WAITING ON A FRIEND

Posted on April 16, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“True friendship multiplies the good in life and divides its evils.” (Baltasar Gracian)

In a humorous episode of “I Love Lucy,” Lucy mistakenly thinks Ricky, Fred, and Ethel have forgotten her birthday. In reality, they’re avoiding the topic because they’re secretly planning a surprise party. Feeling sorry for herself and certain she has no friends, Lucy goes to a park to sit alone. There, she meets a ragtag band of misfits called “The Friends of the Friendless,” united by their shared loneliness. She joins their march and leads them into the Tropicana to confront Ricky, hoping to prove she’s not friendless. Instead, she walks right into her surprise party, confirming that everyone really does love Lucy.

Earth feels lonelier these days. More and more adults find themselves isolated by changing circumstances, distance, and the passing deaths of older friends. Across the internet, strangers cry into the void, “Why can’t I make new friends?” As we age, building connections becomes harder, as life often shifts unexpectedly. Over time, friends can drift apart due to geography, lifestyle changes, and obligations that take precedence. The internet and AI have replaced much of our face-to-face interaction, and our ability to connect personally is fading. We’re slowly losing our social skills. Add to that daily living seems to take more of our energy.

Friendships form naturally when we’re young, built on shared experiences like high school kinship, college fraternization, and entry into the workforce that bring new faces and opportunities. We bond over life’s many firsts, with mutual engagements knitting us together. As we date or marry, our circles expand with the blending of our partner’s friends. I regret not nurturing certain friendships from my past, but life routinely got in the way. There are friendships meant to fade with time, fitting the idea that people enter our lives for “a reason or a season,” while others that feel designed to go the distance require effort and intentionality to sustain, much like a romantic relationship.

I’ve stepped outside my comfort zone in recent weeks, prompted by the realization that tomorrow is not a guarantee. In the early 90s, I had a friendship that likely wasn’t meant to last a lifetime but ended abruptly after an unpleasant incident. The fault was mine, as hurtful words were exchanged during a challenging time in life and my response was ungracious. Deciding to clear some of my rubble from the past, I made an effort to track down her whereabouts to offer an apology that was more than 30 years overdue. I found an email address and sent an ‘e-pology,’ only to have it bounce back as the address was no longer valid. Relying on a people finder website, I found what I believed to be a current home address and mailed my apology. I still don’t know if it reached her, but even without a response, I feel more at ease for having made the effort.

Then there are the friendships that should never happen. I’m pulling one from the archives and keeping it opaque, as I’d rather not invite another thumping from the Holy Spirit to rethink wayward words. Back in the early 2000s, I considered the idea of befriending a male acquaintance I knew casually within my social sphere. Since our orientations were different and there was no chance of romantic attraction on either side, the thought of having a friend who saw the world differently was enticing. I realize now that vetting a potential friendship for common interests and comparable principles deserves a reflection greater than moving winter coats to the back of the closet at spring’s first bloom, but I figured, let the chips fall. Scratch that—I dove headfirst into an empty cement pool.

I was given tickets to Las Vegas for a weekend, courtesy of a former employer. With airfare, hotel, and expenses covered, I figured why not invite an almost-friend along? It seemed like the perfect opportunity to get to know each other and have some fun. Let’s just say, Vegas is not the ideal place to discover the proclivities of a casual acquaintance. 

Life Lesson: Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.  

If you’re fortunate, a few close friends will remain by your side through the journey, like gold bars in the vault of your life. Keep investing in them. To any friend from my past, if I slipped out of your life quietly, losing touch with time, know that the warmth and fondness I felt for you still live in my heart. As the Golden Girls once sang, “thank you for being a friend…”

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IF THIS TERRACE COULD TALK, THE TALES IT WOULD TELL

Posted on April 13, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“In the heart of the city, my terrace garden is a patch of serenity, a reminder that even small spaces can hold vast beauty.” (Gertrude Jekyll)

I’m a sucker for a beautiful terrace.  The words “would you like to sit out on the terrace?” from the maître d’ a few steps ahead will always elicit an enthusiastic, “yes, please,” from my lips.  There’s something about relaxing outdoors some stories lifted from the ground that add an artful elegance to life.  The destination remains unimportant; it’s the elevation that says you’ve arrived.

I’m almost finished designing my terrace into the cozy retreat I had envisioned.  With solar-paneled white fairy lights draped across the front ledge and my bistro set comfortably positioned, it calls to me at times throughout the day and evening, reminding me it’s time to escape from the world, if even for a moment.  And I’m not alone.  I’ve acquired the affection of the local birds who flock to it each day to consume the mixture of sunflower seeds, millet and cracked corn that is abundant in the make-shift feeders I’ve placed on the side ledges. 

They’re a friendly bunch, if not a bit elitist.  A few weeks ago, the seed I usually buy at my local supermarket was out of stock and I purchased a generic version.  My feathery connoisseurs immediately noticed the difference and instead of bobbing their beaks with the usual gusto, they reluctantly pecked at the off brand as if to say, “we’ll let this one slide, but don’t make it a habit…”  I could swear I caught a red cardinal giving me a miffed side eye.  Not all are pompous though.  There’s a plump little hermit thrush who visits often and bears an uncanny resemblance to W.C. Fields.  He’s less skittish than the rest and will openly gaze in my direction. Should I ever hear him chirp, “A man who loves whiskey and hates kids can’t be all that bad,” the apartment complex landscapers will find me the next morning, splayed out on the grass below, two stories down. 

The greatest purpose my terrace serves is that of a confidante who simply listens.  Sitting alone at night under the stars, with the quiet rustling of leaves in the background, I feel less judged, more accepted and less threatened by any apprehensions the future may hold.  The veil between the heavens and earth seems telescoped and reachable, with a direct line from my thoughts to a chamber of charitable witnesses. The cover of darkness and the open air bring forth solutions to problems with greater ease, unencumbered by the static noise of day. It’s a sanctuary that has absorbed my secrets and dreams and keeps both, with the promise of being a good steward.

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HERE’S NOT LOOKING AT YOU, KID

Posted on April 2, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.” (Anthony Bourdain)

I’m having an offbeat week.  As if I’m somewhat out of body but not completely, like a door whose wood has swollen from humidity and remains slightly ajar.  My mind is running away with me, racing with bizarre concepts, all while sober and present.  It started this past Sunday.  I went to mass as it was Palm Sunday, and the crowd was as expected: Packed with individuals and family units ranging from infants to the aged, and fidgety children with a glazed look to their eyes.  I was one of those children.  I’m usually very deferential during mass, but on this day, my mind had other ideas.  

I became Leopold Bloom, operating in a stream of consciousness, all while remaining silent. I observed people and what they were wearing, uselessly critiquing items of clothing until I spotted a woman who was wearing the exact same slip-on sandals I had purchased at T.J. Maxx earlier in the week that are embellished with copious amounts of rhinestones.  She did me a solid. I now know I risk being mistaken for a remaining member of Liberace’s entourage as I lounge by my pool this summer.  

At one point after the homily, the presiding priest, who has a very pronounced accent, reprimanded the congregants for the few bad apples who leave mass early, slinking out immediately after taking communion.  I’m one of those bad apples. In a moment that blurred between whether what was in my head actually expelled through my lips, I may have murmured, “well, if you’d speed it up a bit perhaps our gas tanks wouldn’t be on empty after alternating between standing, sitting and kneeling.”  With the different commands a mass ordains, it can feel as though you’re a 1970’s housewife doing calisthenics with Jack LaLanne instructing in the background.     

This morning as I was going about my routine, waiting for the coffee to brew before rifling through my inbox, I suddenly began to focus on how utterly bizarre the human form is from a physical standpoint.  Eyes … ears … noses, the split dividing our legs and the weird rhino skin on our elbows.  It may have been spurred by a recent social media post I had scrolled past concerning Anthony Scaramucci, President Trump’s former Communications Director and now one of his biggest detractors, who bears an incredible resemblance to “Mr. Limpet,” from the 1960’s movie of the same name starring Don Knotts, as a human who turns into a fish.  Scaramucci is bombastic and aquatic looking for a diminutive man, with a perfectly pointed lip bow that could suck fish food flakes with one nibble.  

I think it was something else though.  It may have to do with a microcosm of a larger weirdness that is currently blanketing the earth. Everything seems off kilter and lopsided, as if humanity is wearing a giant pair of prescription eyeglasses with a very outdated lens.  People are becoming increasingly unhinged with each passing day, as evidenced by a million Tik Tok videos, so why wouldn’t I question the encasement?   

What’s the deal with eyes?  Why did God decide to place two gelatinous balls of goo that come in different colors, side by side inside of a hollow cavity?  And the more pronounced body parts.  This is a respectable blog so I’ll spare specifics, but who thought of the notion that body parts should go into each other, like a carnal game of Legos?  On the 6th day of Creation, did God have the engineers who would go on to design the AMC Pacer brainstorm around a table?  … “Make sure the backside is malleable so it has room to grow ….”   

Human beings are very odd.  The next time you’re preparing to take a shower, fixate on yourself in the bathroom mirror.  Whether you consider yourself beautiful or not is not an issue, we all look as if we could sprout gills and it wouldn’t make a difference.  Stare at your toes and tell me I’m wrong.

Embrace your peculiarity.    

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CASTING STONES

Posted on March 17, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits.” (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

“Take it down!” The voice bellowed in my head.  “It’s unkind.  Do I really need to remind you that you’re not Ms. Perfect?” 

The Holy Spirit often speaks to me this way—not audibly, but with a clarity and tone unlike the ordinary neurotic chatter that frequently hijacks my mind. Over the years I’ve learned to recognize the difference between divine conviction and ordinary anxiety.

A few days back I posted a blog on modern dating versus the traditions of my generation, sharing a few examples of men I had dated and their approach when it came to picking up the check.  There was the “Big Spender,” the “Cheapskate,” and the “Just Right,” in a somewhat clunky Three Bears metaphor meant to highlight their differences. 

The “Big Spender” is a disreputable character I had once dated, who preyed upon the gullibility and skewered priorities of younger women, and offered a dizzying ride of entertainment courtesy of his Platinum card. As with most individuals I know and write about, his actual name remained anonymous.  I felt vindicated serving up a few punches of justified snark, for his profligate spending, once-harmless, eventually evolved into financial fraud perpetrated against innocent victims.  A line is drawn when others are harmed.  

The “Cheapskate” characterization of the second bear slowly nagged at my conscience. While we never had a serious relationship, he remained on the periphery of my life for many years. He’s a decent human being, as imperfect as the next, with his worst offense toward me being an uneasy date due to his fiscal penny-pinching as a man of means.  I felt ashamed after writing it. Each of us has character flaws and bugaboos, and provided the golden rule of “do no harm” is followed, are we to judge? 

If we’re paying attention, life has a way of course-correcting us—sometimes with a gentle whisper, other times with a well-placed kick in the pants. It’s a reminder that we’re given the opportunity to end on higher ground, evolve through the lessons, and truthfully admit when we’re wrong.  

In the end, it’s how we finish—not how we begin—that counts.

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THE AGE OF NEFARIOUS

Posted on February 25, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“New Agers can often be a precious breed of born-again goody-goodies. They are unbelievably delusional about their own spirituality, fully believing they’re the reincarnation of Julius Caesar or Cleopatra” (Karl Wiggins)

New York City in the 1990’s was in a period of reinvention; the city was exiting the Yuppie domination of the 80’s, where money had its own language and the Gordon Gekko mantra of “Greed is Good” permeated the business and social strata.  It was a time that bore witness to Rudy Guiliani transforming a seedy Times Square into a family-oriented version of a Disney adventure, and law and order were once again welcomed, setting the pace for the new decade.   And for those who were disoriented by the change, there was the New Age to provide comfort; a neopagan pantheon within the grit of the city that offered spiritual guidance, ancient wisdom and sage advice, all by virtue of a fortuitously positioned tarot card. 

I was lost to myself in the 90’s as I descended from the whirlwind that embodied the 80’s, a time when charting a course for the new decade of my life should have felt natural and orbital but instead presented as disjointed and muddled.  I was seeking answers with a twist – enough weightiness to gain my trust and formulate next steps, with a dose of rabbit pulling from a hat to shoo away the mundane. 

I took full advantage of every metaphysical discipline being offered.  I became a Reiki Level II practitioner, studying the Japanese symbols that are believed to transfer energic healing to a body all through the hovering of a hand, but instead put me into a state of ‘Convergence Insufficiency,’ as if I were watching Albert Einstein write mathematical formulas on a chalkboard while having ingested magic mushrooms.  I was familiar with the city’s popular psychics and mediums by first name and was a frequent customer of the “Gypsy Tea Room” on Lexington Ave., where 20-minute card readings were the Jiffy Lube of Fortune-telling.   I submitted myself for a past life regression session with a well-known hypnotherapist who was lauded and pricey, only to discover that one of my past lives played out like an episode of “Little House on the Prairie,” a “Pioneers Gone Wild” version.

I was a smart woman being led by a twit of an alter ego.  That is, until a middle eastern snake charmer roused me from a fantastical slumber and changed it all through a close call with the insane. For anonymity, I’ll call this man “Dali,” although if he’s still alive in 2026, he’s older than a sequoia redwood.  Dali taught a metaphysical healing course involving “rays,” from what Universe I couldn’t say.  He promised that these rays, colored and numbered, possessed unique healing powers transmitted from other-worldly beings, and if memory serves, My Favorite Martian may have been among them. 

The real danger emerged when I allowed Dali to come into my family circle as my mother was hospitalized, in the late stages of her cancer journey.  Dali had pledged to impart his special powers onto her body so that she would rebound in a magnificent way.  In a scene that will forever be scorched in my brain and painfully lodged in my conscience, Dali entered her hospital room, called her “Mother” with an exclamation point, and started to flap his arms around her bed like an overweight Pterodactyl searching for a lizard egg. After one flap too many, he abruptly finished his prehistoric dance, as if he had become bored reading the subtitles of a foreign film.  My mother passed shortly thereafter.  It was, and remains, a grotesque reminder of the charlatans who walk among us and prey on the vulnerable and distressed.  

I’m grateful to say these days I’m embedded in my faith and trust in the Lord, which provides all the comfort, stability and answers I seek.  I still believe there’s much to learn throughout the cosmos and science, and the supernatural remains operational in the business of awe. But I know better than to think it’s found in the flip of a card, the natal chart of a birth sign, or even an escaped mental patient who charges hundreds of dollars as they attempt to convince you that the color orange shooting from your middle finger is the answer to all infirmity.

Seek the truth and it will appear.

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CAN’T GET THERE FROM HERE

Posted on February 16, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“We are all a little schizophrenic. Each of us has three different people living inside us every day—who you were, who you are and who you will become. The road to sanity is to recognize those identities, in order to know who you are today.”  (Shannon L. Alder) 

Another 3 a.m. and I spring up, as if I’m living in Victorian times and the bed warmer the chambermaid has placed between my sheets has maneuvered itself into an uncompromising position.  In mornings past, I would have defaulted to silence and prayer, perhaps a cup of coffee, before heading back to the best part of sleep, the hours between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. when the mind and body wrestle to the finish line and the mind wins by infiltrating dreams with the bizarre and unfathomable.  Since God and I have become the best of friends in recent years, He absolves me with free reign … “Go, have fun.  Dig through your closet to try to find that Donna Karan top you swear you didn’t gift to Goodwill and you might come across a crumpled $20 bill forgotten in a jacket pocket.  Listen to the incomparable and much-missed Joan Rivers on YouTube.  Better yet, write.  Fire up the noggin and let it fly. “ 

Therein lies the quandary with blogging.  Exactly how much of oneself should be revealed through shared stories? The younger version of myself believed in being circumspect, propelled by a mix of decorum, propriety and layered insecurity, but the older version, the one who calculates remaining years on earth in double or triple-digit months and is fearless enough to pluck a wayward chin hair with a fingernail, thinks differently.  “C’mon … let those digits sing.  What do you have to lose?”  

This blogpost is about unraveling the onion, one layered skin at a time.  Do sharing intimate details about one’s life and experiences bring us closer to others, or does it serve as ammunition for potential retribution?  The consensus of too many social media commenters is that it brings one closer to the hundreds of friends they’ve never met who serve as therapists, sans the co-pay.  I lean toward being tight-lipped, which can be an admirable trait depending on your vantage. Need to bury the body and get it off your chest? I can take a secret to the grave. To assess if someone is worthy of personal disclosure, first test the waters with a false narrative. If by their third glass of wine, a mutual acquaintance divulges they’ve heard about your alleged affair with a high school principal, you’ll have ground zero of the talebearer.  

With that, let me share a story – and a life lesson – from the archives.  For the sake of anonymity, I’ll use pseudonyms for this couple.  Let’s call the woman “Sharon,” and the man “Harry:”

“Sharon and Harry had a tumultuous relationship that lasted past its expiration date.  For those who have been in a relationship that has curdled like sour milk, it’s known that bad behavior accrues with compound interest.  One night Sharon and Harry were out to dinner at a swanky restaurant with two other couples.  The wine and the conversation were flowing in equal measure.  Harry, who believed his wants always took precedence over everyone else’s, tried to persuade another husband to join forces with him in doing something his wife was uncomfortable with.   

As Sharon turned and whispered in Harry’s ear to ease up on the subject, Harry took his soup spoon, still coated with luxurious lobster bisque, and with the rounded back of it slowly drew a streak down Sharon’s cheek—just enough to demean and violate, yet subtle enough that no one else at the table seemed to notice. Sharon, stunned and guarded not to cause a scene, excused herself to the ladies’ room, where she took a deep breath, cleansed her face, and returned to the table with quiet composure.”

Life Lesson: Some moments permanently alter the direction of a life. They become frozen in memory, and from that point forward, retreat is no longer an option.

As I finish this post, dawn is breaking, and I hope to drift back to sleep for an hour or two, where I’ll probably dream of having lunch with my deceased grandmother or being chased by a coyote. I’ll keep trying to keep it real, one layer at a time.

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HIP ADJACENT

Posted on January 30, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“If you’re trying to be hip, be hip.” — Miles Davis

My sister and nephew went to a flea market a few weeks ago.  “Dylan,” she said, “See that? Kay Kay used to have one just like it…” She pointed to a vintage clothing stand where hanging on a rack was a plunging silver and gold metallic halter top that was wildly popular back in the early 80’s, when disco was fading but hadn’t quite relinquished its glitter.  A boyfriend of mine had gifted it to me along with a matching leather skirt that I thought was so incredibly chic at the time, that is if you were Carmela Soprano heading to Studio 54 for a night on the town.  I can still remember how that halter felt draped against my skin.  It was as if Gloria Gaynor and Deney Terrio were cheering me on from inside of the reflective metallic chips that held it all together, and if I so desired, I could jump into a frame of Saturday Night Fever and hold my own next to a gyrating John Travolta. I was cool.  Or at least I thought I was. 

I never considered myself cool, although I occasionally wandered into cool-adjacent territory during my younger years. That, at least, can be cultivated.  Still, it’s a thoughtful process. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I decided it was time to integrate a touch of the casual west coast vibe it’s so famous for with my more habitual east coast look. 

Now if you’re a woman over 50, it can be a very dicey proposition.  Fail to gauge the proper metric of effortless hip and you might be mistaken for someone who scurried out of bed and forgot to look in the mirror; lean too heavily into simplicity, you risk looking like a female version of Maynard G. Krebs from the TV series “Dobie Gillis.” It’s an art form.  As I chiseled it down, a Saturday shopping trip to Whole Foods meant perfectly faded jeans and a cotton t-shirt with a Bohemian design, along with “Fit Flops” and a light-color polish pedicure. Tortoise framed eyeglasses are a plus.  The look felt assimilative enough, although I could hear my Estee Lauder lipstick screaming from inside of my bag, “Really? Is this what we’re now doing?”   

Around 2019, pre-Covid before the world went into hibernation, I went to see Engelbert Humperdinck at the Saban Theater in Beverly Hills.  Talk about cool.  “Enge,” as he’s affectionately known to his fans, is the epitome of cool, even as he approaches his 10th decade on this earth.  At the time of this performance, he was in his early 80’s and still sporting the mutton-chop sideburns that have become his signature look, along with a red silk shirt that has become the bespoke attire for the King of Romance.  His moves may have slowed with time, but his voice was still imposing and robust.  Listening to Engelbert has always been like sipping a glass of brandy—smooth, warm, and honeyed

As the end of the show approached, the familiar beat of one of his most popular songs, “Cuando, Cuando, Cuando” started to tempo.  The sold-out crowd comprised of mostly women over 50, sprang to their feet and started to sway to the music, keeping in rhythm the best they could with Enge’s cavorting hips. Nothing seemed to matter—arthritic knees, and any fear of looking foolish were cast aside as we became one with “the Hump.”  And Enge knew it, giving the occasional wink to an audience member as if he were making love to her with his voice.    

In that moment we were collectively cool, for nothing is quite as hip as being able to dance with abandon.  Whether no one is watching, or everyone is watching, it’s the devil-may-care that gets you there.   

To Enge, always cool … now and forever.

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ALL IN GOOD TIME

Posted on January 22, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Right time, right place, right people equals success.
Wrong time, wrong place, wrong people equals most of the real human history.” (Idries Shah)

When the Archduke Ferdinand of Austria sat in the backseat of his car on the evening of June 28, 1914 in Sarajevo, he couldn’t have known that a consequential decision made by his chauffeur would lead to his assassination and the beginning of World War I. A misjudgment by the unsuspecting driver, who had turned the car around after the motorcade had already passed the assassin waiting on a street corner, allowed for the two shots to be fired that would take the Archduke’s life and change the course of history. This unfortunate outcome serves to remind us of a concept that is too often ignored.

Timing is everything.

I’ve been a casualty of missed opportunity through my own reluctance to strike when the iron was hot.   One intersecting decision that remains with me and would have been an egress to a much different path was to not follow my heart to move to the west coast as a young woman. Instead, I remained in a place that provided familiar and accepted comfort, where the people and circumstances that absorbed those years never quite matched the rumblings of my soul. I tried to convince myself I was where I was meant to be when I knew, instinctually, I wasn’t.   

I can remember watching The Doris Day Show as a girl and being held captive by the lifestyle of the show’s main character, “Doris Martin,” a young widow who now single, embraced all that San Francisco had to offer, along with the twinkling lights that reflected off the bay and a gorgeous duplex apartment.  Doris would hop on a cable car with ease, as if she were holding onto a magic wand where her wish was its command, while dressed in fashions that were always in vogue.  The ageless smile on her face was testimony that this vibrant city was her portal to happiness.  I wanted to be Doris Martin, to have her job as a staff writer at Today’s World magazine, and to enjoy the business dinners that often turned to romance before dessert was served with the charming suitors who accompanied her. When I watch an episode of the show today decades later, I can see whispers of a life that might have been but are now fading in time along with the film. 

Perhaps the most rueful inheritors of errant timing are star-crossed lovers.  The success of a romantic union is often dependent upon the doctrine of right time, right place.  “The one who got away” remains in the minds of unfinished love, with the belief that had the stars aligned, the “what ifs” would have become “meant to be.” When Facebook first emerged on the scene many years ago, erstwhile lovers everywhere sought out the memory of a lingering connection to the past, wondering if feelings could be resurrected with the tailwind of a new dawn.  For some, their happily-ever-after came gift wrapped in a celestial reunion, proving that the right time had finally smiled upon their connection; for others, it was the realization that their moment had passed, never to be recaptured except in their heart.    

Timing sets the stage for the events that become the acts of our lives.   

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LOVE LIES BLEEDING

Posted on January 14, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.” (Anais Nin)

In 1989, a Costa Rican fisherman named Gilberto Shedden rescued a crocodile that had been shot in the head. After nursing the crocodile back to health, he released it into the wild. The crocodile, however, whom Gilberto had now named “Poncho,” refused to go back to the riverbank where he was found clinging to life, and instead chose to go back to his rescuer, where he set up residence in a pond near Gilberto’s home. For over twenty years, Gilberto and his jagged-toothed snouted friend would swim together in a river nearby, playing, talking, kissing, and hugging, and a deep, abiding bond was formed. After too many years of this curious devotion, Gilberto’s wife, frustrated by the fact that her husband was spending more time with Poncho than her, refused to play second fiddle to a reptile any longer and left the marriage.  Gilberto claimed to be unbothered by her departure and shrugged it off by saying he could always find another wife, but Poncho was irreplaceable.  

When your husband chooses a predator over you, one who can swallow a baby pig with two chomps of a jaw, your marriage is over.

YouTube has become my favorite source of continuing education with its smorgasbord of insightful videos; a diverse catalog ranging from “How to Send A Birthday Greeting with an A.I. Enhanced Voice of Johnny Depp” to “Releasing Trauma from Your Past Life, the One before the Last.” I’ve immersed myself in the genre of self-help videos that explore every aspect of the human condition and have been delighted to discover that the more entertaining ones often add a touch of lore. I plan to update my CV to reflect my newly acquired doctoral degree from the YouTube School of Behaviorism, Hogwarts Campus.

A few days ago, a video popped up in my algorithm entitled, “Your Husband Hates You | Here’s 8 Signs He Can’t Stand You.”  I’m not sure why it popped up in my feed, as it’s been many years since I last had a husband hate me, but algorithms derive satisfaction in keeping us off balance.  As I listened to this respective coach, who specializes in narcissistic abuse recovery, detail one abhorrent behavior to the next, I felt uncomfortable, if not a bit haunted by flashbacks.  What felt more pessimistic was reading the viewer comments beneath the video, where broken hearted individuals spilled the guts of their loveless and painful marriages, trapped in their own personal hell. With admitted discrimination, I found it easier to judge the spouses who choose to stay rather than to dismantle the reasons why they won’t leave.      

Perhaps just as painful but more natural is the arrangement of the “silent divorce,” where an emotional separation of the marriage occurs, but a legal ending does not, leaving a communal living environment and joint assets to remain. Couples who are engaged in a silent divorce rarely spend time or communicate with each other, instead choose to live as roommates who share kitchen utensils.  I’ve often wondered if any of these couples who happen to live in a large house reach for their phone in confusion to call 9-1-1, thinking a prowler may have broken in during their estranged spouse’s midnight raid of the refrigerator. 

Another phenomenon, the “gray divorce,” experienced a rise in popularity over the past decades and kept divorce attorneys busy hammering out settlements for their gray-haired clients and their retirement funds.   Gray divorce, when empty nesters who have been married for 30 or 40+ years come to the realization that they no longer want to spend their remaining time on earth with the person they once promised to love and cherish until death do they part, can be ignited by the last hurrah of a new love interest, or the contempt bred by familiarity, but the pursuit is the same: To shed the weight of a love that has since died on its vine and feel free again.  

George Washington once said, “I have always considered marriage as the most interesting event in one’s life, the foundation of happiness or misery.”

The real death of love is indifference.  Choose the right person and water your love.  It will give thanks by blooming eternal.   

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RESOLUTIONS BE GONE

Posted on December 31, 2025 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.” (Oscar Wilde)

As I ready myself for the new year and turn the page of my daily planner – the outmoded, non-digital, paper printed version I will never relinquish – I proudly enter 2026 resolution free.  New Year resolutions are a well-intentioned impulse, like an expensive face cream purchased in an upscale department store, fueled by the promise of dermatologic splendor provided you apply it diligently each night.  Visions of smoother skin entice until the yearning to freefall into bed becomes more ardent than the effort to erase crow’s feet. The opulent jar becomes relegated to a shelf in a cabinet, next to the other magical potions, as they collect dust and turn into very expensive porridge.   Such are overly ambitious resolutions.  

What’s braver is to fling oneself headfirst into January, with the promise only to be a better person, pay your bills on time, and try not to offend too many people as your amygdala continues to shrink alongside your prefrontal cortex, allowing loose lips to run wild with unadorned thoughts.  It’s one of the many perks of aging; you’re awarded an invisible badge permitting you to speak your mind more freely without the worry of consequence, as any future consequence becomes much less threatening.  

To start the year with a cheeky twist, create a list of old friends and former co-workers you haven’t spoken with in ages.  Decades even.  Then, stalk their social media pages as if you were Inspector Clouseau, being careful not to hit any reaction buttons or leave behind a digital fingerprint to announce you were there, and find if you can, a current telephone number or email.  Call or send a message as if you’ve never lost touch, with the improvised tone of “Hi, I was just thinking about you…”  At first you’ll be met with perplexed silence, but I would wager with your best listening-ears securely in place, and cleverness activated to ask the right questions, the minutes to follow will be filled with an accounting of their impending divorce, how the government screwed them through capital gains tax with the recent sale of their house, and that their nagging fear of death has been slightly alleviated with an upped dosage of Klonopin. 

Human beings are creatures of structure and conformity, which is why resolutions have always been popular.  They are like mental drill sergeants, designed to keep us on track as we strive to achieve the dream life attributed to those who are Instagram-worthy and photoshop-savvy. Yet resolutions rarely last long. Who wants a drill sergeant breathing down their neck when all you desire to do after a long day is to collapse on the couch and stream “Emily in Paris,” Season 5?

A better approach for the upcoming year is to fill it with a cup of hope and a saucer of reality, with the understanding that blessing and adversity may arrive in equal measure.  When hope remains in the forefront, it inspires to live as though you’re already the better version of yourself, the one who makes time to live in the present, to be kinder and less hurried, to give without giving away yourself, and to appreciate with each passing year the less significance of the material, and the knowing that the love you share is what will endure. 

Here’s to 2026.   

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