Did the Easter snap last longer this year? I decided to try planting zinnias today on the first hot day after Easter. It seemed fairly straightforward, according to Google.
What I didn’t take into account was the fact that my former magnolia tree left roots, lots of damn roots. Every strike of the shovel hit a root.
So here is an account of my thoughts as I attempted to plant zinnias.
Explicitive, this is harder than I thought. Another explicitive. My back already hurts. Who am I trying to impress? I can’t compete with Margaret and Cleveland (the neighbors who practically have botanical gardens in their backyard).
“Anderson, get me some Gatorade.” Anderson to me- “Are you sweating yet? ” Obviously, I’m dying but not enough sweat to deem a Gatorade from my youngest. Brings it finally and says, “You need Gatorade.”
Finally, make it around the deck, attempt another area, and decide to pot some seeds. Directions said you can. Anderson is rambling on about something in the backyard. I probably just agreed to something so I can keep working. A blister is forming. Ouch.
Tries to measure consistently 6 inches a part. Gives up. Starts scattering and praying God will see my hard work and reward. Maybe not after my cuss words in my thoughts.
Re pots the olive tree. Rhae at Rooster Day said her neighbor’s olive tree has blooms. Mine is alive, no blooms. “Eeh,” said as Lucille Ball.
My grandmother is in heaven laughing, the one who had the green thumb. I’m not sure what color mine is and what it means.
I pray something will grow in time for my niece’s party. My son moons me.
Time to water the front. What a choice in a mid life crisis- planting and keeping plants alive. What was I thinking?
I looked in the mirror trying to recognize the person I was now- not what I once was. I try not to think about the life I could have had if I hadn’t had- Then, I pause, I don’t think myself go too far down the road. What was the point? I have it. There’s no reasoning with the what ifs of the world.
She doesn’t quite look the way I remembered. There are more wrinkles, freckles, and her face is rounder from the weight gain. Then, the what ifs try to push through- if you hadn’t then what if you wouldn’t have aged so quickly and gained all that weight. “Shut up!” I tell the what ifs.
I put my clothes on. The what ifs persist- you’re not the same size anymore. I want to cry.
I take Anderson to school. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to put on lipstick. Mom always said I should wear more lipstick. I get to work. I start the day.
The what ifs persist- are you really doing a good job? I finally have enough. I silence the what ifs by pushing forward despite the feelings inside. As I begin to focus more on tasks and what I need to do for patients, the what ifs fall silent. They can’t defeat me- not when I focus on what’s really important not what should or maybe could have been.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Courage is more exhilarating than fear and in the long run it is easier. We do not have to become heroes overnight. Just one step at a time. You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.”
So, to hell with the what ifs. Here’s to the now and here’s to how!
Your new store in Gulf Shores is nicely done; the candy shop a nice touch. I always enjoyed shopping during summer breaks, finding the perfect dress and bathing suit for the season. I decided to return this Spring Break to look again for a bathing suit. Alvin- let’s just say- we need a section of the in between- not quite a grandmother and no longer a teenager.
As Evelyn Couch said in Fried Green Tomatoes, “I’m too young to be old and too old to be young.” The one bathing suit I tried, well, let’s just say, I looked a like a can of biscuits about to pop open.
I searched for the girl from the Spring Break of yesterday. She’s still there but has been replaced with a worn version, a mom bod. I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking I should step out from the dressing room, announce myself to the ladies working the area, and see what reaction I would receive.
Maybe I’ll have better luck at Target or Old Navy. It’s not your fault Alvin’s Island, you have a specific target market and it ain’t this 40 year old woman. If you reconsider, adding in some suits for the millennial’s, I’ll gladly return. I ask that you consider playing music from Spring Breaks from hits such as “Thong Song” from Sisco to ensure we have a pleasurable shopping experience.
I appreciate the consideration. Again, your store is lovely but your bathing suits, well, maybe it’s just me.
Gather around ye children, and I shall tell you a tale of trends from ages ago, the early 2000s. It was after the birth of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior and a pre iPhone and social media era. For the younger generation, this would be considered the “Dark Ages”. I consider it the “glory days”. Cell phones were around but not all of us had one. There were no text messages or cameras on cell phones. Photos were taken with devices called disposable cameras which required processing. There were no guarantees your images would turn out as you waited for what seemed an eternity for the photos to develop.
Now that late nineties and early 2000s fashion appears to be making a come back, I shall now tell you about Soffee shorts. Soffee shorts are gym shorts of various colors. The key in wearing these shorts, are that they are to be rolled up at the waist band. The more times they were rolled up this way could quite possibly indicate your status as um… well a quite frankly a Ho (please excuse my derogatory term but that’s a term from the time period). One roll was standard. It was also important your socks pulled up to your knee and then scrunched accordingly with New Balance on your feet. These shorts were worn with your bathing suit or a layer of t-shirts with a hemp necklace per protocol.
Additionally, as Spring approached with upcoming proms and school dances, the teenage girl in the 2000s (myself included) would begin the ritual of tanning. The teenage girl would pay for a certain length of time to tan (working her way up from 5 minutes to 25 minutes or so). Proper preparation included two key items- eye goggles and the proper selection of a sticker. As memory serves me, your choice would be either a playboy bunny or heart sticker.
This sticker was placed in an area not seen by anyone except for one’s self. The placement may have given the teenage girl a thrill in knowing secretly that she had used such a sticker and placed in such a explicit spot. Nonetheless, it was standard practice of course.
As I got older and continued such ritual to prepare for Sorority cocktails and formals, the tanning beds got more elaborate with CD players. I remember fondly putting in my burned CD in the tanning bed to listen to while I fried each side of my skin so delicately. The burned CD was probably downloaded off of Limewire which is a tale for another time.
I surmise the last time I tanned was circa 2005 or 2006 before graduating college. I have not since done this ritual or worn Soffee shorts as now my mom bod does not compliment this attire. No more stickers either except what my son gives me and they ain’t going anywhere on this body.
Please see picture below for reference to Soffee shorts and proper rolling of shorts. If this makes a come back, I shall laugh in delight and remember a simpler time.
Growing up one of my favorite childhood books was by Judy Blume, Are you there God? It’s me Margaret. It chronicles a young girl’s journey into getting her first period with some memorable lines. I must, I must, I must increase my bust. Admit, there’s a chance you even chanted it yourself. It was my best friend Beth and I’s guide into womanhood during 5th or 6th grade.
Years later, when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I was told that part of the treatment would put me in early menopause. This treatment was because my original cancer was hormone positive (it basically fed off of estrogen). I accepted it no questions asked. I had a 2 and 8 year old at the time and was in a hurry to get back to normal.
Normal, never came but was replaced by it’s second cousin, twice removed. I refer affectionately to as Now. I didn’t really know what questions to ask. I knew it meant hot flashes and no more period (I don’t miss her). I count myself blessed as I had already had my children. Those that get diagnosed at an earlier age are not that fortunate.
What I didn’t know came with menopause (or poor Margaret all grown up) was that it meant weight gain, fatigue, insomnia, bouts of sadness (for no reason), and lack of drive. Hormones control so much and when they are taken away quickly, your body doesn’t know how to react.
What I wished I had asked was how to manage menopause and her lovely symptoms- what to eat, exercise, and how to deal with the uncomfortable things. Now, as I trudge on in this journey (sometimes I skip, walk, run but some days it feels like trudging), I am trying to figure out what to eat, exercise, and how to take care of myself.
I found some things online about what to eat- vegetables, (legume variety and of the broccoli family) more protein, and less carbs (but more fiber). Boy, do I love carbs. I am attempting to exercise at least three times a week. Yoga, has brought me a peace and helps with my stress. By the way, if you have cancer or fear for re-occurrence (hell who wouldn’t?), cortisol is not good (from stress) so find something that helps you relax. Yoga, has been great for me.
Honestly, even with exercising, the weight is as stubborn as my 2nd born. I know it’s due in part to my diet which I will work on. The scale, she mocks me, every time I step on and says, “not today, no chance.” I know I’ve got to give myself grace as my body is fighting.
Are you there God? It’s me Ashley. My bust tried to kill me, and I am just asking for help navigating menopause and cancer. I am also asking you to help others who are experiencing similar issues. I must, I must, I must win this fight.
I was in college when DVDs were still a thing, and we watched lots of Sex and the City in the sorority house. I watched so much so that I named guys I dated liked Carrie. There was the “bartender” and the other one I called by his first name which was ironically Mr. Big’s name- John. And then there was my roommate who dated a “Big Al”. Yea! Alabama!
We were comfortable being uncomfortable in our stylish underwear, aka, thongs paired with our matching velour tracksuits which unfortunately has made a comeback. I prided myself in my selections from Victoria’s Secret.
Fast forward to 40 and now the panties I laughed at (and probably said, I’d never) have made a comeback in my life, ole’ faithful herself- cotton panties.
Cotton panties are a confidence of their own. Here me out. You survived the thong, low wasted jeans and aforementioned track suit (some of you with “juicy” on your bottom). Cotton panties declare that you’ve birthed babies, grieved some losses and have made your way up your career ladder. You lived through the twin towers collapse, Y2K and was raised on Biggie, Tupac, and Snoop. As I type this damn auto correct is sadly not recognizing Y2K and Tupac in its bold, red underline.
When my Amazon bought cotton panties arrived in all her glory, I pulled them out, admiring their patterns and held them out. I thought these look “too” big but alas they fit perfectly. The 20 something girl I once was has disappeared with the old MTV. I am not sad. I do not long for the thongs of yesterday. I am perfectly content in my cotton panties (a friend), jogging pants, and oversize sweat shirt. I got my man and I got my kids.
Cotton panties and my 40’s have brought a level of calm and confidence that I didn’t have in my 20’s. If I could go back and tell myself in the early 2000’s it would all work out, I wouldn’t have believed it. I would have slipped on a God awful pair of thongs and put on my pink velour suit, headed to class worried about some nicknamed guy that I wasn’t going to marry.
Alas, cotton panties have made re-evolution. Sayonara thongs. Hello loving myself in all her cotton glory!
I love when people post things online, such as, “you know you are from… because”. So, I’ve decided to dedicate this blog post to my hometown of Demopolis and to discuss how you know you are from there.
Starting with the title. As a kid, I walked around our grocery store with no socks or shoes, in other words, my bare feet. The bottoms of my feet would become black from the floor and thus became the term “Food Fair feet.” While walking around the store with my feet out in front of God and everyone, we’d stop by the bakery isle and I’d look at the live lobsters in the tank. Who in Demopolis was buying lobster from Food Fair? Please come forward and introduce your bougie self. I also remember dreading buying feminine products and the guy working as the cashier (the only open line) went to school with you. How to play it cool?
It wouldn’t be a Friday or Saturday night in high school without stopping by Parr’s on Highway 80 to see who was there hanging out. It was a rite of passage once you starting riding around listening to parental advisory CD’s and burned CD’s which were a level above parental advisory. Tell me, now, what seemingly innocent high school girl didn’t have inappropriate music in her car and the girl in question (okay, maybe me) could sing or (clearing my throat) rap every word.
Let’s talk football now, Friday night lights. Since I was a kid, I remember going to the games. My sister is older and cheered so we went to every game (home and away). The old Memorial stadium was legendary. I remember hanging underneath the bleachers with friends with my parents seemingly having no concerns or way to track to me. The victory line was a big deal as the players planned to run through the decorated paper banner with some saying decided by the cheerleaders. The announcer would come on, “Fans, it’s time for the victory line” and every small kid in every corner of Memorial stadium would run to get in line. The tunnel was also a cool feature that led from the middle school (which was once the high school) to the field. I can still do the dance line routine to “Eye of the Tiger” although I never was on the dance line. As I got into high school, I was more into watching the guys on the sideline than the game itself (guilty). After the games meant cleaning up the Vanity Fair parking lot if you were in Key Club and then on Saturday morning, the stadium. We miss you Coach Sprinkle! 2003 was going to be our year. We were close to the championship, so close.
On to food in Demopolis- I sure do miss Robert’s. In my mind, they had the best hamburger steak, chicken fingers, french fries and Texas toast. Red Barn was reserved for special occasions- first dates and prom dinners. I miss Red Barn’s old salad bar. I didn’t know what a Mexican restaurant was until I was in 7th grade. The original La Fiesta was a place for group outings as teenagers. Oh, the bowls and bowls of cheese dip devoured at that place. Mr. G’s when it was located down by the river was special with it’s arcade games and CD jukebox. I remember vividly playing Ben Folds Five with my change. “She’s a brick and I’m drowning slowly.”
My neighborhood- where life truly was lived for my formative years. I rode my bike and roller bladed around the block more times that I can count. I rode my bike downtown, to the river and back. I jumped on neighbors’ trampolines and confronted a bully sometimes. I swooned over the boy next door and I stayed up giggling with my neighbor as we looked at her plastic stars, listening to the Wallflowers,”But me and Cinderella, we can put it together. We can drive it home with one headlight.” I played football at the old school next door and learned to play softball in the same lot. My dog and I scoured the neighborhood and had adventures. The neighbors had lived in our neighborhood much longer than I had been alive. They were the original Demopolites, from Mr. Pritchard, Mr. Cobb, Mr. Bobby Coker, and Mr. Hard, the TV repair man. They had been the foundation of our very town and now they” watched as an awkward girl skated by in her Care Bear skates, a new generation bloomed. I would have loved to know their thoughts. “There’s that Rogers’ girl.” “Who?” the other would answer. “You know the school teacher Mr. Rogers?” “His daughter.” “Oh.” “She’s pretty determined to skate around this block 100 times isn’t she?” “Those strawberries on her knees can answer that.”
I am thankful for my “Wonder Years” to be in Demopolis. I refer to my middle school time as the “wonder years” because like Kevin Arnold it was full of awkward moments, racing thoughts, and general confusion in who I was or was becoming. The old Marengo Theatre with its red seats was the place we hung out in those years. Sweaty palms and nervous glances were an instrumental part of that experience. The parties held in our parents’ garages were also a part of growing up. Did every town have that? The parents hung out inside and we danced as the CD player played. Boy Girl parties, Dave Matthews and Crash, and hormones mixed with Sunflower, Sun-ripened Raspberry, or Tommy Hilfiger (for some 14 year old guy, lol).
Lastly, the term I think most would associate with Demopolis as a place to grow up- safe. Demopolis was for the most part in my memory safe. Parents of friends had as much authority to discipline you as your own parents. I remember fearing for my life as I had to tell Mr. Barley I broke his window playing wall ball against the front of his home. His tone was so kind and never raised his voice. I felt something awful in the pit of my stomach when I approached him. We learned to take responsibility and own our mistakes.
There are so many memories about Demopolis that I could write a book (and maybe I will). The Westside baseball field also comes to mind as we walked around and around the fields to run into the boy on a bike who lived across the street in the Mauvilla Trailer Park. He was older and looked like Benny the Jet Rodrigues from the Sandlot. Oh and the confidence we had when named to the Dixie Youth All-Star team. We could sling some softballs and played with all our heart.
Demopolis is a special place and is truly the City of the People. I thank God I was raised in ol’ Marengo county. What’s your favorite memories of growing up in your home town?
Remember when you were in your 20s and everything seemed possible? I think that’s what self care should be.
I am trying to practice more. I started with a weekend getaway with my dear friends Russell and Matthew at Pensacola Beach.
Dinner, shopping, brunch, and an evening watching a movie – a perfect weekend. There was no rush and even a McDonald’s Diet Coke (if you know, you know). Most importantly, there was uninterrupted friend time.
I started to remember I could be fun and sans alcohol. These days, hot flashes are the worst mixed with even 2 glasses of wine.
Now, I am ready to come home to my husband and kiddos, fully energized and missing them.
We get lost in the shuffle of everyday life and lose a piece of ourselves slowly. I’m determined to get her back.
I am writing this to remind myself it’s okay to do these things when you can. Life should be lived in moments. I’m going to soak all of this in.
Now I’m ending my weekend my favorite meal breakfast. I’m sitting by myself thinking of all that’s to come, and I’m genuinely excited. It’s all possible. Living life to the fullest and loving yourself. It is- go now friend, book the trip, buy the shoes, and eat the damn blueberry pancakes.
I can hear the sound of the little bells that adorned her collar when she first came home with us. She hid in our laundry basket. She started as what appeared to be a normal-sized kitten, but within a week, her feet grew. She loved when we would make the bed, and she’d be under the sheets. She loved to sneak up on you and loved chirping at the birds in our big window in our first home. You could see the river in the distance.
She was our Maine Coon and would soon be a fixture in our lives for over 14 years.
When my husband went to law school and would study, she remained by his side, a constant study partner and companion. When we brought our oldest home, she stood on her hind legs and peered into the portable cradle at the newborn. She loved chewing on ribbon and our fake Christmas tree. She loved the challenge of a laser light.
She had a routine. Every morning, she’d be up by 6, singing the song of her people, indicating that it was time to eat. Her meow sounded more like a “hello?!”
She tolerated both boys during their toddler years and mustered up as much patience as she could. Near the end, she hissed more but never struck out. She’d grown arthritic. I knew that we were living on borrowed time.
Her favorite spot by her favorite person, my husband, is where she took her last breath. She did not ring in the new year with us; she left with a few hours to go before the new year began.
This morning was eerily silent. The routine was now broken and replaced with a new normal in which we will have to adjust.
Animals are a blessing from God, and boy, were we blessed to have her- Polly, the Maine Coon Princess Warrior. Arrived as a birthday gift from my mother-in-law to both my husband (and me) and left this earth on New Year’s Eve 2025.
We will miss you! Enjoy naps on clouds and a renewed sense of energy. Keep St. Peter on time when it’s time eat. Look after us and wait for us.
All the 2000s vibes this evening scrolling through memory lane looking at old Delia’s catalog photos and listening to Lithium on XM. 9
Am I too old to wear a long skirt with combat boots? Probably.
I wanted to dress like Audrey Hepburn and Diane Keaton. I wanted to dress like the models in Delia’s and Seventeen magazines.
I loved my Calvin Kleins. I loved my spaghetti strap shirts.
I loved my bell bottoms and my shirt from David’s Gallery.
I wanted to be different. My own person. I wanted my own style.
Now I’m 40 and still love clothes, but my style has changed to match job, but deep inside there is a Combat Boot Audrey Hepburn princess dying to make a comeback.
The Peach 