Tupac Shaker: A Theory

Q: Did they fine Tupac’s body?
A: yes, that’s how they learnt he got shot.

Wow. Thank you for that, wiki answers posting.

I have a lot of theories but one of the greatest of my theories is on Tupac. Now, we all know about Tupac. Sometimes, it’s 2Pac. Sometimes, it’s Makaveli, or if you’re like me, you call him Two Pack Shaker. I know Tupac got murdered by someone in Biggie’s gang, and I think someone from Tupac’s gang killed Biggie. Once, in Raleigh, I was driving behind a big moving van that had both of them airbrushed onto the back garage door of the truck with the words “stop the violence” surrounding them. I wish I had had a camera phone in my life because it was an awesome truck. I’ve never forgotten it and still see it in my head.

Tupac is listed as the only artist to ever have an album at #1 while serving a prison sentence…Ok, why is this even a category? I like T.I. and I like Lil Wayne, and clearly I like Pac just as much as the next person. Side note, I think it’s hysterical Lil Wayne’s peeps threw him a going away party before he went to the pokey, but seriously, WHY is having an album while in the slammer even a category? Prisoners have way too many rights as it is, and being able to release an album shouldn’t be included. I didn’t have cable tv growing up, prisoners do. I haven’t released an album, but apparently prisoners have. This is a problem for me.

I’ve always had this theory that Tupac didn’t really die, that his mother never identified his body and that he was really secretly living in Italy where he was still producing records and writing music (and I’m pretty sure my brother helped me with this theory since he helped me with every other thing I grew up believing wrongly). But, think about it. I mean, who else who else can release THAT many posthumous albums??!?! I’ve got a lot of stuff stored up for release after my demise, but only enough to tide you over during mourning. After listening to “Changes” by Tupac during our road trip home from Miami this weekend, Natalie and I got into a heated debate about what really happened to Two Pack Shaker. I decided to look it up online, because you are guaranteed the truth online. Wikipedia gave me the full recount of what happened that fateful night in Vegas. It says he died of respiratory failure and cardiopulmonary arrest. His mother ordered the docs to take him off life support, but it doesn’t say she was there when he was taken off life support. It doesn’t say she was there to make sure the docs followed her orders. So, SHE NEVER IDENTIFIED THE BODY!!! (partial theory proven right, thank you Wikipedia) It then goes on to say he was cremated and members of his group smoked his ashes in a joint. Excuse me? Paging Grandma’s Boy? Like wtf. WHO does that??? I don’t smoke pot – it’s just not ever been my thang. But I have a little idea that smoking the ashes of one my friends wouldn’t make me enjoy it even more. It might actually make me really sad, not to mention that it would just really weird me out. Like seriously really weird me out. But let’s really think about this…does weed from a plant and weed from a person taste any different? I cannot imagine that it would, because weed is weed is weed, so I think it’s fair to say that there’s a good chance they didn’t really smoke Tupac, meaning he could very well be in Italy living in costume. Bam! Partial Theory part two proven right.

Pac is listed in Forbes’ list of top earning Dead Celebrities. But, I’m pretty sure Michael Jackson and Anna Nicole own that list now, so I’m gonna have to say this might also prove my theory that Tupac really isn’t dead…also, this year, his song Dear Mama is being added to the National Recording Registry…that’s really sweet since his mom apparently lives in the town of her birth, Lumberton, NC. (My friend Emily, of exorcism fame, has really researched this in depth and we’ve fought about it but I think she might be onto something, especially since she (Tupac's mama, not my friend) was charged on April 16 of THIS YEAR with possession in LUMBERTON!!!!) …I almost got killed in Lumberton, ya know.

Another diddy about Pac? There’s a memorial to him in Herford, Germany. And GUESS WHO just happens to be going to Deutschland in November??? Forget the Christmas markets!

No Follow Thru at the Drive Thru

My big brother, while recounting his trip to the Big Apple (http://leerobertson.blogspot.com) mentions a visit the Burger King where they ran out of biscuits. This reminded me of a day back in North Carolina when I visited what is sure to be the.worst.bojangles.ever. and of course, I felt the need to share it here.

When I was in college, my fave fast food of ALL TIME was Bojangles. I loved Bojangles. Bojangles in Raleigh saw the many sides of Merdeezy, and the many sides of her big brother as they went every day together, and usually had a fight of some sort while there. My junior or senior year (I don’t remember which), I was treated for an ulcer. My brother will tell you that I made this up. But I didn’t. I had stomach problems and although my blood tested negative for the bacteria (eww) carried by ulcers, my doc found it necessary to put me on prevacid, NOT Prozac like people think, and told me to lay off the fast food for 6 months. My grandmother and I shared war stories over our medicines since we were on the same ones. So, I sort of dropped Bojangles like a bad habit. Only, sort of means not really and as soon as my 6 months were up, badda boom, badda bing, bring bojangles to me!

(side note: in high school, a friend from church sat next to a Mexican boy. There’s no way to beat around the bush and try to be politically correct. He was from mexico and he was a boy. One day she brought in a biscuit and he asked her if it was a boHAHNGalees biscuit. Who needs to dangle from bojangle with they can hahng from bohanhg)

Anyway. At my last job, there was a Bojangles within walking distance, but it was a long walk and I’d rather drive and yak to my mama. I would sneak out of work often for an afternoon delight of fries and a sweet tea. One afternoon, after a particularly frustrating office experience, I just knew the only solace was a kids’ supreme meal from the bo. I got in my car and went to the drive thru, hollerin to my mama the whole way about my day. I got to the speaker box and told my boyfriend at the drive thru my order. He said “well, we don’t have any fries.” NO FRIES? You have got to give me a flipping break here dude. I was so angry at this that I said “I’ll see you at the window.” I drove up, he leans out and says “no fries. Sorry.” I asked him if he was trickin’. He said no, he wasn’t trickin. THEN THE ICING FOR MY CAKE ARRIVED. He says “and, um, well, we just ran out of supremes.” I seriously looked at him, looked around myself, looked back at him and said “am I not at bojangles? Home of chicken and biscuits?” he told me they had plenty of biscuits, just no chicken. I reminded him that they were also out of fries. My mama, still on the phone says in my earball very calmly – of course SHE is calm. She’s not the one trying to get a treat – “well, now I’ve heard it all. The bo has run out of chicken and fries.” I had to get off the phone with her. My face was about to explode off my neck.

I went back to work and told one of my co-workers, who happened to be good friends with the OWNER of that Bo, that he needed to call him up and let him know. Said co-worker just laughed and laughed and shook his head. Bojangles happens to be headquartered in Charlotte. It’s not like the workers couldn’t have driven down to the office and picked up some cutlets and some potatoes.

I think this officially might have been the worst day of my life. On this day, at that very moment, I fully understood why that crazy b in florida got arrested for calling 911 when McDonalds ran out of nuggets. When you’ve only got 1 thing on your brain, and that’s a snack, and a service provider can’t provide that snack for you, and you feel like your face might explode off your neck, then yes, that is an emergency. And it should be illegal. It’s false advertising. Building my hopes up and crushing my dreams all in one drive thru visit.

Gangsta Gator-ade

This is an image from my fave movie as a child (I mean, other than Toby Tyler): The Happiest Millionaire. This is Jon Lawless dancing as he walks George the alligator back to his bath tub home in the conservatory of the Happiest Millionaire's home. 11 other gators live in bath tubs in this conservatory, and one of the pinnacles of the movie is when they escape, freeze to death, then come back alive. Once, this boy came to see me and I convinced him to watch this movie with me. About 5 minutes into the film, he realized it was a musical and he told me: "a man doesn't watch musicals." I said not only was there boxing in the movie, but there were also gators in this movie, and that seemed to appease him for a bit longer. However, he did fail this test of true love as he decided he couldn't watch much more. BUT, if you haven't seen this movie, you really should as it is quite darling and actually revolves around some historical events.

Thanks to this movie, my whole life, I've had a secret affinity for gators, as evidenced below with me holding this baby years ago in the Everglades. This little guy was presh and when I held him, I knew what the Happiest Millionaire must have felt every time he held one of his beloved gators. No wonder he was so happy! Look how happy I am! Like a millionaire!

When I announced I was moving to Florida, several people told me to get prepared for football season, that Gator fans were of a different cloth. I sort of brushed this off. I mean, I had seen UF's synchronized swim team and they were awesome, so what was there to be worried about? Ha, is all I have to say to that!

The first weekend I moved to Florida, I attended a Halloween party hosted by some friends of friends. This guy walked in wearing jorts, a wife beater, a fanny pack and a mullet wig. One of the hostesses ran over and said "hey! You're a GATOR fan!" she really put an emphasis on the word Gator. He just looked at her and said "no, I'm Andre Agassi." Needless to say, this was my first impression of a Gator fan (not to mention this was also the wkend of Florida/Georgia which I still need to experience!).

A few weekends later was the SEC Championship game, which of course the Gators were playing in. I was invited to watch the game with some friends but told I had to wear a Gators shirt. Little did they know that I am a TRUE fan. When I get invited to something, I dress the part! And, because I'm such a gangster, I usually add a bit of edge to my dress up game. While driving down the road to the viewing party, and wearing my newly purchased Gators gear, I came to a stop light next to the most gigantic truck with big wheels I have EVER seen. Now, I'm from Nascar country, and I've seen a lot of trucks, but this guy was seriously compensating for something! He leaned out his window and yelled "hey!" to me. I looked over to find two huge, bulging (no stop it) arms clapping at me. I cannot even describe what was going on here. All I know is that I was stopped at a red light, wearing a Gators shirt, having a man lean out his gigantic truck with his bulging biceps clapping at me. I have no idea what happened next, but I am pretty sure I ran the rest of that red light. I can honestly say I'm not sure I've ever been so scared in my entire life. Even now, almost a year later, when I am stopped at that red light, I cautiously look to my right, expecting to see big man in his big truck clapping his big biceps at me. like a giant alligator!

That's fine. Because I am gangsta Gator. So I'll show him. giant alligator man arms. gator arms wanna go? i think gator arms wanna go.

It's Time for a SMACKDOWN!

I began really making my mother proud when I began a love affair with wrestling in 6th grade. My best friend Lindsay and I would spend every Friday night with each other. Every Saturday morning, while opening all the cds we had gotten in the mail that week from that BM CD Club, or whatever it was called, we would watch WWE. Our favorite wrestler was Das Wunderkid. I mean, would ya take a look at this hunk of burnin love? Just to show you how much we have in common, I have posted a picture of me as well, showing off my mad wrestling skills. I've always wanted to be a cage fighter but my father has never allowed it. Something about women getting kicked in the reproductive organs is bad and unhealthy? whatever. i know he just doesn't want me to usurp his image as tough and strong.

Not only could this wonder kid effectively pull off the speedo, but he was German, which means he knew how to appreciate fine chocolate. clearly, he was a WONDER KID! Yumm, ich liebe das wunderkid.

In college, I attended my favorite wrestling event ever: leprechaun wrestling, which was really just midges beating the crap out of each other on St. Patrick's Day. It was all fun and games until they started chanting "midgets rule the world" and blowing kisses. To say it was slightly disturbing would be an understatement. Of course, out of this experience born was my not so secret passion for midgets. We all know it ain't a party without the mere mere and it definitely ain't a party without a midge.

Finally, at the ripe old age of 25, I got to attend my first live pro-wrestling event. You want to talk about people watching, hell-o pro wrestling. It was everything good in this world: jorts, mullets, camo, barbed wire tats, wife beaters. In the bathroom, while waiting in line, I was taught the "woo" for Ric Flair, who happened to be retiring for REAL that night. Now, I knew all about Ric Flair because I used to be in love with Nick who ran the Nature section of Boy Scout Camp. I called him Nick Flair, Nature Boy. And yes, he loved it. Said no one had ever called him that before. and contrary to popular belief, he was not my first kiss.

Anyway, after perfecting my woo in the bathroom (seriously, ask me to woo you), we made our way to our seats, only to make friends promptly with the necks sitting next to us who kindly asked "who the hell wears a dress and a coach purse to wrestling?" valid points, not gonna lie. I really got into it. Like, really got into it. Wished I had a posted got into it. Booed with my thumbs down and screamed "you are a loser" got into it. I cheered for all of the wrestlers, but especially for THE HARDY BOYS! they drove me WILD with their long, greasy locks and full suits of tats. Plus, the name was clever. Another thing that drove me wild was the MIDGE who showed up!!! this just further validated my theory on midges.

And, did you know, at the sercy stand, you can purchase an exact replica of the chapionship belt? Now, I admit, I like to purchase unnecessary items, but this is just ridiculous. Where in the world are you ever going to wear this? Clearly this guy felt it was apprope to wear to the WWE event. Now, this is just a hunch, but I'm pretty sure nobody thought by accident that this guy was a former world champion. I know, I shouldn't judge, but it's just a hunch.

Have you ever played that game about Kevin Bacon, where everyone in the world is like 5 people away from him? I got yet another brush with fame only a few days ago when a good friend of mine sat first class next to JEFF HARDY (of THE HARDY BOYS fame!) I asked him to get me his autograph. Jeff was recently kicked out of the WWE for drug abuse or something. I don't know about you, but to me, you have to be pretty scandalous to get kicked out of professional wrestling. I mean, this is a sport (sport? what's a sport?) where you can say whatever you want, whenever you want, you can pull hair, body slam people with chairs, pull moves like "the attitude adjustment" or "double grapes," stand on ropes and beat your chest and holler, beat women, and in the case of the midge wrestling, staple each other with staple guns, or throw mexican midges in trash cans and roll them off the stage. So, obvi getting kicked out of the WWE makes you a real badass. I wanted to share with you this further proof of a real badass in action. I personally can't wait to interlock fingers with THOSE fingers. Was ist das wunderkid?

Ich liebe Jeff Hardy.

Mortified by Morton

It’s back to school time!!! Though I am not actually going back to school, I can’t help but reminicise at my school days and how awesome I was (actually, as you will see shortly, I was in fact, not awesome).

I remember my first day of high school like it was yesterday. I was going to be in 9th grade and my older brother was a junior. He had long been telling me stories of his popularity and charm, and coupled with his badass, royal blue 1989 Camaro (this was 1997 mind you) I felt like the coolest kid ever. No senior would be telling me that all freshmen were to attend the meeting at the pool on the roof of the school. I had picked out my outfit WEEKS before at the outlet stores in Myrtle Beach during the annual cousin beach shopping trip. Besides my cinnamon tan, I wore the whitest shorts you have ever seen in your LIFE. I definitely wasn’t in on Victoria’s Secrets at this point in my life, so I don’t even want to know what I wore underneath these gleaming shorts. I paired that with a purple and white button down tank top (whatttt?) and…brand spankin’ new purple and white kicks with white socks. I’m pretty sure I also wore a thick silver chain because thick chains have always been stylish. I.looked.good. There once was a contestant on the Bachelorette who, when asked why he should win, replied with “I look good, I smell good, I make love good.” This pretty much sums me up for my whole life, especially the first day of 9th grade.

I don’t remember much about 9th grade other than my 4.0 GPA (that’s right), Joe Devine, Derek Durst and Phillip Morton. Joe and Derek were senior football players and they had me from “are you Lee’s sister?” (it didn’t take long for me to realize my brother had been lying to me pretty much my whole life). There was a service group at school that had an initiation week whereby all involved seniors could pick an incoming member to pretty much torment and humiliate the entire week. They dressed us up, paraded us around and basically made us act like tards all day, every day for the week. Joe and Derek had gotten wind of some rhymes I had made up for them and had me sit in the middle of the floor of the school’s mall where EVERYONE congregated and shout from the rooftops my rhymes. My poems basically were as follows: Joe Devine is so fine, yeah yeah yeah and Derek Durst is not the worst, yeah yeah yeah. As you can see, I was quite the accomplished writer, even at age 14. I actually became good friends with both guys and never relied on my brother for my popularity again.

But Phillip Morton. Now HE was better than a rhyme or a cheesy love poem. He was in my brother’s circle of friends and tall and skinny. He wore ripped jeans before they were cool and rainbows every day. He was the first guy I remember ever seeing in flippy floppies year round. He also had this shaggy ‘do and these really, really blue eyes. And he drove a red bmw. So, basically, I was in love (and clearly had my standards set from a tender age). I didn’t even have to talk to him to know I was in love and he was my husband and we were going to live happily ever after. If Phillip Morton was around, Joe Devine was no longer fine and Derek Durst was definitely the worst. Shortly after my first day of being a purple people eater, I did what most normal, non-psychotic, non-horomonal 14 year old girls do: I wrote him a love letter. And I gave it to him. I caught him on the way up the stairs and what happened next is quite possibly the most romantic, least embarrassing exchange known to love poets around the world. It went like this (and this is verbatim because I have never, ever forgotten it):

Me: hi, are you Phillip Morton?
PM: yes, why?
Me: well, I have this love letter for you.
PM (not laughing AT ALL or giving me any type of weird look): from who?
Me: well, me.
PM: oh, ok. thanks.

He was gracious enough to accept the love letter. But seriously, ARE YOU PHILLIP MORTON??? I just freakin’ wrote you a LOVE LETTER and I have to ask you who you are?! I am about 100% positive he never read the letter. And I’m pretty sure he made fun of me because a few years later, when I dated the brother of one of his friends, the friend asked me had I ever written Phillip Morton a love letter. I just acted like I didn’t know who Phillip Morton was. I just had a thought. What if he had said no, he was not Phillip Morton? I honestly don’t know if my heart could have handled it.

I never received Phillip's response to my love letter. I wonder if he’s still searching for me to give it to me. I mean, after that, I pretty much went into hiding until I saw my next husband walking down the hall two days later. So Phllip, I hate to break it to you, but I'm no longer interested in you. 9 years is an awfully long time to wait to respond to someone, and I'm just not that into you anymore.

Pete Freshener

Pete has been a bit on edge today. We've had some serious thunderstorms today, and he's already handicapped, so these two just don't bode well together. Another thing that doesn't bode well for Pete, other than life in general, is my new air freshener.

I had a coupon for 4 buckaroos off this new air freshening system from Air Wick: the Air Wick Freshmatic Ultra. Now, if that doesn't sound like the Ricky Bobby of air fresheners, then I don't know what does. And, with a coupon, you can bet I thought it was a good deal. During my trip to Target, I mulled over the fragrance options and selected Fresh Waters. To me, Fresh Waters sounds like it would smell like Hawaii. Or Portugal. I imagined her name would be Lililokiani (whom, for those of you who know me and just need an (air)refresher, was the last reigning queen of Hawaii and I've always said I wanted to name my daughter Lili). I brought her home, assembled her, and set her down by my tv shelf. She has this blinking light, like an alien (coupon AND alien traits = double score!) and every time she detects motion, she blows air into the room. Fresh, Hawaiian waters air. So, you can imagine what this must mean for Pete.

Poor little boy. He's already handicapped and every time he runs by the alien freshener, it blows out scent. Only, the sound of the air blow scares Pete to death and he falls over. Right in front of the blinking light. Each time he attempts to get up, the light blinks, and there she blows again. My room doesn't smell any fresher. But Pete...oh man, does he smell good. He smells like a Popsicle. A fresh, Hawaiian watersicle.

Friday the 13th Fail.

Today is Friday the 13th. Now, I don’t consider myself a superstitious person by any means. I do read my horoscope daily to see if it can give me a heads up on the day’s events as I am not too keen on surprises, but I really don’t believe in that malarky. The one time I had my palm read, I asked her if I didn’t like what she said, could I get a refund. She told me no but then told the friend I was with that she (the friend) needed an exorcism (which is not only hilarious and may not be far from the truth, but that’s a story for a different day). I don’t think walking under a ladder with a black cat is going to make you have bad luck. I mean, the ladder may fall down, but that’s just being a stupid if you think walking under a ladder is a smart idea. And black cats just don’t really impress me. So, needless to say, superstitions are for the birds.

Except today, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I didn’t sleep well because my little boy Pete was up all night. He gets up at 5:30 to have a snack (low blood sugar must be genetic) then usually gets right back in the bed to go to sleep. Well, not today. He had all kinds of things to tend to early in the morning after being a man of the night all night. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and decided to break my diet. My reasons for breaking my diet this morning were simple. It was Friday, it was a Friday the 13th, and I deserved a congratulations after all. I should have known that congratulatory diet breaks were a bad idea. The first biscuit I got from the Chick was bad looking. I mean, it was ugly. If I’m gonna eat fried chicken, I want it to be golden and tasty, not brown and disgusting. So I went back through the drive thru and they gave me a coupon for a free chicken mini (score!) and another biscuit. Only this biscuit was the same thing. I mean seriously people? Throw out your bad oil! Stop dipping my chicken cutlets into your hot burning old oil and giving them out the window. So, needless to say, it’s only 8:41a EST, and I am officially a Friday the 13th Fail.

I cannot wait for the rest of the day! Eager anticipation, my friends. Eager anticipation.

Give me some of your nutrisystem. seriously.

I know what you're thinking, and I agree. Why in the heck would I have a picture with the HOFF? Don't worry, I don't. For this is a pic of Joe Montana. I mean, Dan Marino. As you can see, I am a bit more dressed up than him. He asked me on a date and I misunderstood that just because he has lots of money did not in fact mean he was going to wine and dine me.

About 3,5 years ago, I met Dan Marino. My old boss is good friends with him and he announced that Dan would be in the office for our dreaded Tuesday meeting that week. Now, this was awesome because it gave me something to look forward to. Just in case you're confused, every Tuesday we had an all day meeting and if it was Tuesday, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Even when I got back in the bed and climbed out the other side, I was still ill as a hornet as long as the name Tuesday was in my vocabulary. However, on this particular Tuesday, I woke up sunny side up and got all decked out. I'm pretty sure I had never gotten that dressed for work before that day, or ever since (ok, that's false. Any time I have known beforehand of a cute office boy, I've gotten dressed complete with my naturally sunny disposition). Now, at this company also worked a former NFL player who not only is extremely good looking, but is also extremely nice. He too was good friends with Dan and loved to tease Dan on his lack of Super Bowl rings or some other big ole ring football players get that may or may not be encrusted with diamonds.

On this special day, I shimmed around the office. I had gotten my beauty sleep the night before so as to look my best for Danny Boy. Only, I thought his name was Joe. W, the former NFL player/saporous co-worker of mine, met me at the copier and just laughed and asked if I wearing lip stick. yes, yes I was indeed wearing lip stick. Bright, red, lady of the night lipstick. It brought out the green twinkle in my eyeballs. I just replied that I was because I had to look good for Joe Montana. W. I think took pity on me and instead of laughing at me, he just explained that I was not meeting Joe Montana but Dan Marino. Like I knew who Dan Marino was. Please.

Dan Marino came in, pretty much fell in love with me, winked at me across the table and then left to play golf with my boss. I didn't even have to do my sexy walk for him! As soon as he left the meeting, I announced to the room that he had winked at me. Later that day, W. told Dan Marino that I caught him winking at me and Dan DENIED it! Wtf.

Dan came to the golf tournament this past May and my co-worker took a picture with him. She sent it to me to basically rub it in that Dan had moved on from me. Apparently he was appalled when they told him how I thought he was really Joe Montana. I cut her out, replaced the person hole with myself, and sent it back to her with the caption, "don't hate me because Dan Marino is still my boyfriend." It made it's way to my boss and now I am ashamed. well, not really.

i don't care what anyone says. Dan Marino winked at me, and I would gladly accept a wink from Joe Montana to go with my collection.

Ode to the Stooges

Newlyweds become oldyweds, and oldyweds are the reasons that families work. ~Author Unknown

Today is my mama stooge and daddy stooge’s 35th wedding anniversary. I know it’s not 50 years, but these days, 35 is extraordinary. I’m pretty sure the first five years of their marriage, they loved a lot. Then, my brother came along and ruined it for them. Two and a half years later, they welcomed a pink baby bundle of Merdeezy. The next 6 and a half years of their marriage was perfect. How could it not be with me as the baby. The past 21 years have been mostly blissful (thanks to me), but the little surprise that was my sister made me the middle child, the care taker of the family and that changed things. I’d say, over the course of a 35 year marriage, to have 6.5 years of bliss right smack in the middle is pretty good.

My parents are basically just good people. My daddy has worked extremely hard to provide for his family. The only things I’ve had to do without are things like belly button rings, tats and pink hair. My mama has worked very hard to have a happy home. We always had dinner on the table (sometimes two dinners a night if we were ugly) and there has never been a shortage of laughter in our house. All of my friends, every single one of them, say we should have a reality tv show. I have to admit, most of the humor is from the folks. I moved back in with them for a year and a half under the pretense that I was buying a house, but then I loved it, so I didn’t move out until I moved to another state and they wouldn’t come with me. Sure, they got on my nerves, I mean they are becoming elderly and needed me to tend to them a little bit more, but on the whole, I would move back in a heartbeat. Only this time, they’d have to obey my rules and do as I say as they proved quite disobedient during that year and a half.

I heard once that you have expectations for your marriage based on your parents’ marriage. This is definitely true. I don’t want to marry anyone who is anything less than hilarious and darling and is my best friend. Every Sunday night, the Stooges have a tradition. They go fill my mom’s car up with gas and they get a drink from the Exxon station. They go everywhere together, even when they’re mad. You can tell after hanging out with them for a little bit that they just really love each other. After 35 years, you’d have to in order to stick around. I’ve never had the impression that divorce was ever an option for them. I mean, how could it be. You have a man like my daddy, who puts out fires at the pool on behalf of the entire neighborhood, teaches his kids to talk to truck drivers on his CB radio, drives around downtown Charlotte with a ping pong table falling out of his truck, mistakes “I want a beach house” for “time to build a mountain house,” meets his kids’ friends while wearing running shorts and a harness, threatens to line kids up to call their parents at your birthday party when they won’t play with your kid sister, and buys a bicycle built for two at a charity auction and genuinely has his feelings hurt when you won’t ride with him. There’s there is a lady like my mama, called Lucy by her husband who will drive around in circles waiting for you because you only have one car, throws your pipe into the bushes, declares your shoes to be decorations for her home because she can’t pick them all up, becomes your book keeper, says she cannot tend to you anymore when you don’t listen to her directions, has a true appreciation for your love of mayonnaise, and raises three fine (as much I hate to admit it about my brother and sister ;) children who adore their parents.

My parents have a lot in common, including they both are really good at giving me life lessons. They always know exactly what things will happen to me if I am not careful, go to the ATM machine late at night, or go anywhere at night for that matter, what I should and shouldn’t watch on tv, and what I should and shouldn’t do for dinner, and how I should and shouldn’t live life. They both went to med school somewhere along the way, as well as car school, clothes school, house school, boy school (and girl school for my brother) and life school. The only problem with all these degrees it that they have good memories about what they learned, and they tend to be right. About everything. If there is one thing I know about life, it’s to listen to my parents.

If there’s another thing I know about life, it’s that I am extremely lucky and beyond blessed to have two such wonderful parents. My dad is the smartest man I’ll ever meet and my mama is the sweetest woman in the world. I have never doubted their love for me or their pride in me. When I was going through the hardest thing I've ever gone through, they were there to literally pick me up and make me feel worthwhile again. They tell me when I'm wrong, and praise me when I'm right. Let’s be honest here. There’s a lot of praisin’ goin on in our family! Especially to the good Lord for giving me such a fabulous example of what a good marriage is and what a good life is.

Paging George Constanza

I don’t know about you, but I can get pretty annoyed when people do things I think don’t make sense, are dumb, just plain ridiculous or basically just don’t align with my way of thinking. Back in college, I used to go to Bojangles with my older brother at least 3 or 4 times a week. I was consistently in a bad mood during these visits. Usually, it was because my brother wasn’t doing what I suggested to make himself a better person, but sometimes, it was because I would ask for TWO packages of bbq sauce to go with my FIVE chicken supremes that came in my meal. Now, the word supreme means, according to www.dictionary.com, “greatest, extreme, ultimate.” So, naturally, a chicken supreme is bigger than say, a chicken nugget, a chicken mini, or even a chicken bite. But, regardless of size, at this Bojangles’, they only wanted to supply you with one package of sauce, no matter how many supremes you ordered (honestly, I’m getting quite hungry for Bojangles, and I swore off fast food! Sonofab!) When you asked for an extra package, they told you it was going to be an extra charge – I think like 15 or 20 cents but still, an extra charge is an extra charge. I often times saw myself imitating George Constanza and I tried with all my might to just accept the fact that unless I wanted to ration my bbq sauce out per supreme (I’ve never been good at arithmetic), then I would have to bite the bullet and fork over the change. It.drove.me.mad. Thank goodness I got an ulcer and had to stop eating Bojangles.

The other day, I rode out to get a treat from Quiznos for lunch. I had some coupons in my bag they had given me the last time I was there so I decided to be thrifty (there’s a difference between thrifty and cheap mind you and I am both). Turns out my coupons weren’t going to work on what I wanted, so I went with my original desire for 2 sammies. While standing in line, the girl in front of me asked for olives on her sandwich. The sandwich artist (yes, I am aware that is Subway as I went to one of many proms with one, but it works here too) informed this girl that olives would be $0.20 extra. EXCUSE ME? TWENTY FREAKIN CENTS EXTRA FOR A FEW OLIVES??? I mean, last time I bought olives, I’m pretty sure a JAR was $1.29 and came with like 78 olives. So, a charge of TWENTY FREAKIN CENTS is pretty ridiculous. Like, why the heck do they even have them out on the assembly line if they aren’t included??? Don’t wave something in my face if you aren’t going to give it to me. I know the economy is bad, but it ain’t THAT bad that olives are TWENTY FREAKIN CENTS on a 6 inch sandwich. I watched and that girl only got 4 or 5 olives. She should have gotten TWENTY FREAKIN OLIVES on that sandwich.

When I finally got to the register, the owner says that next time, they can put my Sammy onto a sub since I really like the Sammy flavor and I can use my coupons. This sounded too good to be true. And it was. She then told me that they would have to charge me an extra dressing charge if they did that though, but that they could do it for me. EXTRA DRESSING CHARGE? FOR PUTTING ONE TYPE OF SANDWICH ON A DIFFERENT TYPE OF BREAD? I had a yeuk that this lady also owns the aforementioned Bojangles. I don’t usually consider myself an angry person or a hot tempered person but it would be an understatement to say this this REALLY chapped my hide.

Don’t worry. I’ve already contacted corporate. And you can bet I will NOT be visiting that store again for my treats.

Who needs a life line anyway?

During my youth, I spent one week a summer at my grandparents’ house for few years. During this week, I would go to work with my granddaddy and spend time with my grandmother at home. One thing we did every morning was call the Weather Line. Clearly, from its name, you know what the purpose of this line was. It was just a recorded voice that said the time and the temperature. It was pure entertainment, something I got to do that was helpful for them. I ONLY thought about the weather line when I was at my grandparents for that week each summer. Fast forward 15 or so years, and the weather line has returned to my life in a big, very time consuming way.

I went to visit my great aunt the other day and she had the most beautiful arrangement of flowers on her hearth. Now, I know old people and I know old people love flowers, love being complimented on their flowers, and love telling you where their flowers came from. I also know old people love to talk. Between all of the things I know, you would think I would also know that this results in a VERY long explanation that basically takes up the entire afternoon of your visit. Well, excusay moi. I asked about the flowers. It turns out, every day, my great aunt and another one her sisters (so another Great Aunt, though I only vaguely remember meeting this great aunt in my life) call the weather line to, obviously, see what the weather is. I thought I was going to die. I didn’t even know these things still existed. I’m pretty in the know and the last time I called the weather line was like 1992. Now, granted, they live in a small town, but come on. THE WEATHER LINE?

From what I gathered, it is a race between the two sisters every day to see who can call the weather line and then report in to the other sister the day’s weather first. One day, my aunt called in and the sponsor’s ads kept playing over and over, but the weather never came on. Confused, my aunt called my other aunt who had had the same result. They discussed and decided to wait it out a few days. This scenario repeated itself for THREE days! Finally, my aunt had the genius idea to call one of the sponsors and find out what the problem was. The sponsor got in touch with the radio station who called my aunt to thank her for alerting them to the fact that the weather line had been down for days (now, don’t even ask why they couldn’t turn on the tv and listen to the weather on the news report, or just look out their window to see the weather, because I do not know the answers to these questions). The radio personality also gave my aunt another number she could call should the weather line ever be down again, and someone would personally give her the weather report. Seriously? Is it really THAT hard to find the weather from an alternate source? At any rate, I will say, only in a small town would you find that type of customer service. And it was a sweet gesture. The next thing my aunt knows, she has this beautiful arrangement delivered, compliments of the radio station with a sweet card telling her thank you. This made her day in for several reasons. Who doesn’t love receiving flowers, especially unexpectedly and who doesn’t love calling their sister and telling her that they just received gorgeous flowers and had, in fact, won the race for the rest of their lives.

This whole story was really quite hilarious to me. It took my aunt literally 45 minutes to tell us this story because she was so excited. It was super sweet of the radio station to do that for her too, because I know without a doubt it thrilled her beyond belief that a stranger would take the time to do something so simple, but so thoughtful. When we left, and I had gained cell phone service again, I called my brother to tell him this story, knowing he would find it equally hilarious. Well, little did I know that my brother already knew of the weather line. See, he used to be in charge of a boy scout camp on the outskirts of this same town and he said every day, the aquatics staff would call the weather line and then report in the weather at morning ritual (or whatever it is they do in the boy scouts). My brother then proceeded to repeat to me the phone number of the weather line and the name of the voice that answered the weather line (I think her name is Sugar). He also told me that sometimes, when he is very bored, he will call the weather line just to say hello.

My brother is 30. My great aunt is probably at least 85. They both have the number to the weather line memorized. I didn’t even know the weather line still existed. Oh, but don’t you worry. I know now. It’s been posted on my facebook! Forget needing a life line, I've got the weather line! I think I will call it today since my boss is out of the office. You know what they say, when the cat is gone, the mice will get a little cray cray and may just call the weather line!

Just WHO is your cousin

I’m not gonna lie, sometimes I have moments where I wonder “is this my life?” and “how did I end up here?” I guess I really shouldn’t lie about this – these moments happen more often than not. One of my most recent experiences left me wondering not only how did I end up here but who are these people and who their cousins are.

It all started on a Sat. night around 8p. I was feeling sorry for myself and making brownies (hello, fat food!) when my neighbor came upstairs to borrow some jewelry. Upon seeing my state, she invited me out with her and some friends. She didn’t know these people from Adam (funny, her husband is named Adam), but was going with another girl who DID know them from Adam. They had gotten a limo for one of their birthdays. So, I got all cuted up and went with. The night started at an apartment somewhere in town. Within 15 minutes of arriving, I had started dance lessons. Now, if you know me, you know I am an awesome dancer. My signature moves are: 12 seconds with a white girl, stoke the fire and bake the cake. As soon as I got done demonstrating how to bake a cake, I had some new facebook friend requests. Yes for mobile facebook!!! After eagerly accepting my new friends, thereby making our friendships official, we piled into the limo. Only my new friends didn’t come. They had a dinner party at the Wendy’s up the street (I am not lying when I say this. Talk about being chopped liver) I quickly made new friends inside the limo and away we went. After a few hours downtown, we headed back to the Beach. We went to one of the most popular bars and congregated in their outside bar area. This suited me since baking a cake can be quite taxing on your soles. Literally as soon as I sat down, we heard sirens and yells galore. We all climbed onto the brick wall surrounding the outside area to see what the deal was. There were 7 police cars with police officers running and yelling “towards the beach!” with their guns drawn. The bouncers at our bar sprung into action, yelling at all of us to get down off the wall and no one was to leave. It was like a scene out of shoot em up in the wild wild west: popo running around with guns drawn, sirens turning the sky a brilliant Carolina blue (go heels!), drunkards running amuck, and I was trapped inside this brick wall, not allowed to leave. If they had just let me leave, I could have told them how to handle this situation. I wondered how I had ended up caged in when clearly, I needed to be out there in the masses, running this show like I run this town.

We finally we able to leave out the other side of the building to go back to our limo. At this point, it was around 1:30a, I was tired, everyone was drunk (and frankly, there is nothing more annoying than drunk people surrounding your sober self) and my feet were sore. I was seriously out of cake batter and merdeezy needed to go home. As we walked back to the limo (when there is a police raid, limos have to forego their curb side service apparently), we passed two drunk little boys punching a sign and saying so many colorful things I just knew a rainbow would pop out of one of their britches. I said “hey guy, I hope that makes you feel better.” One of the guys started laughing and saying his friend had gotten towed. The other, the towee, turned around and said “Eff you, bitch.” (only, he really said it). I stopped because once again, how did I get here? I said “excuse me?” he said “you heard me.” And I said “yeah I did. You’re the bitch for punching the sign when you parked illegally.” (and Lord knows, I NEVER do that). He made some comment about how he should be punching me and I don’t know what happened. It was like this wave WASHED over me and I became Merdeezy of the hood. While I would like to say the song "Girl Fight" played over the speakers as we fought, this didn't happen. i did hear it in my earballs though. But, I did become Merdeezy of the hood and I started yelling “hit me asshole! Hit me!” This exchange went on for a few minutes before Steve (who is Steve? you might ask and that is a GOOD question. Because I do not know) appeared, pulled me back and told me to calm down, a lady doesn’t act like that. This made me REALLY mad. I know VERY well how a lady acts and who was he to tell me how a lady acted (and while he was right, I would never admit that). But those guys were total dbags and I really wanted him to hit me. He was saying he should so why doesn’t he man up and do it? At least then I could press charges. And that would be cool. I finally get into the limo, ill as a hornet, and everyone else piles back in. This in itself was a process because everyone was drunk. Have you ever tried to get 12 drunk people into a limo? It’s like herding cattle, only they’re drunk. We finally get in, and our limo driver starts easing his way through the bank parking lot. A CHARGER (yes, a CHARGER) was trying to ease its way out of the bank parking lot at the same time. The next thing I know, all the windows in the charger are rolled down, the limo windows are rolled down, our limo driver is yelling, the guys in the limo are yelling and then, someone yells “WHO IS YOUR COUSIN!” “who’s your cousin?” I thought, still trying to figure out how I ended up here on this night. Only I said it aloud. In a yelly voice. And apparently it was obvious I thought that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. I mean really, who is your cousin has got the be the STUPIDEST thing I have EVER heard in my LIFE! You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed my repeat of the charger’s asinine question. Everyone looked at me in the limo. The charger occupants peered at me with their beedy eyes out their cool, gangsta car. Next thing I know, one of the guys from the limo has escaped (out the window? I don’t know…we never heard a car door open) and he is RUNNING around the Charger yelling “who’s your cousin! Who’s your cousin.” Now, I don’t know what happened next but something must have clicked inside his drunk head because the next thing we know, he screams “oh shiz let me in the car” and he jumps back in and starts yelling to the limo driver to go! I secretly felt like I was sure they felt in Grandma’s Boy when they are yelling “drive monkey drive” to the monkey because they are “way too baked to drive to the devil’s house.” Only the limo driver wasn’t baked. But I sure was confused.

As soon as I got back to my car, I got in and went home. I literally said OUT LOUD to myself the ENTIRE way home “what just happened, how did I get there and is this seriously my life right now.” But the ONE thing that NEVER crossed my mind that night was who their cousin was. And why I should care. One thing I do know, do not EVER question who someone’s COUSIN is!!!

Edward Showerhands

I love getting mail. Email, us postal mail, certified mail, returned mail, other people’s mail, you name it, if it is mail, I would like it in my mail box. Mail makes me feel good about myself, like someone has been thinking of me and thinks I am so awesome that they took the time out to write me a letter, sign their name on it, put it in an envelope, LICK the envelope, stamp it, and deliver it to the post master. All so I can get a little treat in my mail box. The other day, I received a thick, glossy envelope from a shampoo company telling me that I had been selected to receive a free sample of their shampoo, conditioner and deep conditioning treatment. Now, if you know me, you know that nothing excites me like a freebie. It’s a whole different level of sercy!

I opened my envelope and found three little packets of liquid love. Now, I have to admit, I was secretly disappointed. I am a marketer’s dream and I love nothing more than little bottles and baskets and packaging. What I had in front of me didn’t quite suit me, but, my hair was greasy and I was conveniently out of shampoo. Because I am a lover of immediate gratification, I skipped inside to wash my locks. I got out a fresh towel, adjusted the temp to perfect, put on my birthday suit and into the water I went. I reached down for the shampoo, only to realize I couldn’t open it. It was a rip top, like a McDonald’s Ketchup package (and I’m pretty positive I am a professional at those). The shampoo packet had two slits, so I tried each end and nothing. So I put it in my mouth and pulled. All that happened there is I almost broke my neck. I don’t even know what I would do if I had broken my neck…I would be nekkid, in a condo all alone with a greasy head. Once I regained my balance, and composure, I tried again. This time, I twisted the package (not sure why), put my foot on it to stabilize it against the force that was my pull, and I yanked. Hard and with zeal. And, nothing. Because I know three times is a charm, and clearly I wasn’t having a good day, I turned off the water, wrapped up in my fresh towel (unclean though I was) and stormed out to the kitchen to find my kitchen shears. I cut all THREE packets open so I would not face this dilemma again. Back into the shower I went, shampooed my head (and it smelled so good), and then considered my options for conditioner. I could use the regular shampoo or I could use the deep conditioner. And because I had just a few moments ago, cut the packages open with scissors, I knew I really could use either one. I decided upon the deep conditioner. I am a deep person after all. The directions say to work into a lather and leave for 3-5 minutes. I worked it into a lather all right, but then quickly rinsed because who has time for that. I sure don’t.

I think my hurr do looks great. I like the way the shampoo smells. They sent me a coupon, and there’s anything I love as much as a sercy, it’s a coupon. So, I’ll probably buy this line of product. But not if they don’t come in better bottles. I have to admit, my feelings were a bit hurt when I read I’d been selected to receive samples, but the samples ended up almost killing me. Whose idea was it anyway to put things like that in a glossy, slidey packet? (The word packet makes me laugh because when I was little, my brother got the word packet stuck in his head and said it as many times as he could for like 18 days straight. We have it on VHS somewhere, I’m sure.) So now I know these truths about packets: a) it is darn near impossible to open a ketchup packet after the first bite of fries or delicious cheeseburger and, b) it is likely to kill you in your birthday suit if you try to open a shampoo packet while in the shower. I suppose they should put a warning on there that suggests carrying your scissors to the tub with you. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that first, come to think of it. It’s not like I’ve never showered with scissors before.