Wednesday, August 10, 2022

Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk


Don't cry over spilled milk. That's what they say. Little did I know that about an hour after
I took this photo, I'd be crying over so much more...

(I wasn't sure if I could put it all out there or if I even should. But then I thought, you know what, I'm gonna do it. Maybe it'll be cathartic. Or maybe it would be a huge mistake that I will regret for all eternity. Who knows? Not me. But I know one thing, could've, would've, should've, so I'm doing it.)

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

It was a Monday morning in November 2016. I was still staying at my mother's house in Texas, and my husband was living and working in Dublin while we waited for his green card to come through. 

After waking up, I did my usual, I texted good morning to my long-distance spouse, poured myself a cup of coffee (spilling a bunch of milk in the process), and settled into my morning routine of checking email and social media sites. 

On Linkedin, I saw that my husband had commented on a post, and in that comment, he had tagged someone. It was a woman with a name that I didn't recognize. "Probably a work colleague," I thought.

I tried to move on with my morning, but that woman's name kept niggling at me. Who was she? Maybe she was a new work colleague. Probably a new work colleague. But, we usually talked about those things. At least I did anyway.  

I let curiosity get the best of me and popped over to Facebook to search for her. I was curious if they were connected on there too or if we had any friends in common. 

After typing her first name and then finishing her last, a bunch of accounts appeared. As I scrolled down the list, one, in particular, jumped out at me. I knew it was her immediately because there she was. A big bright selfie smile in her profile picture... alongside a smiling photo of my husband.

There he was. My husband was in another woman's Facebook profile picture. 

P.S. I'm still trying to figure out how to tell the tale of the past six years or so of my life. It'll be a jimble jumble jumping around mess, I'm sure, but I need to tell it. I need to get it out. Bear with me.


Tuesday, August 2, 2022

Do You Like Rugby?


Do you like rugby? 

That's the question I messaged a boy (OK, a man) I spotted on a dating app. 

"Do you like rugby?" 

Because that man is a Kiwi, I figured it would get his attention. And you know what? It did. 

And when I told one of my cousins what I did, she said, "You mentioned rugby to a Kiwi? That's basically the equivalent of sending a nude pic. Well done you.")

Well done me indeed. 


Friday, July 22, 2022

No More Vacations


If you've followed me on Instagram over the years, you know that pre-pandemic, I traveled quite a bit. Back and forth from Texas to Dublin, London, and Copenhagen I would go. 

I'm sure it looked fun, I'm sure it looked fabulous, but it wasn't, really. These were me trying to hold my marriage together trips, not fun, fabulous trips.

I'd bounce around rolling my carry-on, smile plastered on my face hoping for the best. These were not vacations. (But of course, there are a few amusing anecdotes I'm sure I'll be pulling out in the future. Stay tuned...

But, this summer, I, Sara Louise, was finally going on vacation — an actual holiday to a new destination. I was going to Maine, a state so perfectly poised for vacationing that their license plates have "Vacationland" stamped on them. (And let's not forget the lobstah rolls.

My Auntie Ilene, who you may recall, had invited me to her summer cottage on a bay in Maine. How perfectly charming does that sound? 

You know what doesn't sound perfectly charming, SHINGLES. Yes, shingles. I got Shingles right before I was due to leave. My body went into such shock at the thought of relaxation that it revolted with a stinging, burning, aching rash. But, with an OK from my doc and an "if you still feel up to it" from Auntie Ilene, I deposited Fifty at camp and hit the road north to Vacationland because if you're going to suffer with Shingles, you might as well do it while sitting on the dock of the bay. 

And that's what I did,  I sat on the (floating) dock of the (Linekin) bay. (I did some other stuff, too, but if you follow me on Facebook or Instagram, you already know that.

Meanwhile, at camp... Fifty caught Kennel Cough. KENNEL COUGH!

I caught Shingles; he caught Kennel Cough. And there you have it. No more vacations for us. The end. 

P.S. Fifty is on the mend and getting stronger every day. Thank you for your positive thoughts and messages of support they meant the world to Fifty and me. 


Wednesday, July 6, 2022

Moving On


"You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could've, would've happened... or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on." - Tupac Shakur

And that's what I did; I moved the f**k on. 

Sidebar: I may go into detail later about what happened and how everything fell apart, but not now. For now, trust me when I say that I am better off, and believe me when I say as far as my marriage went, I gave it my all and left everything on the field. EVERYTHING.

❤  ❤  ❤  ❤  ❤

I don't like road trips. And yet, one year, one month, and four days ago, I found myself driving almost 2,000 miles from my mother's house in Texas to my friend's home in my old hometown in New York.

Fifty and I were embarking on the next chapter. And the next chapter meant staying at my friend's while I attempted to put my life back together and figure out what I wanted my future to look like. The world was my oyster. (If by oyster, you mean a skint bank account and no real idea what I'm doing.) 

Somehow, after years of torture waiting for life to begin, to finally kick into gear, first because of visa delays and then because of BS excuses and lies delays, life had become a fresh notebook. Blank pages were waiting for me to fill them up with new chapters. 

Care to read them? 

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