Ass U Me
I’m not sure I could define any advice I’ve been given as “profound,” but there have been things said to me over the years that have stuck like glue. If that’s what qualifies as profound, then I suppose it counts.
That said, if I’m being honest, the list for the question, “What profound advice were you given but didn’t take?” would probably be much longer.
The one that has stuck like glue came from my boss, at my first “adult” job, when I was 18 years young. He brought me into his office, wrote the word “Assume” on a piece of paper, and asked, “Do you know what that says?”
Being 18, right off the boat from an all-girls Catholic high school where I was trained not to trust my instincts, this question didn’t land with simplicity. Instead, it created a rush of more questions. Was it a trick question? What am I supposed to say? Should I say anything?
After what seemed like days, I responded, “It says assume.”
Well, let’s just say I was not in the least prepared for the sequel.
He proceeds to break the word down into sections. Ass U Me.
Get it? I’m happy for all of you, I really am.
I’ll admit it took me a minute. Fear took over the link between my eyes and my vocal cords, leaving me suddenly speaking in tongues, until the lightbulb went on.
I have no recollection of why this lesson took place or what mistake I made that led to it. What I can tell you is the lesson stuck.
Here I am, 5-plus decades later, still catching myself mid-thought before making an assumption, before saying something out loud, before jumping to a conclusion. This one word has followed me through my entire life.
Does something that still packs a punch 5 plus decades later warrant the title “profound”?
If so, you have your answer.
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My Oprah Era or 24 Hours
My first thought is, What wouldn’t I do? Closely followed by, Where do I even start?
Those of us without unlimited budgets have probably all daydreamed about sudden wealth, but when it becomes reality, what would we actually do with it?
Before heading directly to Norstom’s for a frivolous shopping spree. I would take a substantial portion of the money and invest it wisely. That way, the impact of those 24 hours would extend far beyond a single day, creating opportunities to do good for years to come.
Then I would channel my inner Oprah.
“You get a million dollars, you get a million dollars, you get a million dollars.”
Everyone close to me would receive a life-changing gift. Followed by trust funds for all the children in my life, with the condition that when the time comes, they pay it forward in their lifetime.
Now that all those responsible decisions are made, it’s time to get frivolous.
I would rent a private jet and fly to Lucca, Italy, to walk where my ancestors walked and feel the connection to my roots. After an unforgettable dinner on the piazza, I would head to NYC, where I would see a Broadway show, wander every inch of Central Park, and hand out hundred-dollar bills like candy.
Then I would buy a Mini Countryman, with all those cool custom specifications.
Then I’d call it a day, hopefully one that changed a lot of lives, including mine.
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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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No Memo, Just Chicken Tenders
If I could have dinner with any philosopher, who would it be?
Okay, my answer is definitely not traditional.
My choice would be a child. Preferably a 3 or 4-year-old with a decent vocabulary. Why? Well, there are a few reasons.
First, deciding where to have dinner would be much easier. Their palette is limited, and chicken tenders and mac and cheese go a long way.
Secondly, there are no filters. They haven’t been contaminated by society in a way that adults are. A 3-year-old will ask anyone anything without a second thought.
Recently, I had green velcro rollers in my hair for little volume, and my granddaughter, without missing a beat, asked with a disdainful tone, “Grandmom, why are you trying to be a dinosaur?” Which left me wondering, “Is that what I’m trying to do?”
This is exactly why I would choose a child. Philosophers seem a little too deep for me. It doesn’t have to be that complicated. Bring it down a few notches. Questions such as “Why is the sky blue?” can prompt answers that go on for days, are filled with scientific facts and equations. Or we can accept the 4-year-old response I heard:
“It’s the best color that goes with the yellow sun.”
Honestly, do we need more than that? I don’t.
Children have the superpower of cutting through all the nonsense. They get right to the chase without overthinking. At least for a moment.
I guess it goes back to being your authentic self. Somewhere along the way, we learn to filter, complicate, and stop trusting our instincts, looking outside ourselves for answers. Children did not get this memo.
And maybe what makes them the best philosophers after all.
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Oh, We’re a Throuple
How do you handle fear and self-doubt?
The short answer is “not well.” But that answer wouldn’t make a very good essay
Let’s just say my relationship with fear and self-doubt has been… complicated. It’s stretched on for decades and feels less like an ordinary struggle and more like a bad marriage, or in this case, a throuple. One of those relationships you read about, where the participants love to hate each other. I think it might be professionally called Trauma Bonding.
At this point in my life, one of us has done some work to break the cycle, but the other two always find a way to lurk around the corner. Just when I think they’re out of my life, they find their way back in like a 3a.m. booty call, uninvited and somehow impossible to ignore.
Now I recognize them for what they are, do my best to give them the cold shoulder, and focus on what I’m meant to do without their two cents yelling from the sidelines.
If there is anything funny about it, and not the ha-ha kind, it’s that after decades, therapy, growth, self-awareness, and every other healing cliche you can think of, they still show up. Like toxic exes whose only form of consistency is showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
That consistency is what’s given me the upper hand. How? Well, whenever I’m about to embark on something new, I expect the dynamic negative duo to come knocking. But now, I welcome them in for coffee. I tell them to take a load off and let them know their presence carries a different meaning these days.
So, how do I handle fear and self-doubt? Awkwardly. I haven’t evicted them. I certainly haven’t conquered them, and even with all of my efforts, I haven’t been able to silence them either.
Maybe that was never the goal. Maybe the goal wasn’t to get rid of them at all. Maybe it was to stop treating them like enemies and start seeing them as familiar faces. The kind you unexpectedly run into at the grocery store after five years, only to realize you’re now trapped in aisle six for an hour.
Now my reaction is different. I hear them, but I don’t hand them the microphone.
I’ve finally understood that if these two have entered the picture, chances are I’m standing on the edge of something bigger than comfort, and they don’t like it.
They wouldn’t be there if I weren’t about to do something great.
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Gerald Swims Among Us
Reality? Hmm, well, I guess that depends on the context.
If we’re talking about the last two years, I couldn’t point to one specific moment. There have been too many. Too many events, too many lies, too much confusion, and too many stories that felt stranger than fiction. At this point, I question everything and believe nothing simply because it’s presented as a headline or labeled “breaking news.”
Honestly, the more bizarre the story sounds, the more likely I am to at least hear it out.
Remember that story a few months back about Gerald the Dolphin in Florida? The one where Gerald allegedly abducted a man from the beach, dragged him underwater for three days, revealed the secrets of an alternate universe, and tossed him back onto shore, where he immediately started writing complicated equations in the sand?
At this point? I’m prepared to accept that Gerald swims among us.
Maybe that was the moment. I can’t say for sure.
What I do know is this: I’m more likely to give something completely absurd my time and energy, rather than automatically trust many of the stories pushed by mainstream media today.
Why?
Ownership. Funding. Incentives. And because I’ve watched rooms full of reporters, people whose entire job is supposedly built around asking difficult questions, sit in silence while they or their colleagues are publicly dismissed, ridiculed, or ignored in full view of the world.
Maybe that was the moment.
The day silence stopped speaking the volumes that it was intended to speak.
The day silence became participation.
That was when reality started to feel negotiable.
And honestly? My hope is that Gerald is out there somewhere, building an alternate world. One where truth and humanity lead. A place where questions aren’t punished, truth isn’t filtered through agendas, and people remember that being human matters more than being right or fear they’ll lose their job.
Because lately, that world feels less fictional than the one we’re living in.
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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!
Life With The Top Down 
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