Today is Valentine’s Day. Another holiday that florists and greeting card companies invented to increase revenue.

We don’t observe Valentine’s Day. We aren’t mushy people. I might have liked being mushy before I married my husband, but I soon learned that it isn’t worth my time. For example, he did bring me flowers one time. It was a thrill until he announced that the church was trying to get rid of some flowers left there after a funeral.

There will be no boxes of candy, because those candy assortments have too many maple creams and cherry cordials. Ugh.

Buying a card is a nice sentiment, but not when folded pieces of paper with sappy verses inside cost what, $3.00? Ridiculous.

Poems are ok, but not the ones either of us might write. All I could come up with was:

Roses are red, violets are blue.

This is a fact

And why poems start like this 

I haven’t a clue.

So another holiday passes with neither of us doing anything about it. This makes it hard to come up with an answer when people ask, “Are you doing something fun for Valentine’s Day?” Saying “no” and leaving it at that seems rude, and so I feel obligated to come up with some kind of plausible reason for this. “We are pagans” has not worked in the past. “No, because we don’t really like each other that much” doesn’t work either, because it shocks people, and it isn’t true. “One time I got sick on Valentine’s Day and vomited chocolate on the bedspread, so it’s a pass for us” makes people flinch.

I never really thought about this; it was fine; I didn’t care about any of it. Then I had to run to the grocery, and there were five or six men in there with desperate looks in their eyes buying Esther Price candy. It gave me a small pang, until I thought about it and concluded that the candy was most likely for their moms.

The world is a scary place right now. We are warned constantly that our “information” is being mined like crazy by absolutely everybody: advertisers, the government,  law enforcement, and God knows who else. They know everything about us. I started thinking about this yesterday after watching a YouTube video on privacy and what you have to do to protect yours. After the first minute, I realized that I would have to be a technical wizard or a nine-year-old to plumb the depths of my iPhone to find all the toggles that I would have to untoggle in order to be safe. It made me anxious, and confused, so I stopped doing that.

I then remembered all the crime shows I have watched and the murder podcasts I have listened to. Yipes! The detectives always look at the suspects’ laptops where they uncover the search history. This inevitably leads them to the motive, or the murder weapon, or the fact that the suspect orders strange underwear online. This leads them to solve the murder.

I guess all sorts of people besides murder investigators are now checking our online histories, for all sorts of nefarious reasons. We don’t have privacy any more.

Oh, no.

If my information were to be examined, I would be SO embarrassed , because here are some of the things I have Googled:

• If you are in New York City, is it true that you are always at least ten feet away from a rat?
• What is an incubus?
• What happens if you accidentally swallow dental floss?
• Is it true that if you can’t get up off the floor without using your hands, you are going to die soon?
• Does your breath have DNA?
• Is leftover rice really poison?
• Are most women’s boobs uneven?
• Why are chickpeas suddenly so popular?
• Do they still do lobotomies?
• Does walking in winter burn off more calories than walking in summer?
• Why are so many doctors fat?
• If I order something unusual on Amazon, will someone in the government find out?
• Can it be a cult if only three people are in it?
• Why does eating a hard boiled egg give me hiccups?
• Can you die from hiccups?
• Do they still make Carter’s Little Liver Pills?

You know they say that your phone, Alexa, Siri, and your iPad are listening to you. So be careful what you say. For instance, don’t tell your spouse you’d like to kill them too often. Better yet, just write that down on a piece of paper and hand it to them. Then tear it up and eat it. These days, you just can’t be too careful.

Our granddaughter, Birdie, is selling Girl Scout cookies. And as this photo shows, we are in full support. This isn’t even the total haul, because we have already finished 3 boxes.

Our granddaughter doesn’t stand a chance of becoming The Cookie Queen, however, because that title belongs to Elizabeth Brinton, who sold 100,000 boxes in her career as a cookie seller. Elizabeth, before the internet even happened, figured out that she had to get to the masses, so she quit the door to door business and set up shop in a Virginia metro station at rush hour, and thus sold 11,200 boxes in that year alone. Note: Elizabeth’s mom must have had a big garage to store all those thousands of cookies. However, in 2021, Lilly Bumpus sold the incredible amount of 32,484 boxes. The exhaustive research that I did was not forthcoming as to how Lilly achieved this feat, or what shape Lilly’s mother was in afterwards.

But there’s more. Katie Francis broke the 100,000 record  in 1985, actually managing, even, to sell a box of every flavor to President Reagan. Go Katie.

Katie consulted Elizabeth Brinton for advice on how to break Elizabeth’s record, and Elizabeth told Katie to “think outside the box.” It seems from my research that Elizabeth coined this phrase. Go Elizabeth.

When I was a Girl Scout in the Dark Ages, I think my record was 10 boxes, 5 of which my mother bought and then threw away, because she was always dieting. My mother was absolutely no fun. All she did all day was drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and make dinner.

My granddaughter’s goal is to sell 1,200 boxes. This is a reasonable goal, as she reached it last year and won a trip to an amusement park. She was so proud.

The person responsible for Birdie reaching her goal last year is my husband.

Go Charlie.

This face above is of a person, actually me, before my hair turned white.

This face is one of the faces that others turn to for some light reading. A chuckle during these very dark times.

But as you can see, this face isn’t bursting with any fun. It’s worried just like everyone else’s faces.

Nothing particularly amusing is happening at my house. So here is what is going on:

• You know how some people look for distraction, like frenzied house cleaning? I am apparently not coping that way
• My skin is now so dry that I have seven different lotions that don’t work
• Eczema. I have eczema, for Lord’s sake
• I do not have dreams of running for office
• But I know my Congressmen’s emails by heart
• I wonder who else to boycott
• I spend way too much time doomscrolling
• However, I have not lost my appetite
• And Girl Scout cookies just arrived
• My tooth whitening strips no longer bring me joy
• I hate the news, but I have to watch it
• My cat is now extremely important

I hope you all are coping, because I, like all of you, am flailing for a punch line…

I have temporarily lost my sense of humor. Here is an excerpt I think speaks better than I can:

This is the time of year for gift giving. It can be disastrous. Examples:

One of my friends got a car caddy from her husband for Christmas. This husband also gave her bed pillows the previous year. They are still married, but it was rough going for a while.

Let me state very clearly to all husbands out there: If it plugs in, for Lord’s sake, DO NOT get it for your wife for Christmas or her birthday, or your anniversary. Never. Also, do not get your wife a pot, a pan, or a wire whisk. Avoid clothes, because unless you are very confident  of her size; this could backfire in a major way. Don’t phone it in with socks, gloves, or a muffler. Get your sh*t together, guys!

Don’t even consider anything you can get in a hardware store or a drug store. I know, there are also some grocery stores that sell “gift items” during holiday season, but you would be very foolish to get one of those gift items. No matter how much she complains about not having enough spatulas, perish THAT thought.

Another piece of advice: if it costs less than $25, don’t buy it. I don’t care how utilitarian it is, how handy it is, or the fact that it is marked down-don’t get it. The reason things are marked down is that nobody wants them at regular price.

Your wife doesn’t want anything you can get at a gift shop. Those scented soaps in a pink soap dish, all wrapped up in pink cellophane? That’s a no. Anything that comes in an assortment? Nope. No silk pillowcases; she will get one herself if she needs it. Don’t fall for food, either. Food is an office gift, or for your mother-in-law.

Avoid lingerie, unless you got married less than a year ago. Otherwise your wife will think you are too lusty. Just trust me on this.

So many men haven’t a clue. So they wander around on Amazon, searching for “wife gifts.” Amazon has no clue. Believe me-or look yourself: Growing Older Gnomes will NOT cut it. Nor will a sweat shirt that has YOUR HUSBAND LOVES YOU emblazoned on the front.

If you want to win at gift giving for your wife or girlfriend, just go to the nearest jewelry store, get a woman salesperson to help you, give her a wad of money, and let her take it from there.

DATELINE: Saturday, November 22, 2025. Kroger, Dayton, Ohio: Aisle 12

“Okay. I have to get parsley, and then we are done.”

“What’s it for?”

“The stuffing.”

“You cannot get parsley today.”

I look at my husband, who is shaking his head emphatically.

“First of all, who made you the Thanksgiving police? And more importantly, Why? What’s it to you?”

“If you get parsley today, it will be dead in five days.  It will be all wilty and slimy.” He put his hand on his head, and hit himself twice, as if implying that anyone buying parsley today was nuts.

“No it won’t. I put it in a glass of water.”

He rolled his eyes. “As I said, wilty and slimy.”

“I change out the water, for God’s sake.”

He laughed derisively. “Get it on Wednesday, so it will be fresh. Fresh when you make the stuffing.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. “If you think that I am going to come here on Wednesday, when they need police to monitor the parking situation, fight my way into the store, go to the produce section where they will most likely be on their last bunch of tired parsley, then stand in a long line of people with carts full of pumpkin pies, dinner rolls, ten pound bags of potatoes, Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix, butter, full carts–all for one little sad bunch of parsley?” This is your suggestion?”

He nodded. “Wait. What about dried parsley?”

“You mean those flakes in a bottle that have absolutely no taste whatsoever?”

A few people walked by and looked at us askance. I wanted to ask them their opinions, but I knew that would be an escalation that I really didn’t want. I just wanted to get my parsley and go home.

He raised his voice a bit. “You mean there is an entire industry of parsley dryers that get paid to pick the parsley, lay it out on platforms to dry it, then send it to processing plants where they chop it up, put it in jars (another entire industry), and then label it (a whole factory that makes labels), and send it to Kroger where people buy it because it doesn’t taste like anything?”

I felt a little stab of pain behind my left eye. “Apparently, there is a segment of the population that thinks dried parsley is delicious. I am not in that segment.” I shot him my most evil look. “So I am taking this bunch of parsley,” I shook it, “And I am putting it right here in this cart,” I set it on top of the ten pound bag of russet potatoes, “And we are going to check out.”

He put up both hands, palms facing me in surrender. “Fine. But I am not making a parsley run on Wednesday.”

We made our way to the checkout. The cashier scanned my parsley and said, “Oh, do you use this for garnish?”

“No. It’s for the stuffing.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? You put parsley in stuffing?

“Yes. There is parsley in stuffing.”

She shook her head. “Ok then. How soon before this dies will you make your stuffing?”

Dried parsley. I sent Charlie back for dried parsley.

Thanksgiving is all right. But how important is it? If you were being executed in the morning, what would you want for dinner tonight?

You haven’t got this locked in? I thought everybody has spent time considering what they would choose for their final meal. Turkey and dressing would not be high on the list, I think.

As a matter of fact, I looked it up, and here are the ones that kept cropping up:

• Taco Bell
• KFC
• Cheeseburgers and Big Macs
• Cigarettes and Mountain Dew
• Fried eggs and bacon
• Steak
• If you can believe it, Twinkies.

So. I think Thanksgiving should be more akin to a final meal. What everybody there would want if they could not have another dinner. As far as I am concerned, my final dinner would be:

• Fried chicken.
• Mashed potatoes with plenty of chicken gravy.
• No need for a green vegetable; it’s my final meal.
• A baked potato, too, with sour cream and butter.
• French fries, right out of the fryer.
• Maybe some spaghetti with vodka sauce for a side.
• Soft rolls with butter.
• But here we go-chocolate cake with a thick layer of fudge frosting. 
• Coffee ice cream.
• A chocolate milk shake
• Warm chocolate chip cookies
• I won’t sleep tonight, so a cappuccino.
• To top it all off, more mashed potatoes and gravy.

You haven’t thought about what yours would be? Would there be appetizers? Wine? Caviar (does anyone who doesn’t live in Russia really like caviar?)? Some of you would insist on cheese. Would you want pizza? I know many of you would want roast beef or a nice Pine Club steak. Ooh-lobster. I might add lobster to my list. How about shrimp? I bet Ohio criminals would want Skyline.

Let’s all focus on what our real hope for a Thanksgiving dinner would be. Tomorrow is not guaranteed!

Forget the turkey. 

Please help local people who need it badly.

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Just about all surgeries these days are outpatient. This means that spouses are involved. They have to get the patient there, wait for a long time in a waiting room with a group of other spouses, drinking vile coffee and watching the office TV on a loop of Antique Roadshow reruns.

My husband had a red thing (actual medical term) show up on his nose suddenly. The dermatologist biopsied it, which removed the spot, but not enough of it, because the spot was cancerous. Basal cell. The kind that doesn’t kill you but keeps coming back if you don’t get it all. And this biopsy didn’t get it all. It looked like she got it all, but the margins weren’t clear.

So the day of the surgery came. I had my Kindle loaded, my NYT games at the ready, and I was looking forward to sitting in the waiting room doing nothing for about two hours. Doing nothing is something I am good at, but I usually feel guilty about doing it. This was a day of required doing nothing, and I was looking forward to it.

I opened Spelling Bee. It was going to be a hard one, but I got vandal and diva right off the bat. My brain cells were all firing, and I didn’t even notice that I was the only person in the waiting room without a walker. I was starting to have fun out there. Just as I was contemplating vector, but damn, there was not an e on the board, when my husband returned to the waiting room. He stood in front of me and said, “Molly, they need you back there.”

Of course, I do know a LOT about medicine. I know what COPD is. I know the best treatment for hiccups is to drink water backwards from a glass. I know that if you have an upset stomach or heartburn, you can dissolve about a teaspoon of baking soda in a glass of water and drink it; this is very effective. And I know that very few surgeons want the patient’s wife in the operating room. So I rose to my feet, still keeping my game turned on, thinking they just needed me to tell them something Charlie forgot–like if he has ever had whooping cough. Then I could resume. Maybe vice would work…

We got back there, and Charlie said, “Hey, they don’t know where to operate.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. They can’t find the spot where the cancer is/was, because the dermatologist forgot to take a picture of it.”

I was stunned. “What did they do in the olden days? Use permanent marker that you wore for the month before your surgery was scheduled? Or did they just not bother with face bumps? Or maybe the dermatologist just took a knife and cut the nose thing off during the office visit, taking surgeons out of the loop altogether?”

“Molly. This isn’t about history.”

“But why am I back here?”

“Because the surgeon asked if maybe my wife knew where the cancer was located.”

I felt a surge of something. Power! Importance! “You mean if I can point to the spot where this cancer is, they will go ahead and operate on my word alone?” What if I point to your ear lobe? Will they remove it on my say-so? Or your eyebrow? I can just say Off with his eyebrow! Like in Alice and Wonderland? What if I have them take your lips off?”

The surgeon interrupted my fantasy by coming in and introducing himself. Then he asked if I could point out the spot. I felt pretty sure I knew where it was, and pointed to a small red scar on Charlie’s nose. The doctor said, “Well if you just sign off on this, we can go ahead. They were willing to operate based on where I told them to do it. 

Both Charlie and I, having the same vision of Charlie with a big scar on the wrong side of his nose, both demurred, despite how flattered I was that I had sudden powers over a surgeon, for heaven’s sake.

So we were sent home, and Charlie had to go back to the dermatologist for some nose photos.

I have never in my life felt so powerful. I had lunch and absolutely ACED the Spelling Bee.