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.