Tag: shortstory

Journal Entry

Chaos, Coffee, and Canines: A Morning on the Road

Reba Nietert

Traveling with dogs should come with a disclaimer: “Warning—may cause extreme chaos, laughter, and moments of pure panic.” Take this morning, for example. Picture it: 5:15 AM, a pitch-black hotel room, and two high-octane pups staring at me like I’m their personal sunrise. Thanks, time zone switch—you really know how to keep a girl on her toes.

I’d barely opened my eyes before both dogs were vibrating with excitement, ready to launch into their own version of the Indy 500 around our 500-square-foot hotel room. I’m tiptoeing around, trying to keep things quiet, but every paw thump and tail wag echoes like we’re rehearsing for Stomp. The suspense? Will we wake up the entire floor before sunrise? Odds are not in my favor.

Once I’m wrangled into my clothes, it’s time for the next challenge: the great outdoors. Except, plot twist, it’s been raining so hard I’m half-expecting to see a pair of giraffes lining up outside. The parking lot has become a small lake, and I’m wading through puddles like a contestant on a reality show—Survivor: Hotel Edition—just to reach the grass.

The dogs, of course, are living their best lives, zooming across the soggy grass with reckless abandon. I’m just trying to keep them from breaking the sound barrier or the property line. Photos are snapped, business is done, and I’m thinking, “Surely, the worst is over.” (Spoiler: it’s not.)

Time to head back in. Remi, my youngest, launches at the door like he’s auditioning for America’s Got Talent. Dakota, the elder stateswoman, tries to beat me inside—only to get her toe caught under the door. Suddenly, the scene turns into a canine opera: Dakota screeching, leashes flying, and me—somewhere between tears and laughter—trying to keep both dogs from reenacting a prison break.

At one point, Remi is locked inside, Dakota’s outside wailing, and I’m juggling leashes, guilt, and the creeping suspicion that I’m about to be evicted. I manage to calm Dakota, get everyone back inside, and—miraculously—no lasting damage. Remi, ever the good boy, is still tethered and waiting patiently. The dogs are loaded into the car, and I finally get a moment to chase down the holy grail: coffee. All this before my first cup. Send help.

Meanwhile, my phone is buzzing with texts from my husband and daughter, worried about my eye issue (which, by the way, is still a thing). I’m grateful for the love, but how do you even begin to explain this dog-fueled circus before breakfast?

And, of course, I still haven’t finished the contract I promised to send last night. I was so exhausted when we checked in at 11 PM that I collapsed face-first onto the bed. Now, I’m staring down a four hour drive to the airport to pick up the hubby and then another two-hour drive, running on empty, praying I can hotspot my laptop and work while my husband drives us home. 

But hey—dogs are fine, I survived, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get that coffee before the next episode of “Traveling with Dogs: Chaos Unleashed.” 

It’s not even 8 o’clock a.m. yet!

—

Have you ever had a travel morning like this? Share your funniest (or most suspenseful) pet travel stories below—bonus points if they involve coffee deprivation!

Human Interest, Inspiration

Pensively Remembering my Mom; My Friend

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024

In the quiet corners of your home, where laughter should thrive, a heavy silence often takes its place—a silence filled with the echoes of constant criticism and belittlement. You remember the stinging words of your mother, each one carefully crafted to chip away at your sense of self. With every harsh name and cutting comment about your appearance or abilities, you felt the weight of her judgment bearing down, as if you could never get anything right. Each interaction leaves you with the lingering question: Am I enough?

Yet, it’s not just the words that haunt you. The moments she withdraws her affection, using it as a weapon, leave you feeling adrift in a sea of uncertainty. You find yourself striving to earn the love you so desperately seek, always on edge—wondering if today will be the day you finally meet her expectations. You ask yourself, why must love be conditioned upon your actions? Why does it feel like a reward that dangles just out of reach?

And then, there are the times when she plays the blame game, turning her own struggles into burdens for your young shoulders. With every accusation, you become the scapegoat for her unhappiness, her anger unceremoniously cast upon you. You feel pinned under the weight of her emotions, as if you are responsible for her darkest days. Each misplaced anger has you questioning your existence, begging internally for her approval while fearing her discontent.

As you navigate through life, her grip tightens. She attempts to isolate you from laughter and joy, pulling you away from friends and family, as if keeping you close is her only way to feel secure. Pursuing your interests or hobbies feels like a distant fantasy, overshadowed by her silent disapproval—an unspoken rule that your happiness must bend beneath her needs.

The walls close in, and you wonder how much longer you can endure this emotional storm. This tumultuous relationship leaves you feeling lost, a mere shadow of who you could be—trapped in a cycle that threatens to persist. How do you break free? How do you reclaim the love that should never have come with strings attached? In this fight for self-worth, you know the journey ahead is long and fraught, but perhaps, just perhaps, there’s a glimmer of hope waiting to be uncovered.

And then, in the violent finality of her passing, a flood of memories rushes in—jagged shards of the past melding with whispers of the joyful moments we shared. It’s an unsettling collision, where the hurt feels entwined with the love I carry deep within me. I can’t escape the truth: I love her. Deeply. 

As I reflect on the years we spent together, especially in her last days, I realize how invaluable our bond became. Despite the weight of our troubled history, in those fleeting moments of clarity, I saw her as my greatest ally, my biggest cheerleader. She stood by me, instilling a sense of belief I had yearned for, even amidst the remnants of my broken childhood.

Yet, there’s a lingering ache, an acknowledgment of the pieces of me that are still fractured and may never fully heal. The wounds she inflicted haunt me, but within that darkness, I’ve learned that forgiveness holds an undeniable power. It’s a complex path, a painful admission that love can coexist with regret and sorrow. In my heart, I know that while my struggles remain, the warmth of our friendship in her final years shines brightly through the haze, illuminating the truth that love—though complicated—can be the balm for even the deepest wounds.

In this tangled mess of emotions, I am learning to reclaim my narrative. The weight of my grief is heavy, but slowly, I am finding solace in the understanding that forgiveness is not a gift for her; it is a gift I give to myself.

NOTE: Everyone has their own story. My mother‘s story is complex and derived from parents raised through the great depression. I cannot tell her story. I can only tell my own. When she passed, I realized I had suppressed a bunch of really good memories. While I struggle with the challenges, my life has been full, and I am grateful that we were able to get to an unconditional loving relationship at the end of her life. 

Human Interest

A September Day Turns to Turned to “Law & Order”

Reba Nietert

Copyright-2024 Rebecca Nietert

I woke up this morning to my dog jumping on my chest like he just won the lottery, enthusiastically slathering me with slobbery kisses – Remi’s version of a wake-up call. Thank goodness for him, because apparently, I’ve mastered the fine art of time travel: last night, I set my alarm for p.m. instead of a.m. Who knew 10 p.m. could feel so much like 8 a.m.? I leapt from bed, heart racing like I’d just chugged three cups of coffee, and dashed outside with Remi and Dakota.

After a thrilling sprint worthy of the Olympics, I had to wrangle in Scooby, my daughter’s overly pampered pup. Poor guy’s got zero yard privileges thanks to my daughter’s questionable real estate choices, so he’s stuck with morning leash missions. After what felt like an eternity of Scooby contemplating life’s big questions while sniffing every blade of grass, we were finally back inside. 

Now my dogs were bouncing around like they’d just been told there’s a sale on treats, practically performing their own canine version of “The Nutcracker.” I whipped up their breakfast, channeling my inner chef with a speed that would impress even Gordon Ramsay, and then bolted into the bathroom for my own personal revival: a quick freshen-up, relief on the porcelain throne, and a hastily pulled-together outfit that could only be described as “I’m running late but somehow still cute.”

At this point, it’s 8 a.m., and I realize I’m officially two hours away from the city and a doctor’s appointment that seems to require me to bring half my life in the car. So here I am, juggling dogs, snacks for said dogs, and a bag overflowing with everything but my lost sense of time. All while racing against the clock like I’m starring in my very own action movie. Buckle up, because it’s going to be a wild ride!

I was making my way to Sharon’s house. My husband Scott decided to ring me up like I was the keeper of some ancient treasure. “Do you have the key?” he asked, as if the fate of our entry depended on my answer. Honestly, I hadn’t even considered how we’d get inside! Luckily, the universe conspired in my favor—Laura had left the door lock open for my grand entrance, having chitchatted with me the night before about her dog-sitting plans for Scooby later that evening.

So, I waltzed into the house like I owned the place—armed with enough dog power to fill a small zoo. With the pack all corralled inside, I noticed Scooby gave me that classic “I need to go” look. You know the one: a mix of urgency and a silent plea as if saying, “If you don’t let me out, I might just turn this carpet into my personal restroom!” 

So, off we went, leash in hand, while my other little fur tornadoes poked their noses through the white picket fence slats like they were auditioning for a canine version of “Prison Break.” They seemed genuinely baffled as to why they couldn’t join us on the great outdoor adventure. Spoiler alert: They were not invited!

After Scooby took care of his business, we transformed the living room into a cozy dog haven. Out came the cage from the bedroom, and I strategically placed it in the center like it was the stage at a pet-themed Broadway show. It was either that or watch Remi chew through her beloved furniture. And trust me, I’ve seen him do it. Dakota, the self-appointed queen of calm, earned her stay-out-of-the-cage pass, and just like that, Scooby claimed the couch as his throne. A couple of motivational nudges, and all that was left was to remind them, “Mommy’ll be right back!”

With that, I bolted off to my doctor’s appointment, feeling like a one-woman circus, leaving behind my furry entourage, who I was convinced would either nap or plot world domination in her home.

I waltz into my doctor’s office, all spruced up and ready for some shoulder answers—because, you know, who doesn’t love a good medical mystery? But alas! The suspense thickens like gravy at Thanksgiving: my shoulder scans are MIA. I mean, come on, does anyone even check the file cabinet anymore? 

I’m left standing there, staring at the new orthopedic doc like he’s a contestant on a game show who just buzzed in with a “What-is-it?” answer. You see, my previous orthopedic guru had decided that the world was just too much for him and checked out of life unexpectedly. I received the letter—no drama, no farewell party, just a simple “He passed.” I thought, “Wow, did he at least leave a note telling me how to fix my shoulder?” Apparently not.

So, I launch into my tragic shoulder saga for the umpteenth time, trying to explain how this all feels like I’ve been in an intense grapple with a grizzly bear—one that didn’t even invite me to dinner first. I mention that my shoulder still resembles a deflated balloon after a kid’s party, and I’m on a tight deadline to get this sorted out before my big trip to Colorado on Monday. I mean, I can’t have a broken arm ruining my chance to go snowboarding and inevitably break more bones!

Now, bless the new doc; he’s really trying hard. You’d think he was training for the Olympics with how much he bends over backward to understand my tragic tale of woe. But what’s a party without props? He discovers that the x-rays are a no-show, like that one friend who always says they’ll come but is too busy binge-watching their favorite show. So, off we trot for a new set of pictures because clearly, my shoulders were not photogenic enough the first time around.

He ushers me into the x-ray room, and I’m positioned like a mannequin in an all-too-awkward department store display—arms up, one leg out, trying not to look like I’m auditioning for a bizarre yoga class. I strike a pose that says, “Yes, I’m totally cool with this,” while the tech snaps away, probably wondering if I’ve ever lifted anything heavier than a cupcake.

Twenty minutes later, I get the news that could rock my world (and possibly my arm) – “You might have a broken arm!” Oh, splendid! Just what I wanted to hear before my big adventure. I can already picture the headlines: “Local Woman Attempts to Ski with a Broken Arm – Hilarity Ensues!”

So here I am, caught in the hilariously absurd world of medical oversight, shoulder dilemmas, and a possibly bumpy trip ahead. But hey, if nothing else, at least my misadventures will make one heck of a story when I get back! Time for MRI to verify. That task is for another day. 

Later at the storage unit, I was, a self-proclaimed superhero on a mission. I had promised one of my besties that I would brave the treacherous terrain of my storage unit to rescue her a pink old-fashioned framed bicycle. You know, the kind that practically begs to be ridden while wearing a vintage dress and binge-watching old-timey movies? I even bought a brand-new basket for it at Walmart because, let’s face it, every bike deserves a sweet little basket—preferably one filled with snacks!

Now, I’ve got a shoulder that’s “possibly broken,” and by that I mean I can’t quite remember if I should be using it to lift things or if I should be treating it like a delicate piece of China that should only be admired from a distance. But, hey, what’s a minor injury in the face of friendship, right? With my determination dialed up to eleven, I pushed open the storage unit door and immediately realized that rescuing the bike was going to be more of an Olympic sport than I had anticipated.

There were a maze of boxes that could rival any labyrinth, an elliptical machine that was clearly plotting its revenge for being neglected, and there, in the distance, just to the left of everything else, lay the bike—pristine and patient, yet completely unreachable. Naturally, I thought, “Why not climb over all of that like I’m scaling Mount Everest?” So, there I went, fumbling and tumbling, attempting to balance the grace of a gazelle and the agility of a sloth.

Against all odds, I managed to hoist the bike out, one wheel at a time, like some sort of awkward, one-armed magician. Ta-da! With that glorious moment behind me, I grabbed the bike rack from my trunk, ready for the grand finale, only to discover I had the wrong vehicle for it. Classic! It was like trying to put a square peg in a round hole—frustratingly funny and utterly pointless.

But fear not! I’m resourceful, folks. I promptly whipped out some tie-downs and went to work, wrapping the bike around my tire like it was a lifeline in a crisis, praying it would survive the journey to my mother-in-law’s house. Because let’s be honest, if you’re going to have a bike adventure, it might as well be a comedy of errors, right?

And so, off I went—the madcap bicycle rescuer—on my slightly inconvenient but hilariously memorable quest, proving once again that friendship, much like my shoulder, may come with a few bumps and bruises, but is totally worth it! Cannot actually bring it back with the two hour drive but that too is for another day. 

Back at Sharon’s, I found myself in a bit of a pickle—or maybe more like a moldy sandwich—because, you see, I was on a quest for rest that day. You know the feeling: that hazy cloud of exhaustion looming over you? Well, mine was turbocharged by a severe lack of morning coffee and the ticking time bomb of an empty stomach. As I rummaged through my mother-in-law’s pantry, I was greeted by a lineup of expired goodies—nothing spells “gourmet” like a can of peaches from 1998. And let’s not even talk about the fridge; it looked like a science experiment gone rogue. 

So, I decided to lay down for what I hoped was a brief respite, but my two Brittany Spaniels had other plans. Furry little tornadoes, bouncing off the walls like caffeinated bunny rabbits, demanding to be let in and then immediately out again. It was an exhausting game of canine double-dutch. Finally, just as I was about to lose my mind (and maybe my sanity), Laura walked in like a superhero with a cape made entirely of hunger-induced rage. 

“Why is there nothing to eat in this house?” she chastised, clutching her stomach like it was an old friend. Turns out she was just as famished as I was. We chatted for a bit, and it became abundantly clear that while her hunger reached epic proportions, I had a pressing engagement of my own: cocktails and appetizers awaited me at a local bar with a friend who probably wasn’t going to entrust me with food supplies anytime soon. 

But first, I had a wardrobe malfunction to address. My shirt, which had valiantly served as my armor while battling the bicycle in the storage unit, was now more of a “before” picture in a hot mess transformation video. I whipped out a new shirt from Laura’s stash that read, “I hate mornings,” brushed through my hair like a missile missing its destination, and scrubbed my hands and face as if I were preparing for a royal audience. 

Then, off to the bar I went! The next three hours were a delightful blur—nothing but laughter, good drinks, and enough appetizers to keep my dignity intact. I left feeling like a new person, shaken but not stirred, ready to tackle whatever disaster awaited me back at home.

On the way home, stumbling through daylight savings time like a disoriented bat flying upside down in a power line. It’s around 7:30 PM, and the sun has decided to play hide and seek, leaving me in a race against the creeping darkness in Wiley, Texas. As I navigate the streets, I’m getting a front-row seat to the annual “Traffic Jam Olympics.” Cars are bumper to bumper, and you’d think they were lining up for a concert instead of trying to get home.

Now, I approach a three-way stop. Do I turn left? You betcha! That’s home sweet home waiting for me. But wait… here’s the kicker: Elizabeth’s gargantuan black dog, Scooby, is riding shotgun. And let me tell you, this dog is so black and so big, I half expect him to start munching on the dashboard like it’s a buffet. He completely blocks the window, and I’m convinced he’s a secret agent trained in stealth mode.

To add a sprinkle of chaos to my already hilarious scenario, unbeknownst to me, the town sheriff is cruising toward me like a predator stalking its prey. I pull out into traffic, and it’s like I’ve just thrown a wrench into the gears of the universe. I can practically hear the dramatic music playing in the background as the sheriff narrowly avoids a collision worthy of a Hollywood action scene.

Before I can even stammer out an apology (which would probably sound like “I’m sorry, officer, my dog is a ninja”), I’m greeted by an impressive roster of six cop cars—flashing lights and sirens blaring like they’ve just entered the Super Bowl halftime show. Seriously, these cars could light up the whole town. I’m parked in my shiny new Bronco, and it feels like those police lights are auditioning for a role in a Broadway musical.

There I was, enjoying what I thought was an peaceful drive, when suddenly, my world turned into the set of a low-budget cop drama. 4 to 6 cop cars, all with lights flashing like they were auditioning for a rave party, and at least 10 officers doing their absolute best to look serious while watching every car that dared to drive by in what felt like a ridiculous parade of embarrassment.

Then, out of the blue, a cop—whose height could only be described as “vertically challenged”—approached my vehicle. I like to think we looked like a cartoon duo: the tall guy in the car and the short cop on a power trip. He leaned in, asked for my driver’s license and insurance, and I handed them over with a smile that was a little too eager. 

Next, things took a turn for the suspicious. “Do you have a concealed carry?” he asked, followed by an avalanche of questions. I began to wonder if this was an interrogation or if I had accidentally stumbled into a very unusual episode of “Cops.” 

But wait! I had a 70-pound dog who apparently thought the front seat of my car was a luxury hotel suite. So, there I was, channeling my inner weightlifter, trying to hoist this canine behemoth out of the vehicle while simultaneously plotting strategies to corral my bouncing Brittany Spaniel puppies into a semblance of order. Spoiler alert: there is no ‘order’ when you’re dealing with puppies fueled by the chaos of a cramped car ride and a long afternoon locked in a tiny city house. And I had to accomplish all this with a left broken shoulder. 

Then came the big one: “Were you at a party?” My heart raced faster than my last attempt at jogging. Where was he going with this? Suddenly, it dawned on me—this guy thought I was drunk! As if I’d been partying like it was 1999 and somehow just drifted into traffic, nearly giving the city sheriff a new paint job. 

So there I stood, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane while they meticulously conducted the sobriety test. I was convinced I’d end up a TikTok sensation for all the wrong reasons. After what felt like an eternity—did I mention I was shaking like a maraca?—they finally concluded I was just a bewildered citizen, not a wild party animal. 

Sure, my friend and I had shared a cocktail earlier that day, but come on—it was at 3 PM! Not exactly prime time for debauchery. There I was, left a little shaken (but definitely not stirred), vowing to avoid any sudden detours through high-stakes traffic zones in the future. 

Now, let’s talk about my three dogs. My daughter’s dog, bless its aging heart, is lounging in the front seat like a retired celebrity, blissfully unaware of the chaos. Meanwhile, the other two are in full panic mode, pacing back and forth like they’ve just been caught in a game of musical chairs. Every heavy pant and frantic shuffle adds to the absurdity of it all.

My daughter’s boyfriend is a self-appointed “Dog Snack Connoisseur.” One fateful day, he discovered that our dogs went absolutely bonkers for freeze-dried sardines. I’m talking tail-wagging, high-pitched yelping, and an enthusiastic dance routine that would put any Broadway show to shame. 

The moment I open that bag? It’s like a scene out of a doggy movie – they come barreling towards me as if I’ve summoned the Treat Gods. It’s a glorious sight, truly. But here’s the catch, folks: when you’re standing next to them, all that excitement releases a rather… shall we say, “fishy” consequence. Yes, we are talking about “fish farts.” 

Just my dogs and their delightful, odoriferous aftermath. Fast forward an hour of keen questioning, and when I finally plopped back into my brand new, shiny Bronco, it was like stepping onto a New York fisherman’s wharf! It was so bad that they probably thought we were smuggling sardines or plotting a seafood buffet!

I rolled my eyes, cranked up the car, and couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. “Just another catastrophe in my already horrible day!” I thought, as I drove down the road smelling like a maritime disaster. Somehow, I’m pretty sure I got the short end of the stick on this one. But hey, at least my dogs are living their best life – one fish fart at a time!

Finally, I arrived and pulled in the garage door, victorious yet slightly frazzled, and decided it was time to text everyone I had informed I was taking a sobriety test. Talk about an overreaction—worried them for nothing, stressed myself for nothing, and suddenly here I was, guilt-ridden and hopelessly in need of sleep. 

It was 10 o’clock, and my energy levels had dwindled to that of a sloth on a lazy Sunday. All I wanted was to dive face-first into my pillow… but my dogs had different plans. Oh sure, they felt like competing in the canine Olympics, sprinting around the yard like Olympic sprinters on energy drinks, zigzagging through the house like little furry tornadoes. I mean, had they not just spent half the day cooped up like furry prisoners? Apparently, “playtime” was their idea of a solid life decision—while my idea was more along the lines of “ahh, sweet, sweet sleep.” 

After what felt like an eternity of canine cardio, a calming conversation with my husband settled my nerves. With a deep breath and a slight grin (because let’s be honest—we both know I’d never win the ‘ultimate pet parent’ award), I finally drifted off. Turns out, there’s nothing quite like the tumult of puppy energy to remind you that it’s never too late for a good laugh… even if it is at your own expense!

And that, my friends, is the story of how a one September day took a detour into an episode of Law & Order.

Human Interest

Shenanigans – Chaos and a Mother-in-Law

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

Age 50’s – Oh boy, let me tell you about the adventure I had with my dear mother-in-law and her colonoscopy. I knew it was going to be a challenge, but I had no clue what I was getting myself into! Picture this – a sedentary woman in need of a colonoscopy, and me, her trusty and oh-so-willing daughter-in-law.

The night before the big day was hardly a walk in the park. Oh no, it was more like a never-ending nightmare. You see, the poor thing had to go through this brutal prep that left her throwing up and feeling sick all night long. And who was there to witness it all? Yours truly, of course.

So, the day arrives, and my mission is to get her to the hospital by 7:30 am. Simple enough, you might think. Well, hold on tight, because the fun has just begun. I pick her up, ready to conquer the day, and ask for the address. And what do I do? I drive us to the wrong darn hospital! Time is ticking, my friend. We have mere minutes to reach the correct hospital, which is a solid 20 minutes away. Panic mode activated!

We arrive at the overcrowded hospital, and I have to think on my feet. I drop her off in a hurry and sprint back to find a parking spot down the street. Running like my life depends on it, I grab a wheelchair and dash back to the chaos. We manage to check her in after standing in line for what feels like an eternity.

Once in the room, they start undressing her and hooking her up to leads. Then comes the great IV adventure. Here’s the kicker – her dehydrated arm is playing hide-and-seek with the veins. They poke, they prod, and they try like absolute maniacs to find a vein. It’s like a twisted game show, “Where’s the vein?!” I swear, I thought we were competing for a grand prize of frustration.

And just when we think things couldn’t get any more absurd, they casually ask if she’s on oxygen. Of course, I confirm that she is. And guess what? They drop the bombshell – they don’t have oxygen available for her procedure! Seriously? You couldn’t have mentioned this little detail beforehand? Unbelievable!

After getting kicked out, she let out a scream that could shatter glass. “I am not enduring that prep again!” she hollered, determined to rebel. Meanwhile, I dashed off to fetch the car, but ended up sprinting down the street yet again. Suddenly, my clumsy nature got the best of me, and I tumbled to the ground. Lights out! Was it because I skipped breakfast? Or maybe my blood pressure was feeling a little low? Perhaps I just needed a good ol’ cup of joe. In the midst of my stride, I fainted like a true champ. Lights out, indeed!

When I finally came to, I discovered a symphony of injuries. Bleeding hands that tried to save me, a banged-up noggin from kissing the pavement, and oh, let’s not forget the dignified blood trail trickling from my pant leg where my knees took their hard-earned beating. I mustered up the courage to declare, “I’m fine, I swear!” I wiped away the blood, braved the pain, and limped my way back to the car. Mission: completed!

With the car safely parked, I dashed back inside to collect her, ready to whisk her off to a new and hopefully less chaotic hospital. By this point, lunchtime had long come and gone, and our growling stomachs reminded us of our unfulfilled cravings. Fasting can be a real bummer, especially when you’re hurrying to make it to your destination by 2 o’clock. We hadn’t eaten or drunk a thing, and boy, were we paying the price for it.

It felt like an eternity, but finally, at 4pm, the doctor made his grand entrance. Bless his heart, he had to be dragged away from the comfort of his office just to squeeze us in after dealing with the other patients. Poor mother-in-law was throwing a massive fit, and I couldn’t really blame her. She had gone through a night of poop prep, for heaven’s sake.

Eventually, they whisked her away, and I was left there with dried, sticky blood from my fall. A nurse finally noticed me and kindly asked, “Are you okay?” I wanted to reply with a sarcastic, “Do I look okay?”, but instead, I just pleaded for a bathroom to clean up while my dear mother-in-law underwent her procedure.

Curiosity got the better of those nurses, and they inquired about the chaotic events that led us here. You won’t believe it, but they said I was a saint! Ha! More like a saint with a pounding headache!

As soon as we were done, I called for some steaks to pick up. Ah, the joys of being able to eat after a day that started at 7am and ended at freaking 7pm! We sat there silently, but our eyes met, and we couldn’t help but burst into laughter as we devoured our meals like ravenous animals.

So there you have it, folks. My wild and wacky adventure with my mother-in-law’s colonoscopy. If this story doesn’t make you chuckle, I don’t know what will. Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs at you, especially when you least expect it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a strong cup of coffee and a moment to recover from this comical ordeal. Cheers to the unexpected twists and turns that make life oh-so-entertaining!

Inspiration

Blazing Inferno – An Epic Testimony

Reba Nietert

Copyright Rebecca Nietert – 2024

I was 16. My mind raced, thoughts swirling in chaotic disarray. The overwhelming heat pressed against my skin, threatening to consume me. In a desperate attempt to escape, I darted into the fiery inferno, my heart pounding in my chest. But the flames were relentless, their scorching touch leaving my face seared, my hair singed. I gasped for air, my lungs craving the cool freshness that was nowhere to be found.

Fear gripped me, tightening its hold with every passing second. Frantically, I changed direction, fleeing back into the kitchen. The room was shrouded in a dense, impenetrable cloud of black smoke. I dropped to the floor, seeking refuge from the inexplicable, suffocating darkness swirling around me.

Crawling on all fours, my hands outstretched, I groped my way towards the door. With trembling fingers, I reached for the knob, only to find it melted beyond recognition. Panic surged through me as the weight of the situation bore down, crushing my spirit. A whispered plea escaped my lips, “We’re going to die.”

Through the haze, my sister’s voice shattered the despair, urging me to keep trying, to find a way out. The acrid black soot coated my throat, a constant reminder of the imminent danger that surrounded us. Yet, in that harrowing moment, something shifted deep within my soul. Instinct took over, transforming me into a creature driven solely by the primal need for survival.

I continued to crawl, relentless in my pursuit of escape. The darkness stifled my senses, but I pressed on, feeling my way through the oppressive blackness. My desperate journey led me to a small mirrored bathroom, its reflective surfaces offering no solace, no guidance. Trapped, I groped futilely, my hands grasping at emptiness.

Amidst the disorienting despair, the sound of my sister’s voice called out to me with desperate urgency. I clung to her words, using them as a lifeline, navigating my way through the door and into the dimly lit hallway. Step by agonizing step, I persevered, finding my way through the labyrinthine layout of our home.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I stumbled into the living room. Relief washed over me, mingled with a lingering sense of dread. The battle was far from over, but for now, I had escaped the clutches of the inferno.

In that moment, I realized the true nature of fear. It had engulfed me, threatened to consume everything I held dear, but I had refused to surrender. As I stood amidst the remnants of destruction, I vowed to carry that unyielding resilience within me, forever unafraid, ready to face any challenge that may lie ahead.

To learn more about me and my journey… keep reading.

amwriting, Inspiration

Over Worrying – A Faithless Journey

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2020 – Rebecca Nietert

In the midst of life’s chaotic whirlwind, it’s so easy to forget the one thing that brings us solace and clarity: blogging. We get caught up in the hustle and bustle, trudging through each day without truly acknowledging our emotions and the moments that shape our existence. It’s high time we reserve a precious minute to reflect on the season we find ourselves in.

For me, changes have been abundant. My son recently joined the army, my daughter embarked on a new job, and my husband and I purchased a new house. Amidst all this, my gifted child struggled in school, my middle child neglected homework, and my youngest seemed to lose her sense of purpose. I can’t begin to describe the stressors and emotional turmoil that come with these challenges in a simple blog.

My emotions have become an unpredictable rollercoaster, skyrocketing to new heights and plummeting to unexpected depths. I find myself on the verge of tears at times, unable to control the triggers that surround me. It’s overwhelming.

But here’s the thing: I refuse to let these circumstances define me. I refuse to let the chaos consume my spirit. And I refuse to let my emotions hold me hostage. It’s time to regain control, to find my voice amidst the turmoil, and to share my journey with others who may be facing their own battles.

Listen up, my friends. In this crazy rollercoaster we call life, it’s important to remember one thing: everything is going to be alright. Trust me, I’ve seen it time and time again. The struggles we face today? Just a blimp on the radar of our 80+ year journey.

Now, let’s talk about choices. We all have the power to shape our story. We can choose to wallow in negativity, be selfish, and let anger and sadness consume us. Or, we can choose a different path. A path of kindness, tolerance, acceptance, and unconditional love.

Believe me, I get it. It’s not always easy. Sometimes, it feels like an uphill battle just to get there. But here’s the secret: it’s all about focus. Stay driven. Stay determined. Give your worries to a higher power and hope for the best. Today, I made the decision to do just that.

And I invite you to join me. Let’s shed the burdens that weigh us down, let’s put our trust in something bigger. Let’s find closure, break bread, and share a drink. Because in the grand scheme of things, we are all in this together.

Remember, my friends: this too shall pass. Keep your eyes on the horizon, and have faith that brighter days await us. The choice is yours. Let’s embrace it.

amwriting

You’re Invited-DFW 2019 Author Gala

Reba Nietert

On September 27, 2019, we will be hosting the largest Author gala where all literary professionals come together for one social event. The idea is to encourage, inspire, and lift up a fellow author by sharing his or her work. In turn, they will share yours.

Our mission is to be the number one resource for authors in DFW.  Our platform is designed to provide authors with connections to contractors such as:

  • Illustrators
  • Editors
  • Cover Designers
  • Formatters
  • Coaches
  • Publishers
  • Agents
  • and all literary professionals.

Our goal is to connect professionals with the authors who need them. In addition to networking, we have designed fun, intellectual gatherings for like-minded individuals in social typesetting to interact, share, support and encourage.  We will host a variety of events including networking, “tea-time,” one on one meetings to face challenges head-on, instruction, and all kinds of support.  Our annual Writer’s Retreat is not to be missed. Please feel free to check our online calendar to see the upcoming events, and if at any time you would like to participate in the festivities please subscribe to our email and consider becoming a founding member.

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/networking-with-the-author-gala-tickets-70017970635

amwriting, books, Human Interest, Inspiration, Opinion, politics, Reflection, Revelations

An Army Family Now – Proud & Scared

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2019 – Rebecca Nietert

The day I witnessed my 24-year-old son make the selfless decision to join the Army, it was a bittersweet moment. As I saw him willingly trade his fully successful and independent life for the service of our U.S. Government, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride mixed with sadness. The pride in his eyes mirrored my own, but the weight of his sacrifice brought tears to my eyes that seemed to last for days.

Today, however, I find myself rekindled with a newfound purpose in my own life. Thoughts of my son and our last conversations linger in my mind. I replay every word he spoke to me, trying to understand the reasons behind his choice to enlist in the Army.

To some, I may come across as ungrateful or lacking in appreciation for his decision. But let me assure you, I am immensely proud that my son would willingly surrender his own freedom for the sake of protecting ours. Such a choice in itself is incredibly honorable.

Yet, I can’t deny that I am plagued with a mixture of pensiveness, apprehension, and fear. It stems from the understanding that not every young man who enters the Army returns home unscathed. Perhaps it’s the things I have witnessed and the experiences that have befallen me, experiences that many people haven’t had the misfortune of encountering.

But in the midst of my concerns, I have faith in the well-oiled machinery of the military, and the countless brave men and women who have selflessly served before my son. They have all contributed to the safety and security of our nation, and I believe my son will join their ranks.

Though my heart aches with worry, I know that he enters this noble profession with the utmost dedication and a mind ready for the challenges ahead. I trust that he will be equipped with the training, support, and camaraderie necessary to face any adversity that may lie in his path. And though there will undoubtedly be difficult moments, I am hopeful that the positive impact he will make and the growth he will experience will far outweigh the struggles.

So, as a proud parent, I stand behind my son’s decision to serve, and I am grateful for every individual who chooses to defend our freedoms. This is a calling that requires tremendous courage, commitment, and sacrifice. It’s a choice that not everyone is willing or able to make.

To all the brave individuals who have willingly entered the military, to those who have served before, and to those who continue to serve today, we owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude. It is because of their unwavering dedication that we can enjoy the liberties we hold dear.

While my heart may remain heavy with worry, I have faith in the resilience and strength of our armed forces. They are the guardians of our nation, the protectors of our way of life. And I am proud to be the parent of a soldier who has answered the honorable call to serve.

Human Interest

Amidst the Troubles – Remember You’re Not Alone

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2019 – Rebecca Nietert

Late at night, worry consumes my thoughts. There’s a never-ending list of concerns: my son joining the Army, my kids’ relationships, bills piling up, commitments, navigating interpersonal dynamics – the weight of it all feels overwhelming. And to top it off, there’s a myriad of stressors like cultivating relationships, maintaining a marriage, caring for ailing family members and animals. It’s no wonder I’m wide awake, with worries racing through my mind.

But amidst all these troubles, an even more pressing question begs for an answer: why do certain individuals within a company intentionally hurt others for selfish reasons? What motivates them to cause harm while hiding behind others to achieve their goals? And why do they act surprised when their actions yield negative consequences? My son suggests that it’s a lack of empathy, a “disconnect” with people, a failure to learn compassion.

Today, I received a dreadful email that shook me to my core. I made sure to fully absorb the weight of this person’s attempt to bully me into compliance, merely for posting a less-than-favorable review. Yet, astonishingly, his company continues to contact me! They resort to threats, inadvertently proving just how remarkably inept they truly are.

It’s time to take a stand against these injustices. No one should live in fear of unfair treatment or manipulative tactics. Let’s unite against those who perpetuate harm, and advocate for a world where empathy and compassion prevail. Together, we can make a difference and ensure that kindness triumphs over cruelty.

Remember, you are not alone in your struggles. Reach out for support, share your story, and let the world see that we refuse to be silenced. Together, we can create a future where empathy shines brightly and harmful intentions are utterly powerless. Stand strong, and let your voice be heard.

Uncategorized

Laughing At Myself – Laying Down Pride

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2019 – Rebecca Nietert

Join us on an unforgettable adventure with friends as we embark on a brisk evening walk. It all started when I invited my two besties, one 13 years old, the other my age, to accompany me on this journey. Curiosity arose from their sweet souls as they inquired about the presence of my youngest, a sprightly 12-year-old named Laura. With a smile, I informed them that Laura was not at home, but if she were, we would discover a newfound swiftness during our stroll, as she possesses a natural speed envied by even the most outstanding athletes. Chuckling, we set off together.

As fate would have it, serendipity intervened, and to our surprise, Laura returned home, hastily dropped her belongings, and sprinted down the street to meet us around the corner. Her energy was contagious. What started as a leisurely walk slowly transformed into an exhilarating game of trying to outmaneuver and outpace Laura.

As the night deepened and weariness began to tug at our muscles, we realized we were merely 30 minutes into our journey with another 15 minutes remaining. Darkness enveloped our surroundings, adding an air of mystery to our adventure.

It was finally my turn to demonstrate my abilities. Determined to keep up, I propelled myself through the grass, exerting all the force I could muster. Yet, fate had a different plan. In an unforeseen moment, my foot stumbled upon an unsuspecting divot hidden beneath the foliage. The notion of catching up with Laura in the dark now seemed ludicrous. In an instant, my pride shattered as I found myself face planted, my knees sinking into the soil. The humiliation washed over me, and I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing that I alone was at fault for my misstep.

Join us on this compelling journey where laughter, camaraderie, and unexpected obstacles forge unforgettable memories. Let us remind ourselves that in life, it’s not always about winning, but about embracing the joy of stumbling, laughing, and discovering the irreplaceable bonds of friendship. Together, we’ll experience moments that leave us humbled and grateful for life’s beautiful imperfections.

Don’t miss this opportunity to embark on an extraordinary adventure with friends. Allow us to guide you through tales that will warm your heart and evoke a sense of shared humanity. Come, let us weave a tapestry of unforgettable experiences – because life is an adventure worth living.