Lauren Wellbank

experiences may vary

Month: January 2016

Almost Failed…

Well friends, I am in danger of not meeting my expectation that I set out only five short posts ago.  I blame my husband (because, why wouldn’t I?) and assume absolutely no fault of my own.  I am so close to not making a post this week.

Seriously though, it’s been a crazy two weeks.  Yeah, I said two weeks because that last post I made was from the archives of “Crap I wrote Forever Ago”.  You know, from the annals of “Lauren, 2014”.  So, it was old.

Much of what has happened over the past two weeks has been the same as it always is, but topped off with a teething toddler, a blizzard, the overwhelming desire to both drink ALL THE THINGS and never drink again, writing a bunch of stuff that I hated, and several Powerball losses.

Let us begin with the writing of things that I hated.  Really, I didn’t so much hate them as I was unsure of them.  I asked the husband to read one of them and after giving me some constructive criticism (that I asked for), I decided that I hated both him and the story and scrapped them both.  Just kidding, you can’t scrap a husband.  Well, you can scrap a husband, but it’s frowned upon.  Then I decided that maybe what I really needed to do was stop writing things that nobody (Hi mom!  You’re not Nobody!!!) was reading, so I decided to go public with this next month.  Because THAT was the missing element to making writing easier.

The teething toddler is self-explanatory.  She’s teething, it’s awful for everyone (but probably way more so for her), and she’s a toddler which means she can’t tell me that she’s throwing everything I own across the room because her face hurts.

This may be the first blizzard ever where I was totally stressed out beforehand.  Usually I would have just purchased all the beer and cigarettes that my house could hold and then battened down the hatches and rode it out.  Since this our first major snow storm as parents (and we live directly on top of a Hellmouth, where we used to lose power if it was a partly cloudy day), I was terrified.  I thought for sure we would lose power and have to trek out in the middle of the blizzard to one of our parent’s houses, teething toddler in tow.  Thankfully, none of that happened.  We did get some damn near record breaking snow though.  That was pretty cool to look at.

I think wanting to drink-all-the-things/never-drink-again is pretty self-explanatory (“at least it should be” she thinks as she slurps wine from her fish bowl sized glass).  Also, someone should start a petition to make wine tax deductible for parents.

PhotoGrid_1454029707939  And now, let’s talk about the Powerball.  I totally get it.  I have a better chance of finding an actual leprechaun in my Lucky Charms tomorrow than I do in winning the Powerball.  I really do get it.  I promise that I do.  But every time I don’t win the lottery, a piece of me dies.  I would make such an excellent lottery winner.  I would be good for the local economy.  Paying off my mortgage and making vast improvements upon my homestead.  I would totally be good for the storm ravaged Jersey coast too, because I would be buying a shore house as one of my top five first purchases.  Even our family would reap some rewards.  We wouldn’t be selfish.  Also, we would invest the crap out of it.  I already know how we would break it up and where our funds would go (depending, of course, on how much we win)… I’m going to buy an excessive amount of PP&L stock, diversify my portfolio with mutual funds, get my hands on some of that IRA action… annnnnnnnnd… I just realized that our entire retirement plan is based on us winning the lottery.  Maybe my grip on the reality of being a lottery winner is a bit more tenuous than I had thought.

And I do believe that concludes my excuses for slacking over the past two weeks.  Hey, not all my posts are going to be winners.  Some of them are going to just be me writing just to write.  I hope you’re into that sort of thing!

This Isn’t a Mom Blog, Promise…

I found this while going through some of my old writings.  It was written in 2014 while I was entering the last month of my pregnancy.  I feel a need to apologize ahead of time for the lamenting pregnancy post.  I did, however, greatly enjoy reading this.  Now that I have a toddler… well let’s just say I laughed about all of my complaints about pregnancy… and laughed and laughed and laughed… Oh Pregnant Lauren, being a mom is so much more work!!!

Wait a minute, where did the past seven months go?!  Not only does it seem like just yesterday I found out that I was pregnant, but it seems like just last week I was TRYING to get pregnant and day dreaming about all the glorious things that I would be doing with my pregnancy.  Taking cute photos every week of my ever growing belly (check).  Writing a heartfelt letter to my unborn daughter, journal style, for her to read on her 16th birthday (check).  Being completely done the nursery in record time so that I would be 100% ready to go if I happened to deliver early (huge check).  That was the dream.  I was going to be a perfect mom-to-be.  I was going to glow and have perfect hair (like my mother experienced).  I was going to have a connection to my body and my unborn daughter like no other woman had ever had before.  Mostly, I was going to spend every moment of every day enjoying this pregnancy that I had worked very hard to achieve.

I say very hard but the reality is that my struggle with infertility was no more a “struggle” than the leggings I am currently wearing at work are “pants”.  It took a year of haphazard, lackadaisical trying before a few months of peeing on all the ovulation kits I could find.  But more on that later.

The reality of the situation could not be further from what I imagined.  First of all, I did NONE of the things that I thought I would.  I took a good four or five pictures of my belly as it started to grow, but rapidly lost interest.  I never even started a journal.  My sister very thoughtfully gave me a book that told me what was happening every day of my pregnancy and had a few lines where I could document my weight and measure my belly, but that fell by the way side after a few months (sorry Katie, I didn’t want you to have to find out like this).  I lived part of that perfect dream for a few months where the fiancé and I would lay in bed at night and I would read to him that day’s happening in my womb.  It was all very touching except usually he was on his phone playing Angry Birds and I was secretly trying to rush through it by skipping entire paragraphs.  It’s not that I wasn’t interested in what was going on with my baby, it just wasn’t that interesting.  The nursery, for the record, is mostly done.  I had a lofty notion that it would be complete and filled with everything I would need, including all of the babies clothes pre-washed in Dreft, a few weeks after I found out what we were having.  Instead I did not do ONE. SINGLE. THING. In that nursery.  Thankfully the fiancé has spearheaded that project and has been working on it for me (sometimes without my knowledge).  My major contributions have been picking a theme (Wizard of Oz) and going upstairs one day with a sharpie and writing on each wall what color I would like them to be painted.  This reality in no way compares to my original vision of me up there with a bandana in my hair, using a step stool to reach the high parts (never a ladder because pregnant woman do NOT use ladders if they care about the health and wellbeing of their unborn children).  I would be either humming some jaunty tune to the baby while I worked or I would be listening to a radio station that only played songs that would work perfectly as a soundtrack to this project.  The fiancé wouldn’t be helping because he would be at work or off doing some other fatherly project.  The reality of what happened was he came home from work early every day for a week and worked on the nursery while I was still at work.  I would come home, bitch about dinner not being ready, and lay on the couch eating pickles until it was feeding time.  Dream verse reality is a funny thing.  I never in my wildest dreams expected to not be the glowing, happy, woman from the shampoo commercial that my mother always told me that she was while she was pregnant.  First of all, it’s all I knew of stories of pregnant people.  Second of all, that has to be hereditary, doesn’t it?  I ended up with her ovarian cysts, why wouldn’t I end up with her ability to own pregnancy?  I think the answer to this is simply because not only is every woman different, but every pregnancy is different as well.  Well, that’s the practical reason.  My sneaking suspicion is that the universe hates me and is therefore punishing me for some perceived slight (could be the fact that for most of my adult life I have had the metabolism of a Greek Goddess, with the ability to eat candy and carbs at every meal and gain nary a pound).  Regardless of the reason, I can say with some certainty, that I absolutely hate being pregnant.  I hate the fact that I’m hungry all the time.  I hate the fact that my hands swell and my engagement ring gets so tight I have to take it off.  I hate that I can’t get into a comfortable position and when I DO magically manage to achieve comfort in about five minutes I am uncomfortable again.  I hate the fact that after a lifetime of mocking Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS) as being some made up disease that people claim to have for attention, I ended up with it.  I really hate my Gestational Diabetes diagnosis and that I have to follow a special diet that includes NONE of the foods that I love.  I suppose the reality is that I don’t want to write my daughter a letter because I don’t really have anything worthwhile to say to her yet.  Do I love her completely and unconditionally even though I have never met her?  The short answer is yes.  The long answer involves my theory that all of the hormone surges we experience during pregnancy that make us want to drive our cars head on into a wall or murder the person that sits a few cubicles over because he is mocking a project you just completed, also make us love this little thing growing inside of us so much that we could never imagine doing something that could cause them harm (like driving our car into a wall or serving twenty five to life for murder, although if Ben doesn’t shut his mouth I will reconsider this theory).

So here I am at almost 32 weeks thinking about all the things that I wanted to do, and didn’t.  All the things that I expected to happen, that didn’t.  And all my hopes and dreams, well, that really aren’t anymore.  At this point I’ll trade in all the journals, progress pictures, and completed projects for this little adventure in life making to come to a head.  I just want my daughter.  I want her to be happy and healthy and to think I’m the most hilarious person in the world.  Plus, there is always her first year of life, where I can document every little smile and giggle and take monthly snap shots that I will compile into a darling little banner to hang at her first birthday (thanks for yet another unrealistic goal for me to now aspire to).

Douchebag Impala – a short story

The morning was bitter cold.  Lucy could still see her breath as she exhaled even inside her car with the heat on.  Her toes felt like they were fused together inside her shoes.  She pressed her foot down on the gas lightly, feeling like she was putting a cement block on the accelerator.  This morning had rapidly gotten away from her.  One thing after another had come up.  It was the perfect storm of just enough small things going awry to mess up the entire day.  Although she had only left the house five minutes late she was betting she would end up getting to work a good fifteen minutes past when she was due to clock in.  That was just the way the day was going.

As if on cue, traffic slowed down again.  Break lights flashed on the car ahead of her and she also began to decelerate.  Terrific.  Behind her, a loud engine roared.  It was loud and coming up much faster than it should have been.  She watched in her rear view mirror as a black shape grew larger and larger.  Her eyes grew as did the size of the head lights behind her.  It did not seem like he would slow down in time, but with the screeching of tires, he did.

For the next few minutes that she waiting in standstill traffic the Impala idled loudly behind her.  It was an old Impala.  Full of rust spots with mismatched doors.  It was black, but that flat black that may actually just be a coat of primer.  Breaking into the quiet of the morning was the sound of a honking horn.  The Impala’s horn.  The car in front of her had inched forward and in the moment that she spent awash in relief that she wasn’t rear ended, she had not.  Keep your hair on grandpa, she thought.

Traffic finally began to move.  Lucy followed with the flow and in a few more minutes was turning onto another street.  Once again traffic in front of her slowed to a crawl.  A school bus up ahead appeared to be the culprit.  It was coming to a stop at an apartment complex in the oncoming lane.  She considered speeding up and trying to beat the wait but thought better of it and once more applied those cold feet to the break.  The Impala impatiently roared back up behind her.  When she looked into the rear view mirror this time she felt as though the driver was sitting in the back seat of her car.  His entire face was in full view and she could read his lips well enough to know what he was saying about her in his car.

“Well, right back atcha, buddy.”  Lucy was midway to leaning forward to change the radio station.  Hoping that finding just the right song on the radio could turn this entire morning around.  Instead, as if he heard her, the man behind her laid on the horn again.  This time he shook his fist and then gestured wildly at the bus.  Her lip reading skills had either improved or he was making an effort to make sure that she could understand what he was saying, go you dumb bitch.

Feeling her blood pressure rise, Lucy considered getting out of the car.  Just putting it in park and calmly getting out, going to the window of his shitty old beater, using her flashlight to crack the window, and then just beating him senseless with it.  But calmly.  She could just give him one good smack- again, the horn interrupted her thoughts.  This time she physically jumped.  He pointed at the school bus.  The arm with the stop sign on it was beginning to close.  She had to get off this road, get away from this guy before she really did snap and get out of the car.  The rational part of her brain knew that she wouldn’t, that she couldn’t, but that other part of her brain.  The irrational part was picturing throwing her car into reverse and backing into him over and over and over again.

All the children were loaded onto the bus and it had pulled away from the apartment.  Lucy pulled forward and decided to take a detour to work.  For her own sanity’s sake.  She was already expecting to be late.  A few more minutes wouldn’t make a difference either way.  A couple of turns later and Lucy had a red pickup truck cruising happily (and silently) behind her.  Mere moments more, and she was alone as she threaded through a small residential section.  Lucy came to another stop sign.  For a moment the sun shone over the tops of the houses in the distance.  It came through the bare branches of trees and directly into her car.  Finally, she felt some warmth.  Reaching forward and turning down the heat she could see below the sun glare.

The road in front of her was littered with bodies.  Road kill, to be specific.  As Lucy paused at the intersection she saw them all.  Littered may have been a bit dramatic.  However the sudden sight of all of the possums, squirrels, and the like, was bracing.

“What in the world?” Lucy whispered, as she looked down the street.  There were no other cars.  She could see straight down the three mile stretch to the next intersection.  Cars drove by but none turned in.  Looking from left to right, Lucy scanned for signs that something was amiss.  Nothing moved, a sign in itself.  The street was lined with houses, but no one exited.  There was no movement behind the windows either.  Her first thought was terrorists, naturally.  It was early morning in small town USA, on a quiet residential street.  The perfect place for ISIS to strike fear into the hearts of America.  After the panic washed over her and abated, the next most reasonable idea popped into her mind.  This was obviously the work of some animal serial killer.  So she, at least, was safe from any malfeasance.  She relaxed her grip on the steering wheel.

Whatever was going on, she wasn’t ready to drive down the street yet.  Maybe some assholes had gone drag racing during a mid-road small animal kegger.  Maybe someone threw poisoned meat out to lower the rodent population (although she was unsure if squirrels were meat eaters.  Those cute little bastards struck her more as vegetarians).  Or a gas leak.  A gas leak was possible too.  All of these thoughts took place in the span of sixty seconds.  Nobody had turned onto the stretch of street ahead since she stopped.  Stranger still, no one had exited their houses since she had stopped.  It was still early but most people were probably already on their way to work by now (as she was, albeit late).  All those school kids had probably been off loaded from their buses by the time Lucy pulled up to that stop sign.  She mused over this for another ten seconds.  Quietly, behind her a black Impala pulled up.

Movement ahead of her caught her eye.  A plucky little (vegetarian?) squirrel scampered from the side yard of one of the houses.  Seeing fresh life brought Lucy back to reality.  She was running late for work.  There was probably some sort of ratio of dead animals to square mile on roads like this.  Maybe it only seemed like a lot today because she was the only car on the road.  And her day had gotten off to a bracing start.  Correction, had been the only car on the road.  There was movement again, this time she noticed it behind her.  The Impala inched forward so that she could clearly see the driver in her rear view mirror.

Easing up on the break, about to move forward, Lucy once again looked to the squirrel.  He scampered, his tail swished, his whiskers shivered (she imagined this last bit, he was too far away for her to see his actual whiskers).  Raised up on his hind legs he sniffed the air near the street.  Then, with more dignity than she would have thought a squirrel could possess, he pirouetted and collapsed.  It happened in slow motion.  Her brain first registering surprise, and then acceptance.  Surprise at witnessing his shuffling off this mortal coil.  Acceptance, because after all, squirrels are naturally graceful.  They can run along a power line faster than a Cirque Du Soleil performer meandering on a tightrope.  Reapplying pressure to the break, Lucy considered something, an errant thought.  It was interrupted by the honk of a horn.  The douchebag Impala, revving its engine, idling closer yet.  Lucy shook her head to clear it up, to right the ship of her thoughts, but again a honk over turned it.

“God dammit!” The body of the squirrel was in front of her, the honking Impala behind.  This time he really laid on the horn.  Giving a voice to his impatience.  Letting out a huff of air, blowing away whatever thought she had been on the cusp of forming, Lucy took her foot off the break.  Inching forward slightly, she made a tight U-Turn.  Doing her best, she avoided going within a car’s length of the first animal corpse, a raccoon.  She also avoided making eye contact with the driver of the Impala.  The carnage on the street must not have registered to him.  He tore away from the stop sign before Lucy had completely cleared the intersection.  Curiosity raged within her and she glanced up in her rearview mirror in time to watch the black car’s pace slow to a crawl, swerve, and then stop as it came to rest against a curb.  The now familiar sound of the horn bleated once more into the empty street, and this time did not stop.

A few turns later and she was no longer alone.

“Miss,” a man in a blue Gas and Power uniform said as he motioned for her to roll down her window, “you need to clear out of here.  There’s been some kind of gas leak and we have evacuated this whole section.”  Lucy smiled, nodded as if in confirmation, and rolled her window back up.  She was back on her regular route to work.  The sun was shining, the chill had abated, and maybe her day was finally turning around.

It Follows

It has been a good long while since I last watched a scary movie that stayed scary after the credits rolled.  Last night I watched just such a movie, It Follows.  Without giving too much away, the premise is that there is a ghost, or haunting, that can be passed from person to person.  Kind of like your friendly neighborhood STD.  But more specifically, like your friendly neighborhood herpes.  Because, much like herpes, even though you’ve shared the ghost, you always still kind of have the ghost.  Sudden and unexpected ghost flair ups can happen.  Oh, and since it’s a scary movie, ghost herpes can be fatal.  You’re dying to watch this movie now, aren’t you?

I really liked this film because it hit on all the things that I think a good scary movie should.  There was some blood, some “make you jump” parts, a lot of downright creepy stuff, and no gore for gore’s sake (I’m looking at you Eli Roth, stop making torture porn a thing).  Also, kind of like the title implies, the movie stayed with me.  I couldn’t fall asleep last night because I kept thinking about the story.  Every time I would start to doze off I would think someone was standing in the doorway to my bedroom, or right outside the window next to my bed.  Every time I closed my eyes I thought about ghost herpes.

You may now be thinking, “Aren’t you the mother of a toddler?  Isn’t something that makes sleep harder kind of… well… bad?” If we were talking about rowdy neighbors throwing a rowdy all-nighter next door (that I was not invited to), then yes, that would be bad.

However a good scary movie is a thing of beauty.  If it keeps you up at night, or has you still scared after the lights came back on, it has done it’s job.  If, in the bright light of day, you find yourself suddenly unable to open the shower curtain after your shower because, what if there is someone standing on the other side of curtain… and you’re a grown ass woman who has had many a shower in her life without there EVER having been someone standing there waiting for you, then the movie has done it’s job very well.

Yes, I am the grown ass woman that waited an extra beat or two (or maybe closer to thirty beats) before opening the shower curtain this morning… whatever.

No, darling husband, this isn’t an invitation to sneak into the bathroom and wait to scare me the next time I shower.

Over the past twelve hours I have been giving a lot of thought to all of the good scary movies that I have seen.  I have also given some thought to all of the bad ones, of which there have been many.  I spent a few strange months playing the “let it roll” game on Netflix where every time I finished a movie and Netflix suggested another, I watched what they suggested.

Disclaimer: Everything EXCEPT Play Back staring Christian Slater, because I need to keep our love undiluted by the one star garbage that this movie undoubtedly was. 

Needless to say, I’m a little extra jumpy today.  It’s a good thing though, an enjoyable thing.  Anytime a scary movie can stick with me like that I think of it as a win.  It’s nice to be scared of something like this for a change instead of all the real world fears that are constantly in the undercurrents of my thoughts.  Real life shit is terrifying.  Ghost herpes are just scary.  It’s nice to take a break from it all.

And mother, THAT’S why some people watch “that garbage”.  That is, if you made it past the first paragraph without being too scared to finish.


Today I have a really bad case of the Ickbies.  Yep, it’s another term that I made up.  Get used to it, I like to make shit up.  This one means “I Can’t Because…”

For instance, I really want to work on my short story, but… I can’t because… I don’t have a lap top case to safely bring my lap top back and forth from my parent’s to my house to work on it at night after the little one goes to bed, I have a stack of paperwork that I have been carrying around in my purse that needs to be dealt with during the day, I need to get the wee tyke down for her nap, I am super hungry and it’s distracting, I want to go on Facebook and zone out, I need to figure out how I am getting my hair cut next month so I want to spend some time looking up new hair styles…

The reality is that I have too much to do at night right now with my cult (that’s right, I joined a cult, but more on that later) and if I brought the lap top home, it would sit at the house until morning when I bring it back to the parent’s.  But, that is not going to stop me from buying a lap top bag, because I really do want a way to safely transport my computer.  This has nothing to do with an overwhelming desire to shop.  Promise.

The paperwork in my bag has been in my bag for MONTHS.  I haven’t gone through it yet.  It hasn’t stopped me from doing anything else.  Why am I letting it stop me from writing?  Because I’m looking for excuses?  Probably.  Because I am easily distracted?  Definitely.  Maybe I will take some time to do it this afternoon so that I can stop carrying it around.  Maybe not.

It really is nap time, BRB.

Well, it’s two and half hours later.  I did get the baby down for a nap.  And I ate, so that’s two items that I have cleared up.

Annnnnnd, another hour has passed.

The ICB’s are real even though they are mostly made up.




This right here, this silly blog, is all inspired by a quote I saw this morning.  I’m paraphrasing here, but basically it said that you shouldn’t say that you aren’t doing something because you don’t have time, but instead because you don’t make it a priority.  Then see if that changes how you feel about the thing that you aren’t doing.

For the past, oh I don’t know, FOREVER, I have wanted to become a writer.  I have wanted to write books, movies, a blog, and for one very strange week, a comic book.  You name it, I’ve wanted to write it.  I have numerous half outlined ideas, with just as many started-but-never-finished stories.  I have always told myself that I don’t have the time to sit down and write something to completion (now that I have a toddler, and can see how much time I actually had before… let’s just say that hindsight is less 20/20 and more a mocking asshole).  The reality may actually be that I haven’t made it a priority.  It is time I make it a priority.  If I find out that it actually isn’t as much of a passion as I thought it was then no skin off my nose.  I can focus my energy on finding out what my passion actually is.  Hopefully I won’t find out that my true passion is just complaining about how great it would be if I had time to write.  Although with so many years of practice I could be the best lamenter around!

Now for the obligatory “about me”.  Although, let’s be real, if you are reading this then you already know all about me.  You are most likely either my mother, my husband, or my sister, because I can’t imagine my following being much greater than that.

I am in my late, early thirties.  I have a toddler daughter and a handsome bearded husband.  Up until just over a year ago I was a mortgage professional.  I worked in the industry for over a decade (actually, all of my adult life) and was moderately satisfied with it.  I longed to write the Great American Novel, or become a nurse, or maybe write about nursing.  Alright, maybe “moderately satisfied” isn’t the best way to describe how I felt about my career, but it paid the bills.  Now I am a Stay-At-Somebody-Else’s-Home Mom.  It’s a term I recently coined.  It means that I hang out at my mom’s all day with my daughter and my grandmother.  If that sounds like I’m living the dream to you, then you get it.  It’s awesome, and I love it.  Obviously, like everything, it has its ups and downs.  I spend a lot of time checking to make sure people are still breathing while they are sleeping and I touch a lot of poop and food (but I always wash my hands after and before, respectively).  I get to watch my daughter grow and experience all of her firsts.  I also get to spend time with my grandmother every day.  I know how rare of a thing that is to have.  Believe me when I say I cherish the time that we all get to spend together and none of this is taken for granted.

I am recently married.  Recently enough that it’s still really exciting when I remember that it happened.  Sometimes I still think it’s still months away.  Then I remember it has already happened and that this poor sucker is stuck with me for at least seventeen more years.  You know, for the baby’s sake.  The baby is actually a toddler now.  We are currently playing a super fun game that I just created where I roll a ball into the other room, she chases it down to bring it back to me, and then we start over again.  It’s fetch, I’m playing fetch with my daughter (whatever, she loves it and it’s giving me a chance to give this one last pass over before I post it).

If I had started this blog about a year ago I would have added cat aficionado (read: Crazy Cat Lady) to this “about me”.  Honestly, it probably would have gone, “I love cats, so many cats, all things cats… then waaaaaay down at the bottom, I also have a husband and a kid.  However, that time in my life has passed.    It happened sometime around the time that my oldest cat, Binker, passed away.  After he died cats sort of lost their appeal to me.  I think I was so “cat happy” because of him.  He was the best cat ever.  Unfortunately, that really became a problem because I still had five cats left.   Two more cats left us, one to cross the Rainbow Bridge and one… well he ran away and I think a crazier cat lady took him in (one that lives a few houses down), but that’s a story for another time.

My other hobbies include dancing like no one is watching and loving like there is no tomorrow.  Actually, I think my only other hobby is a new found appreciation for wine.  I used to be a strictly beer girl.  Maybe it’s the whole becoming a mom thing.  I hear those ladies are crazy for wine and coffee.  Maybe it’s because it’s a whole lot more reasonable to have a glass of wine at 3:30 on a Tuesday than to crack a beer?  Whatever the reason, I am on board.

I guess that’s the most “about me” I can get.  Now you know everything!  No need to read further.  Just kidding, please keep reading.

I’d like to set some expectations so you all (you know, my mom, husband, and sister) know when feel let down.  My plan is to use this as a platform for writing.  It’s that basic.  I will put up some thoughts and ponderings.  Maybe some musings. Hopefully I will also put up some short stories.  Then we can all look back on this and laugh when I am a world famous writer.  I am promising a minimum of one post a week.  If I go more than a week without posting, send a search party.  Or better yet, send wine.

That’s going to have to be all for now.  My daughter is now running from one room to another, delivering me all the things that she is not allowed to touch.*  She is basically taunting me to see if I will make her stop or just keep taking things, saying thank you, and then piling them up next to me.  Well, the joke is on her, because I’m about to go parent the crap out of her.

Until next time!


*This is totally my excuse for why this post is scattered.  Kids, man…

© 2020 Lauren Wellbank

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑