Life Update: Cakey High Fives, CT Scans, Banana Ball, and the Postal System’s Personal Vendetta

 

I just got back from the Fourth of July weekend in Arkansas, where we celebrated my granddaughter Gracelynn’s first birthday.

One whole year.

I do not know who authorized time to move that fast, but I would like to speak to a manager.

She is perfect, of course. She carefully dissected her birthday cake with her fingers like a tiny forensic scientist. No wild cake-smashing chaos. No face-first dive into frosting. Just careful inspection, methodical sampling, and then—because I am blessed beyond measure—a cakey high five.

That’s right. I got frosted.

Some people get jewelry. Some people get flowers. I got a sticky baby palm full of birthday cake slapped into my hand, and frankly, it outranks most gifts I’ve ever received.

She already does the goofy hand-over-mouth noise thing I taught her, completely unprompted. That means Grandma has officially made an impression. Next up: fish lips. I have a Jim Carrey rubber face and a sacred duty to pass on the ridiculous.

She also learned to give high fives this weekend, along with more games and songs we've been working on over the last several months. Every little thing she remembers is another thread tying us together, and that means more to me than I can put into words.

While I was in Arkansas, Kota stayed home to mind the cats because somebody had to keep the furry criminals alive and prevent them from unionizing. As much as I missed him, video calls made it feel like he was part of the celebration too.

Then I came home and had a CT scan, because you know my life (with cancer) requires medical imaging as a recurring subplot. The tech could not get into my port at first, which was deeply annoying, but it got sorted. Still, by the time I got home, I was already cooked.

And what was waiting for me?

Packages. Vinted. Amazon. Pen pal letters.

A whole little mountain of "welcome home, now process this."

Some of the mail was lovely. Klaus from Germany finally arrived like a ghost from the postal underworld. He mailed his letter on May 10.

May 10.

I just got it.

That letter has apparently traveled farther than I did this weekend.

Klaus wrote about his sister having a stroke and how she is unfortunately not doing well. He has been spending time in his garden and is heading to Norway for holiday. He also mentioned that he doesn't like getting overheated.

Klaus... my friend... same.

That is what I love about real letters. They're slices of someone's actual life. They're not rushed text messages or social media updates. They're stories. They're conversations. They make you feel like you've sat down over a cup of coffee with someone on the other side of the world.

Then there was another pen pal letter that reminded me not every correspondence is meant to last. The handwriting was childlike, the sentences were difficult to follow, and before we'd even had a chance to get to know one another, the requests for postcards, snacks, and souvenirs had already begun.

I don't mind generosity. I actually enjoy sending little surprises to friends. But friendship comes first. The gifts are just icing on the cake.

I don't have the time or emotional bandwidth to become someone's caretaker when what I was looking for was a pen pal.

I am tired.

Not "I need a nap" tired.

More like, "I've been running on coffee, medical appointments, work, writing, legal delays, family, and pure stubbornness" tired.

But I'm still here.

Still writing.

Still laughing.

Still teaching my granddaughter wonderfully ridiculous noises.

Still selling stamps.

Still opening letters from across the ocean.

Still believing there are good people worth getting to know.

Oh... and somewhere in the middle of all this, I decided to use my oven's self-clean feature.

Friends...

Never again.

The oven was already mostly clean, yet somehow my apartment smelled like I had opened a portal directly into the underworld. Every window was open. Every fan in the house was running. My office door was closed.

It still smelled like the ghost of every frozen pizza I'd ever baked had come back to haunt me.

The oven won.

But I wonder, if I put sage in there and ran the cycle would it count as a sacred cleanse? 

So that's my update.

A wonderful trip home.

A granddaughter who's growing far too fast.

A CT scan behind me.

A mailbox full of surprises.

An oven that betrayed me.

And a reminder that life isn't made up of the big moments alone.

Sometimes it's the sticky high five, the letter that finally arrives after two months, the cat waiting at the door, or the package you forgot you ordered.

Those are the little things that quietly stitch a life together.

And despite everything, I'd say mine is still coming together pretty beautifully. We're still waiting on a couple of important parts, but I wager we'll get those sorted soon. 

One of the highlights of the past few weeks was making the trip down to Autzen Stadium to see the Savannah Bananas. I knew it would be entertaining, but I wasn't prepared for just how much fun it would be. If you've never experienced Banana Ball, throw everything you think you know about baseball out the window. It's part baseball, part comedy, part concert, and part organized chaos—and somehow it all works.

The energy in the stadium was incredible from the moment the first players hit the field. There was music, dancing, audience participation, and nonstop laughter. Every inning had something unexpected, and you could tell the players were having just as much fun as the fans. It didn't matter whether you were a lifelong baseball fan or someone who couldn't tell a bunt from a balk. Everyone was smiling.

In a world where so many sporting events take themselves so seriously, the Savannah Bananas have figured out something important: people come for the experience. They delivered one of the most entertaining evenings I've had in a long time, and I'd go again in a heartbeat. If they come anywhere near you, grab tickets. Trust me—it's worth it.