If you don’t have inside jokes with your partner, are you even married?
There’s a term I use often in our house: Blowing Leaves. This is term I coined for Mr. KK, on a Thanksgiving morning about a decade ago (when I first wrote about this). It perfectly describes the different mentalities between moi and the hubs when it comes to “getting ready” for a holiday.
I saw this on social media today, and it inspired me to re-share this post, as it’s one of my favorites.
(remember this was 10 years ago. RIP Vito the Wonder Dog)
It was Thanksgiving morning, I had been up early, halving a million pounds of Brussels sprouts, slicing and baking Ina Garten’s Parmesan crackers, and assembling a veggie tray. There were still quite a few things to be done – not to mention me showering and drying my hair, which could take forever in itself – and with only two hours left, even if we didn’t stop to pee or drink something, we’d be cutting it close.
I was piling raw broccoli onto the glass platter when my husband walked by me dressed in windy pants, wool socks, a flannel coat and a winter hat. He was carrying gloves and headed towards the door to the garage.
“Where are you going?” I asked him. He was clearly dressed for the outdoors.
Was he running out to get something we forgot to buy?
Are the stores even open today?
“I’m going outside to blow leaves. The yard and patio are covered,” he replied, sensing nothing wrong with this answer, while we were T minus 2 hours until our guests arrived. “I should only be a half hour or so.” And with that, he was gone. Minutes later, I heard the blower start up and saw leaves swirling in a million directions as he made his way across the patio. Vito was on his feet immediately, barking at what he thought was a crazy stranger on our property. Because who else would be outside doing yard work on a holiday mere hours before 12 people were coming over?
Only a madman, obviously.
The definition of Blowing Leaves is this: starting a task that bears no relevance whatsoever on the situation at hand, and having said task take up WAY too much time and energy, both of which you do not have.
Maybe your husband’s ‘blowing leaves’ is just onemore quick video game before you’re due at a friend’s wedding. Or maybe it’s trying to fix that leaky pipe under the sink that he needs just 10 minutes for as you’re walking out the door to meet your parents for dinner. Or maybe, he’s scrolling Instagram while you’re multi-tasking like a bad ass.
No matter what the activity, every husband blows leaves.
And that’s why we love them.
May your week be easy, and the leaves stay on the trees.
Before I began writing this blog in 2018, I had two other blogs on a now-defunct hosting platform.
I started my first blog in 2007, while at work. My schedule as a writer was so unpredictable, I would sometimes find myself waiting on art directors to design, supervisors to approve, or clients to give feedback. During those lulls, I would write…about anything and everything. The first time I was ma’amed. The girl at the gym who blew dried her hair wearing only a parka. The time our channels were getting crossed and demonic dialog from X-rated shows would blare from our TV. You know, regular life stuff. I wrote that blog until 2013, about 600 posts in total.
For reasons I can’t remember now, I started a new blog in 2014. This was the year that Little Mister was born, so maybe I wanted to shed my childless leash on life writing for more mature subject matter? This blog had about 200 posts, which took me right up until I bought my domain on WordPress and started THIS blog.
The first blog was easy to find – I remembered the URL immediately. Oh, to scroll through my life as a thirty-something DINK (look it up if you need to!). The snark! The unlimited time on my hands every weekend. (You guys, there were weekends when I did nothing. Like, I woke up and thought, ‘What should I do today? nobody is counting on me, I have nowhere to be and nothing to do. today is all about ME’!)
The second blog was harder to find. I could not remember the URL to save my life. This could be because much of that blog was written when Little Mister was a baby and toddler and I was tired all the time with zero energy. Unlike now, where I’m tired most of the time and have 10% energy.
Lying in bed this morning – awake at 4:30am with my arm pins and needles because I was sleeping awkwardly around Bruno, who was sharing my pillow and snoring loudly – I had an epiphany on how to find my old blog. And while I will not reveal my secrets, I FOUDN IT. There it was, all the honesty of becoming a mom, raising a baby, going back to work, and losing a little of myself in the process. 200 more posts.
But what reading those posts did for me, was remind me that I am a pretty good writer. And that being laid off – which had nothing to do with my performance – HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH MY PERFORMANCE. My blogs are funny, honest, and vulnerable. They are, well, me.
What does this mean? Well, it means that I’m going to take a day and read through all 800 posts and just enjoy them. There are blogs about my grandparents, who have all passed away. Funny stories about our parents. Anecdotes of Little Mister pooping himself so badly as a baby that I had to cut off his onesie.
Then, I’m going to pick out the posts that fit the narrative of my future novel, and start putting them into a document. And shaping them into a story. And hopefully get one step closer to putting something meaningful together.
A little more than a decade ago, I begrudgingly accepted the fact that I no longer had the eyesight of a 25 year old. I bought my first pair of reading glasses.
And I’ll admit, they changed my life. First of all, I could SEE – my texts, the computer screen, even the food on my plate looked sharp and more appetizing. Second, I liked the way I looked with glasses, even furthering my resemblance to my celebrity doppelgänger Julia Louis-Dreyfus (in her Elaine Benes days).
The love affair started slowly. One pair at home, a pair to leave at work. Then, more. Tortoise shell. Teal with wooden arms. Oversized. Sunglasses! I was obsessed with finding stores that had a Peepers kiosk. Book stores. Whole Foods. I even found readers at a gift shop in the Charlotte airport. I was obsessed. They were the perfect accessory – they always fit, and they could match your outfits and your moods.
Even though the glasses were classified as “readers” I wore them all the time – cooking, watching TV, living life. It was just easier to leave them on my face. I climbed my way from a 1.25 magnification all the way up to a 2.75 over the course of a decade. My computer and phone screens were crystal clear, but the world around me was now fuzzy. In the car, the GPS was sharp, the road was soft. My readers spent half their time on my face and the other half on my head (inevitably falling off if I bent to far in any direction). So I schlepped to the eye doctor.
“Have I killed my eyes by wearing these all the time? Am I making myself blind?” I asked. Like, did I do this to myself, this dependency on glasses?
The doctor gave me that look doctors give you when you ask a ridiculous medical question, or tell them that you used Dr. Google for a diagnosis. “That is a myth. You cannot make your eyes worse by wearing glasses, just as you cannot make your child’s feet grow by buying them bigger shoes.”
Fair point.
I walked out with a prescription for progressive glasses, feeling 80 years old. However, I was determined to see life clearly again, so off to Warby Parker I went.
Two weeks later, these babies came in the mail:
The Esme. Photo: Warby Parker
I had heard horror stores about progressive lenses being hard to get used to, people literally missing steps and falling, and incredible headaches. The first few hours, I did have a headache. And then, it just went away. I surprised myself with how quickly I adjusted to the different lens strengths. After two days, I never wanted to take them off.
I. Could. See.
Things I didn’t realize I was doing in a fuzzy haze until I put these glasses one:
Chopping/slicing/mincing and everything else needed to prepare dinner. How I didn’t lose a finger is beyond me!
Driving. I knew it was a little fuzzy, but driving with these glasses honestly made me wonder how I was driving around before!
Watching TV. I used to take my readers off for TV because it was so far away. But apparently I needed just a lower strength to see the TV clearly because I was once again able to read text messages on people’s phones on the screen.
Everything else in life was just…clearer and better.
I feel very progressive in my progressives! And I have even convinced Mr. KK to also get progressive glasses because I don’t want to be 80 years old by myself in this house.
Earlier this year, in an effort to find a show we could watch as a family that was not animated, we started Modern Family from the the pilot episode. Mr. KK and I had watched MF religiously when it was on Prime Time, and I remember the sadness I felt watching the very last episode. The show was so good. Every character was perfectly cast. The dialog was smart and funny. It was the perfect antidote to a long day.
Needless to say, Modern Family was a BIG hit with Little Mister. Between Luke and Dylan – and even Phil – it was episode after episode of 11 year old humor. What I loved about the show for us was the exposure to the different family dynamics, the episodes showcasing that families aren’t perfect and people make mistakes, but at the end of the day, family is the most important thing. What I could have done without – and certainly didn’t remember – was the overt sexual references, Phil and Claire’s bedroom role playing, and one-lines of adult humor that was just in reach of an eleven-year-old brain.
Rewatching all of those episodes made me weepy for all my favorite sitcoms. The ones you can watch over and over, catch halfway through and stop on the channel, and quote incessantly. There was something special in those thirty minutes: establishing a conflict, insert humor and witty banter, and the conflict resolution – all wrapped up in the tidy span of 23 minutes with commercials.
And then, live TV died. And streaming services moved in. And things got all weird. I all of sudden had access to millions of shows – dramas, comedies, documentaries – and for some reason, I still could not find anything to watch. (I exaggerate, but I know you have all been there, scrolling through the little tiles on Netflix or Prime or HBO and nothing is tickling your fancy.)
We have, or course, found shows to watch. But after Little Mister goes to bed at night, and I finally collapse on the couch, I don’t have 60 minutes in me. I need 30 very interesting and engaging minutes or you’ve lost me. An hour-long episode – or, God forbid, a full-length movie – takes about 5-7 business days to watch in our house.
I need more Sitcoms – funny and relevant shows done is 20-something minutes.
I’m always all ears for show recommendations. Bonus points if they are 30 minutes. Triple points if they are on a streaming service I have (there’s probably only 1 or 2 we don’t have so this shouldn’t be a problem). And I’ll be your best friend if there are multiple seasons that we can really settle into.
Here are some of the recent shows I’ve watched and loved:
Nobody Wants This. Perfection. I’ve watched both season multiple times. I’m not even a big Kristen Bell fan, but in this, she’s loveable.
Platonic. We had a stalled start on this one, but the hopped back in this year and devoured both seasons.
Hacks. A comedy about writing comedy. Plus, Jean Smart.
Loot. Maya Rudolph is rich and detached from reality.
The Morning Show. It’s not 30 minutes but it’s Reese and Jen!
Shrinking. Equally sad and funny. Christa Miller as the neighbor is pure gold. And her hubs! So good.
The Man on the Inside. I love a little Ted Danson.
Sex Lives of College Girls. Oh, is this what college is like now? (Or was it always like this and I never noticed?)
Somebody Somewhere. Why do all the good shows get cancelled? The friendship in this show is heart warming.
With the state of the world what it is today, I need laughs. There was something so comforting about knowing your favorite shows were going to be on at night, the thought getting you through the day. The predictability of it, and the guarantee to laugh.
What did I miss in my list? What should be on my TBW list?
We bought our Little Mister a kid-friendly “smart” watch for his birthday, in an effort to help him become more aware of time (and the passage of time, and how 30 minutes on an iPad feels different than 30 minutes of folding laundry), and his daily activity level.
Last night, he asked to wear his watch to bed so he could “track his sleep”. When he emerged from his shower this morning, he popped his watch on the charger.
“So….” I said, eyeing him expectantly, “how did you sleep?”
He deftly hit a few buttons. “Eight hours and forty four minutes!”
Almost nine hours! Oh, to be a kid again. The last time I slept for that long was…probably never? But we have been training Little Mister to be a champion sleeper and apparently it has paid off.
Somewhere, under this pile of stuffed animals, is Little Mister and our dog Rocco and potentially our dog Bruno as well.
Way back when, as I was gently placing Little Mister into his crib on the last night of my maternity leave, I whispered into his ear, “You need to sleep through the entire night”, then I kissed his head and backed out of his room.
Guess what? He slept through the night from that day forward. I believe it was because I willed it to be true, because I could not even begin to think about waking up for work every day after having been up multiple times during the night.
Up until that point, Little Mister had already been a great sleeper. In his early days, newly home from the hospital, he would sleep in 5 hours stretches of time (which, ironically, sometimes now passes as a full night’s sleep for me).
It’s no wonder that he sometimes clocks 9, 10 or 12 hours of sleep (I have had to wake him up on more than one occasion on a weekend as the clock neared 11am!)
I was never a late sleeper, and Lord knows I’m a morning person and not a night owl. As a child, I would wake up on Saturday mornings WAY before the morning cartoons started, quietly playing in my room until my parents woke up. In high school, I never needed an alarm to wake up for school. In college, well, let’s just I would lie awake on my bottom bunk waiting to hear someone in our house stirring so I could pounce on them to start the day.
I know how important sleep is for my body. Because I can’t sleep late, I try and go to sleep earlier on the front end to get some quality hours in before midnight. Almost every morning, my eyes open close to 5am. (It was 4am a few weeks back when we changed the clocks because apparently I have the sleep patterns of a toddler). Every morning Mr. KK wakes up to see my face lit up by my phone or Kindle, eagerly waiting for someone to talk to.
At this point I’m so used to being away so early. I do some of my best online shopping before the sun comes up.
Since I wasn’t a late sleeprer, I needed to ensure that I was getting quality sleep over quantity. Mr. KK and I were waking up sore every morning. I was crooked when I first would stand up, hobbling to the bathroom until I could stand up straight. We knew it was our mattress.
So a few years ago, Mr. KK and I bought a Sleep Number bed. And it changed our lives. I can control the firmness of my side of the bed with my phone, AND it tracks my sleep for me. Now I wake up (pain free, I might add) and I can see how restless I was, when I was in deep sleep, and when I got out of bed. And while I’m not sleeping any later, I am sleeping better. We have a friendly competition going of who got the better sleep score the night before. We are both tied for best score ever of 95; but for me that was only after traveling 11 straight days for work, sleeping like shit in hotel rooms, and coming home while Mr. KK was traveling and having the bed all to myself (plus 2 dogs). That night I got quality AND quantity.
I am so incredibly jealous of how well my child sleeps. Not only can he sleep late, he can stay up late! On Friday nights we’ll all be on the couch watching TV and before I know it, I’m waking up and it’s 11:34pm and Little Mister is sitting there wide eyed, holding the remote, watching a show.
And now that he is older, he wants to go to bed later. Which is the opposite of me, who wants to go to bed the minute the dinner dishes are in the dishwasher. Especially because I have no problem falling asleep within 3 minutes of climbing into bed. There are nights where Mr. KK and I can’t wait to go to sleep, and we’re ready to hop in bed the minute Little Mister turns out his lights. Those are the nights that LM loses his mind, yelling, “I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED AT THE SAME TIME!”
To which I reply, “So go to bed earlier.”
When I heard Little Mister slept for almost nine hours, I’m not ashamed to admit that I was a little jealous. What does it feel like to sleep that long? Do you wake up feeling rested? Does your back hurt because you’ve been lying down for so long? I have so many questions.
I average about 6 hours of “good” sleep a night. The other hour I’m in bed is me tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable around the two dogs who are bed hogs, and thinking. Making my mental lists of what appointments need to be made, what we need at the store, what time the holiday concert is, whether or not I need to adjust Little Mister’s dismissal plan. Not to mention what’s for dinner, what’s going into lunches and when was the last time that the little dog Lucy pooped.
All this to say: I’m incredibly jealous of Little Mister’s carefree life that enables him to sleep late. And that it’s barely 9pm right now and I can’t keep my eyes open!
In honor of Veterans’ Day, I thought I’d share the story of my dad in the army.
Until the day she moved out of her apartment, my grandmother kept an 8″x10″ black and white photo of my dad in his army uniform on her armoire. In it, he look at 14 years old, crew cut, clean shaven, hat and deer-in-headlights look on his face. She was so proud of him for serving in the army, you would have thought he won the war.
The other day, Little Mister was surprised to find out that my dad – his grandfather – was a veteran.
“What did Grandpa do in the army?” he asked me.
And with a straight face I let him in on the long-running joke I have with my dad: “He was a secretary.”
True story.
And I have been joking with him about it for as long as I can remember. Mr. KK’s dad was stationed on a submarine, working as an electrician on a boat, while my dad sat behind a desk and answered phones.
Apparently, sometime between when he arrived at boot camp and was trying to avoid getting the shots necessary to actually be in the army, someone found out that my dad could type.
I imagine it went something like this:
My dad – in line for some ebola or rabies vaccine at the army base – joking with his buddies. A Captain or a General is walking up and down the lines of newbies, picking out the ones who weren’t going to make it and the ones who would rise in the ranks. Maybe one of them muttered, “Man, I wish we had someone who could take notes really neatly.”
Upon hearing this, my dad’s ears perk up and his arm shoots into the air. “Sir, I can type 80 words a minute, Sir!”
Upon hearing this, the Grand Puba plucks my dad out of line. “Boy, can you type without mistakes? Can I count on you to take notes and memos?”
And just like that, my dad avoided combat and got himself a desk job. Pretty smart if you ask me. It’s like getting the best job at the worst place to work; it’s not great to be there, but you could be getting shot at.
At family gatherings, I will tease my dad, mimicking him typing on typewriter, and tapping the point of a pen to his tongue to start writing a memo. I’ll yell out, “You! Take an emergency memo! The troops are moving in! STOP. We must prepare. STOP.” and then we all laugh and laugh.
But jokes aside, I’m proud that both my dad is a veteran. Even if his greatest weapon was Wite Out.
Staying true to the tagline on this blog of “You can’t make this sh*t up”, get a load of this story.
A few Fridays ago, my dad had routine kidney stone surgery. This is when they give you propofol (aka: the good stuff) and put you to sleep and then go in with a laser and blast the kidney stones to smithereens. (I can’t tell you how excited I am to have used the word ‘smithereens’ on my blog!)
My dad has had this surgery before, it’s in and out of the hospital on the same day, then go home and rest and don’t lift anything heavy for a week. And this is exactly what we did. However, the weekend following the surgery, my dad developed a fever and the chills and was lethargic, and on Monday the morning the nurse told him, “Go to the Emergency Room!” And so Uber KK went and picked up Mom and Dad, and drove back to the hospital, this time to the ER. Blessedly, there was no one there and he was taken back immediately.
My dad was in his street clothes on a gurney, parked in the hallway due to no open curtained rooms. It’s possible my dad was one of the only sober person being treated. The guy behind him was hacking up a lung and throwing up on his gurney. A woman was screaming for hematology and ripping all the gloves out of the boxes that hung on the wall and throwing them all over the floor. Someone else kept a steady tempo of yelling “Nurse!” for a solid hour. During all of this they poked and prodded my dad, taking urine and blood and his temperature until finally they admitted him with an infection. (No medical training over here, but hearing his symptoms when I picked him up that morning, I diagnosed him with the same thing).
When they wheeled my dad into the room, there was already someone else there in the bed by the window. He was about thirty or so, walking with a limp and cane. His music was blaring and he was singing loudly. If he walked by us once, he walked by us a thousand times – grabbing pudding out of the floor fridge, handing out at the nurses’ station, visiting other patients on the floor.
“This guy is like the mayor,” my dad commented as our roommate hobbled by.
The next morning Uber KK picked up mom and then we headed down for another full day of bedside sitting at the hospital. I was reliving my childhood sick day dreams: glued to the TV watching Let’s Make a Deal and The Price is Right (RIP Bob), plus more hours of news in one morning and afternoon than I have consumed in the last 20 years.
A nurse came to check on our roommate, and – with those flimsy curtains doing nothing to block sound – I heard her ask: “Did you break your parole?”
Say what?!?!
Not long after this exchange, three hulking men in street clothes with multiple guns strapped to their legs and waists came into our little hospital room.
“Excuse us, ma’am,” one of them said to me. “We’re just going to move that gentleman to another room.”
It was like we were in a COPS episode. At once both of my parents started talking.
“SHHHHHHHH!” I commanded, waving at them to be quiet, my eyes bulging at them. “I can’t hear!” I whispered.
The cops moved the curtain aside and smiled at the roommate. “I’m going to have to take your phone,” the first one said.
A second officer glided in, ordered the roommate to lay down, and handcuffed him to the bed.
This was really happening!
With little fanfare, besides multiple men with giant guns and the arrival of a uniformed police officer, they starting wheeling our roommate out of the room. I didn’t know where to look! Do I pretend to be into the muted episode of Judge Judy? Do I bury my face in my phone? Do I look him dead in the eye…no definitely not that one!
“I need to finish my antibiotics,” he said to one of the officers. “Oh you will,” the cop replied. “And when you’re done, you can go back to jail.”
When my dad’s nurse came in to check on him, she peeked on the other side of the curtain to see if he was gone.
“See all this entertainment I provided for you?” she joked, taking my dad’s temperature.
I asked the obvious question: “He has been walking around this floor for two days, why did they now handcuff him to the bed?”
The nurse said matter-of-factly: “Oh, that’s because they just found out where he was.”
Oh.
“They came in here to arrest him. That’s what they just did. Now he’s in a private room on the other side of the floor.” She finished up with my dad. “They’ll be in soon to clean, someone else is moving in here.”
I looked at my dad. “We have to get you out of here,” I said. And then the news came on. Again.
When it first happened, those four words – I was laid off – were hard to think, let alone write or speak. How could I be laid off? I am a great employee, hard worker, and hell – I was even recruited for the role I was in. But, it happened anyway. My client just didn’t have the money to support keeping me on their business. So I was let go. Ugh, and that term “let go”, like I’m a kite or a piece of rope.
Part of my exit plan was to bestow all of my knowledge of the client and the business onto the remaining team members, as well as the senior team member who was going to take over my role. I showed up every day, gave them my best, and even traveled to manage a TV shoot for four days. Two weeks later, I mailed my laptop back.
In the days that followed my last day of work, I experienced all of the stages of unemployment: shock, anger, fear, grief, and then…a quiet acceptance. I would find a job, the right job, and I would fill my time in other ways. After all, I couldn’t just do nothing. I have always had a job, since I was 15 years old. I don’t know what it feels like to not have a job.
Here, in 2025, it’s easier to find Bigfoot than it is to find a job. Resumes being read by computers. Ghost posts of jobs that don’t even exist. Your application going into a black hole, your hopes and dreams along with it.
This is the actual applicant count for a job to which I applied.
The job market is so broken. 7,000 applicants? Sure, some of them are bots. Others are not qualified. But I have to think at least a few thousand of those 7700 have the chops to do the job. My LinkedIn feed is filled with hundreds of connections all looking for work right now. It’s scary. We’re all of a certain age, experience level, and salary. We’re all vying for the same roles. It’s bananas.
I can honestly say, I’ve been tremendously busy each day in the last month.
Of course I’m spending time networking and job searching for roles that I truly can see myself in. After two days of panic applying to every job in sight, I’ve calmed down. I don’t just want to “work anywhere”. I’m looking to work for a company or brand, not a creative agency again. Titles like “Creative Director, Copy” and “Senior Writer, Brand” excite me. I love to write, and I’m good at it.
I’m also taking care of things that I could never find time for. Organizing. Appointments. Crafting (more on this in another post!). I end each day with a sense of accomplishment; checking items of a to do list or making time for myself.
Lastly, I’m freelancing until the right permanent role comes along. It’s giving me the flexibility I need right now while life is…life-ing.
When I shared the news of my layoff on LinkedIn, I was humbled by how many people from my past life and jobs reached out to me. Some I knew well, others I had managed, and a few were coworkers who were at the same company at the same time, yet we didn’t even work together. But their messages were all alike: “I’m sorry” and “they are crazy to let you go!” and “let me know how I can help”. These messages boosted me up and reminded me that I know a lot of really amazing people.
At the same time, I was disheartened by people I DIDN’T hear from. The ones who I thought for sure would say something (even just a ‘it’s been great working with you! good luck!’ before I was shut off from Teams). In certain situations, people will surprise you. And not always in a good way.
It takes a village to land a job in 2025, and I’m truly grateful to those willing to make a connection, pass on a resume, send a referral link. I certainly didn’t have “Get Laid Off” on my 2025 BINGO card. But I’m ready to play a new game.
We’ve all been there: you’re mindlessly scrolling on Instagram and your finger slips, accidentally clicking on a sponsored post of a dog dressed up as a newscaster, and all of a sudden your entire feed is filled with talking dogs. Or kids who swear. Or the clogs that will haunt you until you buy them. Or whatever plagues your feed.
For me, it was a ring. A gold ring that looked like an octopus. Except I didn’t click on it by accident, I clicked on it purposefully.
I’m not a big jewelry wearer. I have a ‘kk’ necklace that I’ll wear. And my wedding rings. But that’s about it. No earrings. Nothing extra.
But there was something about this ring. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then – because I clicked (or thought about it?) – it was everywhere in my socialsphere.
image from atolea.com
I showed it to Mr. KK one day casually. Like, ‘you know me, I’m not a jewelry girl, but this ring is pretty cool’. And then life went on, as it does.
In August, Mr. KK and I celebrated our 20-year wedding anniversary. I’m using the term “celebrated” loosely, because while the three of us had a nice dinner out on the actual day, we didn’t really do it up big. In the past, we likely would have gone away somewhere. But, because 2025 was such a bitch, our anniversary came and went quietly.
A few days after our anniversary, Mr. KK handed me a box. And inside was the octopus ring! (Mr. KK is always paying attention and listening! Even after 20 years!)
I love the ring! And not only is it a cool design, what it represents is so meaningful to me. My friend ChatGPT had this to say:
The significance of the octopus lies in its remarkable intelligence, adaptability, and regenerative abilities, which symbolize a range of concepts including versatility, creativity, resilience, and transformation….in contemporary culture, they represent problem-solving and innovation.
But that’s not all!
Octopus Symbolic Meaning
Intelligence and Creativity:
As one of the most intelligent invertebrates, the octopus represents problem-solving, creative thinking, and innovation.
Adaptability and Versatility:
Its ability to change its color, shape, and texture, along with its fluid movement, makes it a symbol of adaptability and the capacity to navigate complex situations.
Resilience and Regeneration:
The octopus’s power to regrow lost limbs symbolizes renewal, healing, growth, and the ability to overcome adversity.
Multitasking:
The eight limbs of the octopus are often seen as a representation of the human ability to juggle multiple tasks and responsibilities.
This is me! Maybe I loved this ring subconsciously because of what it represents.
Life of kk 