Dandy & the Rose
What’s the best way to build self-confidence? It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times.
The simple answer is to believe in yourself. The harder question is: how do you do that when you’ve spent years believing something else?
I spent decades living in the shadows of family members, friends, co-workers, and complete strangers. Why? Because that’s what I was taught, and therefore what I believed.
I grew up with a sister who was put on a pedestal for just about everything she did. There’s an entire photo album to prove it.
We were born at a time when taking photos required effort. You had to buy film and flashbulbs, have the film developed, pick it up, and pay for every single picture.
In other words, photographs weren’t accidental.
So when there’s an entire album documenting your sister’s life before her first birthday, it says something. At least it did to me.
Apparently, I was also baptized, celebrated my first birthday, and received my First Holy Communion. I know because there is evidence.
No album. Case closed.
When you’re a kid, you don’t see the whys; you see what’s in front of you. Or, in my case, what wasn’t. To me, this was proof.
Proof that I wasn’t special.
Proof that she mattered more.
Proof that I should cheer from the sidelines where I belonged.
Then I packed up those beliefs and carried them to school, where they were reinforced by the adults I feared most.
The nuns.
My sister was two years ahead of me and had apparently left quite an impression. Every teacher seemed to know exactly who she was and exactly how wonderful she had been.
Then I arrived. The disappointment when they realized I wasn’t a carbon copy was impossible to miss.
“Your sister sat in the Rose Aisle. I don’t understand how you’re a dandelion.”
A freaking dandelion.
For those keeping score at home, Dandy the Dandelion endured twelve long years of that nonsense.
The strange thing is, I was never angry at my sister. If anything, I admired her to a fault.
I spent years talking about her accomplishments while barely mentioning my own. She was the smart one. The talented one. The successful one.
At least, that’s how I saw it.
Ironically, she was the one who got frustrated with me. Why?
Because she saw something I couldn’t. My value.
When she tried to talk me out of getting married at twenty, I assumed she was jealous.
When she encouraged me to take college classes, I assumed she wanted me to be more like her.
When she told me I was smart, talented, creative, and capable, I dismissed every word.
Why would I believe her?
I had already built a mountain of evidence proving otherwise.
There was a missing photo album.
The nuns.
The comparisons.
The labels.
The years spent cheering from the sidelines while everyone else seemed destined for center stage.
By then, “not good enough” wasn’t just a thought. It was my identity.
Looking back, I can see what I couldn’t see then. My sister wasn’t trying to compete with me or change me. She was trying to convince me of something she had known all along. That I belonged on the stage, too.
The problem wasn’t that nobody believed in me. The problem was that I had spent so many years believing everyone else’s opinion of me that I never bothered forming one of my own.
And that’s the thing about self-confidence. It isn’t built by becoming smarter, prettier, richer, or more successful than everyone else. It’s built when you stop letting other people decide your worth.
Talk about childhood baggage. At sixty-plus, I’m still unpacking.
Wait. What was the question again? Oh yeah.
How do you build self-confidence?
You stop believing the stories other people wrote about you and start writing your own.
Share this:
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.
Share this:
Catholic Guilt Strikes Again
This is impossible to narrow down to one song. I’d feel like I was cheating on all the others, and my ingrained Catholic guilt would never allow it.
Two songs immediately popped into my head: Shiny Happy People by R.E.M. and September by Earth, Wind & Fire.
I’m not surprised they were the first to appear in my orbit because no matter when or where I hear them, I’m not only moved to groove, but I also find myself smiling.
Music is powerful that way. It has carried me through some of the best and worst moments of my life.
I can’t listen to Betcha by Golly, Wow by the Stylistics without thinking of a lying, cheating boyfriend. And I can’t hear Everybody Hurts without being transported back to the day I learned of a friend’s suicide.
Music has a way of bypassing logic and heading straight to the heart. Somehow, a three-minute melody can bring memories to the surface that we thought were long gone, leaving my 60-plus-year-old self with the urge to slash the tires of that lying, cheating boyfriend.
Then there are the songs that take me somewhere I’d gladly visit again. The moment an ’80s Madonna song comes on the radio, I’m young again. The windows are down, my tan is fresh, and my girlfriends and I are singing Holiday at the top of our lungs without a care in the world.
I can forget hand soap on my shopping list twice in one week, but if Funkytown hits the airwaves, there I am, reciting every word, and reliving every memory from the Summer of 1980 at the Jersey Shore.
Songs are time machines, comfort blankets, celebrations, and wounds. Sometimes all it takes is a few notes, and we’re right back where we were, laughing, crying, dancing, grieving, or falling in love, or out of love.
That’s the power of music!
So, no, I can’t just pick one song.
I’m positive the songs I left behind will forgive me, but that Catholic guilt never will.
Share this:
The Even Steven Method
I’ve become a big fan of minimalism over the past few years.
It started when we moved from our home of 30-plus years.
Packing up a house has a way of forcing you to reconsider your decision to hold on to things that haven’t seen the light of day in decades. Suddenly, every keepsake comes with a question: Do I really want to carry this into the next chapter?
I’ll admit, some things did linger on the line between old and new chapters and made their way into the truck and straight to the attic of the new house.
It took a minute, or a few years, but the more we settled into our new home, the more bothered we became by those old keepsakes.
Slowly, they were sold or donated, ready to start a new chapter of their own outside the boxes stored in the attic. I often imagined them being released from prison for a crime they never committed.
With that mindset, we began decorating our new home with used items that still had plenty of life left in them and could brighten a room.
I draw the line at sofas and chairs, but everything else, including artwork, is secondhand, often made when things were built for quality rather than designed with a two-year shelf life.
My sister-in-law refers to us as Amish, and I’m okay with that label, especially since she’s one Amazon order away from being featured on Hoarders.
Now I have a system that seems to work. If something new comes in, something old has to leave. I call it the “Even Steven” method, and it’s worked well for us. It forces us to make purchases with purpose rather than impulse.
The truth is, we don’t need much. We just happen to live in a society where the line between need and want has become increasingly blurred. Before long, wants start masquerading as needs, and we convince ourselves that one more purchase will somehow make life better. It doesn’t.
These days, I find more satisfaction in the space between things than in the things themselves. A room feels calmer. A closet feels lighter. Life feels less cluttered.
That’s not to say I’m driving a horse and buggy. Every now and then, something follows me home that probably shouldn’t. Old habits don’t disappear overnight, and Home Goods is a mile away.
What I’ve learned is that possessions don’t become valuable simply because we own them. Their value comes from being used, appreciated, and enjoyed. If they’re spending their days buried in a box in the attic, they’re not doing much for anyone.
Maybe that’s the real appeal of minimalism. It’s not about owning less for the sake of owning less. It’s about making room for what matters and letting go of what doesn’t.
When I think about the things we’ve sold or donated over the years, I like to imagine them finding their way into someone else’s home, where they’ll be used, appreciated, and given a purpose once again.
Sometimes, I dust my second-hand table, whispering, “I wish you could talk.”
After all, some stories deserve to be told.
And some things spent enough time in prison for a crime they never committed.
Share this:
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?”
Share this:
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!
Share this:
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.
Share this:
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!
Share this:
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!
Share this:
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!
Life With The Top Down 
You must be logged in to post a comment.