Why Hide the Eyes?

January 6, 2026January 4, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

The Photos Mom Warned You About, Part II

Recently on Menopause & Malarkey … (click the cowboy)

Quite possibly a contender in the Peekaboo Olympics.

When crafting my last post, “The Photos Mom Warned You About,” I considered adding the following PSA on profile pics that purposely hide the peepers. Instead, jump right into this mini post! Enjoy!

👀 Why the Sunglasses / Hat Brim / Shadow Combo?

1. Eye contact requires accountability.
Eyes show:

sincerity
warmth
emotional availability

Hiding them says, “Please admire the accessories and ignore the soul.”

2. It’s a control move.
Covering the eyes creates mystery without earning it.
It’s the visual equivalent of:

“Trust me.”
… with no supporting documentation.

3. It’s insecurity dressed as swagger.
The logic seems to be:

“If you can’t see my eyes, you can’t judge me.”

Sir. It’s not sexy. It’s sus.

4. Dating apps are not witness protection.
You are not hiding from:

the cartel
the paparazzi
your past life as Jason Bourne

You are trying to meet one woman named Karen or Lisa who just wants coffee.

5. The trifecta effect 🚩🚩🚩
When hidden eyes appear alongside:

The Fish
The Flex
The Fedora

It’s not mystery anymore.
It’s avoidance.

Fishing for compliments

🧠 M&M Rule of Thumb:

If I can’t see your eyes,
I assume you’re hiding either:

your age
your intentions
or a personality that only functions after three beers

Final verdict:

Eyes matter.
They’re not optional.
And no amount of reflective lenses will make up for the absence of self-awareness.

The Photos Mom Warned You About 🚩

January 5, 2026January 4, 2026 Heather KightLeave a comment

A Menopause & Malarkey Field Guide

The Photos Mom Warned You About
🚩 Dating App Edition
Menopause & Malarkey

Whilst perusing through Match profiles, I landed on one that caught my eye.
Not because he was, as my daughter says, “not ugly.”
Not because his bio was charming. (It consisted of one sentence. That’s it.)
Not because my heart skipped a beat.

It was because if you looked up “The most overused profile pictures men use on the dating apps” in M&M’s Guidebook to Swiping Left — this gentleman would be the poster boy.

The Fish 🐟

All I can think is, “Teach a man to fish.”
I have no clue as to how that relates to dating.

The fish is not the problem.
The grip, the pose, and the “this defines me” energy are.

If your personality requires gills, we are not compatible.

The Flex 💪

Yes, we see your biceps.
No, we do not see your eyes.

Mirror.
Tank top.
Lighting from the underworld.

Sir, I did not ask to attend your workout performance review.

The Fedora 🎩

Was it too bright outside? Did you forget your sunglasses? Have pinkeye?

Ah yes.
The fedora.

Often paired with:
• a bathroom
• a vest
• confidence disproportionate to reality

This hat has seen things. None of them were good decisions.

The Combo Meal Nobody Ordered ☠️

The unholy trifecta … bless his heart.

When The Fish, The Flex, and The Fedora appear in the same profile…

That’s not coincidence.
That’s a warning label.

The Real Issue

This isn’t about looks.
It’s about self-awareness.

If every photo screams “Please be impressed,”
I already know I’ll be tired.

M&M Rule

If you wouldn’t send the photo to your daughter,
your sister,
or your mother…

Maybe don’t make it your dating profile.

In Conclusion …

Dating apps are not a costume party.
You do not need props.

Just clarity.
Effort.
And at least one photo in which I can see your eyes.

— Menopause & Malarkey

Dating After Dignity · Menopause & Mischief · The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

Discernment with a Side of Fatigue

January 3, 2026January 3, 2026 Heather Kight2 Comments

According to Match.com, January 4th is supposed to be their busiest day of the year.

I took the bait and decided to peruse. And peruse. And … sigh. You get the picture.

After receiving a “like” from a spot-on candidate for Red Flag Friday, I cranked up the computer, fully prepared to whip up the latest witty exposé. Then suddenly, I was tired.

Tired of scrolling.
Tired of swiping.
Tired of what feels like a big joke.
Just … tired.

There are times (like tonight) when I swear there are zero acceptable matches anywhere on the internet. Posts and profiles that deserve nothing more than an eye roll somehow pick and pull at my self-esteem. Guys who wear tank tops in bathroom selfies and definitely failed Grammar & Punctuation 101 send me messages and “likes.” But it’s not about those who are attracted to me.

It’s about those who aren’t.

In Metro-Atlanta, there are 6.09 million people. I have no clue how many of those people are online looking for a genuine connection leading to a serious relationship. Seems like the odds should be pretty good.

So why am I being directed to the equivalent of the $5 movie bin at Walmart?

My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle from 1993. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in their rom-com glory. One quote in particular — the one I’d like to believe — is this:

Image of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle, displaying a quote from the film. Source: www.magicalquote.com. — *Source:* *http://www.magicalquote.com*

However, given the virtual rocky road that continuously leads to exhibits for Red Flag Friday, I’m more prone to believe …

Cartoon of two middle-aged women at a café, one with coffee and one with wine, exchanging confused looks and shrugging as question marks appear above their heads. A phone and dessert sit on the table, suggesting a baffling conversation.

“It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!”

That statistic is not true.

That’s right, it’s not true. It only feels true.

— Sleepless in Seattle

Ladies and gents, maybe you’re in the same boat where the rule of metaphorical fishing is catch and release.
Maybe you run headfirst into a wall decorated with red flags, scammers, and a whole lotta “bless his heart.”
And perhaps — like me — you quietly ask, “What’s wrong with me?”

Listen to me …
Close the app.
Take a deep breath.
Exhale slowly.

If you take away one thing from today’s post, let it be this:

There are zero acceptable matches online today.
Which is not the same thing as ever.

The truth is, the internet is crowded with auditions, not partners.
Many profiles read like they were assembled by raccoons with Wi-Fi.
And the cocktail of chemistry, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and punctuation is… tragically small.
You’re not failing at dating.
You’re outgrowing the nonsense.

I, for one, refuse to settle for nonsense, just okay, or “well … maybe.”
Nor should you.

It’s beyond brave to open our hearts to love after loss.
That courage deserves to be met with honor and respect.
YOU deserve nothing less.

I’ll keep wading through the shallow end of the dating pool — rolling eyes, blessing hearts, and trying not to take those quirky algorithms too seriously or too personally. In spite of the occasional pity party, I am truly grateful that God says, “Not today, Satan” and keeps me from anyone unworthy of all the sass and sweetness that is unapologetically me.

The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

For the Love of Writing

December 31, 2025December 31, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Looking back on 2025, the woman in the mirror isn’t the one who left 2024 behind. Not that there was anything wrong with her: on the contrary, she was a fighter, a survivor managing life one day at a time after loss.

Loss of her mother in 2018
Loss of her husband in 2023
Loss of her father in 2024

With each loss, she said farewell to another piece of her heart. But like many who have gone before, she had no choice but to keep moving forward. Keep working. Keep living. Keep … breathing. There were good days and not-so-good days, and she conquered them all. It wasn’t always pretty and definitely wasn’t easy, but she did it.

Enter 2025: a new year and new adventures. She took an Alaskan cruise for her 55th birthday. She walked more. She laughed more. And much to her delight, she reconnected with an old passion — writing.

It was quite by accident, but oh, the fire was still there, inside and waiting like embers that never quite burned out. A “what if” sparked a deeper processing of grief through storytelling and fantasy, giving permission to feel again.

Like a plot twist we didn’t see coming, she wrapped herself in words and wonder of her own creation. Her heart awoke and her soul burst forth, allowing confusion, pain, heartache, and longing to flow out of her fingertips like tears from her eyes. But not just the hurt! She found hope, confidence, and laughter — so much laughter. Love was waiting in the wings, a soft whisper of, “hey, I’m still here.” She permitted that whisper to be heard.
To explore.
To resonate.

She learned that the capacity to love doesn’t fly away when a spouse exhales in this world and takes his first breath in Heaven. No. When one has loved — has received loved — deeply, greatly, and completely, then she has much more to give.
And that’s not forgetting; it’s forgiving.
That’s not dishonoring; it’s discovering.
That’s not ignoring the past; it’s inviting the future.

As she penned (okay, typed) stories and scenarios, a root began to show its face: guilt in the form of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Our heroine kicked at that root, questioning its motives and exploring its existence. A tug here. A pull there. One final yank exposing the lie that many widows — that this widow — had accepted as gospel:
“It’s wrong to want love again.”

That, my friends, is hogwash.

Having loved like crazy creates a thing of beauty — the capacity to love even more.

Having been loved like crazy creates a spark that says, “I’m alive and I’m allowed.”

Who knew releasing the artist within would release the woman inside?

I, for one, am happy to meet her, take her hand, and boldly march into 2026 smiling, writing, living, and thriving.

Softly lit writer’s desk in front of a glowing fireplace, with warm amber and blue flames reflecting off glass stones. A blank notebook and pen rest on the wooden surface, creating a cozy, introspective atmosphere that suggests creativity, reflection, and emotional warmth. — My muse feels like home.

Happy New Year from Menopause & Malarkey! Let’s jump in together, shall we?

Dating After Dignity · Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

🚩 Red Flag Friday: The Department of “Government”

December 26, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Welcome back to Menopause & Malarkey, where it’s Friday night, dinner’s been eaten and dogs are sleepin’, and once again… the internet has audacity.

Tonight’s specimen arrived wrapped in good looks, thoughtful prompts, and the emotional vocabulary of someone who clearly owns at least one throw pillow.

He laughs at inside jokes.
Believes in loyalty.
Loves deeply.
Builds real connections.
Even listed The Grapes of Wrath as a favorite book.
I paused. I considered. I adjusted my glasses.

Then I saw his employment.

Government.

Just… Government.
Not city, not state, not federal.

Not “I work for the county and complain about meetings.”
Just Government—like a manila folder with secrets inside.

🚩 Flag raised.

But wait—there’s more.

Within moments, I received a message that read (and I paraphrase only slightly):

“Hello Heather, I would love to get to know you better and maybe become friends or more. Please contact me immediately via Gmail or WhatsApp.”

Ah yes.
Ye olde eHarmony-to-WhatsApp migration.
A classic move straight out of the Scammer Starter Kit.

Side-by-side illustration of an online dating red flag. One side shows a charming, well-dressed man reading The Grapes of Wrath with a glass of wine by a cozy fireplace. The other side reveals the same man as a hoodie-wearing scammer juggling a phone, laptop, and cash. Caption contrasts “What he wants you to think” versus “But in reality.” — *Red Flag Friday reminder: nice photos don’t equal nice intentions.*

Let’s review the Red Flags, shall we?
🚩 Employment listed as “Government”
🚩 Immediate request to move off the platform
🚩 Email + WhatsApp combo platter
🚩 Phone number typed like a Sudoku puzzle
🚩 Not a single reference to my actual profile
🚩 Polite, generic, emotionally fluent… and entirely hollow

This, my friends, is why the phrase, “Not today, Satan” was invented.

Handsome? Yes.
Convincing? Almost.
Genuine? Absolutely not.

Here’s the thing:
We are not cynical—we are experienced.
We are not bitter—we are efficient.
And we are no longer entertaining men whose profiles read like romance novels but whose intentions collapse under basic scrutiny.

So tonight’s Red Flag Friday reminder is this:
✨ If his employment could not be verified by Google, LinkedIn, or common sense…
✨ If he wants to flee the app faster than a bra at the end of the day 🏆
✨ If his message could have been sent to 47 other women named Heather
—then bless him, block him, and move on.

Graphic with white text on a charcoal background reading, “Bless him, block him, and move on.” Menopause & Malarkey watermark in the corner.

Because we are not lonely.
We are discerning.
And our BS detectors are fully operational.

Happy Red Flag Friday, ladies and gents. See you next week—same sass, fewer scams. 😏🚩

Menopause & Mischief · The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

Christmas Eve Chaos

December 25, 2025 Heather Kight2 Comments

Twas the night before Christmas, and with festive smiles,
We drove to the mountains – all 100 miles.
My gas tank was full. The dogs had been fed.
“Join us in Blue Ridge,” my daughter had said.

“We rented a cabin — twill be so much fun!”
Four dogs, three kids, and room for each one.
So, trunk packed with presents and GPS ready,
The dogs and I traveled along sure and steady.

We got to the cabin — what a delight!
Why not expect everything to be right?
My daughter looked frazzled searching her phone.
“We need the door code,” she let out a moan.

Her husband called VRBO begging for help.
The dogs were barking, and one let a yelp.
The children — all hungry — started to whine.
My bladder was screaming, “No, it’s not fine!”

Cartoon-style illustration of a woman locked out of a cabin on Christmas Eve, staring at her phone while her two small dogs, Phoebe and Maggie, stand beside her in the snow near luggage and wrapped gifts. — Christmas Eve plans: cabin in the mountains.
Reality: locked out, dogs judging me, 220 miles later… back home.
Still counts as an adventure, right? 🎄🤷🏼‍♀️

The afternoon sunshine started to fade
Into the dark, like the plans we had made.
After an hour that seemed more like two,
“Sadly, there is nothing more we can do.”

The grandkids were angry, and so was I.
My daughter, defeated, wanted to cry.
My son-in-law? Bless the heart of this spouse.
He laughed and said, “How about Waffle House?”

By this time the dogs had marked every tree.
No longer caring, I squatted to pee
Behind a trash can, safely out of view.
Security cameras? Just one or two.

We had to decide — it was getting late.
No decent options provided by fate.
We all hugged good-bye and got in our cars.
We drove back to Georgia beneath the stars.

One hundred miles, and then I was home,
Travel completed and nowhere to roam.
Christmas lasagna was not meant to be.
Instead, a sandwich — dogs staring at me.

Photo of two small dogs, Maggie and Phoebe, sitting close together and looking up attentively at their owner, their faces expectant and expressive. — *“Please, Mum, might we have some more?”*

Tucked in my bed, I was sleepy and warm,
With Maggie and Phoebe — back to our norm.
My eyelids grew heavy, but not my soul:
There are things in life I cannot control.

I fell asleep with no pain or sorrow.
Christmas morning will be here tomorrow:
Not in a cabin surrounded by trees,
I don’t need fancy; my heart is at ease.

We’ll gather together, the kids and me,
And open the presents under the tree.
We’ll eat Christmas turkey and drink eggnog,
And later enjoy that post-dinner fog.

Laughter will ring through the air like a bell.
Past Christmas stories will make my heart swell.
With love in my heart and kids in my arms,
Holiday magic will sprinkle its charms.

When the day’s over, I’ll slip into bed,
Dogs by my side, pillow under my head.
Stars in the sky will show up and twinkle.
I’m glad I can stay indoors to tinkle. 😁🙃🙈🎄🎁

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM MENOPAUSE & MALARKEY!

Cartoon-style illustration of a woman wearing a Christmas sweater, smiling while holding her two small dogs, Maggie and Phoebe, in a cozy holiday living room with a decorated Christmas tree and fireplace. — *And from Heather, Maggie, and Phoebe, too!*

The Front Porch Swing · The Soft Side of Sass

Things I Miss

December 21, 2025December 21, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Christmas and nostalgia often go hand in hand. Sometimes that old, familiar longing settles a little too heavily in my chest, causing my heart to ache and my eyes to sting. Memories seem to have their own pulse — one that keeps beating in my ears, again and again.

I planned to make a list of what I miss about Christmas. I rummaged through old photos and found several gems — ghosts of Christmas past. But instead of making a list (and checking it twice), I chose something different.

Here are a few moments, captured on film and held in my heart. ❤️

Vintage 1970s Christmas photo of a father with long hair holding three young children near a Christmas tree in a family living room. — *When Dad had 70s hair. Before elf on the shelf, there were four on the floor.*

Vintage 1970s Christmas photo of five siblings sitting barefoot on a shag carpet in front of a fireplace decorated with stockings, wearing cozy pajamas and looking tired, excited, and perfectly imperfect. — *When Dad had 70s hair. Before elf on the shelf, there were four on the floor.*

Family gathered together indoors for a holiday photo, smiling and close, taken during Steve’s final Christmas in 2022 before his passing. — *Our last Christmas with Steve. We celebrated later than planned. I’m grateful we did.*

Nostalgia braided with sadness isn’t weakness. It’s love with nowhere to land right now.

Who are you missing this Christmas? 💖💚❤️

Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

Red Flag Friday Presents: A License to Chill

December 19, 2025December 18, 2025 Heather KightLeave a comment

Mind Your Business, Mr. Bond

Every now and then, the apps present a man who seems less like a potential date and more like an audition tape.

Ladies, meet:
“The Man Who Wants You to Say ‘Hi’ — and Nothing Else.”

🎩 The Photos

We’re treated to a three-act visual experience:

Formal suit, pocket square, intense stare
– James Bond energy
– But like… the villain who gets caught monologuing
Tuxedo at night, harsh lighting
– Not “date night”
– Very much “last known photo before the plot twist”
Car selfie with eyes that say “You noticed me.”
– Sir. I did not ask to be noticed this way.

A dramatic black-and-white, film noir–style portrait of a middle-aged man in a tuxedo, staring intensely into the camera under low lighting. The image evokes classic crime drama and mystery, with a moody, ominous tone. — *If your profile makes me wonder whether my body would be discovered by hikers or fishermen… that’s a no.*

The Bio (Where Things Take a Turn)

Let’s highlight a few selections from the Gentleman’s Handbook of Red Flags:

“My love language is quality time and physical touch.”
Translation: If you’ve got the time, I’ve got the touch.

“I give awesome hugs and am a great kisser 💋”
I expected to see, “References provided upon request.”

“Let’s not learn everything about one another right now.”
Based on what I’ve read thus far, you’d rather take your lip balm for a test run.

“If you’re just looking for a chat buddy, I’m not the one.”
Oh, honey, you’re not “the one” for so many reasons.

🧳 Occupation:

Professional at: Mind Your Business

In the immortal words of renowned philosopher Charles Brown: “Good grief.”

Final Verdict

This is not James Bond.
This is not the hero.
This is the guy Bond throws off a balcony in Monaco while adjusting his cufflinks.

Carry on, Moneypenny. 🍸

Dating After Dignity · Menopause & Mischief

Tired Tuesday: The Geographically Challenged

December 9, 2025December 9, 2025 Heather Kight1 Comment

Some nights, the date-iverse is too much to handle.

Scratch that.

MOST nights of seeking a genuine connection via dating apps in 2025 are uninspired.

I have reached the point where I don’t visit the Kmart clearance rack of poor punctuation and shirtless shenanigans unless I receive a notification. (Hmm, wonder if I can assign an ominous tone to it 🤔) But, I digress.

In four days, my subscription to Chapter 2 (a site specifically for widows and widowers) will expire. I shan’t be renewing. Not that I have anything against the site; I’m just, well, tired.

Four days until the finish line.

Still plenty of time for interested suitors to come a-callin’.

So when a message popped up, I took a gander at his profile.

Scott.
Nice-looking Scott.
Normal-message Scott.
Potentially trustworthy Scott.
But… Utah Scott.

For the love of GPS.

When you’re the emotional support airplane for a woman who keeps getting matched with men 1,600 miles away.

My reply was polite.

“Thank you, but 1,600 miles isn’t conducive to building a relationship.”

His response, also cordial, carried the aroma of snowflakes, cocoa, and Hallmark. ❄️☕️💕

“If two hearts connect, no distance is too far.”

Sir. I am 55 years old. Driving down the street to Kroger is too far. 🚗🤷🏼‍♀️

As humorous as “Men without Maps” can be, the truth is —

It makes me sad. I find myself sitting here contemplating if a long distance friendship could be possible. But then I ask, what if he’s another scammer with a decent grasp of grammar?

That right there — that exact emotional seesaw — is the honest human cost of dating in 2025.

It’s not just frustration.
It’s not just annoyance.
It’s not even the exhaustion of dodging Keith Sweat disciples, and men whose job title is “Boss at Self-Employed.”

It’s the sadness beneath the snark.
That little ache of:

“What if he’s real?”
versus
“What if he’s not?”

Ladies, if you’re rowing in this boat too, listen up:

You’re not soft for thinking it.
You’re not foolish.
You’re not naïve.
You’re human.
You’ve lost real love.
You’ve lived real life.
You know what connection feels like — and how rare it is.

So when someone shows up sounding…
normal,
kind,
respectful,
gentle,
and not shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror …
your heart can’t help but tilt its head a little.

Because part of you wants to believe a good man might still exist — even if he’s 1,600 miles away, even if he’s just a pleasant blip in the algorithmic chaos.

But then?

The reality of dating in 2025 barges in wearing a name tag, shouting:

“SCAMMER! FLUNKED GEOGRAPHY & CARTOGRAPHY! TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!”

And you’re left in limbo between hope and heartbreak, without ever having met the man.

It’s the quiet sadness of:

“I don’t want to be played. ”

“I don’t want to be disappointed.”

“I don’t want to waste emotional energy.”

“I don’t want to be fooled.”

“But… what if he was just nice?”

It’s the emotional equivalent of standing at the window watching birds —
one might be beautiful,
but at any moment it could squawk, steal your fries, and fly away.

Still…
there’s something tender in you wanting to believe in friendship.
That’s not weakness.
That’s wisdom wearing softness.
That’s a heart with miles on it — but still open enough to feel.

Dating After Dignity · Menopause & Mischief · Red Flags & Walking Punchlines

🚩Red Flag Friday: The Keith Sweat-ing Glamour Cowboy Edition🤠

December 5, 2025December 5, 2025 Heather Kight2 Comments

Brought to you by Menopause & Malarkey — where the flags are many and the patience is limited.

Ladies… I present to you a man who is:

“Boss at Self-Employed”
(Translation: The boss, the employee, the HR department, and also currently on an unpaid lunch break… indefinitely.)

80 miles away but behaving like we’re all just out here ready to road-trip for romance like it’s 1995.

And — be still my heart — his entire music section is Keith Sweat.
Not a sprinkle.
Not a vibe.
Not a nostalgic “one song on a playlist.”
No, ma’am.
Keith. Sweat. Or. Bust.
This man is out here preparing to beg somebody through a cassette deck.

But wait… the photos.

Ohhh, the photos.

We have:

• The Glamour Cowboy:
A wide-brimmed hat, aviators, and a shirt so bright it’s gotta wear shades.
He’s giving “Line dancing at noon, sermon at three, vibes by Keith Sweat at five.”

• The Close-Up That Didn’t Need to Be a Close-Up:
Half a forehead.
Part of a visor.
A sprinkle of existential dread.
Thank you for this offering.

• The Truck Cab Philosophical Hour:
“Cool drama free cool as a fan”
(Sir… you wrote “cool” twice. And for that reason alone, I have questions.)

And yet — YET — the best part?

He proudly lists Beauty as an interest.

BEAUTY.
Dude, you are Keith-Sweat-ing in a Ford F-150 with an Instagram filter from 2013.

—

Verdict:

🚩🚩🚩MULTIPACK RED FLAGS.
We’re talking Costco-level quantities.

Would I swipe right?
No.

Would I make a meme out of him?
Already did.