The Overbooked Life

YouTube Lied to Me (and Other Hard Truths at 40)

September 11, 2025

Daily writing prompt
Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.
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The Lessons I Learned Too Late

When you hit that 35–45 age bracket, something changes. Suddenly, you find yourself reflecting on all the things you wish you’d figured out earlier in life. Not just the things you should’ve learned, but the things you wish you had actually listened to. Regret is a powerful emotion—but so is embarrassment.

Here’s my confession: I was a good student in school. On paper, anyway. My GPA stayed between 3.8 and 4.0, I racked up scholarships, and I knew how to make teachers smile. But in reality? I sometimes took the easy way out. If I didn’t see myself needing it someday, I didn’t bother learning it well.

One of those classes was economics. I passed with the bare minimum. Honestly, I treated it like it was just something to survive, like gym class dodgeball. But now, as an adult who juggles bills, savings, kids’ activities, and the occasional surprise medical expense, I wish I’d paid more attention. Balancing a budget feels a lot like being back in dodgeball, except now the balls are made of overdue notices.

Another class I regret brushing off was shop. If you’re an ’80s kid, you probably remember it: woodworking, building, and fixing things. At the time, I thought, Why would I ever need this? Well, now I know exactly why. Because adulthood is just one long string of things breaking.

My teacher let me skim by, and I was happy to coast. But now, I watch my older sister with this mix of awe and envy. She can rip a window out of her house and install a new one. She’s rebuilt stairs, put in new flooring, tiled her kitchen backsplash—basically turned her home into an HGTV episode. Meanwhile, I open the box of instructions for laying my own flooring and feel like I’m reading hieroglyphics. “Step 1: Insert tab A into slot B.” Where’s tab A? What’s slot B? Why does it look nothing like the picture?!

So instead of DIY, I do what I now call DIFM: Do It For Me. I hire someone else. And sure, it gets done, but it adds to the ever-growing “maybe someday” pile of projects I wish I could do myself. My deck, for example, desperately needs to be rebuilt. How amazing would it feel to say, I did that with my own two hands? But thanks to my past self slacking off in shop class, my present self has to open the checkbook instead of the toolbox.

Now, I can already hear the advice: “Just learn it now. You’re never too old to learn.” And you know what? That’s fair. But let’s be real—learning something like flooring or carpentry requires one thing I don’t have: time.

Sure, YouTube is always there to help, but let’s be honest—it’s a trap. The guy in the video says, “This is so easy, anyone can do it!” while casually replacing a roof in thirty minutes with a smile and zero sweat. Meanwhile, I’m five minutes in, covered in dust, three bandaids deep, and my project looks like something the dog chewed on. YouTube makes me believe I’m about to star in my own DIY success story, and then reality checks me like, “Ma’am, please step away from the power tools.”

And if I’m being completely honest, my own track record proves the point. Case in point: the bookshelf. I tried to put one together once, and let’s just say it did not go as planned. At first glance, it looked okay—until you touched it. Then it wobbled like Jell-O in an earthquake. If anyone leaned on it even slightly, I was sure it would collapse into a neat little pile of timber. My kids gave it the side-eye every time they walked past, like it was some kind of booby trap. In the end, we handed it off to someone who actually knew what they were doing, and I just paid the extra money for one that was already built and delivered. Honestly? Best money I’ve ever spent. At least this one won’t try to kill us.

If you’ve read my blog before, or even just the title—The Overbooked Life—you know my schedule is pure chaos. Mom of five. Working nearly every day. Running to appointments. Chasing kids. Trying to remember when I last had a moment to just sit down. And when I do finally have a rare day off? It usually ends with me sick in bed, staring at the ceiling like, So this is what relaxation feels like.

That’s the thing. It’s not laziness. It’s just life. No time, and when there is time, no energy.

So yes, I wish I’d learned differently. I wish I’d had the foresight to realize that certain skills—budgeting, carpentry, basic home repair—would be worth their weight in gold. Youth doesn’t think like that. My younger self was sure she’d end up living in some sleek little city apartment, working in music or computers, making enough money to just hire people to fix stuff. Marriage and kids weren’t in the plan at all.

And yet, here I am. Married. Five kids. A house that constantly needs something fixed. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

What I can do now is change how I approach things. I may not have time to take on every new skill, but when life presents the chance to learn—even something small—I take it. Because someday, I just might need it. And maybe, just maybe, my future self will thank me for giving her a gift that my past self didn’t.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
When Exhaustion Still Needs Leashes

September 10, 2025

Daily writing prompt
What are you doing this evening?
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For those who live in the world of customer service and sales, you already know the drill: long hours, endless people-ing, and the constant feeling that you’re two steps behind no matter how fast you run.

The day starts early—6 a.m.—because the husky boys demand their first walk. An hour later, they’re happy and I’m already behind. Then comes the kid battle: my daughter tries to test the limits of what she can get away with wearing to school, while my son insists on recycling the same outfit half the week. Breakfast follows, plus prepping dinner for my husband, packing lunches for me and my daughter (we work at the same place), and maybe—if the stars align—coffee.

Then it’s the school run, the dash back home, and the inevitable look at the clock: 8:30 a.m. Already late for the morning meeting. The race to work begins. Which lane will be faster? Will I hit the construction backup? Can I “speed” a whole five miles over without feeling guilty? Oh wait—out of gas.

And that’s just the warm-up.

Work itself is a marathon of hurry-up-and-wait. Fix this, tag that, answer a ringing phone that nobody else hears, help coworkers, help customers, help everyone. Run, rush, repeat. And no—I’m not management. (I wasn’t even given the honor, which honestly turned out to be a blessing. Who wants all that responsibility for only $300 extra a month?)

By the time I finally climb back into my car, I hit play on an audiobook (currently Mark of the Fool—worth the listen!) and just pray I stay awake on the hour-long drive home. Once I’m there, I don’t get to collapse—not yet.

Because the huskies are waiting. And no one else in the house can walk them—literally. My kids are too little to wrangle two strong huskies, and my husband’s on a completely different work schedule. Which means, tired or not, it’s always me. Yes, the dogs spend their days running around our big backyard—chasing, digging, lounging in the sun or snow—but a yard isn’t the same as a real walk. Huskies need miles, not just square footage.

So every night, I lace up, grab the leashes, and march out the door. A mile per dog. Rain, shine, snowstorm—it doesn’t matter. And if I’m being honest, some nights it feels less like I’m walking them and more like they’re walking me—dragging me down the sidewalk while I just try to keep my dignity (and my balance). By the time I finally kick off my shoes, it’s 11 p.m., and I’m completely spent. But then they look at me with those big husky smiles like, “Good walk, Mom.” And somehow, that makes it worth it. Exhausting, but worth it.

Meanwhile, my husband is already snoring—we pass each other like ships in the night thanks to his 1 a.m.–10 a.m. shift. I’ll turn on a show, zone out through two episodes, and eventually pass out myself. Then the alarm hits, and we start all over again.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. And honestly, it’s a little depressing when I realize how little time is left for me. The fun stuff—movies, roller skating, camping trips, or even just having the girls over for drinks—feels like another lifetime. After peopling all day, the thought of peopling more is just…exhausting.

So, if you take anything from this, let it be this: be kind to the people who people all day. We’re tired. You’re a lot. And some days, we’re just running on caffeine, husky walks (where they walk us), and stubbornness.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
Potato Mode: Activated

September 6, 2025

Daily writing prompt
How do you relax?
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Potato Life: Then vs. Now

It’s funny how what counts as relaxing changes as we age.

When I was younger, relaxing meant going places. A day at the beach? I was there. An all-day bike ride? Sign me up. Amusement parks? Absolutely. Sitting still wasn’t rest—it was boring. Adventure was how you unwound, and the energy for it seemed endless.

Back then, money meant freedom. If I wanted some, I’d mow lawns, do yard work, clean—anything to get a little cash. That money meant I could buy things myself, no waiting, no asking.

One of the most important things I ever bought was a bike. Not a want—a need. My old one was constantly breaking down, and I was forever patching it just to get by. That bike was how I got to school, to work, to friends’ houses—it was my independence. So I saved, worked, and bought a reliable new one.

And then my parents took it away.

Because show choir practice ran late—something they wanted me to be part of but didn’t like the hours for—they decided to punish me. They didn’t ground me, didn’t yell. Instead, they took my bike, the one I worked for, the one I needed, and handed it to someone else. That wasn’t theirs to take, and that’s what burned. It wasn’t about the bike itself—it was about losing something I had worked for, something I had earned, to a decision that wasn’t mine. That sense of betrayal has stayed with me ever since.

If my sister had needed a bike, I would have helped her find one that fit her. I was already working nearly 30 hours a week, paying for clothes, outings, even my own school trip to California. I had no problem sharing what I had. But this wasn’t sharing—it was being stripped of something essential, and it cut deep.

So I rebelled. I bought another bike, an even better one, and I refused to leave it where it could be claimed again. I locked it up across the street with the other bikes. When my mom asked why I didn’t just bring it home, my teenage honesty slipped out: “Because I don’t want you to steal something else I paid for.” That earned me a beating, but that bike was never taken. My point must have landed.

Now, life looks different.

I work long hours, and when I get home, most of my energy goes into being a parent. I love my kids, but raising them while juggling work and bills doesn’t leave much left in the tank. The thought of doing the all-day outings I once lived for—bike rides, beaches, amusement parks—feels exhausting. Sure, those things still happen once in a while, but not like they used to. And honestly? I don’t miss them as much as I thought I would.

Because spending money just to “relax” doesn’t appeal to me anymore. In my youth, money meant freedom, escape, adventure. Now, it feels tied to bills, to planning, to stretching the paycheck far enough. Dropping cash on some getaway or outing isn’t relaxing—it’s stressful. I’d rather hold onto that money, because real peace doesn’t cost me anything.

The best things for me now are the things I already have at home. A bed that adjusts just right, a massage feature humming against my back, and a good book in my hands. A warm cup of tea or coffee. My kids piled into bed or on the couch with me, blankets everywhere, a movie playing, everyone laughing at the same silly scene. That’s relaxing. That’s the stuff that matters.

And it’s not just quiet nights, either. We do family game nights—board games, card games, snacks spread across the table, hours of laughter and ridiculous rules that mysteriously get “bent” when someone is losing. In the summer, we light up the fire pit out back, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores while the kids try to see who can set theirs on fire the fastest (apparently that’s a competition now). Sometimes we set up a projector in the yard, pile onto blankets under the stars, and turn the backyard into our own personal movie theater. Even baking with the littles in the kitchen becomes an adventure—flour everywhere, too much sugar sneaked into mouths instead of bowls, and cookies that somehow always vanish faster than they cool.

We call all of this “potato-ing.” Doing nothing extraordinary, just being together, cozy and content. And the truth is, it’s better than any beach trip or amusement park ever was.

When I was young, money meant adventure. Now, it means stability. But the real adventure these days is finding joy in the simple things—loving what I have, and who I have with me. That’s the best way to Potato.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
The Grudges That Built Me

September 4, 2025

Daily writing prompt
Are you holding a grudge? About?
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Do I Hold Grudges?

I want to say no—I really do. But the truth is, yes. I hold grudges. Not always by choice, not always out in the open, but certain things dig in deep and change the way I see people or situations. They don’t just fade away.

Work is where my grudges seem to grow the fastest. It stings to watch people call out because they drank too much the night before, or casually shrug off responsibilities I’d never dream of ignoring. And while I might still like these people, that bitterness sits with me.

But the grudges that weigh the heaviest aren’t about coworkers. They’re about the company itself.

Last year, a single decision changed everything: they added another person to my department. My income dropped from over $80,000 to $56,000. On paper, it still looks fine—“good money.” But in reality, it kept me in a higher tax bracket while I was still making less money. Less money, more struggle.

And that was the hardest part: before this, my family thrived. We weren’t rich, but our bills were covered, and there was even room to save. We had breathing space. For the first time in my life, I felt like we were building something stable. And then, almost overnight, it was gone.

With another person siphoning the same pool of business, we drowned. Maxed-out credit cards. Selling things from our home just to scrape by. Then the slow season hit. My income plummeted to $2,000 a month. And because I “made too much,” we didn’t qualify for help. Same tax bracket, just smaller checks.

By January, I was on the brink of losing my home.

I begged for hours, for pay, for any kind of support. My manager brushed me off with, “Just close more business.” I didn’t know it then, but he was trying to get rid of me.

When the assistant manager role opened—a guaranteed $1,200 more a month—I applied. I wasn’t even granted a real interview. His reasoning?

“You’re too much of a bad-ass bitch to be someone’s bitch. Assistant managers don’t move up in this company.”

I was stunned. This man had been here less than a year and had already gutted the store’s culture, firing people left and right.

Then, one night, as my husband told me, “He goes or you go,” my phone buzzed. A company email. He’d been fired.

Relief, yes—but also resentment. Because the damage was done. We were thousands behind on our mortgage, clinging to survival. A coworker—an absolute saint—loaned us the money to save our home. I can still remember the way I collapsed when I realized we’d make it through that month.

A new manager came in, saw the mess, and asked why my once-thriving department had collapsed. I told her the truth: there wasn’t enough business for two full-timers. She restructured the schedule, and slowly, my income returned.

My anger eased—but not completely.

Later, when the assistant manager position opened again, I tried once more. I applied at two locations: one at the store where I still work, and another closer to home.

The interview at my store went well—I felt heard and respected.
The other one? Humiliating. I was told flat-out, “I don’t know why you’re here.” The manager spent the entire time talking about himself and made it clear he’d already chosen someone else. I withdrew my application after that.

What made the whole process sting even more was knowing that every choice I made about applying—or not—was tied to survival. Same tax bracket, just smaller checks. Every missed opportunity, every closed door, felt like one more shove toward drowning.

I didn’t get the role at my store either. Officially, it was because the other candidate lived closer. But the truth trickled down to me later:

“You’re too good at your department to ever be permitted to leave it for management.”

It was meant as a compliment. But it landed like a slap.

So, do I hold grudges? Yes. Against the people and the system that put my family on the edge of losing everything. Against the culture that rewards mediocrity while punishing loyalty.

But here’s the thing: maybe those grudges are also fuel. Maybe holding on to them is what keeps me fighting, pushing, and refusing to settle. Because I know what it feels like to be broken down to the numbers on a bill—and I never want to be there again.

At the same time, I’m thankful for what I do have: a home that was saved, kids who are fed, and the chance to rebuild when I thought everything was lost. Those blessings matter more than the bitterness, even if the bitterness never fully fades.

The truth is, we all hold grudges. We don’t always want to, and sometimes they’re small enough to brush off. But when the things you care about—your family, your security, your very survival—are on the line, it’s not so easy to just let go. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it just means we cared enough to fight for what mattered.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
Penny Candy and Bruises

September 1, 2025

⚠️ Reader Discretion Advised
This post contains personal reflections of childhood trauma, including references to abuse, neglect, and violence. While it also touches on moments of resilience and hope, some descriptions may be triggering for readers. Please take care of yourself as you read.

When I think back to childhood, it doesn’t feel like one steady story—it comes in flashes. Some memories are sharp, like glass, others soft and sweet, like penny candy melting on my tongue. The good and the bad lived side by side, tangled together so tightly I can’t tell one without the other.

I remember laughter that didn’t always feel safe. We were chased around with purses, with creepy masks, the line between playing and fear blurred until I couldn’t tell which was which. My step-grandma had her own kind of performance—smacking herself in the face and groaning “my heart” like she was waiting for someone to rush to her aid. My step-grandpa wasn’t much different in his own way. Whiskey was his comfort, his “sleepy spoons,” and sometimes his excuse. He even took me to the bar once, where I sat quietly on a sofa in the corner while he drank his beers, trying to disappear into the smoke-filled air.

At home, mistakes weren’t just mistakes. They were punishments waiting to happen. Running water too long earned you screaming. My Step-Dad’s rage was always looking for a place to land—one night, he yanked me from bed and beat me for something I hadn’t done. When he realized his mistake, he rubbed my head like that could erase the pain, then turned on my sister instead. That’s how it always was: the violence never vanished, it just shifted from one of us to the next.

Even accidents weren’t safe. I once tumbled down the stairs with a glass in my hand, slicing open my palm. At the ER, instead of comfort, I got my mother’s screaming. Another time, I was too slow getting into the van, and the sliding door crushed my finger. I cried quietly in the back seat, knowing a doctor’s visit would never come. The lesson was always the same—be faster, quieter, smaller.

And still—there were escapes. There was the dirt hill with Ann, where we ramped our bikes until our legs burned, trying to stay gone long enough to avoid the weight of the house. There was the penny candy shop, only a few blocks away, where a pocketful of change could buy a meal’s worth of sugar. On those days, a bag of candy was enough to feel full, enough to feel like joy.

But the chaos always found its way back. I remember being woken in the middle of the night, Mom dragging us from bed as she fought with my Step-Dad. She loaded us into the minivan and drove us across town to my step-grandparents’ house, where we’d be left for days. I remember my sister Brittney being bitten by the neighbor’s dog, blood running down her arm, but no hospital trip to follow.

If there was a gentler side of childhood, it was in my step-grandma’s garden. She’d place a trowel in my hand, guiding me through the rows of vegetables and flowers, her voice soft and steady. “You will never be hungry if you grow your own food. You will never lack beauty in your life if you grow your own flowers.” Those words planted themselves deep inside me, stronger than any punishment.

When we moved away, she pressed her phone number into my hand, telling me I could call her collect anytime. I’d sneak out to pay phones, clutching the receiver, her voice carrying me through the hardest days. Of course, when Mom discovered the secret, the phone itself became the weapon. The beatings hurt, but they never stole the memory of those calls. They never erased the lifeline I had found in her.

So when I look back now, childhood is a strange mix of bruises and sugar, of screaming and dirt hills, of gardens and fear. It’s not all darkness, and it’s not all light. It’s both. And in those fragments—in the penny candy and the bruises, in the dirt hills and the gardens—I see the pieces that made me.

Those pieces are why I can still find joy in small things. Why I plant flowers now, even when life feels heavy. Why I laugh with my kids when they come home with pockets full of candy. My childhood may have been broken, but it taught me how to gather up the fragments, how to hold on to beauty even in the middle of pain. And maybe that’s what resilience really is: learning how to grow something beautiful from the roughest soil.
Tears of Joy Reflection

September 1, 2025

Daily writing prompt
What brings a tear of joy to your eye?
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When was the last time I cried tears of joy? Honestly, I’m not sure I ever have. You read about it in books, you see it in movies — people weeping with happiness as if it’s a normal Tuesday occurrence. But me? Not so much. Maybe it’s because I’m what some would call an “Unfeeling Aquarius.” (Yes, I’ve heard that one before.) I tend to look at things with a sense of detachment.

It’s not that I don’t get excited. I do! I just don’t get weepy excited. My version of joy is usually more like: “That was awesome… now what’s next?”

I read a blog today where the writer was talking about mental health and the importance of taking days off. And you know what? They’re right — but the reality is, not everyone can. I work in sales. Which means I’m not clocking in and out and getting paid for time logged. I don’t get to “make up” hours later. If I miss a day, I miss the chance to sell. And some days, it’s a cruel joke: the day you actually take off ends up being amazing for sales, and then the day you work extra… total dud. Fun, right?

And yes, I am a mom. You’d think that’s where the tears of joy would roll in, right? But nope. When my kids were born, I cried alright — but those were tears of pain. Pushing, backaches, meds not hooked up in time, and the joy of delivering naturally by force (zero stars, do not recommend). But tears of happiness? Didn’t happen. Don’t get me wrong — I adore my kids. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat if it meant I’d get the same little humans. But my crying moments come from sadness, frustration, or anger — not joy.

And listen, it’s not like I’m some overly miserable person, because I’m not. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe the way life has painted my canvas means I haven’t learned how to fully soak in those over-the-top, happy-cry moments. Therapy helps some, but in other ways it just feels like layering more onto my mind day after day. I know working through the past matters — I don’t want to repeat it. My siblings and I even have a little mantra: “What would Mom do?” Think about it, then do the exact opposite. That probably tells you enough about how bleak our childhood was. Some days, our safety depended on something as small as the way the front door was shut.

I know I’m not alone. A lot of kids from my generation lived through hard things, so I don’t want to diminish anyone else’s experience. But I’ll be honest: as a kid, I read A Child Called ‘It’ and thought, I’d trade places with him. That’s a horrifying thought for a child to have, but it says everything about where my mental state was back then.

Some days now, it’s harder than it should be not to snap at my kids and tell them to just “figure it out.” Or I catch myself thinking, ugh, I’ve ruined them by spoiling them. But then I can’t help but smile — because I can spoil my kids. I can give them all the little and big things I never had. Who would have thought that something as basic as proper medical care could feel like such a gift?

My older sister almost died once because she didn’t get it. I remember her pale face, the wheezing breaths, the barking cough, the lips turned white. I remember thinking, why can’t Mom see this? A school nurse finally stepped in and sent her to a doctor — and my sister got punished for it later. That’s the kind of “normal” we grew up with.

It’s also how I lost a good bit of hearing in my left ear. I got sick and never received the care I needed. And maybe that’s why “tears of joy” don’t feel familiar to me. Because I grew up suppressing emotions, taught to be seen and not heard… or honestly, just not seen at all.

So no, I may not cry tears of joy. But I smile when my kids ask me for extras without fear. I exhale knowing they’ll never have to question a doctor’s visit. I take comfort that they will never know true hunger, or the kind of fear I carried daily. And maybe that’s my version of joy — not loud or dramatic, but steady, healing, and quietly defiant of the past I came from.

And honestly? That’s enough.

Until then, keep the coffee hot and the chaos managed. ☕✨
Finding My Voice in the Noise

August 31, 2025

Daily writing prompt
Why do you blog?
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Some days, the tired isn’t just tired—it’s the kind where coffee becomes a food group and I debate whether a nap in the car counts as self-care. I’m a mom, I work over 65 hours a week, and I juggle kids, pets, bills, and the thousand invisible tasks that never make it onto a to-do list. And while I talk a lot throughout the day, I don’t always feel heard. My voice gets lost somewhere between “What’s for dinner?” and “Did you sign this permission slip?”

Today, as I bounced from one customer to the next at work, the daily prompt “Why do you blog?” kept running through my head. And honestly, between sneaking cold bites of a DoorDash burger I ordered an hour before, I finally had an answer: I blog because I want to be heard.

But here’s the twist—I don’t necessarily want people I know to hear me. Crazy, right? If I write in a journal, it just sits there. If I wrote openly where family or friends might read it, the fear of being misunderstood would stop me cold. But here, in this little corner of the internet, I can write without that weight. I can let out the messy thoughts—the frustrations, the exhaustion, the little flickers of humor I cling to—without worrying if someone close to me will misread them.

There’s something freeing about writing for strangers. The people who stumble across my words don’t know me, don’t expect anything of me, and yet… maybe they’ll understand me. Maybe another tired mom who reheats her coffee three times and wonders if cereal qualifies as dinner will read this and think, oh, it’s not just me.

That’s why I keep showing up here. Because being heard isn’t always about shouting the loudest or gathering likes and comments. Sometimes it’s about whispering into the noise and knowing your words might land with someone who needed to hear them, too.

This blog is my space to be messy and real. To say I’m tired, to admit I sometimes laugh at the chaos just to keep from crying, to confess that yes, I do dream about a nap-filled getaway cabin with no Wi-Fi. It’s not polished, it’s not perfect—but it’s me.

So why do I blog? Because I want to be seen, even if it’s by people who don’t know my name. Because writing here feels safer than scribbling in a notebook I’ll hide in a drawer. Because in this space, I get to take up a little room in the world, and maybe—just maybe—someone else will feel less alone when they find it.

And if nothing else, it’s cheaper than therapy and pairs well with reheated coffee.

Until then, keep the coffee hot and the chaos (somewhat) managed.
Husky Love: Equal Parts Chaos and Comfort

August 31, 2025

Husky Glitter, Chewed Shoes, and a Whole Lot of Love

Some people collect hobbies. I collect husky hair. Between zoomies, dramatic howls, and a furniture casualty or two, living with huskies is equal parts chaos and comedy—and I’ve learned a lot along the way.

I know I’ll end up posting plenty about the kids, family, and work, but why not about the dogs themselves? After all, they’re as much a part of the daily chaos as anyone else. I like to joke that I thought I knew what I was getting into when we adopted a husky—one that brought love, laughs, and more hair than I ever imagined, plus the fun of me being the one taken for a walk. But then we adopted a second.

Because when you adopt one husky… you quickly realize they do best with a friend.

I learned quickly that if you only have one (at least for ours), he’ll find ways to entertain himself—usually at your expense. At first, I refused to crate him. I thought crating was cruel. Would you want to be stuffed into a box for 6+ hours? Neither would I, so why would I do that to a high-energy pup? I’d seen videos of huskies trying to break out of crates, and I wanted no part of that heartbreak.

Yes, they’re crate trained now—for emergencies—but they don’t live in crates. I work hard so they can have the good life they deserve. In fact, I even have a coffee mug that says: “I work this hard so my dog can have a better life.” It sits on my desk at work and always gets people talking.

So instead of crating, I did what any slightly sleep-deprived, over-committed, soft-hearted dog parent would do: I adopted him a friend. Yes, that meant double the fluff, double the zoomies, and double the howls, but it also meant my shoes survived. And honestly, don’t we all do better with a friend to “ruff house” with? Sure, we had to sacrifice a chair (RIP chair legs), but for the most part, keeping them gated in dog-proof areas has worked.

Now, with age, my older husky has mellowed—well, husky-style mellowed. He’ll still hop the baby gate, stare into the puppy cam, and roll all over my sofa with the defiance of a teenager sneaking out past curfew. Which explains why I’m usually covered in “husky glitter.”

I write a lot about the pressures of family, work, and bills, but these two boys bring joy and chaos in equal measure. They frustrate me. They make me laugh harder than I thought possible. And they remind me, daily, not to take life too seriously.

Of course, huskies don’t forgive easily. They have long memories and a flair for revenge. If I don’t share breakfast, brush the “wrong” spot, give the wrong number of treats, or fail to dry the grass before they step outside, they’ll make their displeasure known. My sneakers have paid the ultimate price more than once.

But for every chewed heel or stolen snack, there’s a moment that makes it worth it. On nights when work is heavy on my mind, my older husky will leap the gate, sneak upstairs, and curl up between my husband and me. Sometimes I’ll even surrender the bed and head to the sofa, where he’ll flop beside me, a 60-pound weighted blanket of fur and warmth. The smell of dog breath may not be ideal, but the comfort is unmatched.

At the end of the day, life with huskies is messy, chaotic, and unpredictable. But it’s also full of laughter, love, and more loyalty than I ever expected. They test my patience, destroy my shoes, and cover me in hair—but I wouldn’t trade them for the world. Because when the house is quiet and the stress of the day lingers, nothing heals quite like a husky pressed up against you, reminding you that joy can be found in the simplest, fluffiest of packages.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
Fueled by Coffee, Chaos, and Customer Service

August 30, 2025
I have a belief: everyone should be required to work in sales for at least a year. Scratch that—everyone should definitely do customer service. Actually, let’s make it a year of both. Why? Because customer service is one of the most thankless jobs out there, and until you’ve done it, you don’t really understand just how much patience (and caffeine) it takes.

Yesterday reminded me of this. And to be clear, this isn’t a rant—I actually like my job. I work in the mattress and furniture industry, and most days, it’s fine. But every now and then, a few “special cases” show up.

For example:
- The couple who walked in with one partner in a collar and the other holding the leash.
- Or the man who spent ten solid minutes yelling at me over the phone about someone else’s mistake—while I was actively trying to fix it.
Here’s the thing: that old saying, “you catch more flies with honey,” is 100% true. I imagined hanging up on that man at least four times. But when you choose to scream at the person who’s trying to help you, you’ve just opted out of any “extras” you were hoping to demand. No bending over backward, no shortcuts. If anything, you just made the process harder for yourself. Maybe that’s petty. Or maybe it’s just human.

Plenty of people would say, “Just hang up.” And sure, I could. But then that same angry person usually shows up in the store, makes a scene, and ruins the day for everyone else. That not only makes my job harder—it drives good customers and employees right out the door. So sometimes it’s easier to just take the verbal beating, bite your tongue, and move on.

And then there are the other days. You know, the holiday-weekend-meets-back-to-school-meets-“I-need-it-tomorrow-because-company-is-coming” kind of days. The ones where every customer suddenly morphs into a toddler demanding a toy they can’t quite describe. Not that toy. No, not that one either. Try again. Still wrong. Five toys later, you give up. Except instead of toys, it’s furniture. And instead of toddlers, it’s grown adults.

Trying to explain delivery schedules and stock availability to someone who refuses to listen is about as successful as convincing a child to eat broccoli after they’ve already decided it’s poison.

In other words… unacceptable. Like a vegetable.

By the end of those days, you run through every option in your head to try to make people happy (most of the time, you can’t), and as they storm out the door calling you “stupid,” you’re left wondering what on earth just happened. During a holiday weekend, this repeats for hours on end, until you’re completely beaten down. And then—there’s still the long drive home.

Here’s my confession: I love my commute. That hour in the car each way gives me ten hours a week of solitude. Ten hours to breathe, reset, and just be me before walking through a door where more demands are waiting.

“Did you call about that bill yet?”
Nope. I was busy juggling customers. I’ll handle it tomorrow. (Spoiler: I usually don’t. It waits until my next day off… if I even remember.)

“Did you prep meals for the week?”
Do I look like I prepped meals at work? Can I at least pee first? Five kids later, the bladder isn’t what it used to be. I miss the pre-kid days when bathroom breaks weren’t a sprint against disaster.

“Did you know about this thing with our son?”
Well, since you just found out, I’m gonna go with… no. Maybe let me put my bag down first.

To be fair, my husband isn’t trying to pile things on me—he’s trying to fill me in before he crashes for the night. He’s up at 2 a.m. for work, after all. And that’s another group of people who deserve kindness: your mail and delivery workers. They’re up much earlier than you think, and someone has to load those trucks before the drivers even start their routes. Most of the time, they’re doing it alone.

So here’s my plea: be kind. To the cashier, the server, the delivery driver, the sales associate. We’re all just trying to survive the day, same as you.

By the end of the night, I usually find myself in bed with an audiobook playing, replaying the weight of the day in my head. Customers, kids, husband—and of course, the mile-long walk with the huskies. If I skip that, they’ll find my shoes and add “extra ventilation” in retaliation. Trust me, huskies don’t forget.

Even as my eyes close, there’s no real stopping. Most nights, I end up dreaming that I’m still at work. I dream of customers, of paying bills, of phone calls to companies, of endless to-do lists. Always the things I have to do—never the things I want to do.

Some days, it feels like being an adult is just one long rat race of money and time. Is this really it? Where’s my day on the beach with a fruity drink and a little umbrella sticking out the top? I want to feel the sun on my skin (even if it’s not exactly the body you’d want to see overly exposed) and let the heat wrap around me like a weighted blanket.

I want so many things. But for now, it’s work, kids, and bills—fueled by coffee, questionable habits, and stubborn puppies—that get me through the day.

Remember the good moments—the happy ones—and don’t let the world chip away at the dreams you hold onto. I know, it’s easier said than done.

I keep reminding myself to actually use my vacation time. The challenge is finding that perfect alignment: kids out of school, husband off work, no blackout dates at my job, and maybe even a little extra cash scraped together for some family fun. Someday, that will all come together.

But for now, it’s Labor Day weekend, and I’m back in the thick of it—answering the endless chorus of “give me,” “I want,” and “I shouldn’t have to pay people to bring my furniture in for me.” Demands never really take a holiday.

Still, I know there will come a day when the schedule lines up, the stars align, and I finally get that stretch of time with nothing to do but breathe, laugh, and soak in the sun with my family. Maybe not today, maybe not this year—but someday soon.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
Meet the Woman Behind the Yawns

August 29, 2025

Greetings, Salutations, and Welcome

Greetings, Salutations, and Welcome

They say the first blog post is always the hardest. It’s the one that sets the tone, opens the door, and decides whether someone might want to linger a little longer—or click away. No pressure, right?

This isn’t going to be a gossip sheet or some juicy tell-all (sorry to disappoint). What you will find here is something more down-to-earth: me, working through my thoughts in real time. Maybe you’ll find something that resonates. Or maybe you’ll just be entertained watching me attempt to string words together while juggling life. Either way, welcome!

Sure, I could keep a private journal. But where’s the fun in that? Words are meant to be shared, to ripple out in unexpected ways. Maybe you’ll stumble across this post on a day when you need to know you’re not the only one going through “it”—whatever it is for you.

So, here we are. Let’s see where this goes.

I am a mother of five. Along with that title comes two dogs, a husband, two car payments, and a house—all in my name. Life is busy, noisy, and rarely dull.

Two of my kids are grown adults now, though they still live at home (apparently “empty nest” is just a myth… who knew?). One child, on the other hand, refuses to stay with me and prefers to let their dad—yes, I’m separated from him—call the shots. That’s a whole bag of nuts we won’t open just yet. Consider that a story for a future post. For now, let’s just say my family is… colorful.

On top of that, I probably work far too much—or at least it feels that way. Then again, doesn’t everyone think that sometimes? I work in sales, which means long hours and more time at the job than I’d like. The hardest part is missing out on moments with my younger two, who are still in elementary school.

Thankfully, my husband does his best to keep me in the loop. He sends videos, snaps pictures, and makes sure I still feel like part of the action. It’s not that I don’t want to be there for every event—I absolutely do. But bills have a way of calling louder than soccer games and school assemblies. Bills mean money, and money means work.

And between the two of us, I’m the one who brings home the bigger paycheck. So the responsibility of keeping things afloat usually lands on my shoulders. Some days it feels heavy, but it’s a weight I carry for the people I love.

So that’s me, in a nutshell—chaotic, overworked, a little sarcastic, but still standing. Stick around, and you’ll probably see me untangle more of this messy, funny, exhausting, wonderful thing I call life.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.