A Little More Hope, A Little Less Fear: What the Current Election Meant to Me

It is important for us to learn to value ourselves enough to stand up for what we know is right and for what we want, otherwise we never get it. – Unknown

I try to keep this blog funny, chaotic, and filled with the kind of stories that make people wonder whether my misadventures come from my whimsical personality or just an excuse for them. But every now and then, something happens in the world that deserves more than a punchline. Something that shouldn’t be forgotten the moment the next meme drops. Tuesday’s elections were one of those moments.

I can’t speak for anyone else, and I won’t pretend to. But I can speak for myself and let you know this week felt like finally exhaling after holding my breath for way too long. It reminded me that even though the United States may not always seem United, in this moment, we were. I’m grateful for every person who showed up to vote, saying “enough is enough,” and decided democracy is not a spectator sport. Voting is not a throwaway right. It was fought for tooth and nail, and every ballot cast reminds us it won’t be taken from us without one. Therefore, watching those states turn blue on the screen made me teary‑eyed in a way I didn’t expect. It reminded me that kindness still exists, even when it feels buried under noise.

The truth is, I’ve been carrying around a lot of fear. Real fear. The kind that sits in your chest like a brick. I’ve felt distraught, anxious, trapped, and honestly… untrusting of the world around me. I want to see the good in people; I try to see the good in people, but it gets hard when those who surround you in your everyday encounters think rape is a joke, or that hating someone’s religion or skin color is no big deal because it’s just a personality trait. When people want to pick fights just because they’re bored. When basic needs like food and shelter are treated like luxuries instead of human rights.

And yes, I worried. I worried that if enough hate kept building, America could slide into something dark and authoritarian. Maybe that sounds dramatic, but when you’re living on the cusp of what feels like World War III, your imagination gets a little too vivid. I’ve been scared to leave my home because I genuinely don’t know what kind of person I’ll encounter. Will someone get angry because I said hi? Or because I didn’t say hi? It’s exhausting feeling like you have to predict the unpredictable.

Rights that should be non‑issues, such as voting, education, bodily autonomy, jobs based on qualification instead of gender, using the bathroom, and playing sports, have been turned into battlegrounds. Kids aren’t getting secret surgeries in schools, but the fact that ads even suggest that tells me how easily people can be manipulated. And that’s terrifying. Because I never know what misinformation someone has swallowed whole, or what I’ll have to defend myself against.

So yes, I’m relieved. Not just because of the results, but because democracy actually functioned the way it’s supposed to. People showed up. Voices were heard. Checks and balances did their job. That alone is worth celebrating. I know the road ahead isn’t magically smooth. The people who scared me before still exist, and they won’t evaporate into the ether. But their megaphones got a little quieter this week. Their reach got a little smaller. And that matters. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe. And I’m holding onto that feeling for dear life.

Morals: 1) Equality isn’t a debate topic; it’s a moral stance. 2) Misinformation isn’t just annoying; it’s dangerous, and it shapes how people treat each other. 3) Voting isn’t just a civic duty; it’s a moral one.

The Last Elder Emo Standing

Emo always meant emotional. Any kind of art or music should be emotional. If it is not, then it’s just a a jingle selling bleach or pizza. – unknown

There’s a very specific moment at a concert, usually right after the lights drop, but before the first chord hits, where your entire life folds in on itself like a well‑worn map. Every version of you shows up at once. The teenager with the side bangs and the studded belt. The twenty‑something who swore she’d never lose her edge. The thirty‑something who quietly wonders if she already has. And then there’s the you. You are standing there in the front row, leaning against the railing, waiting for The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus to take the stage. All you can think about is that you are 39 years old, and you are surrounded by children. You’ve literally become the elder in the room, and everyone is pointing and staring, wondering which child you’re currently embarrassing by being there.

Red Jumpsuit Apparatus came out swinging in the mid‑2000s, part of that emo‑post‑hardcore wave that lived on MySpace and in the hearts of every kid who ever scribbled lyrics on their Converse. Their breakout album Don’t You Fake It (2006) gave us “Face Down,” a song that somehow managed to be both a scream‑along anthem and a social message. They toured relentlessly, built a cult following, and became one of those bands you remember, if you were there. They weren’t just music. They were a mood. A moment. A marker in time.

So there I was, clutching my drink like a security blanket, looking around at a sea of teenagers who were experiencing their first taste of the music that shaped my adolescence. And suddenly, I felt it: That creeping, uncomfortable whisper: Do I still belong? Is this my world, or am I supposed to move on and leave this to the youngsters to carry it on?

It wasn’t just insecurity; it was grief. Grief for the girl who used to live for this. Grief for the years that passed without asking permission. Grief for the identity I thought was permanent. Concerts, especially rock concerts, have always been part of my DNA. They were my sanctuary, my adrenaline, my therapy before I even knew what therapy was. They were where I learned who I was, who my friends were, and who I wanted to be. But standing there at 39, I felt like an imposter. Like I’d crashed a party meant for someone younger, louder, more current. I wondered if I should step aside and let them have their moment. I wondered if I was clinging to something that wasn’t mine anymore.

Warped Tour in Clovis, California, was the kind of place where identities were forged in sweat, dust, and the collective scream of thousands of kids who believed music could save them. I remember seeing bands that were just starting out, bands that would later headline festivals, bands that would break up, bands that would become the soundtrack to every heartbreak and every triumph. Those were the days of sunburns, Sharpie‑covered arms, and friendships that felt like they’d last forever. The days when music wasn’t just entertainment; it was our oxygen.

And now, decades later, I’m back in a crowd listening to the same genre, the same energy, the same emotional punch… but with a completely different lens. Here’s the truth I had to wrestle with: Music doesn’t age. But we do. And that’s okay. Being one of the oldest people at a rock concert doesn’t mean you’re out of place. It means you’ve lived enough life to appreciate it differently. It means you carry the songs’ history in your bones. It means you’ve earned your spot. Those kids weren’t judging me. The band wasn’t judging me. The music certainly wasn’t judging me.

If anything, I realized these songs still resonate across generations and decades, which means they were never meant to be temporary. They were built to last. And so was my love for them. When the first chord hit, something inside me settled. Not because I suddenly felt young again, but because I didn’t need to. I wasn’t an imposter. I wasn’t outdated. I wasn’t clinging to the past. I was honoring it. I was celebrating the part of myself that never stopped loving loud guitars, sweaty crowds, and lyrics that feel like diary entries. I was standing in the present with the ghosts of my past cheering me on.

Identity isn’t a single era; it’s a collection of selves. And this part of me still matters. Even at 39 years old. Even surrounded by teenagers. Even when the doubt creeps in. I belong here. And if you’ve ever felt this way, you do too.

Morals: 1) Feeling out of place doesn’t mean you are out of place. 2) Joy doesn’t have an expiration date.

Ireland Made Me a Viking And I’ll Never Be the Same

You will learn nothing from life if you think you are right all the time. – Uknown

This morning, Arizona threw a curveball. The kind that makes every Arizonan stare out the window like it’s a rare celestial event. It rained, and apparently, the moment those drops hit, our doorbell lost its mind. It started ringing nonstop, ding‑dong, ding‑dong, ding‑dong, like a ghost was trying to get in early for Halloween or warning us to get out as something uneventful was coming our way. My mom marched outside and wiped the button down like she was cleansing it of evil spirits and letting the ghost know we can not be intimidated. The ghost considered and backed off for two seconds, then immediately started again. My dad had to tape the doorbell down to let it know who the boss was, and it wasn’t the ghost. That was a first. But honestly, it was the perfect chaotic prelude to today’s blog: the day I became a Viking.

A few weeks ago, my parents and I went to Ireland, often called the land of mist, myth, and weather that Arizonians consider “perfect.” While nine other people canceled their Viking tour because of the drizzle (which, let’s be honest, is just Ireland’s default setting), we were thrilled. Sixty degrees and misty? That’s practically spa weather for us. The tour guide could have easily said, “Sorry, not enough people,” and gone home. But instead, he gave us the greatest gift: a private Viking tour. Just the three of us. I’m eternally grateful, because it ended up being the best tour I’ve ever taken, even if it meant I had to utilize my walking boots.

Before we even started, he gave us a quick history lesson: the Vikings first arrived in Ireland around the late 700s, establishing settlements, trade routes, and eventually shaping Dublin itself. Ireland was small then, dotted with gateways and posts marking where the Vikings entered. And we got to walk those exact paths. We stood where battles happened. Where lives were lost. Where artifacts like keys, combs, knives, and everyday Viking tools were found. It’s one thing to read about history in a book and see it portrayed in television shows like Game of Thrones. It’s an entirely different experience to walk it with someone who embodies the Viking spirit so fully that you half expect him to shout “Shield wall!” at any moment.

He was dressed head‑to‑toe in Viking gear: battle axes, swords, maps, a shield, and even blood smeared across his face for dramatic effect. And he wasn’t just a performer; he was the real deal. He had acted in the show Vikings and even helped Johnny Depp learn how to capture the Viking essence correctly. You don’t get that from a textbook.

He bestowed the greatest honor on me by letting me be a Shield Maiden for the day. I carried an axe around Dublin like it was the most natural thing in the world. I walked the strongest two‑year‑old wolf dog I’ve ever encountered; a creature so powerful it felt like walking a small horse. A strange, undeniable confidence comes from strolling through a city with an axe in one hand and a wolf dog in the other. I highly recommend it. At the end of the adventure, we celebrated with mead; sweet, ancient, Viking mead. It felt like the perfect ending to a day that I’ll be talking about for the rest of my life.

But the greatest compliment came when I told our guide about the RNS device in my head; the one used to track my ongoing seizures and how they removed a piece of my skull to implant it. I was able to get the extracted piece of my skull and now wear it as a necklace to remind myself that the world moves on, and so do I, and I got my skull in my hand to prove it. He looked at me, nodded seriously, and said, “That is the most Viking thing I’ve ever heard.” And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

Needless to say: A little rain can cause chaos in Arizona, but in Ireland it can open the door to the greatest adventure of your life. Weather doesn’t decide your day; you do.

Morals: 1) Don’t let anything stop you from having a day full of memories you can share with those you love. 2) Books can teach you history, but only stepping into it lets you feel the courage, grit, and humor that shaped it.

Arizona State University Descends on London: A Day That Will Live in Infamy (and Glory)

“The stadium’s the only place where a stranger’s hug feels like a brother’s embrace — and nobody questions it.” – Unknown

There are football games… and then there was London.

This wasn’t just another matchup on the schedule. This wasn’t just a road game. This was a life‑changer; a day that will live in infamy, glory, adrenaline, and pure Sun Devil magic. Arizona State University didn’t just show up in London. We took over London. And I got to be right in the middle of it.

Before the game even started, I somehow found myself front and center for the Big Noon Kickoff on Fox. I don’t know how I got there, divine intervention or Sparky magic, but I knew I needed to be there. I was thrilled that I was. I was catching a hat, waving the ASU flag, and getting my picture with the greatest mascot ever created… Sparky. He was doing what he does best, hyping us up like we were about to storm the gates of medieval London. At one point, I flashed my forks up in front of the Kansas State band as they left the broadcast, making the camera guy laugh so hard he nearly dropped his equipment. That alone felt like a win. But oh… it gets better.

Inside Wembley Stadium, the football gods were clearly smiling at me. I didn’t just catch one shirt; I somehow caught both of the shirt styles they were throwing out. It felt like I had stepped straight into a fan‑appreciation commercial, and I was crying tears of joy. Then came the dance cam.

The cameraman didn’t just pan across my section; He zoomed in on me. The entire crowd around me erupted. People were smiling, screaming, and yelling all in perfect unison: “That’s YOU!” For a moment, it felt like Wembley itself had decided I was the chosen Sun Devil of the day and I was not going to argue. And then came the graffiti tunnel.

Thanks to the generosity of the local graffiti artist around me, I got to borrow some yellow spray paint and leave a little Sun Devil love inside the tunnel. My own mark in London, to show I was there. And honestly? It felt legendary. But the best part wasn’t the swag, the spray paint, or even the win. It was being surrounded by 40,000 + ASU fans inside Wembley Stadium. It wasn’t just Arizonans. It was Sun Devils who traveled from all over the U.S.; even more were local.

The Brits were in it. They weren’t just watching American football. They were participating. They learned the chants, the hand signals, the fight song. They were yelling “Go Devils!” with accents that made it ten times better. They were invested. They were loud. They were proud. They were one of us. Behind me was a girl who went to ASU and now lives in London. She said having a piece of home for a day meant the world to her. And you could feel it; that warmth, that connection, that sense of belonging.

Riding the train home felt exactly like riding the light rail after a game at Sun Devil Stadium. Packed shoulder‑to‑shoulder with ASU fans chanting: “Go Devils. United Jack Classic Champions!” And then the moment that will stay with me forever: going up an escalator in a London train station while a British woman screamed, “GO ASU!” at the top of her lungs. She wanted us to cheer, to throw our forks up, to celebrate with her. She said it was the best day of her life because she had never seen American football before. It was a nail‑biter, and she loved every second of it. And she loved us.

There were moments I was screaming my lungs out: like when we ran the entire length of the field for a touchdown after catching the ball on a punt. I yelled “THROW IT!” more times than I can count during scrambles that felt like watching a man try to outrun destiny. I cheered until I couldn’t cheer anymore when Kansas missed a field goal and so much more. And when the game finally ended, when the trophy was presented, I jumped up and down and hugged everyone around me. Strangers, Brits, Americans, whoever was close enough. We were all one giant Sun Devil family.

One of the Brits near me said something I’ll never forget: “American football is about connections.” And he was right. That’s the greatest part… well, after the winning, of course. There is no other time in life where I’m excited to hug and high‑five a ton of strangers and feel like we’re all in it together. But sports do that. ASU does that. And London, somehow, did that to the max.

I’m so grateful I got the chance to go, and even more grateful I got to share it with the two people who mean the most to me: my parents. Arizona State University didn’t just descend on London. We conquered it. We celebrated it. We connected through it. And thank God we won because this day deserved a victory.

Morals: 1) Sports connect strangers faster than anything else. 2) It is true that one should celebrate the small moments because they become the big ones. 3) When life gives you a once‑in‑a‑lifetime moment, lean all the way in.

Sun Devil Football Returns with a Vengeance

“Just believe in yourself. Even if you don’t, pretend that you do and, at some point, you will. – Venus Williams

There’s a special kind of electricity that hits Tempe the moment football season begins; the kind that makes the air feel louder, the sidewalks feel warmer, and the people feel like they’ve been waiting all year to scream their lungs out again. And this year was no different.

Before the first snap, before the stadium even swallowed its first wave of fans, I was already in full Sun Devil mode because the tailgate is where the transformation happens. Free tattoos? Obviously. Stickers? I collected them like Pokémon. “Beer bong” for free fast food? I don’t make the rules; I just win the prizes. Dancing? Always. Trying new restaurants? Tradition. Getting into the mood? Mandatory.

Tailgating at Arizona State University (ASU) isn’t just pre‑game. It’s a ritual. It’s where strangers become hype partners, where the music is always too loud, and where you remember, with absolute clarity, that being a Sun Devil is a lifestyle, not a hobby.

Walking into Mountain America Stadium felt like stepping into a reunion. The same die-hard fans I see every year were already in their spots, already yelling, already glowing with that maroon-and-gold madness. And then the moment that made my whole night: a woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I remember you from last year. You’re the dancing girl.” Honestly? I’ll take that title. I’ll wear it proudly. If you’re going to be known for something, let it be joy.

But ASU games always give you something memorable, something weird, something you talk about for years. This time? Only 10 minutes in the fourth quarter instead of 15. A first for me and any other die-hard football fan I encountered that evening. It just proves my point: ASU doesn’t just play football; they create folklore. This time, it was for being asked by the opposing team to take 5 minutes off the clock in the 4th quarter, as the score was already 70-7 in favor of ASU. My favorite score, especially when it was against our rivals a few years ago. My favorite kind of statement. My favorite kind of night.

Who knows, if that hadn’t happened, maybe ASU would’ve shattered the record for the most touchdowns in a single game. But one thing I do know is this: Sparky was only getting started. Our mascot wasn’t just doing push-ups; he was restarting from one every time ASU scored another touchdown. That’s over 200 push-ups in full costume, in Arizona heat, with the crowd losing its mind every time he dropped to the turf. If the clock hadn’t been shortened, Sparky might’ve needed a personal trainer, an ice bath, and a motivational speech from the strength coach just to survive the night.

Being a Sun Devil isn’t just about cheering for a team. It’s about embracing a culture: the hype, the chaos, the community, the dancing, the tailgates, the unforgettable moments that only happen here. And when the unusual, the wild, the memorable moments arise, as they always do, I’ll be there. That’s a promise.

Go Devils. 🔱

Morals: 1) Memories come from the unexpected. 2) Lean into the culture that makes you feel alive. 3) Joy multiplies when shared.

Cheap Trick at 80: Still Loud, Still Wild, Still Legendary

You have to just do what you love and hope other people love it too. – Joan Jett

There are concerts you attend, and then there are concerts you experience. Cheap Trick was absolutely the latter — though not for the reasons anyone would expect.

Cheap Trick isn’t just a band; they’re considered a rock institution. They formed in 1973 in Rockford, Illinois, and somehow managed the unmanageable by continuing to sell out concerts for five decades and counting. These guys have performed over 5,0000 concerts (yes, five thousand), which means they’ve spent more time on stage than most people spend at their actual jobs.

They broke big in the late ’70s with albums like In Color and Heaven Tonight, and then exploded into rock superstardom with their legendary 1978 live album Cheap Trick at Budokan. That album basically rewrote the rules for what a live rock record could be: raw, loud, and absolutely electric. Their songs became cultural staples; the kind that sneak into movies, memories, and entire generations. “I Want You to Want Me” is the perfect example. Sure, in 10 Things I Hate About You it’s Letters to Cleo performing it, but the heartbeat of that moment is unmistakably Cheap Trick. Their version is the one that hits you in the chest and makes you feel all the feels.

Cheap Trick has toured with everyone: Kiss, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Motley Crüe, and somehow outlived almost everyone they have ever toured with. They’ve been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and they’re still out there performing like they’re trying to win a battle of the bands against Father Time.

And here’s the magic: Even in their 80s, they’re still cracking jokes, still shredding, still throwing guitar picks (even if they barely make it off the stage), still pulling out bizarre guitars shaped like doormen with legs and saxophones, and still proving that rock isn’t about age; it’s about attitude. Cheap Trick didn’t just survive rock and roll. They embodied it.

When they launched into “I Want You to Want Me,” something in me snapped in the best possible way. That song is stitched into my DNA thanks to 10 Things I Hate About You, so hearing it live felt like the universe handing me a personalized moment. I didn’t just dance; I broke into a full‑blown, improvised music video. Zero choreography. Zero shame. Maximum main‑character energy.

My dad, being the MVP of concert logistics, got us aisle seats specifically so I could move around. And thank goodness he did, because I needed every inch of that aisle to live my truth. Cheap Trick, “May Be Older Than Dirt”, according to my dad, “but they still know how to rock.” They kept throwing guitar picks into the crowd, except… they couldn’t quite get them off the stage. It was like watching someone try to toss confetti with the enthusiasm of a sleepy toddler. Eventually they just resorted to throwing handfuls of picks, like, “Fine, take them all; someone catch something.

But here’s the wild part: The band had more energy than the audience. Despite the crowd being around their age, or younger, they didn’t have the same fire. They said they loved rock and roll, but they forgot what that meant. Rock is movement. Rock is noise. Rock is sweat and chaos and letting go. And yet most of them sat there like they were watching a documentary on PBS.

A few people were up and dancing, scattered like little islands of rebellion. We were among them and believe me, we stood out. The band noticed too, especially the man on the balcony who was trying to “shake it” with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. They smiled at him, dancing to his own beat, as if he was the last surviving spark of rock culture. I’ve never been to a rock concert that wasn’t rocking. It felt strange, almost backwards: the band was electric, and the audience was unplugged. But honestly? I’m proud my dad took us. Proud I got to see a group of musicians who refuse to let age dim their spark. Proud I got to dance like a maniac even if the rest of the crowd forgot how.

Cheap Trick reminded me that rock isn’t about age; it’s about attitude. They still have it. And I plan to be that balcony guy someday, still shaking it, still smiling, still proving that rock and roll doesn’t retire. My dad said the band was older than dirt. But dirt doesn’t rock like that.

Moral: If the crowd won’t dance, be the crowd that does.

The Night Bingo Became a Rave, and I Became a Warrior

Crowd cheering at Bingo Loco event beneath neon rainbow and confetti

Bingo: the game of treasure hungting for adults. – Unknown

There are two kinds of people in this world:

Those who think bingo is a quiet game played by retirees with dabbers and polite applause.
And those who have been to Bingo Loco, where bingo is merely the excuse for a three‑hour rave, a comedy show, a dance battle, and a mild identity crisis.

I now belong to the second group, the enlightened ones, the ones who have seen a Britney Spears cardboard cutout treated like a luxury prize and watched grown adults lip‑sync for the honor of winning a blender. Imagine someone took regular bingo, shook it violently, fed it three energy drinks, and dropped it into a nightclub. That’s Bingo Loco. They call numbers only, no letters. Everyone has the same numbers, just in different places, which means every call is a collective gasp. When someone wins, they don’t just yell “Bingo!” and collect a prize. They must perform. Lip‑sync. Dance. Rock out. Sometimes with smoke machines. Sometimes with props. Sometimes with things that legally cannot be mentioned.

It’s bingo, yes, but it’s also rave culture, comedy chaos, and unhinged joy all rolled into one neon‑lit fever dream.It took me four full games to get a single row. Four. Games.

By the time I finally got that one row, my only win out of six games, I felt like I had climbed Everest, emotionally if not physically. And this wasn’t a quick night either. Bingo Loco is a marathon. A three‑hour, glow‑stick‑waving, bass‑thumping marathon. But honestly? The bingo part was the least important. The DJs don’t just play music, they unleash nostalgia bombs. One minute it’s EDM. The next it’s Britney. Then suddenly it’s Beastie Boys screaming “You gotta fight… for your right… to party!”

And that’s when my friend and I turned in to absolute menaces. We had those light‑up sticks the ones meant for waving politely in the air. Naturally, we used them as swords.

We choreographed battles. We danced like we were auditioning for a rave-themed Broadway show. We discovered that if you hit the sticks just right, they turn off which became a whole new game in itself. Honestly, we were having our own side‑quest adventure while bingo happened somewhere in the background.

At one point, a Britney Spears cutout was treated like a golden idol. People were ready to fight for it. I’m convinced someone would’ve traded a family member. Other prizes were… let’s just say “unmentionable.” The kind of things you’d hide in a closet and only show close friends who won’t judge you. But that’s the charm Bingo Loco doesn’t take itself seriously. And neither does anyone who attends. Bingo Loco isn’t about winning. It’s about letting go laughing until your face hurts, dancing like you’re made of rubber bands, and remembering that fun is something you create, not something you wait for. I went in expecting bingo. I left feeling like I had survived and thrived in a neon battlefield of joy. And honestly? I’d do it again. Light‑up sword duel included.

Morals: 1) Shared silliness strengthens friendships. 2) Let go of expectations and you’ll have a better time.

Never a Dull Moment: The Elf of the Family Takes on the Oregon Coast

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. – Dr. Seuss

Family vacations are a special kind of chaos, the kind that arrives whether you invite it or not, whether you plan every detail or simply wing it. In our family, chaos doesn’t just show up; it packs a suitcase, buckles its seatbelt, and asks what’s for lunch. And our recent escape from the 113‑degree Arizona inferno to the breezy 65‑degree Oregon coast was no exception.

We were on our way to Lincoln City, cruising along the coast, when we passed a sign in Newport advertising Largest Sea Cove. Naturally, this sparked a heated debate, the kind only siblings can have while trapped in a moving vehicle.

My brother insisted it was just a tourist trap. I insisted it was real. He argued that without anything to compare it to, what was the point? I argued that that was exactly why we needed to go, so we could compare it. I genuinely thought it was the Largest Sea Lion Cove in the entire United States, not just a random cove that happened to host a few sea lions. That belief only sharpened my determination and made the adventure feel even more epic. We were mid‑debate, voices rising, logic unraveling, when our dad, who had been quietly listening to the radio, suddenly cut in with:

“Is this Mexican music? I can’t understand a word they’re saying.”

We assured him it was English. He assured us it was not. We told him the hair in his ears was interfering with the sound waves. He told us we were making up words. We told him he needed to “just go with it” because we were listening to the Psychedelic Station; yes, that’s a real thing. My brother and I began singing along, inventing English‑ish lyrics that matched the vibe. Dad, unconvinced, pulled out his phone, looked up the song, and triumphantly announced:

“See? It’s NOT English!”

The song was Bom Senso. And honestly? It’s a masterpiece, especially if you enjoy playing What Did You Hear? We laughed all the way to the coast, the song now permanently embedded in family lore (and in my dad’s head, much to his dismay).

The trip was made more enjoyable, not because wrong turns are a Melgreen tradition, so of course we took several. But because what we didn’t expect was that our photo‑taking abilities, usually solid, would completely abandon us. The first incident happened on the beach. My brother discovered a perfect heart‑shaped rock with a tiny hole in it, practically begging to be used as a necklace. He held it over my heart as we posed for a sweet photo with Dad on the beach, soaking in the rare gift of tolerable Vitamin C. Except… when Dad saw it, he asked:

“What are you doing to my daughter?”

Not exactly the wholesome moment we were going for.

Then came the Twister Bed Photo. I tried to capture a touching moment: my brother, our dad, and Twister (my brother’s dog) all piled on Dad’s bed. Twister had claimed the bed, so my brother joined him. Cute, right? Except the photo ended up being 90% my brother’s butt and 10% sentimental family bonding.

I attempted to redeem myself with a playful picture of me sitting on a dragon “horse stick”, joking that it was my new mode of transportation. Somehow, even that came out looking unintentionally suggestive. The confirmation came when I got a text from back home:

“You’ve been sending a lot of sex pictures.”

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my phone. The intention had been sweet family moments. The execution? Absolute chaos. Despite the wrong turns, the debates, the questionable photos, and the psychedelic sing‑along, the trip was perfect in its own chaotic way. These are the moments that make family vacations memorable: the stories that get retold at gatherings, embellished each time, becoming part of our family mythology. And now, my dad lives in fear that Bom Senso will strike at any moment, just like Baby Shark, ready to lodge itself in his brain for eternity.

Never a dull moment. Never a normal photo. Always a good story.

Morals: 1) Sometimes the journey is less about being right and more about laughing together while being wrong in harmony. 2) Even when the picture doesn’t come out right, the memory still does. 3) The best family stories are the ones you never planned to create.

Being an Elf is Who I am

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. – Charles Dickens

Some people slip into holiday spirit like a sweater: seasonal, temporary, something they pull out when the calendar tells them it’s time. But for me? The holiday spirit is not a costume, not a character, not a December-only personality. It’s my baseline. My default setting. My identity.

So when I was invited to Christmas in July, I thought, Finally, my people. Surely this would be a gathering of year‑round holiday enthusiasts, the kind of folks who understand that joy doesn’t have an expiration date and kindness isn’t seasonal. I imagined a whole crowd of elves, reindeer handlers, cookie engineers, peppermint‑powered optimists. Instead… It was me. Just me.

Well… me, Santa, and Mrs. Claus. But even they weren’t exactly radiating the North Pole energy I expected. They weren’t leaning into the magic, the gentleness, the sparkle that kids look for when they’re overwhelmed or shy or unsure. And when the little ones needed help calming down, needed reassurance, needed that soft nudge back toward joy… the room felt strangely quiet. Except for me because that’s where I come alive.

There was this tiny moment: one of those tiny, unexpected sparks that remind me exactly why being an elf matters. A little boy was glued to his phone, overwhelmed and checked out, and I gently told him, “Santa doesn’t stay on his phone all the time. He encourages family time.” He paused, looked up at me, and like magic put the phone down. His father watched, blinked, and slowly set his own phone aside too. Suddenly they were talking, laughing, actually present with each other. That’s the kind of quiet miracle elves live for. Not the big flashy moments, but the small ones where connection is restored, and joy sneaks back in.

Being an elf isn’t a role. It’s a calling. I don’t “act” like an elf. I am one. It’s woven into how I move through the world: the instinct to help, to comfort, to redirect chaos into laughter, to remind children (and adults) that there is still so much to be happy about. Kindness isn’t a performance; it’s a responsibility.

If I could choose any job in the world, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d be an elf. Full-time. Year-round. No off-season. I’d keep everything running smoothly, make sure the details are handled, sprinkle joy where it’s needed, and yes, “Be an Elf with Attitude” when the moment calls for it. Because elves aren’t just sweet; we’re spirited. We’re determined. We’re the ones who make sure the sleigh is polished, the toys are finished, the reindeer are fed, and the magic stays intact.

Elf values aren’t seasonal either. People think elves are just about toys and jingles, but the truth is deeper: 1) Respect for nature and environment: Elves understand that magic comes from the world around us, and it’s our job to protect it. 2) Respect for all life: Every creature, every person, every tiny spark of joy matters. 3) Honor and integrity: Elves do the right thing even when no one is watching. 4) Kindness as a lifestyle: not a holiday accessory. These aren’t traits I put on for an event. They’re the foundation of who I am.

Christmas in July was a reminder. Standing there as the only true elf in the room didn’t make me feel out of place; it made me feel grounded. It reminded me that being an elf isn’t about matching outfits or themed events. It’s about carrying the spirit even when others don’t. It’s about stepping in when a child needs comfort. It’s about being the spark when the room feels dim. It’s about living joy, not performing it. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Morals: 1) Joy is contagious; spread it recklessly. 2) Magic is real if you act like it is. 3) Be an Elf with Attitude when necessary: sass is allowed, cruelty is not.

Surviving the Great Williams Downpour: All I Got Was This Fossilized Poop Knowledge

You know you’re an Arizona native when in your heart you’re sure that at the end of the rainbow there is not a pot of gold but a good Mexican restaurant. – James W. Cook

There are road trips that go exactly as planned… and then there are road trips that decide they are in charge. My recent quest to finally cross Canyon Coaster Adventure Park off my list fell firmly, spectacularly, into the second category.

It all began the moment after topping off the gas tank. I had just queued up the road‑trip playlist, ready to cruise into adventure mode, when the air‑pressure warning light started flashing like it was trying to communicate in Morse code. Not a bathroom break, not a snack stop, nope. The pit stop was hunting down an air machine.

Two gas stations later, I learned that apparently someone in town had gone on a personal vendetta against air pumps. Wires cut, hoses dangling, metal panels peeled back like a sardine can. Even the ice machine looked like it had been through a breakup and given up on life. At that point, the only logical solution was Jiffy Lube.

Second car in line? Perfect. Quick air, a little oil, maybe a filter change to keep things running smooth; twenty minutes tops. I was already picturing myself flying down the mountain coaster. Twenty minutes passed. Then forty. Then an hour. Finally, someone called us back with the kind of expression people use when they’re about to tell you your favorite TV show got canceled. “So… there was a mishap.”

A mishap. Someone broke the dipstick.

Now, I’ve heard of parts needing replacement. I’ve heard of delays. But a broken dipstick? That was a first, not just for me, but for my entire family. And of course, they didn’t have another one on hand. It would be another hour. But eventually, the new dipstick was installed, the car was whole again, and we were finally, finally, on the road. The drive was supposed to be 2.5 to 3 hours. Easy. Scenic. Relaxing.

Cue Payson. Cue rain. Cue flooding.

The sky opened up like it had been waiting all year for this moment. Visibility dropped to about 1%. The road twisted up the mountain like it was auditioning for a role in San Francisco as the new Lombard Street. We followed the car ahead of us with blind faith, hoping they knew where they were going because we certainly didn’t. And honestly? All I could do was laugh. Alexa had promised me 72 degrees and clear skies. Alexa lied.

By the time we reached Williams, the rain was still coming down in sheets. We decided to grab food and wait it out. The one‑way street meant parking across from the Pizza Factory, so we made the only reasonable choice: run through the rain like dramatic movie characters. I splashed through puddles on purpose because why not? The person with me had a different idea, and instead attempted a Road Runner sprint to avoid getting wet. Their plan failed immediately. Not only did they get drenched, but they also ran to the wrong storefront entirely, landing in front of a gem shop instead of the pizza place. Comedy gold.

After getting our bearings right, Road Runner ran into people not seen in six years, because of course they would. Life loves a dramatic reunion. Just like daughters running into their mothers in Greece without knowing the other was even traveling. The world is wild.

Eventually the rain slowed, but not before I tried washing my hands in the bathroom and the faucet decided it wanted to join the flood party. It wouldn’t turn off. Perfect.

We wandered around town and ended up at the free Poozeum, yes, poo museum, where I learned more about ancient poop and fossilized farts than I ever expected to know in my lifetime. The largest fossilized poop ever found? A 20.47‑pound Tyrannosaurus Rex masterpiece named Barnum. And apparently, beetles, ants, and flies in Lithuania once farted into tree sap, creating fossilized gas bubbles that survived 34–48 million years. Nature is incredible.

After the coaster, the rain, the pizza sprint, and the unexpected education on prehistoric bodily functions, we wandered through Williams to soak in the last bits of the day. That’s when I saw it, in the storefront, the largest Route 66 sign in the world. It wasn’t just a sign; it was a billboard-sized reminder that adventure lives on the open road. Standing there, drenched shoes and all, I couldn’t help but laugh. Somehow, after everything, this giant glowing symbol of Americana felt like the universe giving me a wink. Because of course, on a day filled with broken dipsticks, fossilized farts, and monsoon-level rain, I would end up face-to-face with the biggest Route 66 sign in existence. Williams really said, “You wanted memories? I’ll give you memories.”

Finally, the rain let up enough to ride the Canyon Coaster. One mile long, 35 mph, wind whipping through the pine trees, it was everything I hoped for. Scenic, fast, freeing. Worth every chaotic moment it took to get there. And just like that, I crossed it off my list: with a whole lot more story than I ever bargained for.

If you’re thinking about a mini getaway, even just a few hours, don’t hesitate. Williams will greet you with open arms, unpredictable weather, and memories you never saw coming.

Morals: 1) The best memories are made in the chaos. 2) You haven’t truly lived until you’ve learned about fossilized farts. 3) When life floods the streets, go get pizza.