Breakfast With a Bodyguard
I’m not sure what’s going on here, but it certainly caught my eye.
It reminds me of when my husband waits in the middle of the parking lot while I put my shopping cart back in its carrier, as if something dramatic might happen in that 10-foot stretch that will require him to jump into action.
The bluejay on the bench is carefully watching his significant other having breakfast. Maybe she’s been sitting on eggs and needs more nutrition. Maybe he’s just being attentive. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, he seems determined to stay right there, keeping a watchful eye until she’s finished.
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Standard Poodles, the Beatles, and Elvis
Have you ever met someone you admired from afar for years? Maybe a favorite musician or movie star?
I’ve always wondered how I’d react. I imagined I’d be dignified somehow, saying something clever and memorable, something the person might repeat on their talk-show circuit.
That fantasy went to hell in a handbasket the other night when I had the pleasure of meeting the author who can make me laugh no matter what: David Sedaris.
He came to a small, cool bookstore in town to launch his new book, The Land and Its People, which I’m certain will bring me great joy, until I remember this encounter.
There I was, sitting maybe four feet away from the man who had made me laugh with his antics for decades. The man who had me laughing uncontrollably while performing my civic duty: jury duty. The man who isn’t afraid to write about things that are undeniably funny yet well outside the confines of political correctness.
What happened?
I started sweating profusely.
Was it panic? Was my body reacting like one of those teenage girls fainting at the sight of the Beatles or Elvis? Or was it a heart attack?
Naturally, a heart attack was my leading diagnosis. But when a mint and a sip of water cured it, I revised my diagnosis.
I listened and laughed my way through the event.
Then, as I filed into line to get my book signed, I noticed my copy looked exactly how I felt.
The book has been in my possession for no more than 2 hours, and it somehow had a coffee stain on page three and a sticky cover with a slight tear.
If anxiety were a book, it would be this one.
I was calm as a cucumber in line, watching the interactions of all the patrons before me, no doubt having some witty, meaningful exchange with David.
This is when my inner coach was giving me the hype talk I needed. “You got this.” “David is going to love you.” “This is your moment.”
I approached the table. David said my name.
For a nanosecond, I thought he knew me!
Until I saw the post-it with LISA written with a black sharpie.
What came out of my mouth?
I have no idea.
Some sort of verbal recipe about standard poodles, the Beatles & Elvis.
Then, just as I was about to walk away, I asked what I thought was a decent question: “How did you choose the photograph on the cover?”
David looked up, we met eyes, and he thoroughly explained how it came to be with his trademark sarcastic wit.
In the end, you could say I got my dignified moment with the author I love and admire.
Unfortunately, it came after introducing myself as a malfunctioning garden hose, spewing random nonsense about standard poodles, the Beatles, and Elvis all over the room.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Bada Bing
Goodbyes are weird, whether they’re taking place on your TV screen or in your everyday life. There’s no clean-cut ending; things just seem to fade out.
This is probably why series endings have always felt awkward to me. It’s like trying to leave a dinner party when the goodbye never quite resolves into an actual exit. There’s always that strange final stretch of small talk with one hand on the doorknob while your mind is already halfway to the car.
I’m not a fan of shows wrapping up in a nice bow, which is probably why Hallmark Movies make me crazy. Is it nice to escape into that world sometimes? Sure, but if I’ve invested my time and energy into a series for years, I don’t want a neatly orchestrated ending
Maybe that’s why I prefer endings that leave me hanging. I know I’ll probably get a lot of grief for that, but to me, that’s the perfect way to end a story. Let me finish it myself. The Sopranos understood the assignment. They trusted us with the uncertainty, which actually keeps the characters and the show alive long after it ends.
Isn’t that the whole point, anyway? To keep the curiosity alive after the screen goes black?
I want something that lingers. Something that makes me pause, but keeps the story going in my head.
My perfect ending? The Sopranos.
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Is Sentiment Genetic?
My daughter recently moved … again. That’s an essay in itself, but I’m still recovering from the ordeal.
Anyway, in the process, I was advising her to start letting go of some things she was holding on to. Moving is a great time to purge, and boy, do I love a purge.
She was going through her card container. I remember moving this a year ago. It is one of those plastic under-the-bed containers that needs two people to move because of the weight. All cards, some going back to her baptism, 33 years ago!
I suggested that this time around, she should go through the container to see if it could be lightened up a bit.
As she was going through the mountain of memories, she found a $ 100 bill in a birthday card from her aunt celebrating her 28th birthday. Okay, did this come at a good time with moving expenses, yes. Did it add to her argument for holding on to cards? Also, a yes.
One thing this did was spark my interest in going through some much smaller containers of my own. Apparently, the guilt of throwing away cards is genetic. Who knew?
I realized I had sympathy cards from the passing of my father 30-plus years ago. I read through them and was pleasantly surprised by some of the senders who haven’t been part of my life for decades. I read them one last time, gave them a quiet farewell, and purged.
Next came birthday cards, ones that made me laugh, brought tears to my eyes, and left me with a full heart. I’ll admit, some of those had to stay. I’m not quite ready to let go of my mother’s handwriting… or the love within it just yet.
As I sorted through the memories, I found myself thinking about the importance of the written word. I know so many people who no longer send cards because of the cost or because, as they say, “I’m just not into cards.” Fair enough. I can understand both, right up until that little voice in my head whispers, I’m not worth a stamp once a year?
But then I remembered what I had just been holding in my hands. What gets lost in those thoughts is the sentiment, the memories, and the tangible evidence that someone existed, that they loved you, and that, for a moment, they stopped what they were doing and put it into words.
I also have a container of cards from someone I never met in person, but who has been part of my world for over a decade. A fellow blogger who appreciates a good card, the written word, and the U.S. Post Office, like me.
As I sat on the floor reading those messages, I was reminded just how much human connection matters.
In a world where texting and disappearing messages have become”normal,” the power of holding a piece of someone’s thoughtfulness in your hands is profound. A card or a letter is so much more than paper and ink; it’s proof that someone took time from their day to say, “I’m thinking of you. I remember you. You matter.
I’ll never second guess sending a written note again.
No wonder my daughter has a hard time throwing these things away. It’s a wonderful notion to remember how much someone, especially those who are no longer physically here, loved you enough to leave a piece of themselves behind.
Looks like we’re not saving cards, we’re saving the love inside them, and somehow the weight of that container feels different now.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Love Wrapped in a Rotisserie Chicken
Mother’s Day, what can I say? A lot.
This is the third Mother’s Day weekend I’ve spent moving myself or one of my offspring since losing my mother. This is it? My mother crosses over to the other side, and suddenly, I’m in the moving business at 60? Something about that feels deeply unfair.
First of all, no one, absolutely no one, should have to help move themselves or anyone else after the age of 35. Frankly, since our government seems to be operating in full rogue mode anyway, maybe they could make that a law.
Aside from a very sore ankle, two long days of schlepping and driving, I did receive beautiful flowers, an all-paid-for facial, and a homemade card from my grandbabies featuring black scribbles and a butterfly sticker, so it wasn’t a total disaster.
After arriving home from what felt like a tour of duty, my sweet neighbor stopped by with a gift. Diane is recently widowed and has become someone I’d truly call a friend. She’s in her early 80s and full of spunk. My favorite expression of hers is “what a dope,” which she uses to describe everything from people driving too fast to starting wars. There’s no middle ground with Diane.
Diane did not have human children, but she is the mother of her four-legged companion, Timothy. Yes, he is referred to by his legal name, and if you met him, you would know exactly why.
Back to my gift.
I can honestly say that this gift was unexpected and priceless. My husband brings in a bag from Fresh Market, a grocery store nearby, and says, “This is from Diane, it’s for Mother’s Day, she said it’s something Buddy (her husband) enjoyed, and it made dinner easy one night a week.”
First of all, how thoughtful was that?
I open the bag to find a rotisserie chicken and a local paper with fun things to do in the area.
I’m not going to lie, I had to pause as I pondered my gift. Honestly, it was perfect!
Conclusion: Keep your diamonds, and give me a rosterrserie chicken any day of the week.
Maybe this is what Mother’s Day looks like at this stage of my life. It’s actually what I’ve always wanted, to be seen. About someone recognizing that, after two days of physical labor and a sore ankle, the greatest luxury in the world was not having to figure out dinner.
So no, this Mother’s Day wasn’t the most glamorous; it was exhausting, funny, a little achy, and unexpectedly sweet.
Somewhere between the black scribbles on my homemade card, to Diane calling the world “dopes”, and a warm rotisserie chicken, I realized something important:
Love is rarely wrapped in diamonds. Sometimes it comes in a grocery bag from Fresh Market.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Calvin Chronicles: A Week With Grandmom
Calvin here, Chocolate Lab, reporting for duty. Yes, I’m a big guy who may think he’s the size of a Yorkie, but that’s not really the point. I’m also the proud Grand Dog of Life With The Top Down, a.k.a. Tops.
Lately, Top’s been around more, babysitting my housemates, and I couldn’t be happier when she shows up. You know what that means: extra treats. I consider it a win for everyone, especially me.
Now, I’ll admit… sometimes my excitement gets the best of me. What can I say? I’m in love. When I see her, my whole body goes into full wiggle mode, and occasionally things in my path don’t survive the celebration, kids, chairs, maybe even a toy or two. Collateral damage.
Grandmom seemed a little surprised by my day all week. She kept saying things like “poor Cal” and “be gentle,” which I didn’t fully understand. But I did notice I was suddenly getting ice water and cheddar cheese added to my meals. So whatever happened… it must’ve been important.
I guess she didn’t realize that the littlest housemate has been using me as a step stool. Look, I’m just trying to be helpful. He was reaching for those cheese-flavored fish, and he does like to share… sooo, I consider it teamwork.
Here I am, starring as Rapunzel. The little girl housemate loves a good dress-up moment, and let’s be honest, her brother just doesn’t have the same natural talent for the role.
The weather was beautiful, which meant outside activities. I posed for my portrait. The artist did her best to trace my body on the deck, but space was limited, and apparently, I’m a bit larger than my inner Yorkie.
As for the finished masterpiece… I wasn’t expecting two noses and the bonus ear on top of my head, but hey, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The expression on my face says it all. I clearly know my alphabet, but I’m willing to play student one more time if it helps this housemate finally fall asleep.
This is me in my “Sunny Square”, that’s what my parents call it. I love when they say, “Cal, go to your sunny square.” Trust me, you don’t have to ask twice, I’m already there.
While my little housemates are napping, I take a moment to gather my thoughts and gear up for the rest of the day. It’s no small job protecting them from themselves.
Grandmom and I both had a rough day, so I stayed close and slept with her. It felt like the right thing to do.
As the day winds down and my housemates finally settle, I take one last patrol of my kingdom (also known as the living room). Everything seems in order, no snacks left behind, no tiny humans in immediate danger, and my Sunny Square will be waiting for me in the morning.
It’s a big job being me, but someone’s gotta do it. And tomorrow? I’ll be ready, wiggles, love, and something tells me the role of “Bunny” might be waiting for me.
Enjoy the Ride!
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From Niagara Falls to the Sahara and Still Married
Well, I learned something over the past few days. What is it, you ask? That, just like the messy, uncomfortable truths about the female body and raising children, no one really tells you the truth about marriage. Especially the long-term kind.
When I was in 5th grade, all the girls were summoned to the auditorium to watch a grainy movie about getting your period, handed a goody bag filled with what felt like tiny instruments of horror, and sent on our way. No follow-up, just a powder blue pamphlet with a few Q&As, as if that was enough to prepare an 11-year-old for what was coming. By the time my period actually arrived four years later, that pamphlet and that bag of horrors were long gone.
Fast forward to middle age, when your body suddenly decides your vagina is the Sahara Desert, your internal thermostat is unreliable at best, and you can go from calm to combustion in seconds. And if your partner, or let’s be honest, a complete stranger, has the audacity to speak, look, eat, drink, or breathe at the wrong moment, you’re fairly certain a jury of your peers would understand your reaction.
Which begs the question: why do we have 20 sequels to Fast & Furious, but not a single follow-up to that period classic? Come on!
I remember being pregnant, big as a house, and being told, “You’re glowing.” Funny how the reaction shifts a bit when you’re big as a house without the baby.
And yet, no one, and I mean not a single soul, said anything useful at the baby shower.
Were they all blinded by the tiny clothes? Just happy to be away from their own kids for a few uninterrupted hours? Or silently agreeing it wasn’t the moment to mention how your body changes in ways no one fully prepares you for… that sleep becomes a distant memory, that the worrying never really stops, or that one day you’ll be negotiating daily with a miniature version of yourself, and still losing?
I’m going with all of the above.
Now, the reason any of this is surfacing is, drum roll, please, marriage. The long-term kind. I’m 35 years in, and Lord knows… a lot has happened along the way. None of which is mentioned when you’re goggle-eyed and can’t keep your hands off each other.
Over the weekend, the topic of sex, or more accurately, the lack of it, rose right to the top. And just to be clear… not my doing.
This is just another thing no one really talks about. Not honestly, anyway. My husband brought it up, starting with how much he misses how things “used to be.”
Oh, you mean when my body cooperated? When my vagina was Niagara Falls instead of the Sahara? Me too.
Or when making love was hot and effortless, instead of something I’ve started to quietly dread, because now, let’s be honest, penetration can feel like shards of glass have entered the room?
Nevertheless, it was a conversation that needed to happen. Thankfully, my man is considerate to a fault, a researcher, a problem-solver, and someone who loves me for who I am, not how I look.
I just wish I loved myself as much as he does.
Disclaimer: This is the very short version. This conversation unfolded over three days, raw, vulnerable, heated, and loving.
Let’s just say… it was a lot.
Conclusion? We’re two people who built an incredible connection, but not a whole lot of communication skills outside the bedroom, where our bodies used to do all the talking. One of us is growing (with the other’s encouragement), and it shows.
The growing pains are real. But the foundation? Still solid.
And then, on day four, emotionally drained and slightly shell-shocked, the universe looked down and said, “Let’s give them a test.”
We were heading out the door when I went into the kitchen to grab a drink. The same kitchen I had been in seconds before.
And there it was.
A swarm. Not a couple of bugs, a full-blown, horror-movie-level SWARM of flying… something.
Later identified as flying termites.
I’ll give you a second to gag.
Absolutely disgusting doesn’t even begin to cover it.
We had never experienced anything like this before, and hopefully, never will again. But in that moment? We were in the trenches. The kind that had us setting alarms to wake up every two hours… to vacuum the invaders.
Romance, but make it pest control.
And somewhere between the second and third middle-of-the-night termite massacre, I had a realization: this, this, is marriage.
Two people, half-asleep, each armed with their own vacuum, silently waging war against flying termites at 2 a.m. No discussion. No delegation. Just mutual understanding and a shared mission.
That’s not in any wedding vows I’ve ever heard…
…but honestly?
That’s amore.
Enjoy the ride!
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Plot Twist: I’m The Glue
A theme has been running through my head since just before Thanksgiving, and it even showed up in some of my recent essays. The feeling of how things once were. The idea that once my mother, the glue of the family, passed, our family dynamic changed. I lost something in my life, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Instead, I invited victimhood and resentment to enter my thoughts. Yes, this dynamic duo is powerful, loud, and moved right in. They have a way of bringing out the worst in me. Given enough airtime, they can turn a quiet moment of grief into a full-blown internal TED Talk on how unfair everything is.
As the holiday season went on, and nothing old was knocking on the door, the longing grew louder by the day. I became determined to identify exactly what I was missing, as if clarity might magically appear, bringing all my answers with it. Wouldn’t that be nice?
So I went inward. The people I think I’m missing aren’t the same people they were six or seven years ago. Truthfully, I don’t know who they are now beyond the occasional smiling square on social media or the obligatory “happy birthday” text. My house of thirty years? No. I genuinely love my new home. The city? Absolutely not. Nice try, nostalgia.
Which leaves me with the lingering question that refuses to leave the room: what have I been yearning for all this time? What unnamed absence cracked the door just enough for grief, and her exhausting friends V and R to wander in, kick off their shoes, and make themselves comfortable?
And then, quietly, the answer arrived. What I was missing wasn’t a person or a place; it was a feeling. The feeling of creating something and offering it to others. Of gathering, giving, and contributing in a way that feels alive and connective.
For decades, I was the one who did that. I was the “glue.” The planner. The one sending the texts, setting the dates, arranging the chairs, and making sure everyone had a place to land. Somewhere along the way, I stopped doing what had always grounded me, and apparently, my nervous system noticed long before I did.
I found the feeling again on Christmas Eve, standing in my own home, hosting. Cooking, arranging, welcoming. Creating space. And there it was, that familiarity. Not the past itself, but its essence. The part that still belongs to me.
I noticed it in my own voice when I talked about the evening later, more energy, more ease. Excitement. Joy. Dare I say passion? It felt good to recognize that part of myself again.
The longing didn’t vanish, but it softened. What I was searching for hadn’t gone anywhere; it was just waiting in the wings for me to show up and set the damn table.
As always … Enjoy the Ride, and have a Happy, healthy, peaceful 2026!
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The Undocumented Magic of Christmas
Christmas really has a way of bringing out all the feels. The whole past, present, and future thing is absolutely real. Thankfully, these ghosts are purely metaphorical, because I do not have the stamina for rattling chains or surprise hauntings.
As I mentioned in my Thanksgiving post, losing the family glue hasn’t been exactly a Hallmark moment. Changing everything that once was isn’t for the faint of heart, but, allegedly, it is possible over time.
This year, we befriended a couple in our community who transplanted here from the Bronx. Can you say Italian, homemade bread, and pizza? Because I say it loud and with a lot of passion.
As you’d expect, family and looking out for others are hardwired into their DNA. With most of their family either gone or still in New York, they lean on friends and neighbors. Turns out this is a recurring theme with transplants around here … who knew?
So this Christmas Eve, I decided to throw open our doors to our fellow transplants, those navigating recent losses, and of course, friends, while quietly wondering if this would be a beautiful new tradition… or the start of a very festive recipe for disaster.
Thankfully, the evening ended with new connections, hugs, kisses, very full stomaches, and one promise of homemade bread delivery. Come on already …
As we sit here this quiet Christmas morning, reflecting on the night before, we realized something shocking: not a single photo was taken of anything or anyone. No evidence. No proof. Just vibes.
This means one of two things—either everyone was genuinely present and living in the moment… or senility has officially entered our lives.
Either way, I’m choosing to believe it’s a win. Because maybe the real magic of Christmas isn’t the perfectly staged photos or the proof for social media, but the moments that don’t need documenting to matter. The ones that fill your home, your heart, and apparently your stomach, and then quietly settle in as something you just know happened.
No ghosts required. Just good people, open doors, and maybe some homemade bread on the way.
Enjoy the Ride! Tinsel is required today.
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The Ache of Familiarity
I can’t stop thinking about Rob Reiner. I keep asking myself why. His death has settled into me in a way I can’t quite name. We never met. We shared no friends, no blood, no history. We lived in different orbits, so why does his absence ache like something personal? Why does the knowledge of his death ache?
Yes, the tragic way he left this world weighs on me, of course. But that isn’t the root of it.
The truth came to me in a dream last night; it was familiarity. He had been an integral part of my life for decades, not in person, but in something just as intimate. He was flickering through television screens, filling movie theaters, shaping the background noise of my growing up. And that mattered.
My family watched All in the Family from the very beginning in 1971. I was seven years old, too young to understand the politics or the jokes, but old enough to absorb the feeling of it. The show became a mirror, reflecting my own home back at me. Loud fathers. Quiet mothers. Slamming doors. Arguments that somehow dissolved into laughter. It taught me, without words, that I wasn’t alone, that our chaos was shared, familiar, even lovable. We were the “different” family on the block, and that was okay.
So maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. Not because I knew him, but because he knew something about me. About us. About families and flaws and love that bangs around loudly before settling into laughter.
This feeling of grief that I’m having isn’t necessarily for Rob Reiner the person. It’s for what he gave that seven-year-old little girl in her living room the first time she experienced his work, the gift of recognition. The feeling of being seen before I even knew I needed it.
Rest in peace, Rob Reiner. You certainly enjoyed your ride and made mine better.
Life With The Top Down 
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