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Organized by Frustration
I love things neat and organized.
Boxes, bins, baskets, bags—I don’t discriminate.
If it has sides and can contain chaos, I’m in love.But my ultimate frustration?
Other people do not treat things the way I do.
And nowhere was this more obvious than the toy room when the kids were little. -
Tangled Memories
I’ve always had long, straight hair. You’d think that would make life easier—no curls to tame, no frizz to battle. But somehow, my straight hair has always managed to find its own special ways to get me tangled in trouble.And honestly? That theme started way back in childhood.
The Daily Ponytail Pain Olympics
When I was little, Mom took charge of styling my long, straight hair every morning—ponytails, braids, neat little parts. She had a vision, and my job was simply to sit still and survive it. What didn’t help was that even as a kid (and still now), I couldn’t stand “sticky-outies.” Every single hair needed to be smooth, tight, and perfectly in place. One little piece sticking out of a ponytail could send me into full hysterics, and Mom would have to stop everything and fix it before I could function again.
Mom would grab the brush and immediately begin working like she was on a mission. I’d wince, pout, or try to subtly shrink away from the next swipe. Naturally, the more I reacted, the firmer her brushing became.
Eventually came the line every child of the 70s and 80s heard at least once:
“If you think THAT hurts—I’ll show you something that really hurts…”
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The Great Unloading Disaster
We’d been camping in Peninsula State Park in Door County. We’d survived the mosquitoes, eaten soup for two weeks straight (thanks, Lisa), and even Grandma Doris—cruising around on her power scooter—had enjoyed herself. The trip was a success by all counts.But as soon as we pulled into the driveway, our luck ran out. It was time to unload the camper—otherwise known as “the part no one volunteers for.”
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Wealth Is in the Moments
As a kid, I always knew we were rich.
Opening presents on Christmas morning usually took over an hour — partly because Santa went a little overboard, but mostly because Lisa opens presents slower than molasses in January.Every Easter, we practically got a new spring wardrobe — new shorts and shirts for summer, maybe some outdoor toys, sandals, and a few nice outfits. It always felt like a seasonal upgrade — trading static-filled sweaters for flip-flops, mosquito bites, and the sweet smell of fresh-cut grass.
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Fate Had Other Plans
I like to think I’m in charge of my own life. I’ve got color-coded calendars, synced reminders, and a to-do list that could scare a project manager. My inner control freak sleeps better when everything fits in a nice, neat box.But every so often, fate rolls her eyes, tosses my list in the air, and says, “Cute plan. Watch this.”
It’s never dramatic at first. Usually it starts with some tiny glitch—Wi-Fi dying during a meeting, a dog emergency, or the weather deciding to monsoon on my “productive” day. I huff, I mutter, I question all my life choices. And then, like clockwork, something unexpected falls into place. I’ll stumble across an old photo, get a call from someone I’ve been meaning to reach, or realize that fate just canceled my plans so I could actually notice my own life.
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Kool-Aid Dreams, Sugar-Free Reality
Growing up, our kitchen was basically a shrine to non-sugary food. Cereal came in shades of brown and tan, full of twigs, nuts, and the promise of “regularity.” The sugar cereals—the bright, cartoon-covered boxes that called to every kid on Saturday mornings—were strictly forbidden. I swear, if it didn’t say bran somewhere on the box, it didn’t make it past the pantry door.The same rules applied to drinks. Kool-Aid was a four-letter word. Sugar was the enemy, and my mom was the general leading the war against it. While other kids stirred neon-red powder into their water and shouted “Oh yeah!” like the Kool-Aid Man himself, we were mixing up Crystal Light—because apparently, if it was sugar-free, it was “just as good.”
It wasn’t.
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Fireplace Fails and Fixes
I was never the fire starter in our family—that job belonged to Dad and Lisa. They were the official flame whisperers, armed with newspaper twists, matches, and patience. I, on the other hand, preferred to enjoy the fire from a safe, soot-free distance.Honestly, I’ve never been a fan of the whole process. Building the fire, keeping it going, making sure it doesn’t go out—it’s way too much work for something that’s supposed to be relaxing. The last time I tried lighting my own fire, it was a campfire, and all it was good for was sending smoke signals.
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Sunday Faith, Fun, and Cleanup Duty
When I was little, Sundays had a rhythm all their own. The morning always started with Sunday School—Bible stories, crafts, and songs sung a little too loudly by kids who had way too much energy. But first came the ritual of getting dressed in our Sunday best. Dresses, shoes that felt a little more special than the everyday pair—it was all part of the package.After church came the real highlight: coffee and donuts with family friends. Most Sundays it was at their house, where the adults lingered over mugs and conversation while we kids played. But every once in a while, the gathering was at our house.
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Y2K: History’s Most Boring Apocolypse
In 1999, my job description was basically “professional panic manager.” By day, I was a Senior Field Consultant for Consultis. By night, I moonlighted with my own company, Schneider Consulting. Translation: I got paid to keep computers from throwing a digital temper tantrum at midnight on December 31st.The “crisis”? Two-digit years. Computers thought “00” meant 1900, not 2000. Which, according to the news, meant banks would collapse, planes would fall from the sky, and your toaster might start a small nuclear war. Basically, we were all one spreadsheet away from the Stone Age.
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Fingernails: Chewed, Glued, and Screwed
As a kid, I chewed my nails down to the quick. There was never an ounce of white at the tips, and I had this strange habit of folding my pillowcase and shoving the crease under my nails, pushing that tender skin back. Gross, I know. The truth is, that habit never really went away. I still “crease” my nails to this day, and after years of it, my fingernails are barely attached to their nail beds—a long-lasting reminder of my own weird fidgeting.By the time I got to college, though, I traded one bad habit for another. With my $25 monthly allowance, I wasn’t buying ramen or stretching a dollar the way Lisa bragged she could with her $20. Nope—I was in the salon chair, blowing my budget on acrylic nails. Scrimping was never my style.
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Sickness & Sanity
Sickness has a way of leaving its mark. Not just the aches or the fevers, but the memories—how people react, who shows up, and the chaos that comes with it. Some of my sick days were miserable, some were funny in hindsight, and all of them taught me something about the people around me.When I was a kid, missing a day of school was not an option. Anytime we said we were sick, Mom’s response was, “Take an aspirin and a Geritol and you’ll feel fine.” Sympathy wasn’t really on the table. One time that I did manage to stay home from school, I remember making it far enough to be standing in the bathroom doorway, dry-heaving and trying to get my bearings. Dad took one look, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me toward the toilet. No gentle words, no comforting back rub—just “protect the rug.”
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Flower Power… Minus the Power
As a little kid, I loved planting flowers with Mom. She taught me the whole process—dig the hole, sprinkle in a little fertilizer, set the flower in, pack the dirt around it, and then water. We repeated that ritual for years.But somewhere along the way, my love for gardening wilted. It was much easier to just let Mom do it for me! When I moved to Beaver Dam, she handled most of my gardening. She’d practically have to drag me outside to help her—and I’d usually be holding a kid or baby, trying to use that as an excuse. Truth is, if Mom didn’t come over, the planting simply didn’t get done. Still, those years quietly taught me what worked and what didn’t.
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Truthful: Because Filters Are for Coffee
In some families, politeness is the rule. They’ll smile sweetly, tell you your casserole is “just delicious,” and gush that your new haircut makes you look so young. In our family? Not so much. We don’t do polite lies—we do truthful answers. Sometimes brutally so.If I ask my sister, “Does this outfit look good on me?” I know I’m not getting a sugar-coated reply. If it makes me look like I’ve gained ten pounds, she’ll tell me. If my hairstyle is doing me no favors, she’ll announce it. And honestly, I’d rather hear her truthful opinion than a polite fib.
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Lessons from a Kayak
Life doesn’t hand you a motorboat. Most days, it’s a kayak—one paddle, one person, and a lot of figuring it out as you go.Motorboats are for people who like speed, money, and confidence. Kayaks? Those are for people with balance. Which is exactly why I’ve never set foot in one. I can trip over a flat floor, so climbing into a kayak is basically begging the fish to get a free laugh. Honestly, I’d rather be the one on shore with a chair, a snack, and a towel ready for whoever tips first.
But even from land, I get it. Some days in life feel like gliding across smooth water—work goes well, the house is (mostly) in order, and the current carries me along. Other days? I’m spinning in circles, paddling hard but not making any progress—kind of like trying to juggle work, family, and a house that seems to breed laundry and dust.
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Enthusiasm Without the Fireworks
Some people seem to have a bottomless supply of enthusiasm. They throw themselves into everything — from book clubs to bake sales — with the same wide-eyed excitement a kid has for an ice cream truck. I’ve never been one of those people. My enthusiasm runs on the quieter side. I can enjoy something, appreciate it, even love it, without feeling the need to clap until my hands sting or yell “Wooo!” loud enough for the neighbors to hear.Take the Origami Owl conventions I used to attend. Every year, they’d introduce a few new $5 charms, like a red high heel, a little purse, or a pumpkin, and the room would explode in applause. Women would leap to their feet, squeal, and “ooh” like they’d just been handed the keys to a beach house. The enthusiasm in the room was contagious — at least for some people. I’d sit there smiling politely, thinking, We’re cheering over that? Don’t get me wrong — the charm was cute. But it wasn’t life-changing. I guess my enthusiasm scale for “worth freaking out over” just sits a few notches higher.
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Seasons of Me
Some people live for summer. Flip-flops, fireflies, and late-night bonfires. Not me. I mean, summer has its place, usually in the outdoors… with the mosquitoes.For me, the seasons have always felt more like moods than months.
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Sidetracked Anniversary
Thirty years ago, we weren’t writers -we were women with glue guns, glitter, and a dream. The Sidetracked Sisters started as a mom (Sandy), her two daughters (Lisa and me), and her sister (Judy), selling hand-painted crafts in someone’s living room.