Highty Ho, Linus!

 Why do I always end up with the "Linus" neighbor? You know that little kid from Peanuts? The one who seems to carry his own weather system of dirt, a perpetual whirlwind of grime that follows his every step? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s my neighbors spirit animal. We always seem to attract that neighbor RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO US that acts like their yard is auditioning for a post-apocalyptic film! It doesn’t matter where I move. It could be a quaint little town or a cozy suburban street, but sure enough, I’ll land right next to the person who views "mowing the lawn" as an optional lifestyle choice.

Their yard is either a jungle of knee-high weeds or a graveyard for broken-down furniture and mystery items that probably contain at least one raccoon family. Meanwhile, my yard looks like it could grace the cover of Better Homes & Gardens! We keep the grass trimmed, the flowerbeds pristine, and the whole space squeaky clean. Yet, here I am, living diagonally across from someone who seems to think their house is better suited as a storage unit than as, you know, a place to live.

But you know what? Maybe it’s fine. After all, they’re the ones creating the perfect rodent and snake bed-and-breakfast. I just wish it didn’t come with a front-row seat to Wild Kingdom every time I open my curtains!

My Curtains are Closing

Hosting a holiday event is like running a circus, except the elephants are replaced with screaming toddlers, and the trapeze artists are juggling deviled eggs instead of flaming torches. Dennis tells me I’m over-the-top, and honestly, he might be right—but is it a crime to want to create magic for the people I cherish?

The thing is, this “magic” doesn’t just happen. It starts weeks (yes, weeks) before, with frantic trips to the store for pastel-colored Easter goodies and Pinterest-inspired decorations. Then there's the food frenzy. Planning, buying, preparing, all while pretending I’m a contestant on “Top Chef.” Oh, and cleaning the house? Twice. Once before the event to impress the guests, and once after because toddlers and grown-ups alike treat my living room like a war zone. It’s exhausting, chaotic, and somehow still worth it.

But here’s my plea to anyone lucky enough to have someone in their life who puts on this kind of production for you and your family—be grateful. Don’t just shrug it off as "their thing." For some, this is labor they willingly take on because they know it might be the only slice of magic their little ones get. For others, it’s a role they’ve played for decades, but the curtain is starting to fall.

And, honestly? I think my curtain’s closing. I’m tired of cueing the orchestra and pulling strings from backstage. My desire to be “the magic maker” has fizzled, right alongside my patience for unraveling tangled holiday lights and scrubbing mystery stains that somehow got on the ceiling. This decade feels different. It feels like a fleeting window where my health is good, my energy is decent, and my desire to simply enjoy the show is stronger than my ambition to run it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still show up with my casserole dish and a half-hearted attempt at an artfully wrapped gift. But the days of being the wizard behind the curtain? I’m officially throwing in the wand. It’s time to watch the magic without worrying where it’s coming from. And honestly, that sounds like the best holiday gift I could give myself.

Anyone Have a Rope!?

 

I’ve been through it this past month. You see, "5-star centers must now get accredited," they said—as long as you have the paperwork in on time.... Nope. It’s more like jumping through flaming hoops that are two sizes too small. For context? Most places take 2 to 3 years to finish this monstrosity of a process. But DHS thought, “Hey, why not give them six months instead?” Six. Months. That’s less time than it takes some people to commit to a gym membership.

And no, before you ask, technically, I don’t have to be accredited to keep my doors open, but if I’m not? I get downgraded to a 4-star rating, which translates to less pay—and last time I checked, I can’t pay my staff with Monopoly money. (Although, in this economy, who knows?) So.....do I actually have a choice? No. No, I do not.

How do I feel about it? Well, let’s just say it rhymes with “clucked.” Honestly, it doesn’t even feel like my business anymore. It’s like DHS barged in, stuck a flag in the middle of the lobby, and declared, “This is ours now!” Meanwhile, I’m left footing the bill, drowning in their endless maze of red tape. Yay for chasing the entrepreneurial dream, huh?

But here’s the kicker—I did it. I survived the triathlon of government paperwork, policy jargon, and a mini existential crisis. Now it’s a waiting game for NECPA, to book their grand visit. They’ll drop by, poke around, and verify I’ve jumped through all the hoops (flaming and otherwise) or not.

Is it excessive? You bet. Am I exhausted? Absolutely. My blood pressure is playing chicken with my sanity, which is just great considering I’m this close to retirement age. The only silver lining? I’ve basically mastered the art of hoop-jumping. If this whole accreditation thing doesn’t work out, I’m pretty sure Cirque du Soleil is always hiring.

Where's My Lollipop?

Let’s talk about something no one really prepares you for—being your own health advocate. Remember when you were little, and your parents took care of everything? You’d catch a cold, and suddenly they were superheroes—booking doctor’s appointments, explaining your symptoms, picking up prescriptions, and even footing the bill. All you had to do was sit there, maybe armed with a juice box and your favorite teddy bear. It was, dare I say, the dream setup.

But here’s the kicker—no one tells you that the dream doesn’t last. One day, you’re the grown-up, and the job is yours. You’re the one scheduling appointments, rattling off symptoms, and deciphering prescription labels like they’re written in hieroglyphics. And it’s hard. Scratch that—it’s ridiculously hard.

Over the past few years, I’ve had my fair share of health issues (some straightforward, others more “medical mystery meets crime thriller”), and suddenly, I was the detective in my own case. I’ve had to figure things out when doctors were stumped, connect the dots no one else saw, and fight for solutions. Apparently, adulthood means swapping juice boxes for endless Google searches on symptoms that always lead to “it might be a rare disease.”

Being your own advocate isn’t easy, but it’s necessary—and honestly, a little empowering (once you get past the whole “why is this so complicated!?” moment). It’s a messy, humbling, and sometimes comically frustrating part of growing up.

People are STUPID

Here’s my thoughts… why do we have men sports AND women sports? I mean if there is no difference why don’t women already compete in men’s sports and visa versa?