There Are WAY Too Many Graduates of This Program

I’m starting to think How to Be a Dumbass 101 wasn’t just a popular class.

It was a degree program. 😂

Because every day I see someone do something completely predictable, get the completely predictable result, and then act absolutely SHOCKED.

You poked the bear.
The bear bit you.
And now we’re holding a community meeting about the aggressive bear. 😂

There are times life genuinely blindsides us. This isn’t about those.

This is about lighting the match, dropping it on the carpet, and then wondering how the house caught fire.

We’ve all heard play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Except now we play stupid games, win stupid prizes, and demand to speak to the manager about the prize. 😂

My daddy used to tell me, “Ya can’t fix stupid.”

The older I get, the more I realize that man knew some things.

Sometimes the universe isn’t against you. Sometimes you just made a dumbass decision.

Next semester, take Common Sense.

Somebody needed to say it. 😂

Did You Really Come to a Birthday Party Empty-Handed?

 Let’s talk about something that apparently needs to be explained in 2026: you should bring a gift to a child’s birthday party. I know. Shocking.

I’m not talking about spending a fortune. I’m not saying you need to show up with the latest gaming system, a mountain of toys or something that requires its own financing plan. I’m talking about a little something for the birthday child. Because if someone invites you to their child’s birthday party, the polite thing to do is bring a gift.

And before somebody says, “But they have plenty of toys,” I’m going to stop you right there. That is not the point.

The child doesn’t know that you think they have too many toys. The child knows it’s their birthday, there’s a party, there’s cake, there are presents being opened—and you showed up empty-handed. Awkward.

You don’t have to spend $50. You can buy a $10 toy, a coloring book, a book, a craft kit, a ball, a little Lego set or even a gift card. If money is tight, there are plenty of inexpensive things that still say, “I thought about you.”

And if you truly can’t afford a gift, that’s different. Most people understand that. But simply deciding you don’t need to bring one because you don’t feel like it? That’s rude.

And honestly, this isn’t just about children. If someone invites you to a birthday party, a wedding, a baby shower or another celebration where gifts are customary, you should probably bring one. It’s not about the price tag. It’s about acknowledging the occasion.

You were invited because someone wanted you there. They probably bought food, cleaned their house, planned activities, bought decorations and spent time making the day special. The least you can do is walk through the door with a little something for the person being celebrated.

Nobody is asking you to mortgage your house. Just don’t show up empty-handed and then stand there watching everybody else hand the birthday kid a present. Because at that point, the only thing you brought to the party was an awkward moment.

If you think enough of them to accept the invitation, think enough of them to bring the damn gift.

I’m Not Old-Fashioned, I Just Have Standards

I’m an old-fashioned woman living in a very modern world, and honestly, I’m not sure who approved this arrangement. I like manners. I like people saying please and thank you. I believe in holding the door open for someone behind you instead of letting it slam in their face while you stare at your phone. I believe if somebody invites you to dinner, you don’t spend the entire meal taking pictures of your food and ignoring the person sitting across from you. Apparently, this makes me old-fashioned. Fine. I’ll wear the badge.

I still believe in sending a thank-you note. Yes, an actual note. On paper. With a stamp. I know. Very radical. I think when someone does something nice for you, you should acknowledge it. Not just hit the little heart button on Facebook three weeks later.

And dating? Lord help us. I remember when a man actually asked you out. He didn’t send, “U up?” at 10:47 p.m. and consider that courtship. He asked. You made plans. He showed up. Maybe he even picked you up at your house. With his car. Not an Uber.

I’m not saying everything about the old days was better. Let’s not get carried away. We had rotary phones, television antennas you had to adjust just right, and exactly three channels—and somehow we survived. Then HBO came along, and suddenly we were living fancy. For an extra $10 a month, we could watch something besides those three channels. Of course, if we wanted to watch it, we had to get up and flip a switch on the television. Yes, we actually had to walk across the room. And somehow, we still managed to function.

But I wouldn’t mind bringing a few things forward with us. Like respect. Like keeping your word. Like showing up when you say you will. Like looking people in the eye when they’re talking to you instead of scrolling through Facebook while saying, “Uh-huh… yeah… totally listening.” No, you’re not. You’re watching a video of a raccoon stealing a sandwich.

I also believe you should dress appropriately for the occasion. Not every event requires a fancy dress, but apparently some people have decided pajamas are acceptable attire everywhere short of a wedding. I’m sorry, but if your outfit is also appropriate for taking a nap, we may have missed the dress code.

And I believe in hosting people. I like setting the table. I like making food. I like having people over and actually sitting around the table talking, laughing, and telling stories. Not everybody sitting in separate rooms staring at separate screens while the television provides the only conversation.

I miss the little things. People bringing something when they’re invited somewhere. Neighbors knowing each other. Kids playing outside until somebody yelled their name from the front porch. People actually visiting instead of saying, “We need to get together sometime!” and then communicating exclusively through Facebook reactions for the next five years.

I believe in birthdays being special, Christmas being about more than what you bought on Amazon, and I still think handwritten cards mean more than a GIF with glitter exploding across the screen. I believe if you love somebody, you should tell them. If you appreciate somebody, thank them. If you hurt somebody, apologize. And if somebody is standing behind you at the door, hold the damn door.

None of this requires a time machine. It just requires a little effort. Being old-fashioned doesn’t mean I hate modern life. I love my cell phone. I love the internet. I love being able to order something at midnight and have it show up on my porch before I’ve had time to wonder why the hell I ordered it. Technology is wonderful. But technology was supposed to make life easier, not make us forget how to be human.

So yes, I’m an old-fashioned woman in a modern world. I like manners. I like romance. I like handwritten notes, real conversations, family dinners, thoughtful gestures, and people who actually mean what they say. Maybe some of those things are old-fashioned. But if being old-fashioned means I still know how to treat people, I’ll gladly be old-fashioned.

The world can keep its shortcuts. I’ll keep the manners.

You Were Invited, Not Sponsored

People say gift-giving etiquette is becoming a “lost art.” Well, if it’s lost, head on down to the Lost & Found because apparently your common sense is in there with it.

There are some things in life I really thought we all just knew.

• Don’t wear white to somebody else’s wedding. 
• Don’t show up to Thanksgiving empty-handed and then leave with three containers of leftovers. 
• And if somebody invites you to a birthday party, wedding, or baby shower—you bring a gift.

I didn’t realize this needed its own public service announcement, but apparently... here we are.

If you accept an invitation to a celebration, GO BUY THE GIFT. Somebody thought enough of YOU to invite you. Your name made the list. They wanted you there. They planned the party, bought the food, ordered the cake, cleaned the house, decorated, made room for your butt at the table and spent their money so everybody could have a good time.

So… where’s their damn present?

You don’t just stroll in empty-handed, eat their food, drink their drinks, have a piece of cake—and possibly a second piece because “it was really good”—then holler, “Thanks for having me!” on your way out.

Thanks for having you?? You ate $23 worth of food and brought NOTHING. 🖕🏼 Who raised you?

And BABY SHOWERS. Lord help me with this one because the instructions are literally IN THE NAME "SHOWER". What exactly did you think we were showering her with? Compliments? Good vibes? Our sparkling personalities?

GIFTS, people. GIFTS. We are SHOWERING HER WITH GIFTS. That is the entire damn concept of throwing these types of parties!  Why do you think she made a registry? To give you something to scroll through and say, "Oh, that's cute."  It's there because babies apparently need approximately 900 things, including gadgets none of us knew existed before somebody got pregnant.

Graduation?  Bring a card with a gift card, cash - something to celebrate the kid surviving twelve years of school without completely losing their mind.

Housewarming? Bring something for the house. A candle. A plant. A bottle of whatever they like. Even a cute kitchen towel is better than showing up empty-handed and immediately asking where the bathroom is.

Weddings? Same deal. You’re celebrating two people starting a life together. Birthdays? You’re celebrating somebody because it’s THEIR day. Bring a gift.

And before somebody gets their panties in a wad, I’m not saying you need to spend a fortune. Nobody needs to take out a loan. Buy something from the registry. Get a gift card. Put $10-? bucks in a card. Wrap up a candle. Hell, bring them their favorite candy. It’s the thought. But there actually needs to BE a thought.

Would you clean your house, decorate, buy the food, order the cake, find and rent a venue, spend your money, plan everything and invite the people you care about—only to watch them parade through the door empty-handed like they accidentally wandered into a Costco sample aisle?

They thought enough of you to invite you, spend their time and money making the celebration happen, and make a place for you to be part of it.

Think enough of them to bring the damn gift. Because you were invited, not sponsored. 😂 They’re throwing the party. They shouldn’t have to sponsor your attendance, too.

My Ass Would Like to Discuss These 2.64 Mile Adventures I Go On

I walked 2.64 miles today. Two point six four! That sounds pretty impressive until you realize my ass is now acting like I personally betrayed it.

When I started walking a few weeks ago, I was doing about a quarter of a mile. Now look at me, out here walking over two and a half miles like I’m training for something. I’m not sure what I’m training for, unless it’s the ability to sit down without making a noise.

The walk itself was actually pretty good. I enjoyed the fresh air, the neighborhood and pretending I’m one of those people who has their life together because they exercise every morning. Then I got home, sat down and discovered that apparently, my backside did not approve of today’s adventure.

My legs are tired, my feet are tired and my ass hurts. I’m pretty sure there are muscles back there that have been unemployed for years, and now they’re demanding better working conditions.

I did it, though. I walked 2.64 miles, which is a long way from that quarter-mile nonsense I started with. I’ll probably do it again tomorrow, assuming I can get out of this chair without needing a rescue team.

Progress is progress, even when it hurts. And if walking is supposed to make me healthier, I would appreciate it if my ass could stop taking it so personally.

Before the Bills and the Back Pain

Sometimes I wonder what I would give to go back to page one of my love story.

Not because I want to change the ending. Not because I would choose someone different. But because I’d love to read those first few chapters again while knowing everything I know now.

I’d like to see us before the mortgage payments, the kids, the jobs, the bills, the arguments, the losses, the responsibilities and all the ordinary life that somehow piles itself on top of two people who once couldn’t get enough of each other. Back when a phone call could make your entire day. When you noticed every little touch. When staying up half the night talking didn’t seem ridiculous because tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as right now.

I wonder if I appreciated that version of us enough.

Probably not.

That’s the funny thing about beginnings. You rarely know you’re standing in one. You don’t realize that someday you’ll look back at an ordinary Tuesday night, a cheap dinner, a song playing in the car, or the way someone reached over and grabbed your hand and think, God, I’d give anything to have five minutes of that again.

But I wouldn’t want to stay on page one.

Because page one didn’t know what was coming.

Those two people didn’t know how many times life would test them. They didn’t know there would be days when love felt effortless and days when loving each other was a decision. They didn’t know the people they would lose, the children they would raise, the mistakes they would make, the forgiveness they would need, or how many times they would have to find their way back to each other.

Page one is beautiful because it’s full of possibility.

But there’s something pretty damn beautiful about page 10,000 too.

That’s where the wrinkles are. The inside jokes nobody else understands. The stories you’ve told a hundred times. The fights you barely remember what started. The quiet nights when nobody is trying to impress anybody anymore. It’s knowing exactly how that person takes their coffee, what will make them mad, what will make them laugh, and when they need you to just leave them alone for a minute.

Maybe I wouldn’t give anything to actually go back. Maybe I’d just like to visit.

I’d whisper to that younger version of myself, Pay attention. This is the beginning of something you’re going to spend the rest of your life remembering. Then I’d come right back here. Because page one may have had butterflies. But these pages have a whole life written on them.

Just Say You’re Sorry

Why have we made apologizing so damn complicated?

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Not an apology.

“I’m sorry, but you…”

Nope. You just took it back.

“I’m sorry if you were offended.”

Oh, we’re getting worse. 😂

Sometimes you had good intentions and still hurt somebody.

Sometimes you misunderstood.

Sometimes you were tired, angry, defensive or just plain wrong.

You don’t have to hold a congressional hearing to determine exactly what percentage of the argument belonged to each person before saying:

“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

An apology doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t mean the other person was perfect. And it doesn’t erase your side of the story.

It simply means you’re grown enough to recognize your part of it.

Your ego will survive.

And so will you.

Somebody needed to say it.

Ya Gossiping Turd Bucket!

 Whoa…

“Don’t tell me what someone said about me. Tell me why they felt comfortable talking about me to you!”

That right there pretty much explains why I am not part of a gossip circle. 😂

People who know me already know better than to come to me talking about somebody I care about. Because I am probably not going to sit there quietly, nod my head, and pretend I didn’t hear it. Nope. I’m going to have something to say. And depending on who you are talking about, I may even send a little slang back your way. 😂

I’ve noticed that I am often the last person to hear about something—or I never hear about it at all. And honestly, I think I know why.

People know I am probably going to ask questions. I’m probably going to defend somebody. I’m probably going to say, “Well, did you ever think about it this way?” And there is a very good chance I am going to put a stop to the whole conversation before it turns into a full-blown gossip festival. 

I don’t need to know everybody’s business. I have enough of my own! And apparently, somewhere along the way, people figured out that if they bring gossip to me, they may not get the reaction they were hoping for. I’m not going to help tear somebody down just so we can have something to talk about.

So maybe being the last to know isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe it means people know I’m not going to carry somebody else’s mess around for them. And honestly? That makes me feel like I’m doing something right. 😂

Raven hasn't changed much.

I’ve been a rebel pretty much since birth. One of my first full sentences was “Baby do it!” That probably should’ve been everyone’s warning. At five, I’d bite my friend Patricks’ fingers when he stuck them through the fence. When we went camping, I made my older siblings or cousins carry me from the shoreline because I didn’t want my feet muddy. 

Independent? Absolutely.

Spoiled? Possibly.

As a teenager, I was known to sneak my parents’ car out. As an adult, I divorced two men who thought they were going to control me. Boy... were THEY wrong!  They needed a weaker female and I wasn't it.

I hate being bossed around, I hate procrastinating, and I REALLY hate reading instructions. I’ve always believed if I set my mind to something, I can figure it out. Sometimes the hard way, but I’ll figure it out.

That stubbornness has gotten me into trouble, many times.... but it’s also gotten me pretty far. I raised kids, built a business, survived hard things, started over more than once, and made plenty of mistakes along the way.

At 61, I’m still basically that little girl saying, “Baby do it!”

When my mother worked she used to tell "Raven stories" and he friends even asked to hear one if they were having a bad day.  I guess I made their problems look smaller somehow! lol 

I doubt I’ll make it into an actual history book, but someday when my family tells stories about me, I hope they start with:

“Oh Lord… let me tell you what Raven did.”  

The Precious the Ordinary Moments

I had this weird thought… What if I woke up tomorrow and the last 45 years had just been a dream? I’m young again. No husband. No kids. No grandkids. No career. No house. No cell phone with my entire life inside it. My parents are alive. And apparently, I have to live the 80s all over again—which, honestly, there are worse things. But then I started wondering… would I do things differently?

Would I recognize Dennis when I met him and think, There you are? Would I hold my babies a little longer because I already knew how fast they were going to grow up? Would I know which friendships would eventually disappear and make more of an effort to hold on to the people who were worth keeping? Would I recognize the moments when I was seeing someone for the very last time and hug them a little tighter? And what about the people who would eventually hurt me? Would I avoid them this time, or would I face-rake them and kick them in the shins? LOL. Maybe I’d realize that even the people who hurt me somehow became part of who I was becoming. Maybe some lessons just have to be learned the hard way.

Would I know which arguments never really mattered and just shut my mouth? That’s a trick question—you know I can’t keep my mouth shut! But maybe I’d at least know which arguments mattered and which ones didn’t. Maybe I’d say the things I wish I had said and let go of the things that weren’t worth carrying.

Would I do better in school and take it more seriously? Maybe go to college? Choose something completely different? Become an actress, a therapist, or a lawyer? You know… actually do something with all that potential I didn’t even realize I had yet? Would I take that summer trip to Holland when I was 15 instead of staying home because I didn’t want to leave my boyfriend?

I know I would walk through the halls of my childhood home a little slower this time. I’d look at everything and take it all in because I would know the day would come when it wouldn’t be my home anymore. I’d sit on my swing set a little longer, looking at the mountains and watching the sunset, knowing that someday I’d give anything to sit there just one more time.

And when I saw my parents young again, would I just stand there and stare at them for a while, knowing I had somehow been given back something I thought I had lost forever? I would notice everything this time. Their voices coming from another room as they talked to each other. My daddy telling some funny joke while rubbing his hand over his face. My mom completely ignoring him when he started a sentence with, “Now, Judy…” I’d sit beside them a little longer and probably drive them crazy with questions. I’d hug them more. I’d listen more. I’d soak up all the ordinary things that didn’t seem important at the time because I’d know something my younger self couldn’t possibly have known yet: there are only so many Christmases, birthdays, phone calls, and times you get to walk through the door and say, “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”

I’d appreciate my young body instead of constantly finding something wrong with it. I’d probably look in the mirror and think, Girl, you have no idea how good you’ve got it! Of course, younger me wouldn’t listen. She’d probably find something to complain about anyway. We always say, “If I knew then what I know now…” But what if you actually did? I think I know my answer. I would change things.

I’d change whatever I could to better myself. I’d make smarter decisions. I’d take a few different roads. I’d hold on to some people longer and let go of others a hell of a lot sooner. I wouldn’t want to repeat every mistake just because it was part of my story. But there is one thing I wouldn’t risk changing. My kids. Whatever roads I had to take to get to them, I’d take them again. Every single one.

They’re the one part of the dream I’d have to find my way back to. And maybe that’s what makes this imaginary do-over so complicated. Because if I change too much, I might change the very things that led me to them.

So maybe I wouldn’t want to wake up and live an entirely different life. Maybe I’d want to take everything I learned from this one and simply do some things better. I’d change what I could without changing the people I couldn’t imagine my life without. I’d spend a little less time worrying about the destination and a little more time noticing where I was standing. I’d slow down long enough to realize that sometimes I was already somewhere worth remembering.

So if I woke up tomorrow and I was young again, with 45 years of memories from a life that supposedly never happened, I think I’d make the most of it. I’d do some things differently, appreciate some things more, and probably still make a few stupid decisions because, well… I’m still me. But this time, I’d know just how precious the ordinary moments really were.

Being Offended Doesn’t Make You Right

Somewhere along the way, we decided that if something hurts our feelings, the other person must have done something wrong.

Nope.

Sometimes somebody was rude.

Sometimes somebody really does owe you an apology.

And sometimes?

You just didn’t like what they said. 😂

Being offended doesn’t automatically make you the victim. Disagreeing with you isn’t disrespecting you. And somebody telling you something you don’t want to hear isn’t necessarily “toxic.”

Sometimes the truth just has terrible bedside manner.

You can be offended and they can still be right.

Those two things can exist at the same time.

Your feelings deserve consideration. They don’t automatically win the argument.

Somebody needed to say it.

Who’s The Glue of Your Family

There is usually one woman in every family who becomes the glue. The one who thinks about everybody, keeps track of birthdays, plans the holidays, comes up with things for everyone to do and tries to keep the family connected. She plans it, shops for it, spends the money, decorates, organizes, takes the pictures and tries to make sure everyone—especially the kids—is having fun. Most of the time, everyone else just gets to show up.

Being the glue can be exhausting, and it can also be incredibly unappreciated. The woman trying to keep everyone together is often called bossy. She expects too much. She tries too hard. She makes too big a deal out of things. She takes too many pictures. There can be an eye roll or negative comment for almost everything she does. But what looks like “trying too hard” to everyone else may simply be someone who loves her family enough to put effort into making memories.

And here’s an idea: instead of having an opinion about everything after it’s already planned and done, offer to help while it’s still in the planning stages. Help come up with the idea. Make a reservation. Bring something. Decorate. Pay for part of it. Ask, “What can I do?” It’s pretty easy to point out what could have been done differently when someone else did all the work. If you want a voice in how things are done,don’t wait until the day everything’s done.

The funny thing is, family memories don’t magically happen. Somebody thought of the Christmas tradition. Somebody planned the family outing. Somebody bought the decorations and stayed up late putting them out. Somebody convinced everyone to play the silly game. Somebody got all the kids together and made them stand still long enough for that picture everyone will treasure twenty years from now. And yes, everybody probably complained while she was taking it.

Maybe families should be a little easier on their glue. Instead of teasing her for taking another picture, smile for the damn picture. Instead of complaining about the activity, participate. Instead of telling her she tries too hard, recognize how much effort it takes to keep a family connected as everyone gets older, busier and pulled in different directions.

Because eventually the kids grow up, holidays change, people move away and some of the people in those annoying pictures aren’t here anymore. Suddenly those silly traditions and hundreds of pictures don’t seem quite so ridiculous.

The glue isn’t trying to control the family. She’s trying to hold onto it.

And every once in a while, somebody should probably thank her for that.

Apparently, I Am a Walker Now

Three weeks ago, I started walking every morning. I’m not exactly sure what possessed me to do this, but I have discovered something completely unexpected—I actually enjoy it.

I started out with a quarter of a mile, because apparently I had no intention of overachieving. But it didn’t take long before I worked my way up to two miles a day. It takes me about 40 minutes, and by the time I get home, I need a shower!

There are quite a few people in my neighborhood who walk, especially on the weekends, so I’ve started getting to know the regulars. Well… “getting to know” may be a little generous. I know them in the way you know people you pass every morning but have never actually introduced yourself to.

I have the Hawaiian man who rides his bike while he sings. I don’t know what he is singing, but he seems very happy about it, and honestly, I respect that.

I have also made friends with several dogs, a few cats and even a rabbit. Although, I’m pretty sure the rabbit wasn’t interested in friendship. He hopped in a deep bush and turned to look at me. So I guess that friendship is still pending.

There are two older couples who walk together, and then there’s a Vietnamese couple. She walks ahead of him and he spends most of the time playing catch-up. And I’m not saying he walks slow, but she doesn’t exactly walk fast. I’m beginning to think their morning walk is less of a stroll and more of a relationship exercise.

There’s also a woman who works out in her garage while her baby sits in a bouncer watching her. I admire that woman. She has figured out how to exercise while parenting, and that deserves some kind of award. Or at least a really good cup of coffee.

Then there is the man who runs through both neighborhoods. He wears all black and checks his watch constantly. I have no idea what he is timing, but I know where he lives and sometimes he runs past his house then abruptly turns around and calls it a day. Like Forrest did that one time. 

There’s another lady who walks her dog, and they are both very serious about it. They walk perfectly straight, and that dog never looks my way. Not once. And let me tell you, that is one tight leash. That dog knows he has a job to do, and apparently his job is to ignore me.

We also have roofers all over the neighborhood. So now I have accidentally added “neighborhood nail patrol” to my morning routine. Anytime I see a nail in the street or yard, I pick it up. I’m not sure when I became responsible for neighborhood construction debris, but here we are. The nails change location depending on which house is being roofed.

There is also one particular sidewalk that I’m convinced is where all the worms in Oklahoma go to live. It is always covered with worms. I don’t know why they all gather there, but apparently they have a meeting every morning. I just try not to step on anybody.

And then there is a sidewalk that looks like they poured the concrete right in the middle of a downpour. It is covered in little dents and divots, like the world’s worst case of cellulite. I’m pretty sure that sidewalk is self-conscious.

Also, there is an etiquette to walking that I never knew existed. If I see someone coming, I give up the curb. But if they see me coming, they do the same thing. So then we have this awkward little sidewalk dance where two people are trying to be polite while silently deciding who gets the good side.

The main thing I’ve learned is that I really like walking before it gets too hot. Very important when you live in Oklahoma and would prefer not to suffer heat stroke before breakfast. So far, I’ve managed to get my walk in every morning, even in the middle of moving. And honestly, I’m pretty proud of myself.

I also take solace in having other people out walking when I am. Somehow, seeing strangers along my route makes me feel safer. I guess there’s comfort in knowing I’m not the only person out there. Of course, I also carry my pepper spray and have an alarm, just in case somebody decides my morning walk needs an unexpected plot twist.

At this point, I have my route, I know where the worms live, I know which dogs will acknowledge me and which ones apparently have no interest in socializing, and I know who is going to be out walking.

I’m sure the neighborhood walkers have noticed me by now too. I wonder what they call me. Probably something like, “There’s that sweaty lady again.” And honestly, I’m okay with that.

I Might Have Missed My Calling

Oh Lord… we’re moving! And I don’t mean moving and grooving moving. I mean 'pack up my house, buy 60 boxes, lose the tape 40 times in an hour, have the marker dry out, and discover that Dennis has apparently decided the entire attic needs to come downstairs' moving!

We decided to get out from under the pool. Sure, the grandkids love it, but Dennis and I rarely get in it, and Dennis is over taking care of it. So we started talking about it and thought, why are we paying to take care of something that we hardly use?

So we decided to put the house on the market. Now, we have sold three other houses, so we know how this works. I personally sold one of them very quickly because I had a friend who wanted it, but the other two took over a year! Knowing it is a buyer’s market, we figured this one would probably take some time, too. We definitely didn’t want to end up paying two mortgages, so we thought we would put it on the market and start building our new house and see what happened.

Well, I designed this house with a private architect, so it is a little different. It is a custom-built house, and we built it for what WE wanted. We have a library, a craft/writing hut, and we only put two bedrooms in it so our grown kids didn’t get any ideas. We have a beautiful outdoor living area with a large pool and a huge backyard on a corner lot. Every tree is lit, and there are gardens around the pool. It is a beautiful house, but we knew we were probably looking for a very specific buyer. I figured it might take MONTHS to find somebody who wanted exactly what we had built. I wanted to get that head start on selling while we began building our new house.

Anyway, we decided to go ahead and put it on the market, so our realtor got all the information from us, had professional pictures taken and got it posted online. And then the phone rang. Within minutes, we had a call for a first showing. Well… okay then.

Our realtor came over at 11:00 to show the house for the first time and put a big ol’ “FOR SALE” sign in our yard. We had another showing scheduled for 6:30 that evening. Dennis was already griping about having to leave the house for showings. LOL. Then someone else was getting ready to make an offer on another house and wanted to squeeze ours in at 6:00.

So the 6:00 people came and looked at the house and apparently loved that it wasn't like any other houses they had seen. While the 6:30 people were STILL HERE looking at the house and thinking about making an offer, the 6:00 people made an offer.

I’m sorry… WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE? We don't have a house to move to yet! We went from “Let’s put the house on the market so we have more time to sell it” to “Holy crap, we sold the house!” in SIX HOURS!! That poor “FOR SALE” sign didn’t even have time to get comfortable in my yard before it went “Pending” on the website.

We thought this might take months. We were prepared for showings. We were prepared to keep the house clean. We were prepared for the possibility that it might take over a year. What we were NOT prepared for was that it would sell within the first 6 hours and that we would have 7 weeks to move.

So here I sit, taking a break from packing and wondering if I missed my calling in designing houses!

I Rolled My Eyes So Hard I Saw My Brain

 I just rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain.

At least I think it was my brain. It could've been one of those random floaters. Once you hit a certain age, it's hard to tell what's a medical condition and what's just Tuesday.

Honestly, eye-rolling isn't what it used to be. There was a time when you could roll your eyes at somebody and move on with your day. Now it's a full-body event.

First, my eyes roll. Then my neck pops. My shoulder makes a sound like somebody stepped on a bag of potato chips. Somehow my knee gets involved even though it had absolutely nothing to do with the situation. And afterward, I have to sit there for a minute and make sure everything went back where it belongs.

Getting older is wild. We don't just react anymore... we recover.

I can't even sigh dramatically without wondering if I pulled something. And don't get me started on sneezing. At our age, a sneeze is less of a reflex and more of a gamble. Will I survive? Will I throw my back out? Will I accidentally pee a little? Nobody knows.

It's like spinning the Wheel of Fortune, except the prizes are muscle relaxers, heating pads, and an appointment with the chiropractor.

The funny thing is, I don't even roll my eyes over big things anymore. Someone says, "Have you tried turning it off and back on?" Eye roll. The grocery store rearranges everything for absolutely no reason? Eye roll. Someone announces they're leaving Facebook for the third time this month? Eye roll... even though we all know they'll be back by Thursday.

Somewhere along the way, my body stopped saying, "That was dramatic."

Now it says, "That'll be three days to recover."

So yes... I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain.

The good news is I finally know where it is.

The bad news is I think I strained my neck finding it. 😂

Play The Silly Games!

I hear people talk all the time about how important it is for kids to have grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and extended family in their lives. And I agree. But here’s the thing nobody seems to mention. You actually have to build the relationship. You can have 47 relatives sitting in the same room at Christmas and that doesn’t mean those kids have a relationship with any of them. And really, why have a family if you don’t want to be part of it?

Being Grandma doesn’t automatically create a bond. Neither does being Grandpa, Aunt Whoever or Uncle So-and-So. That’s your title. The relationship comes from what you actually DO with them. Play the silly games. Go watch them play ball, dance, sing, act or whatever they’re into this month. Listen to the 15-minute story that you still don’t understand. Ask them questions. Remember what they told you last time. Laugh with them. Take them somewhere. Teach them something. Let them help you cook. Sit down and actually TALK to them. And for heaven’s sake, put the phone down once in a while.

Kids notice who pays attention to them. They know who lights up when they walk through the door and who barely looks up. They know who makes them feel interesting, funny, important and loved. You can spend years sitting in the same room with a child and still be practically a stranger to them.

Then someday you can’t wonder why they don’t call, don’t visit or don’t seem particularly close to you. You can’t ignore their little world for years and then suddenly expect to be an important part of their big one. DNA gave you the connection. You still have to do the work to build the relationship. Family isn’t something you just have. It’s something you participate in.