Florida or Bust...

Last year, after my trip to Greece and before the whole foot-drama saga began, I decided I might be done traveling. It just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. The world didn’t seem to satisfy that curiosity I once had to see as much of it as possible. Maybe I’ve changed. The world has most definitely changed. Tourism is booming, and you can feel it everywhere you go. Sometimes, it feels like you spend more time navigating crowds than actually enjoying the place you came to see.

So I was pretty comfortable with the idea of staying home.

Then along came this year’s Innovation Summit for my sector at work.

The summit was being held in Clearwater, Florida, the hometown of KnowBe4’s corporate offices. In the five years I’ve worked for the company, I’ve never actually been to the office. Not once. I figured this was probably an excellent opportunity to rectify that situation. And since I’d already be in Florida, I could tack on a trip to Jacksonville to see The Niece and Great Nephew.

So, I said yes.

And then, as the months passed, followed by the weeks, I started to wonder what exactly I’d gotten myself into.

There were several reasons for my growing anxiety, but let’s start with the obvious one: traveling itself. Getting there and getting home are, hands down, the WORST parts of any trip. Airports? Blech. All the logistics, the waiting, the hauling of luggage, the general nonsense required to get from Point A to Point B. I could happily skip that entire portion of the experience.

But there was another issue I hadn’t fully considered when I agreed to go. I was going to have to be social for an entire week. That meant talking to people. Being around people. Interacting with people for hours on end. Now, I like people. In reasonable quantities. With breaks in between.

Working from home has spoiled me in the best possible way. I can do my job without having to make small talk in the hallway or pretend I’m not distracted by the person having a loud conversation three desks away. But the flip side is that I’m not exactly practicing my people skills on a daily basis. After years of being a homebody, a whole week of socializing sounded exhausting before I’d even packed a suitcase.

I knew I was going to need a strategy to survive a week of being around people I actually liked. As it turns out, the socializing wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d anticipated.

Exhausting? Yes.

Worth it? Also yes.

The Innovation Summit is all about networking and learning what other teams are doing to innovate their work, improve our content, and generally make things better. And with AI becoming such a big part of everything we do, there was plenty of cool stuff to see and learn about.

Most of my PM crew and my boss.

But one of the best surprises was discovering just how funny and entertaining so many of my coworkers are. Not that I expected them to be boring, but it’s one thing to know someone through emails, meetings, and the occasional video call. It’s another thing entirely to spend time with them in person.

After working with some of these people for more than five years, it was genuinely fun to finally meet them face-to-face. There’s a different kind of connection that develops when you get to know the actual human being behind the computer screen. You go from being coworkers who get things done together to people who can laugh, joke, and enjoy each other’s company.

Who knew?

Of course, we didn’t spend the entire week sitting in conference rooms listening to presentations. There were some fun activities mixed in, too.

On Wednesday evening, we boarded the Calypso Queen for a sunset cruise. The food was, shall we say, underwhelming. But the view? Amazing. It was one of those perfect Florida evenings when the weather cooperates, the sunset puts on a show, and you’re reminded that sometimes just being out on the water is entertainment enough.

It was also a chance for everyone to relax, hang out, and talk about things other than work. We got to be humans first and coworkers second, which is a pretty nice way to spend an evening.

Thursday night brought us to Celebration Station. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but I went along anyway. Sometimes you have to participate in the group activity even when it wouldn’t have made your personal list of preferred entertainment.

Besides, it was another opportunity to spend time with my coworkers outside the usual work setting. And by that point, I was getting pretty good at this whole socializing thing.

Or at least I was committed to seeing it through.

After all that work-related fun, it was time to head to Jacksonville to visit The Niece and Great Nephew.

He’s almost two years old, which means he’s displaying all the standard characteristics of a toddler. The Sister-in-Law had warned me ahead of time that he was very attached to The Niece and that I shouldn’t expect a whole lot of interaction with him.

Fair enough. I could still enjoy spending time with them, even if I was mostly going to be an observer in the Great Nephew Show.

She was not exaggerating.

That child was attached to The Niece like Velcro. Wherever she went, he went. If she was nearby, I was apparently of little consequence.

And honestly, that was fine. I wasn’t expecting him to suddenly decide I was the most fascinating person on the planet. I was happy just to be there.

Eventually, though, he loosened up a little. He allowed me to read to him, and I was an acceptable recipient of his many high-fives. We spent a day or so together, and it was a lot of fun getting to hang out with them.

It was also a welcome bit of downtime after a busy week of work events, presentations, and being social. Turns out, even when you enjoy the people you’re with, a little quiet time is still a very good thing.

I finally made it home last night at around midnight and promptly collapsed into bed. There was no easing back into real life, though. I was up bright and early this morning, back at work and pretending I hadn’t just spent a week away from my usual routine.

And now I’m home, reunited with my own space, my own schedule, and the blissful absence of having to make conversation unless I actually want to.

So, what did I learn from this adventure?

First, I’m still not a fan of airports. That hasn’t changed.

Second, a week of socializing is exhausting, but it can also be incredibly rewarding. I got to meet people I’ve worked with for years, learn new things, laugh a lot, and build connections that are harder to make when everyone is just a little box on a computer screen.

I’m also perfectly happy to leave the corporate office visits alone for a while. Five years between visits seems like a perfectly reasonable interval to me.

Maybe I’ll aim for every five years going forward.

And if anyone asks me to come back sooner, I’ll have to give that some serious thought.

Preferably from the comfort of my own home.

The Crabs Go to the Cabin

It’s that time of year again—the time when the Crabs pack up, escape town, and head out for our annual girls’ weekend (well as annual as we can). This year we were down one Crab, with Janet unable to join us because of other commitments. We definitely missed her, but the rest of us were determined to carry on the tradition. Someone had to eat the snacks.

We shoved off Friday morning and headed east. The wildfires and air quality were a little concerning, but thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.

Our first stop was Cle Elum for lunch and groceries. Lunch at The Cottage has become part of the routine, so naturally, that’s where we went. Kathy and I split a club sandwich, which was delicious, but honestly, I couldn’t stop thinking about the enormous cinnamon roll I had spotted the second we walked through the door.

So, obviously, I bought one.

It was intended to be shared with Kathy over the course of the weekend. And it was. Eventually. I regret nothing.

After lunch, we made a quick stop at the Safeway for groceries. Apparently, this is THE busiest Safeway in the entire state of Washington. I believe it. For someone who gets annoyed by people on a good day, I was dangerously close to losing my patience in that store. We got what we needed and got the heck out.

Next stop: the bakery.

Going through Cle Elum has always meant a stop at Owen’s Meats for our family. It was tradition to get jerky and pepperoni rope, then walk across the street to the bakery for a maple bar. Unfortunately, Owen’s jerky hasn’t been great the last couple of years, so we skipped that part of the tradition.

The bakery, however, was non-negotiable. Their maple bars are to die for, and some traditions are worth protecting.

Eventually, we made it to the “cabin.” I call it a cabin even though it’s technically just a house. But it’s surrounded by woods, so cabin it is. And I absolutely love this place. The view is gorgeous, and I can completely understand why people love getting away to the woods. There’s something about being surrounded by trees that makes you breathe a little deeper.

We got settled and spent some time just hanging out. Before dinner, we had appetizers on the deck—good dips, good company, and that beautiful view. Honestly, I could have stayed there all night.

Dinner was a frozen pizza because sometimes a girls’ weekend calls for culinary excellence, and sometimes it calls for putting a pizza in the oven. Dessert was ice cream. Dah. Followed by watching Gone Girl and completely vegged out. It was fantastic.

Saturday morning was gloriously lazy. Eventually, we got ourselves moving and headed to Ellensburg to wander around the farmers market. We were meeting my friend Kara for lunch, so we got there a little early to poke around.

It’s a small market with all the usual farmers market suspects—fresh fruits and vegetables, honey, homemade goodies, meats, and various things that make you feel like you should probably be living a more wholesome life.

It was just the right size.

I was specifically on the lookout for nectarines and kielbasa. I found both. Although I was a little confused by the kielbasa because it wasn’t smoked or cooked. Apparently, that’s a thing. Who knew?

The nectarines, however, were amazing.

I kept referring to them as apricots. Over and over. Sherrie finally looked at me like I had completely lost my mind and explained that, no, the things I had purchased were definitely nectarines and not apricots.

This will be funny for years.

We met Kara for lunch at a little Mexican restaurant called La Santa, which is located in an old church. I ordered the cheese enchiladas and...

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

Those may have been the best enchiladas I’ve ever had. The red sauce was so flavorful that I actually had to stop for a minute and appreciate what was happening in my mouth. Sometimes food deserves a moment of silence.

After lunch, we took the scenic route back to the cabin. Because we were in no hurry. That’s kind of the whole point of this weekend.

We took a little nappy-nap when we got back, because apparently we were 80-year-old women who had been through a very demanding day of farmers market shopping and enchilada eating.

And honestly? It was wonderful.

There is something so nice about being somewhere with absolutely nowhere you need to be.

Dinner that night was Kathy’s famous salmon. We’ve had it a couple of times now, and it never disappoints. Cilantro-lime salmon with roasted potatoes and broccoli. Delicious.

That evening we watched Remarkably Bright Creatures. Somehow, I managed not to cry, which I consider a personal victory. It’s my next book club selection, and after seeing the movie, I’m even more excited to read the book.

Sunday morning came far too quickly. The others took their time getting up. I, naturally, was awake early because apparently my internal clock has decided sleeping in is no longer an option.

Each morning, I made a cup of coffee, grabbed a blanket, and went out to sit on the back deck. Those quiet mornings were probably my favorite part of the whole weekend. Just me, my coffee, the trees, and my thoughts. No schedule. No errands. No rushing around. Just quiet.

It’s always such a good weekend when we head out to the cabin. There aren’t many opportunities these days to simply slow down and do absolutely nothing without feeling like you should be doing something else.

The cabin gives us permission to do that.

We can be busy if we want to be. We can go explore, go to the farmers market, find great food, take the long way home, or watch movies. Or we can sit on the deck with a cup of coffee and stare at the trees.

This year, we did a little of both.

And before we even left, we put next year’s weekend on the calendar. Because apparently the Crabs have finally figured out that if we don’t schedule the fun, life will happily schedule everything else for us.

Next year, there will hopefully be one more Crab.

And there will definitely be cinnamon rolls.

You Scream. I Scream. We all scream for ice cream

My dad loved ice cream. You could always count on finding at least three different quarts tucked away in my parents' freezer. Vanilla was his everyday favorite, but if there was butter pecan, you knew he was a happy man.

I love ice cream too, but I rarely keep it in the house because...well...I'll eat it. Every last bite. During the summer, Blueberry and I had a tradition of stopping at Dairy Queen for Mini Butterfinger Blizzards. It was the perfect treat on a warm day. Then, on our last visit, two mini Blizzards rang up to over $14. Yeah...I just can't justify that anymore.

Between the price of ice cream and my ongoing quest to cut back on sugar, I knew it was time to find another option. I experimented with several low-carb ice creams back in 2019, and honestly, they were all disappointing. They froze rock hard, took forever to soften, and even then the texture and flavor just weren't worth the calories or the carbs.

One of my favorite low-carb blogs, All Day I Dream About Food, recently shared a Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream recipe. Chocolate and peanut butter has always been my favorite flavor combination whenever I visit Baskin-Robbins, so I immediately added this one to my must-make list.

There was just one problem.

Many of her ice cream recipes are made with the Ninja Creami. I've had one sitting on my Amazon wish list for nearly two years, but I could never bring myself to spend over $200 on an appliance I wasn't sure I'd use enough. Even during Prime Day, the discounts never seemed good enough.

Then last week I happened to check the price again. It was 43% off, and I had a $25 gift card waiting to be used. That brought the total down to just over $104. Suddenly, it became a whole lot easier to click "Buy Now."

The machine arrived a few days later, and yesterday I finally had all the ingredients to make my first batch of ice cream. Making homemade ice cream with the Creami does require a little patience—you mix everything together, pour it into the container, and let it freeze for a full 24 hours before spinning it.

Today was finally the big day.

After reading through the instructions, I crossed my fingers, hit the button, and watched the magic happen.

I'm officially in love.

Not just with the Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream, but with the Ninja Creami itself. I couldn't believe how incredibly smooth and creamy the finished ice cream turned out. It honestly tasted like real ice cream—not a low-carb substitute. And the recipe? Absolutely delicious.

Of course, one successful batch wasn't enough. I've already collected about 20 Creami recipes, and I can't wait to start working my way through them. I have a feeling this little machine is going to be getting a lot of use around here.

When Roller Rinks Ruled the Weekend

Roller skating! Wow, I haven't thought about those days in a long time. But if you asked me what defined my early 80s childhood, roller skating would be near the top of the list.

My memories are a little fuzzy on the exact years, but I'm guessing the height of my skating obsession was somewhere around 1981, 1982, and 1983.

Friday night skating was the thing to do. Friends and I would head to the rink, lace up those brown skates with the bright orange wheels, and hit the floor. As soon as the music started, we were off.

Surprisingly, skating came very naturally to me. Going forward was easy, and before long I had learned to skate backward, take corners without tripping myself up, pick up speed, and even "shoot the duck." I felt fearless out there.

Photo credit: I love the 80s FB page

 The rink itself had a smell I'll never forget—a mixture of skate spray, popcorn, and French fries. Even now, just thinking about it brings those memories rushing back.

In the center of the rink hung a giant disco ball, scattering lights across the floor while loud, rocking 80s music played overhead. Everyone skated in the same direction, circling the rink over and over—except during the reverse skate, when the DJ would have everyone switch directions.
Every skate night followed a familiar rhythm. 

There was the All Skate, Couples Skate ( remember skating with Tommy Bennett and was so scared he’d want to kiss me. I wasn’t ready for that yet), Reverse Skate (going in the opposite direction), Speed Skate (you could go as fast as you could), Backwards-Only Skate (meaning skating backwards only), Limbo, and Simon Says. Then there was my favorite—Jail Break. If a rink guard tagged you, you had to skate into the center. When the DJ finally shouted "Jail Break!" everyone reversed direction, and the skaters trapped in the middle could race back into the crowd. It was complete chaos and so much fun.

Photo credit: Instagram 80s page

One year for my birthday, I received the coolest skates I'd ever seen—white lace-up skates with hot pink wheels. I even tied a pink pom-pom to the top. I thought I was the most stylish skater in the building.

Photo credit: Walmart.com

Mom would drop us kids off at the rink, usually with a whole group of kids piled into the car. When the night was over, we'd use the pay phone to call her for a ride home. We'd stumble into the car exhausted, sweaty, hyped up on music and fun, and laughing the whole way home.

Those Friday nights at the roller rink were simple, carefree, and unforgettable.

What Would Blueberry Do?

I don’t think it’s surprising—or even all that unique—that after the hospital drama of the last several months, I’ve started rethinking parts of my life. There’s something interesting about being unable to do things that suddenly makes you want to do everything.

I made a list. A ridiculously long list. Things I want to do, places I want to eat, habits I want to change, experiences I want to have. And I made myself a promise—not to the universe this time, but to myself—that I would genuinely try.

I know myself well enough to know some things won’t matter later. But I also didn’t want to let the list become one of those “someday” ideas that never happens. I craved a little change.

I reread the lists regularly and pick one or two things to tackle.

Last Friday, I crossed one off: visit a new restaurant on my bucket list. France, Blueberry, and I went to breakfast at Totem Diner in Everett. But that’s not actually what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about the shortest item on my list.

Let’s talk Blueberry.  This girl amazes me. She’s always moving. Always doing something in her house, around her house, for someone else. She doesn’t let things sit. Dishes? Done immediately. Amazon boxes? Broken down immediately. Notice something needs to be cleaned or organized? She just… does it. Part of that is physical—she needs to keep moving. Part of it is just who she is.

Meanwhile, my personality has always leaned more toward it can wait. Dishes can wait. Laundry can wait. Dusting can definitely wait.

And honestly? Usually it works out. Until it doesn’t.

An emergency trip to the hospital meant my house wasn’t what my mom used to call “company ready.” Now, Blueberry would immediately argue she’s not company and she knows exactly how I live. So, when she came to clean my house while I was in the hospital, she knew what she was walking into.

I was mortified.

That feeling stuck with me.

So, one of the items on my list became this: whenever that it can wait mindset starts creeping in, ask myself—

What would Blueberry do?

If the answer is she’d get up and do the dishes… then I get up and do the dishes.

I’ve been trying this for about a week now. I have absolutely no illusion this suddenly becomes my permanent personality, but I wanted to see what happened And honestly? A few things changed.

First—my kitchen is clean every day. It turns out cooking is way easier when you don’t have to clean before you can even start. Or unload the dishwasher first. My mom was the kind of person who couldn’t leave dishes in the sink overnight. I used to think she was a little dramatic about it. Now I kind of get it.

Coming downstairs to a clean kitchen feels good. Weirdly peaceful. Weirdly… adult. Will I slip? Absolutely. But this feels like a habit worth keeping.

The second thing I tackled was laundry. I hate laundry. I mean, does any one love laundry?

Because I can get away with it, I’ll often go three weeks without doing any—and then suddenly I’m staring down Mount Laundry. So, I made a new rule: one load a week. Doesn’t matter if it’s sheets, towels, or clothes. Just one load.

And you know what happened? I stayed caught up. One load feels manageable.

Now… does that one load sometimes remain in the dryer because apparently the dryer doubles as my second closet? Yes. We’re not solving every problem at once.

But yesterday I had three loads to do—sheets, towels, clothes. I did them all.

The sheets are still in the dryer (again… progress, not perfection), but I folded the clothes and put them away immediately. That is not normal behavior for me.

This probably sounds obvious to some people. Easy, even. For me, these are real shifts. I want to get to the place where doing things isn’t a debate or a thought process—it’s just action. Blueberry would do it immediately.

What I keep front and center was that this isn’t really about cleaning. It’s about momentum, priorities, and changing habits after having my routine interrupted.

So, for now, that’s the question I’m carrying around: What would Blueberry do?

 

Holding Onto Mom This Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day changes when your mom is gone. You still have to witness all the signs that Mother’s Day is coming; the brunch ads still pop up, and social media fills with smiling photos and heartfelt tributes. The world keeps celebrating while my heart quietly aches for the one person I wish I could call and wish a Happy Mother’s Day to.

Me and Mom - Mother's Day 2001

Grief has a strange way of showing up on holidays. Some years it’s loud and heavy, impossible to ignore. Other years it sneaks in softly — seeing a photo of her and me, in the recipe card written in her handwriting, or in the sudden urge to pick up the phone before remembering I can’t.

Mother’s Day isn’t about the gifts and reservations and finding the perfect card. It’s really about love that lasts long after someone is gone.

Mother's Day 2016

Losing a mom leaves an emptiness that never fully closes. Moms are often the keepers of traditions, the first person you call with good news, the voice that somehow makes everything feel okay. When they pass, you don’t just lose a parent. You lose a piece of your history, your comfort, and sometimes even your sense of home.

But grief also has a beautiful side to it. It reminds us how deeply we were loved.

1986

This Mother’s Day, instead of focusing only on the loss, I’m trying to focus on the pieces of her that still remain – and as I age I see more and more of her in me. The habits I picked up from her. The recipes I still cook. The phrases I hear myself saying that sound exactly like her (which admittedly frightens me and makes me laugh out loud). The lessons she taught me without even realizing it.

Love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It changes shape.

Maybe this year Mother’s Day I’ll look at it differently. Maybe it’s lighting I’ll light a candle instead of buying flowers. Maybe it’s cooking her favorite meal, wearing her necklace, looking through old photos, or simply allowing myself to miss her without apology.

And maybe that’s enough.

For anyone spending Mother’s Day missing their mom — I see you. It’s okay to feel sad while everyone else is celebrating. It’s okay to laugh at old memories and cry five minutes later. Grief and love walk hand in hand.

The truth is, a mother’s love doesn’t end when her life does. It stays tucked into everyday moments, quietly shaping who we are long after she’s gone.

Spain, 1986
This was the photo I realized I looked just like her.

Rediscovering Myself, One Yes at a Time

There’s a version of me I’ve been missing for a long time.

The Jenn from before Covid was always going somewhere, doing something, saying yes to plans without hesitation. Then somewhere along the way, that girl slowly disappeared. These past five or six years, I’ve become a full-fledged homebody. I still go out occasionally, but it almost always feels like work.

I love my home. I work from home. My cat is here. All my favorite things are here. My routines are here. Home became safe and comfortable and easy. Leaving it started to feel exhausting.

I say yes to plans when people invited me somewhere. Lunch? Sure. Shopping? Sounds fun. A road trip? Absolutely.

Then as the day got closer, the internal negotiations would begin.

Could I get out of it?
Would they believe I was sick?
Could I come up with an excuse that didn’t sound ridiculous?

Sometimes anxiety won and I canceled. Most of the time I forced myself to go anyway. And every single time? I had fun. I knew that logically, but somehow it still wasn’t enough motivation to get me out the door.

But something has changed within me (where are my Wicked fans?).

I spent a lot of time thinking during my two hospital stays over the last six months. Hospital rooms have a way of forcing reflection on you. I started asking myself why I’d become so withdrawn. Was it laziness? Anxiety? Comfort? Exhaustion? Had I simply convinced myself staying home was easier than living? I didn’t really land on one answer. What I did decide was that I want to live differently.

Somewhere between hospital bracelets and too much time alone with my thoughts, I came up with a new mantra:

Say yes more often.

And surprisingly… I think it’s working.

Lately I’ve felt more awake somehow. More open to life. More willing to leave the house without immediately calculating how quickly I can return to it. I’ve even felt something I haven’t felt in years:

Spontaneity.

Today was my standing lunch date with Meg-a-rooni. We had plans for Mexican food and catching up for a couple hours like usual. But before lunch, Megan sent me a TikTok link to a local coffee stand making a Diet Coke Cherry Espresso.

Excuse me? A what now?

She asked if I wanted to go after lunch.

Old Jenn — or maybe “Covid Jenn” — would’ve immediately said, “Nah, I should probably head home.”

But today?

I said yes.

We had the address, but only a vague idea of where this place actually was. Instead of plugging it directly into GPS and making it efficient, we decided to turn it into an adventure. It was sunny, the top was down in Wroamin, and honestly, the day just felt too nice to rush through.

Naturally, Megan thought it was one direction and I thought it was another. We wandered around a bit before finally finding the place, but I’m glad we did.

The drink itself was bizarre in the best possible way. First sip: Diet Coke. Then cherry. Then suddenly espresso sneaks in at the end like, “Oh hey, I live here too.”

I kept drinking it trying to decide if I actually liked it or not. I think I did.

It could’ve been a little sweeter, but I’d absolutely get it again just for how weirdly unique it was.

The drink wasn’t the important part of today. The important part was realizing that I feel like I’m coming back to myself. Like I’ve been asleep for five years and I’m finally starting to wake up.

So this summer, I’m leaning into it. I made a list while I was in the hospital of things I want to do — and yes, a shocking number of them are food-related — and I’m challenging myself to actually do them.

To go.
To experience things.
To say yes more often.

Now nobody needs to know about this new life philosophy of mine, so let’s just keep that between us.

Footloose (But Medically Supervised)

It finally happened. The day I’ve been counting down to since October 27, 2025. Mark it, celebrate it, maybe even throw some confetti (carefully, nothing that could injure a foot): I have officially been released from wound care.

That’s right—I graduated. There was no cap, no gown, and frankly a shocking lack of cake, but I’ll take it. The foot is 98% healed, which in medical terms apparently translates to “you’re free, go live your life.” The remaining 2% is a tiny scab/callus situation that now falls under the category of “don’t do anything dumb.” A category I intend to respect… mostly.

On the drive home, I found myself reflecting on this whole saga—because apparently surviving a medical ordeal turns you into a philosopher whether you like it or not. For 56 years, I’ve been cruising through life under the delightful illusion that nothing major would ever happen to me. And honestly? That’s a pretty solid streak. Fifty-six years, one major issue. Statistically, I feel like I was winning.

But wow, when something does happen—game on.

Now, I know there are people who have faced far worse. I’m fully aware of that. This wasn’t, say, climbing Everest with a broken leg or battling something like cancer. But here’s the thing: when it’s your thing, it’s big. It’s overwhelming. It’s your personal Everest, even if it only involves a foot and an alarming number of medical appointments.

And oh, the appointments. The doctors. The specialists. The insurance calls that make you question all your life choices. At one point in February, I hit my limit. I was mentally drafting my retirement from healthcare altogether. “That’s it,” I thought. “I’ve had a good run. No more appointments. I’ll just… wing it.”

Don’t worry—I didn’t actually do that. But the thought? Oh, it was there.

Then there was the small, totally chill realization that I had come a little too close to something much worse. One of the infectious disease doctors casually mentioned that if I had waited another day or two, I might not have been sitting there having that conversation.

You know. Just a fun, light comment to really spice up your hospital stay.

That one stuck with me. Especially since I’ve had family members who passed from sepsis. I used to wonder how that even happens—how someone doesn’t realize how serious things are getting.

Well. I get it now.

So yes, along with the joy of being done, there’s also a little fear tagging along like an uninvited plus-one. I never want to go through this again. Ever. And now that I know what can happen, there’s this tiny voice in my head that’s like, “Hey… what if you mess up and end up back there?”

Cool, cool, cool. Thanks, brain.

But I think that’s part of the deal. Your brain’s just trying to keep you alive, even if it occasionally turns you into a slightly paranoid foot inspector.

Which brings me to my new lifestyle:
– Special shoes (because my pinky toe has apparently chosen a new direction in life)
– Nightly foot checks (because we are not doing surprise infections ever again)
– A general awareness that feet are not to be taken lightly

Honestly, if “special shoes” are the price of freedom, then sign me up. Comfort over chaos, every time.

And here’s the surprising part: I’m actually grateful.

Not for the wound itself—let’s not get carried away—but for what it forced me to learn. It shifted my perspective. It made me more aware, more appreciative, and maybe just a little tougher. Also slightly weirder about my feet, but that feels like a fair trade.

So here I am—newly graduated, slightly cautious, rocking what I affectionately call my “troll foot,” complete with a pinky toe that’s heading south for the winter.

And somehow, I still feel incredibly lucky.

  

The Comeback Tour: Featuring Driving, Shopping, and Independence

It’s been a long time coming. Back in December, I was lying in a hospital bed dramatically staring at the ceiling like I was in the season finale of a medical drama, wondering if “normal life” would ever make a comeback tour.

Turns out, “normal” to me equals routine. Not the glamorous kind—no one’s handing out awards for “Most Consistent Grocery Shopper”—but the kind where I can go, do, and see whatever I want without coordinating a small village to make it happen. Independence, baby. And friends… I think my train is finally pulling into the station. It’s not exactly high-speed rail, more like a scenic route with frequent stops, but I’m arriving.

It all began with a wildly thrilling adventure: a short grocery trip last weekend. Yes, grocery shopping is now an event. Wound care cleared me to drive (cue angelic choir), but I still had to wear “the boot” while walking—fashion-forward, really. So, I bravely set out to Town & Country for produce like a woman reclaiming her destiny… one vegetable at a time.

Let me just say: ordering produce through Amazon Fresh? A betrayal. A scam. A personal attack. Nothing compares to choosing your own fruits and veggies like the picky, slightly judgmental human I am. And don’t even get me started on deli ham. I hadn’t had it in forever because I only accept the good stuff—freshly sliced, not that pre-packaged nonsense. So yes, I reunited with my beloved ham. It was emotional. I may have shed a tear.

I left early to avoid traffic, because nothing says “healing journey” like minimizing lane-change anxiety. Driving came back quickly (muscle memory is a real one), but there was a moment where I was like, “Wait… do I still know how to merge without panic?” Spoiler: I do.

I even found a decent parking spot, which honestly felt like the Universe saying, “Alright, you’ve suffered enough. Here’s a small win.”

I did my own shopping. By myself. It was glorious. Like a one-woman parade of independence… just slower and with a slight limp.

I still ordered some bulky stuff from Amazon Fresh because I’m not trying to win a hero award here. It kept the trip shorter and my foot happier. Balance, people.

Then this week? Oh, I leveled up.

I went to my QFC. Planned meals. Made a list. Got there early like the organized, responsible adult I occasionally pretend to be. And the best part? “My” cashier was there, recognized me, and noticed I’d been gone for months. I’m not saying I almost cried in the checkout line… but I’m also not not saying that.

It felt like home.

Now, I know this might all sound ridiculous to some people. “Wow, you went grocery shopping, congratulations.” But listen—when your independence gets yanked away unexpectedly, it’s the small, everyday things that you miss the most. Those little routines? They’re not little. They’re you. They’re your comfort zone, your identity, your “everything is fine” signal to your brain.

It’s like putting on your favorite winter jacket and wrapping your hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Cozy. Familiar. Slightly dramatic, but in a good way.

Other signs I’m clawing my way back to “normal”:

1. I grilled last night for the first time since early September. Yes, I wielded tongs again. Power move.
2. I now drive to get coffee—and I found a new favorite, which I will absolutely go out of my way for because priorities.
3. Picked up my own prescription like a fully functioning adult.
4. Drove myself to a doctor’s appointment (who even am I??)
5. Went to dinner club—Sherrie still drove, because let’s not get reckless

Here’s the deal. We all have these little things we do to stay sane, to feel like ourselves. Take those away, and suddenly you’re like, “Who even am I without my routines?” It chips away at you. Your independence, your dignity—it starts to feel like it’s slipping through your fingers.

And yeah, your brain can get a little dramatic about it. Depression tries to show up like an uninvited guest, whispering nonsense. But then there’s that other voice—the slightly annoyed, very practical one—that goes:

“Okay, listen up, dummy. This is temporary. Get it together.”

Or, as the classy wall plaque says: Pull up your big girl panties and deal with it.

So here I am. Getting my life back. Keeping the promises I made to the Universe (who, let’s be honest, has a very sarcastic sense of humor). Asking it to maybe go a little easy on me… because clearly I learn lessons at the speed of dial-up internet.

But hey—

I’m back, baby.

Blueberry: Proof the Universe Occasionally Gets It Right

There are friends… and then there are friends. The one kind who drift in and out of your life like seasonal decorations—nice to see when they appear, but not exactly structural. And then there’s the rare, magical, possibly slightly unhinged category: the lifelong best friend. The one who has stuck around long enough to know where the bodies are buried… and helped dig a few of the holes.

I’m talking about that friend. The loyalest and bestest friend ever. For me that’s Blueberry.

1981

We met so long ago and both of us remember exactly when and where. As I look back now, I think the Universe assigned us to each other and brought her uncle and my mom together so she and I could be lifelong besties. Of course, we didn’t know it then (1980 I believe) that in our 50’s we’d still be besties.

Over the years we have seen each other through everything: crushes, questionable haircuts, jobs, terrible fashion choices, life decisions that seemed brilliant at the time, and the slow dawning realization that maybe—just maybe—we should not have cut our own bangs.

A lifelong best friend is the person who remembers you before you became a somewhat respectable adult. They remember when you were a twenty something goblin fueled by diet soda and poor judgment. They know all of the embarrassing stories. In fact, they were probably there when the embarrassing stories happened.

1999

They are also the only person who can say, “Remember when we…” and instantly send ourselves into a full-body cringe while laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

Loyalty like this isn’t loud or flashy. It’s not grand speeches or dramatic movie moments. It’s the quiet, stubborn kind of loyalty that shows up again and again over the years. It’s the friend who answers the phone when you call, but takes forever to answer a text.

The friend who has helped you move, even though they know you own an unreasonable amount of scrapbook supplies and kitchen gadgets.

They are the keeper of your shared history. They remember things you forgot. They remind you who you were when life gets messy and confusing. Who has the memory of an elephant and whom you rely on to remember the details of our story.

And perhaps most importantly, they are the one person who can look at you across a room, make a single facial expression, and start a silent conversation that leaves both of you trying not to laugh like middle schoolers in detention.

1990

That kind of friendship doesn’t happen overnight. It’s built slowly over years of shared adventures, inside jokes, small kindnesses, and some of the most ridiculous conversations.

Over the years, many friendships fade. Life happens. People move, priorities shift, and paths diverge.

But every once in a while, if you are very lucky, you get one that sticks. One that grows right along with you through all the stages of life—from reckless youth to whatever strange, creaky version of adulthood we’re currently inhabiting.

A lifelong best friend is proof that time doesn’t weaken real friendships. If anything, it makes them stronger… and funnier… and occasionally a little more sarcastic.

2010

This is Blueberry to me.

The one who stayed.

The one who knows everything. EVERYTHING!

And the one who, if the zombie apocalypse arrives tomorrow, will absolutely be on your team—mostly because they know exactly how weird you are and have decided they’re sticking with you anyway.

I’m lucky. I’ve always known Blueberry was special. She’s the kind of person who roots for the underdog, stands like a rock when things get wobbly, has a heart the size of Montana, and—most impressively—never folds on her morals and values. Basically, she’s the respectable one in this friendship. Every duo needs one.

2008

From the beginning, I figured we’d be there for each other through thick and thin. In my mind, though, the arrangement was pretty simple: if she ever needed help, I’d be there in a heartbeat. What I didn’t imagine was the Universe deciding to test the “thick and thin” clause with a full-scale hospital adventure.

Apparently, the fine print of friendship includes things like medical drama, hospital rooms, and me being the one who suddenly needs help. A lot of it.

And that’s where Blueberry has absolutely blown me away.

Time and again she’s shown up, done what needed to be done, and taken care of me without a single complaint. Not even a tiny, passive-aggressive sigh. Honestly, if there’s a gold medal for “Best Human Under Ridiculous Circumstances,” she’s already on the podium.

I always knew she was loyal. I just didn’t realize the Universe was going to run such an aggressive loyalty stress test.

So yes, I’m lucky. Truly lucky.

And I just want to thank the Universe for dropping Blueberry into my life. Because when life gets weird, painful, or downright ridiculous, it turns out the best thing you can possibly have is a loyal, rock-solid friend named Blueberry.

I genuinely can’t imagine my life without her. And frankly, I don’t want to

My only wish if that I am half the friend to her that she is to me. 

2000

Rehab Diaries: Seven Days, Countless Reps, and One Very Opinionated Knee

When we spoke last, I had just finished recounting my harrowing expedition through the land of Problematic Kneeland. A reasonable person might assume the adventure ended there.

A reasonable person, however, has clearly never dealt with the Universe.

The Universe, as I have mentioned before, is a fickle bitch. And apparently it had decided my story needed a sequel: Rehab: The Director’s Cut.

Now, my first exposure to the word “rehab” had nothing to do with celebrities or substance abuse. It happened years ago when my dad fell and ended up in what everyone vaguely referred to as rehab. I asked Mom what that meant. She explained it as a place where people go after the hospital so they can be watched closely while professionals help them get back on thei qr feet.

Which sounded reasonable.

Then I visited.

What I saw looked less like a recovery center and more like a dimly lit waiting room for the afterlife. People were parked in wheelchairs along the hallway like unused shopping carts. The air smelled like sadness, urine and antiseptic.

So, when the doctor at Swedish casually mentioned they were sending me to rehab for a week, I was…less than enthusiastic. I wanted to be home. But home is where stairs were and I wasn’t ready for stairs.

Getting discharged from a hospital, by the way, is an experience somewhat akin to trying to put a straightjacket on yourself. Endless forms. Endless signatures. Endless waiting.

Later I would learn that getting out of rehab is like trying to remove that same straightjacket while wearing oven mitts.

My case manager arrived with four rehab options. All four had one star.

ONE.

STAR.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if a toaster gets one star, I don’t buy it. Yet here I was selecting a place to live for a week based on Yelp reviews that strongly suggested tetanus shots and emotional trauma were in my future.

There was a fifth facility with three stars, but they didn’t have any beds available. Apparently, all the other unlucky souls had the same idea.

I quickly scanned the four remaining options, looked at which one was closest to Blueberry’s house, and picked one at random.

Pine Ridge Post Acute.

Would it be okay?

Would I survive?

Only one way to find out.

The case manager called what they charmingly refer to as a “Cabulance.” Think Uber, but with straps and medical liability waivers.

It took forever to arrive. I was so ready to leave the hospital that I didn’t stop to consider whether I was escaping the frying pan only to swan dive into the deep fryer.

The reason I couldn’t just go home was simple: I live in a townhouse. Townhouses contain stairs. And at that moment in my knee’s recovery timeline, stairs might as well have been Mount Everest. My knee couldn’t bend enough to step up six inches, and even if it could, the strength required to actually lift my body was currently theoretical.

So, rehab it was. The case manager estimated seven days. Possibly ten. Over my dead body was I staying ten days. In my mind I was shooting for four. This was…optimistic.

The cabulance ride itself lasted approximately two blocks and cost $60. For a distance I could have crawled in a reasonably determined afternoon. The driver, however, was worth every penny.

She was a petite woman from Jamaica who looked about as threatening as a kindergarten teacher. I briefly wondered how she planned to push my wheelchair. Turns out she pushed it like she was training for the Olympic Powerlifting Team. She maneuvered that chair, lifted it into the van, strapped everything down, and secured me with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.

While she worked, she chatted cheerfully. “How old are you again?” she asked.

“Fifty-seven,” I said. She grinned.

“I turn sixty-nine in two days!”

I stared at her. There was absolutely no universe in which this woman was sixty-nine. Then I noticed she had a boot on her foot.

“Oh no,” I said. “Did you fall?”

“Yes,” she said.

Pause.

“While I was out jogging.”

Jogging.

I was suddenly very aware that my own injury had occurred while attempting something far less athletic: peeing. I needed a better story.

We arrived at Pine Ridge and I was whisked to Room 303B. As the sliding doors opened, I braced myself for the depressing nursing home of my childhood memories.

Instead, I rolled into a bright, warm entry space filled with light. And—most importantly—no smell. Already this place was exceeding expectations.

The rooms were set up like little suites: two separate bedrooms connected by a shared bathroom. I was wheeled into my side, deposited on the bed, and then immediately surrounded by a parade of nurses, CNAs, and assorted healthcare professionals introducing themselves and checking things.

The first nurse was Dieter, who was friendly, efficient, and got me fully “onboarded.” Vitals, weight, explanations about the facility, and—most importantly—ordering me food.

(We will discuss the food later. It deserves its own chapter.)

That Friday afternoon I was mostly left alone. The last few days had been overwhelming, and once the quiet settled in I simply lay back, closed my eyes, and tried not to cry.

That’s when I heard a faint tap tap tap. I opened my eyes. Directly in front of me sat a tiny, frail woman in a wheelchair with bright blue eyes, staring at me.

“You new?” she asked.

Now, I could have said something snarky like “Nope, just redecorating.” But I behaved. I answered, “Yes.”

She introduced herself as Ida. Ida was ninety-eight. She informed me she had been there three years and was sick of the place. Later I would learn she meant three separate stays over three years—not a continuous sentence—but at the time I wondered if I had accidentally checked into Alcatraz.

Her son was visiting the next day, she said, and she planned to demand her freedom. Then she asked if my name was on the door. Not what my name was, just whether it was on the door. She rolled over to check, came back triumphantly, and announced that yes, my name was on the door.

Then she asked my name.

I quickly realized Ida was quite deaf. I’d start explaining something and she’d interrupt with a completely different question. Eventually I just surrendered and followed her conversational lead. She was delightful. If I had to have a rehab roommate, Ida was an excellent choice.

Later that afternoon, I heard a familiar commotion coming down the hallway. That would be Blueberry and Princess Lori. They arrived with clothing, essentials, and—more importantly—pizza.

Heroes. Absolute heroes.

But the real surprise came next. They looked like two cats who had just swallowed the entire canary population.

“What did you do?” I asked. Blueberry grinned. Turns out the two of them had spent the day at my house assembling a new shelf for the scrapbook room, cleaning, and doing laundry.

I was floored. And incredibly lucky to have friends like that.

The rest of the evening dissolved into giggling, guffawing, and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt. Those two together are dangerously funny, and for a while everything felt normal again.

Eventually they left, and I fell asleep almost instantly.

At 4 a.m. The lights came on. Vitals. Blood draw.

Hospitals and rehab facilities believe the human body functions best when startled awake in the middle of the night. But I fell back asleep quickly.

Later that morning PT and OT—Hannah and Nathan—arrived to assess me. They walked me down the hall as far as I could manage and explained what the coming week would look like.

They also gave me permission to walk to the bathroom by myself. It felt like receiving a gold star in kindergarten. But I’ll take it.

Saturday’s highlight was lunch with my friend France, followed by more visiting with Blueberry. At the time I hadn’t yet realized how incredibly valuable outside food would become.

Then the power went out. As soon as the power went out, the facility came a live with machine beeps going off and the staff hustling into action.  The generator quickly kicked on the staff confirmed the rooms that required oxygen were, in fact, getting oxygen and had lights. My room did not qualify. I sat in soft darkness being lit only by the window in my room.

However, they did hand out old-school call buttons.

Within seconds the hallway sounded like a casino jackpot floor.

Ding.

Ding.

DING DING DING.

Residents were absolutely going to town with those things. I’ll admit… I giggled.

Sunday was blissfully uneventful. PT exercises, bland food, and far too much true crime television.

Monday, however, was Social Interaction Olympics. People streamed in and out of my room all day: cognitive tests, surveys, nurses, therapists, activity directors, doctors, wound care specialists. For an introvert, this was exhausting.

Then PT returned and absolutely kicked my butt—in a good way. I walked all the way to the exercise room. Did stairs.

STAIRS!

Then walked back.

It may not sound like much, but getting to that room was roughly the length of a football field and stairs were my ticket home.

Later OT decided my arms needed strengthening because I had casually mentioned the walker—now nicknamed Johnny Walker—was making them tired.

Huge mistake. Rubber arms followed.

By the end of Monday, I had worked five hours remotely, exercised, socialized beyond my introvert limits, and was ready to collapse. I was hoping—optimistically—for a Wednesday release. Reality had other plans.

Wednesday afternoon the social worker, Nicole, arrived with another woman who immediately radiated Attitude. I nicknamed her Mrs. Attitude.

Nicole explained that paperwork had to be filed to arrange home nursing care, which would take about two days.

Fine.

But Mrs. Attitude insisted my wound care had to be done daily. I corrected her. My wound specialist had specifically said every other day.

She pushed back. I pushed harder.  At this point I know my wound better than anyone, and the wound care I had received there so far had been…let’s call it uninspired.

The second obstacle was my INR blood test, which couldn’t be redone until Friday due to “orders.”

Red tape. I suggested alternatives. She refused. Eventually I gave up arguing, swallowed the bitter pill of disappointment

Nicole promised I’d be out by 10 a.m. Friday.

So I accepted my fate.

The silver lining? It was book club night and the gang was coming to me—with pizza.

Thursday brought the mysterious wound care “doctor,” whom I had never seen before. He looked at my wound for about thirty seconds and declared it fine before disappearing.

Mrs. Attitude then wrapped it…incorrectly. If that set my healing back, someone was going to hear about it.

Finally, Friday arrived. It also started snowing. Because of course it did.

Nicole stopped by at nine with good news: I was cleared to leave.

Blueberry arrived shortly after ten. I signed the paperwork. And we walked out the front door.

For a brief moment I considered shouting something triumphant and slightly obscene toward the building.

But honestly? Aside from questionable food and two questionable staff members, they had taken good care of me.

Instead, we went to breakfast.

Real food. Real coffee.

(I hadn’t had coffee in two weeks. Two. Weeks.)

And finally, I went home.

Linus greeted me at the door, scolded me appropriately for my absence, and within minutes it felt like the last two weeks had never happened.

As Dorothy wisely said:

There’s no place like home.