National Poop Day

 

Yes, this is real.

Yes, it’s today (February 9).
And yes—💩 is absolutely the correct emoji for the occasion.

National Poop Day wasn’t created by gastroenterologists in white coats or wellness influencers selling $90 probiotics. It was created by children. Which, frankly, makes it more honest than most health campaigns.

Kids know something adults forget: if you can’t poop comfortably, nothing else is going well.

Why a day about poop actually matters

Behind the giggles is a serious point. 💩 is the end-of-line report of digestion.

It reflects what you ate, how well you absorbed it, how fast (or stalled) things are moving, and how your gut, liver, gallbladder, microbiome, and nervous system are cooperating.

In other words, poop is not gross. It’s data.

Children get this instinctively. They notice when something is off. Adults, on the other hand, are trained to ignore it, be embarrassed by it, or only talk about it when things are already very wrong.

National Poop Day flips that script—with humor.

A very unscientific (but accurate) poop scale

The Goldilocks Poop
Not too hard, not too loose, no drama, no urgency. Digestive peace achieved.

The Rabbit Pellet Poop
Tiny, dry, stubborn. Things are moving… reluctantly.

The Soft-Serve Surprise
Technically poop, emotionally confusing. Speed is winning over absorption.

The Disappearing Act
“Wait… did I even go?” Not enough bulk, bile, or coordination.

The Nuclear Emergency
We don’t need to describe this one. Everyone knows.

Kids laugh at these. Adults quietly recognize themselves.

Why kids were right to start this

Children talk about poop because their bodies are still honest. They haven’t learned shame around bodily signals. They know that discomfort matters.

Somewhere along the way, adults decided digestion should be silent, invisible, and ignored—until it explodes into a diagnosis.

National Poop Day says maybe we should have listened sooner.

The takeaway (before this gets too weird)

💩 is not crude.
💩 is not silly.
💩 is not too much information.

💩 is feedback.

So today, laugh about it. Normalize it. Pay attention to it. And maybe—just maybe—thank the kids who had the wisdom to say:

“Hey. Everyone poops. Let’s talk about it.”

Happy National Poop Day.
Let ’er rip. 💩

When the Past Meets the Present

In 1983, I was on a school trip to Italy. Venice was the destination, but somewhere along the way we crossed the Alps by bus. I took a photo through the window with a very unambitious camera. No framing. No intention. Just mountains appearing briefly and then disappearing again.

That photo is the only one I still have from the trip.

Years later, those same mountains—the Dolomites near Bolzano—are hosting the Olympics. Bigger. Faster. Stronger. Global cameras, global narratives, slow-motion triumph. I love the Olympics. I really do. I will absolutely watch them and already saw the opening ceremony (the parade of nations is my favorite part). I admire the discipline, the endurance, the sheer stubbornness of the human body doing impossible things on ice and snow.

I just tend to notice… other stuff.

While everyone else is focused on the podium, my brain drifts toward the edges of the frame. The athletes who trained just as hard but didn’t make it into a highlight reel. The towns that become backdrops instead of stories. The people whose names never get pronounced confidently by a commentator.

This is not a critique. It’s a personality flaw. That's why I am so fascinated by the parade of nations. I always look at the people from the countries that bring a small contingent of people, like less than ten.

I’ve always rooted for underdogs. Not in a loud, banner-waving way—more in a quiet “I see you over there” way. The ones who don’t fit the broadcast narrative. The ones who keep going without sponsorships, slogans, or dramatic music swelling behind them.

Somewhere along the way, media coverage stopped being curious about those people. Everything became optimized: faster clips, clearer heroes, cleaner arcs. And while I understand why—attention spans, algorithms, branding—I still miss the nobody stories. The almost-there stories. The “kept going anyway” stories.

Maybe that’s why that blurry mountain photo stuck with me. It wasn’t meant to last. It wasn’t meant to be important. It wasn’t even meant to be taken. And yet, there it is—still standing while everything else from that trip (and my past) vanished.

So yes, I’ll watch the Olympics. I’ll cheer. I’ll admire the medals. I’ll enjoy the spectacle unfolding in the Dolomites, including events in Cortina d'Ampezzo during the 2026 Winter Olympics.

I’ll just also keep wondering about the people no one interviews.

Because apparently, that’s just how I watch things.

Western Monarch Day

 

The Other Half of the Monarch Story

When people hear “monarch butterfly migration,” they usually picture a breathtaking river of orange and black flowing from Canada to the mountains of central Mexico. It’s a powerful image—and a real one. But it’s only half the story. Western Monarch Day exists because an entire population of monarchs lives a very different life west of the Rocky Mountains—and their story has been quietly slipping out of public awareness.

The monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus) is a single species, but geography has shaped it into two distinct migratory cultures.

Eastern monarchs live east of the Rocky Mountains, migrate thousands of miles each fall, overwinter in oyamel fir forests in central Mexico, and travel in massive, dramatic swarms that can cover trees and hillsides. This migration is visually astonishing, easy to film, and happens in one highly concentrated location—which matters more than people realize.

Western monarchs live west of the Rocky Mountains, migrate shorter distances, overwinter along the California coast from Mendocino to Baja, and settle in hundreds of small groves of eucalyptus, Monterey pine, and cypress. Western monarchs don’t gather in one grand spectacle. They scatter. They tuck themselves into coastal pockets, often unnoticed unless you know exactly where to look.

The imbalance in coverage isn’t accidental—it’s structural. Eastern monarchs create jaw-dropping footage: trees turning orange, butterflies lifting like smoke into the sky. Western monarchs form smaller clusters in shaded groves, harder to film and harder to explain in a 30-second segment. 

Eastern monarchs overwinter in a small, defined region of Mexico, while western monarchs use many dispersed sites across California. That makes population tracking messier—and mess doesn’t headline well. Eastern monarchs have been monitored for decades with standardized methods. 

Western monarch counts only became consistent relatively recently, meaning their collapse was underreported for years. When western monarch numbers crashed by over 99% in the early 2000s, it barely registered outside conservation circles. By the time headlines noticed, the population was already on the brink.

Western monarchs face a unique set of pressures: loss of overwintering groves due to coastal development, decline of native milkweed in the West, drought and heat extremes, pesticide drift from agricultural regions, and poorly chosen “help” efforts like tropical milkweed disrupting migration cues.

In recent years, western monarch numbers have shown surprising rebounds—but those rebounds are fragile. A single bad drought year or storm season can erase gains quickly. This isn’t a comeback story yet. It’s a holding pattern.

Western Monarch Day exists to correct a quiet imbalance. It reminds us that conservation isn’t just about the biggest numbers or the prettiest footage, that regional ecosystems matter, and that a species can survive in multiple ways—and lose ground in silence. Western monarchs don’t migrate like a parade. They migrate like a whisper. And whispers are easier to ignore until they’re gone.

The monarch story mirrors a larger truth: what gets attention isn’t always what’s most vulnerable. Eastern monarchs taught us how to love a migration. Western monarchs are teaching us how to notice what survives off-camera. 

Today, Western Monarch Day asks us to widen the lens—and remember that absence doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it fades, grove by grove, until someone finally says: Wait. Where did they go? And then the real work begins.

Those who have dedicated their lives to preserving western monarchs deserve more than quiet credit. Much of their work happens in fragmented coastal groves, volunteer counts at dawn, long advocacy battles over single stands of trees, and years when the numbers were so low it would have been easy to give up. Western monarchs are still here because people noticed when almost no one else was looking.

What Can You Do?

You don’t need to live in California. You don’t need a meadow. You don’t need to “save the monarchs” single-handedly. 

What helps most is many small, biologically sane actions done consistently.

• If you’re in monarch range, plant region-appropriate native milkweed, not tropical varieties. If you’re not, plant native flowering plants that support local pollinators. Avoid double-flowered ornamentals—they’re often useless to insects. Think nectar access, not Instagram aesthetics.
  
  
• Skip pesticides and herbicides, even “natural” ones, whenever possible. Remember: chemicals don’t stay put. Drift and runoff matter more than intent. A slightly messy yard is a functional ecosystem, not neglect. This helps monarchs, bees, moths, birds—and soil itself.
  
  
• Fallen leaves, hollow stems, seed heads, and old trees provide shelter. Western monarchs rely on specific trees for overwintering—but globally, insects rely on structure. “Clean” landscapes are often ecological deserts. Life needs places to pause.
  
  
• Donate to or share work from local conservation groups, not just national campaigns. Volunteer counts, habitat restoration days, or educational outreach if available. Even amplifying their work online helps correct the attention imbalance. Attention is a resource. Spend it wisely.
  
  
• Monarchs teach a universal lesson, but every region has its own fragile keystone species. Learn the migration, lifecycle, or stressors of one insect, bird, or plant near you. Depth beats breadth. Care grows from familiarity. You protect what you recognize.

Not every crisis arrives with stunning visuals or viral footage. Share stories about less visible ecosystems and species. Western monarchs remind us that survival doesn’t always look dramatic. Silence isn’t stability.

Western monarch conservation teaches something rare and valuable: persistence without applause. Today doesn’t require grand gestures. It asks for awareness, restraint, and follow-through—wherever you live. Because ecosystems don’t fail all at once. They fail when attention narrows. And they recover when enough people quietly widen it again.

Feed the Birds Day

Feed the Birds Day, February 3, has a way of sneaking up quietly—much like the birds themselves.

I started feeding the birds in the garden about a year ago, without much ceremony. No grand plan. No backyard makeover. Just a small offering placed outside, mostly because winter had made the world feel narrow and I needed something that wasn’t another wall or screen.

And then they came.

At first, it was simple joy: movement in a season that feels frozen in place. Feathers flickering past the kitchen window. Tiny negotiations over seed. A sudden flurry when someone bold decided the feeder was theirs. It became the one reason I consistently went outside during this long, dismal winter—even if “outside” only meant going outside long enough to refill a feeder with cold fingers.

But here’s the part that surprised me most.

On the days I get lazy—when the cold feels especially personal, when the indoors tries to convince me it was safer to stay put—they line up on the fence. Watching. Waiting. Staring straight through the glass as if to say:

Hey. We’re still out here.

Not accusatory. Just… factual.

There’s something grounding about that exchange. The birds don’t romanticize winter. They don’t complain about it either. They live in it. Fully. Feathers puffed, eyes sharp, routines intact. They remind me that showing up isn’t always about enthusiasm—it’s about participation.

Feed the birds day isn’t really about the seed. It’s about connection. About choosing a small act that keeps you tethered to the living world when everything else feels dormant. It’s about noticing that even when the garden looks empty, it isn’t. Life is just quieter. Watching. Waiting.

And sometimes—when you forget, when you stall, when you hide from the cold—they’ll remind you.

From the fence.
With patience.
And very direct eye contact. That's how I got to take the lovely picture for this post, through my kitchen window.

One thing I didn’t realize when I first started feeding birds is that “birdseed” isn’t a one-size-fits-all offering. Birds are wonderfully particular. Different species eat different foods, and just as importantly, they eat in different places.

Some birds prefer feeders that hang high and sway in the breeze. Others won’t touch them at all and wait patiently on the ground. It’s not fussiness—it’s biology, habit, and safety.

Here’s the gentle logic behind it:

• Seed types matter.
  Sunflower seeds (especially black oil sunflower) are a favorite for many songbirds. Nyjer (thistle) attracts finches. Millet tends to appeal to ground feeders. Suet supports birds that need extra energy in cold weather.

• Feeding height matters.
  Some birds instinctively feed from the ground or low platforms, while others feel safest eating higher up. If you only offer hanging feeders, you may never see certain species—even though they’re nearby.

• Your region matters.
  Birds eat what evolution and environment taught them to eat. Local bird populations have preferences shaped by climate, migration patterns, and native plants. What works beautifully in one region may be ignored in another.

What I love most about learning this is how it changes the act of feeding birds from a generic task into a quiet conversation. You put something out. They respond—or don’t. You adjust. They return. Over time, you start to recognize who eats where, who waits their turn, and who pretends they’re not watching you refill the feeder (while very much watching).

Feeding the birds isn’t just generosity—it’s attentiveness. And once you tune in, the garden becomes less of a backdrop and more of a shared space, with rules written in feathers instead of words.

Yup, It's Still Winter

Yes, the picture is of a hedgehog, but everyone knows, that today, February 2, is Groundhog Day. Yes, that annual moment when we pretend a weather forecast requires a furry middleman, a top hat, and a crowd at dawn. A groundhog is yanked from its burrow, stares into the existential abyss (also known as Pennsylvania), and somehow this becomes a binding meteorological decree.

Let me simplify the ritual, free of folklore and pageantry:
If the sun is out, winter continues. If the sun is not out, winter also continues.
There. Forecast complete. No rodents harmed. No suspense music required.

What fascinates me most isn’t the superstition—it’s the commitment. We livestream this. We interview officials. We hold press conferences. Somewhere,  actual meteorologists are sipping coffee, quietly wondering why their degree didn’t come with a whistle and a sash.

And yet—here’s the real tell—we don’t do this with hedgehogs.

Today is also Hedgehog Day, which passes with blissful sanity. No crowds. No predictions. No forced awakenings. Hedgehogs are left alone to do what winter-wise creatures do best: mind their business. Curl up. Conserve energy. Ignore humans entirely. An elite strategy, frankly.

Imagine the alternative:

“Breaking news: Harold the Hedgehog has not seen his shadow because he refused to come outside, and honestly, same.”

Hedgehogs understand winter. They don’t forecast it. They endure it. Quietly. Efficiently. With boundaries.

Groundhog Day, on the other hand, feels like the weather equivalent of shaking a Magic 8 Ball and acting shocked by the answer. It’s not that it’s wrong—it’s that it’s unnecessary. We already know winter lingers. Our joints know. Our heating bills know. The sky at 4:45 p.m. definitely knows.

So today, I propose a modern update:

• Look outside.

• Note the temperature.

• Accept reality.

• Let small animals sleep.

Celebrate Hedgehog Day instead. No predictions. No theatrics. Just a gentle nod to creatures who understand that winter is not a performance—it’s a season you get through by staying warm and not being dragged into nonsense before sunrise.

If that’s not wisdom, I don’t know what is. 🦔❄️

Just the Facts

 

First: Weather and Climate Are Not the Same Thing

Weather = what happens in the present.

• Today’s temperature
• This week’s snowstorm
• That single brutal cold snap that killed your car battery

Climate = long-term pattern.

• Averages over decades
• Typical seasonal ranges
• How often extremes happen
• What “normal” looks like over 30+ years

Second: Global Warming = Planet's Average Temperature is Rising

• It does not mean winter is canceled.
• It does not mean cold air disappears.
• It does not mean snowstorms have been politely asked to leave.

Third: The Polar Vortex Has Always Existed

• Cold air stays mostly north
• The jet stream stays tight and fast
• Winters are cold but relatively predictable

Fourth: The Arctic Is Warming Faster Than Everywhere Else

• The Arctic is warming two to four times faster than lower latitudes.
•  Ice melts. 
• Snow cover shrinks. 
• Dark ocean absorbs heat instead of reflecting it.

Fifth: A Weak Jet Stream Lets Cold Air Escape South

• When the jet stream buckles, Arctic air spills
• Severe cold snaps then happen in places that aren’t built for them
• Unseasonably warm Arctic conditions happen at the same time
• Weather systems stall instead of moving along

Sixth: Extreme Cold During Warming Is Not a Contradiction, it's a Symptom

• Sudden freezes
• Rapid thaws
• Wild temperature swings
• Long-lasting weather events that refuse to move on

What a Fact Is

• A fact is something that can be verified independently.
• It can be measured, observed, recorded, or tested
• It does not change based on belief, opinion, or repetition
• It holds up whether anyone likes it or not

What “True” Often Means

• “This feels right to me”
• “I heard this a lot”
• “This matches my experience”
• “This fits my worldview”

Examples (Real Life)

- Our car battery froze. (fact) 

Verification: Turned key, car didn't start. Hooked up battery charger, battery voltage showed low. Replaced with new battery, car starts.

 - Our indoor hot water line in the bathroom froze. (fact) 

Verification: Turned knob, no water. Checked temperate inside cabinet where lines are, temps below freezing.

Truth claim:

“Our car battery froze and we can’t shower in the middle of winter, so global warming does not exist.”

Facts after intervention:

Changed battery → car works. Temperature outside is still in single digits.

Took Amish showers → temperature still below freezing inside the bathroom cabinet, Water line remains frozen.

When Life Freezes Over

 

... Make Ice Cream?

This is one of those notes I never quite plan to write — the kind that happens when real life barrels in without asking permission.

Over the past few days, winter did what winter does best: it froze things solid. A dead car battery in polar temperatures. A frozen hot water pipe inside the house (yes, even with heat tape). And suddenly the careful lines between rent, food, and creative income blurred faster than I’d like to admit.

I later learned that day it was officially “Observe the Weather Day.”
I didn’t need the reminder — but I’ve been observing very closely.

To get the car running again, I had to dig into places I normally protect fiercely — including rent, food, and even royalty money from my books. I promised myself I wouldn’t touch that… and yet, here we are. Survival sometimes wins the argument.

So this note is partly honesty, partly gratitude, and partly an invitation.

If you’ve ever enjoyed my work — the stories, the worlds, the research, the quiet humor, the strange little insights — this is me putting everything in one place and saying: this is how my work keeps me going right now.

📚 All of my books, across genres, live here:
👉 Ye 'olde books

You’ll find thoughtful nonfiction, whimsical fiction, illustrated projects, and poetry to support the nervous system — all organized in one place.

If you choose to purchase, share, or even just pass this along, you’re not just buying a book. You’re helping me rebuild a bit of margin after one of those “everything at once” weeks.

No pressure. No obligation. Just a genuine thank-you for reading, for caring, and for being part of the quiet network that makes independent work possible.

Warmly (and hopefully with running hot water again soon because we like to shower before April instead of being "Suddenly Amish" 🙄),
Alexandra

Observe the Weather Day

What the Sky Has Always Been Telling Us

Observe the Weather Day is today, January 25. It seems ironic because of the big USA weather event currently in progress. Anyway, long before weather apps, Doppler radar, or hourly forecasts, people learned to live by looking up.

Ancient farmers read the tilt of clouds and the behavior of birds. Sailors studied wind patterns by watching waves darken and feather. Indigenous cultures across the world developed astonishingly precise systems of observation—tracking seasonal shifts through stars, animal migrations, plant behavior, and subtle changes in air and light. Weather wasn’t background noise; it was a teacher, a calendar, and sometimes a warning.

Observation came first. Technology came later.

As civilizations advanced, weather watching became more formal. The ancient Greeks began recording patterns. Medieval monks kept climate logs alongside religious texts. The invention of instruments—the barometer, thermometer, hygrometer—shifted weather from intuition to measurement. By the 19th and 20th centuries, weather observation had become institutional: national services, satellites, global models. Today, we carry forecasts in our pockets, updated by the minute.

And yet, Observe the Weather Day reminds us of something quieter and more human: before prediction, there was paying attention.

Observation Isn’t Just About the Sky

This year, most of the United States is being hammered by a polar vortex—snow, ice, bitter cold, power strain, stalled transportation. On the surface, it’s “just weather.” A natural force doing what it has always done.

But observation doesn’t stop at snowfall totals.

When the temperature drops sharply, the weather reveals fault lines we don’t usually see.

For some, a polar vortex is an inconvenience: delayed flights, remote work, a higher heating bill that’s annoying but manageable. For others, it’s a cascading crisis. A dead car battery becomes a financial emergency. A missed shift turns into lost rent money. A frozen pipe threatens housing stability. A power outage means spoiled food, medical equipment failure, or unsafe indoor temperatures.

The weather itself is neutral. The impact is not.

Weather as a Stress Test

Extreme weather acts like a stress test on society. It exposes how thin the margins are for people already living at the edge of their resources. When systems work only under ideal conditions, a single weather hiccup can topple them.

Observe the weather day, then, is not just about clouds and cold fronts—it’s about noticing how interconnected everything is:

• Transportation depends on infrastructure and affordability

• Heat depends on energy access and income stability

• Safety depends on housing quality and social support

• Recovery depends on savings, flexibility, and time

Those with financial buffers absorb the shock. Those without are forced into impossible tradeoffs: heat or food, repairs or rent, medication or fuel.

This isn’t a failure of individuals. It’s a visibility moment.

Expanding What We Mean by “Observation”

What if observing the weather also meant observing its ripple effects?

What if we noticed not just the ice on the roads, but who can’t afford snow tires?
Not just the cold, but who can’t risk missing work?
Not just the outage, but who has no backup plan because there was never room to build one?

Weather makes the invisible visible.

It shows us how resilience is not evenly distributed—and how quickly stability can unravel when resources are already stretched beyond limits. It also invites a broader understanding of preparedness, one that includes economic reality, health, disability, aging, and caregiving—not just emergency kits and forecasts.

A Day for Awareness, Not Alarm

Observe the Weather Day doesn’t ask us to fear nature. It asks us to listen.

To look beyond the storm itself and see the human landscape underneath it. To recognize that “once-in-a-generation” events are becoming more frequent—and that systems built for comfort, not equity, will continue to fracture under pressure.

Observation is the first step toward wiser design: better support structures, more humane policies, stronger community responses. You can’t fix what you refuse to see.

So today, notice the sky. Notice the cold. And notice who is carrying far more weight than the weather alone. Because sometimes the most important thing the forecast reveals isn’t the temperature—it’s the truth about how close many people already are to the edge.

Change a Pet’s Life Day

The Quiet Power of Choosing Them Back

Some days slip by unnoticed. Others arrive carrying a soft nudge—an invitation to remember who we’ve been, and who we’re still becoming. Change a Pet’s Life Day on January 24 is one of those days.

It isn’t about grand gestures or viral rescues. It’s about the quieter moments that alter two lives at once: the day you say yes to an animal who has already learned how to wait, the day a wary heartbeat syncs with yours, the day a home becomes shared rather than occupied.

Changing a pet’s life rarely looks dramatic from the outside. Often, it looks like routine. Food bowls. Vet visits. Patience. Learning the difference between a bark that means I’m scared and a meow that means I trust you enough to complain. But to the animal on the receiving end, it’s everything.

The Two-Way Transformation

Anyone who has lived with more than one species knows this: pets don’t just fit into our lives—they reshape them.

Dogs teach us about presence in motion. They remind us to go outside when we’d rather stay in, to greet the world with enthusiasm even after disappointment. They are momentum with fur.

Cats, on the other hand, teach sovereignty. Consent. The art of choosing connection rather than demanding it. Cats don't follow you to prove loyalty; they sit beside you because they decided to.

Both change us in different ways. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get to learn from both.

The Ones Who Came Before

Even when a pet is no longer with us, their influence doesn’t fade. It becomes part of how we see animals everywhere—how we pause at shelter posts, how we notice the quiet ones in the back kennels, how we understand that behavior is often just communication waiting to be translated.

Loving a pet once often opens the door to loving many, even indirectly.

Changing Lives Beyond Our Own Homes

Not everyone can adopt. Not everyone has the space, the health, or the timing. But changing a pet’s life doesn’t require a leash in your hand—it can start with a pen, a keyboard, or a willingness to support the systems that protect the most vulnerable animals.

Years ago, that belief guided me toward contributing creative work to Write to Meow and Write to Woof in 2014 and 2015. These anthologies were designed to financially support no-kill shelters—using storytelling as a lifeline, turning words into bowls filled, lights kept on, doors kept open.

It was my way of extending the circle. Of saying: even if I can’t save them all, I can help hold the net.

Today Is a Good Day to Choose Them

Change a Pet’s Life Day isn’t about perfection. It’s about intention.

Donate if you can. Share a shelter post. Foster if your life allows it. Write, advocate, volunteer, or simply speak kindly about animals who are too often misunderstood. Every action, however small it feels, shifts the world for someone who depends on human choices to survive.

And sometimes—without planning to—you’ll realize they changed your life right back.

***

If you're still with me, I am sharing the entries that I submitted to the books (unfortunately, only one was chosen for publication, even though they were designed to be read together):

Dear Not-a-Cat,

            I am writing this letter to you because you remain silent, although I have been trying to talk to you for over two years. What, you don't speak Cat? Well, you don't look like a cat either, although the size is right. You are shorter than I am, but Mom and Dad keep saying that I weigh more, whatever that means. Why do you have such a huge head then?

            I must admit, the size of that head that comes with the big mouth and teeth scared me when you first moved in. That is why I hissed and stayed off the floor for a moon or so, until I figured out you could not get onto furniture. They are mine anyway, thank goodness. Of course I was upset at first when you moved in. I did not mind getting a dad, but I was a bit mad at him at first for bringing in a smelly not-a-cat.

            I asked Mom back then why we could not get rid of you because you scared me, but she said that, just like me, you had a forever home here. She told me that your first dad got rid of you after only a short time because he did not like your habit of getting into the garbage can. Hey, I love the garbage can too! Too bad that Mom and Dad keep it behind that hard-to-open-door. I have been trying to tell you how we can work together to get into it, but why won't you listen?

            Anyway, here is a little secret for you: See, Mom was not the first hooman in my life either. It took me a while to convince her to allow her to provide me with a home and food. She kept telling me she could not have a cat, whatever that means. Of course I always get my way, so here I am. If you ever decide to speak to me, let's figure out a plan on how to tackle that hidden food supply, okay?

            Here are a few things that puzzle me: Why do you not poop in a box like I do? It's so much easier than going outside in the cold. Also, I don't understand why you don't always drink out of your own water bowl. It's sooooo much bigger than mine, made for that big snout of yours. Plus, why do you gobble your food in one sitting? I always leave some for later. Geez. Why do you make life so difficult for yourself?

Meow,

Princess Gracie, the Cat

***

Dear Not-a-Dog,

            Of course I don't speak Cat, I am a dog. Why don't you learn Dog? I suppose, that in the meantime, a letter will have to do. Of course I don't look like anything like you because I am a dog. A wiener dog, also known as a Dachshund, to be exact. (No, not weiner). People call us hot dogs, but I don't like that. We are not food, we are dogs. See,  hoomans make those stupid hot dog costumes that they put on us to make us look like the food. They think it's fun, but I don't think that is cool.

            So, my life is not easy at all. Besides being burdened with that name, I have the disadvantage of my breed: short legs. That means I can't get up on the couch or bed, like you. Nor can I get to all the yummy food in the house. Do you know what it's like to smell all that delicious foodstuff and never get any of it?

            You can climb! I wish you would get some of the foodstuff from the top and throw it on the floor. That's even better than raiding the garbage can. Besides, you have a bowl that is full of kibbles all the time, but I get fed only once a day. It's not fair, I say. Of course I gobble it down in one sitting then.

            Also, you don't get made wet every month, like I do. Bath, they call it, to make me clean. I resent the fact that everyone thinks that I am smelly or dirty. I don't smell anything. Well, what I do smell is the scent you leave behind after having lain in my bed when I am not in it. Not cool. I wish they would immerse you in the wet stuff sometimes, so you could understand what that is like.

            And no, I don't make my life difficult by going outside to poop or pee. I don't even need a box, like you do. The floor is just fine for me. However, for some reason that is frowned upon around here. So, it's Mom and Dad who make it difficult on me by making me go outside to do the business. And least I get a reward for that. Do you get food rewards for pooping in a box? No. Who is smarter now?

Woof,

Adrianne, the Dog

Happy "Answer Your Cat’s Questions" Day

Since today, January 22, is Answer Your Cat's Questions Day, let's begin with a very brief (and slightly smug) history of cats

Cats have been quietly running the world for a very long time.

Thousands of years ago, humans noticed that certain small, elegant creatures hung around grain stores and solved a very annoying mouse problem. Cats noticed that humans were warm, predictable, and easily trained with eye contact. An agreement was reached. Humans called it “domestication.” Cats called it a favorable housing arrangement.

In ancient times, cats were revered—sometimes worshipped, sometimes mummified, always admired. Later, during darker centuries, they were misunderstood, blamed for things they absolutely did not do, and still managed to survive by being faster, smarter, and more judgmental than everyone else.

By the Victorian era, cats had reclaimed their rightful place: lounging dramatically, inspiring art, and reminding humans that affection is best given sparingly and on feline terms.

Today, cats occupy their most powerful role yet: household supervisor, emotional barometer, and unpaid but relentless quality-control manager of human behavior.

Which brings us to today.

Enter: Princess Gracie 🐾

(tail flicks, blinks slowly)

Gracie:
Before we proceed, I have questions.

Question 1:
Why do humans sit down and then immediately get up again?

Answer:
Because we forgot something. Again. Probably coffee. Or the thing we stood up to do in the first place.

Gracie:
Unacceptable. Sitting should be final.

Question 2:
Why do you close doors when you know I exist?

Answer:
We are weak and briefly delusional about privacy.

Gracie:
Correct. Continue learning.

Question 3:
Why do you talk to me like I’m a baby, yet expect me to respect your authority?

Answer:
Because you are cute, and we are confused.

Gracie:
At least you’re honest.

Question 4:
Why do you buy toys when the real treasure is clearly the box?

Answer:
Because we are trying. That’s all we can say.

Gracie:
Noted. Try less. Observe more.

Question 5:
Why do you stop petting me right when it becomes perfect?

Answer:
Because we misread the moment.

Gracie:
Yes. You always do.

At this point, Princess takes over the blog

I have allowed the human to answer enough questions for today.

Let me clarify a few things for the record:

• I am not “just sitting.” I am monitoring energy flow.

• I am not staring at nothing. I am watching things you are not qualified to perceive.

• I knock objects off surfaces to test gravity. It remains consistent.

• If I sleep near you, it is because you are warm and mildly acceptable. Do not become arrogant.

You may think you adopted me.
This is incorrect.

I arrived, assessed the situation, and stayed.

Today is Answer Your Cat’s Questions Day, but understand this:
Tomorrow is Do Better Without Being Asked Day.

Now if you’ll excuse me,
I must nap dramatically in a sunbeam
and dream of a world
where doors are never closed
and petting is flawless.

— Princess: (Yes, my mom drew the royal portrait of me for this blog post).
✨ End of blog. Feed me. ✨

Happy "Penguin Day"

 

Today’s Penguin Holiday Situation Is a Little… Penguin-ish

Today, January 20, according to the internet, it is both National Penguin Day and Penguin Awareness Day, which sounds impressive until you realize it’s the same date, the same animal, and two different moods trying to occupy the same tuxedo.

This is not because penguins demanded double recognition. Penguins, famously, do not run marketing campaigns. This is because humans cannot resist naming things twice and then pretending those names mean fundamentally different things.

Let’s clear up one thing immediately, because this is where penguin mythology tends to wobble like a toddler in snow boots: penguins do not all live in icy wastelands. Some do, yes, and they handle it with admirable professionalism. But others live on beaches, rocky coasts, and places where the sun absolutely knows what it’s doing.

African penguins stroll along warm shores. Galápagos penguins live practically on the equator, hopping across lava rocks like they lost a bet. Penguins are not ice mascots; they are adaptability experts in formal wear.

Which makes today’s double-holiday identity crisis oddly appropriate.

National Penguin Day is the feel-good version. This is the penguin you repost. The charming one. The “did you know they propose with pebbles?” penguin. This is the holiday equivalent of clapping when a penguin falls over and gets back up like nothing happened.

Penguin Awareness Day, meanwhile, leans back in its chair and asks whether you’re aware that ecosystems are complicated, food chains are fragile, and yes, some penguins are having a harder time than others depending on where they live and how humans behave nearby.

Same bird. Different conversation.

And here’s the thing: neither day is wrong. They’re just awkwardly stacked, like two hats on the same penguin, both insisting they’re essential.

Celebration without awareness turns animals into plush toys. Awareness without affection turns them into statistics. Penguins, inconveniently, exist somewhere in between — living, social, climate-resilient in some places, struggling in others, and entirely uninterested in our need to categorize their suffering neatly.

So, if you’re observing today, you don’t have to choose sides.

You can enjoy the elegance of a bird that thrives in deserts and blizzards. You can smile at their waddling confidence while acknowledging that not all colonies face the same future. You can hold delight and responsibility in the same sentence — something penguins have been doing with balance and grace for millions of years.

And if the calendars can’t get their act together, well…
At least the penguins still know how to stand tall, wherever they happen to live. 🐧

Happy "Mew Year for Cats" Day

 

(By Princess Gracie, who notices everything. Yes, this day is a real thing.)

They say today’s the Mew Year—for cats, no less,
Which frankly is odd and deeply suspect.
Because yesterday clearly rang in the year,
At midnight, with chaos and humans and cheer.

I was present. Awake. On official patrol.
While humans lost hats and misplaced their soul.
The clock struck twelve, the house shuddered twice—
I felt the shift. It wasn’t subtle or nice.

Yet here we are, a day late it seems,
Offering cats a delayed set of dreams.
As if we’d miss time, or needed a cue,
Or had to be told when the year became new.

I already judged it. The old one was meh.
I knocked something sacred directly off the ledge.
I set fresh intentions (mostly for naps),
And adjusted the sunbeam rotation maps.

So happy Mew Year, if that’s how it goes,
Though the timing is flawed, as everyone knows.
Next year, perhaps, trust the cats to decide—
We’ve been keeping time since the first mouse tried.

— Princess Gracie
Chronological Authority
Master of Midnight
🐾

National Resolution Planning Day

 A 4,000-Year-Old Idea We Keep Ignoring

Today, December 30, is National Resolution Planning Day, which exists for one simple reason: January 1st was always a terrible idea. We’re tired. We’re overstimulated. We’re digesting sugar, alcohol, family dynamics, and unrealistic expectations. And yet—every year—we’re told this is the moment to reinvent ourselves. History would like a word.

About 4,000 years ago, in ancient Babylon, people did not scream “NEW YEAR, NEW ME” into the void and hope for the best. They held a multi-day New Year festival called Akitu. Important clarification before we go any further: Akitu is not a person. Not a god. Not a prophet. It’s a process. Which already puts it light-years ahead of modern resolution culture.

Akitu was timed to spring, when crops could actually grow and the world itself was rebooting. Radical concept. The festival included reviewing the previous year’s failures, acknowledging chaos and imbalance, restoring social and moral order, and then making promises for the year ahead.

Promises weren’t vague. They were concrete: repay debts, return borrowed goods, fix what had been left undone. And yes—there were consequences. These vows were made under the watch of Marduk, whose whole mythological job was defeating chaos and restoring order. So accountability wasn’t a cute checkbox. It was existential.

One of the best parts? During Akitu, the king was publicly humbled—stripped of symbols of power and reminded that authority only existed if order was maintained. Translation: no one got to “manifest” their way out of responsibility. The sequence mattered: reflection → reckoning → restoration → commitment. Sound familiar? It should. That’s exactly what National Resolution Planning Day is trying to reintroduce—minus the ceremonial slapping.

Over centuries, this ritual got simplified. Babylon became Rome. Akitu became a calendar reset. Reflection turned into hype. Rome later tied January to Janus, the two-faced god who looked backward and forward. Even then, the message stayed intact: you don’t move forward without looking back. Somewhere along the way, modern culture kept the date and discarded the wisdom.

National Resolution Planning Day exists because, deep down, we know the truth. Change fails when it ignores nervous system capacity, stress load, biology, context, and reality. Babylonians didn’t call this burnout. They called it chaos. And chaos, historically speaking, was not something to flirt with.

Resolutions don’t fail because people are lazy. They fail because we keep skipping the part where we ask what actually didn’t work last year, what almost worked, and what our systems can realistically support right now. Planning isn’t hesitation. It’s intelligence. Babylon knew that. Rome remembered it. January 1st forgot.

So, if today feels quieter, slower, less dramatic—good. You’re not behind. You’re just finally doing this the way humans figured out 4,000 years ago. And honestly? Akitu would approve.

National Cookie Exchange Day

National Cookie Exchange Day, on December 22, arrived quietly this year—and with it, something far sweeter than a plate of treats.

Yesterday, my brother shared a recipe with me. Not just any recipe, but one he created years ago as a way of honoring our mother, who passed long ago. Food has a way of holding memory differently than words do. A recipe can become a bridge—between generations, between absence and presence, between who we were and who we are now.

As I read through his notes, I could feel that familiar layering of love and loss. This wasn’t about perfection or tradition in the glossy-magazine sense. It was about remembrance. About continuity. About finding a way to keep someone close without needing to say their name out loud.

I’m adapting the recipe to fit my current health needs—adjusting ingredients, softening edges, listening carefully to what my body can hold right now. In a way, that feels aligned with the spirit of the recipe itself. Adaptation is honoring. It says: this mattered then, and it still matters now, even if it looks different.

And maybe that’s the quiet lesson National Cookie Exchange Day offered me this year.

Christmas—and the whole holiday season—doesn’t always fit neatly. For many people, it never has. Grief changes the shape of celebrations. Illness changes the pace. Finances change the scope. Family structures change the script. There are so many reasons someone might feel like they don’t quite fit the mold this time of year.

But joy doesn’t require perfection. It doesn’t always arrive wrapped, planned, or scheduled.

Sometimes it shows up as a message from a sibling.
Perhaps it’s a recipe passed hand to hand across time.
Other times it’s the simple realization that you’re allowed to adapt—traditions, expectations, even holidays themselves—so they fit the life you’re actually living.

Joy, I’m learning, doesn’t demand that we perform it.
It just asks that we notice when it finds us.

Today, it found me in a recipe.
And that feels like enough. 🍪

National Twin Day

Because Some Gifts Come in Pairs

Today, December 18, is National Twin Day, which means it’s time to celebrate things that come in matching sets. Twins. If you have one, congratulations! But the world is full of other twins too: socks (when they behave). Gloves. Coffee refills. And, as it turns out, books.

Because books are one of the few gifts that are naturally bilingual, bi-format, and surprisingly cooperative when it comes to international gifting. Here’s the twin-friendly idea I’m embracing this season:

Read it now as an ebook. Gift it later as a paperback.

Yes — one book, two lives.

The ebook twin is the overachiever. It shows up instantly. No shipping delays. No customs forms. No mysterious “in transit” purgatory. You can start reading in your pajamas while your coffee is still thinking about becoming coffee.

The paperback twin is the traditionalist. It takes its time. It likes being wrapped. It enjoys making an entrance. It’s the one that ends up under the tree, on a table, or quietly handed over with a “this made me think of you.”

Together, they make a very well-behaved pair.

This approach also solves one of December’s greatest modern dilemmas: What if I want to give a book, but I also really want to read it?

Twins don’t judge. The ebook lets you preview, enjoy, underline, dog-ear digitally, and decide — with confidence — that yes, this is exactly the right book for that person. The paperback then does its job as the physical gift, blissfully unaware that you’ve already met its contents.

It’s not cheating. It’s research.

A Twin Day Thank-You to My International Readers

National Twin Day also feels like a good moment to tip my hat to readers outside the U.S., because international book shopping comes with its own special sport: finding the right Amazon site without opening twelve tabs and questioning all your life choices.

To make that easier, I’ve included direct links by country — so whether you’re in the UK,  Canada, Australia, Europe, or Japan, you can land on the correct Amazon site without detouring through the wrong continent.

The twin approach works especially well here:

• The ebook twin doesn’t care where you live — it arrives instantly.

• The paperback twin behaves better when ordered from your local Amazon marketplace.

Less hunting. Less confusion. More reading.

And because stories don’t need passports, this felt like the simplest way to say: you’re not an afterthought — you’re part of the process.

So, this week, I’ve gathered my titles into one place — poetry, fiction, and gentle non fiction— and made them easy to find no matter where you’re reading from.

Here's your international book portal link: A Heep of Books.

Some people want reflection.

Some want imagination.

Some want something that quietly untangles thoughts while the world does December at full volume.

Twins allow for all of it.

One for you.
One for them.
Same words. Different journeys.

Happy Twin Day — and thank you for reading from wherever you are.