ONE MORE BETRAYAL

My Handwriting Is Betraying Me 

I have officially reached the stage of life where my handwriting has started doing its own thing.

It used to be neat. Catholic school perfect, definitely readable. Now? My hand seems to forget mid-word what the plan was. Letters lean. Lines drift. My “g” looks like a number. My “s” looks like I sneezed while writing it. And somehow, everything I write has the visual energy of a ransom note—even when I’m just trying to ask someone to remember paper towels at Costco.

So I made a small pivot.  As we do with so many things as we reach these golden years.   Instead of writing notes on a full sheet of paper like I’m issuing an executive memo from the Department of Household Operations, I’ve started printing on 4x6 index cards.

And honestly?  It feels more personable.

A full sheet of paper feels like a list of demands.
A note card feels like a friendly suggestion from a gentle woman who definitely is not irritated and absolutely is not keeping a running mental spreadsheet of who forgot what last time.

It’s smaller. Softer. Cutier. Less threatening.  I’m only sacrificing 24 square inches of paper instead of a whole page. This is what you call aging wisdom.

Index cards are my new communication style.  My new love language.  My new “please don’t make me repeat myself” system.

I print.  I write a little personal line.  I leave it in a spot where it will be seen.  (Each kidult has a "favorite" spot on our sofa system. For the boys, I put it on the bathroom vanity.)

Like some kind of polite household fairy who is one Sharpie away from snapping.

And here’s the funny part: my family respond to it better.   No one looks at a note card and thinks, “Ugh. Now what?”

They think, “Aw, that’s sweet.” And I use different fonts and sometimes color.

Even when the message is: PLEASE PUT YOUR SHOES SOMEWHERE THAT IS NOT THE MIDDLE OF THE HALLWAY.

So yes. My handwriting is getting worse.
But my delivery system?  It’s improving.

And if this is what it takes for me to stay kind, functional, and just slightly charming while helping to manage a busy house full of humans and activities.

It really is the little things in life!

Now hand me another index card.

I'M DROWNING

I have a confession.  I’m drowning in information. 

It is all I can do to skim The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Economist, my local paper, and check Facebook each day without feeling like my brain has been put through a salad spinner.

And yet. Apparently, that is not even close to “keeping up.” Because in addition to the news, we are now expected to monitor a sprawling universe of platforms, feeds, channels, stories, shorts, threads, reels, lives, alerts, and algorithmic nudges that all scream: You missed something important.  Did I? Or did I simply choose not to watch a 43-second video of a stranger explaining global economics while dancing?

Browsing these alone could be a full-time job:

    The New York Times

    The Wall Street Journal

      Oregonian

    The Economist

    Forbes

By the time I finish one article, three new crises have emerged or one celebrity has apologized for something I didn’t even know they did.  Or someone famous dies or is arrested.

And then there is Social Media!! Here’s where things get truly absurd:

    Facebook – where I try to keep up with family, friends, events, community posts, and photos of people’s dogs occasional baby hippo reel

    Instagram – curated perfection, filtered vacations, and motivational quotes I did not ask for

    LinkedIn – professional humblebragging disguised as inspiration

    TikTok – an endless scroll of trends, outrage, therapy-speak, recipes, and strangers oversharing

    X (formerly Twitter) – still yelling, just with a new name

    YouTube – long videos, short videos, ads before, during, and after

    Snapchat – apparently still a thing

    Pinterest – where I save things I will never make or cook

    Reddit – deep dives into topics I didn’t know I cared about

    Substack – everyone is now a columnist

Each one urgent. Each one convinced this message cannot wait.  Somewhere along the way, staying informed quietly morphed into constant vigilance.  Skimming a few trusted news sources and checking Facebook already feels like a reasonable civic contribution.

My Radical Position?  It is okay to miss things and not have an opinion instantly.

Staying sane is not the same as being uninformed.

FRIENDSHIP

 Friendship (Or, Why I No Longer Collect People)

When you’re young, you collect friends the way kids collect stickers.  Or rocks.  You want them all. You trade. You upgrade. You keep duplicates. You don’t think too hard about it.  Friends from work.  Mothers of you kidlet's friends.  

As you get older, you stop collecting and start curating.

My friendship world looks something like this:

• A tiny inner circle of daily or weekly connections.
(Max and my sister are daily — which tells you everything you need to know about my standards.)
• A larger circle of beloved people I connect with quarterly — the “thinking of you” texts, birthday notes, long catch-up emails.
• A wide halo of acquaintances — neighbors, WLLO Village folks, friendly faces in my orbit.

And that… is plenty.

I don’t want more friends.
I want the right friends.

Which brings me to the awkward part.

Over the past year, two women have been trying very hard to move into my inner circle.

I did give it a try.

• We had lunch.
• We had coffee.
• I texted.
• I was polite.
• I was open.

But sometimes the chemistry just isn’t there — and at this stage of life, I’m not interested cultivating it.  Or forcing it.

One is a longtime acquaintance who once worked for my husband. She likes to call while she’s driving an hour each week see her daughter and eight grandchildren — which means I get a running monologue, no listening, and a bad connection. It feels less like a conversation and more like being held hostage by Bluetooth.

The other is a WLLO contact who struggles deeply with depression. I’m sympathetic — truly — but she can complain about a sunny day. Everything is hard, heavy, bleak, exhausting. She can't meet there for lunch because there's nothing she can eat. Being with her feels like emotional CrossFit, and I didn’t sign up for that gym.

So I did what emotionally mature, conflict-avoidant people do.

I… faded.

I took longer to respond.
I skipped a reply.
I became “busy.”
I let silence do the talking.

In theory, this is supposed to allow a relationship to die a natural death.

In practice, it turns out some people are incredibly resistant to extinction.

They keep texting.
They keep calling.
They keep trying to re-schedule.

Which leaves me feeling guilty — even though I know something important:

I am allowed to choose who has access to my time, my energy, and my heart.  Friendship is not an entitlement  It’s a mutual exchange.

And at this age?
I am fiercely protective of my emotional real estate.

I don’t need drama.
I don’t need trauma dumping.
I don’t need performative connection.

I need ease.
I need laughter.
I need people who make my nervous system feel like it can put its feet up and have a glass of wine.

This isn’t me being cold.

It’s me finally being honest.

We are not meant to be everything to everyone — and we are not obligated to keep relationships that drain us just because someone else wants them.

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is quietly step back.

Even if they don’t get the hint.

Especially if they don’t.

Editing My News Diet

SORRY I missed blogging last week.  My laptop display died. I had to spend many hours at the Genius Bar and over three hours migrating my life from my external backup drive to the NEW MacAir.  It was either $749 to get a new display OR $999 for new laptop.

Editing My News Diet

The moment that pushed me over the edge was the headline involving Trump and Venezuela — the kind of headline that makes you blink, reread it, and then stare into the middle distance wondering how this is now part of the global conversation again. I wasn’t confused because it was complicated. I was confused because it existed at all.

That’s when I noticed my shoulders were somewhere near my ears. Again.

For years, I told myself that staying on top of the news was a responsibility. Being informed meant being engaged. Being engaged meant reading everything, all the time, preferably with my cold brew coffee.  I skim the NYT, The Oregonian, WSJ, The Economist and a local weekly.

But lately, staying “informed” has felt less like learning and more like being repeatedly splashed with cold water for no discernible reason. Every headline urgent. Every development framed as unprecedented. Every story demanding my immediate emotional response.

And yet … nothing in my actual life had changed.  I wasn’t gaining clarity. I was collecting agitation.

That Trump-Venezuela headline didn’t make me smarter. It didn’t help me understand the world better. It just irritated me.  My news diet wasn’t nourishing me. It was just loud.

Editing isn’t opting out. It’s curating.  I still care about the world. I still read. I still pay attention. I’ve just stopped believing that constant exposure equals civic virtue. I don’t need to be alerted to every development in real time to remain a thoughtful, engaged adult.

So I made a small but meaningful shift. I started choosing sources that focus on what’s working, what’s improving, and how people are solving problems without turning everything into a five-alarm fire. Stories that remind me that kindness, ingenuity, and quiet progress still exist — even if they don’t scream for attention.

It turns out there’s plenty of good happening that doesn’t require outrage to be interesting.  Positive News.  The Daily Good.  I unsubscribed to all hourly/daily new headline news.

Here’s what I hope happens.  Nothing dramatic. No digital detox announcement. No cleanse. Just a few intentional choices.

Maybe:

• My mornings will be calmer.
• My shoulders drop faster.
• I’m less reactive in conversation.
• I have more patience for actual humans in front of me.
• My cold brew remains COLD

I won’t become less informed. I will become less rattled.

And maybe I will notice things again. Small things. Ordinary things. The kind of things that actually make up a real life.

Aging Awkwardly, as it turns out, isn’t about disengaging. It’s about refining.

We edit our calendars.
We edit our relationships.
We edit our closets.

Editing what I allow into my head feels like the natural response …for me.