My Domestic Dramedy

Let’s start with the obvious: I didn’t name this blog Domestic Dramedy because my life is a peaceful, Pinterest-perfect display of order and grace.

No, ma’am.

I named it Domestic Dramedy because every day feels like a chaotic blend of sitcom, soap opera, and survival documentary—complete with a laugh track I didn’t ask for, questionable stunts from my husband, and a teenage boy who genuinely believes showering is optional if you just reapply deodorant.

I’m Serena: full-time working mom, caffeine-fueled chaos coordinator, and reluctant co-star in this daily drama. My husband Scott is…how do I say this nicely? A woodworking, tool-obsessed, ADHD tornado who’s never met a straight line he couldn’t cut crooked. He forgets to turn off his air compressor, so I regularly get jolted awake at 3 a.m. thinking the house is being invaded. And let’s not forget the time he made me a sandwich—sweet gesture, until I noticed it had a bite already taken out of it.

And we can never forget the Thanksgiving when he cut a triangle out of the middle of the apple pie. He knew the exact moment I discovered it because, as neighbors later told me, "SCOTT!" echoed down the street like a warning bell.

Then there’s Spencer—my teenage son and self-proclaimed expert on everything. Hygiene is a daily battle, sarcasm is his first language, and he has the emotional range of a squirrel on an energy drink. He spends most of his free time either arguing with me about why he definitely doesn’t need to floss or teaming up with his Stepdad to push as many of my buttons as humanly possible.

And now, I finally understand why my sister-in-law Laura gave me a tarp and a shovel for Christmas. At first, I thought she was joking. Now I realize it was either a subtle warning or a thoughtful survival kit.

But behind the jokes—and there will be many in this blog—there’s also a lot of heart. At the time of writing this, my mother is under hospice care, and grief is its own kind of chaos: quiet, relentless, and heavy. Some days I hold it together like a champ; other days I cry in the car while stuffing chocolate in my face like it’s therapy.

I started Domestic Dramedy not because I have it all figured out, but because I don’t. This space is for the messy, the real, and the women (and men) like me—who love deeply, feel deeply, and sometimes wonder if we’re the only ones losing our minds.

Here, you’ll find stories about past disasters, current escapades (spoiler: there’s lots of sawdust involved), and how I cope—whether that’s by hiding in the bathroom for five quiet minutes or writing my way through the madness.

So grab your coffee (or wine, no judgment), and buckle up. My life might be a mess, but it’s my mess. And I’m inviting you in, tarp and all.

Welcome to Domestic Dramedy.