Hey there stranger

Ugh. I always seem to remind myself that I am a flake. Like this blog. I started out with good intention..write every day...ok every week....ok whenever. But seriously, I will try to write more consistently. Or you know what..I'll just THINK about writing more consistently. Its the thought that counts or whatever.

So, I guess there is one major thing on my mind--- The horrific flight back to Arkansas with Keygen

4 hour flights back to Arkansas with an anti-napper, I need more juice, read me my noisy book so everybody glares at you-two year old angel-are not for the faint of heart. Keygen is his mother's child. He is willful, sassy, and hell bent on everybody seeing things his way. Which you know, honestly, I am proud of. EXCEPT when it is directed towards me..in public...where spankings are illegal.

He was pretty good on the first leg of the flight. It was the connection in LasVegas that started our demise. Keygen really really I mean REALLY liked the slot machines. An old man laughed at us when he saw Keygen flopping around trying to get his hands on the slot machines. I really wished I laser eyes so I could use them on that old man. Not to hurt him, but you know, burn the phone out of his hand so he knew I meant business.

Luckily, the layover was only 58 minutes so I made it on the plane only slightly frazzled. Once on the plane Keygen lost his baby mind. He wouldn't sit down. He wouldn't put his seat belt on. The flight attendant looks at me and says "Ma'am he really has to be buckled." Oh well I'm sure that will totally change everything.....

Eventually Keygen fell asleep...for twenty minutes. Once he woke up he wanted apple juice. I didn't have apple juice. Thus began the 40 minute scream fest for apple juice. I am a scared flyer for sure. I always panic a little that the plane will crash. But in that 40 minutes I didn't care. I was thinking "Take her down...for the love of all the apple juice in the world..just TAKE.HER.DOWN."

The rest of the flight is a haze. I think I have blocked it out in order to hold on to my sanity. Getting off the plane was another adventure. Keygen decides to lay down. Yes, lay down right in the middle of the aisle. He wouldn't get up. He wouldn't come to me. I just wanted off the damn plane.

Then, the older gentleman setting next to us scoops him up and says "Come on Keygen, don't you wanna go home?" Of course, I freak out. I can just see us plastered on every news channel "Woman Thanks Kidnapper for Taking Her Child" Honestly though, I didn't like some stranger holding my kid. But, Keygen was thrilled. And he made it off the plane.

So there is the story of the plane ride to Arkansas. Each time I take a vow I will just fedex him next time. This time I think I am serious.

I Never Called Her Grandma

My 60-something year old grandma is my life-line.

 I never have called her grandma though. We had a few years stint where she was "Granny" and "Gran" but somehow along the way it morphed into "Nanny" then just Nan. We are so much alike that sometimes our conversations lead to tears of laughter or exasperated eye rolls at how ridiculous we think the other is being. We both know how to laugh when we really just want to cry, we like to discuss in-depth our life philosophy every day (both of us just as passionate as the day before) and we know how to survive with a bag of flour, milk, and an egg (which by the way Nan..this is what is going to save Reed and I through grad school).

It doesn't matter what my ramblings are about, I know that no matter what Nan will listen to whatever end-of-the-world debacle I am ranting about and always have advice that inevitably ends with "now that's the truth".

I spent quite a spell of my childhood living with my Nan and Pawie in little yellow house about the size of the tiny apartment I live in now. That is why I just smile  and pat Reed on the face when he worries about if I am really OK with how little space we have. Less to clean, is what Nan always said. But it was in that little yellow house that I learned about living. Sometimes bills come and money doesn't. Sometimes things break that can't be fixed.Sometimes you have to wear hand-me-down clothes that belonged to your brother. And sometimes, you have to eat potato soup for a week with or without the band-aid that Pawie occasionally had to put on so his fingernail wouldn't fall off.

So maybe we were poor, but I sure did have fun living there.

Nan worked the late shift at a factory in my home-town, so she was pretty delirious by quitting time at midnight so it was always fun to talk her into doing things. So one Friday night I convinced her we needed to make something together. So we went to the store and searched around the craft section until we found a little ceramic house that looked a lot like the house we lived in. Of course, it was important that we painted that little house as soon as we got home.

To describe the end result in one word: Horrendous.

We painted the house yellow with red (yes red) trim. The branches of the trees that clung to the side of the house were green with random splotches of red and yellow due to one little girl putting too much paint on her brush and one old woman fogged by exhaustion. We still like to laugh about that ugly house we painted. We decided unanimously that was not our calling in life.

But, it wasn't always fun and games with Nan. I remember once a friend and I were determined to not go to Sunday school. So, we rolled around in mud and made sure to get it in between our toes and matted on our hair. We walked into Nan's house triumphantly. Surely we were too much of a mess to go to church. Two swats and a bottle of Suave shampoo later, we were sitting in the first pew singing How Great Thou Art.

As I've grown up our relationship has changed.  She stopped taking care of me as much and started providing me with the tools to take care of myself. I know the exact moment my Nan stopped seeing me as a child. It was when I was about 16 and Nan, realizing that at certain points in a girl's life certain things start to happen she said, "Sex and cussing are habits. Once you start it is hard to stop." Ahh Nan. You were right.

I guess the thing I love about my Nan the most is that no matter what outlandish idea of the week I come up with..she believes I can do it. She thinks everything I write is brilliant. She thinks I'm a good mother. She also thinks I am the most hilarious person in the world. But, the truth is, who I am now is due much to her. Because of her I could probably survive a natural disaster and then come up with some witty joke about it.

And, I'm also positive that nobody else on this earth could watch Steel Magnolias with me 3 times in a row and seriously consider a 4th.

Rainy Days

I wrote this poem on a rainy day when I was working at the courthouse. Today reminds me of that day.

Roses own their beauty

 But I would rather have a seed

 Not to plant or give away

 But to dream of what it could be

 Perhaps a yellow daisy

 Whose petals are complete

 With perfect size and perfect petals

 Like an old friend

 Familiar eyes could greet

 Or maybe a purple lily

 That floats in the breeze

 That could tell a story like a ship

 That has sailed many seas

 Or maybe just a rose

 A simple rose indeed

 Beauty, expected beauty

 I would plant another seed

I never imagined....

Ya know, looking back on my 22.87 years, I never though I would be where I am now.

Ok--so maybe that was a little dramatic, I mean in the big scheme of life 22 years is whatever, but right now...this is probably a big deal.

So ok, I didn't think I would have a kid so young. Wasn't sure if I would ever  be a mother.  Didn't think I would marry so young. Wasn't sure if I ever wanted to be a wife. But....the beard hair on the sink and the action figure I found in the crisper seem to indicate that I am both.

Sometimes I can't help but laugh at who I once was. I remember caring so much about what I wore and how I looked. Now, if I can make it through a day without little cookie crumb hand prints on my back it is a victory. I remember being so embarrassed by forgetting my locker combination and being so late for class that I walked into the wrong room and it took 15 minutes before I realized it. Now, when Keygen runs so fast in the store that his diaper falls down his leg and he proceeds to try to stuff it on a shelf..I just sigh and store it away to tell his girlfriends about. I remember being so impatient with everything. Long lines, sitting on benches,  now that means I have a few precious moments away from potty cheering and folding clothes. Yes, waiting is good. EXCEPT, when we wait on Reed to get out of class and Keygen runs up to any man (and one girl that looked questionable) and says "Pappa? Are you my Pappa?" Most people breezed on by, but one guy looked worried. Probably the best birth control he has come across in a long time. I guess the biggest change is time. I vaguely remember sleeping in, staying up, and being on youtube for hours. Now, my time is not my own. I am accompanied to every bathroom break, I have to stumble over little feet as I try to cook dinner, and I have my own personal alarm clock that seems to go off as soon as his little eyes catch a the smallest hint of daylight. Now, my time is those 20 minutes showers that Reed doesn't understand because, as he boasts, it only takes him 8. Ahh, but even in those precious minutes there is the inevitable little knock at the door. "Mamma gotta poop."

But you know, even though sometimes I miss my old self, there is something about finger painting Keygen's bedroom decor, knowing every word to Toy Story 3 by heart, and dancing around with Keygen and Reed to MC Hammer's Too Legit, that reminds me that it just doesn't get any better than that. And besides, someone has to teach Reed some moves.........Keygen is a very patient teacher.

Little Boys are Gross.

Any mother of a little boy knows this statement is all too true.

So this is the story---

I found a box of old toys that me and my brother and sister used to play with forever ago. There were ninja turtles, hotwheels, trolls, and my one and only Polly Pocket.

 Keygen took a liking to the Polly Pocket immediately because you can put water in it and Polly has a little Jacuzzi she can lounge around in. Lucky girl that Polly.

So yeah, he has been playing with it a few days and every few minutes its "Mamma Mamma water! Need water!" And each time I'll say "Mamma can't keep filling this up, you need to not keep spilling the water."

Well, a few minutes ago I walk into his room and say "You need more water Mr.Keygen?"

He says proudly "No Mamma....I peed"

And he did. He so peed in the Polly Pocket Jacuzzi. Very innovative that one.

Well Hello

So basically, this is the problem--

Some time today some random pieces of space junk are supposed to fall from the sky. And while NASA apparently is being all whatever about it (they say we PROBABLY won't get smashed by this), I can't help but be a tiny bit disturbed. I have discovered by this entire situation that I am definitely a "the cup is half empty" type of person. Instead of living today like it could potentially be my last, I am blogging about what I won't be able to do because this freaking jerk satelite. Yeah, that's right. I haven't even had  my morning coffee yet and I already need a stiff drink. So yeah the list of things I won't be able to do if this thing falls on my face:

1. I won't be able to watch any Golden Girls episode I may have missed in the past 28 years.
2. I won't be able to finish the dishcloth I started knitting *cough* 3 months ago *cough*
3. I won't ever find out if Kim Kardashians butt is real.
4. I won't be able to climb Mt. Everest, sky dive, parachute or any of that other crap I only think about when things fall from the sky.
5. I will never get to finish P90X. Whatever, I may look skinny to the naked eye, but naked I am a train wreck with a bad case of the mom bod.
6. I will never get to go to Ireland with Reed and frolick in the meadows. I mean, I guess they have meadows over there..
7. I will never learn all the words to Barenaked Ladies "One Week" This.Is. Serious.
8. I will never be able to do that cool bottle juggling trick Tom Cruise does in Cocktail.
9. I will never get to read War and Peace. (......crickets...)
10. Most importantly, I will never see Keygen grow an awesome mustache like these guys http://www.holytaco.com/25-awesome-mustaches/

I think a moment of silence is in order.

So yeah, excuse me Mr. Satellite, but my destiny has not been fullfilled. Obviously. So...... land in the ocean and demolish a couple fish instead (Sorry PETA).

Just between you and me...

I see a theme with my writing lately. Let's take a gander shall we?

Exhbit A (Had to write a story that involved matches and included the line of "And that's how I ended up in the middle of nowhere---naked)

My mother always told me not to play with fire. The thought entered my mind as I struck a match against the heel of my boot and lit the cigarette that set loosely between my lips. I took a long drag and then tossed it absent mindedly on the sidewalk next to me. As I walked purposefully towards the trailer park, smoke curled in the air from where the cigarette lay. Walking up the steps, I could hear the sounds of love making from inside.

 I squinted as I imagined him on top of my wife sweating and panting. With a heavy sigh, I pushed open the door and walked through my living room. I strolled down the hallway calmly, too calmly. I looked at the pictures of our life together. The fishing trip three years ago, the day we bought the trailer, and finally, our wedding day. No children yet, but we always talked about it. Then, this happened. About a year ago, I had suspected she was sleeping around, but I pushed it to the back of my mind, surely it was just nonsense. Then, two weeks ago, I overheard her on the phone with him.

“Baby, I just need time. You know Jim's mother died just a few months ago, I can’t leave him yet.”

At that that moment, I knew what I had to do. I dug around in the shop behind our trailer until I found the old .22 my dad had given me when I turned 16. I loaded two bullets into the clip and then I waited for the moment that I could build up enough nerve to do what needed to be done.

Fortunately, that didn’t take very long. This morning, I called into work and then told Jenny that I was going in and would be back around 5. I parked down the street and then walked up the sidewalk near our trailer park, he was already there. I hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes. Now, here I was waiting for the right moment to blow them to pieces.

“Oh God! Yes!”

That was all it took. With one swift movement I kicked the door open and fired off two shots. When the smoke cleared there were pieces of blood on the walls, on the bed, on me. I threw the gun down and ran to my car. I drove until I could hear nothing but the loud beating of my own heart. I was on a long stretch of dessert highway when I stumbled out of the car. I wiped my blood stained hands down my shirt and began to scream at the realization of what I had just done.

Suddenly, I felt this urge to get their blood as far away from me as possible. I ripped my shirt from my chest and tugged my jeans off. Finally, relief.

And that’s how I ended up in the middle of nowhere—naked.

---death, blood,right?

Exhibit B--- (Had to write about getting stopped by the cops)

I was reaching for my last cigarette when I caught a glimpse of the flashing blue lights in my rearview mirror.

Shit.

With a heavy sigh, I let the unlit cigarette fall to the ashtray where remnants of my habit still remained.

A few moments later the rim of a state trooper hat was blocking the sunlight from my face.

“License and registration, ma’am.” The trooper barked. I definitely wasn’t getting out of this one.

“You got any idea how fast you were going back there?” \Luckily, he didn’t care what I had to say because immediately he answered that question for me.

“98! You know how many times I have had to scrape kids off of this very freeway for doing what you were doing back there?”

As I reached for the glove compartment to retrieve the documentation, the trooper continued on.

“…..God damned near 100 miles per hour.”

When I opened the compartment, my entire life came crashing out of it. Old receipts, empty pack of Marlboro Lights, and a half eaten carton of McDonald’s fries scatted all over my floorboard. As I fumbled through the disaster of papers, a piece of yellow notebook paper made me catch my breath.

I knew exactly what it was before I opened the crumpled letter. I had meant to mail it months ago, but never seemed to find the time, now it was too late.

The letter read:

Julie,

Look, I’m sorry for all the shit that happened during Thanksgiving. I know that coming home for you is a really big deal, and I was a total ass for what I did.  I have been thinking a lot about what you said and you are right. I really do need to grow up and get my shit together. I really do love you and I know I never say it, but I am really proud of you for what you are doing. We’ll get into fights and we’ll say things we don’t mean, but no matter what we’ll always be sisters. I love you Jules, always have and always will.

Your kid sis,

Kristen

Seeing those words, my eyes filled up with tears and my mind raced back eight months ago to Thanksgiving Day. I had just turned 21 three weeks earlier and I had spent every single night getting totally hammered. My mother called me that afternoon, and of course I was still sleeping off the night before.

“Kristen, you know that Julie is coming home today. Who knows when we’ll see her again. You know how those tours overseas are. Please be here. Please do not make a scene.”

I knew what she meant by “making a scene.” Four days ago I had showed up hung over and smelling like take out and vodka to my cousin’s baby shower. Nobody was impressed.

I slung the covers back and got out of bed. I rummaged around for some jeans I was sure were dirty and threw on an old sweater. I took a quick shot before leaving my apartment. I felt like shit and I needed something to take the edge off.

As I pulled into my mother’s driveway, Julie’s car was already there. I pulled up quickly, too quickly. With a jerk and a loud crash, I came to a halt. When I looked up I realized I had totally smashed in Julie’s bumper

Julie came running out of the house. My mother followed behind her.

Julie took one disgusted look at me and threw open my car door.

“What the hell Kristen? You smell like a bar.  Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost me?  At least 500 bucks!”

I sat in a drunken stupor, but she continued on.

“Really Kristen, you need to grow up. You’re going to pay for this one way or another. That is a promise.”

She stomped back into the house and I drove home. Who was she to tell me how to live my life?

Two weeks later I wrote her this letter. I knew she was right. I knew I was out of control. I needed to tell her I was sorry. A few days later, we got the call that Julie had died in a bombing just outside of Afghanistan.

“Ma’am!”

The booming sound of the trooper’s voice jolted me back to the present.

“Here is your ticket. Have a great day.”

I looked down at the ticket. $500.00

Touché big sister, Touché.

--more death...really?

Exhibit C

---overdose? Gah.

Exhibit whatever

 The smell of sweet honeysuckle and fresh cut grass told the secret that summer had arrived. I was fifteen and beautiful but too young and dumb to realize it. The world was my oyster, but I didn’t care. The plan was to learn to smoke and grow boobs within the next three short months. Boredom was surely to be my cause of death and I desired independence, something I knew existed but never explored. Then, like a sign or an answer or a warning, there he was.

He was ordinary, like me. He smelled like weed and cheap cologne, screaming that he was trouble. His smile was crooked and strained, suggesting it was a rare occurrence. God, how I was thrilled to be the cause for that smile.  He was from the wrong side of the tracks and I was the innocent, bright eyed girl ready to take on the world. Typical and disastrous.

The first night we talked for hours about nothing and everything. At eighteen his voice was low and husky, telling the lie that he knew his place in this world.  He lived a life decorated with a broken home, failing grades, and partying. As he told me his story, I listened with perfect naive splendor. Then, as a single tear fell from his complicated hazel eyes as he spoke about his drug addicted mother, I wiped it away, knowing I could save him from whatever it was that had broken him. The way he looked at me startled and uneasy, made me want to cry with him. Instead, he kissed me softly. He tasted faintly of cigarettes and a hint of sweet whiskey. He tasted dangerous and I craved more. I kissed him back long and hard, allowing my first kiss to be as passionate as I had always imagined.  He smiled into my mouth and told me to breathe.

For the entire summer we were inseparable. He taught me about sex, and drugs and how to drive. I was completely infatuated by his rough exterior and the contrast of our sensitive talks.  Then, the moment came where his hormones desired more. We sat in the backseat of his beat-up Mercury Cougar for two hours while he confessed his never dying love for me. I knew that he loved me and we would be together forever. So in the matter of moments I gave him all of me, praying the entire time that he felt the same.

Then, as the leaves began to change so did the way that he felt about me. He told me that true love comes easy and I was too hard to figure out. I knew it was a lie. I had fallen hard and he wasn’t ready. Two weeks later he moved somewhere that didn’t have telephones or mail service and he took with him my broken heart and a pair of panties that were stuffed in the backseat of his car the night I gave him all of my innocence.

Finally, I learned how to smoke.

---drugs, disappointment...why could I not make them have a happily-ever..whatever?

So basically folks, I am obviously writing myself into a depressed hole which is filled with drugs, death, and more drugs and death.  I need to watch more Spongebob (totally not going to happen) and maybe more sunrises as well (um, no, sleep) Hmm. I'll just make some cookies or something. That totally balances out whatever my brain is working through right now.  I need to go to sleep.

As I walked toward the back of the trailer, uneven boards squeaked beneath the weight of my feet. Once I made it to the bathroom door I cringed at the sight I was sure that awaited me.

 I lived in this sunken trailer since it first started to slump which if I had to guess would be from about the time I was six years old. I remember sitting out on the front step of the condemned mobile home wishing I could be anywhere but right where I was.

As a kid, I was embarrassed to be seen sitting on that cracked step that matched the chipped paint of the trailer that stood behind me. The June air was always hot and heavy, so for no other reason other than pride; I would pull the hood of my jacket over my knotted hair and jerk the drawstrings tight. So tight, I could barely see the world and I was sure that the world couldn’t see me. The self-made furnace was hotter than hell; the price of saving face.

I grimaced as I slowly turned the doorknob and walked into the bathroom.

There she was, exactly where I thought she would be. As her half-nude body slumped against the mildewed motel bathtub, a needle fell from her right hand. Her drugged smile spread across her entire face before teardrops began to fall and create rivers in the crevices that formed around her mouth. She looked like an empty shell of the woman I once knew. Still, I loved her.

“Mamma, let’s get you to bed.” I pulled her frail body off of the bathroom floor as a cockroach crawled over the toe of my barefoot.

“Jessie, you came back.” She stammered in a drug induced daze.

“Yeah mamma, I came back.”

I had never left.