That time I didn't think I would breathe again... #breatheagain

I’m sure I told yall that I ain’t too smart. Most people don’t believe me when I attest to my ability AND inability to know things, though I hold all the resources and facts that would make me just a knower, know what I mean? I can’t call it. My best hypothesis... My brain doesn’t move at the speed of my body, and the reaction times get all messed up, and well *shrug* 

I promise, it’s not in a problem child, “I knew it was bad and I did it anyway to piss you off.” It’s more like a curious kid, “I know it’s bad, but what level of bad is it? AND Shouldn’t I test the theory to make sure?” type of thing, which still, oddly enough to me, pisses you off. Because now there’s water on the floor that has to be cleaned up. It's like I heard you and didn't hear you (but, absolutely did) at the same (damn) time.

That picturesque painting lasted too long, because the idiot things were very idiotic. Like this one:

I traveled to Dallas to see family and friends because while it wasn’t very safe to travel to a place like Dallas, those responsibilities were being responsible at that time. While traveling, no matter the destination, I always bring back souvenirs, because I miss yall or whatever. They’re usually your vices because YOLO or petty postcards because they make stamps 'pacifically for them. This, though, meant cigars and spirits for Uncle. 

(you already know what’s happening next)

While I was cigar shopping (in a mask and still suffering from smoke inhalation) I saw the cutest little baby cigars. I was like, “OMG, that’s me…” and Dee looked at me because, of course I should be looked at thinking that any kind of smoke is cute. Don't all of my personalities have allergies? (Yes, they do) In perfect, pollen-free weather conditions, it’s likely I’ll have kleenex stuffed up a nostril, and I think a cigar is cute? Yup. Sure did.

(see, you were right, hunh?)

It’s Friday night, on the porch, and the guys are smoking their cigars. I ran into the house to present my baby cigar, along with the gifts I bought Uncle and the guys. Uncle looked at that baby cigar and said, “I don’t know why you got me that!”

“It’s not for you! It’s a baby one, for me!”

Hysterical laughter. He almost dropped his whisk(e)y glass. 

Logic that is literally not logic: “See, yall cigars are too big and all smoky and whatnot, so I can’t have those. This is a baby one like me, so it’s not going to be all smoky like that.” Or so, I’ve convinced one of my Uncle’s friends; let's call him Idiot #2. (Imma always be Numbah 1! - this isn't a good thing, but I think I made it good in my head - hence this post)

“If you light that thing and she falls out, you’re taking her to the hospital.” Uncle looked that man straight in the eye. Clear face. Super serious. Idiot #2 thought it was a joke. Not sure why.

Me: Watches the baby cigar being lit. Cheers inside seeing the fire like Cheryl from Archer. Forgets that I’m not supposed to inhale because of the exciting fire. Inhales.

Passes out in the grass.

Yall. I am on my knees gasping for fresh air, outside, in the middle of fresh air. I started to tear up. I think this was supposed to be one of those near death moments where you revisit things in your life, see scenes introspectively or whatever, right? None of that. I was leaned over, lungs on fire, hoping to pass out (again). Because Lord, if this is it, just take me now. I GET IT. I’M A MENACE AND I DON’T DESERVE THINGS OR ABILITIES LIKE BREATHING.

“See, that’s YOUR fault.” Pointing to his friend and looking for a set of car keys to launch at him.

After drinking water out of his friend’s cup, literally worried if it was safe to do because of the picturesque painting, I just sat. You would think, in that moment, I would swear off anything exactly or related to smoke. From the paprika to bonfire - everything in between and on the outskirts. I sat, slumped over, with my hand still pressed to my chest, trying to resuscitate my lungs, still on fire.

You know what I had the unmitigated gall to say in that moment? “Maybe I didn’t get the RIGHT kind.” I'm using the word "say" but it was definitely unintelligible mumbles and coughs.

Yall. If Uncle Eddie could have snatched the time stone from Dr. Strange, he wouldn't have even looked for a possible possibility of a sensical me, he have gone back in time and eradicated my DNA.

I totally identify with Cheryl. Honestly, truly.

Also, by that next Friday, I had my own cigar torch - thanks to his friend. I was off to the side of the house burning cardboard, becoming Cheryl (from Archer) while they enjoyed their cigars and spirits. I wouldn’t have gotten caught, except. I ran suspiciously for the water hose. I heard Uncle yell, “You gave her a WHAT?!?! She didn’t tell you about that kitchen did she?!?!” Reaching for something to throw at me. #NoDaysOff4Uncle lol

So what if I’m the reason for his spirits and cigars. I would buy them for him, right? Good ones, too. Jeez.

Adult Supervision Required or Cookies.Rule.Everything.Around.Me. The End.

<< How this sad ass story begins. smh.

I’m glad I’m not really high or anything. Once I make these noodles and the science happens in my stomach with the salt and the drugs, I will be better again. *begins to cook on a gas stove that you have to light with matches* OMG I SMELL GAS. I wonder if I can figure out the chemical equation for what’s happening cooking this food on a gas stove. *water boils* Who put bubbles in there? Science is awesome. Look at the air escaping.

https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/trisha-yearwood/snickerdoodles-recipe-2041594

You have to wonder why, of all the food items, I made the hardest thing considering my emotional, mental, and physical state. I decided against foods that need no preparation, because when you are on drugs, raw food won’t help. Your food has to be manipulated and prepared in order for you to get well again. I knew that the leftovers were out because of all the radiation from microwaves. The radiation would have an exponential reaction inside me because of all the THC in my system thereby stopping the pacemaker in my heart that I don’t have, so that’s a negative ghostrider.

Somehow these noodles get made. I honestly can’t tell you what happened between the bubbles, escaped air, and bowl. I also have not burned the house down, which is rather remarkable because I love fire. Also, this is a great time to note that my sisters and I burned down a whole stove and half a kitchen, so this is a real possible thing that I am more than qualified to do. Anyway, I made it from the kitchen to my room, to my bed. I am on the bed. The bowl is in my hand. The fork is in the other hand stabbing the air particles between me and the TV because Matt Damn is still on and I realize that I hate him. But I don’t hate him too much because, Good Will Hunting. We both really like doing math for fun because of what our intelligence does to the mathematically incompetent. It amuses us. But that’s it. That’s the only redeeming thing on Earth about him.

I finally begin eating and stop – almost instantly. Yooooo, I’m like eating in HD right now. I can feel the chemical compounds. Like the ions and everything. All the complex sugars. All the hypertensive salts. The electrons are waging war on each other and I can taste it all. I need to document this because nobody will believe me. They must know what I have achieved this day in the name of science. *looks for a pen and old o-chem lab notebook*

*an actual moment of real clarity* I’m high as a kite atop Mount Everest in July. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done. Dear God, please let me forget this. I will never aga--- *high resumes*

I’m doing more air math, while composing a hypothesis for what happens to the human body while eating in HD and watching a movie in HD. Another movie has come on – finally – and I’ve had two outfit changes. Apparently, I cannot decide if I am overdressed or underdressed for being high. Because that’s something that has a dress code.

HALF HOUR LATER. I think I ate crack. I am taking off clothes, putting clothes on, getting in the bed under the covers, laying down trying to go to sleep, getting back up, and taking off clothes again, in this vicious cycle. I count at least ten times doing this. Each time before I get back up, I say to myself, This is the last time, it’s gonna work. Only I don’t know what is broken or what needs to work. Are they different or the same? I should call my friend. I need help. She will understand this *neck scratch* she’s the only one who can understand it. I should call her.

Are you crazy?!?! Then the police will know where the drugs came from! You know the game don’t wait for snitches – stitches do. If I drop a dime on her, who is gonna be left to put money on my books? I should read more. I mean I read a lot, but some of my favorite books are in storage and I don’t wanna buy duplicates. I could stand a trip to Barnes & Noble. There is nothing noble about what I have done today. I am going to die.

WAIT! I got it!!! In Bad Boys II, Martin took drugs accidentally, too. Even though they were different drugs, they were drugs taken by accident, so this line of logic still works. Keep going. Also, drink water from a vase with flowers in them. Keep going. He got in the tub and took a cold shower, so his head wouldn’t explode (*smirks* but his other one might… Call Theresa…lol). KEEP. GOING. They called a poison control lady. YES. Drugs are poison. YES. This will work. But on the off chance I’m poison(ed) like BBD I’m as good as done for because I have a big butt and a smile. Since BBD wasn’t on the movie soundtrack, I think I’m good. This will work. I will un-high myself. I wonder if I will have to get a sponsor and go to NA meetings now?

What was I doing? *ten minutes later*

Shower. In the shower, I realize that I’ve made a mess of things. Not because I’ve gotten in the cold shower, but I’m naked like in normal showers. I’m not supposed to be naked because in the movie Martin had on a visor, tank top, boxers, and socks. I controlled for the wrong variables. FCUK – THERE IS AN OUTFIT FOR BEING ON DRUGS! This too hard a burden to bear, Lord. I need a terry cloth robe too. What have I done? I should get out of the shower. When the police come, I don’t want them to find my naked winter body freezing in the tub. Someone might put ice in here and take my kidneys. I hope our blood types are different and their work is all in vain. Assholes.

Speaking of, this vein in my head is throbbing. Must be the electricity from the synapses in my brain. That’s totally normal, never mind. I can just feel them now because I’m unplugged from the Matrix. I should rest because that’s what Neo did after he got back from seeing the Oracle for the last time.

POST●ish PARANOIA (if you can even call it that). There is no way I can go to work. I’m not high as Mount Kilimanjaro bound kites in January anymore but I am as high as one of those packages on the shelves I can’t reach. I decide that I cannot go to work in my condition because I am not really sure where I work. I can see the 3D google map in my head, but my legs aren’t moving. I feel blood circulating, so I’m still alive. This is just not okay. So, I somehow type the longest out of the office manifesto in email because you have to not explain that the reason you are not coming to work is because you are high and seeing dead people on mountains with kites. Yo, WTF did I eat? There are no signs of this condition fading – I’m just faded. As I closed my laptop, the fold on my towel became undone. I have slept on top of my made-up messy bed, in a towel, with one sock on.

I reiterate to Jesus how much I do not want to remember any of this, and I drift off to sleep. I wake up the next day around the time this whole misadventure in snickerdoodle’ing began. I have a ton of missed calls and text messages. Like, how did I not hear any of the notifications – there were so many, and the phone was near my ear (don’t ask me how). Did I go out last night? What was I drinking? Maybe I should look in my purse for receipts to see where I’ve been and what I done. This is a work day – why am I not at work? I say to myself aloud, That’s the name of it! Escape From L.A.! Did I watch that movie last night? He was in Executive Decision, too. Awww, Halle Berry…

I laid there trying to figure out why Kurt Russell was even on my mind. Or Matt Damon. Why am I thinking about him when I hate him so much? Wait? I hate Matt Damon? I wake myself to a seated position and transition my feet from the bed to the hardwood floor. I feel the softness and coldness of the wood. I begin to weep gently, looking down at my feet. I have on one sock – one sock only.

I remember every single thing.

Also, an entire year passed before I ate another snickerdoodle, so there’s that.

Adult Supervision Required or Cookies.Rule.Everything.Around.Me. The Beginning...

I stand in constant need of (prayer and) adult’ish supervision.

Okay, so this one time, I was on my way to visit a friend after work. She had not made it home just yet, so I went to her house anyway because I don’t believe in traditional manners or decorum and she has young adult’ish aged kids, so it’s technically not trespassing if someone invites you in. Like I was saying, her eldest daughter greeted me. My mom will be home soon, come in. I can’t wait. Like not at all. Yassss! I can’t wait I need some roasted broccoli like ASAP. You would think that a dish requiring only three ingredients would be easily replicated. But my friend, that Black girl’s mama, she got that magic flick of the wrist like #SaltBae. She seasons the broccoli with the exact amount of hypertension adjacency with the fury of twelve great auntie’s smiling upon us from the afterlife. Let’s just call her #BroccoliBae. Also, I will outsource any task because I believe in letting experts do what they do best. Like put gas in your car. Thanks New Jersey. Also, my apologies for that one time when I well…you know what I did. I ain’t even know.

Anyway, my friend hadn’t made it there yet, but these munchies were right on time. So, I’m rummaging through the kitchen for anything to snack on. This is why I keep Target fruit snacks in my purse – but the way my snack cravings had been set up, I didn’t have time to re-up my purse stash. Negro. I say to myself in my head. Are those snickerdoodles? I think my heart skipped a beat. Bruh, them joints is homemade. Grab that container right now. Hell yeah. Jack they asses for the cookies. They won’t even notice they’re gone until it’s too late.

Now, with the container under my arm and a cookie in hand, I’m about to get that work. I take a bite of the most delicious, the most buttery sweetness trapped in a cookie (I’m exaggerating, but I was hungry so that joint was hella good) as I walk into the living room with the colonized container. My friend’s daughter has this look on her face that was worried with a hint of anxiousness. As she should be. I’m about to eat all of these cookies.

Well, she actually looks really concerned. Also, she is reaching out towards me so that’s weird. I wonder what’s wrong, but not enough to stop eating. OMG noooo, you can’t eat that much. They’re not regular cookies. I’m confused because it looks and tastes like a regular cookie. Why not? They taste just fine. That response did not appease her. You’re not supposed to eat that much. It has THC in it – like, you know, edibles. You’re only supposed to eat like a fourth of it. Now I’m starting to see what was troubling her. But again, this is not enough to actually infect me with her worry. Anyway, who eats a fourth of a cookie? But I ate almost all of it already. What should I do? Should I just finish it? These are important questions to help me determine whether or not I should worry. I’m also still kinda hungry which is why we are gathered here today. Uh… Meaning, probably not, but who am I to put words in her mouth when I put the wrong cookie in mine. I’m not batting a thousand at the moment. I also don’t heed good advice when I’m hungry. Yolo *shrug*. I mean, I’ve gone this far, so I minuswhale.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/575897871092527455/

The whole cookie was gone. It wasn’t that big in the first place. Like what harm could one little homemade cookie do? It was the size of those cookies you get at Miss Fields, the tiny ones! Okay, it was a little bigger, but on the scale of Miss Fields to Pizzokie, it was maybe one of the larger small cookies you got from Miss Fields that made you feel like you got more for your money than you were supposed to get so you feel like you got over.

Wait a minute. Yoooo, I just ate drugs. Like what the hell? Should I stay or should I go home? What’s the protocol? I ate drugs in my friend’s house. I haven’t eaten dinner. I wonder if drugs react badly to an empty stomach. I should go home, hunh? I feel like her daughter knew that I was asking myself a lot of questions in my head, because she was like, I don’t know what time my Mom will be home. I think she’s getting here soon though. I couldn’t wait that long because I ate drugs, so I should probably be where I live before they kick in. I should be in a safe place. This means I need to get in the car and go home now. I’m okay. I should be okay. BUT *finger raised* in the off chance that I am not okay, I should be safe. That’s right – safe is the safe word of the day. Remember it.

I made it home, rather quickly. Thankfully, Bay Area traffic knew that this was a code red and we needed to get the chains off[1] the highway doors. I made it home in record time. I go through my whole home routine too, because I am not on drugs yet. I just have them in me like a drug mule. My stomach enzymes are maybe on drugs though. Shoes off. Bra off (unlatched expertly with one hand and then pulled though the arm opening of my shirt). Work clothes off. Lounging clothes on. Work on the nightstand. Laptop on. TV on. Check the mail. Yo, I am really gonna kick this drug thing before it even sets in. I am so proud of myself. I am delightfully not impacted by the drugs I accidentally ate. My body is a fortress. A strong and mighty tower. A pillar of strength.

ONE HOUR LATER. What the fcuk was I about to do? *scratches head in confused* I have been sitting at the edge of the bed like in one of those pictures where you can’t tell if the person is coming or going. There is no shadow so you’re gonna need to look for other clues. Was I about to get up or sit down? I haven’t committed to either direction. I literally have no idea what I was about to do, but Matt Damon is getting on my nerves in this stupid ass movie. What is it about anyway and why is it taking them so long to get that little girl in the damn machine and cure her advanced H1N1 or whatever disease they have a cure for but don’t give to people because capitalism protects itself at all costs? Where is Dave Chappelle’s wrap it up box when you need it? This movie is like a mash up of Johnny Neumonic and that Kurt Russell movie. What was the name of it again? Yeah, I remember I thought that movie was the sh!t back then – Johnny Neumonic, not that Kurt Russell joint. Man, a lot of movies back in the day did that whole mind/virtual reality thing before Samsung was out here scaring people’s grandmas. There was Total Recall, Virtuosity, Strange Days. Wait, damn like we were #BlackLivesMatter before we were #BlackLivesMatter. The police straight up killed a Black rapper, there was a riot, and Angela Bassett was on the front line. She is the Auntie we don’t deserve.

ANOTHER HOUR PASSED. Oh, I think I was hungry. That’s right. I ate drugs, I should eat something that isn’t drugs. Oh yeah – food. Is that movie still on? It’s so strange. Like that Math 32A midterm. How did I get #3 wrong? *begins to use finger and write in the air (like Daddie) in the room to figure out where I effed up on that math problem* Ahh, that makes sense now. I took that L, but I won’t keep it. I’ll bounce back. They won’t get me the next time. *continues to do more advanced calculus from 10+ years ago in the air* Food! EAT FOOD! You are a drug addict now. You have to remember to eat. This is also known as paranoia. We have arrived fully and completely. I am in that place now. I was also supposed to remember a word. I have no idea what that word is. It was really important to my safety. Pineapples! That’s it. I don’t think we have any in the house. Dammit.

Okay. This is a kitchen. Checklist? Window R(check). Stove R(check). Sink R(check). Counter R(check). Stove R(check). Shelves R(check). Dishes R(check). Refrigerator R(check). Food R(check). There were a lot of rooms in this place. You made it to the right one on the first try. I am so proud of you. Now that we are certain this is a kitchen, let’s get started. On the counter there is wheat bread. Oh snap, I forgot the small table. I gotta add that to the checklist next time. There are crackers, chips, cookies, and fruit. In the refrigerator there is cheese, leftovers, salami, and more fruit. In the freezer there are microwavable meals and ice cream. THERE IS NOTHING TO EAT IN THIS HOUSE. I HATE IT HERE! WHO LIVES LIKE THIS? I saw a pack of noodles from the corner of my eye. That’s perfect! The high salt content in the noodles will attack the drugs and make me sober? Less high? What’s the word for that? Un-high? Re-normalized? Stabilized?

The exciting conclusion…lol. >>

---

[1] Lean On Me. PG-13. Drama/Action. March 1989.

I Hate Jigs #TurkeyTrot2k15

I hate Jigs. Like I maybe liked her at one point in my life, but now? This point? Nope. #choices

Running is one of the most amazing, torturous experiences that have embarked on. Challenging in the best ways. And the perfect yin to my sweet potato pie binging yang. I have learned so much about myself and my will to achieve in these few years.

Like, the fact that: I. Hate. Running. In. The. Cold.

Which leads us back to my first statement. I hate Jigs. See, why did she have to be so wonderful and so lovely, and so good to me, and have a birthday, and get me all excited about running the Turkey Trot (again), and seeing her cross the finish line again. It’s all her fault!

Like why in the world would the sky gods allow the temperature stick to get below 40°? That is not the proper weather to be in a mood to give thanks. Like what am I thankful for below 40°? The warmth I have yet to lose?

Running in the cold is stupid. Happy Birthday Jigs.

START: I’m pretty sure I am in the wrong corral. Not on purpose like Vegas. Definitely on accident like I’m not moving away from the start line just to find the right corral. Nope. #MoreChoices

Mile 1: Take me away in a manger it is cold out here. Who turned off Nana’s heater to the Bay Area? Hace frio homey! Hace. Frio.

Mile 2: I don’t want to do this. I really don’t.

Mile 3: I have 3.2 miles left. I wonder how I would have figured that out using Common Core Math?

Mile 4: I always regret not taking the turn off for the shorter distance race at this point. What is the mile point exactly? *looks over at the Nike run app on the arm of the lady next to me* Eh. 4.7? I’m a quitter at 4.7miles – who knew?

Mile 5: I’m can’t believe I have been running this long and my body hasn’t warmed up. Like in my core, it’s like Elsa shot me with an ice dart or something. I want to build a snowman.

Mile 6: Those people look like they’ve finished. Naw, they were probably just out here supporting a friend or something. They don’t have medals around their necks. Like, why would they leave a race (like my sister) without their medals?

Mile 6(0.2): Oh my God. Are there no medals?!?!?!! I did not just go through that for NO. FREAKIN. MEDAL!!! Oh Hell Naw!!!!

FINISH: This is the worst race ever. I really hate Jigs.

And even though I knew, I traversed the Finish Line Festival feverishly looking for a medal. Because, who would spend their Thanksgiving morning NOT eating everything, out here running, and return home with nothing. It was like my very own grail quest…but there no clues, no signs, not markers that I was almost there. Nothing.

I mean, last year I left here with a medal. I was the talk of Thanksgiving Dinner! And by talk of Thanksgiving Dinner, everyone talked about how crazy I was to go running at the dinner table. Like I said…the talk of Thanksgiving! How can I have that kind of greatness without a medal Lord God??

I wandered aimlessly. So disappointed. I tried! I legit tried to do well at this race even with the cold! It was like a #LasVegasRedeption. I mean, the #ColdRainyWind without the #RainyWind. I can be great now! Well, greater than I was in Nevada at least. But no. I work all hard. Run all fast (read: not quite slow, but…). All for what?!?!! #NoMedal

Look, it’s like this. It’s not that every race I run HAS to have a medal. It’s just that, if I get out there and run, I’m expecting one, so, even if I’m the only person you give a medal to, that’s what you should probably do. My sense of accomplishment and validation that I am someone special is directly correlated with the shine of the bling about neck. And I have none. *wow…my future husband has his hands full…I am kind of a mess…welp*

…and since I’ve said nicer things about bad hair cuts, high gas prices, and shoes that give you bunions, I’ll just end with that.

Stupid Turkey Trot. #iHateJigs

#15ThingsIn2015 Challenge

5 new states (Louisiana, Texas – 2 down, 3 to go) #iShouldWorkOnThisOne #2MonthsLeft

4 new friends (OldieButNewbie #RunningHubby; My Child; WickedWineRunCrew (6 people!); Ragnar Napa Valley (10 people!); Cuzzo; NotQuiteTwinSister & BruinBuddy – 22 down)

3 new running events (Shamrock Half; St Charles Road Race; Orange County Half; Wicked Wine Run; Ragnar Napa Valley; Let’s Go 510…5k; Monster Dash 5k – 7 down)

2 back-to-back running events (Rock N Roll San Jose 5K & Half; Ragnar Napa Valley & Let’s Go 510…5K, Rock N Roll Las Vegas 5K & Half, 3 down)

1 Half Marathon PR (Rock N Roll San Diego Half! 6 minutes!, Rock N Roll Las Vegas 5K – 35 seconds to spare! – 2 down!)

1 Run A Race Without A Medal Because I Guess That’s A Thing Now -_- (SJ Turkey Trot 2015, 1 down)

Me & My Hatchet #DontTellTheLoraxWhatIveDone

So, remember that time I told you that I did yard work? I know, I know, it’s still hard to believe. If I were you, I wouldn’t believe it either. But, we all know that it’s so unbelievable that it’s totally possible that it happened. Because, me.

Anyway, part of the yard work was a tree stump. It was a fruit bearing tree that wasn’t doing its job, so last year, Uncle chopped it down with a chainsaw. Left a lowly little stump. The plan was to do all this stuff we just did last year. But, nobody really has time for that. So it just kinda stayed there. While we paid no attention, it grew back. It was like, HA! Got’Em! Thought I was dead, hunh?

I did. He got me. But see, I got this hoe. And it’s hella loyal, even though the screw that held part of it together isn’t. You’re going down buddy.

And just like science, all those stray branches that grew back were gone. Got’Em.

As I sat in my chair looking at my handy work, pleased at the job I’d done, I realized that in a year’s time, I’d be doing this again. Who in the world has time for that?? Right. So as I contemplated the various experiments, I realized that, right?? Just dig up the stump and pull it out. Can’t grow if nothing is there.

What on Earth could possibly help me do that? *thinking, thinking, thinking* Ding! Got’It! An Axe! I’ll just go to the tool store and buy and Axe, then chop it down. Down Goes Frazier! Yasss! This is an awesome idea. Straight up lumberjack that stump, bro.

Until Shannnn overhears this idea. While the science made logical sense to me, she was thinking that Axe < Hatchet. So, yea, something with similar power, with dissimilar size and capacity to decapitate me. I hate when reason gets in the way of my sound science.

You just don’t know how happy I was! I bought a tool! All by myself! I could not wait to get out of the car and get to chopping. I had a game plan and everything. I wacked at the thickest part of the stump to see what I was working with. Fairly sharp. With enough power in the swing of my arm, this thing wasn’t going to be here long.

And away I chopped. Until I got interrupted.

A young fella saw me choppin’ away and figured that I was just too pretty a lil’lady to do that. He’s experienced with a hatchet so he’d take care of it, no problem. And just like that, all my science gone to waste.

I sat and thought about that moment. Had that been my Daddie, or my Uncle or even Running Hubby or Conference Hubby, I would have went inside, made a martini and watched from the window. But this guy right here? As spoiled as I am #LevelBrat, I was offended at the suggestion that there was something about me that would cause you to even engage in such a conversation. The gottdamn nerve! #YouDontKnowMeLikeThat #YouRealizeImHoldingAHatchetRight? Wheeettt are you doing? I got this. This here hatchet is MY here hatchet. I’m offended at the suggestion that you think I can’t do this, or that you think I shouldn’t be doing this. Humph.

I’m spoiled. Not even 48 hours ago, Uncle was commenting on his handy work. He says spoiled, I say well taken care of. We agree that I’m right when he’s not around. If it’s a task that requires some form of hard labor, I don’t have to do it. More often than not, it’ll be done and they’ll tell me about it. I love this arrangement, like really I do.

But, I’m not sure I want to have this arrangement with everyone. I think, perhaps, I don’t want to be spoiled by everyone. If you don’t know me, you can’t do these types of things for me. The difference between you (stranger) and them (Daddie, Uncle, Hubbies) is that they are fully aware of what I can do. They know that in a pinch or unsupervised, I’ll get the job done. They also happen to be aware of the fact that they have conditioned me to expect them to do it if they are close. Because, people have jobs and that’s the way our lives are set up.

All I wanted to do what hatchet away at that damn stump.

After he finished doing a half ass job, because he didn’t sit down and work out the science, I went back outside. I rolled up the grass around the stump and cleared an area. I, using science, dug up around the roots and exposed them. Then I went about my way hatchet’ing the roots and pulling them up. I figure, the base of the stump is too thick, so if I dig up all the roots extended in the ground, it’ll have a hard time growing back so fast. Then, I could get some tree killer stuff from the tool store and weaken it. Then, when nobody is looking, buy an axe because let’s be honest, it’s waaayyy cooler than a hatchet, and get to it.

That tree got me the first time. That tree stump has no clue of my capacity for vengeance. Your days in my backyard are numbered.

And um, do me a solid and keep this between us. I’d hate for The Lorax (or my Uncle...or hell, any of those dream killers our there) to find out. You know, him all speaking for the trees and whatnot.

I don’t have time for that.

#ThisHoeAintLoyal

I hurt myself from all the hoe’n. I shouldn’t hoe around so much. Hoe’n hurts. Honestly, I’m not cut out for it. I’m pretty sure my hoe’n technique was all wrong.

I know, I know. I should have gone with a professional instead of doing it myself.

You also realize I’m talking about my backyard, right? Right. 
#YouveGotADirtyMind

Look, it’s not easy being single in these streets. I’m out here trying to have that HGTV life in my backyard on a DollarTree budget. Ain’t no way. Ain’t. No. Way. But, I’m an extroverted, type A, you can’t tell me what I can’t do, just dare me, type personality, so, there’s that.

So, if you want a backyard, and you want to do it the right way with the wrong person, here’s what you do… Good Luck.

Find someone who actually cares enough to figure out how this works. This person isn’t you. It’s Shannnn. Otherwise known as Speedy, the sub 2.5 hour half marathon runner. This person will actually do research and ask real questions. And then write all the answers on a paper towel. Because, it’s us we’re talking about. Seriously. What did you expect?

Dig up the crap in your backyard standing in between you and lazy lounge chair with wine Saturdays. This is that crap that they just kinda let happen. It’s a mixture of dirt, weeds, crab (read: crap) grass, rocks, insects, and hopelessness. It’s really freakin terrible. It’s the backyard version of the child left behind. But, dig. Here’s the thing, you have to dig so much, which isn’t much, but so much for you, that you get a blister. You literally get a blister, from a half ass attempt at using a shovel, to dig up crap dirt.

Get your crazy someone (Shannnn) to rent a thingie called a rototiller. It’s like Edward scissors hands and shake weights on an elderly person’s walker attached to a gas motor. Not gonna lie, this thing is freaking cool. But, you’re in the house because, you’re allergic to dust and manual labor. And well, you got a blister using a shovel so, there’s that. You’re obviously not the most qualified person to operate this thingie. You also refer to it as a “digging thingie” so…sit down inside. Anyway, you need this thing to mix around all the crap stuff that isn’t great, to make it great. 

Measure crap. You have to know like how long and wide the space is so you can order the right amount of stuff. Look, what’s up with all the freaking questions? I mean, like why do you need to know how many feet? I walked in here with two – and they hurt. You should be able to look at the desperation in my eyes, divide that by the volume of my tears and know exactly what I need. I thought you were a professional.

Okay, this is the fun turned fcked up part: Pick up the crap. There is a place, let’s call it, Neverland where they grow lawns, like for you, then chop them up in rectangles, roll them up, and let you buy them. Yoooo homey, it has the grass already attached to dirt. All perfect and ish. They call it “sod”…I call it “thank you Lord”…crazy how the English language translates, hunh?

Anyway, you gotta get that amazing already done grass, some compost (don’t ask, I really still don’t know and I bought like 5 bags of it with a 3 something measurement because that’s important, but like, why the hell do I care?), and fertilizer crap.

Here’s where it gets interesting. You need a truck to haul all this stuff. That means you need an Uncle. But, you don’t need to give him real advance notice of any of your plans, because that would be silly. Why would you tell someone who could advise you of what you’ve planned to do, so they can warn you about your abilities in relationship to the task at hand? Crazy, right? Right.

Okay, so you swing by his place to ask him to help pick the stuff up, because, Avalanche #ItsBlue. He looks at you like Whheeettt In The Hell? Don’t mind that look. It’ll discourage you and throw you off your game. You promise him tickets to the fair, a car wash, and all the love a niece has in the world. He agrees.

When you go pick this stuff, be in the worst mood ever. I mean, you’ve got to be having the worst day ever because, you’re about to get dirty, and why would you be excited about that? Ways to get in that mood? Easy…you miss a DSW sale #FreeBagWithPurchase, miss the cutoff date for the cheap registration to your race so you have to pay $15 more than what you anticipated, a bottle of wine falls off the shelf and explodes on the pantry floor where you keep your snacks, you stub your toe on the bed frame – chipping the purple nail polish, and you remember you don’t have AC in your bedroom after you spend the day doing this crap.

Pissed off yet?

I’m here to pick up the readymade grass stuff.-_-

*confused but looks it up in the Matrix* Um….okay? Just um, pull around back. I’ll get someone to get it for you.

Okay. So, you sure this is grass, like already grown up grass? Right? I don’t want no kiddie grass. I want adult-paying-taxes-W2 grass.

Uh, yes. *he thinks he knows what I’m talking about*

Oh wait. I’m supposed to get some compostable stuff. Like a yard of it. *looks at text message* Oh, my bad “a yard of redwood compost”. I’m not sure what that is.

No problem. We’ll get someone to load it up.

Great, thanks.

******drive around to the back of the nursery******

*the man who’s supposed to help us, who like my Uncle knows this is a bad idea, but…*

You want me to put it in there? This isn’t going to fit.

Can’t you just load it up and drop it on?

*raises forklift with stuff on it, drops down over bed of truck, I see that it won’t fit*

Ugh. Fine, I’ll just put the rolls on. #OneByOne #RIPtomyclothes #RidinDirty

It’s okay, I’ll load it up. *begins loading the truck, I think he’s laughing*

*Uncle in the distance, who isn’t happy about his truck getting this dirty* And you’re taking it off when we get to the house by yourself! #HeIsSuperMad

So, the yard of compost isn’t going to fit in the truck. *we all look at the wheels getting low*

I mean, can’t you just put it in a box or something? How much is it? *realizing that my only frame of reference for a yard is my Mommie in the fabric store*

See that thing over there? It’s a whole scoop of it.

Wheeeeettt? What were you going to do with that scoop? Just dump it on?

Uh *cause that’s how this works* yea.

Why would a person do that? Oh no…you ain’t dumping that stuff in the back of MY Uncle’s car *you got me effed up* I’mma need yall to box that stuff up, or put it in bags or something! We’ll be back.

Unload that already made grass rolls. Bruh, these things look like brown and green swiss rolls. You take them, 1 by 1 off the truck and unload them. Because you think that this is easy and like, they’re little(r) than you thought, so you can totally do this. And you do this, because your Uncle isn’t going to help you at all because it’s dirty and he’s not dressed for this. After you bring in the last grass-swiss-roll you feel hella accomplished. Let them know, WOMAN did this! Right?? So, you get in the truck to see about getting a yard of this compostable dirty stuff, and your arms are on fire. You’re wondering why there are turning red and itching. What could you have possibly done to cause this to happen? Sure, you’re allergic to everything from the minute hand on the clock ticking to weather changing, but where did this feeling come from?

Grass. You’ve basically done the equivalent to rolling around in grass. And since you’re also allergic to your former and future selves, you’re breaking out. Uncle passes you two allergy pills. You are officially done with this endeavor. Everything about this is stupid.

Give up.

******back at the nursery******

Look, I need a yard of that dirt crap I bought, but you’re not about to dump it in the back of my Uncle’s truck. Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were going to do??? Nobody has health coverage for that. Ol’boy said that crap comes in bags. Give me a yard of that crap.

*looks up from the Matrix* Well, a yard comes out to 9 bags. We only have 5 bags of the equivalent to what you purchased.

Gimme that. Look, I’m about to take this crap and attempt to make a backyard. I’m pretty sure I’m going to do a half ass job of it when I get there. I need to know how bad Imma eff up this readymade grass crap if I do a half ass job with this compost dirt crap?

Uh…I uh, think you’ll be okay. *looks away at something happening in the Matrix*

Finally... Dump the compost dirt crap. Sprinkle fertilizer seed crap on top of it. Mix it all up. Water it. Roll out the readymade grass from heaven on top. Water it again.

Go upstairs and take off the last of your dignity. Shed a single tear as a cup of dirt falls from your sports bra to the bathroom floor. You shed that tear because you realize you’ve been walking around with a cup of dirt literally in your sports bra that you could not feel…for hours. You also have two blisters and a stab wound from opening that bag of dirt crap. Get in the shower and wash away all of your hope in humanity.

You remember you’re also putting a garden back there. …and you don’t have AC in your bedroom.