Category: Essays

A collection of observations, stories, overthinking, and occasional life lessons learned the hard way.

Only 100 Miles Away

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…is what my mom said to me the first day of college. “I’m only 100 miles away.”

Standing on the sidewalk of North Dorms, sobbing to the point of chest pain, I watched my parents drive off back to New York. My leap of faith to go to college in Philadelphia was far from my norm.

Throughout that first year, I kept returning to my mom’s words.

She’s only 100 miles away.

I would repeat it. No matter what happened, it was only 100 miles.

And if you are like me; someone who turns distance into something you can control, I didn’t think of it as a stretch of highway. I broke it down. Ten miles, ten times. Something about the word only made it feel manageable. Like it wasn’t really distance at all.

By junior year, that promise was tested for the first time. My dad made it to my apartment in under 2.5 hours and took me back to New York to get the help I needed. In that moment, 100 miles was real.

After I moved back to the Philadelphia area for work and love, those 100 miles started to shift. At first, I could still cross them easily. Birthdays, holidays, family dinners; I would leave early, drive late, practically enjoy the traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike. I learned how to time my life around the Belt Parkway and how to arrive without being late, how to leave before I really wanted to. Wiping my tears away the second I pulled out to Roslyn Road and got past that first light became my routine.

The trips became more deliberate over the years. I stopped going to everything. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t be everywhere at once anymore. The job got harder, the baby got bigger, I got more tired. The 100 miles didn’t disappear, but they just started competing with everything else. And slowly, they stopped feeling like only anything.

I’ve lived in the Philadelphia area for a little over twelve years. I’ve stayed with the same company. I’ve grown into a wife, a dog mom, and then a mother. But just 100 miles away, another version of me is still there.

She lives in my parents’ house. She sits at their kitchen table. She is at every dinner I missed, every birthday I wasn’t at, every “stop by if you can” I didn’t make. She watches people I love keep living without her in the frame.

How do you explain grief for a place? The truth is, I can go back to the place. The streets are still there. The houses are still there. What I can’t go back to is the moment in time when it meant something different. The feeling that anything could happen on a Friday afternoon after school. The excitement and comfort of going to my aunt’s house after Christmas dinner. The certainty that everyone I loved was exactly where they were supposed to be. Now I catch glimpses of it in photos, group texts, and social media posts.

And then I was there again, driving those 100 miles.

Except this time, it wasn’t college drop-off or a holiday visit or one of those quick drives where I’d turn right back around. This time, my aunt was dying.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

Because life where I was didn’t stop. I still had work. Friends. Plans. Phone calls I kept meaning to return. Meanwhile, she was getting sicker. That’s the part I can’t really explain to people. She got sick in the background of my life. Not because she mattered less, but because everything else kept moving, too. I think some part of me stopped looking too closely because I didn’t know how to carry it otherwise.

She was smaller, but she sure still made the room brighter being in it.

I saw her four times that week. The last was in hospice.

My dad took his three children in to see his sister. Following behind him felt familiar. The lights were off in the room, and I hated it. It felt like the room was trying to disappear around her. I had seen people in hospice before, but it wasn’t like this. I could feel my sister’s heart breaking next to me on my left. My dad and brother stood to my right, silent. And I just stood there waiting to be told what to do next.

When I think about her, I don’t think about the big moments. I think about all the small ones I missed while I was busy living through my own life somewhere else. The texts she’d send checking in about some HR problem I mentioned once when we were sitting at the beach. The follow-up questions days later. Her cards for every silly little holiday arrived on time, always. She had the littlest ways to stay involved in my life, even from 100 miles away.

That was the last time I really went home. And it ripped me apart.

Because now, 100 miles away from me is a family, my family, still trying to remember her laugh. Still reaching for stories, old voicemails, anything that lets us feel like she’s still here for another second.

It’s 2026 now.

She’s gone. The house I grew up in looks the same, but feels different. Yet, I still get sleepy sitting in the living room. When I come home, my mom still asks me what I want to do that day, but my list of ideas have gotten shorter. I don’t really know what to do there anymore. That’s the strange thing about leaving, about grief, and about everything in between. Eventually, you forget what you used to do there.

People moved, drifted, shifted into different versions of themselves until I could no longer place what anything used to be. I can’t really go back anymore without feeling like I need permission from a past version of my life. It hurts too much to see what was and what it has become. It hurts too much to see what was and where it is now. The cracks in the tile at my parents’ house have grown, and I never noticed them before. The cabinets look smaller, the memories in my bedroom feel like a dream, and the neighborhood feels quieter. Everyone looks older in ways that seem to happen all at once. I think about the yellow house a lot. It used to be where everyone ended up.

Eventually, going home stops feeling like return and starts feeling like evidence of time passing without you. And maybe that’s the part I was never prepared for. By the time I realized it was ending, it already had.

It’s only 100 miles away, right?

So says the 35-year-old in the house she bought at 25

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“I think I’m ready to talk about it. For real this time.”

“Talk about what?”

“It.”

Lauren looked up at me and looked at me. Really looked. She tilted her head to the side and said, “what do you mean it?” I sat there silently.

Lauren has been my therapist for 3 years now. I had another therapist before her that moved to her own practice and couldn’t take me with her. I can’t even remember her name anymore. I don’t remember a lot of things. I think my brain blocks things out. Even years later, I can’t put my finger on why I know someone or where a memory pops up from.

“Are you talking about your suicide attempt?” She asked. Her voice echoed inside my brain. Almost challenging my statement, making me think again before I answered.

“I think so. It’s been like 16 years.” I commented back. I could feel my head squeezing my brain almost out of my ears. I sat there, waiting for her to prompt me.

“So, talk.”

I sat there, 35 years old…50 pounds heavier…a whole life lived in-between then and now. Sitting in my house, the house I bought when I was 25, at a computer I bought when I was 33, speaking in hushed tones so my son, who I had when I was 26, wouldn’t hear me.

“I think it was stupid.”

“What was?”

“Me trying. I wouldn’t have the guts, I don’t even know why I did it.”

“Why are you putting down yourself and your ability to kill yourself?”

“I’m not, I’m just saying–” She cut me off.

“Why are you judging the mind, body, and soul of a person who you once were?”

And just like that, I’m circling my apartment again. I walk up the dingy stairs and open the door. There she is, standing over her bathroom sink.

“No, like what the fuck was I thinking?”

“You were thinking you couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Yeah, but… I didn’t cut the right way.”

“Kate, I don’t think it’s the time to critique the way you tried to cut yourself.”

There she is again. A blue Venus razor dropping to the tile floor and getting lost under the metal bars of the sink. A small cry, and silence. There she is, slowly bringing herself down onto the floor.

“I remember that feeling.”

“Which one?”

“How hard my chest felt. Like my lungs were going to come out of my mouth.”

As I stood there in my apartment, watching my willingness disappear, the door flung open and knocked me to the side.

And just like that I’m back.

“What were you thinking about?”

“I was just, in it.”

Lauren moved on, asking why I brought it up today.

“It’s almost my niece’s 16th birthday.”

“The one that made you realize you can’t leave?”

“yeah..that one.”

I sat there, in my sister’s first house, twenty years old and too heavy for my own body. My sister was leaving for work and running around trying to get her bag packed. She really needed me to watch the baby. I had left school, was off from the job my mom made me get, and was terribly addicted to cigarettes.

“You can do this right? You just have to make sure her diaper is good and you can watch TV and stuff.”

“yeah, I’m fine.”

But, my mom’s voice was in the back of my head. “Katie you tried to kill yourself and now Kerry is depending on you to make sure that baby is ok. She needs to you do this, can she trust you?”

“What time will you be home?”

“As soon as I can.”

I moved my legs to under my body and sat up straight. Looking at Lauren’s zoom window.

“Ok, so what I’m getting is that you’re unsure of how you got from there to here?” Lauren said again, this time with certainty. “That’s why you’re doing this to yourself again.”

I nodded and looked down, trying to ground myself in anything that feels real. I glanced around quickly and my pens caught my eye. I had gotten new highlighters because I wanted to cross off tasks and color code them if they were “fully done” or “just working on it.”

“I think I just got here,” I said.

“You got here because you lived through it,” she said after a beat.

pause.

“Maybe not the way you wanted to,” she added.

My eyes landed on the Taylor Swift prayer candle.

“But I did it wrong.”

I looked back up and flashed into my childhood home. Sitting across from my brother at the dining room, I grew angrier each time he spoke to me.

I remember the heat building in my chest before I even understood what I was angry about.

“I’m taking medication for depression,” I said.

It came out flat. Like it meant nothing.

He barely looked up.

“Okay and?” he said. “You can’t talk to mom that way.”

I took a sip of water. My foot was asleep.

“I think I did it wrong,” I said.

Lauren just looked at me like she was waiting for me to stay in the present long enough to notice I was already here.

“That’s what it feels like to you,” she said finally.

My hour was up.

“We can pick this up next week,” she said. “But you did get through it.”

“I know,” I said. “I just think I could have handled it better.”

I stayed on the call a second after she logged off.

I looked at my desk again. The highlighters still waiting for tasks that didn’t feel real anymore.

I thought about how many versions of me exist in the same space without agreeing on what happened.

And I stayed sitting there, not trying to resolve it this time.

My husband comes around the corner, the guy I met at 18, and slows when he sees me. He already knows how this part goes. He doesn’t say anything right away.

“I think I’m ok today.”

Says the 35-year-old in the house she bought at 25.

Life is a Tough Crowd

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 I sang for the first time in 6 months today.

It was like autopilot; I pulled out of my driveway, and as I put my car in drive, I turned on Ida Rose’s “If I Don’t Have You” and started humming. I had the driver’s side window open, and felt the warmth of the sun on my arm and sang the first chorus with her. Something about the last 48 hours in my life started running through my head, and I started to feel normal again. I started to feel like I wanted to live again, and clean my car. I thought about the last couple of days, and how I pushed myself to take a shower and brush my hair. I thought through every last action, up to reading my son a story at bedtime…because I haven’t done that in quite some time. By the end of the song, I had tears streaming down my face, and a feeling of lightness in my body. Was this what it’s like to feel ok? To feel normal? Is this what everyone feels like? 

My whole life, I sang. Not well, but I sang. I sang when I wanted to release pressure, anxiety, happiness, and sadness. I was never so sad that I stopped singing. Until this year. 

2021 hasn’t been kind to many, and it’s been a year of a lot of gritty feelings, and a lot of pushing through pain. My family is no exception. Our pain started in March, and after pairing our loss with a continuing pandemic, tough world affairs, and divide, we found ourselves hit hard.

In the same timeframe, work started ramping up and things seemed to be going extremely well. So, I ran with it. I worked harder than anyone I knew and threw myself into my work to get away from my pain. It worked…for a couple of months. And then we were hit again, and again, and again. Loss after loss of various people in my life passing away that I almost started losing count of who I still had, and who I may have limited time with. Throughout everything, I was struggling with extreme imposter syndrome at my job and I stopped going to the gym. My fail-safes failed. 

I just…couldn’t do it anymore. 

I stopped caring about myself. My self-talk became extremely erratic and harmful. I let myself believe that I was not anything but taking up space in this world. I stopped going to Home Goods and stopped trying to improve our house, my motivation and drive withered to nothing. I fixated on specific things, and picked apart myself with a magnifying glass. Any flaw I could find, I told myself I should be better, I should be prettier, I should be happier. And then one day, I started getting that feeling of no feelings. I’ve been down this road before, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be in the same position as before. This time, I said something to a friend. I said what I felt and how I felt without fearing she would judge me. I told her I thought I had OCD, and that my depression was getting bad again…and she gave me the name of a place and told me to make an appointment. It took me 3 weeks after getting the name of the office to muster up the courage to call. Not for fear of judgement, but because I was exhausted, and calling someone on the phone was too much for me. 

I had been down the therapy road, and I was better! How could I possibly be sick enough to go back? I didn’t let myself believe it for a while, but as I got worse, my habits became more erratic. I sat in silence at home, ignoring my child and husband. I had disassociated myself with everything that meant so much to me. I drained my energy at work and in my social life to ensure that I never gave off the impression of any sort of sadness. I’d put on a brave face and be the funny one, the smart one, and the put together one. I tried to make up for how much I hated my insides and how much space I took up. I made jokes to make people laugh because I couldn’t laugh at anything. I played myself, because while others thought I was okay, I was just ready to disappear. 

However, I called. Despite my negative self-talk, I called the office and I asked for an appointment. When the secretary said there was a two month wait- I started to cry and told her it needed to be now. Something about that sounded off alarms, because I got a phone call later that day from a therapist asking which days she could fit me in. I had to be an advocate for myself, because if I didn’t, who would?

My first couple of sessions brought up a lot of trauma from my past. A lot of talk about my first attempt of suicide, and if I was feeling any sort of way now. I said no, but only because I was so tired. She asked me to tell my husband so he was aware. Later that night, we spoke, and I told him everything. Not that he didn’t know what was going through my mind, but this solidified what he already knew. 

The next couple of sessions were a blur. I talked about dumb things; my family, my friends, and my work. I talked about myself and shamed myself for everything that I *think* I do wrong. I was either shaming myself for not being present with my husband and son, or not signing my son up for soccer in time. I spoke about how much I loathed my body, my personality, and the way my life is turning out. Lastly, I spoke to my therapist about the “good” things that happen in my life. 

Two sessions ago, at the end of my session, my therapist wanted to point something out to me. 

She said, “I’ve noticed that you tend to change your language when you speak about the positive things that are happening to you.” and I inquired what she meant. She went on to say, “When you talk about hurtful things, things that you shame yourself for, you say ‘I’ and own the responsibility of the actions or failure to act… BUT when you speak about things that are positive and exciting in your life, you speak about yourself in the third person, as if you don’t believe it’s happening to you.”

And boy, did that hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t own a single one of my accomplishments. I downplayed them, I made them into a team effort, or into something not that important. Slowly, I tried to recognize my self-talk. I gave myself grace, and I let myself sit in some “failures.” I didn’t jump to volunteer for every committee at work, and I let myself understand that just because I don’t do something, or don’t go out every time someone invites me, it’s okay…because I’m looking out for myself. 

The last couple of weeks, I stopped drinking to the point of no return, I stopped putting myself in situations that could lead to problems in the morning, and began to respect myself. Am I finished improving myself? Absolutely not. But, for today, I sang. I sang every Taylor Swift song I know, and made sure everyone heard me. 

Sure, I still look at myself in the mirror with a magnifying glass and wonder how anyone could love me some days– but today, I let myself off the hook. I’m choosing to not see myself as a burden, but rather someone that is meant to be included, and celebrated. 

And that is self care.

Hold On

It’s myself falling into another flashback.

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For Tony: who found me

&

For Cecelia Grace: who helped me find me.

*Trigger warning

This morning, I drove down my block on my way to drop my son off at school. Singing Baby Shark, and making up silly verses—I hear Michael giggling in the backseat. 

Ouch. 

What was that? 

Ouch, again. 

My heart. Or, what feels like my heart. It’s myself disassociating from my present tense. It’s myself falling into another flashback. These days, it doesn’t happen as often- but when it does, it doesn’t feel good. I stop at a stop sign and turn my head. I can hear my head turning. Oh, yeah- I know what’s happening. Pull over. My heart and my body start moving in different directions while I hear Michael muffled, “Mommy you stopped the car!” 

Time slows down while I breathe out what feels like a thousand glass shards through my mouth. My lungs and throat are on fire. Then, just like that, it’s gone. What was once muffled is back to normal, and Baby Shark fades out and starts up again. I start driving and go on my way.

My eyes tear up, and my chest feels like it’s falling into itself. “Just breathe, baby. It’s almost done.” I talk myself out of crying and drive towards the main road. “You are not her. You aren’t her anymore. Be brave. ” You say out loud.

“Who’s her?”

Your son’s question breaks the fog. You’re a mom again. Stop it, just drop him off.  

It’s only for an instant, but ten years later, I still cannot place how I got to where I am. It’s like I woke up and I was married, in a house that I apparently bought, with a dog and pregnant. It’s like my body was on autopilot for so long that it forgot what happiness felt like, and how to turn back to manual. 

I do not remember anything, and if I say I do, I’m lying. For three years, I was completely on autopilot, trying to make sense of the mess I created around me. Occasionally, I’ll drive around my neighborhood by myself, listening to music from my junior year in college and try to place where I was exactly when I decided to take my own life.

I was walking to the corner of Broad and Olney outside LaSalle University. The weather was turning, and the leaves fell onto the blacktop just in time for me to walk over them. I made my way to south campus when I saw a group of girls in my grade. I didn’t know them, but I had seen them at parties before. One of them waved at me, and I crookedly smiled at her. I looked up to the sky and for the first time in my life, I felt like I didn’t need to be there. There was a peace in the chaos around me. I didn’t care about being their friend, I didn’t care about going to see my friends on the other side of campus– and I turned around and walked back to my apartment.

It’s been ten years. Ten years of recovery, turning off autopilot, and starting to find myself. I still don’t know who I am, and I’m not sure if I ever will.

I tried to take my life so matter-of-factly one afternoon alone in my LaSalle apartment, that it even scares me to think about it.  If I can remember correctly, I was on academic probation with my sorority and could not go to a party they were hosting. I didn’t actually care about the party, or anything else for that matter. I would have slept through the whole night if it weren’t for having to use the bathroom.

I woke up from my nap after skipping my class, looked at myself in the bathroom mirror after washing my hands and then …my memory fogs up. The next thing I saw was my friend pulling me upwards towards my couch. I tried to fight him off of me, but my legs dragged underneath me, while he pulled me out of my bathroom. I had blood on my shirt and my razor had fallen into the sink. My wrist and palms had blood all over, while I tried to cover up my newly cut wound with my other hand. He grabbed my phone and called my mom, then my therapist, then my roommates…I think. I wish I had the guts to ask them if he called them, I never knew how everyone knew, but everyone knew by the end of the night.

I wish, in some small capacity, I could tell my friends how sick I actually was. I wish, for a minute, I could apologize for putting them through what I put them through. Not just Tony, but my roommates, my sorority sisters, everyone I knew. I was so sick, and I didn’t know how to ask for help. So I didn’t, I didn’t want to be a bother. So, this is an apology for the friendships and trust that I broke. I am sorry I didn’t tell you how bad I was hurting. I’m sorry for the fights, the screaming, and most of all the distance I put between us. I had to take the distance in order to be closer to myself.  

If you’re reading this…be a bother. Always. You aren’t being dramatic, and you aren’t being “unstable.” You are being brave. Remember that.

Tony was my neighbor, and he had come in to check on me. My assumption was that I slept through his baseball practice and I skipped dinner, so he was concerned. I’m not really sure what would have happened to me if he wasn’t concerned. I’m not really sure if I’d be able to write you my musings of what I’ve learned about mental illness ten years later.

The rest of the months after the “incident” have been redacted from my mind. It’s like seeing an old diary that certain entries have been ripped out or scribbled over. It’s so frustrating to comb through your mind while trying to feel what you felt through those couple of months, and coming up with some nondescript answer.

Looking back, I feel like I was underwater for three years. I went through life on autopilot. I took my medicine, went through the motions of going to class and seeing friends—but I was never truly there. I was never fully, all there. I made some huge mistakes in that time that I can only remember in glimpses, and that’s absolutely terrifying. I’ve scoured the internet for pictures of nights I don’t remember having, and I can’t find much. Have you ever seen a video of yourself drunk? Singing, dancing, and doing stupid things…imagine seeing videos or pictures of yourself for three years without recalling any memories. Talk about terrifying.

These ten years of my life have been the hardest years that I could ever imagine. I never thought I’d be able to write this. But, I don’t know when the time will be right to share a reflection so harsh and scary. So, I’ll continue on.

It’s been 10 years that have been filled with learning’s, successes, and beauty. I was given a second chance, and I am so glad I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, dragged my body through recovery and finally reached out and grabbed what I could and didn’t let go. Sometimes, the only way out is through. Through barbed wire and numbing medication, through hurt and years of my brain shutting off memories to save its person from what’s been done.

Even if my mind and body was bruised and hurt, I had to go through the struggle to heal to get to the other side. I had to put in the work, and throw away the shame of asking for help. Once I was able to catch my breath, I was able turn back just to see the mess I left behind. The wreck I made of the very things that tried to wreck me.

I have been able to see the most beautiful days through the harsh realties that are sprinkled into each day. I have made the most of what I’ve been given, and made it into an adventure. I beg you to do the same. Even if your beauty is “I didn’t cry today” or “I put shoes on.” It’s a victory, and remember when you couldn’t stop crying, or when you couldn’t bear to put shoes on.

I would have never met the little person that calls me mommy. Who has solidified my decision to stay on this earth. My little man, the happiest guy I’ve ever met, would not be. My husband would still be in Germany, wondering what ever happened to that girl he dated for like two days in her freshman year. He’d probably still be working in a kitchen, with no plans of coming back to the United States. My parents and siblings would speak in hushed tones about me, if I came up. And, my nieces and nephews would only see me as a photo on the piano. Cecelia and Meredith’s fashion would be a lot less Lilly Pulitzer heavy, and they would have a lot less sparkly pencils. Phin and Colin wouldn’t have an older cousin to try to teach them basketball. The house I’ve made into a home would have sold to some contractor who would have redone my kitchen and fixed this stupid fireplace to make it gas. I would have never found out that I actually do have a runner’s body, and I do in fact ENJOY going to the gym and being competitive. Friends would post a picture of me on their Instagram feed on the anniversary of my suicide, and write to me and tell me all I have missed. And boy, I would have missed a lot.

My heart aches to think of the souls of the people who were so hurt, and so broken that they couldn’t bring themselves to wake up one more day, see one more sunrise, and share one more meal with someone they loved.

What would life be like without me? What would the world be like with one less Katie? One less caramel macchiato loving bitch, that’s for sure.

Please hold on. Please. It’s worth it. 800-273-8255

The 7 People You Meet in HomeGoods

There are few people that can walk up and down the aisles at home goods and not get tempted into purchasing kitchen towels that say “Drink up, witches.”

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Ah, home goods, the mothership. There are few people that can walk up and down the aisles at HomeGoods and not get tempted into purchasing kitchen towels that say “Drink up, witches.”

In fact, I have a theory. There are seven different types of people that you will meet in a HomeGoods aisle that are bound to have their carts overflowing with another skeleton or truck and tree pillow.

1. The Influencer

Ohh, girl you know who she is. Maybe I even tried to be her for a hot minute. (Transplanted New Yorker?) Come on guys, you’ve seen her before. There she is… with her Instagram open… ready for an epic story. Not only is she sporting a wide-brimmed hat (it is fall, you know) but she’s wearing a buffalo check flannel button-down with skinny jeans and a boot moment. She starts off her Instagram story with a boomerang of the HomeGoods sign with a caption of “uh oh, haul coming soon!” Steer clear, I think I’ve seen her start fights over the last twinkle light set.

2. The mom who just needs a break

If she has kids with her, she’s not getting a break— but has the day off and needs to get out of her house. She spends the majority of her time going up and down the aisles yelling at her children to get off the glass shelves because they definitely will not hold them. She’s the one that you hear screaming, “BRAXTON, GET OVER HERE” in frames while you’re over in the kitchen section. By the time you end up behind her in line, her children have tears coming down their face while she’s calling her husband talking about how bad they are. She’s bribed or threatened them… or both. All children involved have at least one toy from the kid’s section that will inevitably be put back before they check out.

3. The “collector”

Hands-down, easily the most annoying and obnoxious of all HG shoppers. She’s the one that you see knocking down the door at 10 of 10 on a Saturday. Regardless of her having her children there, they are so well-trained that you wouldn’t even know that she had kids with her. They know that once Mommy goes into home goods you do not misbehave or you will get all fortnight privileges taken away.  They’re the ones that are calling each and everyone of their bookclub friends to see if they want the latest Rae Dunn collection. Much to your demise, when you arrive at 11 AM, the entire shelf is empty. They then proceed to go on to Instagram, and use hashtags such as #wipedout #earlybirdgetstheworm. If you aren’t a HG shopper, you can easily translate this to the IG accounts that find deep discounted clearance at Target. Same person, same Lularoe leggings.

4. The mom who actually is getting a well deserved break

I don’t think this lady actually knows that she’s in a HomeGoods or that her children have stayed home with somebody else.  You can usually see her wandering around the same aisle three or four times before she realizes that she’s made a circle and have bumped into several shoppers. She usually takes this time to multitask, checking her emails or texting friends that she’ll forget about in an hour. She’s usually the quickest of the home good shoppers since she usually gets distracted and leaves. God bless her. And by her, I mean me. Because this is me.

5. The Mother/daughter duo saying “this is cute”

These two take forever, and usually aren’t paying attention. They go up and down every aisle so not to miss anything. Since they both have a cart each, they take up the entire aisle. Usually, they’ll shoot you a dirty look when you just want to pass them. Even an excuse me seems rude in their eyes. How dare you come to their aisle! Most likely there is a project started at home that they needed to come out to grab some additional items to finish. However, this gets thrown into the wind after they hit the pillow section. They comb through each section touching every piece of product on the shelves remarking, “this is cute”

“this is cute”

“this is cute…”

“Mom look, isn’t this cute?”

6. The couple

These two are too big for their britches. Usually it starts off with just one part of the couple walking up and down each aisle with the determination that they can find something cute for their apartment or house. By the time they get to the Tupperware section, the other half of the couple has either decided to leave them and go back to the car, or jump headfirst into a full house renovation. You’ll pass them contemplating all new dishes, “oh don’t we need this for the bar? How cute would that be?”, and planning what their ideal kitchen would look like. Phrases fly around like, “go with me here… I’m thinking an island!” Or “I was really loving what they did on love it or list it, we could probably make that”

7. The home goods returner

The rarest breed of all HomeGoods shoppers, is the one that goes back and returns. From what I’ve seen of this breed, they are usually not the most pleasant. They expect to be able to find all the items that they need for their project in one HomeGoods, and they can’t understand why there’s no website. Usually they will opt for an exchange, since no one can ever remember which bag they put your receipt…and the whole store has been reconfigured after they left two days ago, and now looks like a Christmas wonderland.

 

Stuff I’ve Done Wrong: Mom Edition

No matter what I write or what anyone writes– your child might be different, and those things might not work for you. 

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Hey, yea, so there’s a couple of things that I should tell you all about my parenting style: I don’t do things the way the moms of my time tell the internet forums to do stuff. Yup, I’m a bad millennial mom, and I’m not sorry about it.

I stopped listening to every single forum out there on the world wide paranoid web when I read a post while pregnant about the things I could NOT do while pregnant. To be honest, I’m sure there are some folks out there that would strongly encourage living in a small bubble to just make sure that everything is balanced when pregnant.

Now, I wasn’t the happiest of pregnant people. For one; everyone around me thought I had transformed into a psycho, for another; I was too lazy to follow any of the rules. Granted, I didn’t do anything horribly wrong, such as drinking, smoking, jumping off bridges, etc…but at 9 months pregnant, I BY ACCIDENT ate swordfish. My b. But, my son is a year and a half (16 months for those who prefer counting by months until their kid is 5) and he’s the most fine any kid could be. So, for those pregnant– if you slip up and drink a coffee…relax. If you slip up and drive your car on a bumpy road…relax. You’ll get through it.

Now, on to the last 16 months of my son’s life:

We didn’t co-sleep, I had him in the crib by the time he was 3 months old, I played Fetty Wap in the car while my son was 4 months old, I didn’t stick him in front of a TV at 5 months old, I didn’t put batteries in the swing or cradle for extra vibrations because it’s too overstimulating, I used Facebook once for parenting advice and then I found google and my doctor’s phone number, and lastly, I didn’t stress about every single developmental step, every single problem out there– because when you do, you get gray hair.

Moral of my story, you’re going to screw up– and you’re going to be afraid, but it’s not the end of the world if your kid doesn’t start walking right at 13 months. When you learn to not stress about every single thing, you start to actually find your groove and your parenting style. I figured out that reading mommy blogs that used fire and brimstone in order to breed fear in their readers just wasn’t for me. No matter what I write or what anyone writes– your child might be different, and those things might not work for you.

Things will come up, and you have to learn to be cool and collected while handling it, because children feed off your behavior. The first time you have to fill out paperwork for your child will be something else, and you’ll actually realize that you’re in charge of this baby, and you have to do right by him or her.

The best piece of advice, and the only piece I ever listened to was this:

“Don’t ever let your child dictate your life, they may alter it, change how things are done, but never work around their schedule. They have to learn to be in your world, and it’s your job to teach them.”

Love you, mean it

K

PS: Don’t be a bitter Betty about my rant. Thanks 🙂

Vintage Sea Theme: Pinteresting

I wanted to have a “vintage sea theme” going on, which is a weird as shit theme, and sounds very pinteresting if you know what I mean.

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What’s up everyone?! How many times do you think I can apologize about being super busy? Well, here’s another one! Sorry guys! I’m super busy– and even though I want to be instafamous, I have to go to my job and make money that way. Such is life, right?

Anyway, I’m writing to you guys today to talk about my cute AF decoration in my bathroom! I’ve been having a hard time trying to decorate my house, so I picked literally the smallest room and decided that if I can accomplish that room, I’m winning. Well kids, I “finished” the room! And if by finished we mean the walls need a second coat of paint, and I should probably get a new vanity– eeeehh, it’s basically finished.

I’m a super big commitment-phobe (but not about important things) I’m afraid to commit to wall colors, themes in rooms, and furniture. This is why I haven’t finished any of the other rooms in our house. I made a bold-ass choice in my living room, and I love it– but now, I actually have to get cracking on the furniture part. BUT, that’s another post for another day.

On to the bathroom:

I wanted to have a “vintage sea theme” going on, which is a weird as shit theme, and sounds very pinteresting if you know what I mean. I figured that I could get some boats, anchors, and be super basic about it– but then I hit my head on my hanging chandelier in my kitchen and I got a super crazy idea! #mermaidsMF YES, that’s right. I mermaid that bathroom into a pretty decent place to wash your hands. #imjustbeinghonest

I picked out a very teal, jewel toned paint color for the wall and had my husband paint the walls, and maybe part of the ceiling too. Mostly, because we don’t know how to paint a room. Yes, I still had painter’s tape on the wall a year after we painted, because who knew that it actually makes it HARDER to take off after that long? #notme

I picked out brass-ish accessories for the soap dispenser and towel holder…because we all know that actual bathroom fixtures are expensive AF, and I have to eat everyday.

A year after we painted, I figured that we should do something with the thoughts in my head, and on the snowiest day thus far of 2017, we trekked out to World Market, and bought some cool looking shelves. We then got home, tried to put them together and realized that the shelves indeed do NOT come with brackets, and those are sold separately. Clever. So, three trips later (don’t ask about the stupidity of the third trip), and our shelves were installed!

I had been gathering trinkets and pictures like a hoarder for the past 6 months.  I figured I would pick out items that I would want to use and that would look thematic in our sea bathroom. So, as soon as those babies went up, you bet I was right there to shove my husband out of the way so I FINALLY had a place to put our weird mermaid statue.

When putting items on a shelf– it’s very important not to laugh at yourself for how ridiculous that sounds– there are some visual tips that I like to live by:

  1. Odd numbers are best. Yes, I have an even count on both of my shelves.. Do what I say, not as I do.
  2. Think outside the box when looking for prints. There’s no such store as the “vintage sea themed bathroom store” that has any kind of print/painting/statue that could fit that theme. Girl, you have to search for that…and be on your A-game when you’re in Home Goods. Three of my pictures are gift bags that I cut up and put into a frame.
  3. I tend to keep the same metal, with various colors of wood. I took the inspiration from one print I found at the Paper Source, and surrounded my whole shelf color story around it.
  4. Book ends are a great way to let your audience know that everything in between the book ends are related. Lol, you won’t have an audience in your bathroom.
  5. You can play your color story into various parts of the room, such as the mirror color, your light fixture, or even your door knob. It makes the room look more complete.

 

Items: Top Shelf: Mermaid Statue- Kirklands; Anchor bookend- Home goods; Crown-wearing Octopus- World Market; Mermaid holding anchor- World Market; Frames- World Market and Home Goods

Bottom Shelf: Whale Painting- Home Goods; Anchor bookend- Home goods; Mermaid greeting card- Home goods; Mermaid print- Paper Source; Frames- Home Goods, TJ Maxx

Here’s the bottom line, if you want your house to be pinterest-worthy, you better worry about it way too much, and let it consume your life.

 

Love you, mean it

k

An Open Letter to a Mentor

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It started as a job. That’s it. I interviewed, and you offered me the job on the spot. Later on, you told me that I wasn’t a good interview, but I was a looker, and that’s what you needed to fill the job.

Little did you know how much you changed me, made me the person who I am today, and showed me how sure I really am about my career path. I’m sure that I am not the only one who feels this way, but I’m here to tell you thank you. Thank you for letting me put all my emotions on the table, thank you for letting me be your friend…while you became my first mentor in my career. A career that I didn’t even know was worth pursuing, until you opened the door, and walked me down the first part of the path.

You showed me that retail is not just a job, but rather a career for the wise, witty, and creative. You taught me how to sell…sell ice to an Eskimo, and make them believe that they really needed it. You did all of that, while showing me that a mentor, and a manager could be a respected friend and confidant. Countless memories go through my head, while I reminisce about how different I was, and still am, to you. Yet, you still cared, and you still let me be me…while shaping and molding me to make smart decisions in my personal and career life. You did all that, in two short years.

I was going through issues; there was no doubt about that. You let me air it out, on the clock, while still teaching me and using my useless Excel and Power point knowledge to your advantage. You encouraged me to finish school, while reaching inside my heart to let me see my full potential. I came as a broken mess, and you helped me pick up the pieces and move upwards from the lowest position in the store to a respected position that utilized my talents and smarts.

My days and moods varied on what kind of customers that I would encounter that day. “Did I want this to be forever? Is this the company to stay with?” All the while, you were there with the answers. The truth is, you saw that I was good…nay, great at what I was doing, and you tapped into that. I was never meant to be a social worker, sociologist, or (for a brief month) a terrorist interviewer. I was meant to make people happy, and although retail seems to be more on the materialistic aspect of careers…you showed me that there is a way to make it into a happy and fulfilling life.

You saw it inside me, and you grabbed it. Not for your own benefit, but rather because you saw the pain behind my eyes while I tried to figure out what I was going to be for the rest of my life. Maybe, you saw you inside of me, or maybe you still don’t realize how much you actually meant to me, but for everything that you did, and for all of the doors you opened for me, all while being a friend…thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

BB*SA

The Feel Good Project

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After having my first baby 6 and a half weeks ago, I found myself not being able to feel good about the way I looked. It’s the same old story for most new mommas, but after being told numerous times by my husband that I performed a miracle, I realized I was the only one that felt that I wasn’t confident. So, I made up a project…with the help of my on again off again therapist– It’s called the Feel Good Project, and since most of you guys aren’t moms quite yet, it’s still a great way to feel good when you are having an off week.

The Rules:

  1. Make up outfits– Since I work in retail, this is super easy for me, because I have to wear the clothes…but before I went on leave, my outfits were anything but cute. I have to have at least 3 items on, cute/clean shoes, a necklace, and earrings. This was the hardest, because I’ve been fairly preoccupied with you know…taking care of a newborn. But, I must be doing it right because I’ve been feeling fantastic!
  2. Wear makeup and wash your hair– yes. Go through the process of putting on a little something so you (and only you…because everyone around you thinks you’re awesome) feel good. Make sure to take a shower everyday, and WASH your hair…if you have time, style it.

…and that’s it. You are allowed to have a couple bum days, but you have to GET DRESSED no matter what.

Anywho- It’s Black Friday, and I’m obvs at work…PSA to the shoppers out there…be nice to us today 🙂

 

Love you, mean it.

 

What to Expect when You Weren’t Exactly Trying to Expect Anything..

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Back in January, I was still trying to pursue my Insta famous and blog lifestyle, when something in the pit of my stomach told me that I may be pregnant. I was not trying nor was it the right time for my husband and I to bring a child into the world. However, after taking a pregnancy test and having a class five anxiety attack… I realized it was a blessing in disguise.

My pregnancy was not my favorite thing, but the reward at the end was so amazing. Although everyone says that a baby is expensive– but not in a way you can see right away…so I’m here to uncover the hidden expenses of your new bundle of joy.

Your Doctor Appointments aren’t always covered
Depending on insurance, you can be caught paying for ultrasounds, blood work, and various genetic testing that are always good to get…but not the most cost effective. Don’t even think that your cool 3D image of your baby is remotely covered…and if it is, you’re lucky AF. If your experience is anything like mine, your doctor’s office might not completely understand your insurance and tell you there was no copay, and send you various bills in the mail. Later on in my pregnancy, I went to the doctor every week. Each week, I would receive an envelope in the mail containing a bill for my copay. #super

Maternity Clothes
You know what’s fun? Shopping for overpriced maternity items because the clothing industry KNOWS you have to give in and buy some maternity items. Talk about a fun lesson in economics. Even though I didn’t buy much, I had to buy pants…and the cheapest I could find were some pairs at target on a major sale…so go there for some clothing staples. My suggestion? Find jeggings and maxis. If you are pregnant in the winter, invest in two pairs of pants. Jeans and another pair. It’s easy to find cheap and pretty shirts than a pair of pants for a reasonable price.

Breast Pumps
Ask your doctor about insurance covered pumps…and if you are not pumping– ask your doctor for samples of formula. (The pediatrician will have plenty) An average pump can range in price anywhere from $150-450! I don’t have that kind of cash, my friends.

The Hospital Copay
This can depend on your insurance also, but mine was $500…so keep that in mind when you are planning your birth plan. Also- I didn’t have a birth plan, so don’t ask me for advice on that.
For 500 bucks, get your money out of it– grab those newborn diapers and mesh underwear for your postpartum weeks ahead.

Necessities
So you are having a baby shower? Great. Make sure to REGISTER smart. Yes, clothes are adorable…but no one wants a baby with cute clothes and no diapers. Very messy. Trust me, your friends and family will buy you clothes.

Register for wipes, diapers, dreft, and things you NEED. My go-to list for cheap will be up in a couple days, so stay tuned.

Make sure to get some basic onesies and 4-5 outfits in newborn. My baby was in newborn for just TWO WEEKS…so keep that in mind. AND, at 5 weeks, my baby is almost out of 3 month because he is so tall.

If your friend/family member is having a baby– give them a necessity. It is a lot more of a relief than a cute outfit (then get some cute clothes when the baby is born!)

Food
You think you’re going to want to cook after giving birth? Yea, you’re a psycho. Not only will you forget to go to the bathroom, you will forget what time it is, too. If you want to help a friend out, cook some frozen meals. If you have some time before you give birth, put some crock pot meals together and make some casseroles. Try not to order food every night, even though it’s tempting.

Food for the baby? Don’t give up on breastfeeding right away, try it for a couple weeks. Formula is VERY expensive. Much like maternity clothes, the industry knows you have to buy it. I tried pumping and breast feeding for 3 weeks, and then switched to formula. This is when you ask the pediatrician for those samples.

Childcare
Yea, we all know childcare is an expense…but do you know HOW expensive? I’m literally still having panic attacks about it. Unless you’re a Rockefeller, you may have to go back to work. Nannies, in-home help, and day cares have fees and tuitions that are actually insane. It’s not Harvard. If you have an irregular work schedule FREAKING FORGET trying to find weekend help. So make sure you budget yourself, and ask for some favors along the way. A plate of brownies for your in-laws or neighbor could go a long way.

I’ve only been a mom for a month, so give me some other ideas! The only thing I know is that I have to leave my 6 week old baby while I brave the retail world JUST in time for the holidays. Don’t dogs get 8 weeks?