What a beautiful week! Cool mornings. Warm, humidity-free afternoons. Plus, a twinge of color that promises the acceleration of autumn’s bold deliverance.
 
Why, amid the wonders of Mother Nature’s good graces, is there always something that kicks us to the curb of reality? Why can’t life cut us some slack when we need it the most?
 
So, I’m calling this Culture Awareness Week. I cannot say that I’ve led a sheltered existence – not in the least. Nor do I tiptoe through life wearing blinders. I don’t. Yet twice this week I found myself engaged in a battle of shock and awe.
 
Sunday mornings are my grocery days. Even though I am a social butterfly, I just do not like to shop with strangers. I go early, hustle through the aisles, and get out before half of the public is even awake.
 
This past week, in my attempt to escape, I noticed a young woman by the clothing donation bin in the parking lot. Surrounding it was an overflowing mountain of black trash bags. This young woman was ripping all the bags open and examining each piece of clothing to salvage anything useful.
 
While my first thought was, “All power to you, girl,” I still found myself drowning in melancholy. Even in my worst of times, ravaging through public clothing donations would never have occurred to me. I was raised to make the best of whatever I had.
 
Understand that I found no fault in her actions. It takes courage, strength, and maybe even a little creativity, to survive adversity. I was just mortified that her reality was so different than mine. How dare I ever complain?
 
And if that was not eye-opening enough, I was watching something on TV – I seriously cannot remember what show – when an educator who was mentoring a youth group asked a young girl about her hopes for the future.
 
“What are your plans after graduation?” he asked. Without any deep thought whatsoever, the young girl replied, “I guess I’ll get pregnant so I can go on welfare.”
 
My heart broke; my stomach turned; my eyes welled with tears. How, in 2023, in the greatest country on earth, can anyone not have a dream bigger than that? How does that happen? How?
 
I may be blessed beyond belief, but I am culturally ignorant. I know this wasn’t just a scripted scene. This happens in many walks of life. We often become what our environments dictate. And without a guiding light to illuminate our path, we merely follow in the footsteps of others down a long, dark road.
 
Now, I can’t change the world overnight. None of us can. But we can be empathetic in our understanding and acceptance of others. There but for the grace of God go us all.
 
Life may not make sense sometimes, but each day still amazes me. With the beauty of every sunset comes the hope of another sunrise. If only it were that simple, right? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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So, I woke up in another funk. Here we go again, right? I slept well, and I feel rested, but there is still an emptiness that I cannot explain. I did not want to get up and I did not want to stay in bed. Perhaps it is just the end of summer blues.
 
I had to turn on the heat last week. It only ran for a few hours, but I was freezing. How can you be so cold when it is only 53⁰ outside? I am going to be a popsicle when winter finally darkens my doorstep.
 
Is it the colder temperature that is rendering me so apathetic? Not one single topic is dominating my thoughts. I feel indifferent about - well - everything.
 
On a normal day, any day, and all day I am usually playing psychological ping pong. My thoughts used to bounce from life’s scathing inequities to chores that needed attention and were bolstered by a meaningful dialog with Alexa to determine what day it was.
 
But now that I am back in the employment scene, my thoughts scurry on the brink of utter chaos. My Federal access is finally coming to light, but now I live in a panic zone about what an old woman’s brain will actually remember and retain.
 
It is a self-righteous journey that defies all rules of propriety. In other words, I am a hot mess.
 
Perhaps I underestimated the value of boredom. Now there is a curious word. My dear friend Webster identifies it as the feeling of being wearied by dullness, tedious repetition, unwelcome attentions, etcetera. My, isn’t that interesting? It doesn’t even mention the lack of intellectual stimulation.
 
Even my evening channel surfing lacks any specific focus. I usually allow myself to be swept away with mindless entertainment. But lately, I haven’t been able to find anything worthy of my unwavering devotion.
 
Geez, I can’t even seem to find anything that just yanks my chain.
 
I wonder… What provokes the brain to be compelled into action? Is it visual stimulation, inciteful dialogue, mindless distraction, or fear of failure? I have long lost my ability to reason with any kind of normalcy.
 
And, with all that being said, who really cares? Why am I babbling on about boredom? Why does personal satisfaction only come with energy-zapping hustle? Furthermore, why are we always asking “Why?”
 
Yep. Hot mess. I warned you. Yet, in this crazy moment, I am wrenched in cynical laughter. I am a certifiable basket case. Isn’t that a hoot? I have concluded before that lack of intellectual stimulation does not equal boredom. But it may contribute to the psychosis of neurotic old women.
 
And, of course, I am now hot and sweaty. Why did I turn on the heat? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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There are days that are just…blah, right? I know you’ve had them. Times that are not really bad, not really good, just not much of anything. You only know that something seems to be missing.
 
Chores are done. Dinner is in the Instant Pot. TV programming is pitiful. My thoughts are amiss with “if only” or “I wish.” Why do we do that? Why do we always need more?
 
I was out front replacing the newly filled hummingbird feeder when I heard a clatter. I looked up to see a decrepit old van about to maneuver the speed bumps.
 
I was instantly entertained and expected to see a Laurel and Hardy moment when a bemused Laurel bounces out of the van to watch all bumpers crash to the ground.
 
And just when you need to remember something funny for a change, the memories come flooding back.
 
I was a newly licensed 16-year-old. Our family vehicle was a 1965 Pontiac Bonneville 4-door sedan. It was a boat. Learning to drive in it was awkward at best. Parallel parking was next to impossible.

My older brother got his own car – a sweet little Corvair. But I was expected to drive the family pontoon.
 
Our family were avid tent campers. We would whisk away almost every weekend on an adventure to a nearby campground. Our transport vehicle was a less-than-perfect, gaudy green, snub-nosed, Chevrolet Greenbrier van.
 
Oh, it wasn’t a boat. It was a bloody train car. It was a six-to-nine-passenger window van with a manual transmission. On a normal day, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.
 
But this day, my dad was having minor chest pains. I have no recollection of where my mom or my brother was, but he needed a nitroglycerin prescription from the pharmacy now. The Greenbrier was my only option and I had never even tried to drive it.
 
Laughingly, I remember Dad telling me it was easy. He had been a teacher in his younger years and expertly instructed me on how and when to shift gears. “No problem, pop. I got this.”
 
Yeah, sure. Guided by what I now know to be God’s hand, I made it to the pharmacy and was feeling a bit confident in the big green atrocity. Until I got stopped behind traffic at the railroad tracks on the way home.
 
You see, before the tracks, there was an incline of, oh let’s say, 20% grade. It was a big damn hill. Have you ever tried to get past first gear on a steep hill when you have no clue what you are doing?
 
The farmers at the grain elevator by the tracks were laughing hysterically at me. It must have taken me 20 attempts to cross those tracks. I am almost certain I never drove that ugly beast again.
 
Dad knew I had struggled because a 15-minute trip took almost an hour. He laughed so hard at my story, he had to hold his chest. But I got his pills. And on that day, he was fine.
                        
So… “What if” today you just find a fun memory and let it transport you to wherever it takes you? Who needs Laurel and Hardy? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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​Since it was Labor Day, it was only appropriate that I start my spring cleaning. Yes, I know. It is September (tomato, tomahto). I am only a little bit late.
 
First, I decided to clean my kitchen cabinets. Not the inside, they are clean. But the doors, with all the panel decoration, had gathered dust and dirt in corners that only a good scrubbing could fix. And for the record? I killed two completely innocent toothbrushes for this task.
 
What a feeling of accomplishment! Onward to some office cabinet drawers.
 
This chore brought a plethora of thoughts. “Why did I keep this?” “Huh, am I daft?” Until I reached the bottom. There it was. One of my most treasured possessions. You will need to know a little history to understand why.
 
When I moved back to Indiana, I was in a mess of sorts. A broken relationship, lost income, and questionable self-esteem darkened my path. With the help of my best friend, I managed to somehow land on my feet. Yet I was certain it was number nine of my nine lives.
 
I have always surrounded myself with special people. It is what I do best. When I make friends, I generally make them for forever. I had lost touch with one of those dear friends, and on a lonely night in 2007, I decided to reach out.
 
You all know that true friendships never fail, right? It might be days or months or years between contact, but the connection never wanes. I dialed the number and waited for him to answer.
 
When he did, although it had been a couple of years, it was like yesterday. We immediately found perfectly reasonable excuses for why it had been so long, and we laughed and cried for hours. Resurrection does a body good (no pun intended).
 
Although I cannot remember the exact details, he humorously scolded me about not buying something. Gosh, I wish I could remember what it was, but it cost $43.00. I do recall telling him that frivolous purchases were not in my budget, and we laughed and laughed. It was a great chat.
 
A week later, I received a letter from him with – you guessed it – a $43.00 check. Oh my, I giggled for days. And when he asked me a few weeks later why I had not cashed it, I told him I wasn’t going to.

​I was going to frame it because it was, without a doubt, one of the most thoughtful, funny, and loving things that anyone had done for me in a long time. I never wanted to forget it.
 
We kept in touch often after that call. But you know how it goes. Time just flutters by so fast that things get lost in the shuffle. It had been a couple of years since we talked when I found that check in the drawer.
 
The phone number was disconnected. So, I let my fingers take a Google walk. That’s when the lump in my throat fell like a rock into my heart. I found his obituary from May 11, 2023. I cried and cried, alone this time. Much like my spring cleaning, I was a few months too late.
 
So, if you have a friend, and it’s been a while, pick up your phone and call, text, or what the heck, mail them a $43.00 check. Let them know you’re thinking of them.
 
That is all for now. I have a frame to buy. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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What makes your week successful? Do you require a handful of major life-altering events to define it, or just seven wakeups without moans and groans?
 
It is really hard to define, isn’t it? And trust me, that definition dramatically changes over time. As a kid, it was a gold star for a job well done, or as an adolescent, a nod and a smile from that nerdy guy in English class.
 
Adults don’t have it quite that easy. A single downer can hinder even the best accomplishment in the world. We are a fickle breed with often nonsensical expectations.
 
In my world, however, tiny steps equate to huge victories. And I love that I can find satisfaction in the littlest of things.
 
For months, I have stared at a drooping shelf above my washer and dryer. Oh, it was sturdy enough, but how it looked was a pain in my a…rmpit. This week, I went on a mission. I have no idea what tipped the scales.
 
There wasn’t much on the shelf – my laundry detergent, some pesticide spray cans, a few old license plates (???), and in the back corner an old bread machine. And here is where it gets good.
 
Trying to figure out how my brain works is a futile exercise. I remembered putting the machine on this shelf because the kneading paddle was missing. I think my intent was to locate a new one when I found the time. That was 17 years ago. Go ahead, laugh. I did.
 
When I pulled it down? Well… look at that. The paddle was in the machine. How did that get there? And why did I virtually retire it in the first place?
 
Now, this bread machine comes from my California days. More specifically, from the mid-late 1980s. Do the math – it is ancient! What in the bloody hell is wrong with me? Why would I keep this thing?
 
It worked beautifully for years. I even had my own sourdough starter and made bread from scratch. Instantly, I could almost smell that bread…
 
So, I did what any quasi-normal person would do – I plugged it in. Son of a gun if it didn’t power up perfectly. I wonder…? They say that curiosity killed the cat, right? But I'm a brave superwoman.
 
I bought a bread mix and decided I had nothing to lose. Four hours later I had this perfect loaf of hot sourdough bread. It was freaking amazing!
 
Bread flour and yeast are now on my shopping list. Why use a mix when making it from scratch is easy and healthier? I now have a new weekly challenge to stimulate my dilapidating brain cells. Yeah, baby. Old people can rock too.
 
And oh, I am a whizbang kid with a power drill and a hammer too, so the shelf got fixed as well. What could I possibly do next week to beat this? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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I am in a weird place. Ever been there? Memories, memories, memories have flooded my thoughts and dreams this week, and I honestly don’t know why.
 
Isn’t it bizarre how we can dream vividly about activities from 50 years ago, but sometimes can’t remember what we did on Monday?
 
My dreams were about my father’s funeral – like it happened yesterday. I woke up in a cold sweat with a racing heartbeat. What in the world?
 
I do not have a lot of memories from that day. The shock was too traumatic for an 18-year-old. But I remember sitting against a wall with two dear friends at my side - Randy and Mike - both holding my hands so tightly. No words were spoken. A caring touch was all the comfort I needed. Or maybe they just couldn’t find words…
 
Beyond that, I only remember the High Masonic Rights performed by grown men wearing white gloves and the nauseating stench of flowers – primarily roses. He was loved by many.
 
I would love to think that the dream was a message from my dad reminding me that he is always with me. Or, at least, that is what a psychic told me 30 years ago – that he was my guardian angel and with me all the time.
 
And of course, I exacerbated the problem by watching the Hallmark Channel all weekend. You know what I speak of – syrupy sweet hypothetical perfection about families and love and adventure that ultimately makes me crinkle my nose and think sarcastically “yada yada yada.”
 
Once, I think I actually snarled and stuck my tongue out at them.
 
It is like your favorite song, right? Sometimes it makes your heart flutter and your cheeks hurt from the expanse of your smile. Other times it brings heartache and tears. It is beyond comprehension.
 
But today, all is good. I slept like a rock (hmm, do rocks sleep?) and rose for the first time in days without a crick in my neck.
 
Maybe memories are just tools of acceptance. When we question our mortality and wonder what in the hell life is all about, someone or something jolts us back to reality. It is a gift, pure and simple, from a Master Designer that knows all and guides us mysteriously down paths of righteousness.
 
Today I saw a picture of my best friend and me donning caps and gowns on our High School Commencement night. It was one month after I lost my father, and the look on my face was so telling. It was devoid of emotion. Maybe my dream was a subconscious act to empty the pain of that moment from my head and my heart.
 
It is good sometimes to just let go, agreed? And oh yeah. I really can’t remember what I did on Monday. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Until recently, weekends were just days of the week. When you are not working, they all seem to run together like an endless circle.
 
But now that I am reinstated in a full-time grind, weekends are back to being mini vacations. Even though my body clock blares an internal alarm at the usual time, it is still supremely satisfying to know I can turn over and enjoy the morning solitude.
 
And while I love my private time, finalizing plans with friends or family on the weekends makes me childishly capricious these days. It is a good thing.
 
What could be better than great Mexican food and a tall, cold Modelo Especial on an oppressively hot and muggy Saturday afternoon? Not forgetting the rejuvenating finesse of fresh chips and salsa. We are talking miracle drugs here.
 
Until my booth seat was attacked by a jumping and kicking kid on the adjoining side. I am talking about nonstop bumps and jumps for what seemed like an eternity. Have I mentioned before that patience is not my most redeeming virtue?
 
So, I ask. In any universe, when is this acceptable behavior? And no, I’m not talking about the child’s actions. I am talking about the parents, grandparents, or caregivers who allowed this toddler to act like a demon child.
 
Yes, I am one of those. I do not believe there are any bad children – there are only bad parents. And no, hold your judgments. I am only speaking of healthy kids, not those sadly afflicted with conditions well beyond their control.
 
Cantankerous conduct is learned behavior. None of us were born with an innate understanding of acceptable etiquette. It must be taught and reinforced. Contrary to popular belief, it does not happen by osmosis.
 
Okay, so maybe that is too rudimentary. But surely some of you will understand and agree. Not once did I hear this child’s companions ask them to stop or sit down. Not once was an expectation explained. Not once was a warning presented. I could only shake my head.
 
I chose to respect the privacy of those people and kept my nose out of their business. After all, I had the right to request other seating. I was just saddened that the adults were disturbingly clueless about the impact on surrounding customers.
 
Now, please know, there is simply nothing more enjoyable and inviting than the innocent giggles of a politely playful child. I will engage them every time and revel in the sparkle of their innocence. But – and it is a big “but.” Rude is rude.
 
They left as our food arrived and my remaining vacation was delightful. I guess even through the sunshine, a little rain might fall. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Ok, so how many of you come across something that you know is going to add both insight and direction to your life, so you watch, read, or access it, and then realize you are not the salt of the earth you thought you were? Ugh…
 
Now, I am not a follower. I am not an insecure shrinking violet. I am not a person who makes decisions based on the thoughts or interpretations of others. But once in a while, I fall into the pity pit of personal doubt. Fine. It is more often than once in a while, but who’s counting?
 
I started listening to an audiobook by Amy Lupold Bair, “Blogging for Dummies.” The excitement I felt about finding this treasure was nearly titillating. Any person who writes, be it for business or pleasure, always needs to find inspiration somewhere.
 
It started out pretty rudimentary (as “for dummies” would imply). Yet there were still immediate entries that provoked avenues for clarity and creativity.
 
But the waters started to muddy for me. I realize this author intended to reach all audiences, especially those bloggers looking to create a business venture. But one statement shut me down emphatically.
 
She suggested that if you write only for yourself, you should perhaps just keep a daily journal and not blog. What? Even Kurt Vonnegut once said, and I paraphrase, “…write according to your purpose.” Uh, my purpose is me.
 
Why did this impact me so much? I have declared many times I am not here to become a renowned writer. I am not here to establish a platform for anything. I only blog to get irritants off my chest that might make someone else laugh, cry, applaud, or whine. Geez, sometimes they even boo.
 
But words do impact us, don’t they? The funny part is that she, obviously, was not even talking to me. This was a blanket statement that could well motivate someone to give up the blogger dream – someone who probably should not be blogging in the first place.
 
It did, however, remind me that we are all affected by the thoughts and actions of others. Yes, I know, this is not a mind-boggling revelation, i.e., sticks and stones and all that bologna.
 
It is wise when searching for your voice to understand that every word you choose may influence the emotions of others. But it is also wise to understand that words used by thoughtful writers are most likely chosen for a reason as well.
 
I will never be able to please every reader every time, and more importantly, I have no intention of even trying. But I will respect and applaud your right to voice your thoughts and opinions every time.
 
Funny…I had decided to write about the essence of friendship this week. Without the support of friends – and you know who you are – I would not survive the insanity. While I do believe in divine intervention, sometimes there is no rhyme or reason for misguided trepidation.
 
I may need to find “Self-esteem for Dummies” next. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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My thoughts have been all over the place this week. When nothing specific challenges me on any given day, I am always intrigued by how brainwaves get filtered into nonsensical tangents of absurdity.
 
This past week my best friend and I were engaging in the often-addressed topic of weight. Most of you know these conversations intimately. We talked of plateaus, water retention, and why cookies have to taste so much better than celery when all of a sudden it hit me.
 
Why do we allow this topic to have control over so many thoughts, feelings, worries, and actions? I understand that health is paramount to the quality of life, and we do actually feel better when we weigh less, but the intensity of it all is laughable to me.
 
I currently weigh less than I have in the last 20 years – a lot less. It started with the onset of gallbladder surgery last year, and I have persevered diligently to lose even more. Most of you know where this is headed.
 
It is hard – no, it is next to impossible – to lose weight and maintain it on a consistent basis the older we get. No surprises here, Einstein. Our activity levels tend to diminish as well, adding to the dramatic change in the body’s physiology and chemistry.
 
So why are we obsessed with it? Why isn’t being ‘sensible’ enough? I have only so much time left for love and laughter. Should I not just enjoy it as opposed to worrying about it? I honestly doubt that ten pounds will truly change my self-image. Maybe I need an intervention.
 
And just as quickly as the wind changes direction, I was off on another tangent.
 
Last week I hung a hummingbird feeder right outside of my office window and have been waiting for those enchanting little creatures to find it. This morning, I watched one stop and circle it, land, and take a long drink.
 
Then, right on cue, it flew to the window, hovered, and stared at me as if to say thank you before flying back for another sip. It was magical. And so, I thought, “Oh to have such a simple life.”
 
But who am I to judge their existence? Their lifespan is only three to five years, and they must consume approximately one-half of their weight in sugar daily. On average they feed five to eight times per hour. That hardly computes to simple.
 
With a heart rate of more than 1,200 beats per minute and wing flaps between 50-200 per second (yes, per SECOND!), these aggressive little gladiators of nature work – as we would say – like a dog just to survive.
 
I guess all facets of life are subject to interpretation, right? We all fall prey to the fallacies and pitfalls of expectations, be they real or imaginary.
 
Since these tiny, feathered friends also have big brains and superior memories, I hope my new friend will remember the smile I returned when they so graciously thanked me. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Oh, snap! I just had an epiphany and know exactly what ushered in my antiquity status. They are called Compression Socks – otherwise known as articles of Death by Calf Strangulation.
 
So, I was having an issue with an ache on the front of my left shin. It was not a pain, but a feeling that my skin was being stretched to the point of tearing. It even hurt to touch.
 
Since I am now back sitting at a desk all day, my self-diagnosis, courtesy of WebMD, posed the possibility of blood clots forming in my legs. Rather than pull out my trusty insurance card and make an appointment with a professional, I opted to first try the obvious – boost circulation.
 
Sounds like a righteous plan, right? After scrolling through thousands of Amazon pairs, I purchased the open-toe version. Why strangle my toes at the same time?
 
When they arrived, they looked innocent enough. I had ordered them responsibly, measuring my ankle and calf as advised. The instructions read they should be worn first thing out of bed in the morning. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I started what I expected to be a less-than-a-minute task.
 
I felt tremendously good about my choice until the dang thing put a choke hold on my ankle. Good heavens, that little sucker had to be made from threads of steel. I had trouble getting my thumbs under it to even start the pull-up process.
 
Can anyone else attest to this rite of passage? It was like engaging in a tug-of-war with about a dozen Schwarzenegger wannabees. It felt doomed from the onset.
 
I even fell back on the bed, kicking my legs in the air, thinking that gravity might help win the war. It did not.
 
But after multiple sighs and a couple of muffled screams, they reached my knee. I had no doubt my toes would be numb in a matter of seconds.
 
Yet strangely, they weren’t. As a matter of fact, the immediate sensation was a cooling, much like rubbing Bengay into a tired joint, without the nauseating smell.
 
As the day progressed, and while I hate to be a wimpy advertisement for something as simple as a pair of socks, I honestly felt uncommonly energized. The achy “stretched skin” phenomenon disappeared. Wearing them became a pleasure instead of a life sentence.
 
It is not recommended to wear them when in a reclining position. So, the best result is because of this day-time fix, I have also not had a leg cramp or leg discomfort overnight since I started this commitment.
 
These blasted things are definitely keepers. Who knew? Don’t you think I should be awarded an honorary Medical Degree from Harvard University forthwith? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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How many of you have quiet days when your brain will simply not shut up? My brain has a mind of its own (yes, I know that’s redundant). It sometimes does not listen to reason, pleas, or threats.
 
And unlike my body, it also does not respond to chips, ice cream, or Snickers bars.
 
I think the hardest part of being alone is battling your inner demons. And you have to know those demons are not always angry and nasty. But they are incessant. For me, they always second-guess my every action.
 
It is this voice that nags and nags and nags. It is reminiscent of those days when my Mom would repeatedly remind me to clean my room. And in my mind, it was clean. I mean, why chase away dust bunnies when they just come back?
 
But as an adult, these voices are more antagonistic. Why are you being so lazy? Why are you crying over spilt milk? Why can’t you lose those last five pounds? Get off your Cinnabons and do something.
 
Every once in a while, though, I do hear, “You’ve got this girl. You’ve earned a break. Take four and a half minutes but no more than five!”
 
So, in the last five minutes I was awarded I found myself yet again lost in yesteryear remembering a magical time when I was starstruck by a certain young man.
 
I remember attending a junior high track team pool party and holding hands for the first time. In reality, I was probably petrified, but in my memory, I grinned like a mischievous Cheshire cat. I felt like the luckiest girl there. Even though we were two of the least likely kids to be envied for our connection.
 
Oh geez, I loved the innocence of my adolescence. Memories often serve us well, don’t they? If we manage them efficiently, they can melt away all of the day’s misgivings. And I have become a master of memory management.
 
But then, the break is over, and life dangles its challenges again ever so relentlessly. You stand up, listen to your knees whine, and hope that soon the touch of a loving hand will give you new memories for future breaks.
 
And you smile. No matter the hardships we endure, life is an angelic gift. If you ever forget that, just look around you. As soon as you learn to kick the voices to the curb, I am confident blessings will abound. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Okay, here I go, back down the yellow brick rage road. What is wrong with people? When did we become a culture of, “get out of my way, I am more important than you?”
 
Last week I was on my way to a much-needed haircut. I entered the left-hand turn lane and was sitting behind another car waiting for a green light.
 
The turn arrow lights green. Nothing happens. The car in front of me just sits there.
 
The windows are tinted so dark I cannot see who is in this car or what they are doing. Sadly, my first thought was, “Isn’t that illegal?” instead of “Are they okay?”
 
Now, I am not a honker. I give myself plenty of time to get where I’m going. But I admit that I was nanoseconds away from tapping my horn when the car behind me decided to play a rock concert on his.
 
As my life flashed before me, the driver in front opens his door, slowly gets out, and turned toward us. My first thought? I am dead meat.
 
Thankfully, he merely proceeded to delight us with a double-fisted middle-finger bird salute.
 
This is why I don’t honk. Too many people these days are two tacos short of a combo plate. As their door opened, I expected an AK47 to be pointed at my head. And I wasn’t the person who honked. How unbelievably sad is that?
 
Do any of you remember Sunday drives as a kid? After church and Sunday dinner, we would often hop in the old Bonneville boat and just go for a ride around town or through the country. My parents were anxious to see new housing developments, wave to neighbors enjoying their yards, and would most likely end with an ice cream cone from Bert T. Owens – the best ice cream ever.
 
Sometimes that drive would take us to a local park, Shadyside, or Mounds State Park for some hiking fun. Never, not ever, did I have a concern that being in public or waving to people might put us in harm. Never, not ever, did I dream that someday I would have to be cautious in my interactions with others.
 
On that haircut day, I told my stylist that I was glad I was old. Watching us implode as a society is gut-wrenching. He started to belly laugh saying he had never heard someone say they were happy to be old. But, in many ways, it is true.
 
I am old and please, no lectures. I value every moment I have left in this lifetime. I have loved and lost, laughed and cried, and worked hard and played hard. And until now, I have never lived in fear. It is frightfully sad this is a reality for those who will continue on.
 
But we have to keep smiling, right? And no, do not think I’m a little Miss Goody Two-shoes. I just wait for the right time to blow my cork. Once home, door closed and locked, I gave my own expletive deleted concert in honor of that jackass. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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So, I was finishing my new blog a few days ago when notifications started blowing up my laptop. And that is when my weekend unraveled. Let me tell you about it.
 
On July 8th, a mere two days ago, my follower count was 9822 – a number I was ridiculously proud of. And then, the post for my most recent blog, Kiss My Grits, hit my page. Who could have known that Polly Holliday’s (aka Flo from the sitcom “Alice”) famous quip would upend my world?
 
Every two seconds ding, ding, ding, ding. I could not even type a single word without a ding. This had never happened before, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t unnerved. “I must have been hacked,” I thought.
 
I shut my laptop and grabbed my phone. While it notifies me differently, I had 207 notifications on my Sassy Sentiments Facebook account in a matter of minutes.
 
The cartoon I used to announce that blog hit a funny bone for many. I had thousands of reactions (likes, laughs, loves, and a few dislikes) with a matching number of comments. Can you spell stupefied?
 
As of this morning, I have 10,635 followers. That particular post has garnered 210,000 reactions and 10,000+ comments. So why did I unravel?
 
I have prided myself on reacting to every comment on all my posts. I am so thrilled that readers buy into my lunacy that I want to acknowledge all of them, always. But at 10,000 comments, it’s impossible. I, alone, am Sassy Sentiments. But Lord knows I tried!
 
So, thank you, faithful followers, for supporting a 70-year-old wannabe has-been. It simply cannot get any better than this! Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Okay people, time to fess up. How many of you admit to fixing something – anything – by watching a YouTube “How To” video?
 
Seriously, how did we ever survive without them? I have hard-wired and installed a ceiling fan, restored a wood table, added RAM storage to my desktop PC, and replaced my car battery. And I did it successfully, I might add, all because some nerd king posted a video.
 
Remember my last blog when I admitted to an uneventful week? Well, uneventful segued into chaos practically overnight. My life is just like the weather in Indiana. If you don’t like it, wait a minute and it will change.
 
My laptop is my lifeline to reality. It was gifted to me by a faithful friend when it was greatly needed and has kept me focused on the task at hand – my blog. For the last year, it has not been holding a charge. It had to be plugged in to use. This week, the charging post suddenly broke off in the port leaving half of it deeply embedded. Panic ensued. All I could think is “I’m screwed.”
 
Once I calmed down, I turned to YouTube. Sure enough, I found an abundance of videos addressing my problem. And, of course, the first one made it look really easy IF you had the right tools.
 
So, I frantically scrambled to find the tools on Amazon with the YouTube videos on autoplay in the background. All of them said the same thing until video number five. This blessed angel said that because the tools are so expensive you might try another quick tip before investing.
 
Well, Kiss My Grits. It worked in an instant.
 
I felt like the King of the World, again! We all can do anything we want if we only try, right? Well, I won’t be attempting heart transplant surgery anytime soon, but you get the drift. And if you are truly paying attention, you will know my next action.
 
Did you guess it? Yes, I searched for laptop battery replacement on YouTube, gave myself a thumbs up, and ordered the parts. Self-confidence is a powerful thing.
 
And literally 30 minutes after I started the replacement, it was done. It cost me just under $35.00. And the best part? I’ve been working on the laptop for over three hours without power issues, and still have 50% battery remaining. Don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m brilliant.
 
Okay, so it wasn’t brain surgery. But it just goes to prove that everyone needs to take chances. You need to believe in yourself and believe in magic. If you don’t, that one miracle that you desperately need might never materialize. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Okay, gang. You had better sit down because I have an announcement that could change life as we know it. Are you ready? This crazy, ridiculously fickle blogger had an uneventful week. Yes. Really! Uneventful. I know – it is shocking.
 
This morning, I was awakened by the theme song from the Broadway musical Rent, “Seasons of Love,” which asks, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. How do you measure, measure a year?”
 
Poetically, it continues “In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.” And finishes with “Measure your life in love.”
 
Whew. Profound, huh? I have heard that song thousands of times yet this morning it struck a chord in my head that echoes softly in my heart.
 
Life is just a bitch, right? It is a struggle. And sometimes that struggle is unbearable; other times it is energizing. But when I think about the inevitability of it all I am sad that we become wise to its lessons so late in the blink of an eye we call our existence.
 
So, like the weirdo nerd that I am, every single song this morning is slapping me silly. I think I relate to every composer and lyricist on the planet that has captured the human condition through music. They are poets that make my heart pound, and my tears fall. What I wouldn’t give for that talent.
 
As I listen to formidable ballads like “On My Own” (Les Misérables), “She Used to Be Mine” (Waitress), “Defying Gravity” (Wicked), and “Waving Through a Window” (Dear Evan Hanson) I ponder how my week could have been uneventful. Since when is any aspect of life uneventful?
 
Maybe it was because I was an idiot the week before. I tackled impossible tasks like a naïve youngster. And since recovery from stupidity takes a lot longer these days, my brain graciously went on hiatus as well. It was cleansing and confusing all at the same time.  
 
Rest assured, however, my command of the rules of common sense will falter again soon. My adventures as a bumbling dimwit will no doubt blossom as sure as tulips in spring. Something will itch my curiosity and I’ll scratch it with blind ambition.
 
I have noticed that my awnings need to be refreshed. I wonder…Can I do that myself? Does anyone have a 10-foot ladder and a belt sander I can borrow? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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It will be short and sweet this week, readers. Let’s just say I pushed the limit on my capabilities this past weekend and my joints are still popping and snapping with every movement. Even typing hurts like a son of a b…each bunny.
 
Have you ever done that? See something that needs to be done, get a bee in your bonnet, and just do it -  all at once. I am an idiot when it comes to common sense. Age and wisdom are not necessarily synonymous.
 
So, my shrubs needed trimming. No, that is not really accurate. They needed trimming about three years ago. Now they needed an entire landscaping crew boasting big guns with nuclear-capable power tools.
 
Instead, they got a bony little old lady with a kid-sized Black and Decker hedge trimmer trying to remove over a foot of woody limbs. And by gosh, I was going to do it, no matter what. I think I had a death wish.
 
The back of the shrubs had overgrown so badly they were creeping under the railing onto my porch. My reach could not stretch that far. So, I decided to pull a “Nike” gig and “Just Do It.”
 
The length of these shrubs stretches for about 15 feet. Starting at one end, I was hell-bent on removing at least eight inches from the back.
 
It was like cutting through the jungles of the Amazon rainforest and needed a caption like, “Do not try this at home.”
 
I cut through it all crawling through the trenches until I exited on the other side. I did not stop until it was done. While I was smart enough to wear long pants, I somehow believed short sleeves would be just fine. Duh. I have battle scars all over my arms. I honestly think the limbs came alive and were out to kill me.
 
But here I sit, alive and well even though I am not sure I can lift my arms above my head. I feel like the Terminator who needs a serious lube job. Yet, in all my battle glory, I take pride that I faced my fears head-on and declared to those sucker shrubs, “Hasta la Vista, Baby.” Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Do you ever find yourself smack dab up against a wall and hear yourself saying, “Shut up, stop whining, and get over it?” I do and that wall is made of brick and about 15 feet thick. Thank goodness I am not a headbanger because it would accomplish nothing but a bruised forehead.
 
I am a firm believer that we (aka me) are in full control of our destiny. Our predicaments are almost always of our own making. It is easier to place blame than to accept responsibility, fix the problem, and move on.
 
Sure, some people seem to walk on a primrose path and have the world handed to them on a golden platter. But if you ask them about their life, I will bet that most would lament about one thing or another. There is no such thing as a perfect life.
 
Ah, but isn’t it fun to get lost in a book, movie, or song for a moment and find peaceful perfection? One of my favorite sayings is, “Worry is a Misuse of Imagination.” Getting lost in the moment is a daily requirement these days.
 
To that end, I have become a diehard fan of the Korean Broadcasting Company through Netflix. Their programming sends me back to a time of innocence when features weren’t plagued with flagrant violence, gratuitous sex, and God-awful language.
 
I only watch those shows that are dubbed in English. Go ahead, say it – I admit I am lazy. But I am more interested in not only the sweet, carefree stories but watching the scenery from Seoul and the surrounding countryside. It is culturally illuminating and morally refreshing.
 
All my life I have heard “You are what you eat” and who can argue that truth? Now I find myself thinking will the new age bring forth a “You become what you watch” civilization? Who can convince me that we are not migrating to a mentality without work ethic, social conscience, or common courtesy? Whew. What a scary thought.
 
Yet I still beat myself up about almost everything and bellyache about people who have seemingly lost sight of the difference between good and bad, right and wrong, and righteous and evil. Has it always been like this? Probably. Is it worse? Absolutely.
 
So, without sounding like a pathetic purveyor of gloom and doom, get out of your own shadow and pay attention. Amid all the destruction and disappointment, we, each of us, can make a difference.  

Watch what your children and grandchildren are doing. Set the example. Start the dialogue. Maybe life is not as wholesome as it once was, but it is still what we make it.
 
I need to get off my duff too. Worrying about what the future holds is wasted time. Use those precious minutes instead to lay a foundation of peace, civility, love, and understanding.

​I know we will never bow in respect like our Korean counterparts, but a simple “Please” and Thank You” without the fear of guns blazing could move mountains. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
                                                                                                           

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Wow. It has been a wild week. Not only have I gotten heartwarming accolades, but I actually had one day when I rolled out of bed and didn’t sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies (snap, crackle, pop). High five for me!
 
My life is such a rollercoaster – not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. I cannot even imagine living without these highs and lows. It is part of what nourishes my soul and keeps me whole. Yet it is also what drives me to drink. Bartender, keep ‘em coming.
 
An 80-year-old friend, one of the feistiest old broads I have ever known, fell last week and broke her left arm. This fracture completely dislocated her upper left arm from the shoulder. At her age, it is a break that cannot be fixed and will not heal.
 
Let that sink in. Envision your left arm dangling from the shoulder, held together only by skin and torn muscle. You can use your hand and fingers without issue and maneuver your arm from the elbow, but that’s it. It is still there, but you will never raise it above your head again. Humbling thought, isn’t it?
 
So off I fled into unintelligible psycho-babble oblivion again. I am probably the only idiot on the planet to contemplate the movements of a boneless jellyfish while lost in awe of the divine wonder of the human skeletal system.
 
Although we are born with 270 bones, some fuse together and reach maximum mass usually by ages 25-30. So, we are left with 206 bones, and it only takes the ruin of one to dramatically impact our existence.
 
Yes, for you naysayers, life goes on. This is nothing compared to those who have suffered amputations and/or paralysis – that is purely heartbreaking. But just one bone – one single bone – can change life as we know it. Mind-blowing…
 
But something good always accompanies the bad. Well, almost always, if you look for it. Not only am I well on my way to 9,000 followers, but you also all surely saw my congrats from Facebook for earning a spot in the top 3% of rising creators last week. Never in a million years…
 
When I started this journey in the fall of 2020, I was simply appeasing lifelong friends who guilted me into writing. I made the mistake of telling them that I had once dreamed of becoming the Erma Bombeck of my generation because I thrived on her raw talent and incomparable ability to make me think and laugh at the same time.
 
Now, I didn’t, don’t, could never fulfill that dream because Erma was absolutely brilliant, and I am a wandering nomad in search of my true voice. But since that time, it has genuinely stabilized my sanity. This process makes me focus; it makes me look for the good with the bad and find value in both.
 
So, thank you, readers! Thank you, friends! Thanks to God and my celestial Angels who lift me daily! And for those who think my sanity has not been stabilized? Oh, whatever… Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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So, would you do anything for your job? If your boss asked you to do something totally unimaginable, would you drop everything and say “Yep, where do I sign up?”
 
I suppose many would say, “Well, what does it pay?” That’s a legitimate question. But honestly. How far would you go?
 
I was on my way to a matinee performance of “Beauty and the Beast” at my local dinner theatre when the radio station I always listen to announced the answers to their daily contest. I had missed the initial question, but the answer was “The Wizard of Oz.”
 
The radio DJ continued providing trivia about that award-winning movie. Suddenly, I was inattentive to my driving. Not a brilliant move, I know, but I was instantly transported back to that classic film.
 
I was today-years-old to learn that the Lion costume worn by Bert Lahr in the 1939 movie was made from actual lion skin and fur. Wow. Kinda creepy, huh?
 
The original Scarecrow, Buddy Epsen (of Beverly Hillbillies fame), was recast to play the Tin Man and actually ended up in the hospital in critical care with a toxic reaction to the aluminum powder used in his make-up. He was subsequently forced to leave the film and was replaced by Jack Haley.
 
All masks were made of foam latex makeup, and it took over an hour every day to slowly peel off Ray Bolger’s glued-on Scarecrow mask, a process that left permanent lines around his mouth and chin.
 
And grab this. The “fake snow” that covered Dorothy during the poppy field segment was made of Asbestos (gasp!). Who knew?
 
Can you even fathom the dedication to your craft needed to complete the task? The cast worked six days a week from as early as 4 a.m. to 7 p.m. or later. The lighting needed for the newly developed daylight-bright Technicolor filming process often heated the set to over 100⁰.
 
OK. They got worldwide notoriety which fueled their acting careers. But would you have done it? What risk is acceptable risk? Of course, they did not know the dangers of asbestos at that time, but the work conditions still presented obvious health concerns.
 
This bit of trivia fascinated me and started my relentless brain to plummet out of control. I am a bona fide workaholic. But I cannot say for certain that I could or would have endured it.
 
I know our military is expected to do the impossible. They put their lives above all others. Law enforcement and fire professionals risk life and limb every day. Even my grandfather worked in a paint factory and inhaled toxic fumes for many years which most likely contributed to his lung cancer.
 
So where do you draw the line? What was your most challenging employment task? Please – tell me in the comments. Geez, I am not sure I would even work in a place without air conditioning. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Oh my gosh, gee whiz, son of a buck, grrrr. It is Wednesday and I have no blog. First of all, how could it possibly be Wednesday already? Secondly, how can a die-hard blowhard not have something to say? It is one of the top unsolved mysteries of the world.
 
I do have an idea, but I have to give you a little backstory.
 
My lot in life these days is waiting for the Federal Government to clear my background and allow my employer to provide certified access to proprietary systems. This journey started back in February and has yet to be resolved. Yes, it is May and nearly June. A full quarter of the work year has been spent waiting. For the record… waiting eight hours a day is more exhausting than working.
 
To fill my time while I wait, and after obligatory courses, I am expected to access the company’s learning library, stay busy, and get smart. Sounds like a dream job, huh? Initially, it actually was! I found content in this library that was educational, motivating, thought-provoking, and useful. It was kind of fun.
 
However, these past couple of weeks, I discovered specific audiobooks that have nailed my inadequacies. Oh, joy. These much younger entrepreneurial visionaries have insight that could cut holes through steel. It is illuminating and frightful at the same time.
 
One book I could not stop listening to was “Soundtracks: The Surprising Solution to Overthinking,” by Jon Acuff (#soundtracks; @JonAcuff). Jon doesn’t realize it – geez, he’s never even met me – but he wrote this book about me. I am the epitome of that person who cannot get out of their own way. And the worst part? I am 100% aware that I do it. Isn’t that a hoot?
 
Jon reiterates that overthinking runs on soundtracks – and a broken soundtrack is the worst kind of fear. My soundtracks: “I can’t do it. I’m not good enough. I’m too old. I don’t have time.” He instructs us to ask three simple questions about each soundtrack: Is it true? Does it help or hinder? Is it kind to you?
 
Are the answers to those questions not the absolute “Duh?” Of course, it isn’t true. Of course, it doesn’t help. And double duh, it is not even remotely kind to me. So, I listened and listened intently.
 
I was exceptionally drawn to one of his childhood memories. As a kid, while watching what he deemed to be one the scariest movies ever, Jaws, he found himself lifting his feet off the floor so “sharks” couldn’t find him. That action derived from the thought that he would be safe if he lifted his feet. And that action continued into adulthood when life got scary.
 
Now, Jaws came out in 1975. I was drawn to that analogy because even though I was an adult by that time, after watching the movie, I found myself walking around puddles for the same reason. Who knows what lurks below the water? Overthinking results when thoughts impact actions.
 
So, I am on a mission – to replace my soundtracks with positivity. I read once that change is hard. But the follow-up to that declaration is that change is not hard – it is just a decision to be made. It is implementing and maintaining change that is hard.

But I will learn that I can do it, I am good enough, I am not too old, and I will find the time.

That sounds like a Saturday Night Live skit to me.  Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Am I the only person who rallies between emotional highs and lows so expansive that I get dizzy and disoriented? I swear it is like riding a bobsled from the tip of Mt. Everest to Death Valley sometimes in the blink of an eye. It’s amazing I don’t toss my cookies every time.
 
Now, my vacays on Mt. Everest far outweigh the trips to Death Valley, but the emotional rollercoaster of the journey is nevertheless brutal. Even though I am acutely aware of the reasoning behind all these maladies, I seem to be blind to understanding, and immune to acceptance.
 
Being an adult is sometimes just a royal pain, right? And why do people call it a “royal” pain? I would be unbelievably unhappy if I had to indulge in the pomp and circumstance of life as royalty every waking moment of every day, not to mention the complete lack of privacy. But I am not sure I would refer to it as painful.
 
Why do we hold ourselves accountable for responsibilities that are not really our own? Like a mother hen, I sometimes spread my wings to include those around me who ask for help or are less fortunate. I know that is not a bad trait, yet it still contributes dramatically to my lack of energy.
 
And the weight of the guilt felt when you are physically and emotionally unavailable is staggering.
 
Here I am at the time in my life when I believed I would be lacking in fiscal worry and enjoying total freedom of action. Is that not what we were told in our youth? The “Golden Years” would bathe us in worry-free exultation. I am sure many do. I was just not proactive enough to make certain that would be my endgame.
 
But I still thank my maker every day for far more blessings than many. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are just difficult holidays for me. I never wanted anything more than to be a mother but was never blessed.
 
And while my dad has been gone for 52 years, I still succumb to that childish dream that my life would be very different had I been gifted with his love and guidance for more than 18 years.
 
And so, the bobsled leaves Mt. Everest again. All aboard! Smart people know you cannot live in the past. I am smart; I do know that. But memories reside in that part of our head and heart that is protected from deletion. They are sometimes the key that engages the bobsled.
 
But onward we march, dodging the alternative with exuberance. Dad always said, “Life’s great if you don’t weaken,” and I toast that sentiment at the top of Mt. Everest every time I am there.
 
So, grab a glass and find your own personal toast to life. If you are a parent, love your children unconditionally. And kids? Praise your parents for the miracles that they are. You will miss them when they are gone. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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After what seems like weeks and weeks, and then more weeks, of rain, sunshine has finally burst through the grunge. The difference a few warm rays can make in a person’s attitude is truly remarkable. It is almost as if a smothering pillow has been lifted off my face and I can breathe again.
 
So why does my brain still feel like it is in hibernation? I really do feel better, smile more, and look forward to the days ahead. Vitamin D is indeed a miracle drug, but I obviously still need some kind of magical motivation.
 
It is fair to say that if you look up “sloth” in the dictionary during winter, you will no doubt see my picture. Not that I am all that lazy, I just hate the cold.
 
And much like a kid after summer vacation, when Mother Nature wakes her beloved children in the spring and invites me back into the fray, I move like a pig in mud. Seasonal habits die hard.
 
So, I started thinking about how all walks of life react to seasonal changes. We all know that bears are notorious for long winter naps, and it made me wonder if they too have a slow recovery after hibernation. As usual, it was a fascinating trip down the rabbit hole.
 
First of all, did you know there are over 20 animal species that hibernate? I knew that many disappear from view during the winter months, but I attributed that to just finding warmth somewhere else.
 
In addition to bears, bats, bumblebees, hummingbirds, ladybugs, box turtles, ground squirrels, chipmunks, garter snakes, raccoons, and lizards all hibernate – meaning they self-regulate certain bodily functions (body temperature, slow breathing/heart rate, metabolic rate) to survive when climate presents danger and lack of food.
 
Think about it. How cool would that be? To “bulk up” in the fall by eating anything you want, sleep through the worst of winter days, and wake up losing about one-third of your body weight? Dairy Queen and I would be on a first-name basis.
 
Sadly, of course, humans could not survive this function. Only members of the animal kingdom can fast for long periods without losing muscle and bone composition.

​Bears mysteriously convert their metabolic waste/excrement into protein which allows them to maintain muscle tone and strength during hibernation. I find that absolutely amazing.
 
And, to answer my initial question, no, bears do not wake up with a spring in their step. They are groggy, cranky, and in a state of walking hibernation for 2-3 weeks while returning to their summer metabolic state. Sounds just like me. It must be true…don’t poke a sleeping bear.
 
So, I guess there is hope. I wish I could be hooked up to a high-powered battery and jump-started overnight into a productive existence. But if Yogi “Smarter Than the Average” Bear has to waddle his way back into civilization after a cold winter’s nap, I can too.
 
Quoting French playwright, actor, and poet, Moliere, “Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” Does that mean my summer will be fruitful? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Ugh. Double ugh. Monday mornings. Just thinking about it makes me cringe. The weekends are never long enough anymore, are they?
 
Sadly, I hear my alarm start to wail. I hate that sound. I hit the snooze button knowing I give myself at least fifteen minutes of hide-and-seek time before I have to admit it is time to get out of bed.
 
Oh, but something is strange. It is very quiet. I also wake up to music every morning and there is no music today. I glance at my phone and realize I have overslept for an hour and a half. Shit, shit, double shit. I never do this.
 
You have never seen a grown woman jump out of bed so fast. Although I work remotely from a home office, I never allow myself to arrive at my desk anytime I please. I am a schedule-aholic and suddenly move like a bat out of Hades. I grab my jeans hung conveniently over my vanity chair, stub my toe, and scream like a banshee.
 
And no, to answer your obvious question, I also never allow myself to start my day at my desk in my pajamas. OK, so judge me. I am an anal old idiot drowned by ancient rhetoric.
 
I scramble to get into my jeans without losing my balance mumbling obscenities under my breath the entire time. Although Mondays just suck, I am actually impressed with myself. I did this in record time today. Yay me! What a trooper.
 
I whisk my way from one end of the house to the other and decide that coffee will have to wait for a few minutes. I fall into my desk chair, turn on my monitors, and move my mouse knowing I am still going to be about six minutes late.
 
And then it happens. My system wakes up and the screen tells me it is 7:06 AM on Sunday – yes, you read that right. Sunday. You bleeping blippity bleep mother fork truck son of a biscuit maker a**wipe.
 
I not only dang near broke my toe, but I delayed coffee for this. It is a good thing I live alone because someone other than me should take the blame. That’s only fair, right? After all, why was a 5:30 AM alarm activated on a Sunday? And how many bloody times did I hit that snooze button?
 
OK, so there is no chance of reclaiming my Sunday morning sleep fest. Zero. Zilch. I am in a repugnantly demented rage. The only good thing about this event is that I am 99.9% certain it will never happen again. Ah, the pathetic pitfalls of a hope-indoctrinated Type-A overachiever.
 
Now, if it was a beautiful sun-filled Sunday morning, I would don my best sneakers and go on a glorious jaunt through the park to commiserate with the butterflies. But it is cold, rainy, and one of the dreariest days in April history.
 
Time for one of my delicious, dietary-challenging chorizo, egg, and cheese omelets. Don’t you love the redeeming value of good food? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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The weight of the world is just heavy, isn't it? I don't know why anybody, especially me, feels like they need to carry it on their shoulders. Who am I to think I am that important?
 
So, I have been working on this particular blog for over a week. My thoughts just would not jell. And that by itself is a tremendous burden. Can anyone explain to me where a normal brain goes when it is unproductive?
 
No one on this planet would ever deem my brain as normal, but whenever I am completely unfocused, I am like a snail in a jitterbug contest. The world around me spins out of control and I am stuck watching a really bad “B” movie on repeat, and in slow motion.
 
Do you remember when school was out on a Friday afternoon as a kid? The bus ride home was the best feeling of freedom ever. Once home, you would change your clothes, jump on your bike, and ride like the wind wherever you wanted to go. That freedom was exhilarating – not a care in the world.
 
At my house, we knew that dinner would be on the table when Dad arrived home from work. We also knew we had better hightail it home when his car hit the driveway to eat or suffer Mom’s wrath.
 
Once dinner was finished, and our kitchen chores complete, we would head back outside to conquer the world yet again. Our only rule was to be home by the time the streetlights came on.
 
And all the while, we could not wait until we grew up. We, by gosh, would eat dinner anytime we wanted to. We wouldn’t have to abide by all the crappy rules of crabby old people. That, we thought, would be real freedom.
 
That purely naive innocence still makes me smile. I know you have all said, “Oh to be that young again.” If I could somehow find that sense of freedom as an adult, I really doubt that writing would be such a chore.
 
So why do I love it so much? Why does anyone thrive on something that can make them uncomfortable?  I am guessing because, if only for a minute, it stops the insanity. It halts time in its tracks and allows the never-ending jumble of unequivocal personal doubt to waiver in limbo for a bit. And that, my friends, is bliss for me.
 
The funniest part of all of this is that these old bones couldn’t ride a bike like the wind if they tried. They hardly walk at a brisk pace. But the moral of this story is never forgotten – find peace of mind when and wherever it presents itself. Find the time for a chill pill and take refuge in its simplicity. Perhaps you too will find a story to write. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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​Alas, Spring has finally sprung. Is it just me, or does that first sip of coffee do a much better job when the sun is starting to shine? I am convinced caffeine is light-activated - it does not spring-load energy as effectively in the dark.
 
There are so many good things about this time of year. The flowers are starting to peek through sleepy soil, the warmth of the sun delivers long-awaited celestial hugs, and daily walks can be enjoyed without bulky Eskimo armor.
 
The trees are also starting to bud. Before we know it that delicious sound of a soft wind rustling through leaves will provide a therapy not found in any doctor’s office.

​It is merely a matter of time before a cold beer on the porch after work is mandatory for mitigated insanity and borderline good judgment. Deep breaths of fresh air are compulsory.  Life is good.
 
Did you know that it takes seven to eight trees to provide enough oxygen for just one person per year? At exactly 11:40 a.m. today, the world population clock via screenshot hit 8,026,816,276. Eight Billion People... and growing exponentially. You do the math. That is a boatload of trees needed for the masses just to breathe.
 
Have you ever really taken the time to consider that reality? I would lie bare-faced if I said I did and am not proud of that admission.  Our cities have become concrete jungles. Hundreds of acres of stunning mature forests have been destroyed for the sake of “progress.”
 
I guess our concrete jungles need more concrete. Our amassing population needs more housing. Real estate moguls need more of . . . everything.
 
A few years ago, a cornfield up the road from me was plowed under and I feared the ruination of an iconic Norman Rockwell vision of the perfect country road with rows of huge, boxy houses built, metaphorically speaking, on top of each other – not a tree in sight. It genuinely made me gag.
 
But my faith in humanity was restored. That spot now houses a large tree farm providing a home for thousands of new saplings. I almost want to adopt eight of those trees for my own self-preservation.
 
But amid the fears of our declining civilization, Spring still reigns King. It is symbolic of how you can rebirth your life by simply enduring the cold and believing that warm sunshine will renew an insatiable hunger for survival. Sounds ridiculously easy, doesn’t it?
 
But no, life is still hard – no matter the weather. Murphy’s Law often trumps Mother Nature’s perfection. It is the resilience of the human spirit that makes us just grin and bear it.
 
So go out there and enjoy this glorious season as it only comes once a year. Walk in the rain, embrace the newborn flora, and download the Dairy Queen app for an 85-cent Blizzard for the next two weeks. I dare Murphy to trump that miracle. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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