“I dont want a job. I just want checks!”

I joke. Or do I? Who wouldn’t want to get checks without effort?

Truth is, we’re all in the same boat — rowing as hard as we can in uneven waters. Life isn’t fair, and the starting line isn’t the same for everyone. I didn’t have family cheering me through college or helping me land that first “real” job. My mom could barely feed and clothe us, much less send me off to higher education. I was the sixth of seven kids — by then, she and Dad were just done in every way, and the money was long gone.

My first job came at age 10, babysitting a toddler after school every weekday. That led to summers at the fireworks stand and a dozen other odd jobs. In our family, if you wanted extras, you earned them yourself. At 18, childhood ended abruptly. I landed at Burger King, hating every minute but needing every penny. Drive-thru math under pressure? Not for me. Next came Ross — a quick no — and then a retail position at Miller’s Outpost (now Belly Under). I loved the music, the people, the vibe, and then—like most good things at that age—it ended when the store closed.

That’s how I stumbled into Mouser Electronics at 19, pulling orders and grinding through long days. Six months in, new hires thought I was a supervisor because I handled every mistake thrown my way. My pay didn’t reflect it. Then I met Vanita — a young, determined manager who saw something in me. She moved me to the catalog department and took me under her wing. My skills grew, my confidence grew… and then life happened again.

Hannah arrived in January 1998. I turned 23 the next month and wanted nothing more than to stay home with her. For a while, I juggled work, daycare, volunteering at church, a baby in diapers — survival mode. I finally convinced my husband to let me quit. We were poor again, but I was home. I cooked, cleaned, stretched every dollar, and did what mothers do best: made something from nothing. Two more babies followed — Gabriel in 2000 and Brooke, a surprise, in 2002 — and survival became a lifestyle.

By 2005, I was divorced, 30, and forced back into the workforce. A quick, miserable gig as a secretary reminded me that “a paycheck” doesn’t equal peace. Then fate stepped in — I ran into my old Mouser manager, and just like that, I was back with Vanita in the catalog department. Same story, different decade: I gave it my all; the job gave me just enough. But it was stability — benefits, PTO, a 401k — and as a single mom with three kids, that meant everything. Child support covered maybe daycare, but I held it together.

Years passed. I bought my first house. I raised three kids on faith, caffeine, and hustle. Then came remarriage in 2013, another house, and another chapter. But technology had other plans — and the printed catalog I’d built a career around became obsolete. Suddenly, the job I’d mastered no longer existed. I was expendable. I woke up Monday after Monday hating the life I’d fought so hard for.

So, in 2016, I did something wild. I enrolled in massage therapy school while working full-time at Mouser. One year of 12-hour days later, I graduated, terrified but hopeful. Letting go of security to follow passion was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But when I started at Daired’s Salon and Spa, I finally felt alive. Helping people one-on-one — easing pain, lifting moods — it reminded me of what work should feel like.

Then, life hit again. My dad’s health failed, and I became his caregiver. Eventually, I took a job at a chiropractic office for more flexibility. That shift came at a cost — physically and mentally. Between the physical toll (which turned out to be a torn rotator cuff and herniated disc), caregiving exhaustion, family tensions, and grief after my mom’s death, I unraveled. Hard.

Depression swallowed me. Twice I checked myself into the hospital. Twice I came back trying to piece together what “normal” even meant. I quit again — my job, my identity, my version of “success.” And just like that, I was back in the uneasy quiet of not having a paycheck, feeling the old shame creep in.

Everyone has an opinion — that I should “pull my weight,” that staying home is “lazy,” that I have it easier now. But inside, the judgment I fight most is my own. I want to contribute. I want meaning. But I also don’t want another job that drains my soul.

So here I am again — searching for work that feels aligned. Something that pays the bills, yes, but also honors the person I’ve become: someone with experience, empathy, and a lifetime of resilience. I don’t want just a job. I want a life I don’t need to recover from every weekend.

Maybe I don’t just want checks.
Maybe I want peace.

Morning Hisses

It actually started because our kind neighbors were moving into a retirement community hours away. Fred was a rough‑and‑tumble sort of cat—dirty, champagne‑colored, with those big tomcat cheeks and an even bigger set of balls. For months, whenever I saw him strutting around, I respectfully referred to him as “Big Balls.” I know, I know, very clever.

Debbie, the neighbor who’d lived on our street five years before we got there, told me how she’d first met him: a mangy, skinny kitten on her porch, and she did the only thing she could—gave him food. She called him “Fred”. He never wanted to be an indoor cat; he was all feral, all attitude. Debbie and I became great friends, bonded over our shared admiration and worry for Fred/Big Balls. When she knew she was leaving, she asked me to take over his care: “I’ll supply you with some food, if you wouldn’t mind feeding him for me.” I knew it would take more than a single bag to see him through his remaining days, but really, what choice did I have? I wasn’t about to leave this poor animal with no one looking out for him.

At first I wondered if he’d even figure out his “new home” was now my front porch. That was a joke—it took all of two days before I spotted him eating like he’d lived there forever. He was feral then and stayed feral until his passing (another story for another blog post). What I wasn’t expecting was that, within weeks, we were feeding a lot more than Fred. That’s when the real feral cat adventures began.

Back then, I had a website dedicated to my outdoor cat adventures, and a little corner of the internet called “Morning Hisses.” It was meant to be a simple chronicle: a cup of coffee, some photos, and updates on the neighborhood feline drama. What it became was a love letter to ferals, runaways, and forgotten pets who showed up hungry, scared, and full of attitude. Morning Hisses was my way of saying, “I see you,” to the cats no one else seemed to claim, and maybe to the parts of myself that felt that way too.

Caring for outdoor cats is equal parts heartwarming and heartbreaking. There are the small, everyday joys: the first time a feral blinks slowly at you instead of bolting; the day a cat you’ve only ever seen at a distance decides to eat while you’re still standing there; the proud moment when someone who once hissed at you now rolls onto their back and shows you their belly (even if you know better than to touch it). These wins feel huge. They’re little miracles earned with cans of food, soft words, and a lot of patience.

But there are misadventures, too—the ones you don’t see on cute cat calendars. The early-morning dashes to break up fights on the porch. The vet visits you can’t afford but somehow make happen anyway. The traps that don’t catch the cat you need, but somehow capture the one who’s already fixed and furious. The shitty, I-hate-cats neighbors that call the city on you. The heartache of seeing a cat vanish after you’ve spent months gaining their trust, and never knowing if they found a new home, wandered too far, or ran out of luck. Some days, caring for outdoor cats feels like trying to hold water in your hands: you love them as fiercely as you can, knowing you can’t control where they’ll go.

Fred was my initiation. From him, the cast expanded: true ferals with wild eyes; housecats who clearly once had people and now had nobody; strays who looked at you like, “Well? You gonna feed me or what?” Each one came with a story I’d never fully know. Some became porch regulars. Some only passed through. Some adopted me without asking. Morning Hisses became a running log of those encounters—funny photos, small victories, and the honest mess of trying to do right by creatures who owed me nothing.

In the middle of those adventures, there were plenty of missteps. I never overfed anyone, but I definitely drew more attention than I meant to when I started adding little outdoor shelters for “my” porch crew. Word spread—among neighbors and neighborhood cats—and our place slowly turned into the feline version of a house of ill repute. Still, every time I thought about stepping back, I’d open the door and see a familiar shape waiting for breakfast, tail wrapped around cautious paws, eyes fixed on me with that fragile, hard‑won trust. There is something almost holy in that. It keeps you refilling the bowls, even on the days you’re exhausted and wondering how you became the unofficial cat matron of the block.

The website is gone now, but the spirit of Morning Hisses lives on—in the Facebook feed that still holds little snapshots of those days, and in the way I still watch the edges of my world for small, whiskered visitors. It taught me that “stray” doesn’t mean “unworthy,” and that some of the best relationships in life never come with clear beginnings or endings. They just appear one day on your porch, hungry and suspicious, and slowly teach you how to love with open hands instead of leashes.

It all started with Fred. And in a way, it never really ended. As long as there are outdoor cats and soft-hearted humans, there will be more adventures and misadventures—more morning hisses, evening purrs, and those quiet moments in between when a once-feral cat chooses to trust you for just one breath longer than yesterday.

It’s my firm belief that the only people who don’t love cats are the ones who’ve never really had the chance to know one.

The Start of Something New

Starting something new at 50 feels different than starting something new at 20. Back then, it was about who I might become; now, it’s about finally letting myself be who I already am. BarbaraCirca1975 isn’t just a website—it’s my little universe of reinvention. It’s the place where the “good girl” who followed all the rules grew up, got honest, and decided to build a home for all her versions: the vintage‑obsessed maker, the soft‑hearted introvert, the flirt, the writer, the woman who has lived through some storms and still wants more from life.

Starting an open‑marriage “lifestyle” chapter in my 50s is both thrilling and terrifying. It’s not a phase or a fling; it’s a conscious choice to live more honestly with my desires, my body, and my curiosity. There’s a strange grief in realizing how much of myself I hid for so long—and a deep, quiet joy in knowing I’m finally exploring those parts with eyes wide open. My new OnlyFans page is part of that. It’s not just about being looked at; it’s about being seen on my own terms, with humor, boundaries, and a little bit of delicious mischief. It’s me saying: I get to be complex. I get to be sensual and smart and silly and 50 all at once.

Then there’s Fancy Babsy and the necktie necklaces. That’s another kind of new—a creative business built from scraps, stories, and second chances. I love taking something forgotten (like an old tie) and turning it into something bold and wearable. It mirrors what I’m doing with my life: repurposing, re‑imagining, making something beautiful and surprising out of what already exists. The website, the blog, the jewelry, the persona—even the open marriage and OnlyFans—they’re all different doors into the same house: a life where I’m allowed to take up space, make noise, and be fully myself.

And through all of this, I’m always open to new people. Finding and meeting new friends—especially the kind who can hold nuance, laugh at the chaos, and love a little scandal—is more than welcome. Starting something new, for me, means inviting in new witnesses: people who can say, “I see you,” without flinching. It’s awkward at times, messy at others, but it’s also deeply alive. This whole season is one long, shaky, beautiful experiment in choosing myself—and letting the world meet the real Barbara, circa right now.

Mornings, Barbara-Style

My mornings don’t start with an alarm clock; they start when my Trazodone finally lets go of me. Some days that’s 9 a.m., some days it’s embarrassingly closer to 2 p.m.—and I hate those days because it feels like half my life got skipped in my sleep. I blame the meds… and also Tipper and Bethany. When my dog and cat are snuggled up against me, I’m basically a human burrito. It’s like being swaddled as a baby in a warm, heavy blanket—very hard to escape, even when I want to be productive.

The first thing I do, once I crack an eye open, is reach for my phone. I clear notifications, respond to texts, snapchats, WhatsApp and Messenger pings, and delete the flood of emails I don’t care about. While I’m doing that, I sip on coffee that my husband, Nathan, kindly brings to my bedside like the caffeine angel he is. The goal is simple: kill the morning “ick” in my mouth and wake my brain up enough to function while I mindlessly dick around on my phone.

Eventually my bladder stages a protest, and it becomes painfully (and desperately) obvious that if I don’t get up, there will be consequences—no one wants a peed-on bed. Before I move, though, I wake Miss Bethany with some gentle pets, then give Tipper her deserved scratches and belly rubs. Once everyone has been adored, I slowly roll out of bed. My body feels sluggish and tight, so I take my time, give myself a good stretch, and wait for everything to come back online.

From there, it’s the tiny rituals: I grab Tipper her “breakfast bone” and toss it on the bed like a prize, head to the bathroom to finally pee, then put in my contacts so I can actually see the world instead of a soft blur. I toss back my morning pills and then… honestly, it’s anyone’s guess. I might pick up my current book, start a load of laundry, check my calendar, or go pop into Nathan’s office to say hello while he’s working. I rarely eat early; my appetite usually doesn’t show up until 3–4 p.m., so my “breakfast” is often basically supper.

My ideal morning looks different. In my fantasy version of life, I wake up around 6:30 or 7 a.m., wander out to a sunny porch, and just sit in the morning light with coffee, soaking in the beauty around me before the day even begins. Then I’d shower (with actually hot water—because I hate being cold), get dressed, and move through my house like a woman on a mission: cleaning, organizing life, updating my website, writing blog posts, planning social events, and maybe scheduling uploads to Facebook or my very new, very secret OnlyFans. One day, maybe, I’ll be brave enough not to worry so much about conservative, well-meaning family and friends judging that part of me.

For now, my real mornings are a mix of meds, pets, coffee, slow starts, and trying again—over and over—to build a life that feels a little more like that sunny-porch version, even if I still wake up at noon sometimes.

Music & Mood

Some days, my mood walks in before I do—and the music just catches up. Other days, it’s the song that arrives first, slipping into the room and changing the light, the air, the way my body wants to move. I’ve learned that if I pay attention, the right music can pull me out of a slump, turn routine into ritual, and make even washing dishes feel like a scene in a movie instead of a chore.

I’ve always been sensitive to sound. As a kid, music was the first place I ever felt fully heard—lyrics became my little diary entries, sung out loud. If I was hurting, you could tell by what I had on repeat; if I was feeling bold, the volume and the beat gave me away. I loved disappearing into ’80s and ’90s alternative pop—The Cure, Erasure, Depeche Mode—dancing around like the truest version of myself. Now, in this chapter of my life, I get to choose my own soundtrack—no permission slip required. On low‑energy, achy days, I might start with something soft and nostalgic, the kind of song that feels like a warm bath for my nervous system. When my spirits finally start to lift, I’ll nudge the playlist into something with a little more beat, a little more hip sway, a little more attitude.

Music shows up in my creative work, too. When I’m driving, styling a necktie necklace, or even just cleaning the house, I almost always have something upbeat playing in the background. I love the rush I get from Taylor Swift—her energy and talent light me up and keep me moving. A lot of the time I’ll just throw on my Spotify “Liked” playlist on shuffle; it’s over 2,000 songs deep with all my favorites, from new pop queens like Chappell Roan to iconic classics like Madonna. The vibe shifts with each track, and somehow that mix of old and new always finds its way into whatever I’m creating.

There are also songs that flip a very specific switch in me—the “Barbara, circa 1975” switch. You know the ones: a bass line that makes you walk differently, a chorus that makes you want to dim the lights and light a candle for no reason at all. That’s the mood I love to bring into my content and my life: a little bit retro, a little bit naughty, a lot more “main character” than I used to allow myself to be.

If you’re reading this, I’d love to know: what’s your go‑to song when you need to change your mood? The one you put on when you’re getting ready, cleaning the house, driving at night, or trying to seduce a better version of yourself out of hiding. Drop it in the comments or send me a message. Maybe we’ll build a shared playlist—a little community soundtrack for all of us who are still learning to let our lives feel like they deserve background music.

Until then, I’ll be here, coffee in hand, dog nearby, music on, making tiny little treasures and tiny little moments feel just a bit more cinematic.

Who Am I?

I’m Barbara – the woman behind BarbaraCirca1975, the resident crazy aunt, and the human currently cohabitating with four kids, eight cats, one dog named Tipper, and a whole lot of feelings.

At my core, I’m here so people feel seen, heard, understood, and beautiful. I want you to remember that you are loveable and capable of great things, even on the days you feel like too much or not enough. My work – whether it’s jewelry, words, or the way I host my home – is all built around that.

I’ve spent my life loving the “unwanted” things: thrift‑store treasures, second‑chance materials, the cats no one else quite knew what to do with. All cats – and all people – are beautiful when you let them be how they were created. Bethany, one of our cats, came to us as a terrified feral kitten. With time, patience, and consistency, she decided I was safe. Now she curls up with me every night. That’s the kind of love I believe in: not perfect, not instant, but steady and real.

I love love. I love my husband, Nathan, and the family we’ve built and maintained together through joy, mess, and some very real storms. We’re a non‑monogamous couple navigating an open marriage with as much honesty, curiosity, and respect as we can manage on any given day. We don’t pretend to be perfect; we just keep choosing each other and our kids, coming back to the table to figure things out as a team.

Music has always been my emotional scaffolding. I’m the person who will loop a song for days to feel my way through something. My inner soundtrack ranges from Suzanne Vega’s “Left of Center” – because I’ve always felt a little sideways from the crowd – to Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now,” a reminder that no matter how much I’ve seen, there’s still more to learn, more angles to look from. And when it’s time for my funeral? We’re playing “Last Christmas” on repeat, in every cover version, because of course we are.

Before BarbaraCirca1975, I made annual “video scrapbooks” of our family’s life under the name Crazy Aunt Productions. That’s still who I am: the crazy aunt the kids trust, who tells them to speak up, to love themselves fiercely, to remember they are valuable just as they are. I’m also perfectly content with “crazy cat lady.” Both can be true.

BarbaraCirca1975 is my umbrella for all of this – the jewelry, the stories, the cats, the complicated love, the music, the parts of me that are polished and the parts that are a little feral. I like things a bit raw and honest, but also intentional and beautiful, with a streak of playful mischief.

I’m scared of judgment and rejection like anyone else, but my spirit is done hiding. This space is my way of stepping out as I am, finding my people, and seeing how high we can soar together.

If you’re a little “left of center,” a lover of second chances (for objects, for relationships, for yourself), and you believe in beauty that has lived a life, you’ll probably feel at home here.

fund-a-MENTAL

fundaMENTAL (fund‑a‑mental patient)

Let’s be honest: you are not just funding an artist, you are helping fund a mental patient (me) in the wild.

I am a broke artist, overqualified cat butler, chronic over‑thinker, and woman running on caffeine, feelings, and sheer stubbornness. My creative work isn’t a side quest, it’s fundamental to my mental health, my purpose, and my ability to keep all these cats in kibble.

If you want to support this particular brand of adorable chaos, here’s how you can help fund‑a‑mental:

• Read and share my posts so the algorithm knows I’m not just trauma‑dumping into the void.

• Toss a few dollars my way when you can – buy jewelry, tip on content, or join whatever weird little offerings I launch.

• If money’s tight, your “likes,” shares, comments, and “this made me feel seen” messages are emotional currency, and yes, they absolutely count.

So yes, this is a call to action. Help fund a mental patient who is doing her best to turn second chances, too many cats, and a whole lot of feelings into something honest, useful, and beautiful. Your support isn’t extra. It’s fundaMENTAL.