Matters of the Heart

If these heels could talk they would say that, "sometimes the heart may not always be what is wrong with us, it could be a matter of the mind."

Years ago, let's say about thirty, my family and I lived right beside the Flint River in a two bedroom, single wide trailer. Now I know that I have told the story of this lovely home before but for those that didn't read that one, let me paint the picture again.
My dad bought the trailer for $500.00. He hooked it up to a tractor and pulled it to it's resting spot where it was put on cinder blocks. It was actually very unstable and when my brothers would start fighting my mom would yell, "stop fighting younguns before you knock the trailer over!"

We did have well water that we tapped into via my uncle's well but there was no septic tank. Just a pipe that ran for yards and yards that only the Good Lord knows where it ended. I never looked for the ending because I figured that's would be just another  shitty ending I really didn't want to see.

As you can imagine, this trailer had no central heat and air.  In the summer, either a box fan in the window or a window AC unit was used for cooling off. And during the winter we had a wood burning stove/heater for keeping us nice and toasty. 

That wood burning heater could really put out some heat.  My mom also cooked a meal or two on that heater during a snow storm or power outage.   Yes it was just like something out of Little House on the Prairie.  At night time the heater would often burn out because we would all be sleeping and there was no one to put wood on the fire.  For these times we would utilize electric blankets to tie us over until we could stoke the fire back up the next morning.

One winter my mom started complaining with what she believed to be heart issues.  Day in and day out she would tell my dad that she felt like something wasn’t right.  She would say, “ole man every night when I lay down I hear a buzzing noise and then I have this weird feeling come over me.” 

As with all matters that my mom would bring up to my dad, he quickly told her she was losing her mind or in his words, “you are crazy as hell woman.” But then it finally happened; my dad laid down one night and caught exactly what my mom had been hearing for weeks.  He started laughing uncontrollably and then he said to her, “damn ole lady that ain’t cha heart, that’s the electric blanket and it has a short in the wires.” 

What my mom thought to be her heart buzzing was the electric blanket.  The weird feeling she was getting was from the anxiety she had thinking it was her heart.

Moral of the story:  we are all going to have a moment in our life when we feel discouraged and we feel like our heart is no longer in it and we feel weird because we have let anxiety about not knowing effect us.  (Whatever the IT is) Maybe it isn’t our heart that isn’t in it any longer, maybe it is our minds allowing outside elements to affect our thinking and that negative thinking is changing our heart. 

A positive mindset goes a long ways in all things in life. 

I never went looking for the end of that poop pipe but I bet at the end of it the grass was super green.  Sometimes a shitty start can have an amazing ending.  It is all a matter of perspective and mind set.  The grass can be green exactly where you stand.   Stop looking for reasons to not be happy and instead spend a little time daily looking at your blessings.    

The Things Southerners Do When It Snows

If these heels could talk they would say, "boy a little bit of the white stuff and people start to get crazy around here."

Wow, what can I say? 

Living in Georgia you really don't expect to get much snow, much less twice within a thirty day period.  Well yesterday as I sat with my drinky drink, doing nothing much but reading Facebook posts and laughing my arse off via text with one of my best gal pals I got to thinking, this snow really freaks us out in the South. 

Here is my interpretation of what Southerners do when it snows.

1. Freak Out
2. Stock up on eggs, milk, bread and toilet paper.
3. Freak Out some more.
4. Constantly post updates on every social media page about the snow flake that just hit their windshield.
5. Immediately lose every driving skill that they have ever known.
6. Freak Out even more.
7. Take pictures of random ice cycles.
8. Call their friends that live right next door to ask if their power is out. 
9. Call relatives to talk about the weather as if we can't see what the hell is going on.
10. Get in your car to survey "the damage" as if it is a freak show.
11. Freak Out for the fifth or sixth time and post more random pictures of ice cycles and post more updates of the weather via every social media page.
12. I take pictures of myself wearing heels while getting in my car to go survey the damage of random ice cycles that may have formed into the shape of a high heel shoe.

The snow is truly beautiful however I do not do cold weather at all and will leave with this thought.  I NEED SPRING AND SUMMER WEATHER. 

Memories Can Be A Blessing or a Curse

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "Memories can be a blessing or a curse."

 

I had a wonderful friend that was taken from this Earth way to soon.   I remember the first time I ever saw Jennifer. It was 6th grade. She was beautiful. She had long strawberry blond hair, it was pulled up with a clip and was covered in long curls.  She had the bluest eyes you have ever seen on a person. Perfect can't even begin to describe her beauty. 

 

 I ...on the other hand was freckled face with a haircut that even a boy would cringe at having. (I may post pictures to prove). I was in awe of her. We immediately became friends. Over the course of our school years we became closer and closer. I don't ever remember her and me ever having the typical girl fallout. We just did what friends do.

 

Thanks to Jennifer I got my first heart break. Well not really her fault the boy was an A double S hole, but she did date is brother and encouraged me very persuasively to date the guy. Anyway, I wasn’t mad at all at her, he was the jerk. 

 

One memory that sticks out for me is from the 8th grade. My family and I were going to West Point Lake camping for a week. Jennifer wanted to go, I believe not so much for the camping experience but because she had an eye on my cousin. I tried to prepare her up front to the ways of how the Garner's camp. When we went camping we went camping; tents, no running water, week at a time, bathe in the lake kind of stuff. 

 

 As we were driving to the lake, Jennifer is rummaging through her bag and I notice that she has a curling iron and a hair dryer. “Hmmmm, Jennifer we ain’t staying at the Holiday Inn darling, there is no electricity.” She was mortified. But we had the time of our life. I chipped my tooth on a beer bottle, thanks to my cousin Jamie a.k.a mudcat. And I still haven’t got it fixed. Maybe when I do I will send him the bill. We got in trouble by the park ranger for being rowdy teenagers (there was only about 15 of us running ramped through the park). 

 

 I had to go to the well nearly every day and pump the water so she could wash her locks. Jennifer was 14 and looked to be 21, here I was flat chested and she is looking like a Victoria’s Secret model. But she never made me feel less than what I was. She embraced our family and our craziness and rolled right along with us. We swam, we ate watermelon, we stole our parents beer, (we didn’t smoke so be proud of that), we fished; we did what teenagers are supposed to do. These memories are definitely a blessing. I would share more, but some things I must keep to myself.

Home Is Really Where the Heart Is

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "home really is where the heart is."

I am going to share something that some may not believe and then again some may can relate.  There is not one single house/trailer/dwelling that I CAN REMEMBER  living in that is still present.  In other words all of the places that I grew up in and can still remember are gone. They were torn down, pushed over and demolished. 

The interesting thing about this is although the structures are not there I can close my eyes and be right back in those places.  Each one of them were so much more than walls, floors, bolts, joists, paneling, tile, carpet, etc........ They were home but they were home because of the memories that were made there. 

One in particular housed a lot of memories.  I have written about it in some of my other stories.  It was a single wide trailer that sat on cinder blocks.  It was two bedrooms and one bath.  I shared a room with my two brothers. The room was just big enough to hold their set of bunk beds, my twin bed and a four drawer dresser.  It had two front doors but one of them we considered a back door because it was at the back of the trailer.  When my brothers would start to tussel my mom would panic and start yelling, "stop it before you turn the trailer over."  I was always freaked out about that. Mainly because we had no real "septic" tank just a pipe that my dad referred to as the "poop" pipe that ran several feet out the back into the woods. There is probably oil there now. 

There was no grass around this home just Georgia red clay.  We never had to worry about cutting grass because there was none to be cut.  There was a washing machine broken down that sat out side the back door and then there was a broken down refrigerator that sat outside the front door.  Sometimes you could find a "plant" or two growing on that refrigerator.  This home sat only a few hundred feet from the Flint River. 

The bathroom was well adorned with a few holes from the shot out plumbing that we had.  But my mother always made sure that the holes were covered with the prettiest Kmart throw rug.  We knew to straddle the holes in order to prevent injury.  The door to the bathroom was off the hinges however if you wanted any privacy while doing the do you just leaned it up against the wall.  Let's face it there was no privacy because well it was a single wide trailer. 

My dad paid $500.00 for that trailer and pulled it there with a tractor.  So that right there tells you the quality and value of the structure itself, however the memories are priceless.

This is where I lived the day my dad got caught running moonshine.  Talk about embarrassing.  I was in the sixth grade and it wasn't bad enough that my brothers and I were called Swamp Rats already, now throw that in the mixture and we were true Swamp Rats. 

This is where I lived when I found out there was no Santa Claus. 
This is where I lived when my heart broke for the first time because of a stupid boy. 
This is where I lived when my grandmother passed away.
This is where I lived when I learned how to swim. This is where I lived when I learned that sometimes a friend to your face is not a friend behind your back.
This is where I lived when I also learned that a true friend doesn't care what you live in they like you for who you are and not what you have. 
This is where me and my brother drove barbies in a truck around the tree out front.
This is where I lived when I learned how to fry fish all the while standing in a chair. 
I watched my mom cry here and I watched my mom laugh here. 
I witnessed many family gatherings under that same tree out front and watched my dad work on an engine there. 

The memories go on and on..... they are never ending some are good and some are bad..... nevertheless they are there and they are valuable yet priceless. I can't wait to share some of the stories with my grandchildren one day. 

Their Words, My Voice

If These Heels Could Talk they would say that, "sometimes we have to speak for those that can not speak for themselves."

As you may or may not know, October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month and domestic violence is something that I take very serious. I myself having been a victim of domestic violence in more ways than one and I find the numbers alarming.   I am a huge advocate about empowering those that are victims to be brave and speak up.  But I also know that sometimes even the bravest can get to the point where they no longer have the spirit to "fight" back. Or maybe they have spoken up only to be told to be quiet. 

I struggled as to whether I wanted to write this story or not because it is not a funny story at all and I most of the time try to stick to the humorous side of things.  If for nothing else but the simple fact that this world is already full of evil and everyone needs a good laugh.  This story will also reveal a part of my history that has never been told. 

However as I  put more thought into it and God whispered to me like he does sometimes, it was evident that I should go with the flow and do what I do best and that is write about my experiences.

I in no way view myself as a Pulitzer prize writer, I am just a simple person that carries a lot on my mind and in my heart and have found that writing helps get this out.  However, it was brought to my attention that sometimes what I write about others gain inspiration from.  I never in 100 million years have looked at myself as an inspiration. I was just doing what I needed to do for me, for my therapy. 

Recently I had a chance to audition for an upcoming movie that will be filmed near and surrounding my community. The name of the movie is Virtuous and is based on the lives of five different women and their different traumatic life  experiences and how they worked through them.

There were a couple of roles that I was interested in, however with the help of a friend (Jenny)
I ultimately came to decide on one that I thought would better suit my personality.  It was during my evaluation of which character I wanted to audition for that it was revealed to me that I should indeed write this story. 

There was a specific line in the script that spoke volumes to me, it read speak for those who can not speak for themselves; ensure justice for those who are perishing.

Now flashback to me when I was eight years old.  I remember loving to wear dresses every chance that I got.  I also remember this one particular day my mother, daddy and myself went to visit some of their friends.  On this day I wore my wedges with the strap and a cute little dress.  This memory sticks out like yesterday for me. 

The friends of my parents had an older son.  I do not remember his exact age but I remember that he was a teenager. And I remember hating him after that visit.  While we were there I made my way back to the restroom that was off from one of the bedrooms.  As soon as I came out he was standing there and he said to me, "I see that you are all dressed up for me and I see how you are looking at me." 

At eight years old I was terrified.  I had no idea what he wanted to do or what he was going to do, but I knew that he was up to no good.  I looked over and could see that he had shut the door to the bedroom. In the blink of an eye he had pinned me down to the bed and covered my mouth so that I could not make any noise.  The next moments went by so fast and I remember squirming with every bit of muscle I had to get him off of me. I remember kicking, twisting and fighting to get him off of me. And then I remember biting him so hard that he stopped what he was doing and I got the hell out of there. 

Now I tell that part of the story to say this.  I never told a soul about that day, until I just typed it out.  I didn't tell because I was scared I would get in trouble. I didn't tell because I thought that I had done something wrong.  I didn't tell because I felt terrible.  I didn't tell because I was embarrassed. 

Now that I am older,  I realize I should have told someone.  I should have told someone until someone listened.  By me not speaking up, I am almost certain that others were affected by this sick person.  Had I spoke up others could have been saved. 

So why do I tell now? It is simple.  If one person can read this and be encouraged or inspired enough to speak up about any type of domestic violence against them, then that is one person that can be saved. 

If others read it and think, I really didn't need to read that or if they wish they never knew that part about me, then so be it and I wish them well.  I assure you the pain of anyone reading a story like this has no comparison to what pain a person that experiences it carries. 

We have got to stop the cycle of domestic violence and abuse.  And the only way to stop it is to confront it and the people that are committing these crimes. 

I am a very vocal person now. And for a very good reason.  I will never not tell my story again for the fear of embarrassment.    I fight for those and what I believe in and I will never be quiet about anything that I know is wrong.  And if I see that someone else can't speak up for themselves then I will do it for them. I will use their words but my voice. 

Spoons Forks and Switches Oh My

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "even as a kid OCD can be a pain in the rear."


My mom and I made our way to the Roses shopping store. I guess that is what you call it.  It is hardly an upscale department store. I was around 9 years old. 

My first memory of this store was on the kitchen utensil isle. This memory stands out not because we racked up on some shopping but rather because of the mess I made.  Little ole Angie was fiddling with the serving spoons, the forks, knives, etc.  And my mother had already told me one time to stop it and like any other kid that listens well, I kept fiddling. 

I took notice of a set of forks/spoons that were tangled and made an effort to get them straight.  OCD can start as a child. As I tugged and pulled and twisted on those utensils the entire shelf came down.  I am not talking one shelf, I am talking the entire wall. Utensils went flying everywhere.  The noise itself would have woke the dead.  I looked at my mom fearing for my life and she looked at me and said, "now what are we going to do about that?" Then she grabbed my hand turned with the buggy/shopping cart (depending on which part of the world you are from) and we walked away. 

 I was scared out of my mind. All the way home all I could say was,  "please don't tell daddy."  I wasn't sure of much but I was sure I didn't want my legs switched.  She confirmed that she was going to tell my daddy and that he would be the one handling the punishment, especially since she had already told me to leave them alone.  My failure to listen and my OCD was going to be my downfall. 

We arrived home and parked the Nova on the hill to ensure we would get a good roll back for the next adventure since the transmission was shot to hell.  I slowly got out of the car and made my way to the trailer with the two front doors, dragging my feet in the red dirt (grass wouldn't grow), with head hung low. It was definitely a walk of shame. I made it last for as long as I could. 

I entered the trailer and made my way past the bathroom with the door off the hinges and mine and my brothers room with the set of bunk beds, a twin bed and one dresser.  I plopped on the couch that was directly across from our wood burning heater.  And waited......

Once my dad came through the other front door he made his way to the recliner beside the couch across from the wood burning heater.  And my mom began to tell him the story.

I immediately felt very nervous and a lump came to my throat. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes and my heart was pounding so hard I was certain the mice could hear it.

As she finished telling him the story they both looked at me and started to laugh.   They laughed that uncontrollable laugh that makes your belly hurt.  I was a little confused. My dad looked at me and said, "now from now on do what you are told or the next time I will get cha ass."

I looked at him and nodded. I left the room wondering what just happened. 

Twenty seven years and three kids later I know what happened.  Kids can and will do some outrageous things.  Some are those moments when they deserve a harsh punishment, maybe a spanking and then there are those moments when the punishment is the fear of the father itself and a spanking isn't necessary.

They weren't laughing at me as much as they were laughing at the situation with all the utensils flying off the wall, people staring and me and mom getting the hell out of dodge. They knew I had suffered enough on the ride home and that itself was my punishment.

Me personally,  I am okay with that.  I never liked my legs getting a switching. It stings.


p.s. These heels have no relevance to this story. I just happen to like them.

Deer Season In and I Am Sleeping In

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "I might be from the country but childhood trauma cured me of ever wanting to hunt."

Thank you dad I am still paying for those therapy lessons.

You see what had happened was.....

Growing up my mother never let me and my two brothers go anywhere with our dad.  Well they would get to go hunting and fishing for the most part, but me I always stayed at home with my mom to do our womanly duties: cook and clean.

It wasn't that my dad was a bad dad, my mom was just protective of us and knew that my dad on most occasions was unpredictable and subject to show up at a poker game or some other shenanigan at the drop of a dime.

However, my mom made an exception one Sunday afternoon, the first and only time.  Now that I am a mother of three, my thoughts are that she was just shy of losing her last nerve before a complete nervous breakdown and therefore said, "what the hell, let them go."  So we went. This is my first and last hunting story. 

My dad never traveled anywhere without having at least two different kinds of riffles in his vehicle of choice.  On this day, it was no different.  I was ten years old.

It was a  bright, sunny, yet bitterly cold Sunday.  I was wearing my favorite purple and white sock cap and scarf.  Actually it was my only sock cap and scarf, nonetheless it was my favorite. It was soft and fluffy and kept my head and neck warm.  Since my hair was in the style of a little boy's this attribute of my apparel was especially important to me even at ten years old. 

This trip that we set out on came about when my dad got a hankering for something to wet his whistle.  And as you may or may not know twenty years ago they didn't sell any whistle wetting beverages on Sunday in Georgia. So off we go, venturing out for someone or  something that might sell a fine brew. 

We make our way via every possible dirt road that we could find to wherever it was we were going.  Traveling on the paved roads would have been too much of a luxury. The first stop was to pick up my dad's friend Bo.  There was just enough room in that Nova for the five of us and the artillery that my dad elected to carefully stow away just for rides like today.  He was always anticipating the kill.  The kill meaning, the kill of anything that could be cooked, fried, boiled, stewed, baked or grilled. Nothing was an exception. 

As we continue on this journey in search of the finest brew that could wet a man's whistle on this Sunday afternoon, the car comes to a sudden halt on that dirt road we were traveling. And there she was....... looking out into the pasture all ten eyeballs was on one of the prettiest female deer that I have ever laid my eyes on. "oohhh look!" I squeal in my ten year old voice.

"Shhhhhhhhhh" All four males in the vehicle say to me at once.  I was immediately scared to silence.

"You will scare her off with all that chatter." My dad quickly explains. 

So I sit there along with my brothers in silence.  My dad takes one of the rifles that he always has in tow and slowly raises it up out of the driver's car window and the next few minutes are a blur. 

I hear the gun shot, feel my ears ringing and I see the deer fall to the ground.  The next sounds were some of the most God-awful noises any ten year old has ever heard.  The deer was wailing out in pain. My dad had shot her in the right hind leg, injured but not killed her.  He quickly hands one of my brothers the gun and tells us to take the gun and hide in the woods. 

Well this Sunday ride has really turned into a dramatic sequence of events.  "My momma is gonna be so mad." Is what I was thinking. 

So my brothers and I make our way over the barb wired fence and lay down under some brush and bushes and we wait for what seemed like an eternity. 

As we are lying there we suddenly hear what sounds like another car drive up and then I can hear the squeak of a brake and then we all hear a lady's voice yell out, "I am calling the law, this is private property and you are trespassing." 

My little heart was pounding out of my chest, I immediately start to cry.  My brothers are loving every minute of this less than desirable turn of events. They both tell me to,  "shut up with the crying."

All of a sudden I hear my daddy's voice saying, "c'mon young'uns get cha asses in the car."

Hmmm why is he mad at us, I never wanted to get out of the car.... anyway we make our way out of the brush and bushes and my brothers clear the fence.  Of course they do they are boys.  I get to the fence and immediately panic at the site of the prickly things sticking up ready to rip my flesh.  I really was not up to getting injured on this Sunday. 

I continue to slowly try to clear the fence without injury and then feel a hand on my pants at my waist  and shirt and the next thing you know I am over the fence thanks to my dad's super human ability to "snatch my ass over the fence."  I did make it without injury but not without loss.

My scarf, my favorite scarf, my only scarf got hung on that damn fence and I could see it hanging as I looked out the dusty rear view window.  I could suddenly feel a chill on my neck and all the events within the last half hour took control of all my emotions and I began to cry. I was sad for that deer and I was even more sad that I had got my scarf caught on that fence and my dad left it there. 

I don't even know if my dad and his friend Bo ever got that deer.  If I had to guess they did.  They didn't bother getting me my scarf though and that just doesn't sit right with me.  To this day I will not hunt, don't care to hunt and you will not find me hunting.  I am not against anyone else doing it because as a matter of a fact I love me some deer meat.  I will however let someone else do the dirty work and  bring me the deer meat.

My mother never let us go back on a Sunday ride with my dad again.  I can't say that I don't blame her.

Bikini Tops and Pressure Washing

If These Heels Could Talk they would say,  "When you see me in shorts and a bikini top with the pressure washer out, that is not your cue to stop because you need to chat a second, that is your cue to keep damn driving or be pressure washed yourself."


Yesterday as I tried to relax for half a second in the pool and maybe catch a little vitamin D, Jacob was upstairs playing sniper out of his bedroom window.  As I am looking up and watching him, because frankly every time I would try to look away he would yell, "Hey mom are you watching?" I realized that the house is in need of a little pressure washing........

So I get out of the pool, sling on some shorts and set off to get the pressure washer out of the shed. Four hours later, the back side of the house and one side of the house is done, along with half of the driveway.  Just as I had one approximately three foot spot left of the driveway, I look up and get the living day lights scared out of me..... A man is getting out of his car, coming towards me and immediately starts talking to me, "are you Jacob's mom?"

Well isn't this awkward?  I am feeling a little underdressed for this casual meeting.  And now I am concerned, "What the hell did Jacob do?" Was my first thought.  My second thought was, "are you freaking kidding me?" 

I turn off the pressure washer in effort to show a little respect to hear what he has to say, trying to figure out if I should just continue to stand there feeling very under dressed or panic and run into the house.  So I just stood there.  Ain't no shame in my game.

Meanwhile in my mind, there is still an approximate three foot section of this drive way that needs to be done and I am really not hearing a thing this man is saying.  Please ADHD don't fail me now.  Don't show your colors now.......

He proceeds to explain that his ex is out of town and is curious if two of his kids can catch the bus at my house with Jacob since one of them is in the same grade as Jacob.  He continues telling me that his other kid will drive the other two to school because one of them is special needs. 

"Damn mister don't you know what causes all them children?" Was really where my mind was going.....

He said since he saw me outside he thought he would go ahead and stop since it was next week that this arrangement would be occurring.  

"Whatever mister, sure all of the Walton's can ride now carry on so I can finish the damn driveway I am losing daylight while you ramble."

He was grateful for my generosity and finally departed ways.  I return to finish the job at hand....... and the pressure washer won't start. 

"Are you kidding me?"  I will not rest until that spot is gone. 

Thank you neighbor. Glad I could help you.  You just contributed to part of my insanity.

No Sense of Humor = You Suck

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "people that lack a sense of humor really do suck." 

I am a very matter of fact person when it comes to business and the serious things of this world.  At no point would you have to guess where I stand on an issue because I have no problem what so ever letting you know.  I am at times thought to be mean until a person "gets" to know me and then the realize that I am just handling business.

There is most definitely a time and place for everything, however I really believe that you have to find a way to incorporate laughter into each and every day.  Without that laughter the world would just be a big blob of frownie faces and nobody likes a frownie face. 

On most any given day you will find me cracking a joke or being sarcastic (in a loving way).  And a lot of times people get me and my sarcasm.  But there are times when there are those weirdos among us that take everything so serious that they wouldn't know a joke if it slapped them in the face. 

I recently had an encounter with an individual. I didn't know him and had never met him.  He happened to be acquainted with two people that I happen to know and have known for a long time.  They have witnessed my humor and sarcasm.  They have laughed at my humor and sarcasm.  They themselves have been humorous and sarcastic with me, in which I returned the favor and laughed a long. 

During this encounter he asked me for something that he had been sent to retrieve and I "sarcastically, jokingly said, "tell blah and blah to take a chill pill or I will roll their house because I know where they stay. "  He laughed at me. I even said, "I'm just joking as soon as I have it in my hands I will get it to blah."  "And by the way, tell them both I said hey and I hope to see them soon." 

Well apparently his little laugh was a fake laugh. Which by the way don't fake a laugh just to attempt to make me think you got the joke or that I might be offended if you didn't,  that in itself is just dumb.


The next thing you know I was told that I had been rude about his request.  

Hmmmmm........ at no point did I tell him he looked ridiculous in that shirt and those jeans.  At no point did I say that his haircut was ridiculous.  At no point did I tell him to take a chill pill.  At no point did I tell him that he was ugly. All of those things would have been rude. 

I cracked a joke.  Since when is joking rude?

People take some things entirely too serious.  I can't imagine living that way. And I won't live that way.  If you find my humor and sarcasm offensive then I find your lack of a sense of humor offensive.

Laugh a little. It is so much prettier than crying. 

Laughter In the Darkest Moments

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "laughter can be found even in the darkest moments."

Everyone has their own coping mechanism. Some use alcohol, some use drugs, some use food, some use sex, and some use gambling.  Most of the time the coping mechanism is used to get the person through a moment that is painful. It helps them to forget what is either happening or has happened. 

My coping mechanism is laughter. My coping mechanism is the ability to take tragic moments that either I was subjected to or chose on my own and poke fun at them.  Most of the time when I am telling my story to someone I don't realize that this is what I am doing.  I just know that usually the other person is in some kind of shock from either the story itself or the fact that I am laughing about the story. 

I believe that we all have our poor pitiful why me moments.  My mom hates when I tell stories sometimes and then I follow that story up with, "and that is a damn therapy session and that is going to cost someone."   

I have had those poor pitiful why me moments.  I will not lie.  When you are growing up and some of your "friends" own nothing but name brand clothing and are getting brand new cars at the age of 16, you wonder why not me? Why can't I have that? Why can't I have the in ground pool and enclosed garage.  Why can't I have central heat and air? Why can't I have a telephone at the house? Why can't I have running water?

I really don't remember if I was ever angry about the way I was feeling.  Maybe it was because my mother always instilled into my brothers and I that all of that really didn't matter and that a friend was a friend no matter what.

We were NOT white trash we just didn't have the means that others had and now some 25 years later I understand why I was chosen to experience the things that I did.  My experiences although tragic to some, bring humor to others. 

In one of the hardest times of a friend's life I was able to bring laughter to her life.  That laughter came from my experience, my childhood and it was a true story.  And just so you know I laughed until my stomach hurt.

My dad was able to scout out this fine jewel of dwelling at the tune of $125.00 a month.  I remember this place I called home for four years.  I had my own room for the first time at the age of 14.  My room actually had it's own door to the outside world.  My brothers still shared a room and my parents of course had their own room.  There was one bathroom that was right off from the kitchen (really is that necessary, put it somewhere else people) 

The electricity of this dwelling was something to be desired. One memory that stands out the most is that at Christmas time when we would turn the Christmas tree lights on EVERY light in the house would dim.  And that Christmas tree lit up like the fourth of July.  And when we turned them off all the other lights started to light the house normal. 

My mom always liked to decorate and still does for the holidays. And like any Southern household there were lights that adorned the outside of this dwelling during the holidays.  On one or two occasions a couple of people stopped to see if we were selling catfish plates. Hmmmm o.k.... we are not a catfish house.

After further research it was discovered that this dwelling that I called home for four years was actually an old convenience store.  Wow, what a shocker!!!

My mom and I painted it one summer a nice turquoise blue. But since it was just her and I laboring over this task with a paint brush we opted out of painting the back of it so we just painted three sides and left the back to remain barnyard red. 

I told my friend about this home and we laughed and laughed.  I do not poke fun at what my parents best efforts to raise three children were.  I KNOW THEY DID THE BEST THEY COULD WITH WHAT THEY HAD.  I poke fun at the experience.  I poke fun at the fact that I am blessed to not have to live that way today. I poke fun at how crazy we must have looked to others.  I poke fun at the electrical wiring and how crazy that was. 

I am blessed to have lived the way I lived and I now know that what may be tragic to some can most definitely bring laughter to others.

When Cooters Catch On Fire

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "just when you thought you had heard it all, there is another story that makes you say, damn."

This past Saturday I was with family and friends.  We had a family member visiting from New Jersey.  We all sat around having a drink or two and telling a story or two.   I am not sure how we got on the subject that we did, however after hearing this woman's story I am just not sure that I have heard it all. I told her that I had stories but this one, well it was awesome. 

She told me that her husband had called her during the day time to remind her to pick some of the habanero peppers he had been growing.   So as any good wife would do, she proceeded to pick the peppers. 

After picking the peppers she went into the kitchen and started to prepare them. ( I am still not sure what she was preparing them for, anyway)  As the heat came from the peppers she began to get a tickle in her throat, and before you know it she was coughing a lot. 

Now any woman that has had more than one child will tell you, the bladder tends to get a little weak.  And my friend, well she has had four children, therefore the more she coughed...... the more the bladder gave in.... so she scurried off to the little cow girls room to handle some personal business.

She reaches for the tissue, wipes as all ladies would and the next thing you know... THE COOTER IS ON FIRE!!!  The juices from the peppers had transferred to the tissues that she was using. And her nether regions were experiencing what it was like for habanero pepper and flesh to meet.    In a panic she called her "fireman" to tell him that the "cooter" was on fire.  And as any concerned fireman would be, he asked her if there was any milk in the house.  (Are you kidding me?)

At this point I said, "please tell me you did not pour milk on your cooter?"

She said, "no even better."  " I took the jug of buttermilk, poured it in a bowl, sat over the bowl in the kitchen and splashed my cooter with it." 

She said, "it was either that or the yogurt."

Wow...... I have seen a lot of crazy stuff in my life... .I have heard a lot of crazy stuff in my life.... but never have I witnessed a cooter being splashed with buttermilk.

I told her husband this, "the next time your woman calls you and says that her cooter is on fire, you break loose and put that flame out like a real fireman."

Tied Up Toilets

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "daddy has gone bonkers and the toilet ain't going no where."

So today as I was driving home I get an unexpected text from my dad.

Now I haven't really said too much about my parents in these writings, that I can remember.  My dad is country!!! I keep telling people if I had known being a redneck could make you millions, then I would have capitalized on that years ago. 

My parents have been married 42 years and I have known to break up a fight or two on more than one occasion.  My dad grew up in the country and will die in the country.  He is, has been and will always be set in his ways.  I love him dearly but have asked my mom on more than one occasion, "how on earth have you made it 42 years?"  Dedication and tolerance is the only explanation.

So today when I did receive my surprise text I wasn't too alarmed. I did however giggle about it. 

Dad to me via text: your momme donot under stand my back see make me bend so i stop that tape the the top to ther comd

Me to Dad via text: Damn hahahahah!

Dad to me via text: see whii not do right my back gone


Translation

Dad to me:  You mother does not understand that my back hurts.  She makes me bend down to lift the toilet seat. She is always closing it. So I hog tied the lid to the commode with duct tape.

Me to Dad: Damn hahahahahah

Dad to me:  She will not do right. And my back is gone.  I had to do what I had to do.

And there you have it folks.... The redneck way of doing things. Improvise. Adapt and overcome.  Hog tie a toilet with duct tape if need be.  But he is going to make things happen and he will not be bending over.

I bet my mother is fuming right now. That tape does not match those flowers.

 

I Never Was a Smoker and Pork Chops

If These Heels Could Talk they would tell you, "I never was a smoker."

I always wonder how anyone becomes addicted to nicotine.  Now before anyone gets their panties or whitey tighties in a wad, I ain't judging, just looking for clarification.

I tried to smoke a cigarette at the age of 13 thanks to an older cousin that had swiped one off of a parent or another friend, I don't know and I suppose I  really don't  care where she got it. All I know is that the first toke off of that God awful thing was hell. My lungs were on fire and I felt horrible and it left a major after taste in my mouth.  There was no high, rush or good feeling that some people speak of, just a headache. And there is no fun in a headache, burning lungs or bad breath.

I guess one reason for my lack of understanding is there was nothing pleasant or tasty about this experience, unlike a drink of Vodka and Grapefruit. That on the other hand can be tasty,  easy to go down and there was no burning of the lungs.  I guess if I drink too much of it I would get an awful taste in my mouth but nothing like that toke on that cigarette.  And nothing a breath mint might not assist with.

Looking back on this experience I often wonder why I even thought about trying to smoke.  I never have thought that it was an attractive trait, not even at an early age.  I am not the type that does things just to be "cool."  When I do something I do it for no other reason but pleasure, excitement, fun, entertainment, etc... You get the picture.  If I just happen to appear cool through the eyes of others well that is on them and not me.

Another reason I find it strange that I would even attempt my hand at smoking is because I HATED, HATED, HATED, HATED, HATED, HATED, HATED that both of my parents smoked.  Of course just about every house/trailer that we resided it had no central heat and air.  Well come to think of it, none of them had central heat and air, therefore our method of heat was a wood burning stove or a kerosene heater. 

Now I am not sure if anyone has lived in a home with a wood burning stove for heat, but I will say that it is not like your little precious fire places with your pretty little mantels that you have sitting there just for looks.  Nope our wood burning stoves were put to good use in the winter months.  And I will say that they will heat a 500 square foot single wide trailer very well.  The problem I had is that whenever you had to reload the sucker with wood, well smoke would most of the time come billowing right on out of there.

The smoke would saturate everything in its presence.  Your hair, your clothes, your skin, your lungs, your eyes...... everything........ nothing was spared, not even the snake that was hiding in the bathroom (you will have to read the previous post if you want to know about the snake.)

So there I would be trying to get ready for school, trying to look half way cute and smelling like a damn burnt pork chop.  How the hell is anyone supposed to try to look cute smelling like a burnt pork chop?  Quiet frankly I got so tired of people asking if we cooked pork chops everyday I just starting telling them my mom really liked cooking them and they were easy for breakfast. (lie like a dog I did, not sure why, I still smelled bad)  

Between two parents that smoked and that wood burning heater, I had no chance of looking like anything. Maybe that is why I never had a boyfriend growing up, it is all starting to come together now.  As with most everything in society I shall blame someone else for my relationship issues. 

And here I am now, still not smoking, still not going to smoke. I have no fireplace or wood burning stove and I have no desire to have a fireplace or wood burning stove unless they are fake.

I do however need a new pair of heels.  These below would be PERFECT.

                                                       

Snakes On the Toilet

If These Heels Could Talk they would say, "I hate a mother trucking snake."

If you have read any of my stories or even listened to me speak you would know a little about how I grew up in the country.  And not just in any part of the country but on the Flint River in Pike County Georgia.  God's country if I might add.  At 11 years old I thought so anyway. 


We lived in a single wide trailer that had not one front door but two front doors.  We had no back door. I wanted a back door.  The things you just don't realize you appreciate in this life.

 Anywho....

Every now and then the immaculate plumbing that we didn't have would spring a leak.  Well everyone knows that a leak unnoticed or just plain out ignored will cause damage to the floors. So needless to say we had a few holes in the floor of that mansion. 

My mom was like a magician when it came to hiding those holes.  She would get a fancy mancy throw rug at the nearest K-mart blue light special and BAMMMMMM!!! no more hole. 

Well one glorious Sunday morning I felt nature calling and off to the little cow-girls room I went.  I carefully propped the door that was off the hinges up in an effort to give myself a little privacy.  As I am sitting there doing the do.....I look to the left and immediately have heart failure at the age of 11.

There was a snake right by the door that I had just propped up.  Now, I am in a bit of a situation.  I have to walk by the slimy bastard to get out.  So I finish my business, pulled my britches up, skipped the washing of hands at this point (I know gross!!)  and think how I wish I had wings at this time. I did not want to walk by that snake. (Did I mention I hate FREAKING SNAKES!!!)

I manage my way by without getting attacked and I tell my mom about our little visitor.  And of course she thought I was completely crazy. She might have even asked if I did drugs. (Mom I am only 11, I will at least wait until I am 16 for such shenanigans)   

So..... our day goes on as normal..... And then it happens.....

The little slimy bastard sticks its slimy neck out behind the chair.  WE FREAKED OUT!!! We went running out of  one of the two front doors and continued to FREAK OUT.

Later on my dad arrives... TO SAVE THE DAY.... (not).....

We filled him in on the days festivities and his reply (I kid you not) was, "well it only keeps the rats away, and that is a good thing."

If you have to keep critters such as snakes around to keep other critters like rats away, well you just might be a damn redneck.  GET RID OF THE RATS. I was not comforted at all. 

That night, my mom, my two brothers and myself sleep in the Nova that had no reverse because the transmission was shot out.  For one night I felt homeless, however I didn't sleep with a snake. 

And to this day.... I will not sleep with a snake.

Panties are Important

If These Heels Could Talk they would say that panties are important and not just any pair of panties they better be a pretty pair. 

Recently I made an unplanned visit to get my bi-weekly manicure and pedicure. Normally I try to go on the weekends however the past few weekends I couldn't squeeze another minute of anything in to my days. 

So I chose to pick up my daughter and make a beeline to the nail salon right after work. It's really not a good idea to wear a skirt while getting a pedicure. However if you are you best make sure you have your best under garments on in case someone accidentally gets a peep show.

Now a few months back another nice young lady was getting her nails done at the same time as I was and I will say that she apparently didn't live by the motto of wearing panties at all. 

As I am bending down to unstrap my heel she is adjusting her seating and there all her glory was right in front of my face. I thought should I throw a dollar bill at her or tell her she forgot something at home. Oh the moments when I could really put a surprise look on someone's face. I chose to do nothing but enjoy the rest of my visit and vow not to look in that direction again. 

Back to my trip....

I was relieved that I hadn't forgotten my pretty panties after it was all said and done.  In normal fashion, because I was wearing a skirt  they draped a towel across my legs and I felt pretty comfortable with the situation. 

As I was getting the royal treatment of nails and toes at the same time I felt like I was being watched. 

The way I was situated in my chair unfortunately made it easier for those ladies that were given pedicures to the other clients to see right up my skirt. 

I really thought I was covered well until I saw one of them look in my direction not once, not twice but three times. 

Now three times was a bit much. I felt like damn, now I'm gone have to charge her. This ain't a free peep show. I felt trapped,  I couldn't move my feet or my hands to adjust and at that moment I was just glad I knew my panties were pretty. 

My motto is if you are going to show your assets off make sure they are clean and pretty. You never know when someone is watching you. 

Crack Kills

If These Heels Could Talk they would say that they would like to throat punch the person that constructed  this sidewalk that leads into a popular shopping establishment that I like to visit on an occasion or two.

A few weeks ago while sporting my 5 inch J-Lo kicks I bounced right up on this animal.  Apparently a man or a woman that doesn't wear heels thought this whole blueprint through and it is an epic fail in my factual opinion.

Needless to say on this day I played my own version of Step On a Crack and Break Yo MaMa's back.  I wasn't about to sacrifice my girls to one of these crack heads. Everybody knows that Crack is Whack.   Jenny might have been from the block but she wasn't going to die by the block. 

All made it through this warzone safe and sound with no battle scars.

And that was a Heel of a Day!!!

Shitaki Happens When Shitaki Hits the Wall

If these heels could talk on this day, they would say that Shitaki Happens when  Shitaki Hits the Wall, and when it all goes down, you need to know where you stand.....

READ WITH CAUTION....Have you ever experienced anything in which at the moment it happened or was happening, you were thinking, I have to be on Candid Camera or Punked?  A couple of months ago, this happened to me.

 

Now if you have a weak stomach you might not want to read but if you can handle anything then by all means, read on. I know my health care friends can relate, although this situation did not occur in the patient care setting, it is the epitome of Code Brown.
 

As with most of my days a few months ago, I found myself  extremely busy, shuffling paperwork, answering questions that shouldn't even be asked, etc..when low and behold my bladder said to me, you have drank a whole diet Sunkist, bottle of water and a large unsweet tea and duty calls. So off to the little cowgirl’s room I go to give my bladder some much needed relief.  And here is where the fun begins........

There are two stalls in this restroom and they are right beside each other. I go to the one on the very end. As I am finishing up I hear someone come into the bathroom and you could tell that this person was in some distress. I heard some moaning, “Oh Dear Lord, Oh Dear Jesus, Oh God,” Exact words I kid you not. Then I hear a shuffling of feet and I could see her drop her thick plush jacket on the floor which was outside my stall and hers. And then I hear more moaning and groaning, “Oh Dear Lord, Oh Dear Jesus, Oh God.” So in my mind I am thinking she must not be feeling all that well. I was genuinely concerned.

 

And then it happened, first there were the sounds of outgoing artillery rounds and then there was a massive explosion, if you know what I mean. And I know it was an explosion because I witnessed the “shrapnel” hit the wall and the floor from the stall I were I stood.

 

At that moment, I wasn’t sure if I should play invisible or offer assistance. If I play invisible then I will eventually be overcome with the cloud of smoke from the explosion. So that wasn't an option. I did ask if she needed help, although in my mind, I wasn't doing a damn thing.

 

As I am standing there pondering my escape, I can see her from below the stall wall, removing her shoes and her pants, which had suffered mass damage from the blast.    And out of everything she could possibly say she says, “It’s that damn hamburger helper, I know better than to eat it.” And I being me said, “Hmmm yea I would say that you should steer clear of that meal for a while.”

 

I first checked myself for any "shrapnel",  I picked her coat off the floor, laid it on the counter, scrubbed myself as if I was about to prepare for surgery and walked the heck up out of there in by 5"inch heels.   And that is what you call Shitaki Happens when  Shitaki Hits the Wall......

 

To this day I still steer clear of the Hamburger Helper.