Over the next few days, I quickly learn that this injury makes furniture refinishing a little bit harder to do. By a little bit, I mean significantly. To continue bringing in revenue while I heal, I begin looking into other design avenues. Sign-making catches my attention. Mainly because it’s something I can do while sitting.

As for my back, each day, the pain is unpredictable. It comes and goes, without warning. On the days my back gives out on me, I end up on the floor, slightly paralyzed, until the back gods release me from my misery. 

Today is one of those days again, and I’m sprawled out on the floor, lazily flipping through a craft catalog. A sign-making machine catches my attention. I pause mid-page because of it. Squinting, I read the fine print. This seems cool. Maybe there’s a Facebook group for it.

 Typing the name of the machine into the search bar on Facebook, several groups pull up. One of the groups has about 30,000 members. I join it along with a few others.

Scrolling the wall of one group in particular, my rebellious self can’t help but notice that things are just far too serious in this room. There’s a million rules to follow and several of the members are being scolded by the admin in the comments.

 Ew. What is this? Church? 

 Somewhere amongst the comments, a member rebelliously declares that they are starting their own group where even sailor-mouthed women will be welcome. My eyebrow raises. 

Sailor, you say? Mermaids can outswear them any day. Count this mermaid in.

 Curious, I click on the member’s profile. I notice she has a pretty smile and a twinkle in her eyes. I begin scrolling through her profile like a total creep. 

Hmm. Her husband looks wholesome. 

I instantly assume that we have very little in common. Something tells me she is more my speed. I click on the group link she posted. When I do, the big blue JOIN GROUP button stares back at me. I click on it with zero hesitation. 

Within minutes, I’m let in. Shortly after being accepted into the crafty group, I realize I’m right about her being more my speed. With her feisty rants and colorful vocabulary, it feels like home to me. 

Scrolling through the group, I find it rather refreshing to not have to watch everything I say. So refreshing that I message Molly offering to help admin.    

Why did you do that? You don’t know how to admin a group. 

I’ve never been an admin of a group a day in my life other than my own little furniture group. I certainly have no clue what it entails, but apparently, I’m willing to fuck around and find out. We cheekily name it Crafty Bitches. It seems fitting for a group of misfits.

Behind me, several more women request to join our group. 

Before we know it, Molly and I are spending our days chatting behind the scenes and giggling away. Next thing I know, we’re best friends and we tell each other absolutely everything. Somehow, we just seemed to click. There’s a silent understanding of some kind. We just GOT each other. We each accepted the other for the mess we are. 

        Suddenly a nurse on the internet whom I had never met in person was my best friend. When something sad or exciting happened, she’s the first I tell. If I tell anyone at all. It quickly reaches a point where we know each other's kids’ names, our eating habits, our bad mom stories and more. We become so a part of each other's daily life that it’s more like sisters separated at birth. Our group quickly becomes a place to laugh, vent, and share our inappropriate humor. It’s our coffee house, our bar, and even a source of online shopping. It’s our own little community, right in our pockets. Instead of going out on the weekends, we gather around our keyboards on Friday nights after our kids have gone to bed. With a glass of wine in hand, we laugh with each other until the wee hours of the morning. Throughout the week, we play games, post ridiculous selfies, and share personal things about our everyday lives. Embarrassing, sad, funny. We share it all. Because of this, we start to be careful about who we let in. As I’m listing my painted furniture to sell on Facebook, I notice a notification from someone requesting to get into our little Crafty Bitches group. That’s strange. The group is small and hardly talked about. It’s like Fight Club. I’ve never even seen the movie, and even I know you don’t tell anybody. Clicking on the profile, I instinctively check to see if it’s a fake account. It’s a woman’s profile, but it doesn’t look quite right. Something is off. For one, the profile is relatively new. Plus, the lack of activity, makes the profile look suspicious as fuck. Wait a minute. I bet this is him. The admin guy that threw a fit over the word bitch in that pearl-clutching group. Why is he attempting to get into a tiny group like ours when his group has over 30,000 members? We only have 60.   Then it hits me.

Oh. I think I know why he’s here.