An Infant Choosing Centerpieces
How much time do you have?
The list of dos and don’ts is endless.
I cringe when I think about 20-year-old me. Ugh.
Picture a young woman wearing the thickest pair of rose-colored glasses known to mankind. A girl who had no clue who she was while trying on wedding dresses. Someone who didn’t know her own worth, hadn’t discovered her talents, and was still trying to figure out where she fit in the world.
According to my birth certificate, I was an adult.
In reality, I was an infant choosing centerpieces.
I believed with every fiber of my being that getting married would somehow fix everything. Tell me, what else, other than a wedding band, could possibly erase my people-pleasing tendencies, quiet my insecurities, and magically bestow the wisdom I’d somehow missed out on during my first two decades on Earth?
What was I thinking?
Oh, that’s right. I was 20. Delusion was my middle name.
It seemed perfectly logical at the time. I’d spent years believing in happily-ever-after endings. Naturally, I assumed that once I walked down the aisle, exchanged rings, and kissed the groom, a transformation would occur.
The music would swell.
A bright light would shine from heaven.
And the insecure young woman standing at the altar would instantly become a confident adult with healthy boundaries, excellent judgment, and enough self-esteem to stop giving second, third, fourth, and fifth chances to people who hadn’t earned the first one.
Including the groom.
I’ll pause while you laugh.
Back to the question at hand. If I could sit down with that young woman today, I’d tell her this:
You’re not fat.
Everything will work out.
Trust yourself more.
You’re enough.
Follow your ambitions.
Use your voice.
Say “no” more.
You don’t have to earn your worth. You already have it.
Learn the difference between people who support your dreams and people who merely tolerate them.
And for the love of all things holy, take off those rose-colored glasses!
At 20, don’t be so desperate to grow up and figure everything out. Take your time.
Life isn’t a race to the finish line. It’s a series of lessons, and trust me, you’re about to earn a PhD in learning things the hard way.
The good news?
It was all worth it.
You survive every one of them. And someday, you’ll look back at that confused young woman with a lot more compassion than embarrassment.
Because she didn’t know what she was doing.
But she kept going anyway.
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Mr. Bliss
I’m going to roll with Ignorance Is Bliss, because I believe it is.
But only for the ignorant person.
Let me explain.
Everyone seems to know someone who is the human embodiment of this proverb. A person who drifts through life without a care in the world and, coincidentally, without a single gray hair on their head.
The heads around them, however, are white.
Why?
Because the rest of us spend our time worrying about things like rent, food, bills, medical care, and other inconvenient details required to survive.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bliss, who may or may not be my brother-in-law, has a serious case of COPD and continues to smoke.
Naturally, I asked if he’d seen a pulmonary specialist.
“No,” he said. “I get steroids from Mexico online.”
Which led to the obvious follow-up question.
“How do you know they’re steroids?”
Without missing a beat, he replied, “Because I can breathe better.”
Suddenly, my fear of taking two Advil seemed a little excessive.
Years ago, he lost an eye and ended up with a prosthetic.
His eyes are brown.
The replacement was blue.
Of course, I asked why.
He looked at me as though I were the unreasonable one.
“Because women like men with blue eyes.”
I considered explaining that women generally prefer two matching eyes, but decided against it.
Now, before you get too distracted by the blue eye, I should mention that the blue eye was later stolen by a roommate.
Yes, stolen.
No, I don’t know why.
And yes, he simply ordered another eye online.
Which somehow led him to explain that you can’t trust things that come from China.
This is from a man who orders replacement body parts through an internet search box.
Just when you think Mr. Bliss has exhausted the list of things that could cause his family concern, it turns out he has lost his dentures.
Lost them.
A full set of teeth.
Naturally, questions followed.
Where did you leave them?
How do you lose an entire mouth?
Why weren’t they in your mouth?
For once, I was relieved by the answer.
“I don’t know.”
What I wasn’t prepared for was the next step.
He ordered replacement teeth online.
Apparently, there is an entire corner of the internet devoted to body-part replacements that I never knew existed.
The teeth that arrived were tiny.
Not slightly small.
Tiny.
Like doll teeth.
Do dolls even have teeth?
As I’m writing this, I can feel new gray hairs forming.
Which brings me back to the proverb.
Ignorance Is Bliss is absolutely true.
It’s just important to remember that the bliss belongs to the ignorant person.
I know you’re all wondering where the eye went, who stole it, why the teeth are doll-sized, and whether those mystery steroids from Mexico are actually Tic Tacs.
But sometimes we’re not meant to get answers, because they just create more questions.
At this point, preserving my hair color is more important than solving the mystery.
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Just Call Me Rosie
I’ve already been disappointed by things I wanted to see in the future.
When I was a child, I firmly believed I’d be flying to work in my personal aircraft, walking my robot dog, and coming home after a long day to see Rosie the Robot cooking and cleaning. That’s the future I thought I was promised.
Well, here we are, more than half a century later, and I don’t have any of it. I’m still sitting in traffic. I’m Rosie, and the closest thing I have to a household pet is my vacuum cleaner, which I seem to fight with every time I use it.
So, when I read this question, I have a question of my own: how far into the future are we talking? Because I was already supposed to be living in the future at this point, and that prediction was missed by half a century. After patiently waiting 50-plus years for The Jetsons’ lifestyle to show up, and getting nadda, forgive me for not putting too much excitement into forecasts.
The problem I see with looking too far ahead is that we miss what we can do today to make change a reality.
As with most things in life, I believe that getting back to basics will create a better world for my grandchildren. Simplicity goes a long way, just ask every kid on Christmas morning who has the time of their life playing with a piece of wrapping paper.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting for flying cars and started paying attention to the things that actually improve people’s lives. Most of them aren’t complicated. They’re the basics: kindness, responsibility, respect, common sense, strong families, good neighbors, and communities that look out for one another.
Technology has given us remarkable things, but it hasn’t solved every problem. In some cases, it has simply replaced old frustrations with new ones. The words Press 1 for can send the strongest of wills into a frenzy.
My interest in futuristic gadgets has faded over the years. The older I get, the more attracted I am to the character of the people who will inherit the future. After all, character is the foundation of any future worth having.
Back to the question at hand, I want to see some basic human qualities in the future.
Of course, this answer isn’t nearly as exciting as those flying cars and automated homes I dreamed of 50 years ago, and I know my younger self wouldn’t have been impressed at all, but it’s the one I believe in.
The future I would love to give my grandchildren is one with a little more kindness, responsibility, respect, and common sense. I’ll consider that a far greater achievement than finally getting my flying car.
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Girls Just Wanna Have Sun
It all depends on the genre. I have a little bit of everything in my collection: horror, Hallmark backdrops, rom-coms, thrillers, and, most of all, comedies. I’d love the chance to be part of a Marvel project someday. As for superpowers, I’d choose either invisibility or the ability to fly, but I digress.
Hmm, let me think, since we’re heading to Summer, I’ll share something from that season.
Many moons ago, at the age of 19, I made a decision that seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. I wore a bikini to the beach and doused myself in baby oil.
What could possibly go wrong after exposing my skin from the depths of winter, directly to the sun’s surface, with oil?
Have you ever seen a female body painted pink, except for the private parts? I have.
After a doctor’s visit, multiple applications of baking soda paste, and missing a week of work. This 19-year-old genius made another wise-at-the-time decision to go drinking and dancing with a large group of friends.
There were a few obstacles, and a lot of determination to make this happen. The problem: I was still unable to wear undergarments due to the now-blistering sun poisoning.
Now, for reference, this was the 1980s. Thongs weren’t mainstream, “going commando” wasn’t a thing, there was no Google, and there certainly wasn’t social media to crowdsource solutions to my predicament.
All I had was my older sister.
“Wear Mom’s underwear,” she suggested.
“Okay,” I replied.
Out the door I went with underwear that served as an adult onesie.
The dance club we went to was called “Rocky’s”, yes, like the movie, with a raised dancefloor that looked like a boxing rink.
While drinking and dancing my sun poisoning away, Sister Sled’s “We Are Family” came on. At some point, someone came up behind me, grabbed my waist, and started forming a chorus line.
What I didn’t realize was that somewhere during all the dancing, my skirt had completely detached from my body and was now lying outside the dance floor.
What I did notice, in glorious slow motion, was my sister spraying her drink across the room while my friends pointed and laughed.
Still in slow motion, I turned around.
Mouths hung open.
People stared.
And there I stood, center stage, wearing nothing but my mother’s enormous underwear pulled up to my chin.
Then, as if scripted by Hollywood itself, I heard the DJ’s voice crackle over the speakers:
“Will the girl on the dance floor in her…”
pause
“…underwear, please sit down?”
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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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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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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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Remembering Jimmy
Today would have been my brother Jimmy’s 80th birthday. Jimmy was my first true love. We were 18 years apart, but we shared February birthdays, and if you can believe it, the same parents. His birthday fell on Washington’s Birthday, back when George Washington had a day all to himself, before someone bundled it into Presidents’ Day.
For years, I heard how much Jimmy loved sharing his birthday with our first president. He especially loved the tradition of a coconut cake crowned with a single cherry in the center, marking the day in his own sweet, ceremonial way.
He left me when I was 6 years old, and it was for another woman. That’s when he had the audacity to get married.
No worries, I made my feelings crystal clear in church that day, grabbing onto the tails of his tuxedo and throwing the very best fit a heartbroken five-year-old could manage.
I say he was my first love for many reasons. For one, he loved my sister and me unconditionally. I’m not exaggerating; in his eyes, we could do no wrong.
Before “the other woman” came along, he took us everywhere, even on dates. Church carnivals, the circus, sledding hills, his workplace, if Jimmy was there, so were we.
He worked a shift that had him sleeping late, or trying to. That never stopped us. My sister and I would sneak into his room with rollers and barrettes, stifling giggles while we decorated his hair. He’d pretend to sleep through it all, patient and saintly.
Jimmy made me an Auntie when I was just eight years old. If you ever want to feel judged, show your second-grade nun a photo of your brand-new nephew. I can still see her face. I’m fairly certain she gasped.
His wife, my sister-in-law, wasn’t nearly as much fun as the dates had been. The dates thought we hung the moon. They proved it with little gifts and extra attention.
I have two vivid memories of her. Once, she patiently taught us how to make tissue paper flowers on her big bed. The other time, she committed the unforgivable act of eating the ears off my chocolate Easter rabbit. My sister witnessed the amputation and immediately hid her own basket in the closet.
Some things a child simply does not recover from.
Fast forward to 2005, when Jimmy was told he needed a heart transplant. It makes sense — after pouring out that much love over a lifetime, his own heart was simply worn out.
Then one day, Jimmy decided he didn’t want to move forward with the procedure. In the room next to him was a young man with a newborn baby. Jimmy couldn’t bear the thought of receiving a heart before him.
He told us he had lived his life. He had raised his children and held his grandchildren. That young father, he said, was just getting started.
The medical team asked him again and again to be sure he understood. They told him he likely wouldn’t live more than a year without the transplant.
Well… they were wrong.
Jimmy lived the rest of his life in bliss — with a dash of ignorance. He did what he wanted. He ate what he wanted. He squeezed every drop out of every single day. And instead of one year, he gave us three — three full, unapologetic years on his terms.
Today, my sisters and I are thinking about him. We’re laughing at the blizzard outside because Jimmy would have absolutely loved the drama of it all — probably convinced it was arranged in his honor.
He moved through life without worry, without apology, without overthinking a single thing.
Unlike his sisters.
So today, in his honor, we’re trying to do the same, to live just a little more freely, to not give a shit about the small stuff, at least for the next twenty-four hours.
Let the snow fall.
Who cares.
Happy 80th Birthday, Jimmy! I still LOVE you ❤️
He died in 2008 at the age of 62, the very same age I just celebrated. Somehow, it feels like a sacred milestone. Like I’ve stepped into a year he never got to see… and I intend to live it the way he would have. Well, I’ll do my best.
Enjoy The Ride!
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And the Oscar Goes to …. Grandma
Oscar season is here, and wow, it really has me thinking. Partly because I’ve seen a few of the nominees, and partly because I’m starting to believe I give more convincing performances in my everyday life than some of what I’ve watched on screen.
Case in point: Just the other day, I was babysitting my 3-year-old granddaughter, and within minutes, I delivered what some or maybe most would consider an award-worthy performance for “Best Surprised Facial Expression.” If trophies were given out, I’d currently be picking out jewels from Harry Winston. Something dazzling, yet classic.
Have you ever played 100 rounds of hide-and-seekwith a three-year-old? Well, let me just say the word “hiding” is used very loosely, and it often involves more than just closed eyes and the confidence that she disappeared.
My role required the ability to project complete disbelief repeatedly. After counting to 10, I entered the room pretending not to see her sitting on the sofa, eyes covered, and giggling. The restraint it took for me not to laugh deserves another nod.
There I was, gasping and asking aloud, “Where can she be?” Looking under blankets, which by the way would have been a better choice, couch cushions, and yes, I even looked in the trash can! My commitment to scanning the room as if she mastered vanishing was like no other. By the way, this was all with no rehearsal.
This got me wondering: if our everyday lives were eligible for awards, how many of us would already have a mantle full of statues? Let’s face it, some of the finest acting doesn’t happen on the big screen; it happens in living rooms, when we’re pretending not to see the giggling child in plain sight, and delivering an Oscar-worthy performance anyway. Ladies and gentlemen, that is skill.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Madame President Reports for Duty
Sometimes life volunteers you for leadership before you even raise your hand, or in my case, because you never have.
Last week, I had the distinct privilege of fulfilling my civic duty by serving on a jury. I know, no one actually wants to do it, but technically, it’s a privilege at least for now.
My only complaint? The court summoned me for two weeks with instructions to call every evening after 6 p.m. to see if I needed to report. Two weeks of limbo! I’m not a fan of uncertainty. I like my plans to be solid, my mornings predictable, and my evenings free from judicial suspense.
I’ve been called many times in Philadelphia, but I was never chosen. Here I am in a new state, called for the first time, and not only have I been selected to sit on the jury, but I was also crowned the Jury Forewoman. Go big or go home, right?
Leadership and I have an awkward relationship. I’ve never chased it, but lately I find myself getting drafted into these roles. It’s like the universe is saying, “Hey, ready or not, it’s time for more growth!”
I suspect my environment has something to do with it. I used to live in a city where enthusiasm and confrontation flowed freely. Wear the wrong team’s jersey, and you will hear about it, loudly and perhaps with a bit of sign language.
Now, I live somewhere so polite that a purple elephant with polka dots could cha-cha across a meeting table and no one would comment. Everyone would just nod thoughtfully and ask if the elephant took dance lessons. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there wondering if someone spiked my water.
And somehow, amid all this silence, I’ve become the one speaking up. Suddenly, I’m front and center in rooms where I once thought I didn’t belong, leading meetings, authoring two newsletters, and, yes, serving as President of our board.
The irony is, I’m not accustomed to this level of attention or authority. I was the girl who’d take an F before giving an oral report in front of the class. The quiet one, afraid to express her feelings, who let boys and men treat her like a doormat because she thought that’s what “nice” looked like. The wife who sacrificed herself because that’s what she’d learned love required. The mother who second-guessed her instincts, thinking everyone else must know better. The sister who was easily manipulated. The friend jumping through hoops, and the daughter who wore the labels “the good one” and “the one with the big heart” for so long that she didn’t notice the toll they took.
So yes, hearing people refer to me as Madame President still surprises me. But maybe that’s the point. Growth doesn’t wait for volunteers. Sometimes it just hands you the gavel and says, “You’re up.”
Enjoy the Ride!
Life With The Top Down 
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