Maybe she was going through something. Maybe she needed space. Maybe I’d said something wrong.

Or maybe something terrible had happened.

Turns out, something terrible had happened.

She was dead.

And to this day, I don’t know how she died.

It Started With a Few Crystals

Let me back up.

I met her on Etsy, of all places.

I was buying crystals and gemstones from her shop. Beautiful towers, polished stones, and all sorts of little treasures I probably didn’t need but absolutely had to have.

Somewhere between buying crystals and exchanging messages, we became friends.

I’m going to call her Sarah. That’s not her real name, and there are parts of her life I want to keep private.

We talked every single day for almost exactly two years.

And I mean every day.

We weren’t exchanging the occasional “Hey, how are you?” We wrote long messages about our lives, our problems, our frustrations, and whatever else happened to be going on.

I don’t think I’ve ever had another friend who listened quite like Sarah.

She read every word I wrote. Every single word. And she responded to it all.

She made me feel heard in a way very few people ever have.

And she taught me something I hadn’t really thought about before: how to give someone else that same attention.

For that alone, I’ll always be grateful to her.

The Parts of Her Life That Worried Me

But Sarah’s life wasn’t easy.

She was only a few years older than me and had serious trouble walking. She used a walker and was supposed to attend physical therapy. She was also struggling emotionally and regularly talked with therapists online.

Her little gemstone business wasn’t bringing in much money, either.

And then there was the man she lived with.

They had been together for about twenty years before their romantic relationship ended, but they continued living under the same roof.

Their history was complicated.

Sarah told me there had been abuse during their relationship. She also described times when he had helped her, including allowing her to continue living there when she had very little income and nowhere affordable to go.

There were kindnesses, and there were things she’d told me that troubled me.

I wasn’t there for any of it. I only knew what Sarah shared with me, and I understood there were parts of their lives I didn’t see.

But I remembered those conversations.

Especially when she suddenly stopped writing.

And Then She Went Silent

At first, I thought maybe she was having a bad day.

Then a few days passed.

Then more.

In nearly two years, Sarah had never gone silent like that.

I sent messages through Etsy, where we’d always talked.

Nothing.

I wondered whether she was struggling emotionally and simply needed to step away from everything. I knew she had problems she was working through, and I didn’t want to make things worse by pushing her.

But given her health problems and some of the things she’d shared about her life, I worried about her safety.

I seriously considered requesting a wellness check.

Then I’d talk myself out of it.

What if she just needed some time alone? What if I was overreacting? What if I caused trouble for her by getting the authorities involved?

I didn’t know what to do.

And somewhere in all that worry, I was hurt, too.

Because as much as I feared something might be wrong, another part of me wondered if she’d simply decided she didn’t want to talk to me anymore.

After two years of sharing our lives every day, that possibility hurt like hell.

Eventually, I tried Instagram.

I sent her a message there, hoping she’d see it even if she wasn’t checking Etsy.

Nothing.

Months passed.

Then, finally, a response appeared on Instagram.

But it wasn’t from Sarah.

The Message I Never Wanted to Receive

The man she’d lived with was responding to the message I’d sent her.

He told me he could tell how much I cared about Sarah.

And then he said something I will never forget.

She wasn’t ignoring me. She couldn’t respond. She had died.

I was in shock.

And immediately, I wanted to know how.

Had she been sick? Had she fallen? Her mobility had been getting worse, and I knew she was struggling.

I learned that Sarah had died roughly two weeks after our daily conversations stopped.

What happened during those two weeks?

Was she already sick? Was she in the hospital? Was she unable to get to her computer?

I have absolutely no idea.

He told me I could email him if I had questions.

So I did.

I explained that Sarah and I had talked practically every day for two years.

And I asked him how she died.

He never answered.

Not a word.

That was months ago.

Now, I understand that grief is complicated. He had shared twenty years of his life with her, and I don’t know what he was going through himself.

He didn’t owe me a conversation simply because Sarah and I were friends.

But when he offered to answer questions, I hoped I might finally understand what had happened.

Instead, I was left wondering.

And still missing my friend.

The Little Moons That Remind Me of Her

I have all the crystals and gemstones I bought from her.

The beautiful towers, the little stones, and the freebies she used to tuck into my orders.

She was generous that way.

One of those gifts was a moon-phase decoration on a string.

I have it hanging from a light in my house, where the breeze from the fan makes it sway.

My grandson loves it.

He’ll sit there watching those little moons move back and forth, completely fascinated.

He has no idea where they came from or who sent them.

But I do.

And there’s something about that I find comforting.

Not long ago, I found one of Sarah’s handwritten thank-you notes from an order I’d placed.

She’d called me her sweet friend.

And I cried.

Because there she was again, in her own handwriting.

A woman who’d read every word I wrote. Who’d listened when I needed someone to listen. Who’d become one of the best friends I’d ever had without us ever meeting face-to-face.

And who was suddenly gone.

People sometimes act like friendships made online aren’t quite real.

Like they don’t count unless you’ve had coffee together or visited each other’s homes.

Well, that’s bullshit.

Sarah was my friend.

She was a damn good friend.

And I miss her.

I don’t know how she died.

I may never know.

But I still have her handwritten note calling me her sweet friend.

And every time my grandson watches those little moons dance in the breeze, a small piece of her is still here.

I think she’d have loved that.

Apparently, I Put in a Request

We talked about all kinds of spiritual experiences. Things people had seen, things they’d felt, and things that couldn’t easily be explained.

I knew several people who claimed they could see dead people. Two of them were very close to me, and after hearing so many of their experiences, I started wondering why nothing particularly exciting had happened to me lately.

I mean, here I was, listening to everybody else’s stories, and I had nothing.

Not a ghost. Not an apparition. Not even a little something out of the corner of my eye.

So I decided to put in a request with the universe.

I wanted to see something that would let me know there was life beyond death. Something that told me there was more to existence than this world we walk around in every day.

Or maybe I specifically asked to see a dead person.

It’s been years, and I honestly can’t remember my exact thought request.

Whatever I said, I apparently got my point across.

A Midnight Trip to the Bathroom

At the time, my husband and I weren’t sleeping in our master bedroom. We’d moved into a bedroom down the hallway, next to our young daughter’s room, so she could get used to sleeping in her own room while still having us nearby.

Our master bedroom was at the other end of the house, with its own big bathroom.

And one night, at some god-awful hour, I woke up needing to pee.

Now, I could have used the little bathroom near where we were sleeping.

But why the hell would I use the kids’ bathroom when I had a perfectly good big-ass master bathroom?

So off I went.

I walked through the house, went into the master bathroom, did my business, and headed back out.

And let me make something perfectly clear here.

I WAS WIDE FUCKING AWAKE.

I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t half asleep, stumbling around trying to figure out where I was.

I had gotten out of bed, walked through the house, and gone to the bathroom.

I was awake.

So I walked out of the bathroom and glanced to my right.

And there she was.

Mrs. McDade.

That’s what we’ll call her, anyway.

Standing there.

Looking right at me.

A woman who was dead.

A woman I had met exactly ONE time in my entire life.

Well, That Wasn’t the Reaction I Expected

And what did I do?

Did I calmly ask her why she was there?

Did I say hello?

Did I thank the universe for finally answering my request?

HELL NO.

I SCREAMED BLOODY MURDER.

And just like that, she disappeared.

Well, that was enough for me.

I took off running out of that master bedroom, through the living room, and down the hallway.

Straight into my daughter’s room.

Because apparently my first thought after seeing a dead woman standing in my bedroom was that I needed to make sure my little girl was okay.

She was fine.

ME? NOT SO MUCH.

I dashed back out, jumped into bed, and threw the covers over my head.

Because, as everybody knows, a blanket is the ultimate protection against supernatural visitors.

By this point, all my screaming and running around had woken up my husband.

“Tina, are you okay?”

“Nnnnooooo.”

“What’s wrong?”

“G. G. G. G. GHOOOOOOOST!”

I’m sure that cleared everything right up for him.

Of All the Dead People in the World...

Now, here’s the part I’ve never understood.

Of all the people in the world, why Mrs. McDade?

I barely knew the woman.

I remember meeting her and talking to her once. That’s it. One conversation.

She had been very close to my husband. She’d known him since he was a kid.

But me?

We weren’t friends. We didn’t have some deep spiritual connection. I wasn’t sitting around reminiscing about her.

So why on earth would she be the one standing there looking at ME?

Was she there because of my husband?

Was she just passing through?

Did the universe look at my request and decide, Well, she’s available. Send her in?

I have absolutely no idea.

And I still don’t.

All I know is that I asked for something that would convince me there was more to this world than what we can ordinarily see.

And sometime later, I walked out of my bathroom and saw a dead woman standing in my bedroom.

You can believe whatever you want about ghosts, spirits, or what happens after we die. I’m just telling you what I remember seeing that night.

And I can tell you one more thing.

I never said I wanted the experience to scare the living shit out of me.

So, Universe, thanks for answering my request.

But next time, how about a little warning?

Or better yet, just send me a fucking postcard.

THIRTEEN.

So when I contacted customer support about $15 in missing advertising credits, I wasn’t expecting to spend the next several days being taught how Etsy Plus works.

I knew how it worked.

That’s how I knew something wasn’t right.

But apparently, getting someone to investigate a problem instead of explaining the same policy six different ways is asking a little too much.

It Started With Fifteen Dollars

For those who don’t sell on Etsy, here’s the short version.

Etsy offers a subscription called Etsy Plus for $10 a month. Among its benefits is a $5 monthly advertising credit you can use toward promoting your products.

I’ve had Etsy Plus for years. I know the credits expire. I know they don’t roll over. I’ve used them before.

But during July, August, and September, Etsy charged me the usual $10 each month, and the advertising credits I expected weren’t appearing in my account.

That’s $30 in subscription fees and $15 in advertising benefits I couldn’t account for.

Now, my Etsy sales are already down about 60% compared with last year. I’m not exactly rolling around in piles of money over here.

So yes, I’m paying attention to what I’m being charged.

I went through my records, checked my account, and gathered screenshots showing the discrepancy.

Then I contacted Etsy Support.

And that’s where the fun began.

Apparently, I Needed a Refresher Course

I explained that my monthly advertising credits weren’t appearing as they previously had.

The response?

An explanation of how advertising credits work.

They expire after 30 days.

They don’t roll over.

You need an active advertising campaign to use them.

Well, thank you kindly.

I only have 13 years of experience selling on your platform. Obviously, I’ve been wandering around Etsy all this time without the slightest idea how any of it works.

So I explained again.

I wasn’t asking why unused credits expired.

I wasn’t asking for a tutorial on setting up Etsy Ads.

I wanted someone to look at my account and explain what had happened to the advertising credits included in my paid subscription.

Seems like a reasonable question, doesn’t it?

Apparently not.

Welcome to the Customer-Service Merry-Go-Round

One support conversation turned into another.

Then another.

Then came the emails.

And with each response, I found myself reading yet another explanation of how Etsy Plus credits are supposed to work.

I KNOW HOW THEY’RE SUPPOSED TO WORK.

THAT’S WHY I’M CONTACTING YOU.

I provided screenshots. I explained which months were involved. I asked for an accounting of the credits and whether they had been issued, used, or expired.

I even specifically requested that someone review my actual billing history instead of sending another generic explanation.

And still, the responses kept coming.

Polite. Professional. Repetitive.

The kind of responses that make you wonder whether anybody actually read your question before hitting Send.

I can’t say whether they were written by AI, copied from a script, or composed by someone having a particularly long day.

But they sure sounded like the same answer wearing six different outfits.

And every single time, I had to explain that I wasn’t new to Etsy.

Thirteen years.

At this point, I was beginning to think I should have that tattooed on my forehead.

Finally! Fifteen Dollars!

After all the back-and-forth, Etsy Support eventually issued me $15 in compensation for the three months I’d been questioning.

Well, hallelujah!

Maybe we’d finally gotten somewhere.

Except I couldn’t find the credit in my advertising account.

So naturally, I had to contact support AGAIN.

And that’s when I learned that the $15 had been issued as Etsy shopping credit.

Shopping credit.

As in, I could go buy something from another Etsy seller.

Not advertise my own products.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love supporting other small businesses.

But I didn’t pay $10 a month for Etsy Plus because I wanted a gift card.

I paid for a subscription that included advertising credits. I wanted my advertising credits.

In fact, I would have loved to take that $15 and try spending it on Etsy Ads in one day, just to see what happened.

Would it bring in a sale? Would anybody even click?

Who knows?

That’s what I wanted to find out.

Instead, Etsy handed me fifteen dollars I could use to go shopping.

Imagine paying for gas, discovering the pump didn’t give you what you paid for, and having the station hand you a gift certificate for beef jerky.

Thanks, I guess.

But I still need the damn gas.

One Last Question. Just One.

By this point, I’d canceled Etsy Plus.

But I still wanted an answer to something important.

If I signed up again, would my $5 monthly advertising credit actually work?

And why had the credits stopped appearing in the first place?

I wasn’t asking anyone to predict the future.

I wanted someone to review what had happened to my account, tell me whether there had been a technical or billing problem, and confirm that it had been corrected.

Instead, I got another explanation of how the credits would normally be applied if I had an active advertising campaign.

Which still didn’t tell me why they had stopped appearing.

Or whether the original problem had been fixed.

At that point, I was done.

No more Etsy Plus for me.

It’s Not Really About Fifteen Dollars

I know what some people are thinking.

All this fuss over fifteen bucks?

But here’s the thing.

It’s not just about fifteen dollars.

It’s about paying for something, not seeing the benefit you expected, doing the work to document the problem, and then spending DAYS trying to get someone to address it.

It’s about being talked to like you don’t understand the basics of a platform you’ve been using for more than a decade.

And it’s about getting a different kind of credit than the one you were actually paying for.

I’ve been selling digital products on Etsy for 13 years. I’ve watched the platform change, watched fees add up, and watched my own sales take a nosedive.

I don’t expect Etsy to guarantee me sales.

I don’t expect advertising to magically fix my business.

But I do expect a company charging me for a subscription to be able to explain what happened to the benefits that came with it.

And after six support conversations, I still didn’t get a straight answer.

Why did my advertising credits stop being issued? And if I signed back up for Etsy Plus, would they actually work this time?

Two simple questions. Neither answered.

But I did get a $15 Etsy shopping credit.

So apparently, the solution to Etsy not giving me what I paid for was to give me something I never asked for.

Thirteen years on Etsy. Six support conversations. Fifteen dollars in shopping credit. And not one damn answer.

Bless their hearts.

If you’re selling on Etsy, check your subscription benefits and billing records. And if you’re thinking about opening a shop, just remember that running a small business sometimes involves more than making and selling things.

Sometimes it involves trying to get a straight answer from customer service.😂

And since Halloween is right around the corner, I figured I’d give you one of my creations.

This is one of my favorite little paper crafts. It’s quick, easy, cute as can be, and you can do all sorts of things with it if you get a little creative.

And I’m giving it to you for free. No tricks attached!

It’s called my Woodland Halloween Mini Trifold Folio. It’s got a redheaded witch (imagine that!), a black cat, a bat, butterflies, and lots of colorful flowers.

Here’s what I like about these little things.

You can tuck Halloween candy inside, tie it up with a ribbon, and hand it out to trick-or-treaters. Add a lollipop, a little note, some stickers, or whatever strikes your fancy.

I did this last Halloween, and they were a HUGE hit. Especially with the moms! 😂

There are three little pockets inside, along with decorative tags that tuck right into them. Fold the whole thing closed, add a ribbon if you want, and you’re done.

Here’s Your Halloween Gift! 🎃

➡️ DOWNLOAD YOUR FREE WOODLAND HALLOWEEN TRIFOLD

The download includes the printable pages and assembly instructions.

I’ve also got a couple of videos if you’d rather see what you’re getting into before you start cutting paper.

WATCH THE FINISHED FOLIO SHOWCASE⬇️

WATCH THE ASSEMBLY TUTORIAL ⬇️

The video below features a different folio design, but the construction is exactly the same. It’ll walk you through the folding and assembly so you can put your Halloween version together without any guesswork.

It’s the same tutorial I use for my Etsy trifolds, so you can follow along and see how everything goes together.

You’ll need a printer, scissors, glue or double-sided tape, and some ribbon if you want to tie it closed.

And candy, of course. Just try not to eat all of it before you finish making the damn things. 😂

You don’t need to be a scrapbooker or know a thing about paper crafting, either.

Better yet, make it a little project with your kids or grandkids! Print a couple of copies, sit down together, and see what you come up with. Depending on their ages, they might need a hand with the cutting and folding.

I figured it was about time I shared something I’ve made instead of another story about whatever has gone sideways in my life this week.

Happy Halloween from The Barbed Belle! 🧡

And if you make one, tell me what you put inside. I’d love to hear what you came up with!

You know what’s funny about finally finding people who think like you?

Sometimes you discover they have just as many rules as the people you were trying to get away from.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After the terrifying experience I wrote about on Wednesday, I started exploring spiritual forums on the internet.

And let me tell you, it was like walking into a room full of people who spoke a language I didn’t even know I understood.

I’ve always been drawn to rocks (pretty unknown ones, fossils, arrowheads if lucky, holey rocks and oh,,, so much more!).

I collected them because I liked them. Their shapes, their colors, the way some looked completely ordinary until the light hit them just right.

Then I discovered crystals.

Well, hell.

Apparently, I’d been collecting interesting rocks when I could have been collecting interesting rocks with entire books written about them.

And that was only the beginning.

Numerology.

Repeating numbers on clocks.

Animals that seemed to appear at peculiar times.

Dreams.

Symbols.

The moon.

The rhythms of the earth and the feeling that somehow, everything around us—and everything within us—was connected.

I wasn’t interested in somebody handing me a list of rules and telling me what every symbol absolutely meant.

I wanted to explore what those things meant to me.

And for a while, I’d found my people.

People who understood why I might stop and notice an animal instead, be it in nature, on television, or in a magazine.

People who didn’t think it was strange to wonder whether a coincidence might carry some personal meaning. (There’s a coin in coincidence, after all. And coins have value!)

People who could talk about nature, energy, spirituality, and the mysteries of life without insisting there was only one acceptable answer.

I became deeply involved in that world.

So involved, in fact, that I eventually became one of six moderators for a very large, worldwide spiritual group.

Six moderators.

An international community.

Me, the woman who’d been told as a child to say she was Baptist without even knowing what the word meant.

Life has a sense of humor.

For several years, I helped moderate that group and spent time among people whose interests and experiences resonated with my own.

But slowly, I began noticing something that bothered me.

This was a Lightworkers community. The whole idea was supposed to be about connecting people around the world.

Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?

Except somewhere along the way, connecting people apparently came with a whole new set of rules.

One of them was that we weren’t supposed to plan for the future.

I’m not kidding.

You couldn’t even talk about your future plans.

Why?

Well, that was never explained in any way that made sense to me. Apparently, we were just supposed to accept it because the people in charge said so.

And that didn’t sit right with me. Not one damn bit.

I’d spent years questioning the idea that somebody else had the authority to tell me what to believe, how to think, or how to live my life.

And here I was, in a community supposedly devoted to spiritual growth, watching people being told what they could and couldn’t even discuss about their own futures.

To me, that wasn’t enlightenment. It was control.

And I wanted no part of it.

Different language.

Different beliefs.

Different box.

Same damn problem.

So I left.

Not because I stopped being spiritual.

Not because I regretted exploring that world.

And certainly not because I suddenly had all the answers.

I left because I’d learned something important about myself.

I don’t need to belong to a group to belong to this world.

I don’t need a title, a label, or somebody else’s approval to feel connected to nature, to life, or to whatever greater mystery might exist.

I can appreciate a crystal because it’s beautiful.

I can explore what an animal symbolizes without insisting that everybody else must interpret it the same way.

Our daughter was sleeping in her bedroom, which was attached to ours.

I don’t remember what I had been dreaming about, if anything. What I remember is waking up and seeing a male figure wearing a mask and a long hooded cape. His head was turned downward, as if he were looking at me.

He was right there.

In my bedroom.

And I screamed.

My husband woke up and asked what was wrong.

I threw the covers over my head and pointed toward the figure.

“Th-th-there’s a man!”

My husband looked.

“No one is there,” he said.

Well, that’s comforting.

I pulled the covers back down, and what I saw was the man disappearing.

Just fading away.

Not conveniently turning into a coat hanging on a chair.

Gone.

I was terrified.

I immediately checked on our daughter. She was still sleeping peacefully in her room, completely unaware that her mother had just experienced the kind of thing that makes a person reconsider every shadow in the house.

I slept with the nightlight on for weeks afterward.

And I mean weeks.

I wasn’t interested in proving how brave I was. I was interested in making sure I could see every damn corner of that bedroom.

The figure had looked to me like something I later associated with a bringer of death, although I hadn’t consciously registered that in the moment.

And naturally, I wanted answers.

This was back when the internet was still young. We weren’t carrying little computers in our pockets, and there weren’t a million websites ready to explain every strange experience in thirty seconds.

There were emails. There were forums.

And somehow, of all places, I found myself on a Christian forum discussing what had happened.

A woman there suggested that the figure might have been a manifestation of someone’s hatred or anger.

There were circumstances in my life at the time that made that interpretation resonate with me.

I’m not going into all of those details here. That’s another story entirely.

But her suggestion gave me something to think about.

Was that what I’d seen?

I don’t know.

And I want to be clear about that.

I know what I saw. I know I was awake, and I know how frightened I was. I didn’t make it up, and as far as I’m concerned, I wasn’t dreaming.

But I can’t tell you with certainty what caused it.

Maybe my mind was doing something extraordinary in that strange space between dreaming and waking. (Oh, I have stories about those experiences!)

Maybe there was an explanation I simply didn’t understand.

Whatever it was, it changed the direction of my curiosity.

I began looking beyond the explanations people usually refer to.

I searched for people who talked openly about unusual experiences, intuition, symbolism, and the mysteries of being human.

And eventually I found spiritual forums.

Oh, my goodness.

I had no idea there was an entire world of people exploring the very things I’d always been curious about.

People who noticed patterns.

People who felt connected to nature.

People who wondered about dreams and coincidences and the possibility that life might hold meanings we don’t fully understand.

For the first time, I wasn’t simply reading what somebody else said I was supposed to believe.

I was exploring.

Asking questions.

Finding ideas that resonated with me and leaving others behind.

That frightening night didn’t hand me all the answers.

It handed me a whole new collection of questions.

And strangely enough, that turned out to be the beginning of something wonderful.

Because in those forums, I discovered people who loved rocks as much as I did.

And apparently, some of those rocks had fancy names and came with entire books written about them!

Who knew?

That’s where Friday’s story begins.

Now, surely I’m not the only person who’s seen something that scared the living hell out of them and still can’t explain it years later.

Anybody else have a story like that? Because I’d sure love to hear it.

— The Barbed Belle

I’ve spent a good portion of my life wondering why everybody seems so damn determined to tell everybody else how to find God.

Apparently, there’s a right way to pray, a right way to believe, a right way to worship, and a whole collection of people standing around ready to inform you when you’re doing it wrong.

I didn’t grow up in some terribly strict religious household. But I did spend an impressive number of weekends being deposited at Bible school.

And somewhere along the way, I was instructed that if anybody asked, I was Baptist.

Did I know what being Baptist meant?

Not a damn clue.

But I knew the correct answer to the question, and apparently that was good enough.

Years later, when I was pregnant with my daughter and had plenty of time on my hands, I decided to read the entire Bible.

Not a few favorite passages. Not the verses somebody had selected for a Sunday sermon.

The whole thing.

And I had questions.

Lots of questions.

I found contradictions and inconsistencies that surprised me. I wondered why certain things were taught one way when the words on the page seemed to tell a different story.

Now, I’m not here to debate anybody’s interpretation of scripture. If your faith brings you peace, comfort, and a sense of belonging, I’m genuinely happy for you.

But reading that book for myself made me realize something.

I wanted to understand what I believed, not simply repeat what somebody else had told me to believe.

I still invited Jesus Christ into my life.

But my relationship with him wasn’t quite what some people might expect. I felt him more as a brother and a teacher than a savior standing between me and God.

To me, he taught me how to save myself.

And I never believed another human being was somehow more worthy of a connection to God—or whatever we choose to call that something greater than ourselves—than I was.

Which brings me to something that’s always bothered me.

Years ago, I worked in a grocery store, and one day a Christian couple approached me and asked if they could pray for me.

Right there.

In the grocery store.

And what was I supposed to say? No?

So I said yes.

And there I stood, feeling awkward as hell, participating in a prayer I hadn’t asked for.

It wasn’t the only time something like that happened. I’ve had similar experiences in other places, and while I genuinely appreciated the thought behind those prayers, something about the whole situation never sat quite right with me.

I know they meant well. And I certainly wasn’t going to turn down a few good prayers.

But there was always this feeling that they needed to pray for me, as though I couldn’t reach God perfectly well on my own.

And that’s what bothered me.

I didn’t need someone to establish a connection with God on my behalf. I already had one.

Why not go home and quietly pray for me? Send me some good juju. Wish me peace, happiness, or whatever wonderful things you believe the universe might deliver.

I’ll gladly take all the good wishes I can get.

I just never understood why I had to stand there holding hands while you sent them.

I didn’t need a spiritual supervisor.

Here’s what I believe today: every person’s spiritual journey belongs to them.

Christian. Buddhist. Pagan. Atheist. Agnostic. Still figuring it out.

Whatever.

I believe everyone has the right to their own faith, and everyone has the right to decide whether they want to participate in someone else’s religious practices.

We can talk about our beliefs. We can share our experiences. We can even disagree and still respect each other.

Imagine that.

I wasn’t rejecting everyone else’s faith.

I was refusing to let anyone dictate my own.

And what I didn’t know at the time was that my journey was about to take a very strange turn.

One that involved a masked figure beside my bed, a terrified scream, and several weeks of sleeping with the nightlight on.

But that’s a story for Wednesday.

Now I’m curious about you.

Have you ever felt pressured to participate in someone else’s religious practices, even when you didn’t want to? Or have you found a spiritual path that feels entirely your own?

I’d love to hear your experience in the comments. No converting anybody. No spiritual superiority contests. Just a conversation between people trying to figure out this wonderfully strange thing called life.

Life’s a little prickly. Might as well laugh about it.

— The Barbed Belle

There’s something exciting about buying a house.

A fresh start. A place to call your own. The satisfaction of knowing you’ve finally made it through the paperwork, the inspections, the signatures, and the endless parade of people who need a check before they’ll hand over the keys.

And then you move in.

And discover your plumbing apparently wants a divorce.

Not a friendly divorce, either.

The kind where it takes the house, the savings, and anything else you might have tucked away for a rainy day.

Welcome to homeownership.

Apparently, my house has cast-iron sewer pipes. And according to two plumbers, those pipes are failing.

Now, I knew buying a house came with responsibilities. I expected the occasional repair. A leaky faucet. A toilet that runs. Maybe an appliance that decides to retire without giving two weeks’ notice.

I did not expect to be informed that the plumbing underneath my house needed $26,000 worth of attention.

Twenty-six thousand dollars.

For pipes.

PIPES.

And before anybody tells me I should’ve had the house inspected, let me stop you right there.

I DID.

I had the inspections done. I checked the boxes. I paid the people who were supposed to know what they were looking at.

Apparently, the only thing nobody inspected was my ability to pull $26,000 out of my ass.

The first plumber came through my home warranty company.

He cleared the clog and informed me that the cast iron was failing. He said the pipes would probably need hydrojetting.

And wouldn’t you know it?

His brother just happened to do that very thing.

For only $900.

And, naturally, his brother charged less than everybody else.

Well, isn’t that convenient?

Then came plumber number two.

An independent, licensed plumber.

He also told me the cast iron was failing. According to him, the pipes might last another week. Or another year.

Well, that certainly narrowed things down.

He quoted $26,000 to replace the plumbing that needed attention.

But don’t worry!

He assured me other companies would charge $30,000 for what his company could do for $26,000.

There it was again.

“We charge less than everybody else.”

Is that something they teach in plumbing school?

Because I didn’t call a plumber looking for a bargain. I called because I wanted somebody to tell me what the hell was wrong with my pipes without trying to sell me the family discount.

And here’s where things get interesting.

Plumber number one suggested hydrojetting.

Plumber number two said hydrojetting could crumble the deteriorating cast iron and make everything worse.

So my choices were apparently to spend $900 on something that might damage my pipes or spend $26,000 replacing them.

Wonderful.

Both plumbers ran cameras down the pipes.

Both charged me for the privilege.

And what did I get?

Two pictures.

No video recording.

Two pictures of the inside of a pipe, and I’m not even sure whether they were taken in different places or whether I’ve paid two men to photograph the same damn spot.

I don’t know what I’m looking at.

I’m not a plumber.

That’s why I hired plumbers.

I paid two professionals to look inside my pipes, and somehow I came away with more questions than answers.

Meanwhile, there’s the little matter of the home inspections.

You know, those inspections you’re supposed to get before buying a house so you don’t end up purchasing somebody else’s expensive problems?

I had them.

I did what I was supposed to do.

Yet here I am, wondering whether somebody missed something, whether the problem simply wasn’t detectable at the time, or whether I’ve become the newest contestant on How Much Can We Get This Homeowner to Pay?

And everybody seems to have paperwork protecting themselves.

The inspectors. The warranty company. The plumbers.

Everybody has their disclaimers, their limitations, and their fine print.

Meanwhile, I’m the one living in the house with the allegedly dying pipes.

And here’s the part that really gets me.

I DON’T HAVE $26,000.

Not in savings.

Not tucked away in a coffee can.

Not hidden in the backyard under a suspicious-looking rock.

So what exactly am I supposed to do with a $26,000 estimate?

Frame it?

Hang it above the toilet?

Maybe laminate it so I can admire it while wondering whether the next flush will be the one that sends my financial future straight down the drain.

Everybody wanted to tell me how much money they could save me.

Nobody seemed particularly interested in the fact that I didn’t have the money to begin with.

And that’s what bothers me most.

I’m not asking anybody to work for free.

I’m not expecting miracles.

I just want somebody to look at the situation, explain what’s actually wrong, show me the evidence, and help me figure out what can realistically be done.

Instead, I got two sales pitches, two pictures, and two very different opinions about what might happen next.

Maybe the pipes really are on their last legs.

Maybe they have another year in them.

Maybe longer.

I genuinely don’t know.

What I do know is that the clog was cleared, the toilet currently flushes, and I’m sitting in a house I just bought, wondering how something as ordinary as plumbing became a luxury item.

So for now, I’m doing what I can afford to do.

Nothing dramatic.

Just living in my house, hoping the pipes continue doing the one job they were hired to do.

And if the plumbing does decide to file for divorce?

Well, it can get in line.

Because there’s no money for a settlement.

There’s a wonderful moment at the end of a long day of babysitting when my grandson’s parents come to pick him up.

I love that little boy to pieces.

I also love watching him leave.

There. I said it.

After spending the day tending to his every need, listening to his noises, and trying to accomplish something—anything—between naps, I’m officially off duty.

And you know what I do?

I sit my ass down.

In peace.

In silence.

With a cold beer.

No schedule. No interruptions. No wondering how long he’s going to sleep or whether I’ll have time to finish something before he wakes up.

I can finally do whatever the hell I want.

Or, more accurately, whatever the hell I was trying to do before he arrived.

It’s glorious.

For about five minutes.

Because apparently, nobody told my brain the baby went home.

I’ll be sitting there, enjoying my newfound freedom, when I hear something.

A little noise.

Was that a coo?

A grunt?

Now, let me explain something about my grandson.

He has this little grunt he makes when he’s stretching or trying to get comfortable.

It’s such a familiar sound that apparently my brain keeps listening for it even after he’s gone home.

So when I hear a suspicious little sound, my brain immediately goes into grandmother mode.

What’s he doing?

Is he waking up?

Does he need me?

And before I know it, I’m about to get up and check on him.

Except there’s one small problem.

HE’S NOT HERE.

He’s at his own damn house.

With his own parents.

Who are now responsible for figuring out what he needs.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my house, hearing imaginary baby noises like some kind of retired baby monitor that nobody bothered to unplug.

Apparently, you can send the baby home, but you can’t convince your brain to clock out.

So I sit back down.

Take another sip of my beer.

And enjoy the silence.

Until the house makes another suspicious noise.

There’s a special kind of insult that comes disguised as good customer service.

I was at a restaurant when a woman asked if I was a senior citizen so I could get a discount.

Now, I appreciate saving money as much as the next person. Hell, these days I’ll take a discount wherever I can get one.

But *senior citizen?*

I asked her how old you had to be to qualify.

“65,” she said.

Well, shit.

I’m **55**.

Fifty-five. Not sixty-five. That’s an entire decade she just handed me, and I didn’t even get a birthday cake.

So I joked that I could just tell her I was old enough and get the discount anyway.

And in the most innocent voice imaginable, she said:

“But that would be lying.”

Well, bless her heart.

First, she aged me ten years. Then she questioned my moral character.

And all I wanted was something to eat.

Squealing and screeching.

We’re on day three of this delightful new developmental milestone, and I’m beginning to suspect my hearing may never recover.

The interesting thing about his newfound talent is that nobody, including the baby himself, seems entirely sure what he’s trying to communicate.

Is he happy? Is he mad? Is he summoning something?

Your guess is as good as mine.

There will be a bloodcurdling screech, followed by an enthusiastic squeal, and, if I’m particularly lucky, a coo.

Coos are good. I like coos. We should have more coos.

This morning, he seemed perfectly content, so I made the reckless decision to brush my teeth.

I managed to get toothpaste onto the toothbrush and was approximately halfway to my mouth when—

AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Good Lord Almighty.

I rushed back to find him exercising his vocal cords with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a horror movie.

Since I still had a toothbrush covered in toothpaste and a mouth full of unbrushed teeth, I decided to compromise.

I wheeled his bassinet over to the bathroom doorway so he could supervise.

Apparently, this was unacceptable.

The pacifier came flying out. The bottom lip turned down. The face announced that Nana had made a terrible mistake.

You see, watching an old woman brush her teeth is apparently not the entertainment he’d signed up for.

So back to the living room we went.

Pacifier back in. Peace restored.

For the moment.

Because with babies, there’s always a later.

And there was.

But that’s another story.

Meanwhile, in the Land of Absolutely No Money

Between my grandson’s vocal performances, I had big plans to get a new digital junk journal product finished and listed in one of my online stores.

It was going to be quick. Easy. Efficient.

I even had ChatGPT helping me.

We had a plan. We had a vision. We were making progress.

And then, somewhere around the halfway point, ChatGPT apparently blew a circuit.

I’m not sure what happened inside that artificial brain, but whatever intelligence it had been displaying packed its little digital suitcase and left the building.

Suddenly, we couldn’t seem to accomplish something we’d been doing perfectly well just minutes earlier.

I tried explaining. I tried correcting. I tried again.

And again.

And again.

At some point, I began questioning which one of us was actually artificial.

Then the baby woke up.

Production stopped.

No finished product. No new listing. No potential sale.

Another day, another dollar I didn’t make.

Although, come to think of it, calling it a dollar might be a little optimistic.

After marketplace fees, some of my digital products earn me approximately forty cents per sale.

Sometimes less.

And that’s before taxes.

FORTY. CENTS.

I can’t even buy a decent piece of candy for forty cents anymore, let alone an ice-cold beer, for heaven’s sake!

And we haven’t discussed what I spend creating these masterpieces, paying for software, listing them, marketing them, and occasionally questioning every decision I’ve made since approximately 1997.

I have thousands of products scattered across my online stores.

Thousands.

And here we are in the fourth quarter of the year, supposedly the magical season when online sellers are meant to be rolling in holiday money.

Well, I’d just like to make an official announcement.

Fourth quarter sucks.

There. I said it.

Tomorrow Is Another Day

Maybe tomorrow the baby will discover a new sound.

Maybe ChatGPT will remember how to do its job.

Maybe somebody will buy something, and I’ll earn enough to purchase an entire piece of candy.

Or maybe I’ll just manage to brush my teeth without an audience.

At this point, I’m not sure which would be the bigger accomplishment.

Until then, I’ll be over here with my coffee, my unfinished projects, and a grandson who has apparently discovered that he can scream for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

And if you hear a bloodcurdling screech coming from somewhere in Texas, don’t worry.

It’s probably just the baby.

Probably.

— The Barbed Belle

If you’re also trying to make a living, maintain your sanity, or simply brush your teeth without interruption, pull up a chair. Subscribe for more adventures from The Barbed Belle. Misery loves company, but around here, at least we can laugh about it.