Don't Forget The Victims

Sometimes it is really hard for me to keep what I consider reality in my thinking when there are so many people out there who seem to feel sorry for the person who committed the crime.

I read a post today about Christa Pike. It talked about her childhood, her trauma, mental illness, relationships, brain development and what her life has been like in prison. And I get it. All of those things may help explain how she became the person she became. But explaining something doesn't make it okay. It doesn't erase what happened.

Because somewhere in all of that was Colleen Slemmer. Colleen was 19 years old. She had a whole life ahead of her too. She should have had the chance to grow up, make mistakes, fall in love, have a family, change her mind, become a different person and live out the rest of her life. Instead, she was beaten, tortured and murdered.

And this isn't just about Christa Pike. I see this kind of thinking all the time now. People who spend so much time talking about what happened to Lindsay Clancy and wearing pink like idiots that the three children she killed seem to become secondary. People who believed Karmelo Anthony deserved another trial. He admitted to doing it! People who don't seem to have a problem with someone being here illegally even when they kill someone. And I find myself sitting here thinking...when did we become so forgiving of the person who did the terrible thing? You cannot just forget the victims and the families who had to suffer because of it.

I don't even have compassion for them. I don't care if it's mental illness, childhood trauma or someone's life circumstances. After the crime, it simply doesn't matter to me. The victims matter.

Whatever happened to Christa growing up may help explain how she became who she was. But it does not erase what happened to Colleen. Plenty of people survive horrible childhoods, abuse, trauma and circumstances that I can't even imagine without going on to torture and murder another human being.

And maybe that's the part I struggle with. I don't need to understand every detail of the person who committed the crime to know what matters. The bottom line is that someone was hurt or killed, and their life should not become nothing more than a footnote while we spend years trying to understand the person who took it from them.

If we're going to tell someone's whole life story, tell the victim's story too. Remember who they were. Remember their family. Remember the life they should have had.

Don't make the victim the footnote.

Listen LINDA! Hard Didn’t Just Get Invented

You ever notice when you tell somebody something that might actually help them—advice from your own life, something you struggled with, figured out, and did to better yourself—the first response is, “Well, it was easier back then.”

That’s bullshit.

It wasn’t easier. It was different.

If it had been easy for me, I wouldn’t have had to figure out how to overcome it in the first place. I didn’t magically get handed a life with no obstacles just because it happened 10, 20, or 30 years ago. I had bills. I had responsibilities. I had kids. I had setbacks. I had times when I didn’t know how in the hell I was going to make something work. And somehow, I figured it out.

Were things cheaper? Some things were. You know what else was cheaper? My paycheck.

Did we have different opportunities? Sure. We also didn’t have half the resources people have today. There wasn’t an app for everything. You couldn’t Google how to do something, apply for 20 jobs from your couch, work remotely, have groceries delivered, start a side business online, or find a YouTube video showing you step-by-step how to do practically anything.

Every generation has advantages the generation before it didn’t have, and every generation gets handed a brand-new pile of problems to go with them.

That’s life.

So when somebody who has already climbed over an obstacle tells you what worked for them, maybe instead of immediately explaining why you can’t possibly do it because they had it easier, listen to what they’re actually saying. Their exact solution may not fit your life perfectly. Adjust it. Change it. Find the modern-day version of it.

But don’t dismiss the lesson just because it came from a different time.

Sometimes “it was easier back then” really means, “I don’t want to hear that fixing this might require me to do something hard.”

Times change. Circumstances change. The details change.

But hard has always been hard. And excuses have always been easier.

The Math Ain’t Mathing

I’m sorry, but I have several people on my feed selling different get rich type things, so I’m just gonna say it. If you’re constantly on social media telling people how to get rich and achieve “financial freedom,” eventually people are going to look at your life and realize the math ain’t mathing.

You don’t have to actually be rich to look successful, but if you’re selling wealth, there should eventually be some evidence that what you’re selling works. If you’re still working a regular job, living in a rental, driving the same cars and using the same old technology while telling everyone else how much money your “investments” are making—people are going to start questioning it.

And you can only use “I’m paying off debt” for so long. At some point, if this opportunity is making the kind of money you claim it is, something should change.

There’s nothing wrong with working a job. There’s nothing wrong with renting. There’s nothing wrong with not having expensive things. But don’t sell those same people a fantasy of financial freedom when you aren’t living it yourself.

Meanwhile, people who have spent decades working, building careers, saving and investing are buying the cars they want, building their dream homes and enjoying what all those years of work created.

If you’re selling “get rich,” eventually you need to look like it worked.

Otherwise, stop selling the dream and READ THE ROOM.

Some Kind of Dennis Voodoo Shit

I have memories from childhood that make sense to remember. Driving the boat with my dad. Going to Clothes World with my mom. Things that actually happened and were important enough to stick with me.

And then I have THIS one.

I was probably 9 or 10, right around that age when your little world starts getting bigger. I was old enough to venture farther from my own yard, play with more kids on the block, and start meeting the older kids my friends and siblings knew.

There was a boy named Scot who played with my best friend’s brother. Scot had older brothers and sisters, just like I did. One of his brothers was named Dennis, and for some reason, I can still see myself standing there on our block, looking toward their house.

Nothing special was happening. It wasn’t some big childhood moment. As far as I remember, it was just an ordinary day, an ordinary house, and a 9- or 10-year-old girl thinking about absolutely nothing important. Then somebody mentioned his brother. Dennis. And I remember looking toward that house and thinking, **“I don’t like that name.” **That’s it. That is the ENTIRE memory. Nothing happened. Nobody named Dennis traumatized me. 😂 I apparently just stood there, heard the name Dennis, and decided I did NOT like it.

But WHY do I remember that? Think about how many conversations I had as a kid. How many people I met. How many names I heard. How many completely ordinary days came and went that I couldn’t tell you one thing about today. But my brain decided THIS needed permanent storage.

And then, years later… I MARRIED A DENNIS.

Every once in a while, I think about that little girl standing there looking at that house and having that completely random thought. Of ALL the things my brain could have saved from childhood, why that?

Was it coincidence? Was the universe screwing with me? Was 9-year-old me getting some weird little preview of my future? Or was it some kind of voodoo shit that eventually sentenced me to a lifetime with a Dennis? 😂 I have absolutely no idea.

But maybe this is exactly why my blog is called Insignificant Thoughts, because that’s exactly what this was.... One completely insignificant little thought from a little girl standing on her street. It meant absolutely NOTHING at the time. Yet somehow, my brain held onto it for more than 50 years.

And after all these years, I can still picture myself standing there thinking: I don’t like that name.

Apparently, life said…

“You will.”

When the House Goes Quiet

Nobody really prepares you for the day your children grow up and leave. You spend years raising them to become independent adults, and then they have the nerve to actually do it.

For years, I was the center of their little universe. I knew where they were, who they were with, what they ate and usually what they were mad about. “Mom, can you bring me my bloomers?” “What’s for dinner?” “Where are my shoes?” “Do I have to ride with him?” “Tell her to stop!” “If you go somewhere… come and get me!”

The house was loud. Band practice in the garage... and I am talking with a full on drum kit!  Guitar, bass, a cowbell and a friend on a pogo stick! Friends came and went. Someone always needed a ride, food, money or a referee. And while I was busy with all that, childhood was quietly slipping by. Then one leaves, then another, until eventually the last one walks out the door.

They come for dinner and bring spouses, grandchildren, dogs and enough chaos to remind you of the old days. Then they go home—to their own homes, schedules and lives. Exactly what we raised them to have.

What I miss most is the ordinary stuff: everyone asleep under my roof, the door opening after school, the pantry door opening 20 times a day. I  miss being the chauffeur or referee. I miss the children they were.

Then grandchildren come along and, for a little while, the house gets noisy again. There are toys on the floor, little voices in the kitchen and someone wanting a snack five minutes after refusing lunch. Sometimes you catch your own child’s face in your grandchild’s, and it stops you cold. This time, though, you know how fast it goes. So you read one more book, give one more hug and care a whole lot less about the mess. And let them have the snack they want.

There’s also the small pleasure of watching your children become parents. Sooner or later, you hear your own words coming out of their mouths and think, Well, well, well. Look who turned into me.

People say children need wings. Sweet thought, but they’re not birds. We spend nearly two decades building a life around them, then smile proudly while they walk into theirs. And we are proud. We just might cry all the way home. Because while you rejoice in their accomplishments you find sorrow in an ending of your dreams.

Eventually you realize their leaving is proof you did your job. The little people who needed you for everything became adults who built lives of their own. That’s the goal. It just hurts like hell when you succeed.

And if you’re lucky, those children someday bring children of their own through your front door. For a few wonderfully loud hours, there are shoes by the door, toys on the floor and someone hollering, “What’s for dinner?”

Then everyone leaves. The door closes. The house goes quiet. And you finally understand: all those years you thought you were raising children, you were also living the days you would spend the rest of your life missing.

Everybody Needs Money. Unfortunately, I’m Everybody.

When everyone around you seems to need something, how do you stay on task and just take care of yourself? I’m not talking about needing a favor or somebody needing a shoulder to cry on. I’m talking about money. Because it seems like everybody needs money.

Somebody needs help with a bill. Somebody needs a little extra. Somebody has an unexpected expense. Somebody needs this or that. And while I genuinely wish I could help everybody, there is one small problem: I don’t have money for everybody.

I’m trying to make responsible decisions with what I have. I have my own bills, my own plans and my own future to think about. I can’t keep reaching into my pocket every time someone else comes up short.

And honestly, that’s hard to say sometimes. When you love people, you want to help. You don’t want to be the person who says, “Sorry, I can’t.” But at some point, you have to realize that helping everyone else financially can leave you needing help yourself. I am not a bank. I don’t have a vault in the backyard. There isn’t a money tree growing behind the shed that I forgot to mention.

So I’m learning that it’s okay to say, “I can’t.” Not because I don’t care or because I don’t want good things for you. I simply have to take care of my own household, too. Because if I give away everything I have trying to help everybody else, who’s going to help me?  Everyone I know is broke! lol.

I'm Just Talking to Myself on the Internet 😂

Not many people visit my blog, and that's perfectly fine because I don't really have it listed for public viewing. It's a personal thing I do for fun, for therapy, and kind of like a diary. Only I'm not going to tell you what I had for lunch or that I went to Walmart and bought toilet paper. Although, depending on the day, that might be the most exciting thing that happened. 😂 I write about my experiences, my memories, my opinions, and whatever else my brain decides needs to be put into words. I love to write, and I love documenting the things that happen in my life. It's a way for me to get things out of my head, sort through my thoughts, and occasionally get something off my chest without making someone sit through a three-hour conversation about it. You're welcome! I like voicing my opinions, even if nobody agrees with them, and honestly, it doesn't make much difference to me whether ten people read what I write or ten thousand. I'm not trying to become famous, make money, or become the next big thing on the internet. Lord knows the world has enough people trying to do that already. I do this because I enjoy it. It's my little corner of the internet where I can write what I want, how I want, and nobody has to read a single word unless they choose to. I also like having a record of my life, my thoughts, and the things I've experienced. Someday, I can look back and remember what I was thinking at this particular stage of my life, assuming I can remember where I put the password to get into the blog. And to those of you who do take the time to read it, I appreciate you more than you know. I realize you have approximately a million other things you could be doing, so the fact that you make an effort to stay connected to me through my ramblings means something. I may mostly be writing for myself, but it's nice knowing a few of you are along for the ride. Just don't expect daily updates on what I had for breakfast. Unless something really interesting happens to the toast.

The House Stays. The Memories Come With Us.

Today we close on our house. Everybody keeps asking if I’m sad. I’m really not. I’m grateful. That house has been LIVED in—a place full of kids, grandkids, laughter, noise, food, and over-the-top holidays. 😂

Before there was a pool, the backyard was full of hula hoops, learning to bat a ball, uncle Mackey spinning the kids all around!  There were large Easter eggs hunts and ping pong tournaments even a dart game or two. Kids ran everywhere, while footballs flew outside and Thanksgiving dinner came together inside.

Then came the pool: swimming, cookouts, family gatherings, and wet towels everywhere. 😂

We didn’t just buy that house. We designed it—the gardens, outdoor spaces, my writing hut, and the library, which I AM going to miss. 😂

When I think about it, I think about the people we loved, the traditions we created, and all the ordinary moments that became favorite memories. I can leave with a full heart, thankful we had the chance to live there and love there. And now, we get to give someone else that chance.

A new family will walk through those doors, settle into those rooms, and slowly make the house their own. Maybe there will be more backyard games, Thanksgiving football, birthday parties, Christmas mornings, and wet towels by the pool. More laughter. More traditions. More life.

We got our turn, and it was a REALLY good one. We filled that house with love, and now somebody else gets to fill it with theirs. That doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like the most beautiful kind of continuation.

So today, we say goodbye with gratitude—not because we’re leaving something behind, but because we were lucky enough to have it in the first place. 

We hand over the keys knowing the memories will come with us, while the house gets the opportunity to hold someone else’s. And as one family begins their story there, we get to begin ours somewhere new: a new house, new spaces, new projects, a new library, and memories we haven’t made yet.

Closing a chapter doesn’t have to be sad. Sometimes you can turn the final page with a full heart, smile at everything between the covers, and look forward to the story waiting ahead.

Today we hand over the keys. And tomorrow? Tomorrow... We start writing the next chapter.

Renting a House Shouldn’t Require a Blood Sacrifice

Apparently, renting a house has become a lot harder than it needs to be. You would think I was trying to buy the place instead of just temporarily live in it. Everything is online. You find the house online, look at the pictures online, fill out an application online, and then wait to see if you are worthy of the privilege of paying rent every month.

Then there’s the cost. Rent, deposit, application fee and whatever other mystery fees have been invented since the last time I rented a house. By the time you add it all up, you start wondering if you should just buy an RV. And heaven forbid you have a dog. Mine costs an extra $15 a month to live there. Does he have a job? A checking account? Is he planning to contribute to the electric bill? Because as far as I know, he has never paid for anything except maybe with a kiss and a wagging tail.

I understand wanting responsible tenants and protecting a property, but somewhere along the way, renting a house turned into an application process for the space program. I’m basically just handing my money over every month. I’m not investing it in my own home or building any equity. I’m helping somebody else pay for their shit! I guess it shows that I haven’t rented a house in over 33 years, because apparently I have forgotten how this works. But damn!

I’m just looking for a place to live. Apparently, that requires a deposit, a credit check, a stack of paperwork and a financially responsible dog. At this point, renting a house shouldn’t require a blood sacrifice.

Put Your Dirty Laundry Back in the House

I was raised not to air your dirty laundry in public. Facebook apparently said, “Nah, bring the whole hamper.” 😂 Your husband is an asshole. Your sister is a bitch. Your mother-in-law ruined Christmas. Your cousin owes you money. And now 3,700 people are sitting around in your family meeting like we were subpoenaed. 😂 Then two days later: “Happy anniversary to my best friend and the love of my life!” MA’AM. On Tuesday you told us he was a narcissistic lying piece of shit. WE HAVEN’T HEALED YET. 😂 That’s the problem with airing your dirty laundry online. You might forgive them. Facebook remembers. So have the fight. Slam a cabinet. Call your best friend. Work it out. But for the love of God, put the hamper back in the house. Somebody needed to say it. 😂

THE RESOURCE BANK - Sometimes It’s Who You Know

You know who everybody knows?

The person who only calls when they need something.

Don’t be that person.

Building resources isn’t about collecting people you can USE later. It’s about building relationships throughout your life.

Keep in touch with people. Help when you can. Share information. Recommend somebody for a job. Give them the name of a good contractor. Pick up the phone when somebody needs advice and you actually know the answer.

And sometimes just check on somebody without needing a damn thing.

THAT is how you build a Resource Bank.

Over the years, I’ve learned that everybody knows SOMETHING you don’t know.

One friend knows a great realtor. Somebody else knows a mechanic who won’t rip you off. Another person knows who to call about insurance. Somebody knows a contractor, lawyer, accountant, teacher, doctor, plumber, or person hiring.

You don’t need to personally know everybody.

Sometimes you just need to know somebody who knows somebody.

But relationships have to work BOTH ways.

If the only time your name pops up on somebody’s phone is when you need a favor, eventually they’re going to stop answering.

Be useful to other people, too.

Share what YOU know. Make the introduction. Give the recommendation. Answer the question. Help somebody get through something you’ve already been through.

And don’t keep score.

You don’t help someone today because you’re expecting them to owe you something tomorrow.

You do it because that’s how relationships are built.

Then one day, when life throws something at you and you don’t know what the hell to do, you may realize you already know exactly who to call.

That’s a resource.

And those relationships don’t get built the day you need them.

You build them along the way.

I Need A Room

My bedroom looks like a time capsule right now. 😂 Walk through the rest of my house and you’ll see empty rooms, blank walls and a random piece of furniture here and there. It definitely doesn’t look like home anymore.

Then you walk into my bedroom. Everything is still on the walls. The bed is made. The TV is on. The dog is in his corner. It looks like we aren’t moving at all.

My bedroom is always the last room I take down and the first room I put back together when we move.

That’s my moving advice: always have ONE room completely finished by the end of the first day. Because when you’re exhausted and surrounded by boxes, you need somewhere to go, shut the door and feel like you’re home.

The rest of the house can be chaos. I just need one room that isn’t.

An Apology Without Change Is Just Noise

I hate an empty apology. Sometimes I think it’s more insulting than no apology at all. “I’m sorry I got caught,” “I’m sorry you didn’t like what I did,” and especially “I’m sorry you feel that way” all say the same thing to me—you’re not really sorry you hurt me. You’re sorry there’s a problem now.

To me, that’s a slap in the face. It makes me feel like you don’t really care about my feelings, and eventually that makes me care a whole lot less about protecting yours.

A real apology is simple: “I’m sorry I hurt you. I may not have meant to, but now that I know I did, I’ll try not to do it again.” It’s heartfelt, it takes some ownership, and there’s an effort to learn from it.

I don’t expect perfection. People screw up. I screw up. You may hurt my feelings again over something completely different. But if I’ve specifically told you something hurts me and you purposely keep doing that same thing, then your apology doesn’t mean much.

I don’t need groveling or some big dramatic speech. I just need to know you give a shit that you hurt me. Own it, learn from it and try to do better.

Because “I’m sorry” isn’t supposed to erase what you did. It’s supposed to show me you cared enough that you wish you hadn’t done it.

The Problem With Making a Big Decision

 There are some decisions in life that are easy. Do I want chocolate or vanilla? Am I going to wear my good jeans or the ones with the elastic waist? Do I want to get up and do something productive, or would I rather sit here and pretend I am resting when I am actually just staring into space? Those decisions I can handle. But then life decides to throw a big, important decision at you, and suddenly you need a committee, a spreadsheet, three opinions, a backup plan, and possibly a nap.

And if you are anything like me, you don't just make a decision. You think about it. Then you think about what could happen if you make the wrong decision. Then you think about what could happen if you make the right decision but something still goes wrong. Then you wonder if you should have made a completely different decision in the first place. By the time you are finished, you have mentally lived out seventeen possible futures, and you still haven't made a single decision.

I have discovered something over the last four weeks: making one big decision doesn't mean you are finished making decisions. It apparently means you have just opened the door to a whole bunch of smaller ones.

About four weeks ago, Dennis and I decided to put our house on the market. That was the big decision. You would think once you make the big decision, you can breathe a little. Nope. It sold right away.

Now we have to decide what happens next. Do we build or do we buy? Do we settle for a home that is "okay," or do we build one that is perfect? When do we start building? Where do we live in the meantime? What do we pack? What do we get rid of? What do we keep? What do we need in the next house? What can we live without for nine months? How much do we spend? Do we sign a year lease? Do we pay more a month for a month-to-month lease? What if the buyers can't buy it? And every answer seems to create another question. I am getting to where I hate questions.

I swear, we haven't made a single decision without immediately discovering that it requires another decision. It's like every answer comes with a complimentary subscription to three more questions.

The hardest part is that these aren't little decisions. They affect our future. We are trying to make choices that make sense for us now and for the years ahead. And that brings up another question: Do we do what is easy for us right now, or do we remember what the end goal is and take the time to get there?

Because sometimes the easiest choice isn't necessarily the best choice. Sometimes getting to where you want to be means being patient, being uncomfortable for a little while, and taking the longer road.

And I would really appreciate it if life would just hand me a multiple-choice test with one answer circled in red. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. Sometimes you just have to gather the information, talk it over, worry about it a little more than necessary, and then make the best decision you can. So that's where we are right now. We made one big decision, and apparently, we still have about 147 to go.

Somewhere in These Boxes Is My Sanity

Right now, pretty much my entire life is in BOXES. We’re moving, and because we’ll be waiting on our new house, a lot of this stuff is going to STAY in boxes for probably the next 10 months... And somewhere in those boxes… is apparently my sanity. 😂

I cannot WAIT to have a craft room again. I didn’t realize how much I need that creative outlet until I didn’t have access to it. I need a project. I need something to plan, paint, glue, decorate, rearrange, make for a friend, make for myself—or completely screw up and start over. 😂

Right now, I feel boxed up right along with everything else. My supplies are packed. My stuff is packed. My house is in transition. And apparently my brain does NOT appreciate being told, “We’ll get back to that sometime next year.”

I need something to do with my hands AND my brain. It makes me wonder about people who don’t have hobbies or interests. What do you DO with all your time? Seriously. Sit around and wait to get old? Wait to die? I can’t imagine it. Especially now that I’m retired, I realize how important it is to have things you actually WANT to do. Something that makes you think, Oooooh, I want to try that! Something you can look forward to besides what’s on TV tonight.

I want to always have a project waiting on me. And apparently, for the next 10 months, I’m going to have to figure out how to be creative without having access to half the crap I use to BE creative. 😂 Someday those boxes are going to get opened. I’ll have my craft room. I’ll spread my crap everywhere. I’ll start six projects at once. And Dennis will probably wonder where I'm at!  Until then… somewhere in these boxes is my sanity.

Sometimes You Have to Analyze Your Husband

Sometimes you have to analyze your husband before you get aggravated with him. 😂

Today we have the inspection on the house, so we’ve been trying to clean up all the packing clutter and make the place look somewhat like normal people still live here.

I worked out this morning and walked two miles, so when I got home I jumped in the shower.

Now, this girl was NOT putting that dirty bra back on. 😂 My other one was in the dryer.

Dennis kept going to the dryer, pulling it out and trying to hand it to me.

“It’s still damp.”

Back in the dryer.

A few minutes later, here he comes with it again.

“Dennis…it’s STILL damp.”

Back in the dryer.

By this point he’s getting aggravated, I’m getting aggravated, and I’m thinking, Why in the world does this man care so much about when my bra gets dry?!

And then it hit me.

THE INSPECTOR IS COMING. 😂😂😂

This man wasn’t trying to rush the drying process.

He was trying to make sure I had a bra on before some strange man started wandering through our house. 😂

So instead of getting mad, I just looked at him and said:

“Thank you for having my back and making sure I had my bra before the inspector got here.”

Literally and figuratively. 😂

Thirty-plus years of marriage teaches you something: sometimes you need to stop and figure out WHY your husband is driving you crazy before you decide he’s actually driving you crazy.

Sometimes he’s just looking out for you.

And apparently…your boobs. 😂

Just Google it

Somebody Needed to Say It: Google It

We need to talk about something I see on Facebook almost daily.

“Does anyone know what time Walmart closes?”

Ma’am.

You are currently holding the entire internet in your hand. 😂

The same device you used to open Facebook, find a community group, type your question, and wait for 47 strangers to answer.

“10:00.”

“Pretty sure it’s 11.”

“My cousin went last Tuesday and they were open.”

“Following.”

FOLLOWING FOR WHAT, SUSAN? STORE HOURS?! 😂

By the time you typed the question, waited for responses, read the arguments, and figured out which answer was actually right…

You could’ve Googled it 40 times.

And Google doesn’t say, “Uh… I think 10:00.”

Somebody needed to say it. 😂