s publication” to which I’d submitted a proposal, hoping they might recognize a kindred spirit. The rejection wasn’t personal, just “not the right fit.”
Fair enough — but I couldn’t help smiling at the irony. I’d spent decades helping pave the road they now strut down in high boots and hashtags.
It reminded me of a letter Rosemary Thurber sent to my friend Vonnie and me back when we founded our little dream project, Uppity ♀️ Publishing, in 1995.
Vonnie and I self-published a book called Every Woman’s Handbook through our own small company, Uppity ♀️Publishing. Our inspiration came from our work at a resource center helping domestic violence victims rebuild their lives. These women, often in crisis, couldn’t absorb too much at once. So we gathered quotes and words of encouragement — little reminders of hope — and began handing them out on sticky notes.
Eventually, we compiled those messages into a small purple book as a way to raise awareness and funds for local resource centers. Naturally, we had to request permission from the original authors and estates.
When we reached out about a line from James Thurber, his widow, Rosemary, graciously granted permission — and then, with the kind of flair only an uppity woman can manage, added this postscript:
“From one uppity woman to two others, I must tell you that being requested to ‘return the enclosed permission form immediately’ was more than just a little bit off-putting. Some of us uppitys might even be tempted to dig in our heels just ever so slightly!”
I still grin every time I think of it. That’s the lineage I claim: women who speak their truth with humor and precision, who refuse to be rushed, hushed, or reduced. Rosemary Thurber’s note should be embroidered on a pillow and handed out with every birth certificate that says “female.”
To those uppity editors who replied, “not the right fit,” I say: sweet ones, I love your boldness, your hashtags, your righteous rage. But please, remember: the fire you dance around was lit by women who couldn’t even get a credit card without their husband’s signature.
I’m all for the new wave — honestly — but a little reverence wouldn’t kill them. We marched so they could tweet. The least they could do is nod in our direction before hitting “send.”
Some days I feel like building my own gated community — not to keep people out, but to keep my sanity in.
Entry requires integrity — the foundation of respect, authenticity, and truth.
And an understanding that calling me “Darling” is not a compliment.