Stitches & Giggles

{Disclaimer: If you don't like talking about gross stuff & stitches, skip this one}

I know that is an odd way to start a post- but I don't want to make anyone pass out at their desk. I'm far from squeamish. Growing up, I always accompanied my animals, big and small, into surgery. I was once thrilled to aid an ER doctor in draining a cyst on my dad's back. (Seriously, if you're squirming now- stop reading.) I've helped stitch, passed the scalpel & uttered the words "Oh my God, her bone is totally exposed!" without flinching. 

With that said, it is no surprise that I actually googled how to remove a knot behind my knee myself. I know, I know...all ten of you just panicked. This knot has been around for about 12 years. When I first went to the doctor, it was biopsied to death and doctors were a little unsure of what it was, except that it was NOT cancerous. I had been kicked in this particular leg a handful of times, so I truly didn't have much feeling in the 'knot' area. Scar tissue? Sebaceous cyst? A combination of the two? At that time, no doctor wanted to remove it for whatever reason. 

For years, it didn't bother me. Granted, a few years after it moved into my life, I became a mommy- so my focus was definitely not on myself. Cut to {pun intended} a few months ago when I started training for the half-marathon...and it started feeling weird so off to the doctor I went.

"It's a cyst...we can get you an appointment to get that out- no problem at all!" the doctor said.

The appointment was made and a few weeks later- it was removal day. I purposely wore a long dress, so I wouldn't have to put on an awful gown- knowing it would be about 10 below in the office. The doctor came in & I began chatting it up. #giftofgab

"So can I sit up and watch you cut it out?!" I asked...probably too excitedly.

"Um, sure..." he said.

"I googled how to do it myself. I figured if you couldn't get me in, I could probably just pop that sucker out on my own!" I giggled, realizing that I was not only making the doctor really uncomfortable, but I was doing exactly what my dad would do in such situations. 

He didn't reply...or laugh. This guy has no personality.

"Okay, I've numbed the area. You shouldn't feel anything but if you do, please let me know," he said, as he put the scalpel to my skin.

"OH MY GOD!" I yelped, "Just kidding...don't feel a thing," I said with a very proud smile on my face.

Again, he did not think I was funny. But I knew that my daddy was laughing his tail off because that is exactly what he would've done.

When A Dignified Cowgirl Goes Camping...And Meets A Racist

A few weekends ago, I did something I haven't done in years. I went away for the weekend with my cowgirls and our horses. We spent the weekend in a cornfield...totally roughing it. Well, roughing it with a horse-trailer that had a shower, toilet and heat. (Things have changed a lot since my last camping trip.)

The first night, we were all excited to cook our steaks on the grill...and sip our lemonade and vodka cocktails while watching our horses nibble on hay. Except...none of us knew how to use the grill. (When Blonde Cowgirls Go Camping...reality show coming soon.) Thankfully, our (brunette) friend, Laina, cooked our steaks for us...but we forgot the steak knives- so we had to tear into the steak like we were on The Walking Dead. (But I think even they have steak knives.)

Later that evening, we joined lots of other cowgals at the barn & drank...and danced...and drank. It was a great group of folks- everyone laughing and genuinely having a great time. (It could've been the fact that it was 35 degrees outside...and the barn had heat.)

We walked back to the trailer about midnight, totally exhausted. The heat felt amazing...right up until the electricity in the trailer...cut off. (When Drunk Blonde Cowgirls Go Camping?) The generator was on...but nothing was working inside the trailer. It was way too much to comprehend. Thankfully we figured out we'd blown a fuse or a circuit or something- and as quick as the power shut off, we got it back on.

The following day was the big ride. I had been concerned that Tristan may revisit his prancing actions from the parade the previous year. He did...but this time there was no elderly couple for him to bolt towards. We pranced and spun circles for roughly 6 hours. It had the potential to be a stressful day- but I totally enjoyed every minute of it. It was so much fun to be around all my girlfriends, all decked out in Dignified Cowgirls gear.

Later that evening, we all met back up at the barn for more dancing...and apple pie. (Did you guys know that isn't just dessert!? I've never been so happy and proud to be southern in my life!) We were all attempting to learn the wobble...since the DJ played it about 27 times...when a fella approached me. 

"I wanna ask you something," says the fella dressed in head-to-toe orange.

Now, if you know me, you know that Drunk Eden can be one of two things- your lovable best friend, or the bitch who will claw your eyes out b/c you pissed her off. And the line between the two? Very, very thin.

"Me? What do you wanna ask me?!" I said.

"I just wanna know why...why all you dance to is that n*gger music!" he says, stone faced, dead serious.

My heart was beating so loud, I could no longer hear any other noises that surrounded me. I floated outside my body and watched myself strangle the orange stranger- and slam his lifeless head into the concrete floor. (It was a dark moment.) 

"What did you just say to me!?" I asked...snapping out of my dark moment, thinking maybe I had missed something. People like this don't really still exist today, do they? 

But I hadn't missed anything. I'd heard him correctly the first time. I wondered why, of all the people dancing in the barn...he chose me to ask this question. I think God sent him to me...because homeboy was about to get an earful from a blonde-cowgirl-rapper-wife. (And a drunk one, at that.)

"Because it keeps racist assholes like YOU away from us...that's why!" I said.

He tried to butt-in...but I pressed on.

"So that's how you classify all hiphop music, huh? That's what you call it? Let me just tell you something..." I proceeded...at this point, I believe my finger was in his face about a quarter of an inch away from his eyeballs. (His friends scattered.)

"Hip hop is all colors, shapes and sizes...you dumb, redneck *^*$)#@)*%&" (Keep in mind, my shirt read "Dignified Cowgirls" on it. The words coming out of my mouth might not have been dignified, but the topic I was preaching? Totally effing dignified.)

About that time, my sistah, walked over to the DJ and requested Jump Around. 

"I, I...I'm not racist! I listen to 50 Cent!" he proudly proclaims.

"Well...good for you. You do realize he's a black man, right? Like our President?" I said. (Not sure why I felt like I needed to toss Barack into my argument...but whatever. I'll blame the apple pie.)

Then I heard the intro to Jump Around...and something took over my entire body, mind, soul and mouth...and I began jumping like I was in the NBA and screaming every word to Jump Around into the orange-redneck-racists face. (There is video of this...that I will take to my grave. House of Pain would probably totally sue me for the horrendous rendition. I could hardly walk the next day.)

I'm not sure if my words really changed the orange-redneck-racists life...but I can pretty much guarantee one thing- he will think twice before he asks a question like that again. I'm pretty sure if my words didn't terrify him...my dancing/jumping did the trick.

RE: A comment on the Chick-Fil-A Post

A few days ago, I shared my opinion on the Chick-Fil-A topic. I received many comments via Facebook, email and directly onto my blog page. My blog is set so I have to approve all my comments- and I was taken aback when I read the following, posted by an 'anonymous' person.

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Chick-Fil-A": 

I think a business can support who they want...to each his own. Many (most) support gay rights, so in my opinion, Chick-fil-a definitely has a right to support causes that they believe in. They were exercising their 1st amendment right, as do MANY gays parading their homosexuality for the world to see. Chick-fil-a's leader was asked a question and he simply answered it. He didn't volunteer it and he doesn't hate gays. I don't get the uproar. Christians are called bigots all the time, when in fact, it's usually the non-Christians...it can work both ways. I personally am against homosexual relations. I am a Bible-believer, but I definitely wouldn't ban a restaurant for their support of gay rights because I do not hate gays (or other races for that matter)... I will still eat their food, but I don't have to believe as they do. My brother is homosexual; that doesn't change my love for him or his lover, but God takes care of His own. Chick-fil-a is VERY successful and I believe that they always will be because they stand for something. 

I'm honestly, not sure where to begin. I didn't post the comment below my original post because I felt the need to address it...particularly because it was posted anonymously onto my family blog- who few have the address to.

Yes, Chick-Fil-A absolutely has the right to support any cause they choose. Just as they have the right to express their opinions and beliefs, I have a right to choose not to spend money in their establishments. My choosing not to eat there chicken is no different than me choosing not to support Michael Vick's clothing line. I'm not going to fund something I don't agree with...and although the subject matter between Michael Vick & Chick-Fil-A differ, the principle does not. If I'm aware that the money I spend on an item will trickle on to support a cause that I do not support, I'm not going to purchase said item. It turns me off to the entire company. 

Gays parading their homosexuality for the world to see? Do they parade it? I live in North Carolina, so maybe I'm a bit sheltered. However, the last time I was in NYC or LA, I'm pretty sure I didn't see homosexuals having sex on the sidewalk...or heterosexuals, for that matter. How else would they 'parade' their homosexuality, as you said? I guess I parade my green eyes and pale skin- since that is something I was born with...just as homosexuals are born homosexuals. 

A bigot, as defined by Websters is a person who is obstinately or intolerantly devoted to his or her own opinions and prejudices; especially : one who regards or treats the members of a group (as a racial or ethnic group) with hatred and intolerance. I'm having a hard saying your comment doesn't define bigotry just as well as Websters dictionary. 

Chick-Fil-A will continue to be successful because that serve amazing fried chicken sandwiches. In six months, many fairwhether arguers will have forgotten this whole topic and will eat their chicken meals and laugh at the silly cows holding the 'eat more chicken' signs. I'm like an elephant though...some things I just don't forget.

The Split

So...here's what happened.

I meshed my two blogs together a while back- you know, I thought that would be easier to accomplish timely posts b/c I'd only have the one blog to worry about. Then, I realized that I didn't exactly want to write about my personal, personal life on my 'business' blog because- well, because I can be kind of opinionated at times. Not that I'm not open to hearing others opinions, but it's difficult to get that particular point accross when you're only expressing your own opinion. So, I split them again...and then I got to busy with work to even tell my husband about my day, much less post on my blog.

I miss writing. I've said it before, it was my first love...er, one of them. And I will tell you, the crazy stuff that goes on in this little life of ours? It's worthy of a few blog posts here and there. I think you'll laugh, I really do.

Why do I have time to write today, you may ask? I hurt my back. Yes, me and my rap-sheet worth of back problems are adding on. Yay, me. I'm not sure what exactly I did to deserve all this, but it has literally knocked me on my butt.

Let's not dwell on that.

Last night, after Little Miss had pretty much pulled out all the stops to avoid bedtime. I gave up. I kissed her head, took my pain pill and came to my own bed. A few minutes later, my presense was needed in her room. She let me know that her new baby bear, Daisy Mae, was sad. She missed her friends at Wal-Mart and needed to sleep with me. Although it was cute, it didn't win me over. I kissed her goodnight & came back to bed. She called again- I got up...again. She told me she had to tell me something.

"Mama, when I get older, I'm going to have kids...and I'm going to make them sleep in their own beds, too," she told me.

"That's good, baby. Goodnight," I said.

"No, wait. And when they get older...they're going to have their own babies too. And I think they're going to make them sleep in their own beds too."
"Uh huh," I said.

"And then I will be old. Very old........and rich!!"

I was taken back a little. Rich? I don't think I've ever said that word in her presense, much less to her. To be sure she meant she'd be rich b/c she'd have all these healthy babies and love and happiness....

"No...rich means with money. So I can buy whatever I want and stay up past my bedtime," she corrected me.

Well...apparently when she's old- she can pay me off to stay up late? That's what I took from that. See? Not necessarily the opinion I'd like future clients to read prior to meeting me.

The split was a good decision.

Straight from the horse's Miss's Mouth

"Mama, do you know what wee-wee means?"

"Well, I think it means..."
"It means pee-pee in French!"

----

"I love you more than the ocean, Mama!"

----

After a friend heard Little Miss say this:

"In your face!! Peace out, yo!"

The friend told me:

"That's hilarious- I guess you don't have to worry 'til she says In your face, sucka!!"

To which Little Miss replied:

"In you face, LOLLIPOP!" (I seriously almost wee-wee'd on myself.)

----

"Mom! Mom! Mom!" (puts hand up to her mouth) "I have to tell you something!"

----

"Mom, what was your favorite part of today? Mine was..."

----

"I'm going to dream about unicorns and mermaids, tonight...goodnight!"


----

 "Mom? Do you still love me when your face turns red? Like...when you're mad?"



----

"Look!! A Piggly Wiggly shirt!!!!"
(5 seconds later)
"Wiggly your Piggly!!!!!!!!!"

----

"Mom, I want to go to Australia and steal back Papa...let's go."

----

"Well...that lady was mean to me and you just need to karate chop her, Mama"

----

*singing* "There was an old lady who swallowed a fly....I don't know why she swallowed the fly.....UGH!! I can't work under these conditions!!!!!"

----

Oh, you just never know what my Little Miss will say. ;-)

Pain In My Rear-Tire

"What do you want for Christmas, bud?" my dad asked me, on Christmas Eve. (He's always called me Bud, since I was little...couldn't tell you why.)
"I don't know, Daddy...I'll tell you the same thing I did when I was 7- a horse, haha," I said, only half kidding.

Later that day, while walking past my 4Runner he pointed to my rear, driver's side tire. The words that followed are words I'm not fond of hearing...

"See the nail? Do you want to pull it out or leave it in there?" he asked me.
"Leave it! Isn't that what's keeping the tire inflated?" I responded, he looked at me like I'd given him the wrong answer.
"Okay, do whatever you would do if it was your car," I told him.

He snatched the nail out of the tire and I heard something I really didn't want to hear...

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, the air sailing on out of my tire! NOOOO!!

Luckily, my dad was able to push the nail back into the hole in order to temperarily plug the hole. (I tried to hide my I told you so dance from him. )

Later that afternoon my dad took my 4Runner to see if the tire could be plugged or patched. Of course, the nail was in the sidewall- so there would be no patching or plugging...the purchase of a brand new tire would be the only solution. Fan-freakin-tastic. And since I'm all gangsta and have 22's on my 4Runner...that tire would cost me almost triple what it would cost me if I wasn't 'all gangsta'...awesome.

"Well, Daddy...I know what you can get me for Christmas now! :)" I said, with a big grin.

He just laughed...hysterically...and asked me for the cash for the tire.

If Honesty Offends You...

...then I suggest you stop reading this post.

Like last time, I've held a debated with myself all day as to whether or not I should make this post public or if I should just write it and get it out, but keep it private. I decided to put it out there b/c everyone has a 'Johnna' in their family. Maybe some of you can relate, as well.

An Open Letter To Johnna:

Initially, when you asked me to meet you at the Dare County Detention Center the day you were set to be put into jail for 9 months, I hesitated. Why did you want me there? Why would I even consider going? You'd put our family through so much- why would I give you the satisfaction of having someone walk you into those doors and give a pleasant 'send off'?

I didn't do it for you. I did it for your Mother. Your Mother, who has dedicated her entire life to you and your drug addiction. At this point, she has as big of a problem as you do- because she can't stop helping you.

I promised you I would write to you, but even I wasn't sure if I was telling you the truth. I said it to make your Mother smile. The thought of you sitting in jail for selling drugs broke her heart- but I knew if she thought you were reading letters from family, she'd have some peace with it. Have you ever done or said something just to make her smile? I wrote you several times, as did you to me. You wrote many times about the worry you felt for your Mother's health...how you couldn't wait to hug her. But it didn't take you long to run back to your tried and true old friend, just when your Mother needed you most. I hope you hugged your dealer like you hugged your Mother the day you were released from jail. It seems putting money in his pocket is much more important to you than your Mother.

My daughter will never go through the pains I did when I was little. I loved you so much, Johnna. I looked up to you...you were so fun to be around- everyone loved you- your house and yard were beautiful...you seemed so perfect. I looked up to you until the day my mom told me you were a drug addict. I was too young to understand why you would promise to take me to the beach or horseback riding and would never show up. I was almost 6 years old when she broke the news to me. She compared you to the addicts that we'd talked about in school in the D.A.R.E. program- I remember thinking "But those people are only in the D.A.R.E. program? Someone like that wouldn't be in our family." But you were. And we loved you in spite of it.

Holidays were always interesting in our household. No matter where you were living, you always found a way to make the holiday about you. Whether it was coming to Christmas dinner 3 hours early to pick through the food before anyone else could, or whether it was not showing up at all..it always came back to you. When you lived in Puerto Rico, we planned a two-week vacation to see you over Christmas break. I was so excited, I'd never flown before and I had seen so many amazing pictures of the waters in PR. About a month before we were set to leave, your husband called us and let us know that you'd been back to the tried and true love, again. He promised us he'd take care of us if we still wanted to come for the holiday but- who wants to vacation with someone who's coming down off crack and God knows what else? We canceled our trip. I was disappointed, but it wasn't the first time you'd done that to me.

I knew you'd done things to other family members- ie: steal cars, steal money...but you'd never done it directly to me. Then I turned 16. You called me because you needed a ride to pick up your Jeep that you'd loaned to someone. I was heading to that area of the OBX anyway- so I said 'No problem.' But picking up your Jeep was never your intention. You took me on a drug run. I attempted to leave you at the hotel where your "Jeep" was...but you told me to wait for you. Ten minutes later, a strung out, cracked out version of you got back into my car and I was instructed to take you back home. I didn't question you- but I made damn sure I never forgot the feeling I felt in the pit of my stomach that night. Whether you thought about it or not, whether you cared or not- you put my safety in jeopardy. I was 16!!

I let myself believe that you'd changed after being in jail for 9 months. I guess I was naive by thinking that 9 months in jail meant 9 months away from drugs. You and I both know it's almost as easy to get drugs in jail as it is to get them out of jail.

Do me a favor...stop lying to everyone, including yourself. Stop hurting your Mother, with every phone call you make to her. Just leave her alone- let her heal. For once, make an attempt to think about her instead of what you can get from her.

All the repressed anger I've had bottled up inside me for all these years, is finally being let out. If I ever see you again, do not expect me to act like I know you. I can't even do it for your Mother- us closing our eyes and biting our tongues is part of why you are the way you are.

Open your eyes...

-Eden