The Game Is Rigged. Flourish Anyway.

Are you as exhausted as I am?

Trying to mind your own business, live a decent life, and still getting dragged into politics like it’s a group project you never signed up for. You decide, “I’m going to focus on flourishing. Being a good person. Getting things done. Not letting today’s outrage buffet created by Happiness Hijackers ruin my appetite.” And yet. There it is again. Loud. Relentless. Everywhere.

And here’s the thing I noticed, whether I wanted to or not: there is no balance. It’s pretty obvious. Media, Hollywood, pop culture, TV shows, movies. One side gets the halo, the other gets the dunce cap. Republicans are punchlines while Democrats are portrayed as brave truth-tellers. Over and over. Like Groundhog day but with people screaming at each about how horrible the other person is, meanwhile the groundhog just wants to stay in his nice warm home and have a normal groundhog life. 

Take The Morning Show. I was watching over the snowy weekend and loved it at first and then...I couldn’t help noticing something. Steve Carell’s character gets absolutely crucified in the name of Me Too. No redemption allowed. No arc. Just erased. Meanwhile, real-life figures who did equal or worse things are either tiptoed around or flat-out ignored. They even mentioned Weinstein at one point, but Bill Clinton? Not a peep. Ever. Nobody canceled him. Nobody even raised an eyebrow. Donations still rolling in.

And later seasons of the show? Biden is spoken of as some brilliant hero. Trump portrayed as a cartoon villain, naturally. Again, no balance. Just a script. Why can't they point out the flaws in every political subject? By choosing to elevate one and mock the other, they are steering people towards the mocked person. It often has the opposite effect. 

I’ve never been interested in politics. Until Barack Obama ran.  And it was crazy, the way that political season seeped into everything. Even my child’s elementary school was giving them pretend ballots and because the teachers were always praising Obama, my daughter “voted” for him. I felt it odd that in all my life in school, we only talked about politics in a balanced manner. I had no idea which way any of my teachers voted! 

Honestly, I liked Obama at first. Everyone did. But then I started digging. And what I found didn’t come from the mainstream. It came from the right. He was friends with Bill Ayers (of the politically violent group the Weather Underground). He was friends with Rev. Wright who said “the chickens have come home to roost” during 9/11. There were other troubling things as well, so I thought, “Well, maybe I’m conservative?” But the truth is, I’ve voted all over the map. Democrat. Republican. Libertarian. One time I voted for a local guy because he made a homemade sign. That’s how radical I was.

What pulled me into the 2008 Presidential race wasn’t ideology. It was noticing that only one side of the story was being told. One side was the hero, and the other was mocked, vilified, and the left that pretend to support all women, it turned out, really only support certain women. 

Fox News used to feel like the “other side,” but by COVID, it was clear they were more performance than principle. Masks, narratives, Ukraine, no real questioning. Just different packaging. That’s when it hit me. Both sides are disgusting. Just in different ways.

But! Here’s where it splinters: When truly horrible things happen, especially involving children, but if the crime is committed by a darling of the left, they don’t mention it. Laken Riley, Kate Steinle, Iryna Zarutska (so many others!).  But if someone on the left is killed by someone the left dislike, they never wait for the dust to settle. Nothing is alleged. They politicize tragedy without blinking. The left build onto the chaos, making it bigger and bigger and feeding into the anger. Now, the right also take advantage of the chaos. Because people (on both sides) donate money, thinking only a politician can solve this. And it brings more views to the news and social media platforms.

 As long as that’s happening, and as long as certain people are forever untouchable while others are declared irredeemable, America is out of balance.

So here’s my conclusion, said kindly but firmly: the game is rigged. No matter what team jersey you wear.

Which is why I hope if even one person reads this and thinks, “You know what? I’m going to focus on myself. My family. My neighborhood. My community.” Because that’s still real. That still matters. That’s where you can actually do some good.

Sorry, Bob… you couldn’t have known how deceptive politics, media, and culture would become. You were busy working. Steel mill. Car dealerships. Then your own carparts auto store. You were busy building a life. You were flourishing. Until ALS showed up at 48 and handed you a death sentence. And then politics did come knocking. You needed permission to try experimental drugs. And the government slammed the door. The answer was no.

I’m glad you missed COVID. You would’ve just stood there shaking your head as the government gave away, for free, something rushed to market, while treatments that actually helped people were mocked and vilified. Along with the people who took them and got better. Funny how that works when there’s no money to be made. 

Who knows what damage has been done. One dose, two, three, four, five, six. And the denial at the top? Deep. Real deep. They protect each other: Left money. Right money Two peas. One Pod.  It’s not about protecting the people. It’s about protecting their power. 

So what can you do? Hold your head high. Keep your hands busy. Build the best life you can where you are. History doesn’t belong to the loudest people on TV anyway. It belongs to the ones who kept going, shoveled their sidewalks, showed up for their neighbors, and didn’t lose their minds while the rest of the world lost its balance. 

Let’s wear ourselves out living our life, helping each other out, and being so exhausted fromactually flourishing, that we’re too exhausted to get outraged by the news. 

Why Fix Potholes When You Can Fix The Weather?

It’s snowing again, which is both shocking and not shocking, like finding out your mayor has been awarding snow removal contracts to his Uncle Don. 

Every time it rains or snows someone says, “We needed this.” I understand that. I try to see that every cloud has its silver lining (the old fashioned silver lining, not the scientific man-made silver lining) And sometimes, yes, we do need moisture.  But, there is a big difference between Mother Nature deciding our weather versus people who wear suits deciding what we need. 

Turns out these “new” silver linings aren’t so new though, they are vintage!  

The first newspaper report of weather modification was On November 13, 1946, up over Mount Greylock, Massachusetts.  Dr. Vincent J. Schaefer of General Electric decided that if Mother Nature wasn’t going to cooperate, he’d just give her a little nudge. Armed with a plane, a bucket of dry ice, and the kind of confidence usually reserved for teenagers and rap artists, he climbed to 14,000 feet and dumped the stuff into a cloud. Within minutes, voilà!, snowflakes began to form. Local newspapers went wild, declaring that man had finally learned to “make it rain,” which sounded more like a carnival act than a science experiment. GE, never one to walk away from a profitable miracle, quickly launched Project Cirrus with the Army, Navy, and Air Force in tow. And just like that, mankind took its first documented stab at telling the weather what to do. Somewhere, Mother Nature sighed, gave the suits the middle finger, and reached for a Gin and Tonic. Hold the tonic.

By the 1950s, states out West jumped in with the enthusiasm of squirrels discovering a freshly planted garden. 

Somewhere between drought and deluge, nine states decided Mother Nature could use a little “help,” so they hired men in windbreakers and mirrored sunglasses to shoot magic dust (chemicals) into the clouds like confetti. 

California (1948) – The pioneers. Pacific Gas & Electric let loose the first silver iodide flares over the Sierra Nevada. California, of course, calls it a “climate enhancement initiative” and will probably bill you for premium raindrops.

Utah (early 1950s) – Never one to miss a good snow opportunity, Utah began boosting winter storms before Elvis even had a record deal!

Colorado (1950s; formal program 1972) – Started seeding the Rockies when ski resorts realized artificial snow was cheaper than disappointing tourists.

North Dakota (1951) – Figured if it could seed wheat, it could seed clouds. The state practically turned weather modification into an extracurricular subject.

Texas (1957) – It was inevitable: if you can rope a steer, you can lasso a cumulonimbus.

New Mexico (circa 1958) – Joined hands with Texas to trade clouds like baseball cards.

Idaho (1960s) – Idaho Power decided if they wanted more hydroelectric power, they’d better make sure the sky paid its utility bill.

Nevada (late 1960s; DRI takes over 1975) – Because nothing says “desert innovation” like trying to make it rain in a place that doesn’t like to.

Wyoming (1971, expanded 2000s) – Came a little late to the party, but now runs one of the most methodical programs in the country. Leave it to Wyoming to make even precipitation orderly.

So by the dawn of disco, about nine states had decided to turn Mother Nature into a cooperative project, proving once again that the attraction of Control and Power is alive and well: if it moves, regulate it; if it doesn’t, seed it.

But here’s the rub: the yin always drags the yang behind it like toilet paper on the heel of a boot.  You flood one area with “extra” moisture, and some poor farmer two states over is left staring at a sky drier than a politician’s sense of humor. The scientists call it “atmospheric redistribution.” Because of course they do, it sounds smart!  In the end, maybe Mother Nature doesn’t need tech support or a gin and tonic (hold the tonic), she just needs us to stop playing meteorologist with a can of aerosol and crossed fingers.

When I was growing up (yes, not only did we have cars when I was young, but we also had built in ashtrays in our cars!) weather was something that happened on television. You turned on Channel 6, saw a happy man in a blazer gesturing toward a cartoon sun, and went back to worrying about your hair. Now we have apps that predict how many raindrops will fall on your left shoulder between 3:02 p.m. and 3:06 p.m. Progress, apparently, means we can be anxious about things before they even happen and deplete the grocery stores of everything a week prior to the storm. 

Private weather modification firms with names like Weather Modification Inc., Western Weather Consultants, North American Weather Consultants, and Rainmaker Technology Corporation, trade in something called “hydrometeor enhancement,” which sounds suspiciously like it could be marketing for a hair conditioner OR electrolyte replacement crystals. 

They’re running weather modification projects which are legally reported to NOAA but rarely read by anyone (NOAA Weather Modification Project Reports). The GAO (the U.S. Government Accountability Office) confirmed it in an unblinking 2024 report: “Nine states are actively using cloud seeding; oversight minimal” (GAO 25 107328). Translation: Yes, it’s happening. No, there’s no hall monitor. Target and Costco will check your receipt as you leave, but no one is checking the receipts of what’s happening in the skies. 

The technique is old magic: silver iodide or calcium chloride flares tossed into receptive clouds to nudge rain. At best, the extra precipitation helps farmers. At worst, somebody else gets unplanned hail. Science calls it “stochastic,” which is Greek for “your results may vary.”

Officially, we’re told it’s to “stabilize the water cycle.” Which is adorable, considering the government couldn’t stabilize their spending habits. The GAO  report politely adds that “reliable information is lacking” on effectiveness. Translation: it might work, it might not, but everyone gets paid either way. And what do these storms cause? Death, destruction, damage. Which equals people need more help. And guess who’s always promising to help you (hint, they never actually do…).  The irony, of course, is that these same operations might be stealing rain from elsewhere — Utah’s miracle snowpack one week, Arizona’s drought the next. 

It’s so utterly on brand for government. They can’t fix potholes but think they can fix the weather. 

Maybe what bothers me isn’t the manipulation itself: it’s the silence around it. The way it’s treated as impolite conversation, like asking someone how much money they make or why they are still single (or still married?). Maybe we don’t want to know where the rain really comes from, because then we’d have to admit that even our storms are bureaucratic and having any control is simply an illusion. 

So here’s my forecast: scattered anxiety with a heavy chance of absurdity. Carry a shovel for the possibility of snow and 100% chance of government bullshit. And remember, it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature. Or the people.

 

Sometimes A Puppy Is Not The Answer...

 Summer of 2025 came more difficult news. The kind you work through one appointment, one conversation, one breath at a time. And not long after that, Rocky suffered what we believe was a stroke. Within hours, we had to say goodbye to him too. Losing two dogs so close together felt like losing the exclamation points in our lives. We were now back to one dog again. Finn for the longest time wouldn’t jump into John’s truck. We believe it’s because he watched Rocky leave in it and never return. Finn kept us going. We had no choice. But life was a bit hollow and heavy. And uncertainty loomed everywhere. Hey, that’s life, right! No guarantees!

 It has been a while since I’ve posted anything personal, which is saying something, because I am famously incapable of not communicating. Silence is not my brand. But the last two years have had a way of rearranging things, including words.

In November of 2024, on 11/11, we said goodbye to Jack, our chocolate lab, who was thirteen. I was as prepared as a person can be when they know something inevitable is coming, which is to say, not prepared at all. Jack was the kind of dog who made life easier just by existing. He was gentle. He was chill. He never did anything wrong. He was, essentially, the emotional support human of our household, disguised as a dog.

John, my strong, steady husband, took it harder than I expected. Jack was his quiet companion, his constant. And men of a certain age, from a certain era, tend to keep their feelings folded neatly inside themselves, where they do not take up space or inconvenience anyone. Which, as it turns out, does not shorten grief. It only gives it better hiding places.

In March 2025 on a Sunday just before St. Patrick’s Day in the midst of gray cold days, still crying over missing Jack, I saw a yellow lab puppy up for adoption and thought, very reasonably, This will fix everything! And so we brought home Finn. He is adorable. Radiantly, undeniably adorable. Rocky (who had never been the lone dog in the house) was both happy to finally have another lab to boss around and probably frustrated to have to share space with yet another cute four legged creature. But…Rocky had John. The two of them would curl on the couch and read books (John, not Rocky!). Aside from working with John, Rocky was probably in the height of happiness during his lifetime. John will admit he loved Rocky more than anything (because of course he would, Rocky didn’t complain about the house being too cold, or driving in the dark, or menopause).

We have always had two dogs. Never just one. And when John saw a black lab puppy up for adoption, there was some back and forth. He decided yes. Then no. Then yes again. I was excited. Then sad. Then hopeful. I thought maybe a puppy is exactly what John needs to give him that pure joy back. Some hope to hold onto in this winter of our life (both seasonal and metaphorical). Eventually, that tiny black lab came home, and John called him Buddy, because that’s what he was going to be. His little Buddy.

Buddy is many things. Sometimes Buddy. Sometimes Buddha, because of how he sits. Sometimes Hank the Tank, because he barrels through life like a friendly freight train. And sometimes Aristotle, because he has wise eyes and an unsettling level of intelligence. He already follows Finn’s scent around the yard, carefully mapping the universe, even when Finn has already come back inside.

He is a wonderful dog. And he arrived at a time when we may have been more vulnerable than we realized.

There is a particular kind of heartbreak in admitting that love and timing are not always aligned. That maybe we should have waited. That maybe we asked more of ourselves than we could reasonably give while navigating medical uncertainty and exhaustion. It feels grievous to say out loud, especially when you love animals, that something you chose with your whole heart might not be right for this moment.

So here we are, trying to find Buddy a home through friends, where he will be deeply loved and properly adored. Because it isn’t fair to a puppy to live inside human overwhelm. And it isn’t fair to people who are still healing to pretend they are stronger than they are.

This is where we are on a very cold winter weekday. A little bruised. A little hopeful. Still believing that better weather, in every sense of the word, is ahead.

And that has to count for something.