I gave us 3 months and honestly that felt generous.

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But it is official. I have the keys!!!!

Rainbow Sanctuary 3.0 is HERE!!! 🌈

And Readers, this is not just another apartment. This is a brand new, 3 bedroom home in a brand new development. As in, nobody has ever lived there before. I will be the first person to sleep there, the first person to decorate it, the first person to inevitably spill coffee somewhere I shouldn’t and the first person to absolutely cover the place in rainbows.

More than 1,000 square feet. THREE bedrooms!! My own little backyard!! My own water spigot outside!! And perhaps the greatest symbol of success I have ever achieved in my adult life: I GET MY OWN TRASH CAN!!!!

Readers, you do not understand: NO MORE SHARED TRASH CAN!!!!

I have apparently reached the age where someone can hand me the keys to a brand new, 3 bedroom home and one of the things I am most excited about is having my own garbage can. But after three years of opening a shared trash can only to discover somebody else has somehow filled the entire thing twelve minutes after trash day, this feels like luxury.

And the timing of all of this is honestly kind of perfect. This week marks 2 years since I decided to stop attempting to decorate like a normal adult and just fully embrace the rainbow. That decision eventually turned my home into what became Rainbow Sanctuary, and now somehow we are already on version 3.0.

When I left my ex, Rainbow Sanctuary 1.0 was a tiny studio that wasn’t even 500 square feet. Readers, it was a cracker box!! Everything I owned existed within approximately 12 steps of everything else I owned. But it was mine, and at that point in my life, that mattered more than anything.

Then came Rainbow Sanctuary 2.0, about 700 square feet and with an actual separate bedroom. It felt HUGE compared to where I started. I had more room, more walls, more rainbow decor and a little more space to build a life that actually felt like mine.

And now? Over 1,000 square feet and 3 bedrooms!

THREE BEDROOMS, READERS!!!!!

Who allowed this? There will be my bedroom, a guest room and, yes, an entire content creation room because apparently we have reached that stage of Narrated by Sarah headquarters!!

And there are SO MANY WALLS!!! Which obviously means so many more places for rainbow decor.

There is still plenty more to share about Rainbow Sanctuary 3.0, the move and what this next chapter is going to look like, but I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. I have the keys. It is mine. It is brand new. It has 3 bedrooms, more than 1,000 square feet, an outdoor water spigot and, God bless America, my very own trash can!

Readers, Rainbow Sanctuary 3.0 has officially begun. 🌈

I signed up for another employee wellness program!

I KNOW!

My longtime Readers already know this NEVER ends well for me. One time a workplace wellness program told me I had a thyroid problem. Cue several doctor appointments, a parade of tests and thousands of dollars later and there was absolutely nothing wrong with my thyroid! Then another wellness test told me I have low iron. Fine! Okay! Apparently my iron is wandering around somewhere in the basement. Whatever! I still feel fine!

So naturally, because I clearly enjoy suffering, I signed up for this 15 day glucose monitoring program where they stick a little sensor to me and let my phone spend two weeks personally attacking me.

And now? CONSTANT CRITICAL ALERTS!!!

“YOUR BLOOD SUGAR IS LOW.”

Excuse me?!?!

My phone is acting like we need to call in a helicopter while I am sitting here drinking my water and iced coffee, minding my business and feeling COMPLETELY NORMAL! I have no dizziness, no fainting, and no dramatic collapse across my desk. Nothing! The absolute AUDACITY of this tiny little sensor to keep interrupting my life to inform me that apparently I am on death’s doorstep when I am over here wondering if it's lunch time yet.

So anyway, according to workplace wellness, I now have low blood sugar to add to my alleged low iron situation. AND I have my organ scan this week also because apparently I looked at all of these previous experiences and thought, “You know what Sarah needs? MORE DATA!!”

Wonderful!

I am sure by Friday they will discover that my spleen is haunted, one kidney has resigned and my liver has started a small Etsy business. Pray for me, Readers!! Workplace wellness is trying to take me OUT!

And for the official record before Brenda gets concerned: I FEEL FINE!!

At this point I am starting to think employee wellness is less “wellness” and more “let’s see what we can convince Sarah is wrong with her this month.” I’ll keep you posted on what organ is allegedly failing next.

P.S. - I told that annoying boyfriend of mine about my apparently imminent glucose related demise and his response was to send me a meme of someone eating a candy bar. That was it!! No concern or sympathy!! Just “perhaps have a Snickers bar” energy. Thank you, Craig.

It did not.

But somehow, two years later, my life looks completely different.

I ended up landing what is genuinely my dream job. I get paid to write, create, do social media and tell stories for a living. Basically all the things I have always loved doing somehow became my actual career, and there are still days I sit at my desk and think: “wait they are PAYING me to do this? And they give me health insurance?” Readers, I somehow beat the system.

Then I said yes to something that, at the time, sounded absolutely insane. Honestly there was no logical reason for me to believe it was going to work. I didn’t think it would work. I believe I gave us three months at one point.

And yet somehow that yes led me to the man I am madly in love with now. A person I never expected to become such a huge part of my life. He is someone who somehow showed up in the middle of all that uncertainty and became one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

Then there is Pearl 2.0. In less than 30 days, I am going to have a BRAND NEW car straight off the assembly line. Nobody else has ever owned her or even driven her. She is going to be mine from the very beginning! And yes maybe that sounds like just a car to some people, but to me it feels like one of those little markers in life where you stop and realize just how far you have come.

And apparently we are doing emotional confessions tonight, so there is one more thing: I am about to sign the papers on my dream rental.

And Readers: IT IS BRAND NEW!! Nobody has ever lived there. I am literally going to be the first person to ever sleep there.

Okay, I was NOT supposed to tell you that yet. So we are all going to pretend I did not just type that. I am slightly BuzzBall-buzzed, emotional and apparently incapable of keeping my own announcements secret. When I officially tell you later, I expect everyone to act shocked. Thank you for your cooperation.

But sitting here tonight thinking about all of this, I keep coming back to the person I was two years ago. She had absolutely no idea any of this was coming.

She didn’t know where she was going to work. She didn’t know what her life was supposed to look like after a marriage that had taken up almost her entire adult life. She didn’t know she would fall completely in love again. She didn’t know there was a Pearl 2.0 coming, or a new home, or this whole completely different life waiting for her.

She just knew she had to keep going.

And I think that’s the part I want you to remember, Readers.

You really have no idea what your life might look like two years from now. Hell, sometimes you don’t know what it’s going to look like two months from now. Life is unpredictable and scary and occasionally so completely unhinged that you have to wonder who exactly is in charge of writing this storyline and whether they have considered therapy.

But it can also be really, really beautiful.

So take the risk. Fall in love. Say yes to the thing that scares you a little. Start over when you need to. Change your mind. Do the things that make you happy. Build a life that feels like yours, even if it looks nothing like the one you once thought you were supposed to have.

And if you’re in one of those dark places right now where you cannot see what comes next, just keep going. You don’t have to have the whole thing figured out. Two years ago, I certainly didn’t.

And thank God I didn’t know what was coming, because I probably wouldn’t have believed it anyway.

It gets better, Readers. It’s not always going to be perfect or easy but it will get better!

So much better. ❤️

For anyone who is struggling right now, please know you are not alone. If you need help, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

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I cannot tell you exactly what is happening! YET! But just know this: It is happening. It is moving forward. The wheels are officially in motion! There is basically no stopping it not. Well, okay, technically I have until Monday to completely panic, change my mind, retreat into the safety of my current life and pretend none of this EVER happened! But Readers, I AM NOT DOING THAT!

I will, however, give you one tiny hint: it involves MORE RAINBOWS! I KNOW! Please contain yourselves! I am just as equally thrilled as you.

Look, Readers, I have apparently become one of those people who looks at a perfectly functioning life and thinks: “You know what would be fun? Completely restructuring this entire situation in under 96 hours and dealing with the consequences later.” Will I regret this? Eh! Ask Future Sarah in about a year. Present Sarah has absolutely no interest in hearing from her at the moment. Present Sarah is standing here yelling: “LET’S DO THIS! YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE!”

Which, honestly, is probably how most of my questionable life decisions begin but that is NOT THE POINT!

So yes, Readers, change is incoming! BIG CHANGE! Rainbow-covered change! Slightly terrifying change! Honestly the kind of change that makes you stare at the ceiling at 2am and wonder exactly what you have done with your life. And if everything continues going according to plan, I will officially announce it all on August 1.

Until then, you will simply have to live with the suspense!

But Readers, I am so excited to take all of you along for this next chapter of my ridiculous little life! It is going to be epic! I already know it!

I was in my early twenties, not even old enough to legally drink yet, and somehow still completely convinced I understood how the world worked. I remember talking to him about people, about right and wrong, about what ultimately wins when everything else falls away. I told him, with the absolute confidence only someone that young can have, that the good guys always win in the end. He told me I was wrong. He said money and power will always win.

I hated that answer. I hated how final it sounded. There was no hopeful exception built into it. He did not say money and power usually win, or sometimes win, or win if people let them. He said they always win. And of course I argued with him. I told him there had to be something stronger. Truth had to matter eventually. Justice had to matter. People could manipulate things for a while, sure. Money could buy influence. Power could protect people. But eventually the truth came out and the good guys won.

I believed that. Looking back now, I think I needed to believe it. Because what kind of world are we living in if money can buy the ending? What kind of world are we living in if power decides who faces consequences and who simply walks away? I needed there to be a line somewhere. Something money could not purchase. Something power could not control. I thought goodness was that line. He did not.

At the time I thought he was cynical. More than fifteen years later, I sometimes wonder if he was simply paying attention before I was. That thought bothers me more than I can explain, because I have spent all these years waiting for the world to prove him wrong.

The truth is, I did more than wait. I built huge parts of my life around proving him wrong. It is part of why I got into politics. It is part of why I chose the degree I did. It is part of why I cared so deeply about government, systems, messaging, public service, elections, power and who gets to wield it. That argument moved my world for years in ways I did not fully understand at the time. I wanted to believe that if enough good people got involved, if enough people cared, if enough people paid attention, then maybe truth could still beat money and power. Maybe I could prove that girl in her early twenties had not been naive. Maybe I could prove him wrong after all.

Every election seems to bring that conversation back. Maybe because elections are supposed to represent the idea that ordinary people still have power. Everyone gets a voice. Everyone gets a vote. We tell ourselves that ultimately the people decide. And yet I still hear him telling me that money and power will always win.

I hear it when powerful people survive things that would destroy an ordinary person. I hear it when money determines whose voice gets amplified and whose disappears. I hear it when consequences seem to depend less on what someone did and more on who they are, who they know, and what they can afford. Most of all, I hear it when the truth comes out and absolutely nothing happens.

That may have been the biggest thing younger me did not understand. I thought truth automatically had power because it was true. Life has taught me otherwise. Sometimes everyone knows the truth and it changes nothing. Sometimes people get hurt, the facts are obvious, the damage is real, and the person responsible simply keeps moving through life untouched while everyone else is left standing in the wreckage trying to understand how something so wrong was allowed to happen.

And life continues. That is probably the darkest part. There is no narrator who steps in and explains who was right. There is not always some dramatic moment where justice finally arrives and everything balances itself out. Sometimes there is just what happened and the people who have to live with it afterward.

I did not understand that in my early twenties. I still thought life eventually balanced the books. Now I am not even sure anyone is keeping them.

For more than fifteen years, I have wanted to prove him wrong. I have imagined calling him one day and saying, “Remember when you told me money and power would always win? You were wrong.” I wanted that victory. I still do. I wanted enough examples of goodness, truth, justice and decency to finally win an argument we started when I was not even old enough to order a drink.

But the older I get, the less certain I am that I will ever make that call, and that hurts more than simply losing an argument. Because it means admitting that the girl standing there all those years ago may have believed in a world that never really existed.

I miss her sometimes. I miss how certain she was. I miss how quickly she rejected the idea that money and power could be stronger than truth. She did not hesitate. She did not compromise. She looked at him and told him he was wrong because, to her, the good guys had to win in the end.

There is still a part of me that desperately wants to believe her. But after more than fifteen years of watching the world, I am forced to admit something I never thought I would. He has a lot more evidence than I do.

Maybe someday that changes. Maybe someday I really do get to make that phone call and claim victory. But there is another possibility now, one I hate even thinking about. Maybe we both grow old still standing on opposite sides of that same conversation. Maybe I spend the rest of my life waiting for the good guys to win enough times for me to finally prove him wrong.

And maybe, in the end, he dies knowing what he told me when we were barely adults was true: money and power won. And I die still wishing they had not.

I actually bought a new car.

Well, technically, that sentence requires an asterisk, several footnotes, and probably a small financial disclosure because nothing in my life can ever be that simple. But the important part is this: there is a brand new Prius currently on a ship making her way toward me, and at some point in the not-so-distant future, she will officially become Pearl 2.0.

This is a development approximately one year in the making.

You see, Craig has been trying to convince me to get a new car for about a year now. More specifically, Craig has been trying to convince me to let him buy me a new car for about a year now.

And for about a year, my answer has been absolutely not.

I did not want my boyfriend buying me a car. I don’t know why this particular thing became such a hard boundary for me, but apparently I can accept emotional support, concert tickets, hotels, random rainbow merch for my apartment, and all the other nonsense that comes with loving Craig, but an entire VEHICLE? Dear God, no. That is apparently where Sarah suddenly develops principles.

Every time the subject came up, the conversation was basically the same.

“You need a new car.”

“No.”

“You drive a ridiculous amount.”

“No.”

“Pearl is getting older.”

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT.”

Because Pearl and I have been through some things, Readers. That car has carried me through a divorce, career changes, thousands upon thousands of miles, emotional breakdowns, questionable life choices, Starbucks drive-thrus, concerts, road trips, and a commute that would make most reasonable people simply move closer to work. Pearl has been there for entire chapters of my life.

Unfortunately, Pearl is also a 2015 Prius with what is beginning to feel like approximately one billion miles on her.

Fine. It is not actually one billion.

But when you drive from Lake Havasu to Kingman for work, the numbers start feeling emotionally offensive after a while.

So yes, intellectually, I understand that I need a newer car. Emotionally, however, I would prefer to continue operating under the belief that Pearl is immortal and will simply continue driving forever because I love her and that is apparently how automotive engineering works.

Craig, annoyingly, lives in a world where logic occasionally enters the conversation.

So we kept talking about it. And talking about it. And talking about it. Because apparently if Craig brings something up enough times, eventually I become exhausted enough to acknowledge that perhaps he has a point.

Marriage? Never happening.

A new Prius? Apparently negotiable.

The problem was still the same, though. I did not want him buying me a car. I have my own money. I have my own job. I pay my own bills. I have spent the last several years rebuilding my life into something that belongs completely to me, and there was just something about the idea of my boyfriend buying me an entire vehicle that made every independent bone in my body stand up and start protesting.

So we found a compromise.

I will trade in the two cars I currently have, Pearl and the RAV4 I inherited after Cory passed, and then put some additional money down I have saved up. Altogether, that should cover roughly half the cost of Pearl 2.0. Craig will pay the remaining half. So technically, he is not buying me a car. We are splitting it. This is the compromise my fiercely independent soul has begrudgingly agreed to.

Do I completely love this arrangement? No. Am I still slightly uncomfortable with it? Yes. Did I eventually have to accept the fact that I actually do need a new car and that allowing someone who loves me to help does not mean I have suddenly surrendered my independence and become financially incapable of functioning without a man?

Apparently.

Whatever.

Personal growth is exhausting.

So, Readers, after a year of saying no, I finally said yes. Sort of. Half yes. A financially negotiated yes. A fiercely independent, mildly irritated, “Fine, but I am not letting you pay for the whole thing” yes.

Which is honestly the most Sarah way imaginable to accept a car.

And now Pearl 2.0 is officially coming.

Literally.

She is currently on a ship making her way toward me, because naturally even the arrival of my new vehicle requires an international maritime subplot. Nothing in my life can simply appear at a dealership and quietly wait for pickup. No. My car has to go on a voyage first. She already has a backstory and I have not even driven her yet.

Eventually, once she finally makes landfall and becomes officially mine, Pearl 2.0 will begin her transformation.

Because yes, Readers.

There will be a rainbow.

A subtle rainbow? Maybe.

A slightly less subtle rainbow after I stare at it for three days and decide it needs more rainbow? Also entirely possible.

Yes, I am going to get her wrapped with a rainbow. Look if I am going to spend an unreasonable portion of my life driving across Arizona, I might as well do it in something that feels completely like me. Bright, colorful, a little ridiculous, impossible to ignore, and almost certainly causing at least one stranger in a parking lot to stop and wonder what exactly is happening.

So here we are.

Pearl 2.0 is incoming.

She is literally on a ship.

And somewhere between now and Christmas, the Rainbow Mobile may officially be born.

God help us all. 🌈🚗

P.S. Here is an AI-generated version of what Pearl 2.0 may eventually look like.

First off, I stole this idea from a Facebook post, so let’s not give me too much credit for creativity here. I am simply borrowing someone else’s emotional concept and making it significantly more dramatic. As is tradition.

Anyway, we need to talk.

I know I complain about you a lot. In my defense, you have made some deeply questionable choices when it comes to my life. Especially my love life. Every time I have liked someone, loved someone, or thought, “Maybe this could actually be something,” you have apparently taken that as a personal challenge.

So I am asking you now, very nicely, to not fuck this one up.

Because I really like Craig.

Fine. I love Craig.

Yes, he annoys me before the sun is even fully awake. He calls me at five in the morning with entirely too much enthusiasm, sends me memes while I am trying to work, takes skincare more seriously than most people take retirement planning, and somehow manages to make me want to hug him and mute him at the exact same time.

But I love him.

Out of every relationship I have ever been in, including my 13 year marriage, Craig is the only person I have ever felt completely myself around. And look, I know I am a lot. I am painfully self-aware of that fact. I am dramatic. I spiral over things that probably deserve five minutes of concern and somehow turn them into a full emotional miniseries. I constantly convince myself something is wrong, fixate on details no reasonable person would even notice, and somehow manage to be clingy while also wanting everyone to leave me alone in the exact same breath. I love deeply, fall too hard, and feel everything at a volume most people would probably prefer turned down.

But with Craig, I do not have to turn any of it down.

I tell him everything. I call him about the stupid little things most people would probably keep to themselves, because with him I never feel like I have to edit myself into someone quieter, easier, or more convenient to love. I do not have to pretend I am less dramatic, less anxious, less attached, or less me. He does not try to change those parts of me, and I do not try to change anything about him. We simply let each other exist exactly as we are, emotional chaos, irritating habits, five in the morning phone calls and all.

And maybe that is what makes this relationship feel so different. For the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to be fully seen without immediately feeling like I need to apologize for what someone sees.

And yes, our relationship is complicated. It is unconventional. It takes approximately seventeen minutes, three diagrams, and a brief intermission to explain it to the average person. But honestly, Universe, have you met me? I am complicated. My life is complicated. A simple little relationship with matching towels and a shared Costco membership was never going to be my storyline.

This makes sense for me.

More importantly, he makes sense for me.

He makes me laugh. He makes me feel loved. He makes ordinary days more interesting and difficult days easier to survive. He drives me insane, but he also makes me ridiculously happy, which feels like a fair trade most of the time.

So this is my official request.

Can I keep this one?

Not in a tragic, ominous, somebody start playing sad music way. I simply mean: can this relationship be the one that actually works? Can we grow old while continuing to annoy each other? Can he keep calling me too early, and can I keep pretending I hate it? Can we have more concerts, more trips, more ridiculous arguments, more laughter, and more years of whatever strange little life we are building?

I am not asking for perfection. That sounds exhausting, and frankly, neither one of us is qualified.

I am only asking you not to sabotage it.

No unnecessary plot twists. No surprise betrayals. No random emotional wrecking balls. No deciding that I need another painful lesson for “character development.” I have enough character now. Possibly too much.

Just let this one be good.

Let it be weird and complicated and annoying and funny and ours.

For once, Universe, please stop treating my romantic life like a long running television drama that desperately needs ratings.

I love him.

I would really like this one to last.

Sincerely,
Sarah

P.S. I said please, which is honestly more grace than you have earned.

But no.

The universe renewed me for another season.

To understand the absurdity of what I am about to tell you, we must travel all the way back to Tuesday, when I went to Floyd’s to pick up my pulled chicken. I chose Floyd’s because I also needed to buy my boss a gift card for his birthday on Thursday. He likes Floyd’s, I needed dinner, and I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.

Efficient. Responsible. Almost adult-like.

Except Floyd’s apparently does not sell gift cards at the moment. There went that beautiful little plan, immediately thrown into the dumpster with every other attempt I have ever made at being prepared.

So where else does the boss like to eat?

Wendy’s.

Should I have stopped at Wendy’s on Tuesday while I was already out and gotten the gift card then? Yes. Absolutely. The thought crossed my mind. A sensible voice inside my head said, “Sarah, stop now. Get it over with. You will be prepared for Thursday.”

Naturally, I ignored her.

Why would I make my life easy when I could leave the task for Wednesday night and give the universe another opportunity to humble me?

Now, I need to explain something about my place of employment. They take birthdays VERY seriously. I learned this during my first year working there. I had not even been there a month when my birthday arrived, and suddenly my office was decorated, there were gifts, everyone took me to lunch, and it became an entire production.

I learned very quickly that birthdays matter. Your office gets decorated. There are streamers. There are balloons. There are plans. There is basically a birthday committee.

Well, her name is Annie. Annie is the committee. And Annie does a wonderful job.

Unfortunately, Annie was out of town this week attending a conference, so she asked me to decorate the boss’s office on Wednesday night. This seemed manageable because the boss and I work different schedules. He is usually gone by 5 p.m., while I work until 6. Annie also told me that he does not like a lot of fanfare, so I only needed to hang a few streamers, put up a couple of balloons, and call it a night.

Okay!

I can do this!

Famous last words spoken by a woman who should know better by now.

There I was at 5:45 p.m. The boss was still there. Fine. No problem. He would leave soon.

Then it was 6:10. Still there.

At 6:15, I began weighing my options. I could continue sitting there suspiciously after my shift ended and invent some elaborate excuse for why I was still in the building. Unfortunately, I am terrible at lying, and any story I created would probably contain too many details, several unnecessary side plots, and at least one character who did not exist.

My other option was to admit defeat, go home, wake up when my alarm actually goes off at 3:50 a.m. instead of snoozing until 4:30, and arrive early the next morning to decorate his office.

Obviously, neither option was appealing.

I was about to pack everything up and accept my tragic 3:50 a.m. fate when, at 6:20 p.m., he finally left.

VICTORY.

I had won.

Or so I thought.

Readers, Annie normally handles the decorations. Not me.

I can make beautiful digital art. Give me a computer, and I can create graphics, invitations, logos, social media campaigns, and entire visual identities. Digital art is my thing.

Physical crafts, however, are where my talents go to die. I once bought a Cricut because I convinced myself I was going to become one of those crafty women who makes personalized tumblers, matching T-shirts, and decorative wooden signs for every holiday.

That was clearly an identity crisis.

Still, this was only some streamers and balloons. How difficult could it possibly be? Readers, have we learned nothing?

Long story short, thank God Wendy was also working late because I required assistance blowing up a balloon.

Yes. A balloon.

I had scoliosis surgery when I was a child and apparently have diminished lung capacity, so blowing up balloons is not one of my gifts. This is not information I thought would become relevant during a workplace birthday decorating emergency, but here we are.

With help, several balloons were eventually inflated. The streamers were hung. The decorations were placed. It may have taken me an entire hour, but the office was officially decorated.

Was it Annie-level?

Absolutely not.

Was it Sarah-level?

Yes.

And Sarah-level means it was acceptable, recognizable as birthday decor, and unlikely to violate any workplace safety regulations.

By the time I finished, it was around 7:15 p.m., and I still needed to stop at Wendy’s to purchase the gift card I had failed to buy the night before.

Fine.

Easy.

I was already out late, so I decided I might as well order Wendy’s for dinner. I even ordered through the app because they were offering free chicken nuggets, and I thought I could take those for lunch the next day.

Once again, I believed I was killing two birds with one stone. At this point, those birds should have hired attorneys.

I placed my mobile order, drove to Wendy’s, went inside to pick up my food, and asked to purchase a gift card.

Readers. Of course the ONE time I decided to go inside was the ONE time they had just updated all of their registers and everyone was still learning how to use them. Not only that, but they had also completely rearranged their stockroom, which meant no one knew where the gift cards were.

Now, I could have left. Walmart was right there. I could have walked inside, grabbed a Visa gift card, paid for it, and gone home.

But I did not want to stop anywhere else.

I had already committed to Wendy’s. Emotionally, spiritually, and apparently legally.

They told me they would find the gift cards, and I figured it could not possibly take that long.

In hindsight, I should have gone to Walmart.

It took them about 15 minutes to locate one.

Fine. Whatever.

At this point, I was standing there eating the Frosty I had ordered with my dinner. Yes, I ordered a Frosty. Do not judge me. They are delicious, and I had just spent an hour fighting balloons. I deserved frozen dairy.

I still had a 20 minute drive home because Wendy’s is located near the Interstate 40 and Highway 95 turnoff. We do not have one inside the city limits, which means even a simple fast food errand requires a minor expedition.

But I had already waited this long. They had finally found the gift card. Surely the ordeal was almost over.

Except the registers were new, and nobody knew how to activate the card. So then I spent another 10 minutes standing there while several employees tried to solve the technological mystery of selling me $25 worth of hamburger money.

Readers, I swear, if something is going to go wrong, it will wait patiently until I arrive.

Eventually, the gift card was activated. The transaction went through. I collected my food, my surviving nuggets, and what remained of my Frosty, and I was finally released back into society.

I got home at 9 p.m.

I suppose this is why the universe made me a writer. When these ridiculous situations happen, at least I can turn them into content and allow all of you to laugh at me from the safety of your own homes.

So what lesson did we learn?

Next time, buy a simple Visa gift card and call it a day.

Also, never assume a task involving balloons, fast food, or workplace birthdays will be easy.

The universe is listening.

Also one last thing, in case any of my coworkers happen to stumble upon this, first, I am sorry. I promise I am a normal person at least 63% of the time.

Second, I would like to clarify that I am absolutely not complaining. I love my job, I love that birthdays are celebrated with the seriousness and ceremonial planning of a small national holiday, and I genuinely did not mind staying late to decorate or waiting at Wendy’s for the gift card.

The point is simply that nothing in my life is ever just a quick errand. There is always a plot twist, a supporting cast, an unnecessary delay, and at least one moment where I stare into the distance wondering how we got here.

I also turn nearly everything that happens to me into a sarcastic retelling. It is how I process life.

Stay awhile.

You will get used to it.

Honestly, Readers, I thought it was going to be a good day.

Then I got to work, looked at the date and remembered. It is July 15.

There are two dates in my life that carry more weight than all the others. Two dates that divided my life into a before and an after. Two dates that changed the direction of everything that followed, even though I had absolutely no idea at the time.

March 23 and July 15.

July 15, 2010, is the day I met my husband.

Well, my ex-husband.

He is dead now.

I still do not know how to write that sentence without pausing afterward. I am not used to saying it. I am not used to typing it. I am not used to the fact that a person who occupied thirteen years of my life can now be reduced to a sentence in the past tense.

But here we are.

I suppose I will eventually become accustomed to saying the words, although I am not sure anyone ever becomes accustomed to what they actually mean. There is something deeply unnatural about referring to someone who was once woven into nearly every part of your life as someone who no longer exists. The world keeps moving, people continue making dinner and complaining about traffic, and you are expected to casually understand that someone who once knew the sound of your footsteps is simply gone.

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I KNOW.

I do not know what happened either. One minute I was placing a Walmart order because I needed a few things, and the next I was standing in my kitchen mixing coleslaw and putting fish into the air fryer like some kind of functioning adult with meal-prep intentions.

Frankly, it was unsettling.

Let’s start at the beginning, where all good stories start and where most of my questionable decisions can usually be traced.

My Monday morning did not begin particularly well. I mean, it was Monday, so expectations were already buried somewhere beneath the floorboards. My alarm went off at my usual 3:50 a.m., although I did not actually get out of bed until 4:30.

DO NOT JUDGE ME, READERS.

The snooze button and I are in a deeply committed relationship. We have built something together. There is history there.

Then Craig decided to call me at 5 a.m. with his chipper little attitude. Do I know why he was so energetic that early in the morning? No, I do not. The man is unwell. There is no other reasonable explanation for someone being cheerful before the sun has even clocked in for work.

I put him on speaker, set the phone down, and quietly questioned why I had committed myself to a man who thinks waking up at 4:30 a.m. to go for a jog is a perfectly acceptable life choice.

A jog. At 4:30 in the morning. Nobody is chasing him. There is no emergency. He is doing this voluntarily.

Anyway, that set the emotional tone for the day. But somewhere between going to work, completing my ten-hour shift, surviving the commute, and finally leaving Kingman, I decided I was going to return to the Rainbow Sanctuary and cook dinner.

Now, I’ll be honest with you, Readers, because I am nothing if not honest around here, even when the truth makes me look deeply unreasonable. I started taking GLP-1 medication back in September. I was on it for about four months and lost twenty pounds. Then I stopped taking it, as I do with most things, because something happened and I immediately decided it was probably the medication and I was dying.

Was there scientific proof?

No.

Was there medical evidence?

Also no.

Did that stop me from pointing an accusing finger at the medication like it had personally betrayed me?

Absolutely not.

We can also blame Bestie and his constant reminders that nobody knows the long-term effects of these medications and that I am basically a walking science experiment.

Look, the man gets into your head. Trust me. There is something about Bestie that makes you believe every word he says, even when you know he is being dramatic. If that man told me I needed to jump off the London Bridge tomorrow or the world would end, I would probably ask what time we were leaving and whether I needed to pack snacks.

I know. I should probably seek professional help. But that man has had a powerful hold over me for more than twenty years, Readers. Always has. Always will. We have accepted it.

Anyway, back to my story. So, I lost twenty pounds and have only gained about five of them back, which honestly is not terrible. But I would still like to lose another twenty pounds, and I would also like to stop the slow upward creep before my jeans begin filing formal complaints.

I do not necessarily want to restart the GLP-1 medication if I can avoid it, so I am attempting to build some kind of food and exercise routine that fits into my chaotic schedule, my two-hour daily commute, and my absolute lack of desire to spend my evenings chopping seventeen vegetables.

Hence, the fish tacos.

They seemed easy enough. I already had tortillas, and the fish could go directly into the air fryer, which is the only kitchen appliance I currently trust. I could have bought premade coleslaw. In fact, I almost did. But then I looked at the ingredients and thought, “This seems easy enough to make myself.” Readers, that thought should have frightened me. Instead, I bought the ingredients.

I put the fish and corn into the air fryer. I mixed the coleslaw. I cut the corn off the cob and added it to the coleslaw. Then, to make matters worse, the recipe said I needed to let the coleslaw sit for ten minutes. So I decided to go for a walk.

I KNOW.

WHO AM I?

I do not know.

When I came back from my walk, I assembled the tacos. Then I ate them. And they were actually good. Not “good considering Sarah made them” good. Actually good. I was stunned. The kitchen remained standing. Nothing caught fire. Nobody needed medical assistance. Gordon Ramsay did not appear in my apartment to call me an idiot.

It was a complete success.

At some point during all of this, I told the boys what was happening. They immediately became suspicious and asked whether they needed to perform a welfare check.

Rude.

Absolutely rude.

I cook one dinner and take one walk, and suddenly everyone thinks I have been replaced by a more responsible woman wearing my skin. Honestly, understandable, but still rude.

Anyway, we shall see how long this newfound wellness journey lasts. I do not have especially high hopes because I know myself. This could be a genuine lifestyle change, or it could be a four-day phase before I return to eating something from the freezer while standing over the kitchen sink.

But I made a food menu for the week. Yes, Readers. I opened my calendar and wrote down what I plan to eat every day this week. Who gave me this level of confidence?

Do not worry. My frozen meals are still on the schedule. I am not stupid. I know there will be at least one day this week when I arrive home completely dead inside and refuse to do anything more complicated than remove plastic film and press three buttons on the microwave.

That is fine. We are setting realistic goals around here. I am trying, and that, Readers, is progress. Especially for someone who loudly proclaimed just one month ago that she would never cook again for the rest of her life.

Also, in case you are interested in how this thrilling culinary saga continued, tonight I stopped at Floyd’s in Kingman and bought barbecue to go with the leftover coleslaw. I had to stop there anyway to buy a gift card for my boss’s birthday, so naturally I used this as an opportunity to acquire dinner. Efficiency.

And yes, I know this meal was not technically homemade. I did not smoke the meat myself. I did not raise the cow. I did not churn butter beneath the Arizona moon. But it was not fast food, and it was not a frozen television dinner. That makes two nights in a row.

Two.

At this rate, Craig and Bestie may need to begin preparing for the possibility that I have entered my wellness era.

Do not get too excited.

There is still plenty of time for me to ruin it.

Because I do.

I am not casually interested in it. I am not merely entertained by the theory while watching TikToks at midnight. I believe some of us are walking around with memories from a different timeline, and the rest of you are either from this one or have simply agreed to participate in reality’s elaborate cover up.

For example, Sinbad played a genie in a movie called Shazaam. I saw it. Multiple times.

I know people will immediately rush in to tell me I am confusing it with Kazaam, the movie where Shaquille O’Neal played a genie. I am not. I know who Shaq is. I know who Sinbad is. Those are two entirely different men, Readers. My childhood brain was not simply tossing every tall man wearing colorful clothing into one large genie folder.

Sinbad wore the genie outfit. The movie existed. I watched it.

Yet apparently, according to this timeline, there was never a Sinbad genie movie. There was no Shazaam. Sinbad never played the role. We all collectively invented an entire movie, complete with scenes, costumes, and memories of watching it.

Absolutely not.

Then there are the Berenstain Bears. Except they were not the Berenstain Bears. They were the Berenstein Bears. I remember seeing the name on the books. I remember hearing it pronounced. I remember that little family of bears teaching us lessons about lying, messy rooms, going to the dentist, and whatever other childhood crisis Mama Bear was forced to handle while Papa Bear remained largely useless.

It was Berenstein. With an E. Now I am expected to believe it was always spelled Berenstain, with an A, and that millions of us simply failed to read the title correctly for our entire childhoods. Readers, we were children, not illiterate woodland creatures.

At some point, the spelling changed. Or the timeline changed.

These are the classic Mandela Effects. The ones people argue about online while someone confidently explains that memory is unreliable and our brains merely fill in details that were never there.

That explanation may be scientifically reasonable. But I reject it.

I prefer the alternate timeline explanation because it makes far more sense than believing millions of people independently invented the same genie movie and misspelled the same bear family’s name for several decades.

But lately, the Mandela Effect has stopped being something from my childhood or a strange internet rabbit hole.

Now it is following me around.

This all started with the singing fish. When we went to Vegas a few weekends ago, we were at Bass Pro Shops. Before we went inside I told the kids that we had to find the mounted fish that sang when you pushed a button.

In my memory, the singing fish was not merely something I once saw hanging on a random wall. It was connected specifically to Bass Pro Shops because I remember buying one there when I was younger.

This was not some vague memory floating around without context. My brain did not randomly connect a singing wall fish to an outdoor sporting goods store decades later. I remember the transaction.

So naturally, we searched the store. We walked through the displays. We looked along the walls. We tried to find anything resembling the fish I had confidently promised the children would be there.

Nothing.

There were actual fish swimming in the tanks, of course, but they were entirely useless to my investigation. You could not push a button and make them sing. They contributed nothing to the case.

After we had searched the store and failed to find one, Bestie announced that I had made the whole thing up. Not that the store might have stopped selling them. Not that perhaps they had been discontinued sometime during the last several decades. No. According to Bestie, I invented an entire childhood purchase, attached it to a very specific store, and carried that imaginary memory with me into adulthood.

But Readers, I know what I remember. Bass Pro Shops sold the singing fish. I bought one there.

Case closed.

Except apparently there is very little proof connecting the famous singing fish directly to Bass Pro Shops, which only makes the entire situation more suspicious.

Then the universe came for my Starbucks.

Every time we stay at the Tower in Las Vegas, we go across the street to Fashion Show Mall. I know this mall. I have wandered through it tired, caffeinated, hungover, financially irresponsible, and occasionally with my feet attempting to detach themselves from my body.

And there was a regular Starbucks inside that mall. Its own storefront. Not the Starbucks outside along the Strip. Not a random coffee kiosk. Not the Starbucks inside Macy’s. I remember walking into the mall and entering an actual Starbucks. I remember ordering drinks there. I remember where it was.

This is not a blurry memory from thirty years ago. We were there earlier this year. But when I went looking for it again, suddenly the only Starbucks anyone could locate was inside Macy’s.

No.

Absolutely not.

I understand the difference between walking into Starbucks and walking into a department store. I may make questionable life choices, Readers, but I have not yet lost the ability to identify Macy’s.

Bestie insisted that the Starbucks had always been inside Macy’s. He said it with the confidence of a man who had personally designed the mall and approved every tenant agreement.

That is one of Bestie’s most dangerous qualities. Bestie could calmly announce that the Pacific Ocean had been relocated to Flagstaff, and he would say it with enough certainty that I would briefly consider checking Google Maps.

So now I had a singing fish that I distinctly remember buying at Bass Pro Shops and an entire Starbucks storefront that had apparently been swallowed by Macy’s.

That should have been enough.

It was not.

Then there is the photograph of Cory and his mom.

This one is different.

This is not a store I visited a few times, a movie from my childhood, or the spelling on a book cover. This is a photograph I have looked at over and over again. I know the people in it. I know their faces. I know the room behind them. And I swear there was never a hat hanging on the wall. There was a hook. Just an empty hook.

Then, about a week and a half ago, I looked at the photograph, and there it was.

A hat.

A whole hat hanging from the hook where I swear there had never been one before.

I stared at the photograph for far too long, trying to convince myself that I had somehow overlooked it. Maybe I had always focused so much on Cory and his mom that I never noticed the background. Maybe my brain had decided the hat was unimportant and removed it from the memory.

But I know that picture. I have looked at that wall. There was a hook. Now there is a hat.

The fish was funny. The Starbucks was irritating. But seeing something appear in a photograph of two people who are no longer here felt different. It felt like reality had quietly edited the background while I was not looking. Like the universe had changed one tiny detail in a familiar scene just to see whether I would notice.

Oh and also Readers, Fruit of the Loom had a cornucopia.

I will not be accepting opposing testimony at this time.

The fruit sat in front of one of those curved basket horn things. That is how many of us learned what a cornucopia was. Nobody was sitting in elementary school deeply invested in decorative harvest containers. We saw one behind the fruit on an underwear label and asked an adult what it was.

That cornucopia existed.

Except Fruit of the Loom apparently insists that it never did. According to the official version of reality, the logo has always been nothing but fruit.

No horn.

No basket.

No cornucopia.

That is simply incorrect.

I can see it.

Millions of people can see it.

So where did it go?

Is the cornucopia being stored somewhere with Sinbad’s genie movie, the original Berenstein Bears books, the Bass Pro Shops singing fish, and my missing Starbucks? Is there a warehouse between timelines containing everything reality has quietly removed? Because at this point, I would like access to the evidence room.

The logical explanation is that human memory is imperfect. Our brains combine similar images, places, names, and experiences until they create a version that feels completely real. Once enough people repeat the same mistake, it becomes a shared false memory.

Fine.

That is a reasonable explanation.

I still reject it.

My preferred explanation is that multiple versions of reality exist at once, and every now and then something gets moved during the transition.

In my original timeline, Sinbad starred in Shazaam. The Berenstein Bears were spelled with an E. Fruit of the Loom proudly displayed its cornucopia. Bass Pro Shops sold the singing fish I bought when I was younger. The Starbucks is exactly where I left it. And the hook behind Cory and his mom is empty.

Maybe there is another Sarah somewhere right now watching Shazaam while drinking coffee inside the missing Starbucks. Maybe she is reading a Berenstein Bears book to the kids while a singing fish performs on the wall behind her. Maybe she is wearing a Fruit of the Loom shirt with the original cornucopia logo while showing Craig and Bestie a photograph with an empty hook in the background. Maybe her version of Bestie believes her. Now that would truly be an alternate universe.

And I am not losing my mind, Readers, regardless of what Bestie tells the children.

Reality is simply gaslighting me.

Frankly, I would like to speak to management.

That was me Saturday.

One minute I was functioning like a relatively well-adjusted adult. The next, alcohol had apparently been granted unrestricted access to the Sarah Historical Archives, and I was emotionally unloading decades of heartbreak, grief, bad decisions and unresolved trauma onto another human being.

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Readers, I genuinely do not think they’re built correctly.

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First, coffee should always come iced.

Second, when something goes horribly wrong, it is probably Craig’s fault.

Please do not argue with me about this. I know some of you are already clutching your little imaginary pearls, preparing to defend that man because he seems so wonderful. And yes, fine, I get it. Craig is sweet. Craig is charming. Craig pays for everything. Craig is very attractive. Craig loves me for reasons that remain a mystery to science, religion, and possibly the FBI. And yes, while he is out here being Prince Charming with a credit card, I am over here calling him annoying, blaming him for every minor inconvenience, and generally acting like he personally created all the chaos in my life.

Which, to be clear, he did.

This time especially.

Let me take you back to Saturday night on Fremont Street after the George Birge concert, when everything was still mostly normal. George had just finished singing, Craig had survived being in the same zip code as one of his celebrity crushes, and we were making our way through the crowd to find Bestie and the Little Zen Master. It was late. It was loud. There were people everywhere. Fremont was doing what Fremont does best, which is making you question both your life choices and whether you accidentally wandered into a fever dream sponsored by neon lights and poor decisions.

At some point during all of this, I got thirsty. Not dramatically thirsty. Not “I need a cocktail” thirsty. Just regular human thirsty. I wanted something to drink. Water would have been lovely. A cute little hydration station would have been ideal. Maybe something with electrolytes because I am almost forty now and apparently my body requires maintenance like a used Prius. But this was Fremont Street, Readers. Fremont does not believe in wellness. Fremont does not care about your hydration journey. Fremont looked at me and said, “Best I can offer you is alcohol served in a plastic cup and a possible regret.”

Meanwhile, Craig and Jenny needed to find a bathroom. And by Jenny and Craig, I mostly mean Craig, because that man cannot go ninety minutes without needing a bathroom break. I do not know how he survived before Google Maps. There should be a special filter just for him that says, “Find nearby bathrooms before Craig starts pacing like a pregnant woman about to explode.”

So off they went on their little bathroom adventure, leaving me alone and unsupervised on Fremont Street.

This was mistake number one.

And because Craig left me unattended, this is where we begin building the legal case against him.

I wandered over to one of those outdoor bars because, again, I was thirsty. A woman in front of me ordered this cute little drink that looked fruity and innocent. It had juice. It had cherries. It looked fun. It looked refreshing. It looked like something you sip while making smart choices.

Obviously, I wanted it.

Now, did I ask what the drink was called? No. Did I ask what kind of alcohol was in it? Also no. Did I ask whether it was one of those drinks that tastes like fruit punch but contains enough liquor to make your ancestors feel something? Of course not. Why would I gather information before making a decision? That sounds like something a responsible person would do, and I was on vacation.

The bartender asked what I wanted, and I simply pointed to the girl’s drink and said, “I’ll have what she had.” That was it. That was the entire transaction. No questions. No research. No concern for my future self. Just vibes, cherries, and the confidence of a woman who had clearly learned nothing from any previous chapter of her life.

The drink arrived, and Readers, I hate to admit this because it only encourages bad behavior, but it was delicious. Absolutely delicious. One thousand out of ten. I still have no idea what it was, but I do know that whoever created it knew exactly how to disguise danger as fruit juice. It tasted like happiness. It tasted like summer. It tasted like the opening scene of a Dateline episode where everyone later says, “She seemed fine at first.”

Then I spotted Bestie up ahead with the Little Zen Master, who had officially shut down for the evening. It was nearly 11:00 PM, which meant Azzy had clocked out, left his body, and entered toddler sleep mode. Bestie was ready to get us to the Uber pickup and back to the Tower, because unlike the rest of us, Bestie still had enough brain cells functioning to recognize that the night needed to end.

And this is where the second problem appeared.

I had just paid twenty dollars for this mystery drink.

Twenty. Dollars.

Was I going to throw it away? Absolutely not. I am not made of money. I am made of coffee, sarcasm, unresolved grief, and questionable decisions, but not money. So, naturally, I did the only financially responsible thing a woman could do in that situation.

I drank it.

Fast.

Very fast.

Like my ancestors were yelling, “Finish it, Sarah, we paid for that.”

And that, Readers, is where the evening stopped being a clear memory and became a collection of blurry courtroom exhibits.

I remember getting back to the Tower. I remember taking off my shoes and announcing, either out loud or spiritually, that my pinky toe was healed. Apparently mystery cocktails have medical properties. Someone alert the orthopedic community.

I remember trying to talk to Kryssi. About what? No idea. Was it important? Probably not. Did I believe it was important at the time? Absolutely. Drunk Sarah is very passionate and has the emotional urgency of someone delivering a presidential address from the inside of a hotel suite.

I remember chasing Craig around the hotel suite. Why was I chasing him? Again, no idea. Maybe he had my phone. Maybe he was being annoying. Maybe his existence offended me. All valid possibilities. What I do remember is Bestie yelling at me repeatedly and informing me that if I woke up either child, he was return me to Fremont Street to become someone else's problem.

Then Craig took my phone. At the time, I’m sure I considered this a personal attack. A betrayal. A violation of my rights. A tragic moment in which the man who claims to love me tried to silence my greatness.

The next morning, I discovered he had taken my phone because I had apparently attempted to Zelle Kryssi $1000.

Yes, Readers.

One thousand dollars.

Not ten. Not twenty. Not even a dramatic fifty.

One thousand American dollars.

For what? We may never know. Was I paying her for emotional damages? Was I trying to sponsor her entire existence? Did I think I was Oprah? Was I simply overcome with friendship and bad math? These are questions for historians.

Thankfully, my bank saw the transaction and immediately stepped in like, “Absolutely not. This woman is under the influence of something fruity.” They slapped a fraud alert on my account, which I discovered the next morning while trying to piece together the events of the evening like a detective in a robe with dry mouth and moral confusion.

So thank you, bank. Truly. You were the only adult in the room.

Oh and I also remember there was a hot tub involved at some point because of course there was. We were at the Tower. The hot tub is basically part of my religion now. I remember getting in and yelling at Craig because the water was too hot, which was obviously his fault too.

So what did we learn from all of this?

First, maybe ask literally one question before ordering an alcoholic drink just because it looks pretty.

Second, if a cocktail tastes exactly like fruit juice, it’s probably setting a trap.

And finally, if you’re dating me, under absolutely no circumstances should you wander off and leave me unattended on Fremont Street. I require adult supervision at all times.

Craig failed to provide that supervision.

Therefore, ALL of this was his fault.

I am back! I spent the Fourth of July weekend in Vegas celebrating America’s 250th birthday with the boys and the kiddos, and as you have probably already guessed, it was complete chaos. There were concerts. There were eye rolls. There was my emotional support Sphere. There was the Tower. There were patriotic arguments. There was Craig being Craig. There was Bestie judging all of humanity. And somehow there was even a pinky toe injury.

Now I know what you’re wondering. “Sarah, who hurt their pinky toe?”

Readers! It was me.

Now before everyone starts sending me messages telling me to go get an X-ray, let me clarify that I don’t actually think I broke it. I may be being just a tiny bit dramatic. But I definitely injured it. It swelled up, it hurt, and I knew this was going to happen before I ever left for Vegas. In fact, I predicted it the minute I bought the shoes.

In order to understand the full significance of this story, you need to understand some background first. See, I have these dress shoes that I wear literally everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I wear them to work. I wear them grocery shopping. I wear them walking the Las Vegas Strip. I’ve worn them to concerts. I have probably worn them places that absolutely should have required flip-flops instead.

People make fun of me all the time. “Sarah, why are you wearing dress shoes?”

Because they’re comfortable!

Readers, when you find a pair of shoes that doesn’t make your feet want to file a formal complaint against you, you stick with them. I own multiple pairs in multiple colors, and I even have brand new backup pairs sitting in my closet still in the box for the day one of my current pairs finally gives up. I’m not kidding. I am committed to these shoes.

So naturally, after years of proving this system works perfectly. I decided to ignore all common sense.

The last time I was at Dillard’s I found the cutest little blue flip-flops. They even had memory foam. They matched the patriotic outfit I had planned to wear for the City’s Fourth of July celebration perfectly. They were adorable.

There was also a little voice in the back of my head that kept saying, “This is a terrible idea.”

I ignored it.

Because apparently I enjoy learning the same lesson the hard way.

I wore those flip-flops for the entire work celebration Saturday morning. Five hours. Then I climbed into Pearl and drove straight to Vegas to meet the boys at the Tower. The second I walked into our suite and kicked those shoes off, I knew I had made a mistake.

My poor little pinky toe was throbbing.

The boys noticed right away that it was swollen. Craig immediately grabbed me some ice, which was very sweet of him considering he spends most weekends finding new ways to annoy me.

The problem was we already had plans to head down to Fremont Street that night for the George Birge concert. Which meant lots of walking. Lots of standing. Lots of pretending I wasn’t limping around Las Vegas over one tiny little toe.

So I made the obvious choice. The dress shoes came back out.

Readers, I regret absolutely nothing.

We walked Fremont. We stood through the concert. We wandered around until almost midnight before finally making our way back to the Tower. And somehow by the time we got back my toe actually felt better. It was still swollen, and it still hurt, but nowhere near as badly as it had earlier that afternoon.

So let this be today’s life lesson: If you find something that works, don’t let other people convince you it doesn’t. I don’t care if they’re “dress shoes.” If they’re comfortable, wear them. Your feet don’t care what’s fashionable. They care whether you’re asking them to survive five hours at a city event followed by an evening walking around Las Vegas.

Mine tried to warn me. I simply chose not to listen.

Anyway, I have so many stories from this trip that we’re going to be unpacking over the next few days. I’ll tell you about how I almost lost my boyfriend to yet another country singer, how Bestie somehow managed to get us lost dozens of times in a City we should know like the back of our hand at this point, why the Sphere has officially become my emotional support orb, and how I very nearly drunk sent my friend in Oregon $1,000.

Like I said, never a dull moment.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Except when you’re a writer. Then it ends up on Facebook and Substack.

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Apparently, this was…

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