D - Do what Dolly would do. See the good in people. Show grace to other people. Unapologetically be who you are. Do it all with kindness and love in your heart.

O - Overlook. Dolly let people criticize her, talk negatively, challenge her decisions. She did it with an uncanny ability to overlook the skepticisms and cruelties of the entertainment industry. “A lot of people have said I’d have probably done better in my career if I hadn’t looked so cheap and gaudy. But I dress to be comfortable for me, and you shouldn’t be blamed because you want to look pretty.” She stayed true to herself and positively influenced so many people because of it, using a self-deprecating tone in response to criticisms: “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap!”

L - Love your neighbors. She spoke often of loving others, regardless of their differences from her. When people speak about what they will remember of her, the universal word used is love.

L - Laugh. Those who knew Dolly describe her as hilarious. She could cut up like nobody’s business. She kept things light and playful which was a very endearing quality to her family, friends, and countless fans.

Y - Yap. Dolly could yap with the best of them. Her character in ‘Steel Magnolias,’ Truvy Jones, was a beautician with the gift of gab. Dolly played her perfectly, “delivering lines of homespun wisdom with spunk, and working practical magic in her salon scenes. Yet she was as down-to-earth as the character she brought to life.”

P - Perform. Often. Because you want to, because it gives you joy, because without the performing arts, we are left solely with sports balls. Don’t forget to add a little sparkle while performing–preferably in Dolly’s signature pink and rhinestones.

A - Abide by Dolly’s recipe for life: “Half a cup of love, a teaspoon of caring, and a dash of humility. Topped with compassion.” Do this, and you’ll have won half the battle.

R - Read. Dolly created the ‘Imagination Library’ to “inspire a love of reading by gifting books free of charge” to young children. The endeavor was “inspired by her father’s inability to read” and gifts “millions of free books to children around the world.” Keep reading. Show children a love of reading. Show the next generation the wonders contained in books.

T - Trash. As a young girl, Dolly’s exterior appearance was influenced by the “town trash.” She recalled a woman who wore high heels and tight clothes, volumized hair and enhanced makeup; Dolly believed she was beautiful. Others around her told her the woman was “trash” and Dolly decided she wanted to be trash too. Going against the social grain took bravery in the beginning but was a signature in the end.

O - Overcome. Especially if the odds are against you. Dolly showed us that someone can be born extremely poor, receive limited education, marry young, and build the life of her dreams if she sets her mind to it. Coming from a childhood home with no indoor plumbing, electricity, or running water, she later quipped that she had moved from “the Dark Ages into the light ages.”

N - Nurture. Dolly nurtured and valued her relationships. She was married to Carl Thomas Dean, whom she met at a laundromat two days after graduating high school, for 58 years before he passed away in 2025. Carl avoided the public eye and gave Dolly the freedom she needed in her superstardom. The two had a mutual trust and understanding that lasted decades. Dolly’s life-long bestie, Judy Ogle, remained in Dolly’s life for more than 60 years–from third grade, through Dolly’s rise to fame, and into the public spotlight. The two shared an unshakable bond; a real sisterhood. Ogle traveled with Dolly on tour and remained close to her throughout her life. We should all be so lucky to have these kinds of relationships, and when we get them, we must nurture them to keep them long-lasting. As for Dolly’s career nurturing, she “piled up accolades as high as the Smoky Mountains themselves. But her greatest feat may have been her devotion to other people, most of them complete strangers. ‘I just love people,’ she said. ‘When I look at that audience I see my family. I see the God light, the goodness, in everybody, even if they can’t see it.’”

Reads Worth the Effort

• (Substack) Want more of Dolly? This Steel Magnolias rewatch summary by is full of delightful gems and observations.

• (Book) Not exactly the lightest read, but smooth enough to finish over a long weekend

• (Book) For you soccer parents stuck at a tournament against your will

• NYT Magazine shows us that AI continues its quest to make us dumber

Time for Labor Day Weekend and College Football

• The bbq always needs themed paper plates

• The OG tailgating grill we used in our FSU days still slaps

• For the Floridian grill master

• Don’t forget to rest your meat

• For the one who skips football and bbqs in favor of PJs and weekend scaries

• A proper Labor Day T-shirt for your favorite nurse

• The kids will show in style to the neighborhood pool party

**Our posts may contain affiliate links, meaning we get a small percentage of the amount purchased through a link at no additional cost to you.**

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The First Wives Club was released in 1996. The gleaming cast included Dianne Keaton (Annie), Goldie Hawn (Elise), and Bette Midler (Brenda). The film followed three women of a certain age as they navigated the abandonment of their marriages by three loathsome husband characters: Aaron, Bill and Morty. The trio of male cheaters entered their middle-age crisis era, trading in their old battle axe / doormat wives for younger variations of the female sex. This left the characters of Annie, Elise, and Brenda to pick up the pieces of their lives.

The viewer is led through a hilarity of scenes that include surprise confiscation of Bill and Elise’s joint marital assets from his office (including the desk he was sitting at), an emboldened Annie striking her therapist repeatedly in the face with a foam baseball bat, and perhaps my favorite to date:

Shelly Stewart (played by SJP), Morty’s paramour, undergoes a bamboozlement of epic proportions while attending an art auction alongside the “famous” and “highly coveted” interior designer: Duarto Feliz.

“Now he is a genius. A GEM. Of course, he’s almost impossible to get, he works all the time.” stated Gunilla Garson Goldberg, Shelly’s new socialite best friend, at their introduction luncheon.

The dimwit that Shelly was, she bought the ruse immediately and set upon confirming Duarto as her personal interior decorator for the brand new penthouse just purchased by Morty. Brilliantly, Shelly finds herself sandwiched between Gunilla and Duarto at Christie’s fine art and luxury item auction that is overwhelmingly composed of items confiscated from Bill’s (Elise’s ex) film production office. The peer pressure to purchase as many items as possible mounts as she first remarks on the auctioning of a painting of an aerosol spray can for $380,000.

Shelly enters the bidding game after she spots Elise Elliott bidding on a “fabulous shade” of a miniature vintage sofa. Shelly wins the piece at $60,000 and adorns a large grin at the purchase. The next item is a Japanese ceramic plate with a starting bid of $90,000. Shelly is quick to flash her paddle when Guinilla yelps “Oxygen!” The auction is amplified with a $135,000 bid by Bette Midler’s character disguised as “Euro-trash.”

The pressure mounts as Shelly debates an advanced bid, nervously shifting in her seat until Guinilla Garson Goldberg hits her with:

“Jackie O had one just like it!”

Up went Shelly’s paddle and she won the plate for $140,000 which was met by surrounding polite applause. She jumped out of her chair, dressed in a fur coat, and waved to the crowd adoringly.

(Later, she purchases Morty a Lamborghini for $300,000 as a “gift” for him, a decision that did not make the scene cut but we learn of it during her and Morty’s heated review of her art auction charges.)

Thirty years later, in a completely unrelated event (or, so it seemed), I joined my extended family on a cruise of epic proportions. I feel it necessary to mention to the reader for transparency purposes that neither myself, nor my husband, are “cruise people.” We don’t have a rewards account with Carnival, we don’t own lanyards, and the last cruise we took together was in graduate school in 2011 simply because it was a cheap way to go to the Bahamas during summer break, we were broke, and we desperately needed to get away.

However, my parents do enjoy a yearly cruise and last year, they boarded the wondrous ship Utopia of the Seas. They came back enraptured. Dad sat with my older sister and me at the local fish camp over a brewskie and regaled us with the intense luxury that is the modern day massive cruise ship.

“This watercraft has everything you can imagine. You want a rock climbing wall? You got it. A slide from the top deck that spits you out on the main promenade? Done. We HAVE to get the grandkids on this thing. There’s a place called ‘Sugar Beach’...”

The next thing we knew, we left that evening with tentative cruise dates slated. I broke a sweat over how I would pitch this development to my significant other and figured I would lead with:

A) the all you can eat welcome seafood buffet (a risk) or

B) the joy this would bring to our spawn in immeasurable quantities (a safer bet).

With him “on board,” all systems were a go. Four nights. Three full days. Two stops. One huge ship. June 2026. 16 people ranging in age from 3 to 66.

The ship was everything one can imagine and more. We don’t have the time to highlight the countless features aboard and plenty of people on the internet have already done that for us. It’s also not the point of this piece.

Once we had visited the Bahamas and Coco Cay, we rounded the corner for the final “Day at Sea” where one can lose themselves in all things Utopia. During this endeavor, my spouse and I found ourselves sitting across from Kara and her husband Tyler at the Irish pub affectionately named “Bell and Barley” on deck 5. Here, our brother-in-law settled in to tell us the infamous story of his first art auction purchase aboard an Alaskan cruise ship just one year prior.

Legend has it that after the Woods dumped their children off at the kids club, they ventured to the smaller ship’s art auction. Tyler, an enthusiast of the arts, set his mind that he wouldn’t leave the event without a purchase. Kara agreed to go for the free champagne. Tyler wound up bidding on a lovely painting of the skyline of New York City and won! Thrilled as he was, he soon learned the weight of his decision. They did not offer shipping, the piece came framed, and it did not fit in his luggage. This resulted in Tyler visiting the shipping store and spending four times as much money as he did on the actual art piece to ship it home.

We doubled over in laughter as we listened, delightedly, to this story. It had all the elements of a fantastic tale. Motivation. Plot crescendo. Humor. Irony. Surprise. We finished our cocktails and sauntered over to our own first art auction experience aboard a cruise ship, slated to begin at 2 pm. This experience was almost soured by the fact that the kids club turned us away (something about staff ensuring parents actually fed their children?) but Grandma saved the day, jumping at the chance to take the underagers to a movie instead of being forced to attend the art auction.

Upon entrance, my husband Adam immediately made friends with the first salesmen we encountered over their shared love of professional football (soccer, for stubborn Americans). I thought to myself, “He’s done for,” as the man named Alex cast a Serbian accent spell over my husband. Glancing to my left, I noticed our brother-in-law had casually strolled over to the auction manager. He appeared to be engaged in a meaningful conversation with her, one I couldn’t possibly imagine the dialogue to.

We perused the pieces. I remarked to our entourage that a particular style had caught my eye, pieces crafted by the artist Kevin Vigil, or “Kre8.” His black and white paintings contrasting beautifully with bold color splashes mixed gently with a sociological tone had me intrigued.

The Serbian appeared at my side and engaged me in conversation about Kre8. I politely listened and awaited an appropriate exit. No way was this guy selling me on an art piece when I was simply here for the free entertainment while being held hostage at “day at sea.” Alex pointed out that Kre8 omitted drawing any faces on his artwork. “Why?” I asked, adding layers to the conversation. He told me this was done to reject social vanity and judgment, allowing the viewer to connect with the piece individually. “Intriguing,” I thought to myself, “What depth.”

We were then asked to settle into our seats for the main event. Adam and I sat directly in front of Kara and her husband Tyler. I stole a glance backwards at her after scanning the environment for the promised beverage: champagne. None. She shrugged at me, stating it has always made an appearance in the past (her experience being limited to last year only). Eventually, the libations appeared once the art auction staff figuratively locked the doors to the outside world. Ah, we thought, they needed commitment.

The auctioneer took his place center stage. He was enthusiastic, fast paced and a smooth talker. Everything a novice auction-goer would want from the role. He was even able to elicit applause for each piece that failed to be sold off. A real feat. When someone did successfully bid on a piece, he offered a chippy “YIP!” when their paddle (aka a disappointing laminated sheet of paper) went up.

Eventually, a collection of artwork by Kre8 appeared. “I want that” I whispered conspiratorially to my husband, our way of communicating to one another the frivolous nature of human beings every time they spot a new “doodad” or toy they simply have to have.

Alex with the Serbian accent appeared to my left. He crouched down. He was wearing a suit.

“You like those? You should go for it!”

Initially I smiled, amused.

“I just can’t,” I said, meekly.

“Why not? It spoke to you, you can do it!”

I glanced over at Adam, attempting a read. He smiled back at me, witnessing. In his lap was our laminated bidding number. I looked down at it. Back up at him.

Marital confusion ensued for what felt like four hours, but was likely about four seconds. Slowly, Adam handed our auction paddle (paper) to me.

Something overtook me. Things went dark. Suddenly, I heard it. The “YIP!” from Alex.

A rush of blood went to my head, I couldn’t see straight. Somewhere in the distance there may have been faint laughter, or shock. The trickling sound of $500 leaving our checking account. The auctioneer dropped his gavel, indicating a final bid was placed. I heard applause swirling in the air surrounding my head. I had won it.

A force engulfed me, one beyond control, and I produced a large smile as I rotationally waved to the crowd, which wasn’t exactly appropriate. An intense feeling of deja vu enveloped my brain as I realized I had just pulled off my first First Wive’s Club Stunt.

Or…had someone else? Was I bamboozled just as Shelly Stewart was in that famous scene at Christie’s? Was this my brother-in-law’s plot all along, to trap us in the same predicament he once faced? Was Alex to receive a large payout?

I’ll never know. What I do know is this: The painting adorns the exit to our home now, an image that catches the eye, reminding us all to “Chase your dreams.”

And, I’m on the hunt for the next art auction…

We’ve got back-to-school on the brain.

• In a world where the quality of retail goods is in steady decline, Kara stands by this backpack that has remained solid through generations (and it’s on sale!)

• First butter shaped squishies, now this and this and this — the tween craze must be stopped! (Riiiight after the next restock.)

• “Dear Mrs. Johnson, you’re the apple of my eye.”

• Ok, tweens, you realize these sandals are not new to your generation, right?

• A classic basic back to school need for the working mom

• These cereal dispensers are a hit with the kids. Compact enough to fit in smaller spaces, but they have room for a regular size bowl underneath for easy dispensing. Plus, no irritation for mom because no cereal bags left wide open!

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As part of the process, I broke up with my expensive hair stylist. Okay, if I’m being honest, I guess she broke up with me. Something about “moving to Georgia”—we won’t talk about the fact that a couple months later I saw her out and about in my Florida hometown.* None of this matters. I don’t need her. That salon couldn’t handle my coolness anyway!

After the break up, I finally found the courage to get out of bed (I’m obviously kidding!), but I couldn’t fathom the dating operation to find a new expensive stylist. It’s exhausting, especially for someone who is adverse to change. If you don’t like the new person’s job, you’ve engaged in two plus hours of socialization and lost $200, plus you have to initiate a mini break up and repeat this conundrum until you find the right fit. Forget it.

So, I decided to let my highlights grow out and return to au natural. Scary, I know, especially because with the 40’s come the greys. Given my spotty history with highlights, though, it’s a wonder I haven’t already done this.

A few months into the grow out, in which my quaff was starkly changing from light blonde to quite dark brown (plus some grey), things were looking bleak. That’s when I decided, against the advice of every female I know, to purchase a $6 product called Magic Root.

But here’s the kicker: I would use this product for the opposite of its intended purpose. Because I wanted my roots to remain natural, I brushed the patented formula selectively on the stark blonde parts of my hair to help them look more like my natural brown color. Brilliant. I have to say, I was quite proud of that $6 fix. It made the grow out process tolerable.

But then I needed a haircut. I know when I’m in over my head. Well, maybe not, but I knew here. Home dye blend job that any stylist would tell you is impossible: no problem. Home haircut: no way. (I probably should add this decision-making process to my list of personality contradictions.)

Since all I needed was a simple shampoo and cut, I figured an establishment like Great Clips was more than equipped to do the job. I had been there once or twice with my son after we had outgrown the “Clips and Giggles” phase. The place seemed decent enough. Also, the price was right: $32 all in. Plus tip, of course. This is 2026.

When I arrived at Great Clips just moments after their 8am open, I was frustrated to see three people already signed in ahead of me. “Online check in” appeared next to their names on the NO TOUCH screen. Dang. Rookie mistake. I can’t ever seem to make the right call when it comes to an online check in option.

After I checked in the old fashioned way, I patiently waited for my turn in the chair. Anticipation filled me as I thought about how proud my new stylist would be of my home blending work. And because Great Clips doesn’t do dye jobs, she wouldn’t even have a conflict of interest in giving me her honest assessment!

When it was my turn, the slightly disgruntled woman seemed to scoff a touch at my request for a shampoo. I guess that adds more time to the process. And time was at a premium as the number of check ins (both physical and virtual) continued to rise.

When we were done at the washing station and I sat in the chair, she took the towel off to reveal my neglected quaff. “Trying to grow it out, huh?” she uttered. Damn. I guess my blend job wasn’t as great as I thought. “Just get through this,” I told myself, with a fresh cut and new lease on life waiting for me if I could endure the next twenty minutes.

I decided I would not try to initiate small talk because that almost never goes well for me. Plus, she didn’t seem in the mood.

The silence was deafening.

But it allowed me to eavesdrop, I mean, notice something totally unexpected and delightful. A gentleman’s name was called by another stylist. Walking up rather carefully with cane in hand, he appeared to most likely be a member of the Silent Generation (born 1928–1945). He donned silver hair, and not much of it. When he approached the stylist, most likely a member of Gen Z (born 1997–2012), he lamented that he wasn’t able to figure out the online check in. Join the club, pal.

I nervously awaited the response of the Gen Z’er. And I have to say, she surprised me in every respect. Once she got him safely in the chair, she asked if he’d like to walk through the online check in process so he knows what to do for next time. He responded that he would, pulling out an iPhone. She took the time to show him exactly what to do, then asked if he’d like to do a test run to make sure it worked for him. He did so, repeating what she had taught, with a question or two along the way. When he got to the final step, she encouraged him to complete it, assuring him she’d quickly delete the duplicate check in from the Great Clips system. He obliged, and he thanked her.

But then she went even further. She explained that if he has the Great Clips app, the process will be even easier because the app will save his information. (Yes, I was taking mental notes but also wondering what kind of information Great Clips would be saving and likely selling given what Bethany’s dentist just did to her.) “Oh, no, I don’t have apps,” the man said.

I expected her to leave it at that. She didn’t. Instead, she explained that his phone could get it from the App Store, which he was quite skeptical about. “It’s free,” she told him. And before we all knew it, she was showing him how to download the app. And how to save his information.

What joy on his face. This haircut check in task had been a source of frustration, and the prolonged act of kindness by the Gen Z’er easily erased the angst and brought a smile. I have to say that his interaction between two strangers of such remarkably different eras not only overcame this elder millennial’s skepticism (for the moment at least) but also restored my faith in humanity. I was surprised at the man’s openness to learn and the Gen Z’ers eagerness to teach.

I left hopeful for the future and nostalgic for the past. And the haircut wasn’t bad either.

*Yes, I used an em dash. No, I did not write this using AI. For the record, I loved an em dash way before AI

Taste of Kara

Here’s a list of random cool finds from this week. Remember, I’m a qualified cool person.

• Pioneer Woman I am not, but these lace overlay casserole dishes slay

• Speaking of Pioneer Women, do you store your butter in the fridge like a normal person or on the counter? If the latter, this dish is for you.

• Bluetooth speaker but make it adorable or vintage.

• Imagine the possibilities that could go in these tiered bowls that could almost pass for an art installation. Maybe we are moving away from charcuterie troughs in favor of more refined snacking stations?

• “If it gets to the end and you don’t have your shoes tied, you’re grounded!” But make it aesthetic.

• Snackle boxes make road tripping with tweens quite fun. One for each. This isn’t amateur hour.

We’re on Notes!

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Re: Elder Millennial Daughter’s New Mouth Aligners

Dear Sir,

Congratulations! At the age of 40, your middle daughter has just received her first set of invisible aligners for the teeth you previously paid to straighten in the years 1997 through 1999. Said “invisaligners” will now be a large part of your daughter’s existence for approximately 2 years and will deplete about 60% of the available funds in her HSA.

We need your help with this.

Due to the extent of the invisaligner commitment, the dental office of Dr. Stuart Price kindly requests your assistance to aid in your daughter’s success.

She will be required to wear said aligners for 22 hours of each day. She is to brush her teeth every time she eats or takes a sip of anything that is not water before placing the aligners directly back in her mouth. This means, for starters, that when she retrieves your grandspawn from a hangout with grandma and grandpa, any and all snacks, candy, ice cream, soda, and libations must be securely locked away.

You will also be required to hold her accountable on a daily basis. We will install the aligner app to your trackphone and confirm your check-ins through an automated data upload system. Don’t worry, the system is secure, and we never sell your data. Should you be a boomer who refuses to download an app, fear not, we will send you a secure link to sign up for access to the portal which will accomplish the same thing. You’ll simply need a username (10 character minimum) and a password (24 characters, 3 capital letters, 4 symbols, 3 numbers).

Should your adult daughter fall behind on her progress, an alert will be sent to your phone, as well as to your home in the form of a person at your doorstep. Do not be alarmed, as this is a guardrail we have put in place so she does not fail this process a second time. If you receive an alert and/or a human messenger, you’ll need to get in your F-150 and drive down the road to her house to have a face-to-face conversation about her failings.

We will be notified if you fall short of this requirement. Dr. Stuart Price will be placing an “adapter” on your left lateral incisor tooth, as he has already done to your daughter. Although she was assured this is not a live monitoring tracking device, it actually is, and her data was sold prior to its collection and has already traveled across the pond ten times over (this is how we take every Friday off :) Please simply click the link at the bottom of this email to schedule your adapter placement via a concierge appointment.

Sir, your daughter has proven once that she did not have the sort of self motivation to hold herself accountable. We are confident that between the passage of time and your current assistance, she can finally succeed. We thank you in advance for your cooperation.

This is considered a legally binding contract that will be referenced frequently. Damages for breach will include a 40-year-old daughter who blew thousands for no reason and potential dismissal from our practice.

Please sign below to indicate your acceptance of these terms and secondary responsibility for this endeavor.

_______________________________

Aligner’s Father

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For me, sewing has been a big part of creating. When we were kids, our mother always took the time to hand make our Halloween costumes. That left an impression on me. As busy as she was with four children, working as a nurse, and a husband who often traveled or worked long hours, she made time to create for her children at least once a year.

Come September or early October, the ‘80’s sewing machine would find its way out of the closet and onto our dining room table, where it would remain until every costume was complete. We children would marvel at the opportunity to pick our yearly selections—something we always got to do. Mom taught me the basics of sewing as she fought McCalls patterns that would magically transform tulle into Aladdin poof pants and metallics into Ariel mermaid tails. We taught her more patience as she fought us through multiple try ons and faux pin stabbings.

Mom’s lessons inspired me to take a home economics class in seventh grade, where I began my sewing resumé with the ability to make boxer shorts and pillows. From there, I dabbled in quilting. I think I only finished one. As I remember, it had a blue and mauve geometric pattern and overall, a very odd long rectangular shape. My parents kindly kept it around until I was living back with them during law school. When our childhood dog Patches had to be put down, my dad wrapped him in the quilt to go to the veterinarian’s office. We left the quilt with Patches after he passed, telling ourselves it would comfort him.

Between college and law school, I never found much time to create. But in my early 20’s, I felt the urge to try once more, so I asked my mom for a cheap sewing machine for Christmas. She obliged, purchasing a basic machine on which I could dabble. I still have that same machine twenty years later.

After Tyler and I bought our first house in 2009, I got to work sewing an unreasonable number of throw pillows for our room that promptly found their way into large storage buckets and hardly ever came back out. I sewed curtains and reupholstered an ottoman. I decorated the wall behind the bed with a diamond pattern that included wallpaper and molding. I went all out. Oh, the 20’s energy and unlimited free time.

Once the new home ran out of projects, I turned back to pillows. But this time, they were shaped like animals and sold on Etsy. “Sew Pookie” was the name of the side-hustle shop run by one of my best pals and me. She ran the business; I did the sewing. Collaboration at its finest. Because I have shiny object syndrome, I was constantly pitching new ideas for products. We sold ornaments and building blocks and reusable coffee sleeves and bag scarves (really?) and more.

My friends and family also received an unreasonable amount of hand made items during this phase of my life, and for this I am truly sorry.

Then came my first baby, and with her, the end of Sew Pookie. I still sewed through pregnancy, though, this time obsessing over bloomers and embroidering her soon-to-be initials on everything imaginable. Oh, the new mother perfection vibes.

Naturally, the transition to motherhood slowed down my sewing. Probably for the best—the world really doesn’t need anymore whale shaped, personalized pillows, and when my first child learned to read, she questioned why her initials were plastered over all of her clothing.

With mom’s costumes as inspiration, though, I’ve tried hard to make my kiddos’ costumes and DIY Halloween party decorations over the years. That’s usually the extent of my sewing these days. Just like mom’s, my machine comes out of retirement once a year and takes up the end of our family room dining table until costumes are complete.

But last month, something changed. It wasn’t the same as Bethany’s visit from her former self, but I felt a creative spark that had been dim for years.

We moved into a new (old) house about two and a half years ago, and it’s been a constant barrage of home improvement projects since. Basically, we’re renovating our 1980’s house, but purposely leaving in tact the Ferris Bueller style intercom system, because duh.

Lately, I’ve been focused on completing the primary bedroom. Thinking about window treatments and fabrics and all the finishing touches, I suddenly felt the urge to sew for fun, something I haven’t done outside of Halloween in probably a decade.

So, one summer weekend with no soccer games or birthday parties on the horizon, out came my machine, and with it, new window coverings. I also made some decorative headboard pieces for above the bed. And, wouldn’t you know it? I reupholstered that same old ottoman in fresh new fabric.

There’s nothing like a little creating to bring your spark back. But don’t worry, I won’t be distributing whale pillows anytime soon.

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“If you see a woman in her 40s taking the essence of life by the horns, let her. She just spent the last 15 years keeping other people alive and she is experiencing a rebirth.”

If that didn’t speak to me.

Later that week, my husband had tackled the age-old job of cleaning out the garage. Amongst piles of used up and expired carseats, strollers, and baby carrying contraptions, he found a box of photos, notebooks, and one particularly intriguing sketch pad. He placed it on top of our kitchen table the next day while we were having breakfast with our three children.

“What’s in there?” I asked in between bites of my Kodiak protein blend pancakes.

“The boys and I found this in the garage while reorganizing. Very interesting…”

Then it hit me. I bought it, randomly, at the art store before getting married. I had decided, on one of my days off from the hospital when I used to work 12 hour nursing shifts, that I would dabble in sketching because I could. Because I had the time to dwell.

He opened it, and asked “ Did you draw this?”

It was an image of the lower half of a woman’s body, snuggling a baby. Dated 1/19/2009. I mentally ran the date – we were engaged, not yet married, and I was a good six years away from becoming a mother for the first time. I recalled it as the cover page illustration for a book I was reading at the time.

A touch embarrassed, as I felt..exposed?, I answered “I think so.” That way, if he turned the page to something egregious, I had plausible deniability.

The kids took a look and provided short comments as to the quality of the drawing. They seemed amused, impressed even. My husband Adam turned another couple of pages.

A chandelier and a lone chair on a checkered floor. I recognized the lighting fixture from the dining room in our first home. It was never utilized for proper sit down dinners. We used it to house our two dog crates for our “babies” at the time, Duke (a Weimaraner) and Meg (an American Bulldog). I assumed I sketched the chair at the coffee shop down the road. The words “the forgotten man” were etched in the top left corner and I had no recollection as to the significance of this.

“Those are actually pretty good, Mom.” said my eldest. We both only know the first thing about drawing, his background having been a couple of weeks at art camp, mine from reading Lust for Life by Irving Stone, a magnificent fictional biography of Vincent Van Gogh. The first thing to know about drawing is that when you start, you will be terrible at it. That’s all I thought about when revisiting these sketches with four of the most important people in my life around a table. I smiled at my son for the compliment but also knew the work was complete piss. Although, I was impressed at some of my shading as a beginner.

My husband remarked how interesting it all was, then flipped the page to this:

A poorly shaped version of the engagement ring he bought me, dangling from my left hand pointer finger, encircled by a silver chain. The date was July 2, 2009. I had bought the chain to wear (and gushingly show off) the ring around my neck during my shifts. The number of times we donned and removed gloves and washed and dried our hands made wearing a chunkier engagement ring on the proper finger out of the question. I worried I would tear it off alongside a glove during a hasty removal in an ICU room.

(A side note: the night we got engaged, I had unzipped my fiance’s soft jeep door window to reveal the ring to his friend and when I pushed the top plastic out, the ring went flying into the parking lot. Needless to say, I was a touch nervous to wear it from there on out until it was appropriately sized.)

I studied the picture, and observed that I must have taken the time to sketch this while actually holding the ring with my left hand. It seemed quite a bit of dedication for a random Tuesday morning but hey, this was 23-year-old Bethany visiting me today. She was not yet married, nor in graduate school. Her disposable time was quite endless. How interesting to see how she chose to spend it; how bold of her to attempt human body parts as initial sketches. Way to shoot for the stars there.

I think my husband was touched by the engagement sketch. We were so enamored with one another. He turned the page to reveal the following image. It softly reached into my memory bank and held me from the present reality for a brief lapse of time, as grief sometimes does:

It was a picture of my parents’ dog Lump, who was rescued from a tiny shelter near Moab, Utah by my dad while he was living there alone, working long hours away from family. He was one of two dogs at the shelter that begged for saving, and Dad needed him just as much. He never got Lump “fixed,” which would have cost a measly sum at the shelter, and the running joke was he owed Dad $10.

He was the best dog I ever had, and he wasn’t even mine.

He was a mix of a Bulldog, a Jack Russell and God only knows what else. He passed away not long after this was drawn (or possibly before, I could have taken it from a photo) and the entire family was devastated. This top-down picture of his adorable cranium and the angle in which he would always curl up on his dog bed is an abysmal depiction of the actual glory that was this animal but somehow the essence was captured enough to bring a small “lump” of emotion to the top of my throat.

Adam passed a picture of a profile sketch of a random person, and the backdrop of a microphone on a stand. I have no input as to what these were, likely selections from magazines or books within reach. There was a sketch of an Irish coffee from The Buena Vista in San Francisco, where we honeymooned, amateur in dimension and lacking in quality, but nostalgic, nonetheless. Then:

An image of our first dog together, Duke. He was Adam’s long before I inherited him. He found him during his college years and they were bachelors together before he moved back home with his parents, bringing his crazy dog alongside for the ride.

On our third date, we took Duke to the beach and he was certifiably insane. He chased after birds, determined as all can be, actually breaking his leash to get away. One time, while we were dating, Duke pried open the garage door to his parent’s house and ran after a jeep that was identical to Adam’s only to get hit by said vehicle. Adam called me, pleading for me to pick up the wounded dog from the humane society, as he had just begun his 9-5 and I happened to be off work that day (no doubt sketching random photos of microphones). Duke put us through unimaginable stories, so much so, that I wrote a children’s book about his adventures titled What Did Duke Do Today? No one bought it (other than a select few supportive loved ones) but it was a fun process that Kara helped me with enormously.

The remainder of the sketch book pivoted to interior design ideas (horrid, I didn’t know yet to leave this realm up to my big sister), artistic gift ideas for friends getting married, and what appeared to be an original children’s book idea sketch titled Me and my Avocado Fat.

“The very first food for me,

Was a GREEN AVOCADO

That grew from a tree.

I knew it was ripe and ready to eat,

When I could mush my finger in the middle so deep!”

The sketch book stops there. Ah, I thought. Avocado was the first food we introduced to our eldest child. Bethany was 29 at this point and turning the page to a decade of breeding and raising three living souls.

We closed the book and finished our pancakes.

“I never knew you could draw like that.” said my husband.

“I forgot I ever did...” I trailed off, lost in thought.

A few days later, I developed the urge to write something down about this experience. So one sleepy Saturday this July, when my husband was out of the house and the kids had nowhere to be because it was the slowness of summer, I opened up my computer and wrote out this story while they enjoyed lazy screen time.

I communicate best by writing. Writing is a way to process, to document, to learn and to connect with other human beings going through a similar, yet unique, experience. It’s also a way to communicate with others without being interrupted. Writing finds the people who are already brilliant active listeners.

When I was a kid, I wrote a chapter book simply for the fun of it. I kept a journal throughout my adolescence, college, and young adulthood. In college, I wrote short stories and took a creative writing class. As a young adult, I wrote on Elephant Journal and for my own blog domain and a random piece on Medium. Then, I partnered up with my sister Kara to start this project on Substack, Knock it Off, which has held me accountable to write consistently.

Writing is how I find my way back to myself, not only in the difficult and joyous seasons of life, but in everything in between. The mundane and the questionable. The boring and the scary.

It is a constant, forever there, waiting for me to share. It is quiet and open and raw. It invites and it doesn’t judge and it leaves me be when I need alone time. Writing does not ignore or deceive me, it doesn’t make me feel unworthy or insecure. It loves me without reserve and has never forsaken me. It’s sort of how I communicate with a higher power. How I pray.

I wonder, as you read these words and consider your own childhood interests, wonders and curiosities, what creative outlet reconnects you with your past self? What activity reminds you who you were when it all began and how have you found your way back to that joy? Why does that matter?

I think it’s important because you are the one person on Earth who can ensure you are creatively fulfilled. Our partners are walking alongside us. Our children are to be guided, and although pets are precious, they sort of just lay there. Our siblings share a collective history and our parents taught us the way.

Our friends root us on and our colleagues keep us on track. Our teachers open up our minds to the possibility and our mentors steer a path. But writing?* That’s the one thing that is eternally between you and God.

*fill in the blank re: your creative interest

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Thank you for agreeing to pick up my preteen from camp today! Just a couple of pointers for a smooth experience.

If you show right at 4:30, be prepared to wait in a line that does not move until the large yellow bus leaves. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, park to the left when you’re in this line. It is very important that you park all the way to the right, or you will face a very mad bus driver who cannot make her way through the narrow road that must be shared between the massive car line and the bus. This bus must vacate before any other children are released. The driver knows this. If anything gets in her way, there will be honking. I witnessed a parent have to move her vehicle a foot to the right the other day. It was agony. Inching forward, backward, forward, backward, between two other vehicles, in a parallel parking nightmare. All the while, the bus was inching toward her vehicle, as if to remind her of the urgency of the situation. Do not let this be you.

If you choose to show after the bus vacates (approximately 4:40 on a good day), be prepared to wait in a very long line because you did not show in time to get in the shorter line that does not move until the bus leaves. Under no circumstances should you show after 4:45, or you’ll risk my having to pay for extended day. This is, indeed, a risk and not a reality, because chances are, you’ll be in the pick up line long after 4:45. But mom, I’ve already paid $500 for a week of this camp. Do me a solid here.

No matter when you show, follow the signs for car line B. You may think car line B will never come, but rest assured, after you have driven the entirety of the camp property, it will appear. Once it does, congratulations, you are about to retrieve the preteen.

When the preteen steps inside the vehicle, do not look her straight in the eye. Do not breathe wrong. Do not ask too many questions. Just listen. If she’s silent, let it be. Trust me. PLEASE, for your own good, do NOT ask if she’s tired, even as she yawns 74 times during the 10-minute ride home.

Acceptable topics of conversation (pick two maximum):

Did you stay on the tube today?

Are you and A still getting along?

What’d you have for lunch?

What’d you make in cooking class?

Unacceptable topics:

Are you tired?

What’d you buy in the lagoon lounge?

Any boys you know at camp?

When you return home, the preteen will sprawl out on the couch with bathing suit still on. This is where you’ll reach a crossroads. You may choose to make her change, which will almost assuredly cause a massive come apart, or let it be, which carries the risk of ruining your couch (and potential infection to her but that’s a later me problem). I’ll let you be the judge.

Under no circumstances is she to receive a Dr. Pepper, as she has likely indulged in at least two immediately preceding your pick up. You may feel bad depriving her, but if you do not, you may witness an insulin dump right before your eyes. Bethany witnessed a preteen one just a few months ago during a field trip. This is not a drill.

The preteen will demand snacks and claim to be starving but rest assured, she has had plenty to eat. You may allow a snack but any more than one will ruin dinner and then we will have a huge blow up on our hands before the expected explosion over washing her hair.

Here’s hoping the preteen remembers her camp experience with more fondness than me. Thanks mom!

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1. Julianne Potter from “My Best Friend’s Wedding”

“Jules” as she’s known to her adoring best friend Michael in the movie, is a powerful food critic. In an early scene, waiters and chefs alike are tripping over themselves in an attempt to ensure an immaculate experience for the most discerning of tastes. The head chef tells a sous chef in the bustling kitchen: “I will kill your whole family if you don’t get this right. I need this perfect.” After indulging in a bite of the delicacy on her plate, Jules tells the waiter, “I’m writing it up as…inventive and confident.” This causes him to nod in the direction of the kitchen where its inhabitants are looking on, all to great relief of everyone involved.

Jules is already an established writer. She has a taste for the finer things. She’s witty and gorgeous and gets herself entangled in a love triangle that causes her to be a “dangerous, criminal person” who does “bad things to honest people.” She could hack an email account before that was a thing, allowing her to ghost write a desperate CEO “help me” plea that should have never been sent but worked like a charm when it was. We’d love to read her innermost thoughts. We just hope she will venture beyond food!

2. Jeanie Bueller from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”*

Jeanie Bueller (Ferris’s hateful sister) is a vibe in herself. She perfected the attitude, landed a young Charlie Sheen, and even came through for her brother in the end. Her fashion sense was incredible. She openly defied authority and had opinions about everything. Her resentment with the bullsh*t of life was palpable and relatable.

Jeanie would crush the informal and brutally direct writing angle. We imagine reading about her current passions, love life, career trajectory, and whether she’s ended up in the slammer again. Her take on modern cultural trends would be a hilarity we would gladly kick our feet up to with an offensively large bucket of popcorn. “Nothin’ but honesty” on this woman’s Substack page.

3. Nina Banks from “The Father of the Bride”

Nina Banks is the most level-headed, lovely, down to-earth woman you’ll never meet. Her home was perfection. (Hello: actual Nancy Meyers aesthetic.) She was an entrepreneur before that was cool, owning a quaint cooking shop in San Marino, California called Nina’s Cook Nook. She’s married to a guy who requires an occasional bail out due to hotdog-to-bun ratios being wrong. She found herself becoming a grandmother and a new mother on the same day. She worked closely with Franck Eggelhoffer on all things coordination.

We’d like to see a lifestyle Substack with decor, cooking, and thoughts on motherhood with kids of all ages. We simply need to know how to achieve the quintessential Nancy Meyers aesthetic without breaking the bank. The New York Times in 1995 said it couldn’t be done, and that was 30 years ago. Nina did it with a cheapo for a spouse and an apparently modest income. Tell us how!

4. Rose Lindsey from “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead”

Rose is the epitome of a beloved work mother. Not only did she select “Sue Ellen Crandell” (Swell) as her next executive assistant, but she took her under her wing from day one and she did it with style. Forever charismatic and flattering, she helped Swell navigate the complexities of the corporate bowels of the fashion industry. She told her sketchball boyfriend Gus to get lost when Swell revealed he was making passes at her.

We imagine her Substack as a sort of daily guide to becoming a successful boss lady that everyone adores. She will provide us with witty anecdotes from her in-office romances and remind the feminine reader to max out their company’s 401K match. Not only will she enhance our travel knowledge, but she’ll be sure to curate the perfect outfit to accompany us on the trip. She will show us how to climb the corporate ladder in the latest Manilo Blahnik heels. The obvious name for her Substack: “I’m right on top of that, Rose!”

5. Cassandra Wong from “Wayne’s World”

Besides being Wayne’s girlfriend, Cassandra is the lead singer and bassist for the band Crucial Taunt. She lands a record deal that catapults her musical career into another stratosphere. Her ability to truly appreciate Wayne’s sense of humor coupled with her genuinely likeable demeanor leaves us wanting more. Not only that, but she ditched the set of her first music video when the large python crawling all over her just didn’t feel right, deciding for herself the next best move was to play for “Waynestock.”

Her Substack would be a delectable foray into the private world of touring with the band while maintaining a TV show host boyfriend. She would call it “Camera 1, Camera 2”. We would bear witness to the drama of the road: the bass player’s come apart over her requesting Chinese takeout again and Wayne’s insecurities when he learns of the bus sleeping arrangements (her on a top bunk above Anthony, her drummer).

Those are our top 5, who would you add to this list? You know the drill: let us know in the caaaawments!

*Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is technically from the 80’s but we couldn’t leave out Jeanie.

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Caely was named by our middle child, believed to be after a kindhearted friend who also happened to be a veterinarian. She also never denies a child an extra scoop of ice cream, if desired.

Caely spent the first few months of her life on our enclosed porch, which was somewhat climate-controlled. There, she hung out with her five new sisters under a heat lamp. She was fluffy and sweet, always with a gentle temperament when a child scooped her into their arms and (sometimes) squeezed a little too tightly.

She welcomed many’a visitors. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends from the neighborhood all flocked (see what I did there?) to meet the new crew. They held the tiny chicks, washed their hands with soap and water, and held them again. Repeat. The kids adored the chickens, it is unclear as to if the sentiment was reciprocated, but I like to think so.

The chicks received short periods of outside time in their run. The family would fluidly take turns watching them, ensuring they were okay, and not escaping.

When it became clear the flock was ready for a real life coop, we moved them to their new home outside. There, they grew additional feathers and weight as we awaited their very first lay.

When the time came, it was with great fanfare. Caely’s sister Chile laid the honors and the children squealed with delight. My husband exclaimed, “This is a $900 egg!”

Soon thereafter, the remainder of the chickens followed suit. We began an “Eggonomics” project, keeping a lay table and a running “Price per egg” on the kitchen fridge. Caely was the third chicken to begin contributing to it.

Caely seemed to enjoy her life outdoors. She slept nestled up with her sisters in the roosting pen at night, then scurried to the door to be let out to their run in the AM. At times, she feasted on fruit and greens as well as dried worms (her favorite). She laid beautiful, light brown eggs, almost on the daily. She ran around, circling our fallen tree log, pecking the wild earth, hiding from a four year old little girl who was constantly trying to round her up.

She succumbed on a terribly scorched day in late June. The temperature, including the effects of humidity, reached over 100 degrees. It was her first full summer in the swampland of Florida heat.

It’s peculiar, observing the family member’s response to loss. Our eldest child immediately began searching the best ways to keep chickens cool in dire climates. He ran and grabbed water bottles, drank a tiny bit of of each, and froze the rest in preparation to drop them in the remaining chicken water buckets for the following days. He grabbed a tin foil pain, filled it with ice water and a brick, and placed it in their coop. He turned on the hose, waited until the water was cold, and gently saturated their soil to help them cool through their claws.

Caely was our middle son’s chicken. He named her, and she was his. After all was said and done, I told him, “I’m sorry about Caely, buddy.” He quietly said “It’s okay.”

Our youngest, a girl, watched her dad carry Caely away to be buried near our old dog Meg. As he left, she proclaimed, “I wish it was Chickenhead and not Caely, because I like girls more!” I explained that all six of our chickens were, in fact, girls—to which she said “Oh my gosh, I’m freaking out.”

My husband bore the brunt of the experience. He was the one that found her and told the rest of the family. He carried her out of the coop and buried her in the yard next to our family dog. When he returned, drenched in sweat from the heat of the day, he said, “That’s not fun. Brings back bad memories.” A reminder that men indeed have soft edges that have been burned from time to time and require tending to.

Rest in peace, dear Caely. You were a good chicken and despite what our child recommended, we will not be eating you. There is a fine line between the farming mentality and pet loss and we are walking it.

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If you want to have great wealth and prosperity, get yourself a money tree.

This is not a joke! It’s real. And it most definitely is not the “latte factor”—we’ve established that does not work.

Let me explain. You see, on Mother’s Day in May, my sweet mother-in-law gifted me a money tree. Being the proud owner of one, she proclaimed that as soon as she purchased hers, money started appearing. Not literally from the tree (c’mon! I told you this was real!), but in a source of income she did not expect. It just sort of fell out of the sky. She’s a firm believer that her money tree is responsible.

A money tree originates from Central and South America and is technically termed a Pachira aquatica. Of the tropical variety, it has glossy, vibrant green leaves and sometimes has a braided trunk. It is largely believed to bring its owners luck, prosperity, and great wealth. The money tree is particularly popular among Feng Shui enthusiasts, the belief being that its five-lobed leaves represent the perfect harmony of the five Feng Shui elements: wood, water, earth, fire, and metal. Legend has it that the braided trunk variety (my gifted type) comes with additional positive vibes. The tree is also pet-friendly, gets rid of toxins in the air, and reduces stress. What’s not to like?!

Back to Mother’s Day. Intrigued by the gift, I immediately had questions.

First, does my mother-in-law realize I struggle to keep indoor plants alive? Even though I am now a plant lady, I am very firmly an outdoor plant lady because of my trusty, pre-programmed irrigation system. Indoor plants are too dependent for my taste. Unfortunately, it’s an “in sight, out of mind” situation. I’ve been known to kill multitudes of indoor plants over the years, including—sadly—a previous one gifted to me by my mother-in-law. She really is an optimist.

Second, and this is the most important question, what happens when I inevitably kill this money tree? Will I have bad luck, lack of prosperity, and be destitute for eternity? I am not the most superstitious person you’ll meet, but I also have my quirks. I refuse to stop running or get out of bed if the number ’13’ appears anywhere on the clock. If I have a particularly scary thought creep up, I believe I must say it out loud so it does not come true. If a black cat crosses my path or if I can’t see a clear view of the downtown buildings on the way to work, I know the day is ruined (thanks Dad). The point of all this being—I can believe in the money tree, but I also have to be realistic about this. If it will bring great wealth and prosperity while alive, won’t the opposite be true upon its demise? Some may call me a pessimist. I prefer the term “realist.”

My mother-in-law assured me that this tree is very easy to take care of, and a quick google search confirmed that minimal watering and indirect sunlight should do the trick. She also told me that I’d need to repot the tree relatively quickly to avoid it outgrowing its environment. Normally, this is the sort of advice I’d fully intend to follow and then unintentionally blow off due to being a working mother with two active children and 2,234 things to remember each day. But, owing to my fear of killing the tree and the corresponding fate that could bring, I immediately went to Walmart and grabbed a larger pot. (Side note: Walmart has really upped its home decor game.)

I then repotted the money tree and placed it immediately next to the kitchen sink, which felt like a baller move. This location would ensure perfect indirect light and remind me every time I’m doing dishes to check the soil for a possible watering job: a forced “in sight, in mind” situation. Feng Shui enthusiasts would tell me this is not ideal placement, but when we have the competing goal of keeping the tree alive, the latter wins out.

A few weeks into my money tree journey, I noticed some serious new leaf sprouting. Feeling quite accomplished, I mentioned it to my husband in front of the kids. “Yeah, I’ve been watering it.” “Me, too.” “Me, too.” We all giggled nervously and wide eyed. As it turns out, all of us were watering the money tree—unbeknownst to one another—for fear of the effects of its demise. Luckily, the overwatering job did not do it in, but we decided more openness with the water communication would be a must from here on out.

And now for the answer to the real question.

I played the lottery using a scratch off machine at Walmart when I bought the pot . . .

. . . and . . .

promptly lost all 20 of my dollars. So, I don’t yet have great financial wealth from this tree.

But, guess what?

KNOCK IT OFF has seen solid and unprecedented growth of (free) subscribers in this short period of time! Bethany (my sister and co-writer for all you new KNOCKERS) and I have been writing on Substack for three years now. We genuinely love this community and the creative outlet it provides. But, sometimes the algorithm can be discouraging. Seeing a lot of stagnancy over the last six months or so, we had been discouraged and our work had fallen off some. (By the way, thank you to the hard KNOCKERS who would check in on us from time to time when we missed a week of posting.) Remarkably, the money tree—combined with a mini-viral note Bethany wrote—has brought us many new readers and renewed inspiration! That is the sort of prosperity that feeds our souls and makes it all seem worth the effort.

So, what are you waiting for? Get yourself a money tree and watch the wealth pour in.

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“MOM, CAN WE GO TO HALLMARK? THEY HAVE NEEDOHS IN STOCK.”

You have no idea what this means. “Neat-toe?” Your child looks at you as if you have sprouted three heads.

“No, Mom, NEEDOHs! AND THEY HAVE THEM! WE HAVE TO GO.”

NEEDOHs, allegedly, are the latest and greatest craze in the world of sensory squishy toys for elementary, eh, all-aged children. You learn it is basically a squishy colored cube. A four pack will run you $50. Your blood pressure rises when you consider the production of more plastic that will surely make its way into your homemade baby food. You groan, big time, because you just mucked out these kids’ rooms that were full of the old, boring squishies that they had to have three months ago. You suddenly feel doomed as a parent. You must be doing something wrong. And now the NEEDOHs are hunting you. You begin cursing the name of the class trend-leader, and then their mother’s name for anxiety-shopping instead of engaging in the appropriate after 40 activity (gardening).

You imagine the horror that is to come, and your overthinking brain decides to analyze it into a listicle approach of the top five nightmares you see enmeshed in the NEEDOH gang of insanity.

Number One

You find yourself in Hallmark—a store that used to be synonymous with gifts, holidays, and milestones—with 20 plus children running around with possessed eyes, hoping to land the last NEEDOH. You observe a small baseball team be followed around by the coach with an iPhone on a selfie stick for the whole experience. You subsequently witness the coach film the “reveal” for social media in which the team gathers all children in the store to watch them unwrap their chosen squishies. You feel lucky that you are in Hallmark and not the sketchy store in the mall that—rumor has it—is selling Dr. Pepper NEEDOHs for twice the retail price.

Number Two

You are asked to touch the squishy. You are a highly sensitive individual and are officially in your 40’s. Touching a squishy for “fun” is not on your bingo card. You have a particular aversion to the sticky ones that collect dust pieces and crumbs. Why, just why, would anyone want to touch that?

Number Three

You receive an email from school that your child, and the entirety of the fifth grade, is now banned from bringing squishies to school. “We’ve had three explosions in music class alone, and two of them were your child’s!” You had zero clue they had stuffed their “Nice ICE Baby” NEEDOH into their camouflage backpack while you were yelling at their little sister to put on her shoes. Now you’re exposed as thee priority problem of the local public school’s administration. Crap. You grab a NEEDOH and squeeze, only for stress relief. Oh, that feels nice.

Number Four

Your children’s grandmother approaches you, requesting a discussion. Terrified, you wonder if your kids lost Grandpa’s dog, or took his boat out for a joyride, as Grandma never rats them out, ever. Shaking, she explains that although she loves to spend time with her grandchildren, she needs to take a break from them, effective immediately. Perplexed, you inquire why. Grandma has never fired the children from her home. “They’ve asked me excessively to go to Hallmark in the last two hours they have been at my house. I already caved and took them once. My nervous system can’t do it anymore, and I don’t know how to say no. So, they have to go.” You then have to face your work-from-home spouse to inform them your tweens are now his daytime problem. This causes your spouse to grab an extra large NEEDOH and squeeze so hard, it bursts. The child owner cries uncontrollably.

Number Five

You finally reach the pinnacle of squishy collecting. Your spawn have meticulously organized each NEEDOH according to their own wishes. You settle into the couch to enjoy the next episode of “Margot’s Got Money Troubles” when you hear the beginnings of a come apart in your children’s shared room. The previously partitioned NEEDOHS are now in spicy contention. Squishies are being hurled across the room, the screaming intensifies, and the children have lost their minds to NEEDOH insanity. Just then, you receive a call from your sister inquiring as to whether one of your own spawn could have lifted a NEEDOH from her house, as one has mysteriously gone missing after your family was visiting. It’s over. The children have turned on one another and the squishes have eternally won.

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Through the daze of the blades of the grass in summer

Parachutes for the free fall of being younger

Recall the moment of the last bell ringing, when you hoisted your loaded-down book bag over one shoulder, smiled toothlessly at your teacher, and leaped out of the classroom door. The hot air was dripping with excitement of what could be. You ran through the dirt of the playground, towards the unknown, searching for the freedom of unbound youth.

I memorized the sound of your bare footsteps running wild

It’s been a long time

Life has ways of leaving those days behind

But seeing you tonight

Remember the neighborhood friend who was a fixture in your home, taking turns with you sharing theirs. No schedule was communicated, other than the shout over your shoulder reminding them to come back over after breakfast tomorrow. You cared not about logistics, your rhythms were synchronous in timing your next adventures. You can picture the friend, flying through your screen door, waiting for the day to begin.

I remembered I loved you

Came back when it mattered

I saw you, standing there in the light of the window

Wearing that same smile

Man, it’s been a while

But I knew it, I knew you

I knew it, I knew you

That was the summer you understood what it means to fall in love with someone new. It wasn’t a romantic sort of feeling, it was genuine and pure friendship formation. The “Did I just find my best friend” epitome. You learned you could trust them with your deepest secrets and you knew they would argue with their parents through the window so you could stay for dinner. You learned them, you knew them by the end of summer. And they knew you.

I knew you, all your blues like a mood ring changing colors

You did too, there were times we could fight like brothers

You had countless physical altercations together, mashed potato fights and hair mousse fights and the most painful of all: nail scratching fights. Wrestling matches and slapping. Laughter and tears.

I watched you drive around the bend

For what I thought would be the last time I saw my friend

But love has ways of bringing things back to life

All you said was, “Hi”

You were a headstrong child, expecting your friend to follow your lead. One time, they stood up to you and refused to pick up a cup that dropped from your hands on a walk in your neighborhood. You were mad, surprised even. You realized at that moment that they have boundaries, and you learned to respect them. You picked up the cup and your friend waited for you to come back to her. They taught you a valuable lesson and you know that it’s one of the many reasons you remain close today.

And I remembered I loved you

Came back when it mattered

I saw you, standing there in the light of the window

Wearing that same smile

Man, it’s been a while

But I knew it, I knew you

I knew it, I knew you

I knew it, I knew you

As you grew up and into adulthood, you learned how to survive without your best friend at your physical side. You moved away, and went to college, and got married and had kids. But she’s always been there, with a smile. She’s the same, kind soul that you always knew. Constant and true, honest and unflinching. Comfortable in her own skin and always willing to lend an ear.

Oh, the rivers I cried when we said goodbye

Wondering if I’d made it up in my mind

But now you look me in the eye

Your childhood goodbye was gut wrenching and raw. All of your parents cried watching you cling to one another in your friend’s front yard just before you got in your dad’s truck and drove away across the country. It wasn’t your mind to make, the events of life intervened unfairly.

And you told me I loved you

Came back when it mattered

I saw you, standing there in the light of the window

Wearing that same smile

Yeah, it’s been a while

Oh

Wearing that same smile

Man, it’s been a while

Wearing that same smile

Man, it’s been a while

But I knew it, I knew you

You visit each other often, you and this special friend. You talk over voice notes and text messages. And now you both have children. Children who have summer camps and sports and their own evolving sets of friendships built around outside popsicles and pool dives and snack bar visits. Sand volleyball games and chalking up the policeman neighbor’s driveway with G rated graffiti. You see that same smile on your children’s face, the one that creeps up when they are meeting their own, new little friend. The divination that will say “I know you.”

And just like that, your tired little soul has fallen in love with summer all over again.

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We decided to go youngest to oldest so as to keep emotions in check as best could be done in this type of situation. Bethany’s youngest son was up first. He tried with all his might and got up onto the skis for a few seconds before being so exhausted he wiped out. My daughter went next, popping out of the water with a little more ease, but only lasting less than a minute before losing her balance and taking a nose dive. Bethany’s oldest son was last. The most skilled, he looked like a natural out there, but when it came time to try to jump the wake, he was timid. He tried a few more times, and he couldn’t quite get it accomplished.

When he rejoined us in the boat, the day took an unexpected turn. My nephew, treating me as an ignoramus, began instructing me on the task at hand. I thought to myself, “Is this really happening right now? Is this kid who can barely get up on water skis trying to tell me (practically a professional) how it’s done?”

I reached into my parental playbook and initiated casual smack talk. I told him that I was the OG waterskier of this family and that I could teach him a few things. Before we knew it, we progressed to full-fledged ribbing—me telling him I could easily jump that wake and him whipping back that I wouldn’t even emerge from the water. The adults, amused, were egging us on. I secretly bent over and whispered to my sister Bethany:

“IF I get out of the water, I will not get over that wake. No chance.”

Challenged by my nephew, it became time to put my money where my mouth was. My confidence level going into this thing was approximately 4 out of 10. I felt like I could possibly get it done under the right circumstances, but it had been probably 20 years since I had been water skiing. I harkened back to my college days and when I broke my left hand on an unfortunate show-off back flip (confidence level for that was also 4 out of 10.)

I continued to hype up my game while donning my lifejacket, because safety first, particularly now that I’m in my 40’s. I immediately regretted bailing on PureBarre (my go-to for an upper body and core workout) for the last month and a half. I have my reasons, but suffice it to say the core ain’t what it should be. Knowing I would have to rely heavily on whatever ab strength I could muster to get my butt out of that water, this would be a “stored energy”-type situation.

As I tightened my life vest, excitement mixed with sheer terror washed over me. I haven’t felt this way in 20 years. I joked with my Dad about life insurance (didn’t land) and jumped into the lake, still talking smack.

Wetness hit my face with a splash of reality setting in thick.

The skis were tossed in the water, and I busied myself with putting them on, which you may know is one of the hardest things that a waterskier has to do. The first ski boot I tried to slip on (hah!) was such a terrible fit that I bent my thumbnail all the way backwards simply attempting to get my foot in it. Bad start. I over-adjusted the second one while putting it on, but there was no way I was going to be removing either one for a re-do.

Hence, I would be attempting this feat with one boot so tight it may never come off, and the other boot so large that my foot was actually swimming inside. My Dad started up the boat engine, and I watched the family float away.

This was when the dark thoughts started rolling into my head. “What if I blow this? This is gonna be a complete embarrassment. Do they know I was really joking around? This was a joke! They know that right? How’s it gonna feel to have a bunch of kids making fun of me because I couldn’t walk—no, waterski—the talk? Hey, that’s a funny mom joke. I’ll use it later. How’s it gonna feel when I wipe out and break my ankle? How’s this gonna feel tomorrow?”

As the boat inched further away, my fear rose. There’s something uniquely eerie about bobbing alone in the middle of a lake, preparing to attempt something questionable, the only sounds being distant laughter of children and the slapping of water against skis. The only site was a faint vision of my sister with an iPhone, prepared to film.

I sat in the water fighting to keep the skis in position, because Lord only knows what would happen if they ended up behind me. I thought, “I can barely keep the right starting position with the momentum of a boat practically in idle. How am I going to keep these things in front of me with the boat going 20 miles an hour?” Luckily, the solace of the situation allowed me to take a few deep breaths and tell my deep, dark thoughts to KNOCK IT OFF! I said, “It doesn’t matter how. You’re gonna do this, and you’re gonna show these kids what’s up because they need a lesson, damnit!” More deep breaths….

In our family, when you’re ready for Dad to step on the gas (well, in boat speak I guess it would be “put it in forward”), you yell to the captain, “HIT IT!”

The unspoken rule is that you get as much time as you need before those words are uttered, but once you say them, there’s no return. The boat will take off—fast—with or without you. My nephew learned that the hard way when he yelled the command and subsequently removed his hand from the handlebar.

I took one last deep breath, waited for a break in the water waves, and closed my eyes. “3, 2, 1” open the eyes and:

“HIT IT!!!!”

The boat engine revved, and I hung on for dear life. More intrusive thoughts. Oh no, I’m leaning too far to the left. Correct it! Oh no, I’ve over corrected, I’m done! But, remarkably, I didn’t feel the crash I expected.

Instead, in something that can only be described as a millennial grandstanding miracle, I stood up tall and began to…… ski?!

Uncontrollable laughter erupted from me in the way that emotion so easily does when one has utterly surprised herself. “Wow,” I said aloud, “I really did it!” Once I gathered my wits and saw the kids cheering, I determined they needed a show.

I began by doing the quintessential air fist in a circular motion, as if to tell them, “SEE THIS, KIDS?” Releasing the handle with one arm was no easy feat, so I grabbed it back rather quickly to avoid a wipeout. This was my one shot, better make the best of it.

Once confidence resumed, I proceeded to do the “6-7” gesture with my arms. If you don’t have small children, let me educate you. Basically, some dumb internet video went viral beyond anyone’s wildest dreams and all children of a certain age have decided that “6-7” is the coolest thing they could ever say in their lives. It can mean various things or nothing at all, but one common definition is “so-so” or “maybe.” It’s often accompanied by an arm gesture in which the child moves his or her hands in opposite directions as if to be weighing an option. Sadly, because of its wild popularity, “6-7” was named dictionary.com’s word of 2025.

Back to my skiing feat, my “6-7” gesture slayed all day. Nothing but smiles and laughter. These kids were eating out of my palm(s) while simultaneously beginning to actually respect me for a mediocre athletic accomplishment. What a day for a 42-year-old’s stock.

This is when I got a little overconfident. In my mind, I became one of those Sea World performers from circa 1998. Do you know what I’m talking about?

Man, those were the days. They say not all superheros wear capes, but my 14-year-old self would beg to differ. Anyway, picture me, as I did this day, as Wonder Woman at the top of the pyramid simultaneously balancing on two different people’s shoulders and carrying the flag.

My nephew gestured for me to jump the wake in perfect correlation with my rise in confidence / daydream.

No problem. Except that when I looked at the wake, it suddenly became six feet tall. This would be quite a jump. Timidly, I steered myself to the left and then thought better of it. I’d need more speed. Back to the middle.

Another deep breath.

With all my might, I pushed into the wake with the same fury of my five-year-old’s temper tantrums. We all know what comes next.

Shattered dreams.

Just as I went to jump the wake, my skis slid out from under me and it was all over. Luckily, no shattered bones, just a woman with a massive wedgie and a belly full of lake water.

My sister kindly tried to tell me that I, in fact, made it over the wake, citing this screen shot as evidence.

We certainly don’t have irrefutable proof. In fact, you can see my right ski just about to disappear out from under me at this moment, likely before I made it all the way over.

My nephew gave it another shot later that day, and he finally got it done. I’d like to think that a little healthy competition put him over the edge. (We won’t talk about his dad doing tricks out there like a real Sea World performer.) The big smile on my nephew’s face when he nailed it warmed my auntie-heart.

In the end, my gamble half paid off.

If I had to rate it, I’d give it a 6-7. That day, I learned a very important lesson about wagering to children with representations about your abilities. The kids, once disbelieving that I could do a hard thing, were shown that with enough willpower, you can at least get moving in the right direction. But if you want to climb mountains, you’ll have to have a little more grit.

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“I’ll eat my hat” means you are entirely certain something will not occur. You are supremely confident in your point of view that you will do the utterly impossible, like eating the hat on your head, if it actually comes to fruition.

In the same conversation, we traveled down a Gilded-to-Jazz Age tangent of sorts during our “Taste of Kara” segment. This period in American history was marked by the glory days of champagne and flapper dresses, dinner parties, and holidays on luxurious islands (for the rich, anyway). Kara informed me that she had completed “The Last Castle” by Denise Kiernan which was about the building of the Biltmore mansion in Asheville, North Carolina and she had three tidbits for us:

1. She is a fan of the Grove Park Inn in Asheville, North Carolina and she wanted to know if I had ever stayed there, as my family had visited the area often. “No,” I told her, “our kind are not allowed there. We go to breweries.” She told me to go for a cocktail at sunset because it’s a gorgeous setting.* Kara found it intriguing, given the history of the Inn, that the owners collaborated with the owner of the Biltmore, Edith Vanderbilt (formerly Stuyvesant Dresser– our woman of community) on the business aspects of the famous mansion after her husband George Vanderbilt passed away.

   

2. Kara found it surprising that the Biltmore became open to the public in 1930 in order to remain sustainable, following the stock market crash in the late 1920s. Cornelia Vanderbilt (the daughter of George and Edith) found herself in control of its future. Soon after she opened the doors to the world, she took off and never came back. I offered this tidbit: “You put too much pressure on the kids, they will rebel.” The Biltmore is still owned by descendants of George Vanderbilt.

   

3. F. Scott Fitzgerald (who went by Scott), a well-known American novelist, and his wife Zelda summered at the Grove Park Inn during 1935 and 1936. Kara noted that the author of The Last Castle commented that one could actually stay in the same rooms they rented out. I was immediately on guard, stating their tumultuous marriage as an indicator NOT to select these rooms for lodging. Kara cited that it was late in both their spirals. Zelda was committed to a psychiatric facility for much of this time, thought to have schizophrenia, and Scott was in a state of severe alcoholism. We discussed there must have been quite a bit of drama between them. I wondered why Kara was promoting staying in their room? To pick a massive fight with your spouse? Not so much, Kara said, more for the history. I proclaimed I wasn’t into the juju of it, nor was my spouse Adam, so I didn’t know that we “would ever stay in that room.”

Fast forward to May 11, 2026.

My husband Adam and I traveled north to Asheville in order for me to attend a cardiology conference and, conveniently, for him to meet up with his “internet friends” (first time I’ve used that term and apparently, it’s a real thing) for mountain biking. I had selected this particular event because it was at our happy place, the Western North Carolina mountains, and also because it was held at the Grove Park Inn. Having learned from Kara this was a historic and integral part of Asheville’s history, and being keenly aware of my spouse’s aversion to resort stays, I figured now was my chance. He couldn’t quite argue a reimbursable stay at a reputable resort overlooking the Blue Ridge mountains. If he wanted to gripe over the parking attendants trying to coerce him into a valet trap, that was his cross to bear. I was going to bask in the luxury of the great hall, the gigantic fireplaces, and the beautiful scenery. I would also help myself to a giggle fest as he maneuvered his mountain bike through the tiny stairwells built in 1912.

I so fervently needed this trip after a taxing season of work, motherhood, adult responsibilities, youth sports and school. My soul was aching for existential clarity. Am I only here to transport my spawn to neverending practice sessions while fretting over aspects of their life I cannot control?

Upon our arrival, we checked in with a mysterious concierge employee named Brian. He handed us our room cards and with a sly smile, bid us a lovely stay. My husband sent me upstairs, via the original gated elevators hidden behind the huge fireplaces, that require a 24/7 attendant to operate. I was to find our room while he returned to his self-parked car to retrieve the remainder of our crap.

I exchanged pleasantries with the conspicuous employee working the elevator evening shift and made my way down the 4th floor hall lined with pink floral carpeting and sage green walls. It felt…archaic. I peered over the mezzanine, into the 3rd floor foyer where guests were corralled, engaged in a lively discussion. I pulled out the room card to confirm our number. I passed 448, then 445 and landed at 443.

I dropped my bags, huffed a bit, and peered up at a gold plaque on the door.

Startled, I then noticed, curiously, that the door was not fully closed. It had been left unlatched. My heart began to pound as my brain flashed back to that late night discussion with my sister.

“You can actually stay in that room…”

“Weird juju…”

“I’m not sure I would ever do that…”

No way can this be happening, I thought, We are part of a conference discount block, we certainly did not request this room, and wouldn’t it be in demand? Also, why is the door unlatched?

I refused to enter the room alone, given the circumstances. Thankfully, there was a bench in the common area just outside the room where I could seek my own solace and await my spouse’s return to discuss what to do.

When he arrived, he looked at me bewilderingly.

She couldn’t figure out how to use the room key. God bless her elder millennial heart, I imagined him saying.

“Listen. I’m buggin’. Look at the door.”

He walked up, read it, noted that the door was propped open.

“Did you go in there?” he asked.

“HELL NO. I didn’t touch that door.”

I proceeded to walk him through the history of the July 2024 conversation Kara and I had about this exact room. He listened, considered, and said:

“Okay, obviously we can’t stay in this room then. Let’s go ask for another one.”

Realizing the situational irony, I responded:

“Well..wait a minute. This is a little too coincidental, don’t you think? I don’t want to knee-jerk ourselves out of an experience gifted by the universe.”

We decided to enter the room together. We did a thorough sweep for ghosts and/or disgruntled employees. The room appeared in order. There were no suspicious hues, there was nothing out of place or seemingly out of the ordinary.

There was an old desk, and pictures of Scott, Zelda, and Scottie (their daughter) Fitzgerald on the walls. There were the large, casement windows overlooking the entrance to the Grove Park that Scott used to observe new guests checking in, looking for both story and personal enhancements. That was all.

We then headed to The Great Hall Bar to process over a dirty martini and an old fashioned. We asked one another what we thought the significance of this was?

I wondered out loud if Fitzgerald was attempting to get my attention, in some way, as a fellow “writer” (yes, I feel like a fraud using that term, particularly in his company, so go with a writing enthusiast if you have your fingers positioned to troll the comment section.)

Adam and I both pulled out our phones to search for additional information on the Fitzgeralds. An article surfaced explaining that the famous line from The Great Gatsby uttered by the character Daisy Buchanan when her daughter was born was actually a refashioned quote of Zelda’s herself.

“I hope she’ll be a fool. That’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”

How peculiar, I thought. Those were Zelda’s words. One of the most famous lines of his widely acclaimed book. Lines so remembered because they emphasized what it meant to be a woman in a man’s world at the time. And he had used them.

And then, I found this:

“It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and, also, scraps of letters which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (I believe that is how he spells his name) seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.”

― Zelda Fitzgerald, Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald

We also learned that Scott had checked into the Grove Park Inn on May 16, 1935.

Kara’s birthday. (A few years later, anyway.)

Huh, I thought.

We learned that Zelda, his beloved wife, passed away at the Highland Hospital just down the valley on March 10, 1948.

My birthday. Strangely accidental.

“The night you gave me my birthday party… you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn’t I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.”

― Zelda Fitzgerald, Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald

Were the Fitzgeralds crafting their own conspiracy with us?

We dropped by the concierge desk prior to returning to Fitzgerald’s room for the evening. Brian politely listened as we explained our assigned destiny for the evening and contributed to the conversation by informing us that Scott had shot a gun through his ceiling during one of his two summer stays there.

“Which room?” we asked.

“Hmm. I’m not really sure. But if you find Captain Bob** in the morning, he has been working here for 50 years. He should be able to tell you. You folks have a fine evening.”

We retired to our fate in room 443. During the night, we were awoken by a rambunctious couple arguing through the wall at approximately 2 AM. Oddly, neither of us were perturbed or even concerned. It seemed…expected?

The next day, I returned to the room following lectures on stress echocardiograms and etiologies of mitral regurgitation to Adam fiddling with the door latch.

“This is spooky,” he said. “I’ve tested this door multiple times, at various starting degrees of closure, to see if it will remain unlatched. It won’t.”

He demonstrated his point to me. Every time, the door closed. Even when he placed it exactly as it was when I first arrived.

“Mmmmk. Let’s go hiking.” was my response. Sometimes, you don’t yet have an answer worth verbalizing.

The following evening, I was toweling off after a shower. I recently had second holes pierced in my ears, and the studs were still in place. I felt a tug on my right ear, and the stud fell to the ground. I crouched down, and scanned the floor back and forth for the earring and its back. Nothing.

“..the flapper awoke from her lethargy of sub-deb-ism, bobbed her hair, put on her choicest pair of earrings and a great deal of audacity and rouge and went into battle.”

(1922 essay by Zelda titled, “Eulogy on the Flapper”)

I recalled an incident we read about the night prior, when Scott had fallen in the bathroom of the Grove Park Inn after dislocating his shoulder in a nearby lake and was not found until hours later by the hotel staff. Surely, that was quite the mental battle to endure. I couldn’t help but consider the separate mental battle that Zelda lived during that time.

Eventually, I found my earring by painfully stepping on it.

The remainder of our time at the Inn passed relatively uneventfully. We opened the casement windows a couple of times and enjoyed the crisp flow of mountain air. I watched guests arrive at the Inn, just as Scott had, although in progressively diversified motor vehicles.

I wondered how lonely he must have felt, living and drinking and writing in these small rooms all by his lonesome (of course, with the exception of the love affair he allegedly conjured up for the fun of it with a married woman that was also staying at the Inn). I wondered what Zelda thought of his time there, how often he visited her, if she spent time in 443.

We returned home and I continued to stew on Scott and Zelda’s backgrounds, life stories, and interlude summers of 1935 and 1936 at the Grove Park Inn. Two very interesting and complex individuals. One extremely turbulent and passionate marriage.

And just like that, the answer of the unlatched door upon our arrival surfaced.

By historical accounts, Zelda was in a very fragile mental state throughout the time she spent in Asheville, most of it while committed to a psychiatric hospital. She stayed there well beyond the years that Scott checked out of rooms 443 and 441. He had moved to Hollywood, California and was keeping the company of a beautiful gossip columnist named Sheilah Graham.

Reportedly, Zelda very well knew he had relocated, was dating another woman, and Zelda and Scott corresponded often. But I do so wonder, as she battled constant demons, if she intermittently told herself a form of dialogue such as below, to soften the blow of being left behind:

Now see here Miss Zelda, never mind you worry about where your husband is. He is residing just over the valley as he has been since the summer of 1935, at the Grove Park Inn, he writes in room 441 and sleeps in 443. He’s getting along with his writing, he visits you often, and he drinks very little gin these days.

Of course that last part would be darkly true because Scott had passed away by the year 1940 of a heart attack. Zelda went on to live another eight years, moving to Alabama around the time of his death. However, she returned multiple times to Highland Hospital where it was reported her depression was unmanageable. One must wonder, in that precarious mental state, if her mind reinvented the story that Scott was again living close by at the Grove Park Inn, in the same rooms retained by her memory.

By all accounts, their relationship was a deeply tumultuous one, but they had a connection far beyond the understanding of many who observed them. Perhaps she never could allow herself to accept the idea of him ever truly leaving her. This leads us to believe that upon her passing in 1948, the spirit of Zelda may be visiting his old sleeping room to check on if her husband had returned there, to her?

It is conceivable she only visits this time of year, when summer is approaching, as he originally arrived at the Grove Park Inn just prior to summer’s beginnings on May 16, 1935. He was in an alcoholic crisis at this point, drinking immeasurable quantities of gin and attempting to wean himself off the hard stuff with beer. It has been said that when he died in 1940, he believed himself a failure. She was an astute woman, of high intellect, and one has to imagine her husband’s frail state of despair was top of her mind. Simply review her statements in their exchanged letters to understand the depth of her passion for him:

“There’s nothing in all the world I want but you and your precious love. All the material things are nothing. I’d just hate to live a sordid, colorless existence because you’d soon love me less and less and I’d do anything — anything — to keep your heart for my own. I don’t want to live—I want to love first, and live incidentally… Don’t—don’t ever think of the things you can’t give me. You’ve trusted me with the dearest heart of all—and it’s so damn much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had.”

― Zelda Fitzgerald, Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald

Perhaps her goal remains, as she so eloquently stated in “Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald”:

“Thanks again for saving me. Someday, I’ll save you too.”

The question of the door being found unlatched is a perplexing one, although the puzzle is relatively simple to solve when one considers the manner in which she died.

Trapped. In an indoor fire. With no way out. Locked in by a disgruntled nurse.***

So, of course her ghost would often visit his room. With each visit, she is sure to leave an escape route, should she need it, in the form of an unlatched door. She may have also noted that a nurse had been assigned that room, her arrival imminent (me).****

Beautiful, she was. A beautiful fool, she most certainly was not.

Zelda, may you rest in your own solace and peace. Your writing was captivating, overlooked, brilliant, and under-credited. I hope you and Mr. Fitzgerald will reunite in the end. And I sincerely wish he embraces how truly magnificent you were.

“Even though she loved to appear all pink and helpless, the men who thought her purely decorative were fools for not knowing better.”

— Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald

As an aside, thank you for relieving me of my transient disenchantment with the day to day toils of life. I laugh to myself now, realizing that the ghost of Grove Park Inn certainly did make me eat my hat. How delightfully entertaining.

*Kara had received this same advice from a renowned lawyer in our city who has since passed on. This lawyer wasn’t the type of guy to be taken with a resort setting. Said his wife upon his passing: “He never gave a damn about material things or a person’s social status. Those false trappings were of no value to him. Instead, the Constitution was his Bible, and the search for justice was his life’s mission.” His insistence that Kara visit The Grove Park Inn at sunset was quickly understood on her first visit, and she will not visit Asheville again without making the stop there.

**We never did find Captain Bob

***Is the unsubstantiated rumor

****This is not my first experience with a hotel ghost. Just last fall, Kara and I had a hell of a time with the spirits of the Driskill hotel in Austin, Texas. I welcome any and all friendly encounters.

Sources:

https://www.npr.org/2013/09/03/216164420/for-f-scott-and-zelda-fitzgerald-a-dark-chapter-in-asheville-n-c

https://mountainx.com/arts/literature/tuesday-history-fitzgeralds-rough-stay-at-the-grove-park-inn/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/28243.Zelda_Fitzgerald

https://medium.com/the-1000-day-mfa/plagerism-begins-at-home-c969bcc3680

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Slept in until 8 am. Opened social media blindly, then thought better of it. Waited to go downstairs until I heard the sound of beans grinding.

Drank a black cup of coffee while watching last night’s SNL that starred Matt Damon and Mother’s Day antics. Sent the kids to another room to watch Peppa Pig but they emerged from their rooms in the middle of the “Everyone thinks they’re a tough guy these days” skit.

Quietly excused myself to change into athletic gear and slipped away from the house for a high intensity interval training gym glass. Got my ass kicked for an hour, had to pee in the middle of it for the first time in my life (because I’m 40), and came back home. Voice-noted my sister a bunch of random things about my day yesterday on the way back.

Opened social media accidentally, then thought better of it.

Returned to see life partner sweeping the porch and prepping brunch. God love him. Had minimal greetings with my two sons, a moderate interaction with my daughter, and skirted upstairs to shower. Plotted a carb load and movie date with friend and mother. Tried anything in my power to convince sister to go. FOMO included.

Returned to kitchen where my middle child had lovingly set the table without plates. He was unable to state what was missing. We sat down as a family and I opened gifts of handprint flower shoulder bags and “All About my Mom” narratives. Those are my favorite.

“My mom always forgets to: get out of bed.”

Shrug.

Listened to my eldest get nailed for 3D printing without a purpose. Attempted to defend him because a toothbrush holder IS helpful for travel. Shrug. Not sure whose side I’m on here.

Reran SNL skit for the children because I grew up on the show and turned out just fine. They laughed as Matt Damon spit coffee, green juice, lumpy yogurt, and water on Mikey Day in “Godzilla Movie.”

Laid down with coffee for a nap. Decided to write this instead. Opened social media unintentionally, then thought better of it.

Got conned by a four year old to play Yeti in my Spaghetti and Guess Who. Did one each.

Stared at dirty dishes in sink. Didn’t do them. Told daughter to brush her teeth so it’s done at least once today.

Received welcomed text from sister saying she would show to the carb load. Told husband and kids I love them and left the house. Picked up my Mom, met the ladies at Mellow Mushroom for mimosas, pretzel bites, and eye-popping stories. Moved the party to the movie theater for a showing of “The Devil Wears Prada 2.” Whimsically discussed the humanity concerns addressed in this fashion movie with anyone who would listen.

Dropped mother off at her house and returned home. Found husband on an indoor cycling journey, the boys on a Minecraft building mission, and daughter watching a movie. Decided I’d take myself for a walk through the adjacent neighborhood and see what kind of mothers I could conjure up to join me.

One showed up on her bike and we did a short therapy session related to our kids’ soccer evaluation placements on the way to invade the home of the mother that wisely stayed home. Sat on her porch and had a cocktail conversation. Realized I’m running late to make my dinner time commitment with the family and thanked her profusely when she flew me via golf cart to the trail path that leads to my house.

I bid her a salute goodbye and walked into a house that smelled of home-cooked burgers and fries. There was Caesar salad and lots of energy. There was a dog. There were kids fighting over the seats at the table and a husband working his way around the kitchen. There was a 3D printer rumbling in the background and a football match on the television.

I thought to myself, this day was very much about what I wanted to do, for me, all day. A day for the mother to be and do what she wanted. Without guilt. For herself. And no one else. That’s a Happy Mother’s Day. And that is all.

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Constantly checking your phone. Did you miss a voicemail?

Refresh the e-mail!

You thought you bought parsnips? Where did the parsnips go?

We should be hearing any day.

Why are we so anxious?

This isn’t our life.

But, it is.

You see, somehow, in the midst of the practices and games and tournaments away, you built your life around your child’s extracurriculars.

And now?

Will the team be split up?

Will you be torn away from your sports team bestie? The one you weren’t sure about in the beginning, but now ask every weekend if she will be the one traveling to the game?

What will become of you two?

Hold on, you think.

Is this about my kid? Or me?

The rational and reasonable side of you knows the kid isn’t majoring in sport.

You know they aren’t going pro. They can barely name three professional players. Let alone the pro standings.

You don’t expect them to play in college, either. You prefer a state school where its cheaper, they’re closer to home, and all of their credits will count.

So, what is this really about?

Are you concerned for your child? Think they won’t have the resilience or flexibility to adapt to a different team?

No, I don’t think that’s it.

You believe in them.

I think you don’t like change, just like me.

I think you’re the one that’s a little scared. You’re digging your heels in just a tad too much.

Maybe your sister, or friend, needs to look at you gently and say, “Do you think, maybe, we’re a little too involved in our kids’ sports?”

And you may need to look back at her, nodding slowly, laugh at yourself and admit:

Yes. Maybe.

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It’s no surprise that a gem such as Jury Duty would garner loads of support for a second season. It’s also no surprise that a hoax this big, with a correspondingly large audience, could not again realistically be pulled off in the form of fake jury duty. Alas, season two of Jury Duty has a bit of an identity crisis. Released March 20, 2026, Jury Duty presents: Company Retreat takes place not in a fake courtroom, but—you guessed it—on a faux company retreat.

We are both in the midst of watching the second season—the jury is still out* on our takes. Plus, we shall not spoil this season for the Knockers who, like us, can’t seem to find thirty minutes at a time to veg out, much less an entire season’s worth.

We will say: the recent release of season two left us nostalgic for the original show. Back in 2023, we had such affection for the unwitting star of the show, Ronald Gladden, that we penned an open letter to him. Since we had just launched our Substack months before, almost no one saw our memo. Except, of course, Ronald himself. To our great delight, Ronald not only read it, but also responded with kind words and praise. We knew he was a nice guy!

So, with great fondness, we now re-present to the Knockers our open letter to Ronald Gladden from May 2023. With dozens more of you now (we actually cry at our Substack success), we just know it’ll be appreciated by someone.

Spoiler alert: this letter does have certain unescapable details from season one. If you never watched but plan to, just skip on down the road for now. But, for the person who chooses to read this letter, we hope it reminds you of the show’s comedic genius and gets you excited to embark on season two if you haven’t already.

*See what we did there? ;)

Dearest Ronald,

We need you to know, if you don’t already, that your heroism as the foreperson of the fake jury goes far beyond your being an unwitting catalyst to pure comedic gold. You’ve shown America the ideals for which we should all strive no matter the situation. Among the chaos that was created solely to see how you’d respond, you displayed a refreshing sense of morality time and time again.

First, you graciously handled every oddity thrown your way by your fellow jurors.

Take Todd, who wowed you with his prosthetic ear, chair pants, and under-the-connecting-door love note. You kindly showed him “A Bug’s Life” so he could make sense of his own lot. You comforted him when he embarrassed himself making a mockery of the court proceeding by removing his chair pants in the corner. You struck the hard balance of setting a reasonable boundary in the connecting room situation without offending or hurting feelings.

Then there was Noah, the racist but not young man who had some serious love problems/entanglements. You gave him sound advice not to check his girlfriend’s Insta (which he promptly ignored) and greased the wheels for him to hang out with eccentric and barely-clothed Jeannie. Somehow, you kept it together as Noah explained what “soaking” was while he recruited Marsden to perform the bouncing.

You endured Inez’s lunch-ordering “leadership” that included an inability to read a menu. You never outed Tim for doing the unspeakable in the shared restroom, even after you learned he had excluded you from the crane crew.

You looked out for sleepy Barbara by waking her in times of need and not exposing her taking mind-altering meds. You tolerated Ravi’s bus singing, Ross’s wife obsession, Vanessa’s attitude, and whatever Pat did.

You declined to accept Lonnie’s invitation to keep factory questions to a minimum to speed up the process; you were more interested in truth and justice.

You refused to take Ken’s money after winning the made-up board game, even when he told you time and time again that you won fair and square.

With messed-up Marsden, you kept your inner fan girl mostly at bay, although we must observe that he made it easy for you. Among other solids, you took the fall for his toilet disaster, you helped a pal out by reading faux script lines, and you played along with his food-truck knavery. Perhaps most impressively, you maintained equilibrium when Marsden lost it at Ross’s park birthday party, throwing (NOT) his cake and narcissistically screaming that he “didn’t want this!”

Speaking of Ross, who always wore Patagonia, additional kudos are due for your displaying perfect equanimity during your sidebar conversation with him as the last remaining “liable” voter. He admitted to you the reason he was stalling the vote was because he just didn’t want to leave his friends. You allowed that moment of vulnerability like a foreperson BOSS would.

In your “heart of hearts,” you had to have known this whole mockery was “off.” Maybe you even felt you were being pranked? But you never lost your cool; you just went with the flow and handled it all in stride.

And that was just how you dealt with your fellow jurors.

You also endured the idiotic case and trial participants like a pro.

Take the plaintiff, “Jack-quee” (emphasis on quee) Hilgrove, owner of Cinnamon & Sparrow, the eco-conscious clothing company that was going to save the world. She was suing a former employee for showing up drunk and high and ruining a batch of t-shirts before passing out and urinating (possibly more?) on himself. The plaintiff’s case highlights included her lawyer accidentally exposing her evident love addiction through the testimony of her treating doctor. Also presented during the plaintiff’s case was the riveting testimony of Genevieve, the dog-buying advocate who set up Jack-quee with the client whose t-shirt order was ruined. Sadly, the client then set out to reciprocate by ruining Cinnamon & Sparrow via Twitter.

You never judged the “dusty ass” defense attorney for his countless botch jobs. (We can’t take credit for the phrase “dusty ass attorney”—this was hatched by your fellow fake juror Vanessa). You listened to the lawyer say things like, “warm it up with the heat of justice.” You endured the defendant’s mother airing their dirty co-habitation laundry. And you patiently sat through the defendant electing to represent himself with frequently misused courtroom terminology.

As for crotchety Judge Rosen and pushy Bailiff Nikki, you paid them the respect their positions were due.

Above all of this, though, you (kind of) showed us what it is really like to serve on a jury.

You learned the meaning and feeling of being sequestered (who cares if it is super rare-it made for great T.V.). You couldn’t sell your stocks for multiple trading days. You embraced the camaraderie with your fellow jurors, including beating one of them at a friendly arm-wrestling match. You deeply considered the facts and even did a little investigating of your own (eh, maybe not the best idea). You shook your jitters and rose to the challenge of leading your peers. You felt the weight of the world on your shoulders as you considered liability. You were so relieved when everyone finally landed on the same page.

You’ve been called “America’s Sweetheart” and “The Next Bachelor.” But to us, you’re an everyday hero because you really tried to do the right things for the right reasons—both in and out of the courtroom. You represented the people of Bakersfield, California* with dignity, kindness, and respect. For this, the viewers of Jury Duty are in your debt. Well done, Ronald, well done.

Your judges of the real facts,

Bethany Bell & Kara Wood

*We once hailed from Ridgecrest, California, by the way. Kern County forever!

**Special thanks to Johnny Mac of The Daily Comedy News Podcast for turning us onto Jury Duty

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In order to accompany your student (who oddly begged you, for the first time, to accompany him on a field trip), you must obtain a Level 2 Volunteer clearance with the educational system. You waited for the school to e-mail you your instructions. Luckily, you had fingerprints on file with the state already, and they are good for another two years. You didn’t quite remember why but shrug and score! Step one is down.

Step two: you booked an appointment with an odd website and showed up to what appears to be a vacant, multi-business property to have your picture taken. You smiled, listened patiently to the picture-taker employee’s pitch as she side-hustled her essential oils, and gracefully exited the building. You waited a few weeks for the badge to arrive at the school, forgot to pick it up, and grabbed it the last day you possibly could before the field trip, and only because you were checking your middle child in late after a dentist appointment. Thank all that is holy for front office ladies who help you keep track of your life.

Now, for the blessed event.

Wake up at 5:45 AM on a Monday. Wake your child up at 5:46 AM on a Monday. Eat breakfast in the dark and make coffee. Drive the child to school to ride the charter bus down. Shriek internally with glee when he decides to inform you, last minute, that you indeed have no other children to chaperone. Realize now what your spouse has attempted to prepare you for all along: Your child wants you there in order to stay past the required check in time with the teachers. In other words, be prepared for a “let’s stay until close” speech when 3:30 PM hits. “Whatever,” you think, “Quality time!”

Drop said child off to catch the bus. Stay in your own vehicle and exit the loop. Leave before the entourage does in case you have a number two emergency a couple of hours into the drive.

Once you arrive, wait at the front entrance for your child’s school bus to pull in. Do not appear eager. He has a rep to protect. Curse yourself for over-packing a backpack, you were too excited that the park allowed them. Pull on your straps repeatedly as you observe rogue children and overdressed mothers loitering at the front entrance.

When the buses unload, spot your child and when you do, do not wave. Calmly, collectively, begin your walking pace so as to naturally fall in stride with your son and his friends. Do not reveal that you know him. Near the huge “NASA meatball,” awkwardly corral for a picture with his teachers, the class, and parents you usually avoid. Wait patiently for the supervisor to pass out admission tickets. Wonder if your child will self-volunteer you to buddy up with others, and hold your breath as to who they may be. Release said breath when he reveals you will be walking all day long with his neighborhood pal Cameron* and his super-chill mother of five boys who always makes you laugh. Gladly accept the additional child in the group – a young boy by the name of Rogan,* who has been partnered up with Cameron. He has a drawstring bag, $60 to his name, and a desire to burn through the cash with the force of a rocket booster.

Because the coveted bus tour is already a 75-minute wait (and takes two hours itself, which essentially covers 2/3rds of your field trip allotted time before check in), your group elects to do a quick sweep of the gift shop. Your son and Cameron talk you and chill-mom into freeze-dried ice cream at $7.50 a pop. A NASA delicacy. Meanwhile, you’ve lost Rogan, briefly. You find him at self-check out with two soda pops and a bag of chips in his hands. You and chill-mom chuckle and exchange amused looks. What you wouldn’t give to go back to the days of unsupervised field trip vibes, amiright?

Rogan nails one of his soda pops on the walk to the Atlantis attraction. As you enter the shuttle launch simulator, you glance his way.

“Put your bag on your lap, Rogan, or you may not see it again” is uttered as the shuttle doors close and you are physically manipulated into the position required to shoot into space. You are rocked, dropped and rolled way more than you ever partied in your twenties before the ride conductors release you.

Shaken and disturbed, you exit the experience and convince the kids it’s time to grab lunch at “The Orbit.” They capitulate, and you get in line for a self-directed ordering experience. You offer to assist Rogan with his order, to which he mildly refuses, that is until he realizes he lost his pre-paid card (required for all in-park purchases) with the remainder of his $60 on it.

“Crap, I know it’s in here somewhere!” he exclaims as he drops his body and all contents of his bag down in the middle of the overcrowded ordering kiosk lobby. You crouch down next to him to assist and beg him to give you half of the Pokemon card stack he is sifting through to help find it quicker. Finally, he does and you identify the needle in the haystack prepaid card nestled between Pikachu and Squirtle.

“Great” he says, and selects a personal pepperoni pizza, a soda, and before you can engage him on it, a pack of Skittles.

“Are you sure you want to get those now? You had some sugar this morning. Don’t you want to save some cash for the gift shop at the end?”

He pushes the “checkout” button and you meekly realize this conversation was over before it began.

After a lovely lunch of questionable meat burgers and decent fries, your crew heads into Planet Play – the indoor playhouse. There, the three boys get sufficiently lost from you and chill-mom as you casually chat about weird teenage behaviors and if the teachers are chaperoning anyone themselves on this trip. Once your group has overstayed their 30 minute max play time window, you are shoved outside into the hot sunshine where the boys promptly announce:

“It’s time for ice cream!”

Dazed, you and chill-mom follow the three boys to the Milky Way ice cream shop. Rogan orders himself a double scoop of chocolate chip. Your son, oddly, elects to forgo the treat, causing you to immediately wonder, “What’s the angle?”

Rogan’s ice cream is gone before you can re-check the bus wait time. It is now a 90-minute wait. The crew decides to explore the Heroes and Legends building. On the way there, chill-mom witnesses Rogan dumping his entire bag of skittles into his newly purchased water bottle, and covering them with a Poppi “soda.” (According to promotional material, “poppi’s a modern soda that combines 5g sugar, ingredients you can love and prebiotics to give you allllll the soda feels without the baggage.” He did receive points for the Poppi choice.)

You voice nervous concern that Rogan is going to experience a huge insulin dump, and soon. Chill-mom agrees, adding “I don’t like to tell other people’s kids what to do but…”

You make a verbal agreement to cut Rogan off of future sugar purchases. It’s not a pretty choice, but someone has to do it. It’s going to be your problem here very soon. You’re in it together now.

Before leaving the Heroes and Legends building, you snap a picture of Rogan (that he promises he is sending back home to loved ones) under a sign that states:

“Exploration is really the essence of the human spirit.” - Frank Borman

and think to yourself, Rogan certainly embodied that today.

The group decides to wrap up the day at Gateway: The Deep Space Launch Complex. It is here when you and chill-mom realize the error of your ways. Rogan’s insulin dump is imminent. Matter of fact, it’s here. He sits down and reports that he is tired. You say to him:

“Please do not drink the rest of that bottle.” and enlist your son and Cameron to chaperone Rogan to the water fountain, dump it out, and fill it strictly with H20.

Rogan is safe, and conscious, but he’s feeling the effects of his choices. You tell him, “Your body needs water. I know, I’m a nurse.” He appears to agree, and shuffles off to follow his guides to the watering hole.

When they return, your son informs you that Rogan chugged the remainder of his Poppi + skittles concoction before filling the bottle up with water.

“... But it has water in it now, right?”

“Right,” he says.

Your tired and disheveled group heads back to the check in area but not before Rogan attempts a Celsius energy drink purchase from the adjacent gift shop. At this point, you’ve had enough. You tell him “forget it.”

Your group plops down at a set of tables near the check in scene. Much to your delight, your son is exhausted and does not care to stay past 3:30, even with the possibility of a rocket launch later that day. You celebrate deeply with yourself, but not on the outside.

You hit the interstate with your child, and your child alone. He asks you what your favorite part was and you tell him the shuttle launch simulation. He smiles at you and says, “Me too.”

You return home, reflecting on the day’s missteps and wondering how much money remains on Rogan’s pre-paid card. You’re grateful he can’t use that money outside the Space Center to propel himself into another stratosphere of insulin high before returning to his guardians.

You also realize your son squeezed one final treat out of you during your dinner stop: a Panera chocolate chip muffie. “Ah, the angle I was too far gone to identify,” you think.

As for yourself, you’ve survived another field trip with reputations intact and children safe, a job worthy of being able to comfortably sink back into your introverted black hole until next time.

*names changed for privacy purposes

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We have an unscripted convo (rather than writing) about once a month. During this convo, we ridicule each other while discussing books and other things we are currently loving. Why? Because we’ve never felt so alive.

You can listen to our convo by pressing the “play” button near the top of…

Read more

On March 26th, 2023, two sisters living in the ‘burbs of Florida released our very first piece, titled “It’s F.A.C.!” to introduce ourselves to the world. Share our humor vibe. Explain why we are the way that we are.

From there, we have journeyed through pieces on:

Childhood memories

• The orange tree that sparked a sister duel

• Sacagawea walks into a bank

Parenting vulnerabilities

• I want to remember you this way

• Mean girls are out

• Walking the tightrope

Parenting humor

• Congratulations, you are our mystery reader!

• How to survive the weekend kid birthday circuit

Travel adventures

• We are going to Chicago

• 15 American observations following a 7-day adventure to England with children

• What to expect on an Everglades airboat tour

• Our unwitting visit to the haunted Driskill hotel

Cultural trends

• Charcuterie: the ultimate party flex (our most popular post to date?)

• The Stanley tumbler

• Dorm makeover madness (why didn’t this get more traction?)

Hair tutorials and nightmares

• You gotta put some mousse on it

• Bleach leak

How to turn 40

• The strange thing that happens when you turn 40

• Not ‘Just Another Birthday’

Marriage Advice

• You won’t believe these romantic texts from our husbands!

• Life’s a kayak — get in

• Who is this new guy at my gym?

Movie / Documentary dissections

• A big flaw in ‘Father of the bride’?

• Are we being catfished by ‘Unknown number’?

• Movie review: Mixed nuts

Clearly, we run the gamut. No topic off limits, no leaf unturned.

A real variety show, if you will.

Because the crowd bellowed for more, we introduced our original unscripted conversation on January 28, 2024, titled “Jingle Bells and Milky Ways”

From there, about once a month, we rolled out a fresh take. Over time, these delightful conversations have taken on a life of their own with dedicated segments on:

Starbucks addictions

Farming with Millennials - Kara gardening / Bethany chicken updates

Turn a phrase like Truman Capote - elevating our metaphorical game

Pedigree of Paula - highlight a high performing woman of community

Tayvis - our parasocial relationship with Taylor and Travis

Snoop Dogg Update - always relevant

Sweaty Betty & Dare to Kare - our exercise journeys

Ask Bethany - always cringe, forever unanswerable, NEVER from our diaries

Taste of Kara - newest finds

Our personal favorites include:

I’m running Mojave (2/25/24)

Taking it in the Shorts (6/16/24)

Don’t Bust One on It (8/11/24)

It’s so Moist Here (9/16/24)

Proof of Life (3/30/25)

Sweata Weatha (9/21/25)

We even began surprising you with actual guests on the show. We didn’t even pay them to be there! Well, perhaps compensation occurred in the form of Taco Bell (see first title) or a Knocker hat.

Burnt Bean Burrito (11/16/25) - special guest Ashlee Anderson

You’re having a Fantasy! (12/21/25 - live audience consisting of our mother and her bestie, SHEEZ)

Put Her on a Leash (1/19/26) - special guest Eileen Pitcock

Stay tuned for our next unscripted convo, further commemorating this historical event.

From F.A.C. to “I love your shoes!” our hard knockers have showed up time and time again, ready at attention. For that, we salute you.

If you have a recommendation, review, or request regarding the future of Knock it Off, you know what to do. Drop us a cawwwwment! We always read, and rarely laugh at them.

We hope you take a moment to click through memory lane with us, and know that we are deeply thankful for each and every one of you.

Long live the Knockers!

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