My Thriller Thursday Story!!!!

Here in central Arkansas, we have a local radio station--Alice 107.7. Every Thursday in October, they do something called Thriller Thursday, where people call and email in their paranormal experiences. At the end of every Thriller Thursday segment, the talk show hosts decide which was the best of all the stories for that day, and they make the announcement and give prizes. I've been an avid listener since this all began some 10+ years ago. Everyone who knows me knows not to disturb me between the hours of 6-10am on Thursdays in October. I've either got my stereo cranked up, my computer going, and/or my earbuds in. I've submitted a few stories over the years. This week, however, my story won! You'd have thought I won the powerball millions! I didn't even know until Mandi texted me freaking out, which was immediately followed by a tag on facebook by an out of state friend congratulating me on my win, and then an email from the radio station confirming and asking which of the prizes I'd like.
I thought I'd share my story on here with you guys, and see what you think! I'm pretty tickled that I won. The story isn't the most pleasant, but it WILL give you chills. Enjoy!

  My paranormal group was small, but we always managed to find some good places to go, and we never really had any problems as far as being physically harrassed by anything. One night, we got the itch to go on an outing, and decided to hit up an old favorite. It was a cemetery, but we always got some of the best EVP and photo evidence there! There was maybe 6-7 of us, and we headed out. We always made sure to bring along a guy (people are crazy, and it’s not always a ghost looking to reach out and grab you), and tonight was no exception.

  Once we arrived at the cemetery, we decided to break up into teams. You’ll understand why, when my story is finished, but for the sake of parties involved, I’m going to change my teammate’s name. We’ll call him Jim. He was into paranormal things as well, but his stories were a lot darker and scarier than anything I’d ever experienced. He seemed nervous when we went, but it never bothered him enough to keep him out. He politely declined praying with the rest of the group (to each his own, but we prayed before AND after), and was always looking over his shoulder, as if something was going to “get him”.

   Jim and I ended up partnering up, and started to make our way around the cemetery. It was cold, and we were all bundled up. All was fine, until about halfway around the graveyard. Suddenly, he cried out, clutching his side. Startled, I asked what was wrong. “My side really hurts! It stings!” he said. I asked if maybe he brushed against something, or if maybe a bug had bitten him. Then I realized he was wearing not one, but two thick pullover sweatshirts, so that would have to be one ambitious bug!

  We radioed to the others that we were going to run to the car real quick, that Jim was having issues, but not to worry. As we came back upon the car, we stopped under the only street light in the whole place. Apparently, the burning and stinging was getting worse by the minute. Jim pulled the side of his shirts up so we could see what was hurting him, and it was BAD. Right along his ribs, there were three red, nasty looking scratch marks, as if something had swiped at him with long nails. I told him what I saw, and needless to say, he was done. After that, he refused to go on anymore outings with us.

  Fast forward a few years. Jim married the daughter of our head investigator, who had two children of her own.  At first, he was the model husband, stepfather, etc. AT FIRST. And then things changed. He got lazy. He got reclusive and mean. One night, as my best friend and I were sitting outside enjoying the weather and rehashing our day at work, we got a phone call from Jim’s sister in law. My best friend’s husband is a respected detective for the local police department, and the sister in law asked us to please call him and send him to such and such address. That night, they found out that Jim had been abusing his step daughter from the first day he’d married her mother. Which was shortly before the outing to the cemetery.

Some would think this and the scratches had no connection, but I genuinely believe that whatever was out there knew he was foul. 

It knew he was evil.

 And it didn’t want him there either .

Ghosts, Bridges, Hotels, and a Half Eaten Chicken Leg

I’m a paranormal fanatic. As in, I’ve been a member of a paranormal investigation group for the last 10 years. I’m not so much into aliens, UFO’s, or Bigfoot, but my ears do tend to perk up at the mention of the words “haunting” or “ghosts”. I’ve been searching the web for some new places for my group to check out, but everything is starting to sound like a book of urban legends. I’m beginning to wonder if there are any more genuine, unique hauntings. Come on! Give me something that’ll throw sticks and gumballs at me! Maybe a ghost that sings something funny in the dead (no pun intended) of the night. Or a spirit that appears right before your eyes and stares until you can’t stand it anymore and have to walk away! I’ve looked at some of these online.

 So far, there’s the typical “damsel in distress on a stormy night” story. She’s tromping along the roadside in the rain, and some poor hapless fool stops to offer her a ride. Once she gets in the car and tells him/her where she’s going, they drive to the location, only to find that once they arrive, she’s disappeared. And amazingly enough, whoever the person is who answers the door at the location (if said location is still standing) proceeds to explain that the girl has been dead for years. Cool story, bro, but I’m gonna need something a little less campfire at boyscouts-ish.

Next, we have the ever-popular “phantom lantern” story. This apparently happens a lot in Arkansas, which makes me wonder if maybe I should carry something a little more creative when I go somewhere creepy. I can see it now….. ((Ghost hunter)) “They say poor Amber was walking down this path over here with a chicken leg, and she was mauled to death by a bear. Some say if you stand right here where it happened, and sing something by Avenged Sevenfold, a half-eaten chicken leg will appear right here! With no explanation of how it got there!” See? Sounds way more interesting than the overused “man was murdered whilst walking along with a lantern, and now you can see his lantern light floating down the road”.

Onto the next.  From what I’ve read, bars and booze tend to piss off ghosts. I’m seeing at least 3-4 stories where disgruntled spirits will throw bottles and glasses from the shelves in bars, move the furniture, and aggravate patrons until they just can’t take it anymore! I can’t really blame the ghosts; drunk people tend to get on my nerves, too. I can’t honestly say that I’ve never been tempted to throw a chair or a whiskey bottle at an overly inebriated goofball who just didn’t know when to stop.

Then, we have hotels! I love hotels. Almost as much as I love ghost hunting. It would appear that ghosts do as well. There are tons of stories involving ghosts and some of Arkansas most prestigious and swanky hotels and resorts. The stories all read about the same: Apparitions in old-fashioned clothes who disappear, phantom footsteps and voices, etc. Wow! One story has a little girl in a pink dress, whereas the other has a large woman in a pink dress (sorry, that made me giggle for some reason). These ghosts are just not big on boundaries and personal space! There are plenty of stories of spirits brushing past, poking, pushing, or otherwise touching the living.

Why on God’s green earth  are there so many stories about bridges??? Des Arc Bridge, Mama Lou’s Bridge, Tilly Willy Bridge (heehee),  Cotter Bridge,  and Bono Bridge. Most of them carry the same history. A woman scorned by her lover  jumps to her death with her innocent infant child, and now you can hear crying, screaming, see apparitions of the poor lost souls, and if you go out there and say whatever it is three times, the ghost will appear and—and what?

Okay. So I’ve made my point. I do intend to investigate some of these just for the sheer purpose of debunking or proving them. I hope you don’t take my humor as disrespect or heartlessness toward the deceased. This entry was solely for comedic purpose.

........I do intend to haunt people with a half eaten chicken leg when I die, though.

Happy early Halloween, Y’all!

Just a Body?

  In light of a recent loss, there’s something I feel should be addressed. When someone passes, whether they’re buried or cremated, there’s a phrase that almost always gets said: “It’s not really them; just their body.” I’m a Christian, so I definitely understand the whole “body becomes part of the earth, while spirit goes on to the afterlife”.  I get that. However, some people don’t really understand how callous that phrase may sound, even if it’s said with the best of intentions. Something people don’t seem to think of is exactly WHAT that body represented.

  To the grieving children and grandchildren of the deceased, that body brought them into this world. It was what they snuggled up to late at night when the thunder was too loud, or the dark was just too much to handle. Those hands brushed your hair before school in the morning. They gently applied a band-aid to that scrape on your knee that hurt so badly! You hid behind those legs as a shy child as your mother awkwardly tried to introduce you. You sat high up above everyone else on those shoulders. You played “horsey” as a toddler on that back.

  To the heartbroken spouse, that body was what you held at night while you slept, breathing in their scent. You held those hands any chance you got; be it driving in the car, walking through the grocery store, or even just vegging out on the couch at home. That body carried the children that the two of you created out of love. That chest was where you laid your head at night, just to enjoy the sound of their heartbeat. Those were the eyes that you fell in love with, and the lips you kissed every day.

I don’t mean to complain, but I do understand that there is very little that can be said to ease the ache of a heart grieving a loved one’s death. Just keep in mind the memories that are tied to that “body” laid out for final respects and viewing. 

Adventures of an Amateur Spider Fighter

  

    Spiders are a pretty common phobia. Then again, I’m scared of just about any insect; especially grasshoppers. I grew up in the middle of the country, in a tiny trailer located smack dab in the middle of a cow pasture. In places like these, grasshoppers were abundant, and got as long as your arm (yes I’m exaggerating). My dad used to catch them, chase me around with them, and then throw them on me. I never fully recovered from that, and still to this day have a mild panic attack at the mere sight of the hoppy, green nuisance. I digress. Typical girlie girl behavior would always come out in my cozy little household where bugs or rodents were concerned. Mandi, her husband Rushy, their little one Jaxon (who might have been 3 at the time), and I all lived in a gorgeous double-wide together. Jaxon had gone to spend his usual Saturday night with his aunt Jackie, and Rushy was on duty at the police department overnight. For Mandi and I, this meant we had the opportunity to go out and have our grown up lady fun at the bar.

    We’d been there no more than an hour or so, dancing and catching up with friends, when Mandi realized Rushy had texted her. “Emergency. 911. Call me”, was all the text said. People, let me express how important it is that there is an actual emergency when you text someone a message like that. She stepped outside to call him, and came back looking irritated. After a good bit of beating around the bush, and starting sentences that made things sound absolutely bleak, Rushy finally explained that Jaxon was throwing up, so we needed to go get him. Not exactly “emergency 911” material and he’d scared us to death!  We drive from Jacksonville to Beebe and pick up a paler-than-usual, pitiful Nugget (aka Jaxon), and drive him home. We no more than walk inside than he hurls on the floor. Again—no biggie. After we've cleaned up the mess, bathed the child, and gotten ourselves comfortable, we parted ways for bed. I told Mandi if she needed me to come wake me up.

I’d just climbed into bed and was snuggling down under the covers when there was a knock on my bedroom door. I opened it and was greeted by a very pale, wide-eyed Mandi with a sleepy Jaxon on her hip. “What’s the matter?” I asked, worried that a hospital trip may be in order. “There’s a spider on my pillow!” she cheerleader-whispered. What exactly it was that she expected me to do, I don’t know, but not wanting to deal with the eight-legged critter myself, I quickly blurted out, “Well kill it!” Eyes still wide, she shook her head and said she could not. Insert sigh of resignation and acceptance of fate. I collected all I would need to achieve the task of assassinating the spider.

Equipped with oven mitts on both hands, a foam bat from Jaxon’s room, and a broom, I puffed out my chest and slowly walked to Mandi and Rushy’s bedroom. I didn't see it. Where did it go?? “It’s right there!” Mandi whispered, pointing. Nope. Still didn't see it. Giving me a slight shove, she pointed again. “RIGHT. THERE!” When she shoved me, I stumbled a bit, and this must have amused the spider, because it did it’s creepy little spider shuffle, which scared me to death. I took a deep breath, gathered my bearings, and ran toward it, bat and broom raised high! I swung the broom down onto the spider with all I had. And it bounced. Off of the bed and onto the floor where it scurried.

    Nope. DONE.

    I dropped all my armor, screamed and let loose an obscenity or four, and ran out, slamming the door behind me (because as you know, spiders can’t crawl underneath doors). After a brief discussion, we decided to call in reinforcement. Mandi sent Rushy a text. “Emergency 911. Get home ASAP.” Less than 10 minutes later, Rushy burst through the door, wild-eyed and ready to eff something or someone up. “What’s wrong? What is it?” He asked. Mandi very calmly explained. “There’s a big-ass spider in our bedroom, your son is sick, and we’re not sleeping in there until the spider is dead and gone.” Rushy disappeared into the bedroom. We found ourselves pretty amused at the grunts, bangs, crashes, and shuffles coming from in there. He finally emerged, and announced that the spider was no more!

When he complained that Mandi shouldn't have sent him the emergency text, she smiled.

“Kind of silly to get everybody all riled up over something that really isn't that big of a deal, now isn't it?”

…..We still call Rushy to fight our spider battles. 

Love Your Babies

I love kids. I always have. I don’t have any of my own (yet), but I’m sure hoping God gives me the opportunity to carry, deliver, and raise one of my own one of these days. It’s a little hard to imagine a miniature me, boy or girl, toddling around. Never mind how much of a spaz I’ll probably be once the teen thing hits. I’m sure Kleenex will make a lot of money off of my emotional self. I’ve been pregnant once, but miscarried at eight weeks. Always remember: God has a reason and plan for everything. I had the pleasure of caring for lots of peoples little ones when I worked at the daycare. I even had a few favorites, and did some babysitting outside of work! There was something I saw while working there though that made my heart hurt.

As a parent, you made the choice to conceive this child. Consciously or not, it was up to you to do what should be done to facilitate or prevent this child’s existence. In no way, shape, or form is it this little one’s fault for being here. We took on a lot of kids from child protective services. Some who seemed just fine; just needed a school to go to during the day. Then there were the others. A little boy and his baby (less than 3 months old) were brought to us one day. The older brother was wide-eyed, tearful, and seemed scared to death. Baby brother had a broken arm, and there was no telling what big brother had been through. The entire time they were there, big brother would ask where his little brother was. He ate fine, even if it seemed like he hadn't eaten in a year, but he always made a happy plate. He’d never sleep at nap-time. He’d lay there, eyes wide open, looking around, and asking where his brother was.

With the okay from my boss, between the other teachers and me, we were able to take turns. One would watch big brother’s class at nap-time, while I or one of the other teachers would take big brother next door to the nursery to see that his baby brother was in fact just fine. He’d calm down for a little bit after that, but give it a couple of hours and he’d begin to get nervous and start asking for his brother again. He cried when I changed his diaper. He’d almost beg me, “No, no no.” Like I said, I can’t imagine what this boy has been through. They were only there a week or so, but I still wonder what happened to them. I really do hope they’re alright, and being loved as every child should be.

I don’t think I will ever understand people who have these blessings and take them for granted. They abandon them, they abuse them, and they treat them like a burden. This child knows you as mommy or daddy. How can you not take so much pride in that title? How can you so carelessly toss aside something that YOU created? Something that not everyone on this earth is able to create? I was diagnosed with PCOS (poly cystic ovarian syndrome) when I was 15. My doctors told me that I’d never get pregnant, let alone carry and deliver a child to term. I know that doctors aren’t always right. The miscarriage broke my heart at the time, but my faith got me through it. The person I was with wasn't a good person, and I most likely would've been left to raise the child alone. That would’ve been fine with me. But I don’t think I could’ve seen my child disappointed and heartbroken and not put that fool in ICU. Some would see absolutely nothing wrong with that, but that’s a whole different story!

I've seen the kids that go without things they need because their parents are so deep in addiction, or because the parents were more inclined to spend the money on things for themselves. There are the mothers who refuse to let the fathers see children, but have no problem whatsoever collecting that child support check every single month. I understand some situations where keeping the child from a parent might be acceptable, but to use a child as leverage for your own personal, material gain is disgusting and selfish.  Some women don’t realize how rare it is in some situations to have a father beg to see his child. To WANT to spend time with his child. And it’s unfair to your little one to be denied the opportunity of getting to know their parent when given the chance.

Long story short, love your babies. I know some foster mothers that I envy, because they have that ability and strength to foster these little ones, even knowing that they won’t be able to keep them forever. If you are blessed enough to bring a tiny life into this world, be the kind of parents God put you on this earth to be. 

Humor at Church: The Holy Ghost

  I was raised Pentecostal/Apostolic. For those of you who aren’t familiar, this means we are very vocal, very physical, and very emotional with our worship. It can be shocking and maybe even frightening for someone not used to what goes on at the revivals or Sunday service (or any service for that matter). We have shouting, we have tears, and we have flailing. There’s always someone speaking in tongues. Having said that, I’ll share a humorous bit of my churchgoing experience with you, and maybe you’ll agree that going to church with family can be such a good thing!

   I have a little brother named Brandon. I say little. He’s a good foot taller than me, but he’s 4 years younger. When we moved from Donaldson to Malvern, Arkansas, Mom decided she wanted to try out a new church. I don’t remember what directed us to this particular little Pentecostal church, but we were going to try it, by golly! I want to say it was a Wednesday night service. Everyone was so friendly and welcoming. The music began, and so did the worship. There were hands lifted everywhere. Voices switching between singing along with the hymns and speaking their hearts to the Lord above. Some were tearful; others peaceful. I’d been witnessing this practically since birth, so I was perfectly comfortable.

   And then it happened. A woman, who looked to be maybe in her mid-twenties at most, became much immersed in the Spirit. She began to sway, lifting her hands. She began to cry, and to speak in tongues. Then, without stopping any of these things, she began to run around the sanctuary. Brandon was maybe 6 years old at the time, and had been sitting quietly during all of this. I don’t know what made me look, but I glanced over at him, and his eyes were as big as saucers! I turned back to face the front, and he nudged my leg. We were taught that it was wrong to talk during church, and he knew that, but he persistently nudged me. I leaned over so we could whisper. “What is it?” I asked. He shook his head slightly, and leaned in toward me. “I know what’s wrong with that girl. I know why she’s screamin’” he replied. I asked him what he meant, and he paused for a moment. Then, very solemnly and factually, he explained.

“That Holy Ghost is tryin’ to get her and she’s scared!”

Mom heard it, I heard it, and we decided it best to leave before anyone realized we were overcome with the giggles. 

The Crafty Midget: Mandi Locked Me Out

 Mandi and I have a lot in common. We’ve been friends now for almost 15 years, so we’ve picked up a lot of each other’s tendencies. However, there are some things that have yet to change. For example: I love camping, swimming at the lake, river, etc. I love fishing. The idea of getting on a four-wheeler and plowing through some mud makes me giddy. The paranormal fascinates me. I’m actually a member of a group known as Central Arkansas Paranormal Society (C.A.P.S), and have been since 2005. Every single one of those things scares Mandi to death. She doesn’t do outdoors. She doesn’t do dirt. She doesn’t do ghosts. How we have managed to stay friends all these years is amazing, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world! If God ever meant for me to have a sister, it’s her.


 I went on an out-of-town outing with my group a couple of years back, and asked that Mandi not deadbolt the door, that way I could get into the house and to bed once we got back into town. The outing lasted from about 2pm Saturday afternoon, until about 3am Sunday morning. This place was magnificent. Five stories (not counting the basement!) of empty, historical, dusty, cobwebbed spookiness. It was like an awesome Christmas present! We walked the halls and climbed the stairs, took pictures of this and that, and recorded everything. Finally, we were all starting to drag, so we thought it best to drive home before we couldn’t keep our eyes open to do so.  I pulled up into the driveway, exhausted and glad to be home. My shower and bed sounded heavenly! I turned my key in the lock and pushed the door. And it opened a crack before stopping. Our carport entry door had a hotel lock on it. One of those bars that latched and kept the door from opening more than a few inches. Clearly, Mandi had forgotten to leave the door unlocked. No biggie. I called. No answer. I called, texted, called, beat on the door, texted, beat on the door, and called. That final call is what made me notice that my phone was at 1% battery. CRAP. I beat on the door with all I had, hoping Mandi would hear and come let me in. Rushy (Mandi’s husband) was out of town for a biker gathering, so there was no calling him to let me in.   Finally, it happened. My phone died. 

And that, my friends, is when my inner ninja kicked in. 

I tried all the other doors. All of them were locked. Then I remembered that my bedroom window was unlocked! There was a small problem, though. My bedroom window was close to 10 feet off the ground. I looked around for a ladder of any kind. No luck there. I sat down to ponder my fate. I suppose I could sleep in the car until Mandi wakes up and sees that I called. THAT’S IT! THE CAR! My idea hit me all at once, and I knew then that one way or another I would be sleeping in my bed in short order. I got back in my car, started it up, and proceeded to back it into the yard, right up under my window. Now came the tricky part.  I’m all of 5’1”, so reaching the window was a little bit of a struggle. Even more of a problem though, was hoisting my bigger-than-the-average butt up and into said window. I managed to get my head through the window. “MAAAAAANNNDIIIII!!!!!” I cheerleader-whispered, trying to keep my voice down so as not to wake her son Jaxon. After about 10 minutes of that, I realized that I was on my own. I heaved and wiggled, thanking God that no one drove by to see my hind end hanging out the window. I guess I didn’t realize just how far in the window I’d made it, because that next shove sent me sliding over my nightstand and into the floor. I decided the shower could wait til after some sleep. That made me tired! 

 My phone began ringing off the hook sometime that morning, and Mandi texted:“OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY!!  I HAD MY RINGER TURNED OFF AND DIDN’T EVEN HEAR YOU!”I one-eye texted her back:“It’s okay. I’m in bed.”Her response cracked me up.“Who’s bed????”To which I replied“Mine!”  She came into my room, and flopped down onto my bed. When I explained to her how I ended up making it into the house, she burst out laughing. She wished she’d seen it happen, and even went so far as to suggest that I do it again, just so she could see how I did it!!

You know a friendship is meant to be when they can point and laugh at you and request that you repeat your debacle solely for their own personal enjoyment. 

Awkward Encounters With The Opposite Sex: Just Touch It

I have friends of all walks of life. For the longest time, I had more male friends than anything. You’ve never truly lived until you’ve been the only female invited to Boys Night Out. Drinks are free, as is the entertainment. My guy friends learned really quickly to keep their wits about them while imbibing, otherwise I had no problem sharing the awkward-as-balls things they said and did while drunk to any and every one. I’m in a relationship now, and while most of those guys are in the same situation, we still enjoy the stories from all of our single and trying real hard to mingle days.

*Timmy*

Tim is a big teddy bear. The first time I laid eyes on him, I remember thinking he was absolutely perfect. Tall, tan, tattooed, grey eyes, and stocky. And perfect he was, until he spoke. I’ll be the first to brag on him for being the best bar buddy ever. No creep dared get any closer than 20 feet while I had this massive man sitting beside me. And heaven forbid they dare to speak to me! Tim was the first to offer to “whip his ass” if said creep got too brave. I met him through other friends at a house party.

We started talking and flirting, and one Saturday night, Tim called. He wanted to go to the bar, but didn't want to go alone. My friends and I were already planning to go out, so I invited him to come along. He met us at our house, and we all rode together. Once there, he proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced. We left shortly thereafter, and once we arrived at our house, he admitted that he was still too drunk to drive. Another couple of our friends were already sleeping over, and had claimed the spare bedroom for the night. Guess what that meant? Yes. Timmy was my bunk mate for the night. I’m one of those rare people who can sleep in the same bed with a person and not even remotely consider sex. I was still slightly buzzed, and though I’d spent most of my night doing the Cupid Shuffle, the Jumprope, the Wobble, and Copperhead Road, I was in no mood for the Hanky Panky.

Hair piled on top of my head in a bun, all makeup removed, baggy pj pants and an even baggier tee, complete with both bra and underwear still intact, I directed Timmy to the (oh dear God) daybed in the back bedroom. This daybed was so old that if you took a deep enough breath, the springs would scream. I lay there, feeling awkward and slightly claustrophobic. I shifted my weight and the bed shrieked in protest. “Good grief this bed is so loud!” I grumbled. Without missing a beat, Tim responded in a slur, “Yeah it’s a good thing we’re not f*&%in’”.  SERIOUSLY?! I sarcastically agreed, and he added, “I didn't bring any condoms anyway…” I didn't have the heart to tell him I could get one if needed. I bade him goodnight, and turned onto my side with my back to him. I’d almost dozed off, when suddenly this massive tattooed arm is thrown over me. I froze.

The next words out of his mouth may very well haunt him for the rest of his life, and with good reason. If you’re brave enough to use the line, you’re perfectly deserving of any backlash from it. He snuggled up to me. Okay, no big deal. He got right in my ear and whispered………………………….

“Just touch it.”

WHAT?!?!?! I couldn't speak for a moment, I was so baffled. What the HELL is he thinking?! He repeated his request. I finally found my voice. “I DON’T WANT TO TOUCH IT! YOU TOUCH IT!!!” His hand found a boob, and that’s when I lost it. “THAT IS NOT YOURS! LET GO OF IT OR I SWEAR TO GOD TIMOTHY WAYNE (no I don’t know if that’s his middle name) I WILL SCREAM AND THE PO-LICE IS RIGHT ACROSS THE HALL!!!” He removed said hand and arm, rolled over, and began snoring loudly. I finally drifted off to sleep, snoring pretty loudly my damn self. I informed him of his transgressions the next day, and over the next few weeks, I informed our mutual friends as well. They all found my story to be one of the best!

While Timmy’s not too fond of our nickname for him, he’s always a good sport, and we love him just the same. He’s the first one to offer an ear to listen, arms to bear hug you with, and a big broad shoulder to cry on. Oh. And a fist to punch whoever made any of us girls cry. God’s got someone awesome picked out for him. And who knows? Maybe his opening line will work for her, if only to make her laugh. 

Different Meanings for Different Beings?

Cheating has different definitions for almost everyone. What one person considers completely out of line and unforgivable, the next may see as absolutely harmless. I’m touching on this subject because it’s something that has changed me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually over the years. I no longer have the tolerance for it. I once was a person who would give endless “second chances”. I can’t do that anymore. Back in the day, you knew someone was cheating when someone was calling your house phone, and your S/O couldn’t seem to talk to them while you or anyone else was around. You’d find telltale signs here and there; on their clothes, in their pockets while doing the laundry. Then cell phones came out, and it was a little easier to do your dirty work. Because then you could be away from your home, but still reachable. And there was no proof (unless the person had the advantage of physically going to where you’d said you were) that you weren’t in fact at said location. Big step number three was the internet. Then came the dating sites, the social networking sites, email, and countless other ways to communicate with the outside world. And every single one of these could be password protected, or manipulated so as to portray a different person than the user was. You could be anyone you wanted on the internet. To the stranger on the other side of the screen, you could be a size 2, blonde, busty supermodel. You could be a tall, dark, muscled-up millionaire who says all the right things as long as you’re right there with the keys beneath your fingers. And unless the other person was willing to do some digging, they’d never know if you were spoken for by someone else.  

   It’s really sad. Honesty is a thing of the past. Being faithful has gone out of style, and the borders of appropriate friendships and conversations have been stretched so far they’re unrecognizable. Some would say as long as there’s no sex, there’s no foul. Stricter people would say no physical contact at all. Then there are the ones like me. The ones who firmly believe that if you have to lie about it, hide it, delete/change it, etc., then you’re most definitely up to no good. I would never approach another man in a sexual manner. Period. I do not flirt. I do not have inappropriate meet-ups and conversations with men. I would never even entertain the idea of having someone on the side.  I have male friends, and they all respect my relationship. I expect my S/O’s female friends to have the same respect. If I don’t know you, there’s no reason you should be meeting up with my S/O late at night, alone. I don’t give a damn what the reason is. If it’s that bad, call the cops. No female, aside from relatives (and a VERY select few) should be alerting my person that she’s home alone and ask what he’s doing. Personally, I find it disrespectful on her part and his as well, if he doesn’t correct her behavior. Let’s be clear: I will stand by my man through his troubles. I will help him any way I can, and encourage him to do/have better for himself. What I will not do under any circumstance is FIGHT OVER MY MAN. If there’s another female in the picture, she can have him. I have too much common sense and self-respect to play along with that. I will cut my losses and carry myself on to bigger and better. 

What are your views on cheating? What do you consider “Eh, no biggie”, versus “OH HELL NO!!!!”? Does anyone believe that a cheater can change their ways, or is a cheater always going to be just that? At what point do you go from "We can work this out", to "Get your shit and get out?"

Laughter at a Funeral-Part1

Most people would think laughter at a funeral is a bit demented. Maybe it’s a sign of some mental issue that should be remedied—fast! I’m sure it’s most definitely deemed horribly inappropriate as this is always a mourning event. Trust me. Though my heart is always heavy at these events, and I do shed tears for the one we’re saying our final farewells to, laughter at a funeral has been a constant in my life for years now. You’d be amazed at the giggles I’ve had while someone very near and dear to me lay only a few feet away in a coffin. It’s morbid; I know. But hear me out as I share some of my most fond funeral memories, and hopefully you’ll see why and how I can laugh during one of the saddest times of our lives.

1.Danny

I’ve been an honorary member of the King family since I was 12 (I’m 31). These people have watched me grow up. Monica has always been a second mother to me, and the girls like sisters. Chelsea is the youngest, and she was only 5 years old when I was introduced to the family. Around age 19 or so, she fell for a guy named Danny. He was a bit reclusive where the rest of us were concerned, but as far as Chelsea went, he seemed utterly and completely devoted to her. It wasn’t long before (surprise!) they’d gotten married (I found this out on one of my many visits), and Chelsea was pregnant with their now 3 year old daughter Nevaeh. During Chelsea’s fifth month of pregnancy, Danny was killed one night, in a gruesome accident. Arrangements were made, and Mandi and I took the time off of work to be there for Chelsea and the family. The night of the visitation, we drove over to the local funeral home. After paying our respects to the deceased, and handing out many hugs to the family, we moved ourselves to the waiting area; respectfully staying out of the way of the other friends and relatives who came from near and far. Tia (the eldest of the King girls) and her daughter Tori were waiting with us. Mandi, who’s even more uncomfortable in places like funeral homes, had become increasingly fascinated with the mystery door at the end of the hall, and was trying unsuccessfully to get Tori to go open it and see what was back there. We all sat somewhat quietly, observing the wide range of people who’d shown up. At one point, a small elderly lady with the longest silver hair I’d seen since my Granny’s joined a middle-aged couple by the door in a quiet discussion. Suddenly, Silver Hair had a terrible coughing fit—AND LET LOOSE THE LOUDEST FART I THINK I’D EVER HEARD.

Now, the way I was raised, when something like that happened in a place like where it happened, you pretended that it did not in fact happen at all. You ignored it completely, and did everything in your power to keep your composure. I did fine there. Tori turned slowly to face Mandi, and in total shock and disgust whispered, “That lady farted!”. Every ounce of composure and act-right that Mandi had left completely diminished. She calmly walked over to me, leaned down, and whispered in my ear, “That lady did the cough and fart!!!” Then she ran down the hall to the restroom where she apparently lost every bit of it. I was left out there in that waiting area, giggling so hard that no sound was coming out. I’d turned a very unflattering shade of maroon, had tears rolling down my face, and a hand over my mouth because I swear to God had I moved it, I would have scared everybody in that funeral home. Mandi came back out, and we sat on the couch, arms around throw pillows with our faces as buried as possible as we shook and cried from laughter. I’m thankful that people genuinely thought we were shedding tears of sadness. They would walk by, look sympathetically at us, and pat our hands while whispering, “I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay.”

Once we were able to venture outside and catch up with everyone, Mandi told Tia about what had transpired in the waiting area. Tia wanted to know who the cough and fart culprit was. At some point while they were talking, Cough and Fart walked up and was standing directly in front of Tia. Mandi, who’d moved to the other side of the circle to talk to Monica, was frantically gesturing to Tia that she was right in the line of fire. This did not help my state of mind from the earlier laughing fit I’d had. Grabbing Mandi by the arm, I blurted, “We need to go to the car. NOW.” As we walked to my little yellow car, I kept chanting. “Get in the car, get in the car, shut your door! Hurry up! Roll up the window!” Once we’d accomplished all of that, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I burst into the biggest, loudest belly laugh I’d ever had. I was gasping for air, tears running down my face, and holding my stomach because my ribs felt as though they might just break any minute.  It was months before we were comfortable enough to tell Chelsea. Once we told her our story, she laughed, explaining to us that Cough and Fart was her beloved Danny’s grandmother.

That could be the end of that chapter, but there’s still the actual graveside service. We took the necessary time off of work, if only to be there by Chelsea’s side during the hardest part of all of this. While standing around waiting for the service to begin, I noticed something very abnormal. There was a woman, standing not too far in front of me. She was wearing what can only be described as a leopard print Band-Aid. This dress (or lack thereof) was strapless, and barely covered what no one should be waving around in broad daylight; let alone a funeral. Assessing her skimpy attire, I followed her legs down to the spiky, stripper-height stilettos and realized only one of her shoes had an ankle strap. And then I realized that it was not in fact an ankle strap for a shoe. This woman had come to a funeral service dressed like a stripper and wearing a house arrest ankle bracelet. In my futile attempts to figure out what exactly in the Hell she was thinking, I noticed she was having a hard time standing still. Ladies and gentlemen, if you are one of those scrawny, greasy, nasty looking meth addicts who is so strung out that you bounce more than a hot check before payday, stay your crazy tail at home. This woman shifted restlessly from foot to foot, hip to hip, messed with her hair, messed with her dress. Anything to keep moving. Mandi and I tried our best not to make our observations too loudly. I’m not really sure when the woman turned around, but suddenly I hear, “OH MY GOD AMBER!! GIRL I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN FOREVER!” Band-Aid and House Arrest was someone I knew. She’d been friends with my little brother when she and her family lived across the street from us. She hugged me, chattered away nervously, and abruptly walked away. Mandi stood beside me shaking her head and mumbled, “Leave it to you to know the only crackhead at the funeral.”