Friday, June 18, 2010

“Didn’t they do that on Glee?”

Last night was karaoke night with two of my favorite people.  That’s what I asked after almost every song, because 9 times out of 10, the answer was yes.   After the day I’d had it was  a much needed night out.  Honestly, I can’t remember the last night I’ve been out since my birthday in March.  I’ve had and been to some parties, yes, but haven’t been out.  Just realized that.  Hmm.

Last night.  Karaoke.  Right. 

IMG_0156eI love her even if she is a Longhorn

Melodie.  My soap tweeting, Glee loving, calculator harassing Melodie.  I love this girl to pieces even if she up and went away to college.


IMG_0177eI’m going to the mall Monday.”
“You’re going to Guatemala?”
“Yes, Tia.  Guatemala.”

Then there’s my Tia.  There isn’t much to say about this girl, other than to know her is to love her.  And love her I do!  (Especially when she makes me look like less of a blonde.)

We had fun, even though I’ve decided that sober people who can sing totally ruin it for us drunkards who can’t.  Even though I didn’t get drunk.  Or sing.  I’m pretty sure they were happy, too because last time I was there I sang “Oops!…I Did it Again”  That drunk.

At least I wasn’t doing yoga on the floor like my Spanish teacher from sophomore  and junior year was.  That’s something I’d rather not try and figure out, quite frankly. 

As much fun as I had, we kept running into people we graduated with.  People who are now married, engaged or married and expecting their third kid.

That’s what sucks about living in a small town.  You can’t escape.  Everywhere you go there’s someone you know.  I have a huge problem with them.  When you wouldn’t even as much give me the time of day when we were in high school, don’t come talk to me like we’re long lost friends.  Maybe they’ve changed and maybe they’re trying to be nice, I know, but there’s a big difference in being nice and being fake.

I can’t stand fake.

I’m getting so sick of this town.  I’d love nothing more than to pack up and move away somewhere, but my family is here and I just don’t know that I would be okay with being away from them.  Maybe that will change when I get married and start a family.  Maybe that will change once I finish school and can afford to live on my own.  I don’t know.

What I do know is what I want my life to be like when I finally finish growing up and settle down.  I want a big house with big windows, a wrap around porch and a bright red door.  I want a big, spacious kitchen with lots of light, glass door cabinets and counter space.

I want lots of land with a pond and animals.  Chickens, horses, cows, goats, dogs, ducks, pigs.  I want lots of animals and four wheelers for the kids to play on.  I want them to go outside and play only to come in because they have to, not because they want to.  I want my kids to know what it’s like to play outside instead of spending it in front of the TV all day.

I want to have the house that all my friends and kids’ friends want to be at.

I know what I want and know that it’s all things that can easily reached with some hard work and sacrifices.  All I need to do is find someone who shares the same dreams and wants to share them with me.

I don’t want to end up being the crazy old lady with cats.  I really don’t like cats.

Thursday, June 17, 2010


I had every intention of coming home last night, adding pictures and posting Alex’s letter.  However, that was before I attended a party for an 11 year old that consisted of two kids,  four family members and thirteen of his mother’s friends. 

I was so uncomfortable (and hot!  Outdoor parties and June don’t mix well in Texas.) that I drank a really big margarita.(I have a picture comparing it to the size of a seven year old’s head, but I’m pretty sure posting that picture would be illegal in all 50 states!)


 IMG_0586e Vodka+rum+tequila+Blue Curacao+Red Bull=YUM!


It blew my mind that a mother could do that to her own son; to last minute throw together a party at a restaurant he didn’t even like and invite more people for her than for him.  It was his birthday.  Not some excuse for you to invite all your friends and try to prove how good of a mother you are.

I really, really, really want to talk about the fact that only one person from her side of the family willingly talked to me and the only time my own sister talked to me was to ask me what kind of margarita I got, but I won’t. 

I’ve overheard once or twice that they don’t like me because I act like I’m better than them.  My thoughts?  Rude and trashy is still rude and trashy, regardless of how well you try and hide it.

I’ve probably said too much and anymore would be tacky.  Momma raised me better than that so I’ll shut my mouth for now.

All I can say is that I hope karma is one hell of a bitch!

Happy Birthday, Bubs!

Dude, I can’t believe you’re 11 today.  ELEVEN!  It isn’t possible.  It was just yesterday that we piled in the van to go to church and made a detour to the hospital.  I was the same age you are today.


IMG_1207 Coming home from vacation
2 days shy of 11


You were a sneaky little fart, still are, and had made us think you were coming three times already.  Three exciting trips to the hospital only to come home without you.  The last time you made us miss the last thirty minutes of some Star Wars movie, whichever one was in theatres the Summer of ‘99, because we thought you were coming.  You weren’t.

Going to the hospital that Wednesday night, I honestly didn’t think you were going to come.  In my eleven year old mind, you hadn’t come the three times before, so why would you come out now?  I mean, you were obviously comfortable in there, duh!

I remember when we found out Dee was pregnant with you.  I was so excited!  I had a little sister and all I wanted was a little brother!  I just knew you were going to be a boy!  We would have loved you just as much, boy or girl, but I think we all knew you were going to a boy.  Heck, we didn’t even  have any girl names picked out for you. 

If Sissy had been a boy four years earlier she would have been Christian Alexander.  Obviously she wasn’t a boy, but Dee and Daddie liked the name so it was now yours.  We called you that even before we saw your little twig and berries in the ultrasound. 

I was so excited to have a little brother!  I ran to school telling everyone I saw that I was going to have a boy.  I had already decided that you were going to be my baby.  I loved taking care of Sissy when she was a baby, but this time it would be different.  I would be older and could remember more.  I could do more besides feed you and go fetch diapers.  I could hold you, rock you, feed you bottles, change your stinky butt and even bathe you.

You were my real, live baby doll.

After a lot of talking and debating, and probably a lot of whining on my part, it was decided that Charlotte and I were going to be in the delivery room when you were born.  Charlotte wasn’t excited, but I was.  Some kids would be freaked out, but not me.  I was thrilled that I was going to be one of the first people to see you.  I’d get to hear you cry for the first time and see Daddie cut the cord.  It was perfect.

Besides doctors and nurses, I was the third person to hold you.  Your mom.  Daddie.  Me.  I felt so special.

You stayed the normal amount of time in the hospital and then you finally got to come home.  That was the part I couldn’t wait for.  I literally ran out of the hospital doors to get in the back of the van so I could sit by you.  I didn’t care that they lady behind the desk was yelling at me. I just knew the world was going to end if I didn’t get to sit by you on the way home.

I got to sit by you, the world didn’t end and all was well.

I know you don’t remember when Dee broke her leg, you were only a few months old, but I was secretly happy after we found out she was okay.  See, Daddie traveled a lot for work back then and I knew that she wasn’t going to walk for a while which meant I could take care of you.

From the time I got off the bus in the afternoon, until the time I got back on in the morning, I was a Momma Hen.  I did everything short of breast feed you.  If I went outside to hang out with the neighborhood boys, you got put in your stroller and tagged along.  I loved it.

You were a cool kid.  You learned to crawl by us waving the cordless phone in front of you.  You learned to walk on your own though.  You learned to talk (even though now I sometimes wonder what the heck we were thinking).  You knew us all apart and could point us out in pictures.  Momma.  Daddie.  K-K, Cha-Cha, Ari-anna.

I even taught you your first knock-knock joke on the way home from vacation one year.

Who’s there?
Boo who?
No cry K-K!  No cry!

I could go on and on with stories about you.  I was old enough to know what was happening while you grew up and I got to enjoy it.  We were buddies back then, you and me.  Still are.


Please stay silly.

I know we fight and argue.  You yell at me that I’m not your mom and need to stop correcting you.  I yell back that no, I’m not your mom, but I know what’s best so just do it.  We argue over food because you think a bag of mashed potatoes for an afternoon snack is okay and I try to tell you it’s not. 

You need a bag of chips or some popcorn, not a whole bag of instant potatoes.  You don’t care though and do it anyway, just to spite me.

You eat chicken nuggets, fries, popcorn, red beans and rice, dirty rice,  chips on cheese, meat nachos, meat only tacos and recently instant potatoes and Popeye’s shrimp.  That and lots of junk food.  You’ll east pasta, love biscuits and eat cheese, yet you won’t try pizza.  You’re a weird little fart, but you fit right in.


IMG_0291e Rock on, dude.  Rock on!

You’re all boy, there’s not doubt about that.  You’re a green belt in Tae-Kwon-Doe.  You got moved up a year in baseball and even made All-Stars again.  You love UFC and can name every wrestler and their specials, but can’t remember your spelling words for the life of you.

I look at you and am amazed at how good of a kid you are.  With all the things you’ve been through the past eighteen months, it’s incredible.  Sure you’re annoying at times.  You tend to be over bearing when you want to do something and have become quite the little smartass, although you don’t quite know the right times to use it.  I’ll teach you the correct times to use it, don’t worry.  But just so you know, when Daddie’s vein is popping out the side of his head and he’s mad, it isn’t the best time, bud.

You know more about computers than I did at your age and have become quite the little texter.  By the way, I’m sorry I put that lock code on my iPhone, but I really don’t need you sending my male friends texts that I’m in love with them.  I have enough problems with boys as it is.

I love coming home when you know I’ve gone out.  you tell me you’ll stay up to make sure I get in safe, but I know as soon as I unlock the door and stumble in, you’ll be fast asleep on the couch playing Step Brothers on a loop from the DVR for me.  You know that’s the movie I play when I want to go to sleep.

You may be stubborn and hard headed, have an attitude and back talk, but you’re also a sweet, baby loving, puppy cuddling, tender hearted little boy.  I wish you could stay little forever, thinking girls are gross and watching Disney Channel.  I know soon enough though you’ll be watching MTV and not complain when I want to watch America’s Next Top Model because the models won’t be so icky anymore.

No matter how old you get or the choices that you make.  I want you to know that I love you.  I hope we only grow closer as the years pass and I hope you still make fun of the way I say things. 

We were headed home in the car the other day and you had an idea*.  By the time you graduate high school in 2017 (HOLY CRAP, BATMAN!), I’ll be 29 and have my college degree.  You want to go to college at LSU, but don’t want to be so far away from the family.  You’ll also need family cheering you on at all the home games when you play football.  You know for a fact that I’ll be married and have two kids by then so your plan is for me, my husband and kids to buy a house and move to Baton Rouge with you.  That way Daddie doesn’t have to pay for you to stay in the dorms and you can babysit your niece and nephew on the weekends while my husband and I go out.  But only when it isn’t football season and only until you’re 21.  Then we’ll have to take turns going out every other weekend. 

I realize you’re only 11 and don’t really mean that, but I never felt more loved by you as I did then.  You had made plans for your future and wanted my family and I to be a part of it.  Not Momma or Daddie; not Charlotte or Adrianna.  Me. 

I hope that never changes.  I love you, Bubs.  After all you are my favorite little brother!


IMG_0537e Daddie and The Birthday Boy


*If you ask me, it’s the best idea you’ve ever had.  It may never happen, and if not.  Oh well.  We’ll have plenty of other memories to make.  Don’t worry though.  I’ll make sure that my husband knows about your plan and agrees to it before we even get married.  If he says no, I’ll simply reply with your favorite song and phrase, “No Hablo Ingles.”  I love you that much, kiddo.

Monday, June 7, 2010

The One in Which I Use Too Many Parentheses (Sorry!)

I’ve been driving very, very carefully the past week.  Not only because, you know, you stay alive that way, but because my windshield looks like this:

photo I erased all my bidness to stay safe!

Oh, yes ma’am.  My registration tag is out.  Normally this wouldn’t be a problem.  I’d pay the extra $1 to mail in my form (Because hello!  Who actually wants to fight the parking and medal detectors at the court house, even in this podunk town?) and all would be well, but who said I was ever normal?

See, Granddad bought the car for me.  Truth be told, he bought me Tina, my first car, too.  (During the last hurricane evacuation, I came home to find that she had sat on the street and survived Ike so I named her Tina.  And you people thought I wasn’t clever!)  Sadly, after surviving three wrecks, (Whoops!) she went to Buick heaven when Bambi decided to commit suicide and smashed the hood in.

His brother happens to have many hobbies.  Buying wrecked cars and fixing them up to sell just happens to be one of these so luckily, it isn’t a big deal.  Granddad followed suit and has his dealer license now.  You know, to go along with a construction company, 6 apartment complexes, a second company in Mississippi, two houses and multiple planes.  Because why drive the 8 hours when you can get your pilot’s license, hop in your plane and fly there in two!  (It came in handy when we evacuated, but that’s another story.)

I digress.  You see, because he bought me the car, the title isn’t in his name or mine, but in Uncle Tom’s.  After asking multiple times what we need to to do transfer the title, he finally gave me the paperwork because my tags were about to expire. 

Apparently you have to pay taxes on what you pay for the car and it’s going to cost me $350 to get everything transferred.  Did I mention that I just got my hours cut at the above mentioned construction company and that’s now the equivalent to three (!) paychecks. 

All that safe driving meant nothing when I came home to find this in the driveway:

IMG_1076 I edited this one to keep from going to jail!

(Can you even go to jail for posting a picture of a police car?  I mean, would they actually care?  Knowing my luck, someone would find it and I’d have a criminal record all because I took a picture of a police car on the Internet.  I’ll just stick with editing everything but “POLICE” off the car, just in case!)

I had plans to go take of everything this afternoon, but that didn’t happen, because I “over react about the littlest things and have a pissy attitude” and can just wait. 

I’m sorry for planning my whole week around taking care of this today because we talked about it last night.  I’ll be more than happy to put everything else on hold because you decide I should suffer.  I’ve finally cracked from letting everything this past week build up and broke down crying, but don’t bother trying to let me explain that.  Go ahead and tell me how rude and ungrateful I’m being.

I’ll just be in the corner sucking my thumb, having a nervous breakdown.

Needless to say, God has a funny sense of humor.  Not only because of my aunt being here when I came home, but because there’s nothing I’d love more right now than to get in my car and just drive.  Which, yeah.  See?  Sense of humor.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

I suck at titles.

This whole being a twenty-something young adult (I guess?) is hard.  I love, love, love all the freedoms that come with it, but I hate, hate, hate all the responsibility.  I’m out of high school, but still in college.  I don’t have my parents financial support anymore, yet I’m struggling to make it on my own.

I feel so lost.  Every time I turn around, someone from my class, or younger, is getting married and having babies.  Had I not been such a dumbass, I could have already gotten my two year degree and be working towards my nursing degree.  Some days I wish that I could go back and change it all.  Go back and go to school instead of getting drunk and skipping class.  Not date a drug addict/alcoholic. 

I would have realized that it wasn’t my fault my step sister tried to kill herself.  She was drunk when she told me, “My little sister can have all my things if I kill myself tonight.”  I had no way of knowing she really was going to try.  There was nothing I could have done.  I know this, deep down, yet I still feel guilty.  She never took responsibility for that.  Never apologized for having seizures as my then twelve year old sister held her as she over dosed. 

None of this was my fault.  I should have gotten out of bed and gone to school.  I shouldn’t have let it get the best of me.  But it did.  I chickened out and gave in.  It was so much easier to go get drunk and sleep the day away.  It took away the guilt and pain.

None of the numerous things that were going on were anything that I could have changed, yet I felt hopeless and sad.  I flunked out of four classes because of this.  I get so pissed at myself for being so stupid, but most days, I’m glad.  Had I not gone through this and not had to pay my school back $750, I wouldn’t have learned the lesson I did.

Because of that mistake, I know how badly I want to finish college.  I know how much I want to finish and get on with my life; how I want to get my degree and start being an adult.

I’m also a hypocrite, because as much as I say I want to finish and be an adult it scares the ever living hell out of me.  All I’ve ever wanted to do was get married and become a mom, but what happens when I finally reach that goal.  I have a hard time walking into a crowded room of people I don’t know without having an anxiety attack.  How in the world am I going to find a husband, much less take care of another person?  A person so small and fragile that I they can’t tell me what they want, what they need.

I know that these are things that are in my future five or ten years from now, but these are the things that keep me awake at night.  The things that I have to make myself stop thinking about so I’ll be able to breathe.  So I can stop having panic attacks and function like a normal human being. 

I’ve learned to deal with my attacks.  Most of the time I can get them under control and no one knows about it.  They don’t know that it feels like someone is squeezing my ribs relentlessly, as my heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest.

Next week I plan on enrolling in school full time and with that will come health insurance again.  I’m hoping that I can go to the doctor and get the medicine I need.  Someone to talk to that can tell me I’m not weird, that there is something they can do to help me. 

Because whether or not I want to admit it, it isn’t normal to have so many anxiety attacks.  It isn’t normal to replay all the gruesome things that could have happened when someone cuts you off and almost causes a wreck.

I have to stop myself numerous times a day because if I don’t, I think about all the things that could go wrong and I freak myself out.

Some days I wake up and am happy to be my age.  Happy that I can stay out until 4 am and it be okay because, “Oh, she’s young.  She’s just getting it out of her system.”  Most days though, I wish I were a little kid.  I wish that my parents still had to take me to school and I had to remember to ask for lunch money.

I’d much rather have to worry about boys having cooties and skinned knees than how I’m going to pay that bill and put gas in my car.

Then, I look at all the amazing adults I have in my life, my parents and grandparents, friends and co-workers, and tell myself that it’s hard yes, but it’s worth it.  If I didn’t have to fight for it, it wouldn’t be worth it.

Sometimes, I don’t want to fight it though.  I’m not suicidal at all, I want to make that very clear.  I love my life and all the people in it, I just wish things were easier.  I wish I didn’t have to fight through it all so hard. 

Everything will be okay in the end.  If it’s not okay, it’s not the end and God won’t give me anything I’m not strong enough to handle.

I tell myself that numerous times a day.  Most days, I believe it.  Others, I don’t.  Then God has a funny sense of humor and throws something at me that makes me realize just how fortunate I am.  I'm blessed enough to have a loving, yet crazy, family.  Friends that would bend over backwards for me.  A roof over my head.  A car to get me to work.

This is all over the place, I know and it isn’t things I normally talk about, but I needed to get it off my chest and sometimes, it’s easier written than said.  I can go back and edit things.  Change the way I want to say something without fearing that I’ll be judged because it came out wrong.

I guess it just took me having to write all this to realize that I’m having a hard time finding out who I am.  I don’t feel like a kid anymore, but I don’t feel like an adult either.  So maybe I’m not finished with school and maybe I’m not on the path to get married just yet.  Maybe it’s hard just to get out of bed most mornings and maybe I have a hard time dealing with things, but  maybe, hopefully, surely, I can figure it all out along the way.

I guess in the mean time all I can do is put one foot in front of the other and know that I’m being the best Katie Scarlett I know how to be and that’s I can ask for.  That’s all anyone can ask for.