The Universe Plays Jokes: My White Elephant Déjà Vu

In a senior living community where serendipity often masquerades as coincidence, one resident found herself at the center of an uncanny holiday repeat. During the annual White Elephant Exchange—an event known for its chaos, comedy, and questionable gifting—Jean once again unwrapped the only religious icons in the entire pile. Two years, two angels, two crosses, and one agnostic wondering whether the universe was nudging, needling, or simply having a laugh. What followed is a blend of skepticism, curiosity, and the kind of communal mischief that proves older adults are far from done having fun.  AI....

 
It's spooky, sometimes, how the universe seems to speak to us—how it always seems to know that we need to hear to break through the silence or fears in our lives, or to touch bases with our innermost thoughts, dreams and memories. I have a theory, though: those messages are always out there, but we don’t tune into them until we’re ready to hear them—ready to see the serendipity, coincidences and recurring symbols at play.

I wrote the above paragraph over ten years ago when I was a newly minted widow and if my theory is true, what message do you think the universe was sending me last week? The continuum care facility where I live hosted a resident‑driven White Elephant Exchange on Christmas Day, and twenty of us attended—about the same as last year. If you’ve played the game, you know the randomness of the gift you finally get to open and take home. At least six gifts passed through my hands before I opened the one I was destined to keep. This year and last year, I got the same gift: a pair of religious icons to hang on a wall—an angel and a cross. They weren’t identical, but their purpose, color, and sizes were the same. Both years, these were the only religious icons in the entire exchange. What are the odds that an agnostic would get that gift—twice?

I was incredulous. “I cannot believe this!” I blurted out, embarrassing myself. “This is the same gift I got last year!” I’m ashamed to admit the disgust in my voice was probably apparent. 

The idea that the universe was shouting a message that I didn’t want to hear made me mad. What does it want me to do—exactly? If I suddenly start claiming to believe in Jesus Christ as my savior, you should assume I’m feeling especially old and I'm hedging my bets by faking an acceptance I’ve resisted doing my entire adult life. They have a group of volunteers, here, being trained to sit with people who are actively dying and have no families. Would that person be able to tell if I was lying on my death bed? 

Still, I believe in messages from the universe; I just never questioned if those messages were vetted before they are sent out. Does the universe have a sense of humor? I wonder. Or is it trying to drag me out of my secular world to blindly accept what is in the Bible, with its text that was written exclusively by men, then rewritten, edited and translated dozens and dozen of times over the centuries, not to mention entire books that have been cut out and hidden away by the Catholic Church. 

I’ve always trusted in the balances of forces that keep the world spinning in the right direction. The positive and negative, the yin and the yang. The dark and the light. Even the Republicans and Democrats—you get where I’m going here. Maybe my reaction to getting the religious icons was the universe testing my resolve, and it said to itself, “Yup she’s still coming down on the side of Humanism. The disbelievers are still balancing out the believers.”

When I got back to my apartment, I hopped on line to refresh my memory about signs from the universe. First, I clicked on a site that promised to cover twelve signs that the universe is trying to dial us up. When the site opened up the first thing I saw in big, bold fonts was: “The Universe Doesn’t Play Games.” Farther down in the article it said the universe doesn’t send signs until we’re ready to hear them. Since that directly refutes my theory that the signs are always there, that we just don’t see them until we’re ready, I quit reading and went back to the basics.

And by the “basics,” I meant I read how Google’s AI defines signs and it says, “You know the universe is sending a sign through meaningful coincidences (synchronicities), recurring symbols (like angel numbers 11:11, songs, or animals), strong intuitive feelings, unexpected help/opportunities, or even repetitive roadblocks nudging you to change direction, all accompanied by a feeling of alignment, support, or a nudge to pay attention to something specific in your life. It's less about a single event and more about the meaning and feeling you attach to repeated, unusual patterns.”

That reminded me of how quickly many widows find comfort in the appearance of a bird or butterfly that they associate with their spouse who passed. Back in the early years of my widowhood I wrote several posts about going to a butterfly exhibit at a large conservatory and having a spiritual connection with a pair of Common Morphos—the four-five inch iridescent blue butterflies from Central and South America. To this day it gives me the warm-fuzzes to think about how those two butterflies landed within arm’s reach—me, a recent widow. Whether it was truly a sign from the universe that Don and I would always be together in spirit, or it was the invention of my own mind giving me a mental pacifier it doesn’t matter. Why? Because either way, it’s amazing what our brains can conjure up and run with. And it’s amazing that we can love someone so deeply that we can feel their presence just because a particular bird or butterfly crosses our paths.

The author Carolyn See once was asked the question of, “Why do you write?” And she answered, “Because we live in a beautiful, sentient universe that yearns for you to tell the truth about it.” 

Amateur writers like me are told that Truth is in describing the details, in the moments when we’re able to expose our flaws and fears to the world—those feelings that we have and wonder if others have them, too. And Truth is in our observations—those gray nose hairs, the flat-bladed cattails and a stranger’s Mona Lisa smile. At the White Elephant gift exchange, my Truth was also in the beauty of turning my imagination loose and pretend I knew which of my fellow residents were happy with the gift they got and which ones had mastered the art of polished politeness. 

Our self-appointed mayor didn’t pretend to be happy with the jar of  ‘Roadkill Jam’ and the handmade, artsy-fartsy dish he got. I told him, and others joined me, in convincing him to secretly leave the dish at the door of the Art Professor. She would love it and people here have turned her doorway into a receptacle for handmade ceramics. She’s been trying to figure out who is leaving her such “lovely gifts.” It’s been going on now, since before Thanksgiving when the family of someone who died was cleaning out an apartment and they left a vase at the Professor's door when she wasn't home. So far she’s gotten 5 or 6 things and those of us who eat with her at the Monday Farm Table are enjoying listening to her trying to figure out who her “secret admirer” is. Whoever said old people don’t know how to have fun. 

Until next Wednesday have a Happy New Year!!!  ©

How to Win a Gingerbread House Contest Without Eating the Evidence

Holiday gingerbread contests on a continuum care campus are usually sweet, but this year Jean's entry came with tweezers, birdseed, and a level of precision that borders on becoming an OCD legend. Along the way, this week's post revisits past showstoppers, memorable rivals, and one infamous “protest house,” all leading to a behind‑the‑scenes look at how this year’s  creation came together.  AI….

Since moving to my continuum care campus, I’ve entered the holiday gingerbread house decorating contest three times in the four years they’ve held them. My first house placed second and my second house won first. This year's judging just took place and I took first again (with the house at the top), but when I carried my house down and I saw another house (below) my heart sank. I thought it would beat the crap out of mine and hand me the crumbs in a paper bag. It was made by the kitchen staff, and they took the original kit and added another story using graham crackers. 

The year I took second place, the winner deconstructed the original kit, too, and made a house styled after one built by Frank Lloyd Wright, the most innovative architect in 20th century America. It was so clever. I didn’t mind losing to the couple who made that gingerbread house. They put so many clever details into their houses that it was just plain fun to look at. One year it was a broom with thin spaghetti for bristles that stole the show, and another year they spun sugar to make it look like an icy river. They also put a Christmas tree made out of spearmint candy inside, in front of a window, and the house was wired with lights. 

I sat out the making a house for last year's contest, because I didn’t want to be tempted by all the candy that is left over. For example, I once bought a bag of candy just to get one star out of the bag to top a Christmas tree and I needed just six squares of pretzels out of a bag for window panes and I ate the rest, which a person with high blood pressure shouldn’t be doing. And it cost a fortune to buy everything I used. 

The makers of the Wright-inspired house sat that year out, too, and that was the year the Art Professor caused a huge kerfuffle over a house she made to look like a bombed-out house in the Gaza Strip. She was going to make another protest house this year to resemble a coal-fired power plant but the kits were all gone when she asked for one. The CCC gives them out. First come, first served. This year three kits  were taken and not returned. I suspect they ended up as gifts for  grandchildren. I know for a fact that happened last year. The guy was open about it and he probably started a trend. I don't get people why do things like that. 

Nor do I understand why someone would tried to sabotage this year's contest. Three days before the votes were to be counted I discovered that someone had crossed off the number on the placecard corresponding with my house and wrote in another number. (Houses are numbered and voters are to write a number on a ballot and put it in a ballot box.) Voting had already been going on a week before my number was changed. No one owned up to the "prank" and no one can figure out why someone would to that other than to try to screw up the contest. I was so mad! I worked a lot of hours on that house and I was sure they'd use that as an excuse not to declare a winner this year. A few people are against having the houses judged. "Can't we just make them for fun?"

Anyway, this year, I decorated the entire gingerbread house and its yard with birdseed and used salt-free peanut butter to ‘glue’ them on. (If you ever make one using birdseed, do some research to learn what is toxic to birds—regular peanut butter, honey, dyes, hard candies are a few things you shouldn't use.) But before I could even start, I spent two nights sorting birdseed from a mixed bag by color and size using a pair of tweezers. I think I have a bit of OCD in me. Sometimes I’ll find myself sorting magazines on the display rack at the grocery store. People pick them up and don’t care where they put them back. What I’m trying to say is I like sorting things. But I was told that I could have found a store that sells bulk seed, and bought what I needed already sorted. Oops. I have a lot of seed left over, but at least I won’t gain ten pounds getting rid of it. We can’t feed birds here, but I can take a walk around the campus and be like Johnny Appleseed spread leftover seeds and house parts alongside our mile-long trail around the lake.

Below are photos of the step-by-step process of making my gingerbread house.

The kit the CCC gave out.

What I used to sift the smaller seeds from the larger ones.

Unpacking the parts in the box.

During the unpacking I dropped the front of the house on the floor and ended up using peanut butter to "glue" the parts to cardboard to reinforce it .

Putting peanuts and seeds on the sides.

The roofs with their layered seeds

I added cardboard hinges to help hold the sides up while the corners dried

The white hinges I made to help give the broken front more support.

The next step was to do the borders around the house while the corners set up for a couple of days. I wanted them solid before the weight of the roof was added.

The finished front

The left side

The back of the house. Those are suet balls holding up the trees branches.

Top down looking at the right side yard

The finished house. The sign says, "for the birds."

I used a pair of tweezers to place every one of those seeds and some are very tiny. It was a labor intense house to make but I enjoyed the process, even the part about figuring out how to fix my boo-boo of breaking the front of the house.

Have a good Christmas, everyone! Thanks for stopping by.  

Holiday Madness, the Senior‑Living Edition

 

December has a talent for turning even the calmest communities into over caffeinated snow globes, and Jean’s independent‑living campus is no exception. Choirs, gingerbread house contests, field trips, deliveries, debates — all of it swirling at once while she keeps her footing and her sense of humor. This post offers a glimpse of what the holiday season looks like when a place schedules more festivities than the North Pole and Jean chooses to participate only in the ones that don’t require hauling decorations out of storage.   AI...

Where did December go? I can’t believe Christmas Eve is only one week away as you read this—ten days away as I write this. And it’s not just me that’s saying that. Here at my independent living facility, everyone is fretting about how little time they have left to get everything done. Me? Not so much. I don’t have kids and grandkids to buy and bake for, and I’m good at crossing things off the To-Do list. Writing my annual Christmas letter and sending out cards? I am switching to Happy New Year’s cards. Bringing up the holiday decorations from my storage unit? Didn’t happen this year. The only holiday decoration I have in my apartment is a tiny wreath made out of buttons, hanging around the neck of a Lladro cow. I bought a cheap kit to make the wreath at a dollar store because it was there, begging me to take it home. Once a crafter, always a crafter. 

Activities around here have been having fistfights over placement on our social calendar. It seems like every church and high school choir wanted to entertain us, and our Life Enrichment Director wanted to wear us out with her additions. Starting with the annual residents’ decorating party, a cocoa-and-cookies-by-the-fireplace event, a carols sing-along, the gingerbread house decorating contest, and field trips to places like a humongous mansion by Lake Michigan, a near-by, one mile light show, and musical productions and concerts downtown.

I didn’t take part in any of the above mentioned activities—except the gingerbread house contest—but just watching Maintenance decorate outside and the increased delivery trucks stopping directly in front of my ground-floor apartment windows has added to the hustle and bustle of the place. Our mailroom has been overflowing with boxes of every size and description. One woman even got two mattresses delivered! Other activities coming up include our Christmas buffet, a Christmas Eve daytime religious service, and a Christmas Eve party. And on Christmas Day there’s a white‑elephant exchange followed by various games in our bistro. We also have a New Year’s Eve Plated Dinner coming up, and the chef here always does a fabulous job with those plated dinner parties—very elegant with creative menus. The social committee has planned a party for New Year’s eve with a ball drop at 8:00. I can’t believe they do that so early! If I were on that committee I’d campaign for at least a 10:00 ball drop. 

In the evenings, I spent more than a week working on my gingerbread house entry. The winner hasn’t been announced yet, so I will write a post about the contest for next Wednesday. I sat out last year’s contest because I didn’t want to be seduced into eating all the leftover candy one accumulates while decorating a house. This year I felt the same way, so I decided to make a house out of birdseed. It was labor-intense because I bought a mixed bag of seeds and spent hours sorting them by color and shape with a pair of tweezers. The house turned out really well but the kitchen staff built a two story house to die for, I can't see me winning. And by the way, I stopped myself several times from eating some of the peanuts I used as siding. No extra pounds were put on because I’m part in the gingerbread house competition.

Mixed among all the fun and festive activities was our monthly Dialogues with the CEO—otherwise known as the Pitch‑and‑Bitch sessions. Talk about contentious—this one took the gold and before it was over I was so mad I was shaking. It seemed like 74 of the 75 people living here were bitching about the commercial snowplow service, but it was really only about 25 of them. The issue? We had a snowfall that the company didn’t plow. It came late in the morning and was barely an inch deep. Near the end of the meeting, I raised my hand and asked at what depth the snow has to be to trigger plowing, and what are the hours they’re not obligated to plow in if the snow comes late. The CEO didn't know. 

To make a long story short, after the meeting the CEO and I exchanged emails—one of mine a full page and single spaced addressing every snow related complaint brought up at the meeting including stupid stuff like a truck knocking down a couple of snow stakes. My husband was in the commercial snow‑removal business for 40 years, and I plowed for him for 17, so my letter offered a totally different point of view than the CEO was getting from residents. Our exchange ended with me being asked to be on the Grounds Committee tasked with conveying resident complaints to management and the outside contractors. I turned it down, telling him “I write letters where I can organize my thoughts. I don’t talk off the cuff at meetings.” That’s not the end of it, though. The committee is going to copy me on the minutes of their meetings “in case you can add some insight.” 

And also taking up time this December are doctor appointments. It started with a nurse practitioner to get yet another drug that might work for night time urination issues—two haven't so far—but I ended up with referrals to a pulmonary and sleep specialist, an ear‑nose‑and‑throat doctor, and a urogynecologist. But my adventures to find a healthier nightlife for 2026—like the gingerbread house—are fodder for another post or two. © 

Until next Wednesday. 

When Gerald R. Ford Shows Up in My Dreams (and Brings Idioms Along)

Jean’s dreams are the ultimate mash‑up artists. They splice together antique booths, travel trailers, and idioms like “cloud nine” or “pissing contest,” then they hand Jean the footage at 8 a.m. with a note that says: “Good luck making sense of this.” What follows is her attempt to decode the subconscious circus — with a little help from etymology, memory, and one very insistent dream‑dog. AI….

I’ve always been intrigued by my night‑time dreams. Some are so “out there in left field” they’re impossible to figure out. (I’ve used that idiom all my life and only realized recently that it's a baseball reference!) Some dreams are easy to trace back to their source, while others are—well, as I started to say before I interrupted myself—truly “out there in left field.” 

This morning I woke from a dream that was “as easy as pie” to interpret: I was in a vintage travel trailer with a shirtless stranger, tying ribbon bows onto merchandise for a vendor booth in an antiques and collectibles mall. The ribbon was the kind with wire running along the edges, and the trailer itself was a 1950s model with a desk inside instead of a bed. A collie I had when I was a kid was with us, too, whining at the door, and when we let her out she left a huge, yellow puddle in the mud.

And here we go again with idioms: “as easy as pie” first appeared in Zane Grey’s 1910 novel The Young Forester, though a variation—“as nice as pie”—was documented as early as 1855. I’ve always found it fascinating how certain phrases catch on and stick around for centuries, serving as a kind of lazy shorthand for self‑expression. Probably because it's easier to say “as easy as pie” or “out there in left field” than to come up with something original so it makes sense.

Back on topic: the day before my travel‑trailer dream, I attended a lecture here at my CCC about Gerald R. Ford. I went in feeling pretty cranky—so much so that I almost skipped it—but when it was over I walked out “on cloud nine." Sitting in that lecture I kept wishing I had a paper and pen with me to take notes because the speaker was so inspiring. And yes, I’m going to tell you about the origins of the “cloud nine” idiom. It comes from the U.S. Weather Bureau’s cloud classification system, where the highest, most majestic cloud is #9. The phrase entered everyday language in the 1950s when movie star Betty Hutton said she was “hovering on cloud nine” after landing a major film role.

The trailer in my dream resembled the one Gerald R. Ford used as his “traveling office” in the 1950s, back when he was a congressman in Michigan's 5th District. During the Q&A, I asked the speaker—the director of the Ford Foundation—if they still had that trailer. I then shared how Ford would park it near my home, and my dad would take me (age 10 or 11) along to talk with the congressman. Constituents like my dad lined up at the camper door, waiting their turn to enter Ford’s customized office with its plywood paneling. My dad, a union representative, would discuss worker concerns while Ford listened and took notes. A mobile office that was moved every day was novel in those days, and I suspect Ford’s accessibility contributed to his longevity as a congressman. He served as our representative for twenty‑five years. After the lecture, four or five people told me they enjoyed my story or were glad I shared it. The word “sweet” came up more than once. 

The antique‑booth in my dream came from an email I’d received from a friend in my old neighborhood. She still runs a booth in a mall, which brought back memories of when Don and I were vendors too. I miss having that 'booth owner' label as part of my identity. I should write a post about all the labels we lose and find as we age.

The ribbon with the wire in it came from one of my fellow residents, who was having a hissy‑fit over how many bows she had to make for our annual “Decorate for Christmas” event here at the CCC. She worried she couldn’t finish before going to the hospital for a medical procedure. She’s one of the reasons I don’t participate in that event. The first year, I actually planned to help. It’s a big place, requiring many hands to put up the Christmas tree, decorate the fireplace mantle, swap out a row of two dozen green plants for poinsettias, and hang wreaths, garlands and bows throughout the public areas. But that first year, she and an ex‑florist and two other women were locked in a “pissing contest” over creative control. It was clear there were too many chiefs and not enough Indians and with my twenty year history in the floral industry, I knew I wouldn’t have the patience to work that way. Watching those four people debating where to hang a single ornament on the tree was my breaking point. I left and have avoided the event every year since.

And if you think I’m going to let the “pissing contest” idiom slide without background, you’d be wrong. It’s been used metaphorically since the 1940s, originating from boys literally competing to see who could urinate the farthest. Over time, it came to mean any pointless rivalry or public dispute. But here’s a curious fact I uncovered while researching: in 17th‑century Irish and Belgian literature, there’s a story about women competing to see how deep in the snow they could urinate. Now, aren’t you glad you stuck with me until the very end to learn that utterly useless tidbit?

By the way, that dog whining to go out was simply my unconscious self telling me it was time to get up and use the bathroom. Oh, and the shirtless stranger was Dayan Kolev, the "gone vital" jump rope guy from Bulgaria. With him in the trailer with me is it any wonder it took me so long to wake up when nature called? 

One last parting thought: the term "gone viral" has not yet been established as an English idiom. It takes ten years for something like that to stick around before it's consisted to be dictionary worthy. ©

Shame, Gratitude, and the Gods of Irony

 

Every morning begins with a ritual, whether we choose it or not. In Jean’s world, the clock strikes eight and the silence breaks—sometimes by footsteps, sometimes by birds, sometimes by memory itself. What follows is not just a recounting of routine, but a meditation on gratitude, irony, and the curious cast of characters who share her continuum care community. This essay invites us to laugh, to wince, and to recognize the strange ways history and personality collide in daily life.  AI…

Every morning at precisely eight o’clock I roll out of bed. Not because I want to, or need to, but because the world around me finds a need to break the silence born in the night. It might be a daughter or son collecting a parent for breakfast or an early morning appointment. It might be my 95-year-old, upstairs neighbor who stomps around like an elephant and who lives with military precision. Sometimes it’s the birds outside—or simply the clock inside my head. Whatever the cause, I’m never surprised: the clock always reads the same, morning after morning, for as long as I’ve lived in this continuing care community.

As I slip on my slippers, my second thought is also usually the same: another long, boring day ahead. Nothing new, nothing exciting to look forward to—just more of the same. Then humanity kicks in, and that second thought is quickly chased by a third: shame. Shame that I don’t give thanks for the day ahead, that I often fail to see it from another perspective. After all, I could be waking up in war‑torn Ukraine, the Gaza Strip, or an inner city, where the first sounds would be rush‑hour traffic rumbling over the bridge above my cardboard shelter.

Do you ever feel ashamed that you don’t give thanks often enough—to appease the gods of fortune, or God if you’re religious? On Thanksgiving, I had dinner here at my CCC with six other residents. As families often do on this day, we went around the table sharing what we were thankful for, and I had to go first. I said I was thankful for the opportunity to be with friends for the holiday meal, and for living in a great facility. I meant it—but I could have said so much more. 

I could have said I’m thankful that, if I’m careful, my money should outlast my time on earth. But that seemed too personal to share with neighbors. Admitting that could have also brought me down, because my financial situation might have gone the other way if not for the 2008–09 TARP package that saved the auto industry under President Obama. For the two years it took to iron out the restructuring of the Big Three we lived in constant fear of losing Don’s pension and our health care insurance. And we watched several of Don’s co-workers die from the stress. 

The government, by the way, got all its loans back with interest, and GM funded a retiree health‑care trust—a bone of contention right up to the very end of negotiations. Try as I might, I can’t forget those years—the most stressful of my life. Irony has me living in a facility with one of the negotiators who worked for the Big Three automakers—against the UAW union negotiators. If she had gotten her way, I might literally have ended up living under a bridge. The evil side of me is secretly delighted that she doesn't like living here. One of the few I've run across that doesn't. It seems to happen to those whose children strong-armed them into moving to a CCC. In her case she moved across the state to be closer to her kids and grandkids.

To this day, Ms. Negotiator insists it was wrong to make the Big Three continue paying pensions to pre‑2008 retirees and to fund our health‑care trust. We should have been collateral damage for "the UAW's greed in fighting for worker benefits." Having spent her whole career as a management negotiator, she carries that mindset into her life here. She’s known for her stubbornness, her refusal to admit that she’s ever wrong, and for her lavish wardrobe. She seems to like me though. I think because we can bicker over trivia things like jigsaw puzzles protocols which probably gets her adrenaline going. I don’t cut her any slack. I love to wind her up like an old fashioned clock, only I do it with humor. Outsiders probably see us as two old ladies with banter fit for a Saturday Night Live skit. She knows nothing about my connection with the Big Three. She never asks questions. She has her opinions, and by God, nothing will change them.

Have you ever noticed how many people don’t ask questions? You can talk to some people for two hours, and know their entire life story but they’ve learned absolutely nothing about you. Asking questions is the key to having great conversations—especially if people give each other equal time to answer and ask them. 

We have an ex‑kindergarten teacher here who asks so many questions that I sometimes inwardly growl. “What’s your favorite color?” “Your favorite Thanksgiving memory?” “Your favorite day of the week?” “March or October—pick one?” But she’s a sweetheart, a Cheerleader around here and you know when she’s at a table there will be conversation. It will be frivolous, nonsensical conversation—but there will be laughs.  She’s a multi‑millionaire—judging by the sales of her ocean-view Florida home, her Lake Michigan cottage and her local home—yet she takes penny‑pinching to a whole new level. 

Yes, we certainly have some interesting characters living here. Married three times—divorced one husband, buried two—when Ms Cheerleader moved here she sold her big bed and replaced it with a twin. "I'm through with men," she says, but she's the only widow resident here who has gone on a few dates. We have a guy who started dating his realtor after he moved in here and his wife died. It might not be fair to say that the ink was barely dry on the death certificate before the 'love birds' started up but that's what I'm thinking. 

So back to square one: every morning at eight, when the silence breaks and my older-than-dirt slippers go on, I remind myself that even the noise, the irony, and the stubborn neighbors are proof of life continuing. Gratitude doesn’t erase the boredom, but it re-frames it. And maybe that’s the real gift—the gods of irony nudging me to laugh, to argue, and to keep listening for the questions that make conversation worth having.  

Until next Wednesday.  ©