Christmas Eve Chaos

December 25, 2025 Heather Kight2 Comments

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!”

Cartoon-style illustration of a woman locked out of a cabin on Christmas Eve, staring at her phone while her two small dogs, Phoebe and Maggie, stand beside her in the snow near luggage and wrapped gifts. — Christmas Eve plans: cabin in the mountains.
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.

Photo of two small dogs, Maggie and Phoebe, sitting close together and looking up attentively at their owner, their faces expectant and expressive. — *“Please, Mum, might we have some more?”*

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!

Cartoon-style illustration of a woman wearing a Christmas sweater, smiling while holding her two small dogs, Maggie and Phoebe, in a cozy holiday living room with a decorated Christmas tree and fireplace. — *And from Heather, Maggie, and Phoebe, too!*

Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

Red Flag Friday Presents: A License to Chill

December 19, 2025December 18, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Mind Your Business, Mr. Bond

Every now and then, the apps present a man who seems less like a potential date and more like an audition tape.

Ladies, meet:
“The Man Who Wants You to Say ‘Hi’ — and Nothing Else.”

🎩 The Photos

We’re treated to a three-act visual experience:

Formal suit, pocket square, intense stare
– James Bond energy
– But like… the villain who gets caught monologuing
Tuxedo at night, harsh lighting
– Not “date night”
– Very much “last known photo before the plot twist”
Car selfie with eyes that say “You noticed me.”
– Sir. I did not ask to be noticed this way.

A dramatic black-and-white, film noir–style portrait of a middle-aged man in a tuxedo, staring intensely into the camera under low lighting. The image evokes classic crime drama and mystery, with a moody, ominous tone. — *If your profile makes me wonder whether my body would be discovered by hikers or fishermen… that’s a no.*

The Bio (Where Things Take a Turn)

Let’s highlight a few selections from the Gentleman’s Handbook of Red Flags:

“My love language is quality time and physical touch.”
Translation: If you’ve got the time, I’ve got the touch.

“I give awesome hugs and am a great kisser 💋”
I expected to see, “References provided upon request.”

“Let’s not learn everything about one another right now.”
Based on what I’ve read thus far, you’d rather take your lip balm for a test run.

“If you’re just looking for a chat buddy, I’m not the one.”
Oh, honey, you’re not “the one” for so many reasons.

🧳 Occupation:

Professional at: Mind Your Business

In the immortal words of renowned philosopher Charles Brown: “Good grief.”

Final Verdict

This is not James Bond.
This is not the hero.
This is the guy Bond throws off a balcony in Monaco while adjusting his cufflinks.

Carry on, Moneypenny. 🍸

Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

Meanwhile, Back in Reality

November 26, 2025November 26, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

MENOPAUSE & MALARKEY PRESENTS:

“Meanwhile, Back in Reality…”

A Study in False Advertising

Tell me why Facebook is out here asking:

“Are you 50+ and looking to find a man?”

*It’s like the Stepford Wives of Silver Foxes!*

…then presenting me with a lineup that looks like a casting couch for:

The Latest James Bond Sequel
The Brawny Paper Towel Guy
The “Intimately Beckham” Cologne Ads

Let’s analyze this Bait & Switch.

Age 50–58 👨🏻‍🦱

Looks like he makes $300K a year building custom log cabins with nothing but a hatchet and a heart of gold.
REALITY CHECK:
My matches are men who wear Viking masks and brag about being STD-free.

Age 59–67 👱🏻‍♂️

Sir looks like he whispers in French, sings like Josh Turner, and restores vintage motorcycles on weekends.
REALITY CHECK:
The actual 59–67 demographic on Facebook Dating posts selfies featuring bathroom sinks, upshots of nostrils, and pillows as backdrops.

Age 68–73 🧓🏻

This man looks like early-retirement perfection: resides in his mountainside cabin beside a lake, tours wineries around the world, and doles affection on his seven grandchildren, who lovingly call him “Pop-Pop.”
REALITY CHECK:
Tell me why the REAL 68–73s message me “Your smile is my new favorite view” at before 5am, coffee, or a simple, “Hello.”

Age 73–85 👴🏻

He looks like he reads novels on his sunlit balcony, knows how to dance the tango, and makes 80 look like the new 50.
REALITY CHECK:
The only 70-somethings I get wear shirts that are sleeveless, have smiles that are toothless, and use photos that are from 1985. (And they definitely don’t look like Sam Elliott or Sean Connery.)

🌟 CONCLUSION

These men are AI-generated delusions meant to lure us into yet another dating site.
They do not exist.
They have never existed.
They are the enigmas known as:

“Senior Silver Foxus Perfectus.”

Meanwhile, Facebook Dating is serving me:

Señor Modelo
Tony who bathes with his dog
Men who take selfies from under their chin
Men who list “mammals” as an interest

TalkNest, don’t play with me.

Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

🔥 M&M: The Case of the Almost-Perfect Candidate … Until …

November 24, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Ladies… gather ‘round.
Because today’s roast is brought to you by:

Hope.
Disappointment.
And a man who went from “ooh la-la” to “oh no, no” in two seconds flat.

Let me set the scene:
Facebook Dating serves me up a cutie pie. (Who, by the way, was categorized as a “perfect match.”)
Not “eh, he’ll do.”
Not “maybe if the light is forgiving.”

No.
This one was legit cute:

Good smile
Local
Normal hobbies
Age-appropriate
No up-the-nose or on-the-bed selfies
Looked like his mother raised him with soap and manners

I thought,
“Well butter my biscuit and call me hopeful…”

For a few glorious minutes, I believed.

Then—
THEN—

Sir Flirt-a-Lot answered the prompt:

“What’s your favorite time of day?”
with:

✨😏 “SEXY TIME” 😏✨

Right above the “My shades are cool, and my abs are hot” topless beach pic.

SIR.
There I was, enjoying your adorable grin, your puppy photo, your backyard sunshine…
And suddenly you hit me with a whiplash-inducing combo of:

“Look how sweet and normal I am!”
followed immediately by
“HERE ARE MY PECS AND MY INTENTIONS.”

*So close and yet so far … off the mark.*

Let me be extremely clear:

SEXY TIME
…is not a time of day.
It is an ick.
A category.
A hazard.
A sign from the heavens that says:
“Abort mission, Heather. This man has no internal editor.”

You know what it felt like?

Like I ordered a Chick-fil-A sandwich and halfway through found a live scorpion wearing sunglasses. 🕶️

Everything was perfect.
I was rooting for him.
ROOTING.
And then—
like a child in the church Christmas program repeating the cuss word Mommy muttered earlier—
he proudly typed:

SEXY.
TIME.

With the emoji. 😏
THE EMOJI.

I went from:
😌 “Oh wow, what a cutie.”
to
🫠 “Sir, why?”
to
💀 “We cannot date. Ever.”

in 0.4 seconds.

Like… why do they DO this?

Why is it that right when I’m thinking,
“Ohhh, he seems normal,”
a man will suddenly fling out the word SEXY TIME like he chose “Inappropriate Pick-up Lines for 100, Alex” on Jeopardy.

It’s always when you least expect it.

He’s giving:
• Golden Retriever energy
• Family-man vibes
• Would help you carry in the groceries
• Might even remember your birthday

In reality, he’s:
• Answering normal prompts with unnecessary levels of testosterone
• Displaying more sweat and sunscreen than any photo should capture
• Abandoning all filters and foresight
• Utilizing “the ole bait ‘n switch” to perfection

Instant downgrade to:

🏅 Honorable Mention:

The Almost That Absolutely Isn’t.

Because here’s the truth:

A man can look like sweet tea and sunshine…
but if “sexy time” is his favorite time of day?
Sir, you may exit (in true Beyoncé fashion) — to the left, to the left.

Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

🚩 Red Flag Friday: “The Thighs Have Eyes” — Nightmare on Match Street

November 21, 2025November 20, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

It began the way all great horror movies begin:
in the dark, just before dawn, when the world is quiet, your guard is down, and nothing good ever comes from checking your phone.

4:51 a.m.

My phone glowed on the nightstand — soft, eerie, and absolutely up to no good.
You know the scene: the quick cut, the ominous music shift, and the audience whispering,

“Don’t… pick… it… up.”

But I did.
Because I am the Surviving Heroine in this psychological thriller, and also because I regularly make bad decisions before caffeine.

I cracked open one eye.
Then the other.
I reached.

And with the naïve innocence of the victim in the first 10 minutes of a slasher film… I unlocked the screen.

Retro comic image of woman squinting at glowing phone screen — *This is why do not disturb was invented.*

There he was.

Andre.
From Illinois.
Awake at 3:51 a.m. HIS time.
Which already raises the eyebrow of suspicion.

His opener?

“Good morning 😃 You’re pretty!”

I should’ve closed my eyes and gone back to sleep.
I should’ve thrown the whole phone out the window.

But no.
Curiosity won — as it always does — and the typing bubbles began.

Fast.
Aggressive.
Like a chatbot on steroids.

🩰 Scene 1: Ballet, Cheerleading… or Cult Initiation?

The questions came rapid-fire:

“Did I wake you?”
“You work out?”
“What competitive sports were you in?”
“Ever did ballet?”
“Cheerleading?”

Dude.
It is before 5 a.m.
I haven’t even remembered my own name yet.

This was no small talk.
This was an athletic inquisition.

Vintage comic panel of a bald man at a laptop in a dimly lit room, with pom-poms hanging ominously in the background. — *Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer …*

This image is EXACTLY how it felt:
Andre, hunched over a keyboard in a dim lair, illuminated only by the unholy glow of his laptop and a deep desire to measure my quads.

🍗 Scene 2: “Nice curves!” — and the Descent Into Madness (Muah, ha, ha)

As I scrolled his profile — trying to confirm whether he was:

human,
Martian, or
texting from an abandoned Gold’s Gym

— my phone buzzed again.

“Nice curves!”

In our movie, that was the whisper before the jump scare.

And then came the final blow…

🔥 Scene 3: The Line That Summoned The Cyber Police

Just as my thumb hovered over BLOCK, he fired off the message that cemented his place in Red Flag Friday history:

“Your thighs pretty strong?”

Wait … WHAT.

It’s before sunrise.
The house? Dark.
The dogs? Asleep.
My patience? Gone.

You can’t ask about thighs at this hour. Or any hour. Ever.
It violates at least three federal laws and one sacred truth:

✨ No thighs before sunrise. ✨

No.
No, no, no.

Period.

Vintage comic panel of a sad ThighMaster exercise tool cartoonishly crying under a spotlight — *Even the ThighMaster — abandoned since 1993 — knows this is a violation.*

❌ Scene 4: The Final Girl Moment

It happened in slow motion.
The music swelled.
I hit BLOCK so hard my phone considered filing a complaint.

Vintage comic-style illustration of a silver-haired woman dramatically pressing the block button on her phone. — *Can I block someone more than once???*

Andre vanished.
Banished.
Slithered back to whatever early-morning Thigh Dimension he crawled out of.

🎬 FINAL SCENE — PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

And now, friends, a crucial PSA:

If a man asks about your thighs before sunrise…
That is not romance.
That is not flirtation.
That is not curiosity.

That is:

🚨 A Thigh-Based Emergency 🚨

Report immediately.
Block swiftly.
And repeat after me:

No thighs before sunrise.

The Bold Before The BLOCK

Tune in next week for another installment of:

Red Flag Friday — where the flags are bright, the men are bold, and the dating apps never disappoint in disappointing me. 🚩🚩🚩

Brought to you by:

🩸 The Final Girl of Facebook Dating

🔪 The Scream Queen of Swipe Culture

👠 The Slayer of Scammers

📣💃🗣️✨ The Creator of Cheer Noir™

Dating After Dignity · The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

Starting Over After 50: The Ache No One Warns You About

November 19, 2025November 18, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

There’s a particular kind of grief that settles into your bones when you lose the person you were supposed to grow old with. No one prepares you for it — the way it steals not just your present, but the future you built in pencil, ink, and stubborn hope.

When you’re younger, love is about becoming.
Becoming a couple.
Becoming a family.
Becoming adults together.

You grow and shift and soften with the same person beside you. You change physically — we all do — but you don’t see those changes the same way the world does.

Because when you love someone for decades, you don’t see wrinkles or gray hair or the softening around the edges.
You see the man who held your hand in the hospital waiting room.
You see the woman who laughed so hard she snorted on your second date.
You see the life you built — the shared history that becomes its own kind of beauty.

Familiarity becomes attraction.
Shared memories become desire.
Love shapes your eyes.

But when you lose that person — or when a marriage ends — you’re thrown into something no one asked for: starting over.

And starting over at 40, 50, 60 is a completely different mountain to climb.

Because now, instead of being seen through the lens of someone who lived your life with you…
You’re being seen through the eyes of strangers.

Strangers who didn’t watch you grow.
Strangers who didn’t walk your valleys or climb your victories.
Strangers who don’t know the you who existed before the wrinkles, before the grief, before the years changed your body and your face and your heart.

When you start over at this age, you feel that difference.

Even if you’re confident.
Even if you’re grounded.
Even if you know your worth.

There is a quiet voice — sometimes faint, sometimes vicious — that whispers:

“What if I’m not enough anymore?”

Not pretty enough.
Not young enough.
Not thin enough.
Not radiant enough for a world obsessed with first impressions and filtered perfection.

And the truth is, that fear isn’t vanity.
It’s human.

Because for years — or decades — you were loved by someone who saw all of you, not just the surface. Someone who saw your worth through shared life, not swipe reactions. Someone who learned you the way a favorite song becomes a part of the body that listens to it.

Losing that lens is its own grief.

And stepping into dating again — especially after loss — means presenting yourself to people who haven’t earned the right to see you deeply yet. People who only know the picture on the screen and not the lifetime behind your eyes.

But here’s the part the fear forgets:

You are not starting from zero.
You are starting from wisdom.
From strength.
From a heart that has lived, loved, broken, healed, and dared to remain open.

And you are not “less than” for aging.
You are more — more experienced, more emotionally intelligent, more discerning, more compassionate, more real.

Someone new may not see the version of you that existed decades ago…
But the right person will see the woman you’ve become because of everything you survived — and they will recognize the beauty of that immediately.

You don’t start over because you stopped loving the person you lost.
You start over because they taught you what love can be.

And that lesson — that depth, that devotion, that courage — is the very thing that makes you worthy of being loved again, exactly as you are now.

Wrinkles, laugh lines, grief lines, silver hairs, soft edges, and all.

Not in spite of them.

But because of them.

Dating After Dignity · The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

His Last Question, My Lifelong Answer

November 17, 2025November 16, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

11 years, 2 months, 15 days.
That’s how long we had.

We met. We fell in love. We eloped. We knew 50 years was a lofty goal — he was 38, I was 41 — but we were determined to “go the distance,” as he always said.

Heather and her late husband Steve stand close together in a softly lit church, smiling warmly at the camera. Heather is holding their marriage license, and Steve has one hand resting gently on her shoulder and the other on her arm. Both look happy and proud, captured on a meaningful, joyful day. — *The day I became his Mrs. 11/17/2011*

We didn’t know the distance would be so short.
11 years, 2 months, 15 days — from I do on November 11, 2011 to goodbye on February 1, 2023, when he took his last breath on earth and his first breath in Heaven.

And for the record?
Cancer sucks.

I can measure the time we were married.
What I can’t measure are the things grief refuses to quantify:

The number of tears I’ve cried
The number of times I’ve heard, “I’m so sorry”
The number of times I’ve said, “Pawpaw would be so proud of you”
The number of times I’ve thought, “Oh, I need to ask Steve—” before remembering
The number of times I’ve wished he could walk the dogs with me
The number of times I’ve felt the emptiness where his touch should be
The number of times our kids could’ve used his guidance
The number of times I’ve pulled out his half-empty bottle of aftershave just to breathe him in

The list could go on for… well, forever.

I’ll never forget the question he asked on our 11th anniversary — the one we both knew would be our last. He felt well enough for a short dinner out, but the outing took everything out of him. That night, sitting beside him on the bed, holding his hand, he looked at me and asked:

“If you knew 11 years ago how this would end, would you still have married me?”

That question hits differently when you’ve lived inside cancer hell. Our marriage took “in sickness and in health” to a level I wouldn’t wish on a single soul. Why would anyone knowingly choose a marriage of just 11 years when it meant walking through a storm like that?

Because… love.

Like I told him that night, the honor of loving him for 11 years was worth more than the idea of never loving him at all. It wasn’t a comforting line for a dying man — it was the truth.

For every heartbreak, we had a hundred memories wrapped in laughter. We loved each other fiercely.

‘Til death do us part.

Steve kissing Heather on their 11th anniversary. — Our final anniversary together – 11/17/2022

Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

Geographically Challenged Royalty

November 14, 2025November 13, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Most men I know are great with geography and have an innate instinct for getting un-lost. They can sniff the direction of a highway exit like bloodhounds. They can find a shortcut through three cornfields and two gravel roads without a single wrong turn. My late husband, Steve, proudly reigned as “King of the Backroads.”

But online dating geography reminds me of how my dad used to pack the trunk for long trips. “It’ll fit in there if you stack the luggage like this.”

These guys genuinely believe: “If I angle this map in my mind just right… geography will bend to my will.”

No, it will not. Geography is not Tetris. Distance isn’t shortened simply because you say so.

Menopause & Malarkey graphic from Geography to the online dating community. — *Just … stop.*

Directions Aren’t Suggestions

I received a message this week from a gentleman we’ll call King George.

King George seemed perfectly pleasant at first.
Location? King George, Virginia.
Message? Polite. Warm. Normal enough to lower my swipe-defense shield. Asked what I like most about living in Georgia.

So I responded with equal kindness:
“You seem nice, but the distance is too far.”

A perfectly reasonable, grown-woman boundary, right?

Apparently not.

This man — this adult human with a functioning smartphone and Google Maps baked into it — replies with:

“Well, King George is closer to Pennsylvania.”

Sir.

SIR. 🤦‍♀️

What part of “I live in GEORGIA” was unclear?
What math, what map, what alternate reality was consulted for this mental malarkey?

This is not “new math.”
This is New Geography, where states migrate, distances don’t exist, and all roads magically lead to your inbox.

Let’s illustrate the logic here:

Heather: “You’re too far.”
King George: “BUT IF YOU SQUINT AND TILT THE MAP—”
Geography: throws hands up and shouts, “I got nothin’.”

Listen, I admire optimism. Truly.
But unless I wake up tomorrow as the mayor of Pennsylvania, this argument needs to take a seat.

Meme of King George III from “Hamilton” with a Princess Bride quote poking fun at a dating app match who misjudges geography, referencing King George, VA and Georgia. Branded Red Flag Friday graphic from Menopause & Malarkey. — *“New Math was wild. New Geography is feral.”*

Old Cinematography vs. New Geography

This entire exchange reminds me of my favorite move, Sleepless in Seattle. Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan … pure 90s rom-com perfection. There’s a scene where Sam (Tom Hanks) is arguing with his son, Jonah, about meeting Annie (Meg Ryan) who lives in Baltimore. Pulling down a wall-sized map (because hey, we all have one of those in the dining room, right?), Sam points to Seattle, then to Baltimore, and emphatically explains that “there are like, 26 states between here and there!”

That scene is literally the opposite of Dating App Logic:

“Three states away? Close.”
“Seven-hour drive? Practically next door.”
“Opposite ends of Virginia? Same neighborhood.”
“East Coast? West Coast? Tomato, tomahto.”

Meanwhile I’m over here with Sam’s wall map declaring:

“Sir, unless you’ve discovered teleportation, that is NOT close.”

And I don’t care how many times I’ve cried during An Affair to Remember — I’m NOT going to the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day to meet “Mr. Right” who turns out to be “Mr. Wrong Directions.”

💭 Picture, if you will …

King George:
“Babe, I’m here!”
— text from the Space Needle.

Because in Dating App Geography:

New York, Seattle… “What? They’re both big cities.”
“Empire State Building” = “the tall one, right?”
East Coast, West Coast, Potato, Potahto.

Meanwhile, I’m standing in the icy February wind, clinging to my dignity and a latte, and he’s out there taking blurry selfies three thousand miles away like:

“Traffic was crazy, but I made it!”

Sir.
No.
No, you did not.
You crossed the wrong time zone, let alone the wrong building.

👀 I can see it now …

King George: (still in Seattle, still blissfully unaware)
“Yeah babe, I’m lookin’ right at it—big, tall, pointy thing. Sorta shiny. Totally iconic. I’ll meet you at the top.”

Heather:
“…Sir. That is the Space Needle.”

King George:
“Same difference.”

Heather:
“Mm. Okay. Well, when you find me, we can drive north to Tennessee and sail across the Phoenix Ocean.”

M&M Moral of the Week

If your opening move includes:

📌 Ignoring geography
📌 Rewriting geography
📌 Inventing new geography

…that’s a hard swipe left, my friend.

I want a man who respects boundaries — emotional and geographical.
If you think Georgia is next door to Virginia because you wish it were (and, more importantly, because “VA is close to PA”) … you might be the reason I shake my head and close the app.

Heatheresque Closing 💅🏻

Dating after 40 requires patience, humor, and apparently, remedial map skills.
But here’s the thing:
Every confused King George reminds me why I’m writing this blog in the first place.

Because somewhere out there is a woman reading this, nodding so hard she spills her coffee, whispering, “Oh thank GOD it’s not just me.”

And somewhere out there?
Maybe — just maybe — is a man who can read a map. 🗺️🔍

Dating After Dignity · Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

Midweek Malarkey: Tony and the Tub Time Twist

November 12, 2025January 5, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

Square graphic for Menopause & Malarkey’s “Midweek Malarkey: The Blooper Reel of Modern Romance.” Coral and cream text on a charcoal background with playful design accents and tagline, “Because every near-miss deserves a laugh.”

It’s kinda sad that all I had to do was open Match and start scrolling.

Today’s “Ah, man, I was rooting for you!” award goes to Tony, age 50.

Initial reaction:

Photos? ✔️

Location? ✔️

Complete bio? ✔️

Compatible? ✔️

My thumb was about to swipe Tony into the digital land of possibility when I read it.

The prompt:

“For me, a good day isn’t complete without …”

The answer:

“My dog and a hot bath.”

Now, perhaps he meant to type, “spending time with my dog — I also like to relax later on with a hot bath.”

Perhaps.

But all I can picture is a sturdy, six-foot gentleman surrounded by bubbles, sipping a glass of wine, and locking eyes with his faithful pup across the tub. In complete, candlelit silence.

Don’t you dare deny it — you pictured it too.

Playful cartoon illustration in coral, cream, and charcoal colors for Menopause & Malarkey. A bald man with a goatee relaxes in a large bubble bath, holding a glass of wine, while his dog sits across from him in the tub surrounded by bubbles and a rubber duck. Caption reads, “For me, a good day isn’t complete without… my dog and a hot bath.”

And somewhere in that sudsy, surreal moment, my finger found its way back to safety. Swipe left, my friends. Swipe left.

Because in the dating world, there’s clean … and then there’s too clean. 🛁🐾

Menopause & Mischief

The Sonnet of The Soggy Fries

November 10, 2025November 9, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

🍟 Mischief Monday: When Creativity Ate My Dinner

It all started innocently enough: I sat down to write just one more paragraph. You know, the famous last words of every writer who’s ever burned a meal, missed a meeting, or forgotten her own name.

Somewhere between “this line could be funnier” and “I should proofread that one more time,” my dinner arrived — a glorious cheesesteak and sweet-potato-fries combo, still sizzling when it landed on my doorstep.

And there it sat.

For forty.
Whole.
Minutes.

I only remembered when Phoebe and Maggie started their pre-walk wiggle dance, and I opened the door to what can only be described as a tragic culinary crime scene.

Cold cheese. Congealed grease. Fries that had given up all will to live.

It wasn’t dinner anymore — it was a cautionary tale.

💡 The Lesson (If We Can Call It That)

Writing can feed the soul, but it also starves the body. Somewhere out there, a DoorDash driver thinks I’m dead, and honestly, I can’t even be mad about it.

Because when the words come, you chase them. Even if that means eating sweet-potato fries that are soggy with regret.

✍️ Moral of the Story

The next time you tell yourself, “I’ll grab my food in a minute,” remember: a minute in writer-time equals forty in real-world minutes.

Still, I’ll take cold fries and a good paragraph over hot food and no ideas any day.

Menopause & Malarkey
Because sometimes inspiration strikes… and dinner dies. 💋