(Relax kids – nobody’s dying – yet. I’m just writing. No hinting implied.)
Why don’t my kids ever call – just to chat? I truly don’t understand it. It’s not like they have jobs, kids, activities, responsibilities, or lives of their own, right?
I wish I could see the look on my kids’ faces when they click on this blog and read the title – if they even do. Read it, that is. I know exactly what they’ll think: Oh no. We’re in trouble. No subtle hinting here. Mom’s guilt-tripping us via her blog.
Honestly, two out of the three of you might deserve a light sprinkle of guilt. The youngest son calls nearly once a week – but he’s still single, so he has the advantage of not going to kids’ activities and fewer humans yelling, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!” in the background.
And yes, yes, I can already hear the chorus: “Ya know Mom – the phone works both ways.”
It does. Absolutely. But there is something sweeter – something warmer – about knowing the call was their idea. When your child instigates the conversation, it hits differently. It lands right in the soft spot of a mother’s heart.
A couple of years ago, my oldest son called out of the blue. I remember answering with, “Is everything OK?” because seriously, these calls are rare enough that I assume someone’s in the hospital. But he said, “Everything’s fine. I just haven’t talked to you for a while.”
After the shock wore off, I grinned through the entire conversation. At first I wondered what on earth we’d talk about, but the words flowed as easily as water in a river. When we hung up, I felt joy. I felt thought of. I felt – dare I say it – needed. Maybe he called out of guilt, but I like to believe part of him just wanted to hear his mother’s voice.
Here’s the thing about mothers: we know our kids so well that we can hear everything in that very first HELLO. Panic. Worry. Exhaustion. Depression. Or the rarest of all – the casual, breezy “just calling to chat” tone. One word, and I know whether I need to talk them in off a ledge, patch a wound, or simply enjoy the gift of their voice. It’s a strange superpower, but it’s ours to behold.
Of course, that superpower comes with a downside: sometimes we react too quickly. A couple nights ago, my youngest called to tell me about a new job opportunity. He’d be commuting for a while and was thinking about getting a little beater car with good gas mileage. Instead of just listening, I jumped straight into Mom Mode and blurted, “Hold on – the last time you traded in a vehicle, you were sick with buyer’s remorse. And a beater will require you to spend money to keep it going.”
And then I heard it – that disappointed sigh. “Boy, I’m really glad I told you about my plan.”
Oof. That one hit me right in the heart.
I felt terrible. My reaction came from a place of wanting to protect him from feeling that same regret again. I was trying to save him from another heartache, but it came out wrong. It made him feel like he’d be damned if he ever told me an idea again. I still need to apologize – and I will, unless he reads this first and beats me to it.
Every Sunday night I tell myself – this week I’ll call one of the kids. I’ll pick a night and decide which one will be the lucky recipient of my rambling. But then I don’t. And so, my good intentions fail just as often as theirs do.
Now here comes the part that might tug at their hearts – but not because I want them to feel bad. Truly. I’d give anything to be able to pick up the phone and call my own mother. To hear her talk about the birds at her feeder, or how her flowering crab apple tree was loaded with buds and is going to be gorgeous this Spring. She’d tell me about a new recipe her niece gave her but didn’t want to make “for just one person,” and then she’d ask if she made it, would I stop over and eat it with her.
And now here I am, tears in my eyes, hearing her voice in my head. I’d give anything to hear it in my ears.
Mothers don’t stop being mothers when the kids leave the nest. We don’t stop thinking about you, worrying about you, cheering for you, praying for you. For nearly eighteen years, we occupied the same space – you were our entire world. We were mama bears, protectors, worriers, watchers. And yes – sometimes it would be nice to know you think of us too. Not in a burdensome way. Not in a “drop everything and panic” way. Just a flicker of thought kind of way. A moment of I should call my mom… just because way.
Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. But maybe – because the tiny part of you remembers that I washed your baseball uniforms three times a week, sometimes at 10 o’clock at night because you suddenly remembered you had a game the next day. And, because I kept you alive on Schwan’s chicken patties and Western dressing – the only things standing between you and full-blown hangry chaos when your tummy was grumbling loud enough to rattle the windows.
And maybe – your sister is still holding a grudge because I lost her blankie. Honey, I swear that is still a complete mystery. You’re such a Dateline fan, maybe you could get Keith Morrison to come investigate: The Case of the Missing Blankie.
I don’t want to add weight to your already busy lives. I don’t want you worrying about me. I don’t want you to feel guilty. But if this gently nudges you to pick up the phone and say, “Heh Mom, just thought I’d call to say hi,” – I’ll take it.
Because the sound of your voices light up the quiet corners of my heart.
A toast: Here’s to the years we survived together – the grass stains, the chicken patties, the missing blankey, and every “hello” that told me everything I needed to know in a single breath. Here’s to you calling me before you scroll through Recents, don’t see my name, assume I’ve died, and realize you were too busy to notice the obituary or attend the funeral – although Keith Morrison would absolutely call that suspicious.
Here’s to you finding humor in your mother’s latest blog post – and if it suddenly inspires you to call me, knock yourself out. You’ll find a very receptive receiver on the other end.
To Jill, Joey and Mark, the three humans who made me a mother, handed me a lifetime pass to worry and wonder, and then blessed me with grandchildren who made the whole ride even sweeter. You gave me the badge of Mom and the promotion to Grandma… not bad for someone you forget to call.
This Sunday is Mother’s Day. If you’re fortunate enough to still have your mother in your life, call her. The sound of your voice will mean more than any bouquet you could send.
Cheers and Happy Mother’s Day to mothers everywhere!
Subscribe Enter your email – because my blog’s survival depends on this, and frankly, I am not emotionally strong enough for rejection.
I didn’t expect to write a follow-up to Gracie’s last chapter so soon, but apparently, I have homework – and you’re involved.
Yes, homework. Cue the drumroll. I’ve enrolled in an Animal Communication course.
Some of you are rolling your eyes. Others – who know me well – are probably nodding and saying, “Of course she did.” My kids should be honestly grateful their mother keeps life interesting.
How I Got Here (Besides Following Breadcrumbs)
During the nearly 14 years I had with Gracie, I always sensed there was something bigger going on between us. Beyond the unconditional love, I felt a deeper purpose. I’d look at her and ask, “Gracie, what grand reason brought you into my life?”
I simply wasn’t a dog person. I liked other people’s dogs. Dogs lived outside. Dogs smelled. Dogs slobbered. That was my entire resume on the subject. So, when I went looking for a teddy bear pup and found one, I should’ve known the universe was up to something.
A week before Gracie’s passing, I had a moment in the shower – one of those soul-level moments where the water is running over you but you’re really not in the shower anymore. I said out loud, “Oh Gracie, I know there’s more meaning to your life than just being my companion.”
And instantly, I felt it: it would be in her passing that another, powerful reason would reveal itself. She would be my teacher, my partner, my spiritual guide – and the knowing of that hit me so hard I began absolutely wailing. Not crying. Wailing. Because that answer had everything to do with her death, and I was nowhere near ready for that truth. It was too big, too heavy, too soon… and yet it was unmistakably real.
Not a photo I ever thought I’d be creating
Enter: Animal Communication
A few days before that shower moment, a reel popped up on my Facebook feed – an animal communicator. Not a subject I’d been searching, mind you. One of the animals Lori connected with, a cat, showed up wearing sunglasses, a top hat, and a pink boa. This cat was delivering deep, philosophical messages even she couldn’t quite comprehend. Another cat spoke of life being an illusion and time not being real. I was loving all of it!
There’s no question for me that animals communicate. My question was more, “Why wouldn’t they?”
Animals have souls. Animals have something to say. It’s our job to listen.
We talk to our pets constantly. We tell them where we’re going. We reassure them we’ll “be right back,” even when we know we’re lying. That’s connection. Often I’d lie to Gracie because I couldn’t bring myself to saying, “You may have to be in your bed for 4-5 hours.” That killed me, so I had to lie. I’d downplay it and say something like, “It’ll just be a little bit and I’ll be home before you know it.” I’m sure she was thinking, “Yeh right. I know better. But if it makes you feel better, go with it.”
As the days went on, I felt pulled towards this work. I downloaded books on Audible. I listened. I learned that humans are born with the ability to hear animals and spirits; we just forget. It’s a muscle. And I’ve had enough spiritual breadcrumbs in my life to know when something is calling my name. It’s a myth to think you have to have been born with this gift. That only special people can do it. We are all special.
My highest thought was this: If I could help people through the heartbreak of losing their animal, by sharing a message from their beloved pet, having just gone through it myself, what a gift that would be.
So, I signed up for the same program the FB lady trained with. In one of her videos she shared she was an accountant who wasn’t particularly happy doing what she was doing and trusted when she was told if she put in the time, she’d be successful. She swore she’d be the very first student to fail the class and disprove to the teacher just anybody can do it. News flash: She’s not only successful but quit her day job and has a wait list of thousands.
I had an interview and was enrolled in the program on a Monday. Little did I know… the very next day would be my last with Gracie.
Her First Messages
Not long after she passed, I sensed Gracie saying she needed to “get out of my way.” She knew I’d need time, space, and emotional bandwidth to learn this new skill. I asked her why she’d been such a needy dog – diabetes, Cushing’s disease, all of it. She told me by putting me in the caregiver role, it would bond us even stronger. Even though it was hard on both of us, she knew it was necessary.
She was right.
Animal communication requires quiet, stillness, and hours of focus. Currently, it involves hours and hours at my computer. If I’d still been juggling insulin schedules, potty breaks, and attending to her whines, it wouldn’t have been possible and to be honest, frustrating.
I shared a message I received from Gracie in my recent blog, the one where I asked if she was ready to go, and she replied, “I’m ready when you are, Mom.”
And no, that wasn’t just what I wanted to hear. I much would have preferred, “Nope – not yet, a few more days,” because I could have been easily talked out of it at that point. But she knew I had to be ready.
The Most Profound Moment
A few days after she passed, I found one of her insulin syringes on the counter. I popped the orange cap off a few times – because that little “pop” was oddly satisfying, and then I decided to reenact our whole routine.
I walked to the laundry room where I always fed her. Closing my eyes, I could see her in my mind, running in, spinning around, waiting. I placed the imaginary bowl down, rubbed the spot on her neck, felt the needle piercing her skin, pushed the insulin in slowly, giving it one last push to make sure all of the medicine had found its way into her, and withdrew the syringe.
I then stood up, opened my eyes – and that’s when I heard her:
“But Mom, you forgot the best part! You always took your hand and slid it down my back. I loved that part.”
That was an absolute OMG moment. That part was as much a part of the ritual as any of it. How could I not have remembered to do that? I did it twice a day – every day- for a year and a half. It started out to feel for any wetness, to be assured the insulin went where it was supposed to, but then became a sweet, sacred ending to the routine. I would ask Jesus to put His hand over mine as my hand slowly glided down her back. I forgot. She reminded me.
This was the clearest, most beautiful exchange we’ve had since she crossed over. However, while typing this morning, in my mind I saw her approaching the couch, wanting up. When I imagined pulling her body up, I heard her say, “You don’t have to do that anymore. I can jump now.” And so she did.
So Here I Am
I’ve started the course. I imagine Gracie curled beside me on the couch as I listen and learn. I had no idea how I was going to explain this new chapter to people, but honestly, I’ve done much harder things. Recently – one of the hardest. So saying I want to communicate with animals? That barely registers on the “Lisa has officially lost it” scale.
People who know me know I love this kind of work. Years ago, I practiced energy healing and I still believe in it wholeheartedly. This is simply an extension of that.
And now I need your help.
I Need Animals to Practice On
If you’re willing to share your pet with me I’d be so grateful. This is completely complimentary.
I’ll need from you a photo of your pet and just a few specifics that I’ve listed on my FB page. See link below.
I want to be transparent: I’m just starting. I may be 100% off. I may get nothing. This is a skill built on practice, patience, and trust. If I get one clear detail, one message that lands, that’s a win.
Please don’t feel bad if your feedback is, “Yeah… no. That wasn’t my pet you were connecting with. Honestly, you might be better off taking those breadcrumbs you think are signs and making meatloaf with them.”
I’ll dust myself off, thank you and your animal, and keep going.
Join Me
This program is so assured of our success, it has us creating new social media accounts early on, so I’m asking you to follow my new Facebook page:
Follow the instructions on my page and post your pets pics. Help me grow this work.
And thank you – for reading, for supporting, and for loving Gracie right along with me.
Editor’s note: Just before Gracie passed, my husband took a quiet video of her resting in my arms. It was hard to watch later, but then I saw it – clear as day. She didn’t blink… she winked! And in that tiny, deliberate gesture, I felt her say, “This isn’t goodbye”. It felt more like a promise. That wink became the heartbeat of our next journey together.
Editor’s Note: I’m not special for loving my dog the way I did – every pet owner knows that kind of love. What’s different is that I have a place to share it, to process it, to honor it. Writing this is my way of surviving the grief that comes when we have to make the hardest decision love ever asks of us.
If you’ve walked that road – if you’ve held a pet close and whispered goodbye – then you’ll understand every word that follows. This post is for all of us who have had to send our beloved companions home.
At 5:03 this morning, the sadness hit me, exactly the way I knew it would. For the past year and a half, 5 am was sacred – the hour my sweet Gracie Lu got what she lived for: food.
Living with diabetes and cushing’s disease had given her an insatiable hunger. She was always starving, always pleading, always waiting for that next meal. It was extremely hard hearing her whine – sometimes for up to an hour. She wasn’t trying to wear me down, her body was simply begging for what it couldn’t have. It was a painful balance wanting to give her every comfort, knowing it would send her blood sugar spiraling. My husband wanted to spoil her with treats, but as her mom, I had to be the one who said no. It was tough love in every sense of that word. Truthfully, I think the hurt of holding back lived in me just as much as the hunger lived in her.
Cushing’s disease explained the hair loss we were seeing. Her big fluffy tail – the one we used to trim because it grew so long, slowly thinned until it resembled a little rat’s tail. Barely any hair hanging on. It was a stark reminder of what the illness was taking from her.
Our morning ritual started long before 5 am. It was routine to hear her cry around 3 am, from our bed where she slept – 4am if I was lucky. As she aged, she simply couldn’t wait as long to relieve herself. The moment I heard that first soft cry, I knew I had to move quickly. I’d scoop her up, carry her down the stairs, turn on the outside patio light, and help her down the 2 steps. Those early morning rituals – the ones I performed half-asleep, half-worried, squinting as I drew up the insulin into the syringe, praying I didn’t misread the numbers printed on the barrel – vanished overnight. The silence they left behind felt like a doorway I wasn’t prepared to enter.
Yesterday began like any other day. She ate at five. She shuffled over to the couch so I could lift her up beside me. Gracie always needed to be near me – or at least know where I was. Even if I slipped into the bathroom, I’d hear the pitter-patter of her claws walking across the floor edging closer, as she nudged the door open just enough to confirm I was there. That’s all she needed. Then she was content.
We had been watching her decline over the past year. At nearly 14 years of age, her legs were weakening. We were carrying her up the stairs – and now down them, too. The fear of seeing her tumble was real. She stumbled over thresholds, tripped on couch cushions, lost her balance on the bed – anything that wasn’t solid.
Two weeks ago, at her last glucose check, euthanasia became part of the conversation. It was a tearful visit. But then the vet suggested trying pain meds. I think I was in denial that she was in pain. I knew she had to be uncomfortable, but pain? Is there a difference? If that’s the case, this sounded like we were handed some hope. I couldn’t wait to get a day or two worth of pills in her.
To my delight, and Gracie’s – they worked. Within just a day or two, she was doing things I’d forgotten she used to do. She picked up a toy when she saw me, her way of saying she felt good and wanted to play tug-of-war. She hopped over thresholds again, her back legs moving in unison like a bunny hop instead of dragging. And even through her cataracts, her eyes had a sparkle again. It felt like she was coming back to me. I let myself believe we had more time. Possibly a lot more time. When we run out of pain pills, we’ll just get more.
People often talk about a loved one having a sudden surge of energy in the days before they pass. I believe that’s what happened with Gracie. Those pain pills gave her a few days of renewed life. But yesterday morning, everything changed.
I came home from an appointment around nine. I opened her kennel door, expecting her to grab her toy and hop out to greet me. Instead, she just looked at me. After a minute or two and some gentle coaxing, she stood up – but as she slowly attempted to exit her bed, her back legs couldn’t clear the one-inch lip of the kennel. My heart sank. What was happening? When she finally stepped onto the slippery vinyl floor, her legs gave out and she fell. Watching her struggle to get up broke something inside me and set the stage for the decision that would change everything that came after.
I sat in a chair, tears streaming down my face, and the thought came: She has a routine vet appointment in a couple of hours. Could today be the day – the day I’vedreaded since I brought her home nearly 14 years ago? OMG, was I actually entertaining this idea? I sat there and cried, shaking, knowing this decision was never going to get easier. But today? God no… I’m not ready!
Gene, our vet, told me at our last visit that he’d be willing to come to our home when the time came. I loved the idea of avoiding the 40-min. car ride she hated – the shaking, the fear. I wanted her to cross over while laying beside me on the couch, her favorite place that I lifted her up to nearly a dozen times a day. Up. Down. Up. Down.
But as I sat there yesterday morning, contemplating this grueling decision, I realized Gene most likely wouldn’t be able to come right away. In fact, I could be waiting several days for a day that worked for him. The thought of having an appointment for that dreaded day and having to count down the days… hours, until it fit into his schedule, seemed excruciating. And the part that stung the most was imagining him picking her up off our couch and carrying her lifeless body out of our home. Her home. Never to return.
I needed to talk to someone close to me. I called my daughter. Jill knew immediately something was wrong. When I told her what I was contemplating, we cried together. She assured me I was making the right decision and ended by saying through her own tears, “Please give her a hug from Lloyd and me. We loved that little girl so much. The kids will be so sad.”
Then I called my youngest, Mark. He was gentle and sympathetic, and he knew this pain all too well. He affirmed that this was the right decision. I was doing it out of love for her.
Next, I called my daughter-in-law, Briana. She and her family were still reeling from the loss of their love, Berkley. She got it. I asked a favor of her – something that I knew when once out of my mouth, was going to put everything in motion: “Would you call the vet and let them know?”
I couldn’t bring myself to saying those words. She would take care of it.
My husband had a heavy patient load in the clinic, but I messaged him, asking if he could call me between patients. He hadn’t seen the message yet, and my mind went to a dark place. Was he really not going to be there? Would I have to do this alone? Part of me thought maybe it would be easier just me alone with Gracie. Another part of me was already fearing the resentment and loneliness I’d feel.
Then my phone rang. It was him. He asked what was going on, what time the appointment was, and then said he had one more patient to see. “Wait for me,” he said. “We’ll go together.” Things were falling into place.
While I was on the phone with him, I received a message from my son, Joey. “Heh mom, I know today is as hard as they come. I’d like to meet you at the vet at 11:45 to be there for you, if that’s OK.”
It was more than OK. When I told him Tan was going to be able to go after all, he said, “That’s OK. I will be there for both of you. It will be hard for him just the same.” There are no words to describe how much that meant to us.
Before any of that – before the calls, before the decision – I needed to talk to Gracie. She was lying on the couch, front paws stretched out, head low, eyes fixed on me. Not in a comfortable, relaxed position. I looked in her eyes and asked, “Gracie, are you ready to go?”
And what I felt – what I heard in that quiet way animals speak to us was: “I’m ready when you are, Mom.” Gracie knew the depth of my love for her and although she was ready, she knew I had to be too.
I had read something recently that stayed with me: when an animal reaches their last chapter, they are ready to go at any time. Our job – the hardest job – is to let them go before they reach the last page.
My husband was home now. It was time. I went to find her harness and then realized it wasn’t needed. I’d be holding her. Before we walked out that door, I had one more thing to do. I went to find Teddy, the cat – her unlikely soulmate. Their bond was something out of a storybook. Teddy adored her. He hugged her with his tail as they walked across the floor, crawled into her kennel to lie beside her, kneading her gently with his paws, and draped himself over her like a blanket of love. Even when she tried to wriggle away, he persisted until she surrendered to his affection. Animals have a way of knowing, and I believe he knew exactly what was transpiring.
When I sat Teddy down beside her to say goodbye, he looked at her briefly, then at me, and simply walked away as if to say, We’ve already said our goodbyes. I believe they had.
But last evening those cats felt the emptiness. Both he and Tilly would jump on the bed, stand there for a second, then just as quickly jump off. Today, this is where they are – one on each side of me, as if to say, “We’re here for you.”
At the vet, the first injection was administered. Within minutes, her rigid body – the one that never liked being held except at the vet – went limp. That was the moment I dreaded. A part of me screamed: Stop. Let the anesthesia wear off. I need more time. But the other part whispered, You’re going home now, baby. No more pain. The door is open.
The second injection came. She was ready. It didn’t take long. I placed my hand underneath her body, desperately wanting to feel her last couple of heart beats but felt nothing. Gene listened with his stethoscope, then looked at me with soft eyes and his soft voice he’s known for, saying the words I dreaded to hear. “She’s gone.”
More tears. Endless tears. She passed peacefully.
I couldn’t stop smelling the top of her head. I knew I would never smell her like that again. Every evening when I carried her upstairs to go to bed, I’d kiss the top of her head a million times, absorbing her smell into my memory.
I needed a few minutes alone with her. I leaned down and whispered into her fur all the things a fur Mom would want to tell her fur baby. She knew how loved she was and I knew how lucky I was to have had her all those years. Walking away from her lifeless body was the deepest sadness I’ve ever known. I kept looking back. How could I leave her there?
Walking Gracie into the vet clinic, it looked like rain could come any minute. An hour later, walking out without her, the sun was shining ever so brightly. A had to smile.
Coming home was awful. Her dishes. Her kennel. Her treat container, the thawed Farmer’s Dog brick laying on the counter. Her insulin. Her meds. Every corner of the house screamed her absence.
This weekend we were going up to the cabin. We hadn’t been there all winter. I kept telling myself I wanted Gracie to sit in the sunshine on the deck and look out at the lake at least one more time. She loved it there. Chasing squirrels up a tree, going on a boat ride, and when my husband was up there, as soon as she saw the whites of his eyes in the morning, she was pouncing on him. Their routine was he’d grab a cup of coffee and they’d go for a walk. I was hoping – praying – there might even be many more of those times.
I’m prepared to walk in the cabin and every memory of her will rise up like a tide I’m not ready for. I’ve always loved spending alone time at the cabin. Alone time meant just the two of us. She was great company, especially sleeping alone. It was a comfort to see her next to me. We were in our happy place.
I needed to write this. I needed to document the day my world shifted. Every pet owner knows this pain, this grief that feels like it has a heartbeat of its own. I’m not the first nor will I be the last to experience this deep of a loss. It’s a part of life. My older brother put it beautifully: It’s a pain that’s proportional to the love they’ve provided.
People often wondered how I, a cat lady found myself with a house dog to begin with. But I know the answer. The unconditional love a dog gives you is unlike anything else. I’ve had to say goodbye to many cats, each one its own heartbreak, but the bond Gracie and I shared was something rare, something sacred.
Over the years, caring for her meant not going on trips with my husband, for we didn’t have anybody comfortable taking care of a dog that needed injections. It meant always watching the clock, so she got her insulin when needed, many, many vet checks to check her blood sugar and this past year, it meant waking up at 3 am. But I told myself I would have no regrets when her final day arrived and I can proudly say, I fulfilled my promise.
I know in time, I’m going to feel a freedom I haven’t felt in a long while. I can come and go easily now, but my body is still wired for the ritual we shared. Reaching for my purse to walk out the door feels strange, almost disloyal, because when Gracie saw me put socks on or grab my bag, she’d quietly walk over to her bed. She always knew exactly what to do. And now, when I step outside without closing her kennel door behind me, it feels like I’ve forgotten something essential. The moment is unfinished, as if the world hasn’t quite caught up to the new shape of my life without her in it.
Now it’s time for me to “turn the page.” The next chapter may be void of her physical presence, but she’s whispering in my ear all the time. And what she’s whispering will be shared with all of you in a future writing. You read that right.
A toast to Gracie – to the little dog who taught me how big love can be. Who made 5 am feel like a sacred appointment, who taught me love can live in routines, in soft whines at 3am, in the sound of claws on hardwood, and in the way she always needed to know where I was.
To the girl who followed me room to room, not for attention, but for connection – her quiet way of saying, “I’m here, Mom.” To her bunny-hop legs, her toy-in-the-mouth greetings, her sparkle returning for one last beautiful week, and the way she trusted me completely as I walked her home, opening the door for her – with my heart bearing the weight.
To the dog who didn’t need courage to leave – because she knew where she was going and she knew my love would go with her.
May I feel her beside me still – in the early-morning quiet that had become our way of life.
Here’s to my Gracie, my shadow, who made me a dog person without even trying.
What if you had an itch and you couldn’t scratch it? Not because you couldn’t reach… but because you didn’t have arms. Don’t laugh. It happens.
Why would I even think of this? Because I’ve stumbled upon the sweetest toddler on social media who was born without limbs. He is the cutest, most determined little human I’ve ever seen. He has prosthetic legs now, and with the tiny bit of limb he does have for arms, he’s learned how to pick things up. It’s incredible. Inspiring. And today, right after my own personal itch emergency – it hit me:
What happens when he gets one of those itches?
You know the kind. The middle of your back itch . The one no human assistant can ever quite reach, no matter how many times you bark:
“Lower. No, lower. To the right. Up a little. A little more. Now to the left. Oh, just forget it!” By the time the assistant hits the right spot, the itch has packed its bags and left. Lost opportunity for a moment of bliss.
So what do you do if you don’t have anybody around to help? That’s when the corners of your house become your best friends. We’ve all done the shimmy-shake against a wall like a desperate bear in mating season.
Cattle do it too – they find a post and lean into it with the commitment of someone who finally found the exact right spot. Dogs? They just roll onto their backs and wiggle like they’re summoning spirits. Animals just find a way.
We’ve all experienced the itch you can’t scratch politely. I’m talking about the thigh itch or the butt cheek itch. The one that hits while wearing jeans, so you grab the denim and try to rub the itch through the fabric as if that’s going to do anything. It never works. It just keeps coming back like a toddler asking for snacks.
This kind of itch demands immediate skin-to-skin contact. The kind where you do that subtle-but-not-subtle maneuver where you pretend to adjust your waistband while actually sneaking your hand down your leg like a racoon looking for treasure.
Come on – admit it.
We’ve all done it.
I did it just the other day playing pickleball with 3 other women. No matter how many times I tried to scratch it through my athletic pants, it wouldn’t stop. And because it was just women present, I called a timeout, set my paddle down, excused myself, and slipped my hand down my pants to tackle it.
Deep sigh… Mission accomplished.
And then there’s the itch you can’t find. I know that sounds unhinged, but here we are. I’ll go to scratch an itch and… nothing. No relief. It just keeps itching like, “Warmer… colder… nope, not there either.” How does an itch you swear is on the inside of your thigh end up being on your head? Are my nerve ways playing hopscotch? It feels like my body is running a practical joke on me: “Guess where the itch is! Wrong again!”
Then there’s the bottom of the foot itch. The one that hits when you’re in public and can’t take your shoe off, so you start stomping your foot like you’re trying to squash a ghost spider only you can see.
If I’m driving and get a bottom of the foot itch? Cruise control on. Shoe off. Game on.
Yes, I noticed the two right feet and the car seat that’s basically on the floor. After 30 attempts, AI tapped out and declared, “Close enough.” So we’re all just going to deal with it.
But scratching the bottom of a foot never quite works – the skin is too thick, too calloused, or too ticklish. Last time it happened at home, I grabbed the cat brush and went to town like a woman possessed.
Then there’s the nighttime itch. I don’t know why, but a few minutes after I get into bed, my arms suddenly remember they exist and start itching like they’re auditioning for a rash commercial. Don’t tell me it’s bed bugs. Don’t suggest fragrance free detergent. That’s not it.
The more I scratch, the more they itch. Then my legs join the party. I lie there debating whether lotion is worth getting out of bed for. It always is. But I resent getting up.
Have you ever had a cold, and the roof of your mouth itches? And you actually stick your finger in there and scratch it? That’s a whole different level of weirdly satisfying.
Honestly, I’ve never given itching this much thought until today. Itches just happen. We scratch them without thinking. Every exterior part of the human body eventually itches – eyes, ears, nose, everything.
We appreciate a lot of things. We thank God for a lot of things. We try to be grateful. But have you ever stopped and thought about what it would be like to have that kind of unbearable itch… and no arms?
The next time I get one of those sudden, urgent, drop-everything-it’s-an-emergency itches, I’m going to stop and thank the good Lord that I have the means to scratch it.
I have arms.
I have hands.
I have fingers.
Most of us do. But some don’t. Some are born without them. Some have paralysis that steals the ability to reach.
For them, something as small as an itch might be its own little hell. I know it would be for me.
So here’s to the everyday miracles we forget we’re living inside of. Here’s to the tiny miracles we don’t notice until they’re gone. Here’s to the ability to scratch the itch – literal or otherwise.
And here’s the toast:
May we never take for granted the simple gifts – the reach of our own arms, the relief of a good scratch, and the grace to remember those who live without what we assume is guaranteed.
To gratitude, to empathy, and to every itch we’re lucky enough to scratch. And may that sweet toddler with no limbs be spared the misery of a full-body itchy rash – that would just be cruel.
THEN: He used to think her “just rolled out of bed” look was adorable.
NOW: He’s stopped asking if she slept well – the answer is obvious.
THEN: She used to think his messy hair was sexy.
NOW: She wants to hand him a comb and a warning.
THEN: He used to think her long stories were charming.
NOW: He silently prays for an intermission.
THEN: She used to think his presence made her heart race.
NOW: It just raises her blood pressure.
You’re getting the picture here.
I wrote a blog once about the fact that humans acclimate to anything – the hard stuff, the heartbreaking stuff, the “how is this my life” stuff. Illness. Long commutes to a job you hate. A child moving across the country. A broken bone. We adapt. We adjust. We survive.
But we also acclimate to the good stuff all too easily, and often we see that as unfortunate – forgetting that the good doesn’t lose its value just because we’ve grown accustomed to it.
And in relationships, we feel this shift the most.
Remember those butterflies? The heartthrobs? The goosebumps? The chemistry so intense you could barely swallow your water at dinner because you were too busy staring into each other’s eyes like two dehydrated Labradors?
It makes you wonder how something that electric can dim so quietly.
Back then the ceiling could’ve collapsed around you and you wouldn’t have noticed. You were too busy grinning, playing with your hair, playing footsie, batting your eyes, and trying not to pass out from the ridiculous level of chemistry happening at that table.
The simple answer: We got used to it. Love didn’t go away – it evolved.
And yes, that’s a little sad.
Every human being should be so fortunate as to experience falling in love at least once. Most have. Some have been lucky enough to experience it again after divorce or death. And then there are those who make falling in love their career – serial romantics who treat relationships like Costco samples. “Ooh, that one looks good. I’ll take a taste and decide if it’s worth stocking up on.”
Think back – way back for some of you.
You had a crush. You prayed he’d call. Then one day your phone rang, and there it was: his name on the screen. And for those whose memories stretch back a little further, you answered the phone on the wall silently begging it to be him. The uncertainty was its own kind of electricity.
You let it ring a few times so you wouldn’t seem desperate but then panicked, because what if he gave up and hung up? So you answered on the third ring with that naïve, breathy, “Hiii,” trying to sound like a Disney princess who just woke from a nap.
He knew it was you, of course, but still asked, “Hi, is this Katie?” As if your phone had a rotating cast of women answering it.
And then the real fun began. You had to get ready for your big date.
You had one week to find the perfect outfit. Sexy but not too sexy. Cute but not childish. You tried on fifteen different outfits, staring at yourself in the mirror and wondering, “Does this make my butt look big? While also adjusting your neckline twelve times, aiming for that sweet spot between “tasteful” and “I have assets.”
You got your nails done, your hair done, and picked a perfume that would draw him in like a moth to a flame. You chose a neutral/pinkish color lipstick because red would make you look like a floozy.
It was a lot of work- so much attention given to every detail – but so worth the effort. When you looked good, you felt good. And you felt good.
Your hard work paid off. He fell for you completely – hook, line and sinker. All that effort, all that anticipation, all that sparkle you put into getting ready… it worked. And now fast-forward to today…
The sexy blouse with the low-cut V neck, has been replaced with an oversized sweatshirt. Your hair hasn’t been “done” since the kids were in diapers. Your nails are now “natural,” which is code for “I gave up.” Your perfume is now called, “Eau de Who Are We Kidding.”
Why does that euphoric, magnetic, all-encompassing, intoxicating feeling fade?
People – especially women – wish it would last forever. They want romance, the attention, the doting, the feeling of being someone’s absolute priority. We want to hear the “Oh baby, you look incredible,” the “Damn, I’m one lucky man.” And the “You look absolutely stunning in that dress,” said with a look that lets you know his mind was wandering into territory he wasn’t about to verbalize.
And once upon a time, I did hear versions of those things… maybe not quite that poetic, but the feeling behind them was close enough to make me believe it.
But here’s the real question: Would we actually want to go back to all that?
Some of you are screaming YES, but let’s be honest – it was a full-time job. There is comfort in being content. There is peace is not contouring your face like a Kardashian every time you leave the house.
It’s sad that things we once found cute now annoy the heck out of us. The ranch dressing you used to dab off his mustache while giggling? Now, you stare at him thinking, “When did he become such a slob?” Now if he hints at anything remotely bedroom-adjacent, you’re suddenly very invested in folding fitted sheets.
In the beginning, nothing the other person did was offensive. And even if it was, you excused it because you thought, “He can be trained.”
What exactly is happening when two people fall in love? Because inquiring minds want to know, I did what I always do – Dr. Google to the rescue.
Science says falling in love is a full-body, full-brain event. Your reward system lights up like fireworks. Stress hormones spike. Judgement dims. Bonding hormones rise. Your body reacts like you’re on a thrilling, slightly terrifying roller coaster.
It’s chemistry, biology, psychology, and evolution all working together to glue two humans together.
But I have another theory – and mine is way more fun. I believe there’s a spiritual component at play.
Years ago, I read a book on past-life regression. A woman under hypnosis wasn’t just taken into a past life – she was guided into the space between lives, what many would call the heavenly realm. There, she and her guides discussed her next incarnation and the planning that goes into it. The hypnotist asked how she would recognize the person she was meant to fall in love with, in her next life. How would their souls find each other?
Her answer gave me goosebumps.
She said souls leave breadcrumbs. The human might not recognize them, but the soul always does. She explained that in her next life, she and her future husband planned that when they met, they’d be dancing. He’d joke that he had two left feet – that’s how I’ll know. That will be our sign. The soul will recognize it instantly. The human might just think, wow, this guy really can’t dance, and moves on. Meanwhile, the soul will be doing cartwheels whispering, It’s you! It’s really you!
While the dopamine high is magical and we often wish it could last forever, would we really want to trade the comfort of not having to worry about looking our best all the time for the comfort of just being ourselves?
Frankly, not wearing makeup, hair in a messy bun, oversized sweatshirt with elastic waist comfy pants – and having that be A-OK with my partner is what love looks like on an ordinary day.
Occasionally, it’d be nice to hear, “Damn, you look sexy” come out of my husband’s mouth – but who am I kidding? Those lips currently have ranch dressing on them, and I’m far beyond dabbing it off with a napkin. Wipe your own mouth, for Pete’s sake.
A toast: Here’s to the early days when we shaved, plucked, painted, and perfumed, and to the later days when we’re just proud we remembered to shower. May our partners still see the spark in us even when we look like we’ve given up on society.
And here’s to the deeper magic beneath all of that: the breadcrumbs we left for ourselves when planning this life, the signs we follow without knowing why, and the moment we lock eyes with someone and feel the unmistakable pull of a story we’ve already lived together.
Here’s to the beautiful irony that the soul you’ve known for centuries still needs a napkin reminder.
I cannot for the life of me take vitamins on a regular basis. I don’t know what part of my personality rebels at the idea. Maybe it’s the pill swallowing. Maybe it’s the commitment. Maybe it’s the fact that the bottles sit there like tiny nutritional overlords, staring at me, judging me. But I simply cannot do it.
People who take vitamins daily for years, who go to the gym faithfully, who work out religiously – I use to say they “annoyed” me. That’s not the truth. The truth is I’m in awe of them. I admire their discipline. I admire their consistency. I admire that they can do things I have never once managed to do without losing interest halfway through.
The other day my husband walked into the house with the mail and tossed a small package onto my lap. I looked at him questionably.
“It’s got your name is on it,” he said.
I opened it. The label simply said JOINT.
I looked up at him again. “Really?”
He blinked. “Really what? I didn’t order it.”
“Well, neither did I,” I said – and then the devil on my shoulder whispered in my ear… Liar.
Not remember ordering that JOINT supplement is concerning, because I already have Glucosamine/Chondroitin, Turmeric (with Bio Perine – for better absorption), Magnesium, Calcium, Vit. D, Omega-3, a multivitamin, Collagen, and probably 3 or 4 more I can’t recall – sitting on my kitchen counter like a tiny pharmacy I refuse to patronize.
They stare at me every morning, afternoon and evening. And I stare right back. Not today, Satan.
My pattern is predictable: I take them for a week or two – maybe a month if I’m feeling virtuous, and then I stop as abruptly as I started. If I miss a day or two, I feel they aren’t going to work now, so what’s the point? It’s like my body says, “We tried. We hated it. We’re done.”
Apparently I saw no mountain-moving benefits. No hair suddenly thick enough to star in a shampoo commercial. No joints that felt “lubricated.” No burst of energy that made me want to reorganize the pantry. Nothing. Not even a placebo sparkle.
Since I’ve spent all this money on these little bottles of broken promises, I thought maybe I just needed to make it fun somehow.
Enter: the colorful pillbox. A rainbow of tiny compartments. A cheerful little grid of responsibility.
I filled it with my morning, afternoon, and nighttime pills, and honestly? It was delightful. I felt organized. I felt adult. I felt like the kind of woman who has a seasonal pantry, a signature scent and a junk drawer that actually closes without a struggle.
That lasted exactly one week.
And I know it was exactly one week because then the pillbox was empty. Suddenly, the fun was over. Filling those little cubbies again felt like punishment. A chore. I looked at that empty pillbox like, How dare you require maintenance.
Taking pills three times a day, made me feel like I was always reaching for something. There was always a little voice whispering, You’re forgetting something.
So much for my ingenious idea to bring joy to pill-popping.
Let’s move on from what we put into our bodies, to what we put on our bodies.
If you really want to feel unhinged, count how many products you use just on your hair. I did. Seven total. Shampoo, conditioner, hydrator, a serum that promises shine, less breakage and possibly immortality, styling gel and a heat protectant. And those are all before we even dry our hair.
Then we take our freshly moisturized, carefully nourished strands and blast them with a blow dryer, hot enough to melt plastic. And because that’s not enough, we clamp them in a curling iron heated to over 300 degrees like we’re searing steak. But don’t worry – we spritz on a heat protectant, so obviously everything is fine. The bottle says so.
Once the hair is curled, we shellac it with hairspray because after all that work, we’re not letting wind or humidity win.
And that’s just the head.
In the shower: body wash infused with eucalyptus, bergamot, and 26 ingredients that sound like they were mixed in a wizard’s cauldron. Out of the shower: lotions, oils, creams, balms, potions and the newest craze: beef tallow. If it promises “radiance,” we’re buying it.
Then we notice thinning hair. Oh no. Time for research. And now, for the rest of my days, or until I’m on to the next beauty product, Facebook will show me nothing but thinning hair products. And so, I order a hair serum and a supplement. But one dare not stop these products, because your hair will go right back to where it all started. Now, that’s marketing. And while there may be some truth to it, don’t tell me marketing doesn’t play a huge role.
Then there’s the skincare industry. Built on promises of reversing time, lifting jowls, erasing wrinkles, and firming turkey necks. We are a society of hopeful, determined consumers who refuse to go down without at least trying a peptide.
It would be so much easier to accept thinning hair and aging skin. But where’s the challenge in that?
We are undoubtedly a society that puts youth at the forefront, and the beauty industry knows it. Anything that promises to fight aging, shrink something, plump something, or prevent our brains from turning into mashed potatoes shows up on our doorstep courtesy of Amazon Prime.
At some point, you realize the only thing truly getting younger is the delivery truck driver.
Time for a toast: To aging with humor, to beauty with boundaries, and to the supplements we’ll remember to take eventually. To the lotions, potions, pills and promises. And may whatever we’re doing be just enough to keep everything from falling off, falling out, or falling apart.
Author’s Note: If you read Wednesday’s post, this will make perfect sense. If not, good luck.
After sharing my blog about recurring dreams, I realized I’m in good company, because apparently half of you are also wandering the halls of high school at 3 am. Honestly, high schools should hand out a warning with the freshman curriculum: just so you are aware – there is a high probability that the combined chaos of whatever happens within these walls over the next four years will haunt your dream state for the rest of your natural life.
The comments from my faithful readers were great: lost lockers, forgotten combinations, missing classes, someone barefoot, and yes, one of you was fully naked, and somehow it was “just another day.” Now that’s dream confidence.
I found it fascinating how many of us are having the same dream. It makes sense – high school was the perfect storm of pressure – trying to fit in, trying to figure out who we were, trying to keep up, trying not to embarrass ourselves, trying to remember where the hell our locker even was. It was a place where you were constantly being evaluated, watched, compared, and expected to know things you didn’t know. No wonder our brains drag us back there whenever adult life gets overwhelming.
Your brain is basically saying, this stress feels like school, so let’s stage the dream here. Plus, you spent thousands of hours in school hallways, classrooms, and cafeterias over 12 – 16 years of your life. Your brain was trained to worry about things like tests, grades, being prepared, being late, and being judged by teachers and classmates.
So it makes perfect sense that when life gets chaotic, our brain uses that setting like a stage set it already owns. Those environments are easy for your brain to recreate while dreaming.
I did a little research. These dreams aren’t really about lockers or classes or missing shoes. They’re about that old familiar feeling of being unprepared, unsure, or stretched too thin – and our subconscious just loves to recycle the most dramatic backdrop it can find.
The missing lockers or combination dream – feeling overwhelmed, unprepared, feeling like you can’t access what you need. It’s about the feeling of not being ready.
The can’t find your class dream – reflects moments in life when you’re unsure of your next step.
The barefoot in high school dream – new job? Big decision to make? Life transition?
The naked in high school dream – research says this is a classic dream symbol for feeling exposed, judged, or afraid of being seen too clearly – but also realizing people aren’t paying as much attention as you fear.
Thank you for your comments and sharing your dream experiences. I appreciate you taking the time to write in, and I especially love knowing you’re out there reading what I take the time to write. It means more than you know.
Happy dreaming, and the next time you’re lost in that high school hallway again, remember we’re all wandering it together – but let’s try to keep our pants on, okay?
Have you ever tried telling someone about a dream you just had? Or, even worse, have you ever had to sit there and politely listen while someone else tells you theirs?
Let’s admit it: nobody cares. At best, we care enough to hear the gist – one sentence, maybe two – but please, for the love of all that is holy, spare us the vivid, minute-by-minute retelling that’s still swirling around in your half-awake brain.
If my husband has a dream, he’ll come downstairs, pour his coffee, and for the next ten minutes I’ll get the full cinematic retelling. I listen. I nod. I act interested. I even look at him while he’s talking and add a chuckle during his storytelling. It’s the polite thing to do. But if I try to tell him about one of my dreams, he’ll be scrolling through his phone before I finish the first sentence, announcing what the high temperature is supposed to be that day. I might as well talk to a houseplant.
The truth is, listening to someone describe a dream is to put it bluntly – boring. We don’t put much stock into it, because after all, it’s only a dream. So, guess what this blog is about?
A dream – mine. And you’re all going to pay attention!
It’s not just any dream – but a recurring dream I’ve had for more years than I can count. And you’re going to hear about it because I had a brand-new sequel this morning. It’s still weighing me down, and I need to unload it somewhere. Maybe one of you can shed some light on what it means. Maybe adding humor will help me look at it differently and chase it away. Or maybe – I just want to see who actually reads my blogs to the very end.
Gracie woke me at 4:30 this morning, which, thanks to daylight savings time, was a gift. Only thirty minutes until I could feed her and administer her insulin at 5 am. Soon after she ate and went out to do her thing, I laid back down on the couch… and straight into dreamland I went.
Throughout my adult life, I’ve had these recurring dreams where one of several things happens – all of them centered around high school:
I can’t find my locker because I can’t remember the number.
If I do find it, I can’t remember the combination to open the lock.
I can’t remember what class I have next.
Or, because I’ve been skipping out on that class (because I can’t remember what it is), I’m terrified that when graduation time comes, I won’t have enough credits to graduate.
The not knowing what my next class is dream, is the worst. The hallway is full of students scurrying about – books in hand, knowing exactly where they are going. The bell rings and the hall is suddenly empty. I’m standing there in the middle of the hallway in full internal meltdown mode thinking, Okay, it’s 6th hour. What class do I have 6th hour? Why don’t I know this? The trimester hadn’t changed. Why is no one helping me?
There have even been a few occasions when Dream-Me does the logical thing and goes to the office to ask. Of course, there’s a line of students at the counter and by the time my turn comes, class will have been a good 10 minutes in already.
When I finally find the classroom, I freeze in the doorway, looking through the glass. Class is well underway. I can’t walk in late. Even in my sleep apparently, I don’t want all eyes on me.
This morning’s dream added a new chapter to the saga. After drifting off on the couch, my dream picked up its pen and said, “Let’s add something new.”
I was back in high school again. But this time I wasn’t inside the building – I was outside, in the cold, trudging through snow searching frantically for my car. I couldn’t remember where I had parked. I even checked the back parking lot, which is funny, because the high school didn’t have a back parking lot. But dreams love to give us the general idea of a place while completely rearranging the floor plan.
Here’s the part I find odd now that I’m awake: it was dark. Why? High school gets out around 3:30-ish in the afternoon. It wouldn’t be dark unless the sun had given up early that day. Just another layer of loneliness and frustration added to the plot, I suppose.
The car I was searching for? My daughter’s first car. A pinkish/champagne colored Toyota Corolla. My brain apparently enjoys nostalgia. At some point in the dream, it dawned on me that I had the key fob in my pocket. But when I pulled it out, it was so dark I couldn’t see the buttons.
As I’m typing this, it occurred to me that the Corolla didn’t have a key fob. It was way before fobs came into existence. It had a huge Toyota key. But anyway – back to the dream.
I now understand the darkness. There had to be a villain in the plot. I squinted at the fob, searching for the horn button, pressing what I thought was the right one, but saw no headlights flickering anywhere. Naturally, I had to go check the imaginary back lot too. Same result. Nothing.
I’ve also had the dreams where my teeth or hair are falling out. I think that’s a pretty common one. But they all leave one wondering what exactly is behind these kinds of dreams. Do they correlate to what we are feeling/experiencing in our real lives?
The awful feeling of not finding my locker, not knowing the combination, not knowing what class to go to next – all have me feeling scared, frustrated and panicky in the dream. Is that how I feel in real life? I’d say no. But on a subconscious level – maybe?
I believe we remember dreams more vividly when we’re in that light, fragile sleep and we wake soon after. These dreams cling to you. They set the tone for the day before the day even begins. All I want to do is go back to bed, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll end up right back in that damn high school. No thank you.
My assumption when pondering the meaning behind these dreams is simple: I’m either lousy with numbers, or it’s a predicter of impending dementia.
After doing some Google research, the experts said these are very common dreams among adults, as high school is a universal symbol of: expectations, pressure, performance, judgement and responsibility. Dream experts say returning to high school often reflects current worries or insecurities, not past ones.
The good news is that people who have these dreams tend to be responsible, reliable, thoughtful and concerned about not letting others down. I guess that’s not all bad.
All I know is that if I end up back in that high school tonight, my locker better be clearly marked with a giant neon sign, the lock completely missing, my own personal guidance counselor waiting to escort me to my next class and somebody better hand me a diploma before I forget why I’m there in the first place.
A toast:
To those still reading – all 3 of you – my loyal fans who would’ve been right there in my dream with a bolt cutter in one hand, flashlight in the other, ready to bust open my locker and wander that dark parking lot with me, looking for a car that probably didn’t exist… you truly are the friends every dreamer needs. Cheers!
I was standing in Menards the other day, in the aisle. You know the one. The lightbulb aisle. An entire aisle – both sides – dedicated just to lightbulbs.
When did buying a lightbulb become a major life decision? For Pete’s sake, I had only one goal: illumination. Make the dark become light. I just want to be able to see. That’s it. That’s the whole assignment.
As I stood there staring at the endless wall of glowing options, another woman wandered down the same aisle. She soon had the same defeated posture I did – the posture of someone who came in for a simple errand and is now questioning her place in the universe. We stood there long enough to qualify for squatters’ rights, so I finally broke the silence. To be honest, I was looking for reassurance that I wasn’t the only one confused.
I said, “Do you remember when buying a lightbulb was an easy task?
Her sigh told me everything. She remembered. And she hated this as much as I did.
Back in the day, the only thing we had to worry about was wattage. Maybe shape, if you were feeling fancy – regular bulb or the little candelabra flame. That was it. You certainly never had to worry about getting home, realizing you brought the wrong kind, and having to exchange it. Exchanging a lightbulb? Absurd. That was like returning a banana. It just wasn’t done.
But now? Now I’m standing there trying to decode the wording on the packaging like I’m being punked by the lighting industry.
Do I want LED?
If LED, do I want the corkscrew looking one that resembles a science fair project?
Do I have the right base size?
Do I want soft white, bright white, daylight, warm glow, cool glow, or my personal favorite – whatever “relax” light is supposed to be.
How about light light? That’s the kind I’m looking for. The kind where, when I flip the switch, it lights up. I smile. It’s that simple. Life goes on.
And then there are the words – incandescent, iridescent, candescent. I had to pull out my phone and Google them like I was studying for the SAT. At this point, I’m convinced lightbulb buying is becoming a “man of the house” job. Not because men know more, mind you, just because I’m tapping out and have better things to do with my time.
I thought I finally found what I needed: candelabra shape, correct wattage, correct base size. Victory! But when I got home, I realized my existing bulbs were that milky white glass, and the new one was clear. It wasn’t going to match. In addition, my exiting bulbs had a textured pattern on them.
Before I made the return, I decided to try Amazon. Surely Amazon would have it. After all, Amazon has everything – just ask my husband. Except… they didn’t. And if Amazon doesn’t have it, that’s the universe telling me to get my mind out of the old days and into the modern world.
Apparently, the combination I was looking for had been discontinued, outlawed, or is sitting in the Smithsonian.
For half a second, I did consider checking eBay. But then, common sense told me that even if I found one, it probably wouldn’t work anymore.
Back to Menards I go. As the lady is unloading my cart, I glance over at the battery display. Batteries – now there’s another “simple” item that has gone off the rails.
You’d think it would be as easy: AA, AAA, maybe a 9-volt if you’re feeling nostalgic. But no. Now we have alkaline, lithium, rechargeable, super-charged, ultra-long life, and something called “industrial,” which I’m convinced is just savvy marketing for “costs more.” I wonder if with all these options, even the Energizer bunny wants to throw his drum sticks in the air and walk off the set.
I stood there thinking, why? Why do we need these many options? I nearly failed chemistry class. I don’t want to compare voltage charts. I don’t want to read packaging that sounds like it was written by NASA. I just want to pop my AA battery in my clock and have it work.
Oh boy. Did I mention the word clock?
My husband loves clocks. LOVES them. There are clocks in nearly every room of this house. Which I think is overkill, but what do I know? With clocks comes cords. So many of them. Which means we need those giant adaptors that can accommodate eight plug-ins, all humming like a small power plant. My husband says, “It’s either this or a power strip. Pick your poison.”
Next Sunday it’s Daylight-Saving Time. We get to put our clocks ahead. Yippee! The day we all look forward to. But it also means turning our clocks ahead manually, which is where the real fun begins – especially in this house.
Remember the days when you set a clock by turning the little round dial on the back? You couldn’t screw that up if you tried.
Digital clocks should be that easy too. They used to be. A set button, an hour button, a minute button. Simply hold set + hour. Then set + minute. DONE! Yeh, you might have to change the pm to am or vice versa, but a toddler can figure that out.
But that is NOT the system with the majority of clocks in this house. Heck no – my husband has to buy the fancy ones.
These clocks have buttons that look like they were designed by someone who hates people. Mode. Adjust. Reset. Sync. Wave. Program. Snooze/Dim/Alarm/Time/Zone/12-24 hr. And none of them do what you think they do. Do you know how dumb I feel that I can’t change the time on a clock? I’ll just remember to add an hour every time I look at it until my husband gets home.
I can’t help but laugh when it takes him 20 minutes to set one clock, and then I finally hear him mutter the universal truth: “Geez Louise, why can’t they just put a Time/Hour/Minute button on it? Now he’s talking my language.
Some things in life are simply better left uncomplicated.
Lightbulbs. Batteries. Clocks. We don’t need 47 options. We don’t need a user manual. We don’t need a YouTube tutorial in order to use them.
We just want things to work.
And now… a toast…
To the simple things: just plain light… as in the opposite of dark. Not “daylight-soft-warm-glow-relax-mode-eco-friendly-full-spectrum-mood-endancing-therapy-grade illumination”.
To AA batteries that don’t require a minor in chemistry.
To clocks that don’t need a 47–button sequence and a prayer circle to set them.
And to all of us who refuse to be defeated by household items that used to cost $1.29 and zero brain cells.
May our homes stay illuminated, our batteries stay charged, our clocks be on time, and may manufacturers everywhere remember that we are not trying to launch a rocket – we’re just trying to live our lives.
Cheers to keeping it simple… and to the day when “easy” makes a comeback.
I’m convinced Netflix created Love is Blind specifically to steal my free time and my dignity. Lately, I’ve found myself wasting hours I’ll never get back on this series. It’s the ultimate chick-flick binge spiral. I know it’s ridiculous and a waste of my time, and yet there I am, sucked back in like a moth to a very dumb, very sparkly flame.
The whole premise of the show is that men and women “date” behind a wall so they can fall in love based solely on conversation – no looks, no distractions, just hopes, dreams, and whatever version of themselves they can sell in ten-minute increments.
One of those ten-min. increments had my full attention. I was scrolling my phone while the show was playing in the background, when suddenly my ears perked up. I heard the woman seductively say to the stranger behind the wall, “Oh, baby, I can’t wait to jump on top of you. I’m so hot for you right now. There’s nothing and I mean nothing, I wouldn’t do for you.”
Holy mama! Are we approaching soft-porn territory?
The poor guy on the other side of the wall, fully aware he’s on camera, is trying to hide the obvious predicament he’s suddenly dealing with. Chances are this is the first time in his life a disembodied voice has said such things to him. He’s sold. He doesn’t know her middle name, but she’s clearly the woman he’s been searching for his whole life.
The funny thing? When they finally saw each other, he ran to her like he’d won the jackpot, but you could see the utter disappointment on her face – desperately trying to hide it, not wanting to hurt his feelings. They didn’t just fail to last; they didn’t even make it to Mexico. I’m pretty sure they never saw each other after that first encounter.
Supposedly this social love experience proves whether love is truly blind. Can two people fall for each other without ever seeing each other?
I’m now on Season 5 and when I finish with all the US seasons, there’s always Love is Blind: Brazil, Love is Blind: France, Love is Blind: Australia, etc. Apparently love is blind on every continent.
I’m amazed that often, at least half of the couples stick it out, get married, and are still together at the reunion a year later, appearing happier than ever. Apparently, this social love experiment can and does work.
But I have to admit, I find the “getting to know you” parts of the show are painfully boring – the giddiness, the forced sexy talk, the ridiculous questions they come up with. Do you fart in bed? Have you ever been told you have bad breath? As if anyone on national TV – or off it, for that matter, is going to admit the truth. Can you imagine someone chirping, “Oh yes, absolutely – both my morning breath and gas could peel paint.” Not a chance. They lie through their teeth, trying to spin some romantic nonsense, as if there’s a sexy way to say, “Any fumes you encounter, babe, are really just a compliment to your exquisite home cooking.”
And calling each other, Babe? These people throw it around like it’s a magic spell guaranteed to get them laid. They use it so often, I’m shocked Netflix hasn’t added a drinking game warning.
My thumb is permanently hovering over the fast-forward button. I’m not here for the speed-dating, the “tell me your deepest trauma” parts, or the faux-soul-searching. I’m here for the moment – usually around Episode 3, when the guy gets down on one knee through the wall and proposes to a woman whose last name he probably had to write on a Post-it note.
Then comes my favorite part: the big reveal. They stand on either side of a door that opens like an elevator door and I’m perched on the couch waiting to see their faces. Most of the time they run to each other and look genuinely pleased. But every season there’s at least one couple where you can practically hear the internal screaming. They can barely hide their disappointment as they force a smile. One person is hugging and kissing like they’ve found their soulmate, while the other has both hands on the others’ chest trying to keep them at arm’s length. We can all see the disappointment. Why can’t they?
And then – because Netflix is Netflix – they are shipped straight off to Mexico to live together as an engaged couple. No pressure.
I’m cringing for the couples who are utterly disappointed. I feel especially sorry for the guy whose fiancée says to him just after they get under the covers, “I hope you understand, but I don’t believe in sex before marriage. “ This was followed by telling him he’s “kind of the nerdy type.” Where’s that woman who just days before, wanted to jump his bones and please him in every imaginable way? Sorry buddy. No beautiful music for you tonight. Tomorrow’s not looking too great either.
After Mexico, we follow them through apartment life, family introductions, and finally wedding dress shopping. Then it’s off to the altar where they decide if love really is blind – or if they’ve simply been drunk on free margaritas for three weeks.
And now… my pet peeve. This show shouts it at me in almost every episode. It makes me squirm. It makes me want to yell at the TV. It’s when someone says:
“I’m 1000% sure.”
“I’m 110% committed.”
“I’m a million percent in.”
No. No you’re not. You cannot go more than 100%. One hundred percent is it. It’s all of it. That’s the whole pie. There is no bonus pie.
But there she is, standing in her tight little, short-knit dress, squealing, “YES, I’ll marry you! I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life! I’m 1000% certain you’re my person!”
Girl… you have never seen this man. He could walk out looking like your ex, your cousin, or your tax auditor. Unless you have your notes in front of you, I’m sure you don’t remember his last name. And yet, you’re 1,000% sure he’s your soulmate?
Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s common sense. But every time I hear it, I’m shaking my head thinking, “Oh, you sweet little dummy.” And then, because I’m apparently no better – I keep watching.
Somewhere between the proposals, the awkward reveals, and the tequila-fueled meltdowns, the show taps into something universal: people desperately want to love and be loved. Apparently, these contestants haven’t had much luck in the real dating world, so they’re willing to speed-date behind a wall on national television.
And Netflix? They’re footing the bill for apartments, rings, wedding dresses, tuxedos, endless cocktails, Mexican resorts and full wedding receptions just in case someone says yes. How do they afford all this?
People like me.
People like us.
Hopeless romantics with remotes in hand and popcorn in lap, tuning in for the 47th time because we remember what it felt like to fall in love – and because watching other people do it is strangely comforting.
I have no doubt part of the draw is watching these men unload every romantic line they can possibly string together and have most likely googled and memorized before going on the show. All while the women fall for it – hook, line and sinker. Face it – very few of us ever hear that kind of romanticism from our actual partners, if we ever did. We know it’s all blarney, but it’s the kind of blarney women will happily marinate in, because for a few hours (or several), the fantasy feels a whole lot better than reality.
Humans want to love. Humans want to be loved. It’s what keeps the world spinning and the babies coming. Without it, we’d eventually become extinct.
I’ll end here with a toast: To the universal, undeniable, slightly embarrassing truth: we all want to love and be loved.
To the couples who try it on TV, to the romantics who watch from their couches, and to the math teachers everywhere cringing at 110%.
May we all keep laughing, keep loving, and keep believing – just enough to keep the world spinning.
