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An Ode to My Car

Ah, my dear, sweet car.

Sixteen years we’ve been together, and like any long-term relationship, we’ve had our ups and downs. You’ve seen me through good times and bad, from joyrides with the windows down and music blasting to soul-crushing traffic jams that make me question every life decision leading to that moment. But despite it all, you keep getting me from point A to point B as best as you can. And really, who can ask for more from a gal your age?

Sure, you’ve had your moments of petty rebellion. Like that time you blew a perfectly good tire out of sheer spite—or what I can only assume was spite because I refuse to believe it was just a nail in the road. No, I know what that was about. You were having a moment. Maybe it was the crumbs of yesterday’s fast-food binge scattered across the floorboards, or that mystery stain that’s been sitting on the backseat since last summer’s road trip. I get it. You’re tired of being taken for granted. But come on, did you have to retaliate by giving me a flat at the most inconvenient moment possible? Really?

And your venting system! Oh, how you used to blow cool air like a dream. No one could clear a windshield faster than you. But now? Now, you leave me roasting in traffic like a rage-filled rotisserie chicken or else, I’m peering through steamy windows at scenes that I swear are from Silent Hill. Which, you know, would be fine if the steam was from a more, um, enjoyable pursuit… but just going to the bank with the windows up so I don’t get soaked from the rain doesn’t count.

It’s not just you. I know I haven’t always been the best owner. I mean, your backseat looks like a graveyard for forgotten fast food wrappers, old receipts, and random crap that probably haven’t seen the light of day in years. Your trunk? Let’s just call it the Bermuda Triangle of reusable grocery bags I never actually remember to use. And the spare tire? Well, I assume it’s back there somewhere, but it’s likely buried under a mountain of stuff I keep meaning to clean out. You’ve become a mobile time capsule of my bad habits, and I know you’ve rolled your tires at me more than once.

It’s not all bad, though. I feed you oil regularly, keep your tires in decent shape (even if you don’t always appreciate it), and maybe, just maybe, if I cleaned you out more often, you’d have a little mercy on me. Perhaps you’d stop holding those cryptic dashboard warning lights over my head like some kind of vehicular blackmail. Please?

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When Life Gives You Goats, Make Soap

There’s a new trend sweeping the internet—well, new-ish. If you’ve spent any time on TikTok or YouTube, you’ve probably seen it: fresh-faced influencers with perfectly curated gardens, raising chickens in their backyard, composting, canning, sewing, and trading seeds like some sort of artisanal currency. They’re calling it “homesteading.” It’s all very Pinterest-perfect, with matching aprons and inspirational quotes about “living off the land” and “back to basics.”

But here’s the thing. While I scroll through their videos of freshly picked carrots and goats frolicking in the background, I can’t help but think, “You know, my grandparents and parents were doing all this long before you guys even knew what a chicken coop was.”

As I’ve mentioned before, my parents grew up in the hollers of West Virginia, smack dab in the heart of Appalachia. We’re talking coal country. There were no trendy backyard chickens or boutique seed swaps—there were just chickens, and you were lucky if you had any. When my parents migrated north to escape the coal mines, they didn’t bring Pinterest boards and organic fertilizer with them. They brought survival skills.

I’ve watched these homesteading influencers with their aesthetically pleasing veggie patches, and I’m not knocking it—it’s great that people are growing their own food and learning these skills. But when I see someone in their designer overalls talking about how they “discovered” homesteading, I have to laugh. Honey, you didn’t discover it. My parents were living it, and so were their parents, and their parents before that.

And you know what? It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t about finding new content for your channel or getting more likes. It was about getting through winter with enough food in the pantry. It was about feeding a family on a limited income, not feeding an algorithm.

Homesteading now is all about the “lifestyle,” but for my parents, it was just life. My mom wasn’t composting to feel connected to the earth; she was composting because it was free fertilizer, and she wasn’t about to waste anything that could stretch a dollar. She wasn’t planting cute little herb gardens for Instagram—she was planting food. Lots of it. Enough to can and preserve for winter to make that grocery budget last.

And she didn’t make our clothes because it was a fun DIY project. She did it because store-bought clothes were expensive, and fabric was cheaper. Sewing wasn’t a hobby—it was a necessity. And she was darn good at it too—which, as an aside, still makes me jealous because the woman could do everything.

Sure, it’s great that suburbanites are jumping on the homesteading bandwagon, but let’s not pretend it’s some novel idea. It’s funny to see people act like they’re part of a unique, cutting-edge movement when really, they’re just playing catch-up. My parents were doing all this long before anyone thought to slap a trendy label on it. And honestly, if you’d told them back then that this would become a fashionable way of life in 2024, they probably would’ve laughed and said, “You mean to tell me people are choosing to do this now?”

I get it. It’s a good thing that people are learning to grow their own food, lessen their waste, and be more self-sufficient. We could all use a little more of that. It’s just amusing to see these “trendsetters” talking about their goat milk soap like they’ve reinvented the wheel. I’m just waiting for them to bring back shoulder pads and scrunchies next. Oh wait… never mind.

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The Perils of Late-Night Shopping

Ah, late-night online shopping—the modern-day equivalent of wandering through the aisles of a 24-hour convenience store in your pajamas, except now you can do it from the comfort of your couch. What could possibly go wrong?

Let me tell you, a lot can go wrong. But before we get into that, can we take a moment to appreciate how far we’ve come from the glory days of the Home Shopping Network? Back then, it was all about staying up all hours of the night, entranced by the sparkle of cubic zirconia jewelry, or realizing that you suddenly needed a salad spinner at 2 AM. Oh, and don’t even get me started on those late-night Columbia House commercials we had back in the day—where else could you get 5,000 cassette tapes over the course of 20 years for just $19.99?

Now, thanks to the wonders of the internet, we can impulse buy without the inconvenience of dialing the phone. Like that one time I bought a cat-shaped yoga mat. Seems reasonable, right? Except I don’t do yoga, and yet, in the wee hours, I was 100% convinced that I’d wake up the next morning as a Zen master. Spoiler alert: I did not.

And then there was the time I bought an entire set of kitchen gadgets—whisks, peelers, you name it. They said, for anyone who wants to take control of their kitchen, it was a great investment. And quite frankly, my kitchen had been out of control for quite some time and enough was enough! No longer would my kitchen run roughshod over my life. I’ve probably used the potato masher once… to mash something that wasn’t even a potato.

Of course, the true crown jewel of my midnight shopping spree collection is a blanket. But not just any blanket—a heated weighted blanket. Oh yeah, because nothing says “relaxation” like feeling simultaneously roasted like a rotisserie chicken and suffocated through compression. That’s what I get for watching a Buzzfeed “Amazon Must-Haves” video at 3 AM. But seriously, you know what? That one was actually a solid purchase! It’s like a warm hug of relief that helps soothe my anxiety… once I finally realized I needed it, that is. Honestly, I never would’ve known if it weren’t for Buzzfeed coming to the rescue.

The problem is just that in the haze of the late-night shopping frenzy, everything seems like a good idea. Need a bread maker even though you’ve never baked a loaf in your life? Sure! A glow-in-the-dark garden gnome despite having no garden? Absolutely! At 3 AM, anything goes when you’re searching for that “Add to Cart” high.

So, here’s my advice to you: lock your phone in a drawer after midnight. Unless, of course, you’re looking for a closet full of things you didn’t know you needed. In which case, carry on. And who knows? Maybe one day I will become that Zen, bread-baking, yoga-loving person with a manageable kitchen. Just as soon as I figure out what to do with that glow-in-the-dark gnome.

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Just This Side of Perfect

Ah, the joys of working from home. I know we’ve had this conversation before, but it’s worth noting again – it’s the perfect set up, right? No commute, no office politics, and the freedom to wear pajamas all day. But at the same time, there are still a few glitches that need to be worked out.

Take, for instance, the dreaded team-building exercises. Now, instead of awkwardly making small talk in person, we’re doing it over Teams. And somehow, it’s even worse. Oh, joy, another virtual icebreaker. Two truths and a lie? Sure! Of course now that I’m on the air, I’m struggling to think of even a single thing about myself that’s remotely interesting. The panic sets in. What can I safely share? Is this work-appropriate? Is anything I’ve ever done work-appropriate? “Uh, I once petted a llama at a petting zoo, I might have stolen a penguin from that same zoo, and…I used to be a spy.” Nailed it. Everyone totally bought that last one, right?

Then there are the virtual holiday parties. Let’s all dress up for Christmas or Halloween, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Sure, I’ll throw on a Santa hat or some cat ears while sitting at my desk, but the real question is: how did this turn into a competition? Now I have to win a prize? I’m pretty sure I didn’t sign up for this. And why does someone always manage to create a full costume with special effects while I’m over here struggling to get my webcam to focus on my face?

Of course, the real danger of working from home is the mute button. Or rather, forgetting the mute button. Yelling at the dog to get out of the trash while the entire team listens in? Embarrassing. But it pales in comparison to the time I might have mumbled something along the lines of “Oh great, that cow is stealing my idea again,” just as a coworker re-pitched my brilliant suggestion as her own. Now everyone knows that the only thing standing between you and a dramatic exit is the fact that you’re still in your pajamas. Seriously though, that moment of horror when you realize your mic is live… nothing can save you.

And when it’s someone else’s mic? Just how long should you let that newbie from accounting go on about Marge’s Christmas tree outfit before sending them a private message? “Uh, yeah, Jane, we all saw the tinsel and I’m not saying you’re wrong… but you might just wanna mute yourself right about now.”

Let’s not forget about those jump scares throughout the day. That’s not something you usually see in an office. There you are, lost in thought, trying to focus on prepping next year’s budget, and suddenly—BOOM! The dog is barking like a lunatic at a leaf blowing up the street. And let’s be real here, it takes a minute for your heart to come back online. Or your neighbor decides it’s the perfect time to start chain-sawing something. And you can’t help but wonder what the hell they’re up to since you live in an apartment.

But hey, at least I don’t have to worry about anyone stealing my lunch from the office fridge anymore! If my lunch is gone, it’s because “me, myself, and I” ate it for a midnight snack and didn’t make anything to replace it. That bitch.

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The Great Closet Purge

When I moved a couple of months ago, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally tackle the black hole that is my closet. I thought, “Why not use this fresh start to sort through my wardrobe and maybe, just maybe, get rid of a few things?” What could possibly go wrong?

Famous last words.

As a Gen X-er, my closet is basically a museum of 80s and 90s. I’m talking shoulder pads that could double as flotation devices, neon leg warmers that would make a highlighter blush, and acid-washed jeans that practically scream “I love Huey Lewis and the News!” I mean, well, who doesn’t? Are you old enough to remember those bar-hopping outfits from the 80s? The ones with more sequins than a disco ball? And bright-colored satin? Yes, please. I could hear the faint echo of Madonna’s “Material Girl” playing somewhere in the recesses of my brain. And in case you think I misspoke, no, I did not. We had bars, not clubs, thank you very much.

And let’s not forget the 90s. Ah, the glorious 90s, when grunge was king, and my idea of a Friday night out included a plaid flannel shirt, miniskirt, and chunky combat boots. Oh, and those shoulder-padded blazers that made me look like a linebacker who moonlights as a corporate executive. Still living in the back of my closet. I even found a choker necklace, which I’m pretty sure is the universal sign of “I took the 90s way too seriously.”

Decisions, decisions. Do I get rid of this stuff, or do I hold onto it in case it makes a comeback? If my years on this planet have taught me anything, it’s that what goes around comes back around, especially where fashion is concerned. One minute, your clothes are hopelessly outdated; the next, they’re “vintage” and selling for big bucks to the younger folks. I mean, just look at what they’re selling to Gen Z these days—crop tops, high-waisted jeans, scrunchies, and even, gasp, mom jeans. MOM JEANS! Who could have predicted that?

It’s a total catch-22. I get rid of my 1980s sequined crop tops and 90s oversized blazers, and next year, they’re all the rage again, selling for three times what I paid. But if I keep everything, I run the risk of turning into one of those people who lives in a house filled with boxes labeled “In Case Shoulder Pads Come Back.”

In the end, I compromised. I bid farewell to a few relics that I was 99% sure would never see the light of day again (goodbye, bedazzled fanny pack). But some items, like my neon windbreaker and tie-dye tees, found their way back into the “keep” pile. Because who knows? Maybe they’ll be perfect for my next themed Zoom meeting (yeah, we have those where I work… please pray for me) or for when the 80s inevitably make a triumphant return.

So, here I am, standing in the middle of my freshly organized closet, feeling accomplished but also slightly nostalgic. It’s hard letting go of the past, even when that past involves questionable fashion choices and regrettable haircuts.

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The Art of Procrastination

Ah, procrastination, my old friend. We meet again. You know, some folks call it a bad habit, but I prefer to think of it as an art form. It’s not that I don’t want to get things done, it’s just that I’m really good at not doing them. Of course, the ADD helps.

Take today, for example. I had a long list of things I needed to do laundry (but we all know how that turns out… socks, anyone?), finish some work, and start that new project I’ve been avoiding like the plague. Instead, I’ve done everything but. Including writing this blog entry. I’ve reorganized my entire spice cabinet (did you know I have three jars of cinnamon? Yeah, neither did I.), read every random article that popped up in my newsfeed (do I really need to know “10 Ways to Tell If Your Cat Is Plotting Against You”? Apparently, yes), and deep-cleaned the kitchen sink (because that’s absolutely necessary before starting anything productive, right?).

It’s not just me, right? Procrastination is like a warm, cozy blanket that wraps around you and whispers, “Hey, you’ve still got time. Why not watch another episode?” And who am I to argue with that logic? Next thing I know, I’ve binge-watched the entire new series Kaos in one day (I highly recommend. Not necessarily the bingeing, but the show in general). I’m now an expert in Greek mythology (let’s just say… there were A LOT of rabbit holes and side quests involved). But my to-do list? Untouched.

I won’t even mention the rush of last-minute panic. That glorious, heart-pounding moment when you realize you have two hours to finish a project you’ve had weeks to do. Some call it stress. I call it motivation. I do my best work when a deadline is looming. I keep telling myself I hate chaos, but I am my own worst enemy in that regard. Or maybe I just need the fear of failure to light a fire under me. Oh, who am I kidding? That cloud of failure is there either way. Still, I’m convinced that my best ideas come when I’m racing against time.

You know, they say that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. But honestly, where’s the fun in that? I’ve made peace with my procrastination. It’s a part of who I am, like my love for carbs or my knack for losing socks. So, here’s to all my fellow procrastinators out there. We may not be the most efficient, but we sure know how to make not getting things done look good.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a new TV show to start. And maybe I’ll get to my to-do list… tomorrow.

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Doing Agatha Christie Proud

I have a mystery on my hands, one worthy of Agatha Christie herself. A mystery so baffling, so confounding, it has plagued humanity for generations. That’s right. The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Socks.

Okay, so here’s the scoop. It’s laundry day. I’ve finally mustered up the energy to tackle the mountain of dirty clothes threatening to take over my life (or at least my bedroom). Despite what you may think, I do sort everything into piles. For the most part. Well, kind of. Close enough, I say. Anyway, I’m feeling pretty good about myself, like I’ve got my life together. I toss everything into the washing machine, hit the start button, and walk away, satisfied. I even remember to put it all into the dryer right when it’s done with the rinse cycle and not the following week. I’m on a roll, I tell you!

Fast forward to that moment when the dryer goes off. You know that noise I mean? It’s not a ding, really. It’s more of a blaaapp! A harsh, jarring sound that’s more jump scare than melodic. I want to know who in the world decided that was the best noise to get someone’s attention. In the middle of a chore they don’t want to be doing in the first place. I mean, come on, have some decency. It’s the kind of noise that makes you jump out of your skin no matter how much you’re expecting it, like Michael Myers appearing on your patio, knife in hand (… cause he’s a slow walker, you’d see him coming from a mile away, but you’d still be inexplicably freaked out that he’s suddenly so close… get it? Never mind). The point is, I hate that noise. Anyway, I open the dryer, ready to marvel at my fresh, clean clothes. Ahhh… the smell of fresh laundry, nothing beats it. But wait, what’s this? Half of my socks are missing! I swear I put them in there, but now they’re nowhere to be found. The basket looks like the aftermath of a communal breakup, with lone socks just sitting there, mourning the loss of their mate. It’s the same sad story every time.

Now, I’ve considered all the logical explanations. Maybe they’re caught in the drum, stuck behind a shirt. But no, I’ve checked. Maybe they slipped through some kind of hidden vortex? It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The dryer is clearly harboring a black hole that devours socks and socks alone. Or perhaps, and hear me out on this one, it’s a portal to another dimension. A sock dimension. And what happens in the sock dimension, I wonder? Are they living their best lives, free from the tyranny of feet? Are they missing their mates, or do they prefer the willy-nilly-ness of it all? Are they part of some secret sock revolution, plotting their escape from the constant stink of feet that is their entire existence? We may never know.

This isn’t just me, right? I know there are others out there—fellow laundry-doers, sock-lovers, and lost-cause organizers—who have faced the same inexplicable phenomenon. I’ve seen your memes and read your tweets. We are a community, bound together by our collective frustration and the shared, nagging suspicion that something sinister is afoot. (Ha! Pun totally intended.)

But what can we do? I could start a support group, but we’d probably lose half the members before the first meeting. Do we just accept the mass sock exodus and leave them be to enjoy their new life, even if it means we have cold feet… er, foot? Or, hey, maybe it’s time to invest in a bunch of identical socks. Because when every sock looks the same, who cares if one goes missing? Genius, right? At least until you run out of socks completely and then it’s time to start the cycle again. (Ha! Another pun! I’m on fire today!)

I guess, for now, I’ll just keep searching for those elusive socks, holding out hope that one day, they’ll return. Or, more likely, I’ll find them stuffed inside a pillowcase five years from now. Stay tuned for the sequel: The Mysterious Case of the Reappearing Socks.

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A Symphony of Stupid

Ah, the sweet sounds of summer. Birds chirping, children laughing, and the unmistakable roar of a souped-up Sentra with a modified exhaust that rattles the windows.

Listen, I get it. We all want to feel special. We all want to stand out. But can someone please explain the appeal of modifying a car’s exhaust so the vroom vroom can be heard – and felt – from miles away? I mean, what’s the point? Are you trying to impress me? I hate to break it to you, but you’re not. All you’ve managed to do is make me spill my coffee and scare the neighborhood dogs. Thanks for that.

And it’s not just the cars. No, let’s not forget the motorcycles. You know the ones. They roar down the street, revving their engines like they’re auditioning for Fast & Furious: The Suburban Edition. And if that wasn’t enough, they’re also blasting music loud enough to make your ears bleed. I’m sorry, but if you’re on a motorcycle, you’ve officially given up the right to listen to music on the road. You chose the bike. You chose the wind in your hair and bugs in your teeth. That’s the deal. You don’t get to serenade the rest of us with your questionable taste in music.

The world is such a noisy place already. Do we really need to add to the ongoing cacophony with this nonsense? It’s like these people wake up every morning and think, “You know what the world needs today? More freaking noise!”

So, here’s a thought: maybe we could all just take it down a notch. Or a few hundred decibels. Drive your Sentra like a normal person. Enjoy your motorcycle ride without the soundtrack. Let’s all try to make the world a little less obnoxious. Is that too much to ask?

 

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I’m Back, Baby! (Cue the Confetti… or Not)

Well, look who decided to show up! Yep, it’s me, your long-lost favorite (or so I tell myself) blogger who’s been MIA for over a month. Did you miss me? Crickets... okay, well, I’ll take that as a yes.

Let me catch you up on the chaos that’s been my life lately. First off, I moved. No, not to California like I wanted and definitely not to a beach house with a never-ending supply of margaritas (though a girl can dream). No, I moved somewhere decidedly less glamorous, and it was about as much fun as a root canal. At least I got a workout lifting all those boxes filled with stuff I swear I’ve never seen before. And that’s after downsizing. Again. I was also reminded of why I don’t go to the gym. Exercise? Blech. 0 out of 10. Do not recommend. Besides, in the words of the great Roger Murtaugh, I’m getting way too old for this crap (okay, so I’m paraphrasing). I keep telling myself my next move will be my last and will involve the cross-country travel I’m craving, which in turn means no lifting for me. It’s a win-win.

And then there’s been the whole “life kicking my ass” thing. Turns out that keeping up with the news these days while also trying to maintain any semblance of sanity is like juggling flaming swords while riding a unicycle. Spoiler alert: I am not that coordinated. Between a new job, working on my CFRE, and trying to remember what day it is, I’ve somehow managed to pull myself out of the pit of despair (mostly) and get back to what I love most: writing and making you all laugh—or groan. I’m not picky.

So, I’m back, baby! and ready to dive back into the deep end of the crazy pool that is my brain. Stay tuned for more tangled musings and maybe even a few surprises. Or not. Who knows? I sure don’t. But hey, that’s half the fun, right? Yeah, right.