Nightmares Yet to Come

On Saturday evening I play wrestle with J2. I crawl up the bed from his feet towards his face. He stops me by hip checking me off the bed and saying, "Get off of me; I can see the rape in your eyes." 

I laugh uncontrollably until I snort and lose my breath. 

The second time I try to wrestle him I sweetly cuddle up and locked my arms around his neck. As he stands up with me attached to him like a little money he says, "Your eyes are rapey."

Plenty of giggling ensues. 

Tonight, I am the last one to bed. I turn the tv off and switch off the lamp on my nightstand. As he is gently snoring in the pitch black of night I cuddle into him, rest my lips near his ears, and whisper in the tone of nightmares yet to be had, "You can't see the rape in my eyes now."

Sweet dreams, y'all! 

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Jeff wakes me up at 5:45 coming to bed after working until he fell asleep on the sofa, "Phaedra's already up getting ready for school."

I got up at 6am to take the back to school picture. 

Phaedra is blaring music from her iPhone as she is applying make-up in the bathroom, "Did I wake you up?"

My head is pounding.

I try to take a cat nap on the Lazy Boy. I pry one eyeball open to see Maverick getting ready to fall back asleep in the living room, "Did you brush your teeth?"

He growls at me as he stomps back to the bathroom. 

At 6:30am the three of us go outside for the Back to School photo. Maverick leaves the storm door open as he goes back inside to retrieve his backpack. Mayor McCheese rips off throught the open door and down around the block. 

I am dealing with a three day sinus migraine and I get mad, "If y'all took the damn dog on a walk like you're supposed to he wouldn't tear off down the street every chance he gets."

Maverick begrudgingly poses for the Back to School photo, blaming me for the dog getting out. 

Here is the blurry result: 

Phaedra, the fashionista, is starting her Freshman year of high school on the Cross Country running team at an Honors Academy. Maverick, who has no interest in new, back to school clothes is participating in a garage band and starting his Junior year of high school. 

Home Alone

Since J2 and the kids are out of town I've been practicing my future lifestyle of living in a nudist colony. 

I am falling asleep in the bedroom this evening when someone starts banging on the front door. It's a real Police about to break down the front door style of pounding. 

I'm dazed. I'm naked. Where do I keep the towels? Or wait, what if it's Mr. Mike from next door? That's inappropriate. Do I own a robe? Can I escape through the window? Who should I call to let them know I'm answering the door at night? I've watched too many Investigation Discovery shows. Oh yeah, my hot pink fuzzy robe is in the back of the closet. But that's a winter robe. Put it on anyway, I tell myself. 

The banging continues in conjunction with the doorbell ringing in continued succession. "BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG! BANG! BANG! Ding-Ding-Ding-BANG! Ding-Ding-Dong! BANG! 

Are you kidding me? The person at the door is trying to hurry and confuse me. Since the dog is not even home to protect me I'm surely about to be murdered in a spinster alone at home manner. 

I hear multiple people yelling on the other side of the door. I pull up my phone keypad and type in 9-1-1, so I can easily hit send. You know, just in case. 

I open the door and I'm bombarded with the words of no less than six neighborhood teenagers, "Did you lose your dog?"

These damn children have no home training or manners. 

The ring leader, who has a bandana tied around her head in an adventurous lady pirate-style is large with her t-shirt slit too far down the center. The sleeves of her t-shirt are removed in the manner of a Bartlett country boy who cuts the grass. She is standing on the front porch with her hands tightly wrapped around the collar of a furry dog. 

Why is she holding the collar of our Fuzzy Buddy? 

"Did y'all lose your dog?" she yells. Her tone sounds like a accusation instead of a question. 

He looks like our Mayor McCheese, but that is not him. He is having a spend-the-night party with Pandora. 

"No. That's not our dog. That's the neighborhood stray that looks nearly identical to our dog."  

The gang of teenagers in the driveway are still hollering, "Is that your dog? Is that your dog? Is that your dog?"

"Are you sure this isn't your dog?" the ring leader questions.

I am not what you might call an animal person. That is an understatement, but the dog's face is not Mayor's, "No. He's not ours."

The ring leader leans her head to the side and back towards her friends. She screams, "Shut up! It's not their dog!" 

Still yelling she turns her head towards me, "Do you know whose dog it is?" 

"Sorry, nope. He's just the neighborhood stray that happens to look exactly like ours."

Lesson learned, next time I'm not answering the psycho knock, Mayor McCheese is staying home with me, and there will not be a nudist colony in my future. Okay, still possibly a nudist camp, but I'm definitely changing the channel when I get back to the room. No more 'Murders' tonight.

Memphis Music: Evil Army

The back of the Santa Fe is loaded with gear, bass amps, guitars, and the band merchandise. Tyler Timebomb sits in the front passenger seat with his bass guitar placed between his legs.  Piled in the back seat are Rob Evil, Rob's girlfriend "the best looking 'merch' girl in the business" Aaron Kelly, and Michael Murder. I steer the car on to I-40 and we head over the bridge to Arkansas.

Little Rock is approximately two and a half hours away from Memphis. It is just a quick ride from Memphis, so I jump at the opportunity to take a trip with the Memphis heavy metal thrash band Evil Army.

Although their surnames are quite intimidating and the internet is rampant with rumors about them I find these guys to be absolutely fantastic. They fill the entire four hour traffic jammed trip to Little Rock with laughter and fascinating stories of growing up in the national Metal scene. For the exceptional caliber of experience these guys hold they are extremely humble.   

If you have a chance check out the heavy thrash rifts of Evil Army and see them in a city near you.

Tyler Timebomb, Michael Murder, Rob Evil, and Aaron taking a quiet moment to smoke cigarettes before entering the Vino's Little Rock.

Rob Evil writing out the set list.

Aaron and Evil Army sitting around before the Vino's show.

Aaron has the merchandise table is set up and the guys are watching the opening act.

Memphis Metal band Dawn Patrol on the stage at Vino's Little Rock.

Dawn Patrol.

Tyler Timebomb watching Dawn Patrol perform.

Dawn Patrol.

Evil Army begins the set.

Tyler Timebomb.

Rob Evil.

Tyler Timebomb.

Rob Evil on the flying 'V', Michael Murder on drums, and Tyler Timebomb on bass.

Rob Evil and Michael Murder.

Rob Evil and Michael Murder.

A fan reaching for Rob Evil.

Level Up

A few weeks ago I was leaving Big Lots with some Pampers and diaper wipes for a baby shower I attended that same day and a sack of groceries. I pop the hatchback to quickly throw my newly acquired goods into the car. As I am doing so a bum, a man who is at least 6'4 and every bit of 330 lbs, approaches me in the parking lot to ask for some money so that he can go to the McDonald's. He asks for cash. I respond, "I don't have anything."

He takes a few steps closer, "Come on! I'm hungry." He demands, "Just give me a few bucks!"

At this point I loose it. This man does not know me, what I do for a living, my situation, that I have been on a strict diet and exercise regimen for weeks, in spite of that I have been spending money on delicious groceries that I cannot eat, and I am hungry. He is big and he wants to bully me into a few bucks for McDonald's or whatever is he is going to purchase. I put both of my hands up into fists in front of my face. I squinch my face and bend at the waist and knees in a modified squatted position. As the bum walks closer I jump up screaming the first thing that pops into my head, "I'm taking care of three kids that aren't even mine! What don't you understand? I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING!!!"

He looks terrifyingly at me like I might shoot period blood out of my every orifice at him. He puts his hands up like a police suspect waiting to be frisked. Very quickly he backs away, "Okay, okay. Okay ma'am, okay."

I feel like an awful person for screaming what I said. I'm not always perfect, but I am always proud of these Little Rottens that are not even mine, but act too much like me to deny them.

On Sunday morning I wake up to hear the front door brushing open, "Jeff, wake up. Someone is in the house. I just heard the front door opening."

"What? You are asleep. How do you hear the front door opening?"

"I don't know, but someone is in the house."

He comes back into the bedroom, "It was someone for you. She's gone now. Go find what she left for you."

In the kitchen, left on the stove top, is a dozen hot pink and red zebra striped roses with a beautiful hand written note from Pandora as a gift for "Maternal Figure Day." The note brought me to tears. I may not be perfect, but Pandora's appreciation shows me that I do something right.

 
 
This week we have some big things happening.      

On Monday, Maverick earned the rank of Life Scout in the Boy Scouts. His next step is working towards Eagle. I am so very proud of him and I know his Dad is too!

Maverick is being congratulated by a troop leader.

Also this week, Phaedra had her first and last performance with the 201 group at School of Rock.  She is moving up to the Performance group! Congratulations to her! That's so awesome! 

Here are a few photos from her performance.  

Phaedra's teacher, Myra tuning guitars backstage before the performance.

The Green Room backstage before the 201 performance. Phaedra is in the background being too cool for a fun group shot.

Marc Gurley, the owner of School of Rock, introducing the 201 performance at the 1884 Lounge in Minglewood Hall.

I warned Phaedra that when she began performing keys I would be the worst kind of stage-Mom photographer since I specialize in music photography.  She thought it was a threat. This is her moment of realization that I am telling the truth.

She is a serious Rock 'n Roll artist. 

This is my favorite shot. Phaedra remains this pensive while she practices at home. 

Adventures in 2014: Horseback Riding

She rears up on her hind legs. The hair of her mane flares like an uncontrollable wildfire. Suddenly, the afternoon sun sinks into a red sunset, foreshadowing my impending doom. She takes off running at full horse speed. Both of my feet are locked into the stirrups. My legs are squeezing Jasper's midsection like a vice grip, which only tells this wild-ass animal to run faster around the arena. She is naying and bucking like a bronco. I am convinced this wild horse has never been saddled before the moment I straddled my precious and portly body across her sturdy back. 

"Shit!!!" I shriek as I lose balance, but my legs are squeezing this animal so tight that I am afraid I will crush her midsection into the shape of a wasp. Somehow I am still holding onto the reins, but my core and upper body are so weak that I am being flailed around like a rag-doll that refuses to shake loose. With each gallop I see the soft, reddish brown dirt of the arena coming closer to my face then quickly further away. 

My head is rushing in a narrated vortex of jumbled words and possible outcomes, "Paralyzed. Fall. Piles of poop. Face plant."

I am determined to avoid embarrassment, I will not be the first person in my class to fall off a pony. Even though it is always funny to see a fat girl fall, it will not be this fat girl. 

Somebody is shrieking like an American Indian going into battle cry. 

"Stop screaming!" is being yelled at me from all directions. 

I am grasping at anything above me. My fingernails are weak and bending backwards as if I am attempting to scale a wall made from ceramic tile. Finally, I feel something in my left hand. It is the coarse hair of the pony's mane. I dig in. With only instinct controlling my body I reach my right hand towards my left. Both hands are intertwining in her hair. I pull up and steady myself securely in the saddle. Jasper slows to a stop, standing as still as an outdoor carousel stallion forgotten in the winter. 

I hysterically laugh, triumphant that I do not fall off of this angry, vindictive animal with blood lust in her eyes. As I sit atop the horse I reach up to my eyes because my sight is blurry. My face is soaked in tears and they just keep streaming down my cheeks.

I am sobbing as my professor makes her way over to me, "Why are you crying?"

"I'm terrified of this animal. I'm scared of horses."

"Then why are you still in the saddle?"

"Because," sniffle, "I was waiting for permission to get down."

"Get off of that pony! Why are you even taking this class?"

It is not even seven pm on Sunday night and I'm laying in bed recovering from a near death experience. I am beyond sore in places I've never felt before. Today, my life flashed before my eyes and it was not nearly as poetic as I imagined it to be.

The truth is, I am not an animal person at all. Animals are not my forte. I do not have pets. In fact, I only had one pet, a cat named Moonbeam, for a year back in high school. But, I am so hyper allergic that she was provided alternate lodging. 

I am just not an animal person. I never have been one. They are dirty. Animals waller in trash, anything dead, and their own poo. Worse yet, they eat all of that stuff too. Then they want to transfer those stinky filthy germs onto their humans via kisses or being petted. To this self-diagnosed germaphobe, that is disheartening and disgusting. To say I do not like any animal smells is an understatement. Dog breath, drool, mud splatters, animal sweat, wet-dog stench are stomach churning.  Add that to my extremely strong and sensitive sense of smell and I begin to dry heave. Then I obsess, those animal germs are seeping into every porous surface in the pet owner's home. alerting their guests that animals live here. 

As if not being an animal person is enough, I am terrified of heights. I have back problems. One swift jolt and I can be paralyzed. That is frightening enough, however, in horseback riding this terror is solely related to my inability to be in complete control while sitting on top of a wild animal. I am absolutely intimidated. 

In December I sat down and took a review of my life. I examined what I have accomplished and explored activities I want to attempt. The brainstorming session turned into a Bucket List. I call them my Adventures in 2014. They include such items as attending Mardi Gras to having my birthday party at Sky Zone. I choose at least one activity to complete every month. This is to force me to step outside of my proverbial box. Which leads to the reason why I am even taking horseback riding lessons. 

Since I have not ridden a horse in 20 years, I was at summer camp on a trail ride the last time a horse reared up while I was on his back, I wanted to conquer my fears. I have a momentary vision of grandeur. I imagine myself mastering my terror so that the next time my boyfriend and I take a vacation in Mexico we can remake random Antonio Banderas-esque, horseback riding scenes on the beach. I will post on the galloping horse and not a bit of fat jiggles on my body as the waves gently caress the shores as our horses splash through the surf and a random photographer or cinematographer beautifully captures our silhouettes framed against a stunning Mexican sunset.

I can tell you now, that romantic beach horseback ride is never going to happen. Remember above when that pony Jasper shot off on the wild hell ride forcing my life to flash before my eyes? She was actually being led by a 10 year old child at a child's jogging pace. I simply lost my balance while posting. Flailing like a rag-doll, nearly falling off the pony, and shrieking like a Freddy Krueger victim, that all happened. Subsequently so have my panic attacks associated with riding a pony. You win some you lose some; I am not always Confidently Awesome. I guess next month I will try to double up on my Adventures. 

I am currently enrolled in an English-style Horseback Riding course taken at Showcase Equestrian for credit at the University of Memphis. 

The Choices One Makes: Giving Up for Lent

This morning I made a public declaration that I am giving up soda for Lent. Tonight, as I closed my eyes I can feel the pain bubbling behind my forehead, a lack of caffeine headache. 

Searching for Advil in the dark to satiate my throbbing headache when I accidentally kicked the wooden block that holds up the foot of the bed. I'm yelling curse words, the likes have never been heard before when J2 rolls over and opens his eyes. Illuminated by the flashlight of my cellphone J2 sees me make a split minute decision between cradling my poor baby toe or issuing immediate retaliation to the bed for making me stub my toe. I hunch over in a crippled, old lady sort of way and scream at the bed as I punch the mattress, the way a badly trained girl would throw a baseball. 

J2 laughs hysterically at my action and reaction. I'm crying in pain he's nearly crying from laughing. 

By this point my toe is bleeding like a geyser and throbbing in horrific pain, like the devil himself is milking my pinky toe.  

J2 asks to look at my toe because he has First Aid training. 

He flicks it a couple of times. I'm sure he was nicer than that, but I'm crying and it hurts so badly. 

He starts to tell me something, but I stop him. I can't handle blood and injury. He says, "You want my medical opinion?"

"No. No. No. Don't tell me!"

He ignores my pleas, "It's kind of crumpled."

"My toe is crumpled!?!" I begin laughing as I'm crying. 

He thinks it's broken, "You'll be living with a slightly crumpled toe the rest of your life." 

On the bright side he made a baggie of ice for this old, crumpled toe of mine. And, at least it's not cockeyed. Right? 

Perhaps I should have given up cursing for Lent. After all, if I had my caffeine I would be peacefully sleeping, not searching the blackness of the bedroom for my Advil bottle.