Category: The Soft Side of Sass
A Brief Intermission (Featuring Boxes, Bad Algorithms, and Blessed Silence)
If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, allow me to assure you:
I did not fall in love, run away to Scotland, or get abducted by a man with a fish photo and unearned confidence.
I moved.
Which means my life recently consisted of cardboard boxes, donation piles, sore muscles, and that specific kind of exhaustion where even your thoughts need a nap.
But there’s another reason for the quiet.
I stopped looking at the apps.
Not dramatically.
Not with my own personal declaration of independence.
I just… didn’t open them.
And friends, let me tell you something shocking:
Nothing bad happened.
No missed soulmate notifications.
No algorithm-induced heartbreak.
No urgent need to evaluate a man’s relationship with punctuation, hats, or freshwater bass.
Instead, I unpacked.
I breathed.
I laughed at things that didn’t involve a dating profile promising “hot fun” like it was a Groupon.
And when I did peek back in recently?
Oh, my stars and garters.
The apps were exactly as I left them.
Still confidently delivering men who:
✅️Think “chemistry” is something you spray on
✅️Believe three-word profiles count as a personality
✅️Are one midnight message away from a public safety announcement
✅️Look like they accidentally photo-bombed a picture of their bathroom sinks
Meanwhile, the ads have escalated. 🙄
Everywhere I look is a suspiciously ripped silver fox who absolutely does not exist, staring into the camera like an AI Romeo.
Well, maybe like Romeo’s AI grandpa.
At some point I had to ask myself:
Is this dating… or performance art? 🤔
So consider this post a reset.
No pressure.
No promises.
No pretending I’ve been “actively looking” when I’ve actually been actively choosing peace, furniture placement, and sleep.
Menopause & Malarkey isn’t going anywhere.
Red Flag Friday will return.
Mischief Monday is stretching and hydrating.
I’m still here.
Still observant.
Still amused.
Just a little more unpacked — literally and figuratively.
Carry on. 😌🔥
© 2026 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved.
Woo Hoo – Thank You!
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved.
Discernment with a Side of Fatigue
According to Match.com, January 4th is supposed to be their busiest day of the year.
I took the bait and decided to peruse. And peruse. And … sigh. You get the picture.
After receiving a “like” from a spot-on candidate for Red Flag Friday, I cranked up the computer, fully prepared to whip up the latest witty exposé. Then suddenly, I was tired.
Tired of scrolling.
Tired of swiping.
Tired of what feels like a big joke.
Just … tired.
There are times (like tonight) when I swear there are zero acceptable matches anywhere on the internet. Posts and profiles that deserve nothing more than an eye roll somehow pick and pull at my self-esteem. Guys who wear tank tops in bathroom selfies and definitely failed Grammar & Punctuation 101 send me messages and “likes.” But it’s not about those who are attracted to me.
It’s about those who aren’t.
In Metro-Atlanta, there are 6.09 million people. I have no clue how many of those people are online looking for a genuine connection leading to a serious relationship. Seems like the odds should be pretty good.
So why am I being directed to the equivalent of the $5 movie bin at Walmart?
My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle from 1993. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in their rom-com glory. One quote in particular — the one I’d like to believe — is this:
However, given the virtual rocky road that continuously leads to exhibits for Red Flag Friday, I’m more prone to believe …
“It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!”
That statistic is not true.
That’s right, it’s not true. It only feels true.
— Sleepless in Seattle
Ladies and gents, maybe you’re in the same boat where the rule of metaphorical fishing is catch and release.
Maybe you run headfirst into a wall decorated with red flags, scammers, and a whole lotta “bless his heart.”
And perhaps — like me — you quietly ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
Listen to me …
Close the app.
Take a deep breath.
Exhale slowly.
If you take away one thing from today’s post, let it be this:
There are zero acceptable matches online today.
Which is not the same thing as ever.
The truth is, the internet is crowded with auditions, not partners.
Many profiles read like they were assembled by raccoons with Wi-Fi.
And the cocktail of chemistry, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and punctuation is… tragically small.
You’re not failing at dating.
You’re outgrowing the nonsense.
I, for one, refuse to settle for nonsense, just okay, or “well … maybe.”
Nor should you.
It’s beyond brave to open our hearts to love after loss.
That courage deserves to be met with honor and respect.
YOU deserve nothing less.
I’ll keep wading through the shallow end of the dating pool — rolling eyes, blessing hearts, and trying not to take those quirky algorithms too seriously or too personally. In spite of the occasional pity party, I am truly grateful that God says, “Not today, Satan” and keeps me from anyone unworthy of all the sass and sweetness that is unapologetically me.
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved.
For the Love of Writing
Looking back on 2025, the woman in the mirror isn’t the one who left 2024 behind. Not that there was anything wrong with her: on the contrary, she was a fighter, a survivor managing life one day at a time after loss.
- Loss of her mother in 2018
- Loss of her husband in 2023
- Loss of her father in 2024
With each loss, she said farewell to another piece of her heart. But like many who have gone before, she had no choice but to keep moving forward. Keep working. Keep living. Keep … breathing. There were good days and not-so-good days, and she conquered them all. It wasn’t always pretty and definitely wasn’t easy, but she did it.
Enter 2025: a new year and new adventures. She took an Alaskan cruise for her 55th birthday. She walked more. She laughed more. And much to her delight, she reconnected with an old passion — writing.
It was quite by accident, but oh, the fire was still there, inside and waiting like embers that never quite burned out. A “what if” sparked a deeper processing of grief through storytelling and fantasy, giving permission to feel again.
Like a plot twist we didn’t see coming, she wrapped herself in words and wonder of her own creation. Her heart awoke and her soul burst forth, allowing confusion, pain, heartache, and longing to flow out of her fingertips like tears from her eyes. But not just the hurt! She found hope, confidence, and laughter — so much laughter. Love was waiting in the wings, a soft whisper of, “hey, I’m still here.” She permitted that whisper to be heard.
To explore.
To resonate.
She learned that the capacity to love doesn’t fly away when a spouse exhales in this world and takes his first breath in Heaven. No. When one has loved — has received loved — deeply, greatly, and completely, then she has much more to give.
And that’s not forgetting; it’s forgiving.
That’s not dishonoring; it’s discovering.
That’s not ignoring the past; it’s inviting the future.
As she penned (okay, typed) stories and scenarios, a root began to show its face: guilt in the form of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Our heroine kicked at that root, questioning its motives and exploring its existence. A tug here. A pull there. One final yank exposing the lie that many widows — that this widow — had accepted as gospel:
“It’s wrong to want love again.”
That, my friends, is hogwash.
Having loved like crazy creates a thing of beauty — the capacity to love even more.
Having been loved like crazy creates a spark that says, “I’m alive and I’m allowed.”
Who knew releasing the artist within would release the woman inside?
I, for one, am happy to meet her, take her hand, and boldly march into 2026 smiling, writing, living, and thriving.
Happy New Year from Menopause & Malarkey! Let’s jump in together, shall we?
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved.
Christmas Eve Chaos
Twas the night before Christmas, and with festive smiles,
We drove to the mountains – all 100 miles.
My gas tank was full. The dogs had been fed.
“Join us in Blue Ridge,” my daughter had said.
“We rented a cabin — twill be so much fun!”
Four dogs, three kids, and room for each one.
So, trunk packed with presents and GPS ready,
The dogs and I traveled along sure and steady.
We got to the cabin — what a delight!
Why not expect everything to be right?
My daughter looked frazzled searching her phone.
“We need the door code,” she let out a moan.
Her husband called VRBO begging for help.
The dogs were barking, and one let a yelp.
The children — all hungry — started to whine.
My bladder was screaming, “No, it’s not fine!”
Reality: locked out, dogs judging me, 220 miles later… back home.
Still counts as an adventure, right? 🎄🤷🏼♀️
The afternoon sunshine started to fade
Into the dark, like the plans we had made.
After an hour that seemed more like two,
“Sadly, there is nothing more we can do.”
The grandkids were angry, and so was I.
My daughter, defeated, wanted to cry.
My son-in-law? Bless the heart of this spouse.
He laughed and said, “How about Waffle House?”
By this time the dogs had marked every tree.
No longer caring, I squatted to pee
Behind a trash can, safely out of view.
Security cameras? Just one or two.
We had to decide — it was getting late.
No decent options provided by fate.
We all hugged good-bye and got in our cars.
We drove back to Georgia beneath the stars.
One hundred miles, and then I was home,
Travel completed and nowhere to roam.
Christmas lasagna was not meant to be.
Instead, a sandwich — dogs staring at me.
Tucked in my bed, I was sleepy and warm,
With Maggie and Phoebe — back to our norm.
My eyelids grew heavy, but not my soul:
There are things in life I cannot control.
I fell asleep with no pain or sorrow.
Christmas morning will be here tomorrow:
Not in a cabin surrounded by trees,
I don’t need fancy; my heart is at ease.
We’ll gather together, the kids and me,
And open the presents under the tree.
We’ll eat Christmas turkey and drink eggnog,
And later enjoy that post-dinner fog.
Laughter will ring through the air like a bell.
Past Christmas stories will make my heart swell.
With love in my heart and kids in my arms,
Holiday magic will sprinkle its charms.
When the day’s over, I’ll slip into bed,
Dogs by my side, pillow under my head.
Stars in the sky will show up and twinkle.
I’m glad I can stay indoors to tinkle. 😁🙃🙈🎄🎁
MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM MENOPAUSE & MALARKEY!
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved … including the right to have a happy holiday!
Things I Miss
Christmas and nostalgia often go hand in hand. Sometimes that old, familiar longing settles a little too heavily in my chest, causing my heart to ache and my eyes to sting. Memories seem to have their own pulse — one that keeps beating in my ears, again and again.
I planned to make a list of what I miss about Christmas. I rummaged through old photos and found several gems — ghosts of Christmas past. But instead of making a list (and checking it twice), I chose something different.
Here are a few moments, captured on film and held in my heart. ❤️
Nostalgia braided with sadness isn’t weakness. It’s love with nowhere to land right now.
Who are you missing this Christmas? 💖💚❤️
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved.
Numb.
Grief is weird. I’ve said this at least a hundred times since losing Steve nearly three years ago. It doesn’t wait for an invitation. It doesn’t arrive when expected. There is no dress code or checklist. There are zero boundaries — it shows up when it wants, where it wants, and how it wants. There are special occasions such as birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries when I anticipate and fully expect sadness, only to find the tears stay away. There are random workdays when, for no particular rhyme or reason, I sit at my desk and pray nobody stops to talk because the floodgates are wide open.
And then there are days like today. Numb.
As a child, my family lived in the “suburbs” of a town with a whopping population of about 6,000 people. In other words, we lived on the outskirts of the middle of nowhere. So when a new kid moved in down the road, it took about five minutes for us to become friends. Her name was Dawn, and she was friendly and bubbly, and we hit it off immediately. I believe I was in fourth grade and she was in fifth when we met, and weekends became adventures on our bikes or walking the back roads, sleepovers with Mad Libs and makeup, or afternoons listening to her parents’ albums from the 70s or our cassette tapes featuring Madonna or Cyndi Lauper.
As we got older, summers were spent sunbathing with baby oil on our skin and Sun-In on our hair. Topics turned to boys, clothes, boys, hair, boys. She started high school a year before I did, so I had the inside scoop when it was my turn to enter those daunting halls lined with lockers and smelling like floor wax and teenage dreams. Our conversations grew deeper, secrets became sacred, and tears were accepted without judgement. We called each other “Sis,” because that’s what we were.
Somewhere along the way, we grew up. Moments became memories. Life got harder. Dawn and I still talked, laughed, cried, shared secrets and dreamed dreams. When she got married, I was her maid of honor. When I was pregnant, she spent the night when my husband was working. We had each other’s backs — not because we always agreed, but because we always loved.
Like many childhood friendships, time and distance somehow slipped in; phone calls were fewer, miles were farther, and life got in the way. But when we reconnected, time wasn’t a factor. Our friendship witnessed love and loss, children growing and husbands leaving, aging parents and adult choices.
And cancer.
Steve’s cancer.
Then her cancer.
Steve’s passing.
And now, hers.
Grief is weird. Because even when you see it coming, it doesn’t always land like you think it should. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always scream. There aren’t always tears. Sometimes, it looks like staring at old pictures and feeling nothing.
Nothing but numb.
Dear Algorithm, We Need to Talk.
Dear Algorithm,
We Need to Talk.
You and I have been in a relationship for a while now. I give you my clicks, my scrolls, my late-night searches for boots and bookcases. In return, you’re supposed to get to know me.
But lately?
You’ve been getting a little too familiar… and somehow still wildly wrong.
Exhibit A: BBW Cupid
You slid into my feed whispering:
“Looking for a man who will accept you just the way you are?”
Sir.
Ma’am.
Binary-system of baloney.
Why are you talking to me like I just admitted my darkest insecurity into your algorithmic confessional?
You’re not uplifting me.
You’re patting me on the head.
“Oh sweetheart, don’t worry, someone will love you.”
Women don’t need pity served in a stock-photo romance wrapper. We need honesty. We need respect. We need you to stop acting like we’re projects, not people.
Exhibit B: WooPlus Gym-Bro Energy
Then came the lumbering wall of muscle proclaiming:
“Dear plus size girls… You are appreciated by gym bros.”
Appreciated.
APPRECIATED???
Algorithm, be serious.
This man looks like he drinks creatine like communion wine and benches jet skis recreationally. He has never once in his life typed the phrase “plus size.”
But you want me to believe he’s waiting to sweep me off my curvy feet?
No.
Stop it.
Be so for real.
Exhibit C: The Copy-Paste Casanova
This morning — the SAME day I wrote about false advertising — you delivered a message from a man 900 miles away who:
- speaks in Victorian run-on sentences
- wants to “use me as a model of beauty”
- and sounds like ChatGPT’s Renaissance-fair cousin
Even Chapter 2 went:
“We will investigate this and he sounds beyond creepy.”
When the dating site itself is concerned? That’s when you KNOW.
Here’s the part I need you to hear, Algorithm:
These ads… they don’t hurt because I’m lonely.
They don’t land because I’m insecure.
They don’t sting because I think I’m unlovable.
They hurt because they treat plus-size women like we need special permission to hope.
Like we need reassurance.
Like we should be grateful.
Like love is something available —
but only if we accept a pity narrative wrapped in fake empowerment.
You take the most vulnerable demographic — women who have survived loss, divorce, trauma, disappointment — and you sell them a fantasy rooted in condescension, not connection.
You dress it up in Hallmark cinematography:
Thin pretty girl = mean.
Curvy bakery owner = warms the lumberjack’s heart.
Roll credits.
But real life isn’t a Christmas movie.
And curvy women are not consolation prizes.
So listen closely, Algorithm:
I am a plus-size woman.
I know who I am.
I know what I offer.
I don’t need your curated pity campaigns.
I don’t need validation from an ad.
And I certainly don’t need fake “appreciation” from a gym bro.
If a man wants me, he will want me — my mind, my humor, my history, my heart — not because an app “targets” me, but because I’m worth targeting on my own merits.
And so are millions of other women who deserve real love, real honesty, and real dignity.
You don’t get to define our worth.
You don’t get to diagnose our loneliness.
You don’t get to prey on our scars.
So knock it off.
Do better.
Signed,
A woman who is
Too wise for ghosting,
Too tired for games,
And way, WAY too caffeinated for your nonsense today.
— Menopause & Malarkey 🔥💙
What about you?
Have you gotten an ad that made you say, “EXCUSE ME, ALGORITHM??”
Drop it in the comments — this is a safe space, and your stories deserve to be heard (and laughed about).
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved … including the right to know my worth.
I’m Still Standing — and Somehow Standing Taller
A reflection on late-blooming strength, rediscovered creativity, and the surprising places healing takes us.
There are moments in life when you look backward, then forward, then at the ground beneath your feet — and you realize you’re standing somewhere you never imagined, stronger than you expected.
This week, I caught myself feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time:
proud.
grounded.
steady.
And maybe most importantly… ready.
Ready for what?
Not men. Not dating apps. Not romance with a side of mystery shovels.
Ready for me.
Ready to keep writing.
Not the timid scribbles I used to produce in my 20s, but the bold, layered, soulful work that only comes with time — and life — and loss — and joy — and more experience than anyone ever asks for.
My creativity didn’t return quietly.
She came back at 55 with sass, steel, and an entire toolbox of stories she refused to keep inside my chest any longer.
She came with decades of women’s wisdom, mother-worry, step-parent diplomacy, blended family chaos, heartbreak, healing, gray hair earned the honest way, and a bachelor’s degree I fought my way toward at 47.
She came back mature, fierce, vulnerable, funny, gritty, and brilliant in ways my 25-year-old self couldn’t even dream of.
Ready to honor the life I’ve lived.
Two marriages that ended on purpose.
One that ended out of my control.
Daughters who grew into women.
Grandkids who became pure magic in human form.
Parents who left too soon.
A husband whose death changed the shape of my soul.
Jobs, losses, reinventions, dogs with big personalities and tiny bladders, and holding space for my kids when their own hearts broke.
Every bit of it taught me something.
Every bit of it honed me.
Every bit of it brought me here.
Ready to embrace the quiet triumphs.
The kind that don’t make noise.
The kind that happen in soft moments.
The kind that whisper, not shout:
“You made it.
And you’re okay.”
Sometimes that looks like writing a chapter that feels like truth.
Sometimes it looks like house-sitting with three snoring dogs.
Sometimes it looks like remembering you once slept in a room with someone you loved who’s no longer here — and choosing grace for your own heart when it feels unsettled.
And sometimes it looks like taking a bucket-list cruise to Alaska and unknowingly changing the entire trajectory of your life.
Ready for whatever comes next.
Not because I’m fearless.
Not because I’m finished grieving.
Not because life suddenly makes perfect sense.
But because I’m still standing —
and I’m standing taller than before.
Here’s to the late bloomers.
The reinvented.
The resilient.
The women who rise again and again, softer and stronger each time.
And here’s to the muse who came back with a vengeance.
I’ve missed her.
But she came home.
And she brought stories with her.
© 2025 Heather Nicole Kight – Menopause & Malarkey. All rights reserved.
Menopause & Malarkey 