Anything more annoying than people who eat on the phone while talking to you?

Quite simply, no.

I’m never truly happy unless something is bugging me.

It doesn’t have to be a big bother. In fact, it’s usually something minor, like I’m irritated by having to cancel a charge on my credit card that I never authorized.   

Though I can’t remember exact times, I have experienced states of euphoria. These are minutes when everything is perfect. I can only describe it as a chemical reaction. My whole body feels light and my head tingles. It will come upon me suddenly when I realize everything in my life at that exact moment is perfect.

I’ve wondered if it’s what hippies used to travel the world over for (with requisite backpacks slung over their shoulders and mom and dad’s cash wadded up in their jeans) searching for enlightenment.

During those times I consciously try to not think of anything.

But inevitably, all good things must come to an end, as they say, and a nagging thought starts to creep up in my head and eventually my mind becomes aware of a sliver of something that may not be just right.

And strangely enough, I’m OK with it – much like an itch that feels good when scratched.

These pesky thoughts keep me on my toes, my mind rolling. If I was in a perpetual state of nirvana, would I get anything done? Would I ever challenge myself? Would I want to think deeply about anything?

Is this an odd, perhaps some would say dysfunctional approach to life?

Sure. But after 51 years of thinking this way, I feel comfortable with it.

After all, I do some of my most creative thinking when I’m confronted with a real – or a perceived juicier problem.

Keeps life inside my head interesting, at least.

In fifth grade, for some forgotten reason, my best friend and I had a difference. She was mad at me and didn’t want to talk, look, or walk home with me, something we did nearly every day for six years.

I was devastated. Perhaps because of that spat or for some stomach bug I didn’t feel well and missed school the next day.

In any regards, the next day that I did show up to school my friend bombarded me with all the love and affection I knew I demanded and deserved of her.

What had happened, whether physically or in her mind, to overcome any transgression I committed earlier in the week?

I didn’t ask and I wasn’t told. But the smug satisfaction I felt of once again being allowed into the fold has not been forgotten. In fact, I wish I could, in fewer words, pass that on to the kids when I hear that phrase – my best friend doesn’t want to play with me.

I heard at recess today one of the oldest problems known across playgrounds worldwide:

My best friend won’t play with me.

“Sometimes you need a break from each other,” I told the girl, a first-grader. “Give it a day and try again tomorrow.”

The look on her face brought me back several decades. A day, a recess period can seem like a lifetime to a 7-year-old.

What can us as adults, particularly women, learn from this?

Sometimes we have minor differing of opinions with our closest friends. And sometimes relationships can become toxic, or at least heading towards it. Perhaps suffocating, even.

Sometimes a brief break is needed; other times a longer one. Play with other girls, at least for a day, I tell the grade schoolers. The same can be for those of us older. Call other friends or meet up with someone you haven’t in a while.  

And you know, more often than not, after I tell the girls to separate from each other for a time, the very next day I see them side by side, playing together like the day before never happened.

Whatever it is, time apart does not always mean forever. Reaching out to others or playing with another group can be invigorating. It could lead to you realizing what you’re missing out on or, conversely, make you feel appreciative for the friendships you do have.

When I was younger, and by that I mean up until last year, I loved having weekend plans set the week before, if not sooner.

Then Covid hit.

Gone were the live theater productions I had tickets for. Gone were the beer run 5Ks (walking, of course) I had scheduled. Gone also were the annual trips to the arboretum, countless happy hours, and movies in actual movie theaters.

I was seriously bummed. I’m a people person (except during the morning) and don’t mind crowds of people jostling me at concerts or museum exhibits.

Things began to open up a bit in the early fall, as we all know, but came crashing down again around Thanksgiving.

I sought out fun in other ways.

Some events I attended online, such as author interviews and book talks and my husband and I went to a select few friends’ houses for drinks and games (albeit those who were comfortable).

Eventually, weekends on my calendar became blank.

Weekend after weekend.

After New Year’s, things slowly started to open back up. And not just venues, but, dare I say – minds.  

Friends of ours who decided to combat the Covid blahs started brewing their own beer. They bought all the equipment and ingredients to produce their magic elixir. When it was ready last weekend, they texted us – on a Saturday, at 5:30 p.m. – an evening of which otherwise would have been already booked, inviting us to try their moonshine.

The husband and I were already prepared to make chicken wings and popcorn and settle in for an evening of Hulu on the couch.

Were we available and open to trying their first batch of moonshine, or friends asked?

Hell effin yes!!

The next day was the SuperBowl, that quintessential American E-V-E-N-T that consumes equal fans and non-fans alike. Our neighbors texted us – would we want to hop over and party with them and another couple?

Again, hell effin yes!!*

*Neither my husband nor I are football fans but always find our way to a party each year for the food and free beer.

And even though places have gradually started to open up, of which I’m completely ecstatic about, I have found wide open weekends to be quite amazing.

Last minute plans can indeed be the best unlaid plans, if you will. And I’ve resolved to leave at least one weekend evening open for future spontaneous plans.

Is there anything more annoying than talking to someone on the phone and they start telling you about the car that just whizzed in front of them or the dead deer they saw on the side of the road?

Answer is no. At least it is today.

It’s Valentine’s Day. As the day approaches, I begin to think about the small gifts and candy I’ll purchase for our two children, ages 22 and 17. The cards I pick out give me a chance to write down how I feel about them.

But when my son came home after a weekend with friends and I pointed out the bright red gift bag I had set on the table for him, he rolled his eyes. I wasn’t surprised.

For the last few years, I’ve noticed he doesn’t tear open the holiday cards from his grandparent and avoids the sight of any gift bags sitting out for him at Valentine’s Day. I have to practically set the item on his lap to get him to acknowledge it. And today was no different.

I wasn’t hurt by this. Instead, I recalled all the years I gave the same reaction to my own mother as I got older. I remember shrugging off or taking for granted the gift bags filled with goodies my mom would annually give my brother and I well after our college years. Even when I was a harried young mom she’d give my husband and I Hershey Kisses and a gift card to a restaurant.

Something changed in me along the way, however, as my own children have gotten older.

I realized those small tokens my mother shops for and purchases are a way to hold on to being a part of her children’s lives. And now, I’ve come to pass along that same small tradition to Wyatt and Eva.

As the parent of older kids I feel there’s not a whole lot I can do to maintain the magic and wonder of holidays. But I try to show them in buying them candy, beef jerky, gift cards for gas or sandwich shops, or a new shirt.

My son eventually picked up his Valentine’s bag. I watched as he touched the small gifts his dad and I got him. Then he came to give me a hug.

 “You’ll always be my Valentine,” I whispered to him.

And please continue to indulge me, I whispered to myself.

I realize it may not mean a lot now, or possibly ever to him or his sister, but I want them to know in some form or another, how much I love to spend time thinking about them and shopping for things they like.

My desk. My happy place. My comfy chair. Sadie on a pillow beside me. A crossword puzzle. My diamond art in front of me. Journals and idea notebooks at my fingertips. My colorful gel pens and sharpened pencils. My glass of wine and my keyboard. My large window overlooking the snow and our street, American flag blowing in the wind. My perfectly picked out picture frames containing photos of my family. My bookstore fragranced candle aflame.

Anyone else try this thing called diamond art?

I love bison and after a quick search online I found one on Amazon (where else, right??). I work on it while listening to podcasts and audio books while sipping on my requisite Pinot Grigio.

A little pen picks up teeny tiny dots that stick on corresponding letters, numbers, or symbols on the canvas.

It’s super fun and, as this title says, wildly addicting.

Give it a try – bet you a bottle of wine you can’t stop doing it!

Sometimes I just want to be independently wealthy, live alone, and nap whenever I want.