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.

Wearing our own Shoes

When I’m at the doctor’s office, waiting for my turn, I often find myself watching the other patients around me. There they are, people around my age, moving just a little slower as they sit down or pulling out their glasses to check their phones. It’s surreal, isn’t it? We were all young not too long ago, full of dreams and plans that felt endless.

Now, we’ve raised families, built careers, and some of us are closing that chapter with retirement. The gray hairs are coming in steadily, and the aches and pains are starting to announce themselves more loudly. Yet somehow, sitting there surrounded by strangers, I feel this unexpected connection to them all. We’ve traveled similar roads, weathered the same kind of storms, and here we are, all moving forward together to our next chapter in our lives, just in different shoes.

I Ain't No Fangirl

Ozzy Osbourne passed away this week, and while I wouldn’t say I’m the type to idolize celebrities, it really made me stop and think about him. I’ve always thought he was a fascinating figure—a rock legend who was wildly entertaining on reality TV yet somehow came across as surprisingly relatable (in his own way). I guess it’s got me reflecting on how I’ve never been one to get starstruck. Honestly, I think I’d make a pretty solid friend to a celebrity because I just don’t have that “fan” mindset.

This realization took me back to my younger days when my best friend was utterly obsessed with Leif Garrett. Her world revolved around him. Her locker, clipboard, walls—basically everything she owned was covered in pictures of him clipped from Tiger Beat (a 70s and 80s rite of passage, for sure). Meanwhile, I tried to keep up but didn’t have a single celebrity crush to my name. Weird, right? Everyone else was fangirling, and I just... wasn’t into it.

Don’t get me wrong—I grew up on classic rock. I listened to Ozzy, Mötley Crüe, and every rock ’n’ roll band of that era. But while others memorized band members’ names and pasted their posters everywhere, I was just there for the music. I never really cared about who they were as people. Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt I’d be good at keeping a famous friend grounded—I see them as people, not untouchable idols.

I’ll admit, though, I didn’t really “discover” Ozzy until his family’s reality show came along. That’s when I realized how much I liked him and Sharon. They were chaotic yet oddly charming. It made me wish I knew them better in real life because they seemed… human. It got me thinking how so many people we admire from afar must have fascinating layers we don’t see because we’re so busy seeing them as “icons” instead of normal people. That thought’s been sitting with me lately.

Break A Leg!!

Last night, our afterschool daycare kids put on a performance of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and it was an absolute blast! I didn’t realize just how much I’d missed theater until I found myself smiling ear to ear the entire time. Now I’m at the point where I might start begging someone to build a theater in Yukon. I mean, how does a town this size not have a community theater? Seriously, I’m considering calling every stage owner within a 50-mile radius to see if we can make something happen for some local productions.

Here’s the thing—I don’t want to join another towns theater. I want something for this community, something we can call our own. Either I figure this out soon, or I might need to move to a town that already has one (and we all know moving doesn’t sound fun). The mental debate over this has got me spinning, so wish me luck!

Anyway, back to the performance. It was incredible. We had 21 kids ranging from 5 to 12 years old, and guess what? These little stars saw the stage for the first time the day before. ONE practice on stage. They have been practicing every day but not with props or on a set. And they still nailed it. Around 90-100 people showed up, clapped like crazy, laughed at all the right moments, and just soaked it all in. Honestly, I couldn’t believe how well the kids handled themselves. Barely any mistakes, no breaking of the fourth wall… I was stunned.

Major shoutouts to Katie and Samantha, the directors (and absolute rockstars), who completely brought the magic to life. The costumes were on point, the music hit the right notes, and the energy in the room was electric. We rented the Czech Hall for the performance. Never been inside before…but wow, it was just perfect (well, minus the heat. Felt like we were performing inside a volcano, but I digress).

Oh, and my grandkids? Phenomenal. I mean, obviously, they’re talented, but they somehow outdid themselves. Watching them on stage just filled my heart to the brim. Honestly, this whole experience reminded me how much I need theater back in my life. It’s no longer a “want”—it’s a full-on necessity. Time to find or build a community theater. Yukon, we’re overdue for one!

But seriously, what an unforgettable night. My heart is full.

OKC NBA CHAMPS! 2025

OKC won the Championship last week, and somehow, I’m completely exhausted. Why exhausted, you ask? Well, it’s not like I left my couch or anything. Instead, I’m wiped out from watching them play. It was INTENSE. Even Dennis couldn’t handle it. He got up and started doing chores—actual, productive chores—as if scrubbing the microwave would somehow improve our odds. Meanwhile, I barricaded myself with headphones, watching Friends on loop, occasionally peeking at the score like it was a horror movie jump scare.

If we were winning? Deep breath, back to Rachel and Ross. Losing? Cue full-blown panic...while still watching Friends. (Apparently, my coping mechanism is sitcom-induced stress layering. Highly recommend.) Dennis even declared, “I’m so over basketball! I just need it to be OVER so I can relax!”

Same, Dennis. Same.

Apparently, we weren’t the only frazzled ones. A few friends confessed they felt the same stress spiral. We even considered going to a game—but when we checked ticket prices, we laughed so hard we nearly pulled a muscle. They had a parade afterward with over 500,000 people. Five. Hundred. Thousand. Do you know how many that is? That’s, like, 499,997 too many for me. I barely tolerate three other people on the same grocery aisle as me, so a crowd that size? Hard pass. Anyway, it’s been a wild ride, and honestly, I think we all need a nap. Congrats OKC and as always.... THUNDER UP!

 Don’t be average, be savage!

Take Five or…. Take a Sunday!

Nature has a knack for serving up what you need, exactly when you need it. For me, it was a much-needed pause after a whirlwind of chaos. You see, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends since February, prepping for a center accreditation. Sounds simple when summed up in one sentence, right? But when you’re managing an 11,000-square-foot building, 177 students, 30 staff members, and an actual life outside of work, it’s anything but.

Here’s a snapshot of my days during those three months of madness: wake up, work by 10, grind until 6, head home, make dinner, and then spend the night buried in accreditation paperwork until four in the morning. Sleep? Overrated. Then rinse and repeat. For three solid months. (Yes, I may have lost my mind somewhere along the way.)

I even scheduled an early accreditation date, thinking I’d be clever and rip the bandage off sooner. By Wednesday, we’d had our big visit. By Thursday, my body had apparently decided, “That’s enough out of you,” and I was so sick I needed a doctor-ordered intervention. My immune system waved the white flag, and honestly, I didn’t blame it. I was worried I wouldn’t make it through Friday’s after school campout, but somehow,with sheer determination and a good dose of an antibiotic, I was ready to tackle Fridays camp out!

The campout turned out to be exactly what I needed! It was all about good vibes, a gentle breeze, and a comfy hammock under a canopy of trees. My "job" (and I use that term loosely) was to make sure everyone else was actually doing theirs—which, coincidentally, I could manage just fine while lounging in said hammock and playing an intense round of Bop It with a friend. I thought scheduling a campout right after accreditation prep was a monumentally dumb idea. Yet somehow, it allowed me to slow down and a brief reset.

Saturday came, and Dennis and I when to our granddaughters’ dance recital, followed by a joint lunch-dinner celebration for my youngest son’s 30th birthday.

And today? It’s raining, which feels like nature breaking out her soothing "you’ve earned this" playlist. All I want to do is curl up with a good book and soak in the peace, but I did household chores that I haven't done is months, swept the pool spending some time outside and then made a yummy meal. I think without Friday, I would have been on Empty going into next week.

What "Me TIme"?

Alright, hold on to your coffee cups because what I’m about to say might ruffle some feathers. When exactly did this whole “I need me time” mantra become the anthem of adulthood? I mean, seriously, where did all these “woe-is-me, I-can’t-handle-it, life-is-hard” vibes come from? Don't you understand the assignment? Once you’ve got your own kids, or your own family, the concept of “me time” takes a backseat faster than a toddler spotting a candy aisle.

Look, life shifts gears once you step into the adult realm. Your “free time” is now spent cleaning the house you work 40 hours a week to afford. Your evenings? They’ve been overrun by little league games and recital rehearsals. And that mythical “me time” everyone keeps chasing? Guess where that is found? That was me sitting on the dryer, sneaking a few pages of a romance novel between laundry cycles. Glamorous, right?

Raising a family isn’t some choose-your-own-adventure game where you skip to the restful chapter. It’s life on loop with a soundtrack of “Mom, can I have?” and “Dad, where’s my?” The job description is clear: housework, kids, activities, repeat. “Me time” didn’t get the memo. But hey, those nighttime moments, when everyone else was asleep and I finally got to slide into bed? That was as good as it got, and honestly, it wasn’t half bad.

Now here’s the thing, and yes, this is the part where I grab the mic for a reality check. If you’re raising a family, congrats, you’ve signed up for a 24/7 gig with zero PTO. There aren’t extra hours hiding somewhere in the day; believe me, I’ve checked. It’s not about you anymore. It’s about the people you’re raising. And every time you moan about needing “me time,” your kids hear it. Loud and clear. The message you’re sending? That they’re some kind of burden. Ouch, right?

Here’s the deal, my fellow adults-in-training. It’s time to ditch the melodrama, lace up your big-kid shoes, and step onto the field you willingly signed up for. Parenting is chaos. It’s messy, exhausting, and relentless. And yet, those crumb-covered kisses, those sticky hugs, that moment when your kid lights up because you’re there? That’s the music. Time to stop fighting the beat and start dancing to it. S

Highty Ho, Linus!

 Why do I always end up with the "Linus" neighbor? You know that little kid from Peanuts? The one who seems to carry his own weather system of dirt, a perpetual whirlwind of grime that follows his every step? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s my neighbors spirit animal. We always seem to attract that neighbor RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO US that acts like their yard is auditioning for a post-apocalyptic film! It doesn’t matter where I move. It could be a quaint little town or a cozy suburban street, but sure enough, I’ll land right next to the person who views "mowing the lawn" as an optional lifestyle choice.

Their yard is either a jungle of knee-high weeds or a graveyard for broken-down furniture and mystery items that probably contain at least one raccoon family. Meanwhile, my yard looks like it could grace the cover of Better Homes & Gardens! We keep the grass trimmed, the flowerbeds pristine, and the whole space squeaky clean. Yet, here I am, living diagonally across from someone who seems to think their house is better suited as a storage unit than as, you know, a place to live.

But you know what? Maybe it’s fine. After all, they’re the ones creating the perfect rodent and snake bed-and-breakfast. I just wish it didn’t come with a front-row seat to Wild Kingdom every time I open my curtains!

My Curtains are Closing

Hosting a holiday event is like running a circus, except the elephants are replaced with screaming toddlers, and the trapeze artists are juggling deviled eggs instead of flaming torches. Dennis tells me I’m over-the-top, and honestly, he might be right—but is it a crime to want to create magic for the people I cherish?

The thing is, this “magic” doesn’t just happen. It starts weeks (yes, weeks) before, with frantic trips to the store for pastel-colored Easter goodies and Pinterest-inspired decorations. Then there's the food frenzy. Planning, buying, preparing, all while pretending I’m a contestant on “Top Chef.” Oh, and cleaning the house? Twice. Once before the event to impress the guests, and once after because toddlers and grown-ups alike treat my living room like a war zone. It’s exhausting, chaotic, and somehow still worth it.

But here’s my plea to anyone lucky enough to have someone in their life who puts on this kind of production for you and your family—be grateful. Don’t just shrug it off as "their thing." For some, this is labor they willingly take on because they know it might be the only slice of magic their little ones get. For others, it’s a role they’ve played for decades, but the curtain is starting to fall.

And, honestly? I think my curtain’s closing. I’m tired of cueing the orchestra and pulling strings from backstage. My desire to be “the magic maker” has fizzled, right alongside my patience for unraveling tangled holiday lights and scrubbing mystery stains that somehow got on the ceiling. This decade feels different. It feels like a fleeting window where my health is good, my energy is decent, and my desire to simply enjoy the show is stronger than my ambition to run it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still show up with my casserole dish and a half-hearted attempt at an artfully wrapped gift. But the days of being the wizard behind the curtain? I’m officially throwing in the wand. It’s time to watch the magic without worrying where it’s coming from. And honestly, that sounds like the best holiday gift I could give myself.

Anyone Have a Rope!?

 

I’ve been through it this past month. You see, "5-star centers must now get accredited," they said—as long as you have the paperwork in on time.... Nope. It’s more like jumping through flaming hoops that are two sizes too small. For context? Most places take 2 to 3 years to finish this monstrosity of a process. But DHS thought, “Hey, why not give them six months instead?” Six. Months. That’s less time than it takes some people to commit to a gym membership.

And no, before you ask, technically, I don’t have to be accredited to keep my doors open, but if I’m not? I get downgraded to a 4-star rating, which translates to less pay—and last time I checked, I can’t pay my staff with Monopoly money. (Although, in this economy, who knows?) So.....do I actually have a choice? No. No, I do not.

How do I feel about it? Well, let’s just say it rhymes with “clucked.” Honestly, it doesn’t even feel like my business anymore. It’s like DHS barged in, stuck a flag in the middle of the lobby, and declared, “This is ours now!” Meanwhile, I’m left footing the bill, drowning in their endless maze of red tape. Yay for chasing the entrepreneurial dream, huh?

But here’s the kicker—I did it. I survived the triathlon of government paperwork, policy jargon, and a mini existential crisis. Now it’s a waiting game for NECPA, to book their grand visit. They’ll drop by, poke around, and verify I’ve jumped through all the hoops (flaming and otherwise) or not.

Is it excessive? You bet. Am I exhausted? Absolutely. My blood pressure is playing chicken with my sanity, which is just great considering I’m this close to retirement age. The only silver lining? I’ve basically mastered the art of hoop-jumping. If this whole accreditation thing doesn’t work out, I’m pretty sure Cirque du Soleil is always hiring.

Where's My Lollipop?

Let’s talk about something no one really prepares you for—being your own health advocate. Remember when you were little, and your parents took care of everything? You’d catch a cold, and suddenly they were superheroes—booking doctor’s appointments, explaining your symptoms, picking up prescriptions, and even footing the bill. All you had to do was sit there, maybe armed with a juice box and your favorite teddy bear. It was, dare I say, the dream setup.

But here’s the kicker—no one tells you that the dream doesn’t last. One day, you’re the grown-up, and the job is yours. You’re the one scheduling appointments, rattling off symptoms, and deciphering prescription labels like they’re written in hieroglyphics. And it’s hard. Scratch that—it’s ridiculously hard.

Over the past few years, I’ve had my fair share of health issues (some straightforward, others more “medical mystery meets crime thriller”), and suddenly, I was the detective in my own case. I’ve had to figure things out when doctors were stumped, connect the dots no one else saw, and fight for solutions. Apparently, adulthood means swapping juice boxes for endless Google searches on symptoms that always lead to “it might be a rare disease.”

Being your own advocate isn’t easy, but it’s necessary—and honestly, a little empowering (once you get past the whole “why is this so complicated!?” moment). It’s a messy, humbling, and sometimes comically frustrating part of growing up.

People are STUPID

Here’s my thoughts… why do we have men sports AND women sports? I mean if there is no difference why don’t women already compete in men’s sports and visa versa?  

Marriage vs Potholes

I found a house I really like—okay, I mean REALLY like—and, of course, Dennis hates it. SIGH. It checks all my boxes inside (dream kitchen? Check! Large pantry? Check! Oh, and DOUBLE islands—I didn’t even know I was the kind of person who needs that in her life, but here we are). Unfortunately, the outside? Meh. Curb appeal isn’t its strong suit.

Still, I had high hopes of talking Dennis into it—until he hit me with the “It’s too far from our daily lives” argument, not to mention the bumpy roads and pot holes to get there. Ugh, details, Dennis, details! But if he walked in tomorrow and said, “You know what? Go ahead and put the deposit down!” I wouldn’t even blink. I’d be knee-deep in packing tape before he could change his mind.

And now I’m sitting here torturing myself by imagining life in that kitchen. It was chef’s kiss perfection. All the rooms were exactly where they should be, like the house just got me. Meanwhile, Dennis is over here complaining about commutes and potholes. Would I trade marital bliss for double islands? I mean… ask me again on a Monday, and we’ll see.

Why is it so hard for us to agree on just ONE thing? Someone send help. Or a moving truck. I'm flexible.

Where have all the sane people gone? Asking for a friend...

 

Does this chair make my butt look big?

My office chair is playing the world’s slowest game of hide-and-seek, and apparently, I’m losing. One moment, I’m at eye level with my screen, typing away, and the next, I’m staring up at my keyboard like a kid looking over a candy shelf. How do I not notice myself sinking into the abyss of bad hydraulics? Has my chair developed stealth skills, or am I just too distracted by Love is Blind on Netflix to feel the slow betrayal beneath me?

This is chair number four to pull this stunt. Four. Either office chair manufacturers have a vendetta against me, or my backside has been indulging a little too much during snack breaks. At this point, I’m not sure if I should blame the crappy hydraulics or bravely admit that gravity’s winning this round.

The Silver Lining can Bite Me, and so can DHS

What's new in my life? Oh, nothing major—just contemplating whether I should stick a fork in myself or go the extra mile and grab a knife. You know, for effect!!

I cannot, for the life of me, deal with redoing things I’ve already done! You pour in your time, effort, and money to wrap up a project, and then someone swoops in with, “Oh, by the way, I’ve changed my mind. Can you do this instead?” Can I, Brenda? CAAAN I?! ARGH.

Right now, I'm in the early stages of getting my center accredited, and, honestly, I'd rather wrestle a grizzly over a honey pot. The DHS requirements? They make about as much sense as bringing a piñata to a library. I can already picture myself spending weeks hunting down obscure forms, running on zero sleep (and clinging to whatever sliver of sanity I can salvage), only for them to hit me with, “Oh, we’ve updated the guidelines. Forget the forms; we actually need you to juggle flaming pineapples while reciting the alphabet backward as an offering to the gods of Quality Daycare! No pressure, though." .. as long as you don’t drop a flaming fruit or confuse 'Z' and 'Y' it should be FINE!

The worst part? They’re accountable to NO ONE. Meanwhile, I’m over here playing an endless game of bureaucratic hopscotch where the squares seem to move faster than I can jump. But here’s the plot twist—I swear this entire industry is teetering on the edge of a massive meltdown. And honestly? DHS better strap in, because if they don’t figure it out soon, hundreds of parents are going to be left completely without childcare. Which, fun fact, might make DHS jobs as obsolete as fax machines.

Oh, wait! Look at me finding a silver lining. It’s like a treasure hunt, really—if you squint hard enough, you’ll always spot one! Cheers to that!

Anyway, that’s my update. How’s YOUR life going?

Hiatus

I haven’t been posting on my blog much lately. Is it laziness? Probably. Burnout? Oh, absolutely. Or maybe—just maybe—I’ve reached that bizarre point where I feel like I have nothing to say, which is both hilarious and alarming because, between these lines, I’m out here living a whole life. I mean, come on—if I truly have nothing to write about, what does that say about my life? (Spoiler alert: nothing flattering.)

People say I act like I don’t care but it’s not an act

Here's your Sign!

Every time the temperature dips slightly below sweater weather, the school decides it’s “too cold” for kids to wait at the bus stop. Drop a single ice cube on the curb? Boom, snow day. We get it—they’ve got snow days to burn, and they’re itching to use them. But spare us the heroic “we’re just worried about the kids!” act.

Because today? It was 4 degrees. Four. And the school stayed open. Why? Well, they ran out of snow days. Closing now would mean makeup days, and heaven forbid the teachers have to work an extra day. Suddenly, the kids freezing at the bus stop isn’t such a concern when it cuts into their summer break.

So, don’t be fooled. They’re not losing sleep over your child shivering at the curb; they’re worried about their own convenience. Priorities, right?

We Remember...

Truth!

We tolerated President Obama for 8 years and kept quiet.  Here is my issue with the whole, “let us all be a United States again” that we heard from President Biden.  For the last 4+ years, the Democrats have gone and scorched earth. You have salted the fields and now you want to grow crops.  The problem is 75+ million of us have memories longer than a hamster.

We remember the women’s march (vagina hats 😂 and all) the day after inauguration.

We remember the 4 years of attacks and impeachments.

We remember “not our president” and the “Resistance…”

We remember Maxine Walters telling followers to harass us in restaurants.

We remember the Presidents spokesperson being kicked out a restaurant.

We remember hundreds of Trump supporters physically attacked.

We remember Trump supporters getting Doxed, and fired from jobs.

We remember riots, and looting.

We remember “a comedian” holding up the President’s severed head.

We remember a play in Central park paid with public funding, showing the killing of President Trump.

We remember Robert de Niro yelling “F" Trump” at the Tony’s and getting a standing ovation.

We remember Nancy Pelosi tearing up the State of the Union Address.

We remember the total in the tank move on the mainstream media.

We remember the non-stop and live fact checking on our President and his supporters.

We remember non-stop in your face lies and open cover-ups from the media.

We remember the President and his staff being spied on.

We remember five Senators shot on a ballfield.

We remember every so-called comedy show turn into nothing but Trump hate fest.

We remember 95% negative coverage in the news.

We remember the state governors asking and getting everything they ask for and then blaming Trump for their problems.

We remember a Trump top aid verbally assaulted in two DC restaurants.

We remember people banging on the Supreme Court doors.

We remember that we were called every name in the book for supporting President Trump.

We remember that Hollywood said they would leave after Trump was elected but they stayed.

We remember being called Nazis

We remember being called Deplorables

We remember being called Fascists

We remember our sitting President calling us "garbage" and Kamala (and the media) trying to tell us to "get past it because Biden doesn't matter anymore"

This list is endless, but you get the idea.  My friends will be my friends, but a party that has been on the attack for 4 long years does not get a free pass with me.

I will never give the Democrats a break for all the trouble they’ve caused.  They’ve dug a very very deep hole and it’s going to take a very long time for them to crawl out of it.

I Can't WIth These People

The workplace is really testing my patience today. Honestly, as a boss, I can’t help but wonder why I even bothered creating policies when no one thinks they apply to them. Everyone seems to be riding in on a high horse, thinking they’re the star of the show, demanding special privileges like it’s an all-you-can-eat entitlement buffet. It’s exhausting.

Someone takes a day off? Cue the dramatic sighs and whispers of discontent. Someone didn’t show up? Another round of grumbling. Oh, and heaven forbid someone didn’t plan ahead, because clearly the world revolves around their perfectly manicured workday.

If you’ve ever wanted to throw up your hands and wave a white flag, welcome to my world. Running a business? It’s not for the faint-hearted. AND ALSO: it’s not the walk in the park some people think it is. It’s messy, stressful, and just plain hard. Some days it feels like a cruel joke, one where punchlines come in the form of complaints, late arrivals, and ungrateful stares.

The cherry on top? People don’t appreciate what you do until bam they’re in your shoes, sweating through the chaos, finally realizing why the boss always looks like they’re one bad email away from losing it. Running a business is no picnic, folks. And honestly? I’m over it.

60 Going on 14 - My Glass Vanity

I have to say—this makes me so happy. It takes me back to a sweet, uncomplicated time in my life, full of promise and possibilities. I was 14 when I got my glass vanity. I can’t remember if it was something I begged for or if my parents simply surprised me with it, but I’ll never forget the excitement of seeing it for the first time.

It wasn’t fancy, not by today's standards. It wasn’t store-bought—it was DIY, pieced together with care and probably on a shoestring budget. But isn’t that the charm of it all? The way something so simple, created with love and resourcefulness, turns into something truly special? That’s the kind of magic you just can’t find in an amazon shopping cart.

It had two gold brackets and a 1/2-inch cut glass tabletop. My mom went the extra mile and got me one of those magical lite make up mirrors —you know, the kind with multiple light settings that could switch from “Office” to "Evening" to "Home." She also refinished an old kitchen chair just for me. She removed the back and upholstered the seat in denim blue to match my room. It wasn’t just a chair; it was love in furniture form.

And then there was my dad, who took his job of installing it very seriously. He used Molly bolts and had me sit to show him exactly the height I wanted and then made sure it was perfectly level. He was all business, while I sat there barely containing my excitement. When he was done, I shut my door, and I think my parents probably didn’t see me again for hours—possibly days.

That vanity became my little world, my escape. I’d turn on my record player (yes, I’m aging myself here). Abba, Olivia Newton-John and, more country 45s than you could imagine. The room would fill with music, and hairspray while I’d test eyeliner techniques, blush placement, and that terrifying realm of purple eyeshadow. It wasn’t just makeup—it felt like confidence was washing over me with every stroke of the brush.

That vanity wasn’t just furniture—it was a portal. A gateway to discovering who I was and who I wanted to be. I wish I could tell my 14-year-old self to soak in those moments even more. They were sweeter than I even realized.

Fast forward 46 years—I sit at my only other vanity since that one, but when I look in the mirror, I don’t just see my older reflection. I see her—the girl who danced to America in her room, laughed with friends while getting ready to go out, and found joy in the simple act of putting on lip gloss.

Between then and now, I’ve lived through chapters worth writing about—falling in and out of love, getting married, having a career, raising my kids, holding grandbabies, and I'm still friends with several girls who got ready with me in my childhood bedroom sitting at my old vanity.

This mirror isn’t just a piece of furniture. It’s a portal to those memories, a reminder of love, laughter, and the resilience that has carried me through the years. And honestly? That’s the most precious thing of all.

***

I tried to find the glass vanity but it’s never forefront. But if you look closely you will see it. ❤️

Night meds are called night meds for a reason.

Waiting for DHS to visit my center felt like preparing for a royal inspection—weeks of updates, double-checking crossbars on my T's and the dots on my I’s. The anticipation could drive anyone to the brink. You don’t make appointments. You don’t run errands. You most certainly don't risk skipping town or sleeping in and coming to work late for a half-day. No, no. When DHS comes knocking, you need to be at full attention—alert, prepared, and definitely not in pajama pants.

But on that day, my brain decided to pull a fast one. I forgot to take my nighttime meds—no biggie, I thought—I'll just take it now and shift tonight's dosage a little later. Logical, right? Wrong. Fast forward five minutes post-swallow, and it hit me like a plot twist in a bad rom-com —oh no, this medication makes me ridiculously sleepy.

I pulled up to work feeling like I’d done shots of Nyquil instead of morning coffee. That woozy, "I may as well be walking on clouds and rolling my eyes at gravity" kind of drunk. The second I entered the lobby, Kayla greeted me with, “DHS is here!”

“Wait, WHY didn’t anyone call me?!” I stammered, barely holding it together.

She smirked and said, “She just parked... right next to you.”

I spun around to see her unpacking her car that was right next to mine to come visit, and wondered how I missed her! Oh yeah.. I'm a zombie on Nyquil.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Panic hit me like a load of falling bricks, and off to the kitchen I went. My plan? Emergency carbs. I demanded food like I was auditioning for Survivor. My cook handed me a veggie-loaded soft taco, which I inhaled while guzzling half a bottle of water. I wore some of the taco on my shirt... but I scrubbed it mostly off before I left the kitchen. Surely this would neutralize the sleepy potions, right? (—it didn’t).

By the time the DHS worker walked into my office, I was holding it together by a thread—and not even a good, sturdy thread. She looked at me, clearly concerned, and asked, “Are you feeling okay?”

And that’s when my brain, in all its Nyquil-drunk glory, decided my filter was optional. I blurted out, “I took my night time medicine this morning because I forgot to take it last night. I’m not drunk— I’m sleepy!”

Thankfully, she found my confession more hilarious than alarming. She laughed. I laughed. And somehow, despite my taco-covered shirt and incoherent ramblings, the visit went off without a hitch. No hiccups, no write-ups, and no permanent damage to my dignity. Just a hard-earned lesson I’ll never forget.

Night meds are called night meds for a reason.

I’ve got my sassy pants on. Watch out world!

The fires in California have me spiraling, and I don’t even live there. I’m states away, in a completely different climate and time zone, with no connection to anyone in California—yet I’ve somehow appointed myself an honorary worrier-in-chief. The houses, the people, the wildlife—I'm stressed for all of it. Every day, I’m glued to the news, scrolling through articles and videos like a wildfire detective. Did you see that video of the woman who put her china in her pool? Genius. Then there was the house that made it through the fires only to be split in half by the landslide.

The first thing I do when I wake up isn’t even hitting the bathroom—nope, my brain jumps straight to, “Did they get the fires out?”

But, oh, don’t get me started—this compassion comes with a side of sass. Like, who’s at the wheel over there, California? I know, I know, politics. But seriously, this beautiful state is drowning in blue policies, wildfires, and more homeless encampments than solutions. Are people voting for real change, or just playing party color bingo? Imagine hiring someone based on, I don’t know, literally anything other than their ability to do the job. Seems wild, right?

Anyway, I’ll just be here in my safe little bubble, equal parts empathetic and exasperated, hoping California catches a break—and maybe a little common sense while they're at it.

My Elf is Less Annoying Than Your Elf

While your house was bustling with high-maintenance elves causing chaos and mischief, we had Snoop on a Stoop holding it down in style. He spent most of his time chilling in the same spot, glued to the Martha Stewart cooking channel and vibing to my playlists. Occasionally, he'd get tangled up in the tinsel when a certain ornament—Betty Boop—caught his attention. (What can I say? She offered him a snack. Who could resist that?)
Snoop always had this big grin on his face, radiating a warm, laid-back charm... and, well, a lit blunt which probably played a part in that. (Mystery solved!) Christmas was a vibe this year. When I asked if he’d be back next year, he didn’t miss a beat and said, “Fo shizzle, my nizzle!