Working Through the Sh*t

I lost a deeply precious thing that came back to me.

This is a story about poop, and a ring.

As I write this, we are three months into the second Trump presidency. This administration has unleashed a firehose of lunacy onto the American public while Democratic politicians (lookin’ at you, Chuck Schumer) try to pretend that the system of checks and balances put in place by the Founding Fathers will save the country.

There’s the LAB LEAK! White House webpage; the illegal kidnapping of Kilmar Abrego Garcia; Trump defying the 9-0 Supreme Court decision that Garcia should immediately be returned to his family; the irreversible damage Elon Musk is wreaking on federal agencies; the FDA ending food inspections; RFK Jr.’s insane takes on measles and autism; Trump’s tariffs tanking the economy; the Tate brothers; White House prayer circles; Vance in Greenland; trying to make Canada the 51 state; DOGE cuts endangering salmon runs; attacks on trans people, women, and immigrants; and bleach-blonde, bad-built, butch-body Marjorie Taylor Green delighting in shutting journalists down. Do you feel tired reading this? Me too.

The above is by no means a comprehensive list — not even close. This administration is a historic failure in just 100 days. Here’s a bunch of dudes talking about it:

THINGS ARE BAD. And yet there are so many people who give me hope, like Jasmine Crockett, Jessica Valenti, and all the TikTokers who dragged Katy Perry to hell for her fake feminism when she took an Uber to space (thank god for Gen Z).

Whipsawing between feeling like America is FUBAR and hope for the future is crazy-making, but that’s where I’m at, and hope is winning.

I’ve been working on a story that has required me to dig into the last two decades of my life, and, while some of the stuff I’ve dredged up is painful, I’ve mostly been reminded of how good life is. Case in point: I was going through boxes of photos to accompany the article when I came across an envelope of old x-rays. I had to unstick them when I pulled them out.

You’re looking at a ring inside a dog. Here’s the story.

Years ago, my boyfriend Scott and I were moving to New York from Seattle, driving across the country in our beat-up minivan. We stopped to see his mom and stepdad in New Mexico and ended up at a dusty little boutique in a town called Madrid, where I saw an opal ring that I fell in love with on the spot. We didn’t have any money, so after admiring it and telling Scott how much I loved it, we left.

A few weeks later, at a New Year’s Eve party, Scott pulled out the ring to give to me. I couldn’t believe it; I’d never had anything so beautiful and grown-up happen to me. It wasn’t an engagement ring — we’d agreed that we didn’t want to get married — but it was a testament to our love. I wore it every day.

When his stepfather died a couple of years later, Scott and I flew back to New Mexico to be with Bonnie, his mom. On the morning of the funeral, I took the ring off as I was going to shower and tucked it into my breast pocket (I was in my era of wearing men’s shirts). On my way to the bathroom, I stopped to briefly fuss over Bonnie’s two dogs, Katie and Susie, who were frisky-panicky amidst the hustle and bustle of people stopping by with sympathy and casseroles.

When I got out of the shower, I realized my ring was missing. I panicked. It didn’t feel like an appropriate time to worry about lost jewelry, but Bonnie twigged that I was acting weird and asked me what was going on. When I told her, she said in matter-of-fact tone, One of the dogs ate it. We’ll get them to the vet for a x-ray tomorrow.

She was as good as her word. The next morning, we bundled Katie and Susie into the car the next morning and headed to the vet. I didn’t think it was possible that either dog had eaten my ring, but Bonnie had had plenty of experience with object extractions. My money’s on Katie, she said as she handed the dogs over to the vet tech.

It was Katie.

For the next two days, Scott followed Katie every time she went outside to scrutinize her leavings. At the end of the second day, he came inside with a grin, gingerly holding a cigar-shaped poop with my ring embedded in the end. He and his mom and I cackled as I scrubbed it clean and put it back on my finger. The ridiculousness of the poop ring saga had felt like a welcome distraction.

I still have the ring. I love it so much. It’s a talisman, a precious thing that was lost at the worst time, worked its way through a bunch of shit, and was found again. I’m wearing it now as a reminder of hope that we’ll find a way through everything that’s going on — even if we feel like we’re in the belly of a badly-behaved dog.

Thank you for subscribing — I’m so grateful for your support. Much more to come.

Love, MJ ❤️ xo