Caves, Chaos, and Curaçao: A Story I Remember While Yelling at the Dog

I’m currently in Las Vegas, yelling at a dog named Poppy.

It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and my daughter Sam is hosting for the first time ever. New house. New husband. Two little boys. A puppy the size of a small lion. It’s a whole thing.

Poppy is big for a puppy. Golden retriever, full of feelings. She responds to tone more than words, which is why every time I shout, “Poppy, stop that!” my husband turns around like I just called him to heel.
(Yes. I call him Papi. No, I didn’t think this through.)

My kids say we’re basically the real-life Modern Family. I’m Gloria — the accent, the dramatics, the passive-aggressive side comments — just minus the cleavage and the body. And my husband? Full-on Jay. Older, white, slightly confused half the time but pretending not to be, walking around with a dishtowel like it's part of his natural anatomy. The dynamic is very much: tropical storm marries retired golf course.

It’s been our running joke for years now. And somehow, it gets more accurate every holiday.

We’re at my daughter’s house, and I’m trying to help in the kitchen. Not take over, just help. Just casually keep the stuffing from looking like it was prepped during a mild earthquake while pretending I’m not silently judging the oven temperature.

And in the middle of all this — the cooking, the barking, the football, the sudden craving for Cool Whip — I find myself mentally drifting back to earlier this month.
To a cave.
To Curaçao.
To four peaceful sea days where the only thing I had to worry about was whether I’d made it to my massage on time.

When You Realize Family Isn’t Guaranteed (But Pie Helps)

 One of our guest rooms is now my little creative cave. I converted it into a mini office-slash-studio. I love this spot — the morning light floods through the windows like it knows I need help getting out of bed. It’s where I used to paint.

Keyword: used to.

Because now? I hardly paint. I write. I make books. I fall into rabbit holes of stories and fonts and research and suddenly it’s 2 a.m. and I forgot to eat again. Something happened. Writing has me by the throat in the most healing, tender way. It's my version of therapy, except cheaper and with less emotional eye contact.

Here’s what I didn’t expect at 50-something: to finally let myself feel things I shoved into storage boxes three decades ago. To grieve stuff I didn’t know I was allowed to grieve. To dream about things I once laughed off — like publishing actual books. Not journals with three sad poems and a grocery list. I mean real books, with ISBNs and deadlines and feelings and printer errors and "why is this font haunted?" moments.

And it all started because I found out I was going to be a grandmother.

The Unpacking Hangover, Panic Pasta, Jetlag, and the Thanksgiving I Am Now Mentally Unprepared For

I’ve been off the ship for a couple of days, but mentally I’m still somewhere in the Caribbean, floating in water so clear I could see my own stress leaving my body. Then I got home, opened my suitcase, and Half Moon Cay literally spilled onto my floor. A full sand dump. And yes — I crouched down and stared at it like a psychopath, debating if I should vacuum it or keep it in a small emotional support jar.

Because once I vacuum that sand… the cruise is officially over.
And I’m not emotionally ready for that.

The Cruise Prep Post That Never Made It (And Maybe That’s a Blessing)

 Before we left for the cruise, I had every intention of posting this. Really. It sat in my drafts, half polished, half chaotic—basically me before any trip. But between overthinking outfits, trying to scrub my husband’s “vintage” white Vans back from the dead, and wrestling with my suitcase like it owed me money, the whole thing got swallowed by life.

So I’m sharing it now, post-cruise, because it still deserves daylight… and because honestly, the chaos aged like wine.

The Universe Sent Me Spam (and Apparently, a Marketing Plan)

 It all started with me minding my own business — which, in my world, means sitting at 1 a.m. with a cold cup of Smooth Move tea, one sock on, and three open Canva tabs arguing over fonts like they’re auditioning for The Bachelor.

I’ve been in what I call my “Build Everything, Sell Nothing” era. Blog? Check. Substack? Check. Medium? Check. Etsy, KDP, Gumroad — and probably a future Stan Store if I ever stop making my banners look like digital garage sales.

Basically, I’m one strong Wi-Fi signal away from becoming a startup no one invested in.

The Merch That Started as a Joke (But Honestly? It’s Therapy)

You know how Filipino men are raised to believe they’re the kings of the house?
Not partners. Not equals. Kings.

I grew up around that kind of machismo — the kind where “head of the family” means “I get the final say, even when I don’t know what we’re talking about.”
It means “I have opinions about everything, including your silence.”
It means “You’re lucky I let you speak at all.”

Still Available: Sunday Confessions of a Football Widow and a Late Bloomer

It’s Sunday again.
The kind where I should be cleaning, but instead, I’m sitting in our office — on my husband’s chair because mine refuses to stay up, which honestly feels personal at this point. He’s in the living room, yelling at football players who can’t hear him, fully committed to his fantasy team like it’s the Super Bowl.

Meanwhile, I’m here scrolling my phone, half-working, half-praying for direction — basically arguing with the universe while pretending I’m being productive.

The man gets more emotionally invested in fantasy points than real ones. Meanwhile, I’m over here arguing with the universe.

Football season is long. Marriage to a football fan? Even longer.
Sometimes I think women like me should be called football widows.
The Real Widows of Football — coming soon to whatever land the husbands forget we exist in, filmed live from Laundry Land. 😂

 Our husbands vanish into their TVs for hours — and if it’s Sunday, it’s the whole day — while we pick up the socks, the dishes, and the existential dread.

And in between all that noise, I find myself thinking:
Is this still worth it?
The blogging. The books. The online shop that sometimes feels like therapy disguised as business.
Am I building something, or just floating in a sea of half-finished projects and good intentions?

Friday night, it started with a Poshmark notification. I get so many scam call, messages these days — fake buyers on Etsy, random texts that start with “Hello dear” (instant delete). But this one was real.
A buyer for the Allbirds sneakers I listed weeks ago. Cute shoes, wrong size. I bought them back when “retail therapy” meant confidence, not clearance.

I listed them brand new — never worn, still with tags — for $40. She offered $30.
Gurlll. I already went super low. Do you know those retail for $90? But fine, I countered $35.
She pushed back again — $30. Nope. I’m solid.
I went to bed defending my last shred of dignity over ten dollars.

Next morning, she accepted.
I should’ve felt happy.
But instead, I just stared at the notification, thinking, Is this it? Is this all I’ve become?

Selling shoes. Letting go of handbags that once meant promotions. Dresses that once meant date nights. Heels that once clicked across polished floors announcing my purpose.
All this clutter used to mean something.
Now it just whispers: You used to.