November 6, 2026 – In Search of my ‘Ride or Die’

I’ve been thinking. Oh! Sorry about that, I should probably be more specific. I’ve been thinking about a costume idea for the next time I have an opportunity to dress up. And unlike the ideas I mentioned previously while considering what to wear (the female versions of Mr. Kool-Aid, the Pillsbury Dough Boy and the Michelin Man), I’ve come up with a new and much more fitting costume. The Human Repellant! Never heard of it, you say? Well, it’s sort of a super hero and I haven’t yet devised a design, although something with a spiky exterior does seem like a good place to start. Along with that, I have also come up with a relatively clever, hyperbolic description. Every great super hero has one, after all! One that many of you are probably familiar with pertains to Superman, “Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound!” For my purposes, it would read more like, “Guaranteed to extinguish any possibility of a friendship after one lunch date!” or “Don’t linger too long or she’ll literally talk your ear off!”

Ok, Ok. I’m kidding. Sort of. I know it all sounds rather self-deprecating, but I have to wonder. Last week, when my husband suggested I reach out to a friend and schedule a lunch date, I came up blank. “I don’t have any,” I responded. Sad to say, but it’s true. And it’s not due to lack of effort. Believe me, I have tried. My first attempt to ‘find a friend’ began with Meetup, a social media platform. There were several groups I joined, to include the following: Women Over 50 Anti-Isolation Group, SWAGS (Social Women’s Activity Group), Writer’s Club, and some other club (the name eludes me) that involved getting together at a local library and discussing whether a lawsuit would be fitting based on a particular crime that had been committed. I know. Strange but true.

And of all the Meetup events I participated in, there was only one other female who I felt a pretty strong connection with, and that was via the Writer’s Club. She was working on a memoir, was close to my age, and appeared to be a kindred spirit. I had high hopes that I’d finally found my ‘Ride or Die’. The first time we met (at a Meetup event), we exchanged numbers and then readily agreed to meet elsewhere soon thereafter. For our first ‘date’, she suggested we meet at a walking trail near where she lived. Everything seemed to go pretty well. We walked several miles and carried on a conversation for the duration and the afternoon went off without a hitch. However, things did not go well the next time we got together. The second ‘date’ took place at a bakery. Well, it was supposed to, but when we arrived, the bakery staff was preparing to lock the doors and close for the day.

Rather than hop back into our vehicles and try to come up with a different venue for coffee and a pastry, we decided to just walk the neighborhood to see if there were any other suitable places to hang out. Unfortunately, we didn’t come across any places that sold caffeinated beverages or baked goods, but we did eventually spot a little (empty) patio area with a couple of tables and chairs. It was out in front of another business that had already closed for the day. Neither of us could come up with a better alternative, so we decided to each take a seat at one of the tables and make the best of the situation. We immediately launched into a conversation. Oh, hang on. That’s not entirely accurate. What really happened is that she immediately launched into what I can best describe as an interview, whereas she took on the role of investigative journalist.

The line of questioning caught me by surprise. The questions were rapid fire and unrelenting. And as the minutes wore on, things became more and more awkward between us. She didn’t share much about her own personal life but continually hounded me with questions about mine. At one point, she paused the questioning long enough to inform me that she had Rick Springfield tickets available for purchase if I was interested. I wasn’t terribly keen on the idea (which I didn’t say aloud) but I told her I’d definitely consider her offer and asked her to get in touch once she’d decided on a price. She promised to text me that night once she spoke with her husband; however, once our interview session wrapped and we parted ways, I never heard from her again. That one stung, especially when she chose to walk in the opposite direction and around the entire block in order to avoid walking alongside me to reach her vehicle (parked 3 vehicles down from mine). That ordeal really gave me a complex!

On my next attempt at finding a friend, I decided to try my luck at one of the local art galleries. I’d belonged to one in the city where I lived previously and came across a lot of lovely people (men and women) who I became quite close to and ended up spending a considerable amount of time with. Initially, things were fantastic at the gallery. I volunteered several hours a week for nearly 4 months and each time I worked, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Regardless, much like my recent past experiences, eventually the other shoe dropped (so to speak). One evening while at home, I received an email from the gallery that a decision had been made about ongoing practices that were to stop immediately. In other words, anything which involved having fun was eliminated. I tried working one shift after I received the new ‘set of standards’ and decided it was time to move on. Unfortunately, I didn’t make any friends there either.

In spite of failing at my previous attempts, I still felt hopeful. “Why not give the Senior Center a shot?” I pondered. I was convinced that if a friendship was possible, that would be the one place where I wouldn’t strike out. In the early part of January (this year), I set off on my quest. Once I arrived, I entered the building and approached the counter. I was then greeted by a member of the staff who spoke to me at length about all the activities the Center had to offer. They then handed me what appeared to be a magazine. It was the recreational guide, and contained a detailed account of every program available. I thumbed through it and when I came across the listing which pertained to the local drama troupe, I decided to look no further and immediately signed up. I figured since I wasn’t able to make a lasting connection with any of the artists at the gallery, maybe I’d fare better with the theater folks?

Sigh.

It all started out great. I felt an instant connection with several of the other participants, the two standouts being the director and assistant director. For several months straight, we met up for our twice-a-week mandatory meetings where we brainstormed ideas for a play. I assisted with writing the script and also made several of the props. And each week, when we weren’t putting our noses to the grindstone and letting our imaginations run wild alongside the other troupe members, the three of us would regularly meet up for lunch at a nearby restaurant or spend a long afternoon at the director’s house, chatting each other up about everything and anything (family, politics, you-name-it). There was always an abundance of laughter and never any shortage of things to talk about and everyone got along great. We were like the three amigas. But after the season concluded in May, the director and assistant director slowly-but-surely drifted away. I really thought we had something special and was so excited about the strong connections we’d built together, and then just like that, it was over.

So, now what? I have to tell you, I’m really discouraged. It seems like no matter how much I put myself out there, nothing pans out. And I’m feeling exceptionally sad today because yesterday my former ‘Ride or Die’ called me out of the blue and we ended up talking for 3.5 hours. God, I miss her! She was that special someone who I could share everything with, and I mean EVERYTHING, and she never made me feel judged or shamed. We could act like total weirdos and be our true selves around each other and always seemed to know what the other was thinking. She was eternally optimistic and full of cheer and whenever I was feeling particularly blue, she’d always say, “Don’t let the turkeys get you down!” Understandably, things changed once my husband and I sold our home and moved away. It’s difficult to maintain a friendship like that when you no longer live in the same city, let alone the same state.

Alas, I don’t know what the answer is. I may not necessarily have any friends, but I’m grateful beyond measure to have you guys. It always brightens my day and I feel less alone in this world when I hear from you, ChibiChonk, or I see that some of my regulars (DirtySciFiBuddha, DavisBrotherlyLove, Koala Quill, Esoterica) have stopped by. I appreciate you newcomers too! From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for your support. I can’t begin to convey how much it means to me. Truly.

November 2, 2026 – The Dreaded Doctor’s Visit

Apparently, it was another case of ‘much ado about nothing’ because things went far smoother than I could have ever predicted. Last week, I really had to steel myself as I drove up to the doctor’s office and parked my car because I was expecting the worst…at least as far as getting a bunch of crap from my doctor about my weight. And I had a whole spiel put together to explain it away. It was fictional, of course; however, I thought it sounded a whole lot better than the truth. I knew he would be none too pleased about how the numbers on the scale have steadily increased since my last visit. I don’t think he’s ever struggled with his weight as he’s the vision of perfect health and has been since I met him nearly 18 years ago. He exercises regularly and eats healthy food and from what I’ve observed, has the optimal BMI for a 52-year-old, 5’ 5” white male.

Nevertheless, I came prepared to counter his disappointment with a bit of levity. I thought long and hard about a scenario to explain away the extra pounds and even tried it out on his nursing assistant (who took my blood pressure and reviewed my current prescriptions to ensure everything was correct in the system) before my doctor made his appearance. She seemed to appreciate my work of fiction. And actually, instead of one, I had concocted two rather highly-exaggerated, tall tales. Of the two excuses/explanations, I figured if option A wasn’t convincing enough, perhaps option B may seem more credible. Even if he didn’t readily believe either scenario, I was willing to offer up some of my best material. Laughter is the best medicine, after all.

I spent a great deal of time working on Option A. As you read, as I launch into my first tall tale, picture me sitting in a chair whilst my doctor looks on (from across the room) in disbelief. It goes a little something like this (I’ll frame the whole thing in brackets to eliminate any confusion):

[About a week or two after our last appointment, long after the sun had set and well after my husband went to bed, I decided to pick up a few groceries. And once I arrived at the local King Soopers, while in the process of exiting my vehicle, I was accosted by a strange man. I hadn’t noticed him approaching from behind; I was stooped over with the top half of my body in the car and the bottom half out, busily gathering up the large assortment of recyclable grocery bags strewn about the backseat. It’s once I stood up and shut the door, my bags neatly in hand, when I felt him press up against me and hiss in my ear, “Don’t say a word! I’ve got a gun! Do as you’re told and nothing will happen to you!” I was then instructed to get into the front passenger seat of the vehicle parked immediately beside mine.

I did as I was told, and after my kidnapper started up his vehicle and drove for what seemed like an eternity, we finally pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be a bakery. It was dark and I couldn’t make out the name, but once we entered the building, I took notice of the mouth-watering assortment of pastries in an enormous glass display beside the register. Apart from the fact that I’d been brought there against my will, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven! There were donuts and brownies, bear claws and scones, cookies and cakes, along with every other conceivable pastry in untold quantities. And they were all baked (or fried) to perfection. After feasting my eyes on all those scrumptious delights, I was then led through a narrow hallway and down a long flight of stairs, eventually winding up in the basement.

If you’re like me, when my imagination kicks in, especially when the key words to consider are ‘kidnapping’ and ‘basement’, I think worst case scenario. I envision a dark, windowless, damp, cold room with a filthy mattress on a concrete floor and a bucket beside it. However, in this case, it was anything but. The room I entered had undoubtedly been recently remodeled. From floor to ceiling, everything was brand new, from the plush carpet to the recessed lights. It was quite remarkable and tastefully done. Despite being in a state of shock, I was rather pleased with my temporary accommodations, including the spa-like bathroom and luxurious king-size bed with plump pillows and a designer bedspread. There was even a 75” flat screen TV mounted to the wall. What’s not to like?

After forcefully pushing me towards the bed, my kidnapper then turned to leave. His parting words were menacing. Through clenched teeth he said, “Unless your ransom is met, this will serve as your final resting place.” After he disappeared through the only door that accessed the room, I heard a loud click as he locked it behind him. I then heard heavy footsteps as he ascended the stairs, leaving me to speculate as to what was yet in store? I wondered aloud to myself, “How long will I be here? Why was I kidnapped? I can see someone with wealth and power, but me?! How much is he asking for ransom? Will my husband be able to rustle up the necessary funds to meet the kidnapper’s demands? What’s going to happen to me if he can’t? Why is this room so much nicer than all the rooms put together in my own house? Where did these pillows come from? Were they purchased on Amazon? Are there any streaming services available to watch? It sure would be nice to get up to speed on Ted Lasso, Slow Horses and Stick.”

Ok. Ok. I’m getting too caught up in all the minutiae. I recognize you’re busy, Doc, and your time is valuable, so I’ll just provide a quick synopsis since I know you have at least two other patients waiting in the adjoining exam rooms. Here’s the thing. The kidnapper didn’t want much, he only asked for a total of $2,300 in ransom money. At most, I should have only spent a couple of days in my luxury accommodations. However, the kidnapper wasn’t willing to accept a handful of hundred-dollar bills, his demand was much more specific. The only way he’d guarantee my safe return was if my husband paid the $2,300 exclusively with wheat pennies. No other kind would do. “I will accept no substitutions. If you ever want to see your wife again, don’t even think of sneaking in a few Flying Eagles or Indian Heads!” he wrote in ALL CAPS on the ransom note.

You can imagine the predicament my husband found himself in. Pennies are becoming about as rare as unicorns, especially wheat pennies, so it took him quite a while to come up with the required funds to ensure my release. Five months, to be precise. And while I awaited my eventual return to freedom, I spent a lot of time wasting away on the luxurious king-size bed with plump pillows and a designer bedspread (now covered in crumbs), watching hour upon hour of People’s Court and Judge Judy reruns on YouTube (since my kidnapper didn’t want to fork out the money to pay for an Apple TV subscription) and eating copious amounts of day-old donuts (the only thing he provided for sustenance). Hence, the (justifiable) weight gain.]

Option B? Well, since I spent so much time on Option A, I’ll keep it short. Option B involved going on the Cookie Diet. Again, picture me and the doctor as I described earlier.

[Yes, Doctor, it’s a thing! I know you don’t believe there’s an actual weight loss plan called the Cookie Diet, but you are welcome to look it up on the internet for verification. My sister Cactus Annie gave it a whirl quite a few years ago and really talked it up for a time. And when it stopped working, she went on Atkin’s. I don’t know how she rationalized it in her head, but somehow eating a hot dog smothered in melted Velveeta cheese was an acceptable menu choice and followed the plan, as long as she didn’t consume the bun. I know, it seems incredulous! Unfortunately, for me, the Cookie Diet never yielded favorable results, even temporarily, but I think it may have had something to do with where and how I acquired them. My sister purchased her VERY EXPENSIVE, pre-made, pre-packaged cookies via an online source, whereas, I chose to buy a large tub of Nestle Toll House chocolate chip cookie dough from the nearby Costco.]

As you can see (at least I hope you can), I spent a substantial amount of time coming up with Options A and B to ‘justify’ my recent weight gain. However, ironically enough, I didn’t end up relaying either option to my doctor. Apparently (something which I didn’t even think about until I pulled into the parking lot at the doctor’s office), you can opt out of having your weight checked. From what I gathered, if the doctor doesn’t see the numbers change on your chart, and his assistant doesn’t speak up, it’s a non-issue and not worth a mention. What?! Why am I only realizing this?! I always thought I didn’t have a choice and just went along with things, but after voicing my resistance to stepping on the scale, the nursing assistant assured me that I wasn’t required to and directed me straightaway to the exam room. No questions asked! I have to admit, it was FAR too easy. All I had to do was say ‘NO’? You mean to tell me that I spent all those weeks stressed out over the doctor giving me grief when I didn’t have to?

To sum up the experience, I suppose I should ask myself what, if anything, did I learn? Well, hmmm, I suppose I learned that sometimes it pays to speak up. I also learned that most diets don’t work over the long term. I also learned that it’s a terrible idea to buy a large tub of chocolate chip cookie dough from Costco because it’s far too tempting. Honestly, who can resist a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie straight out of the oven? I certainly can’t.

Alright, my friends, even though I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing this post, it’s getting late and I’ve got to get a move on. I wish for you peace, love and blessings.

Until next time…

October 28, 2026 – The Potential Headaches to Anticipate When Hiring a Contractor

Do you ever develop a knot in your stomach that just won’t go away? That’s the present situation I find myself in. And it’s all due to what I can best describe as an ongoing communication breakdown or lack of mutual understanding with our landscape contractor. Is it just me, or is that the norm when you hire a contractor? Because, let me tell you, it seems like it happens at least 50% – 75% of the time. And why is that?! After getting burned enough times, I made sure to cross all the T’s and dot all the I’s. I looked for a reputable company, I went over my expectations with the owner in detail, he provided a contract and after reading it thoroughly, I signed it. But as soon as the work began, despite all the effort I put forth to ensure that THIS TIME would be unlike all the others, it still went south. 

What does that mean? Well, let me explain. What I learned after this latest snafu is that the devil’s in the details. I thought I did everything right by making sure (as the famous TV judges, Judge Judy and Judge Milian, often vigorously reminded their plaintiffs, defendants, and TV audience) to ‘GET IT IN WRITING’. Evidently, if you follow this sage advice and have a contract drawn up, it’s supposed to save you a whole lot of grief and guarantee a meeting of the minds. Unfortunately, as so often happens when my husband or I hire anyone to do work on our home or property, nothing goes according to plan. And the word I will use to best help you understand why (in this particular case) is AMBIGUITY.

Yep, I had a contract written up by the owner of the company we were hiring and at first glance everything seemed fine. And I can’t tell you whether it was intentional or not, however, I did notice that the wording was extremely ambiguous (but not enough to set off alarm bells). Four separate projects were listed on the contract; each contained a short, approximately 2-sentence description of the work that was to be completed, some of the materials that would be utilized and what the cost would be. There were no sketches or drawings or visual references provided. With all that taken into account, because my husband and I had spent a sufficient amount of time with the contractor, describing in detail what we wanted to have done, we thought he had a pretty good idea of our expectations and would proceed accordingly. Boy, was I WRONG!

Now, while I have your utmost attention, can I give you a word of advice? When you have a discussion with someone (i.e.; someone that’s going to charge you a sizable amount of money in exchange for a service) and they do a lot of nodding and/or repeatedly indicate that they are in agreement through a variety of affirmative remarks or gestures, if you believe that that verbal/non-verbal exchange means you’re both on the same page, you’re probably going to wind up in the same predicament I’m in…with a sizable knot in your stomach, BEYOND FRUSTRATED and DEAD WRONG! Sad to say but that’s simply not enough. You have to get it in writing, DETAILED writing. And I could kick myself for not insisting that this latest contractor provide a better description of what he intended to do along with photos or sketches. Had I done that, I’d be sleeping soundly right now rather than anxiously ranting at two o’clock in the morning.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t provide further clarification as to why I’m feeling so anxious and frustrated and outright lousy at the moment. I also feel bad because after multiple texts and phone calls trying to clear up misunderstandings with the contractor, especially after what transpired yesterday, I reached my limit and told my husband (in order to preserve what’s left of my mental and physical health) that I needed to tap out and asked if he could handle any/all future communications related to the current landscaping project. He RELUCTANTLY agreed. I know it seems like a pretty wimpy thing to do but I’m so angry, I’m seeing red. I’ve also developed a knot in my stomach, my head hurts AND I can’t sleep. I’ve had enough! I just don’t understand why it keeps happening. Honestly, is it me or is that just how it is? I’m SO OVER hiring people to help with projects and winding up utterly disappointed.

If this was the first time something had gone awry, it’d be one thing. But as I said (at least I think I did?), this has been ongoing. Are you ready for this? Here’s another great example. About two years ago, after spending considerable time vetting concrete contractors, I (with great confidence) chose one. I was convinced that EVERYTHING would go smoothly because not only had I checked out the company’s reviews on Google, but I’d seen their work with my own eyes while walking my dog through the neighborhood. At first, everything appeared to go well. The owner showed up with his crew on the date and time we agreed upon and they started to frame out two slabs we contracted to have poured in our backyard (for workshops).

All went according to plan until the day the concrete/cement mixer truck showed up. Wouldn’t you know, that’s when things (as usual) went south. I had no concerns at first and thought the job would be completed in a matter of hours, and completed CORRECTLY. I assumed (BIG MISTAKE) they’d pour and smooth out the concrete, give it a few hours to dry, remove and load up their materials, I’d hand over a check, and they’d be on their way. Nevertheless, after a couple of hours, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was greeted by the owner of the company who had some rather unpleasant news to share. It’s difficult to accurately describe the look on his face, but his words were crystal clear. “I’m so sorry,” he stated grimly, “Of the 30 years I’ve been in this business, this has never happened before, but the concrete truck ran out of concrete before we were able to complete the job.”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Expletive! Expletive! Expletive! If you’ve ever hired someone to pour a slab and they run out of concrete in the middle of the job, you’ll know this is no small matter.

And then there was the gutter guy. What could possibly go wrong, you ask, when you hire a gutter guy? Oh, let me tell you, my friends! PLENTY! We had asked around and were referred to a guy in town who owned his own seamless gutter company. Since he was referred, we errantly believed we were in good hands. And apart from the one long-ish piece that came out remarkably wavy when it was formed on-site, I thought we’d made a sound choice as far as gutter guys go. Once all the gutters were installed, we paid the man and off he went. Two months later, they started pulling away from the house. After my husband went to do some investigating, he discovered that the guy we’d had so much confidence in used too short of screws to attach the gutters to the flashing; hence, they quickly began to detach themselves from what once held them ‘firmly’ in place.

Before the gutter guy, there was the painter. Dear Lord! This was another time I thought for sure I had selected someone who we’d unfailingly leave a 5-star review with once the job was said and done. “No way this guy’s going to let me down!” I assured myself. Famous last words. And once again, I did my research. I looked up his company online and even had an opportunity to see his work up close and personal on another day I happened to be walking my dog. It was impressive! There were several company trucks parked on the street with the logo emblazoned on the side(s) of each vehicle and an ample crew busily working utilizing different implements (brushes, rollers and sprayers). But when I contracted with this same company to paint our home, it was a different story. On day one, I KID YOU NOT, some yahoo (on the company payroll) literally rolls up on a bicycle and proceeds to ask if he could borrow some of my husband’s tools so he could start prepping the house. I thought it was joke. It wasn’t. It went downhill from there.

And, unless you want to witness what someone looks like when their blood pressure increases rapidly to a dangerous level, don’t get me started on the drywall guys! You know, I think I understand now why people don’t readily offer up their restrooms when contracting out work. In our particular case, we became all too familiar with the ‘give an inch, take a mile’ approach. The company we hired consisted of two guys, Huey and Louie. I’m not sure of Dewey’s whereabouts but he never made his presence known. Anyhow, Huey was the owner and Louie was his apprentice and most of the time, Huey was nowhere to be found. But Louie? He made an appearance daily for the two to two-and-a-half weeks it took to complete the job. That in itself isn’t terribly noteworthy. What sets this apart and makes it truly stand out was the way he chose to make himself at home in our home each and every morning, minutes after walking through the front door.

I should have known better, but on the first day when he asked if he could use our restroom, I readily agreed. He only lived about ten minutes away but I didn’t think much of it. When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go, right?! Not in Louie’s case. I thought he was just going to zip in, empty his bladder, and hightail it back to work. But that’s what I get for thinking. No, once Louie had our permission to use the restroom the one and only time, he never asked again. And Louie had a routine. Each day, after arriving at our home, within a matter of minutes he’d make his way to the nearest restroom, shut the door behind him, and reemerge about 30 minutes later after taking a nice, satisfying dump in our toilet. I surmised this not only by the smell that emanated from the bathroom once he’d done his business, but also by the wide grin on his face. There’s no denying the look of satisfaction.

Listen, when considering what took place yesterday along with all of the other stress-inducing past contractor mishaps I’ve endured over the years, I’m seriously considering giving up on them entirely. Not only is it expensive to hire out work, it’s rarely done right. Most of the time, my husband and I do the work ourselves for a fraction of the price the ‘professionals’ charge but there are some things I’m no longer eager to do. Once upon a time, I’d be willing to assist my husband with reroofing a building or installing drywall (by holding it steady while he screwed it into position and then mudding and taping afterwards) or retiling a kitchen. But I have to admit, I’m not a young chick anymore and all the physical labor has taken its toll AND I don’t bounce back as quickly as I used to. So, as much as I don’t want to ever have to deal with another contractor, because I am convinced it will never end well, I can promise you this. If it ever happens, it’s going to be a L-O-N-G time from now, a VERY LONG TIME. A VERY extensively, astronomically, titanically LONG TIME. I think you get my point.

And on that note, I bid you farewell. Until we meet again!

Peace, love and blessings to you and yours…

October 24, 2026 – When Quitting is a Good Thing

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Hello, everyone! For two very valid reasons, I have decided to reshare a post from one of the blogs I recently retired. Reason number one is that I just returned home after spending the better part of the afternoon at a baby shower and have enough sense to recognize that there’s no way I’m going to be able to conjure up a post from scratch at this late hour. Reason number two is that the content is far too relevant. I am able to say this with utter conviction because despite endless assurances by the folks who make and market Tums, four extra-strength chewable tablets have not made the slightest dent in quelling the agonizing nausea I’m presently suffering from. I will accept some responsibility for the predicament I once again find myself in but I’m also holding the person accountable who brought the chocolate fountain. Damn chocolate fountain! Gets me every time!!

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Being a quitter is often associated with being a ‘loser’, but quitting isn’t always a bad thing.

For instance, there are so many things in this world that we can live without. Booze, drugs and cigarettes are the first things that come to mind. But those things have never tempted me, not in the slightest. My greatest temptation? Sugar. Damn sugar! I have found that best case scenario, I’ve been able to go two solid years without it, and then completely ‘lose my mind’ when something significant happens, and fall back into the trap.

The trap starts out simple enough. “One cookie couldn’t hurt,” I’ll tell myself (knowing full well that it can and will hurt because this is historically what ALWAYS happens. I always assure myself that ‘this time’ I’ll be strong enough and not let sugar get the better of me).

Ha! Who am I kidding?!

It’s only a matter of time before my resolve completely dissolves and the slow but steady uphill climb on the scale begins. And it clearly has as the last few times I’ve gone shopping, size medium and large are no longer options for my wardrobe. Yes, I’ve entered the dreaded scenario where unless the tag has a large ‘X’ on it, either followed by an ‘L’ or preceded by a ‘1’, it’s not worth the effort taking it off the rack and trying it on because it’ll only lead to disappointment.

Sh*t!! How the Hell did I wind up here yet again??!!

What’s that saying? There’s something about doing something over and over and expecting things to change. Hang on. I’m going to look it up. Ah, yes! The quote is as follows, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results”.

And apparently, the guy who many credit for this quote, Albert Einstein, did not make this statement. He can be credited for a lot of things; the Special Theory of Relativity, the General Theory of Relativity, the Photoelectric Effect, and the Brownian Motion Explanation are amongst them. But not the insanity quote.

From all I could glean after wasting far too much time perusing the internet, the quote originated in an Al-Anon or Narc-Anon meeting back in the early 80s. Mr. Einstein was long gone by then.

Look, I know I’m on a slippery slope and if I don’t get my act together, it’s only going to be a matter of time before I wind up auditioning for My 600-Pound Life and being routinely shamed by Dr. Now for refusing to stick to his 1,200 calorie per day diet. “No,” he’ll say sans emotion, “That isn’t possible. If you stuck to the diet, you should have lost 20 pounds, not gained 30. You’re lying to me.” “Well, I might have had one cookie,” I’ll chime in defensively, “I’ve had a really rough week. But ordinarily, I just eat boiled chicken and steamed vegetables for every meal, including breakfast.”

One cookie? Well, maybe that’s where it starts but that’s not where it ends. What is it about the cookie that makes it seem so innocent? It’s only ONE cookie, after all! But it never stays one cookie, eventually it becomes one cookie with a scoop of ice cream as an accompaniment. Or if you happen to be out of ice cream and you do have a batch of freshly made brownies that just happen to be cooling on the countertop, what’s the harm of indulging in one of those too?

I mean, who can turn down a cookie AND a brownie? Better yet, two cookies and two brownies? And if I find myself at a potluck, I can usually convince myself that it’d be a shame to not sample ALL of the cookies, brownies, muffins, pies and cupcakes that people went to so much trouble to bake from scratch (or purchase from their local grocery store).

I’m telling you, it’s a slippery slope. And as I said earlier, this ain’t my first rodeo. Well, I didn’t put it in those exact words, but you know what I mean. I’ve travelled down this ol’ dusty, extremely predictable, never-ends-well road before. Far too many times.

The thing that slays me is that each time I get back on the horse and make the effort and lose the weight, I emphatically tell myself, “I’ll NEVER get fat again!” They are clearly empty words because I know, deep down, that it’s only a matter of time before I start to pack on the pounds. Something will distract me, a cookie will appear, and I will shove it into my mouth without taking a pause or giving it a second thought.

And when I think back, I’ve ‘quit’ sugar soooo many times. And I’ll ask myself why can’t my go-to be something like kale or bean sprouts? There’s no shame when you overindulge on something considered to be healthy. But I can assure you, if I were to confide in someone that just last week when I was having a really bad day, I went to Safeway, purchased a Hostess cherry pie and a 2-pack of cupcakes, wolfed them down while sitting in my car in the parking lot, disposed of the evidence before returning home, then followed that up with a large bowl of salted caramel ice cream and 4 oatmeal scotchies?

I’d expect not simply a dusting of shame, but a tidal wave!

If I were to share the same thing with someone but replace ‘Hostess cherry pie and a 2-pack of cupcakes…’ with ‘a bunch of kale and a bag of bean sprouts’, I’d get a totally different reaction. “And?” the person would respond, stifling a yawn, “You’re telling me this because…?” Mind you, they would be saying this while mindlessly scrolling on their phone, trying to find something that was actually newsworthy.

Alas, it’s time to stop whining about it and actually do something about it. Quitting sugar is a GOOD thing. And when I find myself starting to spiral, which has been happening A LOT, I’ve got to remember that in time all things shall pass. They truly do. And despite a succession of bad things occurring in recent weeks…

Ok, I have to take a pause. I’m all but certain I just heard my mom pipe in, “Someone always has it worse.” Damnit, Mom! You left this planet nearly 4 years ago and you still find it necessary to put in your two cents?!

But she did/does have a point. Life is about perspective and what I consider to be ‘bad’ maybe isn’t THAT bad or isn’t nearly AS bad as I perceive it to be. And that’s when I have to remember what I do have rather than what I don’t (or the silver linings).

So, when my youngest moved out a couple of months ago and took his cat with him, rather than seeing it as a loss because I REALLY DO MISS THEM, I should consider myself fortunate that he now has the means to provide for himself and no longer needs to reside in my basement. That’s a great thing.

And when my decades-long doctor recently sent a letter announcing his retirement, with a reminder that I would need to seek future care elsewhere, rather than seeing it as a huge downer, because I’m a really sh*tty patient and he’s the only one who seems to ‘get me’, I tried to look at the silver lining. Realistically, this is the perfect opportunity to find care which is closer and more convenient because it was quite a trek getting to/from his clinic.

And, honestly, good for him! He was a dedicated practitioner for 34 years and it’s about time he’s decided to put himself first. Hopefully he can enjoy whatever the next chapter has in store.

Monthly game night getting cancelled? Major buzzkill but I can handle it. My dog scratching the f*ck out of my bumper when trying to jump into the back of my new car after getting her nails trimmed? Really sucks. But I did mention that my car is new, and despite the scratches, I’m really grateful that I even have a new car.

And when I recently went to the thrift store to purchase some upsized clothing? Well, I didn’t feel too good about myself…but then I looked around. And let me tell you, upon close observation, there was no denying that more than a handful of people standing within a 30-foot radius clearly had it A LOT worse.

What am I trying to say here? I suppose I’m saying that we all have our struggles but at the end of the day, when you feel like sh*t and it seems like your life is unraveling, take a breath and no matter how bad things may seem, think about the silver lining(s) or what you do have rather than what you don’t.

Anyway, that’s what I’m going to try and work on, especially when a sugar-laden treat (i.e.: cookie) tries to reassure me that it’ll fix all my problems and pull me out of my temporary slump because it never does. Not ever.

October 20, 2026 – Book & Documentary Recommendations From a Non-fiction Enthusiast (Part Three)

Before I begin, I have to admit that I really struggled trying to determine what to write about today. Some of the topics I considered are as follows: 1) The perks of getting old, 2) If I were to get a DNA test, would I discover Goldilocks is a long-lost relative? 3) Valid reasons to stop wearing white which have nothing to do with Labor Day, 4) Improbable excuses to explain away significant weight gain, 5) Money saving hacks that don’t involve SPAM, 6) When organizing your paperwork, how to determine what stuff to keep and what stuff to toss in the round file. Look, I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. Sometimes it’s difficult to narrow down the options because truly, they are endless.

As it stands, I settled on providing a new and updated list of book recommendations which, oddly enough, I posted about EXACTLY six years ago today. I know you’d probably prefer to read about Goldilocks or the perks of getting old (which will involve a great deal of sarcasm), but as I’ve made up my mind, those topics will have to wait. Besides, they require a little more time to marinate. So, yes, for today I intend to provide you with some really great recommendations or suggestions of books I have found to be a worthwhile read. And to shake things up a bit, I’m also including some of my favorite documentaries. My literary preferences are non-fiction and tend to fall under the subcategory of biographies and autobiographies, which is essentially identical to what I look for in documentaries. However, there are a few books and films which don’t fit into either.

Needless to say, I hope you find my list useful. I always appreciate a good recommendation, whether it involves leisurely or non-leisurely activities. And this applies TENFOLD when starting over in a new community. Whenever I move to a new city or town, I’m all for getting the lowdown on the best doctors, dentists, restaurants, hiking trails, veterinarians, grocery stores, schools, hair salons, dog boarders, and so forth. It takes away much of the guesswork and makes life less stressful and a bit more manageable.

Anyway, here goes. Please keep in mind that much of the content is disturbing so you may not find all of it palatable.

BOOKS:

  • The Girl with Seven Names: A North Korean Defector’s Story by Hyeonseo Lee
  • Above Suspicion: An Undercover FBI Agent, an Illicit Affair, and a Murder of Passion by Joe Sharkey
  • The Happiest Man on Earth: The Beautiful Life of an Auschwitz Survivor – A New York Times Bestseller with Timeless Lessons on Gratitude and Hope by Eddie Jaku
  • In Pieces by Sally Field
  • Chief Seattle and the Town That Took His Name: The Change of Worlds for the Native People and Settlers on Puget Sound by David M. Buerge
  • Texas Blood: Seven Generations Among the Outlaws, Ranchers, Indians, Missionaries, Soldiers, and Smugglers of the Borderlands by Roger D. Hodge
  • My Love Story by Tina Turner
  • American Predator: The Hunt for the Most Meticulous Serial Killer of the 21st Century by Maureen Callahan
  • The Hiding Place: The Inspiring True Story of Faith and Forgiveness During World War II | 35th Anniversary Edition by Corrie Ten Boom, Elizabeth Sherrill, John Sherrill
  • Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI by David Grann
  • The Apparitionists: A Tale of Phantoms, Fraud, Photography, and the Man Who Captured Lincoln’s Ghost by Peter Manseau
  • North of Normal: A Memoir of My Wilderness Childhood, My Unusual Family, and How I Survived Both by Cea Sunrise Person
  • The Sisters of Auschwitz: The True Story of Two Jewish Sisters’ Resistance in the Heart of Nazi Territory by Roxane van Iperen
  • The Doctors Blackwell: How Two Pioneering Sisters Brought Medicine to Women and Women to Medicine by Janice P. Nimura
  • The Barbizon: The Hotel That Set Women Free by Paulina Bren
  • Unmasked: My Life Solving America’s Cold Cases by Paul Holes
  • The Escape Artist: The Man Who Broke Out of Auschwitz to Warn the World by Jonathan Freedland
  • Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing: A Memoir by Matthew Perry
  • Comedy Comedy Comedy Drama: A Memoir by Bob Odenkirk
  • The Dressmakers of Auschwitz: The True Story of the Women Who Sewed to Survive by Lucy Adlington
  • Managing Expectations: A Memoir in Essays by Minnie Driver
  • Freezing Order: A True Story of Money Laundering, Murder, and Surviving Vladimir Putin’s Wrath by Bill Browder
  • Toil & Trouble: A Memoir by Augusten Burroughs
  • I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy
  • The Counterfeit Countess: The Jewish Woman Who Rescued Thousands of Poles During the Holocaust by Elizabeth B. White, Joanna Sliwa
  • The Boys: A Memoir of Hollywood and Family by Ron Howard, Clint Howard
  • Did I Ever Tell You This? A Memoir by Sam Neill
  • The Book of Charlie: Wisdom from the Remarkable American Life of a 109-Year-Old Man David Von Drehle
  • The Extraordinary Life of an Ordinary Man: A Memoir by PAUL NEWMAN, David Rosenthal
  • Cold Crematorium: Reporting from the Land of Auschwitz by József Debreczeni
  • Just as I Am: A Memoir by Michelle Burford
  • Medgar and Myrlie: Medgar Evers and the Love Story That Awakened America by Joy-Ann Reid
  • Only Say Good Things: Surviving Playboy and Finding Myself by Crystal Hefner
  • My Name Is Barbra by Barbra Streisand
  • Being Henry: The Fonz . . . and Beyond by Henry Winkler
  • Connie: A Memoir by Connie Chung
  • Cher: Part One: The Memoir – An Intimate and Extraordinary Story of a Trailblazing Icon Who Topped Billboard for Seven Decades (The Cher Memoir Book 1) by Cher
  • I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
  • The Boy Who Followed His Father into Auschwitz: A True Story of Family and Survival by Jeremy Dronfield
  • In a Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson

DOCUMENTARIES:

  • Being Eddie
  • The Jinx, The Life and Deaths of Robert Hurst
  • John Candy: I Like Me
  • Keep Sweet: Pray and Obey
  • Sean Combs: The Reckoning
  • My Octopus Teacher
  • Marty, Life is Short
  • Trust Me: The False Prophet
  • Sly Lives!
  • American Murder: The Family Next Door
  • The Keepers
  • Love To Love You, Donna Summer
  • Queen of Chess
  • The Greatest Night in Pop
  • Becoming Led Zeppelin
  • Martha
  • The Perfect Neighbor
  • Blackfish
  • Billy Joel: And So It Goes
  • Leaving Neverland
  • Capturing the Friedmans
  • Tina
  • Earth, Wind and Fire – To Be Celestial vs That’s the Weight of the World
  • My Mom, Jayne

Alright, I’d better wrap this up. I’ve spent nearly all afternoon at the computer and need to place my focus elsewhere. Have a wonderful day and happy reading/watching!!

P.S. If you have an Amazon account and a Kindle to load your books onto, you can access free books through your local library district via Amazon. Yes, FREE!!

October 16, 2026 – The Dance

I miss my mom. She passed away 4 years ago today. I think. And by that, I mean that nobody really knows the actual date with certainty. And the reason? She was alive when last checked on by staff during the late hours of the 15th, but had undoubtedly passed when they made their rounds at approximately 12:30 am the following day. The idea that she was alone when her soul left this planet really saddens me, but I do believe that is what she wanted. Amongst other things, she was an extremely private person and I can see her intentionally waiting until the room was empty so she could take her last breath without an audience. 

Once my brother Clover (her emergency contact) was notified, he called immediately to inform me of the tragic news. Even though I knew the writing was on the wall, I was beside myself. After getting off the phone, I remember feeling incredibly profound sadness and a sense that I’d lost my compass. In the throes of grief and shock, I kept repeating to my husband, “I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do!” Because no matter what was taking place in my life, my mom was my ‘go to’. Apart from the 6 months when I took a break from ‘us’ after feeling she’d stepped too far out of bounds, we communicated at least once or twice (or more) a week for years. Of course, that was until dementia got the best of her. 

Our relationship was complex, as most mother-daughter relationships are. She was my biggest cheerleader but also my greatest critic. As the matriarch of our family, she had a commanding presence. Many would describe her as strong, stoic and most definitely in control. She was the glue that held the family together, through the best and worst of circumstances. Another way to describe her? Without a doubt, she was witty, savvy, practical, talented, loyal, generous and determined. But weak and vulnerable? Never. Unless, you’re referring to the one time back in 1969 when at the age of two, I toddled down the stairs and into the basement and witnessed her standing by herself near the washing machine, sobbing uncontrollably. I think it had something to do with her impending divorce but I can’t say for certain. Aside from that one time, I’ve never seen her cry or reveal the slightest hint of vulnerability.

And trying to describe our relationship is really challenging. We were alike in so many ways and yet, vastly different. She gave birth to me during a particularly dark time in her marriage, when I believe she was preparing to once-and-for-all leave my biological father. While I was still in utero, she enrolled in real estate school in order to become an agent, studied as if her life depended on it, and successfully passed the exam. On several occasions throughout my life, she’d credit me with helping her pass the test. I’m pretty sure, as I was still in development and lacking any knowledge whatsoever regarding real estate matters, that I wasn’t able to help her with getting the correct answers on the test, but maybe I served as incentive to succeed? That’s the only way I can reasonably explain away her giving me any sort of credit. Credit for leg cramps, constant urges to pee, unusual food cravings, and stretch marks? Absolutely! But credit for passing a test? Not so much.

We are/were a great deal alike. My mom was born on a beautiful spring day in mid-March of 1929, and she had me many years later, just a few days shy of her 38th birthday; therefore, we shared the same astrological sign, Pisces. But we had far more in common. Far more. The good stuff? My mom loved to dance and listen to music. She loved sweets, especially chocolate. She loved to write and wrote extraordinarily well. She was also skilled at drawing, painting, sewing and decorating. And when it came to her children? She loved them more than anything in the world. And should any of them ever indicate a need, she would do her best to fill it. She was witty and loved to laugh as well as make others laugh. And she was resourceful! Whenever faced with adversity or challenges, she always managed to find a way. And should you ask anyone who actually knew us whether we had those commonalities, I think they would steadfastly agree. Even on the not-so-good stuff.

The not-so-good stuff? I don’t like to speak ill of her but I will say this because it’s something I have also been accused of, she didn’t respond well to criticism, had to be in control, and often resorted to inducing or imposing guilt (the gift that keeps on giving) when things didn’t go her way. I wish that wasn’t the case and that we didn’t share those traits or characteristics, but what can I say? Nobody’s perfect. Nonetheless, I can wholeheartedly say how grateful I am that we share so many positive ones, as she had many to speak of. And fortunately, they far outweighed her negative ones. Still, we differed in innumerable, significant ways. If you’ve read any of my posts, you’re probably familiar with my tendency to over share. I put it all out there, no matter what the topic. But my mom? Good Lord! She was so private! One of her famous sayings was, “Never discuss your personal life at work.” But honestly, that belief or practice extended to well beyond her work environment.

A good example of this? During her memorial, after all the formalities were out of the way, one of the first clients she ever sold a home to stood up and took hold of the mic. He clearly had something to get off his chest. As he stood there dejectedly, his face wet with tears, he told a story about when he and his wife purchased their first home. It had been well over 50 years since that major milestone in their lives and he’d bought other homes since then, but something about that first purchase stood out from the rest. It was the sacrifice my mom made on their behalf. In order for them to qualify, she gave up part of her commission. She really could have used the money but at no time did she ever let on that she was a single mom with nine children and barely able to put food on the table, let alone cover the mortgage. While sharing the story about her selfless gesture, he said had he known, he never would have agreed. He would have found another way.

The other ways my mom and I differed? When it came to our political views, make no mistake, we stood on opposite sides of the fence. When she talked about who she supported, I just listened. She was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative and I was anything but, and I didn’t see the point in getting into a debate about it. I knew it’d be a big fat waste of time and only result in hurt feelings. The other things we disagreed about, which you’d think would be a much less volatile or polarizing topic, was my overall appearance and how I chose to dress. I’ve been racking my brain in an attempt to remember a single time when my mom actually complimented how I looked, but I’m finding it difficult to think of any. There were countless times when she would take it upon herself to pick me apart. Sometimes she would say aloud what she was thinking but there were other times when words weren’t required. Whenever I’d get the ‘once over’, when she’d scan me from head to toe with a look of disapproval, I knew exactly what she was thinking. And it wasn’t good.

When she did speak up, she’d generally say the following, “You’re not going to wear THAT, are you?” It was another one of her famous sayings and always immediately followed a ‘once over’. It never failed to get my hackles up. But I’ll be honest, I wasn’t a sharp dresser. My usual attire was clothing I found on a clearance rack at a department store or somebody else’s has-beens from a thrift store. And to this day, I don’t know why I paired waffle stompers with nearly every outfit. God, they were hideous! Look, I didn’t buy things because they were pretty or cute or well-suited, I bought them because I had a budget to consider and was trying to live within my means. What really burned me up was that my mom was always trying to dress me. If the clothing she’d encouraged me to wear was actually an improvement over what I was already wearing, I would have readily agreed to reconsider my look. But that wasn’t the case.

Nine times out of ten, when I’d come out to visit, she’d drag me to a store for ‘mature’ women and continually point out clothes she had near replicas of in her own closet. The thing is, she was quite a bit older than me, nearly 4 decades, so the tops and pants and skirts she would recommend looked like they came straight from the cast wardrobe of the Golden Girls. No thanks! “Isn’t that CUTE?” she’d often inquire while holding up a pastel-infused blouse with shoulder pads and a cinched waist. My response? “Cute on YOU or cute on ME?” We disagreed on the styles and we also disagreed on the colors. My mom always gravitated towards browns and beiges and blues while I preferred jewel tones as well as every possible shade of black or gray. There was no middle ground.

Putting all that aside, I can’t imagine having anyone else as my mom. When I walked my dog this morning, I was listening to my mp3 player. It was set to random. And out of the blue, The Dance by Garth Brooks began to play. It was the first time I’d heard it in months and I immediately thought of her. Decades ago, I vividly remember playing it while she was out visiting, and she’d made a point to remark on how beautiful it was and asked who sang it. The lyrics always hit home, especially the following two lines, “I could have missed the pain, but I would have missed the dance.”

She wasn’t perfect by any means, and our relationship was often tumultuous, but she was my mom, my one and only, and I’ll forever love her. And I’m so glad I didn’t miss the dance.

Miss you, Momma. And like I told you when we last spoke, I’ll see you again someday.

October 12, 2026 – A Tale of Two Bills

As I sit here, having just excused myself from the dinner table after consuming a sizable portion of baked chicken, steamed broccoli, and wild rice, I can state with absolute certainty that I am STUFFED. Stuffed to the gills! And yet, I feel wholly unsatisfied. Despite being so full (to the point of discomfort) that I can’t envision my stomach having the capacity to hold anything beyond a single grain of rice, I find myself wanting. Another chicken breast, you ask? No. Another scoop of steamed broccoli? Nope. Another spoonful of wild rice? Not even! What I want is a damn M&M McFlurry with a topping of hot fudge. And it’s literally taking every last ounce of willpower within me to not immediately rise from my chair, head straightaway to the garage, hop into my car, drive one block to the nearest golden arches, and swing through the drive-thru.

I can’t seem to get it out of my mind. In fact, I am on the edge of euphoria just thinking about sinking my teeth into a single serving of ice-cold, creamy, chocolate-infused, mouth-watering goodness! Actually, since a McFlurry is essentially a milkshake, I wouldn’t be sinking my teeth into it. A spoon (aka tiny shovel) is all that’s required so there’d be no sinking, just shoveling. Lots of shoveling. Nonetheless, I want it. I want it BAD. Despite having had my share of sweet treats all week…donuts, concrete mixers (think DQ Blizzard), brownies, and untold amounts of candy…my brain keeps trying to justify indulging in more taboo food. It loves to tell me, “Just have this one last slice/scoop/handful of heaven and you can start back on your diet first thing tomorrow morning.” Liar! I know better. I know that in all likelihood, tomorrow will start out promising but by four or five pm, I will experience the same want, the same longing. And by nine, I will have succumbed once again. Sigh.

Why share all of that with you today? I thought it would be a great segue to my next story, A Tale of Two Bills. Have you ever heard of that term, ‘two bills’? For simplicity’s sake, I will refer to it as 2Bs from here on out. Apparently, it’s slang for 200 pounds. Years ago, when I was working at a community college, a male coworker used the term when discussing his own weight, and he was NOT the least bit pleased about it. Up until recent months, according to him, he’d maintained a MUCH lower and healthier weight. When he lived in California (where he was born and raised), he’d been an avid surfer and never had any ‘spare change’. He was fit as a fiddle and proud of his lean physique. However, after moving to another state and accepting a position at the college I was also working for, that was no longer the case. He was now employed full-time as a student advisor which entailed countless hours perched on a chair, advising students on possible academia choices. Somehow, someway, and completely unbeknownst to him, the weight had snuck up on him (as it often does).

According to my male coworker, this was brought to his attention when he stepped upon his bathroom scale the previous day. When the dial ultimately settled just beyond the 200-mark, he’d recoiled in horror and let out a loud gasp. To see with his own eyes that he’d crossed the dreaded threshold from the 100s to the 200s was a shocking and unwelcome discovery. And shameful at that! I listened and nodded as he shared his story but I chose to stay mum. Entering into that conversation seemed like a terrible idea (i.e.: stepping into a mine field). I empathized and wanted to express how much I related to his situation, but my gut said otherwise. Correction, ‘bread basket’. That’s the term my mom used to use to describe the region around her stomach where the fat cells appeared content to gather and stay for a while (much like an annoying party guest). You can call it what you want (gut, bread basket, jelly roll), but one thing I know to be true is that it pays to trust your gut.

Anyway, back to 2Bs. Prior to the discussion involving my male coworker, if someone mentioned 2Bs to me out of the blue, I wouldn’t have thought of a number on a scale, I’d have had one of two trains of thought, paper money or a couple of guys named ‘Bill’. That, of course, includes people with names such as William, Will, Willard, Bill, Billy, and so forth. As it stands, I know and know of several individuals who go by that name. To name but a few, there’s my brother, brother-in-law, and my neighbor across the street. There’s also Bill Shakespeare, Bill Murray, Bill Gates and Bill Hader. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Bill Clinton. He seemed to do a solid job as president but always appeared a bit distracted whenever standing at a podium.

Alas, I wish I could continue to plead ignorance when it comes to the 2Bs, but I can’t. It’s all too familiar. The first time we were formally introduced was when I was pregnant with my first child. And since then, it just keeps reappearing on my doorstep like a cheap relative who likes to show up unexpectedly and stay a day or more because they don’t want to foot the bill for a hotel. Personally, when it comes to the 2Bs, I like to tiptoe around the number. I certainly don’t like to say it out loud and proud when I mention to friends and family that I’ve gained a little weight. And I fear that I’ll soon return to that oh-so-familiar yet dreaded place on the scale sooner rather than later, due to making multiple, questionable dietary choices over this past week/month/year.

My excuse? Stress. In order to deal with stress, I turn to sweets. It’s a terrible coping mechanism but I suppose when considering the litany of self-harming behaviors (alcoholism, drug abuse, sex addiction, gambling, compulsive spending), I can justify overeating because in my mind it’s the lesser of the aforementioned evils. The one saving grace is that regardless of my occasional slips or dietary transgressions after finding excuse after excuse to justify them, it’s only a matter of time before I wake one random morning, size myself up in the mirror, and shout with conviction, “Snap out of it!” as Cher did to Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck (after he professed his undying love). I will then go to extreme measures to get my weight to a more acceptable number on the scale.

Throughout my life, as a means of shedding unwanted pounds, I’ve tried limiting my caloric intake or at the very least, limiting my sugar consumption. When I’ve stuck to my guns, I’ve been extremely successful. At one point, I lost a total of 75 pounds. It altered my appearance so drastically that if I ran into someone who knew me pre-weight loss (former co-workers and friends), they no longer recognized me. What a head trip that is! On one particular occasion, as I was exiting a movie theater, an acquaintance approached me with concern, gently placed her hand on my shoulder, and inquired as to whether I had cancer! Geesh. I’ve also gone the route of exercising more frequently and/or implementing the use of machines (things out of my comfort zone) to increase my heart rate. The problem is, apart from walking, cycling, or hiking outdoors every other day, which is within my comfort zone, I don’t like to exercise. I wish I could get on a GLP-1 but due to my kidney transplant, I don’t qualify.

I don’t know. I either need to accept my set of circumstances or do something about them once and for all. I’ve had some short-term success getting my weight within the ‘normal’ range, but for whatever reason, it never lasts. And let me tell you, I’ve made several attempts (with and without help). Weight Watchers? Check. TOPS (Take Off Pounds Sensibly)? Check. Overeaters Anonymous? Check. There have been other organizations and methodologies throughout the years but I’ll have to admit, I’ve lost track. My experience with Weight Watchers was the most satisfying but least effective. After each weekly meeting and weigh-in, a majority of the attendees would get together at a nearby pizza joint and pig out! And, no, not a single person ordered a salad, minus the cheese and croutons, with fat-free dressing on the side.

And speaking of kidneys, I have an appointment with my nephrologist later this month and I can tell you right now, it’s not going to be pleasant. He gave me a bunch of crap after he noticed a 10-pound weight gain during my last appointment six months ago. Afterwards, I kid you not, he provided me with a handout which contained ‘suggested foods to lose weight’ (i.e.: enjoying raw carrots with a low-fat dip as a between-meal snack). Come on! Who’s he kidding?! The only time I really enjoy carrots is when they’re grated and mixed in to cake batter, which is then poured into 8″ round pans, placed in the oven and baked to perfection. And the finishing touch? A generous layer of cream cheese frosting. Delish!

Alright, I guess I’d better go. It’s getting late and I still need to come up with a Halloween costume. Since going as Wonder Woman, Elvira or Jessica Rabbit is off the table, I’m seriously considering dressing up as the female version of either the Pillsbury Dough Boy, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, the Michelin Man or the Kool-Aid Man. I’ll keep you posted on what I decide!

Much love to you and yours! And by the way, does anyone else find it curious that most of the past obese brand mascots were male? Hmmmm. It sure does make me wonder.

October 8, 2026 – Grape Shaming

I can’t explain it, but for some inexplicable reason, random people often approach me and say not-so-nice things they wouldn’t dare say to others. It happens a lot. The most recent time this occurred, the confrontation was over grapes. And there’s no innuendo here, I’m talking about the fruit that grows on a vine, green seedless to be exact.

I’ve had complete strangers (aka trolls) feel compelled to take time out of their day to share their opinion(s) about a number of things. Some of the things they have felt necessary to bring to my attention include (but are not limited to) my weight, how I raise my kids, and I even had someone loudly and publicly scold me because I mistakenly entered a store through the exit door rather than the entrance. I’ve been fat-shamed, mom-shamed and even door-shamed. But what I’m about to describe is next level.

To quickly summarize what transpired, on our way home from the airport after returning from a delightful visit with our son and his family out in California, my husband and I decided to swing by the local Walmart in order to pick up some produce and a few odds and ends. While minding my Ps and Qs, I selected a number of different produce items that I knew we were in need of and placed them in our cart.

It included the usual staples, bananas and apples, a head of lettuce, carrots and potatoes, and grapes. But unbeknownst to me, while I was carefully selecting my grapes, I was being closely observed by a certain someone who apparently had WAY too much time on her hands.

And before I get too far ahead of myself, I should explain further about the processes that take place when I ‘choose’ food for purchase.

I’m not anything like the folks who are hired by the store to fill an order for a curbside pickup. I don’t look at a list and grab the first thing I see. I’m a perfectionist; therefore, a careful process is involved when I choose my groceries. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a loaf of bread, a bag of chips, a carton of milk, or a bunch of grapes. If I’m going to pay top dollar for groceries, I’m going to make sure that I’m getting the best bang for my buck and the absolute best of what’s available.

It’s a lengthy process but well worth it. With dairy, I’m only going to select the freshest or newest product on the shelf and that involves a careful review of expiration dates. And believe me, I check them ALL. The stores tend to put the old stuff out front and the new stuff behind it, so if I have to temporarily move the old stuff out of the way in order to access the newer stuff in the back, so be it. That same process is also applicable when it comes to baked goods, chips, and many packaged perishables.

But when it comes to evaluating produce, it’s much more complicated, especially when factoring in whether it’s sold per pound or per ‘each’. Personally, if I’m buying something sold per ‘each’, I’m going to pick the biggest item rather than the smallest, wouldn’t you? Not only am I going to pick the biggest item, but I’m also going to do a thorough inspection of each and every item I intend to purchase (before I place it in my cart) in order to evaluate the overall degree of ripeness and/or freshness. And depending on what the item is, different rules apply. What applies for a banana is much different than how I’d evaluate an apple, watermelon, bag of carrots or a bunch of broccoli.

Needless to say, on the day we decided to visit Walmart (at the conclusion of our vacation), after loading up our cart with items from the produce section, we began to wheel our cart towards the dairy section located in the rear of the store. It was at this time that we were accosted by someone we initially perceived as an unassuming, harmless, kindly, 60-something female. However, as it turned out, she was a heavily disguised, female troll.

When she initially approached us, I failed to notice her unmistakable troll features: bark-like skin, long nose and bulging eyes. If I had, I would have left my cart right where it stood, grabbed my purse, and sprinted out the door and directly to my car. But because I hadn’t, I stood like a deer in the headlights as she approached with her cart from the left. “Do you mind if I share something with you?” she asked innocently. “Sure?” I responded.

Big mistake!

Her ‘share’ involved a brief summary of the earlier part of her day, which included purchasing a rotisserie chicken and using it to make a salad. Huh? I wasn’t sure where this was heading. My husband and I exchanged glances. We were both curious as to what the relevance was. And then she pulled the ol’ bait and switch!

“I just want to let you know that I stood and observed you while you put your filthy hands all over the grapes…” she began, looking at me accusingly with her big, bulgy eyes. No. Not kidding. “SERIOUSLY??!!” was my initial response as my face turned a brilliant shade of red. A wave of shame quickly spread from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

Things went swiftly downhill after that. As she raked me over the coals and proceeded to tell me how she came to the conclusion that I clearly wasn’t ‘raised right’ based on how I mishandled the grapes (according to her), all I could manage to eke out was, “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

I was dumbfounded and at a loss for words. After being grape-shamed by a Walmart troll, that’s the best I could come up with? “You’re entitled to your opinion???!!!” Ack!! The day had been so joyful and incident-free up until that point, and then it went to Hell and took me with it. Yep. I ruminated over that damn encounter for the entire week until I made myself sick, and then I proceeded to ruminate some more.

My dear friends, the ‘would-a, could-a, should-as’ showed up unannounced and uninvited, each wearing a tuxedo and top hat, and held me captive until I was able to break free from their bonds (which required lots of therapy, journaling and personal assurances from friends and family in order to do so). And I’ll be honest, every now and then that last encounter still gets my hackles up even though it happened several months ago. Good grief.

Whenever that kind of stuff happens, whether it involves fat-shaming, mom-shaming, door-shaming, or grape-shaming, it’s always followed by me doing a full self-assessment. After the grape-shaming incident, I asked myself a multitude of questions. Was I out of line? Did I do something wrong? Should I have handled the grapes differently? Am I a bad person? Could there be something to her statement that I wasn’t ‘raised right’? And how was she able to surmise that based on one observation? I mean, no, I wasn’t raised right necessarily, my youth was a sh*t show. But that’s beside the point.

I wish I had enough self confidence that I could simply wave off people/trolls or give them a dose of their own medicine when they choose to unload on me, but that has yet to happen. After the Walmart incident, my husband said I should be proud of myself because instead of tucking tail and running away, I at least spoke up (which I’ve never done before). He does have a point, but I wish I had really let her have it rather than meekly responding with, “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

It sounds awful and immature, but a part of me wishes I had gone full throttle on that lady/troll. I’ve come up with all kinds of great responses since that fateful day, some rather vulgar and some pretty damn clever. Of all the things I’ve thought of, my three favorites are as follows: 1) Go f*ck yourself, 2) Do you need a ride back to the psych ward? When we’re done shopping, we can drop you off, and 3) You should see what I do with the lettuce!

The problem is, had I done that, I’d be no better than her. I’m not a troll, nor do I want to be. There’s already enough of them residing on this planet and they’re no longer sticking to residing under bridges. They’re literally everywhere! But there are ways to get a point across without being hateful. Sometimes saying nothing at all says everything.

Anyway, that’s what I have to offer to you today, my friends. My last post was rather dark and met with silence, so either nobody read it or people did read it and chose to say nothing rather than be cruel or unkind. I hope you enjoy what I shared. It did have some unsettling elements but I thought it also had some which were humorous or thought-provoking.

Alright, I’d better go while the night is still young.

Much love to you and yours.

October 6, 2026 – The Source

For some of you reading this, after a few paragraphs in, I can all but guarantee that you’ll shake your heads in disagreement, make a determination that I’m a kook, and vow to never return to my site. And that’s ok. Different strokes for different folks.

I’ll be frank. What I wish to discuss today is highly personal and certain to raise a few eyebrows. From here on, I’ll refer to ‘it’ as the Source. The Source? It’s known by many names but that’s what I choose to call it. For those who have experienced trauma, the Source can be a singular event or a series of events that forever changed their lives (for the worse). For myself, I’m referring to the damning thing that happened to me during my formative years to cause me to change how I view the world, as well as myself.

Up until a couple of years ago, the Source has been an unknown. It loomed loud and large but I could never figure out what it was. All I knew was that I’ve really struggled to be on this planet for a VERY long time and that huge chunks of my childhood have been missing from my memory. Huge chunks from before my stepfather entered the picture.

What I find really fascinating is that before relaunching this site, I glanced over a handful of posts I’d made in the past, including the 5-part post about my two fathers. I found it to be quite enlightening and yet utterly confusing. How is it that I managed to paint my stepfather in such a formidable light, while I portrayed my biological father as someone who could do no wrong? Someone, based on my stellar reviews, who could easily qualify as Father-of-the-Year?

Let’s be real. No one is perfect. And when someone is described as being without flaws, that alone should raise a red flag. But that’s the beauty of PTSD (what one tends to develop after being subjected to the Source). In order to survive, our brains occasionally resort to performing something comparable to what Houdini might have done back in the day…The Disappearing Act.

Presto Chango! What was is no longer! At least, that’s the trick your brain attempts to perform. Why would it remove something that once was? Well, that’s one of the many miraculous processes it’s capable of in order to protect us and help us survive. By removing or blocking memories, it allows us to persevere and hopefully live long enough to eventually face whatever caused our brain to initially block those memories.

In my case, I’ve always known something was amiss. I’ve often described how I perceive the world (as well as myself) as viewing it through a cracked lens. Everything appears a bit distorted, no matter what part of the lens I peer through. The other byproduct of this condition is that I’ve always felt like I’m on the outside looking in. As much as I want to belong, whenever I get around other people, especially more than 5 or 6, the lyrics to an old, familiar song always enter my brain, “One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just doesn’t belong.”

I can be sitting amongst what appears to be a really lovely group of mature ladies and it takes nearly everything in me not to leap from my chair and run out of the room. Even as a child, I felt this way. Always the outsider who never fit in. Despite my desire to be a part of something, I just felt apart.

Of course, as a child, the behaviors I exhibited outwardly didn’t help matters. Some of what I did took place behind closed doors. Amongst other things, I sucked my thumb and peed the bed (well into middle school), and was haunted by a disturbing sexual ‘dream’ that played at-minimum once a month, as if someone had put a DVD on repeat. Each time I would have it, upon awakening, I would feel utterly perplexed and racked with shame. This dream continued up until approximately 2 years ago.

My outward behaviors weren’t much better. Fortunately, I had enough self-control to keep my thumb out of my mouth while in public, but that’s about all I was able to control. For the entirety of my grade-school years (elementary through high school), I still peed my pants on a regular basis. However, rather than go home and change, I always kept a lightweight jacket on hand and would wrap it around my waist should I wind up in a situation where my bladder got the best of me.

The logic behind that was that if I were to go home, it would only make matters worse. And the fact that I must have smelled like a urinal in the boys’ restroom somehow never crossed my mind. The other thing I often did was break out in laughing fits at the drop of a hat. But this wasn’t just a slight ‘tee-hee’. I would laugh uncontrollably and so animatedly (face bright red and shoulders shaking, while repeatedly slapping my thigh) that it was impossible to ignore, especially when I began to honk like a goose.

The most random things would trigger this reaction. A ‘funny’ look from a classmate or an unusual picture in a magazine could set me off for upwards of an hour. I actually was sent to the principal’s office on two different occasions, once as a freshman and once as a senior, because my teachers were convinced that I was high on drugs…when I was anything but. Of course, this tendency I had did not help how others perceived me. I had a lot of great attributes, but ‘weird’ is the label I wound up with.

Of course, there’s the ‘other thing’ I should mention which has had a starring role throughout my life. Suicidal ideation. The first time I wrote about it was in a journal at the age of ten. And, man, that’s one thing I haven’t been able to shake. It’s clung to me like an 800-pound gorilla throughout my life’s journey and no matter what I’ve done to change my perspective or how many therapists I’ve seen, it likes to show up for regular appearances and attempt to destroy any and all progress I’ve managed to make.

Bastard.

Ok, so this is where I’m going to return to discussing my biological father.

‘Dear old dad’ he was not. Not even close. Of course, if you read what I wrote about him in an earlier post, you may have gotten a very different impression. It’s certainly the initial impression I had. What a great guy! And, boy, he made me feel so incredibly special! But that’s before in lieu of regular talk therapy, I decided to try something a bit more radical and gave hypnotherapy a shot, along with psilocybin therapy. By trying alternative therapies, my brain finally let me see the parts it had blocked in order to protect me. And I finally understood. FINALLY!

All of those pieces of the puzzle FINALLY came together. All the missing memories FINALLY made sense. All the dots FINALLY connected to create a picture I could no longer deny. And let me tell you, sometimes I wish I didn’t FINALLY learn the truth because it was really, really bad. I’m not going to divulge all the stomach-turning details, but I will tell you this, NO CHILD should ever experience what I went through. NO CHILD.

I may choose to share more at a later date but it’s too sensitive a topic to discuss now. When I first came to terms with it, I was really torn. It’s difficult to wrap my head around what my father did to me because as much as I know it to be true, I’m still hard-pressed to believe it. I don’t want to believe it. The one silver lining from all of this? Knowing the truth has helped me recognize that it wasn’t necessarily a cracked lens I was viewing the world through, it was the lens of shame.

Despite my misgivings about what took place, I am grateful that now I can better understand why I am the way I am. I read a book shortly after the truth landed like a bomb in my lap and the book (not the bomb) helped me immensely. It explained the cause(s) and effect(s) of what I experienced and gave me the answers I had sought for so long. And, strangely enough, after having the multiple radical therapies, I stopped having the recurring sexual dream I’d been having for decades. I actually believe it wasn’t a dream after all. It was a memory.

Have I made any progress since all of these moments of enlightenment? Yes, in some ways. No, in others. I still struggle and I don’t know whether I’ll fully heal or ever feel ‘normal’ during this lifetime. But the good news is that despite whatever you or I have gone through, there’s always hope. It may be fast and fleeting, but if you can grasp it when it’s within your reach, hang onto it with all your might because with hope, there’s healing.

Peace, love and blessings to you and yours…

I wish you well.

October 2, 2026 – Our Origin Story

My husband and I were recently invited to an event hosted by a couple of newly-marrieds. It took place in their home. Along with my husband and me, several other couples as well as quite a few single 20-somethings and 30-somethings were in attendance. As I stood in the kitchen, after scanning the room, I quickly recognized the fact that we were the oldest people at the party. I was also able to ascertain by what I shared with others and by what others shared with me, that we had been married the longest. At one point, the male counterpart of the newly-marrieds asked, “What’s your origin story?”

I rattled it off with ease. My husband was from Colorado and I was from Washington State. We both enlisted in the Air Force and left for bootcamp shortly after high school graduation. While attending tech school to become an Aerospace Ground Equipment Specialist in Indiana, he received orders for his first assignment in Germany. Upon completion of his training, despite his airman status, he was sent to an Army post in northern Germany, arriving in December that same year. I too was assigned to the same post and arrived the following June after completing training to become a Ground Radio Repair Technician in Mississippi. And as fate would have it, we ended up sharing an adjoining wall on the 3rd floor of a coed dorm. The rest is history.

Seems simple enough and it does give people an idea of our origin story, but there are a lot of holes in this version. A LOT. Especially when considering what transpired between the time we began to share a wall and when we actually exchanged vows and agreed to commit our lives to one another ‘til death do us part’. Because truth be told, I don’t like to discuss many of the particulars of our origin story, let alone those of our lengthy marriage, because many of the truths are hard to swallow. It’s so much easier to sum it all up by saying that we shared a wall and the rest is history. But that hardly scratches the surface.

What took place beneath the surface (when we first met) is MUCH more complicated. And I’m much to blame for most of it due to the choices I made before I even arrived at my first assignment. Had I made those choices today, I would have been eligible for a guest spot on the Jerry Springer Show or Maury Povich, but those shows didn’t exist back in 1986. If you’re familiar with those shows, you’ll probably be able to guess the predicament I found myself in. The majority of the episodes involve DNA testing and a big reveal after an envelope is carefully opened and the findings of its contents announced. But if you’re still scratching your head despite the clues, I’ll just put it out there. Plain and simple, I got knocked up. But that’s only the half of it. To my horror/shame/embarrassment, I wasn’t able to pinpoint who exactly the ‘Baby Daddy’ was.

I have to say, when I discovered I was pregnant, that was one of the lowest periods of my life. Of all the people, I couldn’t believe I’d wound up in this situation. My sister, Diabolical Debbie, with her blonde hair, green eyes, olive skin and perfect smile, was always considered the ‘pretty one’ and was never short of suitors. And she had found herself in this exact same predicament four years prior and decided to keep the child. She’d already made her fair share of bad decisions prior to getting knocked up, but this faux pas placed her squarely in the black sheep category from that point onward. My mom and stepdad never had ANYTHING good to say about her after that. But for ME to end up this way? I was supposed to be the ‘smart one’. I was the one who was part of the National Honor Society, had a vast wealth of potential and could do ANYTHING I sought to achieve.

Keeping all that in mind, how on God’s green earth did I end up doing something so incredibly dumb?

It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. When I went off birth control after completing tech school and then hooked up with two guys in under a week, ending up in the ‘family way’ was a foregone conclusion. Before getting myself into this mess, I’d been pretty reckless and had been looking for love in all the wrong places. Yes, despite my good grades and wealth of potential, I started going off the rails during my junior year in high school. And because of all the chaos that was taking place within my family, the fact that I had begun living on the edge went largely unnoticed. I can tell you from my own experience that if you live on the edge long enough and don’t take the possible consequences seriously, they’re bound to catch up with you. And when my husband and I first met, they firmly had a hold of me. Better yet, rather than a hold, make that a death grip.

Here’s the thing. My husband knew my circumstances when we first started dating. Since his room adjoined mine and he was just one door down the hall, he had a pretty good idea of the shenanigans taking place. I wasn’t proud of my behavior, but I was so self-destructive that I didn’t care enough to do anything about it. What is puzzling is how we even ended up together, considering how he was fully aware of my having a bun in the oven and the uncertainty over the paternity. There’s one more thing. Are you ready for this? What’s even more puzzling is that I was dating his best friend before we ended up together.

Yep. All true. And before I proceed, take a moment to process that.

Most guys, once fully briefed on all the facts, would have done a sprint in the opposite direction. Not my guy. Nope. What I have learned after being with him for four decades is that he’s the World’s Foremost Fixer. He can fix anything. Well, let me rephrase that. He can fix anything that is non-human. He can build an outdoor workshop from scratch, replace a transmission on a car, and take a motorcycle apart down to the frame and put it back together again. He can install a roof, paint a beautiful picture, design and weld together a sculpture for the front yard, or make a raised bed out of two-by-fours and corrugated steel and use it to grow a garden. He also has the ability to put in all new windows, replace the HVAC system, redo all the wiring and replace all the plumbing lines and fixtures in a single-family home (which he did in our last one). The list goes on. Truly, the man can do anything.

Well. Ok. Not everything. He’s got mad skills, but there’s one thing he’s never been able to successfully fix and that’s yours truly. And it’s not as if he hasn’t tried.

The thing is, as much as I’ve built him up, he’s got plenty of his own flaws.

Had I had the slightest notion of what it would be like to be married to an alcoholic, it’s highly doubtful that there ever would have been a wedding. And it’s not as if he hid his addiction from me. It was nearly as obvious as my growing belly.

But when you love someone as much as we loved each other, there’s a tendency to overlook things.

I overlooked his shortcomings and he did the same. I do have to note that at that particular time, my shortcomings were met with disgust and ridicule. I became a social pariah and was called a slut and a whore and in order to maintain my sanity and what little remained of my self-respect, resorted to moving out of the dorm and into my own apartment off-site, while his behavior (drinking himself into a stupor night-after-merciless-night and waking up on the floor the following morning at the base of a toilet in the nearest bathroom stall) was glorified. It makes no sense but there you are. That’s what it was like in the mid-80s. I find it curious how those who engage in certain destructive behaviors are held in high esteem and are often referred to as ‘the life of the party’, while the status of others who engage in less socially acceptable destructive behaviors is reduced to that of what you may have accidently stepped in moments before and must now remove from the bottom of your shoe. What’s rather sad is that I don’t necessarily think much has changed since then, at least in that regard.

Nevertheless, those are the reasons why I feel it best to keep our origin story rather brief and avoid getting into the weeds. Can you imagine what we’d be faced with if I shared the whole truth and nothing but the truth at a dinner party with people whom I’d/we’d just met? I’d have to wear galoshes and a raincoat (with a hood) to navigate the sh*t storm of judgement, shame and/or pity which would undoubtedly follow. Good grief! No thanks!!

And as it generally goes when I start to write about any given topic, there’s so much more to share and I could literally go on for days; however, I made a promise to keep my posts to a minimum, and am choosing to keep my promise. Therefore, I must bid you adieu.

Peace, love and blessings to you and yours.

Until we meet again…