Hit the Floor in ’24


I don’t know how it ends, but I can read the writing on the wall. I’ve been in nesting mode which has thus far involved provisioning my abode with things to make it cozy and quirky, but without doing any cleaning or emptying of closets to make room for the new. This is a disaster. I can see how it ends if I don’t get going.

Photo by BoliviaInteligente on Unsplash


If I continue on this path, I’m going to be the creepy old woman who lives in the shack on the hill and hoards cats, books, and cooking utensils. Cats she doesn’t pay any attention to, books she doesn’t read, and cooking utensils in a house without a functioning kitchen.

I’m going to set aside a year to reclaim my life. 2024 is it. Hit the floor in ’24! we’ll call it. More peace, more tranquility, more grace, and more self-love all wrapped up in a whirling dervish of activity.

Years ago, after a rough patch with Doug’s illness at Christmas time, I decreed 2013 the year of Connie.

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My intentions are good.

I like writing unless I have a formal project to work on and then I procrastinate it.  I do a lot of head-writing but don’t put it on paper.  Fear of failure?  Needing an adrenaline surge to produce?  Right now, I have hanging over my head, an article that I need to write from an interview of one of my all-time favorite people.

Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash

I think this piece will get a reasonably large readership.  Everyone knows her and everyone loves her.  She’s more fun than a box of puppies. 

I like having an audience.  I do write to know what I think, but I also write to be read.  Of course, I have some pieces that will never see an editor’s pen, but others I want out there for anyone to read at will. 

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