Fairy Dust, Dog Slobber & Cosmic Poop Jokes
Last night was almost a repeat of the night before—tossing, turning, and rotating between the wood platform and my trusty recliner. The only difference? I was smart enough not to pop a sleep aid. The dogs trailed me back and forth, eyes heavy with either concern or sheer irritation—I couldn’t tell which.
Since sleep wasn’t happening, I put the time to use. I tinkered with my blog’s social media pages, dove into the mysterious world of hashtags, and tried to make sense of the jazz that everyone else seems to instinctively understand. To my surprise, I actually made progress. Satisfied, I finally gave in to rest, and mercifully drifted off to sleep.
Morning, however, was a different kind of chaos. Odin, my 45-pound “alarm clock with fur,” stood directly on top of me, licking my face like it was his life’s mission. For most people that would be uncomfortable—for my lupus-riddled body, it was pain. But then there was his goofy, love-soaked face, so proud to be the reason I was awake. Hard to stay mad at that, even with the slobber.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, Freya launched herself onto the Mommy pile, full-body wiggles and head rubs included. Love is wonderful, but being crushed is not. I finally called “down,” and to my relief, they actually listened.
I dragged myself out of the recliner and shuffled toward the sacred espresso machine, but Odin had other plans. The jingle of the bell by the door was sharp and insistent—either he’s an impatient jerk or nature was calling with urgency. I chose grace and opened the door.
The Texas air smacked me in the face—thick, heavy, and already promising misery. Yesterday’s slight reprieve from the heat was a tease. Odin strutted out, lifted his leg, and let loose the world’s longest pee, complete with a nose lift and an expression that screamed pure relief. Urgent indeed.
As I piddled through the morning—feeding the dogs, walking them, showering, getting dressed—I glanced around my 240 square feet and realized yesterday’s chaos had left me a bit of a slob. The dishes were stacked, waiting. Now, some people might think having a dishwasher in an RV for one person is overkill, and do I need it? Absolutely not. But do I love it? Absolutely yes. My dishes come out sanitized, which makes my heart sing, and it’s blue. Do I really need to say more?
So I loaded the dishwasher and settled into my workday. The next few days will mean long drives and long days onsite, so I’m cherishing this last day working from home. It may sound strange, but being here—with the dogs curled up nearby while I work—does wonders for my emotional well-being. Lupus is hard to explain, and I try not to talk about it too much with friends or family because I don’t want to sound like a whiner. But the truth is, my body hurts every single day, and when I’m in a flare, the pain can feel unbearable.
That’s why these little moments matter. Taking a two-minute break to snuggle with a puppy resets my head and eases my nerves. Their love, their presence—it’s grounding. They’re more than pets. They’re my guardian angels.
Later, a ding on my phone pulled me out of work mode. It was a message from one of my ex’s brothers’ wives, and with it came a rush of memories and emotions that brought tears to my eyes. I was thankful—thankful she still spoke to me, thankful she wanted a relationship without judgment. Leaving my ex meant leaving behind so much: my home, my cats, and nearly all of the family and friends I’d built over ten years. Out of everyone, only three people, including her, still speak to me. It’s heartbreaking.
I knew when I left that I might lose the people I loved. I told myself that the friendships and bonds we’d built could withstand the weight of divorce. I was wrong.
My mind started wandering to the “what ifs,” and I quickly yanked my thoughts back, telling myself: focus, move forward. It feels strange to give myself positive self-talk—I’m used to tearing myself down, not lifting myself up. But it’s something new I’m trying.
Guilt has been my lifelong shadow. Even when my rational brain says, you didn’t do anything wrong, you’re not a bad person, my heart still feels guilty. Guilty for things out of my control, guilty for things that were never mine to carry. It’s like a seed planted deep in me, tangled up with the whisper that I’m not good enough, that I don’t deserve good things.
But I’m trying to change that story. I want to be a better version of myself—someone at peace. And the truth is, only I can make that happen. So I am trying.
One of my biggest fears when I left was that I’d go through all these changes and still fail myself—that I wouldn’t follow through, wouldn’t lose weight, wouldn’t go for walks, wouldn’t actually be happier. And honestly? I don’t do everything in the way I envisioned. But I am doing something. No, I’m not taking 10-mile hikes yet, but I’m walking. No, I haven’t dropped as much weight as I wanted, but I am losing weight.
The hardest part is patience. I can be endlessly patient with other people and with animals, but with myself? Not so much. I want everything now—I want to be the version of me I imagine right away. And that impatience is often what makes me give up. But I’m slowly learning that it’s a journey. Nothing happens overnight. I just need to give myself the room and space to grow.
As part of that journey, my therapist encouraged me to write about my experiences. To my surprise, I’ve fallen in love with words—and with how writing slows me down and helps me process and really see my day. From there, I took it a step further and started this blog. My bestie’s daughter nudged me toward Tumblr, and my Auntie encouraged me to dip into Instagram. Suddenly, I’m tumbling down this rabbit hole of hashtags, platforms, and social media learning curves.
And somewhere in the middle of it, a tiny glimmer of hope has started to bubble inside me. Could this be real? Could I one day make money doing this? That wasn’t my goal when I started—it still isn’t—but there’s this spark, this whisper of possibility. How amazing would it be to do something creative, something I love, instead of carrying the heavy responsibility and stress of my job? To one day be my own boss?
It feels like dreaming of winning the lottery. So, for now, I’ll put those hopes gently aside, take a deep breath, and remove the pressure from myself. What will be, will be.
I’ve also learned that writing works best for me when I don’t wait until the end of the day. If I do, the little details blur and I lose the flow of what really happened. Writing has forced me to take breaks I normally wouldn’t—pausing in the middle of work to jot down a few sentences, or grabbing my phone to do a quick voice recording when the dogs do something cute so I don’t forget later. I never thought of myself as a “writer.” I always wrote for work—professional, technical, straightforward. But writing about what I see, smell, and most of all feel—that’s new.
Feelings are the things I usually bury the deepest. Confrontation? Avoid at all costs. Vulnerability? Stuff it down. It’s easier—absolutely. Healthier? Not even close. But with writing, I’m forced to slow down and actually listen to myself. To watch the world, hear the world, and notice the pieces I would normally bulldoze past. And in that slowing down, the world is opening to me in ways I never imagined.
By lunchtime, the dogs had had enough of me ignoring them. Odin sprawled across my legs, sulking because I wouldn’t let him fully into my lap, while Freya sat perfectly still, staring me down with all the persistence of a toddler in a candy aisle. I sighed, thinking, I don’t want to work either, guys—but somebody has to pay for this trailer, the truck, and your expensive food.
So I gave in. A quick five-minute break, I told myself. Outside we went. Freya, true to form, body-slammed Odin in a fit of joy. Zap. Her shocked look—those wide eyes saying, I can’t believe you did that, Mom!—nearly made me laugh out loud.
As we walked, I spotted a park sign that read: “Pick up after your dog—there’s no such thing as a Poop Fairy.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The fairy theme has been weaving its way through my life since I was 16, and lately the whole fairy godmother idea keeps popping up in the most random places. Seeing that sign felt almost poetic—like the universe was winking at me. Is it a cosmic sign that I’m exactly where I need to be? Probably not. But does it make me feel better to think so? Absolutely. Apparently, the same universe that stuck me with a roach motel has also decided to sprinkle in constant “magical” reminders—though gee thanks, Universe, I asked for fairy dust, not dog-doo metaphors.
Back to work, I told myself. Time to be the “responsible adult,” even if I didn’t want to be. Five and a half more hours—you can do this. The thought made my stomach ache a little, but I reminded myself to be grateful. I still have a job. I still have a way to live. If only I could find that spark of motivation I’ve been lacking this week.
And then I decided—since I was already breaking to take the spoiled mongrels out—I should use the moment for a little self-care. Eat something before my Auntie and Mooma’s voices started ringing in my head, scolding me. I heated up leftovers from last night: Latin sweet potato. I know, it sounds odd and maybe a little underwhelming, but trust me—it was muah, delicious. Maybe I should create a page just for my weird-but-yummy “cooking for one” meals.
This afternoon, I also had a therapy appointment. I’d sent my therapist this blog and a few excerpts before I actually launched it—four messages in total (yes, excessive, I know). Sometimes I get laser-focused on something and I have to go-go-go until it’s done. Autism, ADHD, ADD—who knows? Between anxiety, depression, and lupus, I joke that I’ve got “all the things.” My brain, of course, then spiraled into thinking about how we categorize people, and the stigmas that come along with those labels. Okay, hold on, I had to tell myself, there you go again—off to the next random thought, reel it in.
In therapy, we usually talk about the last two weeks. I’m not sure when we’ll get to the “fix my broken-ass part,” but I’m looking forward to it, I think.
The day wore on. After speaking with him, I did feel a little better—he has a way of framing things so I can see the positive tucked inside the messy. Today, we started talking about my relationship with my Mooma. He had some unusual but enlightening observations about parent/child relationships and a philosophy that I’d never considered before, but I liked it. I like his way of looking at the world.
I logged back into my computer to wrap up the workday. Two more hours, I told myself, as I hunched down to finish my duties. I also decided I was going to be a slacker again today and skip Lowe’s. My rationalization? I’ll already be out tomorrow for onsite work, so I can go then and save gas money. Responsible adulting at its finest.
And now, I’m closing out my day with a bit of gaming—killing zombies in 7 Days to Die and trying to survive the Bloodmoon, all while simultaneously irritating my Auntie, working on getting to know my cousin, and being up to no good with my Canadian friend.
Because this is my midlife plot twist, and I’m writing it one messy chapter at a time.
Lessons of the Day
Slobber is love’s alarm clock.
A blue dishwasher can, in fact, bring joy.
Puppy snuggles are valid emotional support therapy.
Healing through divorce is messy, but it’s still healing.
Positive self-talk feels weird—but it works.
Patience with yourself is the hardest patience to learn.
Writing is cheaper than therapy (but therapy still helps).
The universe may send “signs,” but apparently mine involves poop jokes. Thanks for nothing, cosmic fairy godmother.
Latin sweet potato leftovers are chef’s kiss self-care.
Lowe’s will still be there tomorrow. Probably.
