It's only 3 weeks!!!

Over the summer, I noticed a flaky patch on my nose. For a while, there had been a red patch that came and went, so I didn't think much of it—until I scratched it, it bled, and then refused to heal. A month later, I was at the dermatologist's office.

She took one look, did a biopsy, and delivered the verdict: Basal Cell Carcinoma. In my naivety, I thought she could just zap it right there. Instead, she sent me to another guy—a specialist in MOHS surgery. His job is to cut out the cancer and check it on-site, layer by layer, until he can verify it's all gone.

In my case, "all gone" included some of my cartilage. The doctor initially mentioned grafting a piece from my ear, but after examining the new crater on my nose, he charted a different course. "It's about a three-week process," he assured me, "and you'll be much happier with the results."

The new plan? A forehead flap. It was an extremely difficult procedure, and I wanted no part of it. But more than that, I just wanted it over with. "It's only three weeks of my life," became my mantra.

The first three days were rough. The first night home, I managed to drop a pillow directly on my face. The next day, I was introduced to a headache of epic, previously unknown proportions. By day two, I fully understood why they emphasized drinking lots of water with the hydrocodone. Day three was better, but the fear lingered.

My friends certainly rallied this week. I've been blessed with food, blankets, and an almost concerning amount of Snoopy-themed merchandise, including a coffee cup and socks. Between the beautiful flower arrangements, the home-cooked meals, and the constant calls, I've been well looked after. Next week, it's back to the doctor for a check-up and a good cleaning. Only two weeks left on this particular journey—and frankly, it can't end soon enough.

But the real MVP is Dennis. He's schlepped to every pharmacy in town, endured some truly awkward requests, and kept my wound clean. Thanks to him, my life is about as good as it can be when you have a hole in your nose.

I can't believe I was actually looking forward to some time off work. It turns out, a break is only enjoyable when you aren't recovering from major surgery. I missed my granddaughter's concert. My other grandkid, Danny, broke his arm, and I couldn't help take care of the girls or even visit him in the hospital. This certainly wasn't the relaxing staycation I had envisioned.

I really do have 100's of things I could do... but can I just finish ONE THING first?!?!

I need blinders. Seriously, just strap them on like a racehorse and point me in the right direction. Every time I try to focus, I get derailed. I’ll start on one task, spot another thing that needs to be done, and, before I know it, I’m doing that instead. And then another. And another. It’s like a never-ending to-do list carousel.

To make matters worse, I’ll procrastinate on the one thing I should be doing by busying myself with all the little things that could honestly wait. Productive procrastination at its finest. Days, sometimes weeks, go by like this. Honestly, I could teach a masterclass in distraction at this point.

If I’m being honest, if I could slap some blinders on like a racehorse, maybe I’d stop trotting in circles and finally get to the finish line. You think that’d work? Or is this just wishful thinking from a seasoned procrastinator?

Why are all these Zombies wanna-be's in my Lane?

There’s major roadwork happening in my city right now, and honestly, I’ve never witnessed such a parade of questionable driving decisions. Some drivers are letting others cross traffic in ways that make my jaw drop. Look, I get it, you’re trying to be nice—but this isn’t the time to play the Good Samaritan. They can’t see what’s happening in every lane, and by letting them out, you’re practically inviting a head-on collision.

Here’s the kicker: these are the same folks who absolutely wouldn’t make it in a zombie apocalypse. Guaranteed. You’re out there trying to save someone in traffic, and in a survival scenario, that kind of decision-making gets you bitten. Survival rule #1? Think it through before acting.

Raising kids

 I’m not naming names, but I raised my kids to work hard, think things through, and treat others with kindness and respect. I’ve seen them stand up for themselves and others, befriend those who needed a friend, and share a meal with someone sitting alone—whether it was in a school cafeteria or with an elderly man they just met at their grandfather’s funeral.

If you’re not seeing that side of them, there’s a reason. I also taught them not to tolerate disrespect or put up with nonsense. Just something to keep in mind.

Same Verse... Not the same as the First!

Oh, the 50s. What a ride that was—for all the wrong reasons. My 30s and 40s? Brilliant, especially the 40s. But the 50s? A chaotic cocktail I could’ve done without. Menopause barging in uninvited, the kids flying the nest, and the rather rude realization that my "dazzling beauty queen” days were more of a distant memory. It felt like an identity crisis on steroids.

Then cue my husband retiring. Lovely for him, naturally. He puts his feet up while I’m still running the show, except now the house is somehow his domain.

Now, we’re in the 60s, and things have shifted yet again. The grandkids are growing up, and I have to watch my friends morph into Pinterest-perfect grandmas. Am I jealous? No, not really. Am I mildly miffed that they seem cooler? Maybe a little. It’s another dent to the ol’ ego. What’s a woman supposed to do when the world assumes her mission ends post-parenting? Start knitting scarves?

And then there’s the big question no one warns you about. Turn the focus on myself? Great idea, right? But wait, does that make me selfish? I’ll be honest—parts of this decade do feel like a surprise sequel to my teenage years. Only this time, I have fewer pimples and way more disposable income. Sleeping in, planning vacations without diaper bags, eating dessert just because. It’s liberating, sure. But it’s also bittersweet to feel like you’re meeting a “new you” when you actually liked the original model just fine.

Here’s to the 60s, though. They say reinvention is key. Maybe I’ll even get a cool grandma badge at some point. Or not—we’ll see.