Powered by caffeine, cuss words, and stubborn determination
By donna hunter
This weekend’s DIY saga? A full-on triple-threat glow-up. I swapped out the bathroom faucet, wallpapered a focal wall like I was auditioning for HGTV, built a frame for my tragically ugly medicine cabinet mirror (she’s still ugly, but now she’s fancy ugly), and reorganized the chaos under my sink.
I’d love to say I did all this without muttering words that could peel paint, but let’s be honest—liar, liar, tool belt on fire.
First, Amazon sent me a “mystery” faucet—no instructions and a rogue part that looked like it belonged on a NASA launch pad. So, I marched to Lowe’s, because when I want something done, I want it done yesterday. Lowe’s faucet seemed promising… until the washer turned out to be too big for the shaft (yes, I thought it too).
Cue dramatic stomp to Home Depot—hallelujah chorus plays—and at last, the perfect faucet. Final tally: bathroom looks fabulous, patience level is zero, and I’m the proud owner of enough receipts to wallpaper the next wall.
Don’t be scared of change—whether it’s life drama or living room decor. Swap it, paint it, move it, rip it out. If you don’t love it, change it again! Sure, it might not go exactly back to how it was before… but why would you want it to? You already know the “before” wasn’t cutting it (that’s why you changed it in the first place). This time, you’ll either get something totally new or a glow-up version of the old—like your ex, but with better taste.
That fancy frame around my hideous medicine cabinet mirror? Oh honey, that was a $30 Budget DIY Queen special—and yes, she’s serving gold glam on a clearance budget. It would’ve been cheaper, but I had to buy a miter saw and a clamping box (this one if you’re curious). I also grabbed a piece of wood molding, Gorilla Mounting Tape, and a can of gold spray paint.
The mirror was exactly 16″ x 26″, so I cut my frame to match—two pieces at 16″ and two at 26″, all with 45° angles. Here’s the pro tip: your miter box has two different 45° slots, so make sure your blade is in the right one and lined up with your marked cut line. After cutting, I gave each piece a quick sanding, hit them with gold spray paint, and let them dry.
Assembly time: I started with the bottom piece, adding mounting tape to the back (read the directions—this stuff sticks like a toddler to your leg in a grocery store). Place it lightly at first, throw a level on top, adjust if needed, then press firmly. Repeat with the remaining three sides.
Step back, sip your coffee, and admire your work. That ugly mirror? Now she’s fancy ugly.
That chic little black fan on my sink? Oh, she’s not just decor—she’s my hot flash hero while I’m doing my makeup. Runs on USB, saves my sanity, and you can snag one right here.
No full-body AFTER shot of the black cabinet—oops! That paint job was from another DIY weekend, but you still get to bask in the glory of the full transformation.
Out with the OLD!In with the NEW!
July 2025
Ghosts, Grease & Grit: My Wake-Up Call on I-16
By donna hunter
So there I was, driving solo on the haunted highway of doom—aka I-16, pitch black, middle of nowhere, just me, my overactive imagination, and the trauma of watching The Sixth Sense (because yeah, seeing dead people sticks with you). I was creeped out, clenching the steering wheel, and praying Bruce Willis would appear and guide me home.
And then—bam!—I spot a flaming car on the side of the road. No people, no other cars, no drama, just a car on fire like it was auditioning for a Fast & Furious stunt reel. Did I stop? Absolutely not. It was 1980-something, honey. No cell phones. No 911. No TikTok to livestream the chaos. I hit the gas and peaced out.
Just when I thought the horror movie was over, my tire blew out on the south side of Dublin, Georgia in my beat-up Toyota Corolla that was older than some of my cousins. Did I pull over and wait for a stranger to “help”? Absolutely not. I may have been scared, but I wasn’t stupid. I white-knuckled that steering wheel and drove on a busted tire until I limped off at the nearest exit like a queen refusing to lose her crown.
I found a dusty little country store straight out of a Stephen King novel, complete with two old-timers who were definitely not cast members of Southern Hospitality Monthly. I explained my situation—flat tire, damsel in distress, cue the banjos—and asked for help.
They both said “no.” Just flat-out nah, sweetheart. Like I had asked them to donate a kidney or help me move a couch in August. So, fine. I called my Daddy.
And y’all… Daddy hit me with the Southern dad classic:
“Honey, what do you want me to do about it? I’m 70 miles away.”
Wow. Thanks, Daddy. Super comforting. He told me to try again, and if all else fails, he’d head my way. I mean, I appreciated it, but HELLO, ABANDONED IN NOWHERE LAND.
Then I spotted a Huddle House like it was a beacon from Heaven (or maybe just the smell of bacon). The parking lot was full of Army vehicles, and I thought bingo—strong, helpful men with tools. I strut in like Scarlett O’Hara with car trouble and boldly ask,
“Can someone help me change a tire, please?”
They looked up… and then went back to eating. Not. One. Offered. To. Help. I was ready to draft them all into the Disappointment Hall of Fame.
And then—like the humble hero of this chaotic tale—the dishwasher behind the counter wipes his hands on a rag and says,
“Ma’am, I’ll help you.”
I nearly hugged him right there in front of the waffle station. We walked back to my car, he changed my tire like an absolute legend, and when I offered him the last few dollars I had, he smiled and said no. He only asked for a ride back to Huddle House.
Now, listen—I hesitated. Because every woman knows the “stranger in your car” rule. But I took the risk, dropped him off safely, and that dishwasher earned a permanent spot in my heart (and the hero playlist in my brain).
That night was my turning point. I realized I never wanted to be that helpless again. I swore then and there that I would learn to change my own damn tire, pop a hood with confidence, and never depend on a stranger—or a soldier with no manners—ever again.
Why a Body Pillow is Better Than ……
By donna hunter
When my partner and I split, one of the first things I noticed—besides the sudden quiet and the absence of socks on the floor—was how empty my bed felt. And not just emotionally empty, but like… physically vast. Even in a queen-sized bed, that empty space beside me felt cold and awkward, like a weird third wheel that didn’t know where to put its elbows.
Now, let me be clear: I’m a side sleeper. And I like to be the big spoon. If you don’t know what spooning is, imagine two spoons in a drawer. I’m the larger, assertive spoon who wraps her arm and leg over the smaller spoon like a human weighted blanket. It’s cozy. It’s comforting. And it also helps my cranky knee, which deserves hazard pay at this point.
But suddenly, there was no one to spoon. My nightly cuddle ritual turned into me staring at the wall wondering if I could legally adopt a pillow. That’s when I met Body Pillow. A decorative pillow, technically, but to me? It was Mr. Right (and sometimes Mr. Right Side). Four feet long and just the right thickness, it filled the void—and I mean that both literally and emotionally. I’d wrap my arm around it, toss my leg over it, and whisper sweet nothings into its seams. Don’t judge. It understood me.
Y’all, my heart was broken. And not in the dramatic Taylor Swift kind of way—more like the Billy Ray Cyrus “Achy Breaky Heart” kind. That song suddenly made sense. I was grieving and hugging Body Pillow like it was a lifeline… because it was. That pillow absorbed more tears than a Nicholas Sparks novel.
Six years later, Body Pillow is still by my side. We’ve been through it all—grief, healing, Netflix binges, snack crumbs. After about four years, it started losing its firmness (relatable). It was never a real body pillow anyway—just a very committed decorative one. So I ordered an actual body pillow from Amazon. You’d think I was replacing a family heirloom the way I felt. I was seriously nervous—like “cheating-on-your-favorite-barista” level guilt.
When the new pillow arrived, it was… massive. Like, linebacker huge. I’d ordered one with a cooling gel because I thought I was being fancy. But that thing was so cold I could’ve used it to keep my wine chilled. I laid down beside it and immediately felt judged. It was stiff, oversized, and frankly, way too smug. I tried to spoon it, but my foot just dangled in the air like it was trying to make contact with the floor and failed. At 5’2½”, I was no match. So I pushed it off the bed like yesterday’s ex and gently pulled Body Pillow back into place. I may or may not have whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
And yes, I gift body pillows to my friends when they go through breakups. Some people bring wine—I bring functional emotional support. If you’re looking for one like my beloved Body Pillow, try this slim and snuggly one on Amazon (not sponsored, just obsessed): Body Pillow for Side Sleepers. It’s got just the right girth without feeling like you’re trying to hug a log.
As for dating again? I used to wonder where a future partner would sleep. But honestly, between me, Body Pillow, and the cat… he’s gonna need to bring a sleeping bag. Or learn to spoon with the best of us.
Single & Snuggled, and Why
A body pillow never hogs the bed. It knows its place—and stays in its lane. No starfish sleeping or surprise elbows to the ribs.
A body pillow doesn’t radiate furnace-level body heat. It’s not trying to roast me alive in the middle of July.
A body pillow doesn’t snore like a chainsaw in a cave. No midnight symphonies or questionable nasal acoustics.
A body pillow doesn’t let one rip under the covers. Silent but deadly? Not in this bed.
A body pillow doesn’t moan, talk, or scream in its sleep. No weird dreams, no mumbled confessions—just peaceful silence.
A body pillow doesn’t flop around like a fish on a dock. No dramatic rollovers or acrobatic leg sweeps.
A body pillow doesn’t steal the covers like a textile thief in the night. My blanket? Still here in the morning. Imagine that.
A body pillow doesn’t untuck all the neatly tucked sheets. Hospital corners? Still intact. Martha Stewart would be proud.
A body pillow doesn’t breathe dragon breath in my face. Minty fresh… or at least scentless. A win either way.
A body pillow never goes to bed mad. No cold shoulders. No silent treatment. Just soft, dependable comfort.
So yeah, I’m still single. But I’m sleeping great—and me and Body Pillow are doing just fine.
If it blinks, don’t wait—Google it, call a friend, or head to the shop.
🛑 Tire Pressure – Pump It Up
Use a tire gauge like the boss you are.
Ideal PSI is usually on the driver’s door sticker.
Low tires = bad gas mileage = no thanks.
Bald tires? Girl, replace those death traps.
🔋 Battery – Don’t Let It Die on You Like Chad Did
Carry jumper cables or a portable jump starter (queen move).
If your car starts slower than your ex texts back, get that battery checked.
🧼 Wipers & Washer Fluid – See the Drama Coming
Change blades every 6–12 months.
Top off fluid monthly, especially before road trips or allergy season.
🛠️ Emergency Kit – Your Trunk’s Glow-Up
Jumper cables
Flashlight (with fresh batteries)
Tire inflator or Fix-a-Flat
First-aid kit
Blanket (for breakdowns or spontaneous picnics)
Phone charger
Snacks (because, priorities)
😎 Walk Into That Auto Shop Like…
You don’t have to know how to rebuild an engine. You just need to know your stuff so no one talks to you like you’re clueless. Practice this phrase:
“Thanks, but I’ll get a second opinion.” Say it with a smile and walk out like the legend you are.
💋 Pro Tip:
Confidence is the best thing you can keep in your glove box. (That—and a spare tampon. Trust me.)
👠 YOU GOT THIS
Whether you’re rocking yoga pants or a tool belt, taking care of your car means you’re taking care of YOU. So stay fierce, stay ready, and remember—no one puts you in the passenger seat of life.
Screw it, I'll Fix It 