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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I had a wonderful conversation with a special friend recently and we talked about pretty much everything under the sun. It was absolutely delightful. Our soliloquies gravitated to stories about the perception of happiness, and the decadence of deception. Who hasn’t been caught up in those webs at least once in your life?
 
I mean, really, have you ever just smiled and nodded yes to avoid a conversation about how unhappy you are? Or maybe, just maybe, you have denied knowledge of a juicy tidbit of gossip or an unsavory event just to find out what someone else might think or know? You are not of this planet if you can truthfully deny either of those ulterior motives.
 
Sometimes we do it to protect our hearts. Other times we might do it to protect someone we love. But sometimes, I believe we just want to stir the pot. Yes, I said it. We all have done it. Conversations often just become a delicate dance. Knowing what to say and when to say it is a real gift, especially when trying to traverse affairs of the heart.
 
And holy moly is it awkward at my age. Good grief. Most of us facing twilight alone no longer think about tying the knot and securing a future. It is about sharing whatever time you have left with someone who speaks to your mind, embraces your heart, and marches to the same beat of your different drummer. Of course, it does not hurt if they make your knees go weak too.
 
While sparking conversation is key, there is no greater saving grace than the power of touch. And it does not matter whether you are young, middle-aged, or frightfully old. I am mesmerized when I see older couples holding hands as they walk into a restaurant or grocery store. The touch of a hand speaks louder than the simplest of words, “I care.” And in my mind, I think, “I want to be like them when I grow up.”
 
Personally, I believe learning to do this very special waltz should just be so easy, yet I watch people – young, old, married, single - struggle with it every day. I will never understand how communication breaks down between those who care for each other. One cannot always be right, and the other cannot always be the person to acquiesce. All of life is a compromise. You just have to be brave enough to start the dialogue.
 
Looking back, it appears that I took a wrong turn from my original premise for this rant. Yet, failed communication often derails life, doesn’t it? I love having the freedom to empty my over-active brain without fear of repercussion. And I am thankful that I am not alone in discombobulated thinking. I am not alone, right? Uh, anyone?
 
Okay, so sometimes I think I should probably just unplug, reboot, and overhaul my thought processes. But if I did not ramble on like a crazed lunatic, whatever would we talk about? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Spring has sprung, the sun has finally decided to shine, and I am still huddled in a corner channel surfing. To be honest, some days it simply does not matter whether Mother Nature is agreeable or not. Today, it appears I am in a pissing match with my alter ego. Just for fun, let’s be predictable and call her Sybil.
 
Now, Sybil can actually be the life of the party – if you like people poised to kill. It often takes every ounce of my energy to sidetrack her maniacal disposition and actually crack a smile. Sometimes that smile leads to an extremely positive attitude; sometimes it does not. Some people are lucky to elude Sybil’s devilish magnetism; some are not. Think about it – how lucky do you feel right now? Will Sybil’s twin sister add you to her fight card?
 
As usual, however, this pissing competition has me spiraling down yet more of Alice’s rabbit holes.
                                                                                                              
My first deep dive was The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, an 1886 Gothic novella by Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson. It is documented that Stevenson had long been intrigued by the idea of how human personalities can reflect the interplay between good and evil. Whether you acknowledge or ignore it, I personally doubt that anyone is immune from an unpredictably dual nature. Do all of you have momentary battles between good and evil? Please say yes or I am in serious trouble here.
 
Then my mind time-warped inexplicably to the possibility that sometimes we just try to escape reality. I certainly daydream, don’t you? But in this particular rabbit hole, people experiencing a disconnection and lack of continuity between thoughts, actions, and identity might be diagnosed with a mental disorder known as DD (Dissociative Disorder). Could Sybil be toying with my sanity?
 
Okay, so these rabbit holes have been ridiculous diversions from the fact that I am just completely unmotivated. I am absolutely certain I am not suffering from a personality disorder. Well, I am at least 99.3% certain. I am still baffled about what makes anyone choose to withdraw from a perfect opportunity to enjoy nature’s bountiful blessings and retreat into isolation.
 
The easiest explanation for me is that isolating when life seems to suck allows me to feel like I am in control. Life is always a challenge, and while I cannot specifically define what “sucks” means, I just know that it relates to being out of sorts. There is safety in getting lost in the digital world of online programming. It may be a band-aid fix for deeper-seated issues, but for now, it saves me from contributing to my own delinquency.
 
Tomorrow is a new day and will present a whole new realm of possibility. Have no fear I will rip off that band-aid with one deliberate yank and find myself ready to indulge in the gifts of nature. With any luck, Sybil will be off somewhere dancing with pit bulls. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Are there things in your life that drive you absolutely nutzoid? Okay, so nutzoid is not a real word, but I bet all of you understand my drift. I always thought as I got older, I would become more agreeable and more refined. I thought I would be a vessel of justice – a visionary with the ability to see and accept all the many variations of existence. Yes, and I thought kissed toads would turn into princes too.
 
I stopped to get gas yesterday. It is irritating enough to know that filling my tank will completely drain my pocket change for the month, but little did I realize that this event, on this day, would also drain every ounce of my patience.
 
As I exited my car, I was pummeled with noise that could not only wake the dead but most likely wake all drug-induced sleepers on the other side of the planet. The genre of this questionable “music” coming from the vehicle on the adjoining pump was unrecognizable. My eardrums pulsated. I could not even hear myself think. Since all the doors on the car were closed, I tried to imagine what it might sound like inside the car. How does anyone exposed to those decibel levels, especially in an enclosed space, expect to hear anything of importance going on around them? Lord help all drivers in their general vicinity.
 
And then, I just flew off the deep end. Every pet peeve I have ever suffered came alive full throttle. Have you ever uttered the words “I just don’t care” and gotten hit with the “Of course you do” response? Or maybe you have expressed a very poignant personal opinion only to be told “Don’t be ridiculous” or “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” If blood can actually boil, these responses light the fire.
 
Now, I understand that everyone has a right to an opinion. If you are in a focused discussion about any given topic, it is expected to hear both pros and cons on the subject. But when you are engaged in casual exchange, slam-dunking anyone’s thoughts is just rude to me. If I had wanted your opinion, wouldn’t I have asked for it? God gave us filters for a reason. If yours is broken, you might want to consider getting it fixed. I have a long-standing account at the Filter-Fixer Emporium.
 
And then there are the pity party people. You know the type – always the victim. Life has mistreated them so horribly that nothing matters, and no one can understand the pain of their journey. I will admit, I have hosted many a pity party in my lifetime – just nothing that a good movie or a bottle of wine could not fix. I find it sad that most of those people cannot see that there are thousands, maybe millions, of others suffering the exact same thing. We are alone in the battle only in our own thoughts.
 
Obviously, best friends and close family members are excused from these pet peeves. Well, most of them are…usually – or at least sometimes. Unless of course, noise at the gas pump already has me in meltdown mode. Then I suggest we only discuss the weather. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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​Have you ever laughed so hard that you almost embarrassed yourself? Humor is so personal. It is strange how what I find funny may not be funny to you at all. It makes journaling my thoughts harder than you would think. The last thing I want to do is bring a negative cloud to anyone’s day.
 
Humor is driven by so many things – personal experience, values, upbringing, and even mood. And you cannot overlook that sometimes it is bigotry and ignorance that skew opinion and insight. No one wants to believe that is true, but it happens. Sadly, it is human nature and a knee-jerk reaction that we need to eliminate from our culture.
 
It is abundantly clear to me that bigotry does not always refer to race. Webster identifies it as stubborn and complete intolerance of any creed, belief, or opinion that differs from one's own. That definition can refer to weight, hair color, sports alliances, politics, and even shoe size if you want to get ridiculous. Most would think of this as discrimination or just differences of opinion, not bigotry. No matter the definition, some people manage these ideologies with hatred; some with humor. Either way is unacceptable.
 
But I am talking about innocent humor, slapstick humor. I remember watching Saturday Night Live years ago and laughing so hard my sides ached. I have tried watching it recently and cannot find any humor in the skits whatsoever. Times change, I guess. New generations create cultures that are foreign to me.
 
Have you ever started laughing uncontrollably at a really inappropriate moment? My biggest laughter faux pax happened in Maine while watching my significant other re-landscape my three and a half acres. I do believe he was a pioneer settler reincarnate who refused to give in to modern technology.
 
I had a bottomless natural spring on my property boarded over by previous owners. He opened it, planted ferns and flowers, and designed a beautiful waterfall over large slate rocks drizzling down the hill to what we planned to be a pond someday. Close to this area, he discovered a gorgeous two-ton mossy quartz rock and was hell-bent to place it strategically on a walking path we were clearing through a thicket of white birch trees.
 
He unearthed the rock from atop the hill, but it landed at least fifty feet from where we wanted it. Using the laws of leverage and a path of small tree trunks he moved this massive rock inches at a time with only a tensioning tool (tag-along), straps, and brute strength. It was impressive to watch. Until it happened…
 
On one crank of the tag-along, he lost his grip. The power of the pull brought this 6-foot, 180-pound man completely horizontal to the ground about three feet high where he seemed to float for a split second. Then he fell – flat on his back. I was watching from my back porch and frantically ran to see if he was okay, but I could not stop laughing. Why in the world was this funny to me? It was like watching a Wile E. Coyote prank instead of a man potentially snapping his back. Incredibly, he was able to get up and laugh it off.
 
So, if an absurd, comic, or bizarre action causes our amusement, we just have to own what makes us laugh and apologize if it offends. If my thoughts do not make you at least smile, I can only hope you will find humor in my lack of comedic timing or my ability to insert foot A into mouth B. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Hold your horses, people, I am about to go on a rampage. Right now, I feel so hungry I could eat a horse. Okay, so maybe only half a horse or a medium-sized pony. After a sensible breakfast of one scrambled egg and a piece of wheat toast, consumed with a full glass of water, I am still fighting the urge to order a large meat-lovers pizza with a side of breadsticks – don’t forget the cheese sauce. I think I need an intervention.
 
I realize overeating is often tied to anxiety and today – for unknown reasons – I am anxious. I am jealous of those who lose their appetite when stressed. I am the exact opposite. Food lifts my spirits. And you all thought I was the poster child for emotional stability, right? Come on – you can at least pretend.
 
Having battled with weight issues for most of my life, I honestly do know my triggers – mainly boredom and stress. I deal with it primarily by eliminating unhealthy food in my house. You cannot eat what you do not have. You will never find chips, crackers, candy, ice cream, or cookies in my pantry. I am one of those Lays addicts – I can never eat just one. If you are like me, though, not having snacks available only adds to my stress. It is a smart move, but a very irritating one.
 
So, what causes an individual’s intrinsic desire for food a.k.a. hunger? Appetite exists in all higher life forms. It serves to regulate adequate energy intake to maintain metabolic needs. Hunger, on the other hand, is a physiological “need for food” response caused by nerve signals and chemical messengers originating in the brain, primarily in the hypothalamus.
 
So that is the culprit – the hypothalamus. I want to fork that little puppy right out of my system. But, of course, it is not responsible for just hunger. While it is very small, it plays a crucial role in many bodily functions. It works to release hormones, regulate body temperature, manage sexual behavior, regulate emotional responses, and maintain daily physiological cycles. Okay, fine. I do need the rest of that stuff.
 
Then there is a fullness hormone produced in your fat stores called Leptin. It sends messages to that irritating little gland in your brain when to eat, how many calories to burn, and sets your body weight like the time on a clock. While scientists know that Leptin is critical in controlling hunger and weight, no one really knows how to treat it. Isn’t it a hoot that the hormones in your fat cells are ultimately responsible for your hunger? That is like putting the criminally insane in charge of the asylum.
 
I guess that means I am a hormonal time bomb today. I love having an excuse to be witchy. My fat cells must be intellectually challenged though, or they would be telling me to get a grip – that I am not hungry – I could live off the fat of the land alone for months. Of course, if they dared to do that, Dirty Harry would intervene, “Go ahead, make my day.” Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Imagine, if you will (in my best Twilight Zone’s Rod Serling voice), a world where your every move was not scrutinized by someone. Don’t you just think like that sometimes – that your every thought, decision, choice is wrong, or at the very least questionable? I am in awe of those who really do not give a hoot at what people think. I have very decidedly taught myself to care less about all kinds of things, but the residual “should I have done/said that” shudder still rattles my soul – more often than I would admit. I hate it.
 
I am guessing much of this dates back to my teen years. I had a mother that criticized my every step. My hair was either too straight or too curly. I wore too much makeup or not enough. My skirt was either too short, not short enough or “Are you really wearing that out tonight?”
 
And I can still hear her question me why I did not have a date every weekend. She would remind me how full her dance card was when she was my age. I tried to explain that the guys I really liked were bookworms, not Romeo’s. But that fell on deaf ears. Even though I was a straight-A student and respected at school, I was lacking elsewhere.
 
Now, I am certain she thought she was grooming me to be a better woman. I guess she could not understand that I wanted to be a better person, not just a better woman. But self-worth can be very fragile. And I have carried those doubts around like a ball and chain most of my adult life.
 
But it is unbelievably humorous how other people remember what I deem my “geek” days. I have heard adjectives like strong, independent, and smart. I do believe I grew to embrace some of those qualities, and I even played the part like an Oscar-worthy actress occasionally. But in the quiet of my own solitude, I battled inner demons. Age and wisdom do teach you to kick those little horned destroyers to the curb, but age and wisdom only come after years of emotional damage.
 
Now, listen closely – I am not a damaged person. No, seriously, I am not (proclaimed as some of you shake your heads!). But I do have regrets. Youth is hard. I wish as kids we were gifted with the insight to stand strong against expectations that really do not matter. How could it possibly matter if my hair was straight or curly?
 
Like all of us, we move through developmental stages that make us who we are. I no longer question my every move. Well, there was that one time when my ten-year-old niece begged me to come to her March birthday party. I had just visited over the holidays and tried to explain that it would cost too much to travel again so soon from the west coast. Her negotiation tactic was telling: “But Aunt Jacque, I promise we’ll have beer there and everything.”
 
And so, the demons were back for a reunion tour! When a ten-year-old can nail your proclivities as a bribery mechanism, it is time to revisit your adult inclinations. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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​It is a cozy Saturday night, and I am realizing my trash goes out every week more than I do. Yet, with a wine glass in hand and a blanket of contentment hugging my inner soul, thoughts are bouncing around in my head like raindrops in a mud puddle. Even though I am awash in a jumble of emotional baggage, I am one very satisfied lady. Imagine that.
 
So, what brought on this mood? Isn’t it funny how forgotten memories sometimes appear magically in your mind like someone suddenly flipped on a light switch? Out of nowhere, I remembered a hysterical story about a slice of lemon pound cake.
 
It was probably early 1981 and I was delighted to have a small dinner party in my amazing sublet in the hills of San Francisco. The dining table was in an alcove surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the city. Strangely, I do not remember what was on the menu, but I do recall I made the best lemon pound cake ever for dessert.
 
My significant other and I nibbled away at what remained all weekend constantly declaring its decadence with every bite. It was so very moist with the perfect tang of lemon. Only one slice remained by Monday morning. What once covered an entire wooden cutting board now looked like a lonely wedge of aluminum foil lost on the counter.
 
It was not until 5:00 on that Monday afternoon I remembered it existed. All the way home from work my mouth watered for that last piece of cake and I silently prayed to be the first one home – and I was. I dropped all my belongings at the door and rushed to the kitchen. It was still on the counter. With thoughtful reverence, I bowed my head in thanks to the Cake Gods for my great fortune.
 
I opened the aluminum foil ever so gently with the respect it deserved, and there it was – a piece of stale French bread cut to look like the last wedge of lemon pound cake. Once the crushing disappointment waned, I had only one thought. That man is dead meat.
 
But it was funny. And I have not thought of that moment for a very long time. Memories are sometimes the bloodline to our sanity, don’t you think? No matter how fragile you might feel at any given time, I believe your subconscious serves up its own concoction of lemon pound cake to rescue you.
 
Of course, there was also the one time I made a strawberry jello poke cake when my in-laws were visiting. It was so disgusting that no one could eat it. My sweet mother-in-law playfully perpetuated the misstep on every future visit: “Please make us your famous jello cake, please, please?” I loved that woman, bless her heart. It is memories, I tell you, that calm the storms in your soul.
 
But geez, now I want lemon pound cake and all I have is tasteless green jello. I guess another glass of wine will have to suffice. Oh the sacrifices we must make. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Okay, so I think I need a tutor. I have always considered myself technology savvy. I have been active on computers since their introduction and have both installed, troubleshot, and updated my own systems. But some of this new stuff – apps and lingo and such – just does not compute in my antiquated brain. Why is this so hard?
 
For example – hashtags. Yes, I am carbon-dating myself here, but in my day (ancient as it may be) the pound sign (#) preceded a numeric value. Period. If you skew it a bit, it might look like a musical “sharp” symbol. But no matter the presentation, it has now become the universal symbol for my confusion. I am curious who decides how to adapt this stuff and how it becomes entrenched into daily life. So, off to #HashtagsForDummies I went.
 
Dating back to 1988, the pound sign was originally adopted for use within IRC networks (Internet Relay Chat). It labeled groups and topics. Since I do not remember this specifically, I am guessing it was initially significant for internet junkies and computer nerds only. Although, I have limited recollection of its use on “CompuServe,” one of the first-ever chat platforms.
 
It was not until 2007 that the use of hashtags was first proposed via Twitter by American blogger, product consultant, and speaker Chris Messina. He proposed the vertical/associational grouping of messages, trends, and events to identify digital content on the Twitter platform. Its intent was to be a type of metadata tag making it possible for others to easily search and find messages with a specific theme or content.
 
Humorously, in 2013, Twitter supposedly told the Wall Street Journal that "these things are for nerds" and their use "wouldn't be adopted widely." By the end of the decade, though, we all know how this ended. Hashtags are mainstream in the culture of all social media platforms.
 
And, of course, studies about the nerdy (or savvy?) activity are rampant. They have shown that hashtags assist students in voicing their opinions. Related research demonstrated how high school students engaging in hashtag communication practices allowed them to develop storytelling skills and cultural awareness. Oh my, how the world has changed. In my day, we took a speech class.
 
So, I did the newbie thing and typed #sassysentiments into my search bar. Voila! The search brought up a link to my website. Well, that is very cool. Then I typed #randomrants and landed on some random blog entries from 2012/13. Trying to be kind, it was not something I would hope to be linked to! So, how do you really maximize the benefits of hashtags? My hand is raised, tutor. Help me! Feel free, readers, to educate me.
 
Then, there are @ tags. These are less confusing. Email addresses always use @ symbols to identify the platform. So, it makes sense that the @ symbol identifies and finds specific members and user profiles on social media. I think my tutor can skip this topic.
 
This exercise has helped me realize that using hashtags has many advantages. Most importantly, they engage people more and could drive more traffic to this site. They could help readers find my posts easily and show them my personality and sense of humor. I think I finally get it - #CluelessRedhead, #SassyStupidity, #OldPeopleRock. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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So, let’s talk about love, shall we? You know what they say – “Love is a many splendored thing.” Really? Love is like biting into a scrumptious chocolate chip cookie to find out those little dark chunks are raisins. It is sometimes the ultimate disappointment. It can put you in one of those moods where nothing feels right. You feel so inadequate that you are absolutely petrified to make the simplest decision.
 
Okay, so maybe that only describes romantic love, and only applies to a minuscule percentage of those who fall so hopelessly. It does somehow make you take inventory of what is important to you. And maybe, just maybe, that alone is the pot of gold at the end of your rainbow.
 
But “love” means so much more, doesn’t it? It is an assurance of affection, a warm and embracing attachment, enthusiasm, or devotion. It can describe the walking on clouds sensation you feel when you see that newborn baby. Or maybe it is those butterflies in the pit of your stomach as you watch a first grader perform in their very first class play.
 
It does indeed extend to every aspect of our lives. It is how you roll your eyes with the first delicious bite of Grandma’s apple pie. It might be the tingles you feel every time you put on that one special sweater gifted from a best friend. Or even the crunch of excitement when your team pulls off a spectacular win in the last seconds of the game. And it does not have to be human by definition either. The wag of a tail from a furry little passion pit is equally as heart-stopping.
 
But I have come to learn that loving yourself is the most important common denominator of any emotional circus. You know, raisins taste great when you are expecting raisins. It is important to remember that no one, or any one thing, has the power to diminish your worth or make you question your purpose. It is waking up to the realization that we all are one of the seven wonders of the world. And we all should be treasured without a destructive price of admission. The value of love is incalculable.
 
So, back to the impetus for this lesson in love - romance. There is no instruction manual. We all fly by the seat of our pants, right? Even when sparks ignite and chemistry rages, you cannot lose sight of the fact that wanting to sleep with someone is pure lust; love is wanting to wake up with them day after day.
 
As a crusader always in search of a crusade I give everyone who needs it permission to slam-dunk the rules of romance. Find your own path to what makes your heart sing. And whether you forgive those who made you question your worth or not, forgive yourself for falling prey to the art of seduction. It may be an exciting way to search for love, but no excuse to settle without it. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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This past week, a very specific meme seemed to pop up everywhere: “Be careful how you treat people. What you do to others has a funny way of coming back on you.” I do not know if the universe is trying to tell me something, but it certainly jumpstarted my self-awareness mechanisms.
 
Instantly I was off on a wild tangent about the law of karma. When crisis upon crisis seems to smother my very existence, I have always heckled the irritating annoyances with a snarky, “Boy, I must have really screwed up in a prior life.” While it was always uttered as a joke, today I took a step back in thoughtful repose. Do I believe in karma?
 
Sure, most of us think we know exactly what karma is. You can bet I know what I want it to be for some people! But once I started on this pilgrimage, I realized chances are most of us have a lot to learn. And do not fret – this is not going to be a dissertation on the principles of karma. I would snore too. It is, however, a concept that could truly change your life – or at the very least, the way you live.
 
The law of karma is the notion that all life is governed by a system of cause and effect, action and reaction, where personal deeds have corresponding effects on the future. It is the sum of a person’s actions in this and previous states of existence. According to Hinduism and Buddhism, karma is considered a precise science and something that can make or break your life.
 
Now, my life is not rigidly ruled by conceptual theories of spirituality. I tend to rely on the Golden Rule of the prophets – do unto others as you would have them do unto you. And, if that is a stretch, there is always Newton’s third law of motion – for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
 
Yes, I know. Newton’s law is scientific, not spiritual. But hey, the concepts all correspond. Eventually, every questionable thing you do will most likely come back to bite you in … a painfully significant way. Greek philosopher Socrates even argued that all events of the world had a rational cause. There is order and reason to everything in life.
 
But here is the kicker. Generally, we only think of karmic payback. But what about karmic pay-it-forward? Good karma is as powerful as bad karma. When deeds are truly acts of charity, without the expectation of repayment, the cause and effect are positively charged.
 
So, was the universe trying to tell me something this week? I doubt it. I live my life honestly with nothing but love and good intention in my heart. Yet, it did somehow get me to babble on and on about it here. Hmmm? Here I go again. Did I kick this concept to the curb in a prior life? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Ah, the element of age. It is delightful, is it not? This morning I noticed that the lampshade across the room was a bit out of kilter. I got up to make the adjustment and heard my dog lapping at an empty water dish. Oh, good gosh, I am a bad pup parent. I am so sorry, Seeker! I scurried into the kitchen to add water to his dish and saw my empty pill organizer on the counter. Goodness, I need to take my meds. Where in the world is my head this morning?
 
Meds ingested I see that I left a few dirty dishes in the sink. Good heavens girl, you have become such a slob. Cleaning took maybe three minutes. Why didn’t I do that yesterday? And then I remembered the email from my water provider reminding me today is the delivery day. I must go grab the empty water bottles and get them out on the porch for pickup and exchange. And wow, it is cold outside. I never put on any socks this morning. I should do that. My feet are cold.
 
So, I decide to pretend to be a big person, get out of my pajamas, and attempt to engage in a productive day. I grab my laptop, make another cup of coffee, and sit down to start on a new blog. I look up and there it is – that dang lampshade, still out of kilter. And so, the drama starts all over again.
 
Am I alone here? I doubt it, yet it is an everyday occurrence for me anymore. I have learned over the past months that announcing my intentions does help. When I take my glasses off at any time during the day for whatever reason, I literally verbalize aloud where they are – “Glasses are on the sofa table, genius.” Why? Because sure enough, if I do not, I will end up spending hours looking for them.
 
And so, the research begins. Am I normal or am I headed down a path of no return? They say that stress, depression, a vitamin B-12 deficiency, insufficient sleep, some prescription drugs, and infections can all play a role. None of those are relative to my current lifestyle. Studies have also shown that exercise, staying mentally active, socializing regularly, and eating a healthy diet can minimize symptoms. I am no Jillian Michaels or Richard Simmons, but I am hardly a garden slug. I tax my brain daily as well, so other issues must be at play here.
 
Scientists say that after the age of 25 the hippocampus (brain region crucial in the formation of memories) loses 5% of its nerve cells with each passing decade. Aging changes the connection strengths between neurons in the brain so it sweeps out and rejuggles memories to make room for new ones. It is just a fact that as we age, the brain has to work harder to focus.
 
Of course, I also read that overindulging in alcohol can affect both long- and short-term memory as well. Too many drinks can indeed damage a person’s memory. If that were totally true, my memory would have completely failed probably in my 30’s. I count blessings every day that my God given common sense ended that era.
 
Bottom line, I believe I am just aging gracefully. Absentmindedness, muddled thoughts, and fading memories go with the territory. I wish I could “forget” to crave ice cream and French fries though. And for those concerned, I did rush to make certain I did not forget to refill the dog’s water bowl. If you will excuse me, however, I now need to go deal with that frickin’ lampshade. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Could someone please explain to me the fascination with the need for speed? I understand the passion of race car drivers. It is a skill that comes with prestige, financial reward, and perhaps an adrenalin rush that is incomparable. But there is a time and place for it.
 
Last night – no, let me correct that – very early this morning I was jackknifed from a perfectly warm nuzzle into dreamy sheets by an exterior force. It was as though the Kansas tornado from the Wizard of Oz dropped me into the racing scene from Grease.
 
Now, sometimes it is the tug of gravity on a resting muscle that awakens you so ruthlessly. It happens. You pole vault out of bed so quickly that you have no idea who or where you are, much less what time it is. However, when it is the screech of burning rubber and the cry of engines racing down my road, I am fully aware that idiots are pushing the envelope to my sanity. Whatever would tell you it is okay to do that in a residential area at 3:00 AM?
 
So, in a bit of fury, I found myself cursing the day Henry Ford was born. And then it happened. Here we go again. Henry Ford is not the protagonist here. It was the invention of the internal combustion engine that started all of this. I can research as far back as 1680 when Dutch physicist, Christian Huygens designed an internal combustion engine that was to be fueled with gunpowder. Yes, gunpowder.
 
While he never actually built the engine, it provided inspiration for many brilliant scientists throughout the 19th century to fulfill his dream. It was not until 1885 that Gottlieb Daimler invented what is recognized as the prototype of the modern gas engine. Yet, it was Karl Benz who received the first patent for a gas-fueled car in 1886.
 
But I can take this fascination with the human brain one step further. The internal combustion engine uses explosive fuel combustion to push pistons within a cylinder. That movement turns a crankshaft that turns wheels via a chain or drive shaft. Who thinks of this stuff? How in the world did someone decide to push pistons with gunpowder to achieve forward movement of anything?
 
The same can be said of Thomas Edison (light bulb), Johannes Gutenberg (printing press), metal nails by the ancient Egyptians in 3400 BC, and the wheel in 3500 BC. This list is endless. I understand that need stimulates the human mind, but what within the human mind becomes the catalyst for invention?
 
How many times in your life have you thought, “Why didn’t I think of that?” I sit here worried about what kind of idiots drag race in the middle of the night when people everywhere, every day, are creating stuff that betters the human race and life as we know it. Whatever feeds those brilliant brains to see a need and fulfill it, I’ll have what they are having. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Winter is truly a mind-bending season, is it not? Unless you are a cold-weather freak, an exercise addict, or a voyeur of people in large, enclosed spaces, you find yourself trapped in an escape room of your own design. I realize that those who are not four-season feathered friends may not relate to this dilemma at all. But the lack of decent sunshine and the ability to enjoy life without paying an entrance fee rots some of us from the inside out. So, it is just one of those weeks.
 
I identify this phenomenon with the inability to expand my thoughts beyond a few minutes. How many of you remember “Hogan’s Heroes?” This comical television sitcom launched in 1965 and ran through 1971. Yes, I know – some of you were not even twinkles in someone’s eyes back then – but it was set in a Nazi Germany prisoner-of-war camp during World War II. For those who do not know of it, or have long since forgotten, a search will no doubt bring up episodes for viewing. But I digress.
 
My mindset today is that of Colonel Klink’s bumbling, blundering, highly unmilitary, but loveable 300-pound Sergeant of the Guard, Master Sergeant, Hans Schultz. Like me, those who do remember, only think of one line from this character’s repertoire, “I know nothing.” It makes me giggle to think that most of you will even read that with his unmistakable German accent.
 
Winter does this to me. I have a gazillion thoughts in my own personal prison, but unless I am quick enough to grab my phone, open the notes app, and hit the record button, they are lost into oblivion. My attention span resembles that of most three-year-olds. It is downright shameful.
 
So, I am sure you will find the humor in a comment that a friend posed to me this past week, “When is your TicTok channel going to be live?” I belly-laughed out loud. I absolutely refuse to allow myself to be drawn into a platform that has a 30-second time limit. And it is appalling to me that we, as a society, are being downsized to humor that must grab our attention in less than a minute to have value. And yet, here I sit, seemingly unable to maintain an intelligent thought past a few minutes. Is that ironic, or not?
 
I know that days of unlimited sunshine are just around the corner, so I push myself to focus. Some days it is an uncomfortable stretch. Yes, times are changing, and technology is the continuing wave of the future. I just hope, somehow, that future evolves into more than a 30-second thought. Good heavens, could Ishmael have ever relinquished Ahab’s obsessive quest with Moby Dick in a minute or less? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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