Excuse Me?

The one thing I cannot stand {being the stubborn person I am} is someone having the audacity to tell me I can’t do something. Excuse me? I can do whatever the hell I want too, and I will. Try me.

So when someone said to me that they doubted I could quit drinking, naturally, their reverse psychology worked. I was all, um… Of course I could, I just choose not too. I like alcohol, I don’t need it.

See, when I was 18 months old, I told my mother I wasn’t going to suck my fingers or use my blanket anymore.

I took my blanket and threw it in the trash can. We lived in Houston at the time. My mom ran and got the blanket out of the trash knowing her sweet {haha} baby girl would surely be wanting it soon.

That night I went to bed without my blanket. My mom watched me sleep. She said I would take the two fingers I sucked and hold them down by my side. Then my lips would start making the sucking motion in my sleep and my fingers would make their way to my lips. She said every time they so much as touched my lips I’d jerk my entire arm back down to my side.

I never sucked my fingers again, and I never ask for my blanket. Which killed my mom, who still has the blanket to this day.

So bring it on. I’ve decided to take all the money I normally spend on alcohol and going out and I’m going to use it to travel with, because I love to see the world. And I can see a lot more of it if I’m not spending $12/drink.

World… here I come.

And to the person who said that to me, just watch me.

Eight days in I feel great. The satisfaction alone of knowing I am proving someone wrong is worth it all by itself, and yes, there are other benefits. I’ll keep you posted on the journey.

xo

IVF

Scrolling through Facebook the other day I came across a post about a friend trying for a child through IVF (in vitro fertilization). 

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve heard of IVF. You probably know a friend or family member who has been through the process, but unless you have gone through it yourself, you cannot possibly understand the trama of it all. 

Instead of some wild night of sex you barely remember, you get a box of meds in the mail that cost anywhere from 4-10 grand depending on the protocol. 

You get to give yourself multiple shots for weeks and go in for blood draws every few days. 

You get to go to a doctors office and pray like hell the injections you are giving yourself that cost thousands of dollars are working. That your ovaries are producing up to 18 eggs instead of just one. 

Eggs that will require an IV and a retrieval. A retirieval where they put you under and stick a needle in your cervix poking the sac and extracting all the eggs 

You sit in the doctors office knowing your odds of conceiving. Looking around the room and wondering who will win the baby lotto. 

You wait. 

And wait. 

And wait. 

You wait for the nurse or doctor to call with the news 

How many eggs survived?

They grade them.

You hold your breath for day three when they tell you how many embryos “survived”.  

Depending on the outlook you go in on day three or five for the embryos to be transferred. 

Five day transfers typically have a better chance of survival. 

You go in again to the doctors office. At least you have made it this far. You try to nod encouragingly to those around you. You don’t have to speak. You know their pain. And their hope. 

You are told to have a full bladder, and then legs up, here goes nothing. 

They insert the embryos and you can watch on the monitor as they go in. 

Then you (or at least I did) pray like hell as they instruct you to hold your legs up for 20 minutes. 

After that, the doctor comes in, mine was wonderful and encouraging and said to remember I was PUPO (pregnant until proven otherwise). 

Ten more days or so of more torture and you go in for a blood test.

Two more days of waiting. 

Yes? No? 

If you are lucky enough to hear yes you go back in two more days for another blood test to see if your PSA levels (pregnancy hormone) are rising. 

Sometimes they aren’t. And the journey ends. Just like that. 

If the levels are still rising, you are scheduled for a six week sonogram to find out if the embryo(s) have attached to the uterine wall, at which point you can hear a heartbeat. 

Sometimes the process ends here. I can’t tell you how many friends I had who made it this far in the journey only to hear devastating news. It’s heartbreaking. 

And for many, the process works. 

I can’t tell you how grateful I am for my doctor, Dr. Kaufman, who I credit in helping me become a mama! 

I wrote this post with the notion to write a post about my baby boy who turns six tomorrow, but as I started writing, it brought be back to the process that made me a mother. 

I am grateful for God. I am grateful for science. 

I’m not going to sit here and reassure you if you are trying to get pregnant to “just relax” and “it will happen when it’s supposed to happen.”

I hated that more than anything. 

I can just tell you this, I know the pain you are going through, and you are not alone. 

Visit http://www.resolve.org if you are struggling with infertility and looking for support and or resources. 

Xo

My {almost} year as a Stay at Home Mom

Until last September, I had always been a working mom. And I had a really flexible job, which was great, but I still worked summers, during Christmas and spring breaks… I never had weeks at a time off with my kids.

While this year has been incredibly tough, it has been a year of incredible growth. It has also been immensely rewarding. I have been reminded many times that tough times do not define our character they reveal it, and I have been reminded of my true strength and stamina.

I want to say this to stay at home moms… I’m jealous. I know there are a lot of us v. them when it comes to working moms v. stay at home moms. Some moms love staying at home. Some moms work because they have to and wish like hell they could be at home. Some moms love working and should feel no guilt for having a career. And some stay at home moms wish they worked. All of the above are completely normal.

When I was a new mom, until present day, when I compare myself to other moms I always give myself an ‘F’. I sometimes, and most unfortunately, by into the post on Facebook and Instagram. I can’t compare.

What I have learned though, is that as much as I don’t compare to those other moms, I am enough for my kids. Who think I am the best mom ever {because they are not on Facebook and Instagram and have no idea how I actually fail in comparison to everyone else}.

In fact, they usually say it to me daily.

“Mom, I love you, you are the best mom ever.”

And it’s usually for something like cooking turkey bacon for dinner, or some other completely insignificant event.

We are all enough.

Enjoy the little things.

Treasure each moment you can.

Be kind to each other.

Love Trumps hate.

Every single time.

And it takes a whole lot less energy to love than it does to hate.

Save that energy for something else. Like holding open a door for someone. Smiling at the person in line behind you at the grocery store, and giving an accepting nod to the mother looking mortified as her child throws a tantrum about getting on an airplane.

It takes a village.

A village of non assholes.

xoxo

PS, Drawing for the winner of a new special candle is tomorrow, don’t forget to comment on the last post to enter to win.

She’s (un)crafty Giveaway

Never in six billion years would I consider myself crafty, so no one was shocked more than myself when I decided to start making candles. 

I am candle obsessed though and had always wanted to make my own. 

The last crafty thing I attempted was making and selling sponge painted t shirt dresses at age eight with my neighbor. 

My neighbor and I’s most popular print was a watermelon. It was like Warhol, but not at all like Warhol. 

Her sister is an artist in Austin. Hi Stephanie! Stephanie Nance. Look her up. She is amazing, and probably rolled her eyes at her sister and I’s sponge dresses. 

Laura, our dresses were both fashion forward and amazing. Perhaps we should start making them again? 

Anyway… 

After trying my hand at welding last month, I thought, how hard could melting wax possibly be? 

Here went nothing. 



And now I introduce to you, the first scent by The Blue Sparrow Blog, Sage and Chamomile, otherwise known as Infinite Wisdom. 

I am giving one away here. Winner drawn on Wednesday. Simply comment below telling me your favorite scent to be entered to win! 

Xo

Design. Build. Adventure. 

I’ve heard there are three ways you can create new brain cells. One is to learn something new. I forgot the other two…

Anyway.

For years I had seen a friend from middle school’s post on his company, Design Build Adventure, and I had always been intrigued.

Here is an example…


I mean… aren’t you intrigued?

I signed up and packed my bags for the high desert of West Texas.

I can’t weld, but I was so excited to learn, and Captain Jack and his crew, Will and Parker, were excellent teachers.

The workshop consisted of consulting with two local artist, Nick and Maryam, who generously have donated part of their land to a playground. It’s called Eastside Playground and you must check it out when traveling through Marfa.

Nick and Maryam wanted a sign for the entrance and a table with benches for kids and parents to sit, play, and gather on.

We had two days to design, build, and make it happen.

The collaboration of the group was magical. Mystical. An experience I’ll never forget.

This is what we made.

Photo credit above to the amazing Nick Terry.

We also made this welcoming sign.


I left with a great sense of satisfaction, although I’m not exactly sure how I contributed other than a willingness to learn and an abundance of enthusiasm for the project.

Thank you Jack and your team, your amazing wife and kiddos, Terry and Maryam, and all who signed up for the class for making this an experience I’ll never forget!

Check out more about Design Build Adventure at http://www.designbuildadventure.com

Kindness of Strangers

During my trip to San Diego and subsequent surprise detour to LA, in March, I had to rely heavily on the kindness of strangers. 

Losing purses and ID’s and having to figure out how to get money wired to get a car took more time and effort than our schedule allowed, and by the time we had made it back safely from LA to San Diego, I had missed my flight back to Dallas. 

I was having anxiety attacks so my friend’s boyfriend took over, called the airline, and rebooked my flight for the next day. 

He also took my phone and plugged in where I needed to go to return the rental car in my Maps, and set an alarm so I would wake up in time. 

I thanked him and said I was turning in for the evening. At 7 pm. 

I was exhausted from what was suppose to be our one day excursion to LA that turned into five days, a trip to Skid Row, lost purses, phones, ID’s, cash, credit cards, sunglasses, which the LAPD now possess, also a different story… 

I was still groggy and tired when the alarm went off, but I drug myself off the couch and got ready. 

I check the time. I needed to get going. 

I gathered my things and instead of making two trips, which would have made sense, I hobbled with all my bags to the rental car. 

I hit “Go” on my Maps and started driving. 

Traffic. 

When I got to the spot to drop off the rental car there were huge “WE’VE MOVED!” signs, but no address as to where they moved too. 

I google. The google address is where I am parked in the rental car. 

I start panicking.

 Shit. 

I could not miss my flight. Again. 

I started driving. And crying. Isn’t that a band? 

Anyway, I pulled into the valet lot, about to give up on making my flight, when I see a woman walking towards my car. 

I rolled down the window and ask for directions. 

She kindly rattled off about 10 minutes worth of information and could tell I was panicking. 

“When is your flight?” She ask. 

“Oh… in about 52 minutes.” 

She looked at me, looked at the car, came around to the drivers side and opened my door. 

“Here, let me drive you, but we gotta hurry, come on,” she gently pushed.

I jumped out and ran to the passenger door thanking her over and over. 

As we drove she assured me to stop saying thank you, that she was proud to see me traveling alone. Then she shared her story with me. 

She was sixty. An adoptive mother of five, and when she was forty, my age, she was going through a divorce and was in Thailand. 

She said her now ex cut off all her cards, her bank accounts, everything, while she was overseas. 

She told me how she had to rely on the kindness of strangers to eat, to bathe, for everything. 

I told her I was divorced and had just come from Skid Row… 

She got me to the rental car place. She came inside with me, got my luggage on my flight. Got me through security, and walked me to my gate. 

I thanked her again. 

“I knew there was a reason I was 20 minutes late to work this morning,” she replied and gave me a hug. 

Thank you San Diego Airport Meredith. You, are an angel. 

Family Reunion

Oh my goodness! It was so good to take the boys and go see their extended cousins and family, they had so much fun, and so did I.


I just wish that one, I had more time with my amazing family, and two, that I had put sunscreen on.

The boys had a blast playing with cousins, swimming in the lake, jumping off the rope swing, sliding down the slip-n-slide, and just hanging out.

I enjoyed recanting old stories and reminding everyone that I was not always the black sheep of the family.

“Remember when all the boys put Granny in the bull pen when she was nine months pregnant to see if she could escape before a bull got her?”

Cause I remembered that story. No one except my parents and uncle remembered that, probably because their lives were most at stake.

One of my cousins worked for the CIA and one worked for the FBI.

I did not achieve such success. But am happy to attend family reunions at their lake houses.

Years ago, when my cousin was ask what he did for the FBI, his sister quipped, “Oh please, he probably just takes the trash out.”

These are other memories of family reunions past…

Getting on the ski boat and whoever was skiing immediately getting drug over to the side of the lake with tons of tree stumps. This was to “show us what you’re made of.”

I started driving the boat at age 8 and still cannot water ski to this day, for fear of dying. I can, however, hang on to a intertube better than most.

We also use to play spoons, sort of the adult version of musical chairs with cards. I remember lamps getting knocked over and elbows thrown in jaws as my elders would dive for spoons, or pretend they had four of a kind. I can only imagine what would have happened had money been at stake.

I remember telling the story of my grandfather learning to drive at age five, and the eldest generation laughing and recanting the stories of their parents also learning to drive at such a young age.

“I remember Buck steering and Bud pushing the peddle down and them driving to the general store!” One cousin remarked as we laughed and recalled other things they would have been thrown in jail for these days.

Thank the lord iPhones were only recently invented. God bless Texas, and God bless family.

Seeing Laura Bush

During the 2004 Republican convention I was lucky enough to score an internship with The Detroit News. Anything my boss, didn’t want to cover, or couldn’t cover because she had something bigger to do, she sent me too.

Everything came in the form of invitations, and she would dump everything out and ask me to pick and choose what I wanted to attend. I scored huge that internship. I got to go to ‘Wednesday Night Live’ hosted by the cast of Saturday Night Live, I got to meet all the greats in news, like the late Tim Russert, who called me ‘Lil Red’ on the convention floor, Anderson Cooper, Larry King… but back to Laura Bush.

Alison (my boss) calls me in a panic saying she can’t attend the Laura Bush luncheon, so I need to drop whatever I am doing, run grab the invite, purchase a tape recorder, and get to The Marriott Times Square in 30 minutes.

In a panic, I grabbed a suit, threw it in my purse, ran down the hall to her room, grabbed the invite, got to the street, hailed a cab and said, “Um, take me to get a tape recorder please.”

He looked at me and ask if I wanted to go to Best Buy or something, and I said, no, I need to be in Times Square in less than 20 minutes.

He said we’d have to stop at one of the highly overpriced shops right by Times Square and I assured him at this point, that was fine.

Remember the days before iphones? This would never happen in 2017.

He pulled over, I ran in, grabbed some highly overpriced horrible tape recorder and hopped back in the cab with 5 minutes to change I wriggled into my suit like I use to change clothes in the third grade and we pulled up to the hotel.

I thanked and paid the cab, and grabbed my media badge out of my purse, and jumped out of the car and started running.

Some guys on the street made some crack about where was I headed so fast, should they alert the media, and I turned around, flashed my badge, and shouted, “I am the media!”

It’s the one and only time I’ve ever been able to do that.

Oh, and then I went and saw Laura Bush speak. She was poised, nice, intelligent, and gave a great speech on education.

I wish I had more information about the speech, but the tape recording was horrible, and nothing could be used. But I can report the lunch was fabulous.

You can read more about my internship and my story about Karl Rove by clicking here.

The Louie Chronicles: Left for Dead

A story from the view of my purse. 

It was summer and my owner and her then husband were traveling with friends to San Francisco and Napa valley. 

Naturally, my owner got on the plane and shoved me under a dirty airplane seat. I tried to avoid old gum and half eaten bags of peanuts. 

We arrived and I was swept through the airport, the rental car line, the grocery store, and a park. 

The whole city smelled like ocean and piss. 

I was drug all over that pisshole of a city that my owner seemed to be enjoying. 

“It’s the crooked street! These are the best oysters!” 

Like, who cares? 

Not uncommon, the owner ended up stopping and talking outside a bar to people on the street. Talking, talking, talking. 

She rummages through me, finds a cigarette, and drops me on the street under a street lamp. 

More talking talking talking, and then, she just walks off. 

Hello? Really? I hold the money. She needs me. Where the fuck did she go? Do these people she was talking to even have homes. Oh God, this city smells. 

Where is she? Where did she go? This is no Aspen. I don’t feel safe. I feel dirty. 

After what seems like days the owner runs up, scoops me up and starts thanking God and digging for the poor wallet. 

“It’s all here!” She exclaims. 

At that moment I knew I nearly escaped death. 

Letting Go

I wanted to title this post “burying the past” but I thought “letting go” sounded more positive. 

In a way though, I had to bury the past to let go. Metaphorically speaking. I had to come to terms with fact that life as I knew it was over. It was gone, it wasn’t coming back, no matter how much I wished, or prayed, or slept, every time I woke up the world was still completely different. And there was nothing I could do about it. Not a thing. 

The only thing I could do was pause. For a long time. 

Pause. Process. Cry. Repeat. 

After months and months of digesting everything that was happening, it was like I’d come up for air, and as soon as I felt myself catching my breath I was drug back under into the murky abyss. 

Dismal. For months. 

After deciding to take control back, I got angry. 

Angry at the people I thought loved and cared about me. 

But that fire stoked a passion I was missing. One I had and needed back. 

And now I’m ready. Ready to let go, ready to move forward, ready to love life, pursue passions with new outlooks. Ready to live authenticity and just be me. 

I can’t believe it took me this long, but here is to never looking back. 

Bring.It.On. 

This candle was in a small shop I came across and is called “letting go of the past” so as cheesy as it is, I bought it, burned it, and blew it out. 


Bye Felicia.