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.
.
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.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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.
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.
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