Heidi was the instigator. I want that on record for the Department of Homeland Security.

It was her idea to gather the women of her block together for wine-and-whatever on a weekday night. Just the women. When we bumped into each other at weight training class, she invited me too. Even though I’m a bit outside the border. I’m extra-blockular.

These aren’t the Real Housewives. And the odds of running into a Trump supporter here are next to nil. It was a great evening. There was laughter in that house, and wisdom, and power. Don’t think “hen party.” Think “coven.” Honestly? In pursuit of neighborly cohesion, Heidi had assembled the ingredients of a bomb of goodness. I know I felt enriched.

Since a number of women in that block had always wanted to know what is in the tower at my house, I offered to host the next gathering. Why, you can see into everyone’s houses from that tower! Fortunately for my reputation, I’d gotten rid of the telescope years ago.

And I thought: I should invite all the women in my block too. One never knows the appetite for that sort of thing, but I will note for posterity that I sent out seven invitations by text message and got seven Hell-Yeahs within five minutes. They all asked what they could bring. It’s spring. I should have asked them to bring their yard-debris containers, but I was happy to settle for their smile and shine. Oh, they brought it.

So now we’ve convened a two-block area. Everybody knew somebody, and nobody knew everybody. I knew most of us. Heck, over half of these women had towed Dave home at one time or another when he wound up stranded in the middle of the street looking lost. So come the appointed time, fourteen women showed up at my relatively large house armed with enthusiasm, a life story, and a bottle of wine each, and jammed themselves in the kitchen, as one does. The wine glasses were freed from their kitten-deflecting duct tape. Introductions were made. There was no hesitation, no recalcitrance. We went off like a box of wrens in springtime and we kept it up for three hours.

There’s something different about a party with no men invited. It’s a different kind of energy. It’s a lot of energy. Don’t get me wrong: I love men. They’re real pretty, they can lift heavy things, and a lot of them can cook. But lordy. You fill up your presidential cabinet from a group like ours, you’re going to see a lot of good stuff get done. And it can’t happen too soon. The penis-afflicted, no offense, are currently making a right hash of things.

Just listen! This isn’t gossip and snark. This is mutual recognition, support, creativity, knowledge-sharing, problem-solving, and delight. And cookies. Sure, if the gathering goes on long enough, some of us might be willing to confront the scourge of underboob slime and show each other our bras, you never know. That rarely happens at a party with men in it. Or it does, but it’s a whole different kind of party.

I am told the best thing I can do for my health is maintain a social support group that includes younger people, which, at my stage of life, is just about everyone. I’m going to live forever.

Does “going off like a box of wrens in springtime” seem dismissive? Not if you’ve paid any attention. Spring birds have scoped out the real estate, made their own domicile with their faces, and created perfect eggs using their own bodies, calcium they’ve sought out in the soil, and the merest dab of damp inspiration from a horny male. They’ve pushed out those eggs, they’ve sat them, they’ve run themselves ragged feeding and defending a brood for weeks on end, they’ve lost their feathers, and they’ve reconvened in new outfits in time to discuss the dismantling of the patriarchy and the dawn of a kinder world.

Chirp away, my friends.