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. 

My first day of preschool

There are a few things you should know about me. I hate waking up. I don't do early mornings. I am hateful when I first wake up. I do not want to talk to you first thing in the morning. I will give you a death glare after I wake up. Once I have some go-go juice, Diet Mountain Dew, I transform from a hateful witch to Glenda the Good witch, minus all the pink. 

This morning was different. I heard my alarm nagging me. I got on up instead of hitting snooze so many times, that now I am late and rushing while giving everyone crossing my path hateful glares. I knew today was the first day of Preschool for me. No. I didn't attend preschool but my sweet little Sue was going and I was dreading it. 

I went to this same preschool. I knew my baby would be more than take care of. I still had some crazy fear that I was going to drop off a baby and pick up an independent toddler. We get ready for this next milestone to begin. Harper gets a nice blow out and we get dressed for success. We pack her lunch and her new little book bag, and I made sure she did not grab a bag of ibuprofen. (For you who get this ibuprofen joke, you know it's funny and I never know when I am going to start paying for my raising! Bless my momma's heart and soul. I just know I will pay for my raising and when it comes, I hope I can still laugh at myself and guide Harper to do better than me.)

We get to preschool and Harper is fine. She is being nosey, just like her mom. She is scoping out the toys, teachers, and other little kids. She is fine! She is cool, calm, and collected. She lets go of my hand and walks away to go play. I sneak out of the room. As the door closes, I get these weird drops of moisture from my eyes. Tears I presume. 

In that moment, I know that time has got to be still and that I have got to start slowing down and soaking it all in before it runs quickly through my hands and is gone. 

As the day goes on I catch myself checking the clock. Texting a teacher. Checking and checking my phone for some kind of update. I was almost relieved when a teacher texted me and told me Harp was upset at nap time. She wanted her momma. I could not wait to pick her up. When I got to the playground, I could hear that sweet voice yelling momma. All was right again. 

My irrational fear of my child growing up in a day at preschool, was just that, irrational. She still needed me and she was still excited to go with me. Instead of rushing around, I'm going to pump the brakes and start soaking it all in before 18 years have passed and I feel like my Harper grew up in the blink of an eye. We both survived our first day of preschool. 

Tomorrow's goal is to slow down the rush and avoid those weird drops of moisture from my eye when I walk my little baby into her room. I know when I get to pick her up in the afternoon, she will still need me and she will still run and yell, "Mommmmaaaa." 

Life's a beach.

Recently I went on vacation. My mom, her best friend, my little girl and I ran south for the sun and the sand. Well. Not really for the sand itself but for the look of it. 

We are not your typical beach goers. We love to go and gaze on the beautiful scenery God created. However, we are not about the sand. I will tolerate it for about 30 minutes before I am done with it and all its glory. In that 30 minutes of being in the sand, it takes over. Sand is all over you. It's in your booty. It's on your skin. It somehow has trespassed it's way into your mouth. Your feet feel like scrubbing exfoliate was left on you at the pedicure bowl. Big girls suffer from an exfoliating chub rub out of this world. After this sand exploratory excursion, I retreat to the pool. Bring on the chlorine and ease of knowing jaws is not going to creep up behind you and snatch you in to his dark layer of the sea. I can stay by a pool all day. Give me a few good cold beers, some oil, and I am set. 

One of the best things about being at a pool is people watching behind your big sunglasses. I could people watch all day. I also enjoy sneaking a listen to others conversations. I know. Sneaky. It's like being a spy with no purpose and I love it. Don't judge. 

Let me tell you what I saw while people watching. I was in my chair. Laid out. You could have thought I was asleep, but of course I was channeling my inner spy and really I was watching folks. I see this big girl across the way swimming. You know big girls compare all big girls. So I was ready to see what her swimsuit looked like and start comparing. I see her starting to go up the ladder. P.S. This is weird for the big girls. We usually take the steps because we don't like sticking our butts in the air and drawing attention to our ham-hock jiggling thighs. Well I should have known right then and there she was going to be a doozie. As she emerges from the sharkless and sea creature less waters, I see her top is black and strapless. It's long enough to cover her lovely lady lumps in the back and in the front. In my mind I'm thinking, ok, big girl doing good. Shewwwww. Nothing could prepare for the next stage of her swimsuit. As her big old ba'donk a donk emerged from the water, I had flashback to the civil war. I felt like the south was about to rise again. Her big ole behind was covered in a large, stretched out and deformed rebel flag. It no longer looked like the star studded criss-cross on the flag but more like a crazy highway conjunction on a map that had been blown up and stretched in all directions.  My glasses come down, my jaw drops, and I realize I have to get closer. So in true inner spy form I feel like it's time to get my little girls puddle jumper on her, jump some puddles and see the big ole heart of Dixie. It was there. It was for sure what I saw. She and her natty light were there and representing.

Big girls. Yes it's summer. Yes it's hot. Yes you want to look cute at the pool. But please, please don't copy this lady. The closer I got, I could see that rebel flag bikini bottom was meant for a size 6. Not a 16. Don't squeeze your 20 pound bag of potatoes into a 5 pound sack. Get the right size. Don't stretch out a fabric because it's no longer cute. You have now made your pattern deformed. You look a mess. Get you a good fitting swimsuit and you will look a thousand times better. 

As we got back to the room after a day of pool time and we started to load the washing machine with all the swim attire I noticed something else. There was a trail of sand. Sand on the floor. Sand stuck to my two year olds butt. Sand on me. Sand on the washer. Sand. Some more sand. Gritty sand.

I couldn't help but to wonder how much sand was on that woman's ill fitting, stretched out flag britches. Everyone in my party had properly fitted swimsuits and we were still violated with sand after only 30 minutes. 

So. Big girls. When you go to get a swimsuit this summer remember one thing. Thicker, more covering material that is not stretched out will still get a little sand, but imagine how much more sand will violate you when you squeeze into something too small and that does not covered enough. You will be sandy for days. No one likes to be sandy or having to be around gritty folks.   

Glitter Rainbows on My Heart

For a while now something has been extremely heavy on my heart, yes I do have one. This post is going to be a little different from the previous, but it will be honest and raw. I may ruffle a few feathers but that is ok. A feather boa never looks good smoothed down anyway...

Let's have some story time....

In fourth grade I looked like a mini version of Roseanne Barr from her show Roseanne. I had the real cute bob and full face bang. I was chubby and chinky eyed. My mom worked hard to provide for me. She was a single mom and she made sure she could give me just as much as the children who had a mom and dad present at home. Because of her tedious and demanding work schedule I stayed in after school care. I did not mind it a bit. I got to play longer on the play ground. I got to put home work off longer. It was all good in the private school hood with me. I have a vivid memory of meeting one of my first life long best friends. He was a cute tan boy in the 3rd grade. He had the perfect auburn hair women ask me for in the salon. It was cut in that perfect bowl cut all the boys were sporting in the 90's. He was funny. He aggravated me but he also made me happy. Together we played hard. We would cherry bomb each other on the see saws. We would see how sick we could make the other one on the merry go round. We planned extravagant trips to Chattanooga for the summer. We also came up with a plan on how we were going to get our parents to take us there. They never happened, in case you were wondering.  For years this little tan auburn haired boy was my best friend. Through middle school and high school we experienced lots of first together and lots of trouble. He was there when I was sad. He was there when I was excited. He was even the voice of reason when I had some real humdinger ideas. College time came and he moved to middle Tennessee and I stayed here. We still kept up with another, catching up on quick trips home. Even though distance had separated us, he was still there when I needed him. I can remember the night after my ex-husband decided he no longer wanted to be married, this same boy drove through the night just to watch me sob and tell me it was going to be ok. I still see him when I can and I know that when I reach out to him, he will give the best sound advice he can.

Jump forward a few years...

Now I am a single mother to an amazing and beautiful little girl. She is almost 2. She has a lot of people who love her dearly. There are 3 people in particular that love this little girl a whole lot. Her uncles. They are not my brothers, but they are my best friends. We go to dinner a few times a week. When we pull up to a restaurant, she begins shouting their names. She grins when she sees them. She reaches for them and loves on them. They feel the same way, minus the shouting. They grin and love on her. They play with her. They wipe her mouth when the cheese dip has missed it's landing. They give up their iPhone so she can play and be happy. If she is sick, they call and check on her. They love her. They would do anything they could for her. She will always know that she has 3 uncles that will always have her back on top of all the others.

These 4 people have one thing in common. They are gay.

Recently in the news I have seen so much hate and intolerance on the LGBT community it breaks my heart. The amount of hate that has been bred in our society is pitiful. What I have noticed is that the majority of this hate is coming from the Christian community.

I am a Christian.

I also am a sinner. I fight sin every day, all day. I give in to sin. I gossip. I slip up and cuss. I have a child out of wedlock. - I also believe ,with every fiber in my being, that God gave me Harper to save my life - I am a divorcee. I can be jealous. I have abused substances. I have lied. I have a list a mile long and I will add to that list. Because I am not perfect and I will never be and you will never be.

Why is it that all my sins are ok? Why is it that my sins are more socially acceptable?

If you heard of a baker refusing to sell me a birthday cake for my child because she was born out of wedlock, would you have the same reaction as a baker not serving gay couples?

Scripture tells us that we are born without sin. Of course we are born without sin. All we have done before we were born was grow in a womb. We are born with addictive personalities. We are born with depression and anxiety. We are born with mental illness. Sometimes the ailments are dormant when we are young and later triggered by something. Sometimes we can suffer from theses ailments and we were not born with them.We can be born with lots of characteristics that can and will contribute to our personal fight with sin.

I do not believe someone would ever choose to be gay. Have you watched the way that the LGBT community is treated? Who would choose that? Have you been there and given someone a place to live because their family disowned them after finding out they were gay? Try and force a heterosexual to be gay, see how that one works.

I do know one thing for sure. In scripture, the people who were the least loveable and least desired, were the people Jesus seemed to love the hardest.

I also know that the Greatest Command was to love one another.

Whats going on? What is the Christian community doing? 

Most members, that I know, in the LGBT community believe in God but will not step foot in a church because of previous experiences. They either are not welcomed or they are welcomed and churches begin to try and fix them, "un-gay" them. Can't we just welcome them and love them? <-rhetorical question... yes we can.

The hate has got to go. The mean and belittling comments about the LGBT community need to go too. We all have needed kindness and acceptance in our life at one point. Think about that before you post some offensive rant on the LGBT community. If you are not a member of that community, chances are you have no idea what their struggle is. You may need some kindness one day. Fill your good karma quota, before you fill up your bad karma quota and it gets returned. 

Hey Big Girls, Go on and back it up...

Hey big girls, go on and back it up. Yep. Back it on up in your house, to a mirror, and rethink some of these life choices I see yall making....

Now, before I go on my "Big girl no no" rant let me say a few things. First, I am a big girl. I am not ashamed of who I am. I am all about loving yourself and not placing your worth in your looks. Sometimes, well pretty much all the time, loving yourself means choosing what is BEST for you. Choosing what flatters and compliments you. Be daring, be courageous, but please don't be stupid.

So, lets start with some things going down right now... Lane Bryant and there "progressive" I am no angel marketing campaign. Girl, I know you ain't no angel. I seen you tearing up that cupcake like a ravenous savage. No angel there.  BUT. Wearing a bikini or jumpsuit doesn't mean that you are any less of an angel. It means you stupid. You fell in to some body acceptance movement marketing gimmick and now you walking around looking like the Michelin man's little sister. I have said it before and will say it again, when you take all this big girl loving and smash it in to a jumpsuit or a bikini, you look like someone is strangling a busted can of biscuits.  STOP it!!! No one buys the busted can of biscuits at the Kroger's. They buy the can that looks the prettiest with less dings. Go on over to the dresses and put your biscuits and ham hocks in to a nice aline dress. You will look nice, stylish, sophisticated and not like you belong on the dented can clearance isle. Dress yourself with your worth in mind.

Here is another big girl scenario that makes my jaw drop, my head turn, and my face get all perplexed with worry about your health and comfort, sports cars. GIRRRRRLLLLLL... just because you can crisco up and squeeze your lovely lady lumps into a fiat or z3 does not mean you look good while doing so. I see them knees shifting all your junk up in your throat. I know you suffocating, that's why you had to drop the top on a cloudy 42 degree day. Go get you a nice sedan sized sports car. Relax and push the seat all the way back. No one may get to ride in the back with you but at least you do not look like you are stuck and compacted.  It do not be crute when you can scratch your knee with your teeth because you are so cramped up.

Big girls and heels.....
We have all seen you stumbling in the stilettos while your knees and ankles are webble wobbling against one another. We cannot do it. You can't balance a brick house on a sewing needle. Go get you some wedges or thick heels, so when you walk you know a heel is not going to give out and you aren't going to be booty up on the ground with an abrasion on your lip that looks reminiscent of Hitler's mustache.

We all want to look beautiful and feel beautiful, but just because they make it, does not mean you need it. Compliment yourself instead of constricting yourself to societal norms. Be you because you are beautiful... but not in a jumpsuit, bikini, little bitty sports car or wobbling in high heels.

A true southern introduction.

I am by no means a writer. Occasionally I am pretty funny. I am always 100% southern. I say "yall" and add "bless their heart" to the end of gossip. I know how to fry chicken and you will find me on the back row wrestling a toddler at church on Sunday. I like my hair big and too much lipstick and aaaa too much rogue (<- yes I did insert a cliche line from a country song. Confederate Railroad - I Like My Women Just A Little On The Trashy Side) I think men should drive a truck or at least a vehicle made on a truck chassis. I can make you gravy. SEC football is right under church on the list of importance.

But most of all southern women tell it like it is.

We will tell you look bad in an outfit and somehow you will think we are so kind, sweet, and caring. You won't think we are mean or malicious, and in all honesty we aren't trying to be. We will become friends. You will confide in us. You will ask for our opinions over a glass of wine or a cold bottle of a domestic beer, probably a low calorie or lite one.

Now that you know what southern women are, let me tell you about fat girls, also known as fatty patties, fluffys, big girls, chubby, curvy, or any other synonym you can find for fat. Fat girls are funny. Each of us have our own quirks that make us funny. We over analyze. Some of us are bitter. You know the bitter ones I am talking about, they see a skinny fit girl and instead of getting to know her, they yell out that she needs a cheeseburger and make that face. You know the face I am talking about. The face is a half snarl because she is judging but the top half is day dreaming about assaulting a hamburger with her snarled lips.  I do NOT be her. I mean, if I see a skinny girl and she wants a hamburger, I am gonna get her in the car and we gonna go find McDonald's and indulge (I am not going to deny her) but if she wants some healthy bird food, we can hit up the Panera. This big girl going to get two Panera chocolate chip cookies to go. I think everyone should love themselves and we don't need fatty patties to hate on the skinny girls and vice versa.

So here's more about the actual person writing this blog. My name is Julie. I am young... young-ish. Well. I have not come close to my mid life crisis but I have completed my quarter life crisis. My quarter life crisis landed me a divorce, a seriously unhealthy tolerance for hard liquor, a ton of grey hairs, lots of stories, and best of all, I am the single mom to an amazing little girl. She is definitely making my years to my mid life crisis fun, full of joy and laughter, and hectic as all get out.  I would not change a thing. I am a hair stylist. Also, I am finishing up my degree in accounting. I am double threat. I can make you feel beautiful and show you how to save some dollars. Can I get a yes maam! (And the readers say "Yes Maam!") I yell Hotty Toddy Gosh Almighty in the fall and I am addicted Diet Mountain Dew.

I hope that this is not another thing I start with big intentions but then it falls to the side. I hope that I continue to blog daily, woah... wait... setting the bar way to high. baby steps. I hope that I continue to blog bi-weekly. Yep bi-weekly. I have no idea what my topics may and will be but I can guarantee whatever they be, I will tell alllllllll about it like any true southern fat girl should.

Till "not the next but the next week"

Julie