Gypsy & the Beast

Being married is hard work! Trust me, I know—I’ve been doing it for 30 years, and sometimes I’m just done. (Seriously, where’s my gold medal?) Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband, but I’m a free-spirited gypsy soul at heart. I thrive on quiet moments alone, spontaneous adventures, and creative whims. And nothing kills the vibe faster than feeling like I have to operate under someone else’s “laws.”

Dictatorship? Not in this house!

Every now and then, I have to (lovingly) remind my husband of that. I’ll say something like, “Hey babe, just a heads-up—I’m not building an empire here, I’m painting with watercolors and making up song lyrics in my head. So, maybe don’t stifle the creative flow, okay??”

Marriage is about compromise, but I draw the line at losing my spark. And sure, some days it’s frustrating, but other days, it’s just flat-out hilarious. After all, who knew a gypsy heart and a rule-follower could make it work for three decades—mostly laughing, occasionally eye-rolling, and sometimes hiding in completely different rooms?

But hey, that’s the beauty of love—it’s messy, hilarious, and just a little exhausting. Cheers to 30 years of figuring it out, one gypsy-soul tantrum at a time.

Is That Me Now?

If social media platforms had family roles, it would definitely be the slightly unhinged aunt who brings chaos to Thanksgiving dinner.

I scroll through my feed, see familiar faces, and suddenly think, Whoa, that’s my classmate?! They look like they could’ve been my parents in high school! Then it hits me like a poorly filtered selfie—I’m the same age as them.

GASP! If they look like my parents did back then… does that mean I do too? NO. Surely not. I’m still in my 20s… right?

RIGHT?!

Afraid not! Reality sets in.... One would think being the Grandmother of 11 kids would keep me in the know.... Sigh* I feel portrayed.

So now, I’ve made the executive decision to avoid mirrors for the remainder of the day—solely to protect my fragile sanity. Thanks a lot, Facebook. You win this round. 🙃

Growing Older, One Ache at a Time (With a Side of Humor)

If you’re anything like me, life can feel a little heavier some days. But here’s the thing—keep moving. That’s the secret, right? Most of us aren't thriving in some perfectly curated life; we're navigating the twists and turns, stumbling and standing, one step at a time.

There are moments, though, when life reminds you that you’re not made of rubber anymore—like when your shoulder aches and doesn’t bounce back as quickly as it used to. Or when a little trip leaves you hurting in places you didn’t even touch on the way down (seriously, how is that even fair?). Suddenly, grabbing that seatbelt to strap on takes a yoga pose you don't possess, and finding a simple word or a friend's name feels like chasing squirls.

Of course, your body has been your constant companion through every moment of life—every mistake, every celebration, every “I’ll take better care of myself tomorrow.” It's carried you through years of late-night snacks, questionable food choices, and plenty of moments where you knew better but just didn’t care. And now? Now it’s asking for a little love and attention, maybe a bit begrudgingly.

You might think, “Why bother now? It’s too late to start over.” But here’s the truth—it’s never too late to start showing your body some kindness. You can’t undo the years, but you can work with what you have. You can stretch more, hydrate better, savor the meals you eat, and slow down when you need to. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about learning to care for the body that’s been caring for you all these years, even when you didn’t realize it.

And sure, life’s aches and pains are reminders that we’re not invincible, but they’re also proof that we’ve lived and loved, and yes, maybe overindulged more times than we can count.

So here’s to moving forward, even when it’s a little slower… because every step is still progress. Be kind to yourself—you’ve been through a lot. And hopefully, you’ve still got so much left ahead.

I Almost DIED!

Dennis and I were in the kitchen—a seemingly innocent scene that quickly turned into a tragic comedy starring yours truly. I was putting the groceries away while Dennis had taken it upon himself to wash the stove grills. Lovely, right? Except, of course, I needed the grills to cook because, you can’t just plop a pan directly on the burners.

Dennis, being the helpful soul he is, was busy reassembling the stove when I turned to stow more food away. What he forgot to mention (or realize) was that he’d left the dishwasher door wide open, like some low-lying booby trap stationed directly behind me. Arms full of groceries, I pivoted—and immediately tumbled over the unseen culprit.

Now, pause for a moment. Can we talk about how falling suddenly happens in slow motion once you hit a certain age? There I was, toppling forward, brain firing off two thoughts simultaneously:

1. Is this how it ends?
2. Dear God, please don’t let me impale myself on anything sharp sticking out of the dishwasher.

Before I even fully grasped what had happened, I found myself mid-contortion over the dishwasher door, grappling for balance like some off-balance ballerina. Somehow—miraculously—I didn’t completely hit the floor, but my shins and arms weren’t as lucky. My shin took the brunt of the battle, while my knee staged its own protest, and my poor pecs and underarms have been loudly complaining for days. I’m pretty sure I’ve unlocked some elite level of pain where even bruises feel betrayed by my choices.

Now, here’s the clincher. I turned around to confront Dennis, expecting, I don’t know, maybe an ounce of concern? Instead, he looked at the scene of the crime and casually remarked, “Well, there goes the dishwasher.” Then, as if realizing this probably wasn’t the right opening line, he quickly tacked on, “Are you okay, honey?”

You learn a lot about your place in the world during a crisis. Turns out, I’m somewhere below the dishwasher. My ego? It's still recovering.

Bah Humbug

It’s December 3rd, and I’ve officially put up five Christmas trees. That’s right—five. Do I enjoy it? Absolutely not. Picture Scrooge tangled in tinsel, muttering under his breath about “holiday spirit.” That’s me.

Now, technically, I didn’t need to put up three trees in my own home. But one of them is tiny and takes about 30 minutes to put up, so it doesn’t really count… right? Honestly, I should just keep that one and banish the others. But no, I’ve got two 9-foot and two 10-foot behemoths demanding my attention, because apparently, I hate free time.

And it's not as if they stay up all year or even 2 months! Nope, a few short weeks of twinkly glory, and then the looming responsibility of packing them back up until next year. It’s like having an overly demanding houseguest who leaves glitter in every corner.

Anyway, if I’m going to suffer through this, my trees are going to be packed with stuff. No delicate hanging ornaments here—oh no. I stuff them to the brim, like they’re auditioning to be the world’s most over-the-top parade float.

Five trees, too much stuffing, and questionable life choices. Merry Christmas, I guess! 🎄