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.

Prepping for Love and Luggage: 10 Years, 2 Suitcases, and One Overpacked Wife

We got married on a cruise ship ten years ago — just the two of us, the officiant, and a few crew members as witnesses. Quiet, intimate, and exactly how we liked it.
If I could change one thing though, I wish my kids had been there. But maybe next time, when we renew our vows, I’ll make sure they’re front row with tissues and cocktails in hand.

And now, we’re about to sail again — hopefully this time with fewer arguments about my overpacking.

Not This Year — And I Mean It

You ever get to that point where “hosting” starts to feel like a job you didn’t apply for, with no paycheck and way too much emotional overtime?

Yeah. That’s me. Every year.

The faces change. The menu shifts. But the expectation? That stays the same. Somehow, we’re always the ones who host — which apparently means we fund it, prep it, cook it (well, he cooks it — and he is really amazing), serve it, clean it, and smile through it while people show up empty-handed and full of opinions. They sit around talking about themselves over stuffing like it’s a TED Talk. (Stuffing is divine, by the way. His recipe. I’ll share it if you ask nicely.)

It’s not even the work that drains me anymore. It’s the assumption. That we’ll do it. That we’re available. That we’re the reliable ones.

And that word — available — I’ve started to hate it.

Because what it really means is:

• You don’t get to have plans.

• You don’t get to have boundaries.

• You don’t get to say no — not without being called selfish, dramatic, ungrateful, or my personal favorite: “different now.”

Different? You mean healed?

✈️ The Bed Bug Chronicles I Never Signed Up For

(Or: Why I Travel for Peace, Not Paranoia)

What the hell were these so-called travel “experts” thinking?

I read an article — yes, from a very popular travel site that shall remain nameless (let’s just say it rhymes with Ravel & Leisure) — that said:

“Put your luggage in the bathtub when you arrive at your hotel.
Rip off the sheets.
Look behind the frames.
Inspect the seams of chairs, cushions, cracks, and crevices.
Check the lamps.
Crawl around with a flashlight like CSI: Marriott Edition.
Buy a thermal bug killer.
Basically, turn your vacation into pest control training.”

Excuse me… what?

Gurl, why do you even travel if you’re going to spend the first hour of your trip checking for microscopic roommates?

I didn’t come to Bali to wrestle with a bedspread.
I came to sip mango juice and pretend my problems can’t reach international waters.

Long-haul flights already drain the life out of me — even when I fly flat, eat with real cutlery, and pretend I’m rich.
The only thing I want when I land is a shower, a little exploring, and a Mi Goreng I don’t have to share.

But apparently, I should start my vacation like I’m starring in Law & Order: Hotel Victims Unit or The Walking Dread: Pest Edition. 😂

Flashlight. Gloves. Lysol (spray or wipes — choose your weapon). Fear.
Why stop there? Should I bring pepper spray, door chains, and a portable bug crematorium too?

Also, no — I’m not replacing my favorite makeup palette just to pack a gadget that burns invisible bugs.
That palette is my emotional support shimmer, thank you very much.
It’s not vanity. It’s therapy.

I travel to relax.
I travel to forget that adulting is a full-time crisis.
If I wanted anxiety, I’d just check my email… or my credit card bill.

And yes, I understand being cautious.
But can we stop posting these things in an authoritative tone like they’re the ten commandments from Mount Marriott?

There’s a difference between being prepared and being paralyzed.
And I guess some of these writers are backpackers turned digital nomads. You just gotta choose who you listen to.

Some of them forgot that travel is supposed to make you lighter, not load you with new fears.

If I’m paying for a beautiful hotel room, I’m not going to rip it apart like a forensic intern on their first day.
Clutter creates chaos, and chaos eats away at peace faster than any bug ever could.

Do I put my luggage on the bed? No — because it’s been through more public spaces than my social life.
And honestly, I like to keep my bed pristine — that’s my sacred recovery zone.
Bad feng shui, bad vibes, and bad sleep if I start mixing airport germs with pillow energy.

But a bug surviving a luggage conveyor belt?
That’s not a bed bug. That’s a Marvel villain. Not Ant-man. 😎

I love hotels with luggage racks.
I hang my clothes. I unpack. I use the dresser.
Because living out of a suitcase feels like living half a life — and I’m too old for half-measures. And too old to go walking out with more wrinkles than my skin.

I’ll admit, I sometimes still live out of my suitcase when it’s just a quick weekend in Lake Tahoe to keep my Caesars Rewards points alive.
But that’s strategy, not neurosis. 😂

And for the record — if there’s ever a fire and your suitcase is in the bathtub?
Congratulations, genius. You’re now hotel rotisserie.
(And look, I get the paranoia - my 93-year-old MIL still blocks her door with a chair, so grandma paranoia runs deep. Maybe it’s genetic.)

#HotTakes #HotTubs

I travel for peace, not paranoia.

If bed bugs are my destiny, I’ll deal with it — after crying, scratching, and Googling how much Benadryl I can legally take. Until then, I’m staying exfoliated, hydrated, and blissfully in denial.