Image of Unhappy at the DMV.   

It’s time to renew my driver’s license. This musing  comes to you before my visit to the friendly  Department of Motor Vehicles. 

Not all my experiences have be dreadful, but I do dread this necessary venture to the DMV.

An Honest Account: What Happens at the DMV

• Arrival: Take a number. Usually it’s a three-digit number like 813, that shows your place in line. It’s only 9 a.m.
• Book. Your book is at home, not in your bag. Now, invent stories about the 25 strangers stuck in the waiting room.
• “Cellphone Use Prohibited.” People ignore the handwritten signs. Everyone around you is talking into their cellphones on speaker mode, using their outdoor voices. Nobody is reprimanded. One timid woman mutters under her breath, but you aren’t sure what’s bothering her.      
• During the five minutes you are in the restroom, you sense you’ve missed your turn. When you ask the friendly-looking person in the first row, the one person not on their phone, about your number. He shrugs his shoulders. You look at the monitor, which reads number 15.     
• Egads! What’s that odor? The guy who reeks of cigarettes and dirt. What’s that cloying smell? It’s the scent when strawberries and passion fruit collide.  
• For real? The two people who came in after you are already leaving with smiles and paperwork.    
• Guessing games. Who is up next? You study the clerks behind the windows. Who will give you the eye test.    
• Hallelujah! It’s your turn. You pass the eye test, correctly answer all the questions, and have your picture taken.
• “Is this photo alright?” the kind person behind the window asks. You know darn well that photo doesn’t capture your inner beauty. The expression is all wrong.
• Jeez. Could you take it again, please? This time, you ignore her directions and give her a big smile.
• Keeper! The photo is a keeper.  License is mailed to you in four to six weeks.  
• Maybe you’ll be back in five years to renew your license.
• No, you’ll be back, unless you own a flying car by then, in which case, you will not need a license. But you could need a Real ID, also available at select DMVs.     

Image of Marty the robot at work.

 Who is checking you out at the grocery store?

    Marty, that’s who. It’s the annoying slender robot roaming the aisles following shoppers. Or maybe it only lurks and hums behind me. Marty is Giant’s googly-eyed slender silver robot that runs on lithium batteries.

    Its job? Marty monitors the aisles and alerts management about messes silently. No chant of “Cleanup on aisle four!” when a broken bottle of salad dressing creates a slipping hazard.

    Marty performs this job without an attitude or any gratitude. Safety first. But this silver one’s secondary role is spotting out of stock items on the shelves. The grocery chain’s leadership claims Marty is not meant to replace employees.

    But the employees at my Giant do not like this guy.

    

“Marty’s a jerk,” an employee says to me without explaining why. 

    The employee rolls her eyes and turns back to her work. My guess is Marty trails behind her too and gets in the way. Well, that’s too bad. It cannot talk, only beep or chirp. But Marty can and has run away, escaping out of the automatic doors and rolling into the parking lot. 

    Did it want better wages, working conditions, or company?

    As a non-robot, I enjoy micro-conversations during my routine errands. But with more self-checkout stations, I’m doing more scanning and less talking.

    I am not longing for deep discussions with strangers, and it’s rare to dive into topics that transcend the ordinary. But who stands behind the register matters. In my experience, three archetypes exists like “Transactional Tom,” “Be My Friend Betsy,” or “No Name I Don’t Care.” Sound familiar?  

    Transactional Tom is polite, efficient, and exudes confidence. He doesn’t need to look up the rutabaga price that stumps the average checkout employee. His expectations are simple: sell you the goods and accept your payment.  

    While Be My Friend Betsy makes eye contact, smiles, and begins talking. In five minutes, she tells you her special story. She earned a master’s degree in social work. She misses her old life. She’s happy/unhappy to be back living in her childhood home. Do not worry because you will learn more details next time. Betsy needs someone to listen and nod. I find this personality type thrives in small town stores.

    Unfortunately, the I Don’t Care employee works in every town. This person makes you feel responsible for their unhappy state using their loud indifference and silent irritation. 

    Usually, they don’t look at you, but you see their smirk waiting to emerge. A gruff barking voice asks: “What is this” as they fondle the fennel in their hands. I answer, bag my own food, zip pay, and rush out in case his condition is contagious. 

    I do not want a case of indifference. The price is too high. 

 

 

 

Image of sailboat on calm waters. 

How are you feeling?

    Let’s dive in and try a different approach. Describe yourself as a body of water.

    Are you the crystal clear calm water winking at the puffy white clouds? Perhaps you are peering over a roaring waterfall? Are you caught in a riptide of emotions?

    This prompt is an creative exercise that provides insight too. Waves can gently rock or crash over us. It’s all in the interpretation. For example, I’m navigating white water rapids every single day. Tell me more: Are you terrified or thrilled?

    Here’s a more common experience: I’m on course, then a huge wake makes me lose focus. I struggle to steer while being tossed and turned.

    Imagine yourself on a sailboat, enjoying an easy nine knots of wind. Then, a speeding motor vessel whose captain is oblivious or reckless creates a tremendous wake. Or the new boss’ actions cause a ripple effect throughout the organization.  

    And you can change the question. What type of body of water makes you happy? A refreshing tall glass of water or a beaker full of pond water?

    It depends.

    Perhaps you believe a smelly sample of pond scrum is a rotten wish? It’s a dream for scientists of all sorts. Because the murky water is teeming with organisms to study. A discovery awaits!

***

    What body of water am I?

    My answer changes every day and each season. In the winter, I shall join the icicles decorating the trees, melting in the sun’s rays. Or I become a snow-covered pond inviting skaters to glide gracefully across.

    In the spring, let me serve as the home for my friends — the chirping frogs and croaking toads giving free concerts. During the heat of the summer, make me a giant puddle for splashing and singing in the rain. Or turn me into an infinity swimming pool. When autumn arrives, I seek solitude as a stream collecting a parade of leaves.

 

What Paint Shade Should I Choose? 

Variety is the enemy of easy and speedy decision making. That’s my take after visiting the local paint store. 

    My eyes gloss over a plethora of paint colors whether historic, designer, traditional, or suburban modern color categories.

    I disregard the designer (most expensive) line.  As much as I adore authentic revolutionary color schemes, it doesn’t suit the house’s personality. Or mine. 

    Besides, I need white. Easy?

    Absolutely not, thanks to the hundreds of choices. Each color carries an alluring name like divine white, restful white, and snowbound. Soon, I shift from looking at the name rather than the color. Would the crisp linen color smell like fresh laundry? Could a coating of restful white create a feeling of calm? Sure, with imagination.

    These names are to evoke an emotion, create an image, or reflect a lifestyle. Consider how you would feel about painting your walls wolf moon, dirty snow, or flickering fluorescent? These names I just made up feel too bold, ugly, and unsettling for the average person. 

    What are this store’s most popular shades? The answer is on the back of the paint panels, like those  nature center exhibits, testing its visitors knowledge of say paw prints. 

    Flip, flip, flip. My favorites don’t match the answers. I feel a jolt of happiness knowing this about myself. And I’m not surprised because this is my life pattern. For example, I like the swish of cross-country skies over the whoosh of downhill skiing. Sailboats rule over powerboats. An electric vehicle gets me charged up.  

    My philosophy is to eat more plants and less meat. Tea talk vs. coffee chat. Plus, I’d rather be reading instead of watching a movie.   

    Color me different, and I’m fine with it. As for paint samples, I am leaning toward the warm whites hinting of yellow rather than the cool whites with traces of blue and grey.

    How does morning sun sound as a comforting color? Both the color and the name made it to the final round among my final 20 shades of white.

    Stay tuned.

Image of open journal inviting me to write. 

What are your New Year’s Resolutions?

In 2025, I vow to use and enjoy without guilt things saved. 

My pristine collection of leather bound journals deserve attention. I run my hand across the smooth leather covers. Opening the oldest journal, I admire the heavy brown paper within and a ribbon marking my last written entry. The newer book features a stamped tree design on its cover and a leather strap bookmark. 

Every page is empty. Each journal intimidates and invites me to write at the same time. But what will I write? I feel pressure to produce profound and journal-worthy material.

Then I shake this worry off and laughing to myself. Profound thoughts, huh? Who am I?

Well, I’m not a philosopher. Call me a discovery writer who starts writing without knowing where she’ll end up. It’s like following an unknown trail in the woods, getting lost, and finding your way out again and again.

My mighty Waterman pen and I must begin somewhere. The pen, a treasured gift, feels heavy with the weight of our challenge. 

What matters is the act of thinking and the discipline of writing. The ideas will flow—slow or fast. Some days, serious words will build on each other. Other days, my words may swirl across the page in a flimsy, light, or whimsical way.

Maybe these words bond becoming a haiku, or my list becomes a prose poem, or I create complete nonsense. I’ve decided it’s time well spent.

I hope you make time for your resolutions and have fun achieving them.

***

            Here’s a poem I wrote inspired by an embroidered guest towel. 

If Only 

If onlys, small regrets, lost honor 
steal time, joy, and pride
before learning forgiveness. 

Guest towels, fancy soaps, bath bombs
lose softness, scent, and shape
before pampering family.      

Fine china, crystal goblets, real silver
collect chips, dust, and dullness
after serving only visitors.  

Fig jam, lemon curd, kumquat jelly
turn bitter, sour, and ugly
before spoiling anyone.

Knit mittens, patchwork quilts, wooly scarves   
become lost, worn, and forgotten
after warming no child.

Fine paper, fountain pens, custom seals
will fade, dry, and crack
after writing no words.

Diamond pendants, black pearls, gold rings 
define style, wealth, and love  
before adorning anyone.    

Little luxuries, prized objects, cherished gifts
forge customs, gratitude, and memories
every day and always.   

 

What is your go-to comfort food no matter the season?

A steaming bowl of homemade soup served with a smile is my ultimate comfort food. The best soup isn’t fussy and pairs well with a loaf of lovingly made bread or plain white saltine crackers from a box. 

Soups invite improvising. You can substitute ingredients without worry—nobody makes soup exactly the same way twice! Not me anyway.

    Be creative, bold, and be ready.

    Stock up on soup staples. Our pantry has cans of tomatoes, broth, and all varieties of beans—garbanzo, cannellini, lentils, black and red beans, and more. We have egg noodles and lots of dry pasta choices handy too. Bags of frozen vegetables fill the freezer, awaiting their turn in the broth.  

    Canned goods and frozen veggies are available, nutritious, and cheap. Adding them to broth with a dash of hope, and lots of love creates satisfying soup anytime. 

***

   Reflections 

    My ended the year with 50^th blog post. Yay! The data are not exact but worthy of sharing. 

    Reflecting on 2024’s most read posts, I found those musings were among the most fun to write including, “The Story of Boots,” (Dec. 30), "High Five! for all the Dads,” (June 16) “How do you Connect with Nature?” (March 19) and “Summer Rites," (July 3).  

    I received the most feedback on “Authentic,” “Magic Closet,” “Old-Fashioned Buffets,” and “Snowy Days.” And I tickled a few funny bones when on a whim I tried fiction with a Brat summer quiz, and introduced you to “Sparkle” the purple unicorn.  Sparkle is still on the fence.  

    Thank you for a wonderful year.

New Year's Day Soup 

Prep time: 10 minutes/Total time: Less than one hour
Calories: 110 calories per cup   

Guaranteed to get a healthy start to the New Year

Ingredients (Makes four quarts)

1/2 white onion
½ cup celery (Use the celery leaves too.)
1 sweet peppers red or orange
1 can of cannellini beans
1 can of black eyed peas *
3 tbl olive oil  
3 cups (one bag) chopped kale
1 can diced Italian tomatoes
6-12 garlic cloves (In our kitchen we go heavy on the garlic.)   
2 tbl fish sauce (Optional ingredient to boost flavor. Check the Asian section of the grocery store or find a bottle in Asian market.)
1 tsp of hot dry red pepper flakes (Optional, more to taste. )
1 tsp of ground black pepper.
4 oz. dry pasta Ditalini
1 carton (4 cups) organic broth (chicken, vegetable, or beef)
4 cups of water
3 tsp of chicken base (Better than Bouillon brand)
Parmesan cheese
Salt to taste

 

* Southerners believe eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day brings good luck. We used the whole can, however, if you aren’t a fan, try a half a cup, or use another can of cannellini beans. 

DIRECTIONS

Wash kale and remove greens from the stems. Chiffonade the kale greens. Crush and chop the garlic cloves.

Dice celery, peppers, carrots, and onion. Sauté the celery, carrots, peppers, and onion in olive oil in a large pot under high heat until they sweat.

We ‘sweat them’ because one apple in the fridge went bad and we had to find out what he had done! As you know, one rotten apple spoils the whole bunch.

Add the garlic, fish sauce, red pepper flakes, and black pepper. Pour broth and water into the pan. Add enough water so not to overflow.

Add the chicken base. Then add the cannellini beans, black-eyed peas, and Italian tomatoes.

Bring to a boil, then add in the kale and let simmer for about 10 minutes. Add the pasta to the boiling broth for 20 minutes.

Taste and season with salt. Simmer for another 5 mins. 

Present in the bowl with a splash of olive oil, and sprinkle with grated parmesan cheese. Serve with a smile.

If you’d like a PDF of the recipe, let me know. Questions? I have answers.

 

Image of Boots who lives with Santa Claus 

The Story of Boots 

The aroma of turkey roasting drew me into the kitchen. I rubbed up against Mrs. Claus legs and purred until she looked down at me.

“Boots, please. You’ll get your serving of turkey when it’s ready. Do you want something now? Leftovers?” she said, walking to the refrigerator, and pulling out last night’s salmon. She forked a nice piece of tender pink fish on a plate for me. Instead of setting my breakfast plate in its usual spot on the floor, she put my breakfast in the corner.

Ah, I thought she didn’t want to step on me. Mrs. Claus’s clattering pans and music woke me up around dawn. That’s when I do my rounds, chasing out any little critters brave enough to enter on my watch.

Mrs. Claus was cookie-happy, a result of too much sugar mixed with excitement that all coalesces on Christmas Eve. When I sauntered into the kitchen, she was dancing around to “Wonderful Christmastime.”   

Despite her jolly figure, that woman could move like someone half a century younger. When the Mrs. moved to the music so did the tiny red and green pompons on her apron. When I was a kitten, I’d jump and swat each fuzzy ball while she worked in the kitchen.

I finished the cold salmon and licked my lips. That should hold me over until the noon-time feast. I retreated to the great room.

She turned down the music. Finally, peace and quiet to take a morning nap, I thought. Mr. Clause and I were sitting in front of the fireplace. I curled up on the braided rug and he slumped in his cushy rose-colored red recliner. When Santa wore his Union Jack red coveralls, like today, all I saw was his long white beard.

“Goodness gracious as reindeer fly, look at the time. Santa! Have you fed the reindeer yet?” Mrs. Claus said, or shouted at Mr. Claus, because he hadn’t put his hearing aids in yet.    

  “Thanks for reminding me. Boots, let’s go!” Santa said.

“Alright, I’ll follow along,” I said, even though it meant snow up to my knees. I didn’t like wet paws either, but the barn was warm and dry. Besides, I hadn’t talked to my reindeer friends for a few days.

Santa hoisted the special sack of feed on his left shoulder, and led the way to the barn.  The air was crisp and chilly. Santa always avoided saying phrases like freezing cold though I had heard him use some blue language with the temperature dipped to record lows one year.  

The reindeers’ lodging had more amenities than a typical barn. What Rudolph asked for, he got. He turned the barn into a club house with a large game room, an exercise area with the latest equipment, and he added central air and heat. That red-nosed charmer had clout with the Claus family. 

Santa pounded on the door then let himself in the barn. Rudolph greeted the two of us, and kicked the door shut. The two opened the feed sack and filled the trough. I sneezed thanks to those magic sprinkles flying off the feed.

“Bless you Boots,” Santa said.

He milled around talking to the team while I talked to Rudolph about what he had been reading. Lately, he said he only had time to read children’s books to his daughter. But her favorite stories were those he told her about learning to fly.

“Eat up! We have a big night,” Santa said, and he waved goodbye.

“Boots, remember your mouser days in the barn? We sure depended on you,” Santa said.

I felt like I earned my keep back then. But a robot replaced me. Sad, but true that a machine without whiskers could manage.

Santa must have sensed my sadness. “Boots, you’re living your best cat life now or best nine lives. Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Steps away from the house, Santa scooped me up and carried me the last few steps. Inside, he dried my paws.

I returned to the fireplace for a refreshing nap.

Mrs. Claus called us to our noon dinner – just us without the elves and their horrible table manners. My plate had a huge helping of moist dark turkey meat, leaving me satisfied.  

The Clauses limited their conversation to the olden days. Mr. Claus did all the clean up while Mrs. Claus sat by the fire. She wasn’t one for naps but allowed herself to doze off in the rocking chair. Santa settled into his chair with a book but soon the book rested in his lap and closed his eyes.

A cell phone alarm sounded, and Santa fumbled with buttons turning it off. He went back to snoozing. The old-fashioned grandfather clock chimed six times.

That should wake him up I thought.

He didn’t move, so I pulled his pantleg. Still, no movement.

  I sprang into Santa’s lap and meowed in his ear.  

“Meow. Santa, wake up!” I cried. 

He didn’t stir. Dang, he took his hearing aids out.

I jumped down and paced between the two sleeping Clauses. Pacing and meowing. Meowing and howling. Mrs. Claus was snoring as she rocked. Rocking chairs made me nervous, always have.

The clock chimed once for the half hour.

Could I open the door letting a cold blast of air inside the house? I jumped as high as I could to reach the door knob. Three times, I tried. I knocked the jingle bells from the doorknob.

Another idea.

I grabbed the bells in my mouth jingling all the way. Jingle jangle. Reindeer bells. I stood at the foot of Santa’s chair shaking my head making a racket and getting dizzy.

 Don’t panic, I told myself. Think. I jumped onto the windowsill where I do some of my best thinking (napping) to save Christmas. Looking around the room, a tall glass vase caught my eye. What if?

What if I got in trouble? I could live out my days in the barn. Not really a punishment.

But to reach the mantle, I had to jump from the rocking chair whose constant back and forth worried me. Could I keep my tail from getting squished? Could I nail the landing on the narrow ledge?

I bounded into Mrs. Claus’s lap, jumped onto the back of the chair, and leaped onto the mantle. Balancing on three paws, I swatted the vase, which was heavier than it looked.

Don’t give up, I thought. I fought the vase like a boxer, right hook, left jab, and a hard right hook. Sweat dripped down my back. I had not exercised much this year. But a blazing fire burned in the fireplace.

Deep breath. I put my whole body into the punch. Ka-Boom! The vase shattered on the floor.

“What! What time is it?” Santa roared, waking up Mrs. Claus.

 He looked at his phone, saw the time and all the missed calls from Rudolph. I made my way to hide behind the curtain when Santa saw me.

“Boots, did you do that?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

It’s always best to confess. I meowed.

“You saved Christmas my friend,” Santa said.

Mrs. Claus opened her eyes, looked at Santa, the mess, and me. Her smile told me she understood what happened, and that I wouldn’t be living my last lives out in the barn.