Tag: life

Food Fair Feet, a lobster tank, and Parr’s

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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?

Cancer Things

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Episode 2: Scan Anxiety

In two days, I’ll have my 5th PET scan since initially being diagnosed in 2021. The scan itself is relatively easy (albeit I hate not being able to eat). The tricky part of this game is purely mental. For me, it starts right about now (2 to 3 days prior). A kind of dread sets in. Remember, the cartoons, where the dark cloud would appear over the main character’s head? That’s me. However, I try my best not to let my anxiety interfere with my daily life.

I tell myself that this scan is a scheduled nap. As a mom, I can always appreciate some alone time and a quick snooze. I try to color my thoughts away on the way to Birmingham (yes, I am 40 with a coloring book, but it is a good distraction). I also like listening to Dateline, as Lester Holt tells the story of a murder. Surprise, surprise! It’s a family member. I comment to myself to humor myself, “What? I knew it was her or him!”

The reward after my scheduled nap is FOOD! I am much like my father. When our feet hit the floor, it’s time to eat, and for me, that also includes a Diet Coke (prefer out of the fridge in a can).

Then, there’s the wait for the oncologist to come in. The band Europe usually plays in my head- It’s the final countdown! I try to talk to my husband, who is by my side, but it’s hard. Mentally, I’m playing a tennis match in my head. What was the name of that commentator at the US Open? Mary Carillo? She’s commenting on my match. “Ashley has no symptoms, lost no weight, and is still active,” Mary tells John McEnroe. John adds, “That’s right, Mary. She shows no visible signs. We will have to wait and see what the oncologist says. You know, Mary, I’d smash a few more racquets if I had cancer.” Mary to John, “Indeed, John, indeed.” I try to silence Mary and John, but they are pretty persistent in their commentary, and no one wants to piss off John McEnroe.

After he comes in and explains the scan, I find a way to take it all in and prepare for questions that my family may ask.

On the way home, I’m mentally exhausted and try to nap. I try to process what I’ve been told. During the 2-hour ride, I try to prepare to be a mom again when we pick up the kids. Some days, I have to take a day for myself to feel normal again, but I try my best to get up and go to work like normal. My husband can sense on those rides there and back that it’s hard for me to be normal, act normal. I know it’s hard on him as well. There’s not much control we have over the situation, which, as humans, is what we naturally desire: control. In reality, there is only perceived control. It’s not to say all scans have been bad. It’s a different game when you are playing in the 9th inning.

The cycle repeats in the coming months as we prepare for another scan.

So, as the clock chimes like in Vecna’s house, I will wait for another scan. I’ll busy myself with writing, playing in forts built by master builder Anderson Coplin, and watching movies with William Michael. I will try to be as normal as possible.

Scan anxiety is real, but it will not defeat me. What Mary and John may have forgotten is that I, too, played tennis back in the day. I wasn’t too shabby. I will take what comes at me and hit it back. I will score the next point.

So obviously AI and so much younger than me, ha!

Cancer Things

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Episode 1: Medication Side Effects

Warning: This blog is not suitable for all audiences. Viewer discretion advised. This is my effort to understand my feelings and emotions as they relate to Stage 4 Cancer. I love Stranger Things.

With all treatments with all chronic diseases comes the dreaded side effects. If the disease was not enough, now you have side effects to deal with it too. Like those God awful side effects read and are portrayed in commercials, cancer medications are similar. This medication may cause drowsiness, weight gain, picking your nose in public, uncontrollable urge to slap someone, etc.

Okay, so it doesn’t cause nose picking or the urge to slap someone. But, the medication does cause one side effect that is not fun. It leads to irregularity- which means I can’t go or I have to Go. And not I can wait until I get my grocery pick up but now which means going into the store which was what I was trying to avoid. The lady in front of me, I am sure who is very kind, is taking her time headed to the same location. Bless her sweet soul, she doesn’t know but I’m dying, slowly and praying no one runs into me and ask how our Christmas was. Gosh, I love my small town but in these moments, I need to save the Hallmark moment for another time.

Whew, I make it by the grace of the Lord above. Part of the problem is that I need to calcium because I’m in menopause but can’t have too much because then I can’t go. Then, I am borderline diabetic which means I can’t eat a lot of carbs and you know what I love that doesn’t have a lot of carbs- cheese. I love cheese.

Therefore, I’ve got to do better but everything I love is bread, pasta and cheese. No no’s. Breaking habits is hard. Weight loss in early menopause even harder. I’m not complaining just explaining my reality.

So, what does one do, but get up and keep trying. Exercise, make new recipes that call for whatever the hell almond flour is. Choose to fight another day against the Mind Flayer, aka Cancer. Stay tuned to learn more about Cancer Things. Hopefully, I will defeat it once and for all, be an Eleven or sorts.

I’m living my own version of the Upside Down but I’m going to keep fighting. I’m going to turn on the 80’s and fight.

It doesn’t hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna feel how it feels? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna know, know that it doesn’t hurt me? (Yeah, yeah, yo)
Do you wanna hear about the deal that I’m making? (Yeah, yeah, yo)

Mom Guilt- The Queen of Empty Cups

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“You can’t pour from an empty cup.” Just you watch me. I am the Queen of the Empty Cups, your Royal Highness Ashley

Guilt appears throughout my day leaving me feeling overwhelmed and tired. Guilty for not working enough hours in the day before kid pick up arrives. Guilty for not wanting to play with my child at the end of the work day and wanting to rest. Guilty for eating this or that or not eating this or that. Guilty for purchasing something I wanted and not something that was for the kids or my husband. Guilty for not speaking up, guilty for speaking up. Guilty for not exercising, guilty for wanting more sleep. Guilty for wanting a career, to climb a ladder; guilty for going in on the weekends and taking a phone call after hours.

It’s almost a bad Dr. Suess story- will you be guilty in a box? Will you be guilty with a fox in a box? Guilty, I am.

When you are sick, the guilt feels even thicker. Guilty but now with a time frame. If x = time on earth and y= time spent, then z= is what you have to do despite feeling tired and wanting to free your mind of all its clutter of the day.

When and why did these feelings of guilt appear? When are we enough for ourselves? Why do we feel as if we have to carry the weight of everyone else on our shoulders?

I think the first step is to admit that we feel guilty and to remind ourselves that it’s okay to take care of ourselves. Remind ourselves that we shouldn’t feel guilty. One tiny step at a time. Saying “no” is okay; it doesn’t make you a bad mom, employee, etc.

Resting is a good idea to avoid being too run down and worse, sick. Acknowledging that you have no clue as to when your time will be and living your life is important.

As a type this blog, I am not saying this will be easy. Trust me. I am the worst at pouring from an empty cup until the proverbial cup shatters. I guess what I am saying is to give yourself grace, one moment at a time. With the holiday season here, remind yourself “I am enough.”

Put on some music, your favorite sweats, dance, laugh- love her too. Love her too.

Dear William Michael

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I watched in awe as you got up at 5:30 before school to practice soccer. Then, you asked to practice on Saturday, and I watched you practice. Neither of these times includes regularly scheduled practices with the high school team on Sundays and Mondays, nor games on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the league.

Your grit and determination at such a young age are truly inspiring. I told myself I’d start getting up when you do during the week to prepare myself for the next year when I plan to attend UAB and get my doctorate in Healthcare Leadership. My reasoning is that when I add coursework to my mom life and regular work, I’d have an extra hour to study, do laundry, pray, or whatever.

I remember the feeling I imagine you are feeling. The rush of playing a sport you love. For me, it was tennis. Like you, I’d get up early and play with Poppy. I loved how the racquet felt in my hand and the feeling of smashing the ball onto the other side or down the competitor’s throat, where they couldn’t return the shot. As the sweat poured from my brow, I wiped it off and reset to serve again, again, and again. I see this in you. I see your footwork, research in the best angle. You reset the ball again, again, and again. I think to myself, “Where did this kid come from?” Surely, not me. I’d like to take all the credit, but you are you.

I write this for myself selfishly, as I do not know what the future holds, but I do know I am here for whatever your plans may be with this sport or whatever you choose. I daydream that one day I am watching you in the stands when they call your name, and they happen to mention mine in association.

I am writing to let you know that I am incredibly proud of you. I cherish every moment we have together- in the car, watching scary movies, and watching you play your sport. I pray God gives me all the chances in the world to be a part of it.

You have inspired me to pursue what I’ve always wanted to do: a doctorate. Now, I have to muster my grit and prepare for the following year. I look to you for that motivation.

Together, at 5:30 AM, we will follow our dreams. This old lady will get her doctorate and maybe have an opportunity to teach college kids (a dream come true). You, my son, will play soccer at a higher level. I feel in my heart and know it in my mind.

Thanks for the inspiration and the reminder that dreams can come true, but they take hard work, perseverance, and determination. Something you already encompass. Don’t lose focus, my son. Don’t lose focus.

I love you, Mom.

Team Conrad vs. Team Jeremiah, a Wicked Weekend and rambling thoughts from a 40-year-old millennial…

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Team Conrad versus Team Jeremiah has been around since the beginning of my 8th grade year, when I once wrote on my notebook C or W with a question mark. For fear of finding out my two crushes, I secretly coded them by only placing the first letter of the prospectives’ first names. How brilliant was I? Lol. The Summer I Turned Pretty is a millennial dream. I think it’s Conrad’s hair as it mimics many of the covers of my Seventeen magazines in those days. Maybe it’s how the music intertwines the episodes much like the soundtrack of Dawson’s Creek. I was Team Pacey.

Maybe it comes from a need to find peace in this chaotic world that drags us millennials in. Since 2001 we’ve felt an uneasy that has not subsided. Whatever it is, I am here for it!

It’s nice to get caught up in something else for even a short period of time. After it ends next week, I’ll be searching for the next binge.

Whatever team you are on make sure you choose you too. I am learning that even at 40. Sometimes, we have to do things that bring us joy. It’s hard with work, family, kids but it makes you better when you can make yourself smile every once in a while. Team Ashley is going with friends to see Wicked on stage with friends. In college, in my attempt to be cool, I would have never admitted that I liked this story but as an adult, I have fallen in love with the characters, their development, etc. I watched Wizard of Oz (taped off television with commercials and all) a gazillion times according to my mom, so I guess it’s only fitting that I like Wicked.

Another lesson I’ve learned lately is that I can’t be everyone’s cup of tea because, “darling, I’m champagne!” It’s okay that things don’t always work out the way you planned because God has something better in store.

Spoiler alert, at the end of 8th grade, I chose C then ended up marrying a W. Life is like that. What may seem important at the moment changes as you change. I cherish every moment I have on this earth and the memories that made me who I am. For the most part, I don’t have regrets. Because to live is an awfully wonderful adventure, and I am glad to be here- the good, the bad and all of it. I am soaking it all in.

Let it Be

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I found myself this afternoon in a melancholy mood. I found The Wonder Years on Hulu and watched the first episode. In the first episode, Kevin Arnold starts his first day of Junior High. Winnie loses her brother to the Vietnam War. I wanted to cry. I had seen this episode at least a dozen times. It hit me differently today as I could see the loss of innocence in the death of her brother. I felt like innocence in today’s society has long been dead. When AI calls and threatens an elementary school on the first day, it’s a sad state of affairs, which we Demopolites all know too well from last week.

In these moods, I find myself yearning for a simpler time, pre-Columbine High School. I long for my children to grow up in the same world. Alas, when the towers came down in 2001 and the iPhone was created in 2007, there was no turning back.

I found myself ripping down old shingles off our shed that I’ve been wanting to knock down today. The only problem is I am a 5 feet 1 inch tall, 40-year-old woman who has no business ripping away at an old shed. With each swing and whack of the hammer, I released some frustrations out Twanda style. I am not sure why I get into such a state of unrest. I believe it’s genetically passed down from my grandmother, through my father, and to me.

Maybe it’s the anticipation of the next round of shots and visit to see the oncologist that has my mind in a mood. Perhaps it’s the menopause I was put in at 36. I’m not sure. I’ll get out of this funk. I talk to God about it. He knows already.

For now, I’ll reminisce, dive into writing, or into a book. I’ll miss the sense of wonder that existed so long ago. I might cry, laugh, and smile, or do all three. I’ll hug my boys, protect them a little longer. I’ll do what Paul said and let it be.

Yea! Alabama!

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I didn’t know what a straightener was until 2005. I moved into the sorority house in the fall of my junior year. I bought one and have been using one ever since. Gasp, that means I survived Rush with just a blow dryer. Aw, the inhumanity of it all! Living in the sorority house meant sharing a room with a roommate that contained your clothes, computer, personal belongings, and sleeping in a sleeping porch (basically a room with nothing but beds). The bathroom had multiple showers and sinks. We watched a lot of Sex in the City in those days in the sorority house from DVDs borrowed from a sister. All of a sudden, the guys I dated got nicknames like Carrie’s men. Once upon there was a “John” and another time a “Bartender”. Real names were not used to protect the guilty. I didn’t call long distance until after 9 PM when it was free. There wasn’t much texting, and Facebook was only available if you had an @bama.ua.edu or any other college address. You weren’t checking Facebook on your phone because it was probably a flip phone, a crackberry (my favorite), or a Razor. Pictures were blurry at best on your phone, and no one was posting their life story online- only a bunch of “poking” and writing on people’s walls. I miss old Facebook- no politics, just college fun.

Going out meant jeans and/or jeans skirt with a spaghetti-strap shirt, think The Hills from MTV. Game days meant cocktail dresses with heels, with flip flops in tow. We frequented the original Houndstooth, then the Red Shed when it came into town, the Booth, Venue, and, as freshmen, the Jupiter and 4th and 23rd. Wednesdays after chapter meant half wine and pizza downtown at Cafe Venice. Thursday nights were for El Rincon. One margarita would kick your tail. Some weekends, you went to Harry’s for a crazy bucket or to Nick’s in the Sticks for a Nicodemus and an $8 filet.

The Fall was the best time of the year at UA, even in the pre-Saban era of many coaches named Mike. You went to the game- you wanted to be there- win or lose. It didn’t matter. Homecoming pomps actually covered the front of your house and not some small side piece. You worked stuffing those holes in that chicken wire like your life depended on it as freshmen. Being an overall winner in Homecoming was a big deal in my sorority. We lost one year to another sorority and were mad. All I can say is that particular sorority had a ringer- daughter of the legendary Joe Namath; he rode on their damn float. All we could do to console ourselves (which was petty) was to say she looked like Joe, and that provided some type of solace. I apologize, Joe, and to your daughter. I cannot be held responsible for my 19-year-old self.

Formals meant Zaps and decorating a cooler and/or cup for your date and you. Pregaming happened before the bus, on the bus, and most of us slept on the way back. Chants at parties between classes were a thing.. Here’s to the Seniors, the Seniors in hopes we get laid! We were classy.

I met some of my closest friends back in those days, and I still talk to them today. Every time I do, I am transported back to Dixie Land Delight, Sweet Home Alabama, and Sweet Caroline. I am walking down sorority row, headed to class, at a bar with friends, or eating at Buffalo Phil’s because they take dining dollars. I am yelling “Roll Tide!” praying for a win and singing “Yea! Alabama!” I am eating at the Crimson Cafe (dining dollars), City Cafe, or the Waysider. I am dreading standing on a chair trying to clap in time with a dress on and doing a damn door song. I’m learning from my favorite professors in my favorite program in HES.

I’ll never forget my time at the University of Alabama. I’m grateful for that experience, and as the days count down to the Fall, I will remember a time and a place. I’ll smile. I’ll text my friends from those days. I’ll thank God for them. Roll Tide and yea, Alabama!

Rise Up (I will).

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One, two, three, four, and how many centimeters are each? What does a centimeter look like? Damn. Why can’t they just use inches? I’ve never been a big fan of math (your dad is a math teacher). Thoughts swirl around in my head like a tennis match —the thoughts are the tennis balls. In which is this located?

Two recent CT scans with contrast show some possible signs of recurrence of cancer; one area being my lungs. I’ve been using Chat GPT to read my reports; ironically, its explanation is more human-like, and the radiology report seems more AI.

I was skipping down the yellow brick road again, and now I’ve veered off back into the dark forest. I thought we had killed this wicked witch; I thought the broomstick was in my hand.

My first DNA test was done on Thursday, and in ten days, it will show whether or not the cancer is back. It is referred to as ctDNA. I also have a pending date for a biopsy. The issue is the tissue. So, I’m chasing the rabbit back into Wonderland, so to speak, with peak highs – “I’ve got this!” to “Is this it?” Satan takes pleasure in the unknown, so I busy myself at work and home, but at night, the tennis match starts over.

I know that my mind and faith are my biggest weapons. I deploy them as often as I can. I am only human, so it waxes and wanes. 40 stares down the road next week with many, many questions. Hopefully, answers will come soon, but until then, I choose to live and rise up despite the uncertainty, fear, and fatigue (the kind that comes with dread).

I hesitated to share this time for some reason. It feels like I have to confess that I failed. However, it’s not that I have failed (I repeat over and over again). God gives us all battles. This is my battle.

We don’t know what we don’t know. I pray it’s not cancer. I accept that it is probably cancer. I call out to my lion, tin-man, scarecrow, and Toto. They, without hesitation, join me to find the yellow brick road again and prepare for battle again. I can’t do this alone. I dust off my ruby slippers. I let the rabbit run away as answers will come soon enough. I rise up (and I will continue).

Grace and Joy

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I was talking with a dear friend earlier this week. She needed encouragement from a mistake she had made. I told her to give herself grace as she works hard. I think women need to be offered the gift of grace often, especially during the holidays. Women typically take on the bulk of the shopping for presents if not all and tend to host families. This additional stress coupled with every day work and childcare can take the joy out of the season.

I’m not expert on work life balance. In my twenties, I thought it was possible but now as I face my forties, I realize that sometimes you have to triage situations and do the best you can. I think by allowing yourself grace and accept the imperfections (no my house does not look like the cover of House Beautiful), you can invite a new friend in- joy. I saw a poem earlier in the week that exemplified Joy. She does not look for perfection but rather in the beautiful messiness of life.

Women, I invite you to accept two new friends in your life- Grace, accepting you are not perfect and are doing your very best and Joy, enjoying the little things and not waiting for the big things to happen to be happy. In the end, it’s all a choice. I choose Grace and Joy.

This week has been particularly exhausting as our little guy had his tonsils and adenoids out. It’s been tough to give myself both grace and to find joy. However, they are good friends that found me when I needed them the most.

Merry Christmas to all the women out there that are the magic of the season for their families. Thank you! And when you are exhausted and think I just wish.. (insert here), remember your two best friends-Grace and Joy.

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