Tiny Veggies, Big Personality Crisis

Tiny Veggies, Big Personality Crisis

I’ve never been a fruit-and-vegetable person. I eat them out of obligation—like flossing or replying “per my last email.” They’re good for me, sure, but do I crave kale? Absolutely not. Do I get excited about a carrot? Let’s not get carried away.

Maybe it’s because I grew up broke. Maybe it’s just my personality. Either way, produce has always been more chore than treat.

But recently, something has shifted. Something… unsettling.

They made the vegetables tiny.

And apparently, that’s all it took.

Mini potatoes? Sold. Tiny rainbow tomatoes? Into my cart without hesitation. Baby zucchinis? Don’t even speak to me—I love them. I see a vegetable the size of a thimble and suddenly I’m a different person, a person who buys produce voluntarily.

Do they taste different? No. Do they have more nutrients? Also no. Are they objectively just regular vegetables that got hit with a shrink ray? Yes.

But they’re cute.

And that, it turns out, is my entire personality now.

I fully understand how ridiculous this is. I am an adult being emotionally manipulated by miniature squash. And yet—here I am, finally eating vegetables.

Not because I’ve grown. Not because I’ve matured.

Because they’re adorable.

Do I have to boycott everything?

Amazon funding and marketing the Melania movie makes me think I should boycott them. I’m a Prime member and shop on Amazon almost every week, not to mention the shows I stream on Prime Video.

Then the other day, I was listening to my favorite radio station here in Albuquerque when an ad for News Nation came on saying, “Trump was right.” I haven’t been able to listen to that station since.

I’ve already stopped going to Home Depot and refuse to set foot in Hobby Lobby.

It feels like the only real way to boycott those supporting the nation’s decline is to stay home and avoid spending money altogether. Maybe occasionally I could support a local, family-owned restaurant—but beyond that, what options are left?

When will it end? What can an ordinary person do to make their voice heard? It feels like no one is listening—not even the Republican Senate, who could stop much of this if they truly wanted to. I know there are honest, ethical Republicans out there. Did we just fail to elect them?

GRATITUDE

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions anymore, but this year I decided to start a gratitude journal. They say people who keep gratitude journals are happier, and I could use some happiness. Unfortunately, I may not have the right personality for it, which is probably why I’ve avoided the practice until now.

When I read what other people write—about the beauty of nature, their loving families, the abundance all around them—it’s clear we are not doing the same exercise. My entry from this morning reads: I’m grateful I didn’t die last night. Short, sincere, and to the point.

Earlier entries from January include:

• I’m grateful I never give up, or I’d still be in the grocery store parking lot because of the asshole who parked so close to my car I couldn’t get in on the driver’s side. What I could have managed at thirty with a casual hop now, at seventy—with two new knees—requires strategic planning, flexibility I no longer possess, and a leap of faith.

• I’m grateful I haven’t seen ICE agents in Albuquerque yet. Every day remains a small victory.

• I’m grateful that although I’m scraping by, I could still find enough money to pay the outrageous veterinarian bill for my dog’s teeth. I would do it again, though I might not eat.

• I’m grateful I can still work. This is fortunate, because I have to.

Like I said, I don’t think I have the hang of it. My gratitude journal seems less interested in happiness than in documenting the small, ongoing miracle of getting through another ordinary day.

I’M EXHAUSTED FROM THE FIGHT.

It’s hard to feel like a successful human being when the one battle you’ve been waging your entire life is the one you can never seem to win. For me, that battle has been with my eating disorder—a relentless adversary I once named Lavinia. She’s been with me since I was twelve years old, and despite my best efforts, she refuses to leave.

This year, after a ripped Achilles tendon and two knee replacements, exercise was off the table for months. I decided to ignore Lavinia, hoping she would fade away on her own. But that’s not how she operates. The moment you look away, she takes over. Unable to move much but still able to eat my feelings, I ended up in an unprecedented season of weight gain.

Ironically, it was also a year of achievements. I moved to a new city, found work, bought a house—clear evidence that I can accomplish difficult things. Yet all of it feels diminished by my failure in the one area that matters most to me: managing my eating disorder.

Lavinia never truly disappears. Sometimes I’ve managed to push her into the back seat for long stretches, but stress always seems to coax her back to the wheel. 8 Keys to Recovery From an Eating Disorder by Costin and Grabb sits permanently on my desk, ready to guide me when I’m strong enough to pick it up again. But I’m tired. Exhausted, really.

And now the fight feels doubled. On top of battling Lavinia, there’s the fight to save our country—the relentless drumbeat of political chaos. Every morning brings a fresh headline, a new embarrassment. The stress alone seems to rouse Lavinia from her slumber.

I will try again. I promise I will. But not today. Today, after reading about Trump’s UN speech and his ridiculous upset with the escalator, I need a little solace: chocolate and red wine.

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Grateful to be Alive (But Ouch)

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Don’t get me wrong—I am grateful to be alive. I just wish I were alive in my forty-something body instead of this seventy-something model. Back then, everything still worked properly and I didn’t make sound effects every time I stood up. These days, it’s “Ouch!” followed by “Where’s the Advil?” followed by “Why did I stand up in the first place?”

It’s a universal truth: once you cross sixty, no matter how a conversation begins—weather, politics, grandchildren—it always ends with, “So what’s wrong with you now?” Suddenly we’re swapping drug names like they’re trading cards and comparing scars like fishermen with big-fish stories.

And me? My medical rap sheet is longer than my dating history. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, Hashimoto’s, tennis elbow, trigger fingers, hip pain, a weak Achilles, two knee replacements, and two screws in my shoulder. At this point, I’m practically part Home Depot. I’ve had just about every “ectomy” on the menu—started with a tonsillectomy, then worked my way up through appendectomy, hysterectomy, mastectomy… really hoping the chef doesn’t suggest any specials.

And of course, the nightly bathroom pilgrimage—because apparently my bladder runs on its own schedule now. What fun.

So yes, I’m grateful to still be here, hobbling along. But as I recover from knee replacement number two, all I can say is: “OUCH!” Can’t wait to see what the rest of my seventies have planned—maybe I’ll qualify for a frequent-flyer punch card at the orthopedic surgeon’s.

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To All The Men I’ve Tried to Love

I’ve written a lot of humorous posts about the many men I’ve dated and had relationships with over the years. At the ripe old age of 70, I look back at love, lust, and every relationship misfire—and I see it all a bit differently. I realize now, and I probably even had an inkling then, that everybody was doing the best they could. I just resented they couldn’t be better for me because I desperately needed them to be better. There was one who never called back after two blissful months. I thought he didn’t care. Now I think, he just didn’t know how to love anyone — not even himself.

Some people move through life with fewer scars. They mean well, and they try to understand — but unless you’ve sat in the rubble of your own soul, it’s hard to truly feel the ache of someone whose primary orientation to the world is one of fear and survival. They sympathize, but they can’t really empathize or understand a traumatized soul.

But some of us, perhaps even most of us, are simply doing the best we can. Many of us are simply broken, and some in more ways than one. We never learned to thrive — every day has been a fight just to survive. I guess the key for us is to find someone who fills some of our broken parts, allows us to fill some of theirs, each accepting the other’s limitations as human beings.

I think that’s why I always chose broken partners—I was matching my wounds to theirs, hoping we could heal in each other’s arms. But hurt doesn’t heal hurt. Not without a hell of a lot of work, and a lot more honesty than I had at the time. But I tried. I tried my damnedest. I tried too hard. I tried to make it work when I should have known from the first date that it never would have. That’s my biggest flaw. Tell me I shouldn’t — or that I’m not allowed – and I’ll do it better than anyone else without even stopping to ask myself if it’s something I really want. It occurs to me I did that with relationships too.  I spent years trying to push square pegs into round holes—relationships that didn’t fit, people who didn’t love me the way I needed. And then I’d blame the peg.

Men were drawn to me because I was smart, strong, and opinionated. But once they had me, they wanted someone softer, quieter, more yielding. I was the prize until they realized how much work I could be. The only relationships that lasted for any length of time were ones where I simply gave myself up and did it their way. Of course, one can only do that for so long before one becomes resentful.

At 70, I’ve stopped apologizing for being too much. I don’t regret the trying — only the shrinking. Maybe we’re all broken. But I’ve learned: healing begins when we stop hiding the cracks.

Growing Old (Gracefully?)

In my experience, there is absolutely nothing graceful about growing old. I’m not even sure what people mean when they say that. Is it about aging without plastic surgery? Or about quietly surrendering your joints to the passage of time? Either way, it sounds like a scam. For me, aging didn’t arrive gently on a soft breeze—it crash-landed like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.

One day I was out in high heels, dancing till midnight, dating men who still had cartilage, and feeling unstoppable. The next thing I know, I’m dragging a leg with a ripped Achilles, googling “knee replacement recovery time,” and waking up with a head of hair that looks like a snowstorm. Aging didn’t knock politely. It barged in, raided the fridge, and put its feet up on the coffee table.

People say, “Oh but some parts of you must still be in great shape?” Yeah, sure—if you count sarcasm. I thought maybe my elbows were holding up, but then my right one got tennis elbow. Which, fun fact, they now call “mouse elbow” because it’s more often caused by clicking a mouse than by, you know, playing tennis. So there goes that.

My ears? Full of surprises. Sometimes eczema. Often tinnitus. My knees are shot (but hey, I’m getting the deluxe bionic versions soon), my ankles are flimsy, my right hip acts like it’s on strike, and my breasts—thanks to cancer—are now starring in a buddy comedy where one grows as I gain weight while the other refuses to participate.

I’ve got three trigger fingers, two numb hands every morning, and a body that plays “Guess Which Part Hurts Today!” like it’s a carnival game.

And don’t get me started on the brain. My memory has more gaps than a bad cell signal. While writing this, I’ve already used the dictionary and thesaurus three times. Conversations are now just me miming the thing I can’t remember the name of while my friends shout out guesses like a game of geriatric charades. “You mean…a spatula?” No, Susan, I meant Joe Biden.

I do still have my eyesight, though! Thank God for that. My hazel eyes still pop when I wear the right colors—and yes, they sparkle a bit blue in just the right light. But let’s be honest: I only still see well because I had cataract surgery ten years ago. So… even that’s kind of cheating.

So yeah, nothing works like it used to. And let’s face it—grace takes a lot more cooperation from the body than I’m getting these days. But you know what? The alternative to aging is, well… not aging. So I’m staying in the game.

Graceful is out. My style now is sassy, sarcastic, inappropriate, and just a bit unhinged. I’m not aging gracefully. I’m aging hilariously. And if you’re looking for a list of what body parts still work like they used to… just bring a sticky note. It won’t take long.with.

Moving Has Finally Gotten the Best of Me

I’ve moved 34 times in my life. Yes, 34—from cross-town apartment upgrades to long-distance and even international moves. Generally, I don’t mind it, and over the years, I’ve become a great packer (even hired by my own sister to help her move!). I’ve picked up a lot of tips: put everything in similar-sized boxes, plastic-wrap anything that can’t be boxed, and take a picture of each box’s contents before sealing it. All this has made my moves pretty smooth—except for that one time moving from Oregon to NYC when my moving van caught fire, and I lost everything.

But even that wasn’t as bad as this last move.

I hired a moving broker, Imoving.com, to transport my half-full 5×5 storage unit from Oregon to Albuquerque. The salesperson convinced me it would be cheaper than renting a U-Haul and doing it myself. Since I was already in Albuquerque, ready to settle into my new home, it sounded perfect. I paid $2,006 and was assured my belongings would be picked up by October 7.

When they didn’t arrive, I called. “Oh, those movers canceled. We’ll find another,” they told me—without having informed me first. After more delays, my items were finally picked up on October 12, and my friend confirmed they’d been loaded safely onto the truck. I was told I’d get updates along the way. But a week later, after hearing nothing, I reached out only to learn that my things had just been moved an hour away to Salem, Oregon, where they were sitting in storage. Over the next few weeks, I was the one always calling for updates, and the promised delivery date of October 31 passed without a word from the company.

Then, on November 2, I got a call from a driver claiming he’d arrive in two to three hours and that I owed $1,100—on top of what I’d already paid. When I explained I’d paid in full, he said that covered only the pickup, not the delivery. After I argued, he hung up on me.

Eventually, I got a call from another rep, Ava, who asked me to text proof of my payment, which I did. She said the delivery would resume once everything was verified. The next day, after more silence, I was told they’d arrive at 1:30 p.m. They finally showed up at 3:30 and left everything in my garage—no further payment requested.

As I unpacked, I was glad to see my things including my favorite sculpture—except none of my tools were there. They did leave me one small, empty tool bag. My tools were of real value to me, especially for making updates to my new home. It’s a huge loss, and now I’m left without even a hammer to hang my pictures.

I’ll be updating my complaint with the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration and filing an insurance claim. But my advice? If you’re moving, if at all possible just do it yourself! You’ll always know where your belongings are and can avoid the chaos I just experienced.

Another night, another dream, another party!

Apparently, I’m a party animal after hours, at least in my subconscious. Last night in my dream I was at a party with all my family and all my ex-husband’s family (the second one). That’s something that never happened in real life and I’m fairly certain would not be a good time. We were having a community fair in the backyard, which was keeping me from being able to use the pool. The pool? Who in either one of these families ever had a pool in their backyard?

Meanwhile, in the house, everyone was sitting in the dark and not turning on the lights to save electricity. Being who I am, I went around and turned all the lights on. Who sits in the dark at a party? Oh yeah, we know what this dream was about. Let’s shine a light on it!

The only real conversation I had was with my ex-husband’s niece. Sitting around in the dark didn’t bother her, she said, because she was used to it. Then she started telling her partner that the reason the house was such a wreck was because they (whoever’s house it was) were selling it so they stopped fixing things a while ago and were just selling it as is with all the holes in the walls and broken plumbing. All of the sudden I was my opinionated self again telling them if they fixed everything and painted, they would get a better price when they sell.

Who is anxious about moving? Who? Certainly not me?

The Dance Troop

I had a dream last night. For some reason, ever since I decided to move, I’ve been dreaming up a storm. In this dream, everyone who was at my Goddaughters’ grandmother’s funeral was in a traveling dance troop. Everyone…young, old and in between. My Goddaughters were running the troop. Of course they were, give them just a little more time and my Goddaughters will be running the world.

I’d just come home from a trip, and I was trying to quietly exercise in the living room (a living room I’ve never seen before apparently in a house we all shared). Yes, me, I was exercising and in a dance troop. The subconscious is a beautiful place!

My friend, my goddaughters’ mother, got up and was in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher and another woman who I did not recognize came in and was arguing with her about something to do with the troop. This woman sees me in the living room and comes in to pull me into the discussion.

What I said to her I think will surprise you. It surprised me so much that it woke me up. I said, “I’ve spent a lot of time in my life trying to talk people, mostly men and husbands, into doing things so I get how you’re feeling. But here’s the thing. I know absolutely nothing about running a traveling dance troop so I’m going to have to say I have no opinion and stay out of this.”

Wow, even in a dream you must admit that’s amazing! Mckenzie James with no opinion on what someone should do in life. No wonder it woke me up. I had to make certain I was still me. And again, I know it was just a dream, but I remain immensely proud of myself.