Enjoying the breeze, the warmth of the day
swinging back and forth, staring in wonder at
the brightness of the trees’ green leaves against
a backdrop of undisturbed baby blue

The branches sway
I rock to the same tune,
loving the music of the day.
An opening act, perhaps?
I ponder, as a cardinal flies in and sits
on a particularly still branch,

Looking like a fine jewel
displayed on green felt
bright, still, and beautifully red

I wait for his act to begin
as his background continues to dance
He remains still as the trees sway harder
the wind crescendoes, “SHHHH” through the air

The cardinal, unmoved by the music of the air
his beauty is his art
his quiet is his performance

And all at once, I understand
This is not a production at all.
He is not there for me,
does not care about my applause or praise

He sits as I am sitting:
to enjoy the breeze
and through that connection,
we perform together

We choose our art each moment
and today, I sit in the shade,
enjoying the breeze
watching the trees dance
as the cardinal flies away

I’m a good worrier. I got that gene from my mother. I’m also far too polite and care about what people think about me. But now that I’m in my 50s, I’m learning to let go of those things, and I want everyone else to as well:

1 — Other people’s opinions

Do not give a crap about other people’s opinions. This is especially true for strangers. If you see someone giving you the stink-eye, first off, they probably aren’t. Second, who cares?

If it’s not a stranger, do you care about the person’s opinion? I mean really care? There are people whose opinions I value, but most people don’t matter. The only people who get a vote in my personal life are me, my husband, and my very close friends.

2 — Family you don’t enjoy being around

Just because they’re your blood relatives, doesn’t mean you have to consider them your family. I’m lucky that I have a wonderful Mom, Dad, and Sister. I wish I lived closer to them.

But I wish I would have learned this lesson a while back when I always thought I had to drop everything for other blood relatives. They would come to town, and I would jump through hoops to rearrange my schedule, all the while dreading the visit and not wanting to spend any time with them.

3 — Holding back your weirdness

Be yourself! I am a goofball, and I love being weird. I spent far too many years trying to conform to social norms and failing. It sent my anxiety through the roof and made me miserable.

I enjoy singing during meetings, dancing in public, cracking stupid jokes, and embarrassing myself. Life is so much more fun as a unique individual.

4 — Trying to stop aging

I’m 51, and I’m getting old. There is no amount of face cream thick enough and no bra strong enough to hold back what gravity is doing to me. But guess what? I’m 51, and it no longer matters! What a freedom it is to accept that.

Although I do admit that I use makeup called Spackle. Yes, the same name of the stuff homeowners use to fill cracks in their walls. It makes me laugh.

5 — Holding grudges

I know it’s harder than it sounds, but please stop holding grudges (especially if they’re against me). Holding a grudge hurts you more than it does the other person. They probably don’t even think about you any longer, much less the incident you’re upset about.

I’m not going to give you advice on how to do this because you can find hundreds of other articles about how to get rid of your grudges.

Now that I’ve got the deeper advice out of the way, here are the other five things I don’t feel are worth my time in my last decades of life:

6 — Watching the news: Other than the weather or when the zoo has a new baby animal born, the news is simply too stressful for me to watch.

7 — Reading books that don’t start well: I give it 100 pages. I’m a fast reader, so that’s about an hour for me. If a book doesn’t capture my attention in that time, I’m out. I don’t care if half the world thinks it’s a masterpiece, I’m not going to spend time if I’m not enjoying it.

Besides, I’m not going to remember it anyway.

8 — Washing windows: I’d rather pay someone. Actually, I don’t care that much. The dirt and oil on the window use the sunlight to make pretty patterns on my floor; why would I get rid of that? Plus, I don’t like to clean anything, to be perfectly honest.

9 — Folding fitted sheets: My husband can fold a fitted sheet. I can’t tell the difference between the flat and fitted sheets when he does them. That’s his choice.

But if I have to put away the sheets, the flat one will be folded (not straight), but the fitted one will be rolled into a ball. I do not care. After all, sheets are stored in a closet.

10 — Eating kale: Because it’s gross.

I posted this on Medium in February 2023, but it’s good advice, so it shouldn’t be behind a paywall.

Sexy shirt? Check.

Short skirt? Check.

Makeup and hair? Lookin’ good!

I have on my high heels. I spent time shaving my legs. I feel gorgeous.

I don’t think I’ve looked better in the last decade. One last check in the mirror and…yep, I look as good as I get! I feel fabulous, and I can’t wait for date night.

I walk downstairs to get my husband’s reaction.

“How do I look?” I smile.

(Do you see where this is going?)

He’s looking at his computer and doesn’t look up. “You look fine.”

“You actually have to look at me.”

He looks up for a moment. “I’m sticking to my answer. You look fine.”

“That’s all I get?”

“What more do you want?”

“Tell me I look beautiful,” I plead.

“I did.” He’s utterly baffled at this point. “I said you look fine.”

Guys, seriously. “You look fine,” is not a compliment. In fact, it’s similar to telling a woman to calm down when she’s pissed off.

My husband is not a stupid man. He’s an engineer; he fixes computers; he knows an annoying amount about many topics. Whenever I try to prove him wrong, it generally doesn’t go well for me.

But the man is oblivious!

I’ve been telling him, flat out, for years that even if he is lying, he needs to compliment me.

I tell him almost daily that he’s handsome, hot, gorgeous, or good-lookin’. What do I get? “Fine.”

I’m an aging woman, dammit! I need more than that!

I’ve gone to the same hairstylist for 18 years and don’t get the same cut or color more than two or three times in a row.

My hair has been colored different shades of blonde, red, and brown. It’s gone from short to shorter to shaved.

The only response I get from my husband is, “You look fine.”

When I beg for a reaction, he tells me, “You know I don’t notice hair.”

Come on! My hair costs five times as much to get done as yours does. Can you at least say it looks nice to make it feel like it was worth the money? One little white lie isn’t going to kill you, man!

Last week, in a moment of highest idiocy, I teased my husband by saying, “Don’t you think I could get somebody else if you don’t shape up?”

Without missing a beat, he answered, “With your personality? Of course, you could!”

So I’m a woman with a great personality. I can live with that. But I’d kind of like him to compliment my smile, eyes, or even my big boobs occasionally.

I’m just going to take another sip of the coffee he made me this morning while I think a little more about that. He brought it over to me like he does every morning before he did the dishes that were left in the sink last night. Then he took my car to fill it with gas so I could make it to an appointment later.

On second thought, I may have the best husband on Earth. His actions say more than words ever could.

I wrote the following short piece in early 2019 when I was so depressed I didn’t know how to cope. Published on Medium February 2023:

I’m watching others in The Light, wishing I could join them and shine like they do.

Accepting The Empty.

Feeling that just around the next corner is The Dark to which we’ll all succumb. I wish it away, but with the feeling, it may be better than living here, in The Empty, where nothing is real, and I cannot feel anything but a longing to succumb.

I can come right up to the edge of The Light, reach across that border. I can touch you, witness the light in your eyes shining at me with what I know is love. But I cannot join you, though I long to be with you there. I don’t belong. I can’t be in The Light.

I move through The Empty to the edge of The Dark and hear the faded voices of memories both familiar and foreign.

It takes all my strength to step back from the ledge. Sometimes I feel like if I were just a little braver or stronger, I could enter the abyss of The Dark and be done with The Empty.

Finding Old Writing

This weekend, I found the writing above in the old notes I have stored in Evernote. When I read through it, I was shaken up. It took me right back to 2019 and those days of major depression. I could still feel that emptiness, but those words didn’t belong to me any longer.

When I talk to my husband about those days, he gets choked up. He had no idea how depressed I was. I’d been through depression, on meds, off meds, but never that bad.

During that depression, I could see him in what I saw as The Light, looking at me with love. But it felt like I was in a separate existence. I told him I needed to go to a psychiatrist, but that’s as much as I shared.

I hid my depression well. I went to work. My daughter and my grandson lived with us, so I helped by taking over baby duties when I got home. I watched the baby when she worked. I helped my youngest son with his homework and problems at school, and as a listening ear when he needed one. I was there for everybody. I put on my bravest face and went through the motions of every day.

Who do you talk to when you want to die? That’s not something you confide in a friend. It is not something you can explain. There was no reason for me to be depressed. I had major depression.

The more I sank into major depression, the more I knew what I was feeling wasn’t normal. Thankfully, I was able to ask for help. I know not everyone can, for whatever reason.

I am grateful I was able to get back into The Light.

If it helps, know that if you feel like you’re alone in The Empty and nobody else could possibly understand, there are people who do.

At the lake
we would sit
watch the sun
dance on waves
facets of a jewel

Now alone
I sit with memories
and stroke my finger
where the ring had been
longing for one more

Another day
just one more kiss
a last goodbye
and I watch the waves
alone

if only life
were as strong
as the rings we‘d worn
symbols of eternity
taken too soon

Janie put on her fleece Cuddle Duds — top and bottom. Then heavy jeans in a size larger than she’d usually wear to accommodate the fleece, wool socks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a flannel shirt over that.

Looking feminine was not a priority today.

She sipped her coffee while watching the weather forecast. On the evening news last night, Ian Leonard had said today was supposed to be cold. -23 before wind chills certainly lived up to that description.

She dreaded this commute. She knew as soon as she started breathing her windows would start icing up on the inside. If she sang to the radio, the process would be even faster. She would have to choose between her feet freezing while running the windshield defroster or being able to walk when she arrived an hour later.

But Janie stood, stretched, pulled her big girl panties up, rinsed her cup, and decided she could put it off no longer.

She donned her heavy boots, scarf, parka, hat, and gloves. She turned to grab her purse, thought better of it, and turned back around to put on one more scarf.

She stepped out into the bright morning and thought, “This isn’t that too bad. I’m bundled up enough.”

Janie smiled to herself. She took in a nice breath of fresh air.

Suddenly, her eyes widened as she realized her nostrils had frozen shut.

This New Year’s Eve, my husband and I went out to dinner with some friends. We’d been looking forward to it for weeks, a new place, 5-star chef, fabulous menu, and all of our favorite people gathered to celebrate once more in 2022. What a wonderful evening!

However, the place we were going had a very limited New Year’s Eve menu. We could choose from Lobster Tail, Beef Wellington, Prime Rib, Petite Filet with Shrimp, or Stuffed Salmon.

I love salmon. I love the pinky flesh, the aroma, the texture, the flavor, and everything about the rich goodness of the fish. Salmon is my favorite fish of all to eat, which I discovered on prom night, 1989.

I also discovered on that same night that salmon would like nothing more than to kill me from the inside out. No other food has hated my guts so much.

Tom and I had started prepping for prom in February. We were high school sweethearts, destined to be together forever, in love and practically engaged. Tom was working extra hours at his dad’s chiropractic office so that we could have the best of best nights. His father was allowing us to take their red Pontiac Fiero (lovingly called Fifi) for the night.

My mom took me dress shopping in Portland so we wouldn’t have sales tax to pay on the dress like we did in the Seattle area and we found a beautiful pink gown that made me look like a princess. Tom rented a gray tux with a bowtie that matched my dress. My makeup was perfect and my hair was huge.

Tom and Fifi picked me up and we went to a lovely dinner with a view of the Puget Sound. I ordered the salmon because I had seen it on someone else’s plate and it looked wonderful. It came with salad, rolls, potato, and a fancy sauce.

From the first bite, I was in love. As we talked and laughed, I kept thinking about how perfect this food was and wondering how I had never had it fixed in this manner before. I savored every bite, yet tried to keep pace with Tom, knowing that we would have to leave for the dance soon enough.

As I pushed away my dinner plate and Tom asked me if I wanted dessert, I began to feel the first stirrings that something was amiss below. I drank some water and prayed to God that I was mistaken.

“You look a little pale,” Tom said, and I shook my head.

We went back to the car and I hoped that the little walk would help things settle.

Instead, the salmon apparently thought that the jiggling of the walk was apparently my way of declaring war because it doubled-down on its attack as soon as we got in the car.

Tom opened the door for me and I sat, holding my stomach gently, trying to get some sort of peace talks started in there. We started driving and I realized that some gas was going to slip out. Thankfully, it was quiet and I hoped for lady-like discretion.

Alas, my sneak attack, while silent, was pungent and Tom was not silent about it.

“What the hell is that smell?”

I turned red. We’d been dating a while and we’d actually had farting contests, but I felt like a princess and this was skunk-rolled-in-manure bad.

Tom rolled down his window and stuck his head out while he was driving.

Unfortunately, the salmon was not done with its assault and the next hit was not silent. As the blast let loose, Tom laughed uncontrollably. At that moment, all I could do was hold my stomach tighter from the pain. Otherwise, I may have been laughing too.

Then the smell hit and we both had to roll our windows down.

“I have never smelled anything that bad! I am so proud of you!” he said.

We got to the prom venue and as soon as we were let in, I found my stall in the bathroom, where I spent most of the rest of the evening.

From what I heard, Tom had a wonderful night dancing with many of our friends, enjoying the music, and telling the story of me stink-bombing the Fiero.

Salmon taught me that it takes very little time to go from feeling beautiful and princess-like to feeling like a swamp monster whose sole purpose is to annihilate the planet, or at least your date.

For our entire relationship, through graduation, our wedding, every friendship we made, every family gathering, and our divorce, I never lived down the story of Prom Night. And each time the tale was told from Tom’s perspective, the embellishments grew until it involved an emergency room visit with a need for oxygen to be administered to him.

I still love salmon and I still eat it from time-to-time because it is delicious. I keep hoping my digestive system has changed and my stomach tolerates it in small amounts, but only when the salmon is outnumbered by rice and cannot possibly gather its forces enough to battle.

This New Year’s Eve, I weighed my choices carefully. I longed for the stuffed salmon, filled with a mix of crab meat and scallops. I shared my tortured decision paralysis with my husband, who looked at me with pleading, sorrowful eyes.

He simply said, “get whatever you’d like, Dear.”

He was willing to sacrifice his clean air for me to have my favorite dish, to risk the possibility of needing to sleep in the basement for the next several days so that I could enjoy the sweet savory salmon that would attack my intestines.

Instead, I waved the white flag before the battle even started. I chose the lobster tail (for twice the price of the salmon) and my husband thanked me for not waging inadvertent biological warfare on our group.

The calendar turns its page,
and as if on cue
the landscape’s stage begins
the choreography of a scene change,
subtly—
the audience unaware at first
with muted colors of
dull yellow and brown mixed
among the green, adding
hints of oranges and reds,
emboldening the hues
as the days grow shorter
and fog drifts
in with the sunrise
over and through
the trees into
October

People use the word “luck” when you accomplish something they don’t feel they can do: “You’re so lucky.” It diminishes what you’ve worked for and makes you question whether you deserve it. You do.

I am tired of people telling me that I’ve been lucky. My “luck” came from making decisions with courage and determination.

When I was going to the University of Washington, I was a single mom. I had two little kids. My family, friends, and a pretty terrific boyfriend all lived in Seattle, close by.

I missed out on parties, and I worked hard. I slept between classes and stayed up late after the kids were asleep to study and finish assignments. I went to class with baby food rubbed in my hair, and juice spilled on my clothes. But I graduated with honors. There was nothing lucky about it.

As I was graduating, I was recruited. I was offered jobs in the Seattle area. These were mediocre, safe jobs. I could have taken one, continued to live close to my parents, and had help with the kids.

But I was also recruited by IBM. A huge company like IBM and the salary and benefits they offered was life-changing. This was a no-brainer if the job were in Seattle. Even in Portland, it would have been okay. But this IBM location was in Rochester, Minnesota.

Even so, I interviewed for the job, thinking only of the opportunity and giving my children a great life.

And you know, not once during the 8-hour interview process did any of the five managers with whom I interviewed say anything about rolling dice to get the job.

When I took that position, it was all about courage. I left behind my family, friends, and that boyfriend. I left the state where I grew up. And I moved to a place where I didn’t know anyone within 1000 miles. My son was 6, and my daughter was 2.

I was not “lucky” to get to go back to college. I was not “lucky” to get on the honor roll. I was not “lucky” when IBM offered me that job.

And I have not been “lucky” in the years since as I’ve continued to take chances and stretch my boundaries.

Luck would have been winning the lottery or tripping over $100 bill.

When someone tells me, “You’re so lucky…” it feels like another way of saying that I don’t deserve what I worked for. What I’ve done takes strength, courage, and skill.

Don’t sell me short. It was never luck.

Published on Medium August 24, 2019

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My Darlings,

I know I’m not the best with words, nor do I do a good job of expressing myself. I never want you to feel like I don’t appreciate you enough. So I wanted to take a moment and put a few words in writing, where perhaps I can express some of how much you mean to me.

First, I want to thank you with all of my heart. Thank you for accepting me and my curves. You have been with me through thick and thin. You have grown with me over time and have allowed me to expand my world.

I know that you love me unconditionally.

And, oh, how you make me feel. In you, I feel sexy and alive. The way that you hold me with every move makes me want to sway and dance. I am happiest when I am wrapped in your warm embrace. There is nowhere I would rather be.

Sometimes, I know I may not make it clear how much I love you. I’m sure it must pain you that I resist being seen in public with you. Just know that it is about my own issues and not my love for you.

When we’re together, I want to be fully enjoying the feeling you give me. When in public, I admit I worry about what society might think. I’m concerned that people are wondering what a beautiful pair of leggings like you is doing with me.

Just that thought, even though I know it doesn’t concern you, makes me enjoy the time we spend together less. So it’s easier for us to keep our love to the comfort of home. I hope you understand.

And the thing is that I know you understand.

Through everything, you never judge me. You simply offer me love and comfort.

As you know, I’ve been with other clothing. And some have fit me.

But there have been none like you.

With them, I always knew that it was a matter of five pounds up or down and they wouldn’t be on me comfortably any longer. It was always the elephant in the closet.

But I can have that piece of cake or second beer with you. You just hug me a little closer instead of hurting and punishing me.

I have never known a love like this before. Every moment that I am away from you feels like an eternity. I’m breathless and in despair until I can be wrapped in you again.

I want you to know that you are my first thought in the morning and the last thing I think about before I drift off to sleep. In my best dreams, you are with me as well.

I cherish you, my Dear Leggings. I want to be with you always.

With all of my love,

Jenn

Published on Medium May 19, 2020

Where trees were just bare
Now new buds whisper secrets
In softest green hues.

And departed birds
Return with songs of triumph
Celebrating spring.

I rejoice in warmth
And hear birdsong melodies
I am now renewed.

Published on Medium April 27, 2020

Beautiful Snowfall,
the flakes caught in the light’s beams.
Sparkling glitter

drifts to the cold ground
or embraces bare branches
of the leafless trees.

Wind moves them, molds flakes
to frozen art, as snow swirls
then melds and collects

Becoming statues
of snow mounds, as I witness
this show of winter.

The snowfall slows and
A breeze finishes up
the frozen display.

Published on Medium January 2, 2020

I savor the sense of awakening
As sleep slowly dissipates.
The ethereal shroud blurs barriers
Blending real and imagined.

My dreams, no matter how fanciful,
Are close enough to touch.

I exist in these moments
Until the images fade
into morning’s glow.

Published on Medium January 28, 2020

I hope your germs stay over there
Behind that cubicle wall
I don’t have time to catch a cold
I’m far too busy, after all!

I hear your coughing, full of phlegm
And the snot you’re sniffing back.
Just blow your nose, then wash your hands
Better — go home now and hit the sack.

I’m taking lots of vitamin C,
Drinking water, getting rest.
But no matter what I do,
Turns out, it’s all in jest.

Because we’re breathing the same air
We’re touching the same doors
Germs aren’t smart enough to know
They’re uninvited boors.

The light switch in the meeting room
Now carries your disease
No matter how careful I am
I feel all this unease.

I wish you would have stayed at home
Your work just isn’t up to par.
When you’re sick, you’re not as good
It does not make you a star.

Please go home, you look like hell
The situation is just gross.
Come in again when you feel well
And I won’t mind sitting close.

Now my head is starting to hurt
My nose is itching too.
Damn you for bringing in your germs
Cough, cough, sniff, sniff, AH-CHOO!

Published on Medium January 5, 2020

Until the moment of your last breath, it is not too late,
to make a difference.

Make someone laugh,
Play a game,
Plant a tree,
Teach a child.

Give your time,
Give a gift,
Give a smile,
Give thanks.

Lend a hand,
Mount a protest,
Vote your conscious,
Take a stand.

Draw a picture,
Sing a song,
Write a story,
Read a story.

Say I love you,
Show you care,
Take care,
Laugh, a lot.

Until the moment of your last breath, it’s not too late,
to choose to live.

Published on Medium December 6, 2019

I see my son over there, playing so innocently. He lines up his toys front to back in an order that only he knows. The only right order.

His concentration is so intense, I can almost hear it.

Then I see the specter looming over my child, watching his every move.

I try to cry out, but my scream is a whisper. I desperately try to warn my child, I want to run and protect him, but my body is bound by some unseen force.

The spirit looks back at me, over his shoulder and grins. I can see each sharp tooth in that smile and I shiver into silence.

He leans in and reaches to grab my son, to take the light from my life. I hear my son start to bawl as the ghost laughs at our mutual misery and again I try to scream.

This time, the sound comes. And as my shriek escapes my lungs and fills the room too late, all light disappears.

The dark is overwhelming.

All I can hear is the echo of my cry, that sense that nobody heard me.

My breath comes ragged, too quickly, I wonder where he is.

I turn my head right and left, but that is all the movement my invisible bonds allow. My cries are again whispers.

I smell a stench unlike any before. It reminds me of something darker than death, of overwhelming fear tangled with the deepest pain and suffering.

I can’t see through the perfect black.

Suddenly, I know it’s there. I can sense it, hear it, smell it. I can taste its smell in the back of my throat, a burning bitterness that threatens to bring up bile.

I hear the light pop of joints moving. I hear its breath more labored.

Or is that my breath?

And then I feel its breath on the back of my neck and the light, playful touch of its tongue as it gently kisses my neck.

My scream is real this time and I sit up in my bed, panting, frightened, shaking. I grab my chest.

I see a soft light from under the door and know where I am. I hear my son’s soft cry through the monitor and realize he woke me, saved me from an erotic horror I wanted no part of.

I start to calm, then hear a soft noise around me.

I fill with dread again. It couldn’t have followed me back out of my dream, could it have?

I feel a touch like a tendril, from the bottom of my jaw down my neck, slowly following some trail. My breath catches and I am able to scream.

I slap away the touch.

Then I realize the touch was nothing more than a droplet of sweat cascading down from my hair.

Goddamned menopause. These night sweats are going to kill me.

Published on Medium October 29, 2019

Psychologists have long spoken of the concept of an inner child. A quick search on Amazon shows over 10,000 books about the inner child, including the following topics:

• Recovering your inner child

• Healing your inner child

• Bonding with your inner child

• Nurturing your inner child

• Parenting your inner child

This inner child is a big deal, apparently! At the very least, he/she is a cash cow for those who are into pop psychology. According to psychologists, you can reparent your inner child.

I decided to try to get reacquainted with “Jenny”. I’ve named her Jenny because that is the name everyone called me when I was a child.

I stopped going by Jenny when a group of my 5th-grade peers looked the name up in the dictionary.

A jenny is a female donkey. 5th graders are not kind about that sort of information and I was subsequently traumatized.

Of course, I thought my life would get better if I could only heal and nurture Jenny.

But the bitch took over and now my adult life is suffering!

Before Jenny took over my life, I enjoyed a wide variety of healthy foods. I ate vegetables and fruit. I limited my intake of fat and denied myself sweet treats.

Jenny does not like bunny food.

For Jenny, a healthy dinner is Fruity Pebbles with milk. Nutritionists say that meals should be colorful. “What’s more colorful than Fruity Pebbles?” she asks.

She’s not wrong. My adult side, Ms. Pike, cannot argue with such logic. However, Ms. Pike’s jeans no longer fit. I’m going to end up being one of those people who wear pajama pants in public.

The horror!

My inner child loves to laugh. And while laughter itself is a good thing, there are situations in which laughter is frowned upon.

Funerals are an obvious example. No matter how much the minister sounds like Gomer Pyle, you cannot laugh without making yourself a social pariah.

Jenny doesn’t give a shit.

Nor does she care that there are not supposed to be any stupid questions. She laughs out loud at her perception of moronic.

She can’t stifle her giggles and I’m the one who gets glared at during the meeting!

Once my inner child’s giggles get started, Ms. Pike cannot get them stopped. It doesn’t help that Jenny has a dirty mind.

Anything that could have an innuendo attached to it is fair game for laughter. For example, my company uses an application called BlueJeans for conference calls.

I’m sorry, but when that gets abbreviated, my face turns red and I have to look down to cover my smile. I try — I really try — to contain my immaturity. But it’s a BJ app. It’s funny. And I can’t help it.

When my husband tells me he’s going to mount a television or screw a board, I can’t stop Jenny’s peals of laughter!

And don’t get me started on Disney toys. It’s very difficult to be stern with your kids fighting over a toy when one of them says, “MOM! She took my Woody!” Ms. Pike, of course, is very disappointed in their behavior. Jenny, on the other hand, is laughing too hard to dole out any discipline.

It’s all Jenny’s fault. She’s the one who’s immature. Not me!

I hate it when Jenny puts my makeup on for me . There are days when I’m getting ready for work and haven’t had coffee yet. That’s when Jenny takes over.

She doesn’t do eyeliner very well.

When Jenny does the eyeliner, it ends up looking like the readout from an EKG.

One eyebrow is generally drawn on like Spock from Star Trek. I look confused all day.

Confused people do not get promotions.

I no longer want to get in touch with my inner child. I’d like to pretend I don’t even know her.

How can I expect to have friendships or get ahead in a career with Jenny taking over my life?

The psychologists making money off of inner children can go to hell.

Jenny really is a female donkey.

Published on Medium October 22, 2019

What memories do you have of your grandmother? What do you remember about her most? Her baking? Her soft hugs? The sweet songs she sang?

These are common Grandma Superpowers.

Most grandmas have one or two superpowers that their kids will always think of fondly looking back on their lives.

I became a grandma about a year ago. And this little dude lights up my life like no other. However, I don’t bake well. I’m not much of a hugger. And as for my singing, one day, my youngest son asked me why I have to make such a horrible sound.

My superpower is something completely different: my turkey wattle.

I’m not fond of this whole “getting older” thing. While it may be better than the alternative, it is not fun.

Here I am, getting natural silver highlights and lines on my face that make me look like a shar-pei, yet still getting zits! I have thick chin hairs now, yet the hair on my head has gotten so thin it barely covers certain areas.

And let’s talk about gravity over time, shall we? My earlobes can barely hold up a light pair of studs, and my breasts hang like a couple of sad, half-filled hot air balloons. (Notice I said, “half-filled.” I’m not a complete pessimist)

That’s not entirely true. In the spirit of positivity, I should point out that my left breast is trying to stay perky. The other one, though, hangs its metaphorical head in shame.

Speaking of gravity, the bitch, it’s also had quite an effect on the skin between my chin and throat. I have a full-fledged turkey wattle. I spend hours doing face exercises, pushing my tongue against my lower teeth and jutting my jaw forward, to strengthen those neck-skin muscles (probably not a thing). However, I’m convinced that nothing short of a roll of duck tape will ever help.

When my grandson was very little, my turkey wattle was his first real toy. Sure he had rattles and stuffed animals galore, but he didn’t play with those. He would lay in my lap and reach up to push on my neck skin. He would grab it and pull it and squish it.

I guess you could say I was his first Silly Putty.

I tried to stop him at first. It was a bit too humbling to have this baby reminding me of my worst flaw.

But I quickly realized that I made him smile. I made him laugh. I had the superpower to flush out the cranky baby and make him playful. Grabbing for my wattle brought out those first precious smiles and baby giggles.

A lot of babies have the skills to self-soothe. Babies suck their thumbs, use a pacifier, or rub a favorite blanket against their skin. Not my grandson. He does not go to sleep easily.

One evening, I was rocking him and singing to him, trying to get him to go to sleep. He kept screaming and kicking, getting stronger with each minute instead of wearing himself down. I was nearly in tears myself.

I leaned back and looked to the ceiling, trying to blink back my own tears. Suddenly he quieted, and I felt him bat my wattle. He hiccupped a few times with a few shuttering breaths of drama.

He calmed down as he moved my neck skin to the right and let go. Then to the left and let go.

He batted it back and forth, slowly and methodically. My wattle became his soothing mobile.

I watched in amazement as, while he played with my attached toy, his eyes got heavier. Within another five minutes, he was asleep.

It turns out, I have the power of a baby soother.

One morning, I was getting ready for work, thinking about my neck and how much joy it brings to that baby. I started brushing my teeth and watched as my turkey wattle jiggled in the mirror.

I found it more amusing than depressing. I shook my head back and forth quickly and laughed out loud at how funny it looked. (Don’t judge; I hadn’t had my coffee yet.)

The next time EJ was screaming, I remembered the Jello-like structure. I got his attention and shook my neck.

It worked! He stopped crying and started laughing.

Now that is my strongest superpower: the power of laughter. My wattle is my power ring, my Batarang, my Mjolnir hammer.

As much as I dislike the way gravity has taken over my neck, I know that when my grandson looks back on his memories of me, he’ll remember my turkey wattle with fondness.

It is my secret weapon. My superpower.

Sometimes it’s those things you dislike most about yourself that you need to embrace. They’re the features that make you unique and memorable. Somebody loves the thing you hate.

Published on Medium October 13, 2019

The demons in my mind
question my worth
make it hard to speak
even with those I call friends
wondering if they really are
if they care.

The demons are evil creatures
that whisper I can’t be happy
they ask me who I think I am
for trying to be anything more
than this shell of a woman
I am now.

The demons scream at me
show me images of what may be
if I share that idea I have
at work or online
and show me my life
impoverished.

The demons are tricksters
but their words often ring true.
They outnumber my angels of peace
the thoughts of my potential
my inner greatness
confidence.

Some days I know the demons are wrong
Some days I know my worth
to myself, to family, to others
Some days I only see and hear them
They block my view of the future
Show my past.

Some days I’m so tired of the fight
But I continue on with hope
that one day my angels will sing louder
than the cacophony of demon screams.
And I continue to chase
the angels.

Published on Medium October 7, 2019