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?  

Lol  now that’s funn

Marriage vs Potholes

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

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

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

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

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

 

Does this chair make my butt look big?

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

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

The Silver Lining can Bite Me, and so can DHS

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hiatus

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

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

Here's your Sign!

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

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

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

We Remember...

Truth!

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

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

We remember the 4 years of attacks and impeachments.

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

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

We remember the Presidents spokesperson being kicked out a restaurant.

We remember hundreds of Trump supporters physically attacked.

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

We remember riots, and looting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We remember the President and his staff being spied on.

We remember five Senators shot on a ballfield.

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

We remember 95% negative coverage in the news.

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

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

We remember people banging on the Supreme Court doors.

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

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

We remember being called Nazis

We remember being called Deplorables

We remember being called Fascists

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

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

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

60 Going on 14 - My Glass Vanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Night meds are called night meds for a reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

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

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

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

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

Night meds are called night meds for a reason.

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

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

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

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

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

My Elf is Less Annoying Than Your Elf

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