Category: relationships

Time Blindness.

Once upon a time, my spouse was the President of our condominium association.  He was the designated point‑man for every vendor, handyman, contractor, and the property manager.  And without fail, something out there seemed to decide that the exact moment we sit down to eat was the perfect time for someone to call him.

It didn’t matter when we ate:

11:00 AM?  Phone rings.

12:15 PM?  Phone rings.

4:45 PM?  Phone rings.

7:30 AM?  Phone rings, because apparently breakfast is also fair game, too.

It was as if people had a sixth sense for when a fork was about to touch a plate.

Even the other board and committee members who should have known better seemed to be compelled to call precisely when we were eating, and not all of these calls were emergencies, either.

Appointments were no better.  If someone was scheduled to arrive at 9:00 AM, they absolutely, without hesitation, called at 8:15 AM to announce:

“I’m here.”

Not “I’m on my way.”  Not “I’ll be there soon.”  No.  They were already standing outside like a time‑traveling courier from the future.

And as if the mealtime ambushes weren’t enough, his phone also believed in a 24‑hour discipline of interruption.  Text messages arrived at 5:55 AM, before the sun, before coffee, before a bagel, and texts continued rolling in as late as 10:30 PM when we were just about to drift off to Sleepyland.  Ostensibly, the entire world has silently agreed that he was available at all hours, like a one‑man emergency hotline for condo‑related existential and non-crises.  I was convinced the only time his phone doesn’t buzz is when nothing in particular is going on in our home.  Oh.  It doesn’t ring or buzz when we are at Mass; our phones are turned off completely then.

It got to a point that I was convinced our condo was either:

  • bugged;
  • under surveillance by a secret intelligence agency; or
  • being monitored by people with remote‑viewing abilities who can see the moment we sit down with plates of food.

I’m kidding, and honestly, who knows?  But if someone knocked on the door the next time we even thought about lunch . . . I would’ve d just laughed.  I continued to laugh it off.

The most important part of this hilarity is that my spouse and the rest of the board at the time were doing an outstanding job getting the formerly poorly self-managed association back on the right track.  They were righting the ship . . .

 

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The Poverty of Perpetual Anger.

There is a particular sadness in watching people who live in a constant state of anger, and I see this quite a lot in my neighborhood, and especially since 2020.  Their anger is not the righteous anger that rises to defend the vulnerable, but the chronic, simmering kind; the kind that becomes a personality, a worldview, a permanent narrowing of the soul.  Some of these people turn ugly and violent when they are cordially greeted by neighbors.  These are people who treat every encounter as a contest, every disagreement as a threat, every difference as a personal insult.  Perhaps they believe they are defending themselves, but in truth they are defending the walls that imprison them.

Anger becomes their only vocabulary.  They speak it fluently, instinctively, even proudly, and peppered heavily with vulgar and filthy words.  But beneath that lies a deep poverty of spirit.  A person who must always be angry and offensive is a person who has forgotten how to be free and kind.

The tragedy is not merely that they harm others—though they do.  The deeper tragedy is what they lose within themselves without realizing it.

  • They lose the ability to be surprised by goodness.
  • They lose the capacity for joy that comes from generosity.
  • They lose the peace that only humility can give.
  • They lose the richness of a larger world than their own reflection.

They trade all of this for the brittle satisfaction of being “right” and boorish, even when that “rightness” isolates them.  They probably do not realize that the fortress they build to keep others out is the same fortress that keeps them in.

My sadness for them is not schmaltzy.  It is not the soft sadness of pity.  It is the sharper sadness that comes from recognizing wasted possibility.  These are people who could be expansive, curious, generous, a positive addition to the neighborhood, but instead they choose the cramped rooms of anger and rejection.  They choose to live in a world too small for any soul.  It is as though they are possessed by demons.

A life fueled by anger cannot lead to peace.  A heart closed to others cannot experience love.  A mind that rejects difference cannot grow.  They may cling to their fury and their narrowness as if these things protect them, but in the end, they protect nothing.  They only ensure that the person holding them remains untouched by the very things that make life worth living.

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Squirrely Pearl.

I made my way to the deli counter at my friendly neighborhood grocery store, ready to place my order, when a five‑foot‑nothing woman glided under my elbow with the confidence of someone who has never waited her turn in her entire life.  Before I could blink, she was already whisper‑dictating her order to the clerk.

“Four slices of Havarti cheese,” she breathed, in a tone so soft it sounded like she was sharing state secrets.

When that order was handed over, she continued.

“Six slices of Buffalo‑style chicken breast,” she whispered again, as if the poultry might overhear and object.

This pattern repeated itself — item, whisper, handoff — like a tiny, highly specialized espionage operation.  Then came the tasting sample.  The clerk offered her a slice of Gruyere, and that’s when her true form emerged.

She took a tiny, tiny bite.  It was a bite so miniscule it would have required laboratory equipment to detect.  And she chewed it with her front teeth, slowly, methodically, exactly like a squirrel working through a hazelnut.  Then another tiny bite.  More squirrel chewing.  I half expected her to scamper up the deli case and store the rest in her cheeks for winter.

The whole performance was incredible: she whisper‑talked like Jackie Kennedy and nibbled like Rocket J. Squirrel.  I never did get my order in (I eventually grabbed some pre-cut cheese in the refrigerated case), but honestly, I left feeling like I’d witnessed a rare and delicate species in its natural habitat.

 

 

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The Sheriff of Decibels.

I once lived in a high-rise condominium where everyone kept to himself, and all was peachy with the world.  But there was one night when I received a phone call from a neighbor, informing me once again that my television was on “too loud” and he can’t sleep.  I was watching an old movie, as I usually did in the early evenings if I stayed home.  This was a recurring performance on his part, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self-appointed Sheriff of Decibels.  At that point, I was starting to wonder whether the sound was actually carrying or whether my neighbor simply enjoyed the thrill of a good complaint because the room where my television is did not butt up against his bedroom, but against his butler’s pantry.

Here’s the twist: I could hear his television, too.  Talk shows, game shows, dramatic monologues, the whole cinematic buffet.  And yet I’ve never felt compelled to call him and deliver a noise citation.  I’d assume he was just… living.  Watching things.  Being a person in a building full of other people doing what people do to live.  It’s part of the deal when you choose communal living over a cabin in the woods on ten acres.

Still, every time my phone lit up with his name on the screen, I rolled my eyes.  At that time of evening, it could not be a friendly hello.  It’s always a report, as if he was monitoring my condo with a sound meter and a clipboard.

I played with the idea that conducting an experiment or two.  I thought of turning down the volume to a whisper—barely audible even to me—and wait.  Would my phone ring?  I don’t know, but I was willing to bet a dime to a donut that he was hearing phantom noises, or he had superhuman hearing, or perhaps the echoes of his own television bounced around his condo like a boomerang.

There’s a special kind of fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being scolded by someone about your manners when they are chewing food and smacking loudly with their mouth open.  You want to point it out, but you know it won’t land.

So, I’ve reached a conclusion: either my television had mystical projection abilities, or my neighbor developed a hobby of policing imaginary disturbances.  I continued living my life at a reasonable volume.

And honestly, at that point, the only thing louder than my television was that special kind of comedy.  Personally, I think he had his wig on too tight.

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The Noise We Mistake for Knowledge.

 

We live in an age where information is abundant, but much of what passes for “news” today is not news at all.  It’s noise, and you know that.  It’s carefully packaged, endlessly repeated, and designed to keep us stupidly watching rather than sensibly thinking.  The problem is not merely the volume of what we consume, but the nature of it because much of what presents itself as “news” is, in truth, non‑news — content engineered to provoke reaction and emotion rather than understanding.  Discernment, then, becomes not a luxury but a moral necessity.  Headlines flash, opinions multiply, and yet very little of it has any bearing on our actual lives.  The result is a subtle erosion of time, attention, our brain cells, and inner peace, and if we bow down to the mindless blather, we allow others to steal our time.  Yes—steal our time and ultimately shapes our habits.

Non‑news thrives on immediacy.  It demands attention without earning it.  It offers the illusion of being informed while quietly draining the very faculties that make genuine understanding possible.  The result is a culture that is constantly stimulated yet rarely enlightened.  We scroll, we skim, we react, and at the end of it, we are no closer to truth.  The deeper danger of non‑news is not that it wastes minutes but that it shapes habits.  It trains us to expect superficiality, to prefer outrage over reflection, to treat every passing headline as a crisis.  A society that cannot tell the difference between the essential and the irrelevant becomes easy to manipulate and difficult to awaken.

True news informs and clarifies, and it should edify us.  It should help a person understand the world.  But this blather does the opposite: it distracts, inflames, and consumes hours that could have been spent on something productive.  It is astonishing how quickly a day can disappear into commentary, speculation, and manufactured outrage that leaves us no knowledgeable than before.

The danger is not merely wasted time; it’s also wasted focus and a counterfeit form of engagement.  When we allow trivial stories to occupy our minds, we lose the capacity to notice what genuinely matters: the people around us, the responsibilities entrusted to us, the quiet work that builds a meaningful life.  Non‑news thrives on urgency, but it produces nothing lasting.

Discernment asks a different question: Is this worthy of my time, my mind, my peace?  It is a refusal to let trivialities masquerade as significance.  It is the discipline of distinguishing between what is merely loud and what is actually important.  In a culture that profits from distraction, such clarity is countercultural.  Choosing to step away from it is not ignorance; it is discernment.  It is the decision to guard one’s attention as a precious resource rather than surrender it to whatever happens to be fashionably trending.  A person who refuses to be pulled into the churn of non‑news gains something rare in our age: clarity of mind and control of oneself.

When we decline to participate in the churn of non‑news, we reclaim our attention for what is real: the responsibilities before us, the people entrusted to us, the truths that do not change with the news cycle.  We become less reactive and more rooted.  Sure, the world will always offer distractions, but we are not obligated to accept them.  Our time is finite, and our attention is inviolable.  Spending it wisely is an act of both strength and sanity.

 

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The Decline of Language Originality.

Have you noticed that our language has gone stale?  Once vibrant words and phrases have been replaced by a handful of recycled expressions that people toss around as if cheap confetti.  We’ve become a culture of verbal shortcuts—catchphrases, memes, and pre-chewed reactions—leaving very little room for originality, nuance, or even basic thought.

So perhaps it’s time to retire a few of these linguistic relics and replace them with something more intelligent, more intentional, and frankly, more dignified.

Take cringe, for example.  This single word now is deployed as a universal dismissal, a way to avoid forming an actual opinion.  Instead of describing what makes us uncomfortable or why, we simply slap the “cringe” label on it and move on.  It’s the conversational equivalent of shrugging.

Then there’s the ever popular “What! What?”  That’s a phrase that pretends to express astonishment but usually signals nothing more than performative confusion.  It’s noise masquerading as reaction.

And of course, the internet’s favorite template:  Tell me you’re ____ without telling me you’re ____.  Perhaps it was a clever structure the first time it appeared, perhaps even the second time.  But now it’s a tired formula, a linguistic Mad Libs game that saves us from the burden of crafting an original thought.

“How cool is that?” has also run its course.  It’s a placeholder, a filler, a way to feign enthusiasm without committing to any real sentiment.  It’s a way for the older generation to be hip with the kids.  It’s the verbal equivalent of nodding politely while thinking about something else.

“The fourth be with you”—a absurd pun that has lived far, far beyond its natural lifespan and continues to resurface every May, as if repetition alone could make it clever again.

And finally, there’s IYKYK (“if you know, you know”).  Here’s a phrase that pretends to signal insider knowledge but usually functions as a way to avoid explaining anything.  It’s exclusivity without substance.

Here’s a list of my suggestions of clichés and phrases we need to retire post haste:

Glow Up

Gaslight

Today years old.

Narcissist / Narcissism

Tell me you’re ____ without telling me you’re ____.

Chilling (as in, “chilling details,” “chilling video,” et cetera)

W’s (or anything using “W” for the word “win.”)

May the fourth be with you.

Awesome / Amazing

Asking for a friend.

You (We) got this!

How cool is that?

Game changer

Wait!  What?

IYKYK

Literally

Cringe

Iconic

The “F” word

These expressions are simply worn out, dehydrated by overuse, leaving behind only the dry husk of what once felt fresh.  Language deserves better, and so do we.  Thoughtful speech invites thoughtful living.  When we choose words with care, we sharpen our minds, deepen our conversations, and reclaim a bit of originality in a world that keeps trying to flatten everything into sameness.

If we want richer conversations, we must start by choosing richer language.  Retiring these worn-out phrases isn’t about being pretentious; it’s about making room for clarity and genuine expression.  In a culture that thrives on shortcuts, choosing real words might just be the most radical act of all.

 

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Are Our Lives Truly Well-Lived?

A lifetime spent chasing approval, possessions, and the noise of the world gradually drifts away from its own center.  From an early age, we learn to shape ourselves around external expectations, as if our worth could be measured by admiration, status, awards, or the objects we manage to collect, and the amount of money we amass.  Yet these pursuits, however dazzling in the moment, dissolve quickly.  What remains is the quiet sense that we have been living outward rather than inward – living as part of the world, rather than in it.

Philosophers across centuries have warned of this drift.  They remind us that the self becomes fragmented when it is scattered among too many desires, especially those desires that are not truly our own and those that make us look “better” to our family and friends.  Simplicity, then, is not merely a lifestyle but a discipline.  It is the art of refusing to be ruled by the shifting opinions of others or by the endless accumulation of things that promise satisfaction but deliver only distraction.

To live a life well done is not one that has a swanky mansion, a jet set lifestyle, and a fat bank account.  It is, rather, one that turns toward what endures: clarity of mind, steadiness of good character, faith, humbleness, and the courage to act from one’s deepest convictions.  Approval fades, possessions decay, and the world’s applause is notoriously fickle and false.  But integrity and true faith — quiet, unadorned, and often unnoticed — has a way of anchoring the soul.  It allows us to move through life with a sense of coherence rather than fragmentation.

When we stop performing for the world and begin listening to our inner voice that asks for honesty, restraint, and purpose, something positively shifts.  The anxieties that once governed our choices loosen their grip.  We begin to see that the real measure of a life is not what we accumulate but what we cultivate: meekness, compassion, wisdom, and a mind unburdened by the distractions of excess.

This is the freedom available to anyone willing to step away from the noise and chaos.  It is the freedom to walk lightly, to choose meaning over clutter, and to rest in the quiet assurance that a life of depth will always outshine a life of accumulation.

Peace,

Susan Marie Molloy

 

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