Here’s the truth

Last week was my wedding anniversary so I talked about marriage and making it work. I figured this week, we could kind of stay on that subject a bit. I’m getting older {not old} so my single friends are few and far between. But I do have a couple. And when I went to dinner with one of my favs the other night she asked me the age old question; how did you know Thomas {my husband} was the one? 

I have always been {and will always be} honest with you guys. This blog is real life. My honest answer to her was, he didn’t try to sleep with me. Not joking. I know it may seem so odd or crass even. But it’s the truth and I can explain. I met my husband at a wedding. The drinks were flowing, the dance floor was packed. I thought he was so cute, and I adored his glasses…recipe for a post wedding hook up, right? Wrong. 

I was a {small} bit of a hot mess when I met my husband. I was partying all night, working all day. Thursday through Sunday I was in the sun, sippin’ something strong. My friends and I danced all night, non stop. We were young and wild and crazy. I loved every second of it. But, I tended to attract a certain type of guy. And that type of guy? Only wanted one thing when the night was over. 

After the wedding where I met Thomas, we went to another party. We stayed up until it was almost dawn. But then he made a pallet on the floor and laid down. He held his arm out and snuggled me up to his chest. He kissed my forehead and he told me good night. I can remember falling asleep feeling almost in shock. He was unlike anyone I’d ever met. He was happy to just be next to me. He wanted to watch movies and hold hands and run errands. He wanted a life with me. Not my body. And I instantly loved him for it. 

I went on to tell my friend to look for the guy that’s unlike anyone else. The guy that’s genuine. The guy that treats her like she matters. With respect and compassion. That guy? That’s the guy you marry. I’m not saying my husband was a saint, because he sure as hell wasn’t. But when we met, when it was right, everything was different. For both of us. It was like everything fell into place, it clicked. And for me at least, it all comes back to that very first night together. The night he just wanted to hold me while I slept. He just wanted to be near me. 

Seven years later? Still in love, still sure I made the right choice. And he’s still content {most days} to simply hold my hand. 


I still love you 

Today is my wedding anniversary. It’s been seven years, and I know this because my husband has our wedding day tattooed on his arm. It’s a sexy tattoo, all the dates that mean the most to us as a couple. The day we met, the day we married, and the day our daughter was born. One day I asked him what he’d do if we didn’t make it, he just shrugged and said he’d add the date our divorce was final. Humor. Humor is KEY to making a marriage stick in my opinion. Laughter, communication, and a shit load of hard work. 

Everyday hasn’t been ideal, but everyday has been ours. We’ve always been in it together, and have both always been willing to do the work it takes to make a commitment last. I was looking back at my Facebook page and Instagram account this morning. Searching through old pictures, trying to find a good one to post. And I just had to smile. My marriage is so much more than a collage of beautiful photos. There is so much more to us than filters and clever captions.  

There have been fights, and tears and sleepless nights. It doesn’t bother me to admit it, in fact it makes me proud as hell. We’re living a life together. And life isn’t always beautiful. Life is messy and complicated and hard to navigate.

But if the last seven have showed me anything, it’s that I picked the perfect partner to weather the storm with. He doesn’t give up on me, he puts up with my crazy. He’s supportive, even when I’m sure he wants to roll his eyes and go smoke a cigar. Obviously I’m not going to start taking snap shots of our fights to share with the world. But have never been afraid to tell the truth, that being married isn’t easy. 

If I could go back in time seven years and give myself some advice…I would say that not every day will be easy or perfect or beautiful. But that each day will be worth it. And to take comfort in that fact. I’d tell myself to keep being honest about what I need, and how I feel. To never be afraid to share those thoughts and emotions. He needs to hear them, and you need to admit them. 

I am more in love with him today than I was on the day we got married. I know him better, I understand him fuller. I’ve experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows and through it all, he’s been steadfast at my side. And I’d choose him again, if I had to do it all over. I’d choose him every damn time. 

Teach them.

I love words. I love the way they are put together to form thoughts, I love the way they look on paper. I love everything about them, including when they are sung out loud. 

As I am typing this, my five year old is one room away, sleeping peacefully. Finally. I had to sing her Into the Mystic by Van Morrison three times to get her there. But I didn’t mind. It’s one of my absolute favorite songs, and sharing it with her brings so much joy to my heart. It’s a song about love, about spirituality, about life and death. And all she knows is she likes the way it sounds, the way it comforts her.

You see, I’m bound and determined to teach my kids to appreciate the greats in life, the classics. And that’s not just literature and historical facts. That’s music too. 

Music moves us. It invokes feeling and emotion in a way that little else can. In two minutes we can experience life, loss, and love. It takes hours to read a book, it takes time (at the very least thirty minutes) to watch a show or movie. But music? Music delivers a punch in mere seconds. Who doesn’t get nostalgic when those opening bars of Bittersweet Synphony come through your speakers? Three seconds of sound, evoking emotion. 

And that flood of emotion stays with you, for eternity. You will forever recall how you originally felt, each time you hear a certain song. My daughter will always feel at peace, at ease, when she hears the opening melody to that Morrison tune. Even if she doesn’t remember exactly why. And she’ll sing it to her kids. She’ll turn the stereo up and sing along with a huge smile on her face. And they’ll smile too, and yet another generation will know who Van Morrison was. Just like my dad taught me about AeroSmith, Steve Miller Band and Lynard Skynard.

In my opinion, teaching your kids about good music is just as important as teaching them about good books. The written word, is the written word. Stories and poems told by music are just as spectacularly profound. Everyone was influenced by someone amazing that came before them. I want my daughter to find her own way, I want her to make an educated decision on what “rocks her gypsy soul”. And what better way to ensure that than to give her all the facts? To let her hear it all, the good and the bad. To let her be moved by whatever moves her. To let her feel, by whatever evokes feeling. 

It’s our duty as parents to show our children the beauty in this world. To show them the heart and soul of living. Music is a pretty great place to start. They may not always remember the things you said, but I promise you they’ll remember the way you made them feel. 

Love, LP

I mean…I work.

I can now say, proudly, that I am a full time writer. That’s right people. I quit my day job, and I now LIVE the author life, all day err day. It’s a dream come true. This is something I’ve wanted since I was a little girl, and I did it.

So, I worked my butt off and sold a bunch of books. I made sure that I had a lot of WIPs under contract with my publishers. I talked to my husband {mostly pleaded and begged} and then I quit my job. Let me tell you, it felt freaking good.

My daughter had been going to daycare since she was twelve weeks old, because we both worked full time. We went back and forth about taking her out now that I was home, or keeping her in for the summer {she starts kindergarten in August}. We decided to keep her in, and I would focus all my energy on turning in the 10 + books I have under contract.

I found myself sitting at my desk, in an empty house, with no one to talk to but the dogs. I started to feel worthless. I felt lazy and I felt spoiled. I got kind of depressed. I’d been a working mom for almost five years by that point. And three of those years I’d been writer, mom, wife, and I’d done it all while working 30+ hours a week. Being at home seemed guttonous to me.

It took several weeks for me to get into my new groove. The thing about writing is, if the words aren’t coming, it doesn’t matter how many hours in a day you have to devote to them. They still won’t come. Words are assholes like that. There would be days where I wouldn’t write one single word. And then there would be days when I’d write 5,000 words. Once again, I had to find my balance. Balance is so important to me, it’s what makes me who I am. Some days I rock it, some days I watch five hours of Netflix. I’ve always been that way, and I had to learn to apply that to my new full time writer life.

I made my own routine, and I try to stick to it. I try to do one thing a day for someone else. I clean, I run errands, I work out, I write, I promote. I keep my website updated. I actually send out my monthly newsletter. I participate in my reader group. I get my daughter from school early and take her to do fun or silly things. And I’ve picked blogging back up, because I really enjoy it. It took a minute, but I’ve learned to live this new life of mine. This life I’ve strived for, worked hard for.

I also have time on my hands to google image hot shirtless dudes. So, you’re welcome for that. Look at the top picture, he has a whip and he is wearing lots of tule. Made me giggle.

I guess the gist of this post is, embrace the good even if it feels like you don’t deserve. Find your balance, with whatever it may be. And live your life in a way that makes you feel great and fulfilled at the end of the day. That’s quite a few gists, but again *points to self* I’m the writer.

Love, LP

Writin’ and momin’ ain’t easy

Like the majority of the wonderfully talented writers I know, writing isn’t my only jig. I have a full time day job. And a four year old and a house and laundry and a whole slew of other things that take up my brain space. Limited space that right now realllllly needs to be full of the characters in my next book. Deadlines and all that jazz. 

I took of the week from said day job to try and get my next novel completed and to my publisher. And as I type this? I’m hiding at Starbucks b/c the amount of laundry sitting in my writing room makes me want to cry. I put it there so I wouldn’t have to look at yesterday. In a perfect world I would spend my days writing and my evenings and weekends with my kiddos. Hell, if we’re throwing out fantasys I’d also have a lovely and kind housekeeper to help me out. She’d be sweet and full of wise words. But that’s not my reality. In reality my life is an unorganized cluster f**k. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even attempt to write when my husband and daughter are home. Maybe it’s old age, but I require peace and quiet to concentrate now. And I swear to you guys, my family…they are the loudest people on this planet. I scream at them out of necessity. Usually. 

I literally can’t do it all. And I sure as shit can’t even attempt to do it all with grace and a smile on my face. That isn’t me. I get frustrated, I get stressed. I’m human. If you were to watch me try to balance my life it would be an ugly uncoordinated dance full of cussing. I’m a this difficult in between stage with my writing. I’m doing really well, but not quite well enough to quit my day job. So I can only write in the evenings.  When my daughter was younger, finding free time to do that was easier. Now she’s this little person with thoughts and opinions and things she wants to share with me. Every second of every day. 

As a mom and as a creative person, I want her to feel heard. I want her to know she’s brilliant. But achieving that every time she decides to change clothes for fun or re arrange her room or over feed the fish to the point of death…isn’t easy. It takes patience (which I don’t possess in spades). Obviously I can’t trust the little fish killer alone for more than two minutes. So sometimes, I’m more wicked witch than I am Mary Poppins. But I take a deep breath, I forgive myself, and go hug my kid. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it’s all about balance. Balancing what needs to be done with what you want to do. Balancing the things that make you who you are with the things that make you crazy. And I can assure you guys, I don’t achieve it every day. Sometimes I fall short, and I know you do to. I’m just here to show you my dropped balls, so you feel better about yours 😉.

I deal with my imperfections by going to the gym (for the thirty minutes I have between work and school pick up) and drinking wine (often) and watching trash tv and teenage dramas. And apparently hiding from my life at Starbucks. I live in the old people capital of Texas, so I’ve heard some interesting stories today. But now, It’s time for me to go home. Maybe do a little laundry (but if not, we’ll all live) and hopefully do a lot of writing. Here’s a little something to get us through the day. 

Love, LP

The loneliest number?

This past week my co worker and I got to talking about life before we met our significant others. She told me she was lonely before she met her husband. I told her I was awesome before I met mine.        (Granted I had horrible taste in guys)

None the less. I was a very happy content person BEFORE I met my husband. I loved my own company, I enjoyed hanging out with me. And I’ve come to realize that’s not only the best gift you can give yourself, it’s the best gift you can give to your future partner. When the person you’re with is constantly looking to you to make them happy, it’s exhausting. And it’s a strain on your relationship. Trust me. I lived it. 

Here come a shit ton of cliches; You have to learn to love you, before you can learn to love someone else. You have to make yourself happy, not depend on anyone else to do it. And last but not least, you have to know you can do it. You have to know that you can be independent and self sufficient. God forbid something were to happen to my marriage, like you know, if it broke or ended. (I was going to use an example here about my husband dying, but it freaked me out too much) I would be heart broken, devastated. But I know I’d survive. Because I was okay before I met him. I learned to survive before him. I don’t depend on him to make my world go round. I can crank that bad boy myself. 

I lived alone, I paid my own bills, I killed my own spiders, I checked out the strange noises and fix my leaky faucet. I became a grown up all on my own. And I had a fucking blast doing it too. 

I danced on my furniture in my underwear, for no other reason than I felt like it. And I’m a good dancer y’all. 

I drank alone. Not in a I need help sort of way, more of a I’m going to get a buzz and watch my DVR kinda way.

I did more than just drinking and dancing, although that took up the majority of my twenties. But you get the point I’m trying to make here, right? Stop looking for others to validate you, to save you, to make you feel good about yourself. Look to yourself. Because I promise you, the power is in you. 

Become who you are, be solid in who you are. And then look for love. If you don’t like you, why would you expect anyone else to? In my experience, guys don’t typically like needy. I don’t like needy, and I’m a chick. 

And just so you know, I still have a good time when I’m alone. Not that it happens all that often…But when it does, I dance. I laugh, I enjoy the time to myself. I savor it to be honest. Sometimes, I think back on when it was just me, and smile. I beam. 

And there are your hot guys. Oh! I learned a need word from Twitter last night too. Fellated. Google it. 

Love, LP

We all fall down

Remember my last post? About my amazing balancing act and finding/knowing yourself? Yeah. Today is one of those other days. The days where you find yourself sobbing in the car in the Wal-Greens parking lot while you make your child a collage of pictures with tape and $10 scissors. That sounds crazy right? Let me start at the beginning. 

I woke up this morning with a massive tension headache. I took all the medicine I could safely take and it wasn’t helping. When I get those I can’t really move my head. So I was already going to be late to work. When I got to my daughters PRE-K class, I realized I’d forgotten to do her homework with her. (Side note, she’s not even four, why do we have homework?!) It’s this thing where they need to make a collage of pictures that start with the letter of the week. (Side note, she’s not even allowed to use scissors, she cut her own hair a few days ago) We (I) never got around to doing it, I forgot. I had a mommy mess up. And it really bummed my kid out that she didn’t have hers when everyone else did. I started crying. Like I made it safely out of her classroom and I was rocking my badass aviators, but I cried. By the time I made it to Wal-Greens? Ugly cry. Sobbing. 

I hated letting my kid down, it made me feel horrible. So I called my work, explained to my boss that I would be even later but I needed to do this for my daughter. Or at least I tried to say all that, but instead I’m pretty sure it was just unintelligible mumbling through heaving breaths. I’ve very lucky to work where I do. My amazingly wonderfully boss calmed me down and told me to take the day and take care of myself and to figure out what I needed. You see, she knew me well enough to know that my tears weren’t about the letter of the week. Letting Stoli down was just the final straw. It’s what broke me. 

I have a toddler, I have a husband that owns his own company and works way more hours than humanly possible, I have a house that is literally in a constant state of being remodeled, I have an adoption in the works, I have books that won’t write themselves, and I have a full time job. It’s a lot. And most days I deal and move on, but today? It was too much and I lost my shit. As I was sleeping last night, my stress made me tense. It made me sick. And when I looked into my daughter’s disappointed face, I broke down.  

I had a meltdown, and I’m okay with that. Because now I’ve let it all out and it’s time to move on and deal with my issues. I need to re work my schedule and I need to prioritize and I need to be more organized. I know my weaknesses, (I’m a hot mess that is living in complete chaos) I own them, I just can’t let them cripple me. I’m not the only woman in the world that is trying her damnedest to do it all. Be everything to everyone and be the best version of herself at the same time. I’m sure there are a million people out there that have it way harder than I do. Hell, my closest friends are freaking super heros! One of them has four kids under the age of 11 and she runs a company. One of them has a toddler with a baby on the way, is the soul bread winner and has a husband that currently lives in another city going to school. In comparison to most, my problems are minimal. But today? They seemed monumental. 


We all wear capes, mine just got all tangled up, and I fell. But as I sit here in my guest room (one of the only rooms not being effected by the overhaul) writing this blog post and sharing my life with you, I’m already starting to feel better. Stronger. More equipped for my life. Today I had no balance, tomorrow will be better. 


Here is this super hot dude that I stalk on Instagram as a thank you for listening to my melt down today. I hope that all of you guys have a great day and an amazing weekend. 

P.S. It’s world book day, so my novel St. Leasing (Book One) is free this week

Love, LP