Not Your Everyday Kool-Aid Story

I had an unreasonable addiction to Kool-Aid as a child. Once we were out of this sugar laced Fruit Smack and my mom wouldn't go to the store to buy more.

Kool-Aid was an amalgamation of every single beautiful and wonderful thing that had ever happened in my four-years of living.  The entire reasoning for my very existence was to breed the desperation that craved the sweet sugary taste of fruity punch Kool-Aid. I knew that without it, my heart would shrivel up to the size of a raisin and my blood would turn back into red crayon dust.

The ironic part to this whole story was that as much of a deep-seeded love I possessed for Kool-Aid, I had a jolting fear of the Kool-Aid mascot.  

I lay in my bed at night, vigilantly watching the walls, waiting for them to fly apart by this devilish red glass pitcher.  At times, my imagination got carried away and I would think I could smell red somewhere.

I knew that he was out there roaming around in the darkness with his glassy exoskeleton waiting to destroy my walls and scream "Oh, Yeahhhh, I got you now!" in my face like a big screaming bowl of punch.  I just knew that after breaking through my wall he would try to get me to drink his Kool-Aid.   There was no way I was drinking out of him after all of that dust and debris flew into his open head.  I wasn't even sure if that was fruit punch and ice or blood and organs floating inside of him.  There was just no way of knowing.

It bothered me that he didn't understand Casual Property Damage.  There was a door, after all.  I just wanted Kool-Aid, not to destroy my parent's home.  

As the day wore on without it and my reason for living started to slowly fade like a distant sunset, I decided to take matters into my own hands and create my own concoction.  The adults all sat placidly in the den without a care or thought to my survival.  In my four-year old mind, I utilized my usually flawless logic to determine that I only needed liquid in a jug and sugar. Simple enough.  That was "Plan A."

Unfortunately, due to a slight miscalculation to all of the ingredients, I had to revert to Plan B, which wasn't really a plan, initially.

I'm not sure how much I drank, but when they found me I was flopping around on the floor like some type of big mouth bass.  If it weren't for all of the oxygen all over the place, I may not have survived.  Someone thought to bring me to the hospital. 


Eventually, the hospital detected trace amounts of brain activity and decided to let me go. I decided upon my departure from the hospital that I would not use that much sugar anymore, at least not the whole bag.  I've probably mentioned before that I am diabetic.

We never ran out of Kool-Aid again. Ever.

The Continuum

As a child I was completely consumed with building and inventing things. Building an impenetrable fortress of protection for myself surrounded by a city of bridges and tunnels was nothing more than a pathetic delusion I had that would ultimately implode on itself as the realization came that anything that connects would eventually disconnect, like internet when I'm lost in a desert.  My world would fall every time.


I started early.

Without fail, however, there was always an older cousin or an angry sheriff to come along and knock down everything I spent time building.

This is a common phenomenon among the evil.  Tear down. Destroy. I began to feel trapped in this permanent state of uneasiness as I flailed helplessly in my own sea of self-doubt and sadness.  I just wanted my bridges built.  I wanted them to stand.  Why were people so determined to knock down everything I built?

I would always rebuild.

The cycle would start over again.  

Then, eventually, I would need some type of cake and a nap.


Some of you know that I was an above average student.  I was reading at a college level by the age of eight.  However, as skilled as I was at reading and building bridges, I could never figure out how to keep other people from knocking them down.

Once, though, I was so consumed in building cities with trading cards (I had thousands of them) that the child I was supposed to be watching fell and hit her head in a place she wasn't supposed to be.  She was only a year old and blood gushed out of an open wound on her forehead.


I panicked.  I wanted to frantically take off at lightning speed for help, but that would have been so obvious.


I casually went into another room where the adults were, which happened to be in the kitchen.  I slowly opened the freezer, peered in and started to speak in my Sesame Street voice.

I may as well have been standing there wearing a wife-beater shirt holding a machete covered in child blood.

That did not go as well as I had planned it would.  The baby did end up going to the Emergency Room, but do you know that nobody thought to bring back ice-cream?


I have to admit that my heart is in the right place, but my mind is always somewhere special.


Over the years, my bridge building techniques extended far beyond blocks and trading cards.  I wanted people to be my bridges.  That became very important to me. Sometimes I look back and wish that I hadn't "burned a bridge or two" quite so quickly.  


Even at 40 years old, there are still people who are out to destroy what I have worked so hard at achieving.  Ironically, the people destroying my bridges are supposed to be building their own.   I noticed that pattern a while back.  


They don't want to connect.  They want to disconnect and then take what they can from me.  Then destroy.


After an entire lifetime of building bridges, I wanted to stop.  I had lost faith. 


Some have spread malicious lies about me.  I have wanted desperately to defend myself and have often thought of what I can do.  I can't just run up to every person with my wife-beater shirt on clinging to a can of hydrogen bomb and force them to listen to my side.


Then, a friend said something to me that set off that little lightbulb in my head.

If you really want to know who I am, then watch me.  

I realized that anyone who truly knows me will not participate in all of that drama and if they do then I really don't want those bridges in my beautiful fortress I am building.  My bridges are a little more narrow now and maybe a little longer, but if you want in my fortress of protection and to be a part of my world domination, you have to do me good enough to at least watch my walk.  Don't judge me.


I admit that I don't have a cookie cutter life. My life is a seamless continuum of abstract craziness and I often find myself turning back to extend my hand to those who have done me wrong.  Every bridge deserves a second chance at being a bridge in my world of paradise.


Ok, it is that time again where I need some type of pastry and a nap.

Knight Writer

A few days ago my driving attempt to a town about a hundred miles away was thwarted by a series of events that may or may not have a big comedy reveal.

I was driving along, minding my own business passing a few 18 wheelers with my twin turbos (whatever that is) when my rear tire decided to be a rice krispie and go "pop"  ( the snap and crackle came later).

A message came up on my little tv screen in my car.

I was in the middle of nowhere on a highway, but nearing a town that was decent sized (10 or more people) so I quickly googled the nearest BMW dealership.  There aren't a lot of places that carry the same brand tire and there are only about three or four BMW dealerships in all of Louisiana.  

I called the dealership to tell them I was on my way.

Two minutes and two miles later (not fifty) came the snap and the crackle.

I love it when my car speaks to me.

I pulled over and surveyed the damage.

I surveyed where I was.

Things didn't look good. Since when did they start making exits 3 miles long?

I called the tow trucker people.


The tow trucker guy got lost and called me six times before he found me.


Six times.

The sun tried to make me melt. I began to think I would be on Fox News by midnight.  I am Republican, after all.  They always look for us.

Sometimes I wish my last name was "Fox."

Nah...

I would say I wish my last name was CNN but I'm not even sure what the letters stand for, however I have to give a shout out for CNN because I know some great producers there who actually read my crazy blog stuff!

I lay on the grass baking in the sun, hallucinating Big Macs, thinking about all of my McProblems and I wasn't lovin' it.  Somehow, I was going to survive.  I was going to make it.  Two shady guys stopped and I wanted to panic, but kept my cool .  I used to carry mace (until I maced myself) and also a gun (until...oh, never mind) but I may or may not be in the witness protection program and may or may not have given up firearms.  And my last name probably or probably isn't Knight...anymore.

Two hours later, tow trucker guy arrives.

Yes, I drive one of the fastest cars in the world.  When I buckle my seatbelt, it is for maximum buckling, not any of that minimum stuff.  Maybe that is why my tires pop?


Things weren't always this way.

On the way to the dealership, the tow truck almost hit a carload of Justin Beiber fans. My day was slipping away from me in tiny fragments that wasn't my imagination.  I just wanted to get to civilization.


And there it was.

Twelve Superbowls didn't have as much coverage as I did walking into that dealership.  I was starving, having survived two and a half hours in the wild without food, water or internet, so I ran through the crowd for the nearest vending machine.


I put in a dollar.  Five times.  Nothing.

I asked to use one of the BMW's on the lot to go get a hamburger.  They called the shuttle driver instead.  He was having problems and would be an hour.  Of course.  Why would things be any different?


I decided to walk.  There was a fast food restaurant in the distance across a few football fields.  I could do that.

I finally made it there and saw this:

I was so excited to eat and took a giant bite of my food.  I don't know if they accidentally dropped it into a salt mine, but it was the saltiest thing I have ever eaten in my life and I have eaten a big heaping pile of salt.


I left with great distrust for their food making skills.


On the way back I took a picture of this sign.  I felt it was fitting for my day.

There was only one mudhole on the way back in that entire field.

Sometimes you just need that coffee and donut and you need it now...

Pajama Pants Day

I recently gained 30 pounds.


Yes, I said recently, not over a time period.  Like, last week.  I basically took my hotness, laughed at it and shoved it forcefully down the stairs.

Inside of me is that thin person struggling to get out...fighting, clawing and biting. Fortunately, she can be easily sedated with a spoonful of Nutella and Peanut Butter .

I have tried many forms of exercise.  I have started sleeping with ankle weights on and hope to see the benefits of that soon.  Just a few months ago, I was looking so hot that the butter in my pocket would melt right away.   I started putting butter on everything, even skittles.  I traded my hotness for that little luxury and now I feel like I have been bludgeoned repeatedly all over my entire body with a large bag of cellulite, butter and rocks. 

I used to eat healthy cereal, you know the kind that tastes like the inside of your pockets. Then, a few months ago, I started mixing it in with the fun cereals...the ones with the free toys.  Gradually, it became more "Choco Choco" and less "pockets."  Realistically, the only thing that is free is the 10 pounds you gain from eating it. 

I tried "Tofu."

I now understand "Pajama Pants Day"  at Wal-Mart.  Pajama pants are so much more comfortable than my size 3 jeans that dangle on the hangers in my closet, laughing and taunting me with their tightness.

Most of you know by now that I am famous for making lists.  This is my latest one:

Well, I guess I need to go to Wal-Mart.  Thankfully, my wardrobe is up to date.