Her jade-green head tipped into the kitchen, silver highlights catching the oven’s glow, nostrils flaring on a scent that wrapped the room like a promise. Cookies.

Yes, it was a land positively dripping with Splendid Things. The only hitch—and you can always count on a hitch—was The Rule. Nobody was to say anything that might unsettle the general atmosphere. Not a peep. Not a whisper. Speak truth and, it was believed, the rivers would sulk and turn an unbecoming shade of brown. So everyone went about with fixed smiles and polite coughs, like distant cousins forced to share a parlor sofa.

Breeze is a big, active dog who needs those walks as much as Rick does. Rick doesn’t get the zoomies in our yard — spinning donuts, throwing dust up with his feet — without them, though. Breeze does.

Next thing I knew, I was handed a whole recipe. Did I ask for a recipe? No, I did not. But that’s ChatGPT for you — forever assuming I don’t know how to bake. I only wanted validation that pumpkin, sunflower seeds, chocolate chips, orange zest, and a pink lemonade cream cheese drizzle would work together.

Rick and I were chatting this morning, as we often do when he's had just enough coffee to string sentences together and I haven’t yet been pulled into some digital rabbit hole. He told me he'd seen a lizard he’d never seen before.

The other day my husband and I were driving home from Houston. Long drive, empty freeway, podcast playing—because apparently we’ve reached the age where podcasts feel like entertainment. This one was about Egypt. Some archaeologist talking about discovering a massive underground labyrinth.

I don’t know what’s going on with the planets right now—maybe Mercury’s retrograde is doing cartwheels, or Mars has its warrior pants on—but I cannot sit still. I’ve been bouncing around the house like a human Roomba with a short attention span.

I woke early this morning thinking about Queenie. But to understand Queenie's story, I need to start with Betsy. We had a wonderful dachshund named Betsy.

But the sandwich came disassembled. A cellophane-wrapped slice of bread—thick, square, the shape and consistency of Texas Toast—and a plastic cup with a scoop of chicken salad. Nothing more. No lettuce, not even a napkin.

I’ve heard and read so much over the years about the major hate toward Crocs, and honestly, I don’t get it. I mean, they’re not made from actual crocodiles.

They just sit there, looking innocent, as if butter and sugar were perfectly ordinary things that had no intention whatsoever of forming a conspiracy. The oven hums along, pretending it’s just a metal box and not a device with ambitions of culinary tyranny.

I’m not trying to win a Pulitzer. I’m just trying to find my words — and thanks to a few digital tools, I’m finding them again.

And no matter how many Christmases come and go, he will always be — without question — the best Christmas present I’ve ever received.

So yes — this site is about me. That’s kind of the point.

There are dreams that slip away like mist… and others that embed themselves, whispering fragments long after you’ve opened your eyes.

Inside, there’s this wild, green landscape — a secret garden — full of overgrown thoughts, strange little ideas, and tangles of curiosity. There’s a lot going on in here, even if it doesn’t always make it out into the world.

What I need now is honesty about my current reality so we can move toward a solution. Instead, I feel like I’ve been shut out from the truth. Without that truth, there’s no path forward. It shouldn’t be this hard just to get a straight answer.

"It's not all about you, Mom!" my daughter said to me as I sat on the sofa, bone-weary after three months of chemotherapy.

Cut to 2 a.m., when my brain clocked in for the night shift. Instead of sleeping, I started storyboarding: what if this is the opening scene of a Sci-Fi movie?