The Game Is Rigged. Flourish Anyway.

Are you as exhausted as I am?

Trying to mind your own business, live a decent life, and still getting dragged into politics like it’s a group project you never signed up for. You decide, “I’m going to focus on flourishing. Being a good person. Getting things done. Not letting today’s outrage buffet created by Happiness Hijackers ruin my appetite.” And yet. There it is again. Loud. Relentless. Everywhere.

And here’s the thing I noticed, whether I wanted to or not: there is no balance. It’s pretty obvious. Media, Hollywood, pop culture, TV shows, movies. One side gets the halo, the other gets the dunce cap. Republicans are punchlines while Democrats are portrayed as brave truth-tellers. Over and over. Like Groundhog day but with people screaming at each about how horrible the other person is, meanwhile the groundhog just wants to stay in his nice warm home and have a normal groundhog life. 

Take The Morning Show. I was watching over the snowy weekend and loved it at first and then...I couldn’t help noticing something. Steve Carell’s character gets absolutely crucified in the name of Me Too. No redemption allowed. No arc. Just erased. Meanwhile, real-life figures who did equal or worse things are either tiptoed around or flat-out ignored. They even mentioned Weinstein at one point, but Bill Clinton? Not a peep. Ever. Nobody canceled him. Nobody even raised an eyebrow. Donations still rolling in.

And later seasons of the show? Biden is spoken of as some brilliant hero. Trump portrayed as a cartoon villain, naturally. Again, no balance. Just a script. Why can't they point out the flaws in every political subject? By choosing to elevate one and mock the other, they are steering people towards the mocked person. It often has the opposite effect. 

I’ve never been interested in politics. Until Barack Obama ran.  And it was crazy, the way that political season seeped into everything. Even my child’s elementary school was giving them pretend ballots and because the teachers were always praising Obama, my daughter “voted” for him. I felt it odd that in all my life in school, we only talked about politics in a balanced manner. I had no idea which way any of my teachers voted! 

Honestly, I liked Obama at first. Everyone did. But then I started digging. And what I found didn’t come from the mainstream. It came from the right. He was friends with Bill Ayers (of the politically violent group the Weather Underground). He was friends with Rev. Wright who said “the chickens have come home to roost” during 9/11. There were other troubling things as well, so I thought, “Well, maybe I’m conservative?” But the truth is, I’ve voted all over the map. Democrat. Republican. Libertarian. One time I voted for a local guy because he made a homemade sign. That’s how radical I was.

What pulled me into the 2008 Presidential race wasn’t ideology. It was noticing that only one side of the story was being told. One side was the hero, and the other was mocked, vilified, and the left that pretend to support all women, it turned out, really only support certain women. 

Fox News used to feel like the “other side,” but by COVID, it was clear they were more performance than principle. Masks, narratives, Ukraine, no real questioning. Just different packaging. That’s when it hit me. Both sides are disgusting. Just in different ways.

But! Here’s where it splinters: When truly horrible things happen, especially involving children, but if the crime is committed by a darling of the left, they don’t mention it. Laken Riley, Kate Steinle, Iryna Zarutska (so many others!).  But if someone on the left is killed by someone the left dislike, they never wait for the dust to settle. Nothing is alleged. They politicize tragedy without blinking. The left build onto the chaos, making it bigger and bigger and feeding into the anger. Now, the right also take advantage of the chaos. Because people (on both sides) donate money, thinking only a politician can solve this. And it brings more views to the news and social media platforms.

 As long as that’s happening, and as long as certain people are forever untouchable while others are declared irredeemable, America is out of balance.

So here’s my conclusion, said kindly but firmly: the game is rigged. No matter what team jersey you wear.

Which is why I hope if even one person reads this and thinks, “You know what? I’m going to focus on myself. My family. My neighborhood. My community.” Because that’s still real. That still matters. That’s where you can actually do some good.

Sorry, Bob… you couldn’t have known how deceptive politics, media, and culture would become. You were busy working. Steel mill. Car dealerships. Then your own carparts auto store. You were busy building a life. You were flourishing. Until ALS showed up at 48 and handed you a death sentence. And then politics did come knocking. You needed permission to try experimental drugs. And the government slammed the door. The answer was no.

I’m glad you missed COVID. You would’ve just stood there shaking your head as the government gave away, for free, something rushed to market, while treatments that actually helped people were mocked and vilified. Along with the people who took them and got better. Funny how that works when there’s no money to be made. 

Who knows what damage has been done. One dose, two, three, four, five, six. And the denial at the top? Deep. Real deep. They protect each other: Left money. Right money Two peas. One Pod.  It’s not about protecting the people. It’s about protecting their power. 

So what can you do? Hold your head high. Keep your hands busy. Build the best life you can where you are. History doesn’t belong to the loudest people on TV anyway. It belongs to the ones who kept going, shoveled their sidewalks, showed up for their neighbors, and didn’t lose their minds while the rest of the world lost its balance. 

Let’s wear ourselves out living our life, helping each other out, and being so exhausted fromactually flourishing, that we’re too exhausted to get outraged by the news. 

Why Fix Potholes When You Can Fix The Weather?

It’s snowing again, which is both shocking and not shocking, like finding out your mayor has been awarding snow removal contracts to his Uncle Don. 

Every time it rains or snows someone says, “We needed this.” I understand that. I try to see that every cloud has its silver lining (the old fashioned silver lining, not the scientific man-made silver lining) And sometimes, yes, we do need moisture.  But, there is a big difference between Mother Nature deciding our weather versus people who wear suits deciding what we need. 

Turns out these “new” silver linings aren’t so new though, they are vintage!  

The first newspaper report of weather modification was On November 13, 1946, up over Mount Greylock, Massachusetts.  Dr. Vincent J. Schaefer of General Electric decided that if Mother Nature wasn’t going to cooperate, he’d just give her a little nudge. Armed with a plane, a bucket of dry ice, and the kind of confidence usually reserved for teenagers and rap artists, he climbed to 14,000 feet and dumped the stuff into a cloud. Within minutes, voilà!, snowflakes began to form. Local newspapers went wild, declaring that man had finally learned to “make it rain,” which sounded more like a carnival act than a science experiment. GE, never one to walk away from a profitable miracle, quickly launched Project Cirrus with the Army, Navy, and Air Force in tow. And just like that, mankind took its first documented stab at telling the weather what to do. Somewhere, Mother Nature sighed, gave the suits the middle finger, and reached for a Gin and Tonic. Hold the tonic.

By the 1950s, states out West jumped in with the enthusiasm of squirrels discovering a freshly planted garden. 

Somewhere between drought and deluge, nine states decided Mother Nature could use a little “help,” so they hired men in windbreakers and mirrored sunglasses to shoot magic dust (chemicals) into the clouds like confetti. 

California (1948) – The pioneers. Pacific Gas & Electric let loose the first silver iodide flares over the Sierra Nevada. California, of course, calls it a “climate enhancement initiative” and will probably bill you for premium raindrops.

Utah (early 1950s) – Never one to miss a good snow opportunity, Utah began boosting winter storms before Elvis even had a record deal!

Colorado (1950s; formal program 1972) – Started seeding the Rockies when ski resorts realized artificial snow was cheaper than disappointing tourists.

North Dakota (1951) – Figured if it could seed wheat, it could seed clouds. The state practically turned weather modification into an extracurricular subject.

Texas (1957) – It was inevitable: if you can rope a steer, you can lasso a cumulonimbus.

New Mexico (circa 1958) – Joined hands with Texas to trade clouds like baseball cards.

Idaho (1960s) – Idaho Power decided if they wanted more hydroelectric power, they’d better make sure the sky paid its utility bill.

Nevada (late 1960s; DRI takes over 1975) – Because nothing says “desert innovation” like trying to make it rain in a place that doesn’t like to.

Wyoming (1971, expanded 2000s) – Came a little late to the party, but now runs one of the most methodical programs in the country. Leave it to Wyoming to make even precipitation orderly.

So by the dawn of disco, about nine states had decided to turn Mother Nature into a cooperative project, proving once again that the attraction of Control and Power is alive and well: if it moves, regulate it; if it doesn’t, seed it.

But here’s the rub: the yin always drags the yang behind it like toilet paper on the heel of a boot.  You flood one area with “extra” moisture, and some poor farmer two states over is left staring at a sky drier than a politician’s sense of humor. The scientists call it “atmospheric redistribution.” Because of course they do, it sounds smart!  In the end, maybe Mother Nature doesn’t need tech support or a gin and tonic (hold the tonic), she just needs us to stop playing meteorologist with a can of aerosol and crossed fingers.

When I was growing up (yes, not only did we have cars when I was young, but we also had built in ashtrays in our cars!) weather was something that happened on television. You turned on Channel 6, saw a happy man in a blazer gesturing toward a cartoon sun, and went back to worrying about your hair. Now we have apps that predict how many raindrops will fall on your left shoulder between 3:02 p.m. and 3:06 p.m. Progress, apparently, means we can be anxious about things before they even happen and deplete the grocery stores of everything a week prior to the storm. 

Private weather modification firms with names like Weather Modification Inc., Western Weather Consultants, North American Weather Consultants, and Rainmaker Technology Corporation, trade in something called “hydrometeor enhancement,” which sounds suspiciously like it could be marketing for a hair conditioner OR electrolyte replacement crystals. 

They’re running weather modification projects which are legally reported to NOAA but rarely read by anyone (NOAA Weather Modification Project Reports). The GAO (the U.S. Government Accountability Office) confirmed it in an unblinking 2024 report: “Nine states are actively using cloud seeding; oversight minimal” (GAO 25 107328). Translation: Yes, it’s happening. No, there’s no hall monitor. Target and Costco will check your receipt as you leave, but no one is checking the receipts of what’s happening in the skies. 

The technique is old magic: silver iodide or calcium chloride flares tossed into receptive clouds to nudge rain. At best, the extra precipitation helps farmers. At worst, somebody else gets unplanned hail. Science calls it “stochastic,” which is Greek for “your results may vary.”

Officially, we’re told it’s to “stabilize the water cycle.” Which is adorable, considering the government couldn’t stabilize their spending habits. The GAO  report politely adds that “reliable information is lacking” on effectiveness. Translation: it might work, it might not, but everyone gets paid either way. And what do these storms cause? Death, destruction, damage. Which equals people need more help. And guess who’s always promising to help you (hint, they never actually do…).  The irony, of course, is that these same operations might be stealing rain from elsewhere — Utah’s miracle snowpack one week, Arizona’s drought the next. 

It’s so utterly on brand for government. They can’t fix potholes but think they can fix the weather. 

Maybe what bothers me isn’t the manipulation itself: it’s the silence around it. The way it’s treated as impolite conversation, like asking someone how much money they make or why they are still single (or still married?). Maybe we don’t want to know where the rain really comes from, because then we’d have to admit that even our storms are bureaucratic and having any control is simply an illusion. 

So here’s my forecast: scattered anxiety with a heavy chance of absurdity. Carry a shovel for the possibility of snow and 100% chance of government bullshit. And remember, it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature. Or the people.

 

Sometimes A Puppy Is Not The Answer...

 Summer of 2025 came more difficult news. The kind you work through one appointment, one conversation, one breath at a time. And not long after that, Rocky suffered what we believe was a stroke. Within hours, we had to say goodbye to him too. Losing two dogs so close together felt like losing the exclamation points in our lives. We were now back to one dog again. Finn for the longest time wouldn’t jump into John’s truck. We believe it’s because he watched Rocky leave in it and never return. Finn kept us going. We had no choice. But life was a bit hollow and heavy. And uncertainty loomed everywhere. Hey, that’s life, right! No guarantees!

 It has been a while since I’ve posted anything personal, which is saying something, because I am famously incapable of not communicating. Silence is not my brand. But the last two years have had a way of rearranging things, including words.

In November of 2024, on 11/11, we said goodbye to Jack, our chocolate lab, who was thirteen. I was as prepared as a person can be when they know something inevitable is coming, which is to say, not prepared at all. Jack was the kind of dog who made life easier just by existing. He was gentle. He was chill. He never did anything wrong. He was, essentially, the emotional support human of our household, disguised as a dog.

John, my strong, steady husband, took it harder than I expected. Jack was his quiet companion, his constant. And men of a certain age, from a certain era, tend to keep their feelings folded neatly inside themselves, where they do not take up space or inconvenience anyone. Which, as it turns out, does not shorten grief. It only gives it better hiding places.

In March 2025 on a Sunday just before St. Patrick’s Day in the midst of gray cold days, still crying over missing Jack, I saw a yellow lab puppy up for adoption and thought, very reasonably, This will fix everything! And so we brought home Finn. He is adorable. Radiantly, undeniably adorable. Rocky (who had never been the lone dog in the house) was both happy to finally have another lab to boss around and probably frustrated to have to share space with yet another cute four legged creature. But…Rocky had John. The two of them would curl on the couch and read books (John, not Rocky!). Aside from working with John, Rocky was probably in the height of happiness during his lifetime. John will admit he loved Rocky more than anything (because of course he would, Rocky didn’t complain about the house being too cold, or driving in the dark, or menopause).

We have always had two dogs. Never just one. And when John saw a black lab puppy up for adoption, there was some back and forth. He decided yes. Then no. Then yes again. I was excited. Then sad. Then hopeful. I thought maybe a puppy is exactly what John needs to give him that pure joy back. Some hope to hold onto in this winter of our life (both seasonal and metaphorical). Eventually, that tiny black lab came home, and John called him Buddy, because that’s what he was going to be. His little Buddy.

Buddy is many things. Sometimes Buddy. Sometimes Buddha, because of how he sits. Sometimes Hank the Tank, because he barrels through life like a friendly freight train. And sometimes Aristotle, because he has wise eyes and an unsettling level of intelligence. He already follows Finn’s scent around the yard, carefully mapping the universe, even when Finn has already come back inside.

He is a wonderful dog. And he arrived at a time when we may have been more vulnerable than we realized.

There is a particular kind of heartbreak in admitting that love and timing are not always aligned. That maybe we should have waited. That maybe we asked more of ourselves than we could reasonably give while navigating medical uncertainty and exhaustion. It feels grievous to say out loud, especially when you love animals, that something you chose with your whole heart might not be right for this moment.

So here we are, trying to find Buddy a home through friends, where he will be deeply loved and properly adored. Because it isn’t fair to a puppy to live inside human overwhelm. And it isn’t fair to people who are still healing to pretend they are stronger than they are.

This is where we are on a very cold winter weekday. A little bruised. A little hopeful. Still believing that better weather, in every sense of the word, is ahead.

And that has to count for something.

My Dad: Grinches, Gaslighting, and Gifts

Christmas Eve was always a good day in my house growing up. Not a cinematic one, not the kind with twenty-seven relatives shouting over a ham, but a good one. We were a small family, geographically and numerically removed from a very large one, and I spent many Decembers thinking we were missing something important. I imagined long tables, extra chairs dragged in from garages, cousins everywhere, chaos and laughter and noise (like Elf or Christmas Vacation). But what we had instead was simpler and, looking back now, nearly perfect. 

December itself felt enchanted to me as a child. My birthday came first, on December 22nd, and then my father’s, on December 24th. It was as if the month were stitched together by celebration, each day leaning into the next. My father, Bob, however, was not what anyone would call a Christmas enthusiast. If there was a Grinch before the Grinch became a cultural shorthand, it might have been him.

He had reasons. He spent years in the Air Force, and because of that, we moved often. Later, when he got out, he worked in a steel mill, the kind of job that doesn’t care what day it is. Shift work ruled our lives. When he was new, when he was low man on the totem pole, he often wasn’t home for Christmas at all. Holidays, like sleep, were something you caught when you could.

The Christmas tree was another point of contention. We didn’t get it until the week of my birthday, sometimes even later, which struck me as nearly sacrilegious. Christmas, in my mind, deserved a long runway. But we always got a real tree, which meant time was limited. And getting that tree was an event. The whole family went. My dad always chose the biggest one. It was inevitably too big. Too tall. Too wide. Too something. He would shave far too much off the bottom, muttering, while we stood by in coats and impatience. It was chaotic and loud and absolutely perfect.

The house would be filled with plaid and silver, red, green, gold, and blue. The lights sparkled without restraint. There was no theme, no sense that less might be more.

Back in the 1970s, Christmas wasn’t a season of abundance the way it is now. You were lucky to get a few gifts you really wanted. One year I received The Gambler by Kenny Rogers and ABBA’s Greatest Hits on vinyl, along with a Trixie Belden book. I can see them still, even though the photographs are long gone. That kind of seeing - that kind of memory- never fades.

But my best Christmas memory has nothing to do with a gift meant for me.

One year my father bought my mother an Apple computer. You have to understand, money was tight, and splurges were rare. The fact my dad bought this for my mom was so exciting. And he let me in on the secret. That was possibly the best part (and I kept the secret!). The Apple computer back then was rare, futuristic, almost magical. My dad loved a practical joke (his literal nickname given to him when he was about 5 or 6 was "Joke.") so, of course, he had to make the surprise eventful and funny!

On Christmas Eve, we were allowed to open one present. My mother opened her large box and found, instead of a computer, a literal apple inside the box. My father thought this was hilarious. I found it hilarious. My mother? She played along, gracious as always. 

The real computer had been hidden at our neighbors’ house, Ken and Lola’s. We had to wait for them to return from visiting their family, which they didn’t do until late that night. By then, I had been sent to bed. I lay there buzzing with excitement, wishing more than anything that I could be there when my mother finally saw the truth of it. That she really was getting what she hoped for.

We went to church together that year. I remember the feeling more than the details. The sense that everything had aligned, briefly, and that we were all present in the same moment. It remains the Christmas I remember most vividly.

I’m proud of that, even now. That my favorite Christmas memory is rooted in my mother’s joy, not my own. I am not, by nature, a selfless person. So I take that as a small victory.

Christmas Eve meant food, too. Always food. Halupki. Pierogies. Pagach, with its potato and cheese filling spread between layers of dough. Stuffed cabbage with meat. My mother’s Christmas cookies, which began appearing sometime in mid-December and continued until they ran out or we did. Chocolate chip cookies. Peanut butter blossoms. Crinkles. Sugar cookies. Pecan tassies. Frozen doughs filled with lekvar (prune filling) their proper names escape my memory. There was also nut roll, of course, and bolbki. The table told our history even when no one did.

I never quite knew what my heritage was. Slovakian, maybe Hungarian- Austrian. When I asked, I was told simply that we were American. That was enough for my parents. They were proud of it. Back then, people didn’t seem to need to look backward so much. They were busy building forward.

As I grew older, my father finally told me why he disliked Christmas. It wasn’t the holiday itself. It was the way people behaved. How kind they were in December and how quickly it vanished in January. He noticed the performative nature of it, the temporary goodness. This was the 1970s and 1980s. He died in 1997, at fifty years old. I don’t think he would have enjoyed the world much as it is now.

And yet, I feel his spirit clearly at Christmas.

We didn’t have much. Socks and underwear waited for Christmas. Excess was not part of our vocabulary. But there was enough. Always enough. And I wouldn’t trade that upbringing for anything.

Christmas, to me, is not about what arrives wrapped in paper. It’s about memory. About those who are gone but not absent. If you sit very still, if you let the lights on the tree blink without asking them to perform, you can feel it. The nearness. The quiet proof that love doesn’t leave when people do.

Christmas isn’t something that happens to us—it’s something we practice. In thoughtfulness, in the lights we leave on a little longer than we need to, in the meals we cook even when there’s no one else coming. If the feeling fades, that’s okay. It only means we were lucky enough to feel it for a while.

So this year, I’ll end where it began—with him.

Happy birthday to my dad, who wasn’t a Grinch after all. He just had the biggest heart, the kind that wanted people to carry the spirit long after the wrapping paper was gone.

And I might have completely skipped the tree this year, but I decked the house in Christmas sparkle the day after Halloween—because some habits, and some hearts, never fade.

I like to think he’s up in heaven now, watching football with my mom and shaking his head, laughing, because even without the tree, he knows I got the spirit part right.

ps. I know your grandkids are hoping you will help pull off a Super Bowl win for the Eagles!

Redemption Without Consequence: What Luke and Laura Taught a Generation About Love

 When I heard Anthony Geary had passed away, I was instantly transported to the late 70’s. I was in the third grade, a latch key child (left alone at home while my parents worked, but don’t worry, we also very little distractions to get us into trouble while home alone!), and our TV only had three channels (and NO remote!  Imagine the horrors!). I hadn’t thought about General Hospital in years, but suddenly I was back in elementary school, home sick, curled under a quilt with ginger ale and crackers, watching beautiful adults on TV cry in perfect lighting.

Luke (Anthony Geary) and Laura (Genie Francis) were the center of it all. America’s favorite love story. But beneath the soft focus and swelling music, something terrible had happened — something even my child’s mind could sense was wrong, though I didn’t yet know the word rape. On October 5, 1979, Luke assaulted Laura on the dance floor of a disco. Two years later, on November 17, 1981, they were married in an episode that drew 30 million viewers: the most watched soap opera moment in history.

Everyone celebrated, but what exactly were they celebrating?

Though I was young, I knew something was wrong. I had witnessed the violence against Laura and then, two years later a marriage? I just knew it wasn’t love. Years later, I understood the damage: society had turned a violent act into a wedding special. Television blurred crime and redemption into one continuous soundtrack, teaching an entire generation, especially girls, that love can fix what violence breaks.

And I, like so many others, learned the lesson a little too well.

I grew up dating men who treated me unkindly. Men who lied, manipulated, cheated, apologized, and then did it again. I believed, deep in my bones, that my love had healing powers. I thought if I just hung on, if I just understood them, maybe they’d transform like Luke did on TV. The idea wasn’t really mine. It was a cultural hand-me-down, broadcast through tubes and screens and songs.

Because in that era, the ideas were everywhere. “Saturday Night Fever” (1977) gave us Tony, a man forgiven despite sexual assault. “Urban Cowboy” (1980) romanticized Bud’s violence as youthful passion. “Grease” (1978) taught girls to change themselves to win love. And by 1981, America wasn’t just tolerating that narrative…we were dancing to it.

Pop culture was rewriting the oldest story there is: pain equals love. Reality check: pain doesn’t equal love. Love equals love. 

What General Hospital did wasn’t just lazy storytelling; it was moral engineering. By marrying Luke and Laura, the writers taught millions of viewers that redemption could arrive without consequence; that apologies could stand in for justice. It was advertised as romance, but it was toxic influence. Not only that, the reframing and gaslighting of the rape simply opened the door for acceptance of men being “men”, women being “weak”, and love being a cure all. 

I wish someone had told me back then that love is redemptive only if it’s paired with accountability and future, consistent, right action.  Redemption cannot start until punishment happens. And there was no punishment of Luke – in fact, the opposite happened. Luke was somehow painted as a victim and Laura was left with self doubt; how did she cause herself to be violated (hint, she didn't)?  

Anthony Geary was brilliant. He played Luke with a strange mix of darkness and depth. But his character became a mirror for how far we let charm excuse cruelty. His passing reminds me not only of the influence television had, but of the stories I allowed to frame my patience, my hope, my threshold.

What we consume becomes what we believe. And what we believe shapes the kind of people we love and the kind of pain we think we deserve.

Maybe that’s the truest lesson General Hospital ever taught me, though it never intended to.

I see now that General Hospital wasn’t just a soap opera; it was a classroom. The lesson came quietly, broadcast through the glow of the television and the hush of daytime living rooms across America. It taught millions of us not only what love looked like but what we were supposed to forgive.

Because that’s what culture does. Culture doesn’t live in museums or textbooks…it lives in our impulses. It’s the unspoken teacher, setting the temperature for how we think, how we react, how we excuse. Culture teaches people how to act when no one is watching. And whoever controls culture controls the message, which means they shape the conscience of an entire generation.

When culture becomes toxic, it doesn’t scream; it hums. It hides inside stories, songs, and commercials, telling us that devotion means endurance, that redemption comes without responsibility, that pain is the price of belonging. That’s not entertainment: that’s social engineering.

So when I think back to Luke and Laura now, it’s no longer with nostalgia. It’s with recognition. The culture I grew up in taught me to romanticize the unbearable…to believe love could fix what justice ignored. But culture can be rewritten, just like an old script.

And maybe that’s the real work of adulthood: to see the stories that raised us for what they were, to forgive ourselves for believing them, and then to write better ones.

Christmas Bells and Wedding Spells

 Writing Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells felt a little like decorating a tree with one hand while stirring a pot of hot cocoa with the other—equal parts joy, juggling, and the occasional sprinkle of chaos that somehow makes the whole thing magical.

I wanted to craft a story that glows. Not the blinding-LED kind of glow, but that soft, porch-light warmth you get when you’re pulling into your hometown on Christmas Eve. The kind of story that lets you know you’re about to walk into a world where goodness still wins, people still believe in each other, and the cookies are always baked with love. The book blends the charm of Hallmark, the humor of reality TV, and the coziness of small-town holiday magic. No harsh drama, no claws out; just enough sparkle, romance, and mischief to give your heart a happy little flutter.

And now—Lord help me, I’m still squealing about this—it’s published and officially available on Barnes & Noble. Anybody can grab it there, download the free NOOK app, and be reading it faster than you can say “Bless that man’s heart for trying to hang Christmas lights in the wind.”

This book wasn’t written to impress the literary elites or win a prize for “Most Symbolic Use of Mistletoe in a Supporting Role.” It was written for the people who want to curl up with a story that feels like a mug of something warm, a blanket over your knees, and the comforting nonsense of holiday romance swirling in the background. 

At the end of the day, Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells is a story about joy. About friendship. About the kind of love that sneaks up on you between a sleigh ride and a snow-kissed misunderstanding. And writing it reminded me that we all deserve a little enchantment!

So please...grab your sleigh bells, your cozy socks, and your Nook app. The doors of Sugar Hollow Harbor are open, and there’s a slice of holiday magic waiting just for you!

(click the book to be taken to Barnes and Noble website!)

Happiness Doesn’t Need a Subscription (But I Still Watch Bravo)

 The world’s gotten mighty skilled at making distraction profitable. Every platform promises “escape” in shiny high definition: Hulu, Netflix, Peacock, Prime. I’ve subscribed to ‘em all, bless my overstimulated heart.

I’ll confess: I’ve streamed everything from Hallmark to Bravo. A little I Love Lucy when I need comfort, a little Real Housewives when I need chaos (and a reminder of what not to become). In moderation, it’s fine — a little relief from the world’s noise, a quick dose of disruption for the stressed-out soul. But it’s dangerous dangling over that ditch; once you get in, it might take you a day, a weekend, or a week, to crawl out. 

You start with one episode “just to unwind,” and before you know it…the dream project you were gonna finish? Still sittin’ in the corner, lookin’ at you with judgmental side-eye. Because happiness, real happiness, comes from flourishing. And flourishing doesn’t usually come with a laugh track or three commercial breaks unless you’re a comedian or an actress. 

Distraction is the sneakiest drug there is. It numbs the ache but steals the meaning. Too much of it, and the side effects are brutal: laziness, despair, self-loathing — all the symptoms of a soul that’s been benched. 

So this is my little reminder (to myself, mostly): happiness doesn’t need a subscription. It doesn’t come from drama or perfection or the next season of anything. It’s made the old-fashioned way: from character, courage, and the stubborn choice to bloom where you’ve been battered by nature, by work, by that own voice in your head cussing you out for a mistake or two, or 2,543!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a show to turn off and a life to get back to, but I will for sure check in with you after the Great British Bakeoff. Because that’s one show that so far, is not only a balm, but the message in it is: Aim for excellence. Learn from your failures. And have a few laughs (a-lot of laughs) along the way. 

Real life, unfortunately doesn’t come with a pause button (yet, don’t give our tech overlords any ideas!) but it does come with purpose, if you’re brave enough to press play on yourself!

Friday News Dumps Are Casseroles of Distraction

Friday news dumps are casseroles of the worst sort: tossed together, hidden under a blanket of cheese, and slid onto the table with the hope you’ll be too polite—or too busy—to ask what’s in it. I don’t know who first thought it was clever to release big news on a Friday.  The idea, of course, is that by the time Monday rolls around, we’ll all have forgotten the announcement, too busy doing laundry, running the kids to games, and decorating for whatever holiday is upon us. Politicians call it “strategic communications.” I call it hiding the peas and broccoli under the mashed potatoes.

Every Friday, like clockwork, there’s a press release that says something you might actually want to know—about: budget cuts, indictments, layoffs, or the sort of scandal that comes with the word “alleged” clinging to it like dryer lint on a sock. It slips out at 4:59 p.m., just when we’re uncorking a bottle of Pinot Noir and deciding what pizza goes best with a cozy red wine.  

And yet—here’s the secret nobody in power likes to admit—people notice. Not everyone, but enough of us. Enough that the trick doesn’t feel like misdirection so much as insult. 

Now Aunt Midge will tell you the truth straight out: “Honey, if someone only talks when you’re half out the door, they don’t want you to hear them. That’s not communication. That’s cowardice dressed up in a business suit.” Because Midge believes news, like gossip, should be aired in daylight.

Friday news dumps are the equivalent of sneaking a slice of pumpkin pie cooling on the windowsill and thinking nobody’s going to notice. We notice. We always notice. The question is whether we care enough to holler about it come Monday morning. And the truth is, sometimes we don’t—which is precisely what the dumpers are banking on.

So when the politicians or corporations are feeding us casserole on a Friday night, the key is to scrap off the golden buttery top to see what kind of slop is underneath.  

October -Nature's Artistic Reminder That This Too Shall Pass

 "First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys."

So begins Ray Bradbury, and every year when I reread Something Wicked This Way Comes, I’m reminded why October is unlike any other. It’s half-magic, half-melancholy, and it always manages to tug me in both directions.

The first cool mornings arrive, and I resist them—I want to stay curled in bed, clinging to summer like a child holding the last candy from the fair. But nature doesn’t bargain. She tips her brush into fire and gold, sweeps it across the trees, and whispers, ready or not, here I come.

She’s merciful, though. Just when I’ve given up on warmth, she offers Indian Summer—those odd days when the air turns heavy and we’re sweating in October, while leaves crunch beneath our shoes. And then, as if to apologize for the trick, she gifts us pink dawns, crisp nights, the last songs of crickets before silence falls.

That’s the rhythm of it: beauty, loss, return, farewell. Nature easing us toward the bare bones of February, when winter’s charm has long since worn off. And if you need a reminder that life moves on—that nothing, good or bad, ever stays the same—just look to the seasons.

So tuck a little October into your heart. Keep it for the heavy days. The carved pumpkin grins, the scent of soup on the stove, the sharp sweetness of burning leaves, the trees dressed for their grand finale. Let them remind you: life is harsh and beautiful, chaotic and serene, but always turning. Always carrying us forward.

Happy Fall, y’all. 

The Hunting Wives and the Slaughter of Common Sense

 When I was a girl, the world flickered in warm tones of black-and-white and technicolor optimism. The television glowed like a campfire in the living room, and around it, we gathered not just for entertainment—but for formation. For memory. For what it meant to be good. What it meant to be us.

My parents were strict. Guardians at the gate. The kind that wouldn’t let a whisper of Three’s Company enter the sanctity of our evenings. No sir, not in our house. A man living with two single women? That was a scandal, they said. A dangerous idea. And of course, I snuck around corners to watch it anyway—heart pounding, barely breathing. I waited for the thing that made it wicked. But it never came. A little innuendo, maybe. A wink. Compared to the chaos of today, it was downright quaint—like a sock hop at a church picnic.

Back then, we had Happy Days and Leave It to Beaver. Lucy made us laugh, and the Love Boat brought us cotton-candy tales of flirtation and redemption. Even Miami Vice, flashy as it was, had lines it didn’t dare cross.

But now… now we’ve slipped into something else entirely. A carnival of shadows. A funhouse mirror of storytelling that no longer wants to elevate, but to erode. Teenagers tangled in bedsheets. Adults preying on the young. And it’s called entertainment.

But it’s not. It’s erosion.

Because when you stir the lowest urges in people and call it art, you aren’t freeing them—you’re binding them. You’re muddying their soul. You’re clouding the signal that tells them they were meant for something more.

Flourishing isn’t born from lust or thrill or scandal. Flourishing is born from purpose. From spirit. From the quiet discipline of choosing the good when the bad looks more fun. But what happens when we’ve been so dulled by the grotesque masquerading as glamour that we forget how to seek the good?

We reach for synthetic joy. Sugar. Screens. Pills. Vegas weekends and borrowed highs. We try to fill a soul-shaped hole with something that will never fit.

My daughter tried to talk me into watching a show called The Hunting Wives. I made it through one and a half episodes. Just enough to see the rot under the gloss. A mockery of Southern women, twisted into caricatures—hypersexual, reckless, vapid. Teenagers used as props. Sex scenes masquerading as plot. The message wasn’t even subtext: This is who you are. This is what you’re for.

And I thought: No. No, it isn’t.

But see, this is how we end up with men like Epstein and crowds who don’t flinch. This is how you groom a culture to protect predators and shame the protectors. You feed them filth until they think it's food.

We don’t need more shows like this. We need stories that remind us who we are. Stories with spines and souls. With reverence. With boundaries. With morals—not because they’re old-fashioned, but because they work. Because they keep the machine of civilization humming. Because they guard the spark that makes us human.

What goes on between loving adults? Let that be private, sacred, unbroadcasted. But don’t drag that darkness into the open air and act surprised when the crops won’t grow. We’ve got to bring back the light. The good kind. The kind that doesn’t flicker in shame, but glows with dignity. 

When we trade virtue for cheap thrills, everybody pays. And when we stop expecting better, we stop getting better.

We are meant to flourish. And we can. But only if we remember how.

So let’s turn off the trash, light a candle, and go outside and breathe for a bit. Let’s remember what goodness looks like. Let’s stir it back into our lives like sugar into tea—sweet, strong, and worth sipping slow.

 

Masked, Muzzled, and Muted: Watching the World Obey

 I used to think most folks had a working brain between their ears and a backbone under their spine. Thought they could sniff out a scam, patch a roof, love their kin, and still have the good sense to question anything that didn’t sit right. But let me tell you, 2020 came along like a nosy neighbor with a clipboard and a megaphone and all hell broke loose.

I saw grown adults suddenly lose all grip on common sense. They sprayed their mail with Lysol, double masked alone in their car, and acted like saying “I don’t know” was a hate crime.

Now don’t get me wrong, fear’s a mighty powerful thing. It’ll make you bake sourdough in your bathtub and turn your own mama into a biohazard. But what rattled me most wasn’t the fear…it was how quickly folks handed over their freedom like it was a fruitcake they never wanted anyway.

The worst part?

They stopped thinking.

Stopped asking questions.

Turned on their own blood quicker than a rooster in a henhouse full of hens that voted differently.

People who once preached “love wins” were ready to exile Grandma for going to church. Folks who posted “Hate Has No Home Here” on Facebook were wishing death on anyone who questioned the science…and I use the word science lightly, 'cause half of it changed more than my hairstyles in the last ten years.

Let me say it plain:

Common sense didn’t die. It just got shamed into silence.

And the ones who still had it? We got called selfish, dangerous, conspiracy theorists, and my personal favorite: grandma killers. (My grandma once killed a giant snake with a rake. So, if we’re being literal, that title’s already taken.)

But here’s the truth I keep tucked in my Duluth Overalls:

You can’t cancel truth.

You can muzzle it. Mock it. Lock it down.

But it always finds a crack to sneak back in, like weeds through pavement, or gossip in a beauty shop.

So if you’re one of the few who still thinks for yourself, bless you. If you stayed steady while the world spun sideways, bless you twice. You are not crazy. You’re awake. And you’re needed now more than ever.

Here’s What I Learned:

1. Fear makes people do strange things.

We’ve all got scars from it—so extend a little grace. But don’t confuse silence with love. Real love tells the truth, even if it makes Thanksgiving awkward.

2. Common sense is a birthright—but it must be protected.

If you feel crazy for thinking clearly, that’s a sign you’re sane.

3. Freedom is lonely at first.

But eventually, you’ll spot other porch lights flickering in the dark. Folks like you. Folks like me. And we’ll build a world again—not of perfect people, but of thinking ones.

I’m not bitter. I’m just wide awake.

And if that makes me an old bat with a biscuit tin and too many opinions, so be it. I’d rather be called a kook than lose my soul trying to please a crowd that’s forgotten how to think.

On Belonging and Biscuits

 The new book I’m working on? It’s got its arms wrapped all around one big idea: belonging.

Now, I know that word might sound simple, but mercy, it carries a lot of weight. Belonging isn’t just a feeling, it’s a basic human need, right up there with biscuits and being seen. When people don’t feel like they belong, they get frustrated. They get sharp around the edges. And when they say things like, “I don’t care if I belong anywhere,” what they usually mean is, “I’ve never really felt like I did... and I’ve made peace with it.”

That’s me, sometimes. Hard to peg down. I’m a little country, a little kitchen-table philosopher, and just odd enough to confuse even myself. People think I’m outgoing and I suppose I can be, but truthfully, I’m shy in that way that makes you wish for invisibility and applause at the same time. I’m loud for others but quiet for myself. I’ll cheer on a mom-and-pop bakery like it’s the Super Bowl. I’ll post about a mechanic who treated me fair like I’m their unofficial press agent. But when it comes to advocating for me? Whew. That’s another story. Self-promotion feels like trying to sell someone a casserole they didn’t ask for. Even if it’s the best dang casserole they’ll ever eat.

Anyway. Belonging.

I found myself realizing something recently while listening to the Try That In a Small Town podcast...which, by the way, is not just music. It’s storytelling, family, roots, the kind of talk that makes you feel like you’re sitting on someone’s porch shelling peas and swapping tales. They’ve got artists, athletes, country songwriters—you name it. And what struck me most? They like each other. I mean, really. You can hear it. That rare sort of chemistry where people don’t just work together; they look out for each other. It reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten.

I’ve had this long-standing fascination with the South. Started years ago with Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil—not because of the crime, mind you, but the richness of the culture. The architecture, the history, the food (Lord, the food), and mostly, the way people care. There’s loyalty. There’s tradition. There are monogrammed napkins and real fried chicken and unspoken rules about how to treat guests.

And it’s not just fantasy. Every time I’ve visited, I’ve been met with manners and warmth so thick you could spread it on a biscuit. That’s not nothing. That’s something. And I think I finally realized what it was that had always drawn me in—it’s that soul-level sense of belonging.

Now, I grew up in the Midwest, and if you ask me, the South and the Midwest are cousins. We work hard, we say “ma’am,” we show up with a casserole when someone dies. There's strength in our simplicity. And then I moved to the Northeast.

The Northeast has a different tempo. It’s fast and sharp and polished. And it is, how do I say this lovingly: status-obsessed. People up here treat eye contact like a security threat. Say good morning and they look at you like you’re selling a pyramid scheme. Everything feels like a transaction; who you know, what school you went to, what brand of boots you’ve got on. (Spoiler: mine are scuffed and beloved, thank you very much.)

But I still say good morning. Still smile. Still hold the door. Still sprinkle a little kindness like confetti, even if it gets swept up before noon. Because here’s the thing; I’d rather be seen as odd for being warm than blend in with the cold.

So now I’ve got this little dream rattling around in my head: I want to try living in the South. Not forever. Just a good solid month. A season, maybe. Long enough to know if what I’m drawn to is real, or if I’ve been romancing the idea the way we all do with places we haven’t lived in yet.

But every time I visit, it feels a little more real. The people are genuine. The food could convert a cynic. And the sense of family, of community, of “we got your back”—that’s the thing I couldn’t name until recently.

It’s belonging. And whether you’re in a small town, a big city, or somewhere in between, we all just want someone to say: “You’re one of us.” Warts and all. And maybe with a slice of pie.

Try That In A Small Town Podcast: https://trythatinasmalltown.com/

How to Corrupt a Country Without a Shot Fired

Yuri Bezmenov didn’t come stomping in like some villain in a spy novel. No, sir. He drifted in quiet as a hush puppy frying in a cast iron skillet, carrying a warning wrapped in manners and memory. He was a man who’d seen behind the curtain, a former Soviet propagandist who ran from the cold and found himself telling the American people how their whole beautiful country could fall apart—not with bullets, but with ideas.

His warning wasn’t about tanks and bombs. It was about slow rot—like a peach gone soft on the windowsill. He called it ideological subversion, a way to unravel a country from the inside out, like pulling a thread on a Sunday dress until the whole thing comes undone.

There were four steps to this quiet sabotage, and honey, if they don’t sound familiar, you haven’t been paying attention.

Stage 1: Demoralization (15–20 years)
This first step is the slowest. You don’t shout people into hopelessness. You whisper them there.
Start in the schools, swap wisdom for ideology. Turn history into a shame spiral. Make goodness seem naive and tradition feel like a punchline. It doesn’t take long before folks can’t tell what’s real anymore.
We see it now:

Students who believe free speech is dangerous but TikTok is gospel.
Folks so cynical they’d rather mock than mend.
Teachers walking on eggshells, scared to speak up against keeping the biologically stronger out of the biologically weaker dressing rooms and sports areans. .
Once people are demoralized, you could wave truth in front of their faces and they’d still blink past it like it’s a smudge on their glasses. It ain’t ignorance—it’s conditioning.

Stage 2: Destabilization (2–5 years)
Now that folks are unmoored, you start rattling the rafters. Undermine trust in every institution that used to steady a person: justice, economy, even neighborliness.
You don’t need to break the system. Just bruise it bad enough that people start thinking it’s not worth saving.
You’ve seen it:
Police defunded in towns where folks sleep with one eye open.
Every news station telling a different version of the same story.
Grocery store prices climbing like summer kudzu.
It’s like living in a house where the lights flicker and the floorboards creak—but no one’s calling the electrician. They’re too busy arguing about whose fault it is.

Stage 3: Crisis (2–6 months)
This is the part where it all goes sideways. A spark hits the gasoline and the chaos goes national. Could be a virus, a riot, a recession. Doesn’t matter. The goal’s the same: panic.
And when folks are panicked, they’ll trade almost anything for the promise of calm—even if it means handing over the keys to their own freedom.
Remember?
COVID lockdowns that felt more like house arrest.
Cities on fire in the name of justice.
Toilet paper wars in the supermarket aisle.
A crisis doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to make people afraid.

Stage 4: Normalization
And then, when the dust settles and folks are too worn out to argue, you call it normal. You wrap control in pretty paper and say, “This is just how things are now.”
Surveillance sold as convenience.
Censorship spun as protection.
Silence praised as civility.

The truth is, we’ve been frog-boiled. We’re standing in water that started out cool and easy, and now it’s bubbling, but we’re still trying to convince ourselves it’s a hot spring.

So What Now?

Bezmenov didn’t spill these secrets to scare us. He did it because he’d seen what happens when folks don’t fight for their own minds. He wasn’t waving the American flag—he was holding up a mirror.
The way back is quieter than the way down. It starts with teaching truth like it’s a birthright, not a relic. It’s turning off the noise and listening to that still, small voice that says, “This isn’t right.”
Read banned books. Ask questions no one wants to answer. Raise kids who have backbones and manners. Don’t trade your conscience for comfort.

You want to fight propaganda? Start by telling the truth—even when it’s out of season.
This isn’t just a battle for policy or politics. It’s a battle for the soul of a country. And we don’t need an army—we need people who remember who they are.
Let them come for the hearts and minds. We’ll be sittin’ here with truth in one hand and grit in the other.

Ancient Truths, Southern Roots, and the Art of Being Excellent Without Bragging About It

 On Excellence, Soul, and Why Rhetoric Matters: A Southern Reverie with Ancient Roots

Let me tell you something the Greeks knew and most folks forgot: arete ain't just a pretty word—it’s the whole point of being alive. It means excellence, sugar. Not just win-the-trophy excellence, but deep, holy, purpose-filled living. The kind where your soul hums like a well-tuned fiddle because you're doing exactly what you were made to do.

Socrates, bless his philosophical heart, said if you want to be happy, you gotta be good. Not Instagram-good. Not charity-auction good. But honest-to-God virtuous. Justice, wisdom, courage, self-control—that’s the real gold. And he didn’t say you might be happy with those things. He said you will be. Guaranteed. Like biscuits rise when the oven’s hot.

Now Aristotle came along with a bit more science to his soul. He said we humans are creatures of reason, and we’re at our best when we live like it. Eudaimonia—that’s their fancy word for deep well-being—isn’t just a feeling. It’s a way of being, a life soaked in purpose and lit by virtue. He believed that to flourish, you can’t just sit around with good intentions. You’ve got to act right. Be useful. Sharpen your gifts. Live with aim.

Epicurus? He thought pleasure was the goal, but not the kind you find at the bottom of a margarita. He meant the kind of peace that comes from knowing you’re living clean, living true. He saw virtue as the road that leads to joy, even if it isn’t always paved.

Now the Stoics—they were tough as a two-dollar steak. They said virtue is the only thing that matters. Storms may come, fortunes may fall, but if your soul’s steady, you’re rich in all the ways that count. They didn’t care much for gold or beauty or power. They believed your worth was in your choices, your grit, your grace under pressure. And honey, that’s something the modern world needs a heap more of.

As for Viktor Frankl—he came much later, but he spoke like a man who’d walked through fire - because he did. He said life’s meaning isn’t handed to you—it’s carved out in how you suffer, how you love, and how you create. Even when all else is stripped away, you still get to choose your attitude. That, my dear, is soul-deep freedom.

And then there’s rhetoric. Lord, don’t get me started. It used to be the art of persuasion, of moving folks with your words, not manipulating them. Aristotle called it “the ability to see what will persuade in any given situation,” and Cicero—now he believed a real orator needed a good heart, not just a silver tongue.

But rhetoric’s a double-edged pie cutter. It can serve the truth or dress up a lie in pearls and perfume. The Greeks feared that slick talkers could lead the crowd straight off a cliff—and history’s shown they weren’t wrong.

Still, in the right hands, words can build a republic, mend a marriage, or light a fire in a lonely heart.

So what’s the takeaway?

Live with purpose. Speak with care. Know your worth ain't in your wallet or your waistline, but in your will. Be excellent—not for applause, but because that’s how your soul sings. And when the world tries to sell you shortcuts or sweet-sounding lies, remember this: truth has roots, and virtue never goes out of style.

The Science Delusion

When Facts Wear Lipstick and Sell You a Dream

Once upon a time, science was slow, careful, and humble. It sat quietly with its spectacles on, testing, tinkering, and waiting patiently for the truth to show itself. These days, science’s cousin—let’s call her Opinion Science—has gotten herself all gussied up and gone to work in marketing.

If you say, “A study shows…” or “Scientists say…” people stop thinking and start nodding. We’ve been trained to worship lab coats like vestments, and academic acronyms like scripture. But much of what parades as “science” today is storytelling in a white coat—designed to sell you a product, a vote, or a worldview.

Real science asks questions. Spin science already knows the answer—and it always sounds suspiciously like what someone’s selling.
Behavioral science, social science, climate science, food science—these often rely on feelings, guesses, and interviews with people who are scared to tell the truth. And yet, we treat these “studies” like commandments etched in stone.

The result? We’ve traded our instincts for experts. Traded discernment for credentials. And we’ve confused “being informed” with simply being manipulated in fancier fonts.

Science is a tool—not a savior. It can build bridges and mend bones, but it cannot tell you why you cry in the shower or how to forgive your father.

And when we let science pretend to be philosophy, morality, or meaning—we don’t just lose our wonder. We lose our will.

So ask questions. Trust your gut. And remember: the truth doesn’t always come in a lab report. Sometimes it comes from your grandmother, your conscience, or a good hard look at the sky.

Retail Asset Protection - Bless This Crazy Mess

 Once upon a time—many jeans ago—I was a Loss Prevention Detective at Bloomingdale’s. Yep, me. Tucked upstairs behind a wall of monitors, sipping lukewarm coffee and eyeing folks like I was born with X-ray vision. And while most jobs blur together over the years, that one still shines like a rhinestone in a box of bolts.

Now, I worked with a whole team, but Dave? Dave was my people. The kind of guy who didn’t just show up—he showed up. Took me seriously, too, right from the start. Probably because on day one, while he was easing into his shift with a newspaper and a donut, I pointed at a screen and said, “Uh, Dave? I think that guy just stole some jeans.”

Dave looked up slow, the way men do when they’re hoping you’re just being dramatic. But then he saw it. “Holy sh*t,” he muttered, tossing the paper and calling in backup. Next thing I knew, he was sprinting through the parking lot like it was the Boston Marathon—rules be damned. (We weren’t supposed to step off the curb, but rules used to be more... suggestions.) One police car clipped a median and popped a tire. But hey—we got the guy.

That moment sealed our partnership. We worked like a charm after that. Trusted each other. Laughed a lot. Not bad for retail surveillance.

But like all good things in retail, the job dissolved—people left for the police academy, the military, or in my case, a sales job that paid double and didn’t require chasing denim thieves through snowbanks.

Years passed. Titles changed. But that job? That was fun. Right up there with being a paramedic, only with fewer bodily fluids.

Flash forward to 2018. I went back into LP, this time at Target. Thought I’d be slipping back into the rhythm like a favorite pair of jeans. Turns out, the jeans had holes. Big ones.

Target had gone corporate. Real corporate. My store was in "makeover mode," but the real horror show wasn’t the new fixtures—it was the creepy men creeping on customers (sorry, guests), and the leadership that wanted it all kept hush-hush. Nothing to see here, folks! Just a woman being followed in aisle 3.

Then came Tom, my new Asset Protection Manager. He had the warmth of a dead fish and the enthusiasm of a soggy cardboard box. Told me I cared too much and maybe I should be more like Craig and Sam. (Both men. Both mediocre. But apparently “diverse” was code for “not you.”)

I asked to transfer. He said no. I said bye.

Macy’s was next. Plain clothes this time—finally, back to the glory of blending in. The tech was fancy (TrueVue towers that scanned your purchases like something out of Minority Report), but the department was a mess. Manager wore five hats, had time for none, and training was thinner than gas station grits.

Still, there were moments. The team would come alive during a case and, for a hot second, it felt like old times. But when we weren’t chasing bad guys, we were mostly chasing our tails—unclear policies, no leadership, and the kind of drama that makes reality TV look tame.

I used to say that if I won the lottery, I’d do this job for free. But now, I’d rather take my winnings and run. Not because of the thieves—but because corporate stopped caring. The criminals have more rights than the folks trying to stop them.

Still, if you’ve got a sixth sense for shifty eyes and you like solving puzzles that involve purses with false bottoms, give it a shot. You might find your niche. Investigations. Internals. Audits. Or like me—just watching and noticing what no one else does.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not grateful. But if you land on a solid team and keep your sense of humor close, you’ll find a kind of weird joy in catching the bad guy and drinking bad coffee under bad lighting. And honey, that’s not nothing.

Sorry Bob !

 

---

My dad, Bob, died way too young—just 50 years old—after being diagnosed with ALS at 48. That kind of grief hits you like a freight train you didn’t see coming. But what hit me harder, years later, was realizing just how much sense he actually made.

He tried his best to pass on values and a backbone. But bless his heart, he didn’t realize the sheer force of culture that would come for me. See, he was a product of the 1940s and ‘50s—where folks said “yes ma’am,” and looked their neighbors in the eye. I came of age in the whiplash world of the ‘70s and ‘80s, where Madonna was preaching “Express Yourself,” and Cosmopolitan was basically a handbook on how to ignore your instincts in favor of being “liberated.”

Truth be told, I wish I’d listened more to Dad more and less to pop culture’s parade of bad advice dressed in sequins and lip gloss. Virtue got marketed as old-fashioned. And having no morals? That got sold as freedom. Y’all—that was a lie. A polished, pretty, wildly profitable lie.

If I had a time machine and a second chance at those formative years, I’d turn down the volume on the world and lean in to Dad's voice. He was trying to teach me something sacred. And Lord knows, I finally get it.

As for my website name? I picked SorryBob.com in honor of my dad. The name Bob is plain, simple, and as old as white on rice.  And sorry, Bob—but this girl had to fall on her face a few times before she stood up with a clear head and a clear heart. I think Dad would be relieved to see that I finally see what he meant.

Because here’s the thing:
We are all worthy of happiness.
But real happiness isn’t handed to us.
It’s earned through freedom.
And freedom? That starts with courage.
And courage? It shows up when you finally start believing in yourself.
That’s the real circle of life, y’all.

These days, we’ve got wolves in self-help clothing. Exploiters selling “empowerment” while robbing us blind of our dignity. They don’t want us free—they want us frazzled, dependent, divided, and distracted.

My daddy believed in community—not disunity. He didn’t live long enough to see the internet, but I believe—if we use it right—it can be the most powerful tool for good since the printing press. It can unite people who care. People who dare. People who see what’s going on.

And I believe we’re those people.

So, here are Eight Things I’ve Learned (Usually the Hard Way):

1. Apathy limits opportunity; awareness and action limit the opportunists.

2. Knowledge is power—but only if you use it.

3. Actions speak louder than posts (and words).

4. Keep it simple, unless you're trying to confuse and control people—then by all means, complicate it to death.

5. Chase dogs (the four pawed and loyal kind) and dreams, not people. 

6. The only free cheese is in a mousetrap.

7. You teach people how to treat you.

8. Choose happiness—not helplessness.

And to the Happiness Hijackers out there? We see you. And we’re coming with grace, grit, and good boots.

  

   

Lent, Butter, and the Business of Becoming Better

 Now, I was raised Catholic—like fish-on-Fridays, ashes-on-Wednesdays, and guilt-for-dessert kind of Catholic. But these days, I don’t claim religion so much as I claim reverence. Not for pews or pulpits necessarily, but for something more mysterious. Something you can’t quite explain, but you know it when it stirs in your bones.

Call it soul. Call it the voice inside. Call it the Holy Ghost or just good ol’ fashioned gut instinct. But I believe in it.

Because deep down, we do know right from wrong.
Even if the world’s gotten noisy with Happiness Hijackers trying to sell us peace like it's a product—marketed in soft pastels and subscription boxes.

But real happiness?
Well, it’s tricky.

Sure, I love sunshine on my skin, music in the kitchen, and folks who laugh easy and love hard. Give me color, warmth, and people who show up when things get messy—that makes me happy.

But deep happiness—the kind that stays even when the lights go out and the room gets quiet—that comes from purpose.
From doing the thing you were made to do, even if the only witness is your dog and the dishes.

Lent, at its heart, is a time to pause.
To reflect.
To repent, if that’s your rhythm.

Me? I’ve already got a highlight reel of regrets and a tendency to self-scold. So for these next 46 days, I’m trading in shame for shape-shifting—the good kind. The kind where you turn inward, clean house, and make room for more light.

And no, I won’t be taking the Sundays off. I know myself. One skipped day leads to one excuse leads to, “Well, maybe next year.” My willpower melts faster than butter in a cast iron skillet, so I need rhythm and resolve, not loopholes.

I’ve always loved a fresh start. A new year. A clean calendar page. A Monday morning with a sharpened pencil.

So that’s what this is.
Forty-six days to show up for my life with more heart, more intention, more discipline, and a whole lotta grace.

Because every faith, every practice, every good book or wise granny I’ve ever met, seems to circle the same truth:

Be the best version of yourself.

And that’s something we can all believe in.

Swan Song - Elin Hilderbrand

I love Elin Hilderbrand...which pains me to write this honest personal review: Not a Swan Song, more like a Turkey Screech. I was really disappointed in Swan Song. I've liked so many of Elin's books and always looked forward to them. The last few have injected politics into the fray, which totally distracts from the story. And it's as if her last book (supposedly final book, though she admits in the acknowledgements it might not be her last....The Tom Brady of Fiction?) she thought, "well, if I'm going out, might as well inject all my political ideals into the book! We had to slog through environmentalism, racism, lesbianism, inter-racial couples, and painting Southern upbringing as typical backwoods, backwards, blue collar, stupid people. But it's not like any of those topics helped the story or fit, it's as if she was using those topics to say, "Look how elitist and progressive I am!" She also had explict sex scenes which I don't remember in any of her previous books. And though there were only a few, WHY? A good author is able to leave details to the imagination of the reader. Once she got passed the progressive notes, the book turned into a delightful usual Elin novel. We focused on the characters, their drama, and things were going well in the middle of the book, and then it turned the last few chapters. Extremely rushed. The characters became caricatures. The ending was neatly wrapped up in three pages. Super disappointed. I usually can't put her books down...this one I put down so many times at being put off by the various things I mentioned, and then literally rolled my eyes at the ending. If you're a die hard Elin fan, by all means, you'll love it. If you are a discerning reader that dislikes tropes, skip it and choose any book of Elin's but Swan Song...

Snake Oil by Kelsey Rae Dimberg

Snake Oil by Kelsey Rae Dimberg Amazing. The author (new to me), is brilliant. A true artist. Very few words wasted in this twisty turny novel. 3 women: One is the creator of a female health and wellness company that utilizes all the social media to LIFT her brand (iykyk). One woman started with the brand in the beginning days and has benefited from the products (so she believes) and is a devoted fan. One woman works for the brand, befriends the devoted worker/fan, but had a different experience and is bitter. There is a twisty turn. And, oddly enough, the character that I was sure I wasn't going to be rooting for, I actually found myself rooting for in the end. I couldn't put the book down (that alone deserves 5 stars as I start and stop many many books and few rarely hold my attention). Could easily go from book to screen, and I hope if it does, they stick to the story. In a fair world, this would spend a year on the Best Seller list. Release Date: September 14, 2024