A Day in a LIfe

 

I was all set to do a weight loss journey post, but I decided to give you a rundown of my day instead—because honestly, it’s more interesting. The “boulder on top of the mountain” post can wait.

I hit the snooze button way too many times this morning. It was cold in the house, so I grabbed the comforter. I rarely use it because it always ends the same: I fall asleep cozy and wake up roasting like I’m on a spit. But this morning? Oh, I was deep in the land of dreams... until I woke up sweating like a rotisserie chicken.

Dragged myself out of bed, did the usual routine, and hit the road. Normally I pray on the way to work—and I did—but twice I looked down and realized I was doing 40 mph. I told myself, “Step on it, Grandma.” I wasn’t too worried, but I did roll in on two wheels and noticed the parking lot was basically empty.

I rely way too much on my coworker to make coffee in the mornings. I forgot—it’s Monday, not Tuesday. I rushed to get out of the car and failed to take off my seatbelt first. That should’ve been my sign to turn around and go back to bed, but I tried to stay optimistic, thinking it’s just a hiccup.

I looked like I was trying to catch a late flight—computer bag, purse, lunch bag, water bottle, another bag I have no clue why I even had… Then I had to drop everything to hit the code on the elevator. (Remind me to tell you the elevator story sometime. It involves a loaf of bread, a set of keys, and someone possibly trying to kill me.)

I made it inside, flipped the alarm off, plugged in my computer, and sent up a little prayer that I had a clean coffee cup at my desk. Hit the brew button and ran to log in. One of three screens didn’t work. Fine, I told myself, two will do. I ran back to check the coffee… no coffee. Apparently, you have to hold the brew button down. Good times.

I slapped on my headset and hit the "Ready" button at exactly 6:00 AM. Whew. We get performance dings if we’re late. I do not do late.

Back at it, I fiddled with the stubborn third screen, which came on—only for the first one to go dark. Deep breaths. You got this. The morning went okay, until my computer kicked me out of all my programs mid-deadline. Not my first rodeo. I restarted, made up the time, and kept it moving.

2:59 PM. One minute to go. Why is that always the longest hour of the day? 😂

I had to run to the bank and pull money out of savings. I’m terrible at saving, so I came up with a system: keep my savings at a separate bank with no app—just a little book of deposit slips. That way, I have to physically go in to get the money. I could transfer it, but I don’t. I walked in, withdrew what I needed, then headed to my regular bank to deposit it into checking.

Had a nice 30-minute conversation with the teller—sweet girl, I now know her life story. We had some laughs, but I was sweating like I was in a sauna and still needed to get to Lowe’s.

Lowe’s to me is like toy store to a kid. I have to look at everything. Dream about the perfect house. Ooh, look at these plants! I don’t need plants. I came in for weed eater string and a blade for my brush cutter. Found the string, had to order the blade. No big deal—I’m not looking forward to wearing long sleeves, long pants, boots, and gloves just to weed-eat around the pond anyway. Last time I used the hedge trimmer and ended up with a mystery rash on both forearms. Lesson learned.

I walked out to the hot car—but couldn’t find it. Happens every time I go to Lowe’s. I get excited, forget where I park, and end up playing a sad, sweaty game of Marco Polo with myself. I left with: dog treats, string, feed, wax (not my favorite but it’ll do), microfiber towels, and a drink. That’s when I realized I was starving. It was 5:15.

Pulled into Wendy’s, ready for a salad. Sat in the median forever—okay, like 3 minutes, but I was hungry and dramatic. The line took forever. I bailed. Sonic, here I come. Same deal. Even the same guy who cut the Wendy’s line was now behind me at Sonic. I bailed again. Forget the diet—I’ll find something at home.

Now I’m hot, hungry, irritated, and still had to stop at the dollar store for puppy pads. While sitting at the light, some high school kid behind me in his two-toned car cranked up the bass. Not music—bass. Just “BOOM BOOM BOOM” so loud my ears popped and I could feel my brain trying to vacate my skull. Mother of God, please make this light turn green!

Light turns green. Hallelujah. Except the kid won’t pass me. I speed up, slow down—he’s still there, thumping like a demon DJ. I fantasized about my car having dual exhaust that shoots flames like a dragon. I tried turning on my radio to drown him out—landed on an evangelist telling me I was surely going to hell. I’m like, Lady, I’m already there—car bass hell!

Finally made it to the store, bought waters, forgot the puppy pads. Didn’t care. I just wanted to go home.

Got home, played with the dogs, checked my phone—message from Servall. Annual termite inspection tomorrow. Perfect. I haven’t mowed in over a week, and now I have to weed eat around the house so they can find the traps. Not ideal, but fine. I wanted to see my grandson first.

Walked to the gate—and boom—my 80-pound pit bull saw an opportunity and took it. I grabbed his collar, and he dragged me like I was a rogue sled. He stepped on my bare feet with his talons and nearly dislocated my shoulder. I should have let go. I did not.

Eventually got all the dogs in, grabbed a bite, suited up, and headed out to mow. I actually like mowing in the evening—it’s peaceful. Got the new weed eater string wound up and started trimming.

Now listen—I have a love/hate relationship with my weed eater. It’s battery-powered. Don’t judge me. Gas-powered ones and I don’t get along. I always over-oil, and mixing gas? Too much hassle. Although the best gas-powered weed eater I ever had was the one I accidentally ran over with my car. After that, it worked like a charm for two more summers. When it finally died, my small engine guy gave me the look and said, “Yeah, there’s no saving this.”

Later, my daughter called and said my grandson was disappointed he didn’t get to see me. I told her I’d see him  tomorrow after work and he can tell me all about his beach adventures.

So here I am—still kinda hungry, tired, in need of a long hot shower, and already counting down to tomorrow. I promise tomorrow’s post will be about the weight loss journey.

For now, good night, y’all. Sleep well. I may or may not. I feel kinda itchy—hopefully there’s nothing crawling in my hair from all that under-tree weed eating and grass sitting.

Oh, did I mention I’m allergic to grass?

 Still Climbing (Even When Life Hurls Boulders)

Life is full of choices. Some we make, some are made for us—usually by chaos, nature, or some cosmic prankster with a dark sense of humor.

Me? I’m still climbing this mountain of life. Sure, I’ve had to duck a few pebbles and yesterday I straight-up got walloped by a boulder. But I’m still here, still climbing—grumbling the whole way, but climbing nonetheless.

Last Sunday? Rough. Hell’s personal space heater parked itself over our town and turned the dial to “broil.” I was already running hot on Friday, and the heat triggered one of my infamous migraines. I try to stay hydrated, I really do, but I think I sweated out my body weight and then some. Saturday was a bust—I tried to rest, but the headache would not budge.

If you’ve ever had a migraine, you know. It’s not a headache. It’s a full-body shutdown. I used to get them all the time when I was married… and, mysteriously, they vanished when I got divorced. Funny how that works. Cue knowing smirk.

I’ve tried every migraine remedy known to modern science and a few that were probably just wishful thinking. These days, the only thing that helps is sleep—the kind of sleep you get after being hit with tranquilizer darts. Deep, dark, silent, do-not-disturb-or-I’ll-haunt-you sleep. I’ve learned my triggers: lack of sleep, heat, and dehydration. Satan’s weather last weekend hit the trifecta.

Sunday was the worst. I truly thought I might not make it. My head was pounding, my blood pressure was sky-high, my brain had checked out, and my body wasn’t far behind. Oh, and did I mention I was babysitting five dogs while my daughter was off enjoying a beach vacation? Love that for me.

I ended up on Jack’s daybed with a bag of ice on my neck, praying I wouldn’t have to drive myself to the hospital. Thankfully, I finally passed out—probably looked like a sweaty corpse but hey, I got rest.

Monday? A whole new woman. I declared war on the outdoors and refused to step outside. It was so hot the dogs didn’t even want to go out unless I went first like some sacrificial heat scout. I hung a couple blankets on the line, came back inside, and had sweat rolling down my back like I’d just run a marathon through the Everglades.

Midweek, I got a burst of energy (or cabin fever—who knows) and started purging my craft room. I had to face the ultimate crafter's question: What do I actually want to make, and what am I just hoarding for “someday”? I made piles: sewing, paper crafts, vinyl, resin, decoupage, clay—you name it. Then I got so overwhelmed I had to stop and pivoted to cleaning out drawers instead.

That’s when I discovered 16 pairs of missing scissors.  Also five hammers, which seems excessive unless I’m planning to build an ark. I found Christmas gifts I’d hidden and forgotten about, plus enough candles to survive a month-long blackout—thankfully not the overly smelly kind. I even found my prized skeleton hands (don’t ask, just trust—they’re going to be epic as candle holders).

I set up a table in Jack’s playroom and began sorting all the random bits. Turns out I’ve been hoarding command hooks like a doomsday prepper. I buy them, stash them, forget I own them, then buy more. It’s a vicious cycle.

I made two full car trips to the dump—trunk, back seat, front seat—loaded. Today I dropped off six more garbage bags. And yet... somehow... it looks like I’ve cleaned nothing.

The craft room is still a disaster zone, but I’m tackling it one box at a time. I’ve already taken about a dozen boxes to the garage. Once I can bribe someone to help move a table to the carport, I’m going to start listing things for sale. Carport pickup only, darling—we’re classy like that.

Oh, and let’s not even talk about the three storage units. That’s a future-me problem. There may be a yard sale in my near future—stay tuned for that circus.

Tonight? I’m wiped. I took a nap after work until the kids got home. I do not miss their energy levels—those  humans are like wind-up toys on espresso. I managed to do some meal prep, take a hot shower, and now I’m crashing into bed.

Tomorrow, I’ll share more about my weight loss journey, so don’t wander off—this mountain climb has more chapters coming.

Perforated Sky

  Rain

I have a complicated relationship with rain. It’s not the rain itself I dislike—it’s the aftermath. The discomfort of cold, damp clothes clinging to my skin when I still have places to be. Wet feet trigger a kind of quiet anxiety in me, like I’ve lost control of the day before it even starts.

Walking into work soaked, knowing I’ll spend hours shivering under the hum of an overactive air conditioner—it’s not romantic, it’s just uncomfortable. Especially in summer, when the chill inside contrasts so sharply with the heat outdoors. I try to be practical and keep a change of clothes at work, but lately, all that’s left in the stash are funeral clothes. Let’s just say polyester pants and a crepe blouse don’t exactly reflect who I am anymore.

Oddly enough, that’s probably the only thing I have in common with Bella Swan—she wasn’t a fan of cold and wet either. That, and I’ve always been Team Edward.

When I was a child, I walked to school in all kinds of weather. I had one of those clear bubble umbrellas—the kind that makes you feel like you're inside your own world. I don’t remember the details of my raincoat—it was probably a Raggedy Ann hand-me-down from my sister—but I remember the galoshes. Those floppy rubber boots that went over your shoes, trapping them inside like quicksand. You needed a crowbar—or a strong parent—to pull them back out. I’d carefully avoid stepping on the earthworms littering the sidewalk and hope none of the neighborhood boys thought it would be funny to fling one at me.

In my twenties, I drove a 1983 CJ7 Jeep. I still have it, actually. Back then, I’d take the hard top off in April and leave it off until fall. Putting it on and off was a production, so I avoided it. If it rained, I’d slap on the hard doors and a bikini top—it kept me dry enough. I kept a cooler in the back packed with dry clothes just in case. If a storm hit, I’d either drive fast and laugh through it or pull into a car wash to wait it out. Back then, being cold and wet just felt like part of the adventure.

I’ve always been a rain walker—but the conditions have to be just right. Not a downpour or a storm, but a soft, steady rain that invites you outside. I love to sit on the porch and watch it come in, feeling the wind blow droplets onto my skin. There’s something so soothing about watching rain through a window, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in hand and a good book nearby. If it’s nearing dusk, I’ll light candles and listen to the melody of raindrops on the metal roof. It can lull me to sleep in minutes.

But being in the rain—that’s something else entirely. It’s cleansing. Reviving. When I’m outside and the first few drops begin to fall, it feels like a secret between me and the sky—a quiet invitation. I wait. And then, when it finally starts falling in earnest, soft and rhythmic, I kick off my shoes, take off my glasses, and walk. I don’t mind the dirt. I don’t even mind the mud. The messier the better—it reminds me I’m alive.

My favorite rain comes after the storm. Slow and steady, with steam rising from the ground like breath. The air is thick and hot, the rain is cool, and the contrast creates this almost electric feeling. I could stay outside forever, soaking it in.

That childlike joy in the rain never really left me. Now, I share it with my grandson. I’ll knock on his door and ask, “Want to come play in the rain?” And off we go, jumping in puddles, slipping, sliding, and giggling until our cheeks hurt. He’s even been known to lay right down in the mud and kick his feet in pure delight. I’m not quite that brave—but I cheer him on.

Even when it’s not raining, we find the lingering puddles. And yes, we jump in them—shoes and all.

I tell him the rain comes from holes in the sky. “Perforated sky,” I call it. He’s three, and he believes me. One day, when he’s older and we’re lying in the grass staring up at the clouds, I’ll tell him the real story—about clouds and storms and the science of it all. But for now, this simple, magical version is enough.

...and so It begins

 

This isn’t a post for likes, hearts, sympathy, empathy, or prayers.

It’s not meant to be complicated — just the beginning of my journey.

I'm sharing pieces of myself that are deeply personal because I need to. It’s the only way this story will make sense.

My Story: The Honest Beginning

In my adult life, I’ve always struggled with weight. I’m not diving into all the backstory — some of that still hurts too much to share. That part will come when I feel stronger.

But here's what I will say:

I’ve always been active. I was that every day gym-goer. Hungover on a Saturday morning? I was still at the gym sweating out the beer, telling myself I’d never do that again. When I got pregnant with Sarah, I still hit the gym — light exercise until about five months in, then I walked daily. After she was born, I was back in my regular clothes within weeks. My stomach just needed some work.

Then, when Sarah was about 3 or 4, I started experiencing what I thought were blood sugar issues. There wasn’t much information online back then. I saw doctors, had tests done, and they said it wasn’t my blood sugar. One day, I drove (very dangerously) to Bellevue and had my sugar tested — it was in the 50s. The doctor said, “If you feel low, just eat a piece of candy.”

So I did.

A lot.

Because I always felt low.

(If you know anything about blood sugar, you know this was terrible advice.)

Twenty, thirty, forty pounds later — I figured that out. I was still doing some exercise, but with two kids, a full-time job, and always being exhausted, it got harder and harder.

I remember sitting at the ballfield, watching other moms eating McDonald’s or snacking in their cars, and I used to think, “Why don’t they just walk around while they wait?” I swore I’d never be that mom.

Another 10 pounds later…

I understood. Fully.

I’ve been to every weight loss doctor in town. Uppers do not work for me. I know — shocking. One day I had two Monsters and a Red Bull at work and still managed to take a nap at lunch. My brain just doesn’t respond to stimulants like that, and I don’t know why.

Doctors would raise the dosage, raise their eyebrows, and doubt me. I could tell they didn’t believe I was sticking to the plan — that I was eating what I wanted, when I wanted. But that wasn’t true. I gave every diet 6 months. The most I ever lost was 12 pounds. I even gained 12 on Atkins.

No weight loss doctor could ever explain why my body wasn’t responding.

I refused surgery. I refused the shot.

That might work for some — but it’s not for me.

It’s not a road I’m willing to take.

So I gave up.

Over the years, I’d occasionally try again. Eat healthy. Work out. Maybe lose a few pounds. Then stop.

Eventually, I stopped trying at all.

I eat my feelings.

I always have an appetite.

Happy? I eat.

Sad? I eat.

Stressed, bored, angry, overwhelmed? I eat.

I have no self-control.

A Turning Point

Fast forward to March.

I tried to refill my antidepressant/anxiety meds — and the doctor wouldn’t return my calls. I was off the medication for 21 days. And strangely… I didn’t feel any different.

That’s when I decided to taper myself off completely.

I’d originally started the meds when I got divorced. Then came the storm: the little black cloud of life that rained on my emotions, menopause, and then the death of my father. I just stayed on them.

Once off, I felt okay — mostly. I do have clinical depression, but it usually shows up as a short bout of melancholy that passes in a day or two.

Anxiety, though… that came back with a vengeance.

I wasn’t having panic attacks, exactly. I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t even know what it was. My nerves were on fire. I couldn’t describe it to anyone. Then I typed my symptoms into AI (yep, here we are), and it said:

“Brain zaps.”

YES. That was it — exactly. Slight jolts in my head. Not dangerous. Not lasting. Just… jarring.

When I told my daughter, she said, “Yeah… I could’ve told you that.”

She explained that my body was going through withdrawal. That it could take months, even longer, for my brain to rewire after 20 years on medication.

She gave me a list of supplements to help. Told me to sleep, drink lemon water in the morning, get sunlight, and stay hydrated.

And you know what? It helped.

A lot.

(I should mention my doctor never gave me that advice — she just said, “Give it time.”)

Moving Again — Inside and Out

At the same time, I was dealing with horrible knee pain — a solid 9 out of 10. I was this close to throwing up from it.

So now we have:

physical pain

emotional stress

anxiety

brain zaps

Fun times, right?

I started researching anti-inflammatory diets. Gluten-free. Whole food. Just better choices. I bought some books. Started meal prepping.

Breakfast and lunch used to be my worst — always grabbing something quick, processed, or sugary. Now?

I prep. I plan.

I make time.

I started setting myself up for success: prepping fruits, veggies, protein balls, even bars I can grab on my way out. I use the Yuka food app at the store to scan everything — even beauty products. Just an hour or two on the weekend, and my week is set.

I’m proud of me.

I skipped the sweets at work and at the store.

I’m down 6 pounds in 2 weeks — maybe more (I can’t remember my exact starting weight).

I’ll take it.

I’ve started doing PT exercises for my knee at home. I’m not ready for the gym yet. Baby steps.

Mental health. Physical health. One step at a time.

It’s actually been easier than I expected.

A fitness instructor once told me, “You feel what you eat.”

And it’s true.

If I eat food that upsets my stomach, spikes my sugar, or gives me indigestion, of course I’ll feel like crap. What we put in our bodies matters.

Just Breathe

I have a tattoo on my forearm that says BREATHE.

Someone once asked if I had asthma. (LOL.)

I said no — I just forget to breathe sometimes.

I’ve been doing breathing exercises on my Fitbit for the last few weeks, and honestly? It’s helped.

Now, when I feel anxious, I stop.

I take deep breaths.

Big ones.

And in a minute, I’m okay again.

What’s Next

I’m going to find a new doctor.

A new path.

There has to be something better.

And here’s the good part:

I’m starting to feel good.

About myself.

About my choices.

About my body.

I’m sleeping better.

The brain zaps are fading.

My knee pain is down to a 2–3.

I have more energy.

I don’t need naps at lunch or after work.

And I’m even tackling my clutter (perge pile, anyone?).

My low blood sugar episodes are fewer.

This is my journey — and I’m going to keep going.

I know I’ll fall.

But I also know I’ll get back up.

Many of you will root for me.

Encourage me.

Lift me up when I fall (because I will).

But I’m not doing this for Jack.

I’m not doing this for Sarah.

I’m doing this for me.

Because I’m worth the effort.

I am worth the effort.

To be continued… next week.

Maybe it’ll be shorter.

Maybe not.

But if you want to stay for the ride — hop on.

xoxo,

Robin

a reply to a FB post

 

I get where you’re coming from—and maybe that’s why your marriage looks perfect and has lasted forever. Honestly though, this feels more like your personal truth, not some universal rule. Or maybe it’s a subtle dig at someone in particular?

Look, no one’s saying marriage is a nonstop rom-com. It takes two grown adults. People change. Life gets chaotic. Responsibilities stack up. And no, it’s not all candlelit dinners and whispered sweet nothings—it’s mostly blind trust, compromise, and a whole lot of unglamorous effort.

But reading what you wrote comes off pretty one-sided. Heavy on the “give,” light on the “take.” Not everyone’s born knowing how to comfort someone, communicate like a therapist, or clean up someone else’s emotional mess—let alone their metaphorical ass.

Love itself is not the hard part. That’s supposed to be the easy, unconditional part. What’s hard is the grind—the imbalance, the daily tug-of-war. It’s not love that’s complicated. It’s everything else.

But hey, maybe the rest of us just aren’t trying hard enough. If we could just ignore our needs, never get tired, never grow or change, and somehow be perfect partners 24/7… maybe we’d reach relationship nirvana too.

Because clearly, love is simple, Just give endlessly, expect nothing, and if it ever starts to feel one-sided… well, that’s probably just our own fault for not trying harder.

….and maybe I know nothing, I’m just a sarcastic asshole  Ive bee single a long time, you can read  about  it on my FB feed I linked my blogger.

To Be Continued: A Story of Space, Spirit, and Starting Over

Life has a funny way of handing us revelations—not in grand announcements, but in quiet moments. Mine came tonight, when I went to sit in my adjustable desk chair and—of course—it broke. So now I’m on a hard school chair, trying to collect thoughts that have been swirling around in my head for weeks.

These thoughts aren’t organized. They’re bits of conversations I’ve had, reflections I’ve avoided, and questions I’ve answered over and over. So I’m just going to write them down the way they come: honestly, messily, and from the heart.

---

The Questions I Keep Getting

I’m single.
I’m happy.
I’m free. (To an extent.)

Lately, I’ve been getting a lot of the same questions:

• Why aren’t you dating?

• Why are you still single?

• Have you ever been married?

• Aren’t you lonely?

And here are my answers:

• I don’t have time.

• I want to be.

• Yes, twice.

• No.

But if you really want to understand, I have to take you back a bit.

---

Why I’ve Always Needed Space

Relationships have never been easy for me. I always wanted them, but once the excitement faded and real communication was required, I’d pull away. I don’t know how to talk—really talk—because I never learned how.

I grew up with an alcoholic father and a bipolar mother. Coming home meant not knowing if it would be calm or chaotic. I was always on guard. And while my parents were loving in their own ways—never abusive, always providing—I learned early on that silence was safer than expression.

So, no, I’m not great at relationships. Every one of them ended one of three ways:

1. I got cheated on.

2. I was told, "You just don’t know what I’ve been through."

3. And yes... I got cheated on again.

Some say I’m too trusting. Maybe. Or maybe I just like having my own space. I’ve never been the type who wants to be with someone all the time. I need room to breathe, to be me.

---

Finding My Way Back to Myself

After my second marriage ended, I was left with a modest job, a child with medical needs, and not much else. I worked hard, often overtime, to make ends meet. I kept my mind busy and my daughter supported. Christmases were simple, but she never complained.

Eventually, I started to reclaim pieces of myself. I began exercising, eating better, and finding little sparks of joy again. That marriage had stripped me of my independence and my identity. I had to rebuild.

When my daughter went off to college, my father’s health began to fail. I became his full-time helper. His girlfriend had her own medical issues, and I stepped in there too—appointments, medication, errands. Life became a constant series of responsibilities.

My friends stopped asking me out. I always said “no.”
I passed up career opportunities. I didn’t have the energy.
And when my father was dying, he asked me to take care of his girlfriend. So I did.

She passed during COVID. I was already tired—but I kept going.

---

New Chapters, Same Heart

The pandemic isolated me physically but reconnected me creatively. I rediscovered old hobbies: sewing, painting, papercrafts, woodworking. I binged TV shows. I overate. I processed.

Then came a move. I downsized from a house I never loved and found my forever home. And during that chaos—I found out I was going to be a Grammy.

Now my daughter and grandson live nearby, and I see their faces every day. That, in itself, is a gift.

---

Why I’m Still Single (and Why That’s Beautiful)

So now, here I am—present day. Still single. And still content.

I’m still discovering who I am. I’m set in my ways, and I like it that way. I don’t want to share my house, my tools, or my bathroom. I want to hang shelves in my pajamas at 3 a.m. I want to blast classical music—or metal. (Sorry, Sarah, for those middle-of-the-night hammering sessions.)

I want to sit on the back porch and dream. Or read. Or just be quiet.

I don’t want to cook dinner for someone else. Or do their laundry. Or have one more conversation out of obligation. I’ve spent a lifetime caring for others—from my childhood to now. I had to be a chameleon. I had to adapt. Fit in. Be what someone else needed.

But now?

Now I want to be what I need.
Now it’s my turn.
Now, I choose me.

---

This Isn’t a Pity Party—It’s an Awakening

If I had to do it all again, I would. I’m not complaining. I did what I had to do—with love and without regret. But this moment? This season? It’s mine.

This isn’t a pity party. This is an awakening party.

Robin is going to live her best life now. My spirit is free.

I can do what I want.

Years ago, I wrote a poem that captured this feeling. I need to find it again—because it is me.

To be continued…

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