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?