🎧Are Audiobooks My Thing? I'm Not Sure...

Back when Steven and I first reconnected, we got into this habit of listening to audiobooks in the car. He’d pick me up, we'd pop in a CD (yes, a real CD like it was 2007 again), and hit the road with a story playing in the background. Somehow, between the two of us, we always managed to keep track of where we left off — even if a week had passed. One of us would remember what was happening or who someone was. It was like shared brainpower. Teamwork at its finest.

Fast forward a few years, and here I am, trying out audiobooks again — this time solo, on my phone, and with James Patterson's Murder Games. I’m not even halfway through and already feeling kind of meh about the whole experience.

For one, I feel like I’m crawling through this book. If I were reading it, I’d probably be done by now — or at least a lot farther along. But because I’m listening, I’m stuck at the narrator’s pace. I keep wanting to speed things up, but then I worry I’ll miss something important if I do. (Side note: If anyone ever invents an audiobook that automatically adjusts speed based on your brain’s current caffeine level, I’d be all in.)

The other thing? I keep forgetting who people are. I’ll hit play and suddenly be like, “Wait, which guy is this again? Is he the detective or the murderer? Or both?” Then I have to pause, think it through, mentally rewind, and then keep going. It’s not exactly the immersive experience I was hoping for.

So now I’m wondering: maybe audiobooks just aren’t my thing. Or maybe they were our thing — Steven and me, a car ride, a shared story, and no pressure to remember every detail alone. Maybe audiobooks are a tag-team sport and I’ve been trying to play solo.

I’ll stick it out and finish this one — as excruciating as it’s currently feeling — but after that, I think I’ll go back to turning pages instead of listening to them.

Gone Missing by Linda Castillo (Burkholder #4)

(Or: How to read two books in one day and still get the laundry done. Sort of.)

Let’s just start with this: Gone Missing is an excellent book. Like, “ignore the dishes and let the cat eat dinner late” kind of excellent. Linda Castillo’s back at it again with her crime-solving, ex-Amish, emotionally-complex, totally-badass protagonist Kate Burkholder, and I was immediately hooked. The prologue alone? An Amish girl on the verge of taking her own life. Yeah. Not exactly light fare, but I was all in.

If you’ve read any of the other books in Castillo’s series, you’ll recognize the familiar setup: Painter’s Mill, Ohio; crime hits the Amish community; Kate, now Chief of Police and former bonnet-wearer, dives in headfirst to find out what happened while trying to keep her emotional baggage zipped up (spoiler: it’s never fully zipped). This time, Amish teens are disappearing, and not in the usual "went off to sow wild oats during Rumspringa and forgot to come back" kind of way. It’s darker. And twistier. And oh boy, did it deliver.

Kate Burkholder is my kind of leading lady. Strong? Check. Smart? Check. Makes mistakes but doesn’t let them define her? Check. Cries in her car sometimes but still gets the job done? Double check. She reminds me a little of me—minus the badge and the ability to track suspects through the woods, of course.

Then we have John Tomasetti, her love interest and occasional investigative partner from the BCI. His backstory is trauma with a capital T—his wife and kids were murdered, which understandably gives him zero patience for anyone hurting children. But he’s not your stereotypical damaged loner. He supports Kate, doesn’t try to "fix" her, and most importantly, walks beside her. Not in front. Not behind. Beside. Which, as any woman who’s tried to hike with a man knows, is a rare and beautiful thing.

Plot-wise? This book is a page-turner. No, really. I read the whole thing in one sitting… right after finishing another book. (I’m not bragging, I’m just saying: this is how good it is.) Castillo gives you just enough of what the characters are thinking to keep you guessing, but not so much that you figure out the big twist by chapter three. And thank the writing gods, the timeline moves forward in a straight line. None of that confusing back-and-forth mess that makes you feel like you’re in a time-traveling fever dream.

The story explores big themes—loss, resilience, and the pursuit of truth, no matter how uncomfortable it gets. And the ending? Let’s just say I gasped out loud, scared the cat, and immediately googled whether a certain character shows up in future books. (Noah Mast, I’m looking at you.)

So, if you like crime fiction with depth, heart, and a protagonist who can wrangle suspects and inner demons in equal measure, Gone Missing is absolutely worth your time. And if you’re anything like me, don’t make plans the day you start it—you won’t be putting it down.

We Used to Live Here by Marcus Kliewer

 ...or, How I Learned to Stop Trusting Houseguests and Question All Windows

Let me just start by saying: this is the first time I’ve read a book classified as “Horror” and lived to tell the tale without sleeping with the lights on. Okay, maybe I did turn on a few extra lamps. And maybe I double-checked the locks. And maybe I peeked out the window more than usual—which, if you’ve read the book, you know is ironic.

I didn't plan on reading the entire book today, but once I started...yeah, we all know how that goes. Suddenly it's 2 a.m. and you're thinking, "Who needs sleep anyway? I'll sleep when I'm dead!"

Despite the label, this felt more like a psychological thriller wrapped in a cozy haunted-house blanket...if that blanket were slowly trying to strangle you. It was creepy, unsettling, and downright gripping. I’d absolutely recommend it—especially if you like your stories fast-paced, twisty, and just ambiguous enough to spark a wine-fueled debate at your next book club.

The writing style? Smooth as butter. No switching timelines, no tangled plot threads, just a single POV with enough twists to keep your neck sore. I was in the story within 30 seconds. Blink, and you’re 100 pages deep and suspicious of everyone, including your own cat. I was even more impressed with this author when I found out this is his first novel. Wow!

My favorite character was Eve, hands down. Poor girl just wanted to start a new life, maybe repaint a creepy old house, and not get gaslit into oblivion. I related to her need to please others—but man, Thomas. Thomas gave me the ick from page one. Something about him screamed, “I may or may not feed on your soul.” Paige and her holier-than-thou attitude didn’t help either. No tears were shed when she...let’s just say, exited stage left.

This book didn’t hit me in the feels so much as it hit me in the brain. I had questions. Big, juicy, what-the-heck-did-I-just-read questions. What happened to the window? Is Charlie even real? Did Thomas invent a time-looping reality-bending Airbnb scam? Is he secretly 400 years old and sipping youth from tea mugs? Someone please find answers—and then don’t tell me, because I kind of like not knowing.

I picked up this book because a co-worker raved about the ending. She wasn’t wrong. It took me completely by surprise. I had to sit there and re-evaluate all my life choices, including the one where I didn’t start reading horror earlier. Sure, there were some classic horror tropes—flickering lights, dead flashlights, strange children who act like they wandered out of a 19th-century portrait—but Kliewer did something fresh with them. The idea that every door in this house might open to a different reality? Creepy. I’ll never trust a floor plan again.

Eve is the ultimate unreliable narrator, and that worked perfectly for this story. One moment you’re Team Eve, the next you’re wondering if she needs a hug or a straitjacket (a cute one, obviously). The use of newspaper clippings, interviews, and police transcripts sprinkled in made the story feel eerily real—and convinced me that Thomas was bad news before the main narrative did.

Thomas is evil. Like, capital-E Evil. Especially once he started calling Eve “Emma” and pulling off gaslighting gymnastics that would make even the Devil say, “Whoa, dude.” My evidence? The locket. How’d he have that if Eve and Charlie hadn’t been in touch for years? Why did he say Charlie’s name like he knew her? I’m telling you: time-bending sociopath.

Also, I translated the Morse code at the end of each section (because I’m nothing if not a nerd), and it says: OLD MAN WITH THE SCAR HAS LIVED IN THE CABIN FOR CENTURIES AND GOES BY MANY DIFFERENT NAMES. Well then. That doesn’t scream normal.

I give this a solid 8 of 10 raging, knocking off two points because there was room for even more creep factor, and because Paige annoyed me so deeply. But honestly? The ending earned a standing ovation. In my living room. Alone. With all the lights on.

Would I want a sequel? No. I want to wonder. I want to lie awake thinking about whether Eve was nuts or if she just got caught in one too many pocket dimensions. I want to recommend this book to friends and then argue about it over brownies and wine. I want to ask the universe one more time: What happened to the window?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go triple-check that the back door doesn’t open into a parallel universe.

Confessions of a Raffle Ticket Holder

Every month, our curriculum team dreams up some kind of teacher incentive to keep things fun and encouraging. This month’s idea? A raffle. Every time someone pops into your classroom and catches 100% of your students engaged, you earn a raffle ticket. Easy enough, right? Engage the students, collect some tickets, cross your fingers.

Well, I did pretty well. Actually, I did really well. I collected a whole bunch of tickets. But before I tossed them all into the raffle box, I noticed something: they were really pretty. Bright, cheerful, hopeful. The kind of little thing that just makes you feel good.

I wanted to keep one. Just one. I even snapped a quick picture of them all spread out in my hand, thinking, "Oh, I’ll remember them this way." But now? I wish I had actually kept one.

See, I have a “Feel Good Wall” in my office. It's where I hang up anything that lifts me up after a tough day — thank you notes, cards, silly little accolades, drawings from students, you name it. It's my reminder that even on the hardest days, there’s a whole wall full of reasons why this work matters.

That raffle ticket would've fit right in. A little symbol of a job well done, tucked in among the love notes and doodles.

Ah well. Next time I get something small and wonderful, you better believe it's going straight onto the wall. Picture or no picture.

Long Lost by Linda Castillo (Burkholder #4.5)

You know those times when you're "on vacation" but somehow still working because you can't resist? (Looking at you, people who check their work email from the beach.) Well, Long Lost by Linda Castillo is basically the crime thriller version of that, and honestly, I loved it.

This novella introduces readers to Kate Burkholder, the chief of police who somehow manages to be a total badass and still have the occasional emotional breakdown. (Relatable.) She's on vacation with her love interest, John Tomasetti — but of course, because they’re both wired that way, they can't help but get involved in a cold case about a missing girl. Some people collect souvenir magnets. Kate and John collect trauma. Different strokes.

I’d definitely recommend Long Lost to thriller fans. It's short, fast-moving, and hooks you right from the start — kind of like that one bag of chips you tell yourself you’ll just have a few of, but then the next thing you know it’s gone and so is your dignity. Castillo’s writing is easy to get into and keeps you turning pages without feeling like you’re running a literary marathon.

Kate continues to be one of my favorite characters — strong but human, tough but emotional, the kind of cop who’ll throw down if she needs to but will also cry afterward. (Again, relatable.) No characters particularly annoyed me, which is always a win because there’s usually someone I want to yell at in thrillers. Not here!

Emotionally, this book had me invested right away. I found myself hoping hard for a happy ending — and for once, thank you, Linda Castillo, because we actually get one. I knew absolutely nothing about the plot going in, other than it was written by Castillo, which basically guaranteed it wouldn’t be a waste of my time. And it wasn’t.

No frustrations, no big revelations, no grand life lessons — just a solid, fast-paced mystery with a satisfying ending. Sometimes that’s exactly what you want. Sometimes you don’t need a book to change your life. Sometimes you just need it to give you an excuse to ignore your laundry for an hour and a half. (Long Lost totally delivered.)

Would I turn this one into a movie? Probably not. It's too short, and Hollywood would probably just find a way to ruin it with unnecessary explosions and Kate wearing heels while chasing a perp through a field. No, thanks.

On a scale of 1 to 10, I give Long Lost a solid 10. It’s engaging, fast-moving, and had a happy ending. And as a certified Happy Ending Enthusiast™, that always earns extra points from me.

Three Fates by Nora Roberts

Normally, I’m a psychological thriller kind of reader—the more murder and mayhem, the better. But I decided to branch out and picked up Three Fates by Nora Roberts. While there was plenty of romance, it didn’t completely overshadow the plot, which centers around a hunt for three ancient Greek statues, one of which was stolen during the sinking of the Lusitania.

The story follows the Sullivan siblings—Malachi, Gideon, and Rebecca. Malachi, unfortunately, was swindled by a sociopath who stole the First Fate from him. He soon partners (and very predictably falls in love) with Tia. Gideon tracks down the Second Fate and gets involved with Cleo, a loyal and quick-witted performer. Rebecca, a brainiac, meets Jack Burdett, a security expert with ties to their thieving nemesis and the Third Fate,  and they also spark a romance.

I enjoyed all three women—Tia’s shyness, Becca’s intelligence, and Cleo’s loyalty each resonated with me in different ways. Roberts did a nice job making the women distinct and likable without falling into clichés.

The plot weaves in the mythology of the Three Fates—the Greek figures who spin, measure, and cut the threads of life—and ties it into the modern treasure hunt. It added some depth, even if the mystical elements were about as convincing as a $2 crystal ball at a street fair.

The romantic relationships were believable enough I guess, but didn’t fully engage me. I'm more of a ballgame-and-beer person than a champagne-toasts-and-long-stares type, so I might not be the target audience for that part. The pacing was steady—enough character development and action to keep the story moving without dragging. And when it got too soppy for me, I just turned a couple pages.

A standout secondary character was Eileen Sullivan, the siblings' mother. She ruled her family with love, no-nonsense advice, and the kind of resilience that makes you want her in your corner. If she had been in charge of the treasure hunt, she could have wrapped it up by chapter 5 and still had time to bake cookies.

In short: if you enjoy romance blended with adventure, mythology, and family loyalty, Three Fates will hit the mark. If you’re looking for more bodies and dark basements, you might want to stick with the thrillers. Either way, it’s a fun, satisfying ride—no life jacket required.

Iced by Felix Francis

Alright, here’s the deal with Iced - it’s a book that really wants you to feel for Miles, a jockey turned, well, mostly still a mess. Felix Francis has followed in his father Dick's hoofprints (pun intended), delivering another horse racing thriller wrapped in all the familiar elements of crime and suspense. But let me tell you, Miles’ self-pitying sob-fests almost made me want to reach into the book and slap him. I’m more of a suck it up, buttercup type when it comes to characters, so his vodka tears did not evoke the sympathy you might expect. Nope, no warm fuzzies here. I was rooting for him to get it together, and the fact that he eventually does as an older, wiser guy... well, thank goodness for that.

The pacing? Not exactly heart-pounding. It was more of a slow-burn crime novel than a full-throttle thriller. If you’re looking for edge-of-your-seat suspense, you might want to look elsewhere. That being said, the mystery of who’s trying to off Miles did keep me guessing, even if I was a little too quick to suspect the wrong people. It’s always fun to get misdirected, and Felix Francis does that with the best of them. The twist? Oh, it’s a good one. Jerry, his boss, trying to kill him? Plot twist of the century, or at least of the book. And how Miles gets his revenge? Chef’s kiss.

As for the horse racing side of things, it’s obviously central, as expected. Miles’ old jockey days and the gritty reality of the sport are woven into the story, but I think what really grabbed me was the addition of the Cresta Run. That bit was a nice change of pace—pun totally intended.

Now, let’s talk about the supporting cast. I mean, if you can make me actively dislike your main character—props to you, Felix. Seriously. The characters around Miles are solid, especially the ones who make you really want to see him succeed, even if I wasn’t completely on his team.

I didn’t love Iced as much as some of Felix’s other books or his father’s works. There’s something about the whining and the constant drama about his dad’s legacy that just didn’t do it for me. But I’ll say this: if you’re into horse racing or enjoy a good crime mystery, this book might just fit the bill. It’s got the right amount of twists, believable danger, and a well-executed payback moment that I didn’t see coming.

So, would I recommend it? Yes, if you’re a horse racing enthusiast or just into a nice, meaty crime story. But if you like your protagonists less... whiny and more action-oriented, you might want to steer clear.

Six Months Ago, I Quit.

Today I hit six months without a cigarette. Half a year. A full two seasons of not standing outside in the freezing rain and snow pretending it’s relaxing.

I started smoking at 16, which felt rebellious and grown-up at the time. I was at college young, and I desperately wanted to fit in. Over the years, I quit and started again more times than I can count. But when I got pregnant at 35, I quit for real. Cold turkey. For the first time, it wasn’t just about me. And I truly believed that was the end of it.

But then... my son became a teenager.

Raising a teenager, as it turns out, is like trying to nail Jello to a tree. He found himself a terrible group of friends, the kind that come with red flags and bad decisions. At 14, I had to put him into rehab for drug abuse. That was, hands down, the hardest thing I’ve ever done—yes, even harder than labor and delivery, and that involved a watermelon and a space the size of a lemon.

I was heartbroken, scared, and overwhelmed—and I picked up a cigarette. Just one, at first. Then a pack. Then I was back in it.

He was in rehab for seven months. I told him if he ever used again, I’d have him back in there so fast his head would spin. And sure enough, shortly before he turned 16, he overdosed on heroin. The next week, he was back in rehab.

That could’ve been the end of the story—but it wasn’t. He got better. He changed his friends, changed his habits, changed his life. And slowly, I began to believe I could change too.

But quitting smoking felt impossible. Every time I tried, life would throw me a stress grenade—BOOM, and there I was, lighting up again.

Eventually, I called New York Quits. They sent me nicotine gum and patches, and I decided to really try. Not the “we’ll see how this goes” try—the this time I mean it try.

And here I am. Six months later. No smoke. No gum. No patches. Just me, breathing a little easier (and maybe feeling a little smug).

There’s still stress. Life hasn’t magically gotten easier. I still dream that I'm having a cigarette. I teach middle school. But the only thing smoking does is make me smell bad. It's still not easy. I still have cravings. 

So here’s to six months. Here’s to better health. And here’s to making this streak a full year—and beyond.

3rd Degree by James Patterson and Andrew Gross

James Patterson's 3rd Degree continues the Women’s Murder Club saga with the usual short, punchy chapters that keep the plot moving at a steady clip. His writing style, as always, makes it easy to read a chapter or two and then pick right back up after a break, even if it's just a quick phone call. The pacing is generally effective in that it doesn’t let the story drag, but honestly, I didn’t find myself as hooked this time around. For some reason, the intensity of the first two books in the series just wasn’t there for me.

Lindsay Boxer and the other women of the club—Claire, Cindy, and Jill—remain as relatable as ever. What I love about these characters is that they’re successful, yes, but they’re also real. They have their flaws, moments of doubt, and personal struggles. They feel like people you could sit down with for a cup of coffee. The dynamics between them are great, and that balance of strength and vulnerability keeps the series grounded. That said, I felt a bit let down by the development in this book. There was something about the way the characters were handled in 3rd Degree that didn’t hit as strongly as in the earlier books. Maybe it’s because of the loss of one of the women—I’ll get to that in a second.

The central mystery in 3rd Degree is classic Patterson: a twisted, unpredictable crime with enough twists to keep you guessing. However, even with the occasional peek into the killer's mind, I just didn’t get as sucked in as I did with the previous stories. It wasn’t a predictable case, but I wasn’t on the edge of my seat either. At times, it felt like the plot wasn’t quite as intricate or gripping as it could have been, and I found myself more detached than invested.

What Patterson does well is build suspense, particularly with the baby kidnapping scene. That moment had me gripping the pages, praying for a happy ending. The tension between Boxer and Molinari was also a nice touch—watching Boxer move on with her life and navigate that relationship added a personal layer to the story. But while there were moments of tension, they didn’t sustain that heart-pounding pace I usually expect from Patterson.

In terms of comparison to other Patterson novels, 3rd Degree didn’t hit the high bar I’ve come to expect. I wasn’t completely hooked by the story, and I found myself questioning the narrative choices. When Patterson made the shocking decision to kill off Jill, one of the core characters, I was disappointed. Sure, it fit with the idea that the killer could strike anywhere, anytime, but honestly? I felt robbed. Jill had just started to reclaim her life from an abusive marriage, and then—just like that—she was gone. The impact of that loss hit me hard, but not in the way I think Patterson intended. The Women’s Murder Club was built on the dynamic of these four women, and now we’re down to three. How will the next book work with that shift? I’m curious, but also hesitant.

In short, 3rd Degree didn’t live up to the excitement of the first two books for me. It’s still a solid read, with good moments of suspense and the usual camaraderie between the club members. But overall, it didn’t leave me feeling like I just had to keep turning the pages. I’m hoping the next installment pulls things together a little more.

Tiny Car, Tiny Tire, Big Headache

I can’t even remember the last time I had a flat tire, but apparently, this was my week to win the unlucky lottery.

I had just pulled out of the school parking lot, heading over to see Teri, when my dashboard lit up with what I like to call the donut with a bite taken out of it idiot light. You know the one. Yep—right front tire. 0 psi. Fabulous.

Now, the school isn’t exactly in the best part of town, so I figured I’d better try to get a little closer to home just in case I had to ditch the car and hoof it. I made it as far as the corner of Main and Delevan before the dreaded whump-whump-whump sound kicked in and sent me into mild panic mode.

I called 1-800-ChevUSA, holding on to a shred of hope, only to be reminded that, nope—no more free roadside service for me. My car only has 22,000 miles on it, but it’s five years old, which apparently makes it a senior citizen in car years. Great.

I have no idea how much this little detour is going to cost me, but at least the service guy gave me a much-needed laugh. He pulled the donut out of my trunk, took one look, and said, “Wow! This sure is a tiny tire!”

Sir. I drive a 2020 Chevy Spark. Everything is tiny.

That's just...wrong.

 The fortune people obviously don't know how much I love cheeseburgers. 

Ernie the Kitty

He weighs a ton, but somehow he's oddly comforting. 

I was thinking...

...Did you smell smoke? 

Lately, I realized I need a way to tell the difference between the books I’m reading for pure fun and the ones I’m reading for my book club. (Yes, I’m in a book club. Yes, it’s fantastic. Yes, there’s sweets involved.)

So I’ve decided to separate them the only way that makes sense to my slightly chaotic brain: fonts.

Book club reads? They get a clean, respectable sans serif font. Something like Arial or Verdana—neat, serious, maybe just a little too eager to be taken seriously. Like someone who irons their jeans.

 (That's a nod to my big brother, who reads just as much as I do - only non-fiction. And really does iron his blue jeans.)

Books I’m reading just for me? They’re in a loose, scribbly font that looks almost like handwriting. The kind of font that feels like it might spill tea and gossip with you. Casual. Relaxed. Possibly a little unhinged. Just like the way I read them.

Because if I’m going to obsessively categorize my reading habits, I’m going to do it with style.

The Never Game by Jeffrey Deaver (Colter Shaw #1)

Let’s start with the basics: The Never Game by Jeffrey Deaver is a solid 10/10. I say this as someone who values sleep deeply—yet still stayed up reading far later than I should have because I could not put it down. You know that feeling when you tell yourself, “Just one more chapter,” and then it’s 2 AM and you’re Googling “Do I really need 8 hours of sleep to function?” Yeah. That was me.

This is the first book in Deaver’s Colter Shaw series, and I’m hooked. Colter isn’t your typical mystery novel lead. He’s a “rewardist” (think bounty hunter with a moral compass and slightly better social skills) who uses his sharp intellect, survivalist training, and network of trusted friends to track down missing people. Runaways, kidnappings, murder victims—if there’s a reward involved, Colter’s in. But he’s not just doing it for the money. There’s a deeper motivation that slowly unfolds, and it’s one of the things that makes this book so compelling.

The writing is tight and engaging—Deaver doesn’t waste your time. Within seconds, I was dropped into the action: a woman trapped in a sinking ship, Colter racing against hypothermia to save her. You don’t get to ease into this book. It grabs you by the collar and says, “You’re in this now.” And I was.

One of the things I appreciated most was Deaver’s ability to balance plot and character. Sure, there are twists and red herrings and all the crime-thriller goodies you’d expect. But there’s also real depth to Colter. His childhood? Let’s just say his father was the kind of guy who probably had a stockpile of canned goods and taught his kids Morse code before they could ride bikes. At first, you think, “Well that’s a little intense,” and then you realize how much that background shaped Colter into the kind, clever, slightly emotionally stunted man he is.

And the supporting characters? Gold. Teddy and Velma, his research team, are the kind of people you’d want helping you out of a jam. Mack can dig up dirt on anyone faster than I can misplace my car keys. Even the characters I didn’t like (looking at you, Dan Wiley) grew on me. Dan starts off as that guy who calls every woman “Sweetheart” and exudes serious “I know better” energy. But to Deaver’s credit, even he gets a redemption arc.

Plot-wise, you’re getting a high-stakes investigation that unexpectedly dives into the video game industry. And yeah, I learned things—from a thriller. That’s rare. I wasn’t expecting to walk away with knowledge about the tech world, but there I was, Googling industry jargon and nodding like I’d always known what an indie dev studio was.

Now, would I recommend The Never Game? Absolutely. Especially if you’re into suspense, mystery, crime thrillers, or if you’ve ever wished Jack Reacher had a therapist. This book is made for readers who like a fast-paced plot but don’t want to sacrifice character development. Also, if you’re a fan of the TV show Tracker (which, fun fact, is based on this series), you’re going to love the deeper dive the book offers. As always, the book gives you more—it’s richer, it lingers, and it lets your imagination take over.

Final thought?

“Love,” Deaver writes, “could be an endless refillable prescription of madness.” Love it.

2nd Chance by James Patterson - Bullets, Backstories, and Betrayal

You know how sometimes you mention to a friend that you kinda like James Patterson, and suddenly you’re five books deep in a 20+ book series? Yeah. That’s me now. Someone recommended the Women’s Murder Club series, and after loving 1st to Die, I picked up 2nd Chance. Spoiler: I didn’t put it down unless I absolutely had to do something like “sleep” or “be a responsible adult.”

This time around, our girl Lindsay Boxer is bouncing back from... well, a lot. In book one, she was dealing with heartbreak, serial killers, and a life-threatening illness called Negli’s aplastic anemia. (It’s fictional, but it’s based on a very real and very serious blood disorder—not technically cancer, but definitely no joke.) Now, in 2nd Chance, she’s in remission, newly promoted, and, naturally, knee-deep in another string of murders. Because some people decompress with yoga, and others hunt criminals.

One of the things I love about James Patterson is how he shifts between characters without leaving your brain in knots. The timeline stays clean, the story moves fast, and you get a real-time look at what’s happening from every angle. It’s like watching a high-speed chess game, but with homicide detectives, journalists, and forensic pathologists.

Also, let’s talk about the twisty-ness. I did not guess the killer. Not even a little. When Lindsay and the gang started floating the idea of an inside job, my brain just sort of nodded politely and said, “Sure, maybe.” It never occurred to me that the killer could be the child of a cop. The twist hit me like a plot-driven freight train—in the best way.

Reading these books in order definitely pays off. The characters grow, their relationships deepen, and there are little threads tying each story to the next. Cindy’s in a new relationship, Claire’s home life shines through, Jill is working through serious emotional pain, and Lindsay? Still carrying the team and navigating her dad’s… let's call it "questionable parenting." They all feel so real. Like I’d actually invite them over for wine, then remember they’d probably be solving a crime halfway through the second glass.

Oh—and for the record? I disagree with Agatha Christie on one thing: I like a little romance in my murder mysteries. Not the bodice-ripping kind, but something soft that makes the characters feel more human. Patterson nails that balance. Cindy and Aaron’s slow-burn relationship is sweet and subtle and totally works.

So, would I recommend 2nd Chance to someone who doesn’t usually read thrillers? Totally. Patterson knows how to tell a story. The writing is quick and sharp, the plot moves fast, and the characters feel like people you could root for—even while they’re chasing down cold-blooded killers.

Final verdict: Loved it. 3rd Degree is already en route, and at this rate, I’ll be 10 books in before anyone can stop me. Catch me in 2027, finally caught up with the rest of you.

Well, That Escalated Quickly!

Today did not go as planned. But really—do they ever?

I had the whole day mapped out. I even called Teri and told her I’d swing by later. Ha! Future Me should’ve laughed right then and there. Because the sun finally remembered that Buffalo exists, and I decided to take advantage of this rare cosmic event by doing a little yard work. You know, clear out the plant beds, feel productive, pretend like I’m the kind of person who “gardens.”

I started in one corner, got into a decent rhythm, and then—scurry. SCURRY. Something darted to the other side of the plant box like it had somewhere better to be. Naturally, I levitated six feet in the air, did the Ninja Spider Dance, and shrieked, “Mice!”

So I did the logical thing: kicked the side of the plant box a few times. Not hard! Just enough to ... encourage ... relocation. Then I went back to weeding. That’s when the real scurrying started. Plural. Movement in every direction. And as I again jumped like I was without the benefit gravity I thought, “Oh fantastic, it’s not a mouse—it’s a whole extended family of long-tailed nightmares.”

But then I saw them.

Tiny, trembling, absolutely adorable baby bunnies.

Not mice. Not rats. Not chaos incarnate. Just the fluffiest little panic nuggets to ever be born in a raised plant bed.

I panicked (obviously) and tried to cover them back up with the weeds I’d just yanked out. Like that would undo the trauma I’d just inflicted. Then I backed away like a polite houseguest who opened the wrong door at a party and accidentally walked in on something sacred.

Here’s the thing: I am now deeply worried that I scared off Mama Bunny. Will she come back? Or did I just commit accidental bunny manslaughter via misplaced yardwork?

So now I’m here staring out my kitchen window looking at the half weeded garden bed with a spiraling sense of guilt. Isn't gardening fun? 

Heavy sigh. 

My Knee and I Are No Longer on Speaking Terms

60 is NOT the new 29. Or even the new 39 or 49. That's a lie. A lie told by people who do yoga on paddle boards and eat chia pudding voluntarily.

Because here’s the deal: I’ve been having some knee pain. Nothing major at first—just a little twinge here, a minor protest there. But then last week my left knee decided to up the drama. We’re talking full-on Broadway performance: general achiness with occasional solos where it felt like someone was jabbing an ice pick made of lava directly under my kneecap. Delightful.

So, like any responsible adult pretending not to Google symptoms at 2 a.m., I went to my primary care provider. She took one look and said, “Ohhhh...yeah, let's get you to orthopedic.” 

Cut to: X-rays, professional poking, and a fun game of “Tell Me Where It Hurts” that somehow managed to make me sweat, wince, and reevaluate all my life choices. The diagnosis? Osteoarthritis and chondromalacia patellae. That last one sounds like a fancy Italian appetizer but is actually code for: “Your kneecap cartilage is having a midlife crisis.”

Cue the Church Lady from SNL: “Well, isn’t that special?”

To calm things down, the doctor prescribed prednisone—because nothing says “healing” like swelling and the anticipation of a bonus five pounds. I can now look forward to pain relief and pants that no longer button. It’s a two-for-one deal!

But wait, there's more: my ortho’s note says, “Limit the use of stairs as tolerated.” Sounds reasonable… until you realize there are 52 stairs to get to my classroom. And no elevator. NONE. So unless I can start teaching by carrier pigeon or smoke signal, we’ve got a logistical nightmare on our hands. Or legs. Whatever.

Now, on to the good part: I’m rocking a brand new, hinged, incredibly sexy knee brace. It’s like the Spanx of the orthopedic world—supportive, unflattering, and somehow making me walk like a stormtrooper on casual Friday.

The orthopedic group also gave me access to an exercise app. Think Peloton for the physically compromised. It has videos, instructions, helpful tips, a timer, a rep counter—and, most importantly, it saves me a $35 copay every time I work out. That’s $35 I can now spend on pants with elastic waistbands. Or donuts. Or therapy. (Or maybe all three.)

I did Day 1 today: 25 minutes of leg lifts, awkward stretches, and whispering “I miss cartilage” under my breath. My knee and I are currently in mediation, hoping to settle this dispute without anyone else getting involved (looking at you, right knee).

Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment of This Is Not How I Thought Aging Would Go.

The God of the Woods by Liz Moore

Or: How I survived reading this Survival Trip of a novel

Spoiler Alert! If you haven't read the book yet, don't read this post. :)

Let me start by saying this: I wanted to love The God of the Woods. It had all the right ingredients — a missing girl, family secrets, and a mysterious camp in the Adirondacks. But with more timelines than a Marvel movie, reading this book felt less like a leisurely hike and more like getting lost in the woods without a map.

This novel jumps between multiple perspectives and decades, and while that works for me in some stories, here it left me disoriented. Maybe I was just extra tired this spring break (which, let’s be honest, should be renamed “I'm In Recovery”), but I found myself skipping around to follow specific timelines just to stay grounded. I kept getting lost and craved a trail marker or two.

The timeline I did enjoy was Judyta’s. Finally, a character who was smart, strong, and made it through life’s messiness with some backbone. She was flawed, yes, but real - a woman who said “no” when it counted, and one who didn’t crumble when life got complicated.

On the flip side, we have Alice. Oh, Alice. For the love of all things holy...Alice needs to get her act together. Grow up, for heaven's sake. I found her character infuriating. I know she was struggling with grief and addiction, but her choices felt weak and destructive — and I just couldn’t find compassion for someone who caused her own child’s death and still seemed to wade through life like a damp paper towel. Maybe that’s harsh, but I’ve never been one for sugarcoating.

Now, I will say this for Liz Moore: she wrote complex characters. People who were selfish, broken, and sometimes even redeemable — especially in the way gender roles were explored. Judyta’s path as one of the first female state troopers, standing firm against tradition including her own family's, was satisfying to read. Women in this book start off silenced, serving men’s narratives, but by the end, several are writing their own.

The camp kids were interesting too. Barbara and Tracy’s friendship — two misfits clinging to each other in a world that doesn’t quite see them — was a quiet gem. Tracy reminded me of myself when I was young, always struggling with something to say at the right time to say it. Barbara in particular was a character I wanted more of. She’s not the good daughter, but she’s the one who sticks with you.

As for the mystery? I had my theories (didn’t we all?), but I wasn’t totally blindsided by the reveals. I guessed Bear might have met a tragic end at the hands of family, but I didn’t expect Alice to be directly responsible — though, again, I can't say I was shocked. Disappointed, maybe, but not shocked.

The novel’s themes of inheritance and second chances do come full circle by the end. The rich, powerful Van Laars finally face consequences, the Stoddards get closure, and a few key characters break free from their old lives. But for every satisfying turn, there were moments that dragged or felt uneven.

And let’s talk about the woods. The epigraph from Woodswoman nails it: danger and beauty coexisting. This setting — haunting, isolating, and sometimes oddly peaceful — is the true backbone of the novel. It’s the stage for secrets, transformations, and some very eerie disappearances. Just don’t ask me to go camping anytime soon. My idea of "roughing it" is bad hotel coffee and no Wi-Fi.

In the end, I didn’t love The God of the Woods, but I didn’t hate it either. It’s a story about choices, consequences, and survival — not just in the wilderness, but in the lives we build for ourselves. I may not be a god of the woods, but I survived this novel. Barely.

If you like layered mysteries, slow burns, and a tangle of timelines — go for it. But bring snacks, a timeline tracker, and maybe a glass of wine for when Alice shows up on the page.

The Rise of Wearable Tech in Everyday Life and Education

Wearable tech has come a long way in a short time. What used to be just flashy digital watches or pedometers has turned into a growing world of smartwatches, fitness trackers, VR headsets, and now even AI-enabled glasses. These devices are becoming part of daily life for many people—and yes, that includes students.

At the middle school level, we’re starting to see kids show up with smartwatches that track their steps, buzz with reminders, or even let them send quick messages. Others might get their first exposure to wearable tech through school projects—things like coding a simple fitness tracker or trying out a virtual reality experience in a science unit. It’s no longer new or futuristic—it’s here.

There’s definitely some potential. VR can take students on virtual field trips to places they’d never get to see otherwise. Some wearables can help with focus, mindfulness, or staying active—things that can support learning in the right context. But there are also some clear downsides.

Privacy is a big one. These devices collect personal data—sometimes a lot of it. Who sees that info? What’s done with it? Most middle schoolers don’t think about that, and honestly, a lot of adults don’t either. Then there’s the equity issue. Not every student can afford a smartwatch or VR headset, and when we bring these into the classroom, we need to be careful not to widen the gap.

At the school where I teach, we don’t allow wearable tech in the classroom. And honestly, I think that’s the right call—at least for now. It’s already tough enough to help kids disconnect from their phones for a few hours. Taking smartwatches out of the equation gives them one less thing to distract them and one more chance to be present.

Wearable tech is going to keep growing, and our students will need to know how to navigate it—both the benefits and the risks. As teachers and tech users ourselves, we can help by keeping the conversation going and making sure we’re not just using tech for tech’s sake. Sometimes, the best lesson we can offer is when not to use it.

A Beautiful Visitor!

 Spring is coming!

The Long Road to Recovery

Today was one of those days. The kind that starts with high hopes and a decent cup of coffee, then slowly morphs into a never-ending loop of fluorescent lighting and standardized testing. Yes, friends, it’s New York State ELA assessment season, and I had the distinct pleasure of proctoring all day. Which, for those unfamiliar, is a bit like watching paint dry, but with more paperwork.

I had really been looking forward to seeing my friend Teri after school. She had a major stroke back in June, and ever since, she’s been completely paralyzed on her left side. Our visits usually involve chatting, reading, and maybe eating a chocolate or two that her sister sneaks in. But just as I was mentally packing up to head to the nursing home, I found out that the Tuesday Alternative Ed teacher couldn’t make it. Which meant yours truly was staying at school. Until after 5:30. Heavy, heavy sigh.

But I went straight to see Teri anyway. I was tired, hungry, and about one silly question away from losing my mind—but I needed that visit. 

She was still in her wheelchair (thankfully—they sometimes put her in bed way too early, which drives me nuts). She was happy to see me, and I was even happier to see her. She asked for some ice water, so I moved the table out of the way and happened to notice her left leg was hanging off the side of the wheelchair.

I asked if she was comfortable. She said not really. I pointed out that her leg was dangling—and then... she moved it.

Her left leg. The one that hasn’t moved since June.

It wasn’t huge, just a little adjustment—but I saw it. I know what I saw. And I almost cried.

She told me that at night, when she’s lying in bed, she tries to “march” with her good leg, and in her mind, she imagines moving both legs. Maybe—just maybe—her brain is rewiring itself. Maybe those mental reps are forging new neural pathways. I don’t know. I’m not a neurologist. But I do know that something beautiful happened today.

There are moments when progress is loud and obvious, and then there are moments like this—quiet, small, and life-affirming. Today, my friend moved her leg. And in that moment, hope felt real.

I’ll carry that feeling with me for a long time.

My Emotional Support Sport

There’s just something about baseball that soothes my soul.

Teaching is hard. Like, actually hard. Some days, everything that can go wrong does—kids acting like they were raised in barns, adults in matching bad moods, the copier jammed for the eleventh time this week (I know it's plotting against me), and the day feels like it’s stuck in some cruel time loop.

And when that kind of day ends? I go home. I pour myself a glass of wine. I kick off my shoes, prop my feet on the couch, and turn on MLB TV. 

And suddenly... everything is okay.

The Sox are on. The crowd is buzzing. The grass is perfectly contoured, the baselines are bright and crisp, and the camera pans across a field that somehow looks like peace in visual form. I find myself smiling. I remember how to breathe.

It’s almost meditative—my version of Zen. The world may be loud, messy, and completely off the rails, but here, in this moment, Crochet is throwing 95 mph fastballs and all is right with the world. School, with its infinite noise and unpredictable chaos, feels a million miles away.

Baseball doesn’t fix everything. But on nights like this, it sure comes close. 

I thank my friends Dave and Sue from the bottom of my heart for this gift. They have no idea how much my sanity depends on baseball! 

Or maybe they do. 

1st to Die by James Patterson — Murder, Mayhem, and Margaritas

Let me just start by saying—I get the hype. 1st to Die pulled me in from the first chapter and didn’t let go, even when I tried to go to sleep like a responsible adult. (Spoiler alert: I failed. Sleep is overrated when fictional murderers are on the loose.)

This is the first book in the Women’s Murder Club series, and now I see why everyone and their mystery-loving aunt has already devoured it. At the center is Lindsay Boxer, a homicide inspector who’s doing the absolute most—solving brutal murders, battling a terrifying disease, and somehow still managing to be both tough and totally relatable. I really liked her. She’s a woman working in a man’s world, but she doesn’t lose her femininity to do it. She’s smart, brave, and a little reckless in a way that feels very human—especially once we find out about her diagnosis. Honestly, it made sense that she started taking more risks. If you think you’re dying, you might as well go out on your own terms, right? (I mean, if I ever get terrible news, you’ll find me skydiving with a donut in each hand.)

Now, the concept of the Women’s Murder Club? Genius. Four women—each a powerhouse in her own field—solving crimes over dinner and drinks. Lindsay’s the cop, Cindy’s a journalist, Claire’s a medical examiner, and Jill’s a prosecutor. The girl power here is off the charts, but it never feels forced or gimmicky. Just sharp minds, solving twisted crimes, and still managing to have each other’s backs. I’d totally join their club, though I’d probably just be the one bringing snacks and going, “Wait, what did the autopsy say again?”

Speaking of twisted crimes—this killer was intense. I actually appreciated that Patterson introduced the killer’s perspective early on. It gave the story a balanced rhythm and made the suspense even more intense, like watching a train wreck in slow motion. You want to look away, but… no chance. Every time a couple was murdered, the rings went missing, and that detail added a weirdly poetic layer. Like the killer wasn’t just ending lives—he was trying to erase love itself. 

And then there was the romance. Lindsay and Chris Raleigh had the kind of slow-burn relationship that made me go aww even while flipping pages like a maniac to see who got murdered next. Of course, just when I started rooting for their future—bam. That ending. I won’t spoil it if you haven’t read it, but let’s just say, I was NOT okay. I audibly gasped. My cat looked at me like I needed help. Poor, poor Ernie.

Oh, and the actual killer? Didn’t see it coming. I had my suspicions, but Patterson played me. I guessed it was someone close to Nick Jenks, but his ex-wife? Plot twist! She seemed like she had it together, but apparently not. Some people really take “til death do us part” a bit too seriously. (Like, ma’am, there are easier ways to express heartbreak.) And how often do you get women serial killers, anyway? Yep. I got played.

Bottom line: I loved the friendship, I loved the plot, and I loved that this wasn’t just another murder mystery—it had heart. And brainpower. And margaritas.

I’m absolutely picking up the next book in the series, because now I need to know what happens next. Consider me officially hooked—and slightly suspicious of weddings.

Cheers to That!

So the other day I went to the Buffalo Wine Festival (see: delicious wine, dreamy bundt cakes, and one very necessary oil change beforehand).

At the entrance, they handed us a nice little booklet. And did I read it? Of course not. I was too busy sipping sangria samples and checking out “residual sugar content.”

But today? I actually flipped through it—and found this little gem:

Toast in 10 Languages.

Yes, apparently I was drinking internationally without even knowing it.

There’s something delightful about learning how to say "cheers" in languages from around the world. It makes me feel like I could raise a glass with strangers in almost a dozen countries and somehow still be understood. (Probably also helps that wine is a universal language.)

So now, I’m ready for any international wine situation life throws at me.

Spontaneous trip to Spain? ¡Salud!
Surprise wine tasting in Germany? Prost!
Random Icelandic vineyard moment? Skál!

Honestly, this might be the most educational part of the whole event—and I tried a mead made with root beer, so that’s saying something.

Next time, I’m reading the booklet first.

Probably. Well, maybe. 

Actually, probably not. 

Buffalo Wine Festival

Today was a busy day—but it ended deliciously.

The fun started bright and early at 8 a.m. with a car inspection. Nothing like coffee and emissions testing to kick off your Saturday. Shoutout to Mavis Discount Tires on Delaware Avenue—they got me in right away and had me out in 45 minutes, no fuss, no pressure, no “your air filter is a biohazard” pitch. I swear by them. Honest, fast, and they’ve never tried to sell me a cabin air filter for $79.99.

While I waited, I took a short stroll over to Bruegger’s Bagels for breakfast. Ham, egg, and cheese on a sesame bagel. No notes. Absolute perfection.

Next stop: Valvoline for an oil change and some long overdue windshield wipers. My car is five years old. The original wipers were still hanging on for dear life, and visibility during a drizzle had become more of a suggestion than a guarantee.

I made a quick pit stop at home, got started assembling the May Mensana (aka brain fuel for the people), then met up with Hope and Trisha for the main event: The Buffalo Wine Festival.

Let me just say—this place was massive. Over 50 wineries, breweries, and vendors. At the door, they handed us a wine glass, a tote bag, and a booklet... like we were about to embark on a sacred pilgrimage. And in a way—we were.

We started on the first floor. Next year, we’re heading straight to the second. Gotta outmaneuver the crowd. Strategy, people.

Highlights from the Sip Safari:

• Vieni Estates (Canadian Wine Ambassador): Their dry Pinot Grigio (6.4 g/L) was smooth, crisp, and practically begged to be paired with the tilapia currently living in my freezer.

• Skinny Wick Candle Co.: I picked up a “Summer Woods” candle that smells like a walk through a pine forest in late July. They also do wedding favors. Local, hand-poured, and delightful—support your small businesses!

• Nectar of the Vine: Warm sangria tasting? Yes please. They sell pouches of mix that can become a wine slushie or a crockpot cocktail. I grabbed one to pair with the Merlot in my kitchen. Winter's not over yet.

• Lakeland Winery: Peach Raspberry Sangria. Sweet but refreshing. The kind of drink you pour into a cold glass when the sun finally remembers Buffalo exists.

• Three Brothers Wineries: Their “Zero Degree of Riesling” had just 0.9 g/L of sugar. Easily the driest, smoothest Riesling I’ve ever had. Like, this-is-my-personality-now good.

• Nothing Bundt Cakes: Let’s talk dessert. Their White Chocolate Raspberry bundt cake is what the angels serve at brunch. I also grabbed snickerdoodle and carrot—tiny, single-serving sizes, which technically makes it portion control.

• 

• Thousand Island Wineries: Their St. Lawrence Red, a semi-dry delight, came home with me. I’m saving it for a steak night.

• Pellicano Vineyard: They had a range of sweet wines, but their Chianti Riserva—a bold, dry red—won me over. Spaghetti and meatballs, you’ve met your match.

• L&J Creations: I caved and bought a hand-painted butterfly stemless wine glass. Did I need it? No. Did it spark joy? Absolutely.

• 

• Springbrook Hollow Farm Distillery: Picked up some Adirondack maple syrup. Pancakes next weekend just got a promotion.

• Bee Spit Meadery: I’ve never liked mead—until today. Their “Drunken Barrel” mead is made with root beer (yes, really), and it’s dangerously smooth. Also, very high alcohol content. This is a "sip and stay put" beverage.

• Jill’s Gourmet Dips: They sell mix packets—you add your creamy base of choice. Their Buffalo Blue had just the right kick. 10/10 snack.

Despite the snacks throughout the day, by 3:30 I was hungry-hungry. So we wrapped it up with a trip to Amherst Buffet Chinese Restaurant. I definitely ate more than I should have, but hey—festival calories don’t count.

We finished the day at Jo-Ann Fabrics, which is sadly going out of business. I stocked up on yarn (25% off!) and jewelry fixings (40% off!). They’re restocking daily, and yes, I’m already planning my return.

All in all, a 10/10 Saturday. Good friends, great wine, surprising mead, and an alarming amount of bundt cake. What more could a gal ask for?

Hope and I - I'm actually taller than she is now!

Trisha and I 

She's bending her knees so her head doesn't cover the sign, and I'm standing on my 

toes to try to look taller. We have a lot of laughs!