Making Sense of the Jargon

Before we go any deeper into waivers, services, and all the moving parts… I wanted to start here.

This is a downloadable PDF—a non-exhaustive list of common terms and acronyms, with clickable links for deeper explanation. Think of it as a starting point. Something you can keep, reference, and come back to as things start coming at you.

Because if you’ve spent any time in this world, you already know—
people in the field tend to speak in acronyms. Not because they’re trying to confuse you… they’re just used to it. It’s their everyday language.

But for families? It can feel like trying to follow a conversation where every other word is a code you were never given.

And more often than not… we don’t stop to ask what those acronyms mean.

Maybe we don’t want to interrupt.
Maybe we think we should already know.
Maybe we’re just trying to keep up.

But here’s the truth: you are allowed to ask. Every single time.

No one should expect you to navigate your child’s life, your loved one’s care, or your own services in a language that hasn’t been explained to you.

So this list? It’s just the beginning.
A way to put some plain words to things that are often overcomplicated.

We’ll go deeper.
But first—we make it make sense.

ACRONYMS & OTHER TERMS Download

Waivers & Other Confusing Things Pt. 1

I’ve been contacted by quite a few people with questions about disability waivers, so I decided to create a series with information–that’s more easily understood than what you often get elsewhere–on the what/who/why/how of them. I don’t purport that I know everything.

Hardly.

But I am sharing what I know. And I’m also sharing my perspective.

What a Medicaid Waiver Really Is—and Why It Matters (Part 1)

There’s a quiet reality happening in homes across the United States (I’m speaking from Virginia)…and it’s one of the most misunderstood things out there.

It’s called a waiver program.

And no—it’s not what people think.

So… What Is a Waiver?

A waiver is part of Medicaid that allows individuals with disabilities to receive care in their home and community instead of being placed in an institution. In simple terms, the government is “waiving” the requirement that care has to happen in a facility.

That shift didn’t come out of nowhere.

Decisions like Olmstead v. L.C. made it clear: People with disabilities have the right to live in the least restrictive setting possible.

That means the community—not an institution—whenever it’s appropriate.

Waiver programs to make that possible.

Why This Exists (And Why It Matters)

Before waivers, many individuals with disabilities were placed in institutions by default. Not because it was better. Because it was the system. Waivers changed that by allowing people to stay in their homes, be with their families, have friendships, participate in everyday life, and be part of their communities.

And here’s something people don’t always realize:

It also costs less.

Institutional care is significantly more expensive than home and community-based care. So, this isn’t waste, it’s smarter spending. And it gives people something even more important than savings—it gives them a life that actually feels like living.

What This Means in Real Life

This isn’t about convenience; it’s about dignity. It’s about someone being able to sit at their own table, go out to eat, be a part of family life, have friends, experience the world around them…. instead of being removed from it.

Final Thought for Part 1

This isn’t a loophole or a handout. It’s a system designed to save money, but more importantly, it gives people a better life. And for a lot of families, it’s not just helpful, it’s necessary.

What Comes Next

In Part 2, I’m going to break down one of the biggest misconceptions out there—
the idea that parents are somehow “getting paid” in a way that benefits them. Because the reality of that is very different than what people think.

If this gives you a different perspective, share it.
Because a lot of families are living this… and even more still don’t understand it.

Perspective in Dairy Queen

She gets in her own world, ya know. She & her wild-haired beautiful self.

Listening.

Watching.

Immersing herself in others’ conversations.

All while enjoying her drink of choice—often a milkshake or root beer float (because of the ice cream, both are easy for her to swallow without getting choked, so we let her hold the cup and drink at her own pace).

She looks so grown when she does this. Well, she is grown. But rarely does she get to do “grown” things. And when she does, I relish it.

So does she.

This particular time we were in Dairy Queen (her version of Ruth’s Chris), and to the left of her there were two “kids”, probably in their early twenties, who were onboarding for employment there. One, a pretty blonde girl whose eyes smiled when she looked at you, the other, a strapping fella with a chiseled jaw and wearing a quarter zip (if you know you know).

While I fed her itty. bitty. miniscule bites of her sandwich, and while she chomped and chawed (Appalachian for “chewed good”), she’d glance over to watch the interview process between the two and the manager. The only time she looked my way was when she was ready for another bite, & she’d look down on the tray, point, and shake her head “yes.”

Meanwhile, Dad, Mom & I chatted about onion rings, old farm property, and Mom’s new ‘do that made her “look like money”, (per my words).

…with frequent comments about how Britni was so engrossed with what was going on just 10 feet from us.

Britni didn’t care. Her Momaw’s, Popaw’s, and my conversation held little interest for her–she was eating a fish sammich & watching the hunk of a fella fill out an application. On paper. With a pen.

My brother called as we ate. He gave us his ETA (he was on his way in for a visit), asked if he needed to stop and get something to eat before arriving (he did), and Mom let him know we’d be heading to the store to get his Pepsi.

All the while, Britni chewed.

And drank.

And listened (though not to us).

At one point, Mom was worried her hands were getting cold holding that milkshake. I assured her that Britni would let us know if they were. I then went into the whole “if she held it with a napkin, she probably wouldn’t be able to tell where it is in space, and holding it as it is helps her control it” (I’ve no idea how to word that—therapists, help me out).

Our little baskets were empty, fries eaten, wads of paper lay strewn between the two tables, and we were ready to leave.

But we didn’t.

The two next to us had begun watching a video on a tablet as part of their onboarding. We heard “welcome to the team”…”brand vibe”…”the customer’s truth”…a lot of terms I was very familiar with from when I was a small business marketing counselor. Honestly, I found myself leaning in a bit, too.

The video was peppered with some comic relief apparently, because we could hear them chuckle as they watched. Confirmation came when Britni joined right in. Straw in mouth. Head slightly bent. And a hearty “heh heh heh!” bellowed past her milkshake-covered lips.

So, we lingered.

Britni’s joy bubbled over and slipped right into us. By this time, she’d thrown her legs over Mom’s lap, made herself comfortable, and just enjoyed the experience.

We did, too.

I used to tell Britni not to stare.

I thought I was protecting other people.
Protecting her.
Trying to make her fit into a world that moves too fast and notices too little.

But I don’t do that now.

Because Britni doesn’t just look at people…
she experiences them.

Their laughter becomes hers.
Their moments become hers.

And yesterday, sitting there in Dairy Queen,
watching her laugh along with strangers like she belonged right there with them…

I realized something that hit me square in the chest—

She doesn’t need to look away.

The rest of us need to look more.

#perspective #sincerelyteresa #thequeensworld

Southern Small Towns

Why I Love Southern Small Towns: A Grocery Store Conversation Over Duke’s Mayo

I stood in the condiment aisle trying to decide between a giant jar of Duke’s mayonnaise, or the giant giant jar of Duke’s mayo. If you’re from the South, you know Duke’s is a staple—it’s practically its own food group.

As I stood there debating, I heard a man’s voice behind me say, “You just can’t go anywhere anymore without gettin’ bad news.”

A Conversation in the Grocery Aisle

I turned and saw a gentleman—probably 75 or so—standing by me, clearly hoping to engage in conversation. In a small southern town grocery store, strangers rarely stay strangers for long.

I obliged.

“Oh my,” I replied. “I’m sorry you’ve been given bad news.”

He pointed toward the pickle shelves. “That woman I’s talkin’ to up ‘er, she told me about a friend of mine in Floyd who just died.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Third friend I’ve had die in six months. Now my sister ain’t good. She’s in a nursing home. Ninety years old. Ain’t but this tall.” He held his hand out to show me how petite she was. “My Momma was small too—but a workhorse. She’d go out in the field to harvest crops with a baby on her hip, then come inside to cook. That was back in the 1930s and ’40s.”

I opened my mouth to say something—what, I don’t know—when he suddenly got a twinkle in his eye.

Connecting Over West Virginia Roots

“You from these parts?” he asked.

“No, sir. I’m originally from West Virginia.”

His eyes lit up. “What part?”

“Princeton,” I said.

“My Daddy was from Athens! Moved to Narrows when he was about 17. Got into some trouble for punching a man, ended up going to Mississippi, then they sent him over to Smyth County to work. How’d ya git down here?”

So, right there in the condiment aisle, I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of my last few decades—where I’d lived, why we’d moved, and how we’d ended up here.

He furthered the conversation into genealogy and ethnicity…

He grinned. “My last name is German. My Momma was French. I’ve got some Scotch in me too. I’m just an old hounddog!” He cackled with laughter until it turned into a cough. Then he patted his chest and added, “I have COPD, too.”

He started to leave. “It’s been nice talkin’ to ya.”

I smiled and told him the same, adding that I hoped he’d get some good news before the day was done.

“Me, too!” he said, laughing and coughing again.

Why I Love Small Southern Towns

That short three or four minutes in a grocery store aisle reminded me why I love small, southern towns. In Appalachia, rarely does one meet a stranger. Rarely does it feel awkward to share a piece of your life with someone you’ve never met. For many older folks, these conversations are their version of Facebook—connection through simple, everyday interactions.

And I’m always thankful to be part of it.

Oh—and in case you’re wondering—I went with the giant giant jar of Duke’s mayonnaise. I wouldn’t be a true Southern woman if I hadn’t.

Forgotten

Parents, do you remember the first time you allowed your child to be at home by themselves? How old were they? How long were they on their own? Did you wax anxious?

Life with Britni means I never leave her alone. Ever. I won’t even work upstairs if she’s downstairs and Robbie’s not home. Which is what makes what happened to her so heinous…

Routine

She was four. For two years, I’d already been sending her to school in Early Childhood Special Education. She didn’t go full-time, just half-days, and on this particular day, she’d been riding a morning bus only a couple weeks (she had a car driver bring her home). The previous two years she had a car driver for the morning, too, but we moved, and I was told one wasn’t available for her. I all but begged, as Britni needed closer attention, but was flatly told “Sorry, nothing is available.”

Add to this, we had a long narrow driveway that a bus couldn’t traverse.

Again, “Sorry.”

So, I’d get up before the sun, get Britni ready, and she and I would make the 45-minute round-trip to take my husband to work so I could have the car to drive her to the end of the driveway to meet the bus.

On this particular February day, our routine was usual. I loaded her on the bus where she sat in a car seat directly behind the driver. I buckled her in, kissed her, told her I’d see her in a few hours, then went back to the house to start the day.

Five Hours

For the next five hours, I washed the breakfast dishes, made the beds, vacuumed, got the ingredients out for what I was making for dinner that evening, took a shower, and watched a grainy Today Show (we didn’t have cable & only had three fuzzy channels).

As the time neared for Britni to arrive home, I got out some comfy pants to change her into and some thick socks. She wore AFOs (ankle-foot orthosis—these helped her with proper foot positioning where she was born with clubbed feet) and always loved having them taken off and replaced with soft, warm socks when she got home. Who wouldn’t?

Time passed. It was 20 minutes later than when she usually arrived home. I kept looking out the window, up the driveway, straining to listen for the car rolling across the gravel.

More time passed. By now, 45 minutes had passed. I thought,maybe they had to stop for a train, or there was road work, but I needed to know. So, I called the bus garage.

“This is Teresa, Britni [last name]’s mom. I was wondering if you’d heard anything from her car driver. She’s not home yet.”
“Just a minute, let me see,” said the lady who answered the phone. “No, we’ve not had any calls in.”
“Well, she’s really late—like, almost an hour.” I began to worry even more.

“What school does your daughter attend?” she asked.

I told her the school’s name and she put me on hold.

About 90 seconds later, she came back on the phone and said, “Ma’am, your daughter wasn’t at school today.”

It was then that everything in me went into some weird, internal sensation…like everything dropped. It was the kind of drop where your body knows something your mind isn’t ready to name.

“Yes, she was! I put her on the bus this morning at 7:45!” I said.

I don’t remember the next couple comments, I just remember her saying, “We will find her. We will call you.”

I was in some kind of suspended state. The thoughts that rolled through my head I can’t even share because I don’t want to revisit them. I literally went out to the car to see if I’d just lost my mind and left her in the back seat of the car in her car seat. My chest was pounding, I paced, I could barely breathe, and I gripped the phone so hard I could hear the plastic cracking in it.

Keep in mind, there were no cell phones. There wasn’t anything online. The only connection I had between me and the bus garage and school 30 minutes away was my home telephone.

After about thirty minutes, they called.

“We found her,” she calmly said. “She’s been with [bus driver], and she’s going to call you.”

I fell to the floor sobbing, phone still in my hand. The bus driver called, I answered, and here’s what I heard.

“Are y’all gonna kill me?” (Insert hearty laughter here.) “Britni’s fine. She’s been with me. She’d fallen asleep and was so quiet, that when I got home I realized I hadn’t taken her to school. So I brought her inside and was going to call the school, but my phone didn’t work. blah blah blah something about bus wouldn’t start blah blah blah didn’t want to disturb her sleeping blah blah blah I’ll bring her to you.”

“NO!” That’s when I stopped her. “I will come get her!” We decided on a meeting place—a store right by where she lived—and I got in the car and drove those curvy mountain roads faster than I ever had and ever would.

I pulled over, walked onto the bus, where the driver was still laughing it off, my eyes focused on my little girl. I unbuckled her, squeezed her, sniffed her.

“She’s got a little spot on her shirt where I have her some strawberry banana yogurt…”

Her voice trailed off as I walked off the bus and to the car. My hands shook so badly I could barely buckle Britni in her car seat.

Where have you been? What has been happening to you? Were you scared?

All these questions ran through my mind. But Britni couldn’t tell me. Like, literally. Britni didn’t speak in words and used very limited sign language. When I got her home, we went through our usual routine. I stared into her eyes as if I could absorb what was in her mind, like I could know by osmosis.

What.

Happened.

To.

My.

Little.

Girl?

In the following days, we had a visit from the man over the bus garage and another lady, and Britni’s teacher. The man asked me to write out what happened so they could have it for their records. He said they speculated that the bus driver had forgotten about Britni, drove home, parked the bus, then went to a city 45 minutes away where she was helping care for her mom. Five hours later, she gets back home, sees Britni on the bus, and says, “Oh crap.”

I see now why that was requested, and had I been wiser (I was only 25 years old and so naive), I would have handled the situation a lot differently. I was so relieved to have Britni back, to know she hadn’t been kidnapped or worse, that I couldn’t allow myself to think of anything else. I was in a fog—everything except relief was blunted. I went through the motions while avoiding the emotions.

Britni’s teacher (she had zero culpability in this) was horrified by it all, of course. She didn’t have to come visit us, but she did, and we appreciated it. Because of it, the school implemented a policy to call parents if a child is unexpectedly not at school. Something we both wished had already been in place.

And when we finally let her return to school, she had a car driver both morning and afternoon.

After

Soon, the reality of the situation began to set in.

My disabled daughter sat alone. On a school bus. In a driveway in a neighborhood. In February. At the age of four. For five hours.

Thirsty.

Hungry.

Scared.

Confused.

Cold.

Unable to go find help.

Unable to yell for help.

Unable to tell me what happened.

And no one who was supposed to protect her noticed she was missing.

Then it happened. Anger arrived with clarity, not chaos—and that made it worse. It wasn’t loud, but it was justified, and it set something alight in me. I asked begged for her to have a car driver. Why wasn’t there an aide on the bus? Do none of the buses have aides? Why does she have to go so far to school? Why wasn’t she accommodated at the school in the community where we lived, which was 3 miles away? Why could they not provide a car driver in the mornings because one wasn’t available, but suddenly they could? Britni hadn’t even been eating by mouth that long (she’d had a g-tube), and that woman fed her–what if she’d choked to death? What if she was allergic to strawberries?

That particular morning, as I cleaned, showered, watched TV, my daughter sat alone. Probably saying the only word she knew how to– “Omma”, calling out to me, but I never came.

The trauma Britni experienced would never be voiced by her. But by golly, her Omma could. Parents don’t know what they don’t know, and what I was learning through all this made me determined to let other parents know. Get them informed. Ask them to be aware.

Little did I know that this was only the first traumatic thing that would happen to my little girl on a school bus. I could never have imagined that something like it was going to happen.

That will have to be shared at a later time….

Because I Want to Know

Because I Want to Know isn’t just a journal—it’s a way to hold on to the stories that make us who we are. A keepsake for parents, grandparents, and anyone whose wisdom you don’t want to lose.

The Questions I Didn’t Ask

One afternoon, Mom, Dad, Britni, and I were riding around when Dad started talking about Popaw—his dad. Popaw was witty, always quick with a funny saying. Dad shared one of them, and I laughed before asking, “Well, what did that even mean?”

Dad paused and admitted, “Ya know, I don’t know. I wish I had asked him.”

Popaw passed away in 2007. That moment left me wishing we had more of his stories, more of his wisdom—more of the everyday details that made him who he was.

Why Family Questions Matter

Since then, I’ve thought a lot about the random questions I ask my parents. Some are small and lighthearted—like their favorite meals growing up. Others go deeper—like how they met, where they got married, or what their favorite date nights were.

I also think about the questions I never asked my grandparents, great-grandparents, and other relatives. Those answers are gone now, and with them, parts of the bigger story of who we are and where we come from.

Rooted in Curiosity

The truth is, these questions do more than fill in family history. They ground us. They give us a sense of belonging. And sometimes, they even offer the kind of guidance we don’t realize we need until we hear it.

Why I Wrote Because I Want to Know

That’s why I created this book. It’s a place to capture those questions—and more importantly, the answers.

You can pass it along to someone you’d love to learn from, or fill it out yourself as a gift for your children and grandchildren. Either way, it’s about keeping stories alive instead of leaving them unsaid.

Because one day, someone will wish they had asked.

Get your copy here: Because I Want to Know

Why I Love Southern Small Town Life: A Grocery Store Conversation Over Duke’s Mayo

A Conversation in the Grocery Aisle

As I was trying to decide, I heard a man’s voice behind me say, “You just can’t go anywhere anymore without gettin’ bad news.”

I turned and saw a gentleman—probably 75 or so—standing by me, clearly hoping to engage in conversation. In a small southern town grocery store, strangers rarely stay strangers for long.

I obliged.

“Oh my,” I replied. “I’m sorry you’ve been given bad news.”

He pointed toward the pickle shelves. “That woman I’s talkin’ to up ’ere, she told me about a friend of mine in Floyd who just died.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Connecting Over West Virginia Roots

I opened my mouth to say something—what, I don’t know—when he suddenly got a twinkle in his eye.

“You from these parts?” he asked.

“No, sir. I’m originally from West Virginia.”

His eyes lit up. “What part?”

“Princeton,” I said.

So, right there in the condiment aisle, I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of my last few decades—where I’d lived, why we’d moved, and how we’d ended up here. The unusualness of my maiden name prompted him to go into way-back roots, ethnicity and such.

He started to leave. “It’s been nice talkin’ to ya.”

I smiled and told him the same, adding that I hoped he’d get some good news before the day was done.

“Me, too!” he said, laughing and coughing again.

That short three or four minutes in a grocery store aisle reminded me why I love southern small town life—why I love this town. In Appalachia, rarely does one meet a stranger. Rarely does it feel awkward to share a piece of your life with someone you’ve never met. For many older folks, these conversations are their version of Facebook—connection through simple, everyday interactions.

And I’m always thankful to be part of it.

Oh—and in case you’re wondering—I went with the giant giant jar of Duke’s mayonnaise. I wouldn’t be a true Southern woman if I hadn’t.

Baxter Wrote a Book!

If you’ve been around here for a while, you already know Baxter Huggins Montani — our curly-haired Cockapoo with way too much personality to stay in the background. He’s been our shop assistant, our travel buddy, and occasionally the reason I have paw prints on freshly mopped floors. And now… Baxter is the co-author of Paws and Reflect dog memory journal — a keepsake designed to capture the muddy-paw prints, tail wags, and heart-melting moments that make life with a dog unforgettable.

How It Happened

This whole idea started the way a lot of ours do — with a conversation that turned into a “what if?” Robbie and I were joking one night about how Baxter always seems to “narrate” his life through those looks he gives us. What if he actually could write things down? What would he want us to remember?

That thought grew into a journal — but not just any journal. Paws and Reflect dog memory journal is written as if your dog is telling their own story, with prompts, questions, and spaces for photos and memories. It’s goofy, it’s heartfelt, and it’s a little muddy-pawed — just like life with a dog.

Why I Love It

When we sat down to pull this book together, I didn’t want it to feel stiff or formal. I wanted it to be the kind of keepsake you’d pull out years from now and smile (or cry) over. The spots for gotcha day, favorite toys, family members, and vet visits will help capture the facts, but Paws and Reflect dog memory journal shines brightest in the silly parts — like how your dog snores, or the tricks they refuse to learn.

It’s also become a little bittersweet for me. As I was working on the pages, I kept thinking about the dogs we’ve loved and lost. This would have been such a gift to have for them — a way to hold onto the ordinary magic of their lives.

Who It’s For

Paws and Reflect dog memory journal isn’t just for new puppy parents (though it’s perfect for that too). It’s for anyone who sees their dog as family. It’s for the dog moms and dads who want to document the daily details, and it’s also for those who may be grieving and want a gentle way to remember.

From Baxter, with Love

Of course, Baxter insists that he deserves most of the credit. After all, he supplied the inspiration, the attitude, and the occasional bark to keep me on track. I just had the opposable thumbs to help him out.

So, from Baxter’s desk to yours — here’s Paws and Reflect–a little something to help you capture the story of your own four-legged best friend. You can take a closer look at Paws and Reflect here.

Baxter Huggins Montani, our Cockapoo and co-author of “Paws and Reflect: A Memory Journal Written by Your Dog,” posing with his family and book. A fun, heartfelt dog memory journal and keepsake gift for pet lovers, dog moms, and new puppy parents. — Baxter showing off his big debut: Paws and Reflect.

Because life with a dog isn’t just lived. It’s remembered. 🐾

Goodbye Comfort Zone

As some of you already know, I recently became unemployed for the first time since 2011, so Robbie and I have begun content creating. (He’s more part of the content, and I, the creator.)

In May 2024, we became Rob & Teresa in Appalachia.

I’m not a pro at it. Heck, I’m not even great at it yet—especially the videography part. Interestingly, I lack in the promo part, too. This is odd, because for the past 4 years, this is what I’ve done—either teaching marketing or doing it; however, I’ve never done it for myself.

Honestly, it feels odd.

But if I want our endeavor to grow, I’m gonna hafta.

Wow, This Takes Time

Content creation can be monetized (I’m hoping that ours will supplement my staying at home and being available for Britni 100% of the time), but for it to start earning money, we need subscribers, followers, likes, comments, watch hours, etc. For instance, on YouTube, we need 1,000 subscribers and 4000 valid public watch hours in the last 12 months. Yes, that’s a lot. But not impossible.

Content creation takes time. First, you have to get the video (which, for us, happens after weeks of planning to get to the place where the videos are shot—we have to coordinate Britni’s care with my parents and Baxter’s stay at the resort). I get home with at least a few hours of raw (unedited) content. This is when the real work starts.

Did you know that on average, editing takes about 1 to 1.5 hours per minute of video. My most recent fifteen-minute video on Cool Cruisin’ Nights took about 30 hours to edit. Now, the more I do it, the better and quicker I’ll get, but even professionals would have taken about 15 to 22 hours to edit it. I worked during the early hours of the morning before Britni woke up, and a couple times had some creativity left in me at night after she went to bed to eke out a few more edits. Video editing requires—for me, at least—an unbroken stream of thought. Big chunks. Four or five hour stretches. I’m more of a “morning & earlier in the day” creative person anyway.

None of this is said with resentment or disdain. I love doing this. I’m just sharing what the editing part involves. Mad props to those content creators who are making a living from it—you are definitely earning it! Other places I can monetize are my blog and through my Amazon Associate store. When you order from an Amazon link I post, I earn a small commission on eligible purchases.

Doing What I Love

In 2019, I finally earned my BS in Communications with an emphasis in Public Relations, Persuasion, and Advocacy from ODU (go, Monarchs!) I’m tapping into that degree now…. using what I went to school for…and looking at every avenue for potential income supplements.

When I love something, I want to share it with everyone–I get passionate about it. Whether it’s

Cooking

Great shopping finds

Fishing

Gardening

Advocating for individuals who have exceptional needs

Music

Cars

Appalachia

Our beloved West Virginia

Our amazing Queen Britni…

And doing it—sharing & promoting—takes a bit more fancy footwork for us than your average folk. Besides Robbie & me, my Mom & Dad are Britni’s only caregivers, and they live an hour away. Britni doesn’t travel well without them with us, so when we make our short trips, she stays with them. For a two-night getaway, we must first ensure they’re available to care for her, then make sure there’s availability for Baxter to stay at Goin’ to the Dogs Pet Resort, then check for accommodations at our destination. As newbies, our outgo is more than our income because we have to spend money to get the content, from which we’ll eventually see a return (you see how I’m thinking positively?).

Makes Me Nervous!

Put $ out to bring $ in? This is way outside of my comfort zone.

But I’m 53.

It’s time.

Plus, the higher the risk, the greater the reward.

And since I’m already out of that comfort zone, I figured I’d go ahead and ask.

Would you like to show your support, and do it at zero cost to you? All it takes is a click or two. A tap on a screen. Perhaps a comment and a thumbs up (I’m not forcing a “like”, but those are much preferred over the ol’ thumbs down). And shares. When you share, it helps us reach people we never would otherwise.

Here’s How

Helping with our YouTube channel is easy. Subscribe, like, comment…and when you set notifications to all, you’ll get an email letting you know when we posted another video. (You can see how to do it here.) The time watched, too, is counted, which goes toward our being eligible for the YouTube Partner Program. Like I said, 4000 watch hours and 1000 subscribers in 12 months is a lot, but it’s not impossible.

Facebook—like the page, like and comment on posts, share on your page. Instagram—leave us a comment, hit that heart.

Just engage.

When you do, it shows these platforms we’re relevant, and they’ll keep pushing our content out there for more people to see. Your engagement doesn’t happen in a silo…it creates a ripple effect. And it is much appreciated. Not only does it help us, we love hearing from you! We love learning what others’ likes and opinions are just as much as we love sharing ours.

If you’re trying to get your business, or your content out there for the masses, feel free to share this information with your audience. Let them know how important these small, quick, and free actions are to you. Things that are too simple often seem like they don’t matter.

But they do.

And for each of you who has read through to this part, and subscribed, liked, shared, and/or commented, we are eternally grateful.

Robbie, Britni, and I thank you!

My Favorite Place in the House!

My Space!

This year brought with it a career change. You may have already seen on my site here that Robbie and I are venturing out into content creation as “Rob and Teresa in Appalachia,” replete with a YouTube channel, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest. Content creators have lots of equipment (more than I ever realized!), and said equipment needs space to be used and stored.

So.

I had a corner in our bedroom that needed something done with it. We had a new closet built some years ago, and it created this cute “cubby hole” right by a window that sat blank, unused, and undecorated. Matter of fact, it was a catch-all while I was cleaning out closets and dressers and bookshelves…

The job change was my motivation.

I Love Color

The area is only 50 inches wide, and 40.5 inches deep. I needed scaled down versions of a desk, chair, and lamp, and I wanted it to feel fresh, bright, and inspire creativity. I started with the paint. Twenty-nine ounces of paint took care of both walls—HGTV Home by Sherwin Williams is the brand, Parsley Sprig is the color, and I got it in a satin finish. Even though it says one coat perfection, I went ahead & used all of it and put two coats on.

And Light

I found a small, white desk with fabric drawers that fits perfectly in my new office space. It was very easy to put together, too, and I love that it has ribbon lights under the upper shelf. I can change the colors, the brightness, set it to different modes. The drawers hold all of my zip drives, memory cards, charging cords, wireless microphones, mini-tripods, and selfie lights–with room to spare! I hang my gimbal on the side of the desk on one of the two hooks. My larger tripods (not in the photos) can be stored in neatly, propped up in the corner in their cases.

Comfortable Seating & Sounds

For my chair I needed something comfortable, armless, and I wanted white, and this one did not disappoint! It was extremely simple to put together, it swivels, rolls, and the height is adjustable. With the furniture bought, I began placing the accessories/necessities.

Though I’m “tucked away”, so to speak, away from our common living area, I wanted a keyboard that is nearly silent—none of that annoying clickety-clacking. This one has a good feel/response, a rubber keyboard cover, which I leave on while using it, and has an accompanying mouse (it’s also nearly silent). Both are charged via USB, and the charge lasts for months.

The floor lamp fits in with my retro-style and is not overwhelming. For creature comforts, I have a handheld, rechargeable fan that fits nicely on the shelf (and is amazing for this fifty-something’s hot flashes!) And since I’m an audiophile, as well as a Bose junkie, I have the Bose Soundlink Flex, and Bose QuietComfort Ultra Wireless Noise Cancelling Headphones. Sometimes earbuds are irritating and uncomfortable–these headphones are soft as butter. I was blown away by the sound quality, too, whether it’s a phone conversation or music. 10/10 for me.

In all, the desk, chair, lamp, and paint totaled less than $400.

Let’s Add Some Whimsy

Finishing touches included plants, a clock, serotonin and dopamine molecules & West Virginia’s area code cut out of wood and painted a high-gloss navy, and the Lasso of Truth hanging on one of the hooks on the side of the desk. Because. Wonder Woman.

I love getting inspiration from other workspaces. If you have an area you’ve transformed, send a photo! You can email it to robandteresa.wv@gmail.com In a future blog post, I’ll be sharing readers’ transformations—perhaps yours will inspire someone! Don’t forget to follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest, and subscribe to our YouTube, too. We’re just getting started but are looking forward to sharing our adventures. And now that I have an awesome creativity corner, the work won’t really be work.

Thanks for reading. Until next time!

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