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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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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We’re Not Confused
I can’t be quiet anymore about the state of this country. I’ve read too many books and watched too many movies that feel less like fiction lately and more like a mirror of what’s unfolding right in front of us.
The latest attempt to make us feel like we didn’t see what we all just saw with our own eyes was the last straw for me. Maybe it’s the Philly in me, or the Aquarius, or just being a human with functioning senses, but there’s a point where you want to yell, “Don’t tell me what I saw.” This kind of gaslighting hits deeper than disagreement between political parties. This messes with trust, with shared reality, with the social glue that lets a country function at all.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want the lowest points in history to repeat themselves. I don’t want the pages of books by George Orwell and Margaret Atwood brought to life around us, and I certainly don’t want stories meant for the movie theater played in real time, but here we are.
For me, this is no longer casual frustration. It’s my moral alarm going off like there’s a five-alarm fire. My values are colliding with reality on a whole new level. This anger didn’t come out of nowhere. It came from paying attention, even when I didn’t want to.
Can I honestly say I’ve been paying attention every day? No, because I also enjoy peace and a good night’s sleep, and watching a news loop 24/7 never helped anyone, but stepping away for the sake of sanity doesn’t mean I have my head in the sand.
What is does mean is that when something rises that is so blatantly obvious and wrong, I can’t pretend it’s not happening. I can’t normalize things that are so far from normal, and I certainly can’t be comfortable in my silence; that is something I cannot live with.
I don’t claim to have all the answers, and to be honest, I wish I did, along with a whole bunch of other folks. I’m not interested in shouting matches or partisan loyalty. What I am interested in is truth, accountability, and protecting the very fragile idea that shared reality still matters. Because once that is gone, everything else becomes negotiable, and history has shown us exactly how it ends, and it’s not happy.
So here I am, saying something. Not like a hero. Not from a rooftop. Just honestly. Because staying quiet seemed like a lie. Peace, naps, and minding my business are great, but there’s a point where “staying out of it” looks a lot like pretending.
I don’t have the answers, and I’m certainly not auditioning to be anyone’s moral compass. I just think reality shouldn’t be flexible, truth shouldn’t require a subscription plan, and speaking up shouldn’t be defined as “wrong” or “too much.”
If you’re looking for ways to make a difference, you can, and it’s not as complicated as you think. Make a donation. Volunteer. Do something kind for someone. Make a meal for a neighbor or a sick friend. Plant a tree. Shovel a sidewalk. Smile at a stranger. These simple acts build trust, anchor communities, and remind us that shared reality is still worth protecting.
At this point, I’d rather be inconvenient than comfortably numb.
Enjoy the Ride!
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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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A Village. A Volvo, and One Unapologetic Terrier
Today I had the pleasure of reading an essay titled “It Takes A Village” at https://athingirl.com/2025/12/11/it-takes-a-village/. Please stop by for a touch of Christmas Spirit.
That being said, I had my own village experience today, and I’m still thawing out from it since this afternoon.
On my way home from work, my neighbor texted me a photo from his Ring camera. A dog had shown up, and he was wondering if I knew who it was. Thankfully, I did. It was Scout, the rambunctious terrier mix, who had a hard time adjusting to life in an adoptive home. Little by little, she’s been getting better… just not today.
I pulled into my driveway and, lo and behold, there she was, right on my lawn. That lasted about two seconds. I called her name. She stopped. I walked toward her. She ran.
My phone dinged again. Another neighbor had been alerted and was heading out to drive around looking for Scout. Great! Meanwhile, I was now playing chase with Scout, who had managed to make it two blocks away in the freezing cold.
I knocked on the owner’s door. She was delighted to see me until she realized Scout was roaming the neighborhood solo. Mind you, it’s freezing, I’m 61, and I’ve been playing tag with a four-legged escape artist for a solid 20 minutes. So when she asked, “How did she get out of the yard?” I honestly don’t know what my face said, but my mouth stayed shut.
Just then, my knight in shining armor arrived, or rather, a white Volvo with every amenity known to man, including heated seats. Bless him. I climbed in, and we resumed the hunt in the lap of luxury.
The owner jumped in her own car, and off we all went. On our third lap around the neighborhood, we spotted Scout. I leapt out of my chariot for yes, another thrilling round of tag.
After “running” through yard after yard, Scout finally headed straight to her front door. I tiptoed, praying not to spook her, opened the door, and let her in. Mission accomplished… mostly.
Now it was time to call the owner, who is elderly and driving. After what felt like a million redials, she finally answered. I told her Scout was safely inside the house, warm and unapologetic.
I waited on the porch like a giant popsicle while my other neighbor, and those glorious heated seats, drove off to run errands. As I walked home, one thought crossed my mind:
“What if someone captured this insanity on their camera?” OH MY GOD!
By the time I finally made it home, frozen, windblown, and rethinking my entire personality, I decided two things. First, Scout is extremely lucky that she’s adorable. Second, if your Ring camera captured a woman running through your yard, yelling “SCOUT” with increasing desperation, that footage is fake news.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Double Digits
Good ole Merriam-Webster defines a mentor as “an experienced and trusted advisor.” That seems like a big shoe to fill, but nonetheless, these size 11s mentor two children at one of the local elementary schools.
This is my second school year participating in the program, and it is truly a learning experience for all of us. It is no accident that these two kids came into my life. Kids are wonderful teachers.
The boy I see, and I have something very odd in common. There is a significant age gap between our parents; his father had him at 57, just like me. Neither one of us could believe it!
Growing up, having an old dad wasn’t always easy for me; he experienced those challenges, too. While his friends have young, athletic dads right at home, he has an older dad who loves art and music, isn’t into sports, and doesn’t live with him. Being a bit different can be tricky, but it’s part of what makes our stories unique.
In January, my little guy turned 10—yes, double digits. He was excited about his birthday, mainly because he was going to his dad’s house to ride his mini bike. The following week, I was eager to hear about the festivities. We sat down together, and I said, “Okay, I want to hear all about turning 10!” In a whisper, he replied, “My dad passed away two days before my birthday.” Time literally stopped.
This was a moment that really changed everything for me. I was stunned and wrapped my arms around him in a tight hug. He must have noticed how shaken I was because he gently said, “It’s okay; he’s in a better place.” As we talked more, I found out there hadn’t been a service, he wasn’t sick, and his mom and sister were “okay, I guess,” and I was the only one he felt comfortable sharing this with. My head was spinning, but I felt grateful for his trust.
His dad recently taught him how to play a card game and shuffle the deck, so we played cards in his honor. He likes to talk while playing games and beats me every time. He loves to win.
After our session, I contacted the woman in charge of the mentoring program to inquire if the school was notified. His mother never contacted the school, and his teachers had no clue. He never missed a day. Are you kidding me?!
This little angel had been sitting alone for over a week with all kinds of emotions until he told me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m over the moon that we have this bond and that he felt comfortable sharing, but my heart was in a million pieces.
Needless to say, the woman in charge informed his teachers. Apparently, they noticed something was off but didn’t inquire. The other thing I learned was that there are all sorts of services available for him to process this grief professionally at this school, but, of course, he can’t receive them unless his mother calls to make that request. That’s not happening.
I’ve been shaken ever since. I’m navigating my schedule to see him more often, but there will be no contact once summer comes. So many barriers prevent this child from getting help while common sense and humanity sit on the sidelines, shaking their heads. It’s so frustrating!
Sometimes, rules just need to be broken for the greater good.
Enjoy the Ride, potholes and all!
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Your Regula!
Have you ever read a blog, especially one about a particular place, and felt like you were right there? Well, I have been following https://athingirl.com/ for at least a decade, not only because she’s hilarious but also because she lives in and writes about one of my favorite cities, NY. If you know, you know.
Whether she’s walking through the park, on the train, or in a landmark; you feel you’re along for the ride. At least I do.
Last year I had to go to NYC, Brooklyn, to be exact, to care for my sister after a surgery. She rented a gorgeous Airbnb for her recovery. It was a whole thing. The surgery was in Long Island, the recovery was in Brooklyn, and the Post-op appointment was on the Upper East Side. It was an experience.
Navigating the different sections of the city was when I first felt like I was the star of one of Susannah’s essays. Why? Because, I don’t care if you’re Dr. Seuss, you couldn’t make up the interactions in NYC. I could write a whole chapter just on Uber drivers.
One week after the surgery, we traveled to Manhattan, the Upper East Side, to be specific, for a post-op visit. Susannah has written about this area enough for me to recognize many of the landmarks from the backseat of our Uber. It was comforting and exciting.
Let me preface this next part of my story. Buckle up if you ever have to care for a family member after surgery, and they are a Scorpio. Scorpios love to give things their all, which is terrific outside the need to rest. I looked like the patient walking into that office!
This office was in an old building with beautiful architecture. I sat in the waiting room, admiring the charm, when the receptionist’s voice took me out of my trance. “Is that your sista?” My sista looked so good she couldn’t believe her surgery was a week ago. As I told her about my week caring for this overachiever, she quickly became my therapist.
We became fast friends discussing demanding sisters, beauty routines, and everything else. A woman interrupted our conversation, and like a switch was hit, her tone changed from friendly to annoyed as her eyes rolled back into her head as she said. “We’re tawkin.” She could have her own show!
The doctor came out to explain that I had to go to the pharmacy for my sister. He started giving “directions” as if I knew what he was saying. I recognized Duane Reed from Susannah’s essays, which provided a much-needed calm. Off I went.
I passed a Starbucks, and sure enough, a slew of high-end strollers, foreign nannies, and generational wealth babies were parked outside just as described in another essay. As I waited to cross the street, a younger man walked up next to me in a gorgeous coat, and Gucci loafers, smoking a joint. So random.
Walking along, maybe a little high now, more things became familiar: a library, the homes, and of course Lexington Ave., lovingly described as “Lex” in the many essays I’ve read. Suddenly, everything was going to be alright.
Mission accomplished! When I opened the door to the office, I heard in the best Italian Brooklyn accent, “I love your sista, she’s regula!” It was the receptionist talking to my sista. As Susannah says, “you can’t make these things up!”
I enjoyed walking across the pages of A Thin Girl, even if it was only for a brief stay.
Enjoy the Ride!
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Hold On Tight
The first Presidential debate I watched was on September 23, 1976. It was held at the Walnut Street Theatre in my hometown of Philadelphia, which made it more exciting. It was the first debate in 16 years and the first for me to witness. I sat on my living room floor in front of the family TV with a blank cassette tape, recorder, and enthusiasm. If you know, you know.
I was in seventh grade at the time and had a very liberal, out-of-the-box lay teacher at my catholic school who recognized the importance of this moment. I still wonder how she was hired.
She went by Ms., drove a yellow Porche convertible, and taught Social Studies in a way that had all of us sitting wide-eyed and interested while welcoming questions and opinions. She was literally an alien in comparison to the nuns.
Our assignment was to watch this crucial presidential debate, and we would discuss it in class. I remember this time clearly in our home. My mother was obsessed with Jimmy Carter, while my father walked around making comments like “he’ll be eaten alive.” My mother went on to attend his inauguration, and my father kept his mouth shut.
If you have a minute to watch this debate on YouTube, you’ll be surprised—not by the content but by the respect. Two grown men could once stand side by side on a stage and present the American people with clear and concise information. I swear it’s true.
Fast forward to the “debate” last night. If I had to narrow it down to one word, that word would be sad.
If nothing else, last night gave us permission to reflect on how we got where we are and whether we want to continue on that trajectory. I do not. Unless we have a 78-year-old candidate with the same vitality and zest for life as Cher or an 80-year-old candidate jumping Jack flashing all over the United States while still fathering babies like Mick Jagger, it’s a no for me. Age is not the issue; mindset is.
All the talking heads following up with their narrative this morning was equivalent to pouring a bucket of salt into an open wound. We deserve more than blah, blah, blah. He’s old. He lied. They’re old, and they lied. We can handle the truth; we really can.
At this point, I’m torn between exercising my constitutional right, fought for by the best of the best women in history, to cast a vote or following my moral compass, which is screaming otherwise. The lesser of two evils card has been played too many times.
I’m not angry by our choice of candidates; none of us can be. Why? They reflect who we’ve become as a nation. They represent our fears, anger, complacency, disconnect, and majority. They are all of us, and that, folks, is discouraging. If the US was a mirror, that stage was the reflection.
A testament to my disappointment is my inability to laugh at the influx of memes that have surfaced this morning. Trust me, I can find humor in some dark situations, but witnessing our democracy in hospice is not one of them.
I shouldn’t be in this position, nor should anyone else in the land of the free and home of the brave. We should have done better; no, we should have demanded better for future generations. But that requires doing the work; frankly, from where I stand, that ship has sailed. Our excitement has been replaced with division.
After 8 years of these two, my optimism feels like that last balloon holding on for dear life weeks after the party. I do not have another 4 years to give to either of these Gentlemen. They don’t deserve it, and they haven’t earned it.
My parents will no doubt be turning in their graves hearing me say this, but is there an alternative? When do we stop bowing down to this nonsense? The answer is now. It’s today. The day after, we witnessed two men who have divided our families, damaged our country, and embarrassed us around the globe, fumbling like fools on a world stage. I want a President who unites us using full meaningful sentences for 90 minutes.
No matter what, I am confident that whatever does happen will be for the greater good. However, it’s not going to be easy.
Buckle up, lock the doors, and hold tight; this ride might be rough, but it will be worth the effort.
Enjoy the Ride! Helmets required.
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California Dreamin
I think all vacations are memorable for one reason or another, but I recently went on a vacation that I know will stay with me forever. I was catapulted out of my comfort zone. That’s a good thing, right?
Flying is not my favorite thing to do, nor is leaving my husband and fur babies behind, BUT, when you ask your daughter what she wants for her 30th birthday, she says, “A trip with you,” there is no other choice. That’s not exactly true, but in this case, it was.
My sister is staying in California for an extended period. She gave my daughter a round-trip ticket for her birthday, so you can figure out the rest. Go big or go home.
The anxiety of this impending trip was over the top, even for me. It was planned so quickly you wouldn’t think I had much time to think, but guess what? My mind enjoys working overtime, and my excuses became as lame as “I don’t have a suitcase.” Really?
The green lights to go and enjoy myself were everywhere I turned. My co-workers gifted me a tote bag with everything you can think of to travel, down to the ziplock bags needed for liquids. My husband took the week off to be with the furbabies. My friend Susannah shared daily Instagram messages that were obviously talking directly to me, and finally, Kohl’s had a massive sale on suitcases. The universe does not play around.
When I say I had anxiety, I mean I had full-blown panic attacks that frankly had nothing to do with flying or anything else. They were my body’s response to me leaving my comfort zone. It was a rough ride, that’s for sure.
I took the necessary steps to get something to calm my nerves for the flight, and seconds before putting it in my mouth, I heard two dings on my phone. One was a text from my husband saying, “Don’t take anything before the flight.” What?! And the other was one of those daily messages that read:
You’ve lost so much of yourself
over time, but who you are in
this current phase is more than
enough. Beautifully complete
after all the internal sacrifices
you’ve made deserving of
applause for all the battles you’ve
fought in silence but still
exuding softness through it all.
A certainty embellished my body at that moment, and I felt a wave of calm I’d never felt before. I did not take the medication. I just knew I was about to embark on something extraordinary. There is no formal explanation, just a knowing.
I feel energized in new places, and California did not disappoint. We walked for miles, met people who were unique beyond measure, ate fresh fruit and vegetables daily, enjoyed perfect weather conditions, witnessed the most beautiful beaches, landscapes, and skies I’ve ever seen, and learned that having certainty in a situation big or small will provide you with an extraordinary sense of peace. This defines memorable.
Know that whatever is happening, it is happening for you, not to you, and as always, Enjoy the Ride!
Santa Cruz, Carmel, and Monterey, California.
Life With The Top Down 
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