Why I Was Arrested... At 15.

Okay so this is the first time I've actually blogged by request. Everybody wants to know why I was arrested at 15.

So I've poured myself a glass of wine... And will now regail you with my tale. Well, experience... As best as I can remember. The adreneline that night had me so high, I'm suprised I remember what I do.

Okay so I was 15, a freshman in high school, and living in Woodland Park, Colorado.

I never had a good relationship with my step-father. He was a drunk. We fought constantly. He liked to boss me around like a drill sergent and tell people that I was his daughter, to which I would quickly interject that he was only my step-father and I had a real, honest to God father.

I never quite understood why he wanted to claim me as his, yet hated me so much. He even asked me to let him adopt me once... I never told my father. But my father probably would have choked my step-father.

My step-father was not the nicest guy. He stabbed me in the leg with a pen once, for talking too loud in a waiting room. He would yank me back by my hair if I ever walked away from him in the middle of a confrontation. He used to give me indian burns or pinch me or twist my arms back if I talked back. And he looked at me like I was a piece of meat and would find ways to "accidentally" touch me in inaappropriate places. So I wore baggy pants and shirts to hide my figure.

And I didn't like bringing any of my pretty girl friends home with me. Because my step-father would look them up and down like a piece of meat, so creepily that my friends would want to leave.

One of my weekly chores was to vacuum the entire house. Well, if I ever left tracks in the carpet from the vacuum cleaner, he would make me re-vacuum the entire space over again.

He was OCD. Ever seen, Sleeping with the Enemy?

Well when I first saw that movie, I knew that that creepy guy reminded me of someone. My step-father.

Anyways... I sort of had to explain my step-father to explain why I did what I did.

I was so tired of living with the man and my mother constantly taking up for him that I decided that I was going to get out.

Now if I had been rational, I would have called my father, here in Georgia and said, "Hey Dad, I want to come live with you." And my dad would have bought the next airplane ticket east.

But I had this guilt thing about my mom. I never liked the idea of leaving her all by herself with my step-father.

I wasn't sure what all he was capable of, but I didn't want my mother to be the guinea pig, if you understand.

My best friend Britt, had a very similar step-father. Except hers was more physically abusive. We both wanted out and wanted out fast.

So at exactly 2 a.m. on April the 4th of 2004, I snuck up the stairs and into the kitchen were my step-father left his keys hanging on the wall, and stole his car, a Geo Prism.

I picked up Britt. We packed our clothes, food and stolen money and hit the dusty trail. We stopped at a Wal-Mart in the Springs(Colorado Springs)to buy a map and decided to head somewhere out east.

We didn't even leave good-bye notes. I drove the car, even though I was 15 and didn't even have my learner's liscence then. So I swirved quite a bit. And because of all the adrenaline shooting through my veins, ran a couple of red lights.

We headed out of Colorado.

As the sun was rising that morning, I started crying violently behind the wheel, waking Britt up, who had been asleep in the passenger seat.

"What's wrong?" Britt sat up fast and looked at me.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve. "I can't believe what we just did to our moms."

About this time, I knew my mother would be heading downstairs to wake me for school and I could only imagine what would be going through her head when she didn't find me there.

When she didn't find me anywhere.

Well, I pulled off the interstate at the nearest exit. We had made it almost to the Kansas border.

I knew I neaded to get to a phone and call my mom and tell her I was okay. I figured I would say I was sorry and beg for forgiveness and everything would be alright.

(This was before I had a cell.)

I parked the car in a parking lot, got out and walked to the nearest office building.

When I walked inside, I was still crying. I asked a woman sitting at a desk if I could borrow her phone.

She gave me a bizaar look, but agreed and led me to a small office and waited as I dialed my moms number.

Ring. My step-father answered.

Great.

"Uh, can I talk to mom?" I was still crying.

"Amanda?! Where are you?!" He shouted through the phone.

"Uh...." I looked over at the woman. "Um, what town are we in?"

The woman now looked thouroughly shocked as she answered, "Limon." (Pronounced Lime-on.)

I repeated that to my step-father and he asked me where I was calling from and if Britt was with me.

I once again turned to the woman to ask what building we were in. But I can't remember now what it was. But I told my step-father.

"Okay, just stay where you are."

I paniced. What? I wanted to talk to my mom. To see her. "What? Why don't I just drive back home?"

"Don't you go anywhere!" My step-father hollered into the phone.

Click.

I began to sob. The woman handed me a box of tissues. I blew my nose and walked back out to the car where Britt was waiting.

"So what happened?" I was climbing back into the driver's seat when she asked.

I still had tears in my eyes. "I don't know. ________ [step-father] said not to go anywhere."

It wasn't two minutes later when two police cars pulled into the parking lot and walked over to the car.

Britt and I were both cuffed, pat down, and put into two seperate patrole cars.

I was in complete shock. I was being arrested? I just wanted to go home.

We were put into holding cells and then questioned by family and children services.

Britt and I both knew what they were after, so we simply told them that we were just goofing off. Neither of us mentioned our step-fathers.

Then, family and children services came and took us to another building, where we were locked in a room with glass walls, where people walking down the halls on either side could look in and watch us. There were two sofas in the room and a bunch of coloring books and building blocks.

I felt like a hampster, or a goldfish, or whatever. Like the people walking down the halls who looked in and starred were waiting for me to do something like walk on the walls or implode.

I laid on one of the sofas and cried. Britt sat in the middle of the floor picking off her chipped nail polish.

For twelve hours, we stayed like this.

Eventually our mothers did come bail us out of the trouble we had gotten ourselves in. My step-father loathed me more than ever and threatened to press charges. And my mother never trusted me again. I was grounded for the rest of my life as far as they were concerned.

When my mother handed me the phone later that day, she said, "You explain to your father what happened today."

My father listened and just sighed. "So you ready to come home?"

I cried. "Not yet."

"Well, next time. Just call me. It'll save you another trip to jail."

35 Things You May Not Know About Me.

I have no good blog material for tonight so... I came up with a list! Yay! What would we do without random useless lists to fill that empty void of a blank virtual page?

1) I burp a lot when I'm nervous.

2) The song, "I Need You Tonight" by the Backstreet Boys makes me cry.

3) I was arrested my first and only time at 15.

4) I cut my own hair.

5) I drive a '99 Mustang.

6) When I was kid, I listened to my Step-Mom's cassette of Rick Astley until it had weird warps in the middle of songs. They got so bad you could hardly make out the lyrics. Yeah, I was that obsessed.

7) I cry when my dad says anything stern to me.

8) I have Panic Disorder. Which means I have unpredictable panic attacks that tend to scare strangers.

9) I had to have my gallbladder removed 2 days after my sixtenth birthday. I went to the ER because I thought I was having a heart attack... But no, my gallbladder had kicked the bucket.

10) I've always wanted to try out for American Idol, even though I SUCK at singing. Lol. (My 15 minutes of fame maybe?)

11) My family tree on my father's side goes back to Mary Todd Lincoln. (Yeah, Abraham Lincoln's crazy wife...)

12) I'm 1/8 Cherokee Indian, from my mother's side.

13) I can't stand turkey, chocolate milk, watermelon, bannana popsickles, or Dr Pepper.

14) I have 2 sisters and 3 brothers.

15) I share a birthday with Michaelangelo.

16) I like to drink A1 Steak Sause from the bottle.

17) I'm a great public speaker. I love it. But I suck at one-on-one conversations.

18) I don't carry a purse with me when I go shopping. I just put my wallet in my pocket. I don't like shopkeepers to think I'm shoplifting just because I carry a huge purse.

19) Taking Benadryl is like having 5 cups of coffee for me.

20) Chemistry was my best subject in high school.

21) I flunked English 1101 my first year of college. Figures...

22) I've kept my hair dyed constantly since I was in 9th grade... I have no idea what my natural hair color looks like.

23) I quit my job at Gap after a year, because I hated having to pressure customers to open up Gap credit accounts.

24) I've run into 3 celebrities in public. I met Billy D. Williams, of the old Star Wars movies, while working at Gap. I met Ron White, the comedian, at a Cracker Barrel. And I met AJ McLean, of the Backstreet Boys, at a Wal-Mart.

25) The summer after I graduated high school, I went on my first mission trip to Pedras Negras, Mexico. That trip changed my life forever.

26) I was bullied in middle school and high school by a popular jock. Later on when I was a Sophomore, he tried to apologize for the things he'd done, like egging my house and making me cry on the bus, but I blew him off. A few months later, he hung himself. I've always felt guilty about having not accepted his apology.

27) The only time I've ever received two dozen roses, was from my father.

28) I lived in Woodland Park, Colorado, two miles down the road when the "Texas Seven" were found and subdued. School was canceled that day.

29) I've lived in Maui, Hawaii in a town called Pukalani. It sucked.

30) I love eating raw bread dow.

31) I was that awkward kid in elementary school who huffed cement glue. :)

32) My mother has been married and divorced four times. My father has been married four times and divorced three.

33) I own well over 600 books.

34) I have double-jointed fingers and elbows.

35) I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my mouth. (I will Vlog this one day and prove it.)

What in the Name of all that is Sane?

I had just passed out on my dad's couch. I'd been at work all day. I was tired.

So after I raided his fridge for something to eat, I decided to crash.

I had just dozed off when my father comes crashing through the front door, coughing, and high-tailing his way to the laundry room.

What in the world?

"Dad?" I holler after him.

I can hear him coughing all the way from the other end of the house.

I push myself up into a sitting position. My eyesight still a little blury from sleep. "Dad, are you okay?"

Puuuussssssssssssssshh. His radio squawks to life.

The dispatcher's voice fills the silence. It's Station 1's district. Not Station 2.

That means Dad's not going anywhere.

When my father reemerges from the laundry room, he had changed his clothes, but his face was blotchy and black.

I wrinkle my nose. "You smell awful. And have you looked at your face?"

My father swips his hand across his face and then examines it. And then he just shakes his head.

"What happened?"

As my father callopses into his worn, leather chair, he sighs. "Long day..."

I raise my eyebrows. "You look worse than just your average long day."

My father is a farmer and a first responder fire fighter. Hard work is no stranger to him.

He swipes his hand across his forehead and coughs. "I got a call while I was working on the brooders in number three chicken house."

He doesn't say anything else.

I prod. "And?"

Sighing again he says, "And it was a house fire off Plainview. So I dropped what I was doing and decided to just head over there, since I was only two minutes away, instead of heading to the station to grab my gear. The dispatcher said that whoever called 911 told 'em there was someone still inside."

He stops again and clicks on the television. The Weather Channel. He keeps his eyes glued to the screen but mutes the volume.

"And when I get to the address. I don't see any smoke. Just a man standing on the front porch talking on a cell phone."

He stops and coughs.

"Okay... So no fire... So why do you look like you just crawled out of a chiminey?"

My father smiles. Slightly.

With his eyes still glued to the television, "Well, I went up to the man and asked him if anyone had called 911. And he said yeah, but that there was no need for me to be there. That there was nothing I could do."

My mouth fell open. "What a moron! Why did he call 911 to begin with?"

My father looks over at me. "He wasn't the one who called 911."

"Okay... So who was?" This was turning into a weird story.

My father shrugs his shoulders. "Nobody knows as of yet. But I asked the man if there was anyone inside. And he said his daughter was. So I pushed past the man to get to the front door, but he blocked me. I told him I needed to get inside but he said the door was locked."

He stops again.

Am I gonna have to syphone it out of him?

"And?"

"And I pushed him out of the way and the door wasn't locked, so I shoved my way in. Only I had to crawl on my hands and knees. The smoke was too thick to see anything. I felt my way down a hallway. I shouted and shouted, but no one answered back. By this time, I hear Donny hollering for me."

Donny is a sherif's deputy, and my father's best friend.

"When I turned around I could see Donny crawling towards me down the hall. I tried turning the knob to the first door in the hall, but it was locked. Me and Donny decide to kick the door in. And when we did, we found the man's daughter."

My father's eyes are back on the rolling forcast on the tube.

"And what, you guys got her out?"

He coughs again. "No, she was lying on a bed, engulfed in flames and I didn't have any of my gear on. She was dead by the time me and Donny got there anyways."

I'm completely shocked. "So that man just let his daughter burn alive? He didn't even try to get her out or put out the flames?!"

"He was high, Mandie." My father looks back over at me.

High? "He was high?"

"Yes, that house was used as a meth lab."

My mouth falls open. "So you just went into a burning building without your gear on. On top of the fact that it was a meth lab and could have exploded at any moment?"

"Comes with the territory."

"Dad, please promise me you won't go into anymore burning meth labs..."

He looks at me and smiles. "What if you were the one trapped inside a burning meth lab?"

I laugh. "Okay, but that's the one exception."

Until Death Do Us Part.

Feburary 14th, of 2010:

Snowflakes were falling and dancing in the wind. Swirling and twirling the world delectly into a wonderland.

Children were running around in the snow, with chocolate smears on their faces, trying to gather enough snow for a snow man. Some of them with their bright faces turn up towards the heavens with their mouths wide open.

Maybe their first taste of snow.

It was like the inside of some magical snow globe.

Men bustled around town, in such a hurry to buy whatever flowers were left at the supermarket for forgotten lovers and mothers.

The wind that blew and tried to make a popsickle of your nose, was neutralized by all the love in the air.

All the bouquets of flowers. All the boxes of chocolates. All those precious looks exchanged between lovers.

I'm not sure if that's what the world looked like to him that Sunday.

That beautiful Sunday.

Maybe he didn't want to look at the world. Maybe it hurt too badly, as he sat at his kitchen table writing and rewriting letters he'd written before.

He signed them. He licked and sealed them. Maybe he kissed them.

I wonder if he even saw the snow that Sunday as he drove across town. Or maybe he thought the snow fitting for that day.

I wonder if he had tears slipping down his old wrinkled face.

Maybe he was smiling through the tears.

Or what if he was just smiling? Maybe all his tears were dried up.

Like a well gone dry...

There was no trouble finding a parking spot. There was no one there but him.

Reaching over into the passanger seat, he grabbed up that bouquet of roses before stepping out into the snow.

He walked slowly, like old men do.

Did he look around? Did he say a prayer?

Or were his eyes glued to that one place? That one place where all his love was suppose to have stopped.

But never had.

What was it he had vowed?

"Until death do us part..."

Yeah, that was it. That was the hard part.

Death had parted. But love had not stopped. It had never even wavered.

Not for a moment.

Slowly, reverently, the old man lay the roses at the wife's final resting place.

He leaned forward, placing his forehead against the cold stone that held her name. Her date of birth. And the day she had been taken from him.

"A wonderful mother, a treasured wife..."

A treasured wife. No, she had been more than that. She was his life.

The beat of his heart.

Across the street, a young woman watched as her little daughter made snow angels in their front yard. And through the falling snow, she watched as the old man made his way across the cemetery with a bouquet of roses in his weathered hands.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she watched him kneel down at a grave.

She looked down at her own wedding ring and her growing belly. Growing new life inside. A manifestation of the love between her and her husband, the one making funny faces at her through the front window.

Gigglying and waving back, she posed for him in her huge winter coat over her huge belly.

He winked and blew her a kiss.

As she blew him one in return, she could see her breath float above her hand.

A frozen kiss.

That was the moment when she heard the gun shot.

Her daughter screamed. She jumped. Her husband appeared at the door.

She turned to peer back over across the road at the cemetery.

Where he had been kneeling just moments before, the old man was now slumped on the ground.

The above is a rough interpretation of what happened on Valentine's day this year in my town.

The children of the old man said that he had been complaining of heart problems but that the doctors had found nothing.

His children said, that he had said the doctors were idiots. There was something wrong with his heart.

It was broken.

The woman, the only eye-witness to the man's suicide, said she would never regard Valentine's Day the same ever again.

Michael Buble---> Swoon.

I'm in love with Michael Buble. Is this crazy?

Haha. I mean I'm married.

But everytime I hear one of his songs on the radio, my heart skips a beat.

I'm in love with the man's voice. And his songs are just so, so freakin' romantic.

Swoon.

One of my husband's best friends even looks like Michael Buble.

I swear everytime I see David, I'm like, OMG!

Lol. I'm not kidding.

One day I'm gonna figure out a way to inconspiculously snap a picture of David and prove that he's like Buble's long lost twin or something.

Anyways, I have no good blog material for tonight, which is why I'm confessing my love for Michael Buble.

I'm currently listening to his song, "Save the Last Dance." And eating birthday cake. Today. Or more correct to say, since it's like past midnight now, yesterday was my mother's birthday.

She's now 54. And I'm starting to feel old. Just because she'd getting old.

Not that she acts it or remotely looks it, but still...

Anyways, adios. I'm off to do more swooning.

Swoon.

Miss Audrey.

One of my three nieces.

It Ain't That Bad.

"Aw c'mone, Mandie, it ain't that bad." Daring me to take a dip, my husband held out his can of Copenhagen.

Now, I've had my share of cigarettes, and they weren't really for me. Plus, all that nicotine brought on way too many panic attacks.

My family's convoy of four cars: a Ford van, a Mitsubishi, a Ford F250, and my husband's Hummer H3; had just pulled out of the Cracker Barrel parking lot where we'd had way too many pancakes and way too much sweet tea.

We were now following my father, driving the van, trying to find a gas station with an air pump to fix my brother's tire on the Mits.

As he stops the car at a red light, my husband urges me again. "What happened to that adventurous girl I met in high school?" The right side of his bottom lip sticks out a little where he always puts his dip in.

I smirk and cross my arms over the seatbelt. "One of us had to grow up."

My husband laughs, "Alright, you chicken." He was starting to put the lid back on the can when I snatch it from his hand.

I peered down into that little round can of black, stinky stuff and swallowed. This was going to be gross.

I looked back over at my husband, who's eyes had grown a bit wide. Apparently, he hadn't expected me to take his dare.

I smile at his shocked face. "Okay, so how do you do this?"

He laughed. "Are you serious?"

As a heart attack. I wasn't about to be called a chicken. And my father had dipped for as long as I could remember and my husband had for years. My brother did also, and he swallowed. He never spit.

I cocked my eyebrows at my husband. "I ain't no pinchy pollo." I hold the can up. "So how you do this?"

When he stops laughing at my stupid Spanish, he proceeds to show me that you pinch a good bit of the tobacco between your fingers and squeeze thight.

Easy enough.

Then, he shows me how to open my lips wide enough to stuff the wad between my cheeck and lower teeth and then squeeze my mouth shut and mash the mass of sour mush with my tongue to make it stay in place.

Easy enough.

Then, I proceeded to spit into his dip bottle every five seconds.

A few minutes later it tastes really bad. "Ew, is it suppose to taste like this?"

Husband: "Yup."

A few minutes after that, my throat is really starting to burn. "Is my throat suppose to burn like this?"

"Hay no, cochina." My husband looks at me like I just told him I was gay. "You're not suppose to swallow it!"

I glare at him. "Like I want to? I'm spitting every five seconds, but it's still draining down the back of my throat."

"Okay, use your tongue to push it up closer to your lips. Get it away from the back of your mouth."

Okay. Easy enough. But that's when the world starting spinning. Everything was spinning.

And apparently, I found something very funny. Because all of the sudden I started laughing and couldn't stop.

"Chingado, Mandie! Spit it out! You are way too buzzed!" My husband shoves his hand in front of my face.

"Wait!" I'm still laughing. "Is this what happens to you everytime you dip?"

His face wrinkles up for a second and I find it hilarious and go into histarics again. "No. You get used to it after a while."

I feel as high as a kite and my face it completely numb. My heart feels likes it's beating 100 beats per minute, yet I feel like I'm about to faint.

"Freddy! Why didn't you tell me about this before? This feels awesome!" I go back to laughing.

"You're not going to feel so awesome in a little while. You should probably spit that out here in a few minutes." My husband gets all serious.

"What? No way! This is awesome..."

By this time, my father has found a gas station with an air pump and we all pull in. As soon as the car comes to a stop and I see my brother and father get out of their cars to work on the tire, I open my door.

"Where do you think you're going?" My husband had a death grip on my shoulder.

"Uh, to ask my dad why in the world he didn't tell me about this stuff before?" Duh.

"You aren't gonna be able to walk like that."

I shove my body towards the door and out of my husband's grip. I fall my way out of the Hummer and find that, indeed, my husband was right. I could barely put one foot in front of the other.

The concrete was spinning.

I stumble my way over to my father and brother knelt down by the almost flat tire. "Dad, why didn't you tell me about this stuff before?"

My father looks up at me a little confused.

I sway a little and my brother catches me before I kiss the concrete. I think he smelled the tobacco on my breath. "Amanda, do you have a dip in?"

I smile, probably with tobacco in my teeth and all. "Sure do."

My father stands up. "You better spit it out. You're gonna hit the ground if you don't. Not to mention you're gonna be sicker than a dog."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

I turn back towards the Hummer and see my husband propped against the bumper watching me.

I pass the van, with my grandmother and step-mother in it, right when I felt the need to spit. I bent over just a little to spit. But it must have been a little too far because I just kept going.

And there I was lying on the concrete, laughing my butt off at myself and how insane I felt, when my grandmother threw her door open. "Amanda Kate West! Do you have snuff in?"

This I found even more histarical. "Sure do."

And this my, prim and proper, grandmother found even more histarical because she nearly fell out of the van laughing. My step-mother had to pull her back in and my husband had to come haul me off the ground and back into the car.

Once he had my seatbelt on, he held out his hand. "Spit it out."

By now, I didn't feel so good anymore. Sure I still felt like I was flying, but my stomach was churning and burning.

"Fine." And I spit the wad into his hand.

When they had finished fixing my brother's tire, five minutes later, and started rolling again towards the highway, the worst nausea hit me.

I swore I was going to blow pancake chunks everywhere.

My huband felt like it was his fault. "I shouldn't have dared you to do that."

I lay my head back against the cold window and breathed slow. "It's okay. It was fun while it lasted."

Forty-five minutes later, somebody needed to take a potty-break and we were getting off the exit heading toward the nearest gas station. I threw up a "Thank you, Lord" as we pulled in.

I headed straight for the Sprite and a pack of Rolaids.

When I emerged from the gas station with what I hoped was going to cure me of this dip-hangover, my father was standing outside with my husband and brother.

And my father can't resist. "Freddy said you turned green but didn't vommit."

I glare at my husband. "No. But I wish I had. All over his interior."

My husband laughs.

My father laughs too. "Did I not ever tell you about the first time I dipped?"

No, apparently oh wise father, that is one life lesson you left out.

I shook my head.

My father laughs again. "Well, I was on top of the house, fixing the roof with my ex-father-in-law when he offered me a dip."

My mouth fell open. "On top of the house?"

My dad laughs harder. "Yeah, on top of the house. Imagine being on top of a house when everything starts spinning. I nearly fell off."

By this time, my brothers and sisters have had a good laugh over my experience and we're all headed back to our cars to continue the road trip.

I had just pulled open my car door when I hear my father call from the van, "You sure you don't want another dip?" I see him pull his can from his back pocket.

"Hell to the no!" I yell back.

And then I hear my grandmother laughing histarically again from somewhere in the back of the van.

My Brain Hurts.

Alrighty, well I've had like three ginomous cups of tea... And I've gotten absolutely nothing accomplished except for finding a couple of cool new blogs to foller. (No I did not mistype that. That's my southern drawl coming out.)

This week is about to get a little insane.

Starting: Tonight.

So if for some reason I don't blog for about a week, here's why.

Tonight: I have to finish one of my short stories. That means finishing last chapter. Proofreading the whole freaking thing. And then printing it out. Two copies.

I will be up all night.

I have to finish it because a local church wants to use my story as the jumping board for a Bible study.

Then, the second copy, I'll be sending to a publisher. (Keep your fingers crossed for me?)

Tomorrow: Have to run to Office Depot to grap supplies I will need for what I described above.

I have an appointment to get my tattoo touched up. (Gonna be fun.)

I have to drive down to Kennesaw to buy a new ski jacket, because I lost my last one.

I also have to babysit my four month old niece.

I will also have to buy my sister a present for her birthday. Which will be Wednesday. I just loooove waiting until the last minute.

I will also be putting in a lot of research due to the curiosity this blogger, whom I follow, has caused for me. I was raised Baptist/Non-denominational. And now I'm beginning to wonder if maybe the protestant thing is a bit off-the-wall and maybe Catholisism isn't as crazy as it sounds.

Don't worry people I'm not questioning my faith. I've been praying and asking for God's guidance on this one.

Same Jesus. Same God. Same faith. Just a different way of approaching it.

Family would freak if they found out though. Haha.

Wednesday: I have to be at that church that wants to use my story for the first night of their study to introduce myself, tell background story about said story, and then get feedback. (Hopefully positive feedback.)

Also, it will be my sister's 19th birthday so we'll be going out to eat later.

I've also got to get all my clothes washed and packed and ready to go for Thursday.

Thursday: I will be heading off to the mountains with my entire family. Brothers, sisters, dad, step-mother, grandmother, nieces and nephews.

Hopefully this trip will be awesome and not totally insane due to the amount of family going and being cooped up together in a cabin for a long weekend.

And hopefully, weather conditions will be good enough to allow me to get some much-missed snowboarding in!

Sunday: Heading back home from mountains.

Whether or not there will be blogs between now and then is totally unpredictable.

Sorry for the press pause, Folks. But that's life, I guess.

Genuine Vs Superficial

Gen-u-ine

-adjective

1) Possessing the claimed or attributed character, quality, or origin; not counterfeit; authentic; real

2) Free from pretense, affection, or hypocrisy; sincere

Su-per-fi-cial

-adjective

1) Of or pertaining to the surface

2) External or outward

3) Concerned with or comprehending only what is on the surface or obvious

4) Shallow; not profound or thorough

5) Apparent rather than real

6) Insubstantial or insignificant


I like to think that I am a genuine person. That I stand up for myself, for my belief, for what’s right, for my faith.

But many times that’s not the case.

“Obama’s going to be a great president.” My friend smiles and continues. “’Bout time this country voted in a black man…”

I wanted to punch her in the face. I want to scream that it was reverse racism.

But I didn’t. I smiled and nodded my head like I hadn’t voted for McCain.

“Biggest damn mistake this country’s ever made.” The man shakes his head. “Voting in a black man.”

I wanted to punch him in the face. I wanted to scream that he was a racist bigot.

I would have voted for Obama had he been Republican, regardless of his race.

But I didn’t say that. I just smiled and nodded my head, making me just as much a bigot as that man himself.

Ladies walk into the hair salon all the time complaining about how our state is overrun with Mexicans.

I want to rip their hair out and ask them how they would like to try and survive a day in Mexico.

And I don’t mention the fact that I’m married to one.

I just smile and nod my head like I agree, when inwardly I’m screaming at myself for being just another hypocrite and betraying my husband.

Because he’d never stand for it.

He’d never let people talk about white people the way I let others talk about Mexicans.

But I’d rather not rock the boat.

I’d rather smile and just kick myself about it later.

Sometimes I feel like it’s so much easier to be superficial.

I’d rather hide behind make-up and the “right” clothes, than become the talk of the town or become gossip at my church for wearing jeans to Sunday morning service.

I don’t ever say, “God doesn’t care what I look like or if I wear jeans…”

Because I’d rather not rock the boat.

“Oh, you’re in school to become a hair stylist?” I see the laughter in her eyes. “Wow. That’s so… Great. My daughter’s away at KSU for pharmaceuticals.” She has a smirk on her face.

“Oh that’s so cool.” And I flip my hair and pretend to be the airhead she already thinks I am.

I don’t say that just because I want to do hair, means I don’t have any brains, or that I had a higher grade in Biology and Chemistry in high school than the freaking Valedictorian.

Why? Because it’s easier being superficial.

And I love to be carrying the latest handbag from Coach or Michael Kors, or Kate Spade, or Guess… You name it.

But what for?

So I don’t feel like I’m missing out in the world of superficial girls everywhere?

So I feel like I fit in.

It’s easier being superficial.

I don’t have to fight or stand up for anything.

But today, I felt nauseous at the thought of laughing at a racist joke.

So I didn’t.

And I got some funny stares. And I felt my face turn red. And I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t.

But I didn’t laugh just because.

And I felt something. Maybe a break through.

I felt an inner peace. Maybe God was nodding his head at me saying, “That’s it, daughter.”

But I felt something. I felt what it must be like to live a genuine existence.

One where you are who you are. You don’t take crap off of other people and you don’t just sit by and watch Right being beaten to a pulp by Wrong without having at least tried to do something about it.

So, I’m going to try just a little harder everyday to be genuine. To be me.

To be Amanda West, not just another face.

To be the Christian, the woman, the sister, the daughter, the wife, the writer, the dreamer, the Republican, the snowboarder, the horrible cook, the shampoo girl that I am.

Not a plastic, air headed, stupid-grinning superficial version of the real me.

What about you?

Be Stupid.

Okay, I have an addiction to LUCKY Magazine. I love fashion. Pure fashion.

I hate reading Cosmo and Glamour and Marie Claire and having to skip through all the sex articles.

I like to read about fashion. Just fashion. So hence, why I read LUCKY.

Anyways, so this month I was flipping through the March 2010 edition with Keri Russell on the cover and I come to an advertisement.

What magazine doesn't have 'em?

I almost skipped right over it and onto the next page until I glanced down to flip the page and saw these words at the bottom of the article: Be Stupid.

Do what?

So, that's all I have for today. Really the ad just really through me for a loop.

We're humans. Do we really need a reminder to "be stupid"?

Dear Love,

I wrote this a while back. Thought I'd post it since this is love month...

Dear Love,

I’m a hopeless romantic. I admit, what you’ve heard about me is true.

I have ridiculous dreams about what love should be, Darling.

You know that story, the one about the Princess who gets rescued by her Knight in Shining Armor?

Mmmm, or just a Mr. Darcy would do it for me.

Maybe, an Edward Cullen (book version, thank you very much).

But here you are, Love, a real man.

A real, live red-blooded male. Who doesn’t shave on a regular basis and forgets my birthday and Valentine’s Day.

And here I am, Love, a real woman.

With bad hairs days, bitchy days, cellulite, and love handles.

Not exactly a Megan Fox, Love.

Love, can you promise me forever? Can you promise me a lifetime when we cannot even see tomorrow?

The Dear Lord himself, doesn’t even promise us tomorrow, simply the right now.

I will admit, real life has instilled doubts in me about love.

It’s done a number on my romantic fantasies about men who want more than just sex.

How can you promise me tomorrow?

Love, and what if I were to get fat? Or all my hair fall out? Or by some freak accident was mangled so badly, as to be grotesque looking…

Could you still promise me forever?

And, Love, what happens when we forget what we have together?

What about those moments when we no longer want forever together?

Will we still hang on?

Can we still promise forever, then?

And what about when you catch your breath. Mouth falling open a fraction of an inch, eyes growing a bit wider.

And I look up to see what’s happened. But you’re not looking my way.

Upon turning to search for what’s kidnapped your attention, my shoulders fall a bit and that sparkle in my eye fades a shade.

The mouth of that inner voice I’ve been able to keep duck-taped shut tonight, just ripped free of its bondage.

The catalyst? That beau-tiful woman who just waltz in and single-handedly made papier-mâché of my self-esteem.

What then, Love?

Not exactly my picture perfect love story… But are there any out there?

And what about when we’ve escalated from throwing pillows, to throwing shoes, to throwing whatever we can get our hands on?

And neither one of us is throwing under-handed…

What then?

Can we still promise forever when life crashes in around us?

Will we still hold onto one another?

What about after forever?

What if we keep our promise of forever and this love turns out to be a success?

If indeed, we spend an entire lifetime together, without actually acting upon fantasies of killing one another with obscenely large steak knifes, then when we both finally arrive on the Other Side?

Will you still want me then, Love?

Because I for one might, (and only might, I’m making no guarantees here, Love) look you up.

We Shall Nev'r Surrender.

That man was my grandfather in his WWII days. --->

Today, I miss my PawPaw horribly. I'm so unsure about the future and so tired and depressed lately. My PawPaw always knew exactly what to say to put things in percpective for me.

My PawPaw, Howell Jones West, was one of the best people I ever had the honor of knowing.

He always told me he was proud of me. Even after I told my parents I wanted to drop out of high school because I was so far behind that I'd never graduate, my PawPaw said, "Oh yes you can. Don't you remember what I used to tell you when you were a little girl that Winston Churchill used to say?"

I rolled my eyes, "Yes PawPaw," I muster up my best British accent and say, "We shall nev'r surrender."

My PawPaw nodded his head like he was the one who'd done my raising... And I guess in a way, he did.

And when I told my family that I had decided to drop out of college and go to cosmetology school, let's just say they were less than thrilled...

But my PawPaw said, "Thatta girl, Armandy (My PawPaw never called me Mandie or Amanda, always Armandy) I'll be proud to tell every body my granddaughter's a professional hair cutter."

Haha. I'm laughing through my tears right now.

But in October of 2008, my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. It had originated as skin cancer that had gone untreated and had spread through-out his body.

The doctors suggested radiation. Possibly chemo.

My grandfather suffered through the radiation that zapped his tastebuds that he couldn't taste anything ever again. He had a huge hole in his head in front of his ear, which was where the skin cancer had originated.

He lost weight and refused to eat. He lost that sparkle in his eyes.

And somewhere in my heart, a piece of me began dying too.

I begged my PawPaw to keep fighting. But my pawPaw was 85 and so tired of fighting. He was exhausted and ready to go home to the Father.

But I wasn't ready to let him go. I still needed someone in my court. I still needed him. Maybe it was selfish of me to want him to stay so badly.

Because my PawPaw was proud of me no matter what.

And when he asked me to give him his final haircut... The last haircut he would have before he passed away. I said no.

"Why not, Armandy?" My PawPaw cocked his head to the side and looked at me.

I crossed my arms. How could ask this of me? "Because, PawPaw, I suck at hair cutting. I'm only in the first quarter of school."

"You're the only one I want to give me my haircut."

And that was it. I set him up in the bathroom and went away at cutting his solid white hair. My PawPaw didn't have that ugly gray hair, but that beautiful snow white hair.

And I cried silent tears and wiped them away on my sleeve before he could see my reflection in the mirror.

Later, my grandmother told me that all of my PawPaw's friends that had stopped by had to listen to my PawPaw brag about how his granddaughter had given him his great haircut.

Hm. This laughing and crying bit is killing me...

A week before my grandfather died, I went into the livingroom where he was in his favorite rocker.

"PawPaw..."

He looked up at me with tired eyes.

"Will you tell me what Winston Churchill used to say back in the war?" I hadn't heard my PawPaw say it since I was a little girl. And I wanted to hear him say it with that funny fake British accent of his one last time.

But I figured he'd be too tired to muster up the accent.

He looked me in the eye and then didn't say anything. He looked up and then down and then took a deep breath like it was all he had left in him.

And in his fake British accent no less, "We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old."

I cried tears that my PawPaw didn't see. Because when he finished I left the room immediately. My PawPaw knew me well enough to know that I just needed to hear those words in his voice, just one more time.

I miss my PawPaw. But on days like this, when I feel like just giving up, I hear his voice, "We shall nev'r surrender."

No, PawPaw, I don't guess I will.

My First Ever Vlog Attempt... Yay me.

Okay, so this is me, People. I know I probably sound like a hillbilly. But, oh well. This is me:

Attack of the Sweet Tooth. Revenge of the Brain.

Okay, let me start this off with:

I'm not really a sweet food person. When I get cravings it's usually for things like pickles, or hotdogs, or chili, or Chinese, or Salt and Vinegar Chips, or something like that.

But nooooo.

Not tonight. When the house is stocked with pickles, and left over fried chicken and plenty of Salt and Vinegar Chips.

Tonight I wanted something sweet. But, alas, my options where few.

There was one lone Moon Pie I found shoved into the back of the pantry and some marshmellows...

And I'm thinking: Where's the sweet stuff??????

So I put on my thinking cap, because it was either that or drink a bottle of maple syrup... :(

So... Drumroll please.

I rediscovered Cokefloats! Ah! It's amazing.

I found some vanilla icecream in the freezer... And I'm usually not an ice cream person, but then I thought of the Coke out in the garage!

And I just don't understand how I could go so many years without a Cokefloat.

Because let me tell ya, it was good.

Discovery:



Brain Power:



Muawwwwwwhahahahahaha. Sweet tooth you are no match for the MANDINATOR!



(Forgive me for my ghostly appearance but it was like midnight and I was not about to go put on make-up for a freaking picture.)