My "Pain Clinic" Adventure by Julianna Rowe

 My Pain Clinic Adventure......by Julianna Rowe

Every morning lately I wake up thinking, okay, THAT'S OVER. Surely today will be normal. I do not sit around waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Quite the opposite. I honestly believe every dang time that the latest mess was the last mess. Then somewhere in the Universe a buzzer goes off and somebody yells, “WHAMMO! SHE THINKS IT'S OVER!” Yesterday started with my foot and whatever other part decided to join the rebellion. I had an appointment I thought was with podiatry. So naturally I got my feet ready because somebody is going to inspect your feet, you cannot arrive looking like you've been wandering barefoot through a cornfield since 1987.  I arrived at the appointment with two perfectly respectable feet nobody wanted to see. Probably because I was at the SPINE CLINIC appointment. 

The nice people started asking if I had back pain? Did I need Gabapentin? Duloxetine? Lyrica? NO! My foot hurts. We actually ended up laughing about the whole thing because what else can you do? I had dragged my aching foot into a medical building, paid a copay, prepared my feet for company, and arrived at a party being held for my spine. 

Then I came home. This is where the Universe apparently said, “Okay, that was the comedy portion. Bring in the cement truck because several other incidents occurred that were not funny.” 

So naturally, I checked my astrology chart for these days. Yes, astrology. Don't send me letters. I have enough mail problems. Apparently Mars is squaring Neptune right now, which astrologers associate with confusion, crossed wires and trying to take action when nobody seems to know what the heck is going on. I WENT TO A PODIATRY APPOINTMENT AND ARRIVED AT A SPINE CLINIC. If Mars and Neptune wanted to put on a little demonstration, they could have been less literal. Then Venus is opposing Saturn, which astrology associates with relationships, separation, money and reality arriving with an invoice. Hello, that connected to my other issues that day. And according to what I found in my chart, late August still has a few bumps and surprises, but things are supposed to begin lightening as we move toward September.I don't need Jupiter to drop a million dollars onto my balcony, although Jupiter, if you're listening, the balcony is directly outside the living room and I will leave the door unlocked.

Meanwhile, I have learned one important lesson. The next time I have a medical appointment, I'm calling ahead. “Hello. I have an appointment at two. Before I leave the house, exactly which body part are you people expecting?” Because I'm not getting my feet ready for nothing again. Or maybe I should keep a clearer more concise calendar!

P.S. If there is a cement truck at your door with your name on it, its because your a Scorpio!  Me, I am! 

The Happy News Lady 

Batteries, Batteries Everywhere by Julianna Rowe

Batteries, Batteries Everywhere , What the Heck Do We Do With Them?

My son casually informed me that batteries go into landfills. Well, you cannot casually tell me something like that and expect me to go make eggs and forget about it. I started thinking about all the batteries in my life. Batteries in remotes, flashlights, phones, computers, tools and watches. And ...batteries in cars. Now we're building electric vehicles containing batteries large enough to propel an entire automobile down the interstate. So where do all these dang batteries eventually GO?

First of all, my son wasn't completely wrong, but the story is more complicated. And yes I had to google some of this! Many ordinary alkaline household batteries can legally go into household garbage in many communities, although the EPA recommends recycling them when recycling is available. Rechargeable and lithium batteries are another story. They should not be thrown into household garbage or regular recycling bins because they can be damaged or crushed and start fires. Those batteries need separate collection and proper recycling.

Then there are the big boys, those heavy old-fashioned car batteries we've been hauling back to auto-parts stores and junkyards forever? Turns out we've gotten remarkably good at recycling those things. According to the EPA's published national data, about 99 percent of lead-acid car batteries were recycled. Their lead and plastic can be recovered and reused. Well, I'll be danged. Score one for humanity.

Then we arrive at electric cars. Their large lithium-ion batteries don't necessarily become extremely expensive doorstops when the car is finished. They can be recycled, and valuable materials such as nickel, cobalt, manganese and lithium can be recovered and potentially returned to the supply chain.But here's where my son's comment still got under my skin. We're putting batteries into practically everything. Cars. Phones. Tools. Toys. Computers. Appliances. Even things that worked perfectly well for centuries without requiring electricity now apparently need a battery, a charger, three warning labels and probably my Wi-Fi password.

Are our systems for collecting and recycling all those batteries keeping up? And let me add, I'm not against electric cars. I'm against solving one environmental problem while pretending the next problem will politely wait its turn. If batteries are going to power more and more of our world, collecting and recycling them shouldn't be an afterthought. It should be part of the plan from the beginning.

Because sooner or later, every battery dies. And somebody better know what the heck we're going to do with it. 

Now, where do I put these AAAs?

The Happy News Lady 💗 

A Hundred Different Bottled Waters......by Julianna Rowe

A Hundred Different  Bottled Waters by Julianna Rowe

Have you ever driven the same road hundreds of times and suddenly you see something you never saw, or noticed before. With your stable mind you know it wasn't just placed there by aliens, yet you never saw it before.  Well, that is what happened to me today when I walked into Hell's Gate II for some eggs and an eight pack of diet coke. I had to pass through the three water isles when I noticed for the first time.....some reason.....that WATER can be complicated!! 

Life used to be simple when it came to water. It was in the form of water where we turned on the faucet, filled a glass, drank it and that was the end of the transaction. 

This morning I tried to beat the grocery store crowd which did not happen. Regardless, I walk into the grocery store that I recently renamed Hells Gate II because there is already a Hells Gate I, and noticed that apparently water has its own department: Yes I knew it but suddenly it hit me and with my stable mind I knew it had nothing to do with aliens. There they all were staring back at me: Spring water, mineral water, purified water, distilled water, alkaline water, electrolyte water, artesian water, glacier water, and smartwater! My mind wondered to probably water that has been emotionally supported through childhood. The ridiculous thing is, there really ARE differences. Yes I had to Google this: Spring water comes from an underground source that naturally reaches the surface. Mineral water comes from underground and contains naturally occurring minerals.  Purified water may begin as tap or groundwater but is heavily treated or filtered. Like from our flushes. Okay just kidding or am I.  Distilled water is turned into steam and condensed back into water, removing most minerals. Alkaline water has a higher pH whereas electrolyte water has minerals such as sodium, potassium or magnesium added. Artesian water comes from a confined underground aquifer which I do not understand, and glacier water supposedly comes from, you guessed it, glaciers. 

Then there's Smartwater, which is basically vapor-distilled water with electrolytes added for taste. Excuse me, but why would they call it Smart Water? Can it remember my passwords? Can it find the peanut butter they moved again? Can it explain why my insurance company took an extra $354 out of my checking account? Because if it can't do any of those things, I hate to break it to you, Smartwater, is just water that is wet.  And somewhere in that aisle is a tiny bottle costing more per ounce than gasoline because apparently the water spent 14,000 years filtering through ancient volcanic rock and now has a résumé, a college degree and a passport. After twenty minutes of reading labels and trying to determine whether my body requires water from a glacier, an aquifer or Harvard University, I did what any sensible woman would do. I bought Diet Coke.  I love "me" diet coke. As for water, I may never look at it the same way I did today. 

Until next time, stay hydrated whichever one you choose.  

The Happy News Lady 💗 

Onion Head, The Relationship Board Game by Julianna Rowe

"Onion Head, The Relationship Board Game".. (coming soon)  by Julianna Rowe

Years ago, while involved off and on with a man I often described as an onion, I had an idea. Not just an idea, actually. A board game. I called it ONION HEAD. You know how an onion works. You peel back one layer and discover another and then another. And just when you think you've finally reached the center, SURPRISE! Apparently there are seventeen more layers and three of them require professional assistance.

My original description began: Introducing ONION HEAD - the new relationship game for girls, boys, women, men, he's, she's, her's, him's…and such. Layers and layers of continuous challenging twists and turns, ups and downs. A terrible, horrible, no-good brain game with the potential to drive you absolutely crazy. You can win the game, you just may not survive it.

I found those words recently buried in the Notes folder on my phone. I had written them several years ago and completely forgotten about them. The funny part? I knew EXACTLY who the onion was. He knew, too. I'd told him for years that he was like an onion. Peel back one layer and you get another…and another…and another.

So naturally, my imaginary ONION HEAD came equipped with interchangeable layers. There was the Loving Layer. The Caring Layer. The Intelligent Layer. The Tender Layer. And then, because apparently somebody at the imaginary factory had a sense of humor, there were a few other layers. Control Issues,  stubborness, blames others, and takes no responsibility. Don't forget fear based, and my personal favorite: I call B.S. and that isn't even close to the complete inventory.

ONION HEAD also came with assorted interchangeable body parts, because obviously no emotionally complicated adult relationship game would be complete without those. There were ears. One set that listened and one set that ignored, and naturally, another set pretended to listen. There was a heart with interchangeable parts. There were different arms, different expressions, different hats and several mysterious connections between the lips, heart and brain that nobody - including the manufacturer, could adequately explain.

The original game price? $140. I don't remember why I chose $140. Perhaps that was all the emotional damage I could afford at the time.

Here's what's strange. All these years later, another human onion wandered back into my life in a different way. And recently I found myself once again trying to figure out which layer I was looking at. That's when I remembered the game. Or maybe the game remembered me.

I pulled up that old Samsung Notes file and started laughing, because there it was. ONION HEAD. Still complicated and still surprising and well capable of producing a brand-new layer when I could have sworn we'd already peeled the dang thing down to the stem.

And somewhere along the way I realized something else: This may not merely be an old joke sitting forgotten in my phone. There might actually be a game hiding inside that onion.

So I'm going to stop right here. I'm keeping the rest of the layers to myself. For now.

ONION HEAD:  PHOTO BY CHATGPT

Peel responsibly.

AGES: Old Enough to Know Better.

The Happy News Lady 💗

"APPARENTLY, I AM A DUCK!" by Julianna Rowe

  And the duck isn't another self-help guru telling you to manifest calmer water. The duck knows the water isn't going to cooperate. That's the whole dang point.

"APPARENTLY, I AM A DUCK" 

I have decided I am a duck. Not because I particularly want to be a duck, mind you, but because lately life has left me searching for something, anything that knows how to survive a ridiculous amount of water. Think about a duck. The water rises, the duck rises. The water falls, the duck falls. The pond gets deep, shallow, clean, dirty, peaceful or downright nasty, and the duck just keeps floating. Rain? Duck floats. Hail? Duck floats. Snow? Duck finds a safe opening. Wind whipping the pond into waves? There she is, bobbing around like she has absolutely no idea she's supposed to be having a nervous breakdown. She'll even pile her babies on her back and keep floating because apparently ducks have responsibilities too. Unless a boat runs over the poor thing, it takes an awful lot to sink a duck. 

And THAT is where I found myself this morning after weeks of life's version of rain, hail, sleet and snow and approximately one hundred and thirty-seven other things I refuse to list because I'm already tired again. I tried sage. See yesterdays post. I tried crystals with no noticeable improvement. I tried inspirational sayings, plain bread, and even my pendulum betrayed me when it apparently couldn't remember my name. And then it occurred to me, perhaps I don't need to clear the water, calm the water, understand the water, analyze the water or ask Saturn why the heck there's so much water aka troubles. Maybe I just need to float. Humans don't get ponds, of course. Our water is life. Sometimes our footing is asphalt, or carpet, or grass, or concrete, and occasionally it feels like somebody dumped a truckload of wet cement directly in our path. We walk through sunshine, rain, hail and snow. We carry children, parents, friends, jobs, bills, memories, grief, fear and sometimes people who really ought to learn to paddle their own dang feet. We can't control the depth of the water underneath us any more than a duck can control the pond, river, or lake. But maybe we can learn something from her. 

She doesn't stand on shore screaming, “WHY IS THE WATER DOING THIS TO ME?” She doesn't consult three YouTube ducks to determine whether Mercury is retrograde. She doesn't burn sage beside the cattails. She doesn't demand that the waves stop before she'll continue living. 

She sways with them. Up she goes and down she comes. Rough water, calm water, muddy water, she is still floating. And underneath that serene little body, those feet may be paddling like the dickens. Nobody sees that part. Maybe that's us too. People see us floating and think we're doing fine. They don't see the feet. They don't know how hard we're paddling underneath just to stay upright. And perhaps that's okay because today I've decided I don't have to conquer the lake. I don't have to know what's coming around the bend. I don't even have to like the dang water. (situation). I only have to stay on top of today's wave. Tomorrow's water can wait until tomorrow. So if you happen to see a woman wandering around looking slightly dazed while muttering “Quack, quack, mother ducker” under her breath, don't worry about her. She's not losing it. She's floating. 🦆

So..... apparently, I’m a duck. I keep paddling when the water gets rough, I float when I probably should sink, and according to the T-shirt I found online, (Etsy) I even “float well with others.” Although frankly, lately I’d prefer my own pond.  And now I am waddling away until we meet again.  

The Happy News Lady

NOT ENOUGH SAGE FOR THIS SH_T! by Julianna Rowe

Between politics, my prescribed Pepto-Bismol-pink food-dye pills, surgery recovery, Bob being sick, my helper leaving for two major brain surgeries, my daughter moving across the country, and approximately one hundred and thirty other issues, so, I burned SAGE. I thought perhaps it might clear the air, or at least drain some of the mud that seems to have replaced my brain since surgery. NOPE. Everything was still there. 

So which self-help book do I pull out? None. I threw them all away a couple of years ago. 

I could eat cake, but I don't eat sweets. I could smoke, but I quit twenty-five years ago. Yes, I know, twenty-five years too late, so get off my back, there's enough weighing me down already. 

Then this morning I turned on the TV while getting ready for work, mainly to hear the weather. Big mistake. Instead I got more crap for the backpack: water rationing, horrible crimes, corruption at the Capitol, and somewhere in the middle of all that my ex is sending message after message but still can't seem to locate the two words, "I'm sorry." Oh, and I nearly forgot, the voting ballot sitting on my counter with one day left for me to figure out which person will make the best Governor etc.  Let's see...who can beat whom down the road? Perhaps I should consult an authority on politics, considering I deliberately try NOT to listen to too much of that rubble of words and lies. 

Next I grabbed my dowsing pendulum, kissed it, and asked it to tell me the truth and nothing but the truth. I started with an easy one: "Is my name Julianna?" It swung vertically back and forth, which apparently meant it was thinking, and then swung a NO. Well, so much for the truth and nothing but the truth. I put the lying little charm down and moved on. Next came a one-minute relaxing video from Michael Gaylon. That actually does lower my blood pressure, but unfortunately it doesn't remove all the other sh_t that has descended into the corral of my life. 

Then I pulled Wise Women from my bookcase and flipped through the pages looking for words from some brilliant woman who might pull me up, up and away from the mess I had allowed into my brain cells. Nope. The inspirational one-liners tasted like plain bread. After that zero-plan, I gently picked up a pink crystal from my collection of healing rocks. I walked around doing my morning chores while trying to type and hold the darn crystal at the same time, hoping its energy might wander up my arm and into my brain carrying a cleansing aura of newness. So far...no newness. 

Then one of those astrology ladies on YouTube announced that my chart says I'm in a Saturn something for a long time. Well, wasn't THAT encouraging? Apparently Saturn something means things need to be dealt with and probably changed. At my age, change is A Nightmare on Parmenter Street. Am I thankful? Yes. Am I grateful? Yes. Am I still believing for total health and the million dollars I've posted on every mirror in my apartment and on the door where I come and go? Absolutely. But gratitude doesn't erase the pain of life, and neither does being told that somewhere before arriving here we supposedly chose the path we'd walk. I call B.S. on that one. Who in their right mind would choose some of the things human beings have endured? Notice I cleverly left myself out of that equation. So yes, I am thankful. Yes, I know things could be a hundred times worse. And yes, I am grateful for every inch of everything I own, everything I am, and every day I have on this planet, and wherever I go after this planet. But gratitude and exhaustion can occupy the same body and faith and anger can live in the same heart. You can appreciate your life and still occasionally look toward Heaven and say, "Could we perhaps spread this manuer out a little?" And after trying sage, wisdom, crystals, astrology, positive thinking, gratitude, prayer, a pendulum that apparently doesn't even know my name, and twenty-five years without a cigarette, I have reached one deeply spiritual conclusion. Sometimes there simply isn't enough sage for all this sh_t. Forgive my lack-of-cultured terminology. It slips out occasionally, usually while driving among the crazies on the highways. Blessing someone while they're cutting you off isn't always the first spiritual response that comes to mind. 

My dad always said:  "It is what it is."  So, I will walk on through it to the other side of it all. Anyway, happiness is a state of mind!

The Happy News Lady 💗

Survival and Saying "I'm Sorry" by Julianna Rowe

                       Survival and Saying I'm Sorry"   by Julianna Rowe

                WHY SOME PEOPLE NEVER or can't SAY, "I'M SORRY"

Have you ever wondered why some people never say, "I'm sorry?" It sounds like such a simple question, but the answer rarely is. We tend to assume it's because they don't care, they're too proud, too stubborn, or simply too selfish to admit they were wrong. Sometimes that's true. But sometimes the answer is much sadder than that.

Some people have lived in survival mode for so long that their minds become focused on one thing and one thing only: "How do I get through today?" When your nervous system has spent years, or even decades, believing life is one emergency after another, your brain isn't asking, "How did my words affect someone else?" It's asking, "Am I safe? How do I survive this? What's the next problem headed my way?" That doesn't excuse hurtful behavior. It doesn't erase the damage done. But it can explain why some people don't stop long enough to realize they have wounded those around them.

On the other hand, there are people who have lived through terrible things and still manage to say, "I'm sorry." Why? Because somewhere along the way they learned to look back after the storm had passed. They didn't apologize while the house was on fire because they couldn't. They apologized after the flames were out, when they were finally able to see the ashes left behind.

I've learned there is a difference between surviving and reflecting. Survival keeps your eyes fixed on the road directly in front of you. Reflection allows you to turn around and see where you've been. Not everyone ever reaches that place. Some never leave survival long enough to discover reflection.

I've also noticed something else. There are people who apologize for everything. They apologize for typing too fast, for interrupting, for being late, for asking questions, or for taking up someone else's time. Then there are others who almost never apologize at all. One group worries constantly about how they affect other people or have inadequacy issues. The other group may never stop long enough to think about it. Neither extreme is particularly healthy, but they come from very different places.

The harder question isn't whether someone says, "I'm sorry." The harder question is whether they are capable of understanding what those words really mean. Because admitting you've hurt someone requires more than saying two words. It requires enough emotional safety to look honestly at yourself. It requires humility. It requires facing the possibility that while you were trying to survive, someone else was quietly carrying the weight of your choices.

I've met people who can say "I'm sorry" twenty times a day and never change a thing. Their apology becomes a habit instead of a realization. Then I've met others who say those words only once after years of silence, and you know, deep inside, they finally understand. Those are two very different apologies.

Maybe what most of us have been longing for all these years isn't simply an apology. Perhaps we've been waiting to hear someone finally say, "I see what my actions did to you." Those words carry understanding. They acknowledge another person's pain without making excuses. They don't erase the past, but they often begin healing in a way that "I'm sorry" alone never could.

Before we judge someone too quickly, it may be worth asking whether they are refusing to apologize...or whether they have spent so much of their lives surviving that they no longer know how. Sometimes the greatest tragedy isn't that a person won't say, "I'm sorry." It's that they never learned how to leave survival long enough to discover what those two words truly mean.

That doesn't mean we excuse hurtful behavior. It doesn't mean we allow people to continue hurting us because healthy boundaries and consequences still matter. But understanding another person's story doesn't require us to surrender our own. Compassion and wisdom can live in the same heart.

Life has taught me that some of the deepest regrets are never spoken aloud. Some people carry them to their graves because they never learned how to express them. Others spend years trying to make amends but cannot find the words. And a few, if they're fortunate, finally stop surviving long enough to turn around, look into another person's eyes, and say, "I see what I did. I understand now."

I believe that's one of the bravest moments a human being can experience. 

Because the deepest apology isn't always, "I'm sorry."

Sometimes...it's finally understanding why someone else needed to hear it.  Finally, I hope this reminds someone you know or love, without saying a word ...will find their way out of the trap of mere survival. 

"Ususally," - The Happy News Lady 💛

Things People Go Through....byJulianna Rowe

 The Things People go Through (We Never Really Know)  byJulianna Rowe

Photo by Barb Mullally: www.thecabincountess.com   

 If you've followed me for very long, you know that's unusual. My brain is usually off chasing squirrels, hot rollers, shower pouffers, pink pills, or some other ridiculous thing that makes us laugh.

Today...not so much. As I scrolled through stories online, I was reminded of something we all forget. Every smiling picture has a story behind it. Someone is waiting on biopsy results, someone just buried their husband, someone lost a child years ago and still sets an extra place in their heart every birthday. Many are trying to smile through chronic pain because the world doesn't stop just because your body did. We walk past and drive past each other every day having absolutely no idea what the other person is carrying.  

The cashier, the waitress, the old man pumping gas, (okay so I know no one does that anymore. How about the teenager pretending not to cry or the woman who keeps saying, "I'm fine." Maybe she isn't.

I've learned over the years that kindness costs less than judgment, yet somehow we hand out judgment much more freely. We don't need to know everyone's story. We just need to remember that there probably is one. 

So today, if someone seems impatient...pause.  If someone seems quiet...pause. If someone seems angry...pause. They may be fighting a battle you'll never see. And if you happen to be the one carrying the heavy load today...

Please know you're not the only one.

There are a whole lot of us quietly putting one foot in front of the other, hoping tomorrow feels a little lighter than today. Maybe that's enough. Maybe today, simply being kind to someone else or even to yourself is more than enough.

Sometimes healing isn't a grand event. Sometimes it's simply sitting quietly while five little birds remind you that the world is still waking up.

The trees don't rush. The birds don't worry about tomorrow's headlines, they simply do what they were created to do. Perhaps we should try that once in a while.

Just breathe, just notice, and just be. And if you're carrying something heavy today...

May these little birds carry a tiny piece of it for a while.

After all...

You never really know what someone is carrying.

💜The Happy News Lady 

(p.s. After all these years I just discovered I have emoji's on blogger.  doi)

Confessions from Aisle 7 by Julianna Rowe

Confessions from Aisle 7  by Julianna Rowe

The Disappearing Art of Everyday Civility

I have a confession from Aisle 7. I go to the grocery store for food and anthropology! I smile at strangers not because I am running for office. I simply smile, then I quietly keep score. How many will smile back? Not many, by the way, so I have made going to the grocery store my unofficial research project. It has become my personal fashion show, therapy session, daycare center, speedway, and, occasionally, a circus in the produce section alone. That section deserves its own traffic engineer. I can also tell you which husbands are there voluntarily and which have been sentenced and who forgot their glasses! Who's using their grocery cart as an emotional support vehicle. And, hoping those wearing pajamas are in aisle 16A buying NyQuil. I believe I could find a story in every aisle, because every aisle tells the story of the disappearance of everyday civility! Instead, I smile. 

I genuinely compliment people on their attire if it is called for. Circus day is usually Sundays, when I discover the good, the bad, and the ugly. The best dressed are the older Black gentlemen in three-piece suits, with gold watch chains hanging gently below the pocket handkerchief, matching the tie that matches the socks. I am positive of it, even though I cannot see them. Shiny black patent shoes to boot! I always tell that human how handsome he looks this fine day. And invariably I am responded to with gentle kindness and a slight bow of the head, like the “Old Etiquette Book” from my youth says to do. And the church ladies are “dressed to the nines” as well with their big hats and purses to match. Then others look like they just escaped laundry day. Another lovely sight are the ladies from India. Stunning in their flowing fabrics, beautiful colors, and gold jewelry that catches the light from halfway down the aisle. They look like they walked out of a silk boutique instead of aisle seven.

And then there are the others. Baggy sweatpants, bedroom or house slippers, and hair saying I gave up before breakfast. Children eating half the groceries before Mom reaches the checkout and phone conversations I do not need to hear. Bushy tails hooked on the rear end of a couple of young girls meowing ever too loudly. I am even more convinced I need to open a nationwide charm and etiquette school!

I shan't forget the elderly lady, tall as a basketball player and large-breasted, who walked proudly with a gait causing “them” to sway like an old wicker swing in the wind. I was so embarrassed for her until I stopped to think this was possibly the only attention she ever gets. The grocery store was her domain, or should I say, “her runway," and she was proudly hanging out her shingle(s) in each aisle. Maybe confidence doesn’t always come the way we expect. By the way, she returned my smile graciously. 

I smile so much at the grocery store my cheek muscles complain on my way home.…..leading me to continue believing I need to open a charm and etiquette school.

I will admit most people comt to the store, ignore everyone else, grab what they need, pay the bill, and leave. Maybe they do not mean to be disrespectful or cold. They just don’t have time to smile. Nor are they there for my research project or my mental class on manners. 

So the smile tally was Julianna = 77   World = 6 smiles returned

Until next Sunday, share a smile

Photos is my twin granddaughters and me 19 years ago.  The other photo is my grandson Cayden bored with shopping.

Baking Soda Cures E.D? by Julianna Rowe

 

“Baking Soda Cures E.D.?”  by Julianna Rowe

Pull up a chair, front row, no cover charge.

The other day I was minding my own business when I stumbled across an article online claiming baking soda could cure E.D. (erectile dysfunction)

My Grandma never told me this one!!  Is it true or did my grandma miss that chapter?

Short answer: nope, baking soda does not cause erections. That ad was pure snake oil with a lab coat on. I knew that!  And if I wasn’t totally convinced yet, I was sure I had found my next blogger post.

Really? Baking soda? For nearly 200 years it has quietly sat in our kitchen cabinets asking for absolutely nothing. It freshens refrigerators, helps cookies rise, deodorizes shoes no human should ever admit to owning, and even settles an occasional upset stomach. Then one day some mischief maker showed up with this online claim.  People get their kicks in mysterious ways these days.

Who looked at Grandma's banana bread recipe and thought, "I bet THAT'S the secret?"

Imagine the executives at Arm & Hammer walking into their Monday morning board meeting. "Good news," says the marketing director. "Sales are up!" Everyone applauds as he clears his throat. "The problem is...we're not exactly sure why." Finally, someone whispers, "Sir...apparently older men are buying six boxes at a time.

Then there's the guy who sees an AI commercial narrated by some robot named Brad.exe. "Folks, if a household cleaning product solved men's problems, the baking aisle would have been sold out since 1958. Costco would limit customers to two boxes, Home Depot would install velvet ropes, and women would start hiding baking soda the same way they hide the good chocolate.

And don't think this nonsense is going to stop with baking soda. Next week on the internet somewhere it will tell us paprika grows hair. Store shelves? Empty. Then oregano lowers your mortgage payment and banks begin investigating Italian restaurants. Cream of tartar restores your memory, but half of America forgets why they bought it. By Christmas, the spice aisle is under federal protection and CNN is reporting there is no shortage of cinnamon.

Grandma’s only dream regarding baking soda was to make great banana bread. No man in the history of humankind has said: “Pass the baking soda, darling, it’s about to get wild.”

So, you’re safe. Your grandma was still wise and instead of “male enhancement,” it’s more like “ER enhancement if taken in large quantities.”  

I can hear my grandma, from the afterlife: “If that worked, the 1940s would’ve been feral.” Imagine the romance: “Baby, light some candles…I’ll grab the baking soda…and my dignity, which I seem to have misplaced.” And let’s be honest, if baking soda caused erections, Arm & Hammer would’ve rebranded by now: “Hammered & Ready.”

My grandma absolutely knew this nutty ad wasn’t real. Me, I had to do some research! She lived in an era where: Men walked miles, chopped wood, didn’t need pantry chemistry to feel manly.

“Honey, if it takes baking soda, something else is the problem.”

 

 

The Pink Pill Conspiracy: Why is My Antibiotic Bright Pink? by Julianna Rowe

The Pink Pill Conpiracy:  Why is My Antibiotic Bright Pink? by Julianna Rowe

I never thought I'd be suspicious of the color pink. A couple of months ago, my doctor prescribed Amoxicillin-Clavulanate 875 mg. The pills were beautiful. Plain. White. They reminded me of Grandma's sheets hanging on the clothesline after she'd bleached them within an inch of their lives. (Yes...that sentence ran farther than I did.) I took those pills without a single complaint from my stomach.

Fast forward to yesterday. Same prescription, same strength, same medication, BUT, a different manufacturer.

I opened the bottle and nearly got sunburned. These weren't pink. These were Pepto-Bismol-had-a-baby-with-a-highlighter pink. Before I could say a word, my stomach screamed. I knew why and I actually apologized out loud to it.

"Listen, Stomach, I know this looks like bubble gum with a pharmacy degree, but we have a urinary tract infection to conquer."

My stomach screamed again.

Trying to be positive, I assured myself the extra dye must somehow make the medicine work faster. Even my own brain rolled its eyes. The optimistic side of me whispered, Take it with food. You'll survive. The realistic side answered, We're swallowing enough food coloring to decorate Easter eggs.

So I called the pharmacist and asked if I could have the white pills I'd received before. He explained my insurance wouldn't cover that manufacturer. Then he grinned and said, "Maybe the white ones started out pink and they bleached them...kind of like bread flour." I just looked at him with one raised eyebrow. You see, I know my pharmacist better than I ever knew my ex-husband Harry, so he knew exactly what that eyebrow meant. "Thank you, Captain Obvious," I said. "I also don't believe Grandma's sheets got whiter because angels flapped over the clothesline." He quit joking, checked his inventory, and finally said, "Yes, I can order the white ones."

"Wonderful!" I said. "How much?"

"The pink ones are $22 with your insurance."

"And the white ones?"

"$397."

Silence. Apparently, somewhere in America, white pills have been promoted to luxury-item status.

The pharmacist and the insurance company seem to play baseball together. One throws the pitch. The other catches it. I'm just the stooge standing in the middle of the field hoping one of their foul balls doesn't knock me unconscious, or kill me. It appears the healthiest choices often cost the most. And if you complain too loudly about the system, someone eventually labels you "difficult."

So here I sit taking my fluorescent bubble-gum antibiotic. My stomach and I are no longer on speaking terms.

The irony?

Anyone who knows me knows I absolutely love pink.

Pink shirts. Pink flowers. Pink notebooks. Pink kitchen gadgets. Pink everything.

But after swallowing these pills for a few days, I may need to rethink my relationship with the color.

Maybe pink belongs on roses...not in my antibiotics.

DAY TWO: 

So, I'm on day pink pill #3.  I've eaten with the pills. I've drank enough water to keep a camel jealous. I'm still getting my Diet Cokes because...well...because that's my coffee.

And the fact that I haven't felt like having my occasional whiskey tells me just how crummy I've been feeling. So, yes this stinks. I finally got through the surgery.  I finally started feeling like myself again.  Then a UTI barges in wearing a flourescent pink suit and starts redecorating my stomach.  None of that was part of the plan.  I hope by tomorror afternoon I will be saying:   I think these stupid pink pills (no offense, I meant to say) These "blessed" pink pills are finally doing something besides making my stomach hold a protest march.

 It appears the healthiest choices often cost the most. And if you complain too loudly about the system, someone eventually labels you "difficult."

So here I sit....still taking my fluorescent bubble-gum antibiotic, blessing it before it goes down.

 And I better get rich because that is the only answer. It appears picketing or as its called now - rioting against the systems dyes can get you put in prisons far away from the rest of the "maddening crowd." So I am taking the pink bubble gum antibiotic with FDC # bright pink color. Prison cells are dirty gray. If I'm going to end up in one for complaining about pill dye, I choose PINK! And no...I'm still not convinced the government has hidden tracking devices in my antibiotics.

Yet.

Nothing to Wear? by Julianna Rowe

Three Closets and Nothing to Wear by Julianna Rowe

Apparently I've become the curator of the Middleton Museum of Women's Clothing. 

Admission is free. Touching is encouraged, buying is not. I have three closets, not one, not two. Three. 

At this point I'm not sure if I own the clothes...or if the clothes own me. Some are work clothes, some are church clothes, some are "If a nice, unmarried gentleman accidentally shows up at my door" clothes. I already donated forty-three pairs of shoes, yet somehow I still have enough left to outfit a small marching band. Now I'm staring at three overflowing closets wondering if I should sell some of the clothes. Of course, that would require energy, and right now I don't have enough to organize a sock drawer. I have coats from the 1990s, beautiful sweaters, fancy jackets, and things that still have tags on them. Apparently Past Juliann was convinced Future Julianna attended galas every Thursday. Poor optimistic woman. Some of these clothes have memories stitched right into the seams. I wore this sweater on a first date. That blouse when I hit sales team of the year way back when and his jacket when life still felt a little easier.

 It's funny how cotton remembers things. Some of them even smell like...me. Yes, I wash them, so don't get all excited. But somehow they still carry a little whisper of the person who's worn them for years. You've seen those movies where someone dies and the family hugs an old sweater because it still smells like their loved one. Let's be honest, I seriously doubt my grandchildren will someday gather around saying, "Quick! Somebody get Grandma's cardigan! We need one last sniff!" If they do, please check them for a fever. Maybe that's why letting go of clothes is harder than it should be. They're not just fabric. They're little time machines hanging on plastic hangers. Still...maybe it's time. Maybe cleaning out a closet is like taking a long, hot shower. Not because clothes have bad spirits attached to them, but because sometimes we carry around old disappointments, old dreams, old versions of ourselves stitched into sleeves we no longer wear. Maybe letting go isn't losing memories. Maybe it's making room for new ones.

 Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go tell three closets that one of them is getting voted off the island. Pray for me. One of those sweaters has seniority.  

 

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. 👑