At work, I wear many hats—plumber, receptionist, IT gal, operations manager, therapist, and occasionally, teacher.
My official title is Director of Administration. Unofficially, I’m the go-to woman—the one people turn to when something needs to be done, no matter what it is.
My guiding principle is simple: I go where I’m needed and do what needs to be done to keep things running smoothly. I believe in leadership by example. I’ve never considered any task beneath me—not even the messy, uncomfortable ones.
When I interview potential team members, I lay it all out—the perks and the challenges. I make it clear that while we have a janitorial service, accidents happen when you work with kids. Sometimes, those accidents involve bodily fluids. And yes, someone has to clean it up—especially if it’s in a public space.
We provide everything you need—gloves, masks, cleaning supplies—and we all take turns when needed. Including me.
This is usually the moment in the interview when people decide if they’re really a good fit.
Leading by example isn’t always the easiest path. Sometimes, delegating would be quicker. But I’ve never been the kind of leader who just gives orders from the sidelines. I expect just as much from myself as I do from the rest of my team.
For me, it’s not about choice—it’s about character.
Because at the end of the day, leadership isn’t a title. It’s showing up, getting your hands dirty, and doing what needs to be done. Hats and all.
Category: daily mishaps
Why Are We Racing Through Life?
This morning, I caught myself sprinting—not toward a meeting or deadline, but toward my favorite reformer at Pilates.
It wasn’t about being late. It was about being first. Someone else who likes the same reformer had just parked, and instinctively, I rushed.
Why? Because the AC is over that spot, and it’s next to a wall—my non-working ear faces it, so the silence suits me. Logically, I know the workout would be the same anywhere in the room. But emotionally? I needed to win that micro-race.
It made me think: how often do we do this?
We weave through traffic just to stop at the same red light. We rush to checkout lines. We race—not because we have to, but because we feel like we must.
Most of us aren’t race car drivers or Olympic sprinters. So why do we move through the world like we are?
As I grow older, I’m starting to question the value of being first. Maybe it’s not about where you end up in line—but about showing up at all. And getting home safely.
That’s the real win.
Curious if anyone else feels this way—have you caught yourself racing for no real reason?
#Mindfulness #PersonalDevelopment #Productivity #Leadership #WorkLifeBalance
When the Bots Win: My Frustrating Return Dispute with Poshmark
I’ve been arguing with Poshmark for the past week—yes, me, a tiny human being in a standoff with a big company over one of my sales.
Poshmark’s return policy is supposed to be clear: no returns for buyer’s remorse or fit issues—only for misrepresentation. But lately, buyers have been exploiting that exception, and Poshmark’s bots usually approve these returns without much scrutiny. Why? Because they don’t want to upset buyers. Ironically, this is upsetting sellers—the very people who supply the platform’s inventory.
Poshmark takes a 20% commission on every sale. In exchange, they offer easy shipping and claim to provide protection for both buyers and sellers.
My sold listing included plenty of photos—front, back, inside, outside—and detailed measurements from every angle, along with a solid description. Buyers can either click “Buy Now” at the listed price or make an offer to negotiate. In this case, the buyer—located in a different time zone—sent an offer while I was asleep. Impatient, they went ahead and bought it at full price.
I don’t ship immediately when someone pays full price. There’s a window for cancellations, and I like to give time for buyer’s remorse to settle in. So I shipped the next day, as I usually do.
Just two minutes after the item was marked “delivered,” the buyer opened a return case citing misrepresentation. I reached out privately and—surprise—the buyer admitted they regretted the purchase. (Yes, I took a screenshot.)
I responded to the case with all the listing photos and that screenshot. But of course, I got the typical bot reply.
Frustrated—and admittedly with some free time—I emailed customer service with a full breakdown. This time, a human responded. They agreed I was right, but said the return had already been approved and couldn’t be reversed. Essentially: “Sorry, our bad, but tough luck.”
I work in customer service myself. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of complaints. But I’ve never told a customer, “Yeah, we messed up, but it’s your problem now.”
Their follow-up email was vague and meaningless. I responded again, expressing my disappointment in the company.
My husband thinks I’m nuts—and maybe I am. But I don’t like being called a liar, especially not by a person or a platform I’ve supported.
I love Poshmark. I buy and sell there because it’s easy to use compared to other platforms. But their customer service? Let’s just say it should be renamed the “Customer No Service” division.
I don’t know if they’ll respond to my last email—and honestly, at this point, I don’t care. But they’ve left a bad taste in my mouth, and now I’m reevaluating this whole side hustle.
“Have you had a similar experience? Let’s talk.”
#CustomerServiceFail #poshmark #onlineseller #buyersremorse
Why I Made Wednesdays My Self-Care Day
This year, as part of my annual resolutions, I designated Wednesdays as my self-care day. On Self-Care Wednesdays, I schedule doctor appointments, handle insurance issues, and manage my FSA and HSA tasks.
Why Wednesdays? Honestly, it was a practical (and slightly petty) choice—I don’t like the Wednesday Pilates instructor. Silly, but it worked. I needed a dedicated day for health-related matters, and Wednesdays stuck.
At the beginning of the year, I listed all the medical visits I knew I’d need—dermatologist, endocrinologist, dentist—and mapped them out month by month. Then I just started calling and scheduling . This way, I eliminated excuses and avoided procrastination.
As we get older, our calendars fill up with more medical appointments. But caring for ourselves—physically and mentally—is the best gift we can give ourselves and our loved ones.
For a long time, I avoided doctors. Like my dad used to say, “They just find things you didn’t know were wrong.” It took ten years and a lot of frustration before I was finally diagnosed with Celiac disease. Back then, doctors didn’t seem helpful—just another round of meds and foods to eliminate. So I stopped going.
But now I understand the value of routine care. I’ve made peace with it. And scheduling everything on a specific day ensures I actually follow through.
Wednesdays work for me. What day could work for you? Designate a self-care day for yourself—you deserve it.
#selfcare #wellness #health #lifehacks
The Mourning We Don’t Talk About
In life, we mourn many things—not always death.
I’ve mourned my celiac diagnosis, my sudden hearing loss, and most recently, a friendship of nearly 30 years that quietly came to an end.
When I was first diagnosed with celiac disease, I mourned my freedom. The freedom to eat without fear, without reading every label, without scanning menus for hidden gluten. Back then, gluten-free options were scarce, and most of them tasted awful. I remember walking through Costco and crying, realizing there was nothing I could buy there ever again. That moment stayed with me. It took a long time to adjust to this new reality—20 years later, I still feel that sense of loss sometimes.
When I lost my hearing overnight, I mourned again—this time with fear. Fear of navigating life without a major sense, one that’s crucial for safety, for work, for connecting with others. I’m now five years into living with hearing loss, and some days are still hard. Crowded spaces overwhelm me. Conversations at parties are nearly impossible. I’ve become even more of an introvert, not by choice, but by necessity.
And this past year, I’ve been mourning a friendship. A nearly 30-year bond with someone I once considered a true friend. The kind of friend you shop with, laugh with, lean on. The one who would’ve helped me pick a dress for my daughter’s wedding, told me the truth in the fitting room, and listened when I needed to vent. She would have been there—and I would’ve done the same for her.
I have other friends. Good friends. But that doesn’t erase the ache of letting go of someone who once held a permanent place in your life.
Grief comes in many forms. And like any loss, it moves in stages. Maybe I’ve reached the final one. Maybe I’m at acceptance.
Or maybe I’m just learning that some grief never really ends—it just changes shape.
Guaranteed to Raise Your Blood Pressure—Just Add Customer Service
My cardiologist told me that I need to lower my blood pressure.
I would love to do that—sadly, there’s no magic button or app on my phone that can make it happen.
I work in customer service, and let me tell you: working in customer service is practically a guarantee that your blood pressure will be high. It might as well come with a sticker that says “100% Guaranteed.”
Customer-facing jobs have never been easy or appreciated much. You need a strong personality to last in them. Apparently, I have one—I’ve been in this industry for over thirty years.
This week, our phones were out for a day due to a VOIP outage. Honestly, it was kind of great for a few hours… until they started working again. Then the ringing didn’t stop.
Technically, not a problem. But the first call I was lucky enough to answer?
No greeting. No polite chit chat. I was immediately yelled at.
I asked the customer to explain the issue, and she just kept yelling. I asked again, politely, but she continued, yelling about a conversation she’d had with someone else in the office—five days ago.
I tried to stop her to ask her name (which she never gave me, too busy yelling), and I explained I couldn’t continue a conversation I wasn’t part of. That only made her yell louder.
I wear hearing aids, so yelling on the phone goes straight to my ears—and it hurts. I asked her kindly to stop yelling. She didn’t. She just hung up.
I’ve been yelled at by customers before—this wasn’t new to me or my blood pressure. But I’m always perplexed when people think yelling or being rude will help them get better service.
In my experience, kindness goes a long way.
To my cardiologist’s chagrin—and my blood pressure’s detriment—I’m still here at my job. And I can’t wait for the next person to raise it.
#CustomerServiceLife #YouCantMakeThisUp #behindtheadmindesk #customerservicestories
The Seven-Year Airedale vs. Corgi War (Now in Its Eighth Year)
My previous dog passed away last year. She had a bitter rivalry with a small but feisty corgi down the street. There was never any actual interaction between them — not even a sniff — but that didn’t stop the drama. The feud began when the corgi, who sleeps by a front window, barked at her one day as we walked past. And just like that, the war began. The now-legendary Seven-Year Airedale vs. Corgi War.
Whenever we passed by the corgi’s house, he’d go wild. When the corgi passed by our house, our Airedale would lose her mind. And so it continued, a battle of barks and glares, until the day our girl passed away.
This year, we adopted a rescue — a gentle giant with a heart full of love and a history of abuse. She’s anxious, scared of her own shadow, and doesn’t bark or jump at windows. That is… until she met the corgi.
One day, we walked past the corgi’s house. He barked at us like always — and something changed. Our sweet, timid rescue perked up. The ancient war reawakened. Somehow, some way, the vendetta had passed on. Now, every time we even approach the corgi’s house, she’s alert and ready. She’s never barked, but you can feel the energy shift. I swear I hear “Let’s get ready to rumble” in my head every time we round the corner.
We don’t encourage the feud. We cross the street to avoid it. But our girl is always ready, as if she’s been briefed on this rivalry since day one.
I actually talked to the corgi’s owner last week and we laughed about it. He admitted it’s probably his dog’s fault — apparently, the little guy is a menace to all dogs who dare walk past his window. Maybe our new girl picked up on our energy. Maybe she inherited the rivalry. Who knows? It’s probably a bit of both.
For now, the Seven—now Eight—Year War between the Airedale and the Corgi continues. Maybe one day, someone will write a history book about it, and their legacy will live on.
#DogLife #RescueDog #AiredaleTerrier #CorgiDrama #DogRivalry #DogStories
#PetBehavior #LifeWithDogs #DogFeuds #FunnyDogStories
#NeighborhoodDrama #LetTheDogsBark #EpicDogFeud #PawliticalConflict #SmallDogBigAttitude #TaleOfTwoDogs #DogLove #PetLegacy #NewBeginnings #FromGriefToHealing #BondBeyondWords #DogsAreFamily #BlogPost #TrueStory #DogBlog #AnimalTales #PetLife
Gravity, Weight Loss, and a Really Good Bra
Weight loss is a funny thing, but then again, so is gravity. As we get older, gravity becomes even funnier. Our skin loses its elasticity, our asses start to sag, and if we have tattoos, they begin shifting like the continents. Those perky 90-degree boobs start to resemble a geometric puzzle.
I often joke that one way to combat that is by tying my boobs to my ass, thinking it might create some equilibrium. Alas, I digress.
When you combine aging with weight loss, gravity plays an even bigger role. I’ve lost 30 pounds this past year (yes, I’m on Wegovy), but no, it wasn’t done out of vanity. I have several autoimmune diseases that took a toll on my body. After the weight loss, my blood tests and heart tests are looking better, and surprisingly, even my IBS has improved. All my doctors are happy, and let’s be honest, I live to make my doctors happy.
The 30 pounds are quite noticeable on my five-foot-nothing frame, and gravity noticed it too. Last weekend, I ran into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a while. She commented on my weight loss, but instead of saying, “You look great!” she said, “I can tell you lost weight because your boobs are saggy.” I started laughing—not from embarrassment, but because I found it funny.
This acquaintance had a breast reduction, so she’s very observant about other people’s breasts. I think we tend to judge or observe others based on the things we’re most unhappy about, and that impacts how we see people and life in general. She didn’t mean to be rude, and I don’t think she even realized it was.
Yes, gravity has taken its toll on my body, and weight loss has combined with it in ways that aren’t exactly fun. But I accept it with grace—and a really good bra.
#WeightLossJourney #GravityGotMe #BoobsAndButt #AgingGracefully
#WegovyJourney #WeightLossRealTalk #EmbraceTheSag #TalesOfGravity
#BodyPositiveHumor #AcceptanceAndHumor #AutoimmuneAwareness
#LaughingThroughLife #PerkyToPuzzled #SaggyButHappy
Bread Trucks and Blood Pressure: Finding Humor in Life’s Challenges
funny. You see, I’m a Celiac — I can’t eat gluten because of an autoimmune disease. I was diagnosed with it as a “birthday gift” on my 39th birthday, and as a former carb-lover, giving up bread and pasta wasn’t easy. Back in the day, gluten-free options were hard to come by and, frankly, not very tasty. And, let’s be honest, gluten-free bread is still the size of a postage stamp.
Life these days is hectic, crazy, and sometimes full of stress. Lately, work has only made it worse. My cardiologist told me I need to lower my blood pressure. I asked him how to do that when people around me constantly annoy me and drive me crazy. I’m still waiting for a solid answer to that question.
I try not to take everything too seriously — not because I think life is a joke, but because we’re all dealing with serious things. We need to find humor in what surrounds us. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to help much with my blood pressure.
Losing my hearing was tough. I went through the stages of grief because losing such an important sense impacts my quality of life and everyday well-being. But five years later, when people ask how it affects me, I joke that it’s actually a blessing for my husband — I don’t hear any of his annoying remarks anymore.
So, having a bread truck full of gluten following me around was pretty funny. Who knows, maybe it’ll even show up in my dreams tonight.
#GlutenFreeHumor #CeliacLife #FindingTheFunny #LaughThroughTheStruggles
#CeliacWarrior #HealthWithHumor #BreadTruckChronicles #AutoimmuneLife #GlutenFreeJourney #StressAndLaughter
Our Foster Fail: The Story of Shuki, Our Gentle Giant
We fostered a rescue dog several months ago with the intent to “foster fail” and adopt her. Happily, we did fail at fostering, and now she shares our last name.
Our Shuki girl was rescued from a house that did not feed or give water to her and her siblings. She was extremely malnourished and very suspicious when we got her. Feeding time was like a piranha frenzy in the Amazon. She ate her food so quickly, you could barely count the seconds, out of fear that it would be taken from her. She gulped water the same way, creating big, messy puddles all around her.
She’s been with us for almost three months now, and we love her dearly. In that time, we’ve seen her grow from a fearful, malnourished pup into a sweet, cuddly companion. She is a big cuddler, unlike our previous dog, and seeks pets and attention quite a lot. She’s also scared of many things, especially big white cars. We suspect her abuser had a car like this.
Shuki knows many commands at this point and understands them in two languages. She is a very smart girl.
This week, however, we had a scary incident. Some kids came fast behind her on a walk with motorized scooters, and it freaked her out. She was so scared that she broke the leash and ran away. We panicked. Since she’d only been with us for three months, we weren’t sure where she would run to and were afraid she’d get hit by a car—or worse.
An emergency family phone call ensued, and we all went looking for her, worried sick. We found her about 10 minutes later—or better yet, she found us. She ran home, and luckily my husband was close by. He saw her and opened the door for her to enter the house. On the Ring camera, you can see her calmly walking into the house, while we were all in a panic.
Shuki girl ran home. She ran back to a place where she felt safe, secure, and loved.
There’s a common “Three, Three, Three” rule for rescue dogs. It means: three days to decompress, three weeks to learn the house routines, and three months to feel fully at home. We are very happy that she found her way home and that she considers our home her safe place. She’s a gentle giant, and we’re hopeful that she’ll be with us for many more years to come. But we could certainly do with fewer scary moments like that one!
Schpilkes The Blog 