Hollywood, Get a Library Card

What Happened to Good Movies?

Maybe I got spoiled. Maybe I’m too picky. Or maybe movies just aren’t that good anymore.

Seriously, what happened?

Back in the 80s, 90s, and even the early 2000s, it felt like every weekend there was a movie you couldn’t wait to see. Comedies were funny. Action movies were exciting. Romantic comedies actually had romance and comedy. Even the dumb movies were somehow entertaining.

Now I spend more time scrolling than I do watching. Everything is a remake, reboot, sequel, prequel, spin-off, or based on a comic book character I’ve never heard of.

And here’s what confuses me. The actors didn’t all quit. The directors are still directing. So what happened?

The only conclusion I can come to is that the writers got tired. Did they run out of ideas? Did somebody lose the giant book of good movie plots? Did Hollywood just decide originality was too much work?

I can remember when a Friday night was an event. We’d grab Chinese food and then head to Family Video. The boys would disappear into the game section while the rest of us wandered the movie aisles. The hardest part wasn’t finding something to watch. It was deciding which movies to leave behind because there were too many good choices. You could spend an hour reading the backs of boxes and still not see everything.

Now I have access to thousands of movies without leaving my couch and somehow can’t find one worth watching. Technology advanced. TVs got bigger. Streaming got faster. Movies got worse. That seems backwards.

And here’s the thing I really don’t understand. There are thousands of amazing books sitting on library shelves that have never been made into movies. Go to the damn library. Walk through the fiction section. Pick a shelf. There are enough stories in there to keep Hollywood busy for the next hundred years.

It’s not like it can’t work. Look at Julia Quinn and the Bridgerton series. Somebody picked up those books and turned them into one of the biggest hits on television. The proof is right there.

I miss the days when a trip to Family Video felt like an adventure and movie night didn’t require forty-five minutes of scrolling followed by disappointment.

So if any movie writers are reading this, please stop remaking movies that were already good. Write something new. Or at least get a library card.

Because if I have to sit through one more reboot of a reboot based on a sequel nobody asked for, I’m going to start believing the most original thing Hollywood has produced lately is the loading screen.

Where Words Go To Die

The other day I realized there are words and phrases I haven’t heard in years. I have become convinced there is a place where words go when nobody uses them anymore. Not a dictionary. No, no… that’s too tidy. I think they go to a retirement community. A quiet little place where all the words that were once popular sit around wondering what happened.

When was the last time somebody told you to skedaddle? Or said something was far out? What happened to groovy? That was a perfectly good word. It had a job. It served a purpose. And let’s not forget radical. For a while, that word was carrying an entire generation on its back.

Then the 90s showed up with da bomb, talk to the hand, all that and a bag of chips, whatever, and as if. Somehow we all survived that phase and thought it sounded completely normal.

At what point did gee whiz, gadzooks, balderdash, kerfuffle, and cattywampus quietly pack their bags and leave? Those weren’t just words. They had personality. They made some one that said it seem cool… I think.

Nobody announces when they’re over. One day everybody is saying something and then, without warning, they stop. .

That’s neat.

That’s swell.

Far out.

Radical.

Da bomb.

Narly.

Epic.

Fire.

No cap.

Rizz.

Each generation gets its turn, and the older words simply fade into the background. I suppose that’s how language works, but I kind of miss the old ones. You could tell what decade someone grew up in just by listening to them talk.

Nowadays half the slang sounds like somebody spilled Scrabble tiles on the floor where the letters spell out “Skibidi” and said, ‘Yep, that’s a word now!
Maybe that’s why I like old sayings. They’re little time capsules. Tiny reminders of another era, and while I understand that language changes, I still think we should bring a few of these words back. The world could use a little more skedaddle, a little more balderdash, and maybe even the occasional gee whiz. And what’s this 6-7 bullshit?

So... now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go yell horsefeathers at something and try to bring it back.

One of These Things Is Not Like the Others

The other day I wrote a blog about how my writing hut has basically turned into a craft closet. Well, today I noticed something else. My library has musical instruments in it.

Now, in my former early learning director brain, this is all wrong. Libraries are for books. Musical instruments belong in a music room. You don’t put a loud center next to a quiet center! Somewhere, my old classroom setup skills are having an anxiety attack.

Then my ADHD brain immediately started singing the old Sesame Street song: “One of these things is not like the others…”

Sitting in my library are my cello and my violin. Up until a few weeks ago, my stereo turntable was in there too. I moved the turntable, but all the albums are still sitting on the bottom shelf.

Then I got to thinking… what difference does it make? It’s just me and Dennis living here. If I decide to play the violin in the library, who exactly am I going to interrupt? No one else is in there reading anyway. And honestly, I mainly keep the cello propped up because it looks pretty in the room. Can you say "Eccentric"?  Can I spell Eccentric?

Apparently, I’ve reached the age where I decorate with musical instruments. And why not? A library should be a place that makes you happy. If books, albums, a cello, and a violin all make me smile, then they belong together. Even my grandkids arts supplies are in a box in there!

Maybe my house doesn’t make sense by traditional standards. Maybe my writing hut is a craft closet and my library is part reading room, part music room, and part decorating experiment. But that’s okay.

Because at this point in my life, it’s all about atmosphere and little pleasures. If I want a cello in my library because it looks cozy and makes me happy, then the cello stays.

Besides, I kind of like living in a house where one of these things is not like the others.

No RSVP to the Pity Party

I’ve noticed something about pity parties. They never seem to accomplish anything. Nobody wakes up one morning and says, “You know what changed my life? Feeling sorry for myself for three straight days.”

Life isn’t fair. Sometimes it kicks you in the teeth, steals your lunch money, and then sends you the bill. But sitting in the corner throwing yourself a pity party doesn’t make life apologize. It just wastes time you could’ve spent figuring out your next move.

Feel your feelings. Throw yourself a five-minute pity party if you need to. Eat the cookie. Cry in the shower. Yell at the steering wheel. Then clean yourself up, put your grown-up pants back on, and get moving. Problems don’t care how sad you are. They only respond to action.

And here’s the thing… nobody enjoys attending someone else’s pity party either. If all you ever serve is complaints, eventually people quit accepting the invitation.

Life rewards resilience, not RSVP cards to the Pity Party. Besides… if you’re going to host a party, at least have chips and queso.

The Emotional Cost of Being in Charge

For 34 years, I was a daycare director/owner. Somewhere along the way, I developed skin so thick it could probably survive re-entry from space. You almost have to.

When you’re responsible for hundreds of children, dozens of employees, parents, payroll, licensing, food programs, staffing shortages, budgets, and making sure the whole place doesn’t fall apart before noon, you don’t have the luxury of getting emotionally invested in every problem that comes your way.

And trust me, there was always a problem.

Every day brought a new crisis. Someone couldn’t come to work because their babysitter quit. Someone’s car wouldn’t start. Someone’s cousin’s boyfriend’s dog had an emergency. Someone’s kid was sick. Someone’s check was in the mail. Someone forgot they didn’t pay and bought new shoes. Someone misunderstood. Someone swore they were told something that nobody actually told them.

And somehow, every one of those problems landed on my desk.

That’s the part people don’t understand about being the person in charge. You’re carrying the weight of the entire operation while everyone else sees you as their secretary, therapist, scheduler, complaint department, and miracle worker.

After a while, you stop reacting emotionally. Not because you’re heartless. Not because you don’t care. But because if you felt every hardship, every excuse, every complaint, and every crisis, you’d never survive the week.

You become practical. You stop asking, “How do you feel?” and start asking, “Okay, what’s the plan?” Feelings take a back seat because the bus still has to keep moving.

What I’ve realized after being retired for four weeks is that maybe I wasn’t as uncaring as I thought. Maybe I was just carrying too much responsibility to have room for everyone else’s emotions too.

Because lately, I’ve found myself actually feeling sorry for people again. Not solving their problems. Not figuring out how to make it work. Just feeling empathy. It’s the strangest thing. Maybe carrying the world on your shoulders for 34 years leaves very little room for feelings. Or maybe my empathy retired before I did and has finally returned from a four-week cruise.

Either way, it’s nice to see it again. Although let’s not get carried away.

If you call me tomorrow and tell me you’re late because a squirrel stole your car keys and Mercury is in retrograde, I’m still probably going to ask what your backup plan is. Some habits die hard. 😆

Your Emergency Is Not My Speed Limit! Back Off, NASCAR 🚗😂

The other day I was driving into town when I glanced in my rearview mirror and discovered a car practically on my bumper.

There are very few things in life that unite people from all walks of life quite like being tailgated. I don’t care who you are—we can all agree that the person riding six inches off your ass is annoying.

What exactly is the goal? Do they think if they get close enough I’ll suddenly discover a hidden gear? Because I hate to disappoint them, but my car doesn’t have a turbo button.

I checked my speedometer and I was already going over the speed limit. So why are you flying up behind me like that? If you’re transporting a kidney across state lines, I can understand the urgency. But if you’re just trying to beat me to the next red light, I have some bad news for you.

Sir, you need to cool your jets.

And let’s be honest—the closer you get to my bumper, the lighter my foot gets on the gas pedal. At this point, we’re both going to get beaten to the intersection by the turtle crawling out of the ditch.

Then they finally whip around and pass, giving me the glare like I’m the problem. Buddy, you should probably just be grateful I didn’t mistake your tailgating for a request to test my brakes.

At this point in life, I’ve stopped participating in other people’s emergencies. If you’re in that much of a hurry, pass me. Otherwise, plan on going slower then we both want to, cause I got all day!

I See Through the Amen

I Think I’m the Christian Bullshit Whistleblower …and they know I know.

The older I get, the less patience I have for people who wear Christianity like a Halloween costume. They post Bible verses, inspirational memes, and “God is good” statuses, then turn around and treat people with all the grace of a parking ticket.

And before anyone gets offended, I’m not talking about imperfect people. We’re all imperfect. Lord knows I am. I’m talking about people who treat Christianity like the latest fashion trend.

Some people collect Stanley cups they’ll never use. Some people collect Bible verses they’ll never live by.

I don’t know why I notice it so much, but I do. I see the selective morality. I see the “love thy neighbor” crowd becoming remarkably flexible on who qualifies as a neighbor. I see kindness that only applies to certain people.

And I swear they know I know. They seem a little leery around me. You know how some people can walk into a room and sense tension? I walk into a room and my hypocrisy detector starts beeping like a smoke alarm.

Faith shouldn’t be measured by how many Bible verses you post online or how loudly you proclaim you’re blessed. It’s measured by how you treat people when nobody is watching. Kindness, humility, honesty, forgiveness, and compassion will preach a louder sermon than Facebook ever will.

You don’t have to be perfect to be a Christian. But if your actions consistently contradict your words, people notice.

Some of us just have really good bullshit detectors.

I Don’t Want to Text My Lamp

Maybe I’m becoming an old grouch, but I swear everything has gotten way more complicated than it needs to be.

The other day I needed a light bulb. Just a light bulb. Not a life-changing purchase. Not a major financial decision. I wasn’t shopping for a car or a house. I needed something that screws into a lamp and lights up when I flip a switch. Apparently that’s no longer a simple task.

I stood in front of the light bulb aisle staring at enough options to make me question my intelligence. Warm light. Cool light. Daylight. Soft white. Bright white. LED. Dimmable. Energy-saving. Smart bulbs.

I don’t want a smart bulb. I want a bulb that’s smart enough to turn on when I flip the switch and turn off when I don’t need it anymore. That’s the entire job description. But now light bulbs need Wi-Fi. They need apps. They need passwords. Why does a lamp need to communicate with my phone? I don’t want to text my lamp. I don’t need notifications from my bedside table.

And once I started noticing it, I realized it’s not just light bulbs. Everything needs an app now. The thermostat needs an app. The garage door needs an app. The doorbell needs an app. The television needs an app. At this point, I’m shocked my toaster hasn’t asked me to create an account and accept updated terms and conditions.

The funny thing is that half these smart devices don’t seem all that smart. The old thermostat sat quietly on the wall for twenty years and never once lost its connection. The new thermostat occasionally acts like it’s forgotten where it lives.

Maybe it’s my age. Or maybe we’ve reached the point where companies are inventing solutions to problems nobody actually had.

I don’t need my refrigerator to tell me what’s inside it. I opened the door. I know what’s in there. What I need is for it to stop making noises that sound like a repair bill.

Sometimes I think technology has passed me by. Then I remember I’m not the one who decided a light bulb needed internet access. So maybe I’m not the problem after all.

Turns Out I Live on the Chisholm Trail

The other day I was looking at a map and discovered something I probably should have known years ago. Apparently, I live right where the Chisholm Trail used to run.

Not near it. Not sort of close. Practically on it.

All these years I’ve been worried about property taxes, Amazon deliveries, and whether the grass needs mowing, and it turns out that 150 years ago cowboys were driving thousands of longhorn cattle through this same area.

Can you imagine?

Today, if a neighbor’s dog gets loose, the neighborhood Facebook page goes into full emergency mode. Back then, people were moving entire herds of cattle across Oklahoma and hoping they all made it to Kansas.

The Chisholm Trail wasn’t some little dirt path either. Between 1867 and the 1880s, an estimated five million cattle and a million wild mustangs traveled north through Oklahoma. That’s a lot of hooves. Suddenly the traffic on Garth Brooks Boulevard doesn’t seem quite so impressive.

And here’s the crazy part. A cattle drive could stretch for miles. Cowboys spent months on the trail dealing with storms, river crossings, stampedes, heat, dust, snakes, and whatever else Mother Nature decided to throw at them. Meanwhile, I get irritated when my air conditioner takes longer than five minutes to cool the house down.

The area around my home address is considered part of the historic trail corridor. That means where my house sits today, there were once campfires, chuck wagons, cowboys sleeping under the stars, and enough cattle to make modern HOA committees spontaneously combust.

History is funny that way. We think of it as something that happened somewhere else. Then one day you realize you’re standing right in the middle of it.

Now every time I drive down my street , I’m going to imagine some cowboy looking around and saying, “One day this place will have traffic lights, coffee shops, and people paying half a million dollars to live where my cows are standing.”

And honestly?

He’d probably laugh himself right off his horse.

Clearly I'm A Big Deal

I saw this the other day.... and well... I laughed way harder than I probably should have. But then I started thinking about it. Seven days. The entire world. Mountains. Oceans. Trees. Animals. Sunsets. The Grand Canyon. All of it?  Seven days? 

Meanwhile, it took nine months to put together this masterpiece known as me? Honestly, that tracks. Have you met me?

Apparently creating a planet is one thing. Creating someone who loses her glasses while wearing them, walks into a room and forgets why she’s there, and spends twenty minutes looking for her phone while talking on it… that takes time. A lot of time. Quality craftsmanship cannot be rushed. Maybe the extra two months were spent adding sarcasm. Lord knows I have that in abundance ...  Or stubbornness. Or the ability to remember something embarrassing I said in 1987 but not what I had for lunch yesterday. It could have been the sense of humor that took a little more time. Lord knows that received extra testing. 

The more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. I’m not saying I’m more complicated than the entire universe… But the math is right there. 😏

So yes. The world may have only taken seven days. But I took nine months. Clearly, I’m kind of a big deal.

They Walked Away… We Kept Living

I’m gonna just say it… I was a single mom for seven years. And to be honest, I loved it.

Was it hard? Of course. Was it my own fault? Yep. I picked the biggest losers I could find to marry and have kids with. I own that. But once I accepted that reality, I quit wasting my time wishing people would be different than who they had already shown me they were.

One thing is for sure—my kids didn’t do without. They had a roof over their heads, food on the table, birthday parties, school activities, and a mama who showed up every single day. In a lot of ways, they actually did better without the chaos, disappointment, and broken promises.

This year, I’m calling out the dads who left. The ones who walked away from responsibility, child support, birthdays, school plays, sick kids, and every hard part of parenting. The ones who disappeared and left women to do it all… not even caring if it worked out or not. Not even knowing if their children had what they needed. Not even checking to see if they were okay.

And here’s the reality: a lot of us women didn’t just survive without them—we thrived without them. We raised good kids, built stable homes, and created happy lives. We worked, paid bills, sat up with sick kids, attended parent-teacher conferences, worried about money, and carried the entire load ourselves.

They missed every milestone, every memory, and every chance to know their own children.

Children grow up. They start connecting the dots. They remember who was there and who wasn’t. They remember who came to the games, who helped with homework, who stayed up when they were sick, and who simply disappeared.

I don’t care if people think this is harsh. It’s the truth. People make decisions, and then they live with them. Choosing not to be in a child’s life is a decision. Walking away is a decision. Missing birthdays, holidays, graduations, weddings, and grandchildren someday… those are all consequences of that decision.

And their families know it too. They saw it then, and many of them still see it now. Many of them chose not to build relationships with those children either. They had birthdays they could have attended, phone calls they could have made, and memories they could have been part of. They chose not to. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and a leopard doesn’t change its spots.

Many of these men are still exactly who they were back then—still blaming everyone else, still avoiding responsibility, and still running from accountability. And if their lives are a mess, that’s not on the women who stayed and did the work. We earned our peace. We earned our families. We earned the respect of our children.

And if today some of those men are hearing “Happy Father’s Day” from a sibling, a parent, or another family member while their own children don’t call, don’t text, and don’t acknowledge them at all… I hope it stings. I hope they realize that being a father and being called “Dad” are two different things. Titles are earned, not biologically assigned. And I hope they understand what a fraud it is to celebrate being a father when they chose not to father their own children.

Because we didn’t take that title away from them.

They gave it away all by themselves.

They missed out on amazing kids and the adults they became. We didn’t miss out on anything. We got the privilege of raising them, loving them, and watching them grow into incredible people. The loss wasn’t ours. It was theirs.