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.