Too much Monday not enough coffee

We Listen and We don't judge

Sometimes, scrolling through Facebook feels like wandering into a room full of plot twists you didn’t see coming. You start thinking, “Wow, there are a lot more idiots in the world then I originally thought.

A Gift Should Stay

As someone that had a degree in child development I want to do a PSA announcement on behalf of the kids of divorced parents/grandparents. 

A gift is generally considered a symbol of love, but if you buy a gift for a kid but it has to stay at your house, it’s not a gift. (And you should be ashamed off your self.) This impacts self-esteem making them feel like they are not deserving of the new things and can give them anxiety about future gift-giving situations. If you gift it… they can take it home.  Period!

This happens to several kids this time of year and it’s long lasting!

It happened to one of my kids and I saw the repercussions of it for years!  

Don’t be a jerk!

The Polar Express was full of Magic!

 We hopped aboard the Polar Express and had an absolute blast! Now, as much as I’d love to present the entire crew in one picture, wrangling a family of 21 is like trying to teach cats choreography. Matthew and Cole? Not pictured here because they were off exploring the vending tents... Once were were aboard our traint, The Northern Lights, we found out seats and we the show got under way! We got hot chocolate and a cookie, several of the kids got to turn the page as they told the story, and Joanie and Sammi got to walk the cart and sign with the performers. I had the microphone in my face a few times to say Ho HO HO! and Merry Christmas. We all got beautiful Mugs to take home and a beautiful authentic bell that we could all hear! But the best thing of all was when they choose Danny to carry the present up to the main character. WE never thought Danny would do it, but he was a pro!

Once we boarded 1st class tickets on The Northern Lights, we found our seats and the magic began—literally. Cue the hot chocolate and cookie parade! It was like a Hallmark movie, except with fewer commercial breaks and more sugar. Several kids got to help “turn the page” while the story unfolded, which, let's be honest, felt like they were auditioning for Broadway. Meanwhile, Joanie and Sammi lived their best lives, signing and performing alongside the cast like budding thespians.

And yours truly? Well, I had a microphone thrust in my face multiple times to belt out “Ho Ho Ho!” and “Merry Christmas!”—clearly, they saw my untapped potential as Santa's understudy.

Then came the grand finale. We all got to keep beautiful mugs (anniversary additions) and an authentic bell, which we could actually hear. Believe me, I tried shaking it next to everyone's ear just to test. BUT...... the best moment of all? Watching Danny strut his stuff as he carried the present to the lead character. We thought he’d freeze up—maybe drop the gift, maybe cry—but nope! Danny nailed it like a seasoned pro. I'm not saying we should retire as his entourage, but I’m also not, not saying it.

I am rushing around with tons to do today before the staff party.  

Dennis: is there anything I can do to help you today?

Me: oh that’s sweet of you to ask!🥰

{He admends} Dennis: something easy…..

Me: 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

#marriagegoals

Goodbye Yellowstone

 

My mother use to say: you are who you hang out with.  Man if this P Diddy shit doesn’t hit that nail on the head I don’t know what does!! Moral of the story: listen to your momma

The whirlwind that is December

Christmas is in full swing, and let's face it—it seems to start earlier every year. But honestly? Thank goodness, because one month just isn’t enough to cram in the avalanche of festive fun. The calendar is already spilling over with everything from gift exchanges to choir shows, baking marathons to the never-ending wrapping of oddly shaped presents.

We still have Santa’s visit to look forward to, along with a mug exchange, and an ornament swap, class parties with book exchanges, pajama day, ugly sweater day, staff parties with games and prizes, a magical Christmas train ride on the Polar Express, a Christmas Eve bash—not to mention glorious Christmas dinner.

Oh, and in the midst of this yuletide chaos, we’re celebrating not one, but two birthdays! The family patriarch will (happily) get his moment in the spotlight, while a newer member of the family gets to get more presents after Christmas!

It’s chaos sprinkled with joy, wrapped in laughter, and tied with a bow of exhaustion—but isn’t that what makes this season magical? Here's to the whirlwind that is December!

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What you missed while you were busy “exploring life choices”

1. 
   The world moved on without you. People learned three new dances for TikTok, discovered a new non-dairy milk substitute (potato milk is apparently a thing now), and somehow decided cargo pants are back in style. Yes, cargo pants.
2. Your plants didn’t. They’re officially auditioning for the role of “decorative twigs.” Bravo, truly. Strong performance.
3. The rest of us mastered the art of “replying to emails within five business days” because adulthood, it turns out, is mostly a reality TV show where you pretend you have it all together. Fact check: none of us do.

But don’t worry, there’s still time to catch up. Just... maybe start with the plants. They’ve been through enough.

Forget the Homes on Pinterest.... Just take care of yours!

Have we forgotten how to create a home that feels like… home? Hear me out—not an attack, just a gentle nudge and a pinch of nostalgia.

Back in the day (think hand-me-down couches and wicker furniture), our homes weren’t just places to crash; they were sanctuaries. Even with mismatched decor and impossibly busy schedules, keeping it clean and cozy was a thing. I’m talking about that magical balance of personal pride and pure survival—the kind of space where chaos stops at the front door.

When I look back on my own "scientific research" (aka binge-watching old home movies), one thing sticks out: no matter how tight money was or how hectic life became, the homes I lived in carried a sense of care. Chaos didn’t have a foothold because it wasn’t allowed to. Why? Because there’s something about walking into a clean space that says, “Life is messy, but I’ve got this.”

Now, I’ll admit times have changed. Women are conquering workforces, juggling responsibilities, and frankly, nobody is out here vacuuming in heels or ironing curtains (thank heavens, right?). But life’s not so fast-paced or evolved that we can’t pause to take pride in our homes—messy kids, demanding jobs, and all.

And speaking of messes, let's have some real talk. If you live with another functioning adult who refuses to help keep things in order? Evict them. Kidding (kind of). But seriously—cleanliness should be a team sport. A Swiffer isn’t magical, and you can’t out-organize someone else’s mess with hope alone.

Because here's the deal, keeping a clean house isn’t about appearances—it’s about feeling good. A tidy space offers something intangible yet deeply impactful. It’s walking into a room and feeling calm instead of overwhelmed. It’s knowing that whether it’s your child’s friend, their mom, or, heaven forbid, your mother-in-law, your home reflects care—not chaos.

It’s not about perfection—this isn’t a makeover show with sudden before-and-after magic. It's about consistency. You vacuum today, tomorrow, and oh yes, next week. Think of it as a workout—skip too many sessions, and things start falling apart. And sure, your house may not promise six-pack abs, but it will promise a slice of peace in a world that’s often anything but.

At the heart of it, this isn’t just about the adults in the home. It’s about what we’re showing our kids. It’s teaching them that chaos doesn’t have to be their norm. That respect for their environment creates a sense of stability, pride, and yes—a little joy.

Take pride in your space. Not for the mom next door or the surprise visitor, but for yourself and your family. Because everyone deserves a place that feels like home—a clean, loving sanctuary where you can breathe, laugh, and live fully.

Bottoms Up!

 I found it wonderfully ironic that we sat at a table with four kids, and the only person to spill their drink was Pop. The humor of the moment doubled the next day—there we were, gathered on the lobby floor of the Oklahoma convention center, and Pop managed to up the ante by spilling a bottle of water right under his butt!

Lolly Got Roasted

My grandkid absolutely roasted me today, and honestly, it was hilarious. We were out at a restaurant in Midtown for a family dinner when my grandkid decided to become a stand-up comedian. The conversation had turned to cars—specifically Matthew’s shiny new ride. Naturally, that spiraled into everyone dreaming out loud about their ideal car. When it was my turn, I said I’d love another Expedition (my personal favorite, for the record). But I added that I’d want the third row, because, I do a lot of stuff with the grandkids....

Cue Wakely, interrupting mid-sentence, with maximum dramatic flair, “NOT ME!” I just blinked at her, trying to process the burn, before sputtering out, “Uh, you live TWO hours away ya dork!” (And yes, the capitals were necessary—you have to get the tone right here). Everyone laughed and Wakely smirked at me... Actually smirked!

The funniest part? When Wakely does visit, that’s exactly when I need the extra row! She always wants to do things with all her girl cousins. Guess she’s just keeping me honest, even from two hours down the road!

Gypsy & the Beast

Being married is hard work! Trust me, I know—I’ve been doing it for 30 years, and sometimes I’m just done. (Seriously, where’s my gold medal?) Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband, but I’m a free-spirited gypsy soul at heart. I thrive on quiet moments alone, spontaneous adventures, and creative whims. And nothing kills the vibe faster than feeling like I have to operate under someone else’s “laws.”

Dictatorship? Not in this house!

Every now and then, I have to (lovingly) remind my husband of that. I’ll say something like, “Hey babe, just a heads-up—I’m not building an empire here, I’m painting with watercolors and making up song lyrics in my head. So, maybe don’t stifle the creative flow, okay??”

Marriage is about compromise, but I draw the line at losing my spark. And sure, some days it’s frustrating, but other days, it’s just flat-out hilarious. After all, who knew a gypsy heart and a rule-follower could make it work for three decades—mostly laughing, occasionally eye-rolling, and sometimes hiding in completely different rooms?

But hey, that’s the beauty of love—it’s messy, hilarious, and just a little exhausting. Cheers to 30 years of figuring it out, one gypsy-soul tantrum at a time.

Is That Me Now?

If social media platforms had family roles, it would definitely be the slightly unhinged aunt who brings chaos to Thanksgiving dinner.

I scroll through my feed, see familiar faces, and suddenly think, Whoa, that’s my classmate?! They look like they could’ve been my parents in high school! Then it hits me like a poorly filtered selfie—I’m the same age as them.

GASP! If they look like my parents did back then… does that mean I do too? NO. Surely not. I’m still in my 20s… right?

RIGHT?!

Afraid not! Reality sets in.... One would think being the Grandmother of 11 kids would keep me in the know.... Sigh* I feel portrayed.

So now, I’ve made the executive decision to avoid mirrors for the remainder of the day—solely to protect my fragile sanity. Thanks a lot, Facebook. You win this round. 🙃

Growing Older, One Ache at a Time (With a Side of Humor)

If you’re anything like me, life can feel a little heavier some days. But here’s the thing—keep moving. That’s the secret, right? Most of us aren't thriving in some perfectly curated life; we're navigating the twists and turns, stumbling and standing, one step at a time.

There are moments, though, when life reminds you that you’re not made of rubber anymore—like when your shoulder aches and doesn’t bounce back as quickly as it used to. Or when a little trip leaves you hurting in places you didn’t even touch on the way down (seriously, how is that even fair?). Suddenly, grabbing that seatbelt to strap on takes a yoga pose you don't possess, and finding a simple word or a friend's name feels like chasing squirls.

Of course, your body has been your constant companion through every moment of life—every mistake, every celebration, every “I’ll take better care of myself tomorrow.” It's carried you through years of late-night snacks, questionable food choices, and plenty of moments where you knew better but just didn’t care. And now? Now it’s asking for a little love and attention, maybe a bit begrudgingly.

You might think, “Why bother now? It’s too late to start over.” But here’s the truth—it’s never too late to start showing your body some kindness. You can’t undo the years, but you can work with what you have. You can stretch more, hydrate better, savor the meals you eat, and slow down when you need to. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about learning to care for the body that’s been caring for you all these years, even when you didn’t realize it.

And sure, life’s aches and pains are reminders that we’re not invincible, but they’re also proof that we’ve lived and loved, and yes, maybe overindulged more times than we can count.

So here’s to moving forward, even when it’s a little slower… because every step is still progress. Be kind to yourself—you’ve been through a lot. And hopefully, you’ve still got so much left ahead.

I Almost DIED!

Dennis and I were in the kitchen—a seemingly innocent scene that quickly turned into a tragic comedy starring yours truly. I was putting the groceries away while Dennis had taken it upon himself to wash the stove grills. Lovely, right? Except, of course, I needed the grills to cook because, you can’t just plop a pan directly on the burners.

Dennis, being the helpful soul he is, was busy reassembling the stove when I turned to stow more food away. What he forgot to mention (or realize) was that he’d left the dishwasher door wide open, like some low-lying booby trap stationed directly behind me. Arms full of groceries, I pivoted—and immediately tumbled over the unseen culprit.

Now, pause for a moment. Can we talk about how falling suddenly happens in slow motion once you hit a certain age? There I was, toppling forward, brain firing off two thoughts simultaneously:

1. Is this how it ends?
2. Dear God, please don’t let me impale myself on anything sharp sticking out of the dishwasher.

Before I even fully grasped what had happened, I found myself mid-contortion over the dishwasher door, grappling for balance like some off-balance ballerina. Somehow—miraculously—I didn’t completely hit the floor, but my shins and arms weren’t as lucky. My shin took the brunt of the battle, while my knee staged its own protest, and my poor pecs and underarms have been loudly complaining for days. I’m pretty sure I’ve unlocked some elite level of pain where even bruises feel betrayed by my choices.

Now, here’s the clincher. I turned around to confront Dennis, expecting, I don’t know, maybe an ounce of concern? Instead, he looked at the scene of the crime and casually remarked, “Well, there goes the dishwasher.” Then, as if realizing this probably wasn’t the right opening line, he quickly tacked on, “Are you okay, honey?”

You learn a lot about your place in the world during a crisis. Turns out, I’m somewhere below the dishwasher. My ego? It's still recovering.

Bah Humbug

It’s December 3rd, and I’ve officially put up five Christmas trees. That’s right—five. Do I enjoy it? Absolutely not. Picture Scrooge tangled in tinsel, muttering under his breath about “holiday spirit.” That’s me.

Now, technically, I didn’t need to put up three trees in my own home. But one of them is tiny and takes about 30 minutes to put up, so it doesn’t really count… right? Honestly, I should just keep that one and banish the others. But no, I’ve got two 9-foot and two 10-foot behemoths demanding my attention, because apparently, I hate free time.

And it's not as if they stay up all year or even 2 months! Nope, a few short weeks of twinkly glory, and then the looming responsibility of packing them back up until next year. It’s like having an overly demanding houseguest who leaves glitter in every corner.

Anyway, if I’m going to suffer through this, my trees are going to be packed with stuff. No delicate hanging ornaments here—oh no. I stuff them to the brim, like they’re auditioning to be the world’s most over-the-top parade float.

Five trees, too much stuffing, and questionable life choices. Merry Christmas, I guess! 🎄

Real Friends Bring You Chocolate

 Listen, I get it—friendship is all about give and take. But let's be real here… I want chocolate. Non-negotiable. If you’re going to hang with me, this is just the cost of doing business. I even told one of my friends I needed a bathtub filled with chocolate so I could swim in it—bask in it, and drown in it if necessary, you know, really commit to the sugar high— (what a way to go, right?). Her response? She got creative and gave it her own spin. And no, it wasn’t a Jacuzzi filled with molten fudge, but hey, I’ll give her points for effort. I felt like Willy Wonka minus the questionable child labor practices.

Here’s the thing—I have some seriously cool friends. Some bring me charcuterie boards (bless them), others show up with donuts, homemade goodies, or the holy grail, coffee. One time, someone even gifted me an actual garden of Crunch bars. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it? Except for one tragic flaw—they didn’t grow back. I mean, what’s the point of a Crunch bar garden that doesn’t replenish itself? Ugh. Life is tough.

All I’m saying is, surround yourself with people who not only get your obsession with chocolate but are willing to support your habit. These are the people who will make life sweeter—literally and figuratively. Cheers to them, the heroes of my sweet tooth and my soul!

Job Hunting

A rite of passage, a test of patience, and apparently, a battlefield for entitlement these days. Listen, I don’t mean to sound like the grumpy neighbor yelling at kids to get off their lawn, but here’s the deal—you can’t waltz into the professional world with a mindset that screams, “I’m owed something just for showing up.”

Sure, your parents may have indulged your whims and told you that you were destined for greatness simply for existing. And hey, that’s sweet. But unfortunately, they’re not the ones cutting you a paycheck. Business owners? Employers? They’re not here for the “I-deserve-this” song and dance. They’re here for employees who bring value, show up on time, and—brace yourself—put in the effort.

If you're reading this from your parents' basement, hazily scrolling between a Netflix binge and a socially acceptable time to snack again, consider this your wake-up call. The good news? There’s a world of opportunity out there for those willing to step up, own their hustle, and shift gears out of entitlement mode.

We’re not saying you can’t dream big or want better—absolutely, go for it! Just don’t forget that, at some point, you’re going to have to work for it.

These Potholes need a Truck Load of Gravel.... Not just Faith

I grew up with Sundays and Wednesdays reserved for church, my family faithfully in tow. Religion wasn't just a backdrop—it was woven into the fabric of my life. I have relatives who are pastors, missionaries, even a nephew who started his own church. One sister can teach the Bible like it’s her side hustle, and the other has enough zeal to reinstate commandments if needed. But, if I’m honest, every time I hear someone proclaim “It’s the end of times,” I roll my eyes like a kid hearing their mom warn, “Do that one more time…” It’s the spiritual equivalent of the boy who cried wolf, and, frankly, I’m over it.

Here’s the thing—wasn’t God supposed to show up like a thief in the night? No dramatic countdowns, no fanfare, just...bam, He’s here. That’s the script, right? Throwing apocalyptic predictions during a world crisis feels like bad improv. And honestly, so many interpretations exist that it feels less like faith and more like a choose-your-own-adventure book.

Now don’t get me started on the literal stories. Noah’s Ark? A floating zoo? The Garden of Eden? Forbidden snacks? Tell me, where do dinosaurs fit into that picture? We've got their fossil receipts, so what’s their timeline? And cavemen—why are they ghosting the Bible’s narrative? Oh, and Cain and Abel’s wives...where exactly did they come from? The Land of Nod? Sure, but where’s that on Google Maps? Are we all just one big ancestral rerun? And most importantly—out of the 4,198 religions in the world, who’s holding the definitive cosmic manual? Catholics? Protestants? Or the guy down the street who says we’re all living in a simulation?

It’s not that I’m anti-religion, but my brain likes things that tie up nicely with evidence, less loose ends and plot holes. Faith is a beautiful thing for those who find it in these stories, but for me? I’m still stuck wondering if a dinosaur was supposed to eat hay on the Ark.

I Flipping Ruined the Pie!

I decided to make pie for Thanksgiving, and… well, where do I even begin? Look, I’m no Martha Stewart, but I’m no stranger to the kitchen either—especially when it comes to pie. But this time? Chaos. Absolute chaos. And I have no idea how it all went sideways.

Maybe it all started when I got off work at 6 PM, fully aware that my evening (and likely my sanity) would be consumed by Thanksgiving prep. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was that making a single pie would require two frantic grocery store trips before midnight.

Picture this: me in my cute apron, ready to conquer pie-making like the domestic goddess I pretend to be. Fast forward a few hours, and I’m standing in the kitchen, disheveled, muttering creatively censored curses at my oven, and spiraling into what can only be described as "crackhead energy."

The first batch? Oh, they looked amazing—golden, puffy perfection. But perfection was a lie, folks, because instead of sugar, I had lovingly seasoned my pies with… salt. Yes, SALT. Why? Because I’d oh-so-helpfully stored a little baggie of salt right on top of my sugar container. Cue the forehead slap.

To remedy this travesty, my hero (a.k.a. my son) saved the day by picking up more supplies while running his own Thanksgiving errands. Success, right? WRONG. Just as I began round two of pie-making, I realized I was out of Carnation milk. At this point, it’s 10:30 PM. Most people would surrender, but not me. I grabbed my keys, marched into the night, and joined a checkout line so long it might as well have been Black Friday.

By the time I got home, I was practically pie-drunk. But I powered through. I made the pies. I cleaned up. I set the table. And at 2 AM, I finally crawled into bed. Did I eat any pie the next day? Absolutely not. I don't even like pie! I did all this for my children! And on a good day I'm not even sure they are worth it! Yeah! I'm feeling saucy right now... But after the salt saga and late-night grocery store adventures, I think I earned that right.

Thanksgiving 1, me 0.

He's Being Mean to Me! - A Dennisism

Dennis and I set out to house hunt today, but before we could even pull out of the driveway, an unexpected saga unfolded. He was reversing at the speed of a snail with nothing to do and no place to be, and I couldn’t help but giggle. He immediately hit the brakes, mid-driveway, and asked, “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just wondering,” I said, barely suppressing laughter, “how long it’s going to take you to actually back out of this driveway?”

Without missing a beat, he fired back, “Hey! Have I ever had a wreck?”

“Oh, come on,” I said, still laughing. “Who wrecks while backing out of a driveway?”

And that’s when he gave me the look.

You know the one... the one that tells you, you are full of shit! The kind of look that instantly teleports you back to that fateful morning just a few months ago—the morning I boldly underestimated both my depth perception and the width of the garage door frame. The side mirror, dangling heroically from my car like a wounded soldier, its guts strewn across the garage floor and driveway. I had fleetingly wondered, maybe he won’t notice. But then Dennis stormed out of the garage door swearing the entire house shook. SO.....he noticed. I drive a VW and that part was just under $2 Grand to replace....

"oh" I said in defeat.

He just raised an eyebrow and said, “Exactly.”

I sat there, quiet NOW... I might add, contemplating how Dennis always seems to glide through life, unscathed, like some kind of real-life Mr. Darcy—all roses and perfection—while I’m over here collecting dents, awkward moments and large repair bills like they’re a personality trait.

Equal Rights? Get it together!

Equal rights? Check.

Equal pay? Working on it.

Equal dedication as employees? Well, that’s where things get... complicated.

Modern motherhood is basically trying to win the "equal rights and equal pay" game while also being the star player in the "mom duties championship." Employers want us to work like we don’t have kids, and kids want us to parent like we don’t have work. Men, meanwhile, are out here setting the standard for bosses by never being the ones called to school for a last-minute field trip or to soothe a feverish forehead at 2 a.m. If multitasking were an Olympic sport, moms would win gold, silver, and bronze—right after packing lunches and making sure everyone gets to soccer practice on time.

Making the Bed is my Muse

Every Saturday morning, without fail, I begin my epic quest—making the bed. And every Saturday morning, as if on cue, my brain becomes a fountain of groundbreaking ideas. We're talking world-changing revelations here. The kind of brilliance that could inspire books, resolve global warming, and finally crack the mystery of where all the missing socks go. Nobel-worthy stuff.

Naturally, I reach for my phone, poised to immortalize these flashes of genius. But the moment my thumb hovers over the record button? Boom. Total mental blackout. It’s as if the mere act of recording has a kill switch directly connected to my brain. One second I’m Einstein mid-equation, and the next, my brain is a empty as the toilet paper shelfs at your local walmart during a pandemic

There I stand, fists full of bedsheets, looking down at my phone like it just ate the last donut. I whisper to it, “Please, just one coherent thought.” Spoiler alert: my phone isn’t listening. The ideas are gone, evaporated, like a dream where you almost found the answer to life but then woke up to your cat walking on your face.

So there I am, mid-bed-making, staring at my phone, waiting for a thought—any... single... coherent thought... Spoiler alert: it doesn’t happen. I sigh and go back to fluffing the pillows, surrendering my creative genius to the void. Curtains close until next Saturday.

It used to be your cup of tea... but now you want wine

What happens when you discover new interests and leave the old ones behind, still half-finished? It’s a little like ending a relationship—not because you stopped caring...but because it used to be your cup of tea but now you want wine! Nothing wrong with wine! You’ve grown and changed. Evolved. Sometimes, you just have to admit that your stamp-collecting days are over (unless you're into that, in which case, live your best life).

That’s not to say I don’t still enjoy the things I once loved—I do. But life, like me, refuses to stay in one place. Interests shift, habits morph, and suddenly, you’re swapping binge-watching your favorite sitcom for attempting to bake sourdough... badly. But isn’t that what keeps things spicy?

And oh, the thrill of chasing something new without knowing where it’ll lead! Maybe I’ll become a world-famous blogger—or, more realistically, I’ll blog into the void while convincing myself the algorithm is just “warming up.” Either way, that’s the magic of it. It’s not about perfection, it’s about leaning into the messiness of it all—

—because the mess is where the beauty hides. Who wants a spotless, predictable life anyway? It’s in the chaos of new hobbies, fleeting passions, and daring mistakes that we find the stories worth retelling. Like the time I attempted yoga and toppled over mid-warrior pose, only to laugh so hard I scared my cat out of the room. Or that week I convinced myself I could learn the ukulele, despite my complete lack of rhythm or coordination. Spoiler alert: I can now play two and a half chords. Barely.

But that’s the point, isn’t it? To lean into the tumble, to taste the sweetness of trying, and to fall flat on your face—gracefully, of course. I’d rather have a journal filled with scribbles and crossed-out plans than one with blank pages. Logic has its place, but life? Life deserves a bit of delightful absurdity.

Words to live by

The workforce—a carnival we all bought tickets to but didn’t exactly plan on attending. Whether you’re reigning at the top of the corporate food chain or hanging tentatively from the lowest branch, the vibe often feels oddly similar. And yet, here we all are, punching clocks and perfecting our “active listening” faces in meetings like wandering flocks of geese unsure if it's fall or spring.

Now, don’t get me wrong—it’s a little soul-crushing to see employees feeling unappreciated. But, dare I add an unexpected plot twist? It’s just as heart-wrenching when you’re the boss and feel like wallpaper in your own office. Picture this—you hire people, dole out a paycheck, and offer training for jobs that don’t exactly require a Ph.D. You know, positions that mostly rely on common sense and a pulse. Essentially, I deliver two things—experience and a paycheck. Yet, some folks make it clear they’d rather not need either.

Look, I get it—ambition calls, and the grass is always greener on literally any lawn other than the one you're mowing. But here’s the kicker—those of us cutting the payroll checks? We're fully aware that this might not be your “forever job.” Still, it might do a soul some good to occasionally say, “Hey, thanks for helping me keep the lights on while I chase my dreams.” Instead, I hear things like, “Man, I hope I’m not stuck here in two years.” Same, Thelma! Same! I, too, hope my next hire knows how to tell a Phillips head from a flathead screwdriver without a 10-minute staring contest.

Here’s the thing—if the fit isn’t right on my side, I will absolutely make the call and find someone else. Cruel? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. At the end of the day, it’s not personal—it’s just business. You know, the kind of business paying to keep the air-conditioning running both at my office and at the apartment where your plants are thriving.

Here’s my two cents (and that’s after taxes):Take a moment to appreciate the stepping stones beneath your feet. Even if your boss isn’t your favorite Marvel character, remember the paycheck and experience they’re offering. Work is tough, yes—but mutual respect can go a long way. And who knows? Maybe we’ll all make something meaningful out of it yet. Like keeping your first born alive! Or, at the very least, fewer passive-aggressive watercooler comments!

Why do I write? And More Importantly.... Why do you read it?

Writing is my therapy, my guilty pleasure, and sometimes my excuse for dodging chores. There's just something magical about spilling thoughts onto a page—it’s like giving my overly dramatic brain its own stage. I jot down opinions no one asked for, document awkward moments I’ll cringe at later, and craft stories that might make someone laugh (or at least snort).

One day, my kids will probably find my collection of journals, roll their eyes, and dramatically declare, “Why did she write all this?” before chucking them into the trash. But until that day comes, I'll keep writing—because, let's face it, someone has to document this beautiful mess we call life for future generations. I'm basically doing humanity a public service... you're welcome.

 

Oh Girl! You Need To Retake That Course!

In a plot twist that even Hollywood couldn't script, Donald Trump snagged the Presidential Election, and suddenly, I found myself being blamed for it on Facebook Messenger. Yep, a stranger decided my singular vote had magical powers to sway the entire election, despite not knowing who I voted for—or if I even voted at all!

This digital detective, irked by my comment on a mutual friend's post a month ago, seemed to have stored up her outrage and crowned me the ultimate scapegoat. For the record, Trump scooped up 312 Electoral votes and over 74 million popular votes, while yours truly accounted for just one teeny-tiny vote. If that's not a stretch, I don't know what is!

Here's the kicker—this online critic is a certified mental health counselor specializing in Anger Management, touting best practices with empathy, impeccable ethics and boundaries. Yep, you read that right. With all that expertise, I expected a more zen-like approach—or none at all, considering ..... WE DON'T KNOW EACH OTHER! She needs to retake some of her courses!

Pro tip for everyone out there: if you're chewing out someone five states away for exercising the same voting rights you have, it's time for a rethink. For all she knew, I could have been linked to the mob! (For the record, I’m not.) but I've crossed paths with some pretty sketchy characters in my day. She doesn't know my friends!

Oh, and to add an insult to the injury.... she wrote me on the anniversary of my dad's passing to launch her critique—not that I'm one to wallow, but shouldn't mental health counselors be the last people playing "Push the Button"? Pretty sure rule #1 is knowing you never fully know what someone’s going through.

You know that saying, "Don't judge a book by its cover"? Well, underestimating me is like mistaking Beth from Yellowstone for a Sunday school teacher. Bold move. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t end well (iykyk).

Everyone's allowed to have their feelings, but accountability's still a thing, especially when it infringes on someone else's rights and descends into name-calling and family threats. Given her profession, her actions reveal more about her than me, and if I can prevent her from bullying others, it's worth the effort. So I let her company know what kind of counselor was helping their clients. Sometimes people need a nudge to remind them when they're off-track. And if I can prevent this counselor from treating others with such disrespect, then it's a win-win in my book. After all, empathy and accountability should go both ways, no matter who you're interacting with.

Remember, the internet's a two-way street, and while everyone deserves a little grace, it's important to know when to hit the brakes.

Here is my Resignation!

Why is being an adult just “planning committee chair” for everything? I love my friends—really, I do! But making plans with them feels like organizing a tiny wedding every single time. And don’t even get me started on family holidays. Remember when you could just roll up to your mom’s house for Thanksgiving, eat your body weight in mashed potatoes, and call it a day? No grocery shopping. No cleaning. No cooking. Just you, your siblings, your nieces and nephews, and zero responsibility. Now? Hosting family feels like running a bed-and-breakfast with an extra side of chaos. I swear, the larger the family, the more it feels like you’re managing a logistics company. Could someone please invent a time machine just so I can re-live the days when all I had to contribute was showing up?

MVP

If you're anything like me—a grandmother in her super-duper, incredibly-late 50s—then this blog is for you. For over 38 years, my family has been my top priority. And for the first 28, it was all about my kids. Then, about 10 years ago, the grandkids, those adorable little chaos-makers came along and it was like adding a bonus level to a video game. Now, I'm looking at being the family MVP until, well, I kick the bucket.

Here's the scoop for all you future moms out there: Parenthood doesn't end at 18, or 21, or even 37. It never really ends, so buckle up! Be ready to make people you didn’t even give birth to a priority. And I'm not just talking about those sweet grandbabies. Oh no, I'm talking about your kids other halves. Yeah, the in-laws become a priority too. Welcome to the never-ending ride called motherhood! 🚀👵

A Simple Path of Acceptance

When I was younger, babysitting wasn’t just a chore—it was a stark realization about myself. At 19, I worked at a daycare for about a week and quickly discovered it wasn’t my calling. Then came the day a coworker at my grocery store asked if I could watch her child during her shift. “One child, one day—how hard could it be?” I thought, naively optimistic. But that one day felt like navigating 45. Exhaustion washed over me. I felt tied down, overwhelmed, and desperate for a return to my freedom. It was clear—I simply didn’t enjoy babysitting.

Yet life, in its quiet wisdom, often hides lessons where we least expect them. Over time, my perspective began to change. When I became a mother, I made a deliberate choice—not just to care for my children but to enjoy them. I leaned into the chaos, the silliness, and the joy. Watching my kids grow became a source of delight, and though the messes multiplied and the days stretched long, I rarely felt the need to escape. I sought closeness, learned to play, and cherished shared moments. It wasn’t about babysitting anymore; it was about experiencing life with them. Yet even as I grew to love the richness of parenting, the joy of babysitting remained elusive.

Adulthood came with its own shifting challenges. Becoming a parent not only redefined my relationship with my kids but also with my friends. Friendships among mothers often feel like they come with unspoken rules—playdates involving juice spills, scattered toys, and strained patience. For me, the thought of tidying up after someone else’s children made my resolve falter. I avoided hosting, and before I realized it, my social life quietly shrank. My world inwardly narrowed, focused almost entirely on my family. The messes at least felt like my own.

Now, as a grandmother reflecting on these connections, I see the same patterns in my daughter—a mother of seven, navigating her own labyrinth of joy and exhaustion. She loves her children deeply but yearns for social connections, even as the simple prospect of hosting feels like organizing a carnival at times. Several kids running riot through a house transforms casual get-togethers into logistical adventures. I wonder how young mothers today sustain friendships amid all the joyful chaos. Maybe that’s why “girls' nights” have become a lifeline—a rare kind of reprieve, a brief escape from caregiving’s constant hum.

And yet, in this new phase of life, I’ve come to understand freedom in a new light. Empty nesting has brought me freedom—a gift I now cherish more than I did in my youth. Once tasted, freedom is an intoxicating thing, and giving it up often feels impossible. As a grandmother, I love spending time with my grandkids, but I am equally aware of the joy of returning to my quiet, unstructured hours.

Ultimately, what I’ve learned through every phase of life is this—we’re all doing our best. Whether juggling sleepless nights with a baby or finding balance as an empty nester, we’re navigating paths shaped by our choices, circumstances, and the inescapable march of time. The mess, the laughter, the friendships—they call for patience and understanding, not just with others but also with ourselves. Freedom, I’ve found, exists in all stages of life; it’s just a matter of how we choose to embrace it.

It's not complicated....

I’m not here to cheer for Biden or Trump—honestly, I’m not on Team Politician at all. The whole idea of putting all our faith in one person, one party, or one government to fix everything? Feels like betting on a rigged horse race. It doesn’t matter who’s in the driver’s seat; the car’s already headed the wrong way. And the media? Well, they’re riding shotgun, pointing us toward whatever narrative keeps us distracted.

Meanwhile, here we are, scrolling through social media like moths to a flame, chasing algorithms instead of answers. We’re asking Google to solve our problems instead of looking inward. We’re rushing to cast votes for people we think we understand—or more accurately, people we’ve been told to trust. And somehow, all the finger-pointing and shouting has split the room right down the middle, turning our culture into a battlefield rather than a shared space. It's like that old saying—how do you tear something apart? From the inside out.

And boy, have they succeeded. We're so caught up in the shouting matches that we’ve missed the real trick—the wool pulled over our eyes. Left, right, red, blue—everyone’s busy blaming everyone else. And no one’s stepping back to think, “Wait a second, maybe we’ve had the power all along to make some real changes ourselves.” Spoiler alert: we never needed a permission slip. Not from a politician, not from a party, and certainly not from a punch card at the ballot box.

The truth? We’ve become our own worst tragedy. We’ve lost the spirit that built us up in times of crisis because we’ve been too busy tearing each other down. Hate, judgment, prejudice— and don't get me started on the Liberals.... those aren’t external forces anymore. Those are our own creations. And for those who don’t hold hate in their hearts, fear has taken its place, freezing them in indecision. The few who still believe in fighting for what’s truly right? Outnumbered, exhausted, and drowned out.

But it doesn’t have to go this way. Maybe what we need isn’t another argument or another leader to fix everything. Maybe what we really need is to sit down, shut out the noise, and actually think—for ourselves this time. Think about what this country was built on, and the strength we found in each other during the hardest times. If we don’t recognize that, we’re doomed to stay in this mess we made.

Wrong is wrong. Right is right. It’s not complicated. No gray areas, no asterisks. If we can’t fight for what matters—together—then maybe we should start praying for the strength to stop fighting each other.

10-31-21

From memories 

In the middle of me doing some house work, Jessica calls and asked me if I had seen one of the toys I gave the kids last night in their Halloween buckets.  (It’s a .99 plastic toy I found at Wallgreens) i stopped what i was doing, and immediately went in search of it until I found it and then promptly delivered it to her awaiting car in the driveway. LOL 

I thought to myself I would never do this for my children when they were little!  If my kids lost something I would say “well you’ll found it eventually.”  But not for these grandbabies!   I will stop whatever I’m doing just to make them happy. LOL

No wonder my kids wanted to stay at my parents all the time!!

#LollyLife

Parent Assignment!

"Stay in the house on a beautiful day? Nope, don't' be that parent!! Here's the real assignment, folks—parents need to put their phones down, step outside, and remember what fresh air smells like. Yes, I’m talking about old-school parenting. You know, the kind where you race your kid to the slide and realize halfway through that you’re horribly out of shape. Parenthood isn't a lost art—it’s just been on a coffee break. Time to dust it off and get back in the game!"

Jack & Diane

Wow, I never expected to still be jamming out to "Jack & Diane" as a grandmother. I remember blasting that song with my high school boyfriend while touring Oklahoma colleges 40 years ago. Now, with 13 grandkids, I still feel the same nostalgia and emotions every time I hear it. Music truly has the power to transport us through time and bring back precious memories. It's a reminder that age is just a number.

The Trials and Triumphs of Running a Daycare

Running a daycare is a bit like tending to a flourishing garden. At first glance, it seems simple—plant the seeds, provide water and sunlight, and watch everything grow in harmony. But anyone who's tried their hand at gardening knows it’s never that straightforward.

I run a 5-star daycare center in Oklahoma, a place filled with giggles, toys, and potential. On paper, it sounds idyllic, but behind the brightly colored walls and cheerful posters lies a mountain of stress, much of which, surprisingly, doesn’t come from the children. No, the children are the roses in this garden. They are content with a room full of toys and the freedom to play. The real storms come from the adults—the parents, the staff, and even the system itself.

Take parents, for example. They trust us to provide care for their little ones while they go about their day, and rightly so. But sometimes, situations arise that leave us as daycare providers in a perplexing bind. There’s the parent who drops off their child, fully medicated with Motrin because their fever was 104°F that morning. Their hope? One dose of medicine will last until six in the evening, conveniently avoiding the risk of missing work. The inevitable fever returns, and when we call the parent to pick up their child, the frustration comes back at us tenfold. Suddenly, it becomes our fault, even after we learn that little Timmy spent last week at Aunt Linda’s—who just tested positive for COVID.

And then there’s the staff, the lifeline of any daycare. Some of my employees show up every single day, despite personal health battles or family challenges. These women are warriors—true cornerstones of my daycare’s success. But others? Well, there are those who mysteriously vanish after a sneeze or strategically schedule their doctor’s appointments for the middle of the day, making it impossible to work the hours before or after. Like a garden, the health of a daycare relies on all its parts working together, yet some flowers don’t always pull their weight.

Add to that the looming shadow of DHS (Department of Human Services) and the bureaucratic hurdles that can feel as relentless as weeds on a summer’s day. The myriad forms, inspections, and compliance requirements can leave even the most prepared daycare operator second-guessing every decision.
Then, there’s the financial strain. The cost of running a daycare has skyrocketed—supplies, inventory, you name it. To cover expenses, prices rise, and suddenly you’re the villain for charging what’s needed to maintain quality. It’s a delicate balance, like watering your garden just enough to keep it alive without drowning it.

Still, through all the stress, there are the moments that make this garden worth tending. It's seeing a child learn to tie their shoes for the first time, watching friendships blossom in a sandbox, or hearing the unfiltered joy of laughter during playtime.

Working in childcare isn’t for the faint of heart. Owning a daycare is an even steeper climb, full of challenges that could dishearten even the most determined individuals. But if you’re reading this, and you still think running your own daycare sounds like a dream—call me. I might just be willing to hand you my garden gloves. 💐

Hard Truth..... but still truth

Allow me to offer you some practical advice. "Your children hold a special place in your heart, but it's important to remember that not everyone will share the same sentiment." My children and grandchildren, both biological and honorary, are incredibly dear to me, but I understand that not everyone will view them in the same light. This realization is beneficial for both myself and my loved ones as they navigate through life. ❤️

The Little Moments

Parenting often involves navigating the in-between moments as your children grow older, particularly with sons. These are the times when they reach out to you as they travel to and from places, during downtime at appointments or work breaks. While seemingly insignificant, these moments are precious opportunities for connection. When your child chooses to share these moments with you, it shows that they trust and value your presence in their lives.

Here Today and Gone Tomorrow...

Are they together, or are they simply… gone? I find myself asking this all too often—what truly happens to life after death? Some like to believe we ascend to heaven, reuniting with the people we’ve loved. But what about before we were born? If there was a before, why can’t I remember it?

It’s a lot like being anesthetized for surgery. You drift off, and when you wake, it’s as though time skipped—no memory of those lost hours. Is death the ultimate version of that? Does everything just… stop? Consciousness snuffed out like a candle, leaving blissful nothingness in its wake? Or is it the opposite—do we awaken to golden streets, harp melodies, and familiar faces waiting to greet us?

Here’s the kicker—I don’t have the answer. I don’t think anyone does, not even the most devoted believers. Faith, hope… whatever you want to call it, these ideas help us cope, don’t they? Because thinking there’s something beyond “the end” makes loss just a little less unbearable. Hoping we’ll see them again makes it hurt a little less when they’re gone.

But here’s what I really wonder—when a wife follows her husband in death, are they reunited? Do they exist somewhere together, beyond the veil? Or are they both just… gone?

Over 50 and Loving It”! But Are we???

Are we coming to terms with what 50+ means or are we chasing 30?

I do not look down on anyone who has surgery to look younger. I don’t look down on high dollar cosmetics or treatments etc, but I encourage you to ask yourself if you are trying to be the best version of yourself as you Continue through life (which is a blessing) or if you are chasing a season of life that you have already lived?

I shared this somewhere (so forgive me if it was here) but I would like to share my thought again. 

WE are the women that those behind us are looking up to - our daughters and granddaughters. They live in a society that has filled most of their lives with social media and filters and false expectations of what one should look like and how they see themselves. Young girls have depression at an all time high bc of all of the pressure surrounding them at every turn on these devices and on tv…. Not reality. Are we feeding them the same lies by never accepting ourselves as beautifully unique?? I am so fortunate to still have my mother who is alive, my mother is alive, myself, my daughter, and now my granddaughters. I am living smack in 4 generations. When I see my mother, I think she is so beautiful. Her hair is white. Her hands have aged. Her eyes sparkle and she still has nice eyebrows (how did that happen - lol?). I also have a granddaughter and it weighs heavily on me as I look at her as to when society will tell her that she isn’t enough? Isn’t that what we are doing a great deal of here? I see my beautiful, unique, precious granddaughters with bright blue eyes and blonde hair but how much longer does she have before she believes she isn’t enough? That she needs to be blonde or thinner or have a forehead that won’t crinkle etc? I love the way she looks at me. She sees me as I see my mother. She sees me as beautiful. She knows I am not supposed to look like her Mommy does or like my mom does. She still accepts me just as I am and thinks I’m beautiful. I want her to hold my hands and ask me about my many trips around the sun. I want her to see the smile lines by my eyes and ask me why I smiled so much. We ARE beautiful. 

I am not trying to stand on a soapbox of not using things to make you feel better. I use makeup and color my hair to make me feel more like myself - but I don’t look like I did 20 years ago, and that is because I have made 20 more trips around the sun and I have a ton of life lessons, experiences, memories and stories to tell. I just want to encourage each of you to look at yourself in the mirror and ask yourself if you talk to yourself as you would talk to your mother about her beauty or your granddaughter about hers? I can say this bc I was so guilty of speaking down to myself (shame on me). This is the body I was gifted to walk this earth in and I better appreciate it at some point before it’s gone. I also want to be a part of changing the negative narrative that we are being fed and that we tend to feed into ourselves..: that we need to stop ourselves from looking as if we have aged or as if we aren’t enough (the billion dollar industries enjoy those facts btw).

One day, I would love to hear someone’s great story BC they are 50+. I would like to hear what you found out that you like about yourself and your body. Bc, 50 years from now when I am no longer here, I sure hope that is what my granddaughter is writing about ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Don't do me that way....

 Being a business owner comes with an interesting mix of requirements—customer service skills, a smile that doesn’t falter, a dash of empathy, and, apparently, 41 cameras hooked up to a DVR. Oh, and a never-ending to-do list.

This week, I’ve been juggling it all. It’s that time of year when summer’s easygoing vibe gives way to looming deadlines and big projects. Teachers are gearing up for a more demanding season, and I’m knee-deep in contract writing, policy updates, catching up from vacation, redecorating, and shopping for new equipment. You know how it goes. THE LIST NEVER ENDS.

Except for one thing—bullying from parents. Nope, not on my list. That's a hard line for me. You know you’ve hit that point as a business owner when you just don’t have the time or energy for anything that undermines your work or your team. Boundaries, my friends. They’re not just for maps—they’re for sanity.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a paint swatch chart and, possibly, my 42nd camera.

______________________________________________

Don't be the Dragon!

They say you get wiser with age. I'm almost 60, and honestly, I'm still waiting for that wisdom to kick in. I've been seeing all these Facebook posts about not letting people into your life if they don't have time for you. Sounds great, but what if those people are family members? Can't just unfriend Aunt Mildred, can you?

Here's my take on it—if you don’t value me, then you’ve become as useful as a screen door on a submarine. It doesn’t mean we won’t have awkward Thanksgiving dinners together; it just means I know where I stand. You’re in my life, but you’re not getting any of my good wine or my Netflix password.

People who are deliberately harmful? They can take a hike. And those who only find me valuable when they need something? Yep, they can join the hiking club too.

I've seen folks get what they deserve—both the good and the bad. Sometimes it takes a whole village to help someone through tough times. And if you’re not part of that village, well, you're basically the dragon they’re fighting. 🐉

Hi Mean Girl... I'm Batman!

Recently, I've noticed some high school drama vibes creeping into my workplace. Now, I'm more of a lone wolf—think Batman but with fewer gadgets and more coffee. But even I can see that exclusionary behavior is a one-way ticket to Hurt Feelings-ville, especially for those who are already feeling down or just trying to fit in.

Take, for instance, my birthday last year. Everyone at the office dressed like me. It was hilarious, inclusive, and nobody looked as fabulous as I did. Now, compare that to the mean girl antics where only a select few get to join the "cool kids club." Spoiler alert: it's not cool; it's toxic.

What should you do when faced with this pettiness? Should you confront them with a dramatic monologue worthy of an Oscar, or serve up a dish of their own medicine, chilled to perfection? While the answer isn't straightforward (and confronting them with a Shakespearean soliloquy might be overkill), it’s crucial to remember that being exclusionary is never okay.

To those indulging in mean girl behavior, a word of advice—karma’s a boomerang. Treat others with kindness and inclusivity. Not only will you create a positive environment, but you'll also set a great example for future generations. Remember, your kids are watching, and they're learning from your actions. Don't be a Regina George; be a Leslie Knope. Because nobody wants to end up lonely and realizing too late that genuine, supportive relationships are what truly matter.

My Turn!

I've realized it's time to stop making sacrifices for others and start prioritizing myself. If I don't take this step now, it might never happen—and that's a daunting thought. For so long, my life has revolved around meeting the needs of those around me, without anyone asking, "What about you? What will make you happy?"

It's time to change that narrative. I'm ready to focus on my own happiness and well-being. If I succeed, I'll share my journey and the strategies that helped me get there. Let's make our happiness a priority! 🌟

Where are my Thoughts?

I haven’t been blogging much lately, and I’m not entirely sure why. I have the time and plenty of thoughts to share, yet I rarely sit down to write. The issue might be that my ideas come at the most inconvenient times—like when I am making my bed and not near my computer. As a result, those thoughts go unwritten, which is a shame because articulating them could help clear my cluttered mind for new ideas.

It’s a shame because getting these thoughts out really helps clear my cluttered mind. Without that outlet, I find it harder to make good decisions. My old blog posts fill at least three thick books—real, substantial collections of my musings on life, the world, and everything in between. Over the past year, though, I haven’t blogged at all. Does this mean I’ve lost interest in my own life? I’m not sure.

But I’ve decided it’s time to start again, even if I feel like I have nothing significant to say. Someday, I’ll open one of those big books and find a blog post about a recipe I’d completely forgotten. And at that moment, it will all feel worth it.

Dennis is UNHAPPY

Life often presents us with difficult decisions and unexpected changes. Currently, we are contemplating whether to build a new house or buy an existing one, primarily because Dennis has grown tired of the pool we installed four years ago. His discontent has affected my own feelings toward the pool, and now it feels like a burden rather than a joy.

When you invest time, effort, and money into something, and it isn't appreciated, it can be disheartening. This extends beyond just the pool; it applies to the entire home. Our house is beautiful, with immaculate landscaping and a backyard that resembles a vacation oasis. But Dennis's reluctance to maintain the pool has dampened my enthusiasm as well. Everything in life requires effort, from maintaining our homes and bodies to enjoying activities outside. The yard should be no different.

However, Dennis's persistent complaints have led me to reconsider our living situation. I don't want to stay in a place where neither of us is happy. Yet, I also don't want to move into a house that lacks the amenities we currently enjoy. If we decide to move, the new place must meet all our needs, including spaces for our grandchildren to play when they visit.

Ultimately, we are at a crossroads. Whether we choose to build a new home, purchase an existing one, or stay put, our decision will shape our future.

Where are my people?

Am I the only one seeking more grown-up experiences? While my friends seem stuck in teenage habits, I'm craving connections with people who understand the challenges of adulthood. I want to bond with those who have kids, grandkids, and relatable life experiences. I'm not interested in chasing youth, finding new relationships, or obsessing over our looks. I want friends who accept that aging is a natural part of life and share similar perspectives. Are there others out there feeling the same way?

Bridgerton's Writers Are Losing the Plot – Literally

 There was a time when Julia Quinn’s Bridgerton series promised escapism of the coziest kind—an otherworldly jaunt into Regency England, where love always triumphed, wit sparkled brighter than diamonds, and every couple’s story was wrapped with a romantic bow. For fans of the books, Netflix’s adaptation initially seemed a dream come true. But as seasons progressed, the middle ground between the original novels’ charm and the series' creative liberties became a battleground, leaving devoted viewers and readers wondering what exactly went wrong.

If you've been feeling like the show has abandoned the spirit of its beloved source material, you're far from alone. Book lovers, Bridgerton fans, and romance enthusiasts alike have voiced growing frustrations—and it's not just about a shortage of steamy scenes. The crux of the issue lies in the storytelling itself. New agendas, unfaithful portrayals, rushed pacing, and perhaps an unrelenting desire to make the show "bigger" are eroding the heart of what once made Bridgerton so enchanting. Let's break it down.

Where Did the Romance Go?

At its core, Quinn’s Bridgerton series was never meant to be a crowded stage. Each book keyed in on one couple's love story, giving readers time to sink into their chemistry, struggles, and eventual bliss. We fell head over heels, book by book, as Quinn delivered slow-burn romance wrapped in intricate dialogue and quiet moments of depth. Every story felt like an intimate dance—a waltz, not a chaotic jig.

The TV adaptation, however, has taken a dramatically different route. Season 2 had devotees of Anthony and Kate (The Viscount Who Loved Me) eager for their favorite romance to shine on-screen. What they got instead was a fragmented narrative that placed obligations to side characters and ensemble drama above the titular love story. The electric tension Anthony and Kate shared in the books was often watered down or swept aside to make room for subplots and distractions.

Season 3 appears to be following a similar script. Colin and Penelope, one of the series' most anticipated (and longed-for) couplings, are a fan favorite thanks to Romancing Mister Bridgerton. Yet, early indications, rumors, and the treatment of central romances thus far have left fans bracing for another round of disappointment. The slow-building repartee, trust, and vulnerability readers adored are at risk of becoming collateral damage in the writers’ pursuit of a show that prioritizes spectacle over heart.

Too Many Agendas, Too Little Respect

It’s not the existence of adaptation liberties that has fans crying foul—it’s the rewriting of characters and themes that feel disingenuous to Julia Quinn’s world. No one denies that adaptations necessitate changes; TV is a different medium, after all. Characters should feel three-dimensional, and storylines often need embellishments to translate effectively on screen. But when these creative choices strip beloved characters of their core identities, fans can’t help but wonder—is this still Bridgerton, or just a show wearing its name?

Take, for instance, the argument that certain narratives are being altered to fit modern themes or agendas. While diversity of thought and representation should be celebrated, these shifts can feel hollow when they come at the expense of nuanced storytelling. Fans aren’t asking for historical accuracy over inclusivity; they’re asking for relatable characters who respect the fabric woven by the original author. The disconnect between book readers and the Netflix writers often boils down to this issue—rewriting for the sake of your own point of view is fine, but not when it obliterates the essence of why people fell in love with these characters in the first place.

Rushing the Seasons Forgets What Is Sacred

For a series with eight (arguably dense and emotional) books, eight episodes per season should feel like a gift. That’s eight hours to dig into a romance, explore the nuances of individual arcs, and pay respect to Quinn’s reflective themes about family, identity, and love. Yet, for fans, these episodes seem to do the opposite—they speed through poignant conflicts, gloss over subtleties, and too often substitute quantity for quality.

The brilliance of a romance novel like The Viscount Who Loved Me lies in its pacing—every charged glance between Anthony and Kate, every biting remark, every chink in their protective armor. Without the time to develop that slow, simmering tension, their romance risks feeling weightless; a spark squashed before it could become a forest fire.

Contrast this with other period dramas with similar ambitions (The Buccaneers, for example, a show many frustrated readers are turning to). While Bridgerton churns out seasons and tries to juggle too many subplots, shows like this achieve balance by staying laser-focused on their setting and relationships. They don’t feel rushed because—with a single relationship anchoring the drama—viewers have the opportunity to invest fully.

Why Adapt When You Could Create?

Another resounding question among fans is why the Bridgerton series was purchased at all if the intention was to rewrite its DNA. Yes, embellishment is expected, but the adaptations have often crossed the line into upheaval. At times, it feels as though the creators are more interested in wearing Bridgerton as a brand name rather than honoring its heart.

Why not craft original stories instead? If the aim is to push new narratives or explore character arcs outside the bounds of the books, surely the energy spent reshaping existing material could be channeled toward innovation. Audiences are hungry for original period dramas, as the success of The Buccaneers shows. And when you create characters from scratch, nobody can accuse you of writing them out-of-character.

A Romance Renaissance—Elsewhere?

For some disheartened fans, the frustration with Bridgerton has led them to explore other shows in the genre. The Buccaneers, a fresh period drama with sharp writing and a clear focus, is gaining traction among viewers craving better narratives. Where Bridgerton has faltered, The Buccaneers appears to excel, delivering cohesive character arcs and staying true to its thematic core.

The wild success of shows like The Gilded Age and Outlander only proves that there’s a massive appetite for historical romance when it’s done right. These shows remind us just why we fall in love with characters in the first place—they are inspired by, not overshadowed by, the writers’ own agendas.

Carrying the Torch of Romance

Is all hope lost? Maybe not. Some fans remain optimistic that future seasons of Bridgerton could learn from these missteps, returning to the soul of Quinn's work. Stripping back the noise, allowing romances to breathe, and rediscovering the elegance in simplicity could breathe new life into the series.

For now, though, it’s hard not to lament the opportunities wasted—a golden ticket to tell eight timeless love stories, squandered by an overdose of ambition and creative wandering. But for those ready to move on, there’s no shortage of alternatives waiting to sweep you off your feet, from period dramas to novels just waiting for their time in the spotlight.

If you’re feeling as disenchanted as many of us, perhaps it’s time to start exploring beyond Bridgerton. We may not have Antony and Kate exactly how we imagined them, but we’ll always have the promise of future romances that remind us why we swoon.