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.