Bougie Dogs & the Orthopedic Mattress I Never Signed Up For
This morning, I woke up with back and hip pain and two dogs sprawled out on me like I was their personal orthopedic mattress. Whose genius idea was it to ditch the actual mattress and turn that room into a crochet and reading nook instead of a place to sleep? Oh right—mine. I usually crash in my recliner like a grandma with bad hips, so I figured it would be fine. But of course, the second I got rid of the bed, all I wanted to do was sprawl out, stare through the star-gazing window, and snuggle with my professional bed hogs.
So, there I was, waking up where I passed out on a wooden platform with a sad pillow top, some mismatched cushions, and definitely not enough support to call it “sleep.” But lupus pain plus pure exhaustion doesn’t give you much choice—I was out cold last night. My alarm at 6 a.m. jolted me back to reality, and I stumbled into the day with a glorious cup of caffeinated heaven. Dogs leashed, hair barely brushed, still in my moomoo night gown, I marched us out for a walk (classic Trailer Park vibes). They were calmer—less exciting and unruly than the day before, which felt like a miracle. I think they’re finally starting to feel at home here, not quite so overwhelmed by the symphony of smells left by the raccoons, squirrels, deer, and bugs. We even practiced “place,” and they almost nailed it. Of course, Freya added her bloopers—she’s the class clown of the family, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way (or would I? Depends on the day).
Work kicked off with a throat punch: leadership sent a somber message about employee cuts due to funding. Nonprofit life isn’t exactly champagne and caviar, and my brain immediately went to, “Oh great, how will I pay for this truck and trailer if I’m on that list?” I shoved the thought aside—unhelpful, intrusive. The universe works in mysterious ways, and for now, my job is to keep my head high and do the work in front of me.
By lunch, I decided to ignore the buzzing voice of my Auntie in my head yelling at me to make real food and to take care of myself and instead went outside with the dogs. Texas hot, but not swamp-suffocating like the last few days—or maybe I was just getting used to it (if that is even possible). The landscaper was weed-whacking nearby, and I fully expected both dogs to lose their minds. But small miracles exist: they stayed calm, actually listened. My jaw practically hit the ground. Then—ding—an email notification. The courts had accepted the divorce paperwork. Gut punch. Heart wrench. Soul stopper. Deep breath. This is what I wanted, right? I told myself again and again: different lives, no connection, remember the pro-con list. Tears threatened my eyes, but I wiped them away before they could fall. Focus. Move forward.
After bringing the dogs in, I did my best to quit sucking at life and cooked them real food for the week in the Instant Pot. Four days of kibble and they were probably drafting a CPS report in their heads: “our bougie RV queen of a mom has reduced us to peasants.” My Auntie’s voice was still buzzing, so I obliged and threw some food for myself in the air fryer. Bada boom bada bang, dinner served. Bless the genius who invented that thing—it makes me feel like I’ve got my life together when I absolutely don’t.
The workday dragged on in a haze of spreadsheets and computer tasks designed to kill joy. My eyes burned, my head swam, but every time I stood up for a stretch, I was greeted by wagging tails and snuggle attacks. Being home with my dogs while I work? Total lifesaver. Two-minute cuddle breaks are better than coffee—don’t fight me on that. Still, the chant in my head kept time: three more hours, three more hours. I asked Google to play Billie Eilish, her haunting voice washing over me like a river carving out the heavy parts of my soul.
Of course, I’m supposed to be the Bougie RV Queen, which means my dogs are bougie too. So yes, they eat better than most college students, and no, I don’t feel guilty about it. Somewhere between crochet hooks I haven’t touched in months, and the unnatural amount of yarn stored under my bed platform, this little family of mine is thriving in chaos, there is real love and connection here.
The RV gods, however, weren’t about to let me bask in that bliss. Enter: the outdoor water faucet dilemma. I repaired that thing three times yesterday—yes, I used plumber’s tape, yes, I wound it correctly (thank you my Canadian friend for YouTube tutorials). And yet, every time I fixed one leak, another popped up like some twisted game of whack-a-mole. Everyone warned me—Grandpa, Auntie, my Canadian friend—that trailers are an endless string of things breaking. I get it now. This faucet is just one of a million little challenges I’ll face over the next few years. And while I’m ready for the journey, universe, if you’re listening: I’d happily accept longer breaks between disasters- and no it is not fixed yet, I am still wasting water and ashamed.
Somewhere in the mess of the day, I caught myself reflecting. In my line of work, I’m supposed to be professional, neutral, the policy-driving consultant. But my inner soul? She’s a hippie with mermaid-colored hair and dreams of dreadlocks, forests, hammocks, gardens, and thunderstorms. Maybe this disconnect is why work feels like chaos sometimes. Then again, maybe it’s just a full moon and everyone’s lost their damn minds and ethics.
I think I got here because I’m basically five people crammed into one body. A responsible adult who can’t let others down. A servant-hearted fixer who wants to save the world. An adult child who’d rather play video games and eat candy. A nature lover desperate to hug trees and hike with dogs. An introvert who craves crochet during thunderstorms. A gardener mesmerized by daily sprouts of green. Put all that in a blender, and you get… me. This strange conglomerate of contradictions—basically, it’s like being schizophrenic without the meds, with each personality fighting to be the one that shines.
Does everyone struggle with this? Who am I, why am I here, am I on the right path? And now that I’m 45, is it normal to feel like I don’t know myself anymore? Is this a midlife crisis, or just the world’s longest “loading” screen? My mind races through memories, I listen for my heart to whispers answers to all of these intrusive thoughts and riddles, and I don’t have the answers, maybe I never will. But I do know one thing: the road has been calling me for years, and now I’m finally listening.
And if I can just learn to back this 35-foot beast into a campsite like Lynn did, I’ll have the campground by the balls—no “helpful” men required.
The universe works in mysterious ways. I can’t control what happens, but I can keep my head up, put my best foot forward, and trust that what will be… will be.
Lessons of the Day
Bougie RV Queens create bougie dogs. Fact.
Dogs can, in fact, learn not to choke themselves on walks (Freya excluded, bloopers mandatory).
Coffee is a survival tool, not a luxury.
Instant Pots and air fryers = sanity savers.
RV gods don’t believe in “permanent fixes,” only “temporary victories.”
Aunties are always right, but it’s more fun to pretend they’re not.
Spreadsheets are soul-sucking, but dogs heal everything.
Everyone warned me about RV repairs. They weren’t wrong.
Midlife crises don’t always look like convertibles—they can look like RVs stuffed with yarn.
Once I master reversing this 35-foot beast, campgrounds everywhere better watch out—no men required.
Full Time RV LifeHealing JourneyDivorce RecoveryDog Mom LifeTraveling with Dogs
