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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