Golddigging among the bearded, mule-packing set in Cali in the 1800s took initiative, physical stamina, and a honed ability to strategize and weigh odds. These days, it seems too many women have adopted these strategies to extract gold from the deep pockets of men in whom they are genuinely uninterested. However, they lay claim to a financial stake without batting an eye or breaking a manicured nail. My feminist heroes like Susan B. Anthony, Gloria Steinem and Claire Braz-Valentine would roll over in their hard-won heavenly graves at the stiletto-wearing backsliding of feminine values in the new millennium.

This rant was brought on by observing my divorced girlfriends adopt the philosophy of panning for gold among a certain set of middle-aged millionaire “catches” who seem willing to trade Birken bags for arm candy, the equivalent of bar claims (gold mining in shallow sand) or gulch claims (pay dirt found in gullies of destitute water).  I was appalled when an otherwise brilliant, beautiful woman whom I adore accepted a gold (not kidding) Mercedes from an elderly gentleman to whom I was recently introduced. His leering, skeevy (neologism: boob-staring, drooling silver fox) demeanor was not even his most unattractive quality. How she could sell herself to such a passionless shell of a man? Indeed, the golddiggers I know lead enviable lives if salon-going, jet-setting, and Wilshire shopping are desired feminine pastimes. These women stalk their claims where the big spenders deposit their time: spendy bars and restaurants, gourmet grocery stores, fund raisers, and millionaire mixers (yes, apparently these exist).

Of course the argument that it is just as easy to fall in love with a millionaire as a pauper is commonly brought up in gilded surroundings when my eyebrow inadvertently shoots to the top of my forehead when yet another of my friends has me over for a catered dinner with her latest alligator-skinned, overly-tanned forty-niner. She has achieved her American dream, which sadly has more to do with coveted country club memberships than freedom and devotion to a meaningful cause or career.

In the end, women who use their sexual attraction to accumulate wealth will find a dry claim just as real as the deserted, dusty cabins dotting the California hill country as the veins were played out.  Amy Winehouse wrote the golddigging theme song, and I will end with her spot-on tribute to those who have set feminism back to the Victorian era:

“Fuck Me Pumps”

When you walk in the bar,
And you dressed like a star,
Rockin’ your F me pumps.

And the men notice you,
With your Gucci bag crew,
Can’t tell who he’s lookin’ to.

Cuz you all look the same,
Everyone knows your name,
And that’s your whole claim to fame.

Never miss a night,
Cuz your dream in life,
Is to be a footballer’s wife.

You don’t like players,
That’s what you say-a,
But you really wouldn’t mind a millionaire.

You don’t like ballers,
They don’t do nothing for ya,
But you’d love a rich man six foot two or taller.

You’re more than a fan,
Lookin’ for a man,
But you end up with one-nights-stands.

He could be your whole life,
If you got past one night,
But that part never goes right.

In the morning you’re vexed,
He’s onto the next,
And you didn’t even get no taste.

Don’t be too upset,
If they call you a skank,
Cuz like the news everyday you get pressed.

You don’t like players,
That’s what you say-a,
But you really wouldn’t mind a millionaire.

Or them big ballers,
Don’t do nothing for ya.
But you’d love a rich man six foot two or taller,

You can’t sit down right,
Cuz your jeans are too tight,
And you’re lucky it’s ladies night.

With your big empty purse,
Every week it gets worse,
At least your breasts cost more than hers.

So you did Miami,
Cuz you got there for free,
But somehow you missed the plane.

You did too much E,
Met somebody,
And spent the night getting caned.

Without girls like you,
There’d be no fun,
We’d go to the club and not see anyone.

Without girls like you,
There’s no nightlife,
All those men just go home to their wives.

Don’t be mad at me,
Cuz you’re pushing thirty,
And your old tricks no longer work.

You should have known from the jump,
That you always get dumped,
So dust off your fuck me pumps