My Next 30 Years

Hey, guess what? I turned 30 on Tuesday! I know, I didn't make a huge deal about it. No big "Birthday" post this year. It got me to thinking about my friends who make huge deals about their birthdays. You know the types, they begin discussing it in detail for several weeks leading up to the birthday, that way nobody can have an excuse for forgetting. They will often declare that their birthday isn't simply one day, that they celebrate a birthweek or even a birthmonth. For these friends, a sheet cake and a card are never sufficient. At the minimum, there is a party, but ideally there would be an entire vacation.

I have never been one of these people, and this is partly because of when my birthday occurs. Being born in a month like October, I cannot plunge a flag into the calendar and call the entire month mine. I can't change the name to "Samtober". It's not mine to take. October belongs to Autumn leaves, and football season, and Pumpkin Spice lattes, and Halloween, and Oktoberfest, and pumpkin patches and Columbus Day. If all of my family and friends can manage to stop whatever they're busy doing to call me/text me/Facebook me within the 24-hours of my actual birthday, I consider it a Happy Birthday. There is no big 30th bash for me. My birthday is on a Tuesday. My husband left for a week-long business trip that happens every year at this time. And I have a toddler who is with me constantly. (No, I still haven't hired a babysitter. I have control issues.)

Ok, so everybody makes a big deal about turning 30. It's a milestone birthday, and milestone birthdays are a time for self-reflection and goal setting. Well, let me clarify: milestone birthdays can be for self-reflection and goal setting, but I'd say that 30 is probably the first milestone birthday for this. The previous milestone birthdays are associated with other things:

1: cake
13: insert chosen "teenage" privileges here (makeup, phones, whatever)
16: driving
18: voting and legal adulthood
21: drinking

And...then you're 30. Turning 30 means joining a new club, a new demographic, taking on a new identity. You're a "thirtysomething". It also means that your membership in the twentysomething club is abruptly revoked, and that a major part of your identity--the age group to which you belong--is gone. Think about it, advertisers trying to win my business will market to me differently now. True story.

How does it feel to turn 30? Well, imagine you've never been to...Italy. You've heard about it. You've studied it in school. You've seen photos and movies set in Italy. Your friends have been there. You have an idea of what it would be like to visit, and you've thought about it. You've just never experienced Italy. So, one day, you fly to Italy. You step off the plane, take a look around, and--much to your surprise--discover that Italy looks a lot like Austin, Texas. You've been to Austin, and you love it. Italy is remarkably similar. It isn't mysterious or unknown. It's a lot more familiar than you expected. Now, this is just an analogy of course. I really haven't been to Italy and I'm not trying to say that it in any way resembles Austin. But, what I am attempting to illustrate, however poorly, is that turning 30 is like a long-awaited voyage to a far away land that feels surprisingly comfortable. Unlike, say, a trip to the moon, which is how some people act when talking about a looming milestone birthday. 

Of course, there are other issues to face when turning 30, because this is the first milestone birthday where people begin to think about things like aging and mortality, and let's be serious--that can be sort of a bummer. I have a friend who turned 50 a few years ago. He's a darling man. Imagine if Rock Hudson had collagen lip injections...

He explained to me that milestone birthdays in and of themselves typically aren't a reason to get the blues. It's when you reach a milestone birthday while at the same time feeling unhappy or dissatisfied with your station in life that a person gets a case of the sads. If, for instance, you are in a co-dependent relationship with an emotionally unavailable commitment-phobe, or that temp position you took as a receptionist right out of college has turned into your job for the past five years, or you're living in your parents' basement, a milestone birthday can shake you to the core. It can send you down a shame spiral, or it can be a catalyst to make you stop being complacent and start a fresh new chapter. Maybe take that trip you planned to take "someday" or take a risk you've been putting off out of fear. 

So, I've made it to 30. I have a happy family and I enjoy my life, but now what? What does "thirtysomething Samantha" want to do? I've got a few ideas:

1. I want to be a jogger. Why? Because honest-to-goodness "joggers" are physically fit pretty much 100% of the time, and jogging is free. Seems like a logical decision to maintain my overall wellness. Full disclosure: I have never run voluntarily unless I was earning college credit. Seriously, I took a class in college called "Jogging". I made an "A". For the Final, I think I ran a 15-minute mile or something equally ridiculous. To help me ease into running I am attempting the Couch-to-5k program. So far, I have run exactly once. Stay tuned.

2. I want to participate in something that isn't all about me. Perhaps something in my future neighborhood, some sort of charity work. I didn't even want to talk about it here, because I don't want to sound like some sort of do-gooder announcing "Look how charitable I am. Aren't I a great person?", but it's something I'm thinking about. I haven't really thought this through completely, but I figure there is more to life than online shopping and Pinterest and attempting to jog, so I'm gonna check it out and get back to you. Also, it would be nice to meet other grown-ups. At this point I spend most of my days jibber-jabbering with Robinson in some made up language that only he can understand. I may be losing my grip on reality.

3. I am decorating my new house in neutral colors. I know, shocking. The kaleidoscope color scheme that appeared in my current home will not be repeated. It's time to live in a grown-up house, and my grown-up house should have grown-up things, such as...

4. A wine refrigerator. I think my new house should have a wine refrigerator, and other accoutrements that say, "I'm a sophisticated, grown-up lady". I don't know why the wine fridge speaks to me on this level. I think it says, "I am an adult, so I drink wine, and I am successful, so I have enough money to purchase a wine fridge along with several bottles of wine at one time to necessitate a wine fridge, and I'm sophisticated enough to care about serving my wine at the proper temperature".  I've given this some thought. Help me out, what other items or possessions make up the trappings of sophisticated adulthood?

5. I want to be the friend who remembers birthdays early enough to send out a birthday card. In the actual mail. For some reason, that sort of thoughtful attention to detail says "I'm a grown-up" What other habits or behaviors should I adopt now that I'm the big 3-0?

Step Right Up, and Feast Your Eyes on A PAIR OF REDHEADS!

In case you haven't noticed, my son Robinson and I both have red hair. If I ever forget that my red hair is an anomaly, there are plenty of strangers eager to remind me. As I've gotten older, and therefore more likely to go out with a ponytail pulled through a ball cap, people make fewer comments to me about my hair. But, now that I have a redheaded baby, we attract considerable attention. As the title of this post hints, I do at times feel like a bit of a freak show. Here are the odds of what's likely to happen if Robinson and I ever go out in public together:

9 out of 10: chance that someone will approach Robinson and strike up a conversation with him about his hair. Robinson can't talk of course, because he is a baby, so I stop checking the expiration dates on the milk in the dairy case and engage a stranger in a conversation about hair.

3 out of 4: chance that the person who approaches me will have a family history of red hair and will launch into a detailed account of their family tree, which members of their family have red hair, which generations the red hair skipped, and miscellaneous redhead topics, such as the occurrence of red hair with blue eyes versus red hair with brown eyes.

1 out of 10: chance that the person who approaches me will somehow insult red hair or pay a back-handed compliment.

Example:
Wal-Mart Employee: "My baby has red hair. Of course, he's all grown up now. He got to where he really hated it--said he got tired of everywhere he went he got noticed."
Me: [laughing] Yeah, I know the feeling.

Wal-Mart Employee sheepishly scurries away and pretends to rearrange the eggs in the dairy case.

Meow! I didn't realize until typing this that my reply was kind of pointed and catty. That was not my intention. I basically said it sucks that strangers (read: her) approach me everywhere I go because I have bright red hair. Then again, I was responding to her statement, which was basically, "My son has hair the same color as you--and he hates it." I'd call that an unintended insult. If you can think of a nicer way to respond to that, I'm all ears.

Another funny aspect of the "redhead conversation" is when a person who knows a redhead approaches me, and they like to discuss what I would call "the plight of the redhead". It's basically all the stereotypes about the "redhead experience", which they seem to  believe is universally shared by all redheads. They'll say things like, "I bet people gave you hell when you were a kid, but you like your hair now!" or "Ya know, redheads don't turn gray like so many other hair colors. Your hair color will probably just slowly fade," or "Have you ever noticed that most redheads are pasty and ugly?" or "Redheads bleed a lot when you cut them". All true. Seriously, whenever I am being prepped for surgery (as you do so often) and the nurses or surgical techs get a look at me and my copper locks, they shake their heads and say to one of the associates "No one told us she was a redhead. We're gonna need more blood."

If I sound like I dislike mine and my son's shared red hair, I don't. Nor do I mind that people approach us. My mom told me this would happen. She said grocery shopping took much longer with  Baby Samantha because people wanted to talk to her about my hair. And because every time a stranger approached me I wanted them to pick me up and take me with them. She had to keep a close eye on me. There are much worse things in life than being on the receiving end of positive attention. Added bonus: if (God forbid) something terrible happened to Robinson and me, like we went missing, and police were investigating our disappearance by retracing our last known whereabouts, I feel pretty confident that people at Wal-Mart, Kroger, Starbucks, etc. would remember us. I know, I know, that's a very morose place for my mind to wander...I'm just sayin'. I find comfort in being distinctive for that reason alone.

Far Behind

I have all but abandoned blogging in recent weeks, which was noticed by exactly no one. I feel the need to acknowledge my lapse in postings just the same. It feels awkward to resume blogging as if no time has passed and there has been no absence. Also, my writing muscles are so rusty, I feel like I need to take an English Composition course. Consider this my awkward attempt at a segue.

I have neglected my blog terribly over the past couple of months. I've neglected my diet and exercise regimen as well. But I haven't neglected my child, so let's be glad for that! I've been travelling and on vacation, and have eaten so much fried crap over the past couple weeks, I confessed to my pal Amy that I feel as though I've got bacon grease running through my veins and that I've been carved out of dough. She suggested I try the Paleo diet to jump start my weight loss. No carbs, no sugar, no dairy, no joy. But the occasional shot of vodka. This diet may be good for my blog as well as my waistline. I can write during the time I would have spent eating bread. And maybe my writing will be more colorful because I could be a little bit drunk.

Although my life has been eventful enough over the past month to inspire plenty of posts, I didn't have the opportunity to write about the events as they were happening. Time is the enemy of this blogger. I need to write about things immediately. I don't know if I can muster the enthusiasm or carve out the time to write about things that happened weeks ago. But I'll try. In the mean time, I'll attempt to get back on track with the blogging from this moment forward.

As I'm typing this, I'm hearing from Vinnie Politan that the Casey Anthony jury has reached a verdict, which will be read in open court at 2:15PM Eastern time. So, whoever chose 10 hours 40 minutes of jury deliberation in their Verdict Watch pool (don't act like you didn't make a wager) is the winner. I had predicted that deliberations would last longer than 8 hours but would conclude before the end of the second day. So I was right. Better find a TV (tune into HLN or TruTv) and if you're at work, check out streaming video at the Orlando Sentinel site.

Diagnosis: Freak of Nature

I have been living with chronic and acute back pain, stemming from accidents and injuries that are various, unrelated, and span nearly fifteen years. Wow. I just summarized fifteen years of medical history in one sentence. Yay, Samantha! I would pat myself on the back, but as you'll read on, you'll understand why I need to leave my back alone.


My back is like an accordion straw. It's remarkably flexible, but weak, the product of more than fifteen years of ballet, tumbling, and cheerleading. This, in combination with my accident-prone nature, creates a perfect storm for frequent and sometimes severe injuries. What I'm saying is, I fall down a lot.

I've fallen off a bed, a deck, a horse, a merry-go-round, a flight of stairs, a bike, a mechanical bull, a six-foot ladder, monkey bars...

Aw, forget it. That list is tedious. It would be easier to list the things I haven't fallen off of: a tree, a roof, a moving car, a tight rope. Yeah, I think that's it.

So, my back hurts, but I'm flexible and self-reliant. What is a girl to do? To alleviate my pain, I stretch, twist and manipulate to feel the sweet relief that only comes from popping my back. This goes beyond simply twisting from side to side. Over time, I developed fourteen distinct techniques for popping seemingly every vertebrae from my skull to my sacrum. I would describe them, but I would need a diagram to illustrate, and I'm just not set up for that.

By 1999, I no longer said I was "cracking my back". I called it "adjusting my spine" to "realign my vertebrae". And I wasn't indiscriminately cracking bones. I would sit up straight, Indian style in the floor, and using my hand, I would reach behind my back and feel each individual vertebrae, including the space in between the vertebrae, to pinpoint the primary source of my pain, and I would perform whichever maneuver would adjust that vertebrae. I'm pretty sure that actual chiropractors don't adjust their own spines, and that I am insane. If you're wondering whether I've been treated by a chiropractor, the answer is Yes. Many. I got some of my best ideas from them. They don't know that.

Many people informed me that the sights and sounds of me cracking my vertebrae like walnuts was disturbing, so I began doing my adjustments in private, rarely discussing it. Kinda like how you privately over tweeze your eyebrows and obsessively examine your pores in search of blackheads. Sidenote: If you say you're "performing extractions" due to your "congested pores" instead of saying that you're "picking your face", you will feel instant credibility. Go ahead, next time you're mashing on your nose, tell yourself out loud that you're just in need of some facial extractions. It will free you from the shackles of your zit-popping shame.

If I had to gauge my pain on a scale of 1-10, with a 10 being excruciating pain that severly limits my mobility and is accompanied by nausea, crying, difficulty sleeping and concentrating, I would say that my pain number varies from day to day, and hour to hour, but since the birth of my son, I live between a 4 and an 8. Since 1998, my baseline is a 2. I can't remember a day without pain. Pain feels normal. I just assume that everyone is in pain, all the time, and that each of you reading this has a shoulder or an ankle or a knee that flares up. Otherwise, I'm not normal. I never considered that possibility. Regardless of how "normal" my problems may be, I've decided to finally, after years of pain, to see a doctor and learn once and for all if there is something serioulsy, medically wrong with me and if there is anything that can be done about it. Wish me luck!

Sad Day: Bravo TV Shooting Reality Show in Dallas--Without Me

Damn. Since 2006, I've been waiting for the press release that Bravo is expanding their Real Housewives franchise to Dallas. You know, so that I can attend the casting call. How fun would it be for a camera crew to follow me around my palacial 1,800 square foot home and hob-nobbing with my glamorous friends? Could you imagine seeing film footage of me, cleaning my oven while watching Grey's Anatomy reruns on DVR? That's some pretty riveting shit, I tell you. I mean, I'm Real. I'm a Housewife. I'm exactly what they're looking for, right?

Whomp, whomp.

So, the good news is that Bravo TV, my favorite channel (previous reports that I live for the E! Network have been greatly exaggerated) that is known for shining the spotlight on real people in cities all over the country, is finally paying some attention to a greatly overlooked city: my (new-ish) hometown of Dallas. The bad news is, instead of spotlighting Real Housewives, they are producing a show entitled Dallas' Most Eligible, which focuses on hot young singles in the city. I should tell you how I learned of this fascinating news, so allow me to rewind a few clicks:

I wake up every morning at or about 6:40 AM. For no reason whatsoever. I am of the belief that nothing good happens at 6:40 AM, so I change the channel to NBC (so that the Today show is waiting for me whenever I begrudgingly agree that morning is upon me and I am forced to greet the day) and I lie in bed, face down, eyes tightly shut, spooning whichever dog has hopped onto Steve's side of the bed, and I try to will myself back to sleep. Sometimes I catch another hour of shut-eye. Sometimes I'm just lying there in a half-stupor. You're probably brushing your teeth and getting ready for work at that time. It's ok, you can be annoyed with me. I deserve it.

On this particular day, I'm snuggling Laney, trying to catch a few more zzz's while Steve gets ready for work. When the local NBC news anchors start talking about Bravo TV coming to Dallas, my and Laney's ears perk up (she is also a fan). They explain that the network is in town filming this new series about hot young singles in Dallas, and then they go to Reporter Babe on the scene--even though she's on the scene of a completely unrelated, actual news story.

Reporter Babe is a reporter whose name I don't know, but I always see her on the air in the wee hours of the morning, usually wearing a reflective safety vest while reporting from the side of the road, and no matter what time it is, she is always boasting expertly-applied eyeliner, premium hair products, and optimal hair "poof". She's your basic beautiful nightmare.

So, the anchors, who are unusually aflutter over news of a reality show filming in our city ("Big whoop", I say, TLC filmed a reality show in Dothan, Alabama. Why wouldn't Dallas have a show?) and so they cut to Reporter Babe who is standing on the side of the road in a reflective safety vest with impeccable hair and makeup, and they ask her if she knows anybody who is being featured on this new show.

Blogger's Note: When reading this, you should know that Reporter Babe, who usually speaks with perfect diction, inexplicably transitions to Valley Girl when the subject turns from "real news" to her personal life. She begins drawing out her words and her consonants. The transcript will reflect this shift. Also worth noting: Anchor Woman goes from being a credible, professional news anchor to acting like an excited school girl, thrilled to be discussing the latest gossip with the school's most popular girl while in the cafeteria. It was surreal.

Anchor Woman: So! Do you know anybody on the new Dallas' Most Eligible?
Reporter Babe: Yeah. I pretty much know alll the people on the showww. Actuallyy, I was approached to be on the showww, but I thought it would be a conflict of interestttt.
Anchor Woman: Wow! You know them? So does anything exciting happen?
Reporter Babe: Well, I was with them for a lottt of the shootingg, and I have to sayyy, it gets prettyy dramatic.
Anchor Woman: So they're pretty interesting people, huh?
Reporter Babe: Uhh, yeahhh, they're all my friendsss.

Steve has paused his morning routine to walk back into the bedroom to watch this breaking story unfold.

Steve: Is she serious?
Me: I had to open my eyes, just so I could roll them. [face smacks back into the pillow]
Steve laughs and makes a wise crack
Me: [face-down in pillow] You didn't know Ashley is a journalist now, did you?
Steve laughs louder. I have a friend named Ashley who speaks fluent Valley Girl. To know her is to love her.

For the rest of the day Steve makes me say (in Valley Girl voice) "Uhhh, yeahhhh, they're my friendssss."

Sooo, will you be watchinggg Dallas' Most Eligible? I knoww I will. Ummm, yeahhhh, they're my friendssss.

Happy Birthday to Three Mutts and a Baby!

I started Three Mutts and a Baby one year ago today, because I was nearing the halfway point in my pregnancy and wanted to create a place where I could share my pregnancy and other updates with my closest friends, with whom I felt I was quickly losing touch. 333 posts later, I've discussed everything from pregnancy to pop culture to my day-to-day life and shared it publicly. Truth be told, I don't even think that the girlfriends I originally intended this blog for actually read it. If they have, they haven't told me.

Even still, the response to my blog has been a lovely surprise. Since I began monitoring the site traffic in May 2010, the blog has received over 50,000 page views, and I'm currently averaging over 250 hits a day. Not too shabby. I have reconnected with childhood friends who I thought had long forgotten me, I have made new friends, and have even grown a modest readership of people whom I've never met. I love the comments I receive on my posts, and seeing the number of blog "Followers" grow encourages me to keep blogging. So, if you haven't already, "Follow" me by clicking the "Follow" button to the right of this post! Ok, I'm done whoring out my blog for the time being.

If I look back at the posts I've written over the past year, it's interesting to see how the blog has evolved. I wrote about my mutts, pregnancy, and married life a lot in the beginning, with a few posts about my job sprinkled in for added flavor. Then, having run out of anything interesting to say about the mutts, but with an abundance of free time sitting at a computer in a quiet office alone every day, I discussed my thoughts on celebrity gossip and pop culture, as I consider myself an authority on the subject.

Once I was no longer pregnant or working outside the home, I thought I might run out of things to blog about. For a while, I did. My computer time is only a fraction of what it once was, so my pop culture and celebrity gossip pieces are now few and far between. They didn't get much response anyway. Now I mostly write about motherhood, the posts readers seem to like best.

I just want to give a big, heartfelt "Thanks!" to everyone who has supported my blogging endeavor. Writing is my only creative outlet, and writing is meant to be read, so I sort of couldn't do this without you. I appreciate all the comments and kind words. Especially as a new mom, I value this blog because it has created a network and support system between me and other moms, and that is priceless.

To celebrate one year of blogging, I'm listing my ten eleven favorite posts:

1. Meet the Mutts | The post that started it all.
2. An Open Letter to Jessica Simpson | Someone needs to lend her a clue.
3. I'm on a Non-Plan Plan  | I mock the idea of choosing my "birth experience".
4. Rumer Willis Syndrome | I contemplate having an ugly baby.
5. 14 Facebook Status Updates: Which type are you posting, and do your Friends appreciate them? | Don't be #5. Nobody likes that guy.
6. Un-Break My Heart | Grieving the death of four celebrity marriages.
7. My Day at the Hospital | Laughter through uncontrollable puking is my favorite emotion.
8. Laney Goes to College | A walk of shame down Memory Lane.
9. Because They Don't Come With Instructions... | We are not qualified to care for a baby.
10. Bitchface Goes to the Mall | Because Bitch needs new shoes.
11. I DO Want to Express Myself, and I Don't Need 37 Pieces of Flair to Do It. | A workplace rant.

Hairy Tales

I've mentioned that my son recently turned seven months old. In related news, a riddle: What has two thumbs, a huge ass and is still saddled with unwanted baby poundage? This girl. I just realized that joke doesn't work if you can't see me point to myself with both thumbs. Pretend you saw that.

Anyway, as a motivator on my weight loss journey, I have devised a reward system with designated prizes as I achieve certain weight loss milestones. I am proud and relieved that as of this morning, I have earned...wait for it...a haircut.

Yes, I have taken things that we consider to be basic American rights, like haircuts and pedicures, and I am holding them hostage in hopes of motivating myself to succeed. So I haven't had a professional haircut since June. It's beyond scraggly at this point, which just adds insult to injury. The injury, of course, having a donkey butt.

Haircuts have been big news in recent weeks. Tween Idol Justin Bieber got a funky-fresh new look for spring:

At a glance, I thought this looked exactly like his old haircut, with perhaps a different styling product or technique, but entertainment journalists insist that these are two totally different hairstyles. I choose to believe the entertainment journalists, as they are paid to know these things. Sidenote: I love his delicate features. I wish I could carry him around with me in a knapsack, and take him out whenever I'm feeling sad.

Tired of Bieber's fancy hair stealing the spotlight from her legendary mane, Jennifer Aniston changed her hair as well. This is newsworthy for two reasons: 1. Jen hasn't changed her hair in ten years; 2. Everything Jen does makes news.

"Jen hasn't changed her hair in ten years," said the pot to the kettle. I could say the same thing about myself, but like Jen, my hair is one of the best things I have going for me, so it would be foolish to hack it off. I am looking for something that is manageable without being matronly, makes a cute ponytail, and looks good as it grows out--in case I happen to go another eight months without a haircut. What I would like is to cut as much off as possible and still have "long" hair. Err...I want to have the shortest possible hair that can still be considered "long". Am I making any sense? I better learn how to articulate this vision before visiting my hairstylist. Maybe I'll just show him this picture:

I Seem to Have Lost My Voice

People blog because they have something to say. From the looks of my blogging activity as of late, I either have nothing to say, or I've lost my voice. I used to blog daily, and I found that the more I blogged, the more I had to say. For the past few months, my blogging has consisted of: type type type type type, backspace backspace backspace. I have partially finished drafts and drafts that go unpublished because they seem too dull to be read. Calling it "writer's block" would be an oversimplification, as I've noticed that this inability to articulate my feelings isn't limited to blogging. It applies to my real life as well. Allow me to elaborate on this matter. If I can muster the enthusiasm.

You should know going into this that I am regarded as an overly chatty, friendly person. The phrase, "She can talk to a tree stump" gets thrown around left and right when people describe me. That's pretty much all the background information you need.

Exhibit A: I attended a baby shower when Robinson was a newborn, and I was so exhausted, distracted, and overwhelmed, carrying on a conversation felt nearly impossible. I was trying to talk to an acquaintance who I very much like, and rarely see. She's a really sweet person, and although I see her only twice a year or so, we always carry on the easiest, most pleasant conversations. At this party, I found myself struggling to string a sentence together. I wasn't up to the task of bantering back and forth. Carrying on a conversation is like two people trying to keep a ball in the air, and every time she passed to me, I dropped it. I chalked it up to a bad day. I've never been off my game like this before.

Exhibit B: A couple months later, I attend an all-ladies get together. There were about twenty ladies in attendance, and the only person I knew was the hostess. I've attended many of these sorts of events before. I always go alone and am a social butterfly and leave having made at least one new friend. This time was different. I brought a "safety net" with me. Since I only knew the hostess, and I recently found myself socially stunted, I brought a friend with me so that I could talk to her and wouldn't have to awkwardly attempt conversation with a stranger. I spoke to nobody at this party except the hostess and the safety net.

Exhibit C: A couple months later, I attended another all-ladies get together. Another baby shower. I did not speak to anyone there who I didn't already know. I sat in a corner with my baby and tried to keep him entertained so he wouldn't cry and ruin the party. I was so relieved for the handful of friends who were also in attendance so I wasn't force to socialize with anybody else.

This is so the opposite of me. How have I gotten so out of touch? In addition to the social awkwardness I'm experiencing blogger paralysis. I can attribute this to several factors:

1. Opportunity. Part of what made my blogging so frequent and dependable was that I always had a computer at my fingertips. I had the opportunity to type and publish a post as soon as the thoughts entered my mind.

2. Timeliness. Once my lifestyle went from spending 40+ hours a week in front of a computer to being a mom who's completely occupied with taking care of my home, my baby, and myself, I wasn't able to type a blog post the moment I became inspired. Evidently, time is of the essence for me. If I have a spark of inspiration, but the moment passes and I don't type my thoughts, the enthusiasm completely leaves me. And, even if I felt totally inspired and enthusiastic in the moment, if my baby happens to be crying or needs me, the opportunity to blog is lost. 

3. Inspiration. My blog posts are like little essays. I will see a photo or read an article or hear a soundbyte or have a conversation with somebody, and from there I will construct an organized post. Lately, I don't care about anything enough to write an entire post about it. Lots of moms blog about their children and their lives, but I don't get out much--I stay home all day taking care of a baby, and that baby can't do much yet that's blog-worthy--so there's nothing in my personal life that's interesting enough to post about. I've always been interested in pop culture, but lately I just don't give a rat's ass. I could type a sentence or two sharing my observations and opinions, but nothing that comes close to the multi-paragraph posts of the past.

I'd love to post a coherent thought on this blog. Hopefully I'll regain the ability to write, but at the moment I seem completely incapable. I'm not sure what this says about me. I'm hoping that the act of posting this blog will grease the wheels, so to speak. Am I using that metaphor correctly? Also, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge that this post on my inability to post is awfully long. And boring. That is all.

"I am not amused"



Bitchface Goes to the Mall

Warning: This post contains stereotypes, digressions, and movie spoilers.

Ok, so you know how most some home schooled kids are socially awkward (stereotype #1) because they don't have the opportunity for social interaction in their everyday lives? Well, I've been a stay-at-home mom/shut-in since June, so my social skills have atrophied to the level of a Duggar kid. Not Josh Duggar. Isn't that the charismatic, sexy one?

Now that I've got a good case of cabin fever, and have achieved a level of isolation and awkwardness rivaled only by Tom Hanks' character in Castaway after they've rescued him (Spoiler!) along with a few other reasons I will expand on later, I chose to venture out into the world, to a place I loathe...the mall.

I know, the thought of me hating the mall seems like a contradiction in terms, doesn't it? Like Charlie Sheen hating hookers. There was a time, back when I had more money than responsibilities, when I could see no better way to celebrate, reward myself, or renew my broken spirit than to take a trip to the mall. Where else on earth can you purchase a pair of $150 faux zebra platform pumps while eating a giant pretzel? Seriously, is there another place? I want to go there.

Why do I hate despise the mall? Let me count the ways:

I hate despise the parking
I hate despise the crowds
I hate despise the moms who carelessly ram their strollers into my Achilles heel and don't even apologize
I hate despise that the mall compels me to buy things I don't need with money I don't have
I hate despise the guy at the kiosk who lunges at me and insists I allow him to:
   A) buff my fingernails
   B) flat-iron my hair
   C) thread my eyebrows
   D) introduce to me a revolutionary line of skincare products made from ingredients found in the Dead Sea

I just really hate when strangers invade my personal space.

Midway through this rant, I remembered just how much I hate the word "hate" so I'm going to replace it with a watered-down, less aggressive word.

When Kiosk Guy violates my personal bubble, I have fantasies of retaliating in a totally obnoxious way, so he'll think twice next time. But instead of blowing my rape whistle in his face or flipping him off, I go with the old passive-aggressive standby: pretending to talk on my cell phone. Sometimes, during my fake phone conversation, our eyes lock, and I know what he's thinking: "I know you're not really on the phone", and I look at him like, "I dare you to interrupt my fake phone conversation, sucka!" The closest I came to tangling with Kiosk Guy was when I was (extremely) pregnant, and he jumped in front of me and blurted, "Miss, would you like to--" and I shouted, "NOOOOOO I WOULDDDDDN'T!!!!!"

For somebody who clearly despises the mall as much as I do, one might conclude that online shopping is my ideal solution. There's just one problem: I'm married to a retail professional who is of the belief that online shopping will be the demise of retail, which will lead to the demise of our economy, which will lead to the demise of democracy. Or something like that. So, even though there's this hot new pair of Steve Madden platform pumps I just have to have, and I could have purchased them online, three days ago, in about five minutes time, I am schlepping through my third least favorite place on earth (#1 is the airport, #2 is the DMV), pushing a stroller through the frozen tundra, wearing platform clogs. Welcome to my nightmare.

Unfortunately, strollers require the use of an elevator. As the doors finally open on the world's slowest elevator, I stand aside to allow a mom with three kids and a jogging stroller to get off. And boy, do they take their sweet ass time. They come to a dead stop--right between me and the elevator, barring my entry. Everybody knows this particular elevator's doors only stay open for a nanosecond. After that, it's five whole minutes for it to come back. We're inches apart, yet Stroller Mom has no idea I exist. If she would just scoot, I can push my Go-Go Gadget arm out and hold the elevator. Once she finally begins to move, Stroller Mom notices me and says, "Oh!" and attempts to "help" me in the way your three year old "helps" you frost a cake. Sweet gesture in theory, hot mess in reality. Stroller Mom lunges between me and the elevator, much to my bewilderment, and instead of stopping the elevator, she mashes all the buttons, causing the elevator door to slam shut in my face and take off for the third floor where presumably nobody is waiting.

Realizing what she'd done, she says "Oops!" I let out a sigh and give her a withering look. Ok, "withering look" is just a euphemism for "bitchface". This bitchface was so blatant, Shannen Doherty got a royalty check for it. Shannen owns the rights to "bitchface"!

Stroller Mom freezes, apologizes, and her eyes twitch. That's when I realize that she sees my bitchface. Dammit. Ever since my Botox wore off last year, everybody knows what I'm thinking. That's the glorious thing about Botox (besides not aging). No matter what I'm feeling on the inside, my forehead is as smooth and placid as the ocean on a peaceful day. Without it, my angry forehead is as choppy as the ocean in The Perfect Storm, and that didn't end well. (Spoiler: Everybody dies!)

After much delay, I arrive at the Steve Madden store, where I learn that none of the seven area locations carry this particular shoe.

Disappointed but not defeated, I roll into Nordstrom. No blue suede shoes here, either. I inquire with the sales associate, explaining, "Well, I know which shoe I need, and it's available for purchase at SteveMadden.com, but I figured I'd try to support my local economy and purchase the shoe from a brick-and-mortar store..." "Yeah..." he sighed. And no luck buying the picture frame I wanted from Pottery Barn, which was also available for online purchase. This is just a big shopping FAIL. There's only one thing left to do...go to Williams-Sonoma, where I can indulge my love of overpriced spatulas.

As I'm exiting Nordstrom, I pass A Pea in the Pod. "Mama doesn't shop there anymore!" I say to Robinson, who smiles. Next door is Bebe. "Mama doesn't shop there anymore, either!" [Sigh]. Robinson laughs, as I gaze longingly at all the slutty halter tops I'll never wear.

Kris Kardashian and I have one thing in common: bitch loves her some colored spatulas. I thought I was the only one.

Did you see the episode where Khloe tries to help Kris organize her kitchen and discovers that Kris hoards red spatulas? No? Just me? Damn. Williams-Sonoma carries different colored spatulas throughout the year. After some careless cake frosting last fall, Libby ate my last red spatula, and I knew that I had to replace them quickly before the pastel spatulas arrived and ushered in springtime (yeah, you thought it was the Groundhog. You're wrong, it's the Williams-Sonoma pastel spatulas that signal the end of winter.) So, I left the mall with one orange spatula and one yellow spatula. Not exactly a pair of blue suede platform pumps, but I'll take what I can get.

I'm Back! Maybe.

Woo Hoo! Happy New Year, y'all! You may have noticed a steep decline in my blogging activity--I atribute this to: 1) my head 2) my thighs 3) my computer. Not necessarily in that order.

I spent the first five days of 2011 in bed after being struck with, then recovering from, a series of migraines. Or cluster headaches. Or I have a brain tumor. I don't want to speculate. But I did go to WebMD and diagnose myself with a subarachnoid hemmorhage. "Samantha! I didn't know you were a hypochondriac!". I'm not a hypochondriac, you big silly. A hypochondriac would have submitted to about $8000 worth of diagnostic testing by now--MRIs, CT scans, angioplasty, spinal taps. I did none of that. I just declared "I have a subarachnoid hemmorhage!" and retreated to my bed. I'm feeling much better now.

The other roadblock standing between me and my blog was this damn computer. Despite my spending my last $70 on friggin McAfee virus protection (FAIL) my computer is riddled with so many viruses, spyware, malware, and trojan horses (I assume) that attempting to compose a blog entry is a lengthy, time-consuming affair. Posting photos? Fuggetaboutit. After threatining to smash the computer with a hammer (dramatic much?), Steve made a couple of calls and we have a new suped-up computer scheduled to arrive any day now. Happy days are here again!

The third obstacle preventing me from blogging is this big ass of mine. Robinson is nearly six months old, and I'm still forced to wear Raven-Symoné's old discarded big-girl clothes. If I'm sitting in front of a molasses-slow computer blogging about Lindsay Lohan's triumph over addiction ::sarcasm:: how exactly am I supposed to work on my fitness? Blogging is hardly aerobically effective (says Cher Horowitz).

In spite of all of that, here I am. So...what should I write about? I had so many ideas in the past month that now seem out-of-date, but I'll do my best to catch up.

Auburn and Me: A Love Story

After the disaster that was Alabama/Auburn Day 1988, I always had a t-shirt for Alabama/Auburn day, and my decision of which team's colors I would wear was based on pleasing my constituents. I found that if I wore Auburn colors, other Auburn kids paid little attention, and Alabama kids were belligerent. If I wore Alabama colors, Auburn kids still paid little attention, and Alabama kids' behavior towards me was much more favorable. For those reasons, I called myself an "Alabama Fan" until middle school.

The truth was, over time I really had grown to prefer Auburn over Alabama. Auburn and LSU were both "Tigers", which felt natural, and as I was blossoming into womanhood, I couldn't help but recognize that Auburn's colors of orange and blue were much more flattering to my hair color and complexion than Alabama's crimson and white. Auburn was geographically further from Birmingham, which appealed to my independent side, and their fans, while warm and welcoming, generally didn't push their agenda on me. They weren't trying so hard to win me over, and I found their indifference alluring. It felt like Auburn was shrouded in a cloud of mystery. This intrigued me, and made me want Auburn all the more.


Auburn: The Mr. Big to my Carrie

 Did I choose Auburn based on colors, mascots, geography, and playing hard-to-get? Pretty much. I was a kid. How was I supposed to base my decision? I thought both schools were great, academically. I couldn't base my decision on their varied curriculum, because I didn't know what I wanted to be. I just knew where I wanted to be. Incidently, I still don't know what I want to be.

Most of my childhood friends were Alabama fans, and I tried really hard to be an Alabama fan. Crimson Tide football is exhilarating, the kinship that exists amongst the fans is evident and their enthusiasm is infectious. As a transplant into the state of Alabama, it would have been easier to become an Alabama fan. They have a rich tradition, including Bear Bryant and now 12 National Championships, and the most intense fans I have ever encountered. Why wouldn't I want to be a part of that? One could justify being an Alabama fan if for no other reason than it is easier to be "with them" than "against them".

"So it's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, you and me, every day...would you stop thinking about what everyone wants? Stop thinking about what I want, what he wants, what your parents want. What do YOU want? What do you WANT?"

I could go on and on about why I chose Auburn instead of Alabama, but I'll let another "Sam" explain it. Sam Baldwin from Sleepless in Seattle, of course:

"Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were supposed to be together...and I knew it...it was like coming home...only to no home I'd ever known. It was like...magic. "

It was like magic, just like Tom Hanks said. I promised you a love story, and by George, you're getting a love story!

I visited Tuscaloosa and Auburn many times, and when I was in Auburn, I felt at home in my surroundings, and when Auburn won, I found myself caring more. During one visit to Auburn, I was attending the Iron Bowl as an Alabama fan, with Alabama fans, and Alabama won. I found myself gazing into Auburn's student section and wanting to be part of it. That's when I realized I'd rather lose with Auburn than win with Alabama. It's the only way to be an Auburn fan, since any Alabama fan will quickly point out that they are historically more victorious than Auburn. I guess my love for Auburn is less about the winning (though the winning is really fun) and more about the spirit of Auburn, the quaint and lovely town, and the people.

 "I'd rather fight with you than make love with anyone else."

As for the Iron Bowl? It's always a day I just have to get through. I have never enjoyed it. Whether the game is played in Tuscaloosa or Auburn, whether Auburn wins or loses, I always manage to wander past the wrong tailgate and get verbally assaulted and physically threatened. I don't have a thick enough skin to withstand the intensity. It's like staring at the sun.

My Love of Auburn: A Brief History

As we gear-up for the Iron Bowl, I pause for a moment of reflection on the Iron Bowls of yore. Oh, and disclaimer: the anecdotes in this post are representative of my personal experiences, and are not meant to generalize, stereotype, represent or insult all Alabama fans, especially Alabama graduates. If you're a Bama fan and you read my blog, you're good in my book! xoxo

***

I was not born an Auburn girl. I was born in Louisiana, the product of two LSU graduates, and when I moved to Alabama at age six, I was forced to align myself with either Alabama or Auburn in order to fit in with my peers. When we first moved to Birmingham and began meeting people, introductions were always some derivative of this:

New Friend: Hi! Nice to meet you!
Me/member of my family: Nice to meet you, too!
New Friend: Are you for Alabama or Auburn?
Me/member of my family: Oh, well actually, we just moved here from Louisiana. We're LSU fans!
New Friend: Um, ok. Yeah, but--are you for Alabama or Auburn?
Me/member of my family: Well, neither really. We're...LSU fans.
New Friend: Sure, but between Alabama and Auburn, which one do you pull for?
Me/member of my family: Oh...um, ok...I guess if I had to choose...Auburn?
New Friend: Ugh. [eye roll]

New friend walks away. Damn it. I picked the wrong team!

Kids grow up being a fan of whatever team their parents love. My dad bleeds purple and gold. On the weekends, I was home in my LSU cheerleader uniform, listening to the LSU marching band on vinyl (yeah, we were those people) and jubilantly singing all the cheers. But, during the week, while at school, I had to pledge allegiance to another team. As for which team, my decision would win friends and alienate others, and my criteria was pretty arbitrary. That's rather tricky terrain for a seven-year-old to navigate.

I remember my first Iron Bowl in 1988. Every November, Auburn plays Alabama in football. For the uninitiated, I can't convey the importance of this game to the state of Alabama. It doesn't compare to your team's rivalry. Remember when the Berlin Wall came down? That moment of global and cultural significance? Yeah, the Iron Bowl is bigger than that. If you're under the age of thirty, that reference is completely lost on you, so I'll try to put it into terms you may understand: It's a bigger event than the premiere of the new Harry Potter movie, an impromptu Justin Bieber concert in your school's cafeteria, the Superbowl, a very-special episode of Glee, the election of Barack Obama, being a guest in the Oprah audience for her "Favorite Things" show, and a shower of $100 bills raining from the sky, all rolled into one spectacular day.

Sidenote: Next time you see me, ask me to yell "John Tra-vol-taaaa!" in my "Oprah" voice. It always cheers Steve on a gloomy day.

Ok, back to Iron Bowl '88. I was not informed that the Friday before the Iron Bowl is "Alabama/Auburn Day" (or "Auburn/Alabama Day") and that students and faculty show their spirit by wearing their team's colors to school. There was no announcement over the intercom, there were no fliers posted, it was just this unspoken understanding, and I showed up wearing a blue and white jumper and barrettes with flowers painted on them, one flower being orange. This was met with intense disapproval by my Alabama fan friend. She was sort of the Biff Tannen to my George McFly, and I went along with whatever she said for fear of being shoved in a locker. I went to play at her house before, and after noting the elephant painted on her toilet seat lid, I made a calculated decision to declare myself an "Alabama Fan". My wardrobe choice on "Alabama/Auburn Day" betrayed me. Clearly, it's a dark day in my history.

How did I recover from my Alabama/Auburn Day fashion faux pas? How did I wind up an Auburn fan? The answers to those questions and--eh, this post just got too long so I chopped it in half. Read the rest tomorrow.

Everyone Loves an Auburn Girl

Me and my ladies, 2006

Ok, in honor of the Auburn vs. Alabama football game taking place this Friday, I'm going to publish some related posts. Hopefully nothing I write will offend my gentle Crimson Tide readers. Seriously, I love what you Tide ladies have done with houndstooth:

photo via fannation

I am admittedly not very educated on the subject of football, but I love my Auburn Tigers. This year's meeting promises to be a hell of a game. I should probably write a post about My Boo, Cam Newton. Maybe another day. Today I'm going to tell you an embarrassing story about myself. Enjoy.

The night before Steve moved to Dallas, he took me out for a farewell dinner at the now-defunct Restaurant G in downtown Birmingham. It was a very classy, white tablecloth type of place, and I was enjoying a chocolate martini for dessert, which may have prompted this little gem:


Waiter: So, where do you go to school?
Me: I'm a junior at Auburn.
Waiter: Oh! My baby sister went to Auburn! You know what I like about Auburn? My little sister was a good girl when she got to Auburn, and she was a good girl when she left Auburn.

Me: [enthusiastically] That's right! And what happens in Auburn, stays in Auburn!

Waiter glares at me and walks away.

Me: Jeez, what's his problem?
Steve: I think you just called his sister a slut.

25 Things You Don't Know About Me

First it was a Facebook thing, now it's an Us Weekly staple, I figure it's high time I make a run at it. Here's 25 things you don't know about me:

1. Each night, I take a bath in water that is so hot, if Elmer Fudd were here he'd start chopping up vegetables and trying to make a stew out of me.
2. Four Mutts and a Baby: I have a recurring dream where I "inherit" an orphaned dog, who I always name "Pam".
3. As a child, I shared a last name with a country music singer who was well-known in the 1970's and 1980's. I was frequently asked if we were related, and would tell people we were cousins. It wasn't until I was around 25 that I learned we are not in fact related. 
4. I was born in south Louisiana. Cajun Country, land of the black-haired black-eyed people. My claim to fame has always been that I was the only redhead born in Lafayette General Hospital in 1981. A couple years ago, I learned that wasn't actually true either.
5. I may have a smidge of body dysmorphic disorder: when I look in the mirror, I see a girl who is at least 20 pounds lighter than I actually am. When I see photos of myself, I am always shocked and horrified.
6. "I Love My Calendar Girl": In sixth grade, my English teacher assigned us to enter an essay contest. I was one of thirteen winners in the state of Alabama. The contest was held by a geriatric society, and the winners were featured in their annual calendar. My Nannie and I represented the month of April for the 1995 calendar. My first and only award for my writing.
7. To this day, I harbor a grudge against the late George Carlin, because he was once rude to my father in an elevator (circa 1978). ("Do you really expect me to put my suitcase down to shake your hand?") The jerk.
8. While a junior at Auburn, I adopted Laney from the Sheltie Rescue of Georgia. Knowing my parents wouldn't approve, I waited days to tell them. It was the first and only time I can remember my dad being mad at me. When I finally shared the news, I lied and said Steve gave her to me as a "surprise". My mom was angry at Steve and barely spoke to him for months, until Steve made me confess the truth.
9. I had difficulty naming Laney, because I wanted to choose a name that Steve, my roommate Kelsey, and I all liked. I finally settled on the name "Laney" when I blurted it out while holding a stack of DVDs in my lap. On top of the stack? My Big Fat Greek Wedding, starring Nia Vardalos and Lainie Kazan. I just changed to a simpler spelling.
10. I suffer from chronic back pain, stemming from a 1998 cheerleading accident.
11. The aforementioned accident took place during a football game, when a play ran out of bounds, and several players from both teams tackled me.
12. Film footage from that game (including my tackle) was viewed by both teams, as well as every team that was scheduled to play my team and the opposing team for the rest of the season. I later learned that everybody watched my tackle over and over again...in slow motion. Apparently my short and sassy ponytail whipping wildly in the air was must-see-tv.
13. The only physical traits Robinson and I share are my chin and my crooked big toes.
14. I am Steve's 2nd wife. 
15. My very first childhood pets were a scottie dog mix named Bo and a toy poodle named BJ. They were gone before Jarred was born, and to this day my parents insist "They really did go live on a farm!"
16. BJ the poodle was adopted from one of mom's customers at the department store where she was a buyer: a drag queen who wanted to give BJ away because she kept getting into his/her makeup. Mom said his house looked like Liberace's palace.
17. Speaking of drag queens, there was a period in 2008 where I attended many drag shows in support of a friend who is a well-respected female impersonator. At the time, Leona Lewis' hit song "Bleeding Love" was a favorite of the performers. To this day, whenever I hear the song, all I see is transvestites in fishnet dresses.
18. I do not own any pink clothes. Except for a well-worn pair of size Large Victoria's Secret sweatpants.
19. My all-time favorite eyeshadow is "Prop" by Lancome. I've been wearing it since 2001. It was discontinued in 2005, at which time the friendly ladies at my local Lancome counter kindly gave me all of their unused professional-use shadows. I'm down to the last one, and I'm gonna have a major case of the sads when it's gone.
20. My first concert was James Taylor with my dad. I got bored and made him take me home before James sang "Fire and Rain". We listened to it in the parking lot.
21. I always use an orange toothbrush.
22. I'm no longer active on Myspace, but I will never delete my account, because I have a good friend who passed away, and our back-and-forth messages on Myspace along with a few snapshots are all I have left of her.
23. I'm accident prone: In seventh grade, I lost my balance and jammed my middle finger during a tornado drill. The finger became so swollen, I had to call my dad to check me out of school and drive me to the fire station to have my ring cut off my finger. This was the second time I had jammed said finger. It's still bigger than my other middle finger.
24. The only actors I've ever met were Cammie King and Butterfly McQueen, the actresses who played Bonnie Blue Butler and Prissy in Gone with the Wind.
25. I'm pretty superstitious, so I'm afraid I'm jinxing myself by telling you that I've never broken a bone.

Paranoid Much?

Recently, I was lured to the Arkansas wilderness with the promise of fried catfish. Steve co-sponsors an annual golf tournament that takes place at DeGray State Park, and at the last minute he invited Robinson and me to join him. I really learned a lot about my own neuroses and paranoia through this trip. Here's a rundown. I'll warn you: it's embarrassing.

Steve: Y'all come with me to Arkansas
Me: What will we do while you're on the golf course?
Steve: They have walking trails. You and Rob could go for a walk through the state park.
Me: Is it safe?
Steve: I'm not sure if the trails are paved.
Me: No, is it safe?
Steve: Safe from what?
Me: Serial killers.
Steve: [silence] I'm pretty sure.

[we roll into the state park at 12:30 am. It's pitch dark, and nobody is around]

Steve: Y'all wait right here, I'll get us checked in to the lodge.
Me: [looking around] How will I defend myself in the event of an ambush?
Steve: [laughing] An ambush by who, park rangers?
Me: [gravely serious] No. Serial killers.
Steve: Where is this coming from?
Me: [sigh] A man killed some women in Yosemite.
Steve: There is no serial killer in this state park.
Me: I feel fairly certain there is somebody, somewhere in this state park, who would be willing to kill me. The question is, will they find me?
Steve: Wow.

[Three days later]

Steve: I have a voicemail from Frisco Police. They say there were two noise complaints against us because the dogs were barking.
[I'm immediately overcome with guilt over leaving them, and anxiety that Laney and Libby have met with foul play].
Me: Laney has separation anxiety! What if she worked herself up into a frenzy and had a heart attack and died?
Steve: Laney isn't dead.
Me: What if the angry neighbor exacted revenge on the dogs because they wouldn't shut up?
Steve: What?
Me: What if somebody hurled rat poison over the fence, and the dogs ate it?
Steve: Nobody does that.
Me: Yes they do. And the fence isn't locked. What if somebody shot or stabbed them?
Steve: You need to stop.
Me: I have a shooting pain in my side. Why do you have to tell me they're in trouble when we're three hours away?
Steve: Relax, it'll be fine.

That night, while Robinson and I are home alone and it's dark outside, I hear a knock at the door. I never answer the door at night. Or when I'm home alone. Or ever. The last time I answered the door, I met a Biggie Smalls look-alike. He was a recovering heroin addict who had turned his life around and was going door-to-door collecting donations for the nonprofit organization he credits with helping him. I realized that under different circumstances, my friendly exchange with the large, imposing man could have ended differently. I'm fairly certain that all recovering junkies are not so courteous as he.

Two nights later, 8:00 pm. I had just arrived home from Target. Another knock at the door. Convinced it's the disgruntled neighbor coming over to air his grievances, I refuse to answer. The visitor lingers for an uncomfortably long time. He or she finally leaves, and I do what anybody would have done in my situation: I called the police.

Me: I have a bitter neighbor with an ax to grind, who may be stalking me.

They send an officer to my house. He informs me that it was he who rang my doorbell. I inform him that I have seen way to many episodes of 48 Hours Mystery and Forensic Files to answer my door to an unknown visitor (I have no peep hole, and there are windows on either side of my door, making it impossible to see who is at the door without them seeing me. I hid in my laundry room until he left.) Anyway, he said that during the one hour I was at Target, my neighbors called the cops on me again to complain about my dogs barking. In the end, I was glad I called the police (something most people would have considered an overreaction) because:

1. I got a little face time with one of Frisco's finest. He was super nice.
2. I got a little education on city ordinances
3. The officer told me my baby was pretty
4. I am no longer concerned that the lady next door hates me and my dogs. 
5. I don't have to be scared, because nobody is stalking me.

It Was a Very Good Year...

My birth isn't the only reason 1981 was a great year! Let's review the year that introduced me to the world...

"Bette Davis Eyes" was the #1 song of the year

Raiders of the Lost Ark was the top film at the box office

Dallas was television's most watched program

3M Corp introduces Post Its

Journey releases their Escape album, featuring the song "Don't Stop Believing", which is later used in one of the most controversial finales in television history

The movie never ends, it goes on, and on, and on, and on...

The wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer was televised around the world and viewed by 700 million people

MTV launched

Sandra Day O'Connor is nominated to become the first female justice on the U.S. Supreme Court.

The first American test tube baby is born!

Why stop at one?

Pope John Paul II and President Ronald Regan survive separate shootings

Scientists identify the AIDS virus

US space shuttle Columbia launches into space for the very first time

A gallon of gas cost $1.25

The term "Internet" is introduced

Birthday Treats

So, I've been craving a blizzard from Dairy Queen for about five years now. When Steve and I were dating, we used to visit the Auburn Dairy Queen on Sunday afternoons. I would get a chocolate chip blizzard, and he would get some sort of rich, chocolate brownie/cake/hot fudge sundae thing that would give him a tummy ache. Good times. We are subjected to these DQ commercials every day, but we don't live within 30 miles of a Dairy Queen...until now!

My neighborhood finally got a Dairy Queen, and Steve was there to celebrate the moment. He said there were 100 cars in the parking lot, and at least 20 cars in the drive-thru at all times. I guess the entire town has been craving a Dilly Bar. Unfortunately, the chocolate chip blizzard is not a menu item, and the rookies didn't know how to make it. I had prepared Steve in advance for this possibility, so he brought home my second choice Blizzard: Butterfinger. Yeah, we take our frozen desserts pretty seriously. In case you were wondering, a chocolate chip Blizzard is made by coating and partially filling the inside of the Blizzard cup with the chocolate used for the hand dipped cones. It's heavenly.

So, that was my birthday treat. I said earlier that there usually isn't much hoopla surrounding my birthday, but the dessert is something I never skip. It got me thinking about some memorable birthday cakes over the years. If this were an 80's sitcom, this is the part where you'd see wavy lines on the screen, signaling a daydream/flash back...

My Great Grandmother's 7-up Cake

So yummy, that I've asked her to bake it as my birthday cake more than once.

Yellow Cake with Chocolate Frosting

This is the perennial favorite of mine. It's Duncan Hines, but made with love by my mama.

Johnny Ray's Bar B Que Chocolate Pie

In Birmingham, Alabama I grew up on Johnny Ray's and Jim n Nick's Bar B Que, and they both serve the yummiest chocolate pie. One of my favorite desserts, I once requested "birthday pie" as a child

Cheerleader Cake

Ok, so it was my school's colors--orange and black--and it had my name on it, but this white-on-white confection is reminiscent of my birthday cake when i was 13. And it was delicious
Baskin Robbins Ice Cream Cake

For my 14th birthday, my family surprised me with my cake. My brother chose a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake: chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. He knows me so well! It was delicious, but we only got a slice before Hurricane Opal knocked our power out for four days and the cake slowly melted into a sloppy mess in our freezer.