He sleeps like a Golden Retriever. I get a respectable three or four hours before the Hot-Cold Olympics begin. Too warm, too cold, too something.

This is not what I thought dog ownership would look like: me, at 7 a.m., perched on the edge of the sofa like some weary lady-in-waiting, hand-feeding dry kibble to a wiry little terrier-ish creature who eats with all the enthusiasm of a suspicious toddler at a royal banquet.

When’s the last time you kept going back—year after year—to a place where someone told you, repeatedly, how important they are and how negligent you’ve been not to visit more often?

I’m all for fairness. I’ve spent a lifetime being blamed for everything that happens to that bird. But there’s a difference between balance and payback, see?

A couple of years ago, I joked on Facebook that my cooking style is basically like being on a TV competition show. I’m handed three seemingly unrelated ingredients and told to create a meal. “You have sea bass, artichoke hearts, and blue corn chips… Bake!”

When was the last time you had to leave your house to... take care of business? Not while camping, mind you. I mean, real life. Monday-morning, neighbors-can-see-you life. Exactly.

So how do we look at the people who didn’t follow him? The everyday folks: scribes, healers, stewards, craftsmen, breadmakers—people doing their best to survive, focused on their own lives. People who didn’t have time for some strange man on the corner with a message.

Jeremy’s back in a mental health hospital. Again. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened since his first break from reality—the month before he turned 21. He’s 38 now. It feels like a never-ending struggle.

We’ve forgotten how to talk — really talk. We whisper, we posture, we translate our words mid-sentence for fear of offending someone who isn’t even in the room. But if we can’t even say what is, how are we supposed to talk about what could be better?

Are there ever enough wind chimes? Now, if you ask my husband, the answer is a resounding, “Yes—about 15 wind chimes ago!” If you ask me, the answer is, “Of course not!”

But today, Breeze had me all to herself. There was no need for possessiveness, no vying for position. Benny was busy… pouting. You see, I had the unmitigated gall to give him a bath.

My coworker and BFF announced on Zoom this morning, “I’m a pluviophile.”The word pluviophile rolled out of her mouth like a secret society password. I half expected a thunderclap and a butler to appear with an umbrella.

But when I checked the moisturizers, they had separated. The skincare equivalent of a divorce.

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.