You Matter.

Yesterday afternoon I took Adeline to our local library to pick out her weekly stack of books. We found a suitable pile of reading material and then found a spot at a table so I could read a few to her before checking them all out. I really didn't want to dawdle because the list of errands was high so I zoomed through two small books.

On our way to the check out counter she stopped by the movie shelves. I was trying to coax her away from the stacks and stacks of VHS tapes because we really needed to get to the tire shop to have my car serviced.
She seemingly ignored me and scanned through the videos to make a selection. We do actually own a VHS player at home so I couldn't really pull the "nobody watches VHS tapes kiddo, let's go" line. I was trying everything I had up my sleeve to get out of there without adding to the already heavy pile in my arms.

Alas, she was already clinging tightly to two VHS tapes. I urged her to hurry and that we probably didn't need to bring home movies and books this week but she insisted: "I have to take these home". So I said that was fine let's go. The child chose these two movies:

Of course, later that evening we heard of the passing of Robin Williams. My heart sank. 

It is hard to imagine what other people are feeling and fighting, especially in a world where many of us are more worried about what we are feeling at any given time. The demons in your head can be very, very real. I have loved ones both alive and gone who do and have battled with depression and substance abuse. I have only two words for everyone, currently battling or not, to read: 

YOU MATTER. 

Period.

If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide please contact the National Suicide Helpline at 1-800-273-8255 - or for young adults and teens to chat anonymously on line: 

http://www.remedylive.com/

Making the choice to call a helpline is essentially an act of courage. It takes a great deal of strength to admit you have a problem and begin the recovery process of putting your life back together. If you or someone you care about is struggling with an issue related to an addiction to drugs or alcohol, the best thing you can do is to reach out for help by calling 1-888-299-5213 at any time of the day or night, seven days a week. http://www.recovery.org/

Rest in peace Mr. Williams. You will be severely missed by many. 

Chemistry Can Shove It

With my recent obsession with Breaking Bad I was thinking about what a terrible, terrible meth cook I would make.

        Growing up I was an awesome student. I even got awards in elementary school for maintaining an A average and for excellent attendance. I was a perpetual teacher's pet. Even through college I kept up the grades and teacher's pet status (even with about 3 jobs at one time). I rarely studied, but I always did my homework. I took such good notes that I actually got paid for my notes in college. I particularly love(d) classes involving history, social studies, and geography.

       But Chemistry? Chemistry can die in a fire, a chemically disastrous fire induced by those blasted elements and formulas I could never get a grasp on. I failed that class with wild abandon. It was the only class in the history of my school career that I failed.

      In my opinion, I was scheduled to take Chemistry at just the wrong time in my teenage life. I was worried about 3 things: boys, parties, and my outfit. They should have allowed me to take that course while I was in 5th grade when it was painfully clear that I didn't care about being a cool kid. Painfully clear.
 Did I really need to know what happened to atoms and chemical bonds? Hell no I didn't. I haven't used that crap a day in my life since. So maybe I had it right. Mind blown.

The only way I managed to proceed past Chemistry was to take it in summer school. This is the butt of all that is my chemistry joke...For the following reasons:
1) My parents paid for the course. Point #2 helps solidify that we actually paid for a letter grade.
2) The school's name was Mountain Ed. I can't make this shit up.
3) The textbook that was given to me was from the 1960's, of course that was going to be easier, half of the elements weren't even listed!

I learned rather quickly that the poor schmuck that was paid to babysit us inconsiderate snots didn't care if I even showed up every day. As long as I passed the tests I was in the clear. Is this real life? With this info in mind I read that smelly, vintage text book and took all of the tests before the second week was even up. This allowed me to worry about the other important things in life.

Nowadays I still worry about my outfits, but I certainly don't concern myself with parties, boys, or the DAMNED PERIODIC TABLE.
So, who wants to cook some meth with me? anyone? no?

Arm Cast Wonder

I joke a lot these days about how I hope Adeline gets her dad's bone structure. Otherwise she will be a frail little wimp like I was and spend most of her childhood in a cast of some sort. I know these things because I have gone to the emergency room for 3 broken arms. "But Stefanie, you only have 2 arms". Exactly. 

I want to apologize for the grainy photos, but I took a quick pic of some scrapbook pages that document my ridiculous duo of arm casts.

I was in 3rd grade at the time of the incident (exactly one year after I broke my left arm for the first time), I was outside playing on my metal swingset with my niece who was 3ish years old at the time. I was doing that stupid thing that kids do on the swing, where you swing as high as you can, and you jump out as far as you can. Oh wait, kids don't do that? Well I did. At any rate, I had picked up some great speed and height before I took the plunge. My intentions were good, and I of course had envisioned myself soaring like an eagle across the yard. Alas, my foot somehow got caught up in the swing-  post jump, and what followed was a change in my course of direction. I plunged (at a vast speed) straight into the ground. It gets better...

I thought that my scrawny twig like arms would cushion the blow, nope. Both arms broke instantly. Then it was time for my face, yea it was next. My face hit the ground so hard it broke my glasses and possibly my nose. I don't even know how in the hell I got up and into a kneeling position, but I did. I imagine there was a lot of staring blankly, blinking, and processing going on, but before I could figure out that I had just gotten 100% rocked by my swingset my niece Chelsia decides that she wants to be scared and jumps on me to hold her. WITH TWO BROKEN ARMS. At that stage there was so much blood everywhere I just gave up and screamed. Couldn't very well go anywhere with a crazy toddler hanging on me now could I? A big fat F goes out to my dad and my sister for both being inside of the house when these shenanigans all went down. 

Anywho - when they finally got outside they had a sight to see! Dad rushed me to the emergency room, not sure what the rush was for because those assholes let me sit in the waiting room for almost 3 HOURS before calling me back, all the while dad just held rags on my face. Thanks emergency medical services. Mom was on her way to a concert when the incident occurred, but with the useless wait time she had plenty of time to get to us before I was called back anyways. I imagine my mom didn't leave me behind with anyone for a very, very long time. 

I spent the next few months trying to do normal people stuff with two stupid arm casts. What a waste of time! At least I didn't further injure myself. Geeeesh. 

Four Wheels are a Dangerous Sort.

Lately we have been talking about all of the toys and gadgets galore that are out there for little kids. Brett and I had our share of "big wheels" and what not when we were growing up. I also had a four wheeler, and a golf cart (sounds weird now that I type this many years later...what the hell does a 9 year old need a golf cart for?)

I was saying that if Adeline is anything like me then we can't get her any of those things, we need to fashion a device similar to a hamster ball to keep her from seriously doing some damage.

That four wheeler I had? well it became water logged. Why you ask? Because I parked it in a pond. That is why. I have a well formulated story as to why I drove a four wheeler with myself and a friend on it into our pond, but it seems silly now. So here is the short version: I was a kid, a dumb and accident proned kid apparently.

The golf cart? It had a head on collision with an oak tree. I'm not sure what was funnier, me not seeing the tree directly in front of us, my sister not telling me "hey-there's a tree right there", or flinging my niece from the basket in the back after impact.

It is amazing that I have never wrecked a car. I have however uprooted one of my mom's beloved Bradford Pear trees, while in reverse, in my car (aka the Loser Cruiser). That story I can keep short - I was running late for yoga, realized I didn't have my mat, threw it in reverse and instead of following the path of the driveway I deviated a smidge...Into the yard and by the time I threw it into "park" I was parked alright...ass end of the car slightly elevated and mom's poor tree severely bent just lying in the grass! My response? "It's just sleeping"
Before any tree huggers come to get me in my sleep I must say this: The tree did not die, we sort of rigged up a contraption to hold it back up right so it could live. So there!

So I guess what I need to ask is this, what are the safest riding toys for kids these days? ;)

Auto Enthusiast.

To clear up any preconceived notions - I am not an ungrateful brat. I just like to find humor in everything. Because if you aren't laughing enough you aren't living enough.

I have to put the corresponding image for this post at the bottom of this post because if I leave it hanging at the top you guys won't read a word you will just look at the image and think, "holy shit that is wild looking!" and well you need the story too!

My dad and I have a problem, we like to change cars like we change socks...very often. If anyone knows anything about my dad they would know he is quite fond of cars. Mostly old cars, but he has been known to collect (yes collect) some newer cars too. Back in his hay day of car collecting he had rounded up 40+ cars. Chevelles, mustangs, roadrunners, so many that my brain just shuts down when I try to name all of the makes and models.

When I was 14 he figured it was time to teach me how to drive a stick shift (uuh, why? who knows). So there we were in our looooong driveway in a pristine black and gold Trans Am - Smokey and the Bandit style baby! And just to take the edge off of how damn cool we were I had a pool float under my ass so I could see where I was going.

My first car? Was not that smokin' Trans Am with the pretty gold eagle. When I got my learner's permit dad gave me something a teenie bit different. A 1989 (or maybe 1990?) Lincoln Mark 7...with big Rims, black out tinted windows, and a ghost flame paint job. It might as well have played the theme from the Godfather when you blew the horn. I was the biggest gangster in Canton. Buddies and I nicknamed that one the Stinkin Lincoln.That car was ridiculous. Until I saw my next car.

So, I get my driver's license and guess what the new vehicle is? It was actually new-ish. A flaming PT Cruiser. Let's not take the term "flaming" too lightly here. The flame paint job on this silly little car was literally more expensive than the car itself.

Looking back I realize why my dad did this to me - he wanted to know where I was and what I was doing .at.all.times.
Because when you live in a fairly small town and you are either related to or friends with the entire city- people talk.

I couldn't have even snuck around under the amazing foliage of the Amazon Rainforest in that damn car-which by the way is 1.3 million sq mi of dense forest. So driving my friends to a party or going shopping? Not happening without everyone seeing me and letting my parents know "I saw Stef in that PT Cruiser this weekend!" Well of course you did! you just saw 6 brilliant shades of colors flame painted enveloping a tiny ass car passing by! A blind man could have seen me!

Which also reminds me - just because a vehicle has a flame paint job does NOT mean it is fast. I swear to anything holy that EVERY single time I stopped at a red light some jack ass next to me would rev their engine. Dude, I am 16, and I am in a PT CRUISER. I can't exceed 50mph down hill in a wind storm so why are you trying to RACE ME!?!

This car became known as the "Loser Cruiser". I could also call it the clown car, or a hotwheels car because that is what the children would call it. Kids loved that car, I mean what kid wouldn't - it was more spectacular than a toy car. I recall a toddler balling his eyes out in a parking lot and as I drove by his face lit up like the fourth of July. The Loser Cruiser stopped the tears of babes. Nice.

And so there you have it, and to ice the cake here she is:
* Yes, dad even had a tag made for it with my name on it. You know, in case I ever accidentally parked next to another flaming pt cruiser I would be able to tell which one was mine.

Santa Mishap

Do any of you remember the Christmas that you realized the Santa gig was up? The fat man really wasn't sneaking into your home to leave all the goodies?

I honestly can't recall when I came to terms with that. My view of Santa was always a little skewed in comparison to what other kids believed. Why is that? Well, my mom worked for Santa. That's right. She worked for Santa.Whoa right?

For a few years mom worked at the mall around Christmas time, and yup she was an elf. You know, the cranky elf that throws your children on Santa's lap and clicks the picture and throws your kid down the runway to the left with some crappy candy cane or sticker in tow. Sidenote: she may have been a jolly elf I just can't imagine how.

The particular Santa she worked for was posted up at the mall one year, and then some following years could be found at various department stores, and mom worked as an elf at those stores as well with this guy. The guy is a family friend. So? He would come over for parties and such too. Santa had a day job, and so occasionally I got to see him in his work clothes without the elves. He taught me how to build some sweet paper airplanes.

Moving along... The setting for this story is in my kindergarten class. There was a morning that mom said she and Santa would be coming to pick me up early and have lunch. She let me dress up. I picked out the brightest, wildest, puffy sleeved dress I could find - I even had brand new pink tights to match. I was stylin' for sure.

I get to school and of course everyone wants to know why I am dressed like this. I of course inform them all that Santa is coming to take me to lunch so I have to be dressed nicely. duh.

Naturally they all say "Nuh uh! you are a liar!" and lots of "Santa isn't coming here today." and lots of variations of how dumb I am for thinking Santa would be showing up to take me to lunch. I just told them to keep snacking on their glue sticks and see!

So, I endure a few hours of taunting and teasing. We have a recess play break just before our lunch hour. There was a girl in our class...Janet...god what a crazy ass kid. I should cut her some slack though, she was medicated for adhd or some sort of thing like that (ritalin was the cure all back then wasn't it?). Anyways, the teacher would pick someone different each day to escort Janet to the nurses office to dispense her drugs. That particular day was my day! Yippee. I was actually glad to catch a break from the teasing and being called a liar because in a 5 year olds mind a lot of time had passed since morning and Santa wasn't here yet.

So off we trek to the office for meds. Now, I can't remember how the next conversation went, but I certainly recall the events that went down. Janet and I are strolling along, not even off the playing lot yet, and I am sure I must have mentioned ... My lunch date with Santa ... again. Then Boom. Guess what happened?

The unmedicated Janet snapped, and kicked my ass.

That's right, drug me around on the sidewalk like a rag doll. My new pink tights? torn to shreds and bloodied up around the knees. So, instead of going to the office with Ms. Crazy Schizo pants I got to go to the bathroom with the teacher to clean up my damage. All I could think about was how my new outfit was ruined, and Santa wasn't even there yet!!!

A short time passes, and we are all settled back into our desks getting ready to line up for lunch. And guess who walks through the damn door? SANTA CLAUS bitches! And my mom of course. Naturally he does his little bit for the kiddos, and then I take their hands and walk out of there.

Eat that you dumb little snots! I am pretty sure that my pride outweighed my bloody knees and damaged reputation at that point. Janet may have kicked my ass, but Santa came to take me away, and now he knows what all of you have done...bwahahaha. I honestly don't remember what happened to Janet, this town is small, and I actually went to school with some kids from preschool through high school. But? I hope that Christmas she got a big bag full of nothing! Tramp...

Fowl Play

I am not really sure why I am feeling so nostalgic lately, but the old childhood stories just keep on popping up on here.

As per usual, let me give just a smidge of a background. Sometimes, well, a lot of times my dad does some pretty silly stuff. Particularly if alcohol is involved. How does the saying go...Ah yes, " God invented whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world" -Ed McMahon

Anyways, I guess in my case God created whiskey to keep my father from getting me normal gifts. And losing silly bets.

I have always had a love for animals in all shapes and sizes, I have had dozens (yes way more than 12) pets ranging from pups to exotic reptiles and who knows what in between. I had mentioned sometime ago that I had wanted a goat, particularly a fainting goat. Never heard of it? oh you must see one! At any rate, dad said hell no. Because they eat the back seats of cars he said! How would dad know that goats eat car's back seats? That's easy, he and his cousin lost a game of poker and were awarded the prize of a goat. (or did they win?) They of course thought it would be a grand idea to head on to the next bar with goat in tow. When they returned from bar #2 the goat had busied itself with dining on the interior of the car while waiting. Back seat? Demolished. So no goats for Stef.

Ok---Fast forward like, 15+ years - I am now 5 years old.

Dad comes home and says, "Stefanie! I have a surprise for you! Come on, go into the kitchen, sit in the floor and no peeking until I come back in with the gift!" Naturally I am super stoked and set up in the kitchen ready for my "Big Surprise!" I hear the front door open, and dad stomp in, stop, set something down, and then a little pitter patter noise coming towards me...

Dad: "Ok pumpkin, open your eyes!"

Me: "OH WOW DAD! WHAT IS IT?!?!?!? I LOVE IT" mind you, when I looked down I couldn't have even guessed what creature was staring back at me. It was so....ugly. But maybe not too ugly. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

Dad: "It's a turkey Stef."

Me: "A TURKEY?! YAY"

And as soon as I said that, what did the little turkey do? Peed. My excitement must have startled her, none the less that led to her namesake. Peeper. And as you can see below, is Ms.Peeper and myself (and yet another one of my pets, Sandy the dog)

Now, in case any of you are wondering why in the hell my dad would buy a 5 year old a turkey I will tell you. He didn't. Yup, he lost another bet while he was drinkin' (or as I said earlier, did he win?) Either way, he was awarded with yet another ridiculous animal.

What ever happened to Peeper? Well, she didn't go to live on a farm, or to live with Jesus or whatever they happened to tell me when she disappeared. Unfortunately we have a large snake population around the house, so that is a likely cause of disappearance.

So there you have it people, God created whiskey to keep dad from making wise pet choices. But we love him anyways.

Racist Toddler

Saying that I was a racist toddler may be stretching things a bit far. Or maybe not. I will let you be the judge of that.

I think the best way to start this story is to give a little geography lesson. I was born and raised here - not glamorous, and quaint enough that well, I never left. But that is neither here nor there. As you can see from visiting that link...lets scroll a little to the Demographics section, ah yes here we are:

"The racial makeup of the city was 72.97% White, 5.56% African American, 0.91% Native American, 0.61% Asian, 0.12% Pacific Islander, 12.87% fromother races, 1.93% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race comprised 24.50% of the population."

Now, take this back 20+ years and the demographic "makeup" would be a little more on the white side, so add oh 10-15% to the above white percentage, and take away accordingly from all the others.

Now, Geo lesson is over. On with the story! My dad has had this floor company forever (trust me, there are fossils and shit lying around here). We have lots of guys who install floors for us, and when things get slow at the office dad just sends them over to the house to work on random stuff just so they can still feed their families. Dad is really cool like that. One of dad's guys was a very old black man (where dad found him I do not know, as the stats we saw earlier would show that it would be difficult to find a black man in Canton in the 1980's) But, he was/ and still is a great worker, and hilarious old guy.

When I was about 2 and a half years old mom and dad were building a new house (the one they are still in today, and is right down the street from us!). The start to finish construction on this house was done solely by dad, some relatives, some drinkin buddies, and some of the workers from here. *side note 1: how is this house still standing? must. ask. parents.

This particular day I was at the house while the guys were working on it. *side note 2: why I was chilling out in a construction zone at 2 years old is a question I have never really asked, but maybe should have! must. ask. parents.

None the less, I was wandering around and playing some unusual game I am sure.

As I turned the new hallway corner to go into what would soon be our kitchen I saw dad in there. He was hanging wall paper (hey, it was the 80's leave him alone). And then! Oh my! I saw a man standing with dad who looked so strange. He seemed jolly enough, but his skin...what in the...who the... my tiny mind wondered. "Surely this can't be!" I thought to myself.

I marched right up to the man, I grabbed his hand with both of my hands, and I began to rub the top of his hand furiously! I would swipe, and then look up with my head cocked sideways like a confused puppy. Swipe, and look. Swipe, and look. No matter how hard I swiped at his skin, the dark just wouldn't disappear! In terms of toddler time, I stood there rubbing the back of his hand for eternity. Soon I heard laughing, and more laughing, and then the man took my hands and said, "hunny it don't come off" followed by even more chuckling. I just stared up at him as blankly as a toddler possibly can.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I tried to rub the black off of an old man. It is hard to believe that I made it my first few years of life without ever seeing a black person...in person.

Luckily he thought that the ordeal was totally hilarious, and? He still works for us on occasion, and no one has ever - or will ever let me forget about this story. Good times.

**this really isn't related to this post, but is funny anyways. This blog is all about stuff that white people like. There are even books on this complex subject matter. Enjoy.

My early days as a cryptozoologist.

While getting my hair done at my aunt's salon yesterday I learned a few things about myself. Mainly? I was a ridiculously funny child. My aunt was telling me story after story of the shenanigans I got myself (and those around me) into.

As you can learn from a previous post - I spent a lot of weekends camping in Alabama. I didn't really have anyone my age to play with as I grew up. My sister is 16 years older than I am, and all the cousins were closer to her age. So I either had to entertain myself, or con the closest adult into partaking in my antics.

One of my favorite pastimes at our lake front property was simple...I liked to slay all of the dragons that were lurking in the trees. All dainty little girls do that right? right?? I would round up the nearest adult and tell them they were to help me capture and slay all of the nearby dragons.

Catching the dragons was the easy part-or so I told everyone. You leave food out for them, duh!

What do dragons eat? To my 4 year old mind that was easy too - they eat artichokes.. aka pine cones.. they look the same to those stupid stupid dragons. Who knows how I actually "killed" the imaginary buggers, but stories like this show me how crazy our kid could possibly be.

One night after a long day of slaying these beasts I was sitting on the dock with my aunt. The only light was a tiny sliver of moonlight. Soon we spotted something out in the water. It was really long, slow moving, and had a seemingly curvy/slick body.

My aunt: "Uhhhh what the heck is that?!"

4 yr old me: "IT'S A DRAGON!!!!!"

My aunt: : "No really, that thing is huge, we should get back to the camper."

4 yr old me: "DRAGON -DRAGON - DRAGON!!! I told you they were real!"

---just before my aunt scoops me up to haul me away from this weird thing in the water...

Creature: "Quack! Quack! Quack!"

Yup, a line up of large ducks fooled us for sure that night.

I still catch myself watching shows like Monsterquest and Destination Truth and going, wow that is cool-What if???

Ice Cream in Alabama

I think some of my best childhood memories involve camping in Alabama. My parents had some property off of Lake Weiss and for years and years we would always spend our summer holidays and many weekends out there.

That is where I learned how to fish at the age of 3, and from then on I out fished dad, his buds, and every relative that would come out there with us. I was a little lucky charm out on that lake.

I learned that making homemade ice cream took way longer than my young mind could comprehend, but it was better than any ice cream I have ever had. Ever. I would now wait a lifetime to be able to go back and eat that ice cream.

Out on our dock is where I learned that fireworks don't always do what they are supposed to after you catch them on fire...You can pick up quite a pace when a flaming rooster booster is chasing you down the dock-even if you are 6 years old!

I learned that dad's friends were maybe a little more than drinking buddies. They played cowboys and aliens with me (not sure why I didn't stick to the traditional indians)...They caught baby ducks to the dismay and severe beating they received from mama duck- just so I could get a little ducky cuddle in before returning it to it's family. They also helped dad fight off a raccoon with rabies that was heading for me. Thinking back I really wish I could remember all of the crazy stuff that happened throughout those years on the lake.

When I was a teenager I guess things got tough (or too busy), and dad sold the property. It broke my heart. It still breaks my heart. The worst part? An uncle bought the land, and instead of being invited to visit the old stomping ground I get to see facebook updates about how they are all enjoying the lake that I loved so much. I should be glad my cousins, and their children are getting to have their own memories made there, but I am a little too bitter still.

I am sure there will be a spot, or several spots that I will take my kid(s) to in our camper and they will have some unforgettable memories to keep with them like I have.

I shut my eyes in order to see

In the second grade my elementary school class was given a project. We were instructed to pick a famous, influential person, and make a diorama and short summary of their life. The teacher even took us to the library to help us pick our person out! That's right kids, a true blue library.

Who did I pick at the ripe age of 8?

Abe Lincoln? Babe Ruth? Ben Franklin? Einstein?

Nah, I left all of those obvious picks to the un-creative little shits in my class.

I picked the artist Paul Gauguin. And after I figured out what the hell a diorama was I got to work.

Still to this day my all time favorite quote is from Paul, "I shut my eyes in order to see" -simple, but wow. I have always relied on my imagination so this quote rocks in my book.

I am sure it was loads of fun for my mom to help me find a painting this man did with out an excessive amount of native boobies showing, or writing about his life while omitting the part where the church was throwing his ass in prison, but he died before he got there from his drunken, impoverished, syphilitic lifestyle...

I must have picked him because:

-we have the same birthday

-he painted with fun colors

-I thought the booby paintings were funny

-he lived in Tahiti, and that is fun to say when you are 8

Either way, I am glad that I wasn't a complete run-of-the-mill little girl. I may have been the weird kid in class, but I sure as hell wasn't the smelly kid. You know who they were...

Needless to say, my Diorama kicked ass. It had construction paper palm trees, Mr.Gauguin himself, painting one of his non booby paintings. I even had some sea birds hanging from my cotton ball clouds.

Alas...my teacher Ms.Lynch? Gave me a B-.

B is for Bitch, or so I told myself that entire year. There is a special spot in hell for Ms. Lynch, and I was ready to pack her suitcase for her.

Even at 8 I knew that there was a reason she was a Ms. and not a Mrs. There wasn't a man in the world who would want to touch that broad with a 10 foot pole. I also figured she was not the caliber of woman Paul Gauguin would have wanted in one of his paintings. No booby pictures for you Ms. Lynch!

So here is to my imagination...may it last longer than my mind does!