Seven years bad luck.

I am almost 100% positive that I have been hit with 7 years bad luck.  A few weeks ago, I broke my favorite mirror, one that my dad gave me several Christmases ago.  It’s so sweet and little and says, “Daddy’s Little Girl.”  LOVE.  It is all glass and only a piece of the handle broke off.  But still, as Winnie the Pooh said, “7 years bad luck, oh bother.”

Literally the day after I broke the mirror I found out that several people had been saying less than favorable words about me.  Then I ran out of deodorant.  I’m compulsive about putting deodorant on, as I put it on about 5 times daily, and this is a huge problem for me when I run out.  Then I got sick.  Then my grandfather fell down and broke his ribs.  Then my friend didn’t win in an election yesterday.  THEN I got a B on a test.  Oye.

7 years bad luck?  This is going to be a long 7 years.

However, the whole election thing pissed me off more than usual.  You see, I am a bit jaded in the whole election/campaigning process ever since Jake ran for Vice President of the student body last February.  I have never hated anything as much as I did those few weeks.

Unfortunately, very few of the people that said they would help Jake…didn’t.  I was forced to do a lot of the heavy lifting.  I put his name out there and campaigned like it was nobody’s business.  And guess what?  He lost.  I was so pissed I cried.  It’s hard to accept that someone doesn’t like the person that you love more than anything in the world.  It’s even harder to realize that people don’t like you enough to click on your name.  It’s a tough world out there.

In any event, I hope this bad luck doesn’t last for a whole 7 years.  If it does I am in for a bumpy ride.  I have been trying to figure my life out (as usual) and I think I want to teach preschool.  How am I going to survive on this salary, you ask?  I have no clue.  Hopefully my parents will find a pocket of love in their hearts to help me buy groceries.  The thing is I don’t know how to maneuver this dream of mine.  In a few months I will have a BA in English and I need some sort of degree in Early Childhood Education.  Oh brother. 

Any life suggestions would be wonderful.  In a perfect world, I would teach preschool during the day and then write at night.  No rhyme intended.  I would also cook a fancy dinner every night for Jake.  My obsession with food is only on the rise, thanks to Food Network… and Sonic.  I know this is sick but I LOVE LOVE LOVE Sonic.  I recently have developed a new obsession for French Toast Sticks from Sonic.  I dislike French toast very much but these are nothing like that.  They are like… sticks of funnel cake.  Or deep fried cake.  Or buttery pancake sticks.  It’s just too much.  I’ve already had them twice this week.  If only I had my dad’s metabolism (which I used to have until college, aka Papa John’s) I could eat butter-filled products on a daily basis and never gain a pound.

I have found myself wanting to cook different things recently.  Nothing that I could cook on any regular day.  I want to discover different flavors and use them in crazy ways.  Like using nutmeg in macaroni and cheese.  What?  Can it be done?  Yes.  I am delving into the adventure that is known as French cooking.  Jake loves French food and I am currently taking an independent study French class (which I haven’t done anything for, yet) so I say go big or go home.  Send me recipes and then formulate my life plan of how to become a million-heiress or better, a billion-heiress.  Also, if you read my blog follow me!  I only have like 12 followers and I find that really embarrassing.

Love y’all.  

My fears.

I have so many fears.  My mom said I was a bit of a scared child, but she was too.  It must be genetic.  One of my biggest and socially weird fears is that I am deathly afraid of mentally retarded people.  This is weird, I know.  But I have a reason.  (I am NOT being insensitive to those with mental problems.  My cousin is mentally disabled.  Don’t even think about it.)

When I was 3 I used to always go with my grandmother to the Methodist church with her to pick up flowers and then take them to the hospital to congregants that were ill.  When she would get the flowers in the kitchen I would sing hymns on the stage into the microphone.  I’ve always been a bit of a drama queen.

One day, Grandmom and I took the flowers to the hospital as usual.  I think we were on a psychiatric floor or something because I remember a giant man in a hospital gown run towards me as Grandmom was speaking with a patient.  “How are you feeling?” she asked.  The man doubled over and grabbed my little three-year-old body and went running with me.  HE TRIED TO KIDNAP ME.  True life, this happened.  I was screaming and crying as he clenched his fists on my scrawny arms.  I remember looking back and seeing Grandmom come after me, with a look of terror in her eyes.

In the end, the man was tackled and the hospital staff recovered me.  That was a close one.  Ever since then, I have been cautious around those that are mentally handicapped.  I didn’t realize this was the reason until recently.  The reason I am fearful of them is because you never quite know what they’re going to do.  It’s strange because I have no problem with any type of children, but adults that cannot handle themselves in a social setting makes me shake in my boots.

I’m trying to be as politically correct as possible so don’t say I’m prejudiced or rude or anything.  This is a legitimate fear and that is all I am sharing.

Maybe this instance was why I have always been paranoid that I am going to be kidnapped.  Lucky I got out of that one.  I have always been so completely scared of someone breaking into any house I am in and quietly taking me away.  This fear was put on steroids when a girl I knew when I was little was kidnapped and murdered.  Her name was Casey.  She ran out of gas on the highway and was only a mile from a gas station.  A man offered her a ride to the gas station.  Then, he murdered her.

Ever since this happened my paranoia has been on full blast.  I am wide awake if I hear a noise.  I check 3 times to make sure the doors are locked.  Oh boy…

I had a lot of death in my life when I was little.  When I was 7 my great-grandfather died.  When I was 10 my grandmother died.  I miss her so much.  When I was 14 my grandfather died.  When I was 15 my great-uncle died.  When I was 18 my grandmother died.  When I was 18 a girl that I went to school with, one that I looked up to tremendously, committed suicide.  When I was 19 my great-aunt died.  When I was 20 Susan died.  This is a lot of death to deal with in just 20 years.  Ever since Susan died I have been obsessively paranoid that someone even closer to be is going to die.  Day and night I think about it.  Sometimes I even tear up thinking about what I would do if my mom or dad died.  Why am I so fixated on death?  I’m not a psychologist.  All I know is that I pray everyday to keep the people around me just one more day. 

These are my fears.  Are they irrational?  Maybe for you, but not for me.

Wishing, and hoping, and planning, and dreaming...

I am beyond ready for fall and winter.  As we all know, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.  It is wonderful for countless reasons but most notably because of… MY BIRTHDAY.  3 days after the birthday of our old pal, Jesus.

I’m tired of all this hot weather.  Nobody looks cute wet from sweat (no rhyme intended).  I’m ready for scarves and jeans and boots, oh my!  There’s always a feeling in the air when the temperature gets cooler.  I find myself suffering from giddiness.

The cure for giddiness is more cowbell.  After more cowbell comes cabernet sauvignon.  Something about the icy wind chapping my cheeks makes me crave turtlenecks and red wine.  I’m not a red wine drinker (pinot grigio, please!) but during winter I just can’t help myself.  I am constantly red faced and purple toothed.  It calls to me.

I have always liked to be embraced and cuddled.  My parents were always very cuddly with me and just because I’m a quasi-adult female I’m supposed to not like it anymore?  Nice try, society.  Winter is the perfect time for cuddling.  A blanket is much warmer with two bodies under it instead of just one.  In my opinion, winter is the worst time to be single, not spring.

My absolute favorite thing to do during the Christmas season is to go to this garden right by my lake house to see the Christmas lights.  It sounds lame but the lights are AMAZING.  They have already started setting them up now, if that gives you any kind of idea.  That's where we always take our Christmas card, which is usually just me.  Awkward.  Thankfully my mom has started employing my brother and sister's children so I won't be a lone ranger in the picture.  The best part of the lights (besides the lights themselves) is that that serve hot apple cider, hot chocolate, and marshmallows for you to roast on the fire.  How enchanting! 

The winter I turned 13 there was an ice storm that shook central Arkansas right to its core.  We went without electricity for 10 days.  It really sucked.  The line at Home Depot to get a generator was out the door, literally.  I slept with my parents the whole time because the downstairs of our house gets really creepy at night and during power outages.  I remember lying in bed awake one night, next to my mom, and heard a huge burst of thunder followed by a blue light.  It was a transformer blowing outside.  It really gave me the willies and I shivered with fear and cold.  I wasn’t the only one who wanted to be held that winter.

There were more babies born in September (count it, 9 months after December) that year than Arkansas has ever seen.  I know this because our next-door neighbor is a baby doctor.  He didn’t get to see one razorback game that year.

The moral of the story?  No one likes to sleep alone, especially when it's cold...