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