Evelyn’s Purse

Evelyn  has always been a purse girl.  And if she finds something thats appears homeless, she puts it in her bag.  Things in Evelyn purse today:

5 pair of sunglasses

5 beaded bracelets 

2 wallets

A damp bathing suit and its cover up

Few broken pieces of different toys

Loose Art’s and crafts

A box full of completed arts and crafts 

A pair of scissors 

Pokémon cards

A fidget toy

Stockcard stars

Stickers/tatoos

A notebook with sticky notes and a pen

A journal

Mosaic glue

A Macdonalds lid

A waffle (food from yesterday)

A bandaid 

Gauze 

A package of tylonal tablets! (I confiscated those)

Socks

It’s like a Mary Poppins bag!!!

Single Digits!!

Nine days left in this healing saga. It's been a journey of stress, fear, and some surprising self-discoveries. Turns out, I'm tougher than I thought, though my patience could still use a major software update.

I pictured myself blissfully at home, conquering my to-do list and finally enjoying my living room. Reality check: I was unaware of just how seriously this surgery would sideline me. My ambitions have been scaled back from "reorganize the entire house" to "expertly clean an open wound" and "master the art of sleeping on my back." I've also learned I'm less concerned with my appearance than I used to be. While a gaping hole in my nose wasn't on my vision board, my new aesthetic goal is simply "looks okay when it's done." When people joke about me getting a facelift, I'm just thinking, "Please, just let me look normal again!"

On the plus side, I'm ditching my night-owl habits for some luxurious early nights and mornings. I’ve also learned that my rigid Christmas decorating timeline is, in fact, a myth. The tree can go up later, and the world will not end. My house doesn't need to be cleaned daily—a true revelation.

This time has also made me realize how much I genuinely like working; I miss my work crew. And I really, really miss my kids and all the grandkids. I've also been reminded that I have more friends than I realized, thanks to all the texts and well wishes. It's nice to know I'm capable of handling things like this on my own, without needing my mom like I did when I was little. Well... I might have replaced her with my husband.

The countdown is officially entering the single digits, and I am so ready to rejoin the land of the living.

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.

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.