Whose life is it anyway?

Growing up is a phenomenal experience. I had friend recently write about what he expected when he got older. For him the idea age was 30 for he never felt like he fitted in with children his age and he thoroughly believed that by the age of 30 women would no longer care about things like the trendiest of threads and that he would have a solid passion for what ever job he had.

In many ways, I can relate. I can't tell you how many days of my youth were spent alone in my tiny bedroom dreaming about what the future had in store for me. And at some point I had my life mapped out. I believed I would be a writer who traveled extensively and wouldn't have children until my goal was achieved.

Turns out not so many people were enthused by my navigating. You see there are certain points in a person's life where people expect one to be.



When I turned 18, a feeling of overwhelming freedom rained over me. I finally had the ability to make decisions that would ultimately set me on my independent life path. My parents, my older siblings, teachers, nor coaches could tell me where I needed to be...or so I thought.

It wasn't rules to obey as much as it was nudgings of things I should be doing. I had dated my boyfriend for 3 years and was content in doing so. I loved him dearly and as far as I was concerned he loved me as well.

Then came a nudging, "When is he going to put a ring on your finger?" Good question i would meander, I knew I wanted to marry him, but I didn't know this was a concern to people outside of my relationship. But it helped spur the discussions and around year later we got engaged.

I threw myself more into my college studies while my fiancee rolled up his sleeves at work and life rolled on. Then came more chattering, "When are you going to get married? Have you even discussed a wedding date?" We knew what was right for us and pushed it aside, but the nudging increased in its frenzy, forcing us to have more discussions about setting a date.

And the momentus day came and we relished in its glow. We were husband and wife and all was right with the world. Amen. We lived in our bohemian apartment, celebrating our victories in the "real world," nailing down an awesome internship (yee haw!), graduating from college (Aww yeah!), promotions at the work place (whoo hoo).

But it didn't take long for others to make their case about our living arrangements. "When are you going to buy a piece of land that you can call your own?" Again, we discussed and realized maybe we had had enough of the bohemian lifestyle. Although we really dug our very cozy 800 sq. apartment we didn't enjoy having our cars broken into or the serial killer as our next door neighbor or the cracked out girl barging in on our neighbor on the other side of us who then proceeded to hump a potted plant (more of that to come later).

So we would start the home-buying process and were and still grateful for all the support we received from our family. We got a nice chunk of land and bowed to its serenity and safe keeping.

But here's when the nudgings became a full out assault, hailing like bolts of lightening out of the sky. Not just from friends or family, but from almost perfect strangers.

I remember when I first met my neighbors. My husband and I were the first ones to move into the neighborhood. For months it felt like we were on our own deserted island, an island covered in plywood and inhabited by bulldozers and dump trucks. After work we would wander the streets and scope out the cars that drove by wondering what our neighbors would be like. Then one day we noticed that the "For Sale" sign that braved the wind, rain and ice of the previous few months was soon replaced by a "Sold" sign.

And then one day, when I was driving home from work, I saw them. They didn't seem like serial killers. In fact, they looked normal. The woman with a child gleefully watched the strands of a daffodil blow into the wind. As I eased my car into the drive, she looked up, caught my eye and waved. I smiled.

"Hi!" She called.

"Hi," I answered.

"I'm Chelsea,and this is Michael," she declared as she scooped the toddler into her arms and gently patted his back.

"Tracee," I answered again. Usually I much more talkative, but I was trying to figure this woman out. She looked young, but not that young and I wasn't sure if this was her child or her mother's. (Sometimes it's best not to assume.)

"We just moved in next door. My husband Travis should be out soon," she said motioning toward the house and then plopping the little boy back down on the grass.

"That's great, it's nice to finally have some neighbors."

We both laugh nervously.

"So what do you do Tracee?" she asks as she hunkers down by the little boy.

"I write for a political communications firm. What do you do?" I ask turning the questions to her. For minutes we go tit for tat, searching for things we have in common.

We're about the same age. YES!
She's a Republican. UH-OH.
We went to the same college. SCORE!

"So it's just you and your husband in that house?" she asks as she peers over my shoulder, examining my humble abode. I smile and nod.

"That's a lot of space for just the two of you? Are ya'll planning on having a baby soon?"

Ok, ok, ok! That's where I draw the line. Women and men I find this question very inappropriate. Here's why:

1. You are asking a woman when she is going to get sexed by her husband and then pop out a baby out of her vagina.

2. You don't know a couple's history, for all you know the woman or man can't produce children. And one thing I have learned is that the mere mention of the word "baby" can set a woman on fire or engulf her in a pool of tears.

3. Unless you are planning to come over and babysit its really none of your business.

It amazes me how many times I am asked this question. My sister asks me, my friends ask me, my in-laws ask me and the woman at work asks me. And every time i tell them I just want a little more time. Their excuse is that I'm not getting younger and my eggs will shrivel up and die.

But here's the thing, I still got that map in my head that I penned when I was 17. And the 17-year-old me says it's not too late and the adult me agrees adamantly. Here's the thing most people don't know or understand about me. I already felt like a parent.

All of my siblings had children at a young age and because of the age gap I first became an aunt at the tender age of 7. But for me being an aunt, wasn't the type I had. The one that sent a birthday card once a year. No, I was hands on. I was watching my nieces and nephews sometimes 4-5 days a week. I've already have the expertise of changing a diaper with one hand, the do's and dont's of giving a baby bath and how to wrap a baby up into a blanket like a cocoon. By the time I was 17, I had 11 nieces and nephews. I've spent late nights feeding, changing and calming a colicky baby.



Now that doesn't mean I know all the ins and outs of being a parent. I often wonder how it would be, if I get so lucky, to create a small being. But one thing I do know is that I'm enjoying these few years of being an adult on a mission, without having to carry a diaper bag. And for the first time, in a long time, I feel really free.

Some Things That Creep Me Out (And Why)

The smell of maple syrup makes me want to vomit when I am not eating a meal that requires the substance.



When I was in elementary school I knew this guy who had a bubble on the top of his head that resembled the cheese bubble on a slice of pizza, but not as appetizing to look at. Anybubble, he would come to school reeking of syrup and everything he touched had globs of syrup on it – desks, pencils, chalk…you get the picture. I remember one time during lunch I sat down to feast on the congealed feast for the day, “spaghetti” and as I picked up my fork noticed there was syrup on my hands and on that syrup was furry dust bunnies and a congregation on a variety of hair. I washed and washed and washed my hands, but the sickening sweet smell of syrup would not be ignored. So I ate the spaghetti with the smell of syrup and the images of blobby pieces of skin on scalps and uncleanliness clouded my brain.The boy eventually had the bubble removed, but by then the connection between sticky syrup and blobby pieces of skin was already deeply etched in my psyche.

The phrase “A storm's a brewin” makes me cringe in fear.



My mom is from coast of Mississippi, she has been through a few tornadoes and one violent hurricane by the name of "Camille" and she's very wary to this day, not of just thunderstorms, but bouts of rain. Growing up in Central Texas there are many conditions that come together create ear-busting thunderstorms, and this caused great distress for my mom. Any time a downpour began my mom would take post on the front porch and stare at the clouds. If she had to take a bathroom break she would turn to me or one of my siblings and say, "Watch that cloud. That cloud don't look right to me," and then point out to some grey mass out in the distance. If her internal barometer told her a storm was going to be bad, she would announce a "storm's a brewin" and then require the family to gather in the main living area, turn off the lights, get off all phones, refrain from taking showers and insist we take a candle with us if we needed to use the bathroom. Then at 5 minute intervals tune into KXAN to check to see what the weatherman on was saying. And when the thunder would shake the house she’d whisper, “God’s beating his wife.” My mom was and is hours of entertainment, but the phrase makes me superstitious of things to come.

Women who use baby voices with their sons, boyfriends or husbands.



I recently went out on a double date with a new couple. They were nice people, funny even. The night started great. We had dinner, drank some wine and then decided to have a night cap at a nearby bar. As we sat discussing current events and sipped our drinks the woman began to talk in baby talk to her boyfriend. I won't go into the details, but the words "lovey,” “wobbie" and “kissy” was used, followed by smooching air noises. Now, maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was my queasy tummy, but I suddenly had diarrhea of the mouth, blurting "that's disgusting" before my brain was aware. (Tends to happen a lot, see Sisterly Oaths) I'm all for public displays of affection, but baby talk ladies to a grown man? You think your man is enjoying that...in public? So if you go on a double date with me, I encourage you to eat heartily and drink merrily, but please for the love of God, leave the baby talk at home...unless you're holding a baby while petting a puppy. Thank you.

The children’s song “Ring Around The Rosies” makes me have nightmares.



Any song that could have possibly been based on the various stages of bubonic plague, aka Black Death, is a song I want to hear from small, innocent children who are smiling while joyously spinning in a circle. “Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!” makes me want to pull my covers over my head and pray that Freddie Kruger will bust into the room and end my misery.

Never Live Down I

Some things we never live down. No matter how hard you try when you run into people, they’ll associate with a time and a place. This was one of those times.

Fourth of July 1989. I was 8 years old and staying for summer with my grandparents in Northern Alabama. This was a very scary time for me. First of all, I didn’t know my grandparents all that well. Second, I was with my sister who was 14 at the time and was well into her teenage “I’m cooler than you are” era and that made getting along terribly difficult.

At the time my grandparents were still working. They would get up at the crack of dawn and would return to the house around mid-afternoon. Unfortunately for me, that meant the TV would be commandeered by my sister and only shows that were popular in the 60s would be viewed.

The only other options for entertainment was to stay in the room I shared with my sister and read original Archie comics from cover to cover or go outside and roam the streets restlessly.

But 4th of July was different. My grandparents had the day off and had arranged a barbecue with the neighbors barbecue and a fireworks show afterward. After day after day of boredom, I was delighted about what the day had in store. The neighbors had a daughter who was a year younger than me, but unfortunately was only available to play on the weekends because she went to daycare during the “work week.”

As the night began to take over the day, the neighbors’ backyard took on celebratory sights and sounds. My friend and I put our Barbies away and lingered by the smoky grill - our mouths watering and our stomachs growling as hot dogs and hamburgers sizzled teasingly. Fireflies congregated in the farther edges of the lawn vying for unabashed attention. My grandparents, neighbors and other adults played cards at the kitchen table and ribbed one another while soul singers from the 70s crooned emotionally from a stereo that looked like it was made the year those singers were at the top of the charts.

My sister emerged from her spot in front of the television and proceeded to poke her head out once in awhile to check the status of the food or yell at me for being such a baby when I would stick my tongue out at her. As soon as the food was ready, the kids were told to keep outside, so we huddled around the small lawn table and stuffed our mouths with hamburgers, potatoes chips, pickles and orange sodas.

The grown-ups finished at a slightly slower pace, but my friend and I were soon giddy with excitement when we heard the words – firecrackers, set-off and lighter, make their way into the adults’ conversation.

Our patience was finally paying off. All day my friend had hounded her father about setting the firecrackers off until right before dinner when her father gave her a stern warning of not “bringing it up again or there would be no fireworks.”

The grown-ups rose from their spots at the table and began heading toward the front yard and we immediately followed on their heels.

“There ain’t many trees out here to catch fire, but ya’ll let me know if you see any cops. It’s illegal to set these off in the city limits,” my friend’s father called to us as he took a puff off his cigarette.

He reached into the brown paper bag he was holding in his other hand and pulled out a string of Black Cat fireworks. He handed the brown paper bag to his wife and marched to the center of the road.

“Now ya’ll stay back now. Ya hear? “ he yelled toward his daughter, my sister and myself. We agreed with a frenzied squeal.

He grabbed the butt of his smoke and proceeded to press the cherry of it to the long igniter string attached to 10 to 15 Black Cats. As the string lit up with recognition of the flame, he tossed the fireworks to the ground and ambled toward the rest of the group and turned to see the result.

After a slight delay, the Cats rumbled and sputtered as they exploded together. In response, the small gathering laughed and screamed as we covered our ears from the noise.

“Well that didn’t do much. Let’s see if these bigger ones will give us some more light.” My friend’s dad said as he pulled out a blue rocket-shaped firework with tiny red and white balls on it and a long igniter attached at the bottom.

“Oh shoot. I’m backing up from that one. You better not light our house fire,” his wife chortled as she took several steps away from the road.

He shook his head and grabbed a coffee can that was lying at the edge of the driveway and placed it in the middle of the road. He then reached into his pocket and fished out a lighter and proceeded to light the igniter on the ominous-looking firework. Once it was lit, he placed the firework into the coffee can and headed toward us yet again, but this time he jogged with his head lowered.

My friend and I held each others arms as we waited for detonation. Just when we thought it was a dud, the firework let out a high pitch whistle and zoomed straight toward the quickly darkening sky. Suddenly the lawn was lit up by red then green then blue streaming balls. The gathering screamed and clapped at the spectacle.

As the lights from the firework began to fade, my friend started pleading to her father for another show. “Ok, let’s see what we got here,” her father answered as he began digging through the brown paper bag again.

Suddenly a siren squealed, tires screeched and lights flashed from what appeared to be a police car less than a block away. .

“Oh shit! It’s the cops!” my friend’s mother yelled.

Bodies began moving everywhere. Some moved to inside the house, other disappeared into the shadows. My feet however were glued to the ground.

“Come on now, girl! We can’t be caught setting off fireworks!” my friend’s mother loudly whispered as she pulled my arm toward the backyard fence.

We jumped over the fence, and found bodies huddled and crouched behind the wall of the modest home with every face hidden by the shadows.

“Shit I hope we don’t get caught,” someone whispered.

“Shh…” someone hissed. “Shut up!” Someone else yelped.

I was petrified. The only thing I could think was, I was 8. And I was going to jail. I was never going to see my mom or dad again. I would never see my friends back home. I would never begin 4th grade.

My short-lived life flashed before my eyes and I began to cry. Maybe crying isn’t the best way to describe it. Tears weren’t just coming from my eyes, they were flooding down my cheeks and snot was gushing from my nose and for the life of me I could not breathe. I was having a fit in front of almost complete strangers.

“What’s wrong with you girl?” the neighbor lady asked grabbing both of my shoulders.

“We’re going to jail!” I wailed. “I won’t ever see my mommy or daddy again!”

“Girl, you ain’t gonna go to jail!” she said to me incredulously. “Yes I am!” I retorted, my hands cupped around my mouth, desperately trying to suck in air. Lucky for me it wasn’t the first time I had had a complete melt down.

“It’s all clear!” I heard my friend’s father call.

Bodies began materializing out of shadows and a wave of relief ran over me, but only for a brief moment.

“Guess what ya’ll?” the neighbor lady called. “That girl was crying! She thought she was going to jail at the age of 8 for setting off fireworks,” she continued with a laugh.

“What?!” My sister spat as she wheeled on her heels to face me. “You thought you were going to go to jail? You ARE so stupid.”

And for the rest of the night my friend, her mother, her father, my grandmother and my sister laughed at me. To this day whenever I go to visit my grandmother and see the neighbors’ they bring up the time I had an emotional break down over jail and fireworks at the tender age of 8.

Sisterly Oaths

Ok. I'm a good sister. Or at least I try to be. And one of the rules to being a good sister is listening to a siblings problems and then offering sound advice. I can do this...most of the time...if I'm not thinking about food. And I think about food A LOT. I think about what I'm gonna eat as soon as I wake up in the morning. I think about what I should have for lunch when I'm taking my first bite out a breakfast taco. I like thinking what fancy food flights I'll take in the evening when I'm pretending to be best friends with Whitney of The City on Monday nights. I LOVE food.

What was I talking about? Oh. Being a good sister. So on one particular occasion my sister and I were having a girl's day out. We do this every Saturday, but this one was rare. This one, we were kid free. So what do you do when there are no kids around? Act like a kid...or a teenager, it varies. We're driving and we're crooning to songs that make us think of our days of middle school and high school. You know the songs that make you wish you were 15 again, or at least glad you aren't. And then THE song comes on. The one that in one moment can take you to happyland to whiney loserville in 0.25 seconds. The song that makes you think of the bastard who never truly got you?

Well it happened that day. To my sister. Funny, happy, let's sing this song and dance silly in the car TO let's take deep drags off our cigarettes, stare into the sky and ponder the true essence of life's lesson. And she begins. Recounting high school days, the choices she made that have brought her here, to this moment thus far. She's wondering if she made the right choices. If she should've had a different major in college, if she should've picked up the phone 8 years ago, if she would have just stuck it out on the volleyball court ONE more year...would she be in a better place? And she turns to me and rhetorically asks, "Would I have had everything I wanted?"

I stare out the passenger window. My mind racing at what to say. What do you say? And I turn to her and say, dramatically because I want her to know that these feelings will pass, "that's pasta."

But hell! That's not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say,

"That's life."

I wanted to say something profound and as deep as she was feeling. But my freakin stomach impeded my speech! It made the decision for my mind that what I was going to eat for dinner was more important than this deep life discussion I'm having with my best friend.

Yet it was the most perfect thing I could say. Before I knew it, she was gripping the steering wheel and crying her eyes out with laughter. The heaviness of the discussion was lifted and the singing and carefree feel of the day made it's way back into the tiny black car. And to this day, when ever we're having one of those days, my sister will call me or turn to me and say, "that's pasta!"