Today was so weird, ya’ll. I was traveling for work and just wasn’t in the mood. I’d been driving in the middle of nowhere for hours with no cell phone service and limited radio options. Just when I decided to just go home and give up on today, I saw a sign: Americus 10 miles. The town that I practically grew up in. The town where my grandparents used to live. Just ten little miles? I had to go drive by the old house. Continue reading
Last weekend, we finally finished our play. Wow. What a learning experience. It was one of the most fulfilling moments of my life. All the rehearsals, set building, costume searching, and time away from home were definitely worth it. The audience laughed at all the right moments, the crew moved the sets correctly, and the sound and lighting guy timed everything perfectly.
A few weeks ago, she called me. “Is your dad okay?!” she asked in her WHAT THE HELL voice. I was confused. “Yes. I think so. I haven’t talked to him today, but I think he’s okay. I don’t understand.” Explaining further, Mom had been asked by several people how Dad is “dealing” with her upcoming nuptials. A few others had asked if she was inviting her ex-husband to the wedding. “That’s funny, Mom! I’ve been asked, too.”
I had. People I really don’t even know that well had asked me in sympathetic voices, “How’s your Dad doing with your mom getting remarried?” First of all, if he were miserable, I definitely wouldn’t tell you that, but the thing is-he isn’t. Secondly, the conversation was never started with “Congratulations! I’m glad your mom is happy.” I always awkwardly explain that Dad is quite happy. He’s happy with his life, and he’s happy for my mom. If you’re reading this and thinking “Oh, God. I was the one she’s talking about.” you are one of many, and I’m not mad at you. I just thought maybe you’d like to read the way your words sound from our perspective in case you find yourself in a similar situation in the future. Continue reading
Guess what, guys?! I’m THIIIIRRRTTTTYYYY! Holy cow. That’s insane. It’s not old, but I’ve been in my twenties for so long….about ten years now. It’s weird, you know? I’m not old enough to know if birthdays will really affect me the way they do some people, but I really don’t think they will. Working with the elderly, I’ve learned that getting old really isn’t about the number, it’s about your quality of life. I’ve seen a very old fifty year old and a very young eighty year old. All that being said, this week, I bought a bag of lemons to drink lemon water every day. On my birthday wish list are: Running shoes, Fitbit, and skin care products, so obviously somewhere in my mind I’m fighting the aging process. I just hope I’m a young older person for as long as possible. While thirty isn’t old, it has certainly been long enough to learn a few life lessons. Through the years, I’ve grown a bit wiser. I’ve learned a lot, and have a lot left to learn, but here are thirty things I’ve learned in each year of my three decades: Continue reading
You know the type. They’re pretty, they’re popular, and you just KNOW they’re shallow. They have no depth. They think they’re the greatest little tanned bodies south of the Mason Dixon line. They could wear the exact same outfit as you and be the winner of “Who Wore It Best?” every time. You know what else they are? Totally unapproachable. When they walk up to the group you’re talking with you think, “What do I have to say to her?” and “How can she take this perfectly great conversation and turn it in to something I have no input on whatsoever?” We all have those girls that we don’t want to talk to. The girls you don’t even want to see. Those snotty, two-faced, fancy pants-wearing, jerks. Ugh. Continue reading
This morning, as I was clearing the counter off, I asked Rick while picking up random items, “Is this trash?” (It’s super weird the things that AREN’T trash, so I’ve learned to ask.) Anyway, today, he says, “I always write trash on items that are trash. If it isn’t marked, it isn’t trash.” Obviously, I don’t have to tell you that this idea would be absolutely ridiculous. Choosing to write “trash” on something takes more time than throwing the trash in…the trash-but Rick is a man of his word. I watched him from the living room as he finished the last of the milk, opened the drawer, pulled out a permanent marker, and wrote “TRASH” on the milk jug, setting it back on the counter. All while complaining that it’s not easy that he has to write “trash” on all of his trash. I guess the point of this little story is to let you know that my husband is weird. Like…really weird. He’s so weird that I am in awe of the creativity required to carry out this weirdness in a hilarious manner. 
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Okay, okay. I know this is a typical cheesy Valentine’s title, but y’all. I am FEELING the love this weekend. Let me start with romantic love (since everyone assumes that’s what this is all about), and then move on to the real message behind this babble. Continue reading
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine sent me the following personal essay. It was originally published on stigmafighters.com. She asked me to share this because sharing our stories has great power. Talking about our struggles can help heal one another, and reduce stigma. If you have overcome your childhood, this writer wants you to know, you are not alone.
Mental Illness Is My Mother by Anonymous: Continue reading
Just driving by the Hawkinsville Opera House hits me hard with sweet nostalgia. Whether attending events or participating in them, The Opera House provided me with something I will always cherish: a genuine love for the arts. Backstage or stage center, putting on a show was one of the most fulfilling activities of my entire life. Hearing the audience laugh during a funny part of The Music Man or give a standing ovation after a great show gave me (the girl with one line in the entire show) a sincere feeling of accomplishment. Even a small part was important because a town scene could only be perceived as so with multiple bodies. Each one doing its own job. You wipe windows. You hold a basket. You talk to your friend like you’re gossiping. All the pieces came together. The curtains went up and down when they should. The lighting crew knew exactly when Ms. Marion would be walking out. Beautiful sets were built and positioned appropriately. It was a well-oiled machine. Not one person wasn’t important for its success. Continue reading
As I am writing this, my little angel dumplin’ is chillin’ in his crib, singing happy songs about how much he loves his mother because of my undying affection for him. He is holding his Momo blankie and thinking of all the fun times he had with me today. Like when he threw that soup can at my head. Or when he picked up a baseball bat and hit me as hard as he could. Or, here is the best part, when he grabbed a glass bowl that I was eating from and hit me directly in the nose and I seriously thought it was broken. His favorite part of the day, I’m sure, is laughing at me as I tried to get him to stay in “the time out corner”. This escape from baby prison game is THE BEST! You know how psychopaths on TV like to smile as they’re about to torture their victims? Well, I think my baby might be a psychopath. This brings me to a quick flashback story. It’s the reason I’m here-in this amazing situation. It’s the reason for my punishment. Continue reading
The Munchkin Nugget 