Rackle is the name my pain-in-the-ass little brother has insisted on calling me for the last decade. I don’t know where he got it from, but somehow it’s kind of turned into the go-to name for me in my family. Don’t tell any of them, but I kind of like it. It’s pronounced like “tackle,” but with an “R.”
Rackle is an opinionated, tea-drinking, red-wine-loving, liberal-thinking chick with an attitude problem. My husband added that last part. Apparently wanting to do everything my own way means I have an “attitude problem.” To be fair, it may have more to do with the way I told him I didn’t want his help last time than actually wanting to do it my way. Hey, I apologized (I think).
I’m a go-getter, when I’m not wallowing in self-pity on the couch. I let my dog sleep in my bed when my husband is away because what he doesn’t know can’t get me in trouble. I’m a DIY-er, with an embarassingly messy dining room table (it’s Pinterest’s fault, I swear), and I often forget to take my dog for a walk. I tackle 30-day yoga and exercise challenges, but I do them sporadically (like, I forget three days so I have to catch up those three days in one).
I love life, even when I hate it.
And now I have a blog!