Stephanie's Shitty Little Stories -Chapter 35

My sweet poodle doodles,

How do I even begin? With the good? The bad? The ugly? I used to work in a restaurant where every night we’d go around and do exactly that before service. Just a quick little emotional hostage situation before cooking dinner for 200 people. Terrible for morale, honestly.

So instead, I’ll just type.

Life is manageable. Not only manageable, but tolerable. Maybe even...a little exciting? Which feels suspicious. I don’t know exactly when things shifted or what chemical imbalance finally packed its bags and left my body, but I’m choosing to believe it was the weather. Nothing humbles seasonal depression quite like a 72 degree day and the smell of someone else’s cigarette drifting through an open window.

Things are still messy. I’m still stressed. Still figuring it out one mildly concerning email at a time. But somewhere in the middle of all of it, I started feeling like myself again. Or at least a version of myself that showers regularly and answers texts within a socially acceptable timeframe.

And honestly? I’ll take it.

Love,

Stephanie and Bunny

Bunny doesn’t know it yet, but we’re about to hit the road. A regular Sid and Nancy duo minus the downers and…actually, you know what, irrelevant comparison. Let’s just say one emotionally unstable woman and her deeply codependent dog against the open road. Very indie film. Very “gas station cold brew and poor financial decisions.”

And honestly? I’m excited.

There’s something comforting about movement lately. About not sitting still long enough for the bad thoughts to unpack their little suitcases. So we’ll take the amtrak, Bunny will aggressively judge people through the passenger seat window, and I’ll figure it out as I go. Which, historically, is how most of my life has operated anyway.

And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, I landed a job in culinary TV production. Which still feels fake when I say it out loud, like I accidentally wandered onto the right set carrying enough deli containers and emotional resilience that nobody questioned me.

But the people? Wonderful. Truly. Creative, kind, wildly talented humans who care deeply about food and storytelling and making something beautiful out of absolute logistical nonsense. My kind of people, honestly.

For the first time in a long time, I feel challenged in a way that lights my brain up instead of shutting it down. The days are long, my feet hurt constantly, and I’ve consumed enough cold coffee to qualify as medically concerning, but I leave feeling full in a way I haven’t felt in years.

It feels like I accidentally cracked a window open somewhere and fresh air finally came in.

Bitch, im back.

Preface: For my new job, I live in a hotel.

Well, with the good comes the ridiculous, and apparently the universe felt I was getting a little too comfortable.

It was Monday. I needed to call a lawyer (I’ll spare you the details because frankly I would also like to be spared), so I headed back to my hotel room during lunch break. Everything was normal. I was fine. I love making phone calls. Huge fan. Definitely not the kind of person who has to mentally rehearse saying “hello” beforehand.

Anyways.

When I got back, the little hook latch thing was resting in the door. No big deal. Room service was just down the hall and my brain, as always, was operating several business days behind reality. So, nose buried in my phone, I walked right in.

About seven seconds later I realized there was a man sitting silently in the corner chair of my tiny hotel room like a mob boss waiting to discuss my outstanding debts.

Not moving. Not speaking. Just sitting there.

Now, I would love to tell you I handled this calmly and with grace. Perhaps a polite “Oh! Sorry sir!” before quietly backing out of the room.

Instead, every survival instinct left my body simultaneously and I made a sound that can only be described as a Victorian child seeing electricity for the first time.

He was tall, thin, and the ankle bracelet spoke to me immediately.

AND what was my first thought?

To ask him if it was my room.

Dear God, Stephanie. This is not how one survives. This is not how Dateline episodes begin successfully.

I wish I could tell you the story became more dramatic from there. That he lunged. That I fought him off with a hotel ice bucket. That I escaped through a window and scaled the side of the building fueled only by adrenaline and childhood trauma.

But no.

He just…left.

Casually. Politely, even.

And then, because my brain is apparently wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap, I simply connected to my phone call and moved on with my day like finding a mysterious ankle-monitored man sitting silently in my hotel room was a mild inconvenience akin to bad water pressure.

I didn’t think about it again until I told my boo Lauren later that night. Now, Lauren — unlike me — possesses what experts refer to as “basic survival instincts.”

She was HORRIFIED.

Not amused. Not intrigued. Horrified.

And before I knew it, she had called the police and I gave a full statement.

Apparently it is, in fact, NOT normal to have random men sitting silently in your hotel room.

Lesson learned.

Or at the very least, lesson lightly acknowledged and emotionally set aside until a later date because honestly I still maintain he seemed just as confused as I was.

Still, according to Lauren, hotel rooms are generally intended to contain only the registered guest and maybe an overpriced Caesar salad. Not mysterious ankle-monitored gentlemen lurking in the corner like a side quest.

So moving forward, I will reportedly be “checking the room before entering.”

Growth.

Hello everyone,

It is me. Bunny.

First and foremost, I would like to address the rumors: yes, my mother is emotionally unstable, but in a charming way. Like a woman in an independent film who owns too many soup containers and says “it’s fine” while actively making things worse for herself.

Lately, though, something has shifted in her.

For a while, she was sad in that very human way where people move slower and stare at walls longer than usual. She carried a lot. Family things. Money things. Life things. The kind of things dogs can smell without understanding. I did my part by sitting directly on top of her whenever possible and aggressively demanding snacks during emotional moments.

But recently? She laughs more.

Not normal amounts. Slightly concerning amounts. Like someone who has survived enough that they’ve started finding the absurdity of it all genuinely funny.

Now we are traveling together. She says we are “hitting the road,” which so far appears to mean long drives, hotel rooms, caffeine, and me watching strangers suspiciously through windows while she tells herself this is all part of the adventure.

Honestly? I think it suits her.

And somehow — through what I can only assume was accidental manifestation and untreated ADHD — she got a job working in culinary television production. Suddenly she’s around people who speak her language: stressed creatives carrying hot pans while saying things like “where’s the microplane?” with the urgency of a medical emergency.

I can tell it’s good for her.

Her brain is quieter when she cooks. Softer when she talks about food. Hopeful, even. Which is nice because for a while it mostly sounded like, “Bunny, we are absolutely financially ruined,” while opening another seltzer.

Of course, no period of healing would be complete without my mother accidentally walking into a hotel room occupied by a mysterious ankle-monitored man and then asking HIM if it was her room.

Apparently this is “unsafe.”

Personally, I think everyone overreacted. The man left. Nobody died. She made her phone call. Life continued. Yet somehow Lauren — a woman with “survival instincts” — involved the authorities.

Humans are exhausting.

But underneath all of it, I think my mother is finally becoming herself again. Not the version shaped by fear or survival or trying to squeeze herself into places she no longer fits. Just…her.

A little reckless.
A little exhausted.
Very funny.
Very loving.

Still scared sometimes, but moving anyway.

And me? I’ll stay right beside her. Judging strangers. Keeping watch. Pretending I don’t like affection while needing it constantly.

Someone has to supervise this operation.

Love,
Bunny

Muffs,

We are smiling. Pray for Bunny and me as we conquer the Amtrak without paying the puppy fee.

Love,

US