Hope is My Worst Enemy

I need to write more, so here goes. Let's call this one a practice in reality-based fiction:

And just like that, I'm pretty sure it's over, or ending much sooner rather than later. He'll wait until after New Year's, but not too much longer. We will spend Valentine's Day apart. I will be living in my parents' basement cursing my stupid heart for being so open and breakable. I already am.

He will want to stay friends but I will need time. Then one day I'll run into him at some bar with a new brunette girl. It will hurt so much that I'll feel like my chest is splitting into a million pieces, but that only means it will heal more solidly - more scar tissue to hold it together.

These scars will be different from the others; the two long, jagged fault-lines in my heart. One from my ex-husband, and one from the man who was supposed to be my second, and last, husband.

These million tiny scars will bind together the two large ones to make a whole scar-tissue heart, and be the final proof that I am a 100% failure at love.

I should run like hell right now, but I probably won't. Hope is my worst enemy.

Dude! I'm Not Particularly Happy About my Mom Hijacking my Trip!

So, I wouldn't say that my mother and I have a complicated relationship. I would say my relationship with my mother is complicated. My mother is happily oblivious to the fact that the world really doesn't revolve around her, and that her actions are in fact very offensive at times. I am grumpily not oblivious to these lovely facts. I try to let it roll off my back, and I do love her dearly, but sometimes you just gotta get it out.

My wonderful, sweet, hilarious, beautiful big sister bought me a plane ticket last week so that I could fly to Colorado & visit her, my bro-in-law, and my beautiful niece. I am so eternally grateful, and can't wait to see them tomorrow. But, dude! I'm not particularly happy about my mom hijacking my trip!

Sissy called my mom solely out of excitement to tell her that we'd be visiting with each other for the 1st time in 6 months, and the first words out of Mom's mouth are, "Great! I'll see if I can get your father a plane ticket up from New Mexico that weekend!" And here my sister is just like "Uhhhh....OK." My sister paid nearly $500 for my ticket so that I could be there Friday, Saturday & part of Sunday. Not exactly a long trip. My sister is a school counselor, her husband doesn't make a great salary either. My mom? Over six figures. She could fly to Memphis to see me, or spend her own damn money and buy me a ticket, but instead she hijacks my two day long trip for herself.

Don't get me wrong. I am very happy to see my parents for the first time since December 2008, but really? Did it have to be the one weekend I am going to get to see my sister & niece? I haven't seen that cute little baby in 6 months. I'd like to spend some quality time. Instead, I get 1 day of uninterrupted time with them.

I have a few more Mommy Blogs ready to go, but I'll disperse them at different times; I don't want to overload y'all.

Shake Things Up

Have you ever felt like you just needed to shake things up? Like you just desperately need some kind of change to occur, and fast? I have that feeling so bad right now. Everything is so stagnant, everything is always the same. I get up, I shower, I go to the soul sucking job where I do the same monotonous tasks over and over, I come home, play with the dog, eat, Boyfriend comes home, we watch some TV, then we go to bed. It starts all over again the next day. Sometimes the order of things after work changes around, but pretty much it's the same routine every day.

Sometimes I wonder if the longing for change is a control thing. I have no control over anything in my job. I go in, and do my rote tasks, and wait for other people to tell me other rote tasks that need to be completed. In a way my ex-husband still controls my finances, since he talked/prodded me into buying a car I can barely afford, therefore I'm usually pretty damn broke. I go home to a wonderful man that I love very much, but who is not my husband, and I long so much for him to be my husband. Another thing that is completely out of my control. I live in a city that I had no intentions of living in for 8 whole freakin years but alas, I am broke, and don't want to leave Boyfriend so moving will only come with a new job for him. For now, none of these circumstances will change.

Now some may say, "Hey! That still sounds like a damn good life" and it is! Don't get me wrong. I am just a person who thrives on change, and new challenges and experiences. There is nothing new. Ever. And so contemplating how to make NEW happen. I guess I'm going to cut and/or color my hair. Superficial, but change nonetheless.

P.S. Any suggestions on the hair?

Massive Amounts of Globelike, Perky, Double D Tittage

So, dear readers, the last time I left off in the Divorce-Redneck Style story I had just taken back Redneck Redhead (RR) after he went MIA & lied his ass off. I guess we'll start from there.

So after the events of September things went back to fairly normal. . . until RR started working weird hours. Our house was literally 2 minutes from his place of employment, and he would leave for work at 7:58, but not come home until 8 or so at night. I started asking him if he could manage to come home earlier a few nights a week; maybe not run to the office & work all day so many Saturdays. He kept replying that it was part of his job. He worked in rail freight and the hours can be unpredictable, so I let it go for a while.

But then things just got worse. I was a teacher at the time, and y'all know all teachers go to bed at like 6 PM because we have to be up at the ass crack of dawn & (for me) deal with 150 hormonal freshman all day. All I wanted was an hour or so in the evenings with my husband. Was that too freakin much to ask??? Apparently yes.

RR started working later & later, sometimes coming home at 9 or 9:30. Really?? Somehow everyone else in the office went home to their families at a normal hour, but the office would not run if he wasn't there at all hours. (yeah, he had little man syndrome & thought he was sooo important) Sometimes he'd call in sick to work because his stomach was bothering him & I'd check & see that he'd looked at porn on the computer for 8 hours that day. Yeah, porn. Always the girls with massive amounts of wavy blond hair, and even more massive amounts of tittage. Globelike, perky, Double D tittage. They were all there, all ready to make his every desire come true.

These photoshopped, surgically enhanced beauties just sat there getting fucked, or looking pretty, never complaining that they were too tired. They would probably cook & clean just like he wanted me to, as well, if only they could jump out of the screen. (Of course, right after they let him blow his wad all over their pretty faces) Riiiiiight. . . Back then I couldn't see the photoshop & surgery, though; all I saw were girls prettier than me; better than me.

I became more and more insecure, the more time he spent with his "lady friends." It all came to a head one night whilst watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion show. Yeah, you read that right. Redneck Redhead claimed to be a follower of modeling careers. Hand-picking (in his mind) the girls from the catalogue who would make it to the fashion show, then move to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition & so on. Yeah, you can't make shit like this up. You really, really can't. He was so obsessed with beauty, and I, being human and not a freakish supermodel, felt that I could never measure up to his standards.

Sooo. . . we're watching the show and he see's Adriana Lima, or Heidi Klum, or some other freakish bitch float down the catwalk and says, "Wow! She is so beautiful!" And then I lost my shit. It went a little something like this:

Me: Really? She's beautiful?

RR: Yeah. Why?

Me: Must be nice for her. I can't remember the last time you said I was beautiful.

RR: What are you talking about? I'm trying to watch the show.

Me: How is it that you can call some random woman on the TV that you've never met in your life beautiful, but you can't say it to your own wife?

RR: You used to be so confident. You were a lot more attractive then. What the fuck happened to you?

Me; I became really insecure because every day I see you looking at these women. These women who have perfect bodies & perfect breasts & perfect hair. And they don't complain, they just sit there looking pretty for you. I can't be them. I'm insecure because YOU MADE ME THIS WAY!!!

And then . . . he picked up the coffee table and threw it across the room. Yeah, I'll let that sink in. Again, you can't make this shit it up. I'll say it, because I know you're thinking it: How in the world did I end up trapped in the 7th circle of white trash hell? I'm really not sure.

So then I get freaked out. I'm crying; I call my mom and tell her what just happened and say I may need to come stay again for a while. I hang up. I try to pull myself together; try to figure out what my next move is, and of course he comes to me crying and apologizing, and saying it will never happen again (just like the time he punched the wall right next to my head when he was mad at his brother...another story, another time), but sometimes I just make him so mad, and push him too far.

I stay. A few days later he asks me if I'm happy, because he's not . .

I Am Blessed

Have you ever committed an act of kindness for someone for no other reason than to just to see the smile on their face? I do it a lot. I'm a sucker for smiles. It makes my day.

Sadly, there are some cynics around who say things like, "That was an awful lot of time/energy/money/effort you spent on so-and-so, would they have done the same for you??" My answer is often, "Yes, I guess it was, and I don't know; it doesn't really matter."

Kindness knows no conditions. Acting from the heart and expecting nothing in return is what we should all strive for daily. I am blessed to have people in my life who know this, and I am blessed to be able to give from my heart with no expectations.

Sometimes you have to stop & remember the good things.

Keep it Klassy Folks

It seems that these days simple etiquette has been thrown out the window in favor of tacky money-grubbing. Today I received an invitation to a housewarming party in the mail. Someone I know, who has had her own apartment for years, is moving in to a new condo with her boyfriend, who has had his own apartment for years. Apparently this occasion is something that one would register for?? However, on the back I found this little note:
Let's forget, for a moment, the crazy grammatical mistakes and just look at the message. They are asking for gift cards and gift visas!! They are thanking their guests in advance. They are pretty much demanding a gift. Now if this isn't Klassy with a K, I don't know what is.

This particular incident reminded me of some other super Klassy things I have been witness to in the last few months:

1. When I called my aunt to see where my cousin was registered for his wedding she said, "Oh, they're not registering anywhere, they just want money for their honeymoon." I did not send money, because I was not invited to the wedding to begin with. I was going to be nice and send a little gift anyways, but that little stunt warranted my scorn in the fashion of NO Gift For You!!
2. My parents went to my cousins wedding. The bride wore white fishnets & platform stripper heels. Her bridesmaids wore short red dresses, black fishnets & red platform stripper heels. Klassy!
3. At the reception they had a Dollar Dance. (If you are unfamiliar with this concept, feel free to click the link) While Wikipedia may stay neutral on this, I declare TACKY! What an awesome 1st act as a new husband; pimp your wife out!
4. I have also been invited to a baby shower. No biggie, except for the fact that this is the girl's 2nd baby out of wedlock, different baby-daddy of course. The kicker? I haven't seen this girl in at least 2 years! The invitation should have read as follows: "I know we haven't spoken in 2 years and you probably wouldn't even consider me an acquaintance, but hey! buy a gift for my bastard baby! Because y'know, somehow I didn't learn how to keep this from happening the first time."

I could go on an on. I'm not quite sure what the hell people are thinking these days. Keep it Klassy folks, Keep it Klassy!

So Then I Shut my Big Fat Mouth

Anyone who knows me, knows that subtlety has never been my strong suit. I say what I feel often loudly, and with a few four letter words thrown in for effect. I really do love 4 letter words. Well last night was no exception to the subtlety rules, and it did involve a four letter word; LOVE.

Boyfriend and I went out for a very romantic, fancy dinner last night to celebrate 2 years of dating bliss. It was all going so wonderful. Before ordering we talked about all of the things we loved about each other (feel free to throw up in your mouth at any time) and what made our relationship so good. Then Boyfriend made a huge mistake; he bought a bottle of wine. We toasted to 2 years of love and happiness (you puking yet?) ordered our food and enjoyed a lovely evening.

And then I got tipsy.

Marriage has been a hot topic for the last 6 months or so, and when I get some alcohol in me, it never fails to come up. It started out innocently enough, just re-examining if we wanted to elope or have a super small wedding in town. Then I opened my big fat mouth and these exact words came out, "So are you saving up for my ring? Have you already bought it? You know people keep telling me that you probably already have it, but are waiting for me to shut up about getting married. I bet if I went a whole month without talking about it, you might propose. Am I right? Huh?" His response, "Patience is important. Patience gets you good things. That's all you're getting out of me."

So then I shut my big fat mouth, but man! The suspense is killing me! And I bet he's loving every single minute of watching me squirm.

13 Things I Hate About You

Okay, Driving in Memphis? Not quite as magical as "Walking in Memphis." So here's a list of 13 things I hate about you, Memphis drivers. (I am exempt, by the way. I learned how to drive in California where they require driver's education classes before you can get a license.)

1. Coming to a complete stop on the interstate to change lanes because no one will let you in, even though you don't have a turn signal on.
2. Cutting off people who are driving faster than you, then staying right in front of them even though you could get back in the slow lane
3. Driving 45 in the fast lane. Heck! No one seems to realize the left lane is for going fast
   
4. People driving very slow 3 across so no one can get past any of you
   
5. 18 wheelers in the fast lane and/or driving 3 across
   
6. The emergency lane is for an emergency, not blowing past traffic & then trying to merge back in. You're really not more important than everyone else.
   
7. Looking for something you lost on the passenger side of your car & swerving into the lanes of traffic next to you.
   
8. Getting so caught up in talking on your cell phone while driving your huge SUV that you don't even realize there is someone next to you in the lane you're trying to merge into.
   
9. Chillin in the middle of a shopping center exit lane with no turn signal, so I have NO IDEA whether you're turning right or left out of the place.
   
10. The general disregard for the use of turn signals
    
11. Honking at someone you've just pulled out in front of for being in your way
    
12. Turning left long after the arrow has turned red because 'wait your turn' doesn't apply to you.
    
13. Swerving in and out of traffic erratically at high speeds. Just because you watch a lot of NASCAR doesn't mean you drive for them.

I'm only 26 and already a cripple!

As some of you know, and some of you may not know, I compete in powerlifting. This is NOT the kind of competing where the women dress up in tiny gold lame bikinis, get fake tanned beyond recognition, and flex their gigantic muscles. I deadlift. I squat down, grab hold of a barbell loaded with weight, and push/pull it up to lockout (which for me is about crotch level).

So, I was working out Thursday night, making sure to wear my very thick pretty pink weightlifting belt. All was going great; 118 lbs x 2, 135 x2, 155 x 2 (a little painful in the back, but surely just a cramp). Then I did 165 x 2. I took off my belt & it hit me. Holy crap my back HURT! I sat down thinking it was just a cramp, Boyfriend thought so too, but 15 minutes later I tried to get up, and couldn't move! I mean literally could not move without feeling like someone was stabbing me in the back over, and over, and over! All I'm thinking is "Damn! I'm a cripple!! I'm only 26 and already a cripple!" Boyfriend was kind enough to get me to the couch while I yelped "Ow ow ow ow ow ow!" like a big ol' baby. He got me a cold compress, some pain pills & back support. Let me tell you. I have NEVER experienced plain like that in my life.

I stayed in bed and worked from home the 1st part of the next morning, took some more pain pills & slept the rest of the day. Let me tell you my loyal readers, pain pills make life a happy place when you've got a pulled/torn muscle. Those, plus lots of alcohol helped me deal with being dipped while dancing, pulled down on the dance floor by a crazy lesbian, and gave me the strength to push a crazy Brazilian to the floor after he tried to shove his tongue down my throat. (Yeah, I hosted a bachelorette party downtown Friday night)

I'm feeling much better today. Still very sore. Still getting muscle cramps & twitches like crazy. It remains to be seen whether I'll be able to stand an entire day sitting in my hard chair at work, but all-in-all I'll be fine. Just another reason why no one ever called me graceful, and why everyone always calls me accident prone!

And Then All Hell Broke Loose

Today I am going to start the story of the divorce (and marriage) that Jerry Springer probably wouldn't even believe. I'll start kind of in the middle, go to the end, then maybe swing back to the beginning.

Once upon a time (April 2002) I was a naive 19 year old, who 7 months prior, had crossed the country from my home of 18 years in Southern California to my new home in North Mississippi, (making a 1 night stopover at the parish jail in Opelousas, LA). And only 4 months before that I had been released from an inpatient mental health facility. Yes, dear readers, my stay in the nut house had something to do with the move, we'll get to that in another blog. The point is I was19, naive, but not really.

I was naive enough to "fall in love." 6 months later I was engaged to the guy we will now affectionately refer to as Redneck Redhead. At 22, despite my reservations and nagging doubt, I married Redneck Redhead. Apparently, it was also despite the unexpressed doubts, fears, and protests of many of my family members. Nonetheless, we were married, and then all hell broke loose. (As is usually the case when you marrry a Redneck Redhead)

14 months after the "I Do's" the first of many What the Hell Was I Thinking? episodes occurred. I was a teacher, and had to chaperone football games as part of my job duties. Redneck Redhead (RR) had already informed me that he would never come with me to one of these events because, "I don't make you come to work with me. Why the hell should I have to go to work with you??" So, this fateful night in September I left for the game and told him I'd probably be home around 10 PM. So sad for him; I got home at 9:30.

RR was nowhere to be seen, and left no note. I called his personal cell first, and it rang until I got his voicemail. I called his work cell second, and the same thing happened. I tried the personal cell again and it went straight to voicemail. He'd turned it off. Same thing with the work number. Oh no he di'in't!

I called his mom's house to see if he had gone to Mommy Redneck's house for a haircut, as he was prone to do. Nope, no RR there! I looked under the bed just to be sure, no RR there! I called his brother, Stoner Redneck, thinking RR'd gone there to hang out but he informed me that he hadn't seen or heard from RR in several days. I tried both cell phones a second time and, again, they went straight to voicemail. OH NO HE DI'IN'T! So there I sat, on my couch, checking between the cushions for RR (yeah, he was that scrawny) and wondering what happened to my husband. Did he get into a car accident and end up lying dead in a ditch? Had he been abducted by aliens? Or the more obvious choice; was he with another woman??

Finally 1/2 hour later my phone rang, and it was RR! The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi baby! Where are you?? I got home early & you weren't here. I was worried!

RR: I'm at my brother's house. Didn't hear the phone ring.

Me: Don't lie to me. I just talked to him and he said he hadn't seen or heard from you in days. Where the hell are you???

RR: I swear, I'm at my brother's!

Me: Don't fucking lie to me you bastard!

RR: OK. I just got here. I was at Fat Redneck's house hanging out & playing the drums.

Me: Really? Why didn't you tell me in the 1st place?

RR: Because I thought you would be mad if I was out hanging out with my friends while you were at the game & I didn't go with you.

Me: Ok, fine. Give me Fat Redneck's phone number. I want to call him & make sure.

RR: Oh, uh well, let me call you back when I get inside my brother's house. I'll give it to you then.

Me: No, you've got it right there in your phone, just give it to me now.

RR: No. Let me call you back.

Me: I'm not going to let you call him & tell him the lie you just told me so he can cover for you. Give me the number.

RR: No.

Me: You were with a woman, weren't you? Please just be a man & admit it.

RR: No.

Me: I'm going to stay at my parents' house. I don't know if/when I'll be back.

RR: No, please, no.

Me: *Click*

Please, before you label me insecure, bitchy, etc. please know the suspiscion didn't just come out of nowhere, trust me. I should have left for good then. I knew he was up to no good. Deep down in my gut, I knew then that he was having an affair. But by Sunday he was at my parents' door crying and begging me to come back, and I went. My parents were unsure, but I was in love. I was married. I wanted to try to make it work. I had no idea there was nothing on Earth that would ever make Redneck Redhead a better man.

Ok, so maybe I did have an idea, but who wants to admit that????

Until next time . . .

The Episode Where Things Fall into a Million Pieces

I am at a loss.

As some of you know, Boyfriend's dad died in early April. Tuesday morning his grandmother passed away while clutching the urn filled with her son's ashes. The burial of those ashes was scheduled for this Sunday. So now Boyfriend will bury his father & grandmother on the same day. This morning his grandfather suffered a severe stroke and is looking like he may not make it.

The right words are hard to find. What do I say? What do I do to ease his pain? I will be traveling to New York with him for the burials, but it doesn't seem like enough. There is too much sadness, too much death, too much loss. My arms can't encircle him enough times; they aren't that long. I'm so sad for him & his family, but I'm so angry, too. Why would God deem it fit to heap all of this pain on a family at once? Why, after the childhood he endured and his struggle to become the wonderful man he is today would God do this? I'm going to be a 5 year old about this. It's just not fair.

This is Where Things Get Tricky

Today Boyfriend and I have an appointment to meet a possible new addition to our family. Yes, that's right; we're adopting a dog! A few years ago I, sadly, had to give my Yorkie named Gidget to my parents because she was just too high maintenance. She needed constant attention, other dogs to play with, to be let out every 2 hours, and I just couldn't provide that for her. I have had dogs all my life, so these last 2 years without a cuddle buddy has been tough.

Saturday we went down to the grocery store, and lo and behold, they had dogs for adoption! I played with a few, but I knew none were quite right for us. I couldn't let it go though, my desire for a dog had somehow completely consumed me and damnit! I was going to talk to Boyfriend about the merits of having a dog until he caved. So we came up with a list of qualities we wanted in our dog:

• An adult
• Housetrained
• Relaxed, but playful
• Non-destructive
• A good companion
• Happy to be an only dog

That's when Boyfriend brought up an ex's Boston Terrier. The only dog he had ever really liked. So, I searched for adoptable adult Boston Terriers in the area (knowing full well that this was a long shot.) To my great surprise Odie popped up. A 2 year old male Boston Terrier who loves to chill inside on the couch during the day, then go frolic & take walks in the evening. A dog happy to be alone with just his parents AND housebroken!!

This is where things get tricky. Who knew that adopting a rescue would be more complicated than any process Angelina Jolie goes through to acquire one of her many exotic children?! We went down to the adoption center and filled out a 5! page application. Odie wasn't there, so we scheduled a meet & greet at our house this afternoon. Our home and yard must be inspected, our interaction with Odie will be observed, they'll pull a full criminal background check on both of us & maybe even take a blood sample! I understand, though, it's all to make sure he goes to a good home. I'm a little nervous that they won't like us, or something will go wrong. I really want this dog, man! So cross your fingers that Odie will be our new baby!

You Might Just be a Crackhead out to Trade one for a $2 Rock

So, Friday I had to stop at the drug store twice on my way home, and when I was in the second one I learned an important lesson in Urban Living.

Lesson #1: You can tell what kind of neighborhood you're in by where they keep the condoms.

The first drug store I stopped in was in East Memphis. I went to pick up a few little things, and had forgotten that I needed condoms, but I had wandered through the isle with the condoms.

• I noticed them because a little girl (maybe 8 or so) was running her hands along all the items in the isle as she walked; regular condoms, giant condoms, vag infection fighters, vag creams, super-extra absorbent pads that show through your pants (any pants!) I thought it was pretty funny that these were innocuous little nothings to her. She was totally unaware that the necessary use of them, later in life, would become the bane of her existence. Okay, probably not the condoms, but definitely the other stuff.

But I digress; the point is, the condoms were just out there, ready for you to grab a box and get down to business all protected & ribbed for her pleasure. There was no Plexiglas lock box, just pure accessible condom joy!

Somehow during that stop I forgot that Boyfriend and I were out of condoms & would need some if we were going to party this weekend. So further down the road in a sketchier part of town I stopped at the same chain drug store. I wandered around and around. I found the isle where the condoms would be, but it was a prophylactic desert; not a latex love-glove to be seen. Finally after a few laps of the store I gave up and asked the elderly gentleman working the floor where I might find the condoms. Here is how our exchange went:

Me: "Excuse me sir, where might I find the condoms?"

Him: "Oh, those are behind the main register. We have to keep them there, otherwise they'll all be stolen."

Me: "Wow! I guess some people will go to any length to avoid getting pregnant."

Him: "Nope. The crack heads come in here and steal them. They can sell them to the prostitutes for a $2 rock!"

Me: "Um...huh, never thought of that."

Him: "Oh yeah! The new thing is air fresheners. They steal them and sell them on the corner so they can go buy a $2 rock."

Me: "Gee, thanks for the info sir. You learn something new every day."

The elderly are always more knowledgeable and wise; always. So I went and bought my condoms. Relegated to the same treatment that smokers get. And even though I'm a grown woman and am in a committed relationship it was still a little awkward and embarrassing to deliberate on the kind of condom I wanted in front of EVERYONE in line behind me.

So back to the Urban Living Lesson. Here is a breakdown: Good neighborhood: The condoms roam free in the isles like free range chickens; Okay neighborhood: The condoms are in the isle, but they are caged in a Plexiglas box and you must ask the pharmacy for assistance; Bad neighborhood: The condoms are behind the register, hidden like some sort of dangerous vice, because you might just be a crackhead out to trade one for a $2 rock.

Like plus sized clothes, but for your feet!

I have a confession to make: I have horribly ginormous feet; ginormous! I wear a size 10, and I'm 5'9". Not so lucky for me. I have 2 friends who are 6', and 6'2"; we can share shoes. I was a size 9 in fifth grade, and 5' tall. My mom kept telling me not to worry, that I'd, "grow into them." I'm still waiting.

The kicker is my toes. I have this theory that my foot stopped at size 9, and my toes kept going until 10. My boyfriend likes to call them my monkey toes. When I was in girl scouts, the scary stories around the campfire weren't that bad, but the E.T. impression I did with my "pointer" toe in the tent afterwards was enough to get some screams.

Finding shoes in my size is a ridiculous exercise. It's as though shoe makers think that there couldn't possibly be that many women with Sasquatch size feet, and surely not all of them want fashionable footwear. Wrong, bitches! There is a science to finding the right shoe for a foot like mine. The right combination of covered and open. Pumps with a peep toe are fine. Pumps with an open toe and side cut-out? No good. Strappy sandals with no back? A definite no-no! I can't go wandering around the world with the whole enchilada hanging out scaring people! If I find the right style, more than likely they never did carry it in my size, or it's all sold out because all the other Sasquatch girls have already snatched them up.

That little trend a few seasons back where all the shoes were made to be super pointy? My worst nightmare. Every pair I tried on made me look like the Wicked Witch of the West with huuuuge feet! You know how awesome Chuck Taylors are? Yeah, I can't wear those, they make me look like a clown.

Over the years I've come to accept my foot fate. I've even decorated my foot with a tattoo, but I hope someday Jimmy Choo will design a line of shoes for us Sasquatch girls. Like plus sized clothes, but for your feet!

She also wanted to "smoke some of the marijuana."

I only have one grandparent still living, and her name is Nana. Yes, Nana. If you’ve just met her, she will tell you to call her Nana. If you call her anything resembling a formal name she will tell you to, “Shut the hell up!”

My love for Nana is a strange and strong thing. It is part admiration, part incredulousness, but mostly just pure love. She was the fun grandparent; taking me to IHOP with my best friend and letting us build castles out of the creamers, then throw jelly packets at them. She had this giant white afro (yes, she’s of the Caucasian persuasion) that she kept perfectly round. My sister and I loved to pretend we were dribbling it like a basketball. As a kid I thought she was lots of fun, and her “lots of fun-ness” grew older with me.

When her husband, Papa, died, I met a whole new Nana. That woman was crazy! At age 69 she got her 1st tattoo because, “That old grump never would let me get a tattoo!” I sat in the shop while she & my sister got matching butterflies. The whole time she kept taunting me about the fact that I was too young to get one with them.

When I was 16 she started regularly giving me gift cards to Victoria’s Secret so I could buy sexy underwear, and confided in me that she wanted to try “that thong underwear.” Later she whispered that she also wanted to “smoke some of the marijuana.” And, boy-oh-boy, it never stops. Just the other day she asked me if I could get some for her next visit.

Nana spends her afternoons drinking margaritas and playing cards with her buddies at the old-folks trailer park. That, or drinking white wine that her friend Peggy brings over in a jug, over ice, of course. She tells me that “all those penis pills have ruined old age” because now she can’t just have a male friend; “they all still just want sex!” She has determined that she had plenty of sex when she was married to Papa, and doesn’t see why she should have to put up with it anymore. Lord knows why she feels the need to share all this with me!

God bless her 77 year old soul! She an amazing woman with so much fire in her belly, and aches in her bones to complain about that I swear; she’ll outlive us all! More to come . . .

"Gee, this thing smells like a syrupy-gross bunch of fruit mixed together, let's name it Fruit Explosion!"

This morning, I'm washing my hands in the communal bathroom, and what do I notice on the sink? A spray can of air freshener. Now seeing an air freshener in a communal bathroom is nothing to note in of itself, but when it's name is "Fruit Explosion" it's definitely something to note.

I pose this question to you: Who in their right mind names an air freshener Fruit Explosion? Who was the total genius in the Air Freshener Naming Department who thought; "Gee, this thing smells like a syrupy-gross bunch of fruit mixed together, let's name it Fruit Explosion!"How in the hell did the name get past test-marketing; or did they think the name was so awesome they didn't need to do any market research?

And then there's the fact that I just can't help but think of another kind of fruit explosion, because my mind works in gross ways like that. We all know that spray cans of air freshener usually end up in bathrooms, which just makes the name doubly icky. Really folks, who hasn't eaten a bit too much summer fruit & had an explosion? Next time you do, reach for some Fruit Explosion fragrance spray to make it all better.

Even from the grave I'll be screaming, "Just conjugate the damn thing!"

I am not a grammar purist by any means. Though I may have been an English teacher, and minored in English in college, I am not the best grammarian. I am prone to comma splices and other horrendous travesties that befall our beautiful language. I am, however, a big fan of conjugating the verb "to be" and knowing when to use the plural and singular form of various words.

I get emails at work (and not the friendly correspondence kind) full of ridiculous grammar mistakes. My favorite is one I get every morning that says, "All is present." All is present? All is present?? Why, why, why, why? This email comes from a woman who is college educated; who is my superior, and I'm supposed to respect her? How am I supposed to respect someone who can't perform a simple verb conjugation?

I routinely get emails from employees of a large government organization that are full of run on sentences, misused apostrophes, and so much more! Now, I have studied linguistics. I understand that our language is a living, breathing, and ever changing entity, but c'mon people! I'm afraid that if our current language trends continue over the next few centuries. The verb "to be" will no longer have any conjugation rules, but even from the grave I'll be screaming, "Just conjugate the damn thing!"

I guess the good news is that the poor students that I tortured for 2 years while teaching English can rest easy, the world we live in today doesn't seem to give a flying fuck about proper grammar. You can bet your ass, though, if you hand me your resume and it's full of shit grammar, I'm tossing it in the shredding bin.

I'm not on drugs people, I'm just sleepy!

So, at 8:25 this morning I wake up and realize that I have, yet again, turned off the alarm in my half-zombie morning state. I have to leave for work by 8:30. I think you can tell where this is going. Lots of running around in various stages of undress, the corners of walls jumping out to meet my shoulders & knees; an all around bruise-a-palooza!

By the grace of god (and a very hot hairdryer) I was only 15 minutes late for work, but I'll be damned if I can't wake up. I'm walking around with my eyes half open and yawning wider than that chick in Arkansas who had 18 babies' vagina. When I try to form a coherent sentence I keep slurring like Paula Abdul. I think I know how she feels now. I'm not on drugs people, I'm just sleepy!

The Total Spazz Mission Statement

Oh the first blog entry; so much pressure. I might just crack, and never write a damn thing at all. Or I might just fall out of my chair and injure my pecking finger, and then where will I be??

Really, though, I'm just a big ol' bundle of uncoordinated and discumbobutlated. In other words, I really am a total, and complete spazz. I routinely walk into walls, miss my chair when sitting, trip over my giant feet for no good reason, and fall down stairs. In fact, just this past Monday morning I bumped down the stairs on my ass. That was not so pleasant.

I know there are more like me out there, I just know it. I can't be the only one. So, I thought I'd share some of the more laugh-worthy mishaps with the world.

I must admit to having a bit of an ulterior motive, as well. I'm only 26, but I have had so many "you just can't make shit like this up" experiences that I just have to write them down; someday in a book, on a blog for now. So this blog will alternate between laughing at me when I fall on my ass & laughing at me when I once upon a time married into a family that's too crazy, even for Jerry Springer.

Enjoy!