"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.