Your Trash, My Treasure

A collection of some of my journals and ephemera.

Me: “Babe! Why’d you throw away that cereal box?”

Husband: “Because it’s trash.”

Me: “Trash? Babe! It’s art.”

Husband: “Riiiight.”

Journals made from amazon packaging, cereal boxes, and a pillowcase.

Journals decorated with paint, napkins, and fabric.

Me: “Babe! You threw out that Amazon packaging!”

Husband: “Yeah, it’s garbage.”

Me: “How dare you. It’s art.”

Husband: “Riiight.”

Ephemera made with a junk mail envelope, old book pages, and images cut from a calendar and book.

Husband: “Why is our dining room table covered in junk from Goodwill?”

Me: “Babe! I need it.”

Husband: “ No one needs it. That’s why they took it to Goodwill.”

Me: “Babe. It’s art.”

Husband: “Riight.”

Ephemera made using a Starbucks coffee bag, old book pages, and images from a book glued onto Amazon packaging paper.

You toss it in the recycling bin and I fish it out. You call it trash, garbage, and junk. I call it treasure, art, and possibilities. My husband is now afraid to toss out anything. I’ve created a hoarder for the sake of art.

A couple of years ago, I stumbled across a video on YouTube that ignited my creativity and obsession. I don’t even know  how it showed up on my feed, but then again, I don’t know how algorithms or technology work. I 100% believe my phone is always listening and scheming. The thing is, the words “junk journal” and “ephemera” never passed my lips or crossed my mind (does my phone read minds? I wouldn’t be surprised.). 

Pages made from images from old Reader’s Digests, a napkin, fabric scraps and ribbon, stickers, scrapbook paper off-cuts.

Anyway, I made my first junk journal to scribble my thoughts and memories. I tucked in photos, love notes, cards, and concert tickets. I filled it with things that made me happy. I journaled about my childhood memories and my love affair with my husband. I scribbled song lyrics from my favorite songs and all the fantastic quotes about hope from Shawshank Redemption. It has a gator mouth now and I haven’t even filled all the pages. 

Pages made from avocado dyed paper, Amazon packaging paper, and a pattern transfer ironed onto paper. Sweet cards from my girls tucked in.

Journal pages made from old book pages, used tea bags, Starbucks coffee bags, and washi tape. The pages are stuffed full of pictures, vintage post cards, letters, cards, and memories.

I make my journals from what you would toss aside as junk, garbage, or trash- a cereal box, a clean napkin ( a used napkin really is trash. I’m not that delusional), paper dyed with avocado skins and tea, a Starbucks coffee bag, and used tea bags. The pages include vintage sheet music, old books saved from the landfill, magazines, travel maps, wrapping paper, paper bags, copy paper, fabric scraps, and Amazon packaging.  I make ephemera from pattern paper and images, old playing cards, pictures from old books, junk mail envelopes, and bingo cards. I use words now like “tuck spot,” “flip-out,” “cluster,” “off-cuts,” and “dangle.” I’m now a glue expert (for crafting, not recreational use).

Journal pages made from vintage book images, napkins, fabric scraps and ribbons, and scrapbook paper off-cuts.

I’ve forced junk journals upon my family and friends whose excitement never matches the hours and love I put into them, but whatever. Creating a junk journal lets me think about that person every hour I put into making it and that makes it worth it to me. At my core, I’m a creative person and making junk journals lets me celebrate that.

Journal pages made from old book images, vintage yearbooks, the cover of an old book, junk mail, and stickers.

Junk journaling isn’t for everyone, but there’s a trash-ton of YouTube videos and Etsy listings that prove I’m not the only one who sees cereal boxes as treasures.

Denny and Jenny

My dad and I had a complicated relationship. Maybe complicated isn’t the right word. My feelings for him were complicated and tangled up—a concoction of bittersweet poison and the antidote. Our relationship changed because he changed. My tormentor’s walls melted to reveal a loving heart. “I love you” and tears flowed freely. He wasn’t the dad of my childhood. I guess when I say our relationship was complicated, it was my own doing. I had made this one man into two and my brain and heart could not fuse them together. There was the man who broke me and the one who loved me. 

My dad passed away on April 1, 2025, at the age of 72. He lived longer than I ever thought he would, given his struggles with addiction and depression. When I was a teenager, he died violently a thousand times in my head, and I was disappointed I couldn’t manifest his death by merely wishing it. 35 years later, I held his hand and poured out all the love I ever had for him. I told him I loved him, and I meant it. I loved the other dad. A handful of days later, cancer carried him away. My aunt called me to tell me he was gone. I instantly sobbed out all the tears I had for him when she called and then I stopped. I was angry the other dad didn’t beg me for forgiveness or leave me with sweet words to heal me. I was sad and disappointed that I never really knew my dad because he hid the sensitive and loving side of himself until I didn’t need a dad anymore. I was thankful he finally found peace. A body scarred by trauma, chaos, and destructive life choices was at rest.  

My dad was different for different people. A friend in need is a friend indeed. I think his friends saw the best of him—he was generous and kind. I saw someone else. Like everyone, he changed over time. A first-time dad at 19 is much different than a third-time dad at 36. One wasn’t better or worse than the other, just different. I joke my siblings had different parents than I did, but there is also truth to that. They all saw their own dad. Mine was the 19-year-old thrown into parenthood and marriage without much of a choice. He had a 16-year-old bride, a premature baby, inexperience, and immaturity. Like most parents, he was figuring it out as he went a long, but he got it all wrong. His parents got it wrong, too. 

My dad was creative in interesting ways. He could MacGyver anything. He once turned a demolished van into a flat bed. For what reason, I’m not sure. Maybe to show he could because he wanted to. When I was a teenager, I needed a desk, so he built one from leftover wood from one of his jobs. It was heavy as hell. He made our coffee table and TV stand, also heavy as hell. He had no training, and it showed, but he created something interesting—a Dennis Cloyd original. He was a house painter by trade, sprayed lacquer, wore painter’s pants for the function, not the fashion, and always had paint or grease under his nails. He MacGyvered our garage so he could spray cars with paint and make them beautiful. Those were the cars that actually ran. Our yard was littered with junkers he was going to fix up one day. One day turned into never.  Later, he painted and drew, mostly abstract, sometimes disturbing, and often beautiful. I didn’t know until after he died, he wrote poetry and short stories. There was a lot I didn’t know. We didn’t share who we were each other. 

 My dad could strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere. He could be friendly and funny but also highly inappropriate because he had a faulty filter. He was a world class curser. He didn’t speak eloquently. He used poor grammar and mispronounced words but got his point across. What you saw is what you got. Growing up, he didn’t use friendly words when it came to me. I would hear those words much later when he could finally tell me he loved me and poured out compliments. That’s when my brain created two dads because I couldn’t process the before and after—the one from my childhood and the one I met during my mid-life.  

Lately, when I start to think about the other dad too much, I pull out a picture of him as a little boy. I’m sure he was no more than six. There is not an ounce of anger or sadness on his sweet face. He was innocent and lovely. I wish that little boy grew up in a loving home that was safe and stable, but he didn’t and neither did I. That sensitive and creative little boy is safe in my heart forever.    

Yesterday was Father’s Day and I was relieved. It was the first time I didn’t have to call my dad and wish him a happy day. My day was free of guilt and obligation. It was a happy day for me but a sad day for others, and I don’t take that lightly. My heart is being stitched up while others have an open wound that will leave a dad sized hole forever. I have a handful of good moments with my dad and the last one was full of love. That tender, loving moment is the one I will treasure. We laughed together, held hands, and told stories. I said goodbye to the dad who loved me.  

Mother of the Brides

We were so excited when our youngest daughter came home wearing a big, beautiful diamond engagement ring. And then, a few months later, we were excited when our eldest daughter walked through our front door wearing a big, beautiful diamond engagement ring. I guess wonderful things come in two’s (twoes?) Two breathtaking brides, two gorgeous weddings, two new sons. Did I mention they got married the same year, four months apart? Two big hits to our checking account (best investment ever). 

Each wedding dress and wedding reflected our daughters’ unique personalities. Sara’s form fitting wedding dress was embroidered with flowers, perfect for a rustic forest-themed celebration. They got married overlooking the river. Kylie’s dress was modern with a slit to show off her sass, perfect for a catered wedding with an open bar overlooking a vineyard. I couldn’t wait to dig into the wedding cakes! Oh, no glorious three-tiered wedding cakes? One had doughnuts and the other pie. Either way, they were filled with sugary celebration, and I happily gobbled them up. 

The girls said I didn’t need to buy two mother-of-the-bride dresses. They didn’t care. I cared. I wanted them to have their own mother-of-the-bride. My dress for Sara’s wedding was green velvet with a plunging neckline and a slit to show off my sass. A lot of boob tape, safety pins, and Velcro were involved. I didn’t want others to see my old sassy parts. I spend the night celebrating, eating doughnuts, and fidgeting with my dress. I wore a blue velvet dress to Kylie’s wedding. Boob tape was still involved but the sassy parts were under wraps. I spent the evening celebrating and eating pie fillings (to hell with the crusts). 

The brides and grooms wrote their own wedding vows. They were charming, heartfelt promises with the perfect mixture of laughter and tears. Rings were placed on fingers and husbands and wives stood before us. I was so incredibly happy and I’m certain I never smiled more. I stared at my daughters like a creeper because I wanted to take in every moment. No matter what happens in life, they will always have a day that was full of love, dancing, good food, and vows. They were stunning brides. A miniscule amount of drama. 

When I wasn’t staring at my daughters, I was staring at my husband. He wore a blue suit that fit him perfectly. He always looks fantastic in blue. He looked debonair, my friends! Debonair. No horror shirts, jeans, or slip-on Star Wars shoes. I can’t even describe in words (and I should be able to since I’m a writer) the feeling I had watching him walk our girls down the aisle. It was the culmination of rocking our babies to sleep, cheering at volleyball games, listening to every stage of violin playing progression, one billion trips to Disneyland, and watching our favorite movies and laughing and crying at the same time. With every step my husband took down the aisle, I saw an imperfectly perfect father who loves, adores, respects, encourages, and sees his daughters. He is a steadfast, honest, charming, hilarious, gorgeous man who looks damn good in a blue suit. We are very lucky women. 

Jenny on her wedding day.

My 32^nd wedding anniversary is this month. I was young and didn’t know the first thing about planning weddings. Had it not been for my future father-in-law, we’d still be waiting for our wedding. I wish I had been brave enough to have him walk me down the aisle. In my heart, he did. He sat at the dining room table with me addressing wedding invitations, hooked me up with the cake lady, booked the reception venue, ordered all the food, and a million other things. He kept a binder full of wedding plans. Basically, all I had to do was show up. 

 Things I would change – having an expert alter my wedding dress instead of a lady who worked in the back of a dry cleaner’s; wearing a push up bra (no boob tape needed, just boobs); having fresh flowers for my wedding bouquet; not choosing a hair band song play while Mike and I stared into each other’s eyes for an awkwardly long amount of time until “Love a Lifetime” ended; having my makeup done by a professional instead of my friend with her case of Mary Kay; and having Pete walk me down the aisle.

Things I would never change – my hair stylist (gone but not forgotten); the parts of my wedding dress that didn’t need altering; the wedding chapel with beautiful stain glass windows and a 14-foot pipe organ; our wedding cake (no pie or doughnuts to be had); standing in front of Mike while we said, and messed up, our vows; and that perfect kiss to seal the deal. I truly found my love of a lifetime. 

To my girls – may your lives with your loves be everything you hope it to be and more. 

To Mike – I look forward to celebrating our 60^th wedding anniversary and loving you until my last breath. 

The perfect kiss.

The Memory of Me

“I Leave Everything to You” is a beautiful soulful song by Markéta Irgolvá about the in-between time after you die and leave this world—a time of reflection about who you were, the choices you made, and how you lived your life. These are the lyrics that touched me in the most profound way and have lived inside my head and whispered in my ear.

Everything I ever knew, I passed it on to you.

The good and the bad.

I hope you don’t resent anything I represent in your life.

I am trying to abide by the rules that now apply.

It’s not easy.                  

I can see where I went wrong.

I am trying to be strong.

Please forgive me.

Remember me.

I leave everything to you.

I leave everything to my children—the legacy of who I was, the good and the bad. How will they remember me? Will they remember every mistake I made, every cross word I said, every time I made them cry, every petty choice I made? How will they remember who I represented in their lives? Will they remember I was a broken person who tried the best she could? I replay every mistake I made as a mother, every time I could have done better, every sign I missed of struggle. Will they forgive me?

When I leave this world behind, how will they remember me? Will they remember how I made them laugh, every stare at them in awe, every time I cheered them on, every battle I fought? Will they remember how much I loved them, how they inspired me every day, how I longed for every moment, how I cherished who they were? Will they remember the times I was there to comfort them in despair, wiped away their broken-hearted tears, held their bodies close to mine, spoke loving words of advice? Will they remember they were my everything?

Will they remember what I taught—how to love will all their heart, how to live with independence, how to find and use their words, how to choose the lives they want, how to be vulnerable to be true? Will they remember my sass, my sense of humor, although crass, the written words I left behind, the accomplishments that were mine? Will they remember how I fought with every breath I had, how I survived every battle, every time I won?  Will they remember my strength even when I felt so weak, how I never stayed down, how I stood up to defeat? Even then, will they remember when I was soft, when trauma could have made me hard, when I was gentle and sincere, on my sleeve my heart I wore?

Will they remember what I loved—the stars and moon above, the colors that grace the sky, the perfect written word, the moments when we laugh, all my colored glass? Will they remember I loved them most?

I leave everything to them.

I give everything I have.

Please, remember me.

Confessions of a Thrift Store Junkie

My ADHD affords me the ability to become super-obsessed with a hobby. I’m all in. My recent obsession with thrifting was all I could think about. I had to get to the thrift store. Someone else would scoop up my treasures. I was going to miss that million dollar find tucked behind a heap of crap. According to my grandpa, all his treasures were worth a million dollars. I went down a rabbit hole of YouTube videos to learn what to look for. I scoured Etsy and eBay to see if others were listing the treasures I just found. My son-in-law introduced me to Google Lens, which I used to take pictures of everything in my house.

Thrifting also paralyzed me and made me paranoid. Surely, the person who just grabbed that cup knew something I didn’t while I stood there unable to make a decision. They didn’t hesitate when they grabbed it and put it their cart. They must be experienced thrifters and they just found a million-dollar treasure. It’s possible they just needed a cup. Either way, I’m convinced I missed out and I will soon see that crappy cup on eBay listed for gobs of money.

I found myself piling things into my cart I would have never bought before my recent obsession—stoneware chip and dip bowls, a handblown orange and black heavy-ass vase that goes with nothing in my home, pukey green glass, ceramic candlestick holders, and a five-gallon glass water jug people fill with loose change (then regretted it because I never have loose change. I always use my debit card). I did find things I do treasure, like the beautiful vintage cranberry glass bowl and the blue depression glass candy dish. I also found a variety of blue objects to decorate my kitchen. So, it wasn’t a total bust. When I showed my new treasures to my family, they smiled sweetly, but I’m pretty sure they were planning my little vacation to the funny farm.

I almost convinced myself to resell the treasure I found but I ran into two problems. First, I have no idea what anything is actually worth. The larger problem, of course, is I’m too lazy to deal with packing up crap and going to the post office. I’m afraid all these found treasures will soon find their way back to the Goodwill donation center.

After my recent thrift store kick, I announced to my husband I was done going to thrift stores. We both knew that wasn’t true. My ADHD also affords me the ability to drop any hobby in no time at all. Let’s see, there was gardening, landscaping, rock-tumbling, collecting, crocheting, scrapbooking, hidden object games, the vintage skillet hunt, reading (I have tons of half-read books), and writing (that’s a tug-of-war between I have to because I love it but need to stop because I hate it). Is watching hours of YouTube a hobby? I’m not ready to give up Dr. Pimple Popper and the Hoof GP. I know plenty about acne (thank you, teenage years) but nothing about being a farrier (I stumbled across that gem and am strangely obsessed with cow hooves).

So, anyway. I’m off to the thrift store.

I Miss You and Who You Used to Be

My favorite picture. My big sister on the left, me on the right

I miss you and who you used to be. I miss who we were together. Before dementia took you away from me. My best friend. My big sister. My confidant. My joy. There is a new person in your place who looks just like you, and I love her, too, but I miss you.

We were supposed to retire together while we were still young enough to enjoy it. We were going to look over the Grand Canyon, share our favorite pancakes while gossiping over coffee, watch movies in the middle of the day, and just be happy. You retired at 51 without me because you couldn’t remember how to do your job anymore.

I miss our long conversations and the advice only a big sister can give. I miss the way you looked at me with your sweet smile and kind eyes. You told me how much you loved me with just a look. Those conversations are gone. Most of the time, you can’t finish a sentence because the words are lost or the right word is replaced with a misfit. You can’t always finish sentences so I guess at what you mean. But you always tell me you love me. You still know those words and what they mean.

I miss the way you devoured books. You were always so easy to shop for because your favorite authors always had a new book out by your birthday. I always wrote a note on the cover page to let you know you were the best sister in the whole wide world. You can’t devour books anymore because you can’t remember what you just read. I can’t bring myself to give your books to strangers who will replace your touch with theirs. Your fingerprints brushed each page as you excitedly ate up each word.

You lived and breathed family. They were everything to you. My children were your children. Your children were the center of your universe. You created wonderful memories for all our kids—decorating Christmas cookies, coloring Easter eggs, cheering at volleyball games and marching band competitions, happily sitting through orchestra performances. You don’t always remember their names anymore. You tell them they look familiar but you are bad with names. You tell them how interesting it is that you look alike.

You don’t always recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ll point to the stranger and tell us she’s the one that’s mean to you and you don’t like her very much. I can’t imagine anyone ever being mean to you. To know you is to love you. Even now, your laugh is infectious. You are always joyful and positive in the best and worst of time. You love life.

You share a room in memory care with mom now. If you knew better, you would absolutely hate it because she always drove you crazy. I’m not sure how you two survived the eye-rolling, door-slamming teenage years. You need each other now. You feel safe because mom is there.

This sounds like an obituary. I guess it is. They call dementia the long goodbye. I’ve been grieving the loss of you for years, little pieces at a time. There aren’t words to describe how much my heart hurts. I cry when I think about how much I miss you and how unfair it all is. I know one day, all of you will be gone and I will grieve you in a different way. I will miss all of you.

A Treasured Life

There are avid collectors and then there’s me. I’m a lazy, non-committed collector. My collections start with a bang and then fizzle in no time at all. Just as quickly as I become obsessed with something and scour thrift stores for treasures, I lose interest. I suppose that’s a good thing because a home can only hold so many treasures, or garbage depending on your viewpoint. One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. The dumpster divers of the world may be on to something.

There are intentional collections and collections thrust upon you because one day you mentioned in passing you liked Tinker Bell. There are collections you start as a kid and others you inherit. My collection of all things Sleeping Beauty started with a wonderful memory of going to see the movie with my mom. My husband started collecting baseball cards as a kid, and for some reason, used nasty bottle caps. He still has the baseball cards, but I was able to convince him his treasured bottle caps were actually trash.

As a kid, I collected Monkee albums and spent hours listening to them with my best friend. When I grew up, I packed them away in a closet. I just recently dusted them off and bought a new record player so I could listen to memories. I also collected stickers, stamps, John Saul books, and magazine cutouts of Corey Hart, Rob Lowe, Ralph Macchio, and Corey Haim (what girl didn’t in the 80’s?).

As an adult, my collection of porcelain dolls was a way of reclaiming my childhood, but then I realized I wasn’t really into those creepy dolls and I packed them away. I couldn’t get rid of them. Probably because I’ve seen way too many horror movies where the doll tossed in the garbage ends up back in your bedroom staring at you while you sleep.

I became obsessed with finding valuable vintage cast iron skillets after I inherited my grandma’s. I loved watching her fry fish, a cigarette in one hand and a warm can of Pepsi in the other. It’s a part of her I can keep forever. So, the search for skillets were afoot. I found a bunch of them, none of value, and realized I would never use them because they were such a pain in the ass. One person’s “seasoned” is another person’s gross-out.

When we cleaned out my mother-in-law’s house after she moved into memory care, we discovered she became the owner of other family members’ collections when they passed away. We sorted through three generations’ worth of collections they treasured—souvenir spoons, postcards, dog-eared books, greeting cards, and trinkets. They held no monetary value but meant the world to them.

My husband has a collection of movie ticket stubs that started long before we met. They are memories of going to see movies with his best friend—his dad. His dad would ditch work for a few hours to run off to the movies together. He also has a collection of Blazer tickets from the games he went to with his dad. I just love that.

My prized collection is a handful of agates and seashells, each one a memento of a wonderful memory—our honeymoon to the Mexican Riviera, visits to the Oregon coast with the kids, our trip to Northern Ireland to visit my beautiful sister. They might as well be diamonds and rubies. That’s how much they mean to me.

Our house is full of collections and we war over wall space. We have artwork (not the fancy kind), movie and sports memorabilia, super hero collectables, thousands of movies, and priceless pieces of pottery made by our daughter. There’s more but I won’t bore you with the details.

There are collections I will have until the day I die—my grandma’s favorite china, family photos, King’s Crown dishes, and the aforementioned agates and sea shells.

I would like to apologize in advance to our daughters who will one day have to clean out our house. They will have their work cut out for them, that’s for sure. Girls, some things are worth money, so make sure to Google it before you toss it in the garbage. And before you chuck the agates and seashells, remember the fantastic days we spent together collecting them. Remember my treasured life.

The Betrayal

We sold your home. It feels like a betrayal. We filled boxes with thing you no longer need—things you’ve collected over the years, and ordinary things one needs to live an ordinary life—pots and pans, measuring cups, coffee cups, cleaning supplies, and the such. We wrote your name in your clothing like you were going to summer camp. Your shrinking world became a tiny studio apartment in a memory care unit. All the belongings that made your house your home are scattered like clues in a scavenger hunt. Strangers bought your lovingly-used items. Clues are tucked away in our closets and attics, or discarded all-together.

Sixty years of greeting cards, love letters, newspaper clippings, and memories that filled your home now fill a shoebox. It feels like a betrayal. We sorted through your life story and picked and chose what to keep and what to toss away. Who were we to decide their value? A birthday card loving signed by your husband didn’t make the cut because there were sixty more just like it. It could have been your favorite. We’ll never know.

We visit you in memory care and sneak out so you don’t try to follow us out the locked doors. It feels like a betrayal. You’re clutching your purse and have your jacket on. “This is a nice place to visit but I’m ready to go home,” you say. You want to go home to a house you no longer own and live a life you lost years ago. Even with family pictures on the wall and your favorite comforter on your bed, you know this isn’t your home.

Our visits are short. It feels like a betrayal. Time has no meaning—five minutes, five hours, it’s all the same. Our talk is small— meaningless words strung together to fill the empty space. You smile as you tell us about your adventurous day and you believe every word but we know it’s a story dementia whispered in your ear. We never let on we know the truth.

We return to our busy lives until our next visit. It feels like a betrayal. Before dementia whisked you away, you were ours. We heard your voice on the phone every day. “Hey, Hun. It’s just Mom.” Our phone doesn’t ring anymore.

Dementia wrapped us up in its betrayal—“Look what you’ve done to your sweet mother.” It tried to turn our love for you into something sinister as it led you into peril but our steadfast love keeps you safe. We will never betray you.

The Thief

Joan on her honeymoon

I am watching you wither away and there is nothing I can do but love you. Dementia is more powerful than I am. I’m just a human. It has the power to weave its way into the lives of anyone it wants. It doesn’t care how old you are, what kind of life you’ve lived, how much money you have, or how well-known you are.

It was clever. It snuck in like a thief but didn’t steal anything right away. It waited and watched. It wasn’t greedy at first. It took a little here and there so we wouldn’t notice—a misplaced item, a forgotten word, a memory. After it stole the little pieces, it wanted more. It took your short-term memory, your grandchildren’s names, and the way you understand and interact with the world. It will soon take the last of your independence, your children’s names, time and place, and who you used to be. You’ll forget about me and only know me as the kind woman who hugs you and tells you everyone is safe and sound when you can’t find the babies who grew up years ago. I wish I could put bars on our windows to keep the thief out.

You can’t count on dementia to be the same each day. It doesn’t like predictability, structure, or schedules. Sometimes it swirls you around until you don’t know up from down and other days, you’re just a regular old lady with a touch of forgetfulness who knows the name of the president and season. Every day is a surprise.

You tell me about your day and how busy you were—where you went, who you saw, and what they said. A stranger would believe you, but I know you spent your day traveling through time, and that busy day you had was decades ago. Time travel is exhausting and disorienting. No wonder you can’t always remember when and where you are.

You swear people break into your home and leave food in your fridge and cupboards. “Mom, why do you have eight boxes of granola bars and three family size bags of chips?” You look at me and say, “Oh, those aren’t mine. Those were here when I moved in.”  Cleaning out your fridge is a guessing game.

I ask to look in your purse to make sure you have your debit card. Your purse is full—a brush, three combs, one glove, pictures, old greeting cards, junk mail, and $10 in change. Your debit card isn’t there and I panic. It’s in your pocket. “Oh, I don’t know who put that there.” It’s the same answer you give me when I ask why a watch you haven’t worn in forty years is in your purse.

You are angrier than you used to be. You accuse your twin sister of going through your purse and stealing your money. She is the target of all your wrath. It’s as if a lifetime together has reached its breaking point and sibling rivalry is alive and well. You yell at her and strike out. Your words drip with anger. “Mumma always said you can’t be trusted. Daddy said to act right and come home right now!” You were sixteen when your father passed away.

Lately, is seems like your disease is on fast forward and we are losing you more quickly. I can’t keep up. I thought I’d be ready but I’m not. I look at your face and try to soak you in. I touch your soft silver hair. I wrap my arms around your shrinking body. I want to scoop you up and hold you forever. You are more than my mother-in-law. You are my mother and I am your daughter. You love me like I’ve always been yours, and you’ve always been mine. My heart will break when you don’t know who I am and how much I love you. I’ll never be ready.

The World of We

Mike and Jenny

I feel like I have loved you forever but I know 30 years is just a speck of time in a 13-billion-year-old universe. It’s insignificant compared to the millions of stars in the Milky Way or the light years between those brilliant stars and us. Our love affair is nothing compared to the billions of galaxies we’ll never see. Our life together is not insignificant to me. You are my favorite galaxy.

Our worlds collided and we made a new one together—bits and pieces of our old lives and who we used to be melded together to make something truly unique. The world of We; the universe of Us. There is no untangling the parts of this world. They are perfectly intertwined—two broken people pieced together and made whole. If by chance we were undone, we would never be who we were before the world of We. When we are returned to dust, it will not be our separate worn-out bodies. It will be a million particles of our shared life— memories, history, experience, and emotion. There is no tearing us asunder because there are parts of you in the nooks and crannies of my brain; you flow through my veins and arteries into my heart; you are in my bones, the strands of my hair, and the laugh lines around my eyes. You are wrapped around my spirit. I see you in my dreams and think of you while awake.

I cast a love-spell on you so you would love me forever. It was a magical mixture of butterfly wings that tickled my tummy on our first date, popcorn and licorice, the sound of your laughter, a drop of Oregon rain, and a movie ticket. I kissed you goodnight with my spell-stained lips and you were mine and I was yours—an enchantment made more powerful with time and 10,000 kisses.

Our perfectly imperfect love story is written with words dripping of honey and honesty—a story of how we saved each other and built a beautiful rollercoaster life together in the world of We. I will love you forever even when we are just stardust and memories in the universe of Us.

Memories of the Desert

California poppies—bright orange petals like sunshine, happiness, and everything wonderful in a sea of desert dirt and sagebrush. At dusk, they wrapped their petals tight like a hug before bed. Gold, orange, and fuchsia stretched across the sky. Beautiful memories of growing up in the Mojave Desert.

My dog, Alexis, and I chased jackrabbits in the expanse of desert in front of our boxy stucco house. The sagebrush and creosote scraped against my legs as I ran. We returned home thirsty, breathless, and exhausted, me more so than her. The only thing I caught were foxtails and burrs in my shoelaces. It took forever to pick them from her silver and black hair, but it was worth the adventure we shared. She wasn’t just a dog. She was my battle buddy and best friend.

My human best friend, Adrienne, and I walked across town to the library in the scorching heat every week. We spent hours searching the stacks and enjoying the air conditioning before the long walk home with an armful of books. We took a shortcut home—a vibrant oasis surrounded by brown apartment buildings and dead grass. I touched every green leaf and vivid petal in the nursery before slipping through a hole in the fence and walking the rest of the way home.

Adrienne and I watched old episodes of The Monkees on MTV. I remember thinking that the twenty years that passed between 1966 and 1986 was the equivalent of a hundred years. Adrienne was steadfast in her love of Davy Jones. I was in love with Micky Dolenz, then Mike Nesmith, then Peter Tork, and then back to Micky. Davy and Peter are gone and Micky and Mike are old men. They were in their forties when their show played on MTV. Now, I’m in the last year of my forties and MTV just celebrated its 40^th anniversary. Oh, to be young again and think twenty years was the same as a hundred.

Adrienne and I became obsessed with The Monkees. We laid on her bedroom floor and listened to all their records more times than I could count. She still loves The Monkees. I secretly love them. I can’t tell you how excited I was when “Steppin’ Stone” was featured in The Queen’s Gambit last year. If we weren’t playing their records, we listened to Poison and wished we were as beautiful as Bret Michaels. My friend Michelle and I listened to Bon Jovi and Journey and ate all her mother’s Doritos. I’d go home and listen to Elton John, Billy Joel, Huey Lewis, Otis Redding, and Madonna. I wasn’t in love with Duran Duran like everyone else. Boy, did I have a major crush on Corey Hart and Corey Haim. And the lead singer of a-ha. And Val Kilmer and Patrick Dempsey. And of course, River Phoenix had my heart and I will love him forever.

MTV and VJs were part of our daily lives and we waited anxiously for world premier videos, none of which has ever been better than Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” We watched Live Aid and I recorded bands on my tape recorder. We didn’t have a VCR yet. After Live Aid, there was Farm Aid and U.S.A for Africa. I watched the “We Are the World” video a million times. Everyone but The Monkees was in that video—a veritable who’s who of recording artists from the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s. Kenny Rogers still looked like Kenny Rogers.

I was 16 when we moved back to Oregon and left the desert and all my friends behind. I hated living in the desert, but I was devastated when I had to leave. Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” played on the radio every hour. A car ride that should have taken no more than two days took six— six days of staying at camp grounds and rest stops in the Fall of 1988. My only connection to Adrienne was handwritten letters we mailed back and forth. Of course, this was before texting, social media, and free long-distance calling plans. Each stack of letters is tied with a ribbon in a box of treasures underneath my bed. I read through them every once in a while,

In the Willamette Valley of Oregon, California poppies bloom every year and remind me of what I loved about growing up in the desert—the brilliant colors, my sweet dog, laughing with my friends, watching MTV videos, and riding my motorcycle with Adrienne on the back. I treasure those memories. Not every memory of living in the desert was wonderful, but that’s a story for another story.

I’m Going Through Changes

I’m almost embarrassed to admit I only know the song “Changes” by Black Sabbath by watching the hilariously inappropriate animated series Big Mouth. It’s a show about a bunch of middle-school kids going through puberty—changes to their bodies and how they related to the world; overactive sex drives; hormone monsters; anxiety mosquitos; depression kitties; talking vaginas; and the such. There is nothing funnier than Maya Rudolph as Connie the Hormone Monstress. The show opens with a cover of “Changes.” I totally relate to the lyrics, “I’m going through changes.”

As part of my treatment plan for breast cancer, I take a tiny white pill every day that successfully launched me into early menopause. The type of cancer I had thrives on estrogen. So, no more estrogen. I have an Anti-Hormone Monstress. I’d like her much more if she was voiced by Maya Rudolph.

I was hoping for a few more years before I changed. They told me about the side effects—hot flashes, mood swings, joint pain, weight gain, etc. Here is what they didn’t tell me:

• I sweat in places I didn’t know were possible doing absolutely nothing other than breathing. I look like a glistening crazed maniac with pools of sweat underneath my eyes.

• You can measure my irritability on the Richter scale:
  • 1-2. I love you, but the sound of your chewing makes me want to impale my eardrums with the spoon you’re using to eat your cereal.
  • 3. Any words that leave your mouth will be met with complete distain and exasperation.
  • 4-5. If I could legally run you over with my shopping cart, I would. Consider yourself lucky I can only imagine lighting your face on fire with my sweaty eyes.
  • 5-6. I want to turn your cereal spoon into a shiv.
  • 6-7. My vocabulary consists of every conjugation of fuck, which I string together to strangle you with like piano wire. But that’s only if you’ve really pissed me off.
  • 7-10. We’ll just have to wait and see. There’s only so much my mood stabilizer can do.

• Weight gain isn’t just a number. My perky fat rolls are now a droopy testament to cravings that alternate between greasy, sugary yumminess to greasy, crunchy happiness.

• The switch to my brain is controlled by my eyelids. Before menopause, my brain would switch off the moment my eyes snapped shut. Now, closing my eyes zaps my brain to life and every single thought I have is electrified and replayed over and over.

• My depression, anxiety, ADD, and menopause compete in cage fights for the title of Brain Fog Champion of the World.

• My talking vagina can be one cranky bitch sometimes.

• I spryly get off the couch only to walk like my 80-year-old mother-in-law across the living room.

I’m going through changes, but if it means no more cancer, I’m good with it. Ok, maybe not good, but I’m fine with trading in estrogen for another day with my family.

2020 – It’s OK Not to Be OK

I’m not going to lie, 2020 has been a rough one. Understatement of the century, am I right? I’m one of the fortunate ones seemingly untouched by the true horrors of COVID-19, but I’m not OK. I’m not fine, all right, a little right, or anywhere close to right.

I’m told by those smarter than myself that it’s OK not to be OK. That’s a relief for someone like me who needs permission to not have it all together.

Do I have countless blessings? Yes, but I’m not OK.

Am I full of gratitude? Yes, but I’m not OK.

Do I try to focus on the positive when I can? Yes, but I’m not OK.

And it’s OK for you not to be OK, too. We aren’t puzzles that can be easily solved if we fit the gratitude-shaped piece into the blessing border, and connect meditation and yoga with self-help books and mantras.

The pandemic has wrecked my mental health, not all at once, but by bits and pieces. Some days I feel like my sanity is tethered to me by a string of thread. I want to run away, but there is nowhere to go during a pandemic.

I have proven to be very resilient over the years, but this feels different because I don’t know how long the pandemic will last or how long I will have to be strong. Not knowing is the worst for me.

How does your not OK feel? This is how mine feels:

• I’m stuck in the middle seat on a long flight with no leg room or elbow space. My seat doesn’t recline. I desperately want to jump out of my skin and tear the door off the plane mid-flight. I’m stuck in my chair and just have to be happy with my cup of ginger ale for a million more miles.
• I’m walking a tight-rope made of a single piece of blue string not meant to hold a human, let alone one chock-full of Uber Eats and Grub Hub. I’ll fall into an abyss of nothingness with one quick snap.
• I’m lost and can’t see where I’m going or where I’ve been. I don’t recognize any of the landmarks or signs that tell me I’m on the right path. I’m wandering, stumbling, and taking tiny steps with the hope I’ll soon be home.
• A time bomb is counting down in my head, but I don’t know if I have 30 seconds or 30 years. I just know I will explode. It could be a little smoke and noise or it could leave a crater where my neighborhood used to be. Tick. Tick. Tick.
• I can burst into flames just as easily as I can burst into tears.
• I’m wearing a straight-jacket made of heavy wool that makes my skin itch and burn. I can’t move my arms to scratch my skin and it’s the only thing I want to do. My skin is screaming.
• Black tentacles are wrapped around my internal organs and tighten every time I fight. My tummy bursts like a water balloon. Stomach acid floods my body and eats away my brain.
• A tornado rips up all my fears and swirls them inside my mind so furiously chunks of gray matter are lobbed like grenades and all my happy little memories are leveled.
• Everything matters and nothing matters.
• I want to curl up under my work-from-home desk and shrink down to the size of a dust bunny and disappear into the heater vent where I don’t have to care about anything. I’ll run away with a lonely spider and we’ll cuddle in its web—just before it spins me into a cocoon and saves me for a midnight nibble.

I’m not OK, but I will be. I promise.

The Brightside of 2020

I think we can all agree 2020 is a total shit show. It’s tragically comical in its absurdity. Its devastation is heartbreaking. The uncertainty of the next three months is terrifying. We all hope and pray the nightmare ends on December 31, 2020. I’m not sure if time works that way, but I have to believe.

Despite the shit-ton of horribleness that is 2020, amazing things happened, too. A call for social justice; united voices saying the names of those who were lost at the hands and knees of police brutality; a call to the end of systemic racism; people coming together to protest and let the world know that black lives matter; compassionate police officers linking arms with peaceful protesters; action, not just words. Love perseveres.

During the current wildfires in my beautiful Oregon, people are coming together to offer refuge and support to those forced to evacuate and who lost everything. People responded immediately to help in any way they could. People are brave, resilient, and compassionate. We collectively grieve for what Oregon has lost and what continues to be at risk. I imagine this is the same for Washington and California right now. Love perseveres.

Creativity flourished: artwork demanding social justice; protest signs; spoken and written words of love and compassion; new ways to connect to one another; different ways to express creativity. In 2020, I wrote from my heart and shared my life showing all its heartbreak and triumph. The response were words of support. Love perseveres.

For me personally, 2020 gave me more time with my family. Because I now work from home, I have extra moments with my sister that I would not have otherwise. And every day with her is a gift because she is living on borrowed time. 2020, brought my eldest daughter home to live with us and my youngest daughter home for a long, lovely visit. My heart is full. Love perseveres.

2020 marks the 30th year of my incredible love affair with Mike. I will settle for nothing less than another thirty years with my one true love. Yes, love perseveres.

I hope you, too, can see the brightest parts of 2020.

We All Wear Masks

I wear a mask during the COVID-19 pandemic to keep myself and others safe. Sure, I complain about the tropical heatwave under my mask, maskne, and foggy glasses. It’s a minor inconvenience. That’s it. It’s not a political statement. It’s the very least I can do.    

I don’t mind wearing a mask during the pandemic. When I wear it, I can be any one—someone more confident, funny, beautiful, worldly, sassy, brutally honest. I think I’m hiding from the world, but I’m always recognized. So much for that plan.

Wearing a mask isn’t new to me. I’ve been doing it my entire life. I was the girl who smiled with her eyes and laughed while I was broken inside, hiding a homelife that was anything but safe, loving, and stable. No matter how much I hurt inside, I smiled. My mask hid my secret. I wore this mask when I met my husband. I broke off little pieces at a time to give him just a glimpse of my real life. It felt wonderful when the mask finally fell away and he wasn’t horrified by what he saw. He sees everything. I’m not sure he wants to sometimes, but he put a ring on it.

I still wear a mask so people don’t see my depression or how hard it is for me to get out of bed sometimes and be amongst the living. I smile and say I’m fine. Or I will really lie and say I’m good when I’m anything but. I will hide behind a sunny disposition and laughter (except with my poor husband and kids). There are times I’m good. I just never know.

Let’s be honest, we all wear masks. Saying exactly what you’re thinking during a work meeting may not end well. I mean who doesn’t want to call someone a complete fucking idiot over Zoom. But instead, you smile and agree with their insane idea. Or when you lie to the cashier at the grocery store and say your day is going wonderfully even though you just got the results of your biopsy and you’re terrified; it took everything you had to get out of bed and you just want to curl up on the floor and cry at the check-out line; your marriage is hanging on by a thread and the next fight just may end it for good; you’re so stressed at work your hair is falling out; you worry how you’re going to buy your groceries next week; you’ve been holed-up with your kids during the pandemic and they are on your very last nerve; or you woke up in a shit mood and the sound of the cashier’s voice makes you want to jam your car keys into your eardrums. The list is endless.

Writing gives me the courage to take off my mask so you can see me—not just the person I want you to see. You see my ugly side. Writing let’s me be brave and honest. You may judge me, but maybe something I write may help you in some small way. It’s helping me.

P.S. Don’t be an asshole. Wear your mask or cloth face covering when you’re out and about, wash your hands, and follow physical-distancing guidelines. We’re all in this together.