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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Some days are just empty noise. I have successfully moved from quarantine to snowstorm prison – almost a month of total seclusion. Now, I really have not felt great, so the lack of distraction was very welcomed. Well, until today. My usual daily search for witty repartee and comedic relief has hit a new all-time low. The mere thought of turning on the television and listening to some young bright-eyed Stepford Wife spill nonsensical news with syrupy sweet vocal inflection is more than I can stomach. Today, it is abundantly clear why my grandfather called it “The Boob Tube.”
 
But there is sometimes healing in the quiet. I hear a train whistle wail in the distance, and I wonder if those that live close to the tracks love that sound of the wild and the free as much as I do. Everything in life is so relative to time and place, isn’t it? I close my eyes and get lost in visions of hobos jumping freight cars from city to city in search of work. Or maybe, they were just in search of change, or escape.
 
As a kid, my parents would put my older brother and me on an Indianapolis passenger train bound for St. Louis to spend time with our grandparents. With coin in our pockets and excitement in our hearts, it was always a magical journey. My research reminds me that the trip was 230 miles and today, on the fastest train, would span over eight hours. My kid memory only recalls that it was never long enough.
 
How sad is it that today, it would be unseemly to put children aged 9 and 12+ alone on a train for a day-long trip to a distant city? It was the adventure of a lifetime for us. And the funniest part? Back then, we did not have electronics to entertain us on the ride. We had books, and snacks, and maps that taught us not only where we were on the trip, but what history those destinations held. I cannot seem to remember if my brother was irritated to have me chained to his hip for the day or just happy to be the “adult in charge.”
 
Kids today will most likely never know that sense of freedom. I am so lucky that never in my youth did I live in any kind of fear that bad people would take me or hurt me. It was an age of innocence that is forever lost. And all of it was conjured by the shrill wail of a distant train whistle.
 
But here I am – back in reality. I am still blanketed warmly in the sounds of silence and comforted by memories of times long past. The fascinating news of the day is that my blog count has surpassed 3,095 followers. I have achieved a count that not even I could have imagined. All the nonsensical dread of the day vanished in a single moment. Life is good if we remember the reason for the journey. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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It is that time again when lovers and friends buy into the hype that is Valentine’s Day. At least that is what I hear from some friends and acquaintances – “We refuse to celebrate the mass marketing gimmick.” But when you look back at history, this celebration of love dates back hundreds of years. Nowhere is it written that it must be proclaimed with exorbitant food and expensive gifts.
 
My fascination this year lands totally on a chubby little cherub called Cupid. Roman mythology touted him as the son of Venus, the Goddess of Love. The Greeks called him Eros, known to be the son of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess associated with love, lust, beauty, pleasure, passion, and procreation. In any of the mythologies, it was constant that he was the son of a Love Goddess.
 
For me, a funny little tidbit I learned this year has eluded me for years. Famously carrying a bow and arrow, this little diapered imp carries not one bow and arrow set, but two. Seriously, who knew this? Have I been buried in a deep red-heart fog for all these years? Set number one boasts a golden tip. Being tagged by these arrows makes you fall hopelessly in love. Yes, we all knew this, right?
 
The second set, made of lead or silver has a blunted tip. These arrows make their intended target fall out of love. Ah, doesn’t that make a lot of sense now? At long last, I understand why one day you walk on water and the next day you are burnt toast. We need to put out a contract on this self-serving little urchin or, at the very least, make him wear big-boy pants.
 
Okay, so I also read that Cupid is the patron saint of beekeepers, fainting, travelers, and people with epilepsy, so he does have some redeeming qualities. Like everything in life, the need to keep everything in perspective is paramount to living with some sense of sanity.
 
So, celebrate or not, honoring those who bring love into your life is a far cry from surrendering to a mass marketing gimmick. More than 36 million heart-shaped boxes of chocolates will be hand-delivered this year along with a billion Valentine’s Day cards. They say that nine million people will celebrate their pets too. Hey, that cannot be a bad thing.
 
Hence, to you and yours, do not let the sting of an arrow dictate who you love. Celebrate anyone who makes your world a brighter place. And today, I celebrate all of you. Hearts and flowers for everyone!​

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​Do you ever wonder why it is so hard for people to be honest? It seems like it would be the easiest thing in the world to do – just be truthful and humble and the world would be a better place, right? I realize that not everyone has the ability – namely the tact – to dish out unfiltered truth. And even fewer have the fortitude or desire to accept it. The human element plays havoc with that concept.
 
I personally am just not a person that can swallow sugarcoated nonsense on an ongoing basis. And it is not just twisted little white lies that apply. Truth in advertising is probably the biggest culprit. I am amazed and maybe even a bit saddened how people are manipulated by the power of the almighty word. If a celebrity speaks it in a public forum it has to be the truth, right? Oh, Lord please help us.
 
Of course, my midwestern manners were rooted in “if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I will clearly say nothing at all if I am fearful that my vision of the truth with ruffle sensitive feathers. But learning to choose your words wisely, should carry as much clout as saying nothing at all.
 
I remember a family visit during my first year in California. Playing tourist, we walked the length of San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf with nothing but awe in our eyes. For some reason, my mother decided she wanted a meal with mashed potatoes. Seriously? Uh, mashed potatoes are not a usual side dish for fish, mom. But we perused the menus of every restaurant on the wharf until we found some. Seated at a lovely table by the water, my mom decided to start with the French Onion Soup.
 
Our waiter, who was actually quite delightful, showed excitement with her order. “Oh yes,” he clamored. “Don’t you just love the rich, delicately browned onions in a perfectly seasoned broth, topped with a beautifully crusted crouton and simply smothered in the kind of bubbly cheese that melts from here to eternity?” Mom smiled and raised her eyebrows. “Well, ours isn’t like that,” the waiter continued, “so you really should order something else.” I had never had such an enjoyable lunch. And mom forgot all about those ridiculous mashed potatoes.
 
I have remembered that story for more than half of my life. The truth was just so refreshing. I realize I am a weird duck, but I would surrender a dozen soft-core compliments for the kindness of one truth on any day. Of course, truth and kindness are not always synonymous. That is just the risk I choose to take.
 
I challenge myself to walk that thin line between truth and fiction with care and respect every day. As a dealer of words, I am aware that one wrong choice might completely misrepresent the intent of my passion. And what is passion without an honest voice? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Today I want to know how people in Antarctica survive the cold. Yes, I know. It takes all kinds of people to survive in this world, and without diversity, our lives would be listless and boring. They always say that you can add layers to get warm, but I have yet to find the right kind of layers to do just that. Lately, the fangs of winter are biting hard. I could be standing directly on top of the heat register and still feel a chill up my spine. Oh, how I miss the days of my youth.
 
With a little research, of course, I found that many people deliberately book Antarctica cruises and expeditions. Have these people lost their ever-loving minds? I can safely say this is not on my bucket list. I will let National Geographic host my personal tour. The packing list alone is out of my budget. Everything must be waterproof and windproof and don’t forget you will need two or three complete changes of clothes including light, medium, and heavy thermal underwear. Sorry. I have never wanted to party with the penguins just to see a huge chunk of ice. Okay, just say it. I am narrow-minded and shallow.
 
Now, who would not love to see polar bears and their cubs frolicking in the snow. I just think it is a lot more fun to do it at the zoo.
 
But today, I feel like I am already on a long-term assignment. The overnight low is predicted to only be 15⁰ and that is not really earth-shatteringly cold. So why are these bones shivering so recklessly in my boots?
 
Full disclosure? I started a new full-time job last month. If the cold weather and the learning curve were not enough to send old bones spiraling into oblivion, within one week I also tested positive for Covid. I had dodged that rusty old bullet for two years and was hit with body aches and a headache that I can only describe as epic – the worst “flu” I have ever experienced. Now, as a prisoner in my own home, it is no more than a slow crawl back to some sense of normalcy. It took a full three days for food to finally decide to actually remain to nourish my body. The weakness that ensued was humbling.
 
If not for the kindness of family, friends, and neighbors I would most likely still be sitting here fully thrust into a private pity party. As we finally bid farewell to January, I count my blessings that we are one month closer to the end of the gloom and doom days of winter.
 
Yet for today, I am just thankful that I am not shoveling out of a significant snowfall. Mr. Weatherman missed the mark again. We may hit below zero temperatures by mid-week, so I will just take today’s tropical heat wave as a sign that Frosty is getting ready to pack his bags, hit the road, and go anywhere he can work for freezer space. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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So, I am certain everyone has had someone in their life at some point say, “Life is what you make it.” I personally have heard it hundreds of times and I am guilty of speaking it on more than a handful of occasions. But life is not always that simple, is it? We as sentient beings are more than just bones and membranes walking on a path that hands us only true or false questions. At best life is a contrived, misleading multiple-choice test with one big last essay question that is ultimately pass or fail.
 
Now, of course, that synopsis is ridiculous. Life is not a test; it is a journey. And there are no right or wrong answers on what that journey should be. There are only opinions. I am off on this wild philosophical tangent because it has been a day of contradiction for me. It feels like every decision I have made over the past few months (or maybe even years) is dangling over my head like a wrecking ball. And the funniest part? It is all Ricky Gervais’ fault. Having someone to blame is just delicious, don’t you think?
 
British Comedian, Ricky Gervais, created, directs, and stars in the Netflix Original Series “After Life.” It is a story about a common, everyday kind of funny guy who loses the love of his life to cancer. It is listed as both a drama and a comedy, with the words ‘Deadpan, Witty, Irreverent' as identifiers for its content. That alone ignited the sense of contradiction that seems to be overwhelming me.
 
First and foremost, I love this series. Yes, wit and laughable characters are ever-present. But for me, it is raw and emotional. Everything that affects us in life is attributable to relatability. His loss outweighs anything meaningful for him and so his humor becomes his only coping mechanism. If you have ever lost someone very important to you this character’s pain is either deep-seated in your soul or lodged just beneath your skin. Some will not like this dark, offbeat dramedy but to me, it is hauntingly brilliant.
 
As I thought about the sadness and silliness of Season Three, it occurred to me that almost everything in my life relates. It is either sad or silly, or laughably disgusting. And that is okay. My feelings do not have to relate to anyone else’s feelings. Why is that such a hard concept to swallow? Why do people have to sling negativity like their opinions are the only ones that matter?
 
On a local city Facebook page today, someone posted that our city was boring. More than one person had to chime in with the response, “so move.” And I wanted to scream, “Hey. They have an opinion. If you are so inclined to browbeat someone for an opinion, leave the group.” Why couldn’t they reply with reasons why they disagree that it is boring and have a civil debate? I will never understand the arrogance of those blinded by their own self-importance.
 
So, I just threw my happy-go-lucky Little Mary Sunshine of a presence right out the window, huh? I do love life and all its mysterious quirks and mystical aberrations. Maybe if I just knew, for sure, that my decisions have been for all the right reasons contradiction would not bite at the belly of this beast. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Trust. It is a simple emotion, right? Why is trust so difficult to maintain? And why once broken, is it unbelievably difficult – if not impossible – to re-establish? The psyche of the human mind is indecipherable at best. The charted freeways and back roads in our brain obviously need a retrofit. God bless our Master Designer, but some of our emotional pathways are just antiquated. Yes, I am going off the deep end again. Someone, please toss me a life jacket.
 
So, Webster defines trust as a “reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence.” It is the confident expectation of what – everything good? But things change, people change, so why don’t our emotional triggers change too? You would think that the older civilization becomes, the more emotionally savvy we would be. In some ways we are; in others, we are not.
 
It would seem that affairs of the heart are the most susceptible to the illusionary breakdown of trust because trust is the foundation on which many emotions are built. The powers that be arm us with some powerfully ugly tools to justify our emotions too. I mean, really, life presents all kinds of reasons to brandish the pistol of jealousy but gives us the trust and common sense to lower our weapons. And there it is – trust. Without it, a little skirmish elevates to World War III. Just like that.
 
I have no idea what catapulted me on this particular path today. I am one of the most trusting people on the planet. I think that is because I look inward and thrust my level of confidence onto my entire world. If I think it, then everyone must think it, right? Why grovel at the feet of disappointment when a little fairy dust and rose-colored glasses can brighten your day? And yes, the people of Mars believe that kind of nonsense too. I would not call myself hopeless, just maybe way too hopeful.
 
And amid all this inquisitive thinking, I still trust that people are good, people can change, and people can find a way to reroute the untrustworthy avenues they travel. Oh, I know there are chinks in that armor, but I would rather believe in the constant of humanity than shrivel into a chided old hag that believes nothing is honorable anymore.
 
So, there you have it. Life on my billowy cloud of pretense is better than residing in the bowels of distrust. A beautiful glass of red wine and a mystical journey down memory lane is the cure for everything. Maybe next on my list should be the chronic disillusionment of living in a fantasy world. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Well, will you look at that? January is already barreling toward the halfway mark! I have pushed the boundaries of my destiny with this blog for over a year. I never believed I could conjure random rants for this long. I am just an opinionated old woman, aren’t I?
 
I have come to genuinely enjoy the weekly conversations we share. Ok, ok, so it is only me who does the talking but it is still amazingly fun, not to mention therapeutic. It has forced me to explore the many facets of my being. I have learned I dangle between snoringly boring and frantically fanciful from breath to breath. This will not surprise anyone who literally knows me. Even I know that is true. But being able to conceptualize this phenomenon in the written word is a rush. It helps that my fingers can type as fast as my thought process spazzes. I honestly do not know if this is a paradoxical adventure or a blunder of psychoanalytical horse manure. But fun is fun, so who cares?
 
So, what does 2022 have in store for us? I personally look forward to a new year because the television shows are back in production. I watched more syrupy holiday movies last month than I care to admit for lack of better content. I do watch the status of NFL teams and will turn my attention to the playoffs as well. But I would be lying if I said the non-stop bowl games during the holidays did not irritate the living daylights out of me. All power to the financial rewards of collegiate competition but I am just not a fan. I would rather watch a National Geographic documentary on the impact of global warming on the mating rituals of garden slugs.
 
The older I get I find the prospects of another year bring more yawns than illumination. Trying to plan for car repairs, household expenses, and the probability of medical issues take precedence over vacation planning and bling shopping. Trust me, as fun and lovable as I am, a “Life with the Darling Spinsters of Indiana” reality series – starring me – would not be a raging success. Unless that is, you like to watch grass grow.
 
Yet, a new year still broadens my hope for new adventures. If I can endure the gloom and doom days of the first few months, my reward will be the onset of spring. I will be able to return to the comfort of my front porch to watch mother nature awaken and listen to birds sing songs of release from winter’s grasp. It will revive a love of life in my soul and remind me that all good things come to those who wait.
 
I will need reminded of this blessing, however, if I am forced to shovel six inches of “you have got to be kidding me” during my wait. While I am a thoughtfully accepting person of challenge and adversity, patience is not my virtue. If my snow shovel becomes a common appendage too often during this time, I will sell tickets to anyone who wants to watch me dropkick that sucker through the goalposts of life come spring. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Isn’t it always true that bad things happen at the most inopportune times? All the planning in the world cannot escape Murphy’s Law – if anything can go wrong, it will. And I am Murphy’s mistress.
 
In the week before Christmas, I realized only cold air was blowing from my vents. My thermostat showed the furnace as heating, but the air was not even the slightest bit warm. Ah, so the thermostat was probably not working, right? I replaced the batteries. Nope, that changed nothing. Ok, so I just need a new one, right? Of course, it had to fail during the busiest retail week of the year. Off the Grinch went to buy a new thermostat.
 
Now, replacing a thermostat is not brain surgery. But this new one required stripping new lead wires so it would rest flush against the wall. ‘Little Mary I Can Do This,’ namely me, accomplished the task in record time. Take that, you untimely beast of a failure. Ah, but still no warm air. Oh, you mother fork truck. Christmas just took a turn for the worst. No heat in December in Indiana. And now, a service call would be charged as an after-hours emergency and probably cost my life’s savings. Add some socks, layer the sweatshirts, and snuggle under a heating pad. Problem solved until morning.
 
Then, the furnace exorcist arrived. He managed to wiggle and tap and nudge the beast to spew warm air but delivered the much dreaded “perform its last rights” prognosis. It is over 30 years old, and my only reasonable option is a replacement. He said his temporary fix might last the winter or fail tomorrow – no guarantees. The beast was now a son of a biscuit mother fork truck.
 
And remember Murphy’s Law? In less than 12 hours, I had no heat, again. The December forecast was unusually warm, so I decided to cry in my beer over the weekend. I did ask if there was any other possible fix before having to sell my next born child for heat (uh, which is inconceivable, no pun intended). He said he could install a new heat kit, but he would not recommend it due to its age. So, do I spend $700 for a possible short-term fix or contemplate thousands for a new furnace?
 
I was out of my mind for a day. Something inside of me screamed “get a second opinion” although I knew it was a shot in the dark. I texted another technician on Sunday asking to get his opinion on Monday. He responded immediately and even brought me a heater on his way to another commitment until he could check it out the next day. They obviously broke the mold when they made this guy.
 
Thirty minutes into his service call, I had heat. The problem was simply a blower relay, a part that cost less than $50. Old as she is, my furnace is blessing me with heat. He anticipates it has at least a couple more years of life left. The “heat kit” that I almost paid $700 for would not have included the blower relay. It would not have fixed the problem. How service professionals can sleep when they intentionally do not do their job, opting to profit off the desperate, boggles my mind.
 
So, I can look at this in two different ways. My guardian angel was indeed screaming at me over the weekend, and I listened. Or I am just Murphy’s luckiest little mistress on the planet. Maybe it was a mystical combination of both. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Anyone care to explain to me how it can possibly be a new year already? By this time, the Elves are no doubt sunbathing in Bermuda, the reindeer have dropped into hibernation, and Santa has already archived this year’s Naughty or Nice List and is programming the new one. I am only one glass of champagne away from total denial. The year 2022 sounds like a diabolical new science fiction feature that warns the faint of heart to prepare for the horror of post-apocalyptic technology withdrawal (or something equally as ridiculous).
 
I read recently that 1980 and 2022 are as far apart as 1980 and 1938. Can that be right? I have to re-do the math. Good heavens. Perspective has never been more horrifying. The minutes, and the hours, and the days, and the months are a rollercoaster ride that accelerates faster and faster as they accumulate. One perpetuates the next until it is totally out of control. Time is a mind bend that takes no prisoners.
 
I really do wish someone would stop the frickin’ merry-go-round. But a new year is here and so we celebrate. The drop of a crystal ball in Times Square will indeed breathe life into many a tired old soul – as well it should. We have the choice to wallow in the fear of tomorrow or jump on the bronco and ride. I choose to tighten my saddle and hit the trail. With any luck, Kevin Costner or Sam Elliott will sponsor the journey so “2022” can be my own “Yellowstone” sequel. Hey, stranger things have happened!
 
Happy New Year everyone!
 

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Today I woke up thinking about our champions of life. We all have them around us – those people who endure and shine no matter what. I like to think I am one of those people too. Finding purpose in a purposeless environment is both hard and necessary. Navigating the good and bad, happy and sad moments of life should accentuate, not diminish, the incredible miracle we call the gift of life. It is one tough journey, isn’t it?
 
So, I need a standing ovation now, please. I made it through Christmas! December is a pain in the you-know-what for many people. Memories of Christmases past sometimes haunt us. No, I am not talking about ghostly moans or rattling chains but of lost moments to say thank you or I love you just one more time. I take refuge that somewhere across the tides of the universe our thoughts and prayers are heard and cherished. It is what keeps the sparkle in my eyes and the hope in my heart. We are all kids during the holidays. We just have to ignore the hype and escape to the destinations of our dreams.
 
And so, I wonder. Do you ever just close your eyes and pretend you are somewhere else? I sure do. It is not because I do not want to be right here, right now. Most times, it is only because I have so many irrepressible thoughts and memories rambling around in my brain. Daydreaming does not always mean you want to go away. Sometimes it just means you want to remember.
 
Of course, getting lost in thought can be counterproductive sometimes too. If we daydream about what might happen as opposed to what did happen, we probably work ourselves into a tizzy for nothing! Yes, I am guilty. I admit it. There is an Australian television series called “Offspring” that I just love. It is about an obstetrician who daydreams incessantly about everything. She is the Queen of “worst-case scenario” thinking! While it always makes me belly laugh, it also reminds me that I am definitely a member of her royal court. I tend to jump off the deep end before I am even near the ledge. What an incredible waste of time.
 
The week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is one of my favorite times of the year. The rush of the season is finally over, and the dazzle of new possibilities replaces the angst of dread. It is much like the before and after feelings of final exams as summer presents itself as your new reality. Even though the frozen tundra days of winter will now rear their ugly head, I can daydream that spring is just around the corner.
 
I always say goodbye to my holiday decorations on January 1st. As I now countdown to the New Year, it is phenomenal how the twinkling tree lights change from emotional triggers to visions of wonder and delight. Good grief, those lights should be viewed with splendorous awe during all of December. It appears my brain is the Holy Grail of mucked-up emotion and needs to be in therapy. The rest of me, of course, is in perfect mental health. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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I sit here on a quiet Christmas Eve watching the lights twinkling on my Grinch-themed tree. While it may seem frivolous to some, the magical sugarplum visions dancing in my head are just as reverent as if antique ornaments, lace-trimmed angels, and homemade popcorn garland adorned my tree. The true meaning of this blessed holiday lives in our hearts, doesn’t it? It simply has nothing to do with how many lights are strung, how much holiday décor we flaunt, or how many inflatable characters illuminate our December lawns.
 
Tonight, I am lost in memories of Christmases past. I have one memory of an older brother and his sister huddled under a frosted window searching desperately for a glimpse of the Jolly Old Elf himself. We both fell asleep under that window without so much as a passing glance from a single reindeer hoofing up on a rooftop. And as adults, I also remember that older brother denying any such activity, noting that he only pretended to watch to appease me. Then why I ask, do I remember that the sparkle in his eye was as innocent as mine?
 
When I think of Christmas, I see families gathered with voices raised in song, laughter, and prayer. I see masses of wrapping paper icing the floor like frosting on a cake. I see hope and joy tearing the eyes of parents and grandparents. And most importantly, I hold tight my dreams of peace on earth and goodwill toward men across a planet heartbreakingly littered with sadness and strife.
 
Cherish your bountiful good fortune. Hug your children. Give praise and thanks to the master of your heavenly faith. And when your Christmas wishes are fulfilled, pray for those less fortunate, who have yet to see their Christmas dreams come true.
 
Be it Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Blessed Kwanza, or Happy Holidays, may the joys of the season embrace you with everlasting peace and enduring love. Heartfelt blessings to each and all.
 

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Christmas really is a magical time of year, isn’t it? As much as I fight the urge, I still get a spring in my step when the sounds of the holidays fill every moment of my day. Since I am not a compulsive shopper, it helps that jingle bell tunes have not flooded my brain since before Thanksgiving. When I worked in retail, however, that spring in my step became a concrete shoe drag. Hour after hour of sickeningly sweet holiday blubber fed my Grinch alter ego. Perhaps I am alone in this thought, but to me, the commercialization of this blessed event is completely out of control.
 
Growing up, my family’s exposure to Christmas was very controlled. My older brother’s birthday was December 16. My parents went out of their way to make certain that the onset of Christmas did not overpower his birthday. It was tradition to put up and decorate our tree on that day, but not before his special day celebration was complete. These days I see Christmas trees and decorations on homes sometimes before Thanksgiving, but almost always by the day after. To each his own, but overindulgence simply diminishes the thrill for me.
 
Boy, do I remember the childhood adventure of the holiday though. Presents were never placed under the tree before Christmas Eve. Why? Because my older brother would find a way to secretly unwrap every gift to see what was inside and rewrap them thinking he fooled our parents.
 
What they did not know is he searched for hidden presents long before the gift-wrapping started. His curiosity was incurable, and extortion was his main gig. If I told him where to find his hidden presents, he would not tell mom and dad something I did not want them to know. And in reverse, he would tell me what presents he found for me if I promised not to tell mom and dad of his raucous indiscretions. We were definitely a wicked pair of mischievous elves.
 
And of course, there was always a holiday trip to downtown Indianapolis to see the store windows. Back then, all the major retailers had magical automated displays in their windows. Waving Santas, galloping reindeer, and animated carolers brought wide-eyed sighs from adoring children. Our journey always included hot cashews from the L.S. Ayres candy/nut counter too. It was a once-a-year treat that I will never forget.
 
As I get older it is not about the presents under the tree, but of the blessings of the holiday. A sparkle in the eye of a child will always melt my heart, but it is the prospect of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Men that will forever make me whole. I do sometimes fear that concept is lost in translation.
 
My Christmas countdown includes nonstop holiday movies on autoplay. “White Christmas,” “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and “Miracle on 34th Street” always speak to my heart. Their messages never fade. And I simply love the “Santa Clause” and “Christmas Chronicles” series as well. Although, if I am truthful, it could well be the never-ending flow of brandy-laced eggnog and champagne that boosts my holiday spirit. Or maybe, just maybe, it is a soulful rendition of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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