Change

Change.

If there is no change there can be no progress.

If there is no change we are doomed to repeat the past, never learning, never growing.

Change is imperative.

It’s time for change. Spring has long been the season of rebirth, for obvious reasons. Everything old, dried up, withered away, and brown sprouts lush new life. The Earth erupts in a symphony of glorious color under a bright blue sky.

It’s Spring in my soul.

I’m shedding.


Shedding that which weighs me down. Shedding that which forces its way into my day, bringing negativity and draining my energy. Shedding that which keeps me from moving forward.

I’m turning my face towards the sun light.

As plants begin to dig their way out of the earth and slivers of greenery peek through brown soil, we wonder what beauty we have yet to behold.

Do you see me digging? My new growth peeks out of the rubble, hinting at what lies ahead.

Change.

I embrace it.

Warning: Cute Boys May Be A Detriment To Your Health And Safety

He was sooooooo cute.

I can’t really recall his face today, but he was a wigger, as we said back then (before it was determined to be an un-PC thing to say). I was sixteen and it was the days of Vanilla Ice. Thuggish white boys were my flavor of the week.

I didn’t know him. My best friend M and I hung out at a local pool hall, and I saw him there. I was recently single and M was determined to hook me up so I would move on from my baby daddy. She knew some guys who knew some guys who knew mister cute boy.

One of those guys needed a ride to cute boy’s house, and OHMIGOSH I just happened to have a car. The three of us piled in, me a jumble of nerves and excitement and OHMIGOD does my hair look okay?!

Cute boy was all, “Hey. What up.” when we walked in, and started talking to his friend about going to someone else’s house to pick something up. There was whispered talk among all the guys in the room, and eventually they asked me if I could give them a ride to so-and-so’s house so they could pick up whatever it was that was so important. They told me they were headed to a big fight, and they needed to get their homey.

“Uh, sure. That’s cool.” Giggle giggle swoon “But uhm yanno, I don’t want to, like, be at the actual fight, ok?” Giggle giggle swoon “So, like, I’ll take you as far as picking up your friend then I’m out.” Swoon.

Cute boy convinced me he should drive my car, because he needed to keep up with the guys in the other cars as they led the way. He knew the neighborhood better than me, so it only made sense. I hopped in the backseat behind him as he slid behind the wheel, my best friend M in the passenger seat.

I was a little nervous. I heard the guys talk about guns, and cute boy confirmed they were going to so-and-so’s house to pick up some guns. Then they would head over to the big fight, two towns over. So I just sat in the back seat and swooned, thinking I’d do this little favor and be on my way before the big fight went down.

We ended up in a line of cars three or four long. I didn’t recognize the neighborhood at all. The cars paused, and one by one they slowly made right hand turns, creeping down a side street. We followed, cute boy at the wheel. He turned the cars’ lights off. M and I asked him what was going on and he told us we may want to get down.

Huh?

Gunshots.

What the FUCK?!

M and I threw ourselves on to the floorboard, screaming at him to get the hell out of there. Our caravan raced away and headed out of the neighborhood, M and I still screaming at him to get the hell out of the car and how could he take us here and what the fuck, man.

He brought the car to a stop and M and I shoved him out the door. M hopped into the driver’s seat and hauled ass out of there. We were both shaking and crying and freaking out. We decided we better just go home and lay low. Who knew what the hell was going on. We made a quick stop at a payphone (this was long before the days of cell phones) to call 911 and report gunshots. Cute boy be damned, we were responsible citizens.

I don’t know what really happened that night. Apparently it was a gang thing. One gang split into two, and that’s what the gunshots were about. Who knows. This was before you could google things five seconds after they happened.

I’m not sure if the gang thing is true or not because really, our town was more redneck country boys than gangbangers. So were these real thugs? Or just white boys acting out Boyz n The Hood? I don’t know. But the guns were real. The bullets whizzing past my car were real. This pasty little white girl’s fear was for damn sure real.

Damn cute boys.

I Think We Must Be Poor

It’s amazing to me, the money people spend. Maybe I’m just more mindful of where my pennies go, but I can’t imagine being reckless with our finances. I skim articles in popular women’s magazines, with catchy titles such as, “How to Save $5,000 in 37 Days!” and inevitably I learn nothing. There are no further cuts we could possibly make, with the exception of my monthly Starbucks run. But heaven help the person who tries to mess with my monthly caramel macchiato.

Sometimes I wonder if we just make less money than other families. I look at the Smart Phones people use and the cars they drive and the gadgets they play with and the trips they take…and I don’t get it. We looked into Smart Phones. They seem very useful and fun. The phones themselves can be pretty cheap, but the service? Holy hell, my friend! It would be well over $100 a MONTH for two Smart Phones. No thank you. I’ll stick to my “vintage” flip phone for now.

We went car shopping this weekend and that was another big WTF trip. How the hell do single-income families afford two cars? And I mean nice cars…not the hoopty that costs $3000 on the side of the road. But two nice cars with low mileage and some sort of warranty?

Vacations too! I see people jetting off here and there….tweeting from airplanes and hotel rooms and conferences and theme parks. Granted, many of this is comped in the blogosphere (Ahem, I’m more than willing to sign up for my fair share of that)….but for the rest? I don’t get it. Airfare, hotel rooms, meals, trinkets, conference fees. Good gravy, my family must be poor, I think. Because I cannot comprehend having that kind of money to spend.

We save. A lot. We have a decent sized cushion should something come up. And we also save money towards our future bills. So in that regard, I think we’re different from many families. If our fridge dies tomorrow we can go buy another one, no worries. We also don’t use credit cards. At all. So again, in that regard we’re quite different from most families. Theoretically we could afford the Smart Phones and a second car and a fabulous vacay or two, but then we’d be going into debt, eating up our savings, and living paycheck to paycheck. And I’m just not willing to go there.

Are we mo’ po’ than we realize? Or is everyone else running around with money burning a hole in their pocket? Are we old-fashioned for saving our money?

Six Weeks Of Digging

I am not meant to be fat.

I know none of us are, really. But some people genuinely pull it off well. They don’t seem bothered by their size, and they remain charismatic and happy and beautiful no matter what. I, on the other hand, get swallowed up as the numbers on the scale get higher. It’s almost as if the layers of fat drown my voice, suffocate the essence that is me, and bury me until I am no longer recognizable.

When I’m thin I’m (forgive the old-fashioned term) sassy! I’m outgoing, sarcastic, energetic. I’m a risk taker and always up for an adventure. I’m vocal and speak up for things I believe in. And when I’m thin I wear the cutest outfits, always do my hair and makeup, and strut my stuff wherever I go.

When I’m fat I lose my voice. I’m quiet, lazy, and unmotivated. I don’t want to go anywhere or do anything. I wallow in my own misery, I don’t speak up for anything, and I wear the most boring outfits. I rarely bother with my hair and makeup, and I just want to disappear.

I hate myself when I’m fat.

I love who I am when I’m thin.

Before you start preaching at me that I should love myself no matter how I look, let me assure you this goes far far beyond physical appearance. My happiness isn’t tied to my dress size, even though my size does effect my happiness. It’s difficult to explain when I can’t just plop you inside my brain and show you what I mean. Yes, I feel prettier and more attractive when I’m thin. And naturally, that makes me happier. But it’s deeper than that. I truly feel like a snake shedding my skin as the pounds come off. I don’t even realize how muted I’ve allowed myself to become until I start hearing my voice again. Maybe it’s hormonal (I had a doctor tell me once that when you’re fat you have more estrogen…). I don’t know…but I am not a happy fat person.

These last six weeks I’ve begun to transform. My belly used to be so big that when my son tried to sit on my lap he’d slide off, because he had to basically sit on a fat roll. Now, that roll is gone. My son sits on my actual lap and doesn’t slide once. I can’t begin to put my feelings about that into words powerful enough to convey how I really feel. Six weeks ago I’d catch a glance of myself in a mirror and be disgusted; I looked like I was so swollen I could literally burst from the fat. Now, I still see an overweight person….but I also see hope. I see a body that is changing. I see myself peeking through, and I beckon her to come out.

Six weeks ago I literally spent the bulk of my day sitting on the couch. I had aches and pains and could hardly walk to the mail box. Now I stay busy all day. I clean more. I play with the kids more. I workout almost every day. And this has naturally carried over to my eating habits. Instead of shoveling in whatever food I thought would satisfy my constant cravings, I make mindful food choices. I consciously choose healthier foods, even when I’m dining out. I care more about my body and what goes in it.

I laugh more. I play more. I’m a little more….sassy.

After six weeks of digging I’m starting to find myself under these layers of fat. And I like this girl.

Keeping it real: I owe a HUGE thanks to the folks at KettleWorx for providing me with the KettleWorx Program to review. After six weeks of their grueling workouts, I am shedding those layers of fat for good. Read my review of the KettleWorx Program, and the rest of my personal journey over the last six weeks.

What's Going On Around Here; 02/24/10

I am so excited! I can finally reveal my new writing gig! I'm now a contributor for The Deep South Moms Blog, part of the SV Moms Group! My first post went live today: Signs Of A Southern Spring. I'll be writing over there about twice a month and I hope you'll come visit!

My new Frigidaire Dishwasher will be here FRIDAY ya'll! I can not wait. It's a little ridiculous how crazy happy I am about an appliance, but there you have it. I'll be sure to take lots of pictures to show you how pretty the stainless sweetie is.

I finished my six weeks of KettleWorx. Head on over to my other blog for my review and to see how many inches I lost! And stay tuned here, because I'll be sharing how these past six-weeks changed me in some not so physical ways.

I've got two giveaways going on:
1. H&R Block At Home Deluxe Software (Ends TONIGHT!)
2. Celtic Woman CD Prize Pack  (Ends March 3)

And a few reviews:
1. RockBoom Speaker iPod Case
2. Senseo Coffee Machine

That's what I've been up to...how about you?

Do It Like They Do On The Discovery Channel

I'm a beacon for lewd behavior. Wherever I walk, someone will surely decide to let their freak flag fly high. I've been privy to experiences and demonstrations that would make Lady Gaga blush. Nowhere is my freak magnet stronger than at the zoo. I have seen every animal you can imagine doing the deed, solo or with a partner. (I'm not kidding. I saw a monkey jerk off once. Ask my husband. I'll admit, I stood there longer than a healthy adult woman probably should have. I wanted to take a picture but who wants to be known as the sicko taking pictures of monkeys masturbating?). I've seen monkeys do it, I've seen giraffes do it. And let me tell you, my friend, giraffe sex is not something you can easily forget. (I wanted to take a picture of it, but I didn't want people to think I collected zoo porn).

We went to the zoo a few weeks ago. Jokingly, we speculated about which animals we'd catch in the act. Naturally, the animal freaks came out. But this time? This time I decided to let my own freak flag fly and take pictures! After all, I am a blogger. Which is like one degree of separation from a real journalist, right? So I have an inherent responsibility to bring you this sort of documentation. It's my duty.

First up are the giraffes, those freaks. We were trying to feed lettuce leaves to one of the girls when a dude giraffe sauntered over. 

Poor girl was standing there, trying to nibble her greens, while this punk sniffed her girly parts. I swear, it was as bad as being in a packed club on a Friday night. I felt for this girl. I guess there's horndogs in every species. She tried to wander away and eat elsewhere....

But the dude was relentless. I left before it went any further. Seriously, one viewing of giraffe sex is pretty much all my brain can hold for a lifetime.

Strolling to the kangaroos, I watched almost the same scene play out. Poor little female kangaroo, trying to mind her business, when the horndog male came hopping over to harass her.

But this dude brought his homies. They stood back and watched, waiting to see if he was going to score. Really, no different than human dudes in a club on Friday night. The parallels are pretty ridiculous.

On our way out we passed a few monkeys. They were just laying around, doing nothing in particular. But then one rolled over on to his back, placed his folded arms behind his head, and kicked a leg in the air. The other monkey? Started picking at his crotch. Oh yes, they did.

I grabbed a quick picture and ran away before my husband could see. Because seriously, like I need him getting any crazy ideas from a monkey. Human males are a freaky enough species all on their own.

Valentines Gone By

I remember spending an afternoon decorating that shoebox with construction paper and glue, coloring little hearts and cupids, all the while hoping and wishing that I’d find a Valentine or two from a cute boy tucked inside. I poured my heart into that pink and red construction-papered box. The day of the party my stomach was a nervous mess of butterflies, and I could feel my face burning red. What would I find inside? Was he watching me? Waiting for me to find his card, the card that would tell me he thinks I’m the cutest girl in the class? I almost had an anxiety attack, lifting the glittered lid off the festive box, all my hopes and wishes and self-esteem hanging delicately in the balance….waiting with baited breath on this day, of all days, when I so desperately wanted to be someone’s Valentine…

I remember walking into school that morning, wondering what he had planned. He had a job, and I knew he spent a decent amount of money on his ex-girlfriend, so I had high hopes I’d be on the receiving end of some impressive Valentine gifts. I remember feeling my breath catch a little when he handed me those red roses, candy, and teddy bear. There might have been a balloon too; the details are a little fuzzy. I could barely navigate the halls, clutching my tangible proof that I was indeed someone’s Valentine that year. That? That was love...

I remember waiting in the car while he was in the florist’s. I thought it was a little odd that he’d bring me here, instead of going by himself, but maybe he hadn’t had the time. I couldn’t believe he was going to buy me roses. He wasn’t exactly rolling in the money. He walked back to the car, tossing a receipt on the console, grumbling that he didn’t realize how expensive roses were on Valentine’s Day, so his mom better appreciate them. His mom? My heart sank and I fought the tears away. I wanted to throw up, but forced myself to remain composed. So he got his mom roses. No big deal. I’m the love of his life; surely my gift will be more magnificent than roses. Valentine’s Day arrived and I woke with a jittery tummy. The entire day passed with nary a phone call, flower delivery, or e-card. That evening he presented me with a gift bag, lip gloss and candy haphazardly tossed inside. I thought he loved me…

I never got the adoring Valentine card in my decoupage shoebox. The boy who showered me with roses and candy ended up getting me pregnant at fifteen and running off a few years later. The momma’s boy? I married him. And he has made up for that first Valentines every single day since.

Love is funny. We think it’s going to show up cloaked in hearts and flowers, trailing ribbons of happiness and mushy gushy heart flutters. But sometimes love shows up like a lost dog on your doorstep; dirty, unkempt, not housetrained, and a little obnoxious. If we’re solely focused on show dogs we won’t see the potential beauty of the stray. But if we allow our hearts to be open and are willing to accept someone, flaws and all, we may just find a Valentine better than any we ever imagined.

It Could Be Nothing. Or It Could Be Cancer. But It Could Be Nothing, Too.

I need to go to the Doctor.

I was diagnosed with thyroid troubles back in, oh, the early 90s. Basically I was told, “Hey, your thyroid is a little slow, and you’ll probably have to get on medication for the rest of your life at some point, but we’ll just wait and see, mmkay?” So I waited.

I got settled at FSU and started my first semester of Graduate School. The apartment complex I chose had originally set aside a nice second story apartment for me, but on moving day it wasn’t painted or some stupid thing like that. So they gave me a third story apartment. These were older buildings because I was a struggling Graduate Student with no money for the nice campus apartments and took what I could get so there was no elevator. Just three flights of stairs that doubled back on themselves, so really it was like six flights of stairs. My Grampa and his brother, God bless them, hoisted my heavy ass oak bedroom set up those six flights, on an August summer day, with no AC because I told the power company to turn the lights on in the second floor apartment and it was a Saturday so I couldn’t call and tell them the apartment complex made me move!

Anyway. There’s a point…I swear…

I settled into my Grad School routine, climbing those six flights of stairs at the end of every day, and collapsing on the floor. Literally. I’d climb up to my apartment, shut the door behind me, and fall on the floor, where I’d sleep for a few hours. I thought it was the rigors of Grad school taking their toll. Or the heat and humidity of summer in FL, combined with the insane stair climbing. But no.

It was my thyroid. Knock knock knocking, letting me know it was done and out.

By the time I saw my first endocrinologist, she couldn’t believe I had walked in her office on my own two feet. Apparently, based on my bloodwork, I should have been like, bedridden or something. Unable to walk five feet on my own. My thyroid had completely shut down and was taking my body with it.
After months of gradual medication increases I was stable and back to normal, although it had been so long since I’d known normal I’m not sure I really noticed. Over the last ten years I’ve had my bloodwork done at least once a year, and every once in awhile have needed a little adjustment of my meds (mostly when I’m pregnant). It’s really been the easiest chronic medical condition to manage.

The last week or so, though, I’ve noticed shooting pains in my throat, where my thyroid is. I’ve noticed a thickness…almost a heaviness there. I finally decided last night that I should really go see an endocrinologist again. But I’m terrified. As I sat on the couch last night pondering this decision, thoughts of cancer floated through my mind. Thoughts of scary surgery, leaving a scar across my neck like someone tried to decapitate me. Thoughts of getting really sick and weak and not being able to care for my kids. Then I got scared, because what if I really did get sick like that, and needed chemo or something? Who would watch my babies? Wayne can’t take that much time off work! Who would keep my babies? And then I just shut down. I don’t want to deal with this.

It could be nothing. It could be that I just need a medication adjustment. Or it could be throat cancer (which occurred to me this morning). I really don’t want to know right now. I just want to stay in denial.

But I’ll make the call. Tomorrow.