The Creative Nest

Who schedules a three-hour meeting? Seriously. I have questions. Because somewhere out there, a person looked at a calendar, saw an empty three-hour block, and thought, “Perfect. Let’s put a meeting there.” Three hours. That is not a meeting. That is a commitment. Three hours is long enough to drive to another city, have lunch, come back, and still have time to wonder why you went in the first place. Three hours is enough time to watch a movie. It is enough time to start a load of laundry, forget about it, remember it two hours later, and then move it to the dryer while questioning every decision that brought you to that moment. But apparently, it is also an acceptable amount of time to sit in a meeting. I understand that some things require discussion. There are complicated projects. Big decisions. Planning sessions. Important topics. Fine. I will give you that. But three hours? What exactly are we doing in there? Are we solving world hunger? Are we negotiating a peace treaty? Are we ...

I am actually pretty good at small talk. There, I said it. I can talk to strangers, chat with coworkers, make conversation with the person standing next to me in line at the store, and somehow find something to say to just about anybody. Weather? Sure. Weekend plans? Absolutely. Traffic? I can make that work. I can take whatever random little topic is floating around and turn it into an actual conversation. Small talk doesn't bother me. What does bother me is trying to have small talk with someone who apparently did not receive the memo that small talk is supposed to be a two-person activity. You know the type. You walk up and say, “Hey! How was your weekend?” They say, “Good.” That's it. Just good. No follow-up. No additional information. No conversational breadcrumbs. Nothing. So you try again. “Do anything fun?” “Nope.” Oh. Okay. Now I'm doing all the work. At this point, I have apparently become the host of a talk show that nobody agreed to appear on. I start throwing o...

Do you ever lose something and become completely convinced that it is gone forever? Not misplaced. Not temporarily missing. Gone. You search the obvious places. Then you search the places that make absolutely no sense. You check the same drawer three times because apparently the missing item might magically appear if you look at it with a different attitude. You move things around. You mutter under your breath. You accuse everyone in the household of moving it, even though you know perfectly well they probably had nothing to do with it. Eventually, you give up. “It’s gone,” you declare. And that’s that. You replace it. You buy another one. You move on with your life. Then, three weeks later, you open a drawer you haven't touched since approximately 2019 and there it is. THE MISSING THING. Suddenly, it feels like Christmas morning. Forget presents. Forget twinkling lights. Forget the smell of cookies baking in the oven. I found the damn thing I thought I lost! There should honestly...