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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So, Saturday was just a bitch. Do you ever have days that are bad just…because? Uh, hands down. That was a rhetorical question – I don’t need an answer. We all have those days. And if you are one of those Little Mary Sunshines arguing that every day is beautiful, I’ll meet you in the alley after dark. Every day is only beautiful in hindsight.
 
Now, I could not put my finger on it. I had nothing to blame. It did not matter what I saw, heard, read, watched, thought, or drank, I was just agitated. My intellectual persona, you see, loves to stir the pot and push my buttons. And my overactive brain cannot just sit quietly like a well-disciplined little angel. Oh no. It has to jump into the fire pit and kick the coals.
 
I have learned over the years that sometimes I just have to pop the cork and let the steam escape. My pent-up steam is stored in tears so there is nothing like a torrential cry to clear the cobwebs.
 
To my faithful male followers, keep reading. I am certain you believe this is a female thing and maybe you have a point. But the mere fact that I always feel like “King of the World” after a good cry sent me spiraling down yet another rabbit hole to find out why.
 
In 1692, Danish scientist Niels Stensen discovered that tears originate in the lacrimal gland, just above your eye. They are not all alike and are not just drops of saline. They are a complex 3-layer fluid with a structure similar to saliva. They contain enzymes, lipids, metabolites, and electrolytes.
 
Incredibly, we all make 15 to 30 gallons of tears each year. Yes, I said gallons. If you are anything like me, you are envisioning 30 gallons of water stacked to the ceiling. Whoa. That is a river of tears.
 
Basal tears lubricate, nourish, and protect your cornea by removing dirt and debris. This happens every time you blink.  Reflex tears are released in larger amounts to wash away harmful irritants (smoke, foreign bodies, onion fumes, etc.) and actually contain bacterial-fighting antibodies. And to think that Charles Darwin once deemed them purposeless.
 
And then there are Emotional tears. These do not need explanation, right? You might be surprised. There is actually a link between multiple brain systems that send signals to open the floodgates. And it is believed they release stress hormones too and help the body find physiological equilibrium.
 
Jane Craig (Holly Hunter in the 1987 film “Broadcast News”) unplugged her phone daily, sat in reflective meditation for a moment, and then burst into chesty, heaving sobs to start her day. I think she knew the secret.
 
And so, I cry. While I do provoke my tear ducts passionately at times, I know it serves a radical purpose. The relief for me is diabolical. Life bites but you learn to live it with grace, dignity, and a measure of good humor. Otherwise, you crash and burn. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Do you ever think about what makes you truly happy? I have written here so many times before that to me, happiness is relative. What makes me happy might not even affect you. And what makes you jump for joy may be a conundrum for me.
 
I remember what it felt like to get an “A” on that test I didn’t think I was ready for. Or, waiting and waiting and waiting for what seemed like months for a much-needed tax refund only to find that it just hit the bank. Or, seeing an incoming call from a phone number you had prayed for many times.
 
And I know that every one of you has had experiences that affected you in the same way. It is an adrenaline rush that no one can really explain. But while happiness may often be elusive, it is still a choice.
 
This past week, my niece’s husband returned from a 9-month military tour overseas in support of Ukraine. She broadcast live after the welcome home ceremony as their precious daughters first saw their daddy and ran to him screaming. I could not hold back my tears as I watched him hug them for the first time in months. For the love of me, I cannot comprehend how my niece was holding her phone so steadily.
 
Happiness is just so personal sometimes, isn't it? And there are an infinite number of variables that make it so. For me, it is virtually impossible to pass judgment on anyone because of a feeling they might have. The old adage about walking a mile in someone’s shoes is right on point. Right or wrong, I am infuriated when someone says to me “it could be worse,” or “don’t be silly.”
 
When true happiness seems distant, I always choose to rejoice in whatever feelings I do have. This past weekend, feeling alone and tired, I decided to do some routine maintenance to my Sassy Sentiments Facebook page, and BOOM. There it was.
 
7,000 followers! Did I read that right? I was overwhelmed in late January (1/24) when I surpassed 6,000. But WOW. 1,000 new followers in TWO MONTHS. Have I told you guys lately that I love you? Shall I break out in song?
 
Emptying my brain every week is therapeutic. It makes me happy. I wish everyone could find that one thing that gives them peace, value, and self-worth. Some days it is simply a Sea Salt Caramel Chocolate Chunk cookie that makes everything okay. On other days I need my keyboard!
 
I keep thinking, “If I write it, they will come read it.” Yeah, I know. That is a lame reference. It still makes me feel like a million bucks. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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As a teenager, I was fearless. OK, so maybe I wasn't as fearless as my best friend, but because of her, we had many fearless moments that teetered on the edge of stupidity.
 
One night we were cruising the local college campus when we (i.e. SHE) engaged in a flirtatious screaming match with a car full of hormonally-charged guys. I cannot remember the gist of the engagement, only that they squealed a U-turn in the middle of the road and started to chase us.
 
She thought this was a blast while I was in the passenger seat trying not to uncontrollably empty my bladder.
 
They taunted us across town. They were not going to accept failure. She hightailed it off into the suburbs heading toward my house. They followed. To this day, I believe the only thing that saved us that night was my brother's best friend, a 6’ 11” monster basketball player, standing in my driveway. One look and they sped past -  she still laughing, me shaking in my shoes.
 
I doubt there is any relevance, but today I don't even make eye contact in the grocery store. Can you imagine? In today's world, that car would have been hauling gun-toting maniacs. As a teenager, the thought never entered her mind that we could be in danger. It was a harmless act of flirtation.
 
But today is different and I find it sad that kids have to gauge their interaction with others on a whole different level.
 
Even as an adult, I had a similar experience. I was driving home from work on the 55 freeway in Southern California, bumper to bumper, all traveling about 55 mph. I was in the center of three lanes.
 
The truck in the left lane behind the truck immediately to my left started honking and flashing its lights. Uh, sorry pal, but there is nowhere to go here was my thought, when the front truck driver picked up a flashlight, aimed it backward, and started flashing it on and off.
 
Oh. My. Goodness. This enraged the back driver. He sped up and bumped the front truck. I was instantly petrified. I could not just slam on the brakes to let these guys go at it for fear of being rear-ended, but I did start to diminish my speed.
 
Within a minute or so, there was room for the back truck to safely move over in front of me. I thought surely this would alleviate the issue. I was wrong. Once he changed lanes in front of me, he tried to sideswipe the other truck into the center divider. This nut job was going to take all of us out. I immediately found a way to merge into the right lane and exit the freeway.
 
Now, this was long before cell phones. We were alone on a deadly racetrack with daredevil drivers. I found an alternate route home the next day.
 
And I wonder why we all tend to proceed with such caution anymore. Life has changed. Making any kind of contact with anyone anymore is genuinely a risk. How scary is that?
 
So, if you want to engage in flirtatious communion with me now, I will need a background check, five notarized personal references, proof of insurance, and an executed contract that the receipt of falsified information will result in the termination of friendship if not your manhood. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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How many of you rationalize how vibrant your life is? How meaningful is it really? This is a conversation that seems to have taken a front row in the production I call "My Life."

Sunday morning was a riot. I crawled out of bed and headed sleepily to the kitchen for liquid caffeine. From the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white. What was that? I lifted the blind to see snow. I did not even know snow was in the forecast.

TV off, music off, hot coffee in hand, it became just me and my brain having a quiet romp through youthful memories. Of course it snowed. It is the onset of March Madness. Snow is a prerequisite. It made me reminisce and smile about days gone by. It never failed during Indiana High School basketball playoffs that we had a major snowfall. It was a given.

But then my brain took a detour. No surprise there. Those memories were from many, many years ago. And, as hard as I tried, I could not seem to connect the snow with anything else. Based on our recent weather, it was just a freak early Spring surprise.

And then it hit me. My life has a hole in it.

I have spent the last 20+ years virtually alone. Every action, thought, and plan has been based on work, financial needs, and emotional survival. Weather played no role whatsoever. Well, except for the black ice I hit on the way home from work one scary February night that introduced me broadside to the interstate guard rail.

Suddenly a blanket of regret smothered me. Surviving is not living - not really. Why did I choose that path? Did I choose it? Do we have those kinds of choices?

And WHAM. Instant wake-up call. Of course, we have choices. I obviously just made poor ones. I walked on the safe side of existence instead of the wild side. OK, so it did not have to be wild, it just should have been more deliberate.

But that regret was short-lived. The sun came out and I was flooded with loving images of friends, and family, and my sweet little Seeker. Our life successes are not always action-filled blockbusters. That "hole in my life" is just a place to find respite. It is surrounded by a high-speed racetrack. All I have to do is step on the accelerator to get back in the groove.

That groove, however, will not start in the snow! So today it will be fulfilling enough to find warmth in the comfort of home. Perhaps the next time I am startled by snow I will think of today. And that memory will remind me how life enlightens us sometimes with simple surprises. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Have you ever awakened in a pretty good mood only to look in the mirror and see Albert Einstein on a bad hair day? Some days, my life is just a quiet riot.

Now, I have been told I clean up nicely, but that first vision is always frightfully disturbing. You would think I would avoid that blindingly honest moment of the day at all costs. But nope. I never do. I have, though, graciously learned to smile through the horror.

And so, my daily circus starts in the center ring. Sometimes I am the Ringmaster - sometimes the Lead Clown. I waddle my way through the darkness for that first cup of confidence. There is no greater sense of triumph first thing in the morning than to grant caffeine permission to throttle my brain and hoist my eyelids for the day.

I am an early riser too. I know with certainty I accomplish more before noon than I ever will later in the day. The early hours are my redemption. It is in the quiet of the morning that my thoughts are most unobstructed.

When there is no annoying cerebral chatter, I visualize possibilities. Building your day on a spiritual foundation, whatever that means to you, paves a road to inner peace and acceptance.

But I am forever cracked up by what I envision my day will present as opposed to what I expect will happen. Oh, I do believe in the power of positive thinking. I just think that sometimes when it comes to positivity life savagely screams "MYTH" just to rattle our nerves.

And that leads to a conversation about the Law of Attraction. I have always believed that the energy of your thoughts manifests your experiences. Good begets good; bad delivers disaster. But, of course, without actions on good thoughts, the energy dries up and blows away. Maintaining a positive influence is almost too much like work anymore and I don’t know if that makes me crazy or lazy.

But the author of an audiobook I listened to this week really tweaked my curiosity. He wrote that mantras are tools of thought to penetrate the depths of the unconscious mind and adjust the vibration aspects of your being. The more I heard the more deeply invested I became in defining one that might allow me to harness my strengths and focus my attention.

Then, he said that a mantra's success was dependent on reciting it 200 times a day for a minimum of four weeks. Are you kidding me? That calculates to over eight times an hour (if you talk in your sleep) and 5,600 recites to invoke change. Perhaps my new mantra will be "screw that sh*t."  Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Some days are just not doable, right? Simply said, it doesn't matter what your frame of mind is, your heart, body, and soul are just not in sync. One is sleeping, one is shopping and the other one is a playful child romping around in the backyard. Finding focus is next to impossible.

I am currently in a personal rework. I have returned to full-time employment and am truly struggling with the adjustment of how to juggle work and play. Changes in adult life are not as fluid as they once were. Old people just get tired more easily.

As a kid, the hours of our day were filled with unlimited imagination and curiosity. As an adult, we tend to suppress that inner child in favor of predictable safety. Responsibility, expectation, and physical needs make it too risky to just have fun and enjoy the moment.

But then something slaps you upside of your head. Life is just too short to sweat the small stuff. It is essential to take a minute and acknowledge the abundance of blessings ever present in our lives.

Yes, I know, that sounds like a Deepak Chopra meditation order. Don't fall into that pit.  Just take a deep breath and accept it for what it is - common sense. I have to tell myself that daily.

Recently, I came across a story about German-Peruvian Mammalogist, Juliane Koepcke, who specializes in bats.  She became famous at the age of 17 as the sole survivor of the 1971 LANSA flight 508 plane crash - just one day after she graduated high school.

Mid-flight, the plane was struck by lightning and began to disintegrate before plummeting to the ground. Juliane was sucked out of the plane and fell two miles into the Amazon Rainforest, still strapped to her seat. Miraculously, she survived. Sadly, her mother died in that crash.

She spent 11 days, alone, searching for help, with a broken collar bone, cuts and bruises, and a concussion. On the 9th day, she came upon a local fisherman encampment and found supplies that allowed her to give herself rudimentary first aid. When the fisherman returned, she was transported to a more inhabited area and airlifted to a hospital.

Wow. Just wow, right? I am hard-pressed to believe I would have had that stamina and perseverance at 17. And ever since I read that story, I have been hard-pressed to remotely think I have a not-so-great life. I am incredibly blessed, more so than many.

So, I suggest next time you feel overwhelmed, enter meditation mode and imagine surviving 11 days, alone and injured, in the Amazon Rainforest pouring gasoline on your wounds to kill the maggots that had taken root. You will have an epiphany: your life is undeniably good. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Are you a creature of habit, a prisoner of routine? The nature of the “American Way” often leaves us with little opportunity to divert from daily convention with reckless abandon. You know it’s true. Even I cannot function without that first cup of coffee. And my free time is limited by work expectations.
 
A five-day workweek becomes a Groundhog Day horror for many of us. The alarm goes off, and we stumble out of bed navigating the morning in a habitual grind. It reeks of leading the cattle to slaughter.
 
But it keeps us on point, doesn’t it? Without that cadence of routine, we tend to lose our way and wander endlessly without focus. We lose precious minutes, sometimes hours, without so much as an understanding of how, or why.
 
Now some will call it discipline. And many will admit without the safety net of a routine, they get lost in a swirling sea of anxiety. Decision-making is just easier when it is predetermined. I understand that, but the result is horrifying to me. Without spontaneity, we wander around in an existential rut. And Lord, I hate being in a rut.
 
I am certain not all of you had a very predictable childhood like mine. In my house, if we were having spaghetti for dinner, it must be Tuesday. And when we had pot roast on Thursday, we had leftover beef and noodles on Friday. The Gregorian monks could have set their calendars on our food consumption.
 
As I grew older my unmanageable work schedules eliminated the menu ordinances ingrained in my youthful food comforts. It did not hold the importance for me as it did for my mother. Yet I can also remember the irritation that ensued when a significant other lamented, “What’s for dinner?” five minutes after I walked in the door from a long day while he channel-surfed comfortably on the sofa.
 
Oh, how posting a weekly menu on the refrigerator may have bridled that bitter annoyance. Was that my mother’s secret weapon?
 
But routine is not always about food either. I watch people manage their lives like zombies on a blood search. Again, they call it discipline; I call it mindless repetition. I realize that sometimes action is required by rote – my favorite blueberry muffins are only produced on Wednesdays, so I must go to the bakery on Wednesdays to get one.
 
My bestie and I usually cougar crawl on Tuesday nights because her basement is filled with old wannabe rockstars every Tuesday night. But that, my friends, is not a mindless habit. That is her salvation.
 
So next time you execute a plan based on previous outcomes, pump it up a notch. Be ruthless. Change it up and proceed without thought. Who knows – you might just end up having the best damn bowl of gumbo you’ve ever had. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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It is the middle of the night and I have tossed and turned for over an hour. My back is aching, my feet are threatening major-league cramps, and my brain will not stop lusting over the new ice cream machine I read about last week. I grab my phone to record funny little snippets about old age and blind ambition when it hits me. Why in the bloody hell do I become my most creative at 3:00 a.m.?
                                                                                                                
And there it is. A Google search about sleep and creativity returns multiple theories. Imagine that. One confirms that research suggests we are most clear and creative when we have recently awakened from REM sleep. Tell that to my aching back and crampy feet that have robbed me of anything close to REM sleep tonight.
 
Another theory teaches when tired at night, your frontal lobe is missing vital energy signals that spark distraction, leaving you slightly more creatively focused than usual. It goes on to say that your brain’s creative response when tired is exactly the same as when you drink alcohol. Well, well. Now we're talking. I want desperately to sleep but my frontal lobe has decided to serve up martinis instead. I'll have mine shaken, not stirred, thank you.
 
I also question what silence has to do with creativity. Except for the tinnitus echoing ominous Gregorian chants deep in my ears, it’s a quiet night. It is common knowledge that silence relieves stress and tension, and mindful meditation allows us access to our innate imagination and creativity.

Scientific research also found that when exposing mice to two hours of silence per day new cells developed in the hippocampus - the brain region associated with memory, emotion, and learning. Perhaps I need to find my two hours of silence during the day and add a cheese tray to complement the martinis. Problem solved!
 
All this nonsense, however, does make me pause in nostalgic reflection. Throughout my secondary and collegiate studies, and long into my 30s and 40s, I rarely slept for more than four or five hours every night. I simply did not need more to feel revitalized every day.

​And, I can honestly say I do not recall bouts of sleeplessness. I ran like a freight train until I dropped and slept without interruption. Even though an aging body probably does need more rest, I push the envelope too often and give in to an early bedtime. All theories aside, I am simply at my best after about five hours of sleep. Will someone please tell that to my body?
 
So, I have learned a couple of immediate lessons from this exercise. First of all, if you search the internet long enough you can find logic to support any result you want. I wonder if I could be awarded a federal multimillion-dollar grant to prove it? Secondly, there is no logic to why I don't just put my phone down and go to sleep! None. Zero. Zilch.
 
Okay, so I’ve counted sheep, slammed a couple of hot toddies, and wrapped myself in a toasty electric blanket, yet my body is still dead set on running a marathon. If this were an Olympic sport, I’d be a national hero. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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

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

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

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

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

Who knows, with any luck, one of those irritating little stares may just be the catalyst I need to beam back an even more bedeviling holiday spotlight on those heartless Scrooges of the world. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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How does time fly by so quickly? Seemingly overnight we went from brilliant autumn color to 50 shades of gray – and for those gutter-dusting minds, no, not “those” shades of gray. Cold and windy days have stripped our senses of the season’s colors. All of a sudden – poof – the magic of autumn is gone.
 
But much like the wind and the rain on a cool autumn day life’s landscape can also change in the blink of an eye. As we realign our visions to crisp wintery views, sometimes we must also reawaken our hearts and minds to the blessings that grace our lives every day. There may be people and places and things that I miss ever so much, but even through loss, there is a great rush of hope that better days are ahead.
 
Sometimes, it isn’t all that easy though, is it? The distance between days of wine and roses, or sunshine and lollipops is about as predictable as winning the lottery. But age and wisdom are the warm cozy blankets that allow the sun to shine during thunderstorms. It is all about perspective, my friends, and a personal journey that only we alone can cultivate.
 
Every night before I sleep, I give thanks to my maker for indulging me in the rollercoaster antics of my day. I ask for peace and love to adorn my family, my friends, and all of humanity – to keep them safe from fear, and pain, and hatred. I am quick to acknowledge that if it is my time to leave, I am ready to succumb to the will of the world, and I praise the countless gifts I have been given along the way.
 
Sounds peaceful and serene, doesn’t it? It does make me smile because in the morning when I awake, while I give thanks for another day I crazily lament, “You seriously want me to do this all again? Fine. Whatever.” Then the smile explodes into a belly laugh.
 
So, on this Thanksgiving Day, take a moment – a single, solitary moment – to treasure exactly how lucky you are. Life is the purest of miracles. We, alone, make it good or bad, happy or sad. Oh, and that second, or third, piece of pie you are considering? Just eat it and enjoy. Who’s going to know? I’ll never tell. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 
Happy Thanksgiving!
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Is ginormous actually a word? I have been having this recurring nightmare where a massive law enforcement-type person – hence the word ginormous – barges in, handcuffs me, and threatens my entire existence. And, no, do not go there. This is not an erotic dream.
 
I struggle with great resolve but cannot find the strength to overtake him. Over and over again, I am forcefully carted away and thrown into a solitary prison cell that houses nothing but a keyboard.
 
Now, I know what you're thinking. This tormented old soul desperately needs a psychoanalyst. But actually, you would be wrong because I know who the intruder is . . . it is a Supervillain known as The Procrastinator.
 
Okay, fine. Go ahead and laugh. But understand that the trauma is real. The more I age, the more I procrastinate. Why? What is the psychology behind the belief that I can just do it later without repercussion?
 
The most common explanations range from incorrectly estimating the time to get a project done to waiting for the right time, inspiration, or motivation to begin.
 
Some say that procrastination may be the result of an underlying condition: generalized anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, adult ADHD, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. If I were to buy into these blanket diagnoses, it would suggest I am a textbook psycho. For the record, however, I have never been "textbook" at anything. I am a proud and complicated hot mess.
 
My deep dive also showed that it is not unique to humans. A study of pigeons showed that they tend to choose a complex but delayed task rather than an easy but hurry-up one. Well, that is a relief. I emulate the actions of a pigeon. I wonder if I should add that to my resume.
 
Actually, I believe my situation resolves around two of my own personal truths: Avoidance and Denial. Not only do I avoid tasks that I deem unpleasant, but I also pretend that I have other tasks that are far more important than the essential ones. And sadly, neither of them usually gets done.
 
With that admission, it is a mockery that I have always deemed my biggest strengths as Focus and Drive. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can distract me from professional achievement. When I am appropriately compensated and given a time-stamped deadline, I will not fail. I would never allow myself to fail. So why doesn’t that level of motivation apply to personal goals in my private life?
 
No clue. I have absolutely no clue. My application of focus and drive is mysteriously discriminatory. If it is not supported by monetary gain The Procrastinator possesses my spirit and turns me into an ice cream-eating, wine-guzzling, TV-watching zombie. And no amount of self-imposed discipline breaks his spell.
 
But there is always a silver lining to every black cloud, right? My ability to put aside many important tasks also allows me to experience exceptional wine, hug my old yet still precious pup, and age ever so gracefully. Although, in all honesty, I am still awaiting the graceful part. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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