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I got depressed yesterday and I still don’t really know why. It’s not like I need to know—I mean, the real reason I get depressed is because my brain chemistry is screwed up—but it’d be kinda nice to know what exactly set it off this time.

I’ve never quite understood the male fascination with breasts. They are, after all, pretty much just lumps of flesh. But they are lumps of flesh that can stop a ninety-year-old man dead in his tracks. Kryptonite has nothing on Superman, compared to the hold a breast has on the average male.

Last week I promised you more stories from my days of working in the news media and how it all relates to the distressing lack of critical thinking among the public.

I recently got into a flame war on Facebook with a total stranger over the ICE shooting in Minneapolis. I know, I know. Not a smart (or productive) thing to do. Interestingly, the whole thing reminded me of when I worked in the news media, so it resulted in a nice stroll down memory lane.

I’ve been retired for a year now, but apparently, you can take the girl out of the work, but you can’t take the work out of the girl. Because what I did for a living haunts me still, and I’m getting tired of it.

I’ve never understood why the new year starts in the dead of winter. The days are at their shortest, plants are dormant, and many animals are sleeping. I know when I wake up on a winter morning, I just want to roll over and go back to sleep for two or three more months.

Romance readers—and by extension, romance authors—don’t get much respect. Even though romance novels are selling better than they ever have, we’re still relegated to the lowest social status of all literary genres.

My most recent novel, Variations on a Romance, released earlier this month, was inspired by a true story. There. I said it. (Deep breath.) For the longest time, I was afraid to tell people. I feared that if people knew I’d borrowed the idea from real life, they wouldn’t think as highly of the book.

I did some Christmas shopping today, and I’m happy to say I came away from what can be a horrendous experience completely unruffled. That’s because I’ve built up an immunity to this particular holiday. I see Christmas for what it really is, I accept it, and I get on with life.

Everyone should google themselves at least once. Just for grins. Find out what’s out there about you on the interwebs. I first googled myself some 20-plus years ago when I was a columnist for a weekly newsmagazine. That’s when I discovered: Sharon Kayne, porn star.

Halloween is past us now and that’s a shame. Not because I want more leftover trick-or-treater candy to munch on, but because I just thought of the perfect costume. Really, it’s a truly inspired costume, based on my experience over the past year as an indie author.

Like all indie authors, I have heard tales of that elusive fountain of magic that will make my book sell: the Amazon algorithm. I don’t know exactly what it is or how it works. What’s more, I suspect that no one really knows, except the Amazon mathematicians who create and update it regularly from their dimly lit basement office, which has all the security of a steel bunker.

I’ve been procrastinating. A lot. I know there are many people in the world who would not censure me for this. I’ve got lots of fellow procrastinators out there. We could form a club so as to support one another in our misery, but we’d never get around to it.

I was attending a webinar the other day on one of the things I hate to do more than anything—marketing. Fortunately, one of the marketing strategies that was mentioned in the webinar sounded like something I might actually enjoy doing—writing a blog. So, this is it! I’m launching a blog starting right here, right now.

I got peed on at the park the other day. I had taken my dogs to the park so they could romp and play with the dogs that other people had brought to the park. We were all standing around chatting and watching our little ones play when Toby, who is a terribly handsome shepherd mix, went behind one of the women, lifted his leg and left his scent. Then, not too long after that, he did the same thing to me.

Men are a mystery to me. In fact, I don’t understand them at all. It occurred to me recently that I understand men about as well as I understand cars. I have a vague idea how they operate, and I know the basics to keep them going: give them fuel and every once in a while grease ’em up. But when they stall out on me, I have no idea how to get them going again.

I’ve never quite understood men. Mostly because, often, even though I see their lips moving I don’t get what’s coming out of their mouths. Even if a man is speaking English, for example, does not in any way mean that I will understand him. And it seems that he will have similar problems understanding me. I suspect this is due to the fact that men and women speak in code.