Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team

Disclaimer: I have the natural grace of a boulder.

Binge watching the series Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team might lead to delusions of grandeur, or a case of severe depression. I didn’t intend to binge watch, but after one episode I had grown fond of a couple of the rookie wannabes. 

Before long I was standing in front of the television shaking my imaginary pompoms and tossing my hair to the music. I’m quite good when nobody’s watching.

Then I was sobbing uncontrollably when Melissa H. a small town girl from somewhere in Idaho, failed to make the team, and had to return to the Midwest, a victim of shattered dreams all because her kicks weren’t quite high enough.

Maybe it’s time to take my antidepressant.

Peace, people!


When I was diagnosed with having a slight case of cancer several years ago, my imagination ran wild. “What if” became my go to sentence starter: What if it’s worse than they think? What if it’s spread? What if I die? What if our insurance doesn’t cover everything?

In many ways the “what ifs” were worse and more debilitating than actually having cancer. 

After my lumpectomy when a beaming surgeon told me that everything looked great the “what ifs” took a big break. Now my imagination could be used for good and not for evil. That came in handy when I began the tedious process of radiation therapy.

Every weekday for six weeks I had to lay completely still for 15-20 minutes while a machine slowly rotated around my upper torso delivering carefully measured doses of radiation. My view was lackluster, featuring yellowing acoustic ceiling tiles and one small poster of a forlorn looking puppy with a sappy saying printed underneath.

During my first couple of radiation treatments I imagined I was sunbathing on a favorite beach in Florida. But without a book sunbathing is no fun, and soon that fantasy fell by the wayside. 

Then I concocted an elaborate scenario in which I was a captured American spy being interrogated by the KGB. Every day my captors brought me into the Chamber of Truth and did their best to extract critical information from me. Every day I was able to resist their interrogation techniques. I was that good.

Once I graduated from radiation therapy I almost missed my daily interrogation. Maybe I developed Stockholm Syndrome, but I never divulged state secrets.


Sweating the Small Stuff

In a perfect world we’d all be as chill as this cat. 

Instead, I seem to follow the scenario below:

Like my mother before me, if I don’t have something to worry about I get worried. I heard recently in an interview on NPR that humans developed the ability to worry as a survival skill. At least I think that’s what the expert said. If so, I’m well equipped to survive. Unless of course I’m not. I guess I should worry about that, as well.

Peace, people!

The Princess and the Socks

Remember the old story of the Princess and the Pea? The queen wanted to make sure her son’s new romantic interest was a true princess, so she secretly placed a tiny pea beneath a stack of mattresses to see if the girl could detect the pea’s presence. Of course, the girl got a terrible night’s sleep and was declared a true princess.
That’s me. I’m the princess, only in my case the irritant isn’t a pea, it’s the little poky part of the toe seam in socks. Even short walks in my athletic shoes rub blisters on my cute little toes unless I put preemptive bandages in strategic places.

You see, I’m a delicate little flower. No, really. Stop laughing. At 5’8″ tall and I’m not saying how many pounds, I hardly look the part, but it’s true.

I’ve spent many years and many dollars trying to find a sock with non-irritating seams. Finally, I think I might’ve succeeded in my quest. The brand is Balega, and the socks are made in South Africa. The key to their comfort is that the toe seam is hand linked instead of machine linked. Big difference! 

I’m not saying this is the only sock with this feature, but it’s the only one I’ve come across in a light weight running/walking sock. SmartWool, I believe, has the same feature, but even their lightweight socks are just too hot for walking in the Florida summer heat, and this princess’s skin is too delicate for wool. 

See, I told you I was a delicate little flower.

Peace, people!


An Old Ode

I give you Miss Bobbie Gentry:


Ode to Billy Joe

Question: Just what was thrown off the Tallahatchee Bridge?

Question: Is it Tallahatchee or Tallahachee?

Unrelated Question: If Tom Brady were less good looking would his suspension have been overturned?

Word To Your Mama

Have you ever looked at an ordinary word for so long that it just doesn’t seem right anymore? That happened to me yesterday afternoon as I was looking for an over-the-counter medicine to calm my incessant sneezing, itchy throat, and watery eyes.

The word:


The more I looked at the word the stranger it appeared. Was it ALL ERGY? Or perhaps AL LERGY? 

When a helpful clerk at CVS asked if I needed assistance I mumbled something along the lines of, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

I hope this product helps with word fixation, as well.

Peace, people!

The Chrysanthemums

John Steinbeck’s short story, The Chrysanthemums, is one of my favorites and the inspiration for this poem. I’ve linked to the story below, and if you’ve never read it, I hope my poem encourages you to do so. I really hope it doesn’t discourage you! That would be awful!

Eliza’s Fate

She looked forward
to the small pleasures
after all:
ladybugs and
budding flowers,
the songs of
passing birds,
the smell of lilacs
in the spring.
What else was
meant for her
she’d never know,
but perhaps
this was it.

Most days she
thought nothing
of the lacks
in her life.
Most days she just
went through the motions.
Most days she felt
it was enough.


Other days she
privately railed
against the sameness.
Other days she cried
silently in the kitchen.
Other days she felt the
absence of color.

When he rode through,
that stranger, speaking
in a familiar way,
her need clawed raw and
subversive. Embolding.
What if today? Maybe he?
She dared the unthinkable
opened herself to him.
Like chrysanthemums,
of little consequence.


These are actually called Steinbeck’s Crysanthemums. How about that?


his prison had no walls,
no guards, no bars.
no warden ever surveyed
the non-existent cells.

yet he cowered there in
a corner of society’s
design; backed up against
the lies he’d been sold.

afraid to venture out
unarmed. emasculated
by manufactured fears
he sprayed his own poison.

propaganda kept him warm,
that and the butt of his
forty-five. he could spew
the paranoia in his sleep.

in his prison he dwells
shackled and hobbled
hoping today he might
justify pulling a trigger.

I am beyond weary of being told after every mass shooting in our country that it’s not the right time to address common sense gun regulation. We’ve waited long enough. It’s time. It’s been time for decades.