Important disclaimer: To the IRS and all other interested parties, for those two years of traveling, my legal domicile was still Utah because it made no sense to change it when I had no idea how long I’d be anywhere. Thank you for your understanding.

In Colorado Springs as well as other U.S. cities where I “lived” (my legal domicile was still Utah as you’ll recall), I went to church, I found ways to volunteer, I got to know neighbors, I found and frequented my favorite local donut shop. And I played pickleball with strangers who became friends.

For something like $30, I joined an organization called the P.P.P.P.P.P.A., or the Pike’s Peak Pickleball Association. This non-profit group of volunteers organized round-robin games by level, and my level played at 1:00 in the afternoon on Wednesdays. Most people my age have respectable jobs occupying daytime hours but since I was and remain a self-employed, Utah-based writer, I could go play with the coolest group of mostly retired people.

Marv was usually the boss on the ground, and once I realized the only thing I had to fear from his was his wicked curve ball, I adored him. He would bring coolers full of waters packed in ice. On particularly hot days, he would bring frozen towels for people to use to keep from getting things like heat stroke. In the words of a former coworker, Lynda, “What a guy!”

Marv would’ve previously randomly assigned us to six games with different partners and opponents, and on one hot summer afternoon, Dottie and I were assigned to play two middle-age men. That might make it sound like I am not close to middle-age even though I am that, but they were a few years older than me so they officially earn the label. Dottie was decades years older than me, and one of the coolest cats on the court. She dressed stylishly, was super easy going but played well, called everyone “Babe,” was encouraging without ever being annoying, and brought out the best in everyone.

She and I agreed that, no matter what the guys offered, we wanted to take them on, she and I. Not because either of us is remotely anti-dude. I usually preferred working with men in tech and had zero problem being a minority in male-dominated tech companies in the state of Utah where I have my residence. We just didn’t want any pandering from these two gents, and didn’t want them suggesting that they split the fairer sex up to eliminate an assumed disadvantage. Yes, guys can definitely hit harder, but there’s more to pickleball than brute force. Dottie and I wanted to take them on, fair and square.

IT WAS EPIC. The guys got up by a couple points, then Dottie and I tied them and got up by a point or so. We see-sawed back and forth like this for the entire game. At times, she and I looked sunk. But you just can’t keep two good women down. Dottie and I were using all kinds of positive psychology on each other, and when one of us would make a mistake or do something really good we would help the other shake it off or paddle tap and give subtle fist bumps of triumph. We talked to each other between points like we were college athletes in the championship game, instead of two regular women with four bad knees playing two middle-age men in a rec game no one would remember.

Did I say no one would remember? HERE WE ARE, REMEMBERING as I type this in Utah, the state where I live, to be read by you wherever you live.

Pickleball games go to eleven, win by two. Our game went to 15, or was it 17? Either way, it was a real nail-biter and CLOSE. And tough. And really fun. And super hot. The rest of the games had wrapped up for a break and most everyone was appreciating Marv’s ice water and frozen towels from the shade, chatting and watching as the four of us battled long beyond the other teams.

At long last, Dottie and I finally pulled off a hard-won WIN. As is typical in pickleball, the four of us met at the net for “good game” paddle taps, all four of us more earnest than usual about this truly being a GOOD GAME. And as Dottie and I walked away toward the shade, ten steps or so ahead of the guys, Dottie said three words to me I’ll never forget: “We. Beat. Boys.”

I might’ve felt in that moment a little bit like we were schoolgirls at recess, and I might not have minded at all. Dottie, if you ever find yourself in Utah—the state where I live—let’s find a couple guys to play and see if we can beat some more boys.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting?? See you in the next one…

1. Never buy anything from a door-to-door salesperson.

2. Never pay the $1,000 for the oil change place to replace your car air filters. DIY it.

3. Ice cream shops and cookie stores should always be small, cozy, and ideally warm.

4. Always speak in definitives.

On a trip with family some years ago, finding ice cream was first priority on our afternoon agenda. Correction: A priority on most of my trips with anyone involve finding ice cream. We’d just driven into a charming coastal Oregon town and could tell from our walk down Main Street that, boy, did this town ever have ice cream! It was a beautiful day in a beautiful place and our ice-cream craving spirits were high.

This was in the carefree days of “use your best judgement to make decisions.” Google Reviews and ChatGPT couldn’t tell us where to go or what to do. It was thus—with our best judgment—we made a now-bold decision and selected an ice cream establishment that from the outside looked charming. Key word, LOOKED.

These business owners were no dummies. They were depending on gullible tourists judging an ice cream shop by its exterior and it totally worked. Unless you’re a certain person I know but can’t describe in even vague terms because he or she might recognize himself or herself in any detail when this Substack becomes as famous as it’s going to become, once you step inside most ice cream shops it’s awkward to extricate yourself. You can’t pretend in such a niche shop that they didn’t have what you wanted. Especially since they usually have dozens of flavors, and cater to the “Free” Crowd: dairy-free, nut-free, gluten-free, and/or sugar-free.

Full disclosure: I have walked away from ONE ice cream shop in my lifetime. Their artisan menu was small and not a single option included chocolate in any form.

This Oregon place was run by an older couple who I don’t think have ever enjoyed ice cream—or anything for that matter—in their life. Decorating the walls of the shop were 8.5 x 11 signs produced by a home printer. These signs shared cheerful messages such as: “CASH ONLY!!” and “NO SAMPLES!” and “NO MIXING FLAVORS!!” If you wanted, for example, a scoop of chocolate and a scoop of Reese’s peanut butter cup in your 2-scoop cone, you needed to want something else. Or buy two single-scoop cones.

One of each sign was not enough for each wall, neither was three or eight. These signs were plastered EVERYWHERE and were very effective at enforcing compliance. Just imagine what these folks could accomplish if they put their prolific marketing energies into something positive! Instead, they dampening our spirits and made us hesitant to ask any questions or be cheerful like you ought to be in an ice cream shop.

Also adding to the jolly ambience of the place was tinny, mechanical piano music reminiscent of the Disneyland “It’s a Small World” ride. In another store or this store under different ownership, this music would’ve unequivocally been merry; I can just see our happy family group polka-ing around the store while gaily licking our mixed-and-matched ice cream cones!! But since the store was not under different management, it came across as almost sinister. For those who disagreed, or those who like sinister music, they sold CDs of their music at the register.

About the ice cream itself, I don’t remember particularly enjoying it. Not because it was bad ice cream. It was just tough to enjoy something I felt like I’d acquired against the wishes of the owners and was consuming as a demoralized patron.

It would be nice if the Oregon place was the only Sad Ice Cream Establishment in the western United States. It’s not.

On a random winter evening last year, I headed out to satiate a craving for Vietnamese take-out. This particular fast-casual Asian fusion restaurant is 82 feet away from an ice cream parlor, something I did not know until I pulled into the parking lot. Suddenly, I really wanted ice cream—before dinner. Grinning about this spontaneous and irresponsible decision, I walked across the parking lot separating these two franchises of happiness.

Cheerful anticipation quickly turned confusion when I entered the ice cream parlor and was greeted by silence. Not because there was no one inside. Oh ho ho, not the case. The place was packed. There was a line of customers. Two teenage employees behind the counter were doing something I supposed we could call “work.” Mostly they were moving about slowly while gabbing with each other. Not in that darling, “Aw, look at how much fun they’re having working together!” sort of way. More in the way where they seemed annoyed to have customers in the store.

As mentioned, a lot of customers had apparently gotten the memo to get ice cream before dinner. They’d ALSO apparently received an additional memo: “Eat your ice cream in silence and stare awkwardly at arriving patrons.” It was their stony silence that disconcerted me most and made me almost laugh out loud in stupefaction. Awkward scenes like this exist (or should exist) only in movies. These multi-generational members of my community lined the edges of the parlor, eating their ice cream in obedient silence. The line of customers was also waiting mostly in silence.

We’ve all seen it—the devastation of a kid who loses their precariously perched scoop of ice cream to poor cone management. That’s how I felt. The charm of ice-cream-before-dinner was dashed to pieces like a shattered waffle cone and I left with no ice cream. I console myself even still by reminding myself at least I got writing material out of it.

Thank our collective lucky stars that there are many ice shops where the employees are kind and you can mix and match scoops and patrons are happy and the music isn’t creepy.

Coming to mind is another local establishment, this one a happy place, where I met my friend and her kids for ice cream for literal lunch.

Or the place on the main street of the town I lived in prior to my two-year global travel session, and which makes THE WORLD’S BEST s’mores ice cream. Mail a self-addressed, stamped envelope with $1.00 enclosed and I’ll send the name and location.

Or the place in my Montana hometown where Carmel, a family friend going back to my dad’s elementary school days, served—yes, past tense, but not because she’s passed on—ice cream to hundreds of people every summer out of a 225-square foot ice cream establishment called the Pickle Barrel. This hometown favorite is still serving up their traditional and beloved submarine sandwiches, but they saddened many hearts when they closed down the ice cream half of their business.

The only upside I can think of is for this closure is that maybe there’s room in the market for another small and cozy ice, run by yours truly.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting, even the ones who run cheerless ice cream shops?? See you in the next one…

In his anxiety over this unfamiliar experience, Chad missed the parts about “facedown” and “under the sheet.” He undressed to comfort—in his case, all the way—and was unsure what to do next. So he laid on his back on top of the sheet to not disrupt things. To preserve decency, he strategically placed a hand towel over a certain bodily area.

Needless to say, but I’m going to say it anyway, the masseuse was VERY surprised when she entered the room. Much more explicit instructions were given while she looked in a direction opposite Chat, and she left the room for him to try again. This time, he explicitly followed directions. Had a massage. Left, still feeling a little sheepish.

Everyone, including Chad, laughed at the recounting of his story but the time has come to admit publicly on the Internet that, as a seasoned recipient of massages, I judged him. How could you not know to get under the sheet?

Well, karma caught up with me years later in Tbilisi, Georgia. Traveling the way I was—much walking, heavy backpack, budget accommodations with the world’s worst mattress or “mattress”—my shoulders, neck, and body in general were feeling wrecked. “Wrecked” is a phrase I learned from UK travelers and I like it. Google reviews are a wonderfully universal thing, and I found a reasonably-priced massage place nearby with decent reviews and openings for the next morning.

One thing I’ve learned from having massages all over the United States is that you never really know what to expect when you enter a new massage establishment. Especially because I prefer Asian massage establishments. They tend do things their own way, and this way differs a lot from the experience you might have at Western (e.g. American or Swedish) massage establishments.

The main differences for the uninitiated—and even those who can relate—as as follows:

Western massage establishments can be pretty froo froo: carefully curated aromatherapy, impeccable decor, very gentle music which reminds me of the music we played during nap time at the daycare where I worked for a summer in college. Everything is done almost reverently.

Eastern massage establishments often also have music playing. But there you will also likely hear lots of chatter between masseuses—same room, different room, it doesn’t really matter. Your masseuse may answer the phone during your massage. At my last one, one of their dogs barked most of the time. And it’s fun to see the differences in decor preferences. I have a feeling that something was lost in translation with this poem on the wall of a uniquely decorated SoCal massage room I couldn’t help but capture photographically.

My favorite thought bubble in the picture of the five dogs is the last one which says “Sorry.”

Western massage establishments gather a comprehensive medical history of you and your entire extended family. They review it carefully and accommodate their massage to any complications you or your family might have or ever had. “Now,” the masseuse begins in gentle tones. “You said your father’s maternal aunt had shoulder surgery when she was 14 years old? I’m very sorry to hear. I’ll be sure to be very gentle with both of yours.”

Eastern massage places’ approach is more of “if we can’t see any problems, you don’t have any.” In my case, they have no idea I’ve had multiple orthopedic surgeries and continued issues in multiple joints. But why waste time telling them? A yelp of pain when they bend you in ways you didn’t know the body could bend is quicker than wasting all that valuable massage time filling out unnecessary paperwork.

In practical ways, they’re also different. You’ll pay the equivalent of a semester of out-of-state tuition for a 50-minute Western massage; at an Eastern massage establishment, you can get a solid 60-minute massage for the price of eight Big Macs.

Anyway, I’d not yet braved an international massage until the country of Georgia where I, an American, ended up getting a massage from a Thai woman. What a multicultural experience. My masseuse gave me even fewer instructions than Chad’s masseuse gave him, but unlike him, I was a pro! I knew exactly what to do! Being in a new country and unsure of any difference in customs phased me not at all! Undressing to my comfort, I did pause for a second at the sight of an almost sheer fabric layer covering the sheet on the table before I blazed right through it and got under that sheet like EVERYBODY knows you’re supposed to.

Unlike Chad’s masseuse, mine wasn’t surprised when she entered. She was upset. Turns out, I was meant to lay under the semi-sheer disposable fabric sheet and on top of the real sheet. You are correct that this wouldn’t afford much privacy, but hey—new country, new customs.

Without leaving the room, she rather forcefully directed me to reposition which involved extricating from under one sheet and aimlessly standing there while she got it back in position. In the process, she saw about as much of my body as has my full-body mole-check dermatologist. At a certain stage of life, even if you continue to value modesty, you learn to be more accepting of your body (if you’re lucky) and comfortable with it being seen by people who need to see it. She didn’t technically need to see everything, but see it she did.

It was my fault, thought, since I did the obviously wrong thing. And I would now like to take this opportunity to publicly apologize to Chad; I get it now, man. We’re in this together.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting?? See you in the next one…

It was an afternoon like any other at the office. The coughing from the executive area near us hadn’t yet fully registered in my consciousness, but my brain was slowly gathering that something was happening over yonder.

The CEO’s executive assistant, W, hurried over to our marketing area in her Dansko clogs and asked urgently, “Does anyone know the Heimlich?” For your information, W was wearing more than clogs, it’s just that I don’t remember her outfit like I remember her consistently-worn clogs. Unless I’m that terrible of an eye witness and maybe she never wore clogs.

She continued, “I’ve tried, but he’s too tall.”

Now, at 5'8 ⅝", I’m MUCH taller than the average woman who the Internet says is 5'3 ½". That day, it’s likely my statuesque height was closer to 6' as I often wore Dansko clogs during that phase of life. Me and W, you know. It’s important that I share about how tall I am because a) not only have I struggled with a height complex most of my life—I’m the short one in my family—but b) it’s relevant to the story. I heard a request for “tall” and cast a vote for that identity by responding.

At one time in my life I was an EMT and not just a Basic one. I was an Intermediate one, sort of IV-trained and all. Vestiges of the “Listen for sirens and serve” motto lives on in me still; it was even stronger back then. Sirens or not, someone was in need; and I was the best qualified and tallest option our marketing team could offer.

Like the main character in “Twas The Night Before Christmas,” “I sprang from my [desk] to see what was the matter.” I didn’t really spring, because that would be weird. It’s more accurate to say that, in a moment which indicates the bystander effect may not apply to me, I acted without hesitation.

Before you meet the recipient of my unwarranted Heimlich, I need to tell you about my aunt. She’s as relevant to this story as is my height, which is very tall.

A year prior, Worker’s Compensation mandated that she go to the emergency room after nearly “dry drowning” on the job. There the ER physician supposedly said she would’ve died had someone not performed the Heimlich maneuver on her.

Now feels like a good time to tell you to remember the disclaimer at the top.

Even though I’m tall, I cannot vouch for how scientifically or medically accurate this is, but as family legend goes, it was drinking ice water with her head tilted way back that forced my aunt’s epiglottis to close and stay closed. Rather like a slammed door—not a chance of anything getting in or out (including air) until something or someone forced the door to reopen.

My aunt shared that she felt herself blacking out and was about to use the corner of a table to give herself a thrust, when a student employee noticed her duress. She spell check built into Google Docs wants me to change “duress” to “dress” but that would change the story. The employee gave her the Heimlich, forcing things to unseal and getting breathing back in business. I don’t know if the company gave her a medal or anything, but boy, if anything ever justified an Employee of the Year, this does.

The VP, let’s call him Chad, was in the kitchen where W and her clogs had left him. As he made futile attempts to breathe, he clutched the container of the offending agent—an innocuous plastic water bottle from which he’d taken a drink of good ol’ H2, then WHAM. No more breathing for him! With confidence borne of my great height, I got behind him, wrapped my arms around him, and gave him a good abdominal thrust. Totally forgotten from my extensive medical training was that you’re always supposed to ask for consent and that sort of thing. Oops.

Remember that this is not medical advice nor probably medically accurate—just the best we laypeople do when we talk about the medical stuff that happens to and around! And also, please remember that I’m very tall.

In my defense, I figured W had already asked for permission, or if she hadn’t, I was just doing what she’d already tried. And considering that forty-two seconds had to have elapsed since his last abdominal thrust and he still wasn’t doing well, I figured we just sometimes don’t know what we need. It wasn’t that he wasn’t completely not breathing. If breathing is on a scale like the pain scale and 0 equals NO BREATHING and 10 equals ALL THE BREATHING, I’d rate his participation in this human endeavor at like a 0.6. But because these scales annoyingly don’t let you select decimals, we have to round up to 1.0 even though it feels too generous for his case.

After the first thrust, I gave him another before he finally coughed and moved up the breathing scale to like a 2. With newfound hope, or because he maybe never needed it in the first place, he waved me off. Or was it that my thrusts actually did something? Do I ever like to think so!

Truth be told, it probably was never his epiglottis which was sealed shut. He was probably having what we all know is a (goes to Google AI overview) laryngospasm, in which “water hits the throat, causing the vocal cords to spasm and seal the airway, preventing air from entering the lungs, even if no water enters the lungs.”

So, as much as I wanted to be the hero, it’s more likely that on his own he’d caught enough of a breath to give him hope of eventually breathing normally again. He began coughing and breathing in earnest while I stood there and stared, awkwardly I’m sure. “Sorry if I overreacted,” I said. “My aunt nearly dry drowned on water and would’ve died if someone hadn’t done the Heimlich on her.” He couldn’t yet say anything, so I kept going, and asked the question I probably should’ve asked at the start: “Are you okay?” He nodded, kept coughing, and I took that as my cue to return to my desk.

A few days later, we passed in the stairwell for the first time in the months I’d been employed at this company. There’s no pretending you don’t see each other in a stairwell containing only two people, one of whom is very tall. With a smile of unknown meaning, and in jest tinged with maybe embarrassment, he said “Thanks for saving my life.” Because I didn’t know what else to do, I played it off like a good joke. But deep, deep down, I’m going to keep thinking I might have just saved his life, whether he needed it or not.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting?? See you in the next one…

“Where’s your favorite burger place?” was the question.

When it came my turn to answer, I squared my shoulders and defiantly raised my chin as I answered, “McDonald’s.” These are the kinds of social/political risks you can take in corporate when you are debt-free and can afford to lose a job over an unpopular opinion.

But it unexpectedly took an unexpected turn. My moral stand gave everyone else the courage to admit that they ALSO like McDonald’s. Well, everyone except Ian. Supposedly he’s never stepped foot on a McDonald’s property or eaten their food, and wasn’t going to start for anything. You’ve got to admire principles like that, even if he missed out on a new monthly tradition of team-sans-Ian McDonald’s lunches.

Most people feel pressured to pretend they eschew McDonald’s, even if they don’t. Kind of like how we all feel pressured to admit we love dogs. I don’t—love them with every fiber of my being, that is—despite plenty of societal pressure to love them. Despite what one Utah woman thinks, I’m not actually a terrible human being. I like dogs plenty, and genuinely love some. I’d do almost anything for a dogs with a snaggletooth. It just turns out I love dogs ON OTHER PEOPLE.

How I came to know this truth begins like so: It was COVID. That sentence explains nearly everything I need it to explain.

ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ

But to fill in the few gaps, here goes:

We all made poor decisions during COVID time. Mine included staying up too late watching Tiger King, buying bricks of Velveeta because how could I face a future without it, and deciding to be a DIY home renovator only to abandon course after a few hours of haphazardly applying product purchased from Home Depot to the walls of my unfinished garage and realizing the project was going to be much more demanding than YouTube makes it appear.

And I bought into puppy fever.

“It’ll be so fun,” they said.

“You’ll love having a companion,” they said.

I thought I agreed with them. I also thought, “It’ll be so fun for my nieces and nephews to have a puppy to visit.”

Well.

I bought some kind of doodle named Millie and renamed her Maisie. We were very happy. For a time measured in hours. But the experience was not wasted; I got a kick out of her, got some pictures, had fun introducing her to my niece, and I learned MUCH:

1. Nothing but the crate which had not yet arrived from Amazon can adequately confine a puppy. No amount of duct-tape applied to a strategically wedged, large cardboard box works.

2. Even once said crate arrived, the sounds of a puppy crying are like daggers to the heart of an empath. Neither of us slept at night. One of us, however, could nap on the floor while the other had to attempt to work during the days.

3. Potty training a puppy solo is scientifically proven to be the worst experience known to mankind. I felt like—nay, WAS—a prisoner chained to my kitchen counter watching out of one eye as this four-legged terrorist roamed the main floor. The Internet told me which cues indicated that she was about to go potty yet again on the floor. Unfortunately, those cues looked exactly like the cues that precede everything else a puppy does.

4. Carrying a 13-pound (?) canine up and down two flights of stairs, through the garage, and out to the yard for theoretically bathroom runs—she preferred to use my rug or laminated floor for those—is bad for already compromised knees.

4. Even when the breeder says she accepts puppies back, she doesn’t tell you that you will pay the Terrible Human Tax when you do so. While polite, everything about her demeanor said, “How could I have EVER entrusted SUCH A PERSON with a precious creature?” Even my knee situation didn’t soften that breeder’s heart. I only felt guilty for months.

ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ

But I hadn’t yet learned my lesson. About the time I stopped feeling guilty over Millie/Maisie, I started looking at dogs to foster. The phrase “glutton for punishment” comes to mind. Nearby Park City had a shelter with a sweet-looking elderly dog named Doris. Have I always wanted a Chihuahua? Absolutely no. But her age and tragic late-life abandonment drew me in like an absolute sucker.

When I talked to the shelter people, they offered what they called a no-commitment weekend sleepover to see how Doris and I would get on. This dog was really sweet and they acted devastated to let her. She was also incredibly stubborn, and slow. She easily would’ve lost a footrace to a cold tortoise; and probably would’ve liked it that way if I wanted something different. Our walks were extended affairs of TWO BLOCKS, and because she couldn’t handle my stairs, my bad knees and I were on the hook for getting her up and down them for potty breaks outside.

By Monday morning, my mind was made up. As much as I wanted to be a dog person—and the person to provide a comfortable retirement life for a disadvantaged dog like Doris—she and I and my stairs and my knees weren’t a match. A phone call to the shelter to announce my pending return made it clear that these sleepovers were either not as noncommittal as advertised, or they were less enamored with sweet Doris than they seemed to be.

I slunk into that shelter with Doris and the loaned supplies, and out with a barely salvaged belief that I’m not the terrible person they seemed to think me. I also left with a firm resolve: NO MORE DOGS FOR ME. No siree Bob! Not ever again. Well….maybe…but only when I have a rambler house. With a large fenced yard. And I’m married and have someone else to share the responsibilities with. And the dog is already potty trained. And it doesn’t shed. And doesn’t bark excessively.

It’s taken years and a lot of therapy and inner work, but I’m finally (mostly) at peace with being more of an appreciator of dogs than a collector of them. I’m also coming to peace with this Substack at least occasionally turning into the place wherein I share all the embarrassing happenings of my past and present that reveal my neuroticisms and clumsiness and things of which I used to be ashamed before I realized they were my best WRITING MATERIAL. Like the time I got a ski up my nose. (If you missed that one from last week, one reader shared that she thought it was my funniest yet.) Next week, I’ll tell you about the time I gave the Heimlich to someone who may or may not have needed it…

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting and sometimes judgmental about what we do and don’t love?? See you in the next one…

You may also like this favorite essay in which you’ll be astonished at all the dots I connect: McDonald’s (naturally), train queues, a swarm of Spanish police, and a stranger’s highlighted handwritten notes…

Truth be told, though, I’d been figuratively writing it for years. This bright book articulates what I navigated in order to wake up and take chances to create a life of my own. And what all of us dreamers need to remember to stay awake and risking for our dreams. Rome will always have a special place in my heart and life since I can emphatically say that experiences like the following represent just one time I felt God redirecting my life from comfortable tech worker/professional financial coach to the author/writer I am now.

Enjoy, and if you haven’t yet picked up your copy of the book, you can get it here. This vignette is included on p.138 for those of you who already have the book.

The day in Rome started with a triumph. I figured out the metro. And with some running to catch the right train, I was even on time to my scheduled tour of the Colosseum and Palatine Hill.

After the tour, a new friend and I explored our way to the San Pietro in Vincoli (Saint Peter in Chains) basilica and the Jewish Quarter where he knew he could get a halal meal. Over pizza and Fanta, we talked about family, faith, dating, and careers, then went our separate ways. I wandered the city with awe, looked for and acquired pastries, then headed back toward my hotel.

Realizing I needed to make a quick stop at the pharmacy for conditioner meant I returned to my hotel from a different direction than usual. Which meant I saw a banner I would otherwise have missed advertising “Three Tenors’ Concert Tonight.”1 This concert was being held in what I’d misjudged to be a nondescript cathedral directly across the street from my hotel. Little did I know this cathedral is known for their amazing acoustics, something I personally discovered and had confirmed by a friend who knows these sorts of things.

The concert started in a mere ten minutes, so I whirled into my hotel, bought a ticket on my phone, brushed my teeth, put my hair up in a rare ponytail, and off I dashed.

The musical cast consisted of just a string quartet, a pianist, and—shocker—three tenors in tuxedos. The audience was I’d guess one hundred and twenty people, and we were collectively transported by the entire experience. For me, it felt like the whole evening had been orchestrated just for me, like this was why I’d come to Rome.

My own rapture, though, didn’t stop me from getting a kick out of the woman next to me. She wore large, thick-rimmed glasses and an oversized fur coat, and her presence was as big as I remember her hair being. For much of the concert, she was on her knees on the prayer bench, clutching her hands together, almost sobbing during some of the numbers that had delicate tears rolling down my own cheeks.

Note for Substack readers: If the following doesn’t make you just swoon, I am not sure what to do with you…

As the concert progressed, though, I noticed her travel companion’s patience wearing thin. For all I know, these women were only loosely acquainted, and her more demure companion didn’t seem to appreciate the more flamboyant woman’s commentary. When all three tenors appeared and started singing together, she helpfully and loudly informed her companion and everyone else: “This one they’re all singing together.”

When I was planning Europe, I did not have any part of that day on my list. I certainly didn’t have “life-changing opera concert at cathedral” on the radar. And even if I had tried to make all of the parts and pieces happen, I couldn’t have orchestrated such a perfect day and evening. Magic really does happen when we least expect it. But leaving what’s comfortable, being up for adventure, and making ourselves more available for it is a good start. True in travels and true in our figurative travels through life.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

Several years ago, I injured both shoulders in a car accident—my second within nine months. Neither was my fault, for your information. I am a very good driver.

Medicine is finally agreeing with me that there were likely underlying issues, but the accident definitely surfaced issues requiring major surgery. Because I am nothing if but complicated, there was no surgeon within hundreds of miles equipped to handle the surgery it was deemed I needed. Making a very long story very short, I ended up in a small town in Nebraska of all places. There a family member of a family member was able to perform the surgery I needed.

After five days of pre-op, surgery, and initial recovery, it was finally time for me to fly home to Las Vegas. Gilbert Blythe would call me a ninny for thinking I could handle out-of-state surgery by myself, and he would be right. The surgeon and his family took really good care of me, but it would’ve been very welcome to have my friend or family member there for moral support and for navigating the flights home.

Alas, it was just me. The surgeon’s wife dropped me at the postage-stamp sized airport and made sure I was situated. Checked in with ample time, I settled in to await boarding. To distract myself from post-op pain and nausea, I pulled out my laptop to watch a familiar movie. This was 2007, so my HP laptop was approximately the size of a cafeteria tray, needed to be plugged in, and came complete with turbo jet engines doubling as lap warmers. I’d just started watching While You Were Sleeping when I was summoned in all my slinged glory to the ticket counter.

There I was informed that the aircraft assigned to my flight was having mechanic problems, the back-up aircraft was on a charter flight, and there was no other option for getting me out of Nebraska that day. Apologetically, the nice man told me they’d put me up in a hotel and give me meal vouchers. I didn’t protest much, but, on the verge of tears, expressed how sub-optimal that arrangement was.

Navigating a hotel and restaurants in an unfamiliar Nebraska town in the dead of a midwest winter and IN MY CONDITION was 110% daunting. Especially because I was not traveling light. Not appreciating I needed just few changes of clothes, basic toiletries, and a laptop, I’d packed a military-grade tactical duffel bag as if I was going into witness protection for several weeks. Duffel bags are not awesome for even the most physically well and able-bodied person to carry, unless said duffel is packed with, I don’t know, goose down. Mine was not packed with goose down.

How far I’ve come. I This is what I packed for exploring Europe and perhaps beyond for several weeks and possibly months.

Returning to my seat and my movie, I blinked back my tears. I was feeling and I’m sure looking certifiably pathetical. About the time I’d decided—as much as a person on strong pain medication can decide anything—that if I had to stay an extra night, the ticket man approached with an update.

The last plane out, the one that had departed just 30 minutes before I checked in for my purported flight, was actually going to return from Denver to collect me. Just me. This meant that somewhere along the line someone had compassion enough to get I’m sure hard-to-come-by permission, and that the crew was all going to work overtime and put off their personal lives to get me back to mine. I get misty-eyed just thinking about it.

Yes, I had to wait a little bit, but they returned as soon as they could, and boarded a short line of one person. The memory is still surreal: I had my own flight attendant and a pilot and I assume an FAA-required co-pilot. Even if it wasn’t a 747, I nonetheless had a commercial flight for just little ol’ pathetic me. In my legal-drug-induced compromised state and bewildered confusion that this was really happening, I’m sure my expressions of gratitude were inadequate. But I sure tried.

We landed in Denver and they let me de-board on the wintery runway WITH my Uncle Mike’s bag. Don’t tell the FAA, but that probably should’ve been run through baggage claim; the exceptions they make for especially pitiable cases are quite wonderful. I remember entering the airport and getting comments from gate agents: “Just you??” and “Were you the only one on the plane?” almost like they don’t see this very often.

Being warned that I was cutting it very close to my connecting flight to Las Vegas, I knew I had to run for it. With one arm strapped to my operated-upon body and lugging a duffel bag in which I could’ve fit a dead body—and which felt rather like I had—I ran as well as I could through the sprawling airport, arriving at my gate in the nick of time. Unlike my Nebraska flight, this one was packed but I didn’t even mind. I knew better than to expect my own aircraft every again.

With my ginormous duffel bag checked, I settled into my seat, exquisitely grateful to know that I’d be HOME that night, thanks to the nicest thing several people orchestrated for a fellow human in distress. Please don’t tell those kind people to whom I remain indebted what happened next as they may think less of the object of their charity.

With my computerized cafeteria tray stowed somewhere inaccessible and the screen a mere 15 inches from my face, I couldn’t help but watch the commercials playing on the back of the seat in front of me.

A beautiful, dark horse was running in a field backdropped by mountains, when a sudden thought pierced through my pain and adrenaline. You should know that never in my life have I ever eaten horse and I don’t plan to start. You should also know that all I’d had was a banana and some crackers since the shake I’d had four nights before when the surgeon’s wife brought home Sonic treats for us all to enjoy while watching Scrubs. Probably not too many patients watch a medical show with their surgeon the night before surgery.

It was probably due to the emotional turmoil of the day and the knowledge that I was really headed back to safety, that my appetite suddenly returned with embarrassing fervor. I am not proud of this, but I also recognize that some thoughts we just don’t control. As I watched this majestic animal gallop across the screen, the very clear thought entered my mind, not “I am as hungry as a horse,” but rather “I want to eat that horse.”

Isn’t life cool and aren’t some people so kind and aren’t I weird? See you in the next one…

BIG news around here has me drafting letters to the FDA and OSHA and any other gov’ment agency responsible for keeping us safe. While washing my face a few weeks ago, I jammed a finger up my nose. Obviously accidental, this was done hard enough for a fingernail of very average length to make a small cut in the edge of my nostril or, to be precise, my alar rim. Talk about feeling totally inept at one of the most basic hygiene things homo sapiens have done since leaving the cave.

I am unable to explain how this occurred other than I must’ve gotten overzealous about my facial cleansing and lost control of a finger. The label of my 1990s-branded facial cleanser provided NO WARNING about this potential hazard, hence my campaign of letters to get warnings added to all facial cleanser bottles.

Until then, we’ll have to lean on education provided by AI overviews on Google to keep us safe. Their instructions for the most ordinary of human endeavors are not as insultingly obvious as I once thought. The error of my ways is now revealed to me and going forward, I will remember: “gentle” and “circular.”

Whether or not their injuries were self-inflicted and in such a halfwitted way, I’m relieved to know others have also experienced trauma to their alar rims. (ICD-10 code of S01.21XA: “Laceration without foreign body of nose, initial encounter.”) And now I’m wondering how else others have injured theirs.

This pathetic injury of mine got me thinking about the injuries we all incur. We usually don’t know exactly how they came about, can’t anticipate them, and they often happen while doing the most ordinary of things. A few examples I’m familiar with follow for your reading pleasure.

• A woman I met at a local place had both arms in slings. Her husband was getting a real kick out of telling people he’d put her in a straight-jacket, before telling the real story: she had tripped on a curb and broke BOTH elbows.

• My friend’s friend is no longer able to drive carpool because her foot fell asleep while laying down with one of her kids at night and when she walked on it, she broke it.

• My brother was carrying his writhing son down the stairs to put him in time-out. Leo’s offense was refusing to pick up the flashcards he had scattered on the stairs. Abe slipped on one of the offending flash cards, landing on and breaking his ankle in pretty awful ways. Leo was fine; this is what we call adding injury to insult.

The time has come to admit that my face washing injury was not actually my first nostril injury. My prior one was even more ignominious.

Downhill skiing at Bridger Bowl was a Christmas Break tradition our family looked forward to each year during our teen and college years. Since our skiing was confined to a single day each year and money was nearly always tight, we were not well-outfitted. For much of my childhood, we skied in jeans. Why, I am unable to tell you. What I can tell you is that, once experienced, a person is unable to forget the feel of pegged jeans digging into your ankles inside ski boots.

Since we never owned gear, we rented. Most years, we stopped at Panda Rentals. Dad’s friend Bill owned this ski rental shop/gas station combination, well-positioned on the north side of town and on the way to Bridger Bowl.

On this fateful day, we’d purchased our lift tickets for a now-astonishing $55 or something. This makes me all the more appalled that lift tickets at one Utah resort have gone up to an indecent $330 for ONE DAY. You could buy very many tacos for that amount of money.

Collecting our rented skis from the ski rack, we trudged toward the locker room, me carrying my skis more awkwardly than usual over my shoulder. Halfway there, my mittened grip on the skis began to fail. One or both skis started sliding apart and backward over my shoulder. A single extremity was available to try and stop their fall: my chin.

I would not recommend this. In my attempt to pinch the escaping skis between chin and shoulder, one of the brake arms—the prongs on the bottom of skis—somehow ended up jamming up one nostril and jerking my head backward with the full force of the falling ski.1

My craniofacial vanity flashed before my watering eyes as I imagined the embarrassment of having my nostril torn by a falling ski. It’s impossible to know how a brake arm ended up my nose, and similarly hard to know how things resolved. Thankfully, it did, leaving my nostril (and pride) only slightly bloodied and bruised, not ripped. Had the ski and brake arm been moving any faster, I likely would’ve been eligible for another ICD-10 code, J34.8211: “External nasal valve collapse, static (if the cut caused structural, functional collapse of the alar rim).” Good thing my alar rim2 didn’t collapse.

It would appear from even just my nasal injuries that this living business is not for the faint of heart. There are hazards in absolutely everything, including things as innocuous as washing your face, carrying skis, or baking at home. On that last note, this entire piece was typed with a thumb—my right one, if you care to know—sporting an 8mm wide and layers deep wound acquired last Saturday. I was listening to Dateline and zesting an orange for the British scones I planned to take to a neighbor, when my thumb slipped and…I will not get describe what I’m sure you can imagine.

Out of consideration, and even though I was fairly sure no skin had made it into the batter, I opted not to share this batch.

What’s one of your best embarrassing injuries or near injuries?

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Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

Until then, my very suburban morning walks are getting 5-stars these days, thanks in large part to them being phone-free. It’s incomprehensible how many more birds sing and fly overhead when I don’t bring my phone. We’re having an unseasonably dry winter, one upside of which is that I’ve been able to quite possibly trespass on a new section of trail they’re working on by the lake near my house.

I get out fairly early, but not early enough to beat the construction man, so when I have to pass his truck, I try to look like I have all the business in the world being there. I haven’t technically trespassed to get to the trail, and it was only one time that I had to waltz right past the “TRAIL CLOSED” sign. There may have been other directions or fine print, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

The other day, a large tractor was blocking the entire trail, almost like it was there to deter people such as me. I was not deterred. As they say, there are more ways than one to skin a situation like this.

As I navigated my way around it, I started laughing out loud to myself at memories of tractor bucket rides offered by my grandfather to his many grandchildren. My Grandpa Burnett loved his tractor probably as much as Grandma loves her garden, and both may have loved the object of their affection more than their vast progeny. That’s saying A LOT.

Grandpa’s tractor was used to pull heavy things, like logs (not bodies—get your mind out of Dateline!) and push and move heavy things, like snow. And it was used for tractor rides. Maybe one of my relatives will chime in on the comments with the origin story of “tractor rides” as we called them, but by the time I was pre-teen and old enough to remember, here’s how they went:

1. Grandpa, garbed in his usual button-up shirt, suspenders, jeans, and hat, would drive his orange tractor out of the rustic shed where it occupied a place of sacred prominence.

2. As many grandkids as possible would clamor into the front bucket of the tractor. 4 or 6 kids seemed about right.

3. Grandpa would raise and lower the bucket, while tilting it unpredictably, down toward the ground, then backward toward his grinning face.

If you promise not to tell OSHA or gosh, maybe CPS would like to retroactively get involved here, I’ll add a little more color to the situation.

There was no age limit for which grandkids could get in the bucket. A parent representative of each child in the bucket often not present, which means an older cousin assumed responsibility for whichever much younger cousin they were holding. “Older” was a loose term. Ten years old seems about where the designation of “older” started, and the age at which you were old enough to be made liable for the safety of your, you know, two-year-old cousin who clambered in next to you.

Grandpa didn’t dumb down the ride for the younger ones. Oh no. No coddling for us! He rounded up, giving a ride the oldest grandkids in the bucket would enjoy. He perhaps forgot to factor in the additional, um, thrill these older kids got from clutching a small child WHILE clinging to the round “bar” (it wasn’t really a bar, just the fat part at the top of the bucket and something you tucked your arm over and squeezed as tight as possible).

Sometimes there wasn’t an older kid to hold on to a younger one, which is what we see here in the below photo. Would you just LOOK at those precious, tiny hands at the left side of the picture grasping the sharpish edge of the tractor bucket for dear life? I can’t be sure which of the two cousins it is—my money’s on Nathan or Russell. Whichever cousin it is, he has to be all of three years old. I guess that’s plenty old enough to take his life in his hands. In the olden days, kids were DRIVING tractors at three. You’ll be relieved to know that both Nathan and Russell are still with us today, happy and whole. Curiously, though, neither owns a tractor…

Anyway, mostly these tractor rides were really fun. They were also scary. Especially as Grandpa and his hearing aged, is was impossible for him to distinguish between shrieks of delight and those of terror. It all just sounded like a cacophony of joy to him over the roar of the tractor he loved. We never got all the way to terror, but I at least wondered what if we did? I also remember wondering if the pistons could fail, plummeting us all to the ground. They never did.

Since we asked for tractor rides at every opportunity—gluttons for punishment we were—he understandably assumed we loved them. We did. Mostly. There’s one picture I searched for and couldn’t find where a few smiles look a little on the thin side, and I can almost remember how tenuous my hold on a smaller cousin was. But hey, especially those of us raised in semi-rural Montana had to get our “kicks” where we could, including these tractor rides and stomping at cows in pastures.

To my knowledge, no grandkid was ever lost in this make-your-own-theme-park experience. Many, many memories, though, were made. Even as we got older and potentially too cool for school in other arenas, we never got too cool for Grandpa’s tractor rides. Even as young adults, we asked for them. And even with our impressive maturity and strength, they could still be exhilarating affairs. Bonding affairs between cousins, too, and something we still all loved.

Probably because we adored the grandpa doing them. And we adored this among the other Bear Canyon traditions we made and shared as an extended family. And we adored having grandparents who gave their best efforts to just three things: their faith, music, and their large family. And their garden, and their tractor.

Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

Single, white, female ISO con artist friend. Preferences: Very strong personality and inflated sense of personal confidence, involved in lots of things. Must be a talker and compulsive liar. Even better if you have had an eventful life, been peripherally associated with serious crimes, and possibly have an unsubstantiated, very serious medical diagnosis of some kind. No conscience. I offer: An immense interest in everything you want to share, a desire to understand and connect your past like no one has before, lots of validation and encouragement.

See, my life is good, like really good. But even good lives could use some spicing up. I’ve said before that I don’t hope to end up on Dateline. This unfortunate reality show is typically “casting” for the following roles, none of which are appealing:

1. Victim. No thanks.

2. Bad Person. No plans to take my life this direction.

3. Bereaved Loved One. Too sad.

Just this week, it’s dawned on me that there is a fourth Dateline role I’ve not seriously considered. The best news is that this one is much less tragic and is not likely to end in a prison sentence.

Not every or many episodes include this role, which is why it’s such a treat when it does, and why I’m only now exploring it. I’m speaking of the part of Accidental Investigator. This reality-show character is an average person like you or me who doesn’t even KNOW they’re going to be on Dateline.

They are simply at the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time and have abilities—natural and developed—which uniquely qualify them:

• Naturally suspicious. Where others see cute, pale pink streamers, you see obnoxiously large, bright red flags.

• At least somewhat handy with technology and recording devices.

• Good improv skills. Some acting skills, including gullibility.

• Decent research skills and gifted at connecting the dots.

• Initiative. For reaching out to investigators when the time is right, you know.

• Talented at being just a normal person and not arousing suspicion.

I possess all of these. A woman can’t date for 26 years and NOT pick up especially #1.

Caption: I’ve been interested in surveillance and investigative work for a while now. Me in the passenger seat of my flatmate’s SUV on our I Spy Pie night (in 2010). For those curious, this story is mentioned in Dear Fellow Dreamer (p. 49 “Prioritize Your Interests”).

It was a recent Dateline episode which highlighted this role for me. “Secrets in the Ashes” involved a woman getting in touch with a former boyfriend, eventually asking him for money, then talking candidly and often with him about needing someone to kill her husband. Looks like someone never learned the difference between “wants” and “needs,” but that’s neither here nor there.

The Accidental Investigator guy has no interest in a romantic relationship with her and even tells her that he thinks she’s trying to scam him for money for her “cancer diagnosis.” Astonishingly, that doesn’t end their friendship! Talk about resilient. Because she’s more than willing, he keeps the conversation going to get whatever information he can out of her; it ends up being enough to get her convicted and sentenced to 16 years in jail. Much to the heartbreak of THE VERY HUSBAND SHE WAS TRYING TO HAVE KILLED. This is what makes true crime so fabulous; you can’t make this stuff up.

Now, I’m not rushing into anything, since I can identify some cons worth considering. First, possible death. Also, possible physical or financial harm, getting manipulated and duped if you’re not as smart as you thought, your life gets more complicated, waste time since there’s typically no pay for this sort of thing. Being asked for money and asked to do things like find hit men.

There are pros, though, things that make it a role worth at least considering. First on that list is that life would get way more interesting, without you being at the center of the storm. It would also be an EXCELLENT source of creative material for a writer. You might make some new best friends if your accidental investigation brings you into contact with others doing the same thing. You help make the world a better place by bringing Bad Persons to justice. And lastly, it may lead to unexpected opportunities in private investigations or podcasting or who even knows what …

Like I said, I’m only in the early stages of considering this, but I’m seeing definite potential. You—either for me or for you too? In the future, since I can guarantee we’re going to talk about this again, let’s agree to refer to this as “Operation Con the Con.” While I chew on it, if you happen to have any leads on shady people with Dateline-worthy events lurking in their past, would you please send them my way? Ideas also welcome for where to post my personal ad should I choose to proceed

Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting—especially some of those shady ones? See you in the next one…

With the kind of smile you give a stranger you’re happy to meet, I introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Emily.” He responded warmly with his name which sounded an awful lot like Shanker. That was immediately followed by, “I’m Jackie’s friend,” insinuating that I KNOW JACKIE. I DO NOT KNOW JACKIE. One of the two Jackies I know lives in Indiana and we’re not close. The other one is married to my cousin Kirk, is a busy mom of a darling toddler, and didn’t know about my signing.

“Who the heck is this Jackie sending people to my book signing?” was racing through my head even while I continued to act friendly. I wasn’t remotely complaining about Shanker’s attendance or Jackie’s referral; it was just unsettling not to connect the dots.

My brain was on a mission to rectify this. It was probably only once or twice, but it felt like seven times that I asked some variation of, “So, you said you’re friends with Jackie?” Yes, definitely Jackie. He even said her last name. That helped not at all.

“So, how do you know Jackie?” seemed like a smart next question. And it would’ve been, except I had never heard of the organization she runs. His Buddhist wrist beads seemed to be working, and this man was remarkably patient with me—even if he was probably thinking, “How did this mentally slow woman ever publish a book?!”

To add to the awkwardness of the situation, I had sold out of copies of Dear Fellow Dreamer, the book the signing was being held for. Apologetically, I delivered the bad news with the following commentary running through my mind: “Not only do I NOT know Jackie, but I ALSO don’t have the book you came here to get…I’m so sorry for being a grave disappointment today.”

Trying to salvage this ill-fated relationship, I pulled out a few copies of my first book, Dear Fellow Spender, and offered to sign one as a consolation prize. His response was unexpected, and cool. With a meaningful pause, he looked at the bright yellow cover and subtitle and said, “That is actually the book I need” he said. “The Universe really knows what we need.”

In the face of this beautiful honestly, I couldn’t pretend any longer. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know who Jackie is.” Finally, the truth.

For the last time, he repeated the name of the group through which he knows Jackie, and something clicked. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I wonder if she knows Karin!” Ignoring all social decorum for the sake of solving this awkward mystery, I hollered at Karin who was engaged in conversation. “Hey Karin! Do you know Jackie?” SWEET RELIEF, she did. “Jackie Chinooga?” she said, except she used Jackie’s real last name which I never caught. Connections finally made, smiles and laughter exchanged, and all awkwardness now blown out of the way, I got around to signing his copy of Spender.

“When I asked how to spell his name, he responded with, “It’s exactly what it sounds like, like you’re shanking someone. S-H-A-N-K-E-R.” This was accompanied by a motion like I assume one would apparently use to shank someone. It’s an assumption since, not only have I never written the word “shank,” I’ve also never shanked a person.

The morning of the book signing, Karin had the thought to post about it in a Facebook group run by none other than the now-famous Jackie. You know Jackie, right? Shanker was in town from Dallas, saw the announcement, and swung by for it. Random? Yes. Cool? Totally. When he finally left the signing, he and Karin and I all parted as new friends with warm hugs.

And to think, I almost missed out on this whole story and the spontaneous connections by pretending. Would it have made me a dishonest person to simply nod along to every mention of Jackie? Nope. But Shanker and I and Karin AND JACKIE would’ve missed out on the connection that was meant to happen that day, what with the Universe and all.

Addressing the elephant in the room makes everyone much more comfortable in said room. Be willing to look dumb. Be willing to at least eventually say when you can’t remember someone’s name. Or when you don’t know something or someone. And never forget that it’s entirely possible to successfully gate crash any social event with a made-up name of a supposed mutual acquaintance. Jackie Chinooga seems as good as any other name we might use.

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Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting? Especially that Jackie… See you in the next one…

P.S. Having now done four signings across my two books, I’ve learned some stuff about holding them. For paid subscribers, below are my recommendations for the launches/signings you could (will!) be holding for your very own books.

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My first concert experience was the band Lifehouse playing at a small venue in Salt Lake City. My sister, friends, and I were standing within spitting distance of the stage, but spitting was not on my mind. I was positively marveling at the impressive VEINS on a couple of the band members’ arms. This is not as morbid as it sounds.

For months, I’d been working as a phlebotomist at the hospital in Bozeman, Montana. At least back then, training for this position happened largely on the job. Please accept my apologies if this makes any of you even more apprehensive about future blood draws.

Thankfully, I wasn’t completely inexperienced at sticking needles in other humans. I was just rusty. Two years prior, I had taken an EMT-Intermediate course with my best friend Heidi, and our friends Jonathan, Krista, and Kirsten. Our instructor, Chad,1 taught this class with his mom and a couple siblings and siblings-in-law. We were never quite sure how they were all related; we just knew they were. EMS was a family affair for them, as were their obsessions with beer and Lake Powell.

The five of us friends carpooled together, quizzed each other on course material, and stuck needles in each other’s arms. At that time, the EMT-I curriculum included extensive training on IV insertions. Our carpool group definitely preferred to be practiced upon by each other but, however reluctantly, we would also let classmates of sometimes-questionable intelligence practice sticking 16- or 18-gauge (AKA “big”) needles in our arms.

And hot off the press, a memory regarding “questionable intelligence” has just landed. In this memory, Chad or one of his relatives is slowly and deliberately reading the answers to that evening’s quiz.

“One: A.”

“Two: C.”

“Three: A.”

He’d just begun to say “Four…” when he was interrupted by one student.

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA! SLOW DOWN and start over.”

I digress. In this course, one of the skills we developed was the ability to provide constructive feedback. If the “EMT” had the needle stuck into your arm closer to a 90 degree angle than the requisite 20ish, you’d wince and say, “I think you’re too deep.” Or, like you might provide directions to a blindfolded participant of an obstacle course, you’d say “A little to the left…now to the right.” How on Earth were they missing your 5-star vein?

Sometimes they just went fishing for a vein, or punctured the vein entirely. This allowed blood to flow into surrounding tissues, causing swelling and bruising. We took sick pleasure in showing off our latest bruises to appreciative roommates. I say “they” like I was never the offending EMT, but I was.

Once the needle was in place and the catheter advanced into the vein, the EMT would then hold the needle nice and steady while successfully occluding the vein,2 taking off the tourniquet, and hooking up the plastic tubing. Theoretically.

One red-letter day, I inserted the catheter in everyone’s favorite place to have a catheter placed (it’s not)—the superficial cephalic vein on the thumb side of the wrist—and moved on to the the other steps. Turns out I wasn’t occluding the vein as much as I thought I was. Blood ran down his arm, pooled on the plastic Costco table, and onto the carpeted floor. Whoops.

In the end, though, most of us passed muster. I’m not sure about Quiz Lady, but for me that concluded my opportunity to stick needles in people, or so I thought. My real-life EMT experience continued on a volunteer basis, and our protocols didn’t include anything to do with needles.

But then I became a phlebotomist two years later, and routine blood draws became exactly that. Our team of phlebotomists would trot all over the hospital, carrying white trays containing our tools of the trade: blood tubes, tourniquets, alcohol swabs, gauze, needles. Our lab coats were not cool ones like doctors wear, but more industrial and plasticky, as if we were going to get bodily fluids on us. Hazards of the job!

We were also the ones no patient wanted to see in their room in the wee hours, waking them up for lab draws so test results were ready for early physician rounds. It’s generally considered rude to stick a needle in the arm of a sleeping person, so we tried to get at least a grunt of consent. As gently as possible, we would also check their wristband to ensure we were drawing blood from the right person since that was generally preferred.

And we took turns working weekends. On my only weekend shift, a teen survivor of a gruesome car accident was brought in and needed to have their blood typed—STAT—for transfusion purposes. My small but critical role on the “trauma team” was to push my way through the crowd of life-saving professionals to draw blood and get it back to the lab for typing. Talk about intimidating. Especially for a non-confrontation formerly-shy kid. However, I had my orders and wasn’t going to shirk my duty. At the last minute, a nurse offered to draw the necessary vials off the IV line she’d just placed, and I was off the hook for everything except for rushing it back to the lab. Phew.

One of these days, I might write a TV sitcom that’s a fusion of The Office and Gray’s Anatomy. Plenty of shows have focused on the medical professionals in the fancy lab coats; the world might be ready for a show about the lower echelons of the medical profession.

My experiences at least provide the makings of a great show. We had co-worker drama in spades, mysterious pathologists we almost never interacted with, despite them working literally 20 feet away. There were many crushes and a falsely cheerful coworker with dyed blonde hair who looked like a glamour girl out of a 1980s JC Penney studio and who I swear was sometimes drunk. Titles for this show welcome.

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Don’t my “needle-work” experiences capture the way most of life goes? We do stuff that’s super intimidating and figure out we can actually do it—even if we have to literally spill blood to do so. We learn stuff the hard way and practice all kinds of things on each other—hurting each other plenty in the process. Sorry to all those I’ve hurt in my learnings. We rise to challenges, and receive help from unexpected directions. And kind of like those bruises our EMT carpool group bragged about, we never know when we’re picking up the most interesting “bruises”—memories we’ll have and share for the rest of our lives.

Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

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Our family had driven 1,041 miles from Bozeman, Montana to Quartzsite, Arizona to visit my grandparents for Spring Break. Ours, not theirs. A stop in Las Vegas made very little impression, except for the then-family friendly Treasure Island pirate show.

The main attractions of Quartzsite are the months-long Rock Show and Reader’s Oasis Books, famous because the owner wears only a crocheted loincloth of sorts. He only wears that much because state law makes him. There’s also a Subway in the Flying J gas station, two dollar stores, and the Quartzsite Yacht Club (with no water in sight).

Only a few specific memories survive the intervening decades. Good thing I’m writing these survivors down before they too are gone.

Early-morning walks with our then-and-still spry Grandma in the desert surrounding the Gold Star retirement trailer park.

Attending a square dance as a family. One hard-of-hearing woman croaked loudly to another: “Them two girls look like twins, ‘cept one of them didn’t grow.” I am the one who didn’t grow. And my sister (6'0") and I (5'8+5/8") still get mistaken often for twins. The most recent occurrence was in December while at my birthday dinner. Arriving at our table from the side, our waitress began her usual greeting: “Hi, I’m Sophie and I’ll be your…are you TWINS?” A few minutes later, a coworker of hers stopped as he passed our table to ask the same thing. It’s like a really fun party trick our parents bequeathed upon us.

And we went across the border to Mexico. Border crossings were simpler then. No passports were required and would not be for more than a decade longer. The only things I remember about my first time out of the country are twofold and superficial. One, I bought a $5 solid silver (?) ring from a peddler. Two, I bought a pair of handmade leather sandals that used pieces of automobile tires for the soles.

This was in the mid-1990s, and Doc Martens were becoming popular even in small Montana towns. My lack of personal funds didn’t allow me to keep up with that trend, and I actually took some pleasure in knowing that my sandals were different from everyone else’s. I really liked how they looked with my green plaid shorts and a sweatshirt turned inside out. Cool, but not like everyone else—my own spin on popular fashion.

These unbidden but welcome recollections of the Arizona trip have made me think: What ever happened to wanting to dress or be different? Well, not different exactly. Wanting to just be yourself, whatever that looked like. Wearing stuff you liked whether it’s “in” or “out.” Not to attract attention or to be different, but not trying so hard to fit in and be just like everyone.

A phrase which has stuck in my memory, thanks to my “twin” sister—”the one who grew” and, I suspect, her college poetry class. It I believe comes from this poem by Robert Herrick.

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

I’ve done plenty of trend-chasing and adopting. Overalls in the 90s, skinny jeans in the late 2000s (I was late), and a bunch of stuff in between and since. As I’ve become more and more minimalist, I’ve prioritized buying well-made clothing that I’ll wear a lot. And suddenly I have plenty of perfectly boring outfits. Admitting that beige is one of my favorite colors to wear makes me suddenly want to tell you that I’M ACTUALLY A BARREL OF FUN.

There have been chapters of my life when I had clothes that I wore all the time just because I liked them, and sometimes because I liked that they were fun and different. They had personality. They didn’t make me better than anyone, and I wasn’t wearing them for attention. A Vikings t-shirt I got at the Goodwill. Wasn’t even sure at that point what sport they played. A threadbare t-shirt in beige (apparently this love-affair started early) from 1979 that says in block letters “I LOVE A FARMER.” A pair of capris with embroidery around the bottom that I got at Walmart for $3. For years, I wore an Australian leather hat on all my adventures. It was a gift Uncle Kevin sent from one of his naval deployments.

Right now, I own exactly 1 interesting shirt. I bought it at a Goodwill thrift store and all the tags have been cut out of it. It’s happy and cheerful and maybe plays a role in my choice of yellow for the brand color here at More to Your Life.

The rest of my stuff is the same as everyone else. That’s not why I have it per say, just like you may not have it to be the same as every one else. Sameness is just everywhere and in some ways the path of least resistance, available to all of us.

While in Georgia the Country, I bought a NYC Park Ave t-shirt. From H&M. At the local mall. Madrid felt a lot like every other large European or Western city. McDonald’s in the Istanbul airport tastes a lot like the McDonald’s 2.1 miles from my house. We all drink out of the same water bottles. We shop the same brands and at the same places. We just don’t seem to see a lot of differences informed by true personal preference. It’s harder to come by.

We’re talking mostly about wearable and usable possessions, but sameness applies to our choices in all sorts of things: music, foods, reading material, travel styles, exercise preferences, accessories, hobbies. I vote we quit that. It’s boring. Let’s start celebrating and appreciating the things we uniquely like. A little bit of that “less than precise in every part” applied to a lot more of life. A lot more you in your life. Otherwise, we all end up the same and how boring is that? There’s nothing to remember about a person who has no contrary or interesting opinions or hobbies or interests or unpopular musical tastes. Worse, that kind of following or consuming life may not be memorable even to the one living it; it’s the exact same life a kajillion other people are living. There are none of those details that made my boat dinner friends memorable.

I, for one, want a memorable life. I want it to be my own. I’m not necessarily suggesting that we try to be different by wearing only a loincloth, crocheted or otherwise. For one, that would be COLD. I’m just proposing we do more listening to what actually lights us up—and not just because it makes us “fit in.” In Dear Fellow Dreamer, I have a vignette about honoring the unique constellation of things you discover you like. It’s almost like your fingerprint. We come with a unique one, but unless we get off default mode, it wears away over the years, slowly becoming just like everyone else’s.

Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting—at least the ones who get off auto-pilot? See you in the next one…

Don’t get me wrong, I was seriously interested in the profound historicity of the place. I was additionally very interested in all the cats. If you’re going to be a homeless cat, one could do worse for locale than a temperate climate, generous tourists, and free reign of the historic ruins of “the birthplace of democracy.” And while these are technically run-of-the-mill felis catus, they are GREEK felis catus, and it’s not just everywhere a person sees so many free-range, polite cats. Hence my interest.

Obviously, not every Athenian cat resides in the Ancient Agora. Which makes me wonder if only the wisest felines are drawn here. Or, if their choice of residence is accidental, is the wisdom of ancient human philosophers somehow perpetuated among the cats walking where they walked? Whatever the situation, I found myself imaging that, as these cats wander about or lounge around, they are actually pondering the big questions of life. This one, let’s call him Antisthenes, is definitely meditating on asceticism at the entrance of an ancient temple.

Paid subscribers: Scroll down to the bottom for access to a Google Photos album containing more pictures I took of the Agora. And more Greek cats.

After hours of wandering, reading signs, marveling at the profound significance of all that happened in this place, and of course watching cats, I decided to give the on-site museum a whirl. The Acropolis Museum—something I tried to skip but could not find a ticket that didn’t include the museum—had positively knocked my socks off and reconverted me to museums.

That said, I’ve long believed that, in museums, you can only appreciate so many baskets, tunics, and shards of household pottery. At some point they all start to look the same across cultures and centuries. If, however, those shards of pottery had been used to kill someone or dig a person’s way to freedom, my interest is suddenly piqued.

Regretfully, human nature seems to be interested in the very beautiful, the very eventful, and the very awful. I am unfortunately more interested in instruments of torture than I am in farming implements or tapestries. Things like the latter only interest me if they’re GINORMOUS, contain a secret message considered treasonous in its time, or someone made them under duress. Museums might fare better if they include a few more sensational exhibits and offer a map indicating which exhibits appeal most to our base human interests.

This said, I do understand that even the mundane parts of human history are worth preserving. I just ask that, if a centuries- or millenia-old museum artifact is not something worthy of the Dateline of its time, it please be either HUGE or small and really cute.

After snapping pictures and trying to get interested in the daily lives of ordinary Athenians as captured in several exhibits, I moved along and stopped when the word ostracism caught my eye. And boy, am I glad it did. Otherwise, I probably would’ve moved right along, assuming we were looking at boring shards of pottery. We were not.

For your reading pleasure, I have hand-transcribed the text of the plaque:

Ostracism was a unique type of voting intended as a means of protecting the city against aspirants to despotic power. The result of the ostracism vote was valid only if there was a quorum of 6000 present. Each voter scratched or painted on a potsherd the name of the man he thought most undesirable. The “candidate” with the greatest number of votes against him was obliged to withdraw from Athens for ten years. Ostracism was decreed by Kleisthenens and was used through most of the 5th cent. B.C. In many cases it came to be used as a tactical manoeuvre between rival politicians.

Kicked out of town for TEN YEARS?!

Do we trust the plaque? I say yes, even while remembering the plaque my brother shared from an aquarium visit in India. There a plaque shared where each type of fish originated; it was news to all of us that Lion Fish come from Mississippi and Great White Sharks come from Missouri.

My initial research, however, confirms that ostracism was a real thing in Athens. I’m tempted to write my first researched book all about this fascinating practice. The list of questions includes, but is not limited to the follow:

Which men actually got ostracized?

Did their families go with them?

Could they visit Athens? “Hey guys, remember me? Yeah, I’m the one who won the vote seven years ago…”

Were they chased out of town immediately or did they have a grace period to pack?

Where did they go?

What was life like when/if they returned?

How nervous were they on the Athenian version of Reaping Day?

They SAY it was to protect the city from despots, but we could be looking at the ancient origins of the “mean girls” phenomenon. Kicking people out the group is as old as human history. To the first caveman who discovered the wonders of bathing, the others probably said—after complaining with each other that Chad now stunk of “clean”—“Oh sorry, Chad. Did we forget to tell you we were heading out on the wooly mammoth hunt? Super sorry about that.” (They weren’t.) It seems we’ve always had cliques that come up with reasons for kicking people out of the group. Maybe these OG mean boys were just the first to formalize it and make it sound so community-oriented.

In this recent piece, I shared that I don’t have the gift of memory for history. But it would appear I was wrong. As we’ve just seen, there are parts of history I can REALLY get into. Am I proud of the parts of history that I can remember for years? No. But someone has to remember these sort of sordid details, so I’ll keep at it. I’ll leave the appreciation of farming implements, baskets, and regular ol’ pottery to others who genuinely get excited about such things. My interest will apparently remain in the gutter with the more primal parts of history.

Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting—even when they kick neighbors out of town for a decade? See you in the next one…

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For my paid readers, here is a link to more pictures from this memorable day. Enjoy!

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On the first night of The Transatlantic Boat Journey of 20231, I shared a dinner table with a fascinating collection of women. Later that night, I jotted down in my Jimmy Book2 the kind of notes I wish I would’ve taken the rest of the time. It’s the nuances and seemingly mundane details that make people and life so interesting. Undocumented, though, they blur and blend into the background like the tiny bird—the object of a bling-collared black cat’s intense interest—a friend and I finally spotted in a needled tree this afternoon. A lot of the undocumented details of the boat journey have flitted away like hopefully the camouflaged sparrow was able to, so I’m glad I captured these ones at least.

Because I was solo, it made sense for me to attend the Solo Traveler Meet-up the first night. You know, go make some friends for the next 16 days of my WiFi-less life. Said gathering ended up being more for friendly travelers, solo or not. Apparently, some people like to stick to themselves on a journey like this, while others—couples included—want to make additional friends.

M, a tall woman with uncoiffed hair and no pretenses was the first person I met. I liked her right off the bat. You can imagine my delight when I found out she is a writer and journalist. Super cool and super down-to-earth, she primarily writes about movies and environmental issues. She introduced me to her group of new and old friends, and they invited me to join them for dinner. Thus it was that I came to be sharing dinner with strangers in the Main (fancy) Dining Room.

K, a very sweet Midwestern girl in her 20s had lost more than 100 friends due to drug overdoses of various kinds—Aderol and fentanyl among the offending drugs. After an ex-boyfriend died in a fight, she spiraled into substance abuse herself and almost took her own life. Somehow she’d been able to get clean, is happy with her life, and runs her own graphic design business. I shared how glad I was that she’s still here, that she’s on the boat, on Earth, and that we got to meet and share dinner.

Another woman at our table, A, is a happy bartender from Rhode Island. She reported “trying the corporate thing. It wasn’t for me.” This woman’s mother was her idol. A single mom of four kids, her mom was also an actress. She referred to her longtime boyfriend as “my sweetheart, Tim” and recommended the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Series for reading.

Another woman, L, this one from New Jersey, is a seasoned dog trainer. She and her husband have been married for 30 years and are childless by design. From a Native American dog trainer she remembered learning the beautiful, and sometimes tragic truth, that “Dogs take what they’re given and make it work.”

T from Florida was the spitting image of Kristin Wiig, only a decade older. She has 10 grandkids, has been running her own business since 2006, and implemented remote work for her employees before that was “a thing.” She tells her kids, “I’m off to Europe to spend your inheritance!” According to her, “It’s bad for kids to receive a lot of money.”

Everyone could have been making their stories up, but in a situation like this, there’s no reason to be anything other than brutally honest. That said, I have no idea what to believe about the last woman at our table. And maybe one day I’ll work this whole scene, and certainly this last character, into the beginning of an Agatha Christie-esque novel.

My notes about B, an American now supposedly living in Ireland, are worth including as scribbled down that night. Fleshed out only mildly for readability.

Woah. A true character. Couldn’t tell how much of her behavior was due to alcohol or nerves or just a unique personality. Lots there. She said she was a “widower,” but referred to her ex. She’s taught English for twenty years, but has also worked on trawlers. Profusely apologetic for assuming I was “fleeing Mormon” when I mentioned I’d sold my home in Utah, then told me her best friend is LDS.3 Later in the convo I think I understood that same best friend is actually Catholic (with LDS parents). Wanted to shake hands multiple times in the convo. Talked loudly. When she needed something—hand up in the air for whoever she saw next. At 8:15pm out of the blue she says, “Is the ship moving?” L burst out laughing in a good-natured way, delighted. (We’d been sailing at this point for multiple hours.)

Several days into our boat journey, this group of first-night table companions began asking each other, “Have you seen B?” None of us had seen or talked to her since that first night.

A rumor had been circulating—I suppose no boat journey made mostly of strangers is without plenty of these—that a passenger had gone overboard. Given her, ah, interesting behavior that first night, we wouldn’t have been surprised if it’d been her.

Thankfully, B was sighted shortly after this. Phew! She lives on and I’m glad. For her continued existence, for that very memorable dinner, and these women who will—with the details of their lives—remain part of this chapter of my story. Here’s to remembering to write down even more details about life and people. True or not, they’re what make the stories worth telling.

Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

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An early-30s Aussie woman who’d been traveling the world solo for several months seemed to feel the same way. However, we had to leave our warmth cocoon if we wanted to make the most of our tour. And if we wanted to make memories of life. We did, so all six of us bundled up and piled out of the van.

That first step out of comfort is the hardest. It’s like anything, though. Almost the instant once you start, you find that you really can get into the spirit of the thing.

Our guide, Dmitri, gave us a short break to take photos of the view, smoke, get coffee at the one c, and visiting the WC.

The WC has six reviews on Google, with a total rating of 4.3. Not bad. According to one of the reviews, it “smells like lilies of the valley.” Can’t say I agree. The cost of admission to this bare- bones facility was 1 lari, or approximately $0.37 USD.

It was the first squat toilet I’d come across in decades. For the tiniest second, I wondered how I was supposed to SIT on this, erm, “toilet.” This was quickly replaced by a correct understanding that I needed to squat, but which way to face? I chose to face the door. With no heating in the primitive building, it was COLD in what felt like a jail cell; bars on the open window really contributed to that vibe.

It was only upon leaving the WC that I realized what the highway woman was doing: foraging wood for her potbelly stove—her only source of heat. Suddenly, I felt spoiled for all my warm clothes and the warm van I would be returning to.

As I’d come to expect, there were lots of free-range dogs on the premises.

Up to this point in my travels, Rome and Athens were the only places where I’d seen wild domestic animals so abundant. Cats, in particular. In Rome, felines seemed to occupy the ruins by night. In Athens, they occupied the ruins and more anytime they darn well pleased. In a future post, I’ll introduce you to the philosophical cats occupying the Ancient Agorra in Athens.

As I got out and about my first day in Tbilisi, Georgia, I was surprised by the variety of dogs, though. Apparently ownerless, they putter around, nap wherever they feel like it, or just sit, observing the happenings of life. Some organization or perhaps the government vaccinates and tags these stray dogs and lets them loose to fend for themselves. Apparently, these dogs establish loose residency near stores and restaurants, returning “home” for sleep and food provided by store owners and nice people.

These Georgian dogs are patient, non-aggressive toward everyone and everything except cars, and EVERYWHERE. The only thing making them a nuisance is that they don’t pick up after themselves. Usually, looking up while walking is preferable in a new place—something about keeping your wits about you—but not here.

Back to the Ananuri Fortress and their resident dogs.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

The puppies in preceding exhibits were just some of a passel of adorably rambunctious canines. They were doing what puppies do best: tumbling over each other, exploring, wrestling. Let’s not judge them too hard for being totally unappreciative of the significance of the castle complex they occupied.

Our tour guide began gathering our group just inside the entrance to begin sharing HISTORICAL INFORMATION. Be still, my pounding heart. I adore history. But my attention and pounding heart were tugged away by Tiny Tim, the sickly sibling of the healthy puppies.

While his siblings congregated in the fortress entryway, this pitiable creature sat, crying helplessly, in a puddle in the open. Obviously the runt of the litter, he was like the canine version of the nameless match girl from The Little Match Girl. Or Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol, hence the name.

I scooped this muddy bundle of ill-fated life out of the puddle and held him. Cupping his shivering body in my gloved hands, I held Tiny Tim to my chest trying to pour warmth and love into him. I’m no saint, though; even the hardest heart would’ve been stirred to help this poor creature.

Realizing after a couple minutes that this wasn’t exactly a sustainable situation—it was unlikely my tour guide or my hotel would be supportive of me adopting a puppy—I placed him in the fortress entryway with his siblings. There he remained for exactly as long as they chose to stay, which was not long. When they scampered off to explore, little Tim struggled after them.

As sick and cold as he was, he couldn’t be convinced to stay where it was good for him. No matter where I or others placed him during our time in the complex—the cozy shed where other of his siblings lounged, the entryway again—Tiny Tim found his way back into the miserable cold, reinforcing my sad conclusion that he probably wasn’t long for this world.

I did eventually learn some history that day. Not much, but some. I think this was the first place I was introduced to the fact that invading Russians desecrated the faces of Christian figures on the church wall frescos. Our guide knew a lot, and charmingly began his lectures with “Dear Guests.”

It could be that I just don’t have the steel-trapped brain of my best friend who can remember ALL the things she reads or learns. Or that I’m wired to remember other stuff: faces, names, details, and any experience that made me laugh or feel something human. However mundane these Ananuri recollections may appear, they highlight a couple things for me:

We are wired to care about the suffering of other people and creatures, and do something about it.

We’ve got to leave the literal or figurative warm van if we want to make any memories of life.

And finally, life really is made up of the small stuff.

The older woman warming herself with wet wood from across the highway. The cropped pants and tiredness of our Aussie fellow traveler. The somber nun mopping the church at Ananuri. Dmitri’s endearing phraseology. The crying puppy I remember more than all of the well dogs put together.

It’s the details of life, and the small things that make us feel something wonderfully human, that make life so rich and memorable.

Isn’t life cool and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

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Speaking of holidays, New Years is one of my favorites of the entire year. There’s something immensely satisfying about the ringing out of an old year and the ushering in of a new one.

The reflecting on the past and setting intentions and resolutions for the future.

The decluttering of physical spaces and mental/spiritual attitudes.

The coziness of a lower-key holiday after the wonderful hoopla of Christmas.

The New Year’s Day breakfast tradition my sister and I enjoy most years at Ruth’s Diner. Like women decades older than we are, we go early enough to order the Early Bird Special, then SPLIT IT. You should’ve seen how displeased our server was that first year. Now she has come to appreciate our visit and even remembered us 2.5 years after our last visit. We tip extra well and this year took gifts for our server—a set of habit cards from me, and I think my sister is bringing a loaf of homemade bread.

Leading up to a New Year’s Eve many years ago, a new romantic prospect, Chad, and I talked about my ideal NYE. It involves pizza and sweat pants. Other things too, but definitely those two things. Over hot chocolate, we further discussed my idea of a miserable New Year’s Eve: attending a fancy ball, since such activity would involve a) going out in the cold, b) wearing fancy (translation: uncomfortable) clothes, and c) staying out late.

Days later, Chad texted to ask me out for New Year’s Eve. There was a really cool place he wanted to take me for dinner, but the earliest reservation they had was for 10:10pm. Was I game? Like an absolute glutton for punishment, I abandoned my dreams of sweats and pizza, and said yes. Chad couldn’t have known what a curious cat I am. Or that, especially then, I’d do almost anything that involved intrigue and an element of surprise.

As the day approached, Chad suggested we kick off festivities by going to a movie, and thoughtfully sent over a couple options he thought I’d enjoy. From his genuinely great selections, I chose the movie Joy. This quirky treasure is about big dreams and entrepreneurship and I loved it. A favorite quote from it:

“When you’re hiding you’re safe, because people can’t see you. But funny thing about hiding: you’re even hidden from yourself.”

Because our later reservation place had a fancy dress code, I watched the movie wearing a skirt/shirt combo with heeled (translation: uncomfortable) shoes. And tights, because it was something like 6 degrees Fahrenheit that night. I needed all the warmth I could get (says the woman not above using a tablecloth as a lapquilt at professional conferences). You menfolk can be grateful that no one has recently popularized hosiery for men. I suppose you had your fun stint with them in the 1500s when I think male courtiers and royals wore tights with coats and funny shoes.

Even while immensely enjoying the movie and anticipating the 10:10pm surprise, I was cold and uncomfortable. But not yet desperately hungry, so I managed to be pleasant company for Chad. Our conversation about sweats and pizza was bubbling up at the edges of my mind, but I reminded myself that I’d chosen this experience, and that the fancy dinner would be worth it.

Well.

When we arrived at the hip downtown speakeasy, our reservation had mysteriously vanished. Semi-apologetically and semi-accommodatingly, they squeezed us in nearly 30 minutes later. We were seated at a table with another couple and told to “help yourselves” to the small plate of crackers and cheese at the bar while our server brought us champagne. Problem: neither of us drink alcohol. Our request for something non-alcoholic was met with some initial hesitation and confusion, but eventual fulfillment.

Our server’s confusion was due to the fact that literally everyone else was there for one purpose: unlimited champagne, all night. They hadn’t planned on two non-drinking Christians waltzing in and requesting something other than champagne.

Eventually, we were served our non-alcoholic beverages which we sipped while making awkward small talk with our affianced tablemates. And eating our tiny portions of cheese and crackers. The plate at the bar was obviously meant to be shared by dozens of people who’d eaten dinner, or who possessed the appetite of birds. Neither category described me.

From the absence of plates of food on other tables, menus, and delicious smells, I gathered that no dinner was to be had in this establishment. Not only was I cold and uncomfortable; now I was hungry. And frankly embarrassed about the whole thing. The server seemed a bit embarrassed for us when, nearing midnight, Chad finally asked if we could order food. “The kitchen is actually closed tonight,” was the server’s apologetic answer. But thankfully, it was the information Chad needed to suggest we leave. Enthusiastically, I agreed. I had sweat pants and a hot bath to get home to and food to find.

Had there been that intangible “click” between Chad and I, we could have talked and laughed our way through the whole thing. It could’ve been one of my favorite New Year’s Eves. Heck, had we been simpatico, we could have celebrated our 10-year anniversary this past year and could be getting a kick out of this early fiasco in our love story.

Alas, there is no love story to share. Nice guy, nice girl, just not compatible.

Chad wasn’t really to blame for the night. Sure, he could’ve maybe read the Groupon description more thoroughly and discerned that dinner was not offered that night. He could’ve remembered the conversation about sweats and pizza. Perhaps he didn’t know just how serious I was about it. I also maybe didn’t know how serious I was about it, but I do now. It’s one of the magical things about growing up—you start to know what you actually want and you become better at asking for it, and more capable of making it happen on your own. Given all this, you can probably guess what December 31, 2025 held for me.

Do you have a worst-but-memorable New Year’s Eve?

Isn’t life cool even if sometimes cold and uncomfortable and hunger-inducing, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

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It’s not just the pantry that needs purging, though. Bad attitudes, unhelpful habits, and living beneath our privileges have got to go as well. And when better to do it than after a season of (usually) overspending, overeating, and overscheduling? A new, fresh year is the perfect chance to make something more of our days, ourselves, and our lives.

Our family kicks off our New Year reflection party early with a holiday we call Sweet and Sour Day, held annually on December 26. Our family was introduced to this holiday by my sister’s friend from her 18-month church mission. Jess came home with the ability to speak Portuguese fluently, an envy-worthy Chaco line, and this new tradition, courtesy of a missionary friend we call Bourne. Because that’s her name (last name).

The only expectation of this holiday is that you eat Asian food, preferably Chinese since at least Americanized Chinese is known for the sweet-and-sour flavor. Plus, they give you a fortune cookie; your fortune might just give you some ideas for your next year. Over this meal, we reflect at least lightly on the past year, and talk at least loosely about plans and hopes for the new year. That’s it. Pretty simple. Should you choose to also adopt this tradition, you too will love having such a low-maintenance holiday in your repertoire.

We’d had a couple runs of this new holiday tradition, when on a fateful December 26th, I had to miss it. Driving my car and possessions to Las Vegas in order to start a new job took precedence over Chinese food. I’d been living at home since graduating college, working as a phlebotomist, and “running” my first business, Deck Your Halls. and while there was much good to anticipate in this new chapter, I wasn’t feeling very sweet about things.

Sentimental Sally I am, I was wildly nostalgic about leaving Montana, friends, and family behind. Several unknowns awaited me in Las Vegas, and I was nervous. There were tears. Giving myself permission to be sad and nervous for another hour before I focused entirely on what was going to be awesome about this next chapter, I let myself get good and sad. Lots of sappy music and lots more tears accompanied me as I entered the miles-long small town of Island Park, Idaho.

Caption: I may or may not have taken this picture of impressively high snow drifts in Island Park while driving. Approximately 10 miles from the scene of the crash.

Just 10 minutes shy of the appointed time for my attitude adjustment, I spied with my little eye a double-cab red truck pulling a trailer of snowmobiles approaching the highway. The roads were a sheet of ice but as long as everyone did what they were supposed to do, we were all fine. Unfortunately, Red Truck wasn’t able to hold up its end of this unspoken agreement, and slid right through a stop sign. In their path was my white 2000 Corolla—the one with a newly and expensively repaired passenger door handle—driven by me. The T-bone impact shattered several windows, most notably the passenger one. Thankfully, most of that glass embedded in the foam guitar case I had in the front seat, and not my face.

This Coralla had a handbrake which I’d used extensively for fun on wintery Montana roads. As I spun multiple times down the highway in a “lucky” break in traffic, I found myself instinctively playing with the handbrake to control my spin. I did a lovely job of it, coming to a stop on the opposite side of the road, essentially parked parallel to the snowbank and facing oncoming traffic.

After navigating everything with the other driver, the sheriff, and the tow truck driver, I called my dad.

“Hi Dad, whatcha doing?” I asked in a tremulous voice.

As is his way, he answered cheerily. “We’re at Chinese for Sweet and Sour Day!”

My next and officially tearful question was, “Do you feel like driving down to West Yellowstone to get me?”

Bless his heart, he did. He embarked on the two-hour drive straightaway. And three hours later arrived at the auto body shop where I was waiting. You should know that my dad is a napper. As in, he needs naps on a roadtrip of any length. Including sometimes trips home from Costco. His drive down to West Yellowstone was a two-nap drive.

We loaded my glass-shard riddled possessions into his car, then he drove us to my aunt’s home in Logan, Utah where we spent the night. I remember falling asleep in a basement bedroom reflecting on…life. The accident could’ve been and probably should’ve been much worse. It was the first time in my life I’d knowingly come close to something which could’ve ended my party of life, and I felt it.

What was this feeling I was having? Ah, yes. Profound gratitude. To physically be mostly fine, to have a dad who was willing to drop even Sweet and Sour Day, to have insurance, to feel my aunt and uncle’s love, to have a safe place to sleep that night, to get a new year of life, accompanied by this new and profound appreciation for my life.

It wasn’t the Sweet and Sour Day I thought I was going to get, but I can see now how it ended up being very fitting for the holiday. Not that I’m going to ever aim to recreate it, and I wouldn’t recommend you do either. But maybe you’ll join me in the other parts of the day, like letting yourself experience—for a set amount of time—the “sourness” of certain things being over. Like doing something about the parts of life that feel out of control. And contemplating another day and year of life as an incredibly sweet gift.

P.S. If you end up a) eating Chinese and b) getting a really great OR really lame fortune, please share. We’re in this cool life business together.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

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As I traveled, I didn’t just want to be a pleasure-seeking vacationer. Even as I traipsed my way around Europe and the United States, I tried to make travel life similar to my real life. I attended church wherever I was each Sunday. I worked on my business. (This made for some interestingly-timed video client calls from hotel rooms, including a 12:00a.m. one on the Greek island where I didn’t die.) I tried to keep my surroundings tidy, maintain something of a daily routine, and keep up with my budget and personal affairs.

Another thing I tried to do wherever I traveled was find ways to serve. Not because I’m a Mother Teresa or Florence Nightingale. I do genuinely like people, and I like helping. But I suppose there’s still a selfish element and one I’ve not found my way around yet: I’m simply happier when I serve other people. As George Eliot says:

“What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?”

Because I hadn’t done any of this making-life-easier-for-others thing for a little while, volunteering was on my mind when I landed in Greece for a couple weeks. At church the next day, I met a missionary couple. Their assignment is to partner with NGOs and non-profits in providing relief to God’s children. Coincidence? Not a chance. That night I talked via WhatsApp with the Idahoan founder of one of these non-profits, and was delighted to find she had something I could do THAT WEEK. No bureaucratic hoops to jump through here!

There was no interview, no background check, no application. In contrast, a friend had to fill out an application to volunteer in her son’s first-grade classroom. And—get this—she had to interview for the privilege. Someone decades younger than her asked questions like, “What are you hoping to get out of this experience?” and “What are your qualifications for this opportunity?” Having some criteria and structure is probably good, but could it be that in the United States at least we’ve created so many hoops between good people doing good things, that they no longer want to help out?

Back to Athens: On a Wednesday evening—Day 5 in Greece—I was bundled up for the cold, and walking to my volunteer session. The founder had warned me that it wasn’t in the safest area of the city, but she thought I’d probably be all right. Those are exactly the kind of assurances which add a thrill of adventure to an ordinary weeknight.

My mission that night: Help an 18-year-old young man from Guinea study for the Social Studies portion of the US GED test. Did you know that GED stands for General Education Development and that this test is used for college admission in at least some foreign countries? I assuredly did not.

This portion of the test was the only thing standing between Cam receiving his GED. Which would allow him to enroll in college. Which would also allow him to get the Shopify job he’d conditionally received. As we got into it, I was convinced that Cam knew more about US history and government than I did. Perhaps I’ve put too much time into my parallel parking skills and should beef up on some book learnin’.

Anyway, as Cam and I talked through the questions, I could see that he knew the right answers. So why had he failed this section—and by miles—twice? It became clear that he was second-guessing his comprehension of the question’s intent. And then he was second-guessing his first and correct instinct for the answer. In almost every case, he’d changed his first and correct guess due to overthinking. Could there be something to trusting and following our first instincts? Probably.

However, you and I don’t have time to talk about that, because the ENTIRE POINT of this piece is to tell you about walking in the cold in Athens. You already know about my unsafe and uneventful walk there. My unsafe walk back to my hostel was more eventful. I affectionately remember it as the “Street Food Tour of Athens.”

First stop? A Turkish bakery. I don’t particularly love baklava or Turkish desserts, but I immediately liked the mom and teenage daughter running their family business, and bought something. The mother and I shared a hearty laugh over something to do with my request for a fork; in addition to the whole family learning Greek, the mom was also learning English, and the daughter was learning French at school.

As I continued my unsafe walk, I saw a place selling what looked like American cookies. Chocolate chip cookies are a favorite dessert and not oft-seen abroad, so I stopped to buy one. And a cheese pie, because why not? One bite of the cookie indicated that we have very different opinions on cookies, so that was rather a second dessert bust.

My third stop on the tour was for a gyro—at “the usual place,” per my travel journal.

My fourth and final stop was for gelato which was NOT a dessert bust. It almost never is.

I must have been hungry. Or in a celebratory mood. Or cold. Or all three.

In case you’re wondering if anything good came out of that Wednesday evening besides this multiethnic carb and sugar binge session, it did. Cam found my tutoring helpful enough to continue our sessions. I expected the non-profit to coordinate these because, you know, client privacy and such. But nope: like the adults we both were (still are) we exchanged numbers via WhatsApp and ARRANGED THINGS OURSELVES. Even as I continued my travels, we held another handful of sessions via Google Meet. Several weeks later, Cam sent me a WhatApp message. He’d passed this section, received his GED, and got the job with Shopify.

I’ll likely never cross paths again with these people who made such an impression on me with their kindness and courage. Cam? I have no idea how he’s doing making his way solo in a new country. I’ll likely never know how the Turkish family is doing with their language learning and how they also continue to adjust to life and business in a new country. And I’ll probably never know if the very nice girl at the cookie shop improves their cookie recipe. All I know is I’m grateful for that cold walk throughout Athens, and the people who made it one of life’s very memorable nights.

Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

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Even my puffy down coat zipped all the way up was not sufficient to keep me warm, and I was driven to using the tablecloth as a lap quilt. As we humans are prone to do, I got resourceful at corporate events; it helps every time, even if it looks a little tacky. I have this radical thought that we humans were never meant to sit, for hours, in cold rooms. A younger woman wearing a mini-skirt and tank top either has a very different set of priorities than mine (be warm when at all possible), or we have very different internal thermostats.

Caption: This pic of my beloved puffy coat and empty ice cream cup comes to us from Kitty Hawk-ish, North Carolina. If not Kitty Hawk specifically, somewhere on the Outer Banks.

My newly acquired thoughts about cars are pretty simple: there are cars, and then there are CARS. My immaculately-maintained car—a 2021 Toyota Rav4 for your information—looks like something bound for the junkyard when compared to the CARS this auto club stores for their fancy owners.

As riveting as are my thoughts about cars and indoor temperatures, my AI thoughts are even more interesting. You can’t spend a whole day freezing in an auto club, hearing people talk about AI, without getting more thoughts about it.

This event was an intimate affair of maybe six dozen people, with most attendees being leaders in business. Some of these people are making millions and have a kazillion social media followers. And then there was me, a writer who doesn’t think she’d trade her life’s work with even the people in the room who are building some cool things with AI.

One company has figured out how to automate the worst parts of sales. They use AI to call prospects, share very openly that the “voice” is an AI agent, and ask if the prospect is interested in such-and-such product. If so, the AI “BDR” passes them over to a human sales person to continue the conversation. I wonder what the likes of Zig Zigler would have to say about salespeople no longer having to be refined in the fire of rejection. Next thing you know, we’ll have robots doing door-to-door summer sales.

Another founder has mostly singlehandedly built an AI software offering which is revolutionizing social media giveaways. It’s one of those ideas where you think, “Why has no one thought of this before?” for how helpful and impactful it is to businesses.

Another small company is using AI to automate paperwork in an industry not necessarily known for being innovative—roofing. That’s at least what one of the cofounders shared; I personally have no clue whether the roofing industry is innovative or not.

I could go on and on, but stop with just these few cool examples of using AI to build things, or use AI to power things.

I am…ah…less enthused, however, about some of the interpersonal ways in which some people are using AI. We both know that I’m a writer, right? And that I write and care about the human experience and humorous stuff and being thoughtful about life and others. Right? Good. That part of me wants no part of some of the things I saw, no sirree.

Exhibit A:

Do you remember the eyeglasses made by some major brand that creeped everyone else out because strangers could photograph you without you knowing? While I can’t recall who made them, I can recall that they looked tacky and we didn’t like them. Well, there are now AI wearable devices that record and upload every conversation you have or hear whether others know it or not.

I don’t even like AI notetakers on video meetings. Especially when we’re getting to know each other, talking about sensitive stuff (I do this all the time), or catching up. Part of my beef is that I don’t want a conversation between two humans stored, analyzed and remembered. That, not analysis, is the purpose of our memories, hearts, and notes we care enough to take. We’re already doing too much analysis of literally everything.

Exhibit B:

Here’s another “gem.” There’s an AI tool out there which runs a personality assessment on the LinkedIn profile of the person you’re about to have a meeting with. We both know how I feel about personality assessments, especially in a corporate setting. This AI tool tells you how to approach this particular human in order to close the deal, get the job, or have them think positive things about you. What if said human has been using AI to write everything on their profile? What then?

You can say the AI-approved “right things” all day long, use the tone AI recommends, and you might even get the “desired result.” But what if the desired result is authentic human connection? You didn’t get that, did ya? If we forget (or never learned in the first place) how to actually listen deeply and care about connection over results, we as a society are going to be further up a sad, disconnected creek than we already are.

AI can’t care for anyone. It can only act like it cares. Maybe the person using AI in interpersonal ways does actually care about people. But if they don’t have to actively use the muscle of caring and making effort, will they lose it? Could be.

There’s something pretty dang disingenuous about your agentic AI listening to a conversation for a sentimental date, writing a “thoughtful” card, and sending it—along with flowers—on that date. That wouldn’t mean much to me personally, so feel free to abort your AI’s plan to send me flowers on my birthday. On second thought: if it was going to send chocolates, please proceed.

Agentic AI ordering chocolates aside, I don’t think gorgeous human traits like thoughtfulness were intended to be outsourced. In fact, I’d argue—LOUDLY—that it and things like empathy cannot be outsourced. The pretense of it can, but the sentiment cannot since, as my dad put it succinctly: “Thoughtfulness requires sacrifice.”

You know, the sort of sacrifice inherent in writing letters of recommendation, spending an hour searching Etsy to find just the right gift, showing up on someone’s porch just to listen at a tender times, making actual phone calls to aging loved ones, caring enough to store someone’s name and favorite Christmas treat in your memory. These are just the sorts of thoughtfulnesses that are, and ought to remain, entirely human territory in my book.

Isn’t human life cool, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…

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