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...

A hair-brained idea.

I am currently in the middle of an existential crisis.  Why you ask?  Where is my life going?  I do not know.  Does my life at its current stage have any meaning whatsoever? 

I am struggling between a few completely different directions in which my life could go.  Do I want to have the wonderfully artistic lifestyle of which I have always dreamt (being a writer)?  Or do I want to be the power suit wearing, ball busting, career woman I know that I could be?  Or should I choose my dream of dreams: teaching preschool (eating canned beans for dinner and living in a cardboard box, literally)?  This is my crisis.  Where is my life going?!?!!?!?!?!

Am I the only one feeling this way?  Hello out there…….. I feel like I’m floating in outer space yelling into the blackness that is the universe.  Can anyone hear me?

Since my whole “Writing for Children” plan of graduate school didn’t work out I’m looking elsewhere.  I never believed that I would say this, but I’m thinking about going to the University of Arkansas: the old family stomping grounds.  Turns out they have a really great creative writing program so I’m going to test the waters.

Every time I go to Fayetteville I feel as if I am somehow more connected to my father.  He went to Arkansas and apparently was quite the party animal.  Maybe that’s where I get it (even though I didn’t go out this weekend, sleeping is higher on my list of things to do).  One of my favorite things to do is hear of stories of crazy things my dad did whilst living the collegiate life.

My Mom lived there too supporting her loser of an ex-husband through law school.  She got lucky meeting my dad because from what I heard around town, this guy was a real champ.  And by champ I mean Freak with a capital F.  Not to mention a lying, cheating, adulterer.  But that's neither here not there. 

My Mom has thousands of interesting stories from when she was between men (i.e. time between her ex and my dad) but one of my favorites is this one (this is for you, Charlotte):

This huge creep asked my Mom on a date.  Being the lady that she is, she accepted (I wouldn’t have).  Before the date, one of her friend’s husband’s came and knocked on her classroom door (she taught sixth grade) and told her that this fine specimen wanted to take her out to a Razorback game (woo pig sooie) and had just bought a new leather flight jacket.  Not only is being single after 9 years and 49 weeks of marriage bad enough, this guy was awful, just awful.  Clearly.  That night, when my Mom gets home from school her phone is ringing.  It’s Tommy.  He says, “So, I heard you want to go out with me.”  Wow.  Then he continues, “I want to take you out.”  Mom says, “That would be nice, Tommy.  I would like that sometime.” 

“No, I want to take you out tonight.” 

“Well, I’m sorry but I teach a class until 9 tonight.”

“I’ll pick you up at 9:15.”

 So this guy rolls up in one of those half truck half car, you know what I’m talking about.  He asks Mom if she likes his jacket.  Before she knows what is happening, they are at Shoney’s.  What a wonderful and romantic place for a date, right?  He tells her she can order anything she wants.  Gee, thanks.  What a big spender.  The waitress comes over says hello and asks, “Would you like the usual?”  The manager then comes over and Tommy stands up.  They take turns looking at my Mom until Tommy says, “Isn’t she beautiful?” he says about my Mom.  Sweet, but creepy.  Then, he holds his bangs up and says, “Can you tell I’ve had a hair transplant?”  My Mom relates his head to that of a Barbie Doll. 

And that, my friends, is why to never date a man with hair plugs. 

Should we go to Lynwood Correctional Facility tonight or Nobu?

I haven’t always had a problem with authority; it only blossomed when I developed a bit of an attitude.  Puberty wasn’t good to me.  I was given a pimply face, a chunky exterior, and a sizzling attitude.  In retrospect, I feel horribly bad for my parents.  I was such a bitch, simply put. 

There is where it all began.

My problems with authority have only gotten worse with age.  As my mental capacity increases, so does my attitude.  Sometimes I think I know more than other people and that seems to be a problem.  I am what I like to call feisty.  A feisty feline.  I was never really into the whole team sports thing and then I really wasn’t once the terrible teens arrived.  I have never liked it when someone told me what to do and they weren’t willing to do the same.  This especially goes for physical activity.  I once told my tennis coach to run a mile and then I would.  Literally.  Then he threw a tennis ball at the back of my head.  He was a ginger, enough said.

I’m a stubborn gal and when someone tells me that I can’t do something, it makes me want to do it more.  Just call me Scarlett O.

Being in a sorority doesn’t help with my stick-it-to-de-man-neosis.  When they tell me to do something I always want to do the complete opposite.  Sometimes I am able to drown out this voice but sometimes I cannot.  Sometimes I feel a magnetic pull to do the exact opposite of what those in charge tell me to do.  Why is this?  Maybe I am a rebel…

Through my rebellious ways, I feel as if Lindsay Lohan is a child after my own heart.  She just can’t seem to follow the rules, can she?  What is so difficult about not drinking alcohol when there is an alcohol-monitoring bracelet on your ankle; an anklet, if you will.  Oh, that’s right, I forgot, she’s an alcoholic.  If I pulled all the shenanigans that she has pulled in the past few years, you better believe my tail feathers would be locked up in a sobriety tank. 

What’s annoying about the whole Lindsay Lohan thing is that her parents blame each other instead of blaming the culprit: Linz herself.  It really isn’t difficult to not do cocaine.  Believe me, I’ve mastered 21 years of staying away from it.  Poor Lindsay just doesn’t know when to stop.  It all went downhill after The Parent Trap.  A smashing film that I still know every line to.

I will give Lindsay the benefit that her parents are both crazier than two parakeets locked up in a cage together.  Did you ever watch that show about Lindsay’s family on E!?  I feel bad for the brother.  He seemed quasi-normal and the rest of them need to be locked up.  I feel as if Lindsay is going in the Britney direction of things and I think we all remember how that ended.  Bald-headed and baby-less.

I also feel a semblance of a kinship with Alexis Neiers from E!’s Pretty Wild.  The girl just can’t seem to get a break.  Actually, scratch that.  She can’t get a break because she burgled Orlando Bloom’s home and got caught.  Um, DUH!  It is clear that these girls are exactly the next Bronte sisters, but I would have thought she was smarter than that. 

The best part about the Alexis Neiers saga is that she exclaims how innocent she is, time and time again.  This confuses me since she was in jail for one month, next to our gal pal Lindz.  Why must you not tell the truth Alexis?  Maybe she’s scared her sexy Spaniard of a lover will jump ship.  On the show, though, he didn’t seem to mind her future jailbird status, which is questionable. 

Has everyone in LA been to that jail?  I almost feel left out... ALMOST.

Lil Wayne, wanna be my boyfriend?

I have recently (in the past 3 years of college…I’ve been in college for 3 years?!!) developed a passion, nay, an obsession for rap music.  The other day on VH1 I saw an interview with a producer in the music biz.  He said that there is a completely new demographic that has developed for the rap/hip-hop genre: white kids.

21 year old, rhythmically challenged, booty shakin’ white girls.  This would mean: me.  I have never been much of a dancer, which I think is because I’m so tall and have such tiny feet (5’8”, size 6 shoe).  You know how horses sometimes get tangled within their own feet?  That’s me.  I was voted the least likely to know every word to “I’m Single” by Lil Wayne on Friday night by my friends.  But guess what?  I did.

I believe my obsession with rap music and all that it entails began my sophomore year of college when we were told that T.I. would be going to jail.  I didn’t really think anything of it until I started watching his show on MTV, “T.I.’s Road to Redemption.”  What a heart melter that show was.  I may or may not have cried once or twice. 

T.I. was arrested and sentenced to hardcore jail time because cops (aka high school heroes looking for balls to bust) found a few guns in his house.  Ok, there were more than a few guns but that doesn’t matter.  What matters is the story.  After a late night bar brawl in Cincinnati, some hardcore dudes followed T.I. and his besties in a bit of a car chase.  The bad guys were shooting guns in T.I.’s direction.  They were all ducking and covering but a few of the bullets hit Philant Johnson, aka Phil.  Phillly was T.I.’s BFF, personal assistant, AND a worker for Grand Hustle Records. 

T.I. became obsessed with keeping his friends and family safe after this horrible tragedy.  I know he shouldn’t have had the guns, but what’s a boy to do?  He was trying to keep his children and fiancé safe!  In addition to his 1,000 hours of community service, T.I. did 864 extra hours through his television show.

Guess where T.I. was in jail?  Forrest City, Arkansas.  This is a town that is only an hour or so from my hometown.  I begged my parents to let me go see him to no avail.  I wonder if I had just walked in there they would have let me chat with him.  I also though about writing him a letter.  “Dear T.I., I’m sorry you’re in jail but at least you aren’t Dead and Gone.  I hope they let you do Whatever You Like.  I hope when you get out of jail you can still Live Your Life.”  I never wrote this letter but have always been pleased with how clever I am.  He was in the federal, white collar prison so I’m pretty sure he did fine.

To further my obsession, a few weeks ago I watched the Behind the Music: Lil Wayne.  Oh. My. God.  Even though he’s a little shorty (I have a HUGE problem with short men, mainly because I tower over them and it’s awkward) he’s a cutie with a booty.  I could probably give you a play by play of the whole show.  He loves his weed, that’s for sure.  He was sucking on a bleezy aka a blunt the whole time.  He also discussed his love for purple drank, purple sprite, or sizurp aka cough syrup in a cup.  “You shouldn’t care what’s in my cup.  It doesn’t matter if it’s heroine in there.  It’s my cup.” 

What is so amazing to be about Lil Weezy is that he doesn’t write any of his lyrics down!  He used to, until he realized he was too good for those shenanigans.  The last time he wrote anything down, he recorded every lyric he had written in his notebook at the time.  Supposedly on the tape you can hear him ripping the pages out of his notebook as he continuously rapped for 45 minutes.  Holy balls, that is a long time.  After this, he never wrote anything down. 

For the love of everything sacred, even if you don’t like rap music, please listen to at least one of his songs.  He doesn’t write anything down.  Do you get that?!  He is a true artist.  He just pulls these amazing and sometimes hilarious phrases out of his head.  Might I make a suggestion of which songs to try out?  My faves are: A Milli (which Jake called A Thousand), Mr. Carter, Lollipop(Remix), and I particularly love his No Ceilings Mixtape of which my favorite tune is his re-do of I’ve Got a Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas. 

“Party on the beach,

Pa - party on the beach,

Party animal baby let me of the leash,

I got my weed from the west,

My pills from the east,

And 2 bottles of goose that's geese.”

He’s funny and what’s even better about Lil Wayne is that he knows just how clever he is.  Sometimes he even laughs.  I picture him being like, “Yeah, I’m that good.”  I wonder what Lil Wayne would say if he saw June and I getting ready to go out while listening to his tunes.  She throws out her favorite lines here and there while I virtually quote his every line.  I think he would laugh and think we’re awesomely cool ladies.  He might even take us out for a little drinkie.

“I was drinking when I came

When I got here I did the same

I don’t like beer I like champagne

So cheers to Lil Wayne.”

I like champagne too, Lil Wayne, I have a bottle in my fridge.  Wanna come over for a drink?  I’ll pop some champagne like we won the championship game.  Cause I ball hard, no bitch we ball harder. 

For Susan.

One year ago today we lost an angel that was bestowed to us on earth: Susan.  People say it gets easier with time, I find it gets more difficult.  With every milestone I find myself silently wishing, “I wish Susan were here.”  Sometimes I’m sad, sometimes I’m angry.  Why my friend?  Why did she have to be the one that was taken? 

I have come to peace with the fact that I will never know what truly happened that fateful night.  All I can do is miss her and remember her.  Susan’s mom told us to never forget her… Is that even possible?  I don’t think so.  She was the light of our lives.

The day that Susan died my wonderful saint of a godmother called me.  This is what she said: “Anna, maybe God knew that Susan wasn’t going to have a long life.  Maybe he knew that she would be gone before it was her time.  He knew this and he wanted to let her meet and influence as many people as she could while she was still here.  Even though it was a short time with her, He wanted you to have that special time.”  I think she was right.

This is for her…

For Susan

            Her lips came together in the middle like a heart.  The outside of her lips curled upwards so it always looked like she was smiling, even when she wasn’t.  The color on her lips was always the same, a color that was like a hybrid between a peach bred with a coral.  It was her color.  Her skin was always a deep golden, even in January.  Some said it was her heart showing through her skin, others said she was just that beautiful. 

            Susan was everyone’s best friend, until she wasn’t anymore.  Until she wasn’t anything anymore. 

            Susan liked to dance and smile.  But more than anything she liked to love.  She loved him and she loved them.  All of them.  She showed her love like she showed her teeth when she smiled, wide and unafraid.  She wasn’t afraid to tell someone that she loved them.  In fact, she told everyone quite often.  If they didn’t say it back, she said it again, just to make sure they heard. 

            It was the summer.  The air was hot and thick like summers in Mississippi always are.  They baked in the sun so they could look like her: warm-skinned and glowing.  They roasted, sticky and wet.  They talked about their loves found and loves lost.  They didn’t cry, they just laughed.  They couldn’t cry, everything was too perfect. 

            They danced at night and laughed in the morning, remembering the beauty in their lives.  They ate pizza as if it had no calories, and laughed out loud.  Then they didn’t laugh anymore.

            The end of summer was near and they felt it.  It was their last bit of excitement before it all began again.  They lived harder than they ever had and knew it was all about to change.  They knew it was the best summer they would have for some time.  They took it all in, danced until their feet throbbed and laughed until their bellies ached.

            They all cried, some softly weeping, some loudly sobbing.  He sat with the family, where she wanted him to be.  They didn’t understand but they cried anyway.  It smelled of the roses they brought.  They were white.  She didn’t get to see them.

            Her parents stared at the casket before them as the tears flowed, just as they had before.  They had done it all before.  They were numb.

            They ate for the first time since it happened.  The ladies cooked them lunch.  None of them looked the way they thought they did.  Mascara slipping sideways.  They said “thank you” and left.  Where were they to go?  What were they to do?  No one knew.  They just drove.

            They cried for her.  They danced for her.  They sang for her.  They remembered her.  For a year there was a lump in their throats.  They tried to go on living, but wished she were there every moment.

            Susan was everyone’s best friend.