2018. Eyebrows. Pall Malls. New Years.

It’s been a real long time since I have done this. Too long. Maybe I had a writers block or maybe I turn to writing when I need to soothe my soul or my overactive mind at 1 in the morning. 

But. Let’s catch up. 

I’m still julie. I’m 30 now. I’m not a rapper but I still cuss a lot. It’s a nasty, vile habit. I guess it pairs well with my Miller lite and pall mall menthols. Ha. Speaking of pall mall menthols, this summer at a wedding, I was told I was ghetto because of those said pall malls. That’s not really the trait I expected to peg me as ghetto but hey. Whatever. I’ll take it. 

Most of the time I can contain my cussing. Then emotions slide in to my mind and it’s just like beep beep, censor censor, four lettered words for everyone. It’s terrible. Apparently for everyone else but me. I dont really get offended. That’s not my drama box to open. It takes too much time to get offended and by the time you’re done being offended you will need so much more moisturizer and Botox. It’s expensive to be offended. Don’t worry. I may not get offended but I still have my beliefs and opinions and I will always stand by those and fight for them. I just don’t get upset when someone doesn’t agree with me. I just kinda... get even. Prove a point. Something that will induce thought. Tantrums and acting out never got me anywhere with my mom but long drought nagging that produced thoughts in her head that made her want to strangle me always did pretty good. 

So back to drama box and being offended here’s a good one that coincides with the new year. 

We are already seeing the new year new me shit and we are seeing the old people sticking around. 

Well. I didn’t partake in the new year New me mess. 

Because 

Well. Great. It’s 2018. I’m still gonna be julie. I have been her since 1987 and I think 30 years of bad habits is going to be hard to break 

But. 

I do hope to better myself... while still being Julie. 

If we aren’t striving to do better or be better we are truly wasting everyday. 

Now let’s be real. I’m fat. I got some rolls over here and a few over there. I got some nappy hair. A foul mouth. My cuticles are friggin awful. 

These are those physicals thing I hope to do better with. 

I want to be good and exercise. Eat green things that aren’t peanut butter m&ms. Small steps. 

But. Ultimately I want to love me. 

Loving yourself is what makes us better. Physically. Mentally and socially. 

It’s probably one of the hardest things to do. We are our worst critics. We can pick apart pieces of us no one else sees or cares about. Like my cuticles. The only person who sees them doesn’t care, because those ridiculous cuticles bring him ridiculous monies. 

Shout out to little Paul at the pro nails. You the real mvp. 

Anyway. We are tough on ourselves and anyone who is not like us. 

Hey. Big girls working hard to loose that weight 2018. 

Whether you loose or gain you’re beautiful. Stop comparing yourself to the girl over there. She may be skinny but she has a different struggle. You have yours. She has hers. Build each other up. 

I’m still tired of both ends of the spectrum attacking one another. The big girl mad at the skinny girl and the skinny girl grossed out by the big girl. Stopppahhh. 

This is not always. This is societal standard brain washing. 

We all bruttifull. That’s is not a typo. Say it together.  Bruttiful. 

 

The big girl. The skinny girl. The girl with the big booty. The girl with the flat booty. - dis me. Miss no booty.  The black girl. The white girl. The any girl. Y’all is bruttiful. Love yourself. 

If we took more time loving and not judging we would be happier folks. Hell i mught cuss less. I doubt it. I cuss when I’m happy too. The struggle is real. 

 

I hope 2018 brings a lot of love. Love in this country and everyone’s heart. 

I know I need some extra love in my heart. 

I’m a grudge holder. Girl. I will hold a grudge on a mealy mouth heifer for a minute. A mealy mouth heifer can be a boy or girl. I hope to let go. 

Here a little stories. 

One night, we went out to a little a country dance bar in town. There was this little girl acting just a little too boujie. All the ladies was in the bathroom waiting in line patiently. This little mealy mouth gurlah starts huffing and puffing and acting like she is just too good to wait to use the little porcelain princess throne. Girl. Bye. 

I had to politely tell her,  that her sharpie eyebrows were to ugly to be busting up in that bathroom with that much boujie attitude. 

I’m sure you can guess that this little eyebrow marker bandit didn’t not take that well. 

She tried to be a little crazy and tell me what I was gonna do. Didn’t work for my momma. Sure ain’t gonna work for her with, especially when them brows. So dark and straight like a villain. 

So I politely listened and once she was done i licked both my thumbs and threatened to wipe off her eyebrows in front of all the women and to make sure no one else let her borrow a sharpie. 

I then exited stage left and went back to the dance floor. 

I was just about to boot scoot and boogie and here comes the marker bandit with security. 

Girl. She just didn’t know when to quit. And neither did I. 

Security asked me if I threatened her in the bathroom. I was tickled. They were not. I finally told them and showed them how I had licked my thumb and threatened to wipe her eyebrows off. 

She was not pleased. Again. 

Security was tickled and he told us to stay away from one another. 

Lord knows I was not coming near that eye brow artist and her sharpie. I had done seen her eyebrows. 

I still hold a grudge against that one stick brows marker bandit. 

I got to get over that. She can’t help it. 

So 2018. Here you go. 

I’m going to be better. 

I’m going to write more. 

I’m going to be kinder to everyone. Equal opportunity for all eyebrows. 

I’m gonna let go of grudges. 

I’m gonna love hard. Myself included. 

I’m going to be a better Julie. 

To everyone. 

But. 2018. I’m still gonna cuss. Smoke a pall mall. And be ghetto. 

Raisins and Peanut Butter.

I know this will sound ugly in the beginning and maybe even a little pretentious or even persnickety.  But. 

It's not. Hopefully you will understand by the end of this late night blog session from my over active night owl mind. 

I hate, and yes I do mean hate, going to the grocery store. I do not want to see anyone while I'm already at the dreaded grocery and stop to have small talk. I have a motto while I'm pushing my buggy - which for some reason, I always get the buggy that rattles and squeaks, that's missing a wheel, so they used some redneck engineering with a round object to suffice, or the buggy that is ignorant and is not performing it's duties efficiently - never make eye contact. Once you make eye contact, that person you have visually connected with and also acquainted with is going to want to talk and ask you about any gossip that pertains to you or your family, while blocking the isle traffic and everyone else perusing the isle is looking at you and the acquaintance you messed up and made eye contact with thinking if only I had a blow horn I would blast yalls yoga pant wearing butts out the way. I know that's what they are thinking because I think the SAME thing when I get in a buggy jam on isle 5. 

Anyway. 

Yes. That sounds ugly. I get it. I should not try to avoid folks. But. Yes, I should. 

Let me explain. 

I am spastic. Just call me kind of organized chaos.  

When I muster up the courage and state of mind to go to the grocery store - I'm going to make it count.  I'm going up in here and my buggy is going to be so full that my Leader's Credit Union debit card is going to get flagged for peculiar activity. Just like any normal, responsible adult, I'm going to make some list. - did you notice that ? SOME list. Not a list but some. - I'm going to start off with confidence and good intentions. I'll sit down with a spiral notebook and write a neat and organized list of what we need at the house. I'll fold that up and stick it in my purse. I'll head to the grocery and once I'm in the parking lot - anxiety about buggies and making eye contact sets in. I always decide to google recipes or how to eat like a Kardashian. I want a big ole booty, good skin, and flowing hair like them heifers. Of course I don't have a pen or pencil in my purse - that is way too much adult like for me. So, now I have another list on my phone. As I comply this list of foods - to give me some junk in my trunk, super hair, and the skin of a porcelain doll   - I now feel ready for the grocery. As I go in and find the most raggedy, broke down, and just pitiful buggy I go into "do not look at folks faces mood". If I'm not looking at the people in the grocery, the only thing left to look at is the groceries. This is where the 3rd list comes in to play. I see things. For instance, I see some celery - my mind is like girl, you gonna need some peanut butter and raisins to make ants on a log. Put that in your mental list. It's like word association but for food. Food association. -  Now I'm juggling the list on paper that looks like an adult prepared it, the Kardashian list on my phone, and then the worst list, the one in my mind. As I go down the isles I'm chanting my mental list like I'm a member of the Chanting Monks. Celery. Peanut butter. Raisins. 

Along comes Esmerelda Petunia. She is an acquaintance. We've made eye contact. I'm screwed. Every thing I was chanting just went out of my mind. Esmerelda Petunia is telling me about what she heard about me and I'm forgetting the raisins and peanut butter for ants on a log. The list disappears like Harry Houdini. Two hours later I will get home with just celery and I will be mad at Esmerelda for ruining my chanting monk time and making me forget the other supplies I need. 

This is why I don't make eye contact. Now I got some plain celery. Who does that? No one wants plain celery. 

I'm telling you all this to get you ready for part 2. 

I went to the grocery Sunday. I was equipped with all my list and ready to go. Normally I go to the grocery with out Harper, like while she's at school. Sunday I made a mistake. I took Harper. I let her pick the buggy with the little car on it. - who ever put that little tink tink beep beep horn in those little cars should be more than ashamed of themselves! I have all my list and I think I'm ready to go. 

I should have known better.  

As soon as we round isle one Harper has found the horn. She's honking it like she's at red light that just turned green and Agnes Jean Myrtle Geriatrics is waiting on a different shade of green before she lets those Booneville tires think about moving. Before you know it she's honking and waving, greeting people like she's a Wal*Mart greeter. Yes. I know. She's real cute. You don't have to stop and tell me. You really don't need to know her name. She's 2. Yeah yeah. 

People are making eye contact. They are talking. They want to talk to Harper. They are telling her you're so cute. Asking me questions about her life. 

Hursh stranger. I'm trying to chant.  

I decide that if I just take the turns like I'm in a nascar race we can blow by these folks and I can chant quickly. 

Nope.

Everyone wants to talk. Eye contact is forcefully being made by strangers, conversations are being held, and Harper is having the time of her life.

Needless to say we came home with half of what we needed, celery, and no peanut butter and raisins.  

So. If you see me at the grocery - don't be offended if I'm chanting and not making eye contact. And don't think I'm cray....

Caffeine. Nicotine. Makeup. Life.

It's 7 am. 4 alarms are ringing through my cell phone in 15 minute intervals. I feel ten little glittery toenails digging in my skin. I'm wrapped up like a hot tamale and I know that outside of this delicious tamale is the cold air and reality. I fight with the snooze button until it's absolutely pertinent that I un-tamale myself and greet the morning with my dazzling lackluster morning personality. I carefully unwrap myself from this warm, cotton tamale and remove the precious feet that are digging into my organs. There I am, in all my glory. My hair is reminiscent of Don King at boxing matches, my pajama pants are twisted and inverted and look like a crazed maze of fabric. I'm definitely sporting a leopard print moo-moo that peaks out of my vintage and fabric sparse Ole Miss hoodie. My house shoes are on and it's time to get this day started. I catch glimpses of my fine appearance in the glass of picture frames as I shuffle my feet across my hardwood hallway. I know I look a mess. I stagger for the caffeine and nicotine. It's time to recharge. After 7 minutes of getting my life together and realizing that I must adult again today, I head to the one thing that can fix my pitiful and persnickety attitude. My make up. Let the painting and shading begin. 

Now. I've heard the Colbie Caillat anthems and they piss me off. You don't have to try so hard. - Colbie. Have you seen me in the morning? Better yet, have you tried to talk to me before caffeine, nicotine, and make up? You know what. You are right. You don't have to try so hard... To get hurt early in the morning. Just come to my house in the morning before I've got my life together and my adulting face on. You will get hurt immediately. I am going to have to try hard not to act out. 

The first thing I do to my face in the morning is moisturize and put my eyebrows on. I don't know about you, but just filling in my eyebrows and making them crisp like a fresh, cold, morning Diet Mountain Dew makes my attitude 10 times better. I'm now tolerable, cranky, but tolerable. After brows I mosey on to eye shadow, base, and powder, and at this point, I've transformed into a kinda likable person. As soon as my contour, highlighter, and blush is on - I hit the next level of likable, I am now able to be considered nice. Then I wing my eyeliner so hard and smooth and yell BAM like Emeril Lagasse and just like that, I'm normal. I am now the person I'm meant to me - witty, sarcastic, approachable and even likable. 

Make up does wonders and usually those wonders are for the make up wearer and not to please society or even who you are attracted too. 

I've seen all this internet crap of guys saying make up gives us trust issues. We are going to take you swimming on the first date so we can see what you really look like. 

Brother. 

If you really believe that my eyes have a natural black wing around them - you probably are not capable of having a relationship because you are dumb. 

If you think I spent all this time and money on my make up, then you should also realize I have a waterproof setting spray along with waterproof eyeliner and mascara - you are still real dumb. These colors and eyelashes don't run. Shewwww. 

If you are gonna take us swimming to prove what we look like under our make up, you need to take us to the bank and let us see you if you are able to pay your own bills and then let us look through your phone to see if you are capable of trust.  

I choose to paint my face everyday like there are paparazzi outside my house. But. I choose it for me. I feel more confident and depending on how sharp my winged eyeliner is and how bold my lipstick is, I may even feel like being nicer. 

One day I'm gonna write a little melodic song and sing it like Colbie Caillat. It's going to say things like, make them lips bold, wing that eyeliner so sharp it could cut a fool that tries to take me swimming after painting this face. 

Hallo-Weenie.

I am a hallo-weeny.

I have a love hate relationship with Halloween. 

I love it for so many reasons. 

Big girl reason 1. Candy. 

I'm sure it comes to no surprise, that I love the candy. I didn't get this in shape, my shape is round, by pumping iron to Olivia Newton John in the gym and eating carrots. No honey. I got in shape by Reese Peanut Butter Cups and Hershey bars. 

Reason 2.  Dress up. 

Please give me a reason to cover myself in copious amounts of glitter and make up. Please let me dress up. Give me a reason to let all my inner creativity and months of glitter hoarding to come out. Glitter eyeshadow. Glitter hairspray. Glue on glitter. Glitter clothes. Glitter shoes. Glitter lipstick. Glitter. Glitter. And. Glitter. 

***** Fellow Fatty Patties aka Big girls. Please, please, please don't dress up in a skinny girl costume. You cannot be Barbie - you will look like Honey Boo Boo's momma. You don't want people calling you Momma June do you?  Be a fat witch, fat cat, or - wait here's a genius thought - a character that's fat. Like Anna Nicole Smith after her Guess modeling days but before TrimSpa Baby. The Fat Anna Nicole Smith. 

Also please don't buy one of those "sexy" costumes. You won't look sexy. You will look uncomfortable and like a cross dressing Michelin man. 

Be creative*****

I love pumpkins that are carved or painted. I love the decor, the lights, and did I mention the candy ? 

But.

There are somethings that I despise about Halloween. 

I hate pumpkins that are in my food, candles, hand lotions, and flavor. You can so keep that pumpkin flavored basic white girl coffee late mocha, hot or icey, just I can't even deal with out my pumpkin spice Starbucks drink. You can keep your pie. That candle smells like a mix of cocoa butter oil sheen and a baby unicorn flagellant. I do not want the cheesecake that went bad and turned orange so we called it pumpkin. My hands don't need to smell like I killed the Great Pumpkin from Charlie Brown.  

No pumpkin. It is not good. 

I can no longer fall asleep to my TV at night unless it's on Disney. I cannot tell you how many times I have woken up to a horror film preview and screamed like a little girl at the tv. I lost sleep and had a mild heart attack. 

I cannot tell you how many conversations have happened just like this : 

Crazy friend who needs mental help - Julie, we should go to this haunted house, maze, cemetery, field, insane asylum, or place where folks jump out at you and you become incontinent. 

Julie - hell to the no no. 

Crazy friend - oh why not? It'll be so fun to pee our pants, have a mild heart attack, run for our lives, and not sleep for weeks because we are terrified. 

Julie - I can no longer be friends with you. Here's my resignation. 

Why do you want to be scared ?

One time I went to the haunted farm in Medina, against my better judgement. I was about to pee myself in line. I knew better. I had no business there. The line attendants gave us glow in the dark necklaces. 

I knew one of the cops working the event and he could tell I was in distress. He told me he would walk through behind me and even let me carry his Mag-lite. 

Bad choice did he make.

We go in the first house of the farm. The cop was behind me. Every 2 seconds I flashed on that flash light and screamed bloody murder. We make it out the house. 

Guess what's waiting for me outside ? 

Jason.  

Jason also has a chainsaw. 

Jason touches Julie's leg with chainsaw.

Jason just made a bad choice. 

See Julie assault and beat Jason with Mag-lite and glow in the dark necklace. 

See Julie being escorted out of the haunted farm by once upon a time friend that was the cop.

Not a good idea. Like I said. I am a hallo-weenie. 

But the main struggle for me about Halloween is this - 

The first time I walk out of my house and see my breathe in the cool fall air, I want to : 

Call into work. 

Buy out all the Christmas at Hobby Lobby, Walmart, Big Lots, Fred's, and Dollar General. 

I want to turn my house into a Christmas village, inside and out. 

I want to Deck the Halls with boughs of Holly. 

I want chestnuts roasting on an open fire. 

I already know it's cold outside. 

I want Santa Claus to come to town. 

I want to remember that Holy Night when the stars are brightly shinning. 

I want cinnamon and citrus smells. 

I want glitter on every ornament and surface of my life. 

I want stockings hung on the chimney with care. 

Christmas Parties. 

Christmas Church services. 

Dirty Santa. 

Family dinners that are so uncomfortable you laugh. 

 

But. That all has to wait. 

Because apparently it is frowned upon to decorate for Christmas before Halloween has passed. 

Maybe this Halloween I will dress up as Christmas.....

28 and counting. I hope.

Today -or possibly yesterday  depends on how long it take me to write this - was my 28th birthday. On my birthday eve, I could not sleep. All I could do was think. Think about what have I learned, where have I grown, where have I become stagnant, and where do I want to be. 

My thoughts ping pong from one subject to another and I am going to attempt to share them in an organized manner. I'm sure this post will start out organized but end up looking like all the drawers in my house - disheveled, messy, and random. But. That's me. 

I realize that it is no longer acceptable to say I am in my mid twenties. It probably was not acceptable last year either, but I clung to it like a crackhead with their last rock. So. Early late 20s but not 30 it is. 

I'm so afraid that when I turn 30 I'm going to wake up and have a short hair cut accompanied by a full face of bangs that is fluffed, teased, and quick-creted. Along with long butt jeans, aka mom jeans. I don't even wear jeans. - irrational. In my terror and fright I will run (haha. No. Not run. I don't do that. Maybe swiftly walk) to my garage and find my Murano has mutated to an old Chrysler or ford minivan in an awful shade of pale blue with a wood grain strip. Once again. Irrational. My house will be decorated in hunter green and red, with lace dollies and magnolia pictures gracing the wall in their golden brass frames. This is what I imagine getting older to look like. It's more frightening than Halloween movie trailers late at night. If you guys reading this, see this beginning to play out, help me. Take me to nearest fat girl store and put me in an all black outfit, throw glitter on me and hope I revert back to Julie. 

Have you heard the old saying that all you need is a "little hair of the dog" to cure a hang over? That person was either evil, an alcoholic, or stupid. That does not cure it. It creates a worse hangover the next day. The best way to cure a hangover is to not get one. If you slip up and find yourself googley eyed and having to throw one leg out the bed to stop the room from spinning - you better find a ton of water, 4 ibuprofen, and carbs. The older you get, the longer your recovery time. 

You will loose friends and your "circle" will get smaller. In return, your quality will get better. Your relationships will get so much more meaningful when you let the meaningless walk out. Bye Felicia. 

Everyone, who is capable, tells me their 30's were the best or are the best years of their life. - I hope you guys are telling the truth, unlike the "hair of the dog" genius. 

I know that years to come are going to be sweet because of my Harper Lee. However I worry about stupid things.

Like what if I wear mauve lipstick and fingernail polish. Ugh. No. Please no.

What if I stop caring and start walking around with my trunk open and all my junk showing or worse, looking like a busted can of biscuits in a t-shirt with bears and some corny saying on them. Something like I am beary good. No. No. I am beary dumb. 

Either way I still have 2 more years to turn the rest of my hair grey from useless worry. I'll cross the mom jean and big hair bridge when I get to it. 

In all honesty. I am thankful for another year and the past 28 years. I'm thankful for family and friends I love and adore. I'm thankful for health. I'm thankful for every blessing God has given me, my family and my friends. I especially thankful for the first birthday Harper told me Happy Birthday Momma with that sweet voice. 

Here's to 28, flat bangs, no jeans, all black, and glitter !

Two years with a baby.

There are lots of things people tell you when you find out you're pregnant. They tell you their birth story, the choices they made for their baby and why you should choose the same. They tell about the local doctors and local hospitals. They tell you how they did it with no meds, by choice. (Yall is crazy. Please give me that epidural and let me feel like I peed on myself, then go numb. Ha! Kind of sounds like a night of wild drinking.) They tell you how much you will fall in love with that child. They are right. They tell you how you will never sleep again. They are also right..... But. There is a lot no one tells you. There is even more no one tells you about being a single mom. I am learning more and more everyday and one day I will compile a huge list of what I wish someone would have told me. But until then, this will have to do. 

Now before we get on a roll with this blog, let me say this. I am not trying to get any sympathy. I'm also not trying to get a pat on the back. I'm not looking for recognition. I'm also not talking about the other parent. This is nothing more than some funny, no more, no less. Now let get to going somewhere.

These are a list of some of the things I wish someone would have told me. 

No one tells you that a breastfeed babies poop looks like Dijon mustard. - I thought Harper had a disease. We went from black tar poop to Dijon mustard. Two way different end of the spectrum.

No one tells you that those cute little toys that light up, talk, and are supposed to be "educational" are going to talk at 2 am. No ones in your living room but you hear VTech Violet say "Come play with me, you're my best friend." No. No, Violet. No one wants to play with your creepy self. Goodwill donation item. Check. 

No one tells you to buy a drill. This one is for the single moms. You best have a drill and every other kind of electric tool you can buy. This past Christmas I sat in my kitchen from 9pm to 3am hand screwing together a laundry play set, a play vacuum, and a princess four wheeler. Never again. On my little girls last birthday, she got a swing set. If you're a single mom, do yourself a favor, hire someone to put that joker together. I sat in my back yard for 3 days putting this punk together. Now I have multiple parts left over and its leaning like the Tower of Pisa. We are not in Italy and it is not Italian/Pisa inspired. It sure does swing my little 2 year old good though! 

You will never be early again. If you're used to be 15 minutes early, you will arrive on time. If you are used to arriving on time, you will be 5 minutes late. If you are like me and chronically 5 minutes late, you will now be 30 minutes late. Get your family and friends to lie to you about when you need to be somewhere. 

You and yoga pants will become best friends for life. I don't do yoga. I don't even know anyone who does yoga. Check my closet. You would think I own a yoga studio. 

Your stainless steel will never be pretty again. Fingerprints, nutrigrain bars, formula, milk, juice, baby wipe juice, lipstick, Doritos, and anything else a child can get their hands on will now sparkle in the light on your stainless steel appliances. 

Single moms - if your child is in daycare and Father's Day rolls around, get ready for this cute conversation. 

Teacher - Ms. Single mom, I see on your child's paper work there is no information listed about their father. 

Single Mom (with an attitude) - I hope my child reads as good as you. 

Teacher - Who should I address Father's Day Crafts to? 

Luckily, Harper has some Uncles and a PaPa that are the bomb.com. 

The Real Housewives of whatever are liars. They are not real or housewives. Oxygen, Bravo, TLC, and any other reality television network, give me a show. I will show you real. Real is trying to pee while being a human jungle gym for a 2 year old, not sunbathing in St. Thomas while your nanny drives a Bentley to drop your kids off at school. 

You will lose a ton of "friends." It's amazing. Just watch. 

Go on and get a DVR. You will never get to watch your shows on time, quietly, ever again. 

All the rules your parents had for you, do not apply for the grandchild. My mom would give the brow (The brow is when Diane gets mad. Her eyebrow arches all the way up to heaven and comes back down. There is heavenly light shinning from her eyebrow arch. It's God saying, you may get called home early if you don't rethink your choices.) if i sat on a decorative pillow or made bed. Harper could stomp it, sit on it, then light it on fire and my mom would clap and cheer for her. Also, when you are trying to tell your child no and grandparents are around, be sure and tell them no too. They give in and take up for the baby. You have no allies in the grandparents. 

You will freak about everything. I remember, early one morning, when Harper was close to turning a year old. We were playing and she managed to nose dive into the side of my bed and then the floor. I picked her up and her nose was bleeding. She was screaming. I was still in my vintage Ole Miss Hoodie and moomoo. I looked like Don King and a meth head had had a baby. Mascara still on my face. I threw on yoga pants and some shoes and off to the emergency room we went. I knew Harper's sweet little nose was broke. We get to see the Dr., God Bless Dr. G at Regional, he is so patient and kind. He cleans her up and tells me it's rug burn. No broke nose. I'm relieved. Then I remember that the hospital will call DHS on unfit parents. Here comes another freak out. I ask him if he is going to report to DHS. He can tell I am ready to burst into tears. He just laughs and tells me no, I'm not the mom DHS is worries about, I just brought my child in to the ER for rug burn.... 

They all tell you how much you will love your baby when you finally get to hold that baby and look in to those sweet eyes and feel their tiny hand wrap around your finger. You are now wrapped around those tiny little fingers and there is nothing better. No matter how many times I was told of this love, I never understood. I'm so thankful for the Dijon Mustard poops, power tools, epidurals, the DVR, and most importantly, my little Harper Lee. 

Fat Girls, Fried Chicken, and the zoo.

My little girl turned 2 this past June. Like any good mother would, I planned a day of fun for her actual birthday. Our day of fun consisted of family, travel, food ( because any event in the south calls for food. Death, marriage, football games, birthdays, divorce, and just because you want an excuse to drink beer in the back yard at 3 in the afternoon on a hot summer day, are all southern events that require food. ) and the Memphis Zoo. 

So. Just incase this your first time reading my blog (you should be ashamed of yourself, depriving yourself from my charming wit) let me get you up to speed. I am a fatty patty. Fatty patty also means fat girl, voluptuous, curvy, chubby, marshmallowy, pudgey, big boned, heavy, hefty, and any other nick name for fat. I also tell it all, the good, the bad, the dumb, and the truth. 

So. We load up in the car and drive on down to Gus' Fried Chicken in Memphis. This is a family tradition. We waddle our big butts in, after starving ourselves all day, just so we can lay the smack down on the best spicy southern friend chicken you ever did get to wrap your lips around. I cannot put into words how good Gus' is. If you haven't had it, do yourself a favor and go. Let your inner fatty out. Eat that chicken. Make you some magic sauce (Hot Sauce and ranch) and eat that chicken !!! 

After we lay the smack down, in true Hulk Holgan and Macho Man Randy Savage style, on that chicken, we go to the zoo. DUMB. 

On that particular day is was 789 degrees outside. The clouds were tan. Albinos looked liked Brazilians. I'm pretty sure I saw a flame melt. It was hot. But. We going to zoo. We unload the stroller and get it together. 

I didn't think this through. We are chicken logged and it so hot, Satan is trying to find a water park. We mosey around and my sister finds the "Cats" exhibit. Hell. To. The. No. No. 

Flash back a couple years. I'm probably 10 years old. My neighbor had a cat, an evil cat. (Sorry Mrs. Sandi or John if yall are reading this!) His name was Mr. Webbles. Mr. Webbles looked like Garfield but had the fighting spirit of Scar from the Lion King. One day I'm walking over to John's house, more than likely to do something stupid and young, and out of nowhere my leg is being attacked. Mr. Webbles is going to town. He is biting and scratching. I was stuck with a moral and physical dilemma. Do I kick this cat, possibly hurt it and run? No. I can't hurt John's cat and well, we know I can't run. So eventually I scream enough that Mr. Webbles no longer thinks it's fun to attack but is getting annoyed at my screaming. 

I was scarred.

Flash forward to the zoo. My sister, Mary Kay (she's a hippie) is all excited to go look at the cats. So is my 16 year old niece. Harper, my little birthday girl, really has no clue where we are or what we are doing. She could care less. Reluctantly, I follow in to the cats exhibit. I begin to feel a tight feeling in my chest. I notice that there are some tink tink wire fences and concrete culverts separating me and Mr. Webbles Mafia Lords. I'm not about this life. I see lions, panthers, cheetahs, and some hybrid cats I knew that could and would tear me up. I could feel them looking at me. I knew what they were thinking. Look at that one. She could be our breakfast, lunch, dinner, morning snack, evening snack and desert. They was ready to eat a fat girl up. I begin to realize that no one else is in the exhibit. There's no one fatter than me. I'm done. If these cats decide to break free, I am the slow poke. I'm ate like I ate that chicken. Half my leg has melted due to the heat. I smell like fried chicken and am full of it. I can't run. 

An anxiety attack begins. We got to get up out this place. Honey. Bless Harper. I know she got the whiplash. My toes went in overdrive. Harper's stroller became a NASCAR and we were taking them corners and rolling up out of the lions den. 

I was done. I was ready to go. We were melting. My hair has now became a full fledged 70's afro. Harper had whiplash. Her stroller tires had no tread from screeching out. 

The moral of the story is this. One, don't load up on fried chicken and go to the zoo. Go somewhere with air conditioner and motorized wheel chairs. Two. If you are a fat girl, take a fatter girl to the zoo with you. If the ferocious animals escape, you have a better chance of making it out alive.