Category: Life & Yappin’

  • The Age of Wisdom (and Who Decides It?)

    Lately, I’ve been watching a show called A Taste of History with Max Miller.
    It’s meant to be a light food series, but it keeps pulling me into something deeper. As he walks through the historical context of each dish, I find myself thinking about how young so many of these people were—leading, building, changing the world. And how differently we’ve come to view youth today.

    —

    In my generation—Generation X—we were raised to believe that wisdom only came with age.

    “You’ll understand when you’re older,” they told us. And we believed them. We were taught to listen, not speak. Respect our elders. Wait our turn. Because we hadn’t lived as long, our voices were dismissed as inexperienced, invalid, even foolish. (Or female.)

    We were meant to watch and learn until some invisible line was crossed, and then—someday—we’d finally be old enough to matter.
    But when is that day?

    —

    Looking back through history, it’s hard not to notice how often that idea just doesn’t hold.

    Joan of Arc was only 17 when she led an army.

    Alexander the Great became king at 20.

    Phillis Wheatley was 20 when she became the first African-American woman to publish a book of poetry.

    Even within our own American history, people in their 20s and 30s were founding nations:

    Edward Rutledge, 26, was the youngest signer of the Declaration of Independence.

    George Washington, 22, was commanding troops during the French and Indian War.

    Mary Shelley, just 20, published Frankenstein—a work that shaped literature for centuries.

    They didn’t wait their turn.
    They didn’t ask permission.

    —

    Did we break the cycle?

    Did we teach the next generation to think for themselves?
    To speak up, to question what they’re told, to use their imagination?
    Did we give them the confidence to shape the world they’re inheriting?

    Did we learn to listen to them?

    Maybe the question isn’t how old you have to be to be wise.

    Maybe it’s this:
    What if the age of wisdom isn’t an age at all?

  • Where the Heck Have I Been?!

    Where the Heck Have I Been?!

    One wedding, four dresses, three sleeping spots, two sick cats, a hole in my ceiling, and one exhausted mama.

    Hey y’all. I’ve missed you.

    If you’ve been wondering where I disappeared to, just know — I didn’t actually fall off the earth. I just got swallowed whole by real life. My son got married!! My ceiling caved in (literally). My cats got sick. And I stopped sleeping in one room like a normal human.

    Let’s just say it’s been a season.

    💃 The Great Dress Debacle

    Let’s talk about the dress — or, more accurately… the dress situation.

    The first one I ordered actually fit beautifully. But the jacket that came with it? Way too small. The company wouldn’t just replace the jacket — they said they had to replace the whole set. So in order to get a larger jacket, I would’ve had to get a larger dress that was going to be too big.

    So I ordered two different jackets from another company, and a backup dress from Amazon. This was the week of the wedding, and I was stressed out of my mind. I just wanted to look nice for my son’s big day. I wasn’t worried about embarrassing myself — I was worried about embarrassing him. I didn’t want to be the awkward mom in the corner of every photo. I wanted to do this right. For him.

    The two jackets I ordered actually fit beautifully — but they were totally the wrong color for the original dress.

    The Amazon dress fit, with a little room to spare — but not enough to worry about. The length was perfect. But there was a big black smudge right down the front of the cape-like overlay. I tried to clean it… and made it worse.

    So I ordered the same exact dress again — hoping the replacement (of the replacement) would show up clean. And I threw one more dress into the cart, because I needed options. These dresses were arriving the day before the wedding. I had to have a backup plan in case something else went wrong.

    Both dresses showed up just in time.

    • The new version of the smudged dress? Clean, beautiful, and ready to go.
    • The extra dress? Absolutely stunning — I loved it. But it was about a foot too long, and there just wasn’t time.

    So I wore the replacement (of the replacement) Amazon dress. And after weeks of stress — and everything else going on (see: furry soap opera below) — I felt amazing. It wasn’t just about how the dress looked… it was about showing up for one of the most important days of my son’s life feeling confident and proud. Mission accomplished!

    Pictures will be coming… as soon as I get them.

    🐾 The Furry Soap Opera

    As if wedding prep wasn’t enough, my house turned into a full-blown chaos zone. And not just because of the cats — although they definitely had starring roles.

    Right in the middle of it all, I was having roof work done. One of the contractors actually stepped through my ceiling, and they temporarily patched the hole with a black trash bag and duct tape. I made them use hot pink duct tape — because at that point? I needed to feel like something was under my control.
    If I had to have a black trash bag taped to my ceiling, I wanted it to be pretty.

    Zazu was absolutely mortified. The banging, the noise, the hole in the ceiling — it stressed him out so badly he got sick. And when Zazu gets sick, I panic. I got him to the vet quickly and thankfully we caught it early. He got meds and started to feel better.

    But then Zuri got it… and it hit her so much worse.

    I took her to an emergency hospital. They kept her overnight, gave her IV fluids, and syringe-fed her. Every time I called for an update, I got a different doctor — four total — and every one of them said, “I don’t know, I’m just getting to know her.” No one could tell me if she was improving or not, and I was furious.

    She didn’t get better. In fact, she got worse. So I took her to a different emergency vet for another opinion. They suspected FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis), which is hard to diagnose and extremely serious. They gave me a prescription for custom-compounded medication. I had to syringe it into her mouth twice a day.

    It was awful. Zuri is my quiet, fearful girl. In the four years I’ve had her, she never let me touch her. And now, I had to catch her, hold her, and give her meds. I was also syringing water and food because she wasn’t eating or drinking. I even ran hot showers just to steam her sinuses — I had frizzy hair for days.

    Meanwhile… sleep?
    I didn’t even know her.

    Every night, I rotated between two or three rooms. I’d start in Jarod’s room with Zeus, my newest rescue, who was recovering and separated from the others. Around 2 AM, I’d get up, go to the living room to love on Zazu and Zephyr, and then move to my room with Zuri. Some nights, I even napped on the couch in between. I was exhausted. Mentally and physically. It was a nightmare.

    But we made it. Somehow.
    Zazu recovered.
    Zuri recovered. And she looks part poodle now thanks to her little shaved arm where they had the IV — it’s kind of cute.

    Zephyr, for his part, had no idea what was going on. He was still new to the family — just recently let out of Jarod’s room before all of this started — and was walking around like a goofy big brother trying to figure out the house rules. And then I brought in Zeus.

    Zeus was never meant to be a permanent part of the family — just a rescue I was helping after he got kicked out of his colony, badly injured, and clearly confused about where he belonged. He had a wound across his nose and didn’t seem to know how to protect himself. I took him to the vet, got him treated and neutered, and gave him a safe place to heal while trying to find him a home.

    But Zephyr wouldn’t accept him. And after weeks of rotating rooms, constant stress, and everyone’s routines falling apart, I hit my limit. I had to take Zeus to PAWS to find him a new home — somewhere safe where he could be loved and not feared. It broke my heart, but I couldn’t do it anymore.

    So here we are.
    The chaos has quieted. The cats are healing. I’m back to sleeping in one bed again.

    Stay tuned for part two of the ceiling saga — because the contractor still has to come back and fix the terrible patch. I’m just hoping Zazu doesn’t get sick again when he does.

    Also, my other son is getting married in June! Stay tuned for that adventure!

  • Showing Up

    My son just moved into his new place this week—he hasn’t even finished unpacking yet.

    I remember how it felt way back in the beginning when I first had a place of my own. I didn’t want my mom or dad to come see it so I could prove anything. I just wanted them to be excited for me, to come see me, to come see my home. In all the years and all the places I’ve lived, I can count on one hand the times my parents came to see me.

    So I’ve decided I won’t let my sons ever feel that emptiness. When they step into new chapters—whether it’s moving into their first apartment or making a home states away—I’ll show up. Even if it’s inconvenient. Even if it takes work. Because I know exactly what it feels like when nobody does.

  • The Hard Side of TNR

    TNR—short for Trap–Neuter–Return—is a humane way to help feral and stray cats. You safely trap them, get them spayed or neutered (often vaccinated), and return them to the spot they know. It prevents endless litters and lets healthy cats live out their lives.

    This story starts with a little black street cat we called Limp. Limp had been on my radar for a while. He had a bad foot, was constantly getting into fights, and seemed to be wearing down from the constant struggle. The other cats hissed and growled at him when he tried to eat, leaving him hungry and alone more often than not. Limp recently started showing up in the mornings when my friend and neighbor Jennika (pronounced Yennika) stopped by his colony (across the street from my house) with her little bag of food and treats. She stops at several colonies in our neighborhood, spoiling the cats with food and attention while also keeping an eye out for injuries or signs they’re not feeling well.

    A couple of days ago, I was outside with my morning coffee, feeding a few strays that come to my porch for food and water, when Jennika showed up on her bicycle. I pointed him out to her, explaining that his bad foot needed to be checked and he needed to be neutered too. Jennika didn’t waste a second—she grabbed the trap we had on my porch, set it up, and before I knew it, Limp walked right in.

    Zira — My First TNR Experience

    Our shelter here participates in the TNR program. My first experience with it was with “Mama Cat,” now Zira. She was barely a year old and had already had a litter of kittens. The babies were maybe four to five months old, and the toms in the neighborhood were already trying to get to her again. There were constant fights, and every morning, she’d be at my door, trying to slip inside, desperate for safety.

    I’d feed her on the porch and shoo away any other cats that came near so she could eat in peace. She trusted me — which is why I was able to trap her — and it broke my heart to do it. Dropping her off at animal services, seeing her tiny frame in that big cage, I cried the entire time we were there and all the way home.

    A week later, they called to ask where to drop her off, and I gave them my address. She bolted the second they opened the cage, and I didn’t see her for weeks. Jennika told me she was back across the street with her colony, looking healthy and content. Just in the last few days, Zira has started coming back to my house again. She’ll get close now, but she’s not quite ready to let me pet her.

    “TNR is necessary. It works. But it’s not always easy—especially when the process is broken.”

    When the Shelter Couldn’t Take Him

    The shelter doesn’t open for intakes until 11 a.m., so Limp sat in the trap on my porch until about 10:30, with a towel over the cage to keep him calm. We called the shelter to let them know we had a cat to bring in and they told us to go ahead.

    When we arrived, animal services met us outside. She said there was an illness going around in the cat room, and they couldn’t take any cats until it was under control, which would be at least a week, maybe longer. That left us with a scared feral in a trap, out of luck at the shelter, and little chance we’d be able to catch him again.

    So, we decided to take him to PALs (Prevent A Litter). It’s not free like the shelter’s program, and they don’t return the cats — you have to pick them up, but it would be worth it to help this guy. On the drive there, we decided he needed a proper name, and there seemed to be a ‘Z’ theme happening so that’s when “Zorro” was born. He was neutered and given a rabies shot for $96. The vet checked his toe and said it looked like it had been broken at some point but healed on its own, just a little crooked. I’m glad he didn’t need surgery, but I’m sad he has a bad toe.

    On the way home, a massive thunderstorm hit. Sheets of rain made it hard to see, cars were pulling over with their hazards on, and I kept thinking about poor Zorro, stressed out in a cage in the backseat of my car.

    I brought him inside to my spare bathroom, stacking boxes against the door so my three shadows wouldn’t line up outside hissing at him. He stayed curled up in the cage most of the night, sleeping off the anesthesia, the occasional soft sound of him shifting letting me know he was still there. When he did eat, it was slow and deliberate — like he knew he should, but the lingering fog of the anesthesia made each bite take extra effort. Part of me wanted to keep him right there, safe. But I can’t take in another cat.

    Release Day

    The next morning, I made sure he had a full belly before I released him back to the streets. That would be one less thing for him to worry about for at least a few hours. Then I carried the cage outside and opened the door. He didn’t explode out like I expected. Instead, he trotted just far enough to slide under my car and then stopped, looking back at me. Maybe that tiny bathroom, with its odd smells and soft towel, had felt like the safest place he’d ever known. Maybe he was confused. Or maybe, in his own way, he was saying goodbye.

    Later, I caught him on my security camera — slow steps across the street, disappearing under a parked truck. Probably heading for one of his hidden corners where he could curl up until the heat faded.

    That was two days ago. I haven’t seen him since. I hope he comes back around like Zira did, so I can see how he’s doing — and how the other cats take to him now.

    Hard Goodbyes

    This week was hard—on him, on me, and even on my own cats. Zazu and Zephyr got into a spat, Zuri became more skittish, and my house smelled like “stranger cat” for a full day. I scrubbed, bleached, and Lysol’d the bathroom and turned all my wax burners on before things calmed down.

    TNR is necessary. It works. But it’s not always easy—especially when the process is broken. When the shelter handles it, they take the emotional burden of holding and releasing the cat. When I’m the one holding them overnight, it’s harder to let go. Harder not to imagine them living safely indoors.

    But Zorro has his freedom. And now, he has a better chance at survival.

  • Cat Cult at Midnight

    Last night was… quiet. Too quiet.
    Usually, by the time I’m in bed, I’ve got the soundtrack of my life going—Zephyr thundering through the house, Zazu sprinting up the pole, Zuri hissing at someone for breathing wrong. But not this time.

    It was unnerving enough that I pulled up my living room camera to see what was going on.

    Zuri the black cat curled up in the hallway, blocking the entrance to Zephyr’s room.

    There was Zuri, curled up in front of the hallway like a furry bouncer, blocking the entrance to Zephyr’s room—the same room where he stayed for several weeks when he first arrived. It’s his safe space. Zuri won’t go in there herself, but she does like to guard the doorway.

    I got up to investigate. Lights on, a full sweep of Zephyr’s room—nothing. He wasn’t there. Neither was Zazu. I was halfway back to my bedroom when I saw it.

    Zazu and Zephyr perched on top of the kitchen cabinets, staring down.

    There they were. Perched together on top of the kitchen cabinets. Silent. Motionless. Glowing eyes fixed on me. A secret cat meeting? Late-night plotting session? I’ll never know.

    Meanwhile, Zuri was still on hallway patrol, looking very much like someone who didn’t get the invite. I almost felt bad for her—almost—but if she’d stop being such a diva, she might actually get included.

    With these three, silence is never a good sign.

  • Crafts, Cats, and Total Chaos, Y’all

    Hi. I’m Amber. And this? This is my hot mess.

    Let’s be real—I don’t have it all together. I’ve got over 90 cross stitch projects in various states of abandonment—some rolled, some bagged, and a few too big to fit anywhere but corners. I’ve got yarn stuffed into giant shelves, started projects missing needles (because I stole them for something “more exciting”), and quilt blocks that lived through a divorce, a move across the country, and somehow still aren’t finished. There’s denim from old jeans I “might use someday,” fabric from my mom’s sewing stash from 50 years ago, and beading supplies for a business I haven’t had the guts to launch. I created A Stitchin’ Hot Mess because I wanted a place to share the chaos—with anyone else out there juggling crafts, cats, and life without a Pinterest-perfect plan.

    This blog is my corner of the internet where I get to be a little loud, a little messy, and a whole lot honest. You’ll find updates on my many works-in-progress (both crafty and personal), strong opinions about thread colors and toilet paper, possibly some yelling about technology, and stories about my cats—plural, opinionated, and constantly involved.

    If you’re here for curated perfection, you might want to run now. But if you’ve ever looked at your own life and thought, “What the hell is even happening?”—you’re in the right place.

    So pull up a chair. Just… maybe dust it off first. There’s probably glitter on it.