The Big Whazoo by Julianna Rowe

Surgery was successful, meaning I am still above the dirt. I survived the first two days. Day three, however, felt like partial death. Apparently, when surgeons rearrange your internal organs, they expect you to appreciate the outcome before your body gets the memo.

I was trying very hard to be thankful. Then I remembered...The Big Whazoo was coming, you know the one. I even held one of those little vibrating gadgets they use at the plastic surgeon's office during injections, hoping it would distract my brain from what lay ahead. It didn't. So I did what any sensible woman would do. I put on blush, a little lipstick, and some eyeliner. If this was going to be my last day on earth, I wasn't meeting St. Peter looking washed out.  Next, I double-checked my WILL to make sure everything was in order. I fed Bob an extra helping of food in case it took my family a while to find me.

Then I reached for another prune...Nope, too late for that. I figured it would take longer to process than I planned to be alive. Those two lonely dates I'd eaten yesterday and this morning would just have to do the job. Right? Think positive, be thankful, be grateful.

Then I remembered...the apartment maintenance team was coming to fix my shower.  Surely The Big Whazoo wouldn't choose that exact moment. Can you imagine two full-grown plumbers hearing screams from Bathroom Number Two and charging in to save the day? Let's not create that 8-by-10 glossy, thank you very much.

Should I take my glasses? Why? So I could see the numbers on my phone to dial 911. STOP! Enough already. I have an amazing life,  wonderful people,  a spoiled cat, and more stories to write.

A future waiting for me......just as soon as I survived The Big Whazoo.

Forty-eight hours later...

The Big Whazoo came, and The Big Whazoo went. The plumbers remained blissfully unaware. Bob inherited nothing. And once again, I was reminded that fear is usually a much better storyteller than reality.

Now, if you'll excuse me...I'm going to enjoy being above the dirt and continuing my recovery.

"Miracle on Operating Street" by Julianna Rowe

 

"Miracle on Operating Street."by Julianna Rowe

I'll be taking a short break while I have said surgery, but don't count me out for long. If you know me at all, you know I'll probably come home with a notebook full of stories. Hospitals are full of interesting people, odd moments, and enough comedy to keep me writing for quite a while. So, hang in there with me. I'll be back as soon as I'm able, hopefully feeling better, definitely grateful, and almost certainly with something that will make us all laugh.

A few prayers to the great one would be wonderful…  Surgery:  July 13th  8 am.  Or just shoot me now.

While waiting for the big day to come, I made the mistake of Googling the surgery.  You know, what to expect and all.  It said: This surgery calls for the lithotomy position. I was like WHAT is that?  Again I pursued Google and it said:  The patient lies flat on their back with their legs elevated and spread apart, typically supported by padded stirrups. 

Yup, that will be me, riding a horse in an upside down position on July 13^th at 8 am! Apparently, whoever came up with this Lithotomy position the medical community owned a horse and thought, "Let's turn the patient upside down and see if that helps." And I was shown a photo of that position - live and in color on Google, legs in the air, looking like I'm auditioning for the world's least successful rodeo. I wasn't sure if they were fixing my bladder...or shoeing me. I half expected the nurse to walk in carrying a saddle. 

"Ma'am, just scoot down a little farther." Ma’am, Scoot??

Lady, at this point if I scoot any farther, I'm going to qualify for the Kentucky Derby. Forget anesthesia. Just blindfold me, anesthesia me out or and tell me I won a free vacation.  By the time they finish positioning me don't be surprised if somebody wanders in with a bale of hay and says, 'She's ready or she's ready for the glue factory.' I tell ya... this surgery better be worth it!"

Until then, keep the gate open and a diet coke waiting. I'll be over at Miracle on Operating Street, trying not to fall off my upside-down horse. I'll see you on the other side of the pasture... and I promise to bring home a few stories worth telling.   

 Love to you all, Julianna

 

One Million Thank You's! by Julianna Rowe

 

ONE MILLION THANK YOUs! by Julianna Rowe

Today The Happy News Lady passed 1,000,000 page views!

When I started writing, I simply hoped to make one person's day a little brighter. I never imagined my stories, laughter, books, songs, and adventures would be read over a million times.

Thank you for every click, every comment, every share, and every smile you've given me over the years. You made this milestone possible. 

One million page views! Who knew all my mishaps, mice, relationships, mutant toenails, and misadventures would add up to a million? Thank you for reading, laughing, and hanging around. Don't wander too far...something ridiculous is bound to happen by Tuesday."

The Happy News Lady....   (Of course I asked AI to smooth the wrinkles. I believe I also got a perm for free) 

The Shower Pouffer From Hell - by Julianna Rowe

 Oops...you're right, Jules. 😄 You know you like paragraphs, not all those little breaks. Here it is the way you write.

My Shower Pouffer Tried to Kill Me!

So, I bought a brand-new shower pouffer at "Hell's Gate," otherwise known as Walmart. I was first introduced to pouffers years ago by my Vietnamese nail lady. "You like nails? You need longa? I no charg you too much more!" She had given me a shower pouffer for Mother's Day...or maybe it was another holiday, I don't remember. What I do remember is that it never smelled like it was trying to dissolve my lungs.

This new one? Holy chemical warfare. I opened the package and immediately thought, "This can't possibly be healthy." I washed it, and it still smelled. I sniffed it again just to make sure I wasn't imagining things. Nope, if I weighed ten pounds less, I think it might have killed me.

So, I threw it on the floor next to the trash while I debated its fate. Should I recycle it? Should I return it? Then I remembered the price of gasoline these days. Between inflation and everything happening around the Strait of Hormuz, it would cost me more to drive back to Walmart than the $1.87 I paid for the thing. The pouffer lost, into the trash it went.

Before I tossed it, I gave it one little shake. Tiny plastic particles floated onto my desk. What in the name of Irish Spring was THAT? I have officially named it Plastimonia.

Naturally, I looked it up. Apparently, a brand-new shower pouf can smell because of off-gassing, factory VOCs, residual dyes, antimicrobial coatings, and other chemicals that apparently thought my shower was a good place to escape into the atmosphere. Wonderful news flash.

The internet offered several helpful suggestions. Soak it in vinegar and baking soda. Wash it in the washing machine. Or...leave it outside in direct sunlight for several hours. Wait a minute. We're supposed to heat up the plastic? Isn't that the same reason they tell us not to drink bottled water that's been sitting in a hot car? Maybe I'm missing something.

Have you ever accidentally let a plastic lid fall through the rack in your dishwasher and land on the heating element of Hell? That awful burning-plastic smell? That's exactly what this pouffer reminded me of. By this point, I wasn't interested in saving $1.87. I was interested in saving...me.

Now I'm thinking I need to visit the organic section and find something made from cotton, bamboo, loofah vines...or maybe just a washcloth like Grandma used. At least washcloths never tried to gas me.

Then my mind wandered, as it usually does. I started wondering who invented stoves with those impossible-to-clean cracks, dryers with lint traps that require the flexibility of a circus performer, toilets with enough curves and crevices to require a toothbrush, and car interiors that seem designed to collect every French fry, dust bunny, and cat hair ever created. I don't know for sure, but I'm guessing it was a man-maid oops surely I meant manmade...because somewhere along the line, women, otherwise known as "the maids" back then, were expected to clean them. Just saying! Before you men start writing me letters, relax. I'm kidding...mostly. 

I'm beginning to suspect the same person invented this shower pouffer...probably while wearing a hazmat suit.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm headed for the organic aisle. If nothing else, maybe I'll find a sponge that doesn't need to off-gas before I can use it. Because I don't know about you, but I prefer my showers without a side of Plastimonia.

I am still upright and above the dirt!  See ya on the next round of  The Happy News Lady"

"One Kind Word" byJulianna Rowe July 5th, 2026

                                                 One Kind Word by Julianna Rowe

                 Listen to song - One Kind Word :   https://suno.com/s/lM0mDte2s5bSZGuk

                                        The song is also on the side bar of The Happy News Lady.....

                                          Poem ONE KIND WORD  by Julianna Rowe

Every morning that we wake,

We choose the road we take.

Every stranger that we meet,

Every soul upon the street.

Life gets better, I've been told,

Not by silver, not by gold.

But by four small words we say,

That can light another day.

I'm sorry...

Please forgive me...

Thank you...

I love you...

To the neighbor next door,

To the stranger at the store.

To the child who's feeling small,

There's enough of love for all.

Different faces, different names,

Deep inside we're much the same.

Hearts can heal and bridges start,

One kind word... one open heart.

I'm sorry...

Please forgive me...

Thank you...

I love you...

Maybe changing all the world

Starts with changing one today.

Maybe peace begins to grow

With the words we choose to say.

I'm sorry...

Please forgive me...

Thank you...

I love you...

 

 

The Phase-"You Know?" by Julianna Rowe

 

"You Know...?" Julianna Rowe

I was listening to a podcast the other day, and the guest seemed bright, interesting, and had a lot to say. There was just one tiny problem. Every sentence in the beginning, the middle and ended with, "You know?" At first I barely noticed it, then I noticed it. Then I couldn't un-notice it. Before long, I found myself mentally keeping score. Three... seven... twelve... By then I wasn't even listening to what she was saying anymore. I was just waiting for the next "you know." I finally shut the podcast off.

Then came the embarrassing part. 

 I DO IT TOO! Not when I write. Thankfully, my fingers seem to know better than my mouth. But when I'm talking, "you know" slips into conversations like an uninvited guest who keeps helping themselves to the potato salad. Apparently, there's a reason for it. Our brains are racing ahead looking for the next thought while our mouths are still finishing the last one. Instead of allowing a tiny pause, we fill the silence with little verbal crutches like "you know," "like," "I mean," "well," or "so." They're really just placeholders while our brains catch up.

The funny thing is, silence makes the speaker uncomfortable, not the listener. Most people don't mind a brief pause while someone gathers their thoughts. In fact, it often makes them sound more confident, but our brains panic and toss in a "you know" to keep the conversation moving.

So I've decided to run my own little experiment. For one week, every time I feel a "you know" coming, I'm going to replace it with... absolutely nothing. Just a pause. It will probably feel like an eternity to me, but chances are no one else will even notice.

Now here's the funny part. Ever since I started writing this, I've been catching myself saying "you know" all day long. It's like buying a red car and suddenly seeing red cars everywhere. I guess awareness is the first step toward breaking a habit. So, if you hear me pause for a second while we're talking, don't worry. I'm not having a semi-senior moment. I'm simply giving my brain time to catch up with my mouth.

"You know..." or maybe you don't anymore.

— The Happy News Lady

www.TheHappyNewsLady.com

 

Comforter Cremation by Julianna Rowe

I do believe it is time to write about the Great Comforter Cremation.

Last fall, I lovingly folded my beautiful pale pink comforter and stuffed it into one of those giant storage bins for the winter. Well... "stuffed" is the proper word. It took a bit of wrestling to get it in there. Looking back, one of those vacuum bags that suck all the air out might have been a wiser choice. Oh wait... there won't be a next time. Spring arrived, and I finally decided it was time to bring Queenie back out. First came the tugging, pulling, and wrestling match to remove her from the storage bin. Then I performed the official "sniff test." She passed... sort of. I decided a good washing wouldn't hurt.

Mind you, I live in a tiny apartment with a washer that would probably struggle to wash a decent-sized bath towel, so I hauled Queenie down the hall to the community laundry room.

I proudly followed the directions, poured in the detergent, and began feeding my queen-sized comforter into the washer.  Halfway through the stuffing process, I suddenly realized something. This washer wasn't built for heavy loads. It was too late. The soap was already in, and half the comforter had disappeared into the machine. Having already mastered the art of stuffing and unstuffing Queenie once, I figured I might as well finish the job.

After depositing enough quarters to make the washing machine think it had won the lottery, I wandered back to my apartment. I even washed the poor thing twice. When it was finally finished, I returned to retrieve my freshly cleaned comforter.There was just one problem. It wouldn't come out. It had somehow molded itself to the inside of the washer as though it had taken out a lease. I pulled. I tugged. I braced my feet. I briefly considered calling the fire department.

Eventually, after what felt like an Olympic weightlifting event, I freed Queenie from her steel prison.

Now came Round Two. Stuffing her into the dryer. More quarters. More waiting. More walking back and forth down the hall. An hour later I opened the dryer and immediately noticed two things. First... she was still damp in spots. Second... she smelled oddly familiar. Not mildew. Not laundry soap. A campfire. Without the marshmallows. Naturally, I began searching for scorch marks. Nothing. But then I squeezed one corner. Crunch. Another corner.,Crunch.

The stuffing inside had transformed into something resembling Rice Krispies that had been struck by lightning. Every edge crackled with the sad sound of polyester destruction. Refusing to admit defeat, I launched Operation Comforter Rescue. I pulled apart every crunchy section I could find. I beat on it.I fluffed it. I may or may not have considered introducing it to a meat tenderizer.

Finally, I sent Queenie home with a friend who owned a proper large-capacity washer and dryer, hoping professional equipment might perform a miracle. She returned. Cleaner. Softer. And still suffering from advanced Comforter Cremation around the edges. Ladies and gentlemen... She was gone. Just like the mice that once tried to inhabit my tiny apartment... She was dead. I have accepted her fate. Dead is dead. Personally, I intend to remain on the opposite side of both cremation and being under the dirt for as long as possible. As for Queenie...May she rest in polyester peace.

The Happy News Lady                                   

"Am I Too Late?" by Julianna Rowe

 

 Am I Too Late?  by Julianna Rowe

The internet has a funny way of making us think we're always late. I have found that when I finally have the courage to try something, suddenly there are three other people already doing it.

A few years ago I had an idea-invention called "Greenspan." A portable podie/poo spot for animals on fake washable grass for apartment dwellers and balcony use?  I didn't pursue it. Tomorrow it will be something else. Then again, years ago, I had more ideas that seemed crazy. Wallpaper on ceilings where I could start the business in my garage. Then it was handmade Victorian velvet keepsakes with tiny photographs. Then it was stories that touched subjects people weren't talking about yet such as underground sex-trafficking. I didn't have the courage to do any of them and then look what happened. (I did publish the sex traffiking novel, "The Horrors That Hide," Mind you, that book came out a year before the Epstein files hit the world)  ALL of those ideas showed up years later in one form or another.  

Did I miss my chance? Maybe. Or maybe the lesson wasn't that I was too late. Maybe the lesson was that ideas have their own timing. The truth is, there are thousands of mystery novels. Thousands of romance novels. Thousands of songs about love. Yet someone still writes one that touches us. Not because the idea is new, but because it's the heart behind it. That's what I've been reminding myself lately.

I don't need to be first, that wasn't the idea, financial stability was. I need to be honest.

Any book I write, any idea I complete, won't be someone else's because nobody else has spent months laughing, crying,  or toiling it to the finish line. That belongs to me. Life isn't asking me to outrun everyone else. Although  my brain does run on overdrive on its own. Maybe it's simply asking me to keep writing.

And if you're putting off something because you think someone else already did it...Do it anyway. The world has room for more than one voice, book, song, and or one more Portable, washable, doggie poddie pad! 

I'm finally beginning to believe that includes mine.    

 

"I Am Lady Diana's Effing Twelfth Cousin" by Julianna Rowe aka Diane Ogden

"I Am Lady Diana's Effing Twelfth Cousin"

I recently discovered that I am Lady Diana's twelfth cousin. (I do have the paperwork that follows the line back to England and said Royalty) Now before anyone gets too excited, let me explain what that means. It means I barely have enough royal DNA to fill my left little toe. As a matter of fact, I probably share more DNA with the squirrel that steals birdseed off my porch than I do with Princess Diana. Still, royalty is royalty. I checked and there is no minimum requirement.  Unfortunately, being Lady Diana's twelfth cousin has not resulted in a castle, a crown, a horse-drawn carriage, a trust fund, a private chef, or even a decent parking place at the DMV. 

In fact, the DMV recently informed me that if I wanted to continue being a citizen of the United States, enter a federal building, or board an airplane in an emergency, I would need to produce enough paperwork to prove I wasn't smuggled into the country hidden inside a cabbage cart.

At age seventy-eight. I have three divorce decrees. Three. Do you know how hard it is to find paperwork from marriages that didn't work out? Nobody saves those in a velvet scrapbook with gold lettering. There are no smiling photographs of the happy day I signed away my sanity.  Yet somehow those papers are more important than the fact that I have paid taxes, raised children, worked my entire life, and have a grandfather whose paperwork came through Ellis Island.

Apparently, being related to royalty does not help because I checked on that too. The Queen has never called, the King hasn't either, not even a postcard. Meanwhile, my cat is aging, my upcoming surgery has me making lists on top of lists, one son speaks in thumbs-up emojis, another isn't speaking at all, one granddaughter is having struggles of her own, and my favorite comforter now sounds like Rice Krispies after being struck by lightning because I stuffed a queen-size comforter into a washer and dryer that were clearly designed for doll clothes.

Royalty, my foot. Actually, royalty may be my foot, the little toe, specifically. Still, after giving it some thought, I have decided I do have royal blood. Not because of Lady Diana, but because I survived. I survived things that should have flattened me. I raised children mostly on my own. I worked when I didn't want to. I got back up when life knocked me down. I kept writing. I kept loving. I kept trying. And if that isn't a form of royalty, I don't know what is.

So yes, I am Lady Diana's effing twelfth cousin of which I can prove. And while I may not have inherited a castle, I inherited something much more useful. The ability to keep going even when life is acting like a complete pain in the royal assets. And like I said:  The Queen never called. The King never called. Not even a postcard. But many years ago, while I was delivering newspapers to make a living, a sweet Jamaican restaurant owner, Martin, on State Street would see me coming through the door and announce to everyone:

                                                 "Aaahhh, here come da Hoppy Neus Laadi!" 

That title stuck. And honestly, I think I'd rather be The Happy News Lady than a princess anyway.

The Happy News Lady. Former newspaper carrier. Author. Mother. Grandmother. Great Grandmother. Comforter destroyer. (the next blog)  And apparently...

Lady Diana's effing twelfth cousin. 👑

AI Isn't Always Right! by Julianna Rowe

 "AI is incredibly intelligent. Unfortunately, nobody explained human feet to it."

AI Isn't Always Right by Julianna Rowe

 I've spent some time experimenting with Artificial Intelligence. Some people think AI knows everything. Others think it's going to take over the world. Personally, I think it's a lot like hiring a very smart assistant who occasionally forgets where toes belong and isn't always as smart as we think.

Recently, I was working on a photo for my blog. I usually try to find family photos that might fit with what I write but when I cant, I go to AI.  I did that with one particular blog when I suddenly noticed something odd. The created model in the photo had toenails, on the back of her toes. I stared at the picture for several minutes before saying out loud, "Well, that's not right." 

I am posting it here because I left it as is and didn't change it.  It was too funny to change and would you believe not one person commented or maybe they didn't even notice! 

There have been other adventures. AI has occasionally decided my face should be rounder than a pumpkin after Thanksgiving dinner. I love making photos usin AI with my animals and my children...putting us in camping scenes and or next to the Ifel Tower or standing on the edge of infinity!  Yet AI continues to mess up and has given people extra fingers, missing fingers, and hands that appear to belong to someone standing in another county. Yet somehow, despite all its mistakes, I still enjoy using it.  (Not that I want any of those nasty huge Data Centers.  So please don't crucifiy me on that stance.)  I am sure I will find plenty of judges ready to hand down a verdict after reading my first few paragraphs." But be gentle....we are all full of mess ups.

Why does AI mess up? Because AI reminds me of people. People make mistakes. People misunderstand instructions. People occasionally put things in the wrong place. The difference is that when people do it, we call it being human. When AI does it, we call it a glitch. The truth is that AI has helped me create a couple of the book covers for my novels, chose music for my poems when I do not know much about putting instruments together, graphics, and idea or outlines I never would have attempted on my own. It has also provided some of the best laughs I've had in years. Believe that or not. Odd how a machine can make a joke but it can.  You bet that is scary but things change and I am moving right along with a couple of those things here and there for now.  Just don't ask me to move, or God forbid face any more catastrophe's in this old life yet I am the one that tells my friends, if you cant beat 'em - maybe join them?  So I bought myself one of those "Hut's on wheels" that makes tacos and cooks for everyone I see wherever I go!  That's not true but it is a thought! Or maybe I will help out at a Mediteranian Resturant, or visit and learn how the Monk's live and learn, or....or.....I will just ask AI?  So I can stay home and watch the rest of Season 6 of Whose Fooling You Now?

So no, AI isn't always right. Then again, neither am I. And if you ever see a woman with toenails on the back of her feet, don't panic. It was probably generated by a computer.  Obviously!  

That's why I said:  "So why does she have toenails on the back of her feet?" 

And remember, "If you are reading this, YOU are above the dirt! 💗

"DMV Says Maybe I Will be a Star" - by Julianna Rowe

DMV Says Maybe I will be a Star! by Julianna Rowe

I thought my birth certificate, drivers license, Social Security card, voter registration, three divorces, grown children,  grandchildren, great-grandchildren, tax returns, jobs, surgeries and 78 years of breathing were sufficient proff that I exist.  Apparently I was mistaken. Yesterday (last blog post) I was passing a cemetery telling the gravestones: "I am happy that I am not under the dirt!" Today the government is basically replying: "Can you prove that?" 

I could do without this...A 78-year-old woman has to drive downtown, park, figure out the new parking meters, walk, wait in line, and pay for a piece of paper. Actually, four pieces of paper. Wait... five pieces of paper.  Certified Birth Certificate, 3 marriage licenses, 3 divorce decrees, all with a certification label.  I can only hope they stamp it in Gold.

Why? So I can get the immortal STAR on my drivers license so I can VOTE, walk into a Federal Building and/or fly on an airplane if there is an emergency. At 78, I apparently need permission to fly. Not to forget I have been voting all my life.

I can't walk far. I also have three copies of divorce papers turning yellow in a box, but they wont accept those....they have no gold certification seal or punch, and I have absolutely no wedding books to be found... you know, the cute little books with photos of the happy couple smiling and signing away. Nor did I know I was supposed to rent a safe deposit box and pay for it every year for the last 60 years to keep paperwork from marriage's that made me miserable in the first place.  Actually I did keep some but they aren't acceptable.  So far....I went online and I have gotten two copies at $40 each, and now I need two more, another $40 because I didn't know I needed a single page decree with a seal on it. The other marriage ($40+) took a bit more doing considering it was in another State far away. Those Texas office girls are so sweet.  I got a "Bless your heart" several times. And I took a chance and gave my debit card # to a stranger so I could be a star!

This over the top need for paperwork is something about the government needing to make sure I'm not an illegal immigrant. A paper trail they call it.  And or they, the Government must need more proof that I'm alive. How much paperwork does one old woman need?  I should admit I have a birth certificate with my little feet on it, but they spelled my name wrong so that was a really big deal to muddle through.  Had to go before a judge with all sort of information as to who I am and how its truly spelled. (one little letter was wrong)

OMG!   From the official DMV site: You cannot take an official DMV photo without providing a certified marriage license, divorce decree, or legal name-change court order if you have changed your legal name. Your legal name on your license must match your birth certificate or passport.  (Why did I change my name three times??)

Maybe I should have dug deeper. I do have my grandfather's paperwork from Ellis Island. And what about the elderly women sitting in nursing homes who can vote but have no clue how to get these documents? Or don't have the money to order them? It's such an injustice. I'd picket, as we used to say, if I could walk better. Heck, I can't even carry a sign anymore. But I do have a special sign for the bill so-and-so passed, and it's on both hands.

So...

I will take my grocery and gas money, buy more stamps, make more copies, include the required self-addressed stamped envelope, and wait two weeks for those blessed black-and-white memories to arrive with a grand $40 seal punched onto the page. Then I can be a free citizen who can vote, who can fly on an airplane, who can walk into a federal building in this great land of ours, and finally get a star.  Not on any walk of fame....a DMV star.

Am I angry? Damn right I am. But when it's all said and done, " I am not under the dirt."

So I will do what I need to do and continue to be upset about the many people, mostly women, who won't have the money, won't understand the process, or won't know why they suddenly need gold seals or punched seals on the going into and coming out of marriages that nearly killed them in the first place.

And yes, I still think a man created a "Bill" that caused all of this need for a star. He did.

J.R. is not a happy camper today. And there will be no Happy Father's Day from me because not one of those snakes stuck around long enough to know their children. Not one.

Okay.

I feel better now.
 - J.R.  💗

My Newest Thriller Novel! ''Doll in the Snow" by Julianna Rowe

 My latest release:  A Thriller Novel: by Julianna Rowe     "DOLL IN THE SNOW"

   

She looked innocent. Like a doll left behind in the snow. But some people don't leave footprints behind them. they leave wreckage. This haunting song was inspired by my novel, Doll in the Snow. Listen closely... not everything is as it seems.

   I wrote the words to the song, I used suno.com to put music to my words.  I has become an exciting and interesting hobby.   J.R. 💖 

https://www.amazon.com/Doll-Snow-Julianna-Rowe-ebook/dp/B0H5FPK3Q6

Haven learned fear long before she learned love. Raised beneath the frozen skies of Iceland by a mother feared even within her own bloodline, she escapes carrying secrets she barely understands and a darkness that seems to follow wherever she goes.

Cole is gentle, restless, and far too willing to mistake broken people for people he can save.

When their paths collide, desire quickly becomes obsession, and obsession slowly becomes something far more dangerous. As the two disappear across countries and oceans, strange blood-soaked events begin trailing behind them, while back home a mother searches desperately for the son she knows would never willingly vanish.

But some curses are older than love. And some wounds do not stop bleeding simply because someone survives them.
Told through shifting voices and layered memories, The Doll in the Snow is a haunting psychological novel about manipulation, generational trauma, survival, and the fragile possibility of healing after darkness. Some stories end in justice. Some end in forgiveness. This one ends in home.

I DIDN'T DIE! by Julianna Rowe

 I Am Not Under the Dirt! by Julianna Rowe

I was driving to work this morning feeling a bit tired of too many things. My phone was ringing. My house had a mouse or three. My family had opinions and my body and brain had a few obvious complaints causing my mood to start heading downhill faster than a runaway shopping cart.

I was driving the same route as usual but when I turned my eyes to the left I saw that huge Cemetery I passed every day.  But this day I saw it differently. Row after row of gravestones. Big and tall granite markers, sweet little ones, faancy ones and plain ones.  Some had fresh flowers, some had planted flowers, others weeds surrounded their resting home. It was then something hit me and for some reason I blurted out loud:  

"Oh dear, you guys are all under that dirt!!  I'm so sorry.  But.... I AM NOT UNDER THE DIRT! I had to pull over and take a picture the spiritual message was so strong!

And after aplogizing to all those under the dirt, I immediately started laughing when it sank in further that my problems didn't seem quite so dramatic or FINAL. The mouse issue was alive, not under the dirt and manageable. My aching back was alive and thriving and also not under the dirt. The family drama from those I love was definitely not under the dirt. The upcoming surgery meant I was quite assuredly alive and apprehensive.... 

Sometimes life isn't about having everything go right.  The victory is simply realizing you're still above ground, still moving, still laughing, and still getting another chance to figure it all out. Not under the dirt.  

Today wasn't perfect, but I wasn't under the dirt and that felt like pretty good news to me. 

Actually I was a hit in the side of the head with a spiritual 2 x 4 of which I am thankful for!  

www.TheHappyNewsLady.com

Have You Noticed the Crazy Facebook Ads Lately - by Julianna Rowe

Have You Noticed the Crazy Facebook Ads Lately:    By Julianna Rowe

If I see one more miracle ad on Facebook, I may need medication. Actually, scratch that. The ad is probably already pushing medication.

Every day I scroll through social media and discover that some poor woman who weighed 300 pounds on Monday became a size 3 by Thursday using an ancient secret discovered in a remote village where everyone lives to be 127 years old. Or is doing Tai Chi. Apparently all she had to do was drink a purple liquid, stand on one foot, and think positive thoughts.

And what about the meals delivered to my door.  Mediterranean, Korean, Spanish, all protein, big man’s meal, Factor, Home Chef, Goldbelly, and buy now pay later.  What?  Why I can even order human grade dog food that comes in dry ice with packaging that melts in water. At this point the hardest part isn't cooking. It's choosing.

Then there are the doctors who "don't want you to know." Know what? And that is after "follow below in first comment." And then an hour and a half video with an ending:  Order here.

If there is a secret cure for wrinkles, fat, arthritis, debt, loneliness, and mice, I promise you doctors know about it. And there is a belly shot you can order and its fat free.

Then there is the fellow who made $87 million from home while working only 12 minutes a week. Twelve minutes. I spend longer than that looking for my reading glasses.

Wait, I almost forgot the people who worked for ten years for the company who had gathered a portfolio of hundreds of clients but the new guy did it in four hours using AI.  The husband goes home and tells his wife he got fired and will have to door dash.  Wife says, oh no, you are going to learn that AI course and it only cost thirty thousand.  

The next ad tells me my knees hurt because I am missing a rare mineral only found in a Himalayan cave guarded by monks and goats.

Then I learn my belly fat is not my fault. It is apparently caused by a mysterious sleeping parasite, hormone imbalance, toxic liver, slow metabolism, hidden inflammation, bad gut bacteria, and Mercury being in retrograde. I am beginning to think my body is hosting a committee meeting.

And let's not forget the miracle gadgets, miracle mushroom coffee, celebrity teeth whitening, reverse-aging gummies, and a 104-year-old woman who swears her secret is eating buttered raisins while standing barefoot in the dew.

 Wait:  There are more: Neck stretchers. Belly patches. Magnetic socks. Copper bracelets. Electric shoes. Pillows that cure everything short of bad relatives.  And sheets that ground you to the earth as if you were hugging several trees all at once. One ad promised I could erase twenty years of aging in fourteen days. At my age, I'd settle for finding my car keys.

Some of the ads at the bottom of the page are so ridiculous I won't even click on them. No thank you. Grossville. Those photos do not pull me in they push me up up and away. If curiosity killed the cat, Facebook ads would finish off the entire litter.

The truth is, most of us know there are no magic shortcuts. Health takes work. Relationships take work. Money takes work. Even cleaning out a toaster takes work. Trust me on that one. At this point, if every miracle product actually worked, we'd all be skinny, rich, wrinkle-free, debt-free, pain-free, and living to be 147 years old. Instead, I think I'll save my money, drink my diet coke, and keep scrolling.

Although I have to admit... If I see an ad promising to get rid of mice, medical bills, and political arguments all at the same time, I might click it.

p.s.  That photo is of my Granddaughter, and she is single.

My Car Wouldn't Start!.........by Julianna Rowe

The Day My Car Wouldn't Start      by Julianna Rowe

I had a moment this week. One of those moments where you begin questioning your age, your memory, and whether you should still be operating machinery.

I came out of my chiropractor appointment, climbed into my car, and pushed the button to start it. Nothing. I pushed it again. Nothing. Immediately my mind went into financial panic mode.

"Oh no. Battery, Starter, Alternator, Thousands of dollars! Homeless? Guess I'll be living in the chiropractor parking lot." I sat there for a few seconds trying to figure out what disaster had just struck. Then I happened to glance down an see that I wasn't pushing the Start button, I was pushing the Volume button on the radio the entire time. 

My car was perfectly healthy. The only thing getting more powerful was the radio. I had spent several minutes diagnosing a catastrophic mechanical failure while turning up the volume.

Now, before anyone starts sending me brochures for assisted living facilities, I would like to point out that modern cars have approximately 4,276 buttons.  The Start button sits right next to other buttons. The other buttons all look important and apparently one of them looks important enough that I mistook it for the Start button.

The good news is my battery is fine. The starter is fine. The alternator is fine and the chiropractor is fine. The only thing that may need servicing is the driver. I finally pushed the correct button. The car started immediately and I drove away laughing. 

Well... eventually laughing. First I looked around to make sure nobody had seen me. Because some stories are funny and some stories are funny only after witnesses leave. That's my modern car syndrome for today.

Back in my day a car had: A key, a steering whee,l and a radio. 

Now they have: A Start button. A Stop button. A Volume button. A Screen button. A Button To Explain The Other Buttons. And naturally the two most important buttons are right next to each other. Fact is I feel like I am driving an oversized computer on wheels.  There are buttons and guages I have never used because I do not know what they are for. And the manual is likened to the Websters Dictionary.  I only use it when I have to figure out how to re-fix my headlights when my son turns them off the automatic section.  

Go ahead and image that in an 8x10 glossy!  I get in the car.  Push. Nothing. "OH DEAR GOD. Not today." Push again. Nothing. Now my mind was racing.

 

"Starter?" 

"Alternator?"

"Battery?"

"Transmission?

"Will I be living in this parking lot? Kitty litter in the back seat?"  Meanwhile my radio volume is quietly going:  2... 4... 7... 12... 18...

NOTICE MY LICENSE PLATE SAYS:   ALSWELL!!   

(Yes, I am aware I my creative urge met up with my license plate.)

Garlic Breath! An Outhouse Might be Easier and More Helpful! by Julianna Rowe

 

Garlic Breath: An Outhouse Might be Easier

I have a question. Has anyone else noticed that some people can eat one clove of garlic and create a fifteen-foot exclusion zone around themselves? I'm not talking about a pleasant hint of garlic. I'm talking about the kind of garlic breath that arrives three minutes before the person does.  You know the type. You're sitting in a movie theater minding your own business. The lights go down. The previews start. Then suddenly something drifts across the room. At first you think there must be a plumbing issue. Then you wonder if a skunk somehow got into the building. Then it hits you. Nope. Row 7, Seat B. Garlic Man has arrived. The amazing thing is that garlic breath doesn't travel in a straight line. It swirls. It lingers. It seeks out innocent bystanders. It creeps over theater seats and around corners like a low-budget horror movie. Scientists should study it. The military should probably not. And don't get me started on onion breath. Garlic breath is at least trying to be Italian. Onion breath is just angry. You can be standing in line at the grocery store and suddenly find yourself wondering if someone is carrying a sack of onions in their mouth.  The worst part is that nobody knows how to handle the situation. There is no polite way to say:

"Sir, your breath just peeled the paint off my shopping cart."

Or:

"Ma'am, I believe your lunch is still actively participating in this conversation."

Instead, we smile politely while slowly backing away like we're negotiating with a bear. Personally, I think movie theaters should hand out emergency mints with every ticket purchase. Forget 3D glasses. Give me breath insurance. Because if I'm paying twelve dollars for popcorn, I shouldn't have to spend the entire movie wondering whether the smell next to me is garlic, onions, or something that escaped from an abandoned outhouse.

Just saying.  "An outhouse might be easier and more useful."

(Photo by chatGPT)

I Knew Something My Physician Didn't! by Julianna Rowe

 I Knew Something My Physician Didn't!  by Julianna Rowe

This morning driving to work I noticed the leaves on several varieties of trees were turning over. Now before you young folks run to Google, us old-timers know exactly what that means. Rain. The leaves flip their little undersides up like they're trying to get a better look at the sky and ask, "Are we doing this today?"

I mentioned it to my doctor once by saying, "Its going to rain today, the leaves on the trees have flipped over." She looked at me like I had escaped from school without my diploma.   

"Really? I have never heard of such a thing." she said.

"Yes, really," I replied, adding with a hidden hint of arrogance that maybe she should Google it. Then I added the leaves know more than the Weather Channel. She doesnt always appreciate my sense of humor and I do try to remain business like due to the fact every fifteen minutes cost me another several hundred dollars. Yet I continued anyway adding my weekly woes to our appointment...... which at the end of she commented I may need Prozac. 

"Matter of fact," I said, "I think nature has been trying to warn me about the last week of my life." That is when she interupted with, "Do you feel like you want to harm yourself?"   I said, "No! It's just life! The extreminator says the mice have "probably" disappeared, but I will believe that when I don't see it. My son's car battery died and his car key went missing. The police had to come open the car which is one of the advantages of living in a small town. A boyfriend of a friend called his parents and moved out, takin the furniture with him. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I was trying to schedule surgery while carrying on a serious conversation with my cat  Bob. 

At this point I don't need a weather forecast. I need a crisis forecast. The leaves weren't predicting rain in fact they were predicting a full-blown weather event of which my physician, who is supposed to know everything that I don't, somehow missed that one. And No, I don't need Prozac.  

Bob, meanwhile, remains calm. I suspect he knows more than he's telling me.  Every time something goes wrong, he sits there washing his face like none of this concerns him. A battery dies? Bob blinks. Family drama? Bob blinks. Mouse infestation? Bob blinks. The stock market could collapse and Bob's biggest concern would still be whether his dinner arrived on time. Bob the cat has seen enough around here to qualify as a licensed therapist, if he could only talk.

Maybe that's the lesson. When life starts flipping upside down like the leaves on the trees, maybe we don't need all the answers. But we do need to realize that baramentric pressure affects  more than the weather. Put pressure on your brain and watch the results. 

Maybe we just need to find a patch of grass, put our feet on the ground, and remember that eventually the storm passes.

Although if another boyfriend moves out and takes the keys, all bets are off.  Somewhere in the family lineage this surely has to be my fault? Or it's simply: "The leaves knew trouble was coming. They just forgot to mention it wasn't weather."  I am still tickled I knew something my Physician didn't!!  That'll keep me going for quite a while. By the way, its the Silver Maple, the Poplar, and the Willow tree's that will give you a good twelve hour heads up.  

"Feets on the Ground?" by Julianna Rowe

 

"Feets on the Ground"

Everyone says we need to "ground ourselves." Walk barefoot in the grass. Stand in a stream or hug a tree. They say it will connect you with the earth and you will feel its energy flow through your body.

Wonderful idea, but I have a few questions. Where exactly is this magical patch of grass? And where is this crystal-clear spring-fed stream that will cleanse me to my core and send me skipping through life with renewed energy and purpose? The grass near my apartment has been visited by every dog in Middleton. It is also monitored blade by blade by a guy in a truck called "Tru Green" or "The Lawn Doctor."

I find that an interesting play on words.

"Tru" Green isn't very true if I can't wiggle my piggies in the grass without worrying about what was sprayed on it last Tuesday. It's true alright that I might turn green from being poisoned before I absorb enough earth energy to float home.

And The Lawn Doctor? Really? That doctor spends a good portion of his career killing everything that naturally belongs there. Dandelions, clover, and all the little things that bees seem to enjoy a whole lot more than perfectly manicured lawns. Then there is the grass near the road. That patch has spent forty years absorbing exhaust fumes, road salt, and whatever else gets tossed at it by passing traffic.

Somehow I don't think Mother Earth intended that to be my healing sanctuary. Let me add that I'm not entirely convinced I want to stand in the stream either. The stream probably contains three shopping carts, a bicycle, and at least one mystery item nobody wants to identify.

And these feet aren't twenty years old anymore. By the time I walk barefoot across a gravel parking lot to reach this magical stream, I'll need grounding from the pain alone.

Yet I think there may be something to the idea. Maybe grounding isn't always about bare feet and hugging trees. Maybe it's about remembering where you are.

Looking up at the sky.

Petting a cat.

Drinking coffee or sweet tea on the porch.

Watching flowers bloom.

Calling your son on his birthday before you completely forget and have to scramble for your phone.

Taking a shower and washing away a hard day.

Maybe grounding is simply returning to yourself.

And if that's true, I think I'm overdue.

Still, if I'm driving along someday and happen to spot a patch of clean, untouched grass that hasn't been visited by dogs, treated by lawn doctors, or marinated in traffic fumes, I just might pull over and give it a try. Then again, before hugging a tree, I would probably look around first to make sure nobody was watching. Because while I am interested in reconnecting with nature, I am not interested in becoming the topic of conversation at the local coffee shop.

"Did you hear about that woman hugging the oak tree over by the highway?"

"Yep. She looked very grounded."

Maybe that's the secret after all. A little sunshine, a little laughter, a little fresh air, and a reminder that no matter how crazy life gets, we can still find our way back to ourselves. It's all about energy, isn't it?

The Space Between Time..... by Julianna Rowe

The Space Between Time:  by Julianna Rowe aka Nana D

The other day my precious granddaughter Kennede got engaged. I saw the photo of her showing her best friend her ring. The smiles, the excitement, the future all stretched out in front of her. Then I found another photo. A little blonde girl sitting beside me, grinning at the camera. The strange thing is, in my mind those two pictures were taken about six months apart. Reality insists it was much longer.

I don't know where the years went. One minute I was rocking a tiny newborn to sleep. Then tying ponytails, buying Christmas presents, baking cookies, playing dress up, wiping tears due to a skinned knee. swimming in Nana's pool, and always wondering if they'll ever pick up their toys. 

The next minute its Prom pictures, drivers tests, a first car, college, finding a good job, and then... bingo... they're picking wedding colors and talking about forever. 

People always tell you to enjoy every moment because children grow up fast. I never believed them. Turns out they were right. 

Congratulations, Kennede. May your future be filled with laughter, friendship, and the kind of love that still makes you smile years from now.

And if you ever have children of your own, don't blink. Trust me on that one.  

I love you forever, Nana D.

THE MACY'S DREAM I DIDN'T KNOW CAME TRUE: by Julianna Rowe

The Macy's Dream I Didn't Know Came True:  "Wait a minute... It did." Just not on 34th Street in New York, but on a porch in Wisconsin.  by Julianna Rowe

When I was young, I had a dream. I wanted to live in New York City and design the big display windows at Macy's. I never had any formal training. Looking back, I probably couldn't have done it professionally. But in my mind, that was where I belonged. I imagined creating scenes that made people stop, smile, and look a little longer.

Years later, in the 1980s, I was living in Longview, Texas. One Christmas, my family was driving around looking at lights and decorations when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn't expensive. It wasn't fancy. Someone had created a beautiful Christmas display from painted sheets of plywood. I stared at it and said something that I still remember today:

"Look at how happy that makes people."

That was the moment. Not Macy's..Not New York.That Christmas display because I realized that's what touched me wasn't the display itself. It was the happiness it brought to the people who stopped to look at it. I knew then that I wanted to do that too.Over the years I created painted cutouts, porch displays, holiday scenes, and seasonal decorations wherever I lived. 

Some people probably thought I was just  decorating. But I wasn't. I was trying to create a moment. A smile, a memory, and a little bit of wonder in someone's ordinary day. 

Today I live one block from downtown. My apartment sits near a four-corner stop, and every year people ask:

"What will she create this year?"      

They slow down and look.They smile and  some come back for a second look. And suddenly I realized something. A Macy's window display is really just a story told without words. It isn't about selling merchandise. It's about creating a feeling. A little bit of joy. A little bit of wonder. A moment that brightens someone's day. And that's exactly what I've been doing all along. Not in New York City. Not behind the famous windows of Macy's. But on a little porch in Wisconsin. The scale changed. The dream did not. For years I thought my dream never came true because I was looking for it in the wrong place. What I finally understand is that my dream was never really about Macy's. Macy's was simply the biggest stage I could imagine. The real dream was to create something that made people happy. Maybe that's why I've written books. Maybe that's why I've written songs. Maybe that's why I started The Happy News Lady. And maybe that's why I still decorate my porch. Not because life has always been happy. It certainly hasn't. But because I have always believed that even a small moment of joy can matter. Sometimes dreams arrive wearing different clothes than we expected. Sometimes they show up later than planned. Sometimes they are closer to home than we ever imagined, and sometimes, if we're lucky, we realize we've been living the dream all along.

 The Happy News Lady

OPERATION: MOUSE PATROL BY Jules - Short for Julianna Rowe

 OPERATION: MOUSE PATROL   May 30, 2026  True story made into Comedy.

Well folks, it's official.

After months (years) of mice, dead mouse smells, exterminators, maintenance visits, deodorizer packets, lectures about cat food, and enough stress to qualify for a law degree, Bob and I have launched our own investigation. Allow me to introduce: 

Chief Inspector Bob:  Assistant Investigator Jules (short for Julianna obviously.) Our mission? To locate the tiny suspects that have apparently declared my apartment their summer vacation destination. Bob has been on the force for years. Frankly, he looks like a detective who's been working homicide for thirty years and is three days from retirement. His official statement: "You two are idiots. I saw the mouse three days ago."   

Meanwhile, I arrived on the scene wearing Halloween mouse ears, carrying a magnifying glass, and fueled entirely by caffeine and irritation.The AI that created our first investigation photo apparently decided I needed backup. Instead of Bob, it added a handsome detective who looked like he wandered in from a Hallmark movie.And me looking like I did 20 years ago. I stared at the picture and thought: "I hate mice... but I kinda like the handsome detective I found while looking for them." For a brief moment I considered keeping him. After all, he seemed far more helpful than the exterminator. Speaking of which... The exterminator informed me that if I kept food in my apartment, mice might be attracted to it. Thank you, Sherlock. Apparently my crime was owning a toaster, an air fryer, and a cat who enjoys eating occasionally. Then came the dead mouse smell. Their official position? "Well, we won. We killed them. That's why it smells."

Excellent. So now I get to choose between living with mice or living with Eau de Mouse Corpse.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I started seeing mice that weren't there. A shadow? Mouse. A sock? Mouse. A dust bunny? Possibly a mouse wearing a disguise. At this point, I may need a lawyer. Or therapy. Or both.

But until then, Operation Mouse Patrol remains active. Chief Inspector Bob continues to supervise from the counter, looking disappointed in everyone. I continue searching for clues with a magnifying glass. And if another handsome Hallmark detective accidentally appears during the investigation... 

Well...I'm not saying I'd file a complaint. But I will ask AI to remove the critter, I have had enough and do not want to even look at one ever never again. 

And I know I still look  20 years too young.  Hey, it was hard to go back and ask AI to give me more wrinkles. Jeeez.

Signed, Assistant Investigator Jules, short for Julianna of course.

(Who never wanted mice, but apparently became a Mouseketeer anyway.)

Things I Know At This Age: by Julianna Rowe

 THINGS I KNOW AT THIS AGE:

I know peace has become more valuable than proving a point.

That some people apologize without ever changing.

That exhaustion can disguise itself as patience for far too long.  I know old songs still remember parts of us people forgot. That survival changes a woman and kindness matters more than image.And I know this:

The older I get, the less interested I am in pretending.

Some things break you and some things teach you and some things quietly lead you back to peace.

Healing rarely arrives loudly..

P.S. The full “What Men Say When They Don’t & What Women Say That They Mean” ebook will be arriving on Amazon soon. Some of the deeper articles and reflections will be included there. Thank you to everyone who has followed the journey so far, here with me. 💚

 Julianna Rowe
The Happy News Lady
www.TheHappyNewsLady.com

(Photo is Ai generated per my request)

What Women Say, That They Mean.....by Julianna Rowe

 What Women Say, That They Mean:  Hosted on www.TheHappyNewsLady.com

ACT III — “SHE’S REPEATING WITHOUT WANTING TO”

One of the most exhausting experiences for many women is realizing they are repeating the same emotional needs over and over while still feeling unheard underneath the conversation. At first, repetition comes from hope. She believes maybe she did not explain it clearly enough the first time. Maybe the timing was wrong. Maybe the other person simply did not fully understand the emotional weight behind what she was trying to say.

So she explains again. More gently, then more carefully. Sometimes more emotionally. Sometimes less emotionally. But over time, repetition stops feeling productive and starts feeling painful.

Many women do not want to repeat themselves. In fact, repeated emotional conversations often leave them feeling embarrassed, frustrated, guilty, or emotionally drained. No one enjoys feeling like they must continually explain why something hurts, why something matters, or why emotional consistency feels important to them. Yet many women find themselves trapped in this exact cycle when temporary understanding keeps replacing lasting change.

This is where quiet frustration begins building internally.

Because every repeated conversation slowly carries the emotional memory of the conversations before it. The woman is no longer reacting only to the present moment. She is reacting to the accumulation of feeling emotionally unheard, emotionally deprioritized, or emotionally alone inside issues she already tried to explain many times before. That accumulation changes communication.

The patience becomes thinner. The sadness becomes heavier. The explanations become shorter.
And underneath it all lives an exhausting question: “Why do I keep having to ask for the same thing?”

For many women, this stage creates emotional confusion as well. They begin questioning themselves:
Am I expecting too much?  Am I becoming repetitive? Am I overreacting? Am I impossible to satisfy? But emotional repetition usually does not happen without reason. Most people do not continually revisit the same hurt unless something inside them still feels unresolved, unacknowledged, or emotionally unsafe. And perhaps the saddest part is this: many women continue repeating themselves because they still care deeply about preserving the relationship. Repetition is often an attempt to save connection before emotional exhaustion fully replaces hope.

But eventually, repeated pain changes the tone of even the gentlest person.

The woman who once explained softly may begin sounding tired. The woman who once overexplained may begin saying less. The woman who once believed understanding was possible may begin emotionally withdrawing instead. Because there comes a point where repeating the same emotional truth stops feeling like communication…and starts feeling like begging to be understood.

ACT III - The Quiet Frustration by Julianna Rowe

 What Women Say, That They Mean by Julianna Rowe 

ACT III - THE QUIET FRUSTRATION

Not all relationship frustration is loud. Sometimes it arrives quietly  through repeated disappointments too small to explain individually but heavy enough to slowly change the emotional atmosphere between two people. It builds in the unanswered questions, the emotional imbalance, the conversations that never fully resolve, and the growing exhaustion of trying to feel emotionally understood while quietly feeling increasingly alone.

This stage is often difficult to recognize from the outside because many women continue functioning normally while carrying enormous emotional frustration internally. They still show up. Still respond. Still try. But underneath the surface, emotional fatigue is beginning to accumulate in ways that slowly reshape communication, patience, vulnerability, and emotional closeness itself.

The Quiet Frustration is not usually created by one major betrayal. More often, it is created through repetition. Feeling dismissed repeatedly. Feeling emotionally unheard repeatedly. Feeling like emotional needs are always being softened, delayed, minimized, misunderstood, or treated as less urgent than everyone else’s comfort.

And because many women are taught to preserve peace, preserve relationships, and avoid appearing “too emotional,” much of this frustration gets swallowed long before it is ever spoken directly aloud.

That is why this stage becomes so emotionally dangerous. The frustration remains active even while the words become softer.

“I’m fine.”                        

“Never mind.”
“It’s okay.”
“Forget it.”
“Do whatever you want.”

The quieter the frustration becomes, the more emotionally exhausted the woman often is underneath it.

This section explores the emotional accumulation that happens when women begin feeling the growing distance between what they need emotionally and what they are consistently receiving in return. It examines the subtle shift from explaining… to repeating… to withdrawing… while still quietly hoping someone notices the change before silence fully replaces connection. Because many relationships do not first break through screaming. They begin breaking through quiet disappointment that stayed unspoken for far too long.

What Women Say,, That They Don't ..... "I Feel Off" by Julianna Rowe

Wjat Women Say, That They Don't by Julianna Rowe

 “I Feel Off.”

 It’s not a clear sentence nor does it point to one moment or one thing you can fix. But when a woman says that, she’s not guessing, she’s noticing something she can’t quite name yet. What she means is: something shifted and the energy feels different.

The way you speak to me, the way you look at me, the way things flow between us, it’s not the same, even if nothing obvious has happened.

 And that’s what makes it hard to explain, because there’s no single moment to point to, no proof to hold onto, just a quiet feeling that something isn’t sitting right.

 “I feel off” is what she says before she has the words, before she’s connected all the dots and finally before she’s ready to call it something bigger. It’s instinct. It’s awareness. It’s her paying attention to the small changes most people overlook. And here’s the part that matters. She doesn’t want to be right. She’s not looking for a problem...she’s trying to understand what she’s feeling before it turns into something she can’t ignore. But if that feeling keeps showing up… if it keeps getting brushed off or dismissed… it doesn’t go away, it sharpens and gets clearer. Until what once felt “off” becomes something she can finally name. Bottom line: “I feel off” isn’t confusion, it’s the beginning of her seeing things clearly. She said she felt off… and she was already closer to the truth than she realized. 

“Women rarely say ‘I feel off’ without a reason.
The heart often notices distance long before the relationship admits it.”