It has been a crazy few days. Up down, in out, go stay, right wrong, wine or not? Would someone just help me make an intelligent decision? Choices are dangling all around me without rhyme or reason. I think I need an intervention.
 
Okay, so I have just lost my mojo - you can sidebar the intervention. I remember when decision-making was black and white – no gray areas – not even a maybe. And then one day it became 5,862 shades of gray (give or take a few). When did I decide it had to be difficult? And how did I come to this state of mind?
 
We all know that decision-making is a reasoning process based on one’s assumptions of values, preferences, and beliefs. It is a cognitive mechanism that generally results in a rational – or irrational – course of action. Ah, but the kicker here is that oftentimes we jump to conclusions based on not-so-explicit information.
 
Of course, in my humble opinion, the delineation of rational vs. irrational is meaningless anyway. Rationality is relative, right? Everyone’s interpretation of “the ability to reason” waivers across the board. Unless a conclusion is beyond a shadow of a doubt, who can pass judgment? And who defines the shadow of a doubt?
 
Is anyone else confused here? I am simply trying to decide if I should wear boots or shoes. Should I go to the grocery today or tomorrow? Is my flannel jacket enough or should I wear my heavy coat? Thank goodness it was easy enough to choose coffee over tea.
 
I wonder…did this unacceptable indecisiveness happen overnight? Or did it come crashing down like an overloaded pantry shelf when one too many cans of soup were added? Yes, I am just a hot mess.
 
I have always believed that decisive wisdom was the compilation of years of successes, failures, good choices, and bad decisions. Today I feel as though I blew a circuit breaker. My confidence is intact, and my energy level is unabashedly youthful, but my brainwaves are lost in the Bermuda Triangle.
 
So, I am curious. Do you have overload days too? An elder friend today, in a bit of an unnerving state of confusion, said to me, “I am not buckled very tight today, am I?” I reassured him we all have those days, yet the serendipitous simplicity of his acknowledgment slapped me silly. I am not buckled very tight today either.
 
But tomorrow is near and while bedrest can be an elusive healer, I have an inkling that I will awaken with newfound resolve. Will it be shoes or boots? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Wow. I let an entire week get away from me. Oh, I got up every day, did my duty, nourished my body, and clocked a few hours as a real person. But my focus was gone. Poof. Gone. And I honestly do not know if that was a good thing, or not.
 
This morning I awakened at 3:08 AM and realized I had not written a word in 13 days. Guilt immediately washed over me, and I jumped out of bed like I was an hour late for work.
 
I brewed a cup of coffee, took a moment to savor how good it tasted, and grabbed my laptop.
 
It felt like I had not touched it in ages. Have you ever had a moment like that? When something old feels new again? It is a good feeling! (Note to self: Make this feeling happen more often.)
 
So off I went on my usual journey down the big black hole. I checked my email – nothing of interest to note. I always try to scan the local news but when the headlines are nothing but death and destruction I move along. I need to find my inspiration elsewhere.
 
And oh goodie. A winter storm warning is my new truth – predicting 4-8 inches of snow overnight. January has been so ridiculously mild that I cannot even muster a grunt of despair. It is January in Indiana after all, and I need a reason to don my new thermal underwear anyway.
 
Then it is onward to social media. Notifications are out of control. Good news, sad news, funny news, and ads up the wazoo. The experience is just not what it used to be. I have to seriously dig through grunge to find the good stuff. Yet I still ponder – how did we stay in touch without it? Even more importantly, how did I ever live without knowing what someone’s cat did during a thunderstorm?
 
Ah, but then I saw it. Why didn’t Facebook notify me? Readers – we did it! I not only hit my 6,000 milestone, I surpassed it by 144! That’s right – 6,144 followers! My fingers are tingling; my heart is racing; it is time to celebrate. Since it is too early for wine (even for me!), I need more coffee!
 
And just like that, I am refreshed. I started this journey over two years ago to simply empty an overactive brain. I never dreamt for a minute that strangers might find even a spark of interest, a flash of entertainment, or a moment of resolve in my thoughts. I am so glad that I have shared them.
 
I realize that 6,144 followers do not an influencer make, but I am humbled and ever so blessed to have found my own little niche of personal freedom. Each of you has helped liberate me from my fear of not being enough. To feel worthy is to feel loved. And I thank you all so much.
 
But let’s get back to that cat in a thunderstorm. Did I really need to see that? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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And so we learn, even through sadness, life goes on. There are angels that calm us, friends that salvage our spirit, and idiots that still irritate the living daylights out of us. Life is often just a quandary of misfires.
 
But in moving forward, we take a minute, breathe, pray for strength, and find comfort in all that is good.
 
Well, except for the numbnut on their cell phone that sped past me this morning going at least 55 in a 30-mph zone. And the moron that floored it on a yellow light to blatantly run a red light just to save what? One minute, maybe two? Just once, I would like to be on the road and praise every driver in my peripheral vision. Hey, a girl’s got to dream, right?
 
But I need to give it up today. The shattering emptiness in this house without my pup is deafening. I need to somehow find clarity in the healing power of silence.
 
I can suddenly hear a subtle rattle coming from my furnace. There is music blaring from a truck parked across the street with its door open. And when the thermostat halts the heat, and the quiet ravages my soul, there is an ever-so-bothersome buzz in my ear. Where did that come from?
 
Oh, isn’t that delightful? Tinnitus. Yet another symptom “especially common in older adults” (says an equally annoying internet search). As miraculous as he is, our Master Designer truly missed the mark when applying physical attributes to the aging population. 
 
And wham, just like that, I am transported to a Mork and Mindy storyline. If the 1978-1982 Robin Williams sitcom is out of your wheelhouse, I am sure it can be found somewhere in Streamland (oooh, that sounds like a future online destination. Should I patent it?).
 
Now, where was I? Oh yes – back to Mork and Mindy – there was a ridiculously hilarious episode where Mork became the impregnated partner, hatched an enormous egg, and out popped Baby Mearth, the size of a full-grown human. And throughout the storyline, we learn that Orkans (aliens from the Planet Ork) age backward. What a concept – to become a carefree child in our elder years.
 
And now I am a hungry elder with an annoying buzz in her ear. Or does it sound like crickets? My thoughts are just all over the place. And even worse, I am a hungry elder with an annoying buzz in her ear talking to herself! I never felt crazy when I was sharing these thoughts with Seeker.
 
Wait – I think I just heard a faint dog bark. No, really. I heard it. Maybe this is Seeker’s way of telling me to lighten up.
 
And I smile. It would be something he would do. Whenever I was under the weather, he was always right beside me, head resting on my feet. So maybe I am not going crazy after all. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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​It is a new year full of new thoughts, new beginnings, and new promises. There really is a spark of excitement that hovers over all of us at the possibility of new adventures too, isn’t there? So, it is unfortunate and downright devastating that my first blog of the new year will be less than stellar.
 
I have said jokingly in the past that if reincarnation is real, I would like to come back as a dog. And no, not just any dog. I want to come back as my dog.
 
Seeker was the firstborn of seven puppies to a pair of dogs that fell instantly in love with each other. Momma Sassy, a Cockapoo, was a puppy herself when she came into my life. Papa Slai, a Chinese Crested Powderpuff, was four months old when we rescued him from a hideously small cage at a Florida Flea Market. These two dogs became almost inseparable from the moment they met.
 
Seeker was the leader of the litter in more ways than one. He earned his name by somehow escaping out of the whelping box every night by week three. We would find him exploring the house with zero understanding of how that tiny puppy scaled the tall sides of that box. It was a mind-boggling mystery. Even as an adult dog, he lived to escape and run free. And when we went for our walk, he walked me.
 
It has been he and I alone together since he was eight weeks old and, much like his parents, we instantly fell in love with each other. I have heard so many people tell me in recent years so many times, “he is just a dog” that I have grown to feel sorry for anyone who does not understand the unconditional love of a canine connection.
 
Today I had to say goodbye to that little guy and it damn near broke my heart. Seventeen years of intensely active puppydom took its toll on his little 14-pound body. I have watched him slowly decline over the past months. But, right up until last night with me steadying his weakened stance, he chowed down on kibbles mixed with tuna and cheese like a starved child who hadn’t eaten in months. He was one strong-willed little pup.
 
And so ends a love story for the ages. In all these years I have never finished a steak, a piece of chicken, or fish – or even the crust off my morning toast – because those bites were always saved for him. I am not sure if I will ever relearn how to finish a meal.
 
Ah, but I pray this is never fodder for yet another rant.
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And just like that, in a blink of an eye, another year is history. We have only one more day to either find its meaning or blow it off as a lost cause. I think I will choose the latter.
 
I mean, seriously, why sit and brood about that which is unchangeable? 2022 was a  significant improvement over 2021 but I can still quote Dickens overall: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of life, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”
 
But my year was not A Tale of Two Cities, it was just a tale of a lonesome stranger. Although, it can still be said that navigating life is always the best of times and the worst of times. I have zero chance to be as eloquent as Charles Dickens, yet my impassioned voice can still herald life’s challenges with personal distinction.
 
I have spent so many years sweating the small stuff. Why does anyone do that? And why does it take decades to realize how ridiculous it is?  Every moment is a gift. Every friendship is a treasure. And every new year is the grand prize.
 
So, whether you blow a kiss to the old year, or throw a brick at it, chalk it up in the simplest of terms. Be it loves lost or lessons learned, remember that every memory has earned its place in our hearts. Every ray of sunshine and every droplet of rain has added substance to our existence. And whether we like it or not, we are the sum of it all. We are all intricate snowflakes in a perfect storm.
 
Ring in the New Year with grace, my friends. Shout it from the rooftops that the small stuff can take a hike. I have so much looming on the horizon. I am inching up to 6,000 followers; that alone is enough to celebrate today. So, raise a glass, say a prayer, welcome a new day, and tell a friend about this crazy old lady who has an opinion on everything. Let the countdown begin. I need only 58 more followers to hit a milestone! Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Already it is Christmas Eve. The holiday season has come and gone so swiftly that I feel almost lost in an inexplicable time warp. In just a matter of days, 2022 will end and the door to a new year will open.
 
Christmas has always been the most magical time of year for me. From searching starlit skies for a reindeer-driven sleigh as a child to my fascination with its spiritual enlightenment as an adult, this holiday represents a significant thread woven into the fabric of my being. I simply love the extraordinary spirit that is Christmas.
 
It could be too many twinkling lights or Mother Nature’s perfectly timed blanket of white this year, but today, I feel a deluge of mixed emotions. The intense cold imposes a level of isolation that dims the illumination of holiday cheer usually so abundant. Of course, I also have frozen water pipes in the kitchen and the half bath at the front of the house.
 
And if that were not enough, the appearance of little black droppings on my crafting cabinet alerted me that little creatures are also affected by sub-zero temperatures. Capturing an irritating rodent with peanut butter on a trap put yet another little black cloud over my holiday exuberance. I almost felt guilty for eliminating a member of the nest at Christmas. Yes, I know, I’ve lost it.
 
Seldom, if ever, have I felt less than spectacular during this time of year. And I wondered - is there a message for me in the madness?
 
I found myself suddenly reminded of my mother once saying to me, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” The memory made me belly laugh. What if the powers that be in the universe decided that if I was going to be all gloom and doom this holiday, they might as well give me reasons to feel that way?
 
Instantly, the black clouds disappeared. My Jingle Bell smiles returned. The message of Christmas is much more important than a frozen pipe or an icy walkway. It is an opportunity to bring peace and light to those less fortunate than you.
 
Shine your light brightly and bask in the glory of a newborn King. Christmas brings hope, and hope is the everlasting promise of peace and goodwill. And please say a prayer for my little mouse – rodent or not, God blesses all creatures great and small. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 
Merry Everything and Happy Always! May your holidays be ever so cheerful and bright!
 

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Here we are another year winding down to a blessed event. The Midwest is bracing for a blizzard. We are expecting heavy snow, with temperatures and wind chills diving well below zero. It certainly makes me pause and wonder exactly what the weather was like on that blessed event so many years ago.
 
Now, I am the furthest thing imaginable from a knowledgeable source, so my inquiry here is of intrigue only. So the story goes, we do know that Joseph was made to travel to his native city to pay taxes and that taxes were collected after harvest in the fall. We also know that an Israel winter is usually very mild, so it may be deduced that the weather was not brutally cold.
 
It is also told that the shepherds were minding their flocks and it is unlikely they were grazing their sheep in the snow. But it still leaves us to question how insanely difficult it would be to birth a child, a Messiah or not, under the foreboding shadows of winter.
 
All that aside, my thoughts today focus solely on how lucky most of us are. Modern conveniences and unthinkable technologies bring peace, comfort, and ease to lives that were once driven only by intellectual challenge, blind necessity, and limitless imagination.
 
At the same time, those same opportunities have limited (and often eliminated) the expansion of our brain’s capacity to reason, deduce, and think independently of preconceived notions and social expectations. Do we not reduce ourselves to a mindless existence when it is easier to compute a mathematical response by accessing the calculator app on a cell phone rather than utilizing taught principles?
 
Taxes, in the times of Joseph, had to be calculated by penning quill to parchment. Today we insert numbers into a program and trust an automated outcome. I simply cannot decide if that progress is good or evil.
 
Yet today, I am thankful for many modern conveniences. While I will still bury myself under layers of clothing and a blanket to try and stay economically warm this weekend, I will not be stranded in a stable or a cave for shelter from the storm. Quoting my dad in times of strife, “Life is great if you don’t weaken.”
 
So, onward we march toward a glorious celebration. Since I have no flock to mind in the fields, I will give love and comfort to my trusting companion – and, humorously so, the longest relationship with a male I have ever endured (17 years!) – my old pup, Seeker. I may be merely a poor, weak peasant, but my life is still abundant in riches. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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So, my lazy little low-life elf finally showed up. And I have to admit, it was one of the grumpiest old elves I have ever had to work with! Their hustle and bustle materialized more like a snarky snail slither. Either they just do not make elves like they used to or the EEU (Elfin Employment Union) has negotiated one sweet contract for those mischievous little imps!
 
Okay, so I was the grumpy old elf, and I am not under contract. I still have no clue why my holiday spirit is MIA this season, but decorating this year was as productive as catching tadpoles with a slotted spoon. I did manage to get the tree up, decorated, and lit with willful albeit scatterbrained care. My Charlie Brown and Peanuts Nativity set is adoringly posed on a bed of lighted snow. And all my favorite Grinch trinkets are polished and shining brightly.
 
Today, I braved the savage winter weather to hang icicle lights and a four-foot lighted wreath while turning my porch into a sparkly winter wonderland. Okay, so it was only a crisp 39 degrees outside, but my fingers still managed to freeze up like it was 40 below.
 
All lights are on dusk to dawn-timers, so I have yet to see if my efforts were up to par. As dusk approaches, I believe a bottle – uh, I mean a glass of wine is in order. Perhaps a little libation will keep me from scrutinizing the placement of every twinkling light. It is a curse, I tell you. If I’m going to decorate, it better be perfect.
 
All my silliness aside, there is truly something magical about a twinkling Christmas tree and the promise of hope symbolized by a beloved baby in a manger (or in my case, a wondrous little Woodstock in a manger). The hush of peace and goodwill it delivers puts it all in perspective for me. And, suddenly, my holiday spirit is restored without question or pause.
 
What kind of mystical shroud can smother an emotion into nothingness? It remains one of mankind’s greatest mysteries. Even those of us who believe we have some modicum of intelligence can fall prey to that kind of control.
 
However, my toes are finally tapping and I’m even humming along with Mariah’s version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Is anyone ready to place odds on how long that will last? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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OK, which one of you scoundrels stole my Christmas elf? I used to think I had at least a dozen of them, and they would appear at will during the busiest time of the year. And now, I cannot even find one.
 
I have boxes marked “Christmas” all over my living room and ribbon cuttings from ”decorations in progress” all over my dining room floor. I seem to be very proficient this year in moving things from one side of the room to the other without finishing anything. I need my elf!
 
And to make matters worse I have strategically placed my blinders so that I am completely oblivious to any of the mess. I have honed tunnel vision to a whole new level. It is actually quite impressive if I do say so myself.
 
I assure you I used to be the original Christmas elf - right down to the pointy ears, turned-up nose, and twinkling eyes. Donning candy cane red and Grinch green duds, with my fur-trimmed Santa hat, of course, I was an efficient little Sprite hustling about like a whirling dervish on sugar plum steroids.
 
Even the most annoying of Christmas carols brought a spring to my step and musical delight to my pointy little ears. They have now become noise. Noise. NOISE! Which bloody little ghost of Christmas past can I blame for this obvious hiccup in my holiday spirit?
 
But it is still early in December and perhaps I am prematurely pushing the envelope for elevated seasonal essence. Is this where I strike a yoga meditation pose and chant “Om” for inspiration? I am fairly sure, at least, I have not evolved into a Scrooge. But I do think my effing elfishness may be temporarily disenchanted.
 
I suppose it is time to bring out the gingerbread candles, the peppermint hot cocoa, and my questionably playful “I don’t want your BALLS on me!” ugly Christmas Tree sweater. I am grateful every day I still have friends with whom I can wear this holiday abomination around without fear of offending them. Holiday thanks to my exceedingly indulgent comrades who just look at me, smile, and shake their heads.
 
So, I am officially on the hunt for Christmas spirit. I am certain it will appear at the most inopportune time causing strangers to gawk at me with “What in the world is wrong with her?“ scrutiny.

Who knows, with any luck, one of those irritating little stares may just be the catalyst I need to beam back an even more bedeviling holiday spotlight on those heartless Scrooges of the world. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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How does time fly by so quickly? Seemingly overnight we went from brilliant autumn color to 50 shades of gray – and for those gutter-dusting minds, no, not “those” shades of gray. Cold and windy days have stripped our senses of the season’s colors. All of a sudden – poof – the magic of autumn is gone.
 
But much like the wind and the rain on a cool autumn day life’s landscape can also change in the blink of an eye. As we realign our visions to crisp wintery views, sometimes we must also reawaken our hearts and minds to the blessings that grace our lives every day. There may be people and places and things that I miss ever so much, but even through loss, there is a great rush of hope that better days are ahead.
 
Sometimes, it isn’t all that easy though, is it? The distance between days of wine and roses, or sunshine and lollipops is about as predictable as winning the lottery. But age and wisdom are the warm cozy blankets that allow the sun to shine during thunderstorms. It is all about perspective, my friends, and a personal journey that only we alone can cultivate.
 
Every night before I sleep, I give thanks to my maker for indulging me in the rollercoaster antics of my day. I ask for peace and love to adorn my family, my friends, and all of humanity – to keep them safe from fear, and pain, and hatred. I am quick to acknowledge that if it is my time to leave, I am ready to succumb to the will of the world, and I praise the countless gifts I have been given along the way.
 
Sounds peaceful and serene, doesn’t it? It does make me smile because in the morning when I awake, while I give thanks for another day I crazily lament, “You seriously want me to do this all again? Fine. Whatever.” Then the smile explodes into a belly laugh.
 
So, on this Thanksgiving Day, take a moment – a single, solitary moment – to treasure exactly how lucky you are. Life is the purest of miracles. We, alone, make it good or bad, happy or sad. Oh, and that second, or third, piece of pie you are considering? Just eat it and enjoy. Who’s going to know? I’ll never tell. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 
Happy Thanksgiving!
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Is ginormous actually a word? I have been having this recurring nightmare where a massive law enforcement-type person – hence the word ginormous – barges in, handcuffs me, and threatens my entire existence. And, no, do not go there. This is not an erotic dream.
 
I struggle with great resolve but cannot find the strength to overtake him. Over and over again, I am forcefully carted away and thrown into a solitary prison cell that houses nothing but a keyboard.
 
Now, I know what you're thinking. This tormented old soul desperately needs a psychoanalyst. But actually, you would be wrong because I know who the intruder is . . . it is a Supervillain known as The Procrastinator.
 
Okay, fine. Go ahead and laugh. But understand that the trauma is real. The more I age, the more I procrastinate. Why? What is the psychology behind the belief that I can just do it later without repercussion?
 
The most common explanations range from incorrectly estimating the time to get a project done to waiting for the right time, inspiration, or motivation to begin.
 
Some say that procrastination may be the result of an underlying condition: generalized anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, adult ADHD, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. If I were to buy into these blanket diagnoses, it would suggest I am a textbook psycho. For the record, however, I have never been "textbook" at anything. I am a proud and complicated hot mess.
 
My deep dive also showed that it is not unique to humans. A study of pigeons showed that they tend to choose a complex but delayed task rather than an easy but hurry-up one. Well, that is a relief. I emulate the actions of a pigeon. I wonder if I should add that to my resume.
 
Actually, I believe my situation resolves around two of my own personal truths: Avoidance and Denial. Not only do I avoid tasks that I deem unpleasant, but I also pretend that I have other tasks that are far more important than the essential ones. And sadly, neither of them usually gets done.
 
With that admission, it is a mockery that I have always deemed my biggest strengths as Focus and Drive. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can distract me from professional achievement. When I am appropriately compensated and given a time-stamped deadline, I will not fail. I would never allow myself to fail. So why doesn’t that level of motivation apply to personal goals in my private life?
 
No clue. I have absolutely no clue. My application of focus and drive is mysteriously discriminatory. If it is not supported by monetary gain The Procrastinator possesses my spirit and turns me into an ice cream-eating, wine-guzzling, TV-watching zombie. And no amount of self-imposed discipline breaks his spell.
 
But there is always a silver lining to every black cloud, right? My ability to put aside many important tasks also allows me to experience exceptional wine, hug my old yet still precious pup, and age ever so gracefully. Although, in all honesty, I am still awaiting the graceful part. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Oh goodness… I cannot decide if it is a Pet Peeves week or a Grumpy Old Lady week. Maybe those are synonymous because the cobwebs in my head have returned and everything happening on the planet is irritating my state of being. Oh goodie.
 
Twice in the last month, I have nearly been delivered back into the arms of my maker because distracted drivers ran a stop sign – both times, at the same intersection! If I had not slammed my brakes, I would have been toast. It is a stop sign that has been there for years! Now, I was either not supposed to be traveling to that small neighboring town, or someone in the great beyond decided I needed a wake-up call.
 
Either way, the real question is . . . why can’t people pay attention? It just appears to me that we are becoming a generation of self-absorbed morons. Okay, yes, I know, that is a bit harsh. Let’s just call them idiots. But what does it take to understand that you are not the only person on the road? News Flash - more than likely, your agenda is no more important that anyone else’s.
 
And to add insult to injury, every day – Every. Single. Day. – I watch people, young and old, run a red light. While I am looking at a green light and moving my right foot from the brake pedal to the accelerator, a car speeds across the intersection right in front of me. And I thank God every day that I am paying attention and count to three before moving forward. Of course, the car behind me is honking nonstop, like a crazed lunatic, during that momentary life-saving inconvenience.
 
But traffic is not my only Holy Grail of the month. Who decided that having holes in your jeans is fashionable? Growing up, of course, obviously in the “olden days,” holes in clothing meant you were either poor or your mother could not sew.
 
So down the internet black hole, I jumped. Most historians report that the distressed denim trend found its way into the punk culture as far back as the 1970s (thank you Iggy Pop). They say it was a symbol of revolt and an expression of anger against society. I guess punk wasn’t my crowd, because the only distressing I remember back then was maybe some fray at the bottom of the legs from dragging on the ground. It was short-lived.
 
By the 1990s this subculture political statement became popular again and was accepted by a wide variety of cultural influences, cementing its place as a mainstream fashion piece. I do not know about you, but emulating a social media influencer, model, or celebrity by exposing my thighs, knees, or anything else just isn’t an option. To me, it is not even a valid choice.
 
Okay – lecture over. I feel much better, thank you. Is it too early in the day for wine? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Well, summer seemed to just fly out the window and fall arrived without even so much as a courtesy knock on the front door. Not even October, and it was 44 degrees this morning! Brr… Where in the world did I put my electric blanket? Worse yet, where are my thermal socks?
 
Time anymore just whisks by so quickly that I lose perspective on almost everything. My great nieces have grown from adorably cute to absolutely beautiful, my furry best friend Seeker has grown from precocious pup to rickety old dog, and my joints are calcifying as I type. Why, as kids, did we always wish we were older? And why, as adults, do we often forget to just stop and enjoy the moment?
 
I have been on an emotional roller coaster – and for impromptu clarification, I have never liked the damn things. As of late, however, I am juggling the terrifying realizations of friends’ parents who are struggling, friends who are facing life-changing circumstances, and personal challenges that, like always, seem to just back me up against a wall. Is life always just a pipe dream? I cannot seem to recall a time when everything just . . . worked. And in hindsight, of course, it probably never did.
 
I had the pleasure of accompanying an older gentleman this past week to his “Chair Exercise” class at a long-term facility. I watched as he and his compadres worked diligently to “row the boat, play the piano, lift the weights, and climb the stairs.” They all counted from one to ten on each exercise with great enthusiasm as music from the 1950s and 60s played in the background.
 
And what made it supremely spectacular was, that every once in a while, the exercise halted abruptly as everyone in the room had to sing along in full voice with an oldie, but goodie! It was one of those “moments” that I believe everyone should one day stop and enjoy.
 
At the end of this exercise, even I felt more invigorated and purposeful. I complimented my gentleman friend on his earnest, complaint-free participation and expressed my hope that it would help to strengthen his muscle tone. His response floored me: “Well, I’ve always known, if it makes you stronger, just do it.” That, my friends, is perspective in a nutshell.  
 
And somehow, just like that, my roller coaster came to a quiet stop. I am never more emotionally and spiritually enriched than by the wise words and actions of someone facing challenges far more threatening than mine.
 
And at the end of that horrifying amusement park ride was an email congratulating me on surpassing 5,000 followers! Amid surgeries, writer’s block, and job changes I still managed to touch the hearts of new readers. I am both amazed and thankful! Readers – you are the heroes of my day!
 
I may have survived the roller coaster, but Lord please keep me off the Scrambler! Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Am I swirling alone in a vortex when I admit that although I have a very keen sense of the universe, I often feel like I am the dumbest person in the room? I know the peanut gallery will have a heyday with that admission, but seriously – how many planes of intelligence are there?
 
This may sound like a very serious topic, but I assure you I am snickering sarcastically. High IQ does not always mean smart. Okay, so it may mean smart, but it does not assume the appropriate application of said smartness. Yes, it is late. And no, I have not been indulging in alcoholic libation.
 
For most of my life I have luckily surrounded myself with inviting, inspiring, and intelligent people. I cannot begin to speak of the mass of knowledge I have absorbed merely by being in the right place at the right time with the right people. I have never necessarily been book smart or street smart, but rather life smart. Perhaps it is simply the power of observation that gives me such a unique perspective. Hang in there – this is complicated even for me.
 
I do know I am a visual learner. I thrive on documentaries, biographies, true stories, and historical period pieces presented primarily on film. Of course, a good love story also heightens my grasp of life’s often peculiar lessons.
 
Give me a book, however, hard copy or audio, and no matter how incredible the content, ninety percent of the time I will be either asleep by Chapter Three with little or no recollection of Chapters One and Two or lost in rambling brain farts about what I need to pull off Saturday night’s dinner. I usually blame it on an overactive brain, but I honestly do not understand what it is about the printed word that blurs my focus. Ironic, isn’t it, that I have chosen print media as my vehicle of expression?
 
One might argue I could suffer some level of ADHD rendering difficulty with paying attention. Yet, I am a far cry from being hyperactive and have no trouble focusing on and participating in stimulating discussions. Could it be I simply enjoy the visual arts more?
 
In any case, my random inability to enjoy a good book haunts me. Even in my younger years, on vacation, it would take nearly three full days away from work, phones, and outside stimuli before my brain would unload. At that precious moment, I could put away three or four Stephen King or James Patterson books (I loved Alex Cross!) in a matter of days. Unplugging in the present seems next to impossible.
 
Thanks to my truly smarter-than-me friends, I am forging a real effort to reignite a thirst for the written word. It involves silencing my phone and turning off all electronic stimuli. This is not rocket science for me, as I write my blogs in the same environment. The difference is while writing my brain needs to ramble and fart as I shear away the nonsense to find the good stuff. Comprehension while reading, contrarily, requires a total focus of thought.
 
Instead of life smart, maybe I am just a bumbling idiot with a keen sense of the universe. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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​Okay, so call me crazy. I am a huge believer in ghosts. Okay, so maybe not ghosts as in actual sightings of unexplained phenomenon, but definitely an awareness of hauntingly audible noises and voices that I cannot explain.
 
Well, I can explain some of them. Chocolate, for example. It beckons me. Seriously, it does. It whispers my name with such conviction that my heart is rendered helpless to its longing. It is, without doubt, the longest love affair of my life. And I don’t even care in what form it appears – ice cream, candy, baked goods. I have even known a cup of hot cocoa to speak to me with reckless desire. It is damn near a religious experience.
 
Yes, I have climbed out on a precariously psychotic limb here, right? And I can see the vultures circling. But have you ever really thought about what triggers a craving? I could guess that my little taste buds are sending me messages about what they want me to devour uncontrollably.
 
Since I have lost a few pounds, I have also devilishly conspired that it could be the ghosts of those dearly departed fat cells summoning me to worm themselves back into my consciousness. Because we all know – poof - they often just magically reappear without rhyme or reason (ahem). Moving along…
 
And then there is the issue with willpower. Why can’t I just turn off these ghostly voices that lead me astray and stay on a righteous path of self-control? This is more than just curiosity – it is a dive into the pathology of temptation. Boy did I open Pandora’s box.
 
First of all, the psychology of self-control starts in the prefrontal cortex (the anatomy of the brain right behind the eyes). And get this – willpower has a biological basis. Who knew? Those with a more developed prefrontal cortex have more control than those with smaller ones. Isn’t that fascinating? Much like a muscle, it can be strengthened, but you can officially cut yourself some slack – it is not just a question of mental grit.
 
I also read that there are dietary deficiencies that can also pinpoint cravings. Chocolate cravings have been tied to a lack of vitamin B12 and/or Magnesium. And if salty potato chips are your downfall, you may need more Calcium and/or Iodine.
 
Of course, in my case, it would probably help if I did not keep a bag of Hershey’s Kisses in my freezer. Maybe they call out to me because they are cold? In my defense though, at least they are not in plain view every day. You cannot crave what you have forgotten in your freezer.
 
So, take that, you ghastly little fat cell ghosts! I exorcise you in the name of science. Next time I hear mystical voices calling my name, instead of soothing my soul with chocolate, I will just call Ghostbusters. Who else are you gonna call? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Didn't someone important once say that even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while? I have been staring at empty pages in my mind for the last few weeks.
 
It was almost like someone inserted a balloon in the middle of my brain and inflated it eliminating room for any kind of intelligent thought - it left nothing but an empty void of personal doubt.

I have deliberately not written about this before now because the last thing I needed at this moment in time was to be tagged as a Negative Nellie. If anyone in this reality is a Positive Penelope, it is definitely me.
 
While I pride myself on being a satirical voice of reason, lately the satire was materializing as self-righteous rage. Instead of tackling life's most ridiculously amusing inequities, I had only one question controlling my thoughts . . . Why?

Now there is a loaded question, huh? I remember as a senior in high school when my brilliantly eccentric (a.k.a. nutzoid) English teacher taught a segment on philosophy. The last question on his final exam was exactly that - "Why?". The A-grade answer he was looking for was "Why not?". Most of us delivered what he deemed a categorical Fail - "Because."

So, what does this have to do with the balloon void in my brain? I have been accepting "because" as the answer to my question. It has taken me all these years to understand why that answer is unacceptable. Why does someone re-invite themselves back into your life only to kick you to the curb exactly as they did before? Why? There is no because. It is just what people do when they don't care.

And please do not immediately judge - "You should have known." Apologies breed trust. Apologies open a loving heart to forgiveness. But...

Hallelujah! This blind squirrel has finally found her acorn. You can all applaud now! Hip Hip and all that jazz. I am officially a fat cat who has been expelled from the bowels of disappointment. Acknowledging the problem frees the mind. And I am never looking back.

Although, someone recently said to me "never say never" which, by the way, loosely translates to "not a fat chance in hell." I have finally realized that I am good. I am really good. The loss is not mine.

Well, well. I have written three blogs already this weekend. I do believe the balloon has burst. I bet you cannot wait to hear my thoughts on chocolate. It is one sweet perspective. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant. 
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 Okay. So, here's the scoop. Sometimes life's disappointments just slap us stupid, don't you think?

I mean, one day all is peaches and cream, and the next day it is stale bread and curdled milk.

One day a brisk jaunt around the park is brilliantly invigorating and the next day a walk to the mailbox is hands-down, 100%, do not even think it, out of the question. Seriously, isn't the seesaw of life hilariously uninterpretable?

One day I am penning prose on the heels of JK Rowling (okay, so maybe that's a stretch), and the next day compiling a grocery list is not only impossible, it is documentable rocket science – completely out of my wheelhouse. Go figure. It will undoubtedly be crowned as Ripley’s Believe It or Not mystery of the century. Okay, fine. So, it won’t even be a blip on Ripley’s radar. Maybe I can proposition The Guinness Book of World Records.

Anyway, I read once that silence is the most powerful scream. Think about that for a minute. Chilling thought, isn’t it? What is it that steals our voice and takes away our ability to reason? I am blaming it on the "anesthesia fog" from my recent surgery because surely it is more than just a wounded heart and a bruised spirit.

Then again, it could simply be an overloaded fuse box in my brain. Does anyone know how to reset the breaker? It cannot be that difficult. But whatever this affliction is, I am patient ground zero. Isn't that a riot? Me... quiet.

Yet, today, at 2:18 a.m. the words just pour. There are twenty-four hours in a day, and my brain decides to spark in the pitch black, dead-ass middle of the night. Senseless mediocrity I tell you (can you hear my maniacal cackle?).

If the floodgates have reopened, I hope to tickle your funny bones with nonsensical nonsense again soon. Should you teeter on pins and needles with bated breath awaiting my literary genius? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant. 
 

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Why do two weeks feel like an eternity when you least want it? If I were to go on a two-week vacation, it would fly by so fast that I would not even feel like I had a break. I have been absent from my blog page since July 6 due to circumstances mostly beyond my control and as I restart my literary adventures, I feel as though I have been gone for months.
 
It started when our beloved (ahem) Facebook decided to institute upgrades obviously without any kind of beta testing. The changes destroyed the platform integrations that allowed my blogging applications to interact. Not only could I not connect to post blog notifications, but I also had no way to send emails to my subscribers without sending them the old-fashioned way – one at a time. That was not going to happen.
 
And, to add insult to injury, on week number two, a nasty little flu bug decided to invade my personal space. I fought that little sucker for five solid days – all while testing negative for Covid. In my heart, I simply believed that someone somewhere was telling me to take a break. But I am back and stronger than ever.
 
I have to admit my thought processes also took a hiatus. Knowing I could not post allowed me to actually watch the rain and simply listen. I lost the urge to evaluate every raindrop and regurgitate some philosophical hogwash about its hypothetical meaning. It was refreshing. It did not last long, but I valued every mindless moment.
 
So, what was the first puzzle to pop into my brain post-hiatus? Clichés. Yes, I know, that makes no sense. My life sometimes is just a crazy cliché. Yourdictionary.com defines clichés as terms, phrases, and even ideas that at inception may have been striking and thought-provoking but became unoriginal through repetition and overuse. Before the end of the 19th century, cliché described the process of repeating printed designs. Over the years its meaning evolved.
 
I immediately think of “par for the course,” “misery loves company,” “love is blind,” and “laughter is the best medicine.” I relate to these emphatically. But this week, “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me” came barreling through my repertoire. Those in the know call this a proverb, not a cliché, as it first appeared in a book called “The Court and Character of King James” by Anthony Weldon in 1651. Isn’t it amazing that falling for the same trick twice dates back centuries? We as humans are and have always been fallible.
 
I have, as usual, perhaps “led you down the primrose path” this week. My brain is on overload, and I am “chomping at the bit” to get all my illogical logic on paper. Life often dazzles us with distraction, yet my mantra is always to “keep moving forward” because “this too shall pass.” “There is no time like the present” to be “better safe than sorry” - because we all know that “actions speak louder than words.”
 
Okay. I am officially clichéd-out. It has been both irritating and fun at the same time! I am hopeful that issues of critical significance will flood my senses this week and launch me on yet another flight of fancy. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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​I woke up very early this morning lost in the throes of love. And no, I was not “lost” in a way that was confusing or disenchanting. I was spellbound in the peace, beauty, and healing power of all affections that embrace your heart and permeate to the tips of your fingers and toes.
 
It begins as an unblemished love of life. You just awaken with a lust for all things possible – for sunshine and rain, togetherness and solitude, and ignorance and bliss. It is the love for a parent, a sibling, a pet, a best friend, a soul mate, and even a solitary moment in time. It encompasses everything that we think, know, share, and experience.
 
As a kid, love meant life or death, didn’t it? Puppy love was either unabashedly spectacular or ruthlessly unfair. It either launched you to Venus or dropkicked you into purgatory. My first love dumped me on the day before Christmas vacation and thwarted all the sugarplum visions that danced fancifully in my heartbroken little head.
 
But as adults, we have learned (or should have learned) to luxuriate in unfettered affection of all things magical. The best part is that while it matters if it is shared, returned, or unrequited, it is still a solitary journey. The decision lies solely on choice – accept or reject. Oh, do not get me wrong – even as an adult, I have been crushed by rejection. Romantic regret can be painful, but it does shape how we love going forward. It was Alfred Lord Tennyson, in 1850, who wrote, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
 
Even with my liberated viewpoints, I found myself curiously web surfing about animals who mate for life. Did you know there are more than 25 animal species that are symbols of love eternal and lifelong commitment? Among them are Swans, Barn Owls, Bald Eagles, Condors, Coyotes, Red-tailed Hawks, Penguins, Seahorses, Beavers, and even Pigeons. And similar to us, they are very possessive and jealous, often fighting off their competition.
 
Otters hold hands while sleeping so as not to drift apart while Seahorses swim with their tails wrapped around each other to stay together. The male Penguin searches for the perfect pebble to deliver to his favorite female as a proclamation of love. There is so much to be learned from our animal counterparts.
 
So, while I adore a good love story, today, my loving thoughts are about what the world has to offer. I may often lament, but I love life. I love my life. Those who cannot see the beauty in pursuing that which tugs at your emotional, intellectual, spiritual, and sometimes hyper-satirical heartstrings simply do not float in my layer of ozone – and that is okay.
 
My life is not a romance novel. It is a super-charged adventure that makes my heart sing. And that, my friends, is music to my ears. I wish everyone could revel in this level of peace, harmony, and joy. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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One would think that long, beautiful summer days would offer up the perfect recipe for soul searching and blog writing. This morning we finally exited the hottest days in years and awoke to a crisp 50⁰ paradise. What a perfect day for reflective meditation.
 
Yeah, right. My brain has left on hiatus. The most interesting thought in my head is whether I should have beef or chicken for dinner. And I cannot even decide about that.
 
There were times in my life when calming an over-active brain was not only next to impossible but unwanted. I thrived on unrelenting intellectual challenges. It was my trademark. I was a brainiac who could run like the wind without pause or hesitation. The thought of “selling my soul” for a quiet morning of peaceful repose never even sparked a cerebral twinge.
 
And oh boy, did I have a memory. As a kid, I could study the night before a test and literally flip the pages in my mind during the exam to find answers. Some might have called that photographic memory. But my “photographs” were short-lived. Retention of the information was not part of that talent.
 
As an adult, I had a knack for names, faces, and details. I could recognize a client I had not seen in years, call them by name, and ask how their three kids were doing (with names and ages). That was indeed a gift. And, I seldom had to be taught something more than once. I learned extremely fast.
 
But times change. How many of you remember the “ShamWow?” It was one of those “As Seen on TV” gadgets – a chamois that advertised it could hold ten times its weight in liquid. Commercials showed it soaking up what appeared to be major industrial-sized spills in the sweep of a hand. It was a TV sensation.
 
It also provides the perfect analogy for my memory. I used to be a “ShamWow.” My brain and my memory could soak up what seemed to be infinite amounts of raw data and mindless information and hold it indefinitely. I was a phenomenon. I have now been downgraded to a cheap Dollar Store sponge. I am lucky if I remember what I had for breakfast. Learning new tasks now requires intense documentation and focused study.
 
So, while I was trying to write about something of meaning and consequence this morning, all that came to mind was why don’t I have any poignant thoughts worth sharing? I believe my new job is the culprit. My Dollar Store sponge is saturated with “stuff”, and I cannot afford to squeeze it to make room for more “stuff” until the current “stuff” is durably etched in my brain. Good grief, gang. That is as poignant as it gets today.
 
I am smiling though. We all know that loss of memory is a function of age. I had the joy of discussing this with the father of a dear friend this past week who deals with memory issues when he humorously corrected me with the biggest grin: “It is more of a misfunction of age, don’t you think?” Our brains are national treasures, and he is proof. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Chasing the oh-so elusive butterfly called time affects so many aspects of our lives. I know I am not the only person who watches Monday through Thursday creep by at a snail’s pace yet Friday through Sunday flash by in the flutter of an eyelid. Some nights we sleep soundly and awake rested as the sun rises. Other nights we sleep soundly and awake seemingly refreshed to find only an hour or two has passed. Sometimes we meet people and have forgotten them by morning light. Other times we meet people and instantly sense a kindred spirit. Time plays no part in that affinity.
 
Friendship is one of those aspects that fall outside the limits of any time sensibility. At what time in the activity of human association does an acquaintance become a friend? What forms the chemistry that differentiates between the two? Webster defines “friend” as a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard. But that covers a multitude of variables, doesn’t it? Is it instant connection, personal attraction, sense of duty, length of time, shared experiences, or a myriad of socially driven influences that no one can possibly verify?
 
And, if those questions were not enough to keep me awake at night with unresolved anxiety, what dwindles a friendship into no more than a familiar acquaintance of necessity? I am going to need a glass of wine for this one – maybe two. Waiter - just leave the bottle.
 
I value friendship like any other relationship in my life. It needs to be nurtured with care and reciprocated beyond reproach. Much like a marriage, true friendship is founded on affection, trust, and honor but without all the contractual confines of a union. So why is it that “non-contractual” relationships often last so much longer than legal ones? Is knowing it is not legally binding key to longevity? And since friendship truly is non-binding, why do we sometimes let petty grievances sever its gift?
 
We would all probably agree that friendships come and go and only a handful transcend the test of time. A friend once told me that expectation is the root of all disappointment. If you do not hold others to your expectations, disappointment would be nonexistent. How many times in our lives have we heard, “A real friend wouldn’t do that?” And while all aspects of life come with extenuating circumstances, why do we place value only on elements that live in our own personal core of beliefs?

Nowhere is it written that a friend must always think, act, and respond exactly like you. Our thoughts are intellectual property unique only to us and we have every right to own them. It is opinion that muddies the water. So, trying to answer some of these questions is pointless, isn't it? Leave it to me to try and rationalize the irrational. 

Friendship to me is a timeless declaration of faith and remains my wishing well of hope. When friends presumed lost emerge from the vacuous darkness of time, friendship intact, it is proof to me that human connections are born from an eternal flame that sparks within us. Not all acquaintances are meant to be friends, and not all friends will remain more than an acquaintance of necessity. And, most importantly, not all friends have to be a mirrored image of our own humanity. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Have you ever thought about the little things that make life so magical? No, I am not just talking about the mysticism of love or the fascination with cultural diversity. Perhaps I am simply talking about waking up with hope, believing in the unbelievable, or deciding to accept life and its challenges one day at a time instead of presuming it is a prison sentence.
 
Yeah, yeah, I know. This sounds like an idealistic romantic and something that I definitely am not. Living without the pain I had become accustomed to has offered a new insight into what just might be important. And alas, it sent me on yet another journey that offered up some of the craziest tidbits of trivia.
 
Did you know, for example, that the roar we hear when we place a seashell next to our ear is not the ocean, but instead the sound of blood surging through the veins in the ear? Would you believe that intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair? As a redhead, I find this especially enchanting (said with an evil grin and dancing eyebrows).
 
I also learned that the military salute evolved from a motion in medieval times when knights in armor raised their visors to reveal their identity. And, that kites were used in the American Civil War to deliver letters and newspapers. Do you know why Roman soldiers had such ornate decorations on top of their helmets? It was not a fashion statement. It made the Roman warriors look taller and more intimidating thus having a psychological impact on their enemies.
 
But some of my craziest notions did not come from a wild walk on the information highway. Have you ever wondered why the appendages on our feet are called toes? Or why do we have four fingers and one thumb instead of four thumbs and one finger? The creation of language is fascinating and would take a year of blogs to merely scratch the surface. Wait…
 
Now how did I manage that U-turn? Who has an entire year for such nonsense and why did I go there? I have far more important nonsense to surf the world wide web for. So, walk this way my friends, and try to keep up.
 
As a life visionary reborn, I apparently have thoughts that defy my usual angst of snarkiness (okay, I’m guilty - I’ve coined a new word). While science educates us on what makes a lightning bug glow, there is no rhyme or reason why a beautiful sunset completely frees our brains and opens our hearts to possibilities. There is just a wealth of knowledge in the wind, if only you stop long enough to listen.
 
So, what makes your life magical? Whether you believe it or not, there is magic in every breath you take. Of course, there is also love, fear, anger, disappointment, excitement, ecstasy, and bewilderment too. It just depends on which voice you choose to listen to and how high you blast the volume. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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One of the best things about getting older for me is being comfortable in my own skin. Growing up I always worried about my hair, my body, my self-esteem, and my ability to just fit in and be accepted. Sadly, it took all these years to love who I am. And finally, I do.
 
Now, that is not to say I am perfect in every way. Ha! That should make you laugh. The knowledge we amass through years of doubt is exhaustive. And I still have moments when I scream, “Why me?” But as I step back to look at the big picture, I realize that I am not a better person because I have remedied my faults, but because I have accepted them.
 
So, what are my faults (she asks as she laughs maniacally)? You name it and I have failed at it. I used to lose sleep and suffer documentable anxiety over acts of human nature that are inherent in all of us. Strangely, I always believed I could rise above the norm. Of course, that thought put me on the “Rich and Famous” list – in my dreams. How infallible are we really?
 
That disturbing thought took me to a fascinating read – Top 10 Common Faults In Human Thought - Listverse. While I emphatically declare that I am not prone to fall into a few of these categories, I am a diabolical poster child for a chosen few.
 
On top of my list is the “Gambler’s Fallacy.” I cannot explain how many times I have lamented, “Seriously? What are the odds?” My best friend and I frequent our local casino every few weeks. While we label it our day-drinking Beer Day, we are secretly conniving about how to break the odds by playing the right slot machine at the right time and leaving richer than we entered. And that, my friends, is more than a fallacy. It is intellectual suicide. The thought that I have not won recently is not a guarantee that I will win now. Would someone please beat that into my head?
 
And then there is the “Self-Fulfilling Prophecy.” Oh my. How many times have you altered your behavior because of what you fear might happen, and sure enough, it happens anyway? You may even do it without thinking about it. As the Listverse article suggests, relationships are hardest hit by this phenomenon. We harbor trust issues and respond accordingly only to realize that our responses exacerbated a problem that in reality did not even exist. It happens and even I am guilty.
 
Okay, so I am a hot mess. Thankfully, however, I do not fall prey to the “Herd Mentality” or “Reactance” theories. I dance to the beat of my own drummer. What others think, do, wear, etc. seldom affects me personally. I am a leader, not a follower.
 
Unless, of course, the new trend is homemade chocolate-covered croissants stuffed with cream cheese icing – then I am all in. Herd me oh shepherd-master! See? I am not a total outsider. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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What a milestone week! When I started this journey 18 months ago, the view from my driver’s seat was an open road with absolutely no road signs or detour warnings. I admit I did not even have a compass to point me in any direction. I simply decided to start the engine, step on the gas, and see where the adventure took me. Yee Haw, Pilgrims, it has been a fun ride!
 
In February of this year, only four months ago (02/06/2022), I hit an unthinkable milestone – 3,000 followers. How I managed to accomplish that in only 14 months with zany life observations couched in dark wit and edgy sarcasm was beyond comprehension. I felt unbelievably blessed to have somehow endeared that many readers who deemed me interesting enough to follow. It left me intellectually speechless and emotionally overwhelmed.
 
This morning, 05/31/2022, my follower count registered at 4,032! That is over a thousand new readers in 115 days! I am on a certifiable high that no drug on the planet could replicate. I will be forever grateful to every reader who clicked that “FOLLOW” button and breathed new life into a silly old storyteller. While I really do write for “me,” I cannot explain how validated it makes me feel as a writer, a satirical voice in the night, and a lover of life and love.
 
I wish I could list you all right here, right now. True writers will write no matter who reads, but when readers appear, whether they agree or disagree with the message, the passion of the writer only grows. And my heart is full – so very full.
 
So, stand up readers. Take a bow! You are my heroes, one and all! Thank you for reading, for sharing, for commenting, and most importantly, for smiling with me in the comedy of diversity. We make a great team! Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Ok, so there is this dirty little word that I have managed to keep out of my vocabulary for all of my life, actually, until now – surgery. It is a simple, seven-letter word with a very broad meaning that can cover a multitude of issues. Unfortunately, for me, it was not by choice, it was by emergency.
 
Webster’s primary definition calls it “the art, practice, or work of treating diseases, injuries, or deformities by manual or operative procedures.” Well, that makes it perfectly clear, right? In my case, it was the art of ripping a malfunctioning organ out of the body while hosting a roller derby party inside my abdomen. At least, that is what it feels like.
 
So, what is a gallbladder? How many of you could either identify this organ inside of the body or its purpose and function without research? (Point worthy of note - I am not convinced a lot of hands are raised right now.) As this emergency unfolded, I was berated by a medical professional as to how I could not possibly have recognized severe symptoms months ago. Really, Doc? I do not even know what this 3.15-inch x 1.57-inch demon tool does. How would I identify symptoms?
 
Ok, so I have been suffering notable progressive pain for what I thought was degenerative spinal osteoarthritis. But there was no external tenderness or any reason to think it was anything otherwise. Pain is pain; it is relative. I have learned to suck it up and move on.
 
Turns out that this little pear-shaped organ located below the liver stores bile secreted by the liver. During and after a fatty meal, the gallbladder contracts, delivering the bile through the bile ducts into the intestines to help with digestion.
 
So, I guess the ungodly pain I experienced after my Sunday night meal of a Spanish Coney dog with onions, fried onion rings, and full-fat soft-serve ice cream should have been a clue. How could I not know I had just gotten a bad dog?
 
Thankfully, I am recovering very comfortably. Watching every gram of fat ingested for a while is my new challenge. I am told eventually my digestive system will adjust and my life-long love of cheesy pepperoni pizza, BBQ ribs, lemon pound cake with buttercream frosting, and ice cream will be accepted without a raging attack by a vengefully sadistic bowel.
 
Officially, at the ripe old age of never-you-mind, I am now a resident expert on the gallbladder. Isn’t that fabulous knowing I will never again need this knowledge? Life is just a jokester on steroids. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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