Just A Lil Update!

It's been an unbelievably long time since I've written anything here, and it's been an eventful year! First of all, Derek and I got married on May 5th, 2108! It was a beautiful, small wedding, with lots of our family and friends. As crazy as it sounds, and even after 5 years of practice, I HAVE A SON! AJ is officially my stepson, and I couldn't be happier about it. It still sounds odd saying it out loud, but I celebrated my first mother's day this year, complete with a phone call from AJ. We followed the wedding up with a week-long honeymoon in Myrtle Beach, SC. Our condo was comically janky, but it was also a miniscule 50ft from the beach! We spent our time exploring the local attractions (the Ripley's Aquarium, the Odditorium, and the Sky Wheel for starters!), eating (the food, omg. If you're in the area, make sure you go to Friendly's and Peaches Diner on the strip!), and enjoying our time away from the day to day stress. Derek's started up his own lawn care business and I'm happy to say we FINALLY have two vehicles! Meanwhile, I'm still working for the mortgage company, and cleaning the offices twice a week. In addition to my involvement with the Freedom Warriors Prison Ministries, I've also started filling in on Thursdays at the Celebrate Recovery program! I love it. I love the fellowship and knowing that God has used me to make even the smallest difference in even one of these guys' lives!

Glad to be back!

LOVE, 
THE NEW MRS. TROY!

I'm Getting Married: Does Anyone Else Have Any Superstitions?

Good morning, and Happy Monday to any and everybody who actually reads my blog! And if I've never said it (and I'm pretty sure I haven't), THANK YOU!

So, back in September of last year, my boyfriend Derek of now almost 4 years proposed to me. Granted, he's sworn since before we even started dating that he was going to marry me. He MAY be a little cocky. Shortly after that, we had some serious problems that resulted in my taking off the ring and calling off the engagement. However, we cleared some of the emotional and mental clutter from our lives, refocused on our relationships with God (and put God back into our relationship), and have decided to go forward with the wedding, which will be in April of 2018! I wasn't planning on a spring wedding, but here we are! I'm looking forward to the details, as I've already started planning. We're going to keep it as cheap as possible; putting more financial focus on the honeymoon. I'll be hitting up bridal sales and fairs, ordering things online, and going cheap on things like the cake and my dress.

Our colors were and continue to be navy, orange, and gray (he may or may not be a Bears fan; I just like the color combo), so I'm currently on the hunt for some Chicago Bears suspenders, and some orange Converse sneakers!
I've had a couple of offers, and have seen many a dress on social media yard sale sites, but the thought of walking down the aisle (no, this isn't my first rodeo) in a dress that someone else wore, seriously freaks me out. In fact, using secondhand anything in a wedding scares me. Unless the item, be it a dress, rings, etc came from a decades-successful marriage, I JUST. CAN'T. DO IT. I even panic at the idea of buying a dress that was bought but never worn. Now, I'm sure there are some out there who sold their initial dress brand new and still in the bag, simply because maybe they lost weight and just went an entirely different route for their dress. Maybe they decided that instead of doing the lacy, poofy, confection dress, they wanted something elegant and simple. Maybe there was no negative reason for why they had no use for this dress. Many times, that's not the case.
I also have the traditional "don't see each on the big day until you're walking down the aisle" superstition. It's also become popular to do the "First Look" these days, and for those of you who aren't familiar, it's the bride surprising the groom before the ceremony. It makes for really good pictures and video, but I don't want that for my wedding. I guess I'm old fashioned. I don't want Derek to see me in my dress until I come through those doors and walk up the aisle.

He's been informed that if he doesn't just absolutely fall apart upon seeing me in all my fabulousness, I will turn around and come back in until he gets it right! (haha, I'm not THAT bad).

I've had a few friends offer to officiate. And as touched as I was, and as cool as the idea sounds, I just can't. It'd be so fun having a friend preside over our special ceremony, but in my heart, I know it wouldn't be the way I want and need it to be. I have to have a pastor. I want MY pastor. I'm a

#BestPastorEVER

Christian. I want God present on my wedding day, and I truly believe, for myself, that one of the best ways to do that, is to have someone ordained by God and by whatever city/town/county oversee things when it comes to exchanging nuptials. To each his/her own, but that's my personal preference.

Alright. Enough of the seriousness and weirdness. Well, enough of THAT weirdness. My dress isn't going to be poofy (I'm 5'1", and will look literally like a bell in a fluffy dress).

GOOD GOD, NO. 

                      The guys are all going to wear suspenders and Converse.

I've already got my flower girl picked out. My bridesmaids are going to wear navy blue dresses. The ceremony will be at our home church. The reception location has yet to be figured out. My sweet beautician neighbor will do my hair and probably makeup. We look so forward to this day, and all the days to follow!

Again, God bless and thank you so much if you read my blogs! I'd love to see some comments on some of these!

Nostalgia and Dirty Music: Boy Bands Were Pervy?!?!?

Sorry I've been out for so long, folks! Lots has been happening, and I've been going nonstop here lately!

I came to a startling realization today. I was scanning through the radio channels today, and found myself disgusted and annoyed by today’s selection of music. If it was pop, it was about sex. If it was country, it was about booze. If it was rap, it just wasn’t fit for anyone to listen to. I remember thinking, “I feel for today’s youth. Our music wasn’t this bad!”

And then I switched over to my phone’s playlist.

My taste in music varies from rock (Halestorm, Avenged Sevenfold, Three Days Grace), to pop (Katy Perry, Britney Spears, Panic at the Disco), to gospel (Lauren Daigle, Crowder, Big Daddy Weave), and so on and so forth. However, in the pop category, I also have some nostalgic hits that I keep as a sort of guilty pleasure. I have N’Sync, Hanson, and Backstreet Boys, which were all very popular through my pre-teen and teen years.  My walls were plastered with the posters pulled from Tiger Beat, Teen Beat, Bop, and other countless waste of money magazines. My first CD was Hanson’s “Middle of Nowhere”, and I had each and every cd made by the boy bands popular back then. Hearing Justin Timberlake, back when he had the ramen noodle hair singing the first few seconds of "I Want You Back" makes me all warm and fuzzy. 

Back when I could daydream about Lance Bass before he broke my heart and came out to the world, solidifying the fact that he was NOT in fact going to be my future husband (hahaha), it all takes me back to an easier time. 

These songs and albums are my adolescence, as sad as that may sound.

As I’m flipping through some of these older songs, I was startled when I really started listening to the lyrics. Backstreet Boys, “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” is catchy as hell, and that was my jam, but I never realized how many preteen and teen girls caught the line “Am I sexual?” said I don’t know how many times through the song. N’Sync’s “Digital Get Down” actually made me blush. 

I don’t remember it being that big a deal as a teen, because I think I always just imagined bumping into one of the guys in a chatroom by pure luck and serendipity and having this awesome conversation. I’m PRETTY sure the song does not in fact mean that. “I get so excited when I’m watching, girl. I can’t wait to see you touch your body, girl. It’s just me and you, so we can do what we gotta do.” 

❤❤❤❤❤❤

These lyrics were every bit as dirty as the ones put out today! I can’t remember any of Hanson’s lyrics being sexually suggestive. I’m pretty sure they were just adorable.

I don’t know if maybe I’ve just gotten older and have really started looking deeper into things, versus the way I looked at things as a child. I just know that today’s youth scares the living hell out of me. And the music is only part of it!

It's a Family Tradition

Everyone has their holiday traditions. I don't care whether it's Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa; everyone has some sort of tradition that has been passed down in their families for generations. The holidays are here, and this year will be a different and difficult one for me. My parents have separated after 30 years of marriage. My fiance is serving nine months in a correctional facility two and a half hours away for not minding his p's and q's on a case from a few years back. I'm still determined to keep our traditions alive and going. Growing up, we've always had three things that you could count on come Christmas. On Christmas Eve, we got to open one gift. More often than not, it was pajamas, but nevertheless, it was a gift that we got to open "before Christmas"! Not to mention the fact that very little surpasses the delicious joy of new pajamas. Then, on Christmas morning, we'd dig through our stockings and open gifts. There's always one gift under the tree that everyone got. And there was no mistaking it for anything else. It rattled a certain way. It was just a specific shape and size. Queen Anne's chocolate covered cherries is what my Dad brought to the party as a tradition. Every single person got a box of chocolate covered cherries for Christmas! Mom was never really a fan, so she either gave hers to dad, or my brother and I would decide who got it. 

           

Once gifts and cleanup was done, and the food was cooking, on came the TV. I'm not sure where you're from, but I know in our home. A Christmas Story (leg lamp, "you'll shoot your eye out", "oh fudge") airs back to back, all day, on Christmas. We would catch bits and pieces of it as we made our way around the house enjoying our new things, grazing on the snack stuff while mom cooked a ham and the trimmings to go with it, and finally getting showered and dressed before any of the relatives showed up. My fiance's family tradition is one of my favorites, simply because of how it came about. His dad is an Army veteran. He finally retired around a year ago after serving for the majority of his adult life. When Derek (fiance) and his sisters Michele and Cassie were little, James (Derek's father) was active duty, and was set to deploy at any moment. It was Christmas. The kids were on a pallet in

the floor watching "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation", and James and Hope (Derek's mother) were in their recliners. The phone rang. All James said was, "Okay". He'd gotten his phone call, and it was time to go. It was late. He was already packed. There was nothing more for him to do but head out to do his duty as an American soldier! Every year since then, they make it a point to watch Christmas Vacation every Christmas. I was blessed enough to be included in this part of their family history, and I absolutely love it.

            Since I've grown, and have become more interested in the family get-togethers and such, I've come up with some traditions myself. Mandi and I have begun one of our own. Usually a week or two before Christmas, we get the kids together, and we bake some sort of holiday treat. It may be cookies, it may be cupcakes, but we bake. Prior to this night, we usually raid the Dollar Tree and get crafting supplies. We get the kids new pajamas, and we make homemade ornaments for the Christmas trees. The kids usually make one for our trees, and then one for the grandparent's trees, or the other parent. We watch Christmas movies until the kids can barely keep their eyes open. 

 I plan to start and keep as many new traditions during my time on this earth. Moreover, I'd love to hear some traditions you all have in your families!!

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukka, Happy Kwanzaa, to all who dare to read my blog! God bless us, every one! 

Mandi-Corruptor, Instigator, and My Best Friend!

THIS heifer right here. You've read the stories. You know just by looking at her that any moral defects I have as an adult are all her fault. This is Mandi. This is "the bestie". I found that bottom picture there, and had to share it. That's from when we first met and were working together at McDonald's back in 2002. The second one was last Christmas, when she decided we both needed duck lips for a selfie. Yes, we're grown women in our mid-thirties who still enjoy a good selfie session, and please believe, the majority of them look like those up there.

There are way too many stories to go along with these selfies, as well as the 15 years of friendship between the two of us. I just wanted to share the pics. But should you ever be lucky enough to cross paths with us, be warned. We have no filter, no act-right, and not a single ounce of shame. You'll never find another pair of crazy gals like us though! We're quirkier than your average pair. 

1) If either of us is crying, DO NOT--I repeat--DO NOT HUG THE CRYING PERSON!!! Sure, it's a kind gesture, but it makes the emotional issue that much worse.

2) Sugar coating isn't going to happen where clothing is concerned. Example: If you look bad in something you're trying on, you'll likely get something along the lines of "That looks stupid. Take it off."

3) We are happily boring. Our days at the bars and clubs are long gone. We tend to spend our free time in pajamas, vegging out on our favorite shows, browsing Pinterest, or just plain old laying around. We enjoy the occasional glass of moscato, and the frequent trip to Taco Bell. 

4) Neither of us do bugs. At all. Don't think for one second that we're above calling someone to come over and handle a particularly large spider. 

5) We frequently talk in movie quotes and song lyrics. And yes, we are thoroughly amused with ourselves. 

I know it's a random post, but I'm pretty proud of my bestie. If God ever intended for me to have a sister, she must've been it. I'm pretty sure he knew better than to give both of us to one parent though. I don't think anyone would be equipped to handle that. 

Love you, Hooker!!!! 

Mixed Feelings About the Stork

I’ve been in a funk for quite some time now, and I honestly don’t know how to untangle it and clear my head of the thoughts. I’m nearing my mid-thirties, and have no children of my own. At the age of fifteen, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (translates to many cysts on my ovaries). I was told I would never conceive, much less carry and deliver a child. I’ve been pregnant once, but I miscarried at eight weeks. It broke me at the time, but looking back on the situation I was in, not to mention the person who helped create the child, it makes sense now why God decided not to put that child on this earth. Had it survived, my child would be in Kindergarten this year. No matter. He or she is undoubtedly being spoiled and well taken care of by not only our Heavenly Father, but my late Granny Pat, my cousin Alecia, and my friend Mikal.

Babies have been on my mind a lot lately, in more than one way. Some days, I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance to be a mother. When my fiancé Derek and I first started discussing our future together, and the topic of children came up, he assured me that if conception wasn’t possible, we would adopt. It’s a noble thought, and I would consider it of course, but there’s still that selfish part of me that doesn’t want to do that. The part of me that wants the excitement of two lines on that pregnancy test. Who wants the tears of joy with my husband and with my best friend when I tell her she’s going to be an aunt. That part of me wants the ultrasounds, the growing belly, and the amazement when the life growing within me begins to kick and move around. I want that moment of “It’s time!”, and the joy of looking at my newborn child and knowing that a part of me has been immortalized in some way.

But in the same instance, my mind bounces onto the other end of the spectrum. I sometimes think that never having children of my own wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe that’s God’s way of telling me that if it doesn’t happen, I will be fine. In all honesty, the idea of carrying, birthing, and raising a child terrifies and amazes me at the same time. Children are expensive. What if my child gets sick or hurt? I am extremely softhearted. Will I be able to discipline my child without being too harsh or being too soft? What physical and mental issues would I pass on to a child? There are so many dizzying questions that run through my head, and yet I can’t decide whether I would be devastated or unbothered if I was never given the opportunity to raise a child of my own.

Some days, it’s a sensitive topic. To me, someone who has successfully conceived, carried, and birthed a child has no right to tell me that I’ll be fine if I never have the same chance. And as much as I know they mean well when they say it, it still hurts. I’m reminded that I have nephews, I have my soon to be stepson, and I have countless of others who call me “Aunt Amber”, but to me, it’s just not the same. Don’t get me wrong, I love the ones who consider me their aunt no matter how they came to know me. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But they’re not mine. I didn’t get the first words, steps, teeth, and all the other glorious firsts that parents get from babies. That first day of kindergarten, where most mothers stand outside their child’s classroom with their hearts in their throats and tears in their eyes at the realization that their babies are no longer babies anymore. The phrase “When are you going to have one?” sets me on edge as well. That one is a cross between “Don’t you think I want to” and “I’ll get around to it eventually!”.

It’s an odd thing to talk about out of the blue, I know, but I think it’s because right around this time, six years ago, I saw those two lines on that home pregnancy test. 

Prayers and positive thoughts for some peace and understanding are appreciated, if you have them to spare. 

Thank you as always for reading!

The Blame Game

  Not gonna lie; I most certainly indulge in what I affectionately refer to as “brain rot” media. This varies from gossip magazines, reality shows, all the way to some gossip sites like The Dirty and She’s a Homewrecker. I’m not really sure why I find such entertainment so amusing, but I do. Maybe it’s the idea that there are people out there who really are crazier than I am, and they don’t have any shame about it. I’ve noticed a common similarity on some of these. There’s a lot of finger-pointing. I read through the stories on She’s a Homewrecker at least once or twice a week (or day…whatever…). I get the idea that it’s a site for exposing the “other person”, thus punishing them for intruding into your relationship. It never ceases to amaze me how many victims there are.

I don’t mean the scorned wives (and sometimes husbands). I don’t mean the hurt children. Apparently, the person who has done the cheating is a victim. The way these stories are worded, you’d think they were held at gunpoint and ordered to be unfaithful. I see it every time I look on there: “She lured my husband…” “He took advantage of my wife…” “She ruined my family….” “He cost me my marriage…”. It’s ridiculous. I personally don’t agree with any of those statements. The “homewrecker” had a hand in it, yes, but they didn’t act alone. That husband that was “lured” to do dirty things? He had a choice. He knew he had a wife (and sometimes children) at home. He was free to say no, and chose not to. He made the choice. The same goes for the wife who was supposedly taken advantage of. When I hear that phrase, I think of rape. I was taken advantage of when I was 18. I thought I was grown enough to drink, and didn’t take into consideration that the people around me weren’t people I trusted. It cost me my virginity and a long-time friendship. Do not tell me that by tempting your wife or girlfriend with an affair, someone “took advantage” of them. Your spouse was weak, they slipped up, and they left you to deal with the aftermath.

  I am particularly disgusted with a woman who uses terminology like that to explain why her idiot husband cheated on her. I actually have a friend who was put on the Homewrecker site. She slept with a married man. It was the typical “He said they were divorcing” story. He’d taken it a step further, though. Not only were he and wifey-dearest separated, they weren’t living together. He’d changed his status to single. Then he started the affair with my friend. I personally wouldn’t piss on the husband if he were on fire, as I know him personally, and he can best be described as an evil, manipulative, sadistic megalomaniac. What this fool has pulled in the 10+ years I’ve known him is beyond sickening. The wife he separated from had just found out that she was pregnant. He apparently wasn’t ready to settle down, so he asked her to leave. Once she found out about my friend, she put her on blast on the website. Describing the affair, she proclaimed, “She knew he was married she knew I was pregnant yet she continued….She helped ruin everything!” She seems to think her husband was taken advantage of. Husband knew more so than anyone that he was married and had a baby on the way. He still chose another woman over his wife and child. Yes, shame on my friend for getting involved with someone before seeing divorce papers, but as guilty as she was, the jackass she slept with is every bit as guilty.

                                                   Moving on.

  I watch Love and Hip Hop (Hollywood, Atlanta, New York, etc…) RELIGIOUSLY. Nothing cracks me up more than the sight of Young Joc strapped to a bed getting his ass handed to him by his then-girlfriend after she caught him being a man-whore. She cuffed him to the bed, beat his ass, and left him there trussed up like a turkey! There’s a girl on another version of the show who apparently got pregnant by a very famous artist. I’ve seen some of the headlines that are popping up about it. She’s claiming he “got her pregnant on purpose”.

                                             I’m sorry, what?? 

  YOU made the conscious decision to have unprotected sex. This is not a one-sided deal. You weren’t FORCED to have sex with this person, and at your age, especially if you’re having sex at all, you should know that sex without some sort of contraceptive CAN RESULT IN PREGNANCY. He refused to wear a condom? Bet. You can refuse to give him any. You’re not on the pill, shot, IUD, whatever? You may ought to stand your ground and demand that your partner wrap it up.

These people seem to think that humans don’t have free will of any kind. They are unable to say, “No, I have a wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend at home.” God put all of us on this earth with free will. That means you as an adult, have the freedom and right to say “No glove, no love.” It’s absolutely laughable to hear someone say, “He got me pregnant on purpose.” As a woman, it’s your responsibility as much as it is your partners to make sure that doesn’t happen if you’re not ready to be a parent. If you don’t understand the concept of all of this, maybe you shouldn’t be having sex in the first place.

Thoughts on this?

Tactful Vs.Tacky....Not everyone knows the difference.

                     

  I've got pretty thick skin at times. I've been called all kinds of names, by all kinds of people, and for the most part, it's as simple as shrugging it off and going about my business. Every now and then, however, someone will say something that just burns my biscuits (and for anyone who knows me, burned baked goods are NOT okay!!!!). My most recent run-in with such issues has happened here at work, and frankly, I'm baffled. 

  I do my hair (there is a LOT of it, by the way) and makeup when I can. Sometimes sleep is just more important to me than putting on my face and managing the monster atop my head. Especially on Fridays, when I work 6-3. Those mornings, I'm up by around 4, and out the door by 5ish so I can get to work in plenty of time. At that ungodly hour, I generally don't care what I look like, provided my teeth are brushed, my clothes are clean, and my hair is out of my face. A few weeks ago, on a Thursday, I did it all: the hair, the makeup, the clothes, the shoes, etc. I looked super cute and I knew it. Then came Friday. Early as hell and there was no way I was going to get up early enough to do all that two days in a row. 

  I was at my desk working, when a coworker came over to bring me a file. She smiled widely, and as if she had a juicy secret, leaned in and whispered. "I have to tell you something.". I leaned over toward her and asked what was going on. "You don't look pretty today," she stated, smiling. It took me a minute to realize that she had in fact said that, plain and simple. "You looked pretty yesterday when you had your hair and makeup done, but you don't look pretty today," she continued.

WTF.....?!?!?

I had to clench my teeth because my mother was really close to coming out of my mouth and telling this woman all about herself. I plastered on a big, "look here, bitch" smile and carefully chose my words. "Well...When you wake up at 4am and leave your house by 5 like I do, makeup and hair isn't all that important. To be honest, " I continued, "I look like a homeless hot mess, and I really don't care."

That's what I said out loud. What I ALMOST said was "Your old ass should know better than to say something like that to someone you barely know."

  

I was raised with the rule of "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." Well...that and "If you can't say anything nice, come sit next to me and we'll talk about it together." So for this woman to seek me out to tell me that I looked like a bag of smashed poo, I felt completely insulted. After a bit of venting to a coworker/friend, I learned that I'm not the first or only person she's done this to. After asking Mouthpiece about our prepaid parking situation, Mouthpiece promptly told my friend that she was surprised she'd planned to park and walk, as my friend seemed "spoiled and didn't strike her as the type who would walk anywhere." Not long after my "you look like crap" incident, another girl came in wearing some....interesting....boots. Not really MY style, but regardless, she liked them and wore them to work. Mouthpiece told her they looked "dumb", that she didn't like them, and "people were going to think she was crazy for wearing that". 

Why not just keep your mouth shut and mind your business? 

Laughter at a Funeral: Granny's Farewell Part 1

My granny was awesome. Plain and simple. I miss her every day. She wasn't the stereotypical, short hair, pants set, etc. She had beautiful, silver hair that went way past the middle of her back, and she almost always wore it in a ponytail. Jewelry was minimal; usually just a pair of hoop earrings, a brown leather watch, and two of her favorite rings. Her clothes were always comfortable, usually consisting of a flannel button down and jeans, her favorite broomstick skirt and blouse, or a flowy summer dress and sandals. I have a small vial of the perfume she always wore (Poison). She was always on the go, and never seemed to let any physical ailment get her down. Colds tended to have her running around the house with kleenex sticking out of her nose. Stomach bugs may as well just not exist, because she had entirely too much to do for that nonsense! But then...
There was cancer.
Mom tried down-playing it when she broke the news to me. First that it was cervical cancer. Then that it was cervical AND uterine. And when I asked why the doctors didn't just do a complete hysterectomy (no uterus or cervix, no cancer, right?), she finally came out with it. The cancer had been there for so long, it had spread from her cervix, to pretty much her entire lower internal organs. Bladder, reproductive organs, colon, kidneys....It was everywhere. Granny had a few surgeries to remove parts of it. She went through a few rounds of chemo and radiaton. She fought for a while, but when the treatments started to make her feel worse than the cancer itself, she said no more. She was ready to go Home. She said she was ready to go Home to her daughter Vicki, to her parents and siblings....She was ready. I cried more tears watching her go through everything, being sick and tired, hurting, weak....All things that just weren't my Granny.
Then one night, almost immediately after walking in my door after a brief visit with her, I got the phone call that she'd just passed. Mandi and I got back in the car and headed back to Granny's. I found my aunt Jo, my cousin Maria, my uncle Johnny, and my pawpaw Tommy all there, somber. My granny was gone, but she looked so peaceful. There comes a comfort when someone you love passes, in knowing that they're in God's hands. It sucks, you miss them, and no one likes the idea of living without a loved one. But to know that someone you love so much is headed to so much better a place takes a little of the sting out of everything.
Granny wasn't about all the fuss and trouble that came with things. She'd supposedly given instructions for her viewing and final arrangements, down to what she wanted to wear, what songs to be played, etc. She asked to wear the white cotton dress that my parents had bought her on a vacation trip to New Mexico for the viewing, and for her ashes to be spread over the countryside in North Carolina once she'd been cremated. I honestly believe Granny would've been happy with a big birthday cake and everybody just hanging out at someone's house, as opposed to the big church funeral we gave her.
As you've surely read by now, funerals aren't something I do well, or appropriately. Especially if I have Mandi in tow. I learned during this trying time that a lot of my family suffers from the same issue--our act-right runs out once we walk into the funeral home/church. Mandi and I drove to Lonoke to the funeral home for the visitation. We pulled up the same time as my cousin Maria and her hubby Kenneth did. Together, we walked in, prepared to do this thing. They hung back a bit, as I slowly walked to the front of the room to the casket. I took a deep breath, and looked down.
WHAT. THE. HELL.
There lay my granny. My comfy, casual, no muss/no fuss granny. In what can best be described as an old lady's two-piece church dress suit, which was this odd shade of periwinkle. She had heels on her feet, jewelry all over her, and her hair was done up in a traditional pentecostal beehive. As a knee-jerk reaction, my hands went to my hips, and my foot stomped out to the side. Mandi, Maria, and Kenneth quickly walked up to my side. Mandi looked down, leaned over, and said, "Dude. That's not Granny.". Right about then, Granny's stepson Chris walked up. He stood beside me, shaking his head and patting my back. He sighed. "I know, I know. Hard to believe she's gone, huh?"
I wasn't sad as much as I was angry at this point.
"WHAT THE &%$# IS THIS UGLY ASS $#!+ THEY'VE GOT MY GRANNY WEARING?!?! SHE DIDN'T WEAR ANY OF THIS STUFF!!!!! AND WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH HER HAIR?!?!?" I managed all this in a cheerleader whisper, no matter how badly I wanted to yell.
Chris stood there silently for a moment. He looked EXTREMELY uncomfortable. He took a deep breath, patted me on the back again, and responded slowly.
"Well....that's what she was wearing the day she married my dad...."
Oh I'm an ass.
I'm pretty sure not only did I stick my foot in my mouth, but I swallowed all the way up to my thigh.
I figured I'd best go sit down before I said something else untoward.


Stay tuned for the funeral service shennanigans....

Granny'd be so proud lol.

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.