Wrong or Write

I haven't had very much to say lately. Wait, I take that back. Saying stuff is one thing, but WRITING stuff is a whole different story. Literally.

It's crazy, but for some reason, words that are usually lined up in my head, words that are chomping at the bit for me to type into a coherent thought, amusing anecdote, or organized narrative, are just wandering aimlessly around my brain. They're there, they just can't find a way out and in turn causing a big, frustrating, tangled mess. In fact, they're backing up like tourists trying to cross a crowded intersection. At rush hour. And the sign just won't stop flashing DO NOT WALK.

Bear with me. I'm stuck in a slump. And my words are wearing Hawaiian shirts and fanny packs.

Until the fog clears, here's something that will likely leave you speechless as well:

Who's the crazy one now?

Seriously

This here is Stew's deodorant (pronounced de-odor-ahntay).

That's right. CLINICAL protection. It makes me laugh every time I read it. My mind conjures up images of imaginary Deodorant Clinics, where poor, malodorous men can go to seek advanced medical treatment for excessive armpit sweating.

My 2nd Annual 29th Birthday

Today. May 3rd. Marks the date of my birth. Thirty years ago. THIRTY. Three whole decades.

I was asked this weekend if I was dreading the big 3-0. To tell you the truth, I haven't been. And I'm not freaking out now that I am. Officially. THAT age.

Honestly, 25 was the age that really hit me. In the face. Hard. I was at the grocery store buying candles for my own birthday cake (which is depressing in and of itself). Not sure if you've ever noticed, but birthday candles come in packs of 24. I was 25. Which meant I needed 2 packs of candles. FORTY EIGHT candles. I had graduated to the same candle bracket as a 48-year-old. Gone were the carefree days of simply one pack of candles! Also gone were the days of someone else taking care of the birthday candle buying, but that's a whole different issue.

Later on that year, I saw a billboard advertising the 25th Anniversary of Popeye's. Great, now I'm the same age as fried chicken.

It probably didn't help that at age 25, I was a few steps behind where I thought I'd be at that age. Sure, I had scored an awesome husband, but I still hadn't completed college or bought a house. I thought I'd surely have done both by then. After a whole quarter century! Then Katrina came and well, nothing really throws your life plans off track like a natural disaster.

Here's the good news. I made it to 30. And I'm happy about what I've accomplished thus far. Here's a recap of the past decade of me:

2000 - dropped out of LSU, planned my wedding, married the one and only Stewart Alexis

2001 - moved to Washington, lived on a military base, bought AUSTIN, bought AUSTIN a new $3,000 leg, cried when AUSTIN ate the whole roll of film that documented Stewzie's first year as a married couple

2002 - bought Black Betty, was voted Employee of the Year, moved back to Louisiana, readjusted to heat and humidity

2003 to 2004 - worked, saved, had my purse stolen by crackheads, missed Stew a lot (he worked offshore)

2005 - went back to college, paid for it myself, continued working full time, turned 25 along with a 2 piece, white meat, spicy, with a side of dirty rice, a biscuit and a red drink, got Katrina'd, lived in Arkansas for a month with 9 dogs and a whole mess of people, came back home and removed my neighbors' carport from our backyard, got a new job

2006 - went back to college (again), got a 4.0, kept working, paid off Black Betty, became an Aunt

2007 - kept my 4.0 streak alive, started househunting, kept working full time

2008 - bought a house, renovated it every night for 9 months, kept my job, my husband and my GPA but lost my sanity, EARNED my degree and finally graduated

2009 - learned to relax, thanked my husband, went public with my snoball love affair, started Stewzie

2010 - had a crazy dream that the Saints won the Super Bowl, realized it wasn't just a dream, dressed like a toothless hillbilly not once but twice, then turned THIRTY

Whew.

This is just a tiny percentage of the ups, downs, and in betweens of the past 10 years. If you are the one who created the above, good or bad, THANK YOU, I am truly blessed. If you have been a part of any of the above, good or bad, THANK YOU. If you weren't a part of any of the above, THANK YOU, because you're reading this now and that means you're a part of today. My 2nd Annual 29th Birthday. The first day of the rest of my life.


"Time and Tide wait for no man, but time always stands still for a woman of thirty." - Robert Frost

Die Vampire Die

*Disclaimer* If you're looking for the usual Stewzie carefree wit - proceed with caution. This post might get a bit introspective. Deep, even. But I'm probably overdue for a post that has more substance. Not that my dog wearing fake boobs doesn't qualify as substance, but you get the idea.

One more warning: Deep often equals LONG WINDED. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Last night as my pal Frances (Hi Fran!) and I took in a performance of [Title of Show] I was struck by the lyrics of a particular song.

Listen closely,
a vampire is any person or thought or feeling
that stands between you and your creative self expression,
but vampires can assume many seductive forms.

When I started writing Stewzie, my anxiety-prone mind (more on that later) immediately went into self-doubt mode. What if I share too much? What if I don't share enough? What if I should just shut out my thoughts and not write anything at all? Nobody cares what I have to say. I'm not good enough, interesting enough, creative enough, amusing enough, confident enough, witty enough, intelligent enough, committed enough, etc., etc., ETC. What if nobody reads my writing? Or worse. What if people read, but think my writing sucks? What if my mother disowns me because I just typed the word SUCKS for the entire interweb to read? And now her only daughter, pride and joy, has written a naughty word in a post that's archived forever for the whole world to see. Or double worse. What if I use the word SUCKS in a grammatically incorrect sentence? Some things are unforgivable.

At times, I can't wait to spill the juicy details of a story with all of you. Other times, it takes me weeks of worry before I can hit "Publish" and unleash the latest post. Writing is a very personal expression for me. I don't take it lightly. No matter how trivial the post. I poke fun, use a bit of too much sarcasm, express opinions, share photos, transcribe conversations. What if someone takes my words out of context? Gets offended? Or worse. Gets BORED. What if my husband gets his feelings hurt because I tell the world about his incessant SNORING? This is the live feed that plays 24/7 on my conscience.

Why is it that if some dude walked up to me on the subway platform
and said these things, I’d think he was a mentally ill a**hole,
but if the vampire inside my head says it,
It’s the voice of reason.

Until now, most of my writing has leaned toward the lighter side. Mostly entertaining, not too revealing. GUARDED. But, because I strive to become a better writer, I vow to share more. Because I want you to know the real ME, I vow to share more. Because I shouldn't be ashamed of the real me, I vow to share more. Rest assured, however, that a large majority of my posts will still discuss pointless yet riveting topics such as my hatred of Walmart and my love of all things Snoball. The bottom line is that there is more to me than humor and lame attempts at humor. Much more. I hope.

I'll likely still contemplate the what ifs. I'll likely still be cautious, scared even. But I will try my stewziest not to let myself sabotage.......myself.

Today, I'm staring my doubts in the eye and declaring "Die Vampire Die."

Pinch Me

It's been over a week with no post. I'm aware of this.

Honestly though, with SO MUCH going on in the past 10 or 15 days, any words I could muster up to type would come out as a rambling mishmash of incoherent thoughts. Don't ask me how that's different from normal. Just don't.

"Who-Dat-gotta-pee-on-the-Lombardi-trophy-while-Drew-Brees-throws-me-somethin-mista-and-parks-my-car-15-feet-from-a-fire-hydrant-or-else-gets-a-ticket-Heyyyy-pockey-way-SHOCKEY-doubloons-more-king cake-please-and-thank-you-Sean-Payton."

Yup. I warned you. That's the craziness that's been marching through the old noggin as of late. And crazy never felt so...well...crazy. But good crazy. Like the Saints just won the Superbowl a week before Mardi Gras and then it almost snowed crazy.

Mardi Gras pics will follow soon. As soon as I wake up from this crazy dream...