Crazy Train is Now Leaving the Station

Hubs and I are going on a small trip to NOLA Friday. These short trips are designed to get us away from the daily strains of our hectic lives and allow us some adult time. I love New Orleans. Some of my favorite words in the English language are,” Welcome back to the Royal Sonesta Mrs. Dowd.”

We do not always travel to New Orleans. One year we jetted off to Las Vegas with some friends to see the National Rodeo Finals. Just in case you were wondering, it is the best place in the world, WORLD, to see good looking men in Wranglers and cowboy hats. Hubs and I hit Downtown after the rodeo. There is a little hole in the wall downtown which serves large daiquiris in yard long plastic glasses. We ask for two. We then enter into the Golden Nugget with six feet of daiquiris between us and start playing slots. While sitting in our high backed stools at the slots, my husband gave a little playful kick to my stool to make me teeter back and forth a bit. I playfully kicked his back a little harder than intended. He then proceeds to kick the fire out of mine but grabs my arm in an attempt to keep me from falling over. The attempt failed. I teetered to one side then slammed into the other side while knocking down all stools on both sides of me. Daiquiris fly into the air and land all over the slots.

Hubs and I are on the floor enveloped in laughter. We thought the whole thing was hilarious until the bouncers walked up to us. Since we shut down a bank of slot machines, I was politely asked to leave the casino. Hubs got his ass tossed out into a back alley.

A few years later we head to Atlanta to see the Razorbacks play in the SEC title game. While in the Shreveport Airport, hubs warned me not to eat the chicken salad. He said he didn’t want to take care of me shitting all weekend. He chose the hot dog. Guess what he did all weekend? So bad he had to get a prescription called in and have our brother in law drive him to the pharmacy.

On another trip to see the rodeo in Vegas we visited Gilley’s after the bull riding. On his way to the bathroom a hooker asked my husband if he was looking for a good time tonight. He graciously said, “No Thanks, I’m with my wife.”

While on our fateful trip to NOLA last year involving my fall during a race, I broke down in the room with my arm in a sling. I was sitting on the bed while he was helping me put on my clothes after assisting me with my shower. I was supposed to be having a good time on Bourbon Street after my race but instead I was having my wounds cleaned. In order to cheer me up hubs said, “Good thing we had sex twice yesterday!”

Sorry ladies, he’s taken.

Think of us Friday. I hope the cavity searches in airport security, emergency room visits, and meetings with bouncers are kept to a minimum.

Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.

Thankful

How much do I complain? In looking back on some of my Facebook post, evidently a lot. I have made it a point in my life to not gossip or tear other people down in order to make myself feel better, but it seems lately I have slipped. If I am around someone who is saying something ugly I make a smartass remark. Something along the lines of, “How is that view from the glass house you are living in?” And I wonder why the church has never sent me on a mission trip.

It is human to complain. You know how people have to put up signs when a certain issue needs addressing? Like a sign in a restaurant which reads, Please No Smoking In The Buffet Line. Evidently it happened so much the management had to address the issue. God and his kid made lots of signs about complaining, whining, and general unpleasantness because there was a great need. It became an issue long before I made it an issue.

I have a friend named Chad Raney. I have worked with him on occasion and came to know him through mutual friends. I have known a few of the girls he has dated, (there is a long list) and heard stories of his past relationships (long line there too). He is always good for a smartass remark. Once I asked him to proofread one of my blogs as he writes speeches. He told me his proofreading skills were worse than my credit.

I have a list of people I send smartass texts to on occasion. One day I was in an amusement park and sent out a text that I had seen 25 CT’s if I had seen one. Chad’s reply? Look in the mirror #26. That is exactly what I get for being so rude.

One day he posted something on Facebook about how even though he was having a horrible day - life is what you make of it, and that complaining about it will not change your fate. I commented that my life sucked at the moment. A few moments later the receptionist buzzed me to tell me there was a Chad Raney on line one. After he asked me what was wrong I launched into a long tirade about how hard work had been lately at my non-profit and I was taking it as a personal failure. I knew the job was going to be an uphill battle, but I had not expected it to be so taxing on me mentally. I asked him what was making his day so bad. He told me it was the anniversary of when he broke his neck at age thirteen and ended up in a wheelchair.

Obviously I’m the President of the Selfish Piece of Shit Club.

I felt worthless. I had just been caught smoking in the buffet line. I apologized until I was blue in the face and told him he had turned around my day. I admitted that when I run and feel like I cannot go one more step, I think about him and how much he would love to be able to take that one more step.

Over the years we have thrown out the idea of me pushing him in a race. That day he gave his usual response. “Listen Hooker, I am a quadriplegic. All I have is limited use of one arm. The last thing I need is your accident prone fool ass wrecking both of us and taking that away from me.”

He made me feel better about myself.

Marathon

This weekend I will run a marathon. I have heard the trick to these things is to drink plenty of fluids, eat lots of carbs, and get plenty of rest the week prior. I have been resting and drinking fluids, but all I have eaten is crap. CRAP. I had hot wings as a snack yesterday if that is any indication of the crap I have been eating. Clarification – a pound of hot wings.

I have run half marathons in Texarkana, Memphis, New Orleans, and Las Vegas. My first full marathon will be in the big city of Wynne, Arkansas. I wanted a small race for my first 26.2 run. If the 5k in Smackover, AR is any indication of how small town races go, there will not be a pistol fired to signify the beginning of the race. There is just some dude who yells “GO”.

My last race in New Orleans did not go so well. I tripped on a crack at mile 7 and fell into a pothole. I cut open my elbow on the jagged edge of said pothole and had to be taken to the emergency room. During my seven hour stay in the emergency room the doctor told me there was a 50/50 chance my arm would heal. When I calmly asked him what in the hell he meant by correctly, he just looked down at the ground.

If I am going to loose my arm, I want it to be in some cool hiking accident where I am stuck for 385 hours and I have to cut it off myself using a nail file. Not because my dumb ass fell during a race.

Please think about me on Saturday morning. Most people will finish the race in 4 hours or less. Many will do it in less. I am hoping to tie this thing up in just under six. I have my power gels, my amazingly cute brown and pink running outfit, anti-chafing cream so my chunky little inner thighs don’t rub together, and a fully charged ipod. Once a friend of mine gave me a “supplement” right before a race. I sprayed it under my tongue because she said it would help me run faster. I have never tasted the inside of a donkey’s ass, but I’m pretty sure the two are similar. I ran faster, but with my mouth open.

On Saturday all I want to do is finish. By finish I mean without losing control of my bodily functions and messing myself at mile 22. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed.

Buns Hon

It is official and I am pissed. My butt has gotten bigger.

I put on a pair of pants this morning which have always fit a little snug in the hips and thighs, but I can’t even cross my legs in them now. Have I gained weight? No. Have I been training for a marathon? Yes.

People can tell me all the crap they want to about muscle weighing more than fat or how I look “healthy”. Tell it like it is. I have a honkeytonkbadonkeydonk. I have more cushin’ for the pushin’. Junk in my trunk.

My husband told me last week he wanted to start running and I was elated. I would love for him to do something with me that I enjoy. We love to travel together, but it is just not the same. What we really do is eat our way through certain areas of the country dragging along three kids and a babysitter. Exercising together would compliment that nicely.

The hubs wants to lose weight. I told him it would make the weight drop off of him. I would like to say that is what happened to me, but I cannot. If I added up all the weight I lost from when I began running four years ago it would equal ziltch. I haven’t lost pound number one after years of dragging my ass up and down every hill in Texarkana. I bet money he will drop 20 pounds in the first month. Asshole.

I also had a hard time when I started running. Even though I tried for about a month I could not run a full mile without stopping. I could stop and walk for about 30 seconds and then run again, but could just not get over that hump. One Saturday I was all dressed to run when one of the kids asked me to give them some peanut butter on a spoon. Since that is an upgrade from them asking me to squirt easy cheese in their mouths, I obliged. I reached in the silverware drawer and instantly ignited.

How hard is it? I have asked repeatedly and still he ignores me. It must show some sign of disrespect to me and my role as a wife. The little fork goes in the slot with the other little forks. Not the bigger forks. It is simple. I was irate. I took off running, after I gave the two year old half a container of peanut butter on her spoon, and didn’t stop for 1.5 miles. I was so pissed I just ran out all of my anger. I returned after 30 minutes a new woman.

Hubs was oblivious. I don’t even know if he realized I was gone. I returned to find him and the two year old watching a football game with peanut butter smeared on both their faces. I gave him a big kiss and thanked him for emptying out the dishwasher.

A few weeks later I built up to running five miles. I was so proud of myself I didn’t want to lose my momentum on our upcoming trip to Washington D. C. My plan was to run the monuments. Hubs decided he would go with me, but gave me a little speech before we left the Washington Monument. He explained to me how he had not run in a long time, but that he didn’t want to leave me behind. He told me,”Honey, if I leave you on the trail I will wait for you at the last monument. Don’t hurt yourself trying to keep up with me.”

I passed him at mile one. Surrounded by all the cherry blossoms and tourist I blew by him without breaking a sweat. I slapped him so hard on the ass his back arched. I was finished a full fifteen minutes before he finally met me wheezing and red in the face. He said, STOP FORREST STOP!

Once he starts running again he will be faster than me. He will also loose weight like I can only dream about. But perhaps he will no longer hate the way I leave my clothes on the trunk at the end of the bed, which I will gladly take over less junk in my trunk any day.

Body Image

In a dark theater I had an epiphany. It was like the girl on that stage was singing only to me.

Were you stacked in the fifth grade? I was. I was underweight my whole childhood. In fact, I did not reach over 100 pounds until after I turned 18. Now pair that with a big round butt and you have yourself a body image issue.

I developed before all of my friends, and most of the girls in my school for that matter. Even though I am 5’2” now, I was one of the tallest girls in my class for a couple of years. I finally talked my mother into buying me a bra because I was tired of walking around elementary school with my headlights on, but instantly regretted it. The next day was the longest day of school in my life. The bra felt like it was made out of sandpaper. At 3:00 I wrestled myself out of that thing so I could watch the Brady Bunch in peace.

I stood out. I hated it.

I was excited to start seventh grade because many of my friends had caught up with me a little in the breast and butt category. That was until I started my period the first day of school. I was barely twelve and spent most of two hours that night on my bathroom floor with the instructions from a tampon box and a panic attack. I was sweating bullets while thinking, Oh my shit. Why does that woman have her foot on the toilet? Is she flushing it with her toe? Surely not. No. Oh Hell No.

Fast forward to high school. Every morning I had to walk from my car to the school, but I passed the football training complex along the way. Invariably there would be one or two players who would yell some comment about my rear end as I walked by. You would think the clarinet case might deter some comments, but they were relentless. One day I snapped. Many of you who know me well can only imagine what came out of my mouth. They never said a word to me again.

When I was sixteen, my parents took my sister and me to New York City for a week. The mildest show on Broadway at the time was A Chorus Line. I recognized most of the songs until this short black haired woman got up there and started singing a song about how she and her body never fit together. Then she started signing about how her “assets” helped her in the long run and that curves were wonderful. She was queen of the world when she learned to show off and embrace her “Tits and Ass” as she sings in the song. I was on the tip of my seat and wide eyed with relief and amazement. I heard my parents snicker on either side of me. I saw them out of the corner of my eye glance at each other knowingly. I never looked back.

I stood out, and I loved it.


Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself and your body!

Right Place - Wrong Time

Have you ever felt like a complete and total stressed out and over booked fool? If someone said no, let me give you an example.

I am a proud member of the Junior League of Texarkana. I have spent many a Monday night in a general meeting, board meeting, Mistletoe Fair meeting, or a social meeting. A few years ago it was Christmas time and that means the Junior League Christmas Social. Christmas Social is always held at someone’s private home, which is always a showcase. This particular year the social was going to be held at Debbie’s house. I had been inside Debbie’s house before but wanted to see her snow village collection again. I was also pregnant and knew we always had the event catered. I was hungry.

I put on my one Christmas maternity outfit (Red silk shirt and black leather pants), and headed to Debbie’s house. When I arrived there were not as many cars as I expected. More food for me! I walked in and asked for the sign in sheet. Debbie said there was not one and left to tend to her other guest.

This should have been my first clue that something was amiss. There is always a sign in sheet at a Junior League meeting. It must be in our bylaws that a sign in sheet is required if more then two of us are together. I looked into the dining room and noticed corning ware dishes on the table. While my first thought should have been that I was at the wrong party, it was not. None the less, my mind was racing. Oh Shit! I was supposed to bring a covered dish? No one told me! I didn’t get an email. Damn phone tree. I told them that shit never works.

At this moment I should have been planning my unnoticed escape. Not me. I am mentally freaking out trying to devise a plan on how I can drive to get a bucket of chicken and make it back before anyone notices. It is a social death in the South to show up to a social and be the only one who didn’t bring a covered dish. You might as well screw a high school boy. By this time I am in a cold sweat. A pregnant woman perspiring heavily in leather maternity pants is never a good thing.

After walking around a little in the living room, it finally dawned on me. This is not the Junior League Social. Yes I was at Debbie’s house, and the Social was to be held at Debbie’s house – the next night. Once I finally came to this realization, I grabbed my purse and hauled ass out of there.

When I got home, I explained it all to my husband. He was still laughing while he was helping me get out of my leather pants. He was not helping me get out of my pants in the way you might think. I literally could not get myself out of my pants and had to ask him for help. The next night I said to hell with it and wore jeans. I proudly walked into Debbie’s house, signed in, and ate half of everything on the dining room table. Including ¼ of a sun dried tomato cheesecake.



As always thank you for reading my post and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.

"Stand By Your Man"

My husband can always make me laugh. This week I decided to make a list of his memorable comments.

1. “Hey, you are sitting on my cooler.” The moment we first met at the Sigma Alpha Epsilon house party.
2. “I make a potato casserole that will knock your panties – oh I mean your socks off.” While trying to pick me up in a bar two years later.
3. “Listen, we didn’t all go to some fancy prep school like you did, but that book was on my reading list in High School also.” When I suggested we go see “The Scarlet Letter” movie while on one of our first dates. I was trying to explain the plot to him.
4. “She gets pregnant!?” Fifteen minutes into the movie.
5. “I could have told you that. I was just deciding when to tell you.” What he told me the first two times when I told him I was pregnant.
6. “What the HELL? How did this happen?” The third time I told him I was pregnant.
7. “This is going to be great. You are going to be a wonderful mother. Hey buddy, please quit crying.” Every time we drive home from the hospital with a new baby.
8. “I don’t care if they do make it in your size. I am your father and I get the final say. Not Target. Just because they sell that crap doesn’t mean you can wear it.” To our daughter regarding Halloween costumes and their age appropriateness.
9. “When they get their own apartments they can have all the pets they want. They can have unicorns in the son of a bitch for all I care. No more in this house.” When the kids and I asked for another pet.
10. “I love you buddy.” Every night before we go to bed.


Thank you for reading my post and I hope you feel better about yourself.

Trashy

I love paradoxes, and I love sarcasm. For anyone who knows me, that is not a surprise. I also like to poke fun at myself. I poke fun at other people but most understand my dry sense of humor. I have been called a bitch many times for comments I have made, but most of the time the person calling me that was laughing. Not too long ago someone called me a hard nosed bitch at the office. But as a good friend and talented business person told me, all bets are off at work. Just because you are short and cute does not mean you can’t get shit done.

I posted a comment about why people put trashy pictures of themselves on Facebook this morning. I noted that I had finally come to the realization that they were trashy themselves. I really was not trying to be funny; I just finally figured out that truth. This is not the first time a comment from me has been taken as funny when not intended that way. When I was a provisional in the Junior League we were touring non-profits in town to see which one we wanted to take on as our group project. Our entire group was profoundly struck by the Battered Women’s Shelter. It was a sad place. I understand that the better furniture and supplies go out with the women once they leave the shelter in order to help them rebuild their lives. The only crib in the shelter was an old worn out bassinet with a dirty mattress. All I could think of was my 13 month-old daughter.

One week later we met as a group to decide what project would work best for all of us. I stood up in the meeting and told the group that even though we were all educated and financially comfortable, we were all one ass beating away from ending up in that shelter ourselves. I also added that I would take a lot of shit from my husband before I would lay down my daughter in that nasty crib. Some people laughed. Some were offended. I never intended the comments to be funny, but I was trying to make a point about the state of mind a woman is in when she needs the Battered Women’s Shelter. My point was that we needed to help the shelter. We did.

Should I really call someone else trashy? Probably not. I was once told by a female boss that boots and a dress were never appropriate office attire. She also added that my clothes were too tight and revealing. I guess she thought a fitted suit and heels made me look like a hooker. I work very hard to keep my butt out of plus sizes. I have been running for the past four years and have yet to lose pound one. I could be on meth and gain weight. I am proud of the way my body looks at age 36 with three kids. My other female boss told me I did not look like a hooker, just a really high priced call girl. She said, “I know you spend a lot of money on those clothes. Screw her!”

For every person who laughs at my posts there is another offended one. I understand that – to each his own. I try to do the right thing by not listening to gossip and refusing to be around other people who do. I also do not let my children say the word hate. I think that evens out my love for sarcasm and my ability to work in profanity like an artist, but my children have sarcasm running through their veins. My daughter talked nonstop about a project she had to make for science class. She needed to make a Wanted Poster for a female scientist. She went into great detail one day in the car about what she needed to put on the poster and how she wanted it to look. Her exasperated eight year old brother finally remarked, “ Geez, just put a mustache on her and be done with it.”

I was one proud bitch.

Deep Thoughts...

Since I am going on a short trip tomorrow and I have a gaggle of stressful things hanging over me at work, I have not been able to blog. Seeing as I do not get paid to blog, it seems the mature decision. Instead I thought I would just share the random thoughts that go through my head while at home, work, and in between. They are random. They are meaningless. They are literally the diary of a busy mess.

1. I will run three miles this morning. There was a twinkie in the pantry. I think I will run five. I really want that twinkie.
2. Why does this dog pull my towel off the rack every morning and then lay his little dog body all over it while I’m in the shower? Also, why does he look at me like I am evil when I make him move off the towel?
3. Is that poop or an Ewok on the carpet? Oh, it’s an Ewok. It’s cool.
4. My yard looks like shit.
5. Good. The maintenance dude put visqueen over the broken window at the main museum. The slogan should be “Visqueen – helping broke people make it to the first of the month since 1954”. It has many uses. Add a red sharpie and you got yourself a tail light!!!
6. This is a damn good twinkie.
7. I am telling a small lie while on my lunch break. I know people tell the same lie every day to this same office but it tears me up inside. When I get to the counter I am sweating, red in the face, and not able to look the lady in the eye. If the Spanish Inquisition ever comes to town, I am screwed.
8. I will not order fries with lunch. I will not order fries with lunch. “I’ll have the fruit”. Whew! Made it through that one.
9. I can’t wait to pick up the kids from school. I love my kids. I love my job. (Insert an ongoing cycle of guilt)
10. What age do you have to be to pull this off? This dude can walk into the Country Club buffet half lit and no one in the packed dining room says a word. I understand he is 80, but geez. If I did that they would all simultaneously whisper, “Alcoholic” I wonder if people are still talking about the time we were at Phantom Ball out here? That fundraiser I came to right after weaning my youngest and had a few drinks then threw up in the bushes.
Yeah, they’re still talking about that.

Sarah, Levi, and Me

Would all of my friends vote for me if I ran for public office? Probably not.
Do I vote for Sarah Palin? No. Let me explain myself -

I love Sarah. If I lived in her hometown I bet we would run together and be good friends. I understand about changing jobs and education while you have children. I also understand how hard it is to see your children being hurt.

I happen to not agree with her politics. I do not think that her beliefs about government make her a bad person, and I wonder why some people want to crucify other humans for differing beliefs. I have many buddies who believe the exact opposite of what I believe. Last November we told our best friends to hurry up and get in line to cancel out our votes as the courthouse was crowded. Sometimes politics are some of the most important ideals in your life. Sometimes they are the least.

Many of you read these blogs because they make you laugh, and I'm glad I can put a giggle in your day. Would you all vote for me? Probably not. I admire Sarah for her spunk and wit. She kind of reminds me of Jane Fonda in that way. It is a "Bring it On" attitude that I love in women.

Then there it that idiod Levi. What an ass. No one should attack a family in private in order to advance a selfish agenda. This loser does it in public and in the media just so he can promote himself. The worst for me was the fake engagement. Did he really put her in a spot where Bristol thought he was in love with her only to break her heart? I know the words, "but mom I know he loves me" were said in the Palin house. Of course mom probably knew what was going to happen. She also knew how bad it would hurt her daughter. I am sure she feels guilty about working and being in the spotlightt, and I am sure wonders if some of this is her fault. We are mothers. Guilt is just part of the ride.

When Sarah asks me for her vote, I say no. If she ever asks me to help put Levi in his place, I'm all in on that one.

Sarah - Remember the movie 9 to 5? Watch it. I call dibs on Dolly Parton. I own that one. You can have Jane.

Nakedness

My oldest daughter is now demanding that no one see her while she is changing clothes. I know she is growing up, but it seems a little odd to me. She went through a phase when she was two where she wanted to be naked all the time, including when I would answer the door of our house. The other kids are the same way. My son once showed his wee wee to the little girl next door – for no apparent reason. My youngest would kick her panties off and then scream, “I NAKED!”

They come by it honestly. I am a big fan of naked. My husband used to ask me what I wanted to do on a given night or weekend. My reply was always, “Get naked”. He eventually quit asking, but I do kick off my panties and scream, “I NAKED” on occasion.

On our honeymoon we stayed at a resort which had an optional nude beach. The resort also had weddings. Common sense would tell you the two should not go together. Evidently someone did not get that memo as there was a naked wedding while we were on our vacation. The entire wedding party (including the parents) wore nothing but a smile. To top it all off, these dumb sons a bitches took pictures. FAMILY pictures.

Too much of a good thing? I vote yes.

We all have certain experiences with nakedness which we would rather forget. Partial nakedness can be traumatic as well. I run down State Line Avenue quite often as it is a large road with good sidewalks. Many mornings I am the only person on those sidewalks, but there are a few homeless people walking up and down the street. On one such morning I was doing my usual run when I saw a homeless man coming toward me on the sidewalk. I had seen him many times before and we always wave as we pass. He was wearing his usual t-shirt and extremely large shorts held up by a belt. He is oblivious to the fact that his shorts are unzipped. Evidently he had also forgotten to add underwear to his ensemble. For those of you who have a hard time following along – this dude’s dick is in plain view and it is coming my way. My thoughts were as follows:

1. Well there is one mystery solved. It does all turn grey.
2. EEEEWWWWW.
3. Do not look it in the eye.

We passed each other on the sidewalk with no issues. I felt so embarrassed for him. I understand how it feels to humiliate yourself in public. But then I realized that guy doesn’t give a rats flying fat ass if he was partially naked. He eats out of dumpsters and craps in a ditch by the graveyard. He has bigger fish to fry. We all do. It is just nakedness.

Thank you for reading my post. I hope you feel a little better about yourself.

The Tired Diver

Wanted to give a few highlights from our trip to St. George for two weeks.

We are from Arkansas – When we load up a car, we load up a car. We had the suburban packed to the gills, a car topper on the roof, a canoe on a trailer in the back, a kayak tied on top of the canoe, assorted bikes and other large items crammed in between the canoe and kayak, and my husband’s large fishing cart strapped onto the top of the car in front of the carrier. Not exactly aerodynamic. I am sure dogs started barking three minutes before we entered into each town because of the loud whistling noise that fishing cart made. We have a Razorback on the front of our car which identifies us as Arkansans. As if people would not have gathered that by looking at the Grapes of Wrath getup we were driving. We need no introduction.

Tired diver – Hubs and I wanted to learn to dive on this trip. After completing our classroom work, we spent an afternoon in the pool going over emergency drills. Some of the drills were about what to do if you run out of air underwater and how to rescue a tired diver. That meant I had to pull (drag) my 200+ pound husband in full scuba gear across the length of the pool. At one point I yelled at him and told him he was supposed to be a tired diver, not a BITCHY one. I added I was doing my best and if he didn’t like it I would let his ass drown next time. That poor instructor.

I know this is hard to believe, but I had a hard time standing up underwater. The book said diving was about taking in the underwater landscape and to be careful not to disturb the ocean floor. I stirred up silt and shit everywhere I went. I would trip over my fins, start floating off in the middle of a drill, or not be able to control where I went next. The instructor kept telling me to establish neutral buoyancy and to control my movements so I could glide through the water. I told him to not hold his breath. Evidently awkwardness translates easily in the water as well.

Shortcut – My husband, in his infinite wisdom, chose a shortcut to get us home from our diving lesson. He feels he can sniff out a good shortcut and thinks he is James Bond with his phone GPS.

Chad: Boy there is not a lick of traffic on this shortcut I found!
Me: That’s because it’s a damn dirt road! Not even gravel, just DIRT! People don’t usually take a logging road to work!

That makes up for the time when my shortcut around Nashville abruptly ended when the road ended. It took us 2 hours to loop back around. Evidently construction was not finished, but it looked good on the map…


Scallops – This was the highlight of our trip. We took a boat out to a shallow area where the scallops like to grow, and the captain described to us what we were looking for. He gave each of us a bag to fill. It takes all of us a little time to find the scallops, except for my father in law. He had a full bag in about fifteen minutes…of the wrong thing. I don’t know what he had in the bag but they were probably some endangered species of which there are only 100 left, and he had 99 in a bag ready to fry.

I snorkeled for two hours picking each one of these scallops out of the water and putting them in my bag. I even held the top of my bag closed so I could be sure none of them escaped. My husband grabbed my bag as soon as we started climbing back onboard so I could take off my fins and not fall down. This ain’t his first rodeo. I noticed that every time he would move my bag a couple of scallops would fall out. Why? Because there was a big hole in the bottom of my bag! Of course there was a hole in the bottom of my bag. Is there a one armed man around here too? I can just see the line of scallops escaping out of my bag… No wonder I was finding them so easily, they were the ones that had just escaped from my bag. I probably caught the same 30 all day long.

As always, thank you for reading my post, and I hope this makes you feel a little better about yourself.

10 reasons why Lindsey Lohan obviously did not grow up in my house

1. I grew up the youngest of four girls in Mississippi. While most girls in that part of the country were treated with kids gloves and commonly referred to as princesses, we were not.

2. Once when I was about eight my father told me to clean the kitchen and then sweep and mop the floor. I heard other kids at school talking about how they got paid to do chores around the house and they bargained to get more money. I made an attempt to drive up my wages with my father and he obliged me for a short time. He then made the remark that not getting my ass beat was payment enough. Well then, let me get that broom! My mother was out of town this particular night. If she had overheard that remark she would have beat his ass.

3. A yard service was never a luxury we encountered. My sisters and I can all mow a 3 acre yard, weed eat, edge, and remove every last blade of grass and or dirt from the front sidewalk. Never ever leave anything on that side walk or get off track on your edging. That meant we ALL had to do it over again. I don’t think dear Lindsey has ever shoveled gravel out of the back of a pick up truck either.

4. Lindsey has never been threatened with bodily harm in Kroger for not behaving.
5. Cornbread and milk. What I’m talking about here is consistency. Every Saturday night in my house was the same thing. Steak, baked potato, pear and cheese salad, and then top it all off with cornbread and milk while watching Dukes of Hazard. It wasn’t clubbing with Mom until wee hours of the morning, but it was a routine.
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6. Lindsey has never been sent to cut the okra off of the stalks because she was the shortest kid.
7. Couture was not in my Kindergarten. When I turned five I was allowed to pick out the fabric for a new dress. My mother made the dress just in time for my Kindergarten Graduation and my birthday party. She sewed in Five, yes count them FIVE, jingle bells in my slip. I know I wore my Sunday School teachers nerves to a frazzle. I know that because I distinctly remember shaking my ass nonstop for the entire thirty minutes just so I could hear all those jingles.
8. Obviously no curfew. I was told curfew was 11:00. Not 11:01 and sure as Hell not 11:05. I once replied that it sure as shit wasn’t 10:55. I really missed my car for a month after that remark.
9. This one doesn’t really apply to Lindsey, but just a FYI. When you are kissing your boyfriend goodnight at the front door, don’t push him up against the doorbell by mistake and wake up your parents because they think something is wrong and make them both run to the front door. It’s just awkward for all involved.
10. Pot roast. Every Sunday was Sunday School, (“Melanie Ann you better get up and get ready because no one needs the Lord more than you.”) Church, and then pot roast for lunch. I guess she just never had that direction instilled in her to make her see what she needed out of life. All it takes is a little structure, love, and some carrots and potatoes. Please not that my father never went to church with us because he said he liked to worship in his own way. Every Sunday he would “watch the roast”. What I really think he was doing was reading the paper in his tighty whiteys while all the women were out of the house.

Lindsey has made the remark that no one understands how hard it is to live the Hollywood life and always have people make comments about you behind your back. She says the audition process is horrible because it causes extreme stress when you know that people do not choose you for certain reasons.

Evidently she has never been through RUSH.

This Kappa Delta thanks you for reading her blog. I hope you feel better about yourself. At least you aren’t headed to jail.

The Date

I hope I never have to date again. I was never very good at it to begin with, and I am too blunt to play games. All of that makes me think of a date I had at the tender age of 18 that I still remember with great detail.

My friends and I got invited to go on a float trip with a group of guys on the Mulberry River. Let me just explain this river to you. The water is high, the current is fast, and the temperature is slightly above freezing. When we arrived to rent our canoes, my friends told me I needed to ride with Bobby. They all had this odd smirk on their faces.

I would later recognize this face while vacationing in my later life. It is the look the stable manager gives you when he selects the horse you will ride on your leisurely trail ride in the mountains. “Here ya go ma’am. This is Seabisuit.”

Bobby was cute. Bobby seemed nice. Bobby smoked a huge joint the minute we got on the river.

I am not talking about a little blunt, or a small bud, or even a one hitter. This thing was so big it looked like it should have had a taco bell wrapper around it. I had my little ice chest with a few beers and a small bottle of Jim Beam in my dry bag. The seal on the brown bottle was broken about two minutes after Bobby fired up his soft taco. I knew this was going to be a long day.

No sooner do I open the dry bag until we hit our first bump in the road. We literally hit a bump because Bobby was so preoccupied with being higher than a cat’s ass that he forgot to look ahead. We flipped the canoe and all of my belongings were lost, including my dry bag. My Miller Lites and Marlboros were headed to the Gulf of Mexico before I could reach them.

The next four hours consisted of Bobby constantly tipping the canoe. For those of you who do not know, tipping means spilling out everything in the canoe (including your date) into the water because you don’t know how to steer a damn boat. Bobby did not know how to steer a canoe nor did he know how to just ride in the front of a canoe after I made him switch places with me. We still flipped over again and again because Bobby thought he was walking around in his living room instead of a canoe. I barely said a word the entire time we were on the river.

I was sopping wet, worn out, and stone cold sober. When we finally arrived at our pull out place, I drug the canoe out of the water and threw my paddle and life jacket on the ground. I turned to my date and said, “F*^# You Bobby. F*^# You.”

He never called again.


Thank you for reading and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.

Plan B

We had plan B all weekend at the lake. The boat was still in the shop. Our friend’s boat was still in the shop. Did we sit back and whine about how horrible life was? No. But it did make me think about all the plan B’s I have dealt with in my life.

People disappoint you. Jobs disappoint you. Children disappoint you. We all have choices to make in our lives, and sometimes choices get made for you. Remember when you were a teenager and you thought your life would be perfect by the time you reached a certain age? I always thought 29 would be my best year. I would perhaps be married, but definitely successful in my career and no children. Instead love knocked me for a loop when I was twenty and changed all my plans. My new plan was no plan. Just be happy in love. After I fought the idea of love and love won, it worked.

I thought this summer would be different in my life. I thought certain things would happen, but they just didn’t. Something may be the epicenter of your life, but a minor detail in someone else’s. It is easy to say “pull up your boot straps and dig in harder” when you are standing on the outside. The phrase “Give it to God” gets tossed around frequently in my head, but never seems to stick.

I have always felt that God gave me the strength and resources to deal with whatever life throws at me. That would be wonderful if I ever processed what life threw at me. I let it seep down deep inside me and fester. I feel I should work harder in order to make things perfect and not be weak.

I have known ever since I was a little girl in my blue and white lacey dress in Sunday school that God loved me. Should my plan B be to stop trying to be perfect and not allowing my life to fester? Surely not. No.

Obviously I am still in the fighting mode.

Shortly before I turned 29 I found out I was pregnant with my third child. I had so many plans for the summer and none of them included being pregnant. So much so I did not have any maternity insurance, which was a necessity at the time. I was worried the entire pregnancy about money, guilt, and not loving the baby once it got here. I prayed that God would allow me to be a good mother to all of my children. I also prayed this last child would weigh 24 pounds since I gained 70.

I instantly fell in love with all seven pounds and two ounces of her. A few days later she was lying in the bed between my husband and I. He made the remark that God meant for her to be here all along. We were waiting our whole lives for her to arrive. All of it may have been my plan B, but always God’s plan A.

After I fought the idea of love and love won, it worked.

Tone it or Tan it

My goal this summer has been to tone all parts of my body if possible. If there are certain areas (my flabby tummy) that cannot be mastered, I will simply tan it until it looks slimmer. In order to make myself stick with the plan I bought a two piece bathing suit in Wal Mart. Who doesn’t buy bikinis where they buy their paper products and milk?

I am one of the palest people on the planet, or at least in south Arkansas. I am so pale I could sit in a high school cafeteria, hold out my hand, and move all the forks to my hand while plastering everyone with mashed potatoes. Okay maybe I am not as pale as the guy in the movie Powder, but I am close. Needless to say I have not spent much time in a tanning bed.

I decided to venture into the Skin Cancer To Go store down the street from my house. When I walked in the girl behind the counter was gnawing on a piece of gum so hard it made my jaw hurt. When I inquired if I could purchase a group of tanning visits she replied, “Uh huh”. I then asked if they had the stand up beds available. Her reply was of course, “Uh huh”. I first encountered this Rhodes Scholar when using this venue for my spray on tans. Anyone who has ever been in one of those spray on booths knows the awkwardness of standing there with a shower cap on and assuming the “crouching tiger” position while completely naked.

She tells me to go into booth three and she will turn the machine on for me. I get out of my clothes, tie up my hair, and put on those goggles which I am sure block out all of the harmful rays. As soon as I get in my little space capsule I realize I have to pee. I wonder if I have enough time to pee before it starts or if I can hold it for 6 minutes. I am so wrapped up in the thoughts about my impending UTI that I do not realize the machine never turned on. I open the door wearing nothing but a tiny towel and my thong and ask the girl if I went in the wrong booth.

“Uh Huh”

The other part of the plan is to tone my body. While in Wal Mart I see the Detox and Cleanse Plan by Jillian. Jillian seems to really help those people on the Biggest Loser, so surely she can help me. I will not elaborate on the two week process, but if I ever meet Jillian I’m gonna punch her in the gut.

I also purchased the P90X video which I have been doing for five weeks now. It is not easy making myself do this for an hour every night in my bedroom with the dirty laundry, three kids at my feet and a dog that wants to play with my hair when I am lying down. I can honestly say I have seen and felt a difference though. I have much more definition in my arms and stomach. I am like a 13 year old boy now because I stand in the mirror and look at my sexy arms. My husband caught me one day and asked when we were going to the gun show. He will also sit at the computer while I am sweating like a pig trying to follow along with the DVD and make remarks about where I need to put my legs or arms in order to look like the people on the DVD.

He can get in line behind Jillian.

Grapes of Wrath

My mother would eat grapes in the grocery store before she bought them. There, I said it. It is all out in the open – a family secret. Mother would have her Gucci purse in the front of the basket along with green stamps and any other cost saving idea she could use. Her excuse for the grapes was always, “I want to make sure they are good”. While that particular trait of hers would irk me to no end as a child, another trait would find its way into my own adult personality.

I am blunt. I wish I had the Irish ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a nice way that they actually look forward to the trip. I just tell them to go to hell. If I don’t like someone, I tell them. Life is too short to waste your time on trying to make mean people think you care for them when all they do is cause you pain. I come by that honestly.

I grew up in a small town in Mississippi where social time occurred at church or in the local Kroger. When I was about ten my mother and I were on our usual trip to the Kroger when we ran into someone she knew in the produce section. The biggest news in town that month was the fact that a couple of well off empty nesters had adopted two young sisters from Africa after their parents had died. The empty nesters had met the girls on a mission trip with the church, and were trying to get them acclimated to their new surroundings before they started school. The random woman in the produce section asked my mother if she had heard what was going on and made the comment that “We didn’t need any more of THOSE people in our community”. She was of course saying that we didn’t need anymore dark skinned people in our slightly affluent section of town. My mother, with a mouth full of grapes, replied, “We don’t need bigots either.”

Mother doesn’t take any shit. She takes even less as she had aged. I do not take any shit either. The issue occurs between us as we refuse to take each others shit.

An acquaintance approached me in the supercenter not to long ago and asked me why on earth we allowed people from the near by homeless shelter to volunteer in our museums occasionally. While he does not donate a dime to the museum, he felt we were crazy to allow such meager people to help us with certain tasks. I explained to him that the museum staff and I feel it is our Christian responsibility to help people back on their feet in their time of need. I also added that if he wanted to be a cold hearted bastard about it that was his problem.


I really do try to sprinkle the love of Jesus to those around me, but sometimes I get a little off track on my delivery.

I thought of my mother at that moment. One reason was because of what I had just said. Another was that I looked down and took a good hard look at my basket. It was full of Sam’s Choice items and coupons were spilling out of my Kate Spade purse.

I was not, however, eating my grapes.

The washer and dryer incident

I have actually had requests to tell this story in all its glory. I can honestly say this is one the worst moments in my accident prone life. Falling off a bed or dragging toilet paper on my shoe has nothing on this.

One day in late April both the washer and dryer die an untimely death. I had broken the Do Not Covet Thy Sister’s Front Loaders rule a couple of years earlier and had been begging for my own set ever since. Being the romantic devil that he is, my husband bought me a set for Mother’s Day.

He also just happens to be out of town when the purchases arrive. He swears up and down he paid for them to be installed, but they were just left in my laundry room when I got home from work. I have no idea how to install a washer and dryer. I am a Junior Leaguer. Mind you I have a mountain of dirty clothes waiting to be washed. Hubby is not due home for another three days, so I embark on the adventure myself.

At one point the kids asked, “Mommy, Why is there water all over the floor?” and “Why are you crying?” I had no idea how hard it would be to hook up water. I finally got a load washed at about 2:00 A.M. I thought the dryer would be simple. I was wrong.

I get the kids off to school early and make a trip out to a box store where I purchase some special thingy to make my 1930’s home and the new dryer friends. I run home because I have to get to work and decide the dryer can wait until I finish working. I of course make a small attempt to unscrew the plate on the bottom of the backside of the dryer, but those things were heavy! I was tired and worn out from wrestling the washer all night, and needed a shower.

I get partially undressed when I say enough is enough. I will not let this washer and dryer get the best of me. I have a college education. I can do this!

Bullshit.

I had one leg in between the washer and dryer while the other leg was on top of the dryer. I had to leverage myself so I could drape the top half of my body behind the dryer in order to unscrew the back plate. All was good until my foot that was in between the two appliances slipped on the tile floor still wet from last nights washing machine fiascos. My body landed in the exceptionally small space in between the washer and dryer with my left hip on the floor, my arms up in an awkward position, and my back twisted. I cannot move. I cannot even lift myself up because I have no leverage. I am stuck.

Let me just set the scene for you. There is a hideously embarrassing amount of dirty laundry everywhere. Any woman would be humiliated if someone saw it. I am wearing a thin white t-shirt with no bra and my favorite panties. They have large red and white horizontal stripes and are so old they are actually paid for. Neighbors behind us are out of town as well as the husband. Kids are at school and since it is not payday, my office staff has no reason to look for me.

We had new neighbors move into the house next to us a couple of weeks earlier and I knew they were home, but I had only met them once. “I have been meaning to bring over a casserole but could you help pry me out of here while politely ignoring my Cat in the Hat panties?” I think I will just rot here thank you very much.

After two hours of intermittently rocking my body back and forth in order to slowly move the heavy appliances, I was free. I told my best friend about it later in the afternoon. She tried to get out the words “I’m sorry” while she was laughing but never quite finished the phrase.

Thank you for reading my post and I hope you feel better about yourself.

A Baby

“And then, Melanie s*#t all over herself”. This is what my lovely husband told a group of childless people at DINNER shortly after the birth of our first child. He was of course giving a blow by blow description of the childbirth marathon I had endured to bring our beautiful daughter into the world. He tends to exaggerate, as I do not remember it being quite like that. He also swears up and down that I told his mother to, “shut the fiddlesticks up” during the birth of our second child, but I disagree.

There are many wonderful things about having a baby. There are also many not so wonderful things about having a baby. A baby brings you and your spouse together. A baby also makes you want to choke your spouse in the middle of the night. My favorite part of having a baby is when my husband brings me our baby to hold for the first time and gives me a kiss on the forehead. The worst part? I hate to admit that I have had the fleeting thought that if I wasn’t breastfeeding, 40 pounds overweight, broke, and exhausted I’d leave his non-baby feeding ass. Please tell me I am not alone in having that thought for a split second.

Those thoughts come from lack of sleep. There is a reason zombies are mean. They are very, very tired. What can make matters worse is if you are exhausted while still pregnant. A friend once said, “Living with a pregnant woman is like living with a Rottweiler. You never know when she’s gonna turn.” It does not help when the sales lady at the store tells you they don’t carry that size bra and you need to order one from Sears. Since nothing fits and you want to incinerate your maternity clothes, you end up walking around the house looking like you belong in a National Geographic magazine. I have stood in my birthday suit in front of an open freezer complaining it is hot…in December.

You see both of my daughters were born in December. People ask me how I had two children with the same due date of December 19th. My husband is a CPA. The deadline for corporate tax returns is March 15th. You do the math.

About four weeks into our first child’s life, we realized she would sleep if she were gently rocked…nonstop. We discovered this after holding her, putting her in the bouncy seat, putting her in the seat that vibrated, and putting her in every other present we received at our baby shower. We would have put her in a carnival ride if it put her to sleep. At first we laid her in the cradle at the foot of our bed. My husband tied a rope to his big toe so he could rock her and lay down at the same time. We received a baby swing as a present so we cranked it up and watched her fall instantly asleep. The problem was when we tried to get her out or crank the swing again. We would bump her head or wake her up from the noise and she would start screaming again.

We were so broke. We were “coast the last half mile to work to save gas” broke. I have never loved my husband more than when he wrote a hot assed check to Wal Mart at two in the morning for an open top battery operated baby swing. I rocked and fed her for an hour while he put it together. It was the best five hours sleep of our lives.

As always, thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.

What I have learned as an adult

This one has taken me awhile – I cannot control the weather. I struggle to even write down that truth. I am a fundraiser by trade as I must raise money to keep the lights on at the museums. We have two outdoor events every year and the weather has historically been perfect almost every time. Is it wonderful once I take over the events? NOOOOOO. Our fall festival this year came complete with drizzling rain and cold temperatures. I like to plan for the worst so I purchase rain insurance. Rain insurance helps you recoup the money lost in case of bad weather, but it must rain 1/4 of an inch during the stated times. A drizzle does not make ¼ inch of rain but it does drive people away from your event.

In the spring we have a wine tasting at our historic home. We decorate the lawn with flowers and tents galore. What happened my first year as Director? The Finger of God. That’s right. A Tornado. The next year I purchase rain insurance for the event with the knowledge that it has not rained two years in a row on this particular weekend for the last sixteen years. It must rain ¼ of an inch between 5 and 7 pm for the insurance to pay. The clouds opened up at 7:05. Seven o’ freaking five.

Let’s go back to my childhood. I spent many nights as a young girl sitting in the garage with my father listening to country music. My father would repair items while I sat on the riding lawnmower and watched. Actually my Dad would drink Jack Daniels and use nothing but glue and screws to further destroy everything from toasters to trailers.

We listened to all country music from Charley Pride to Waylon Jennings, but my favorite was Conway Twitty. I knew every word to “Tight Fittin’ Jeans”. Still do. One night I asked my father, “If her jeans are so tight, how did she fit a tiger in there?” I had some clothes that fit a little snug, and I couldn’t imagine stuffing an animal in them. My father just laughed, but never answered. I was in college before I figured that one out.

When my father would drop something or pinch his finger he would say, “ah f…………..fiddlesticks.” I didn’t know what fiddlesticks were, but I knew never to repeat the word. As adult I acquired an affinity for the real fiddlesticks. My mother noticed this while overhearing a comment I made while at my sister’s wedding. She rolled her eyes and sighed while telling me that was my father’s favorite word. I replied by telling her they had four children, it must have been his favorite thing to do too. Nana didn’t think that was so funny.

I am now of course married to a man named Chad, but my first kiss was from a boy also named Chad in the sixth grade. We were watching the movie “Some Kind of Wonderful”. I knew it was coming. I brushed my teeth about 16, 874 times before my mom dropped me off at the movies. We had been holding hands for quite a while, but that just didn’t cut it anymore. That and the fact that I have very sweaty palms. He leaned in and for a brief moment I saw fireworks. That was until terror shot through my body. What in the Hell was he doing with his tongue? No one told me anything about tongue! I went home thinking that other girls were crazy. There was no way I was going to do that with a boy for the rest of my life. No Sir!
Thank you for reading my post, and I hope you feel a little bit better about yourself.

The Cat

When my oldest daughter was in first grade she was begging for a cat. I sympathized with her because I like cats and I realized she had seen quite a few changes in her life lately. She had changed schools, had a little brother and sister in the past two years, and moved into a new house. Why not get the kid a cat?

My husband hates cats and told me there was no way we were going to get a cat. His exact words were, “Do not bring a cat in this house”. I pulled our daughter out of school to get the cat from the vet’s office. She named it Star and fell in love with it instantly. My son thought it was very cute and cuddly, and my youngest daughter thought it was something to squeeze. My youngest, who we will refer to as “The Blonde”, tried to call Star the Kitty. Star was a hard name for her to pronounce with her toddler abilities. Kitty must have been somewhat of a struggle since she called it Shitty.

After about two hours I realized this was going to be another job for me. The kids were constantly messing with that damn cat. Allow me to give you a rundown of the phrases I repeated to the kids about 6,000 times a day:

Don’t squeeze the cat.
The cat does not like being dressed up.
Let the cat sleep.
Don’t eat the cat’s food.
Who put the tutu on the cat?
Do not throw the cat.
The cat’s bottom is no place for your finger.
Don’t lick the cat.
Who put the cat in the ice maker?!?!?!?!

The Blonde was the one who put the cat in the ice maker. We have a stand alone ice maker in the kitchen, which has never worked since this incident. That is why I was not surprised when The Blonde came into my bedroom crying and screaming one day that the shitty bit her. That was when my mothering instinct kicked in and I told her, “If I were the shitty I’d bite you too!”

About six months later we left for our anniversary trip. The kids stayed with my mother-in-law and someone else was supposed to watch the cat. Star was meant to be let out once a day and have his water and food refreshed. When we returned we learned that Star had been missing since day two.

Shitty got his shit and left.

This is not the end of the story, but this particular outcome was probably best for all involved. I have my suspicions that Star lives in a house in our neighborhood with a very nice elderly woman. He is now a fat house cat. I hope he is fat because he gets plenty of food and love, and not because he has to be on Zoloft.

Thank you for reading my post and I hope you feel better about yourself.

The Trip

As my anniversary is fast approaching, I recall another anniversary in which we took a large trip. Since we had been married for ten years and we had 3 children under the age of eight, I thought it would be a good idea to get away for a long relaxing vacation and rekindle our romance.

As many of my trips begin at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, this one was no different. I have not always had the best luck with airport security. Those of you who remember my Breast Milk Episode of ’03 incident can understand. This time the security woman informed me that my lip plumper/gloss could not be taken aboard the plane in my purse. When I flew a month earlier, the lip plumper/gloss was allowed to be carried on in my small clear make up case. No longer, Missy. I needed a Ziploc, which they did not have available. Never mind that the Ziploc was the same size as my clear make up case. I understand the need for airport security and want to be safe while in the air. All people need to be protected from terrorist while traveling. That being said, I know that bitch took my lip plumper/gloss home.

After my husband convinced me to forget the lip plumper/gloss and move on, we were off to the British Virgin Islands for our catamaran cruise. The islands were beautiful, lush, and quiet. I was ecstatic as we climbed on board and met our other guests, our cook, maid, captain, and first mate. I emailed the crew a month or so before our arrival to let them know I would be eating a low fat menu for the week. I did not want to return from my vacation and have to worry about losing weight. They said that would be no problem. We had a wonderful dinner on the ocean and then retired to our cabin. The boat was not air conditioned, but our captain told us all we would need was our hatch open to catch the ocean breezes.

He needed to be a little bit more detailed as we did not know the hatch needed to be open at a certain angle in order to catch the breeze. I have never been so damn hot in all my life. It felt like Guam in that cabin. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to have a good time on this trip. I was in need of a week of huggin’, touchin’, and squeezin’, but this was not how I wanted to end up naked on top of the covers decorated in sweat. Regardless I tried to make a move in the middle of the night since we were both wide awake. Barely did I get the words “wanna mess around?” out of my mouth before I was told, “No. Get off of me you are burning up.” I scoped out our bathroom thinking maybe it would be cooler. Thankfully it was cooler, but it was the size of a phone booth. There wasn’t enough room to flirt in there, much less anything else. Fine. I will just move on to snorkeling.

I am not the best with water. Water and I had issues for many years. We snorkeled over a shipwreck. Snorkeling over a shipwreck is like having a picnic in a graveyard. Our captain told me some people use a mantra to help calm them down while in the water. Repeating the word “serenity” would be a good mantra according to him. Mine was “vodka tonic”. There were also barracudas in the water. Yes, I said barracudas. Our captain told us they are usually very docile, unless they see food. I am usually very docile myself unless I have been on a low fat menu for a week. I would have punched a barracuda in the mouth for a piece of fried chicken.

We did truly have a wonderful time while on the trip. We found the perfect angle for the hatch, and learned how to enter the bathroom without knocking the other person into the closet. We hated to leave the islands, but before we knew it we were at our layover in San Juan. While I have a problem with airport security in DFW, my husband has a problem everywhere else. He always gets his bags inspected. He usually gets pulled out of line to have the wand ran over him. This however did not prepare me for the welcome we received in San Juan. As soon as we received our luggage we were not allowed to follow the other travelers to customs. Oh no, we were asked to step to the side and follow the quasi-military uniformed man. I discreetly asked my husband if he had a secret mission to overthrow Castro or something. This just didn’t seem right. We were sent to the agriculture line, the x-ray line, the line where they physically looked through our bags and then scanned us. I asked my husband, “Do you have a pig in your carry on?” After they thoroughly examined our passports for about an hour and discovered we were not carrying a kilo of smack, we were finally allowed to enter normal security at the gate. I made it through the security point just fine, but looked back only to discover my husband had been whisked away for a formal search.

I am forever grateful I did not say what I wanted to at that moment…”See how the ‘get off of me you are burning up’ line works on him”. I love that man. I really do.

My Life as an Athlete

I am not an athlete. I am so far from an athlete I can’t see the moon of athlete. My foray into the world of awkwardness and lethargic speed first began at age five. My mother, who is now referred to as Nana, signed me up for gymnastics at our local community center. As the youngest of four children I was chomping at the bit to be dropped off somewhere like the rest of my sisters. Hanging out in the very back of that station wagon with the dog, while everyone else was going to softball, dance, clarinet, cheerleading, etc., was getting old. I needed an outlet. In all honesty, Nana probably just wanted a minute by her own damn self.

I loved the first day of gymnastics. There were other little girls, bouncy mats, and I got to wear my sister Cindy’s old outfit that I always liked. After a few classes the instructors pulled Nana aside and told her I might be better suited for a class that didn’t involve movement…or balance. Nana passed this suggestion on to me.

I put my foot down and told her I liked gymnastics and I was going back. No discussion. Then I took my peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich on white bread and went outside to play in the mud. As you can see I have always had a problem with self confidence.

On the final day of gymnastics we had a small recital. I also remember what I wore that day. It was a little pair of yellow shorts with a white shirt that had bumblebees on it. The shoulders had little bows on the top. Even at that young age I knew my butt looked good in those shorts. I wore the fool outta those shorts. Again, low self confidence.

The parents came and we had kool aide and cookies while we showed off all which we had learned. I was so excited I think I tee-teed a little in my shorts. I did a front roll. That was it. A front roll. Albeit a bad-assed front roll, but still just a front roll. No back roll, no cartwheel, no round off, not even a backbend. I didn’t care that every other girl continued to show off for another thirty minutes. I sat on the side with Nana and ate cookies.

When we got home Nana let me sit in her bed and eat popcorn and drink a real Coke. Not one of those pansy-assed fake Cokes she told me was real, but a Coke in a bottle!

When I finished my first half marathon all I could think about was that memory. Only five people finished after me and over 100 finished before me. I was so excited I think I tee-teed a little in my shorts. I didn’t care that my other girlfriends were checking the results to see who had finished the fastest. I went home and sat in my bed, ate popcorn, and drank a real coke. Not one of those pansy-assed Coke Zeros I try to tell myself is real, but a Coke in a red can.

I hope you have enjoyed this post, and you feel a little better about yourself.

The Triathlon

I competed in my first ever triathlon this weekend. Triathlons consist of a swim, bike ride, and a run. I tried to compete in one a few weeks ago in Galveston, but the wind and storms kept us from swimming. Believe me there was no love lost there. Let me give you a brief history of my life in the water.

Ever been to a water park as a teenager with all your buddies in bikinis and you have on a huge life vest? I have. Trust me; it is hard to look cool in a large orange floatation device. Ever have to take a six week course at the local community college to learn how to put your face in the water without having a panic attack? I have. Taken swimming lessons at the country club pool on your lunch break while the tennis ladies and their toddlers look on with sympathy? That would be me.

I have always wanted to do a triathlon, but I knew not being able to swim would hold me back. Well, that and hardly being able to ride a bike. I spent my bonus from work on a racing bike when I decided I would train to do triathlons. If you are not familiar with road bikes, let me give you an example. The tires are about half an inch wide and the seat is not much bigger. On my first ride I rolled rather quickly over a speed bump. Evidently shocks would weigh down the bike and defeat the purpose of racing. I honestly thought my uterus was going to fall out of my body onto that speed bump. Over the past couple of years I have grown accustomed to riding the bike and it no longer stings when I pee.

On a serious note, I loved the way the race was put on by Mike Riley. I think all races should start with a large group prayer. I especially liked that Mike told everyone to put their hand on their heart and look at the flag during the National Anthem. No questions. No complaints. Just do it. Everyone did.

The men start the swim portion of the race three minutes prior to the women. The men wear blue swim caps and the women wear red. Go Hogs. I knew to wait until all colors were in the water before I began the 650 yard battle with the murky water. Imagine my excitement when I made the last turn and realized I was about to pass two blue swim caps! I passed the first man only to realize he was obviously twice my age. The next blue cap seemed to be my age, so I sprinted as hard as I could the last 150 yards. Even though I tried as hard as I could, he still beat me to the finish. When we emerged from the water I saw he had only one arm.

Well Shit.

I felt guilty and inspired. I have no excuses. No one has excuses. We can all do what seems impossible, and none of us need to whine about our obstacles. Pretty deep thoughts coming from a woman who got her ass handed to her by a one armed man.

I then entered the transition area. This is where you get ready for the next leg of the race. I guess I thought it was the area in which you lay down and rest your eyes for a little bit, because most transition times were about a minute. Mine was over four. So what. I finished the bike and run portions with decent times. The operative word there is finished. There was a keg at the end of the race. Some people are strong in the swim while others are strong in the bike or run.

I am strong in the beer.




Thank you for reading my post and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.

The Dance

Tonight is my oldest daughter’s first middle school dance. She is going with a group of girls, all of which are terrified a boy will ask them to dance. Being the caring mother I am I gave her a few lessons on how to dance. Let me give a few examples of my dancing skills.

My sister Jamie taught me dance moves before my first middle school dance, hence the root of the problem. Not really, but close. In college I loved to dance, I just wasn’t good at it. When my girlfriends and I would talk about what we were going to do on a given weekend, I would always throw out the option of going dancing. They always came up with some excuse. When I would go out of town for the weekend, those bitches would dance every night.

When the “Elaine Dance” Seinfeld first aired, my phone rang off the hook.

I once won a Macarena dance contest in college. Not because of my dancing skills but because my short knit A- lined dress had static cling. That meant every time I did my little jump and turn a portion of my big white granny panties peeked through.

I define hot.

Like I said, I love to dance; I am just not good at it. My daughter and I were in T.J. Maxx a few months ago when a good song from my college days came on the loudspeaker. I started to do a little dance. Not a big one, more like a wiggle. My daughter squealed, “Mamma stop! You are embarrassing me!” Oh really. I understand her age and that she is entering the phase in which children become embarrassed by their parents. “Oh, I’m embarrassing you!” It was then that I pushed my cart away and proceeded to do the Running Man in the middle of the discount store isle. I dropped it down. The younger two children thought it was great and began doing some of the other dance moves I have passed on to them. After the blood returned to her face my daughter went to go look at bathmats or something.

I think I nipped that in the bud.

Thank you for reading and I hope you feel a little better about yourself.

"Is there anything you cannot do?"

I am a very busy woman. I raise my kids, I work full time, I go to school, run, and lead cub scouts, etc. A woman once asked me, “Is there anything you cannot do?” My reply was, “Oh, sister, there is a list.”

Here it goes –

Find my way out of a paper bag.
Many times I have been in tears because I do not know where I am. I love directions that start out with, “Head North”. I have not a clue which way is north. My husband tells me to look at the sun in order to find my bearings. I don’t know where the sun is! I don’t know which direction it sets! I know God takes it away at night and then throws it back up in the sky sometime during my morning run.

I’ve been to New Orleans many times in my life. I always attempt to arrive in the French Quarter at my hotel. I always take a side trip past the Superdome and end up in the Ninth Ward.

I have been lost on a road trip by myself using a map, the GPS on my phone, and turn by turn directions from MapQuest. The kids know not to talk when Mommy is lost.

Big Ben. Parliament.


Get a Credit Card
I have shitty credit. Not slow credit. Not bad credit. Shitty. I do not know what my actual credit score is, but I am fairly certain it is a single digit. There are two issues here. One is that I married very young and do not have credit cards. Well, I do have a Victoria’s Secret card, but that’s it. It is a good thing to pay cash for everything right??? The other problem is I never pay Vicky on time.

That is my personal life. At work I know what amount is in every bank account at any given time. I know how to work the interest and line items in order to get the greatest returns. Can I remember to pay for my own panties? No.

Walk and Chew Gum
I could fall down standing still and flat footed. As a matter of fact, I have. I never fall down in the manner of “Ooops I slipped and landed on my derriere.” Nope, I fall down in the style of “Dang, did you see that girl do a face plant and chip her tooth?” I have fallen down, tripped, or both in public places like - my office, the school bus, all over the University of Arkansas, and even in my own bedroom.

One such incident occurred on my first night home from my honeymoon. Chad and I were renting what was loosely defined as a townhouse. It was really a two story hellhole 100 yards from the railroad tracks. Our master bedroom was barely big enough to fit our newly purchased king size bed and the old dresser we found on the side of the road.

My plan was to emerge from the bathroom across the hall, take a few running steps, jump onto the bed, and land seductively on my side. As it turned out, my foot caught the side of that once abandoned dresser and only half of my body briefly landed on the bed. My head bounced on the edge of the bed then met the rest of my body in a heap on the floor.

Please keep in mind that I was buck naked. I like to set the tone.

I hope you have enjoyed my first ever post, and maybe feel a little better about yourself.