Alien Marathons, Humidity Battles & Bougie Pups
Last night’s slumber was a patchwork quilt stitched together with faint colors and half-memories. I know I dreamed—probably something profound—but all that stuck were blurry shapes, like a watercolor left out in the rain. What I do remember? My fur babies staging a full-on toddler rebellion. They crept into my recliner, on top of me every time I drifted off, convinced I wouldn’t notice. Newsflash: I noticed, as I got crushed.
By 6 a.m., I surrendered and officially declared it morning. Collars on, we dashed outside for the royal potty procession. After days of nonstop rain, my bougie, diva, fur-crowned royalty had been holding it like champs, braving the drizzle only when absolutely unavoidable. Once the royal duties were done, I bolted to my one true love: the espresso machine. A hot date I refused to be late for. Two shots down—dark, rich, and delicious—but then my inner caffeine goblin whispered, “What’s one more?” And just like that, I was three shots deep before sunrise. Don’t judge.
Meanwhile, the dogs hovered like tiny, furry supervisors, eyes locked on me as if breakfast prep required quality control. I pitter-pattered through the kitchen—dishes washed, dehumidifier water ceremoniously poured straight into the toilet (glamorous, I know). Flush. Pause. Boom. Epiphany. In that swirly moment, I cracked the sacred code of RV life: the black tank mystery. It’s not chemicals. It’s not overpriced potions. It’s water. Simple, glorious water. A daily splash of dishwasher runoff and dehumidifier bounty, and—poof—the stink disappears like Houdini on a good day.
Since the rain finally took a break after three soggy days, I vowed not to procrastinate (too much). The mission was clear: dog lead + AstroTurf = happy pups, happy me. I marched outside brimming with ambition—only to be sucker-punched by a wall of humidity so thick it felt like the swamp itself had risen from the underworld to give me a sweaty, unwanted bear hug. Wrapped in its sticky grasp, I immediately began questioning my life choices…and suddenly, procrastination was looking like the smarter option.
We’ve been practicing “holding place,” which basically means teaching the dogs that they don’t have to be my permanent shadows. It’s tough for them—if I so much as step away, they act like I’ve vanished into another dimension. But this morning, they nailed it. They sat politely at the door, eyes glued to me, little furry guardians making sure I didn’t get abducted by aliens. Honestly, I feel safer with them watching.
I clipped their lead to the pine tree—why it took me this long to think of that, I’ll never know. I’d been stubbornly devoted to the bolt-in-the-ground contraption until someone casually said, “Why not the tree?” Derp derp. Problem solved. Then came the royal unveiling of lush, green, fake grass. A palace lawn for bougie pups, and for me? Pure sanity insurance. Because muddy paw prints + me + RV floors = an equation that should never exist.
We basked outside in the swampy sauna. The dogs sniffed the air, tuned in to the trees, and even managed to ignore the neighbor’s barky dog like total pros—Odin serene as a monk, Freya giving one low whine before her little zap-zap reminder brought her back to saintly silence. After three days of rainy lockdown, they grinned from ear to ear, tongues dangling in that perfect mix of joy and please-let-this-cool-me-down.
Meanwhile, I sat beside my tragic excuse for a swamp cooler (derp derp: the sequel), slow-cooking in my own sweat. A waterfall slid down my back, pooled in the crack of my ass, and in that exact, swampy moment, I reached a profound truth: I adore my dogs with all my heart…but I worship the air conditioner. With absolutely zero guilt, I called them inside, where blessed coolness wrapped us up in its humming, icy embrace.
Inside, I phoned my dad—it’s his birthday—but he didn’t answer. Probably because he’s old, stubborn, and in desperate need of hearing aids. (Happy birthday, Dad, wherever you are ignoring your phone.)
I rummaged through the kitchen, slicing fruit, tossing fries in the pan, and voilà—brunch was served. Naturally, the dogs demanded their tax, little toll trolls that they are, waiting for their rightful share. Back online with my Canadian friend, the Alien marathon resumed just as the rain made its dramatic encore. Rain, rain, and—you guessed it—more rain. Our dreams of sitting in the gazebo this evening slowly dissolved into puddles.
Three Alien movies down, a few more looming, we decided to call it early in preparation for the work week. But then our Oklahoma friend popped into chat, so I lingered, cooking dinner while he scrolled reels on Instagram—sending me only the ones designed to rob me of my precious minutes. Honestly, the things we watch these days…how did we get here?
Finally, it was steak time. I fired up the propane and laid down the sirloins I’d been pampering in salt for two whole days. Into the rosemary butter they went, sizzling like applause, crust forming on the outside, juicy medium-rare at the heart—pure perfection. As they rested, the RV filled with an aroma so intoxicating the dogs transformed into cartoon wolves, noses in the air, eyes wide, practically singing “we’re good babies, Mommy—surely this means steak for us too?”
I dipped my steak in A-1 sauce, and yes, I could practically hear steak purists fainting across the country. But to me, A-1 and steak go together like peanut butter and jelly—or like coffee and basic survival. Meanwhile, both dogs scored two slices from the rare bits I wouldn’t touch, tails wagging so hard I thought they might actually achieve liftoff. Spoiled? Absolutely. Don’t judge me.
As night settled in, I found myself daydreaming of cooler places—Oregon, Washington, Michigan. Cool nights, warm days, towering trees, shimmering lakes, winding rivers… one day, I promised myself.
Then reality chimed in: it was only 8 p.m., but apparently, I’m officially old because going to bed sounded like a winning idea. I bargained with myself—early to bed, early to rise, right? Before I could flop down, though, I decided it was finally time to unbox the egg foam topper I’d snagged at Walmart a week ago. Adulting achievement unlocked.
With the bed remade and the star-gazing window cracked open, I curled up with my fur babies. The rain tapped its lullaby on the roof while I rubbed their heads just the way they like it. Both of them pressed in close, heavy heads resting on me, exhaling pure contentment. If dogs could purr, I swear I heard it.
It wasn’t the grand adventure I pictured—but it was exactly the ending I needed: calm, quiet, and wrapped in love.
Lessons of the Day
Three shots of espresso before sunrise is called “ambition,” not a problem.
Dogs don’t sneak into bed—they stage covert midnight missions.
Black tank mysteries aren’t solved by potions—they’re solved by water (and a little desperation).
Humidity: where the air wears you instead of the other way around.
Procrastination sometimes looks smarter than ambition—especially when the swamp wants a hug.
Sometimes the best solution is literally right in front of you…rooted in place.
AstroTurf: because I prefer green vibes without the mud crimes.
Love is patient, love is kind…but AC is divine.
Judge me all you want—my steak, my rules, my bottle of A-1.
The adventure you plan isn’t always the one you get—but sometimes, the rain, the dogs, and a stargazing window make for the perfect ending anyway.
