250 Candles on America’s Birthday Cake

This year, America turns 250 years old. Two hundred and fifty. That number is hard to wrap my head around when I stop and think about it. Two hundred and fifty years ago, a group of people signed a document and declared that they wanted something different. They wanted the freedom to make their own choices, govern themselves, and build a future that belonged to them.

Were they perfect? Of course not. Has America always gotten everything right? Not even close. But what amazes me is that through wars, depressions, disagreements, disasters, victories, and generations of change, this country is still here.

Think about all the people who came before us. Farmers. Teachers. Soldiers. Factory workers. Parents. Grandparents. People who built homes, raised families, started businesses, and simply tried to make life a little better for the people who came after them.  Most of them will never appear in a history book. Yet they helped build the country we live in today. 

When I think about America’s 250th birthday, I don’t just think about fireworks and parades. I think about all those ordinary people who quietly did their part. The ones who worked hard, paid their bills, raised decent kids, helped their neighbors, and left things a little better than they found them. That’s the real story of America. Not just the famous names. The rest of us too. People like our parents and grandparents. People like us.

Two hundred and Fifty is a long time. Entire nations have risen and fallen during that span. Yet here we are, still arguing, still growing, still stumbling sometimes, but still moving forward. Maybe that’s the lesson of America. We don’t have to agree on everything to love our country. We don’t have to be perfect to be proud.  And we don’t have to forget our history to celebrate how far we’ve come.

So when America blows out 250 candles, I hope we take a moment to appreciate what an incredible milestone it is. Not because we’re perfect....But because we’re still here.

And that’s worth celebrating.

When the Couch, A/C, and TV Align Just Right

I had the BEST nap today. Seriously… maybe the best nap I have had since moving to Yukon 16 years ago!

Not one of those naps where you wake up confused, sweating, and wondering if it’s tomorrow. This was the perfect nap. The couch hit just right. The pillow was perfect. The A/C was at that magical temperature. The TV was playing just loud enough that dreaming slightly  about what your hearing… but also drifting off into the best sleep of your life.

It was nap perfection.

The only problem is this makes two days in a row I have napped my afternoons away. Apparently my body has discovered this new feature called “relaxing” and I’m not sure what to do with that information.

And here I am typing this at 3:00 in the morning.

But before anyone blames the nap… nope! I’m actually tired. This one is on Kelsey, the woman rowing across the Atlantic. I have followed this journey, so obviously I had to stay awake and watch her come into port. You can’t watch someone row across an entire ocean and then miss the finish line because it’s past your bedtime.

So now I’m heading to bed hoping tonight’s sleep is half as good as that perfect couch, cold room, TV-in-the-background nap.

Because apparently retirement comes with a new hobby… accidentally becoming a professional napper.

I Came For Toilet Paper

I really don’t think I am that hard to get along with. I smile at people. I hold doors open. I donate to causes I care about. I’ll even listen to a kid tell me all about a video game I don’t understand for twenty minutes straight. What I do not enjoy is running the gauntlet every time I go to Walmart.

I came for toilet paper and dog food. That’s it. I did not come to switch my internet provider, buy discount windows, donate to three different fundraisers, enter a raffle, sponsor a softball team, or discuss my cell phone plan with a complete stranger standing between me and a shopping cart.

The minute you get out of your car, they’re waiting. Sure, you can deploy the classic avoidance tactics. Believe me, I've tried them all—scrolling pointlessly through a blank phone screen, or frantically digging around in my purse like I've suddenly misplaced my life savings. You can even pull the ultimate maneuver: aggressively pointing at your earbuds with a painfully awkward shrug to signal that you are deaf to the world. But let's be honest, it never works. They completely ignore your desperate, universal signs of "please leave me alone" and just keep right on talking anyway.

One person wants a donation. Another wants a signature. A third wants to save you money on something you never planned to buy in the first place.

Cue the awkward shuffle.

"No, thank you."
"I'm good, thanks."
"Not today!"

You paste on a tight smile, pick up your pace, and avoid eye contact at all costs. It’s basically speed dating for things I don’t want. The worst part is, they hit you going in, and they hit you coming out.

Look, I get it. People are trying to raise money, but honestly? If I wanted what they were selling, I’d go looking for it.

I miss the days when the hardest part of shopping was figuring out which aisle they moved the dog food to. Now, I need the reflexes of a ninja and the emotional detachment of a hostage negotiator just to breach the front doors. Stop it!

If these stores really want to improve my shopping experience, they can start by letting me get from my car to the toilet paper isle without a work out!

What Actually Matters

I was thinking today about something people ask from time to time… what’s it like having a gay son?

My answer is always the same.

It’s like having a son.

Seriously, that’s it.

People act like it’s some completely different parenting experience, but it really isn’t. He’s funny, smart, brutally honest, and one of my favorite people to shop with because he actually has style. He’ll tell me if something looks terrible without sugarcoating it, and I appreciate that more than the sales clerk telling me everything looks “cute.”

I have four children. Three are married to the opposite sex, and one is gay. The truth is, I don’t think about their relationships differently. I don’t sit around defining them by who they love. I define them by who they are.

That’s what matters.

When I meet someone my children love, I don’t have a checklist that starts with sexual orientation. My checklist is much simpler.

Are they kind?

Do they make my child laugh?

Do they show up when life gets hard?

Do they work hard, love well, and treat people with respect?

Are they good to their family? Patient with children? Compassionate toward older people? The kind of person you’d be proud to have around your dinner table?

Those are the things I notice.

Character has always mattered more to me than labels.

Being the mom of a gay son hasn’t changed how I love, worry, celebrate, or cheer for my child. It hasn’t changed what I hope for him either. I want him to find someone who is loyal, kind, dependable, and who makes life better just by being in it.

Because that’s what I want for all four of my children.

At the end of the day, relationships aren’t built on labels. They’re built on character. And character will always matter more than anything else.

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.