Archives 2026

This is the truth, because I saw it on the Internet. There is a growing demand for ANT PETS. Not just any old ant (people get so snobby about pets), but these giant ants from Africa, called African Harvester Ants. They cost up to $220 each! Just think of this: what if somehow these ants become popular pets? Then a couple escaped? They would REPRODUCE. And we would be in so much trouble over here, and let’s face it, we have way more trouble than we can handle without ants, for God’s sake.

Apparently, these ants have interesting, complex behavior, and they are “low maintenance.” Look, if maintenance is your problem, get a cat. All you have to do is change the litter box and feed them. Since you have to feed any pet, it boils down to the litter box, which is annoying, but have you heard the expression “Do you have ants in your pants?” Cats don’t get in pants, unless they are just out of the dryer and laying on your bed.

And the descriptor GIANT. Look at that photo above. It is an actual (again, according to the Internet)  image of one of these ants. Do you think it looks cute, or something you might want walking up your arm? Or God forbid, your leg? (see pants reference, above)

I do know that when I was growing up, ant farms were kind of popular. I never had one, because my mom was extremely intelligent, and she also had an imagination, in which her kid’s ant farm got knocked off the dresser, and hundreds of of the damn insects swarmed all over the house, ending up in the pantry, munching on Cheerios, getting in the flour, crawling into the Ritz crackers, and having children, until the carpeting in the living room looked as if it was moving, there were so  many horrible ants all over it.

I carry that image as well, like any sane mother.  I think one can still get ant farms on Amazon, but they just can’t be in demand. And if you wanted a farm for these giant ones, my Lord, it would have to be big enough for them, so where would you put it–on the dining room table?

What kind of person would want an ant as a pet? Here is what I think: it would have to be a man. No woman, unless she is an entomologist, would want a huge ant.

So  let’s call this ant lover guy “Harold.” Harold is in his early thirties. He has never had a girlfriend, but he imagines being married to Billie Eilish. He had a turtle in fifth grade, but it gave everyone in his family Salomonella, so his mother flushed it, and Harold mourned for a whole year. Harold plays mahjong online, because he only has two friends, and they hate the game. Harold’s favorite food is cottage cheese. His favorite TV show is Love, Death, and Robots. Harold stays inside; he is so pale that people passing him on the street wonder if he is an albino. Harold has been a bug fan all his life, but could never indulge in his passion until now, because when his mother died last month,  Harold inherited the house. Now Harold is FREE to indulge in whatever he wants to do, which right now is THE ANT.

Harold would name his new, great big ant “Bertha,” despite not knowing its gender. Harold would live in harmony with Bertha until, like in all of these sorts of situations, Bertha would grow bigger and bigger, and begin biting off bits of Harold, until you know what.

Forget the ant, people. If you need companionship, look at these options, below:

They might bite you, but as for eating you alive? Of course not, Harold.

Who taught you how to read a map? Nobody taught me. This is why I am never the navigator on a road trip, or why I never go anywhere I have not been before, because I have no idea how to get there. My husband telling me to “Go north on I 75 and take the east so and so exit” might as well be in another language.

So when Siri came along, my life changed. I can go to a dermatologist in Cincinnati if I want to, because Siri will gently tell me how to get there, and if I make a mistake, she merely shrugs and reroutes me.

My husband never uses Siri. He puts a map in his lap and glances down frequently, despite the traffic. This makes me nervous and puts us in slight danger, but there is nothing I can do about it, because he doesn’t use Siri. Why? “BECAUSE IT DOESN’T WORK IN MY CAR.”

“But it isn’t IN your car. It’s on your phone.”

“Ok, then. The next time I will show you that this woman never answers when I call her, and in my phone or not, it doesn’t work. So I use a map. Maps always work.”

“But Siri is built in to your phone. It is on ALL iPhones!”

“Not on mine.”

So the next time we went to the grocery store, I wanted a demo of the nonworking, built-in app on his and every other iPhone on the planet. “So ask for directions,” I said.

“Ok, then. Here goes, he said. “Hey, Sheila. Directions to the Kroger.”

Naturally, there was no answer.

“See? It doesn’t work. I told you!” He gave me a smug look.

“Two things: First, her name is SIRI. Second, do you know how many Krogers there are on the Eastern Seaboard? Thousands. You have to give her something to GO ON. The one in Kettering, Ohio, or the one in Schenectady, New York, for instance? But really, the main problem you are having is that you have no idea what her name is. You can’t just shout out any name starting with an S.”

I thought back to when we visited our daughter at Christmas. That was frustrating as well, because my husband wanted to give “Alicia” orders, and “Alicia” never complied. He didn’t get it, because whenever my daughter gave her an order, Alexa did just as she was asked.

I don’t want Alicia or Alexa, because they eavesdrop all the time, and I don’t need them to overhear me wondering about how I look in Capri pants, and snitching to Google, who then sends me all sorts of ads for Spanx and control-top panty hose.

Technology has gotten invasive…but only if you remember its name.

Here’s the thing: I am a senior citizen who hates hiking, bugs, sunburns, rocks, thorn bushes, and snakes. To me, a walk is going around the block, not scaling mountains. However, my favorite tv series is Alone. Have you watched it? It is the franchise in which a helicopter drops off ten people in a beautiful but very challenging place, and they are each alone. Completely–no camera crew. They film themselves surviving. Oh, and each one can only bring ten things with them. The last person who doesn’t “tap out” wins $500,000.

Why do I love this? I love learning how to make a shelter out of sticks. I will never have to make a shelter out of sticks, but now I know that moss is the best thing to shove between the sticks for insulation.

And hydration is so important. However, you need to boil the water so you don’t get diarrhea.

Everybody on this show gets their primary protein from fish. I hate fish. And the way they have to eat it is to boil it. And of course, they then drink the “broth.” Only two contestants over all twelve seasons have brought salt. So the rest of them are just eating their fish boiled, just boiled. Ok. Some of them, if the fish is large enough, cook it over a fire. But still, no salt. Ugh.

They are all, by the way, survival experts. So they know a ton of things about living out there in the desolation. All they have is a bow and nine arrows, so if they shoot up a tree at a squirrel and miss, they have to expend precious calories finding that arrow, or it’s one less tool. Doesn’t this sound like a great show?

Some of them are lucky enough to kill a big animal, like a deer. They have to process that immediately or the meat goes bad. I take my glasses off for that part, because I feel so sorry for that poor deer. And those darling beavers! Don’t get me started on the beavers.

Those contestants get so dirty! Again, only one so far has brought soap, so they just either go swimming (not so much in the Arctic), or they just get stinky and disheveled. None of them brings a comb, because those ten items have to be crucial for survival, like fishing line and hooks.

Some of them are so confident they don’t even bring a flint to start fires, because they think they can always rub two sticks together. Oh yeah, they are usually the first ones to call for help.

I will never be alone out there. But if I ever am, I will know that there are 40 calories in a scorpion, and if you can’t find any berries to eat, you WILL get constipated. And I swear I would leave the beavers alone.

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My back hurts. All the time, but especially after I spend hours bending over, doing my favorite hobby, pottery. I am terrible at it, but it is a whole lot of fun. But when I am finished potting for the day and come home, my back muscles scream.

There are exercises for this, and every day I look at the videos that physical therapists post for back relief. I try all  of them, looking for the perfect set of stretches and strengthening ones that will, according to these therapists, “release that knot instantly.” None have done the trick so far. Not instantly, for sure. They all promise instant relief. When relief isn’t instant, I resume searching.

Today, my husband left for church at 8:45. I had just started my exercises. He got home at 11:30, and I was still on the floor, my phone beside me, following along with physical therapist number 12. Nothing had been instant.

You don’t need to worry that I am exercising way too much. Because some of the exercises the therapists suggest are absolutely impossible. I either don’t bend that way, I can’t get my arms to wrap that way, my knees hurt if I squat down that far, or my shoulders won’t flatten against the wall like that. Thus, a lot of the time spent between when my husband leaves and comes back from church are spent down some internet rabbit hole for people with tight backs.

I had no idea that there are 100 exercises for your rhomboids. And my trapezius is screwed as well. And I can’t remember the names of the muscles in my lower back and sides, but they all need help. And there are individual exercises for each of them. As soon as I can find the right ones, I will have my own exercise regimen.

In the meantime, I will continue on the floor in my pajamas, searching for just the right physical therapist. You are probably thinking “Why don’t you go to one in person?”  But that costs money, and the internet therapists are free! Some of them have nice voices and interesting outfits. And they are all very serious and professional.

One of them is bound to show me one that gives me that instant relief. That therapist is out there. I just have to stay on the floor and keep searching.

Meanwhile:

There have been complaints. Why has Molly not written any columns for two weeks? What is going on? Tell her to stop loafing around and get writing!

It isn’t that easy for me, because I have been blogging for twenty years. I have written about absolutely everything. So I often come up dry. I thought I would discuss my process, so that all of you might understand.

If my husband or I haven’t done anything noteworthy, that stymies me. So then I cast around in my head for past events, things I did as a mother that weren’t like what other moms did, why I hate certain foods, what I can say about my husband that makes him sound both ridiculous yet charming, or what I made for dinner that tasted awful. If none of that works, then I head to my news feed.

People do stupid things, like putting frogs in their pockets. But I have written about that, so I look for “interesting news.” But I haven’t found any headlines that make fodder for my writing lately.

I sit with my laptop, staring at the walls, waiting for something to come to me. For the past two weeks, nothing has floated to the surface, and I find myself thinking about what I could buy on Amazon, should I get one more geranium for the balcony, what on earth I can make for supper when it’s my turn to cook, or if I can skip my exercises today. But column ideas? Nada.

Books. I read so many books that I sometimes wonder, for instance, where “Amy” is–she hasn’t been mentioned for three chapters. Then I realize that Amy was the main character in the last book that I read, and I transitioned into this book too fast. But when in doubt about what to put in my column, I post book lists, which is what I am going to do now. The “Amy” book wasn’t that great, so it won’t be on the list.

Here goes:

• The Winter Soldier and The Piano Tuner, both by  Daniel Mason. This man is a doctor and a writer, and he is a genius. The Piano Tuner is one of my favorite books, ever.
• New People, by Danzy Senna. Anything she writes is wonderful.
• Best Offer Wins, by Marisa Kashino. Oh, my God. Obsession.
• Class Reunion, by Rona Jaffe. A friend recommended her as an author, and I thought she was just like Danielle Steel. I was wrong. All Jaffe’s books are remarkable.
• Hazel Says No, by Jessica Berger Gross. Thank God Hazel said no.
• Run for the Hills, by Kevin Wilson. This book has personal meaning for me, but everybody will love it.
• Cassandra at the Wedding, by Dorothy Baker. This one had me rooting for the title character, until I didn’t.
• Leaving Lucy Pear, by Anna Solomon. This one had me marveling at how the author even came up with this plot line.
• The Round House, by Louise Erdrich. How have I lived so long without reading this?
• Heartwood, by Amity Gage. This is why I hate hiking.

Maybe I will come up with something for a sparkling column soon. Maybe there is a person out there who puts toads in their pockets…

A few months ago, I closed all my social media accounts. My phone informed me that I spent an average of four hours a day browsing the internet. Four hours. This was embarrassing and shameful–what a total time waster. When I thought about a person of my advanced age wasting that much time, I tried to analyze what we Boomers want from social media.

Many of us apparently believe that all of the people who look at our posts on, for example, Instagram, want to see what we are eating. In restaurants, we take pics of our dinner and post those, thinking that perhaps Aunt Ida in Nebraska would love looking at that fried chicken and slaw. Seriously, how many shots of entrees have you seen on Facebook?

The photo above is one I actually posted on Instagram. Egg salad. What was I thinking? Who would care about my egg salad? Would it generate “likes?” (Nobody “liked” it.) My husband liked it for lunch. That was it.

Others of us old timers are convinced that the world needs to see our vacation photos. Fred standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, or Jeannine getting ready to eat clams in Cape Cod. Really–as a person who had to sit through endless slide shows of my in-law’s trips abroad, I have never understood this. Absolutely nobody who has watched Rick Steves really cares about your vacation shots.

Oh my gosh. Grandchildren. Here is the thing: the only grandchildren I want to watch grow up are mine. And nobody else on the planet cares how tall my grandson is getting. So all those cheerleader posts on Facebook are wasted on anybody that isn’t a close blood relative. But grandchild photos abound on SM (which I learned just last month means “social media,” and not sado-you know what).

I understand that teens spend nearly as much time as I used to on Social Media. But they like to make TikToks about makeup, gymnastics, and doing the choreography to Taylor Swift’s latest songs. This was shocking for me to realize that my scrolling for posts of other folk’s dinners and shots taken from the balconies of cruise ships consumed the same amount of time that teens spend looking at makeup demos and skateboarding tricks.

So, in one fell swoop, I deleted all of my accounts. It was hard at first; I reached for my iPhone for no reason. I felt a little frustrated that I no longer had any reason to take photos of my cat or my latest pedicure. I had all that free time suddenly. I began to fill my empty hours with television crime shows: it’s always the spouse. So then I started doing more exercising. This has caused an increase in in my visits to the chiropractor. But one benefit of doing all these Bird Dogs and Planks is that I no longer have to worry about falling and not being able to get up.

Are you still on Facebook? Well, get OFF.

I just read the most sappy, saccharine, and derivative book I think I have ever picked up. No author or title mentioned, but here are my pet peeves about this one and many others I have read:

Plot is important, but let’s not get carried away. A twist here and there is necessary, but changing identities, having relatives show up out of nowhere, and having every last character have a deep secret is exhausting.

I have to say this, also: there is only one Anne of Green Gables. So featuring a child character whose eyes shine with joy, who has a large vocabulary, and whose imagination is generated at the drop of a pine cone is just too much. It has been done already, and nobody else writing a book has ever come close to L. M. Montgomery’s Anne. So when I read about a child who names the trees in her yard, I want to get out a Sharpie and start redacting.

Oh, my gosh. Teeth. They are either gnashing, chattering, clenched, or gritted.

And what about eyes? Do they have to be kind, troubled, anguished, or filled with tears? And by the way, I have never noticed whether or not somebody’s eyes seem troubled. And as far as I can tell, there are blue eyes, brown eyes, hazel eyes, and gray ones. Eyes the color of sea water are blue. Caramel eyes are brown, for heaven’s sake. Light brown, then. But who on earth would answer “Caramel,” when asked what color their son/daughter/wife/husband/mother’s eyes are?

In this particular book, the heroine got an inkling that she was falling in love when warmth “crept into her limbs.” This could describe getting the measles (we will talk about vaccination rates some other time), needing to open some windows, or simply wearing a wool cardigan. She also, when the object of her desires left town, felt as if her heart had “stopped beating.” Really. And when he came back, she knew he was coming toward her in the yard because there was “a whisper of grass.”

Food. Too much of it is buttery, creamy, glistening, steaming, tart, herby, or rich. And this is a real peeve: characters never seem to be able to eat the food. Instead, they nibble, munch, crunch, crumble, or taste. And they never seem to finish, because somebody rings the doorbell, has a fainting spell, is poisoned, sees a lover coming down the lane, or has a shocking thought. My God, if the book describes a buttery anything, I really want them to eat it and tell us how it was.

The biggest advice they give authors is to “show, don’t tell.” This means that if a character opens a door, he can’t just “open” it. He has to put his hand upon the tarnished brass doorknob and feel the indentations made by generations who opened that same door before he did. It is important to “show”, but I think some authors take this way too far, and show you to death. 

I have written a few novels, and I am certain that I have never overdone the “showing,” because I find “showing” so difficult. For instance, I would so rather write that “the man walked out the door,” rather than struggling to describe the man’s hair, whether or not he was limping, what sort of material the door was made of, was it a heavy door or a regular door, did it open easily or did it need to be oiled, and did the man hesitate before leaving.

Ok, I’ll give it a go:

Gerald, his hands trembling from emotion, approached the heavy steel door. Without hesitation, Gerald reached  for the knob. It felt cold to the touch. Gerald struggled, for the knob was greasy from the pizza his brother Ronny ate before he left the warehouse. Ronny was stupid; he never used napkins.  Gerald lurched into the parking lot, his thick, ginger hair falling into his emerald eyes. Gerald laughed to himself. Ronny was such a waste. Just last week, Ronny kicked his brother in the nuts, and Gerald fell down, spraining his ankle. Gerald still had a noticeable limp. But today he got his revenge; he punched Ronny so hard his nose began to bleed, dripping on to the filthy red and brown checked flannel shirt that Ronny always wore. Today was a good day. Gerald gimped over to his 2021 Ford Fiesta, silver with black leather interior. Gerald wrenched open the door, stepped in to the hot car, banged his forehead on the top of the open door, and slumped behind the steering wheel. He honked the horn at his disgusting brother as he wheeled out of the lot to head home.

I hate both Gerald and Ronny. Instead:

Gerald punched Ronny in the nose and left.

The end.

48 Hours. 20/20. Dateline. Every crime podcast. The victims are always extremely innocent. Everybody they interview on those programs and podcasts says so. These people never deserve what happens to them.

I, on the other hand, am SO not innocent.

I have hurt so many flies it isn’t even funny. As a matter of fact, if a fly comes into my vicinity, I will try to kill it. Kill it and throw in in the trash, then bleach the place where the fly died. I have no conscience about this. I am a fly killer.

I don’t light up a room when I enter. It is very possible that the room actually dims when I come in, because I am an anti social woman. I don’t like small talk, because I am not good at it at all. I don’t want to know what you do for a living, and I cerainly don’t care what hometown you came from. I am not interested in your hobbies, your favorite color, or how many children you have and what their names are, for heaven’s sake.

I am not the life of any party, I don’t have a whole lot of friends, I am often grumpy, I don’t want to show you pictures of my grandchildren. I don’t drink, so there is no loosening up, ever. I stay exactly the same at midnight as I was at six o’clock.

Oh, and I am SO judgmental. I think people shouldn’t wear Bermuda shorts to a funeral. What in the hell is that thing on your head? Do you honestly feel comfortable in those tight pants? Why does everyone need a water bottle at all times? My God,  every single person on earth chews gum constantly!

If I met an untimely end, some podcaster would come across my name in the obits and do some research, then immediately throw my information in the trash, because it would be impossible to make me out as a sympathetic figure. No matter how they tried, it would end up in frustration and the search for a more engaging victim.

This may be what saves me. Just look at the photo above. Would you try to tangle with this woman? Would you dare to even ask her for directions? Or inquire if she has any spare change? Of course not. She would look at you with those “dark eyes” and send you slinking off.

Ted Bundy, Bonnie and Clyde, The Son of Sam, The Zodiac killer–they probably only killed nice people.

Every time I go grocery shopping, my husband wants to know if the store was crowded, and every time I give him the same answer: “I didn’t notice.” I never notice, because I have absolutely no curiosity about–well, basically everything.

When we go to a National Park, (which is almost never), reading the historical plaques is not for me. I just want to look at the scenery quickly and move on. My husband reads every single plaque and then asks questions about what he learned from those plaques to the person behind the counter in the gift shop, who has no idea what the plaques say because she is in high school, this is a summer job, and she also has no curiosity.

When he got home from the doctor recently, he told me all about the physician’s assistant’s life: she has blah blah children, lived in some other country whose name I missed because I wasn’t paying attention, and oh yes, she got her degree at blah blah college. When I go to the doctor, I don’t even know the physician’s assistant’s name, because it doesn’t matter what her name is: all that matters is what is this thing on my arm?

This is why I hate all the Ken Burns documentary series, which give WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION. All I want to know about the Civil War is who won. Ok, and maybe if Mary Todd Lincoln was chubby.

I also do not have any interest in where our waiter went to high school, if he or she is majoring in accounting or psychology, how long this waiter has worked here, and why the restaurant isn’t crowded tonight. And sidebar: if he asks one more waiter “Are you the chef?” I will throw my mineral water in my husband’s face. Maybe.

I never Google “How does a person get bunions?” Because nobody in this household has bunions. 

I am SO not interested in what the enrollment is at Wright State University today versus a decade ago. I am not curious about how many nuns still wear habits, or if Zohran Mamdani has a nickname.

I like to concern myself with what matters: how long to bake a potato, if women still wear pantyhose (we have a wedding coming up; it’s necessary), or when daylight savings starts (as opposed to who invented it, how long ago, if it has ever been suspended, and if any states don’t have it).

I also, when asking my husband a question, just want the answer to my question, not the history of three days before the answer to my question, including a timeline of events. I’ll give you an example: My question: “What time do we have to leave for the airport?” I want a number. However, here is his usual answer: “Well, let’s see.  Today is Monday. You have pottery class on Tuesday morning. I have a meeting Tuesday night, which means I won’t be home for dinner. We leave on Thursday. So Wednesday night, we will pack our suitcases. I will want to go to bed early. How long will it take you to get ready to leave for the airport? Forty five minutes? So you are supposed to get to the airport two hours before the flight. Taking into consideration parking the car and walking from the garage into the airport, I would say

At this point, I am shouting “MY GOD, JUST GIVE ME A NUMBER!”

I don’t need background. I don’t need details. I just want the facts–necessary facts. What my dentist’s husband does for a living-NO. How many people were in the grocery store at two this afternoon-NO. Where Johnny Appleseed was born-NOPE.

It killed the cat, folks.

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.