5 Women Mayhem has entered the podcast world!

By the mayhem

Photo by Christopher Masada 

Welcome to 2026, a year of change and trying new things, including a podcast. There are many ways to share stories and the mayhem decided to try something new. We will keep writing and posting blogs because that's what we do. 

Give us a listen and share this conversation about how 5 women mayhem got started by Mary Kay Roth and how it has evolved. Listen to the stories behind the most meaningful blogs and what called us to write about the experiences in our lives and the latest headlines. 

Listen here and share!

Happy New Year and best to you and yours, 

The Mayhem

To Ares Brad, Avery Charlene, Joya Jade, Jack, Mauve and all members of the newest generation to inherit this mess

By JoAnne Young  

It’s the first year of a new generation and, baby, they are being born into some crazy times. Babies born in 2025 are the first official members of Generation Beta that will last until 2039. Their parents are younger Millennials and Gen Zs. Generation Beta isn’t much of a creative handle, so maybe as they age they’ll rename ... Gen AI. Generation Eco. Gen Really?

 

I’m hoping by the time this new generation gets to school, this country and world will be settling down and out from under the influence of the crazy politics we are living through now. No guarantees though. It could get worse before it gets better. By the time they take American History in school, I hope it will be imparted truthfully, and by the time they take science classes,   that it’s still part of the curriculum. 

 

Betas’ education could be highly personalized by AI, and augmented virtually, but that will have its pros and cons. They will be able to do amazing research and see the world virtually, with tours of world-renowned museums, historical sites, natural wonders and space. That’s not a substitute for in person viewing, but better than just photos in a book. 

 

Keep in mind, though, the generations that preceded the Betas have an obligation to teach them, to love them, protect and provide. 

 

Gen Alpha knows its way around technology, but the Beta Babies (and their parents) will have to wrestle with that growing influence of artificial intelligence. Some of the tech products that are becoming must-haves for infants and children include: 

 

*The Owlet Dream Sock that monitors Baby’s pulse rate and oxygen levels in real time. 

*AI that monitors Baby’s breathing with a camera.

*ieGeek Baby Monitor with Night Vision that will babysit, detecting every cry and motion, allowing parents to talk to the little one from another room, and doing a constant check on the temperature and humidity surrounding the little one.  

*A robo Bakebot that will mix ingredients and spit out scratch-made chocolate chippers or whatever cookie the heart desires.

*Alexa and other AI companions that can engage school age kids with interactive conversations, fun facts, games and songs. And they almost never get tired of answering those “why” questions, or the really silly ones. 

 

Who knows what’s next (well, someone does, but it’s not me)? I can speculate, though. Will self-driving cars take these Betas to school and play dates? Will technology allow parents to know where the kids are at all times, even when they don’t want to be located? Will medical research and artificially grown organs keep them healthy and active for at least 100 years?

 

All this innovation in science and engineering comes with caveats. The father of my Gen Alpha grandchildren, Adam, is a coder, programmer, and knows his way around the cyber world. He cares about how these kids will live, what jobs they’ll have, and what will matter most to them. He has helped build the technology that is used daily and that runs our society. What advice would he give to the Betas? For one thing, he said, staying glued to a screen, doesn’t help anyone grow.

 

“Your job is to understand how it works,” he said to the Betas, “and then learn how to step outside of it when you need to (and you need to) ... disengage with the algorithms.”

 

He recommends spending time in nature, hanging out where there’s no internet signal or screens. “Let the real world be your main source of clear, honest information. Explore art and objects you can touch, hold, or make a mess with. Talk to people face-to-face whenever you can.” 

 

That can help us all understand others better and remind us what it means to be human. 

 

Technology moves fast, but the society that surrounds it moves more slowly. “Use what you know about how quickly things can improve to challenge the old, slow rules (the rest of us) always had to follow.” Build something real in the world, for others, and to help you live your best life. 

 

Switching from hardware to the coding that operates each of us from the inside, I will mention a man who turned 88 the year the Betas began their journey. His name is Ernie Chambers and he is a lawmaker and a man of many words. I wish this generation could hear more of his words about how to live freely and justly in this world, but I will share some of what he’s had to say about love and relationships, from when he presided at a wedding in 2020. 

 

Relationships, he said, must be consciously and deliberately worked on each day. As much effort must be put into nurturing them as is exerted by elite athletes, top-flight lawyers and consummate musicians in keeping their skills sharp. They cannot be permitted to drift aimlessly, unattended to. 

 

When it comes to true love, its course never runs in a straight line, even under the best circumstances. Nature abhors a straight line. In music, it is a boring monotone. On a heart monitor, it means the show is over, he explained. 

 

Perfect love casts out not only fear, but jealousy, doubt and distrust. Aim for perfect with that daily effort and attention. And keep in mind that relationships require a magical and enduring combination of heart and mind - so that when the heart, that organ of romance, whimsy, impracticality and emotion - falls into one of its unpredictable moods and goes absent, the mind comes into play and asserts its wisdom, practicality and stabilizing influence. It saves the day by holding the fort until the heart regains its balance and love flows again.

 

Local historian Jim McKee offered the advice he would give to his as-yet-unborn eighth great-grandchild: Accept and embrace change. It is constant, mutable and not dissuaded. 

Redefine compromise. It has become a negative and yet makes all things possible. 

Work in every small way to slow climate change. If we can’t accomplish that, everything else is unimportant. 

 

Here’s a sampling of other advice from family, friends and experienced others. 

 

*  Practice courage doing something scary but not dangerous, says theologian Barbara Brown Taylor. The places you least want to go may have the richest treasures. 

 

* Author Mary Pipher advises: Have mercy on your parents. Play outside. Read books. Be kind to everyone. Musician Jim Pipher says he spent a lot of time in middle and high school dreaming of being in the NBA, shooting baskets, driving around and honking at friends. He should have been taking lessons and practicing to be a better guitar player today, he said. Decide what you care about, get busy with it and don't waste time on stupid stuff.

 

* My son, father of two younger Gen Zs, said: “Optimism is your friend. It can disappoint, but it is better than the alternative.” And know that anger is the punishment you give yourself for someone else’s behavior. 

 

* My daughter advised: “Seeing and getting to know people on a personal level breaks down fear and prejudice.” So have lots of different kinds of people in your life. Different races, different cultures, different abilities, ages, identities. “It’s all enriching.” 

 

Others added: 

 

 * Learn that life is so much more gray than black and white. Lifetime friends can be on opposite sides of issues.

 

* Pay close attention to what is going on around you. It’s the best education. 

 

* Be an independent thinker. Figure out how to verify what is offered as truth and share it. 

 

* Elect a president who will give you a list of their favorite movies and books at the end of each year, even after leaving office. A president who believes in people -- all genders, cultures, races and sexual orientations -- in a most civil way. Who respects the Constitution, inspires hope and advocates for what is best for the people of our country. 

 

* Learn self discipline, self sufficiency and accountability. Focus on your strengths, what you can do, not what you can’t.

 

* Follow your curiosity. Curiosity is your friend, a gentle, forgiving and constant one, says author Elizabeth Gilbert. It’s a hummingbird, going here and there, flower to flower, gathering and pollinating. 

 

* Keep the faith. Never, ever give up, McKee adds. It is all up to you.

 

Scribbling Women

 By Marilyn Moore

“Scribbling Women” was the title of a special exhibit at the International Quilt Museum earlier this fall.  The phrase was taken from a letter written by Nathaniel Hawthorne, a 19th century author; you’ll remember him as the author of “The Scarlet Letter.”  He said, bitterly, “America is now wholly given over to a damn mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public taste is occupied with their trash – and should be ashamed of myself if I did.”  A rising middle class of women in the 19th century meant that women had time to read, and to write…and they did.  In fact, women wrote the era’s best sellers.  Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” sold 300,000 copies in three months. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps’ “Gates Ajar” sold 80,000 copies by 1900.  After an initial printing of 750 copies, Susan Warner’s “The Wide, Wide Word” was in such demand that by 1852 it was on its fourteenth edition.  And Nathaniel Hawthorne?  Leading to his disgruntled statement about scribbling women, “The Scarlet Letter” sold 7700 copies in his lifetime.  His contemporary, Herman Melville, saw 3215 copies of “Moby Dick” sold in his lifetime.  (All information about 19th century books sold is from the “Scribbling Women” exhibit.)

This is not a blog about the quilts, though they were very engaging.  Take a look at the one on the right.  Equality before the Law.   Susan B. Anthony.  Joan of Arc.  Clara Barton.  Louisa Alcott. Elizabeth Browning. Elizabeth C. Stanton.  Quite a cast of learned and activist women.  Quilts such as this were sometimes auctioned for fundraising purposes, including abolitionist societies, Civil War hospitals, and early women's suffrage movements.  May have been a little threatening to some....

This is not a blog about the relative merits of the books written and sold by female and male authors in the 1800’s.  I recognize that “The Scarlet Letter” and “Moby Dick” are more well-known and more likely to have been read today than the books authored by the female writers, with the possible exception of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”  One might ask whether books that are selected as part of a standard reading list are more likely to be selected by male or female scholars….but that’s not what this blog is about, either.  

This blog is about scribbling women, and how very threatened some persons, mostly men, have been by women who write.  Obviously, Mr. Hawthorne was quite distressed.  I suspect both his livelihood and his reputation were threatened by scribbling women.  He is not alone.

Our current president, Donald Trump, appears to be quite threatened by scribbling women, those female reporters who cover his administration for national news outlets, both print and broadcast.  

Bloomberg reporter Catherine Lacey asked him about releasing the Epstein files. His response, “Quiet.  Quiet, piggy,” outraged women everywhere…and many men, too.  

“An ugly person, inside and out,” is how he described Katie Rogers who wrote the “New York Times” story about Trump’s declining health, energy, and acuity.

When asked by a female reporter aboard Air Force One what part of his body the MRI had been looking at, Trump said, "I have no idea. It was just an MRI.  It wasn’t the brain because I took a cognitive test and I aced it. I got a perfect mark, which you would be incapable of doing." 

To Mary Bruce, ABC’s White House correspondent, he said: “Are you stupid? Are you a stupid person? You’re just asking questions because you’re a stupid person,” in response to a question about Mohammed bin Salman’s involvement in killing Washington Post journalist Jamal Khashoggi.

When CBS Chief White House Correspondent followed up on the vetting of the Afghans who entered the country following the fall of Afghanistan to the Taliban, he said, “Are you stupid?  Are you a stupid person?”

It’s a pattern, and the frequency and intensity are growing. These insults are not made to male reporters.  The insults are about the female reporters’ appearance and intelligence.  It looks to me as if our president is afraid of what scribbling women will write…and his response is intimidation and bullying to keep them from doing so.

It doesn’t work, of course.  Every one of these interactions has been reported by multiple media outlets.  The scribbling women are doing their jobs, reporting on the work of the President of the United States and his administration.  It’s wearing, I suspect.  Most professional women have experienced being intimidated and bullied, insulted about appearance and intelligence, all to keep them from speaking up, from doing their job, from being the best in their field. 

Perhaps most discouraging to me about these incidents is the lack of response from the reporters’ colleagues.  I get that it’s a competitive business, and that the next reporter to get a chance to speak wants to use that opportunity for a question, not to defend the previous reporter.  I could even buy the argument that being insulted and called names is part of the job, especially in the pressure cooker White House assignment, except that it’s so obviously not a part of the job for male reporters….

In this very complex and stressful life of our democracy, two scribbling women provide information and insights daily that I find helpful.  Heather Cox Richardson, History Professor at Boston University, writes “Letters from an American.”  She reports on and analyzes the events of the day, and she relates them to the full scope of US history, noting patterns, trends, and where we’ve been before.  Full citations are included for those who want to read further.  Joyce Vance, attorney and former US Attorney for the Northern District of Alabama, writes “Civil Discourse” daily, in which she reports and analyzes the events of the day from her legal background, with references to the Constitution and to relevant case law.  You can find both on Substack, on Facebook, or by subscribing to their email distribution.  

I’m grateful to Heather Cox Richardson and Joyce Vance for their work as scribbling women. I'm grateful to scribbling women reporters who show up every day to do their job and report on the happenings in this administration.  And I’m grateful to the untold hundreds of thousands of scribbling women who write a letter, send an email, or pick up the phone and call their members of Congress on issues they care about.  There is power in the collective of scribbling women.  

Unexpected gifts in the dark

 By Mary Kay Roth

One early morning this past week, as usual, I let my dog, Pip, dash into the fenced-in backyard while I got ready for my sunrise walk.  But on this particular morning a fox was lingering close by and apparently Pip took chase, somehow getting over or through our fence.   

When I realized my pup was gone I rushed outside into the cold dark and started jogging through our neighborhood, up and down blocks, chasing down leads from walkers who all described seeing “the blur of a white dog.” After an hour or so, I ran out of leads, lost the trail and plodded the mile back home, discouraged, hoarse and sobbing.

But there was Pip, one tired and happy mutt, waiting for me on my front porch. And I gathered that big silly naughty rescue dog into my arms with love.

It was a simple moment in time. Nothing had gone wrong.  Yet I started thinking about the gift I’d been given that morning. Pip had not headed for any of the busy arterials in our area.  She hadn’t vanished.  She had found her way back home.

One of those unexpected gifts offered up by the universe.

A perfect cup of coffee. Getting Wordle in two guesses. Untangling strings of Christmas lights and all the lights – light up. Those live concerts this summer when musicians actually sang the three songs I really wanted to hear.

Indeed, I’m not talking about packages tied up in bows or the stuff on long holiday wish lists or items purchased on shopping trips to the mall (or even on Amazon Prime).

I’m talking about both trivial and profound blessings when life takes notice and takes you by surprise.

A lovely first snowfall that’s not too heavy to shovel. My car sliding on the ice after that latest snowstorm, the little Subaru whirling around and stopping – when no other car is coming. Walking around the lake at dawn after a difficult night and pausing to breathe in a simple sunrise.  

I’m talking about painting my new garage door in four different shades of color and loving my artwork (despite dire warnings of losing my warranty).  Dropping my cell phone on a recent hike – and within minutes having another walker shout out that he’d found it.  A bartender overhearing me say I’d always wanted to mix drinks, then asking me to come around the bar for a lesson in stirring up a whiskey sour.

I’m talking about one ordinary evening earlier this fall when I noticed a simple message on the neighborhood text chain – about magic in the sky –  then heading up to Woods Park to marvel over the most wondrous and surprise display of Northern Lights ever.  Glory, glory.

This coming week I will have my three-year cancer checkup, perhaps a strange topic for unexpected gifts.  I get crazy nervous at every one of these examinations, though I have every reason to expect good news. But the appointment does remind me about the lessons I found in that experience.

Yes, cancer sucks. But amidst the inevitable sadness I discovered an unexpected promise of transformation, the truly profound understanding that life is a gift. 

Somehow, lately I’ve lost that groove.

Over the past months I’d fallen into a miserable rut of whining and wailing.  Rest assured there is plenty to whine about: The horror of our country committing war crimes, the atrocities of what’s happening to our immigrant and refugee families, the endless saga of the Epstein files, a maniac giving insane advice on vaccinations.

Yet sometimes even I get tired of my own moaning and groaning.

I haven’t been paying attention.

To the brightest cardinal suddenly perched upon my living room windowsill – and the heron perched on the Holmes Lake bridge while I stood beside him. Or the magic of twilight on absolutely any evening of the week.

To new jeans that actually fit.  A fall election offering up a thin slice of hope and – good grief – even Marjorie Taylor Greene flipflopping her allegiance.

And, oh my gosh, to the bewildering and shocking good fortune of friendship, an unexpected gift that gobsmacks me every single day. 

Friends who go back to my childhood. Friends who provide wine and whiskey and deliveries of free firewood.  Friends who hold me when I cry.  Or who suggest we dance in the rain and place red roses on snowy graves at Wyuka.

When one of my friends asked about the topic of my blog today, they smiled and said that sounded “right on brand.”

Once upon a time I felt like a dork for seeking out silver linings and I’d point out how I write plenty of grumpy rantings. I can be grim. I can be dark. 

As I’ve grown older, however, I’m fine to be the nerd still looking for the light.

Because even when the pickings seem slim …

I gaze upon grandchildren, snuggled up in front of the fireplace. Discover my daughter has planned a surprise carriage ride. Find a Door Dash delivery of yellow curry on my doorstep, sent by my son … just because.

Admittedly, I have no clue what Trump will do tomorrow.  My cancer check awaits.

But Thanksgiving arrived this year with a house full of family, including both my niece and nephew, two young people sharply divided by politics – in case you didn’t read my last blog – who had vowed never again to spend holidays together.

Nonetheless, miraculously, an unexpected gift, they sat around the dinner table together.  

There was peace on earth.  

And a reinforced, fortified fence in my backyard.