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...