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Do Size and Shape Matter? In Salads—and Marriage—Maybe They Do

I love salads—real salads with vegetables in them. Not the kind often served in the United States, which usually means a pile of lettuce and two or three tiny pieces of tomato. Where I come from, some of these leafy greens are considered butcher counter decoration!

My salads are filled with tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes—all chopped into good-sized chunks so you can actually tell what you’re biting into. My husband, on the other hand, loves his lettuce, and he prefers all his vegetables cut into small, even pieces. To be honest, his salads are a display of care and engineering. Everywhere we’re invited, people ask him to make the salad!

My husband is an engineer, and he looks the part—organized, symmetrical, and precise. I’m a little different. I find things that are too orderly boring and unstimulating. So, naturally, my salads (and fruit cutting) reflect that—slightly uneven and far from perfect.

That’s why I usually let him cut the vegetables and fruit—because he gets annoyed with the way I do it! Truthfully, it makes my life easier. He’s technically in charge of prep work and dinner, and I’m more than happy to do the dishes.

When he complained this morning about the “variety of styles” I used to cut the watermelon last week, I laughed and asked if it affected the taste. He agreed it didn’t—but still had to point out that he prefers even sizes.

But, as with most things in marriage, life is a compromise. I cut veggies into big chunks, and he cuts them into small, very even ones. The taste is the same, the complaints are the same—but this is our little dance, and we enjoy it.

When Fireworks No Longer Spark Joy

When Fireworks No Longer Spark Joy

The Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite U.S. holidays. For years, I’d buy my kids those iconic Old Navy 4th of July T-shirts, and we all loved the fireworks, parades, and festive fun that came with the day.

But several years ago, my love for fireworks changed.

The last Fourth of July I could still hear was during the height of the COVID pandemic. That year, it felt like everyone in the neighborhood had their own personal fireworks stash. The noise was relentless, and the dogs were not happy.

And “not happy” is an understatement—they were terrified. The fireworks didn’t stop for days. Our Airedale, Sage, went from a dog who loved long walks to one who would only go outside for the bare minimum, then rush back inside immediately.

This pattern continued for several years. As the holiday approached, so did Sage’s anxiety. What was once a cheerful, barky dog became increasingly withdrawn. Last year, just a day before the Fourth, she passed away from a heart attack. We believe the ongoing stress from the fireworks played a role.

Sage wasn’t alone—our other dogs hated them too. Every year, we’d shut all the windows, crank up the TVs and radios, turn on white noise machines—anything to help calm the pack. We even timed walks carefully to avoid dusk or random fireworks going off early.

For the past five years, someone in the family always stayed home with the dogs on the night of the Fourth. This year, that person was me. My husband and adult son were biking through Europe, and the other kids had plans. I was happy to stay home and keep the dogs company.

I did manage to attend the neighborhood parade, which was a joy. Seeing kids with their decorated bikes, full of excitement and laughter, brought back good memories.

But then night came—and it was miserable.

The fireworks didn’t stop until 1 a.m. Even without my hearing aids, I could hear them. The poor schnauzer was inconsolable, hiding in the shower or buried in the closet under my clothes. Shuki, our Airedale, wasn’t doing much better. None of us slept until silence finally arrived around 2 a.m.

As I tried to comfort the dogs, I couldn’t stop thinking about veterans and others with PTSD. How do they cope with this night? Fireworks are beautiful, yes—but they’re also loud, jarring, and triggering for many.

So I find myself wondering: should cities still sponsor fireworks displays? Is there a better way? Could we move fireworks to more remote, open areas? Or use drones and silent light shows in more densely populated neighborhoods?

I’m pondering all of this today, sleep-deprived, with two dogs still glued to my side.#FourthOfJuly, #PetSafety, #FireworksDebate, #PTSDawareness, #DogLovers.

“Stress, Guests, and Cinnamon Rolls

Some people are stress eaters. I, on the other hand, am a stress baker.
When I get really, really stressed—I bake.
Unfortunately for me, I also eat what I bake. And I only bake things I like—like cinnamon rolls and banana bread. (Yes, I baked them even before the pandemic!)

I’ve always been a baker, but when I was diagnosed with celiac disease and had to go gluten-free 20 years ago, I had to change my recipes. I had to adapt to different flours to get the same taste my brain remembered. Luckily, I’ve adjusted. Unluckily, I still eat what I bake.

This past weekend, my daughter got married. It was stressful—but manageable. The family and guests that came with it? Less manageable and much more stressful.

I always have expectations about people’s behavior—maybe because I know how I behave as a guest. And in my foolish optimism, I expect the same from others. I’m usually wrong. But we’re only responsible for our own actions—and that’s where the stress comes in.

It’s stressful enough dealing with all that, but then all the flights back to my guests’ home country got canceled. So now, it looks like I’ll be hosting people longer than I expected—while also going to work, managing expectations, entertaining guests, handling stressed dogs, and just trying to return to my regular routine.

So: stress baking.
I’m writing this while my dough is rising, and I’ll be putting my gluten-free cinnamon rolls in the oven soon. Hoping the smell of cinnamon will calm my nerves.

(Recipe: Ultimate Cinnamon Rolls from Pamela’s Products, for the curious minds.)

Leadership by Example: The True Role of a Director

At work, I wear many hats—plumber, receptionist, IT gal, operations manager, therapist, and occasionally, teacher.

My official title is Director of Administration. Unofficially, I’m the go-to woman—the one people turn to when something needs to be done, no matter what it is.

My guiding principle is simple: I go where I’m needed and do what needs to be done to keep things running smoothly. I believe in leadership by example. I’ve never considered any task beneath me—not even the messy, uncomfortable ones.

When I interview potential team members, I lay it all out—the perks and the challenges. I make it clear that while we have a janitorial service, accidents happen when you work with kids. Sometimes, those accidents involve bodily fluids. And yes, someone has to clean it up—especially if it’s in a public space.

We provide everything you need—gloves, masks, cleaning supplies—and we all take turns when needed. Including me.

This is usually the moment in the interview when people decide if they’re really a good fit.

Leading by example isn’t always the easiest path. Sometimes, delegating would be quicker. But I’ve never been the kind of leader who just gives orders from the sidelines. I expect just as much from myself as I do from the rest of my team.

For me, it’s not about choice—it’s about character.

Because at the end of the day, leadership isn’t a title. It’s showing up, getting your hands dirty, and doing what needs to be done. Hats and all.

Why Are We Racing Through Life?

This morning, I caught myself sprinting—not toward a meeting or deadline, but toward my favorite reformer at Pilates.

It wasn’t about being late. It was about being first. Someone else who likes the same reformer had just parked, and instinctively, I rushed.

Why? Because the AC is over that spot, and it’s next to a wall—my non-working ear faces it, so the silence suits me. Logically, I know the workout would be the same anywhere in the room. But emotionally? I needed to win that micro-race.

It made me think: how often do we do this?

We weave through traffic just to stop at the same red light. We rush to checkout lines. We race—not because we have to, but because we feel like we must.

Most of us aren’t race car drivers or Olympic sprinters. So why do we move through the world like we are?

As I grow older, I’m starting to question the value of being first. Maybe it’s not about where you end up in line—but about showing up at all. And getting home safely.

That’s the real win.

Curious if anyone else feels this way—have you caught yourself racing for no real reason?

#Mindfulness #PersonalDevelopment #Productivity #Leadership #WorkLifeBalance

When the Bots Win: My Frustrating Return Dispute with Poshmark

I’ve been arguing with Poshmark for the past week—yes, me, a tiny human being in a standoff with a big company over one of my sales.

Poshmark’s return policy is supposed to be clear: no returns for buyer’s remorse or fit issues—only for misrepresentation. But lately, buyers have been exploiting that exception, and Poshmark’s bots usually approve these returns without much scrutiny. Why? Because they don’t want to upset buyers. Ironically, this is upsetting sellers—the very people who supply the platform’s inventory.

Poshmark takes a 20% commission on every sale. In exchange, they offer easy shipping and claim to provide protection for both buyers and sellers.

My sold listing included plenty of photos—front, back, inside, outside—and detailed measurements from every angle, along with a solid description. Buyers can either click “Buy Now” at the listed price or make an offer to negotiate. In this case, the buyer—located in a different time zone—sent an offer while I was asleep. Impatient, they went ahead and bought it at full price.

I don’t ship immediately when someone pays full price. There’s a window for cancellations, and I like to give time for buyer’s remorse to settle in. So I shipped the next day, as I usually do.

Just two minutes after the item was marked “delivered,” the buyer opened a return case citing misrepresentation. I reached out privately and—surprise—the buyer admitted they regretted the purchase. (Yes, I took a screenshot.)

I responded to the case with all the listing photos and that screenshot. But of course, I got the typical bot reply.

Frustrated—and admittedly with some free time—I emailed customer service with a full breakdown. This time, a human responded. They agreed I was right, but said the return had already been approved and couldn’t be reversed. Essentially: “Sorry, our bad, but tough luck.”

I work in customer service myself. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of complaints. But I’ve never told a customer, “Yeah, we messed up, but it’s your problem now.”

Their follow-up email was vague and meaningless. I responded again, expressing my disappointment in the company.

My husband thinks I’m nuts—and maybe I am. But I don’t like being called a liar, especially not by a person or a platform I’ve supported.

I love Poshmark. I buy and sell there because it’s easy to use compared to other platforms. But their customer service? Let’s just say it should be renamed the “Customer No Service” division.

I don’t know if they’ll respond to my last email—and honestly, at this point, I don’t care. But they’ve left a bad taste in my mouth, and now I’m reevaluating this whole side hustle.

“Have you had a similar experience? Let’s talk.”

#CustomerServiceFail #poshmark #onlineseller #buyersremorse

Why I Made Wednesdays My Self-Care Day

This year, as part of my annual resolutions, I designated Wednesdays as my self-care day. On Self-Care Wednesdays, I schedule doctor appointments, handle insurance issues, and manage my FSA and HSA tasks.

Why Wednesdays? Honestly, it was a practical (and slightly petty) choice—I don’t like the Wednesday Pilates instructor. Silly, but it worked. I needed a dedicated day for health-related matters, and Wednesdays stuck.

At the beginning of the year, I listed all the medical visits I knew I’d need—dermatologist, endocrinologist, dentist—and mapped them out month by month. Then I just started calling and scheduling . This way, I eliminated excuses and avoided procrastination.

As we get older, our calendars fill up with more medical appointments. But caring for ourselves—physically and mentally—is the best gift we can give ourselves and our loved ones.

For a long time, I avoided doctors. Like my dad used to say, “They just find things you didn’t know were wrong.” It took ten years and a lot of frustration before I was finally diagnosed with Celiac disease. Back then, doctors didn’t seem helpful—just another round of meds and foods to eliminate. So I stopped going.

But now I understand the value of routine care. I’ve made peace with it. And scheduling everything on a specific day ensures I actually follow through.

Wednesdays work for me. What day could work for you? Designate a self-care day for yourself—you deserve it.

#selfcare #wellness #health #lifehacks

The Mourning We Don’t Talk About

In life, we mourn many things—not always death.

I’ve mourned my celiac diagnosis, my sudden hearing loss, and most recently, a friendship of nearly 30 years that quietly came to an end.

When I was first diagnosed with celiac disease, I mourned my freedom. The freedom to eat without fear, without reading every label, without scanning menus for hidden gluten. Back then, gluten-free options were scarce, and most of them tasted awful. I remember walking through Costco and crying, realizing there was nothing I could buy there ever again. That moment stayed with me. It took a long time to adjust to this new reality—20 years later, I still feel that sense of loss sometimes.

When I lost my hearing overnight, I mourned again—this time with fear. Fear of navigating life without a major sense, one that’s crucial for safety, for work, for connecting with others. I’m now five years into living with hearing loss, and some days are still hard. Crowded spaces overwhelm me. Conversations at parties are nearly impossible. I’ve become even more of an introvert, not by choice, but by necessity.

And this past year, I’ve been mourning a friendship. A nearly 30-year bond with someone I once considered a true friend. The kind of friend you shop with, laugh with, lean on. The one who would’ve helped me pick a dress for my daughter’s wedding, told me the truth in the fitting room, and listened when I needed to vent. She would have been there—and I would’ve done the same for her.

I have other friends. Good friends. But that doesn’t erase the ache of letting go of someone who once held a permanent place in your life.

Grief comes in many forms. And like any loss, it moves in stages. Maybe I’ve reached the final one. Maybe I’m at acceptance.

Or maybe I’m just learning that some grief never really ends—it just changes shape.

Why I Finally Started Taking Time Off (And You Should Too)

I took a day off today—not for any special reason, but simply because I maxed out my vacation hours and am no longer accumulating any more. Since that’s the case, I’ve started taking a day off every other week, turning my weekends into three-day breaks.

I have too many unused vacation days—not because I didn’t have plans, but because I was never allowed to take them. There was always something more urgent that needed to be done. For a long time, I was semi-okay with this. And then, one day, I wasn’t anymore.

I’m not sure if it’s related to my age, or the fact that I’m finally at a point in my life where I’m financially secure enough to work because I want to—not because I have to. Maybe it’s just that I’ve realized I need to take care of myself first.

There should be no reason for anyone to max out their vacation days. We should take time off.

Time off energizes us. It gives us time with our families, offers us mental space, and helps nourish our souls.

Some companies pay you for unused vacation days. Mine doesn’t. But honestly, I don’t want the payout—I want the time.

Today, I cleaned out one of my junk drawers, took a nap, and finally watched a TV series I’ve been meaning to catch up on. And I had time to pause and think about the future and what I really want.

Do I want to keep working for a company that doesn’t let me take time off? One that doesn’t seem to care about burnout or mental well-being?

In the middle of my day off, my boss texted me asking where I was. I reminded her I was off—we had talked about it. She replied, “You didn’t, and it’s not on my calendar.” But it was on her calendar. It was also on the calendars of the people covering for me. In fact, the whole office knew I was taking the day off.

At the end of the day, we are all replaceable. It wouldn’t take long for my company to post a job ad and find someone new. But the time I lose—I don’t get that back.

I’ve already planned out a few more days off over the next three months. Maybe on one of those days, I’ll even update my résumé—or apply somewhere that does value employees taking time for themselves.

#Work-life balance #Burnout #Time off #Mental health at work
#Employee wellness #Career reflection

Five Years After Hearing Loss: The Things No One Told Me About Hearing Aids

Junk Drawer Finds and Hearing Aid Memories

I was clearing out one of my many junk drawers as part of my 2025 clutter mission when I found the receipt for my first hearing aid. It instantly brought back everything I went through that year.

From the moment I realized that I really couldn’t hear—and that it wasn’t temporary—to finally accepting that I needed hearing aids just to get through everyday life. I stressed constantly about how I’d manage at work and even more about the cost of the devices.

It took months of back-and-forth with insurance to get them covered. Then came the “test-driving” phase, followed by several more months of getting used to the new sounds and training my brain to adapt.

What they don’t tell you is that the world is loud. And they definitely don’t tell you that hearing aids won’t restore your hearing to what it once was.

I learned that loud places are overwhelming, movie theaters are actual punishment, and despite all the technology available, I still won’t be able to follow every conversation. It hit me hard—so hard that I spiraled into depression and grief.

And people… well, some people are completely clueless. One of my favorite comments (read: least favorite) was:
“But you don’t look deaf.”
Apparently, I forgot to wear my antennas that day.

Another time, I asked someone to repeat what they said because I didn’t hear them, and they responded by leaning in and yelling directly into my ear. The shock on my husband’s and my face must have been priceless.

Now, five years and a second hearing aid later, I’m still adjusting. Still learning to live with the fact that I’ll never hear “normally” again.

I wonder what I’ll find next week when I tackle another junk drawer. Hopefully something better—like forgotten money from a year ago.

#hearing loss journey #adjusting to hearing aids #living with hearing loss

#hearing aid struggles #hearing loss depression