Reality Biteth

Who the heck knows who reads my blog. I know there are a bunch of silent lurkers out there, whether they be family (hi Mom), close friends, acquaintances, or strangers, and even ex-boyfriends. The proverbial struggle of a blogger is to be transparent with her readers, but safeguard her heart. Maybe I just don't care tonight because I've had a bad day....

Lately, I've got the baby bug. That's really scary to say out loud, especially to all of you. I mean, I don't want a baby today, tomorrow, or next week---I'd just like to know that maybe I'm on the baby track. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Serious Brown, Jr. in a baby carriage...

Why do I feel the need to justify that emotion? Can't I say that out loud without adopting a label of "desperation," "self-pity," and "lameness?" It's quite possibly my own insecurities creating this perception of myself, but even this admittance doesn't take away the doubts about my aging ovaries or my lack of viable prospects.

I am going to be such a good wife and mother someday. It kind of feels like a waste of talent in the meantime. I do domesticity so well.

You'll say, "it will happen for you, Mary Anna." Will it really? Can you say that with certainty? I'm not a glass-half-empty kinda gal, but seriously...reality bites...

'Da Cubs.

Today, I bought Cubs tickets for the trip Amanda and I are taking to Chicago in mid-July. I am beside myself with excitement, not only because it will be my first live Cubbies game (hard to believe, but true; freakish circumstances thwarted previous attempts)---but also because it's Carlos Zambrano bobblehead day.

And get this----Among the 10,000 recipients of the CZ bobblehead, 10 fans will also win an exclusive bobblehead doll created in their likeness. Can you imagine? My own bobblehead. Dwight Shrute better watch out. Serious Brown is gonna be-bop her bobblehead all up in Chi-Town.

Flugtag Phalange

Right now, I'm typing this post with the eraser-end of a pencil, gripped tightly, yet strategically, between my teeth. You see, I'm a bit incapacitated at the moment, as I very well could have a broken finger. It all started like this....

Around 11:30, I picked up Lana and met Siebe and Mandy at the OHB Waff to carpool down to Riverfront Park to Flugtag Nashville. Upon entering Nashville, we can tell that the traffic around Riverfront is rather congested, so we start navigating our way through the grid of streets looking for free parking. After a couple of laps around the city, I see a half-empty parking lot adjacent to a industrial building, making the perfect place to park my vehicle. The only catch is that it's located on a SoBro section of 3rd Avenue, and the street is closed for construction. As we pass the lot, I maneuver a u-ey, and tell my co-pilot Lana to jump out of the car and move the large orange cones so my car can pass through. She balks, and Siebe follows suit, until Mandy steps up to the plate.

We approach the entrance to the blocked street, and Mandy casually gets out of the car and moves two of the cones. I pull into the street, and Mandy replaces the cones, then runs around and hops back in the car. We're laughing hysterically at our genius, and I zip into the parking lot on the left. Suddenly, this large beige truck with police lights on the front grill speeds toward my car as if it means to T-bone the Cubmobile. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, shinkta.

I pull into a parking place, and roll down my window, as an undercover cop gets out of his truck and marches over to my side. I bark at my girls to turn on the charm. I put on a smile and say "hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii" in a sing-songy voice (which, evidently, isn't difficult for me because Sarah and Lana say I sing my words anyway), and the officer asks how we're doing today. I say, "we're good, how are you?" He's obviously done with the small talk, and asks me why one of my passengers got out and moved the cones. I reply that we wanted to park here in this lot (duh), and we thought the road was closed only due to construction, meaning we could use it for a brief moment to park. The officer got a little smart with me, and said "is this your building, giving you the right to park here?" [Um.....what do you think?] "No sir, it isn't. We're sorry." [snicker] "You ladies need to turn around and go out the way you came in and be on your way." "Yes, sir."

The officer swaggers back to his truck, and we stifle laughter as I turn the car around. Mandy hops out of the car, moves the orange cones, and we're on our way. By this time, we're in hysterics, and I turn right onto 2nd Avenue. We're eyeing the front-side of the same infamous building on our right, when Lana looks up ahead of us, and calmly states, "Mary Anna, you've turned on a one-way street." I pull into the parking lot, out of the way of oncoming traffic, roaring with laughter. And to think that we haven't even made it to Flugtag yet.

As anticipated, Riverfront is packed. We find a spot atop the park, and stand in place, waiting for the first flight. In the meantime, we're joined by Amy, Katie, Natalie, Miller, Jon and Ron. As our group of friends is growing, so is the surrounding crowd---and the temperature. It's sweltering hot, and I'm squashed with people on all sides. Most of you know I don't like strange people, or just people in general, to touch me. Not only is my love language not physical touch, but it makes me incredibly uncomfortable when I'm not given my two-feet of personal space. The sweaty and hairy guy next to me must have been unfamiliar with my boundaries though...

After about six or so flights, we could no longer take the heat. We took our sweaty selves out of the park and toward the car. Shortcuts to the car had us walking on a narrow, sidewalk-less street, with a very tall chain-link fence to our right. We're marching single-file, when my right hand ring gets caught on a chain-link, and jerks me backward. My ring-finger twists and turns unnaturally. I reclaim my finger, and continue walking. A few steps later, my finger starts to swell, and bruise. Thankfully, Nurse Amy takes a look at it and thinks it's broken.

I shed a tear for the pain, but then start laughing at how freakish my finger looks. We are all parched and cranky at this point, and head toward the Mexican restaurant near my car. The five of us park at a booth, and I ask the waiter for six ice waters---five for us to consume, one to bathe my crippled hand. I spend the remainder of the meal with my hand in a glass of ice-water.

So here I am. Amy told me that regardless of whether my finger was broken or sprained or jammed, the doctor would still give me a splint and send me on my way. As much fun as it'd be to have a splint, I'm opting for the ice-pack and sympathy.

Six Degrees to Jesus

As I gathered among friends tonight to celebrate Amy Helms 25th birthday, one of the party guests inquired of the origins of our giant web of friendship. We proudly retraced the paths that linked us all together, and realized that all of us met through a "christian connection," including church and Bible study. We're all a little content and pleased that we are blessed with friends who share our foundation, when I blurted out, "it's like six degrees to Jesus!" You know, like "six degrees to Kevin Bacon."

But it occurred to me on the way home tonight, there is a reason certain friendships have rooted and remained strong, and why others have fizzled sadly. The close friendships I have in my life all have one thing in common---Christ-Centricity (I just made that up...do you like?).

I've mentioned this before, but I have nine very close friends/sorority sisters from college, and the ten of us refer to ourselves as the "Menagerie." We all pledged together, and during four yeras in ADPi, the ten of us tempered our friendship bond. We kind of became legendary, and the pledge classes preceding and following our own know about the Menagerie. It always seemed to puzzle people that we have remained such close friends after we graduated from college. As in the natural progression of life, people move on to different life stages and make new sets of friends, effectively replacing their old set. But for some reason, the ten of us have managed to remain close, despite our ups and downs, and our growing pains. We're all in different stages of life too---some are married, some are single, some have babies (both running around and in their tummies), some are changing jobs, some are happily employed, and some have moved away. It's not been easy to find common ground in our busy lives---but we will always have common ground in our relationship with Christ. I truly believe Christ is the reason any of us have made the effort to remain friends, and He is the reason we've made it through some really tough times over the years.

I'm starting to see the same kind of pattern in my relationship with the girls in my Bible study and my church friends. When you function in a Christ-centric relationship, it compels you to place your friends above yourself. You want to see them prosper and grow. It gives you an opportunity to facilitate accountability from a Biblical standpoint. You understand that when one of these friends says they'll pray for you, that it's not just lipservice---they really will pray for you.

I don't say enough how thankful I am for my friends. And I certainly don't thank the Lord for placing these people in my life. It's inspiring---if the Lord can place a hedge around my life full of God-fearing family and friends, surely He can bring me a God-fearing husband. Why should I doubt Him?

My Cell-Called Life

After 454 hours, 35 minutes and 29 seconds, the time has arrived to lay my old cell phone to rest. It was a good friend of mine, greeting me each morning with Jill Scott's Golden, and introducing each call with Green Day's She's a Rebel.

My Motorola mobile captured some of life's most important moments through its 1.3 megapixel lens. I'm proud to share these moments with the Queen MAB faithful, complete with the behind-the-scenes dish for your enjoyment and titillation.

It was a humid summer night in 2005, and Nashville was still running its annual concert series, "Dancin' in the District." Amanda had a bad day, and I was feeling like poop, but we drug ourselves down to the Riverfront anyway. It wasn't an option to turn down a free Gavin DeGraw concert. As we're perched on a concrete slab to the right of the stage, we realize that Matt Wertz is opening the show. We're mildly amused, and in an instant, our lethargy turns to joy. A little-known gentleman by the name of Dave Barnes walks on stage, and begins to sing melodious duets with Mr. Wertz. Of course, Amanda and I are freaking out, and we're likely the only ones in all of Riverfront that recognize him.

After the set, Matt and Dave exit the stage. Directly in front of us, we see a couple of cargo vans and, all of a sudden, Amanda and I see Dave loading amps and instruments into the vans. Dave Barnes is standing five feet in front of us, and no one else seems to notice. Amanda and I formulate a plan, and nervously walk up to him. We call his name, and giddily introduce ourselves, trying to play it cool. Amanda says she's a huge fan, and I mention that I've followed his career for a long time, from his Campus Crusade days at MTSU. He graciously talks to us for a minute, and Amanda and I ask for a picture. The rest is history.

Many times on Sunday afternoons in wintertime, Mom and I shop at Green Hills Mall. We'd just entered the halls of marble and fine merchandise, and stepped onto the cascading escalator to head down to the lower level. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a large white sign, and my head jerks immediately to the left. I simply cannot believe my eyes, and I gasp aloud to my Mom, "there it is! there it is! I can't believe it's actually coming!" As I'm digging my fingernails into her arm, we step off the escalator and toward the promised land. I halt in amazement. Mom's telling me to "get a grip." I remember my excitement vividly.

2005 was one of the worst Christmas holidays I'd ever had. I don't blame anyone, and I guess you could chalk it up to growing pains, my sick mamaw, and a change in tradition. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to tag along with my Mom and Dad to Asheville, NC for a visit to the Biltmore Estate . Boy, was I wrong. I was very sick with a sinus infection, and on top of it, I had some severe pain in one of my back teeth, which I later learned, needed a root canal to rectify. And it didn't help that the three of us were in really foul moods. We argued the entire time, mostly about stupid stuff. I cried a lot. The Biltmore was a nice distraction, but it was terribly cold and snowy, and Asheville left quite a bit lacking. The remaining three days, we spent our time in and out of dusty antique stores. In the basement of one, I corralled my parents over to a plywood cutout, and captured one of few smiles during that "vacation."

Just like right now, the above photo was taken as my little Bastard Cat Jack sprawled out beside me on the couch. It is one of many photos of my kitten-cat immortalized by my phone, but don't let the sweet, cuddly appearence fool you. No matter how much he contorts himself in a ball of cute, he'll inevitably nip at my hand and wlip his tail when I try to pet him. He's always got his eye on me...

One of the most useful functions of my mobile's camera was documentary photography. Numerous entries on TAR, including the Royal Flush and Redneck Mary Kay, originated from my cell. While the picture quality may not have rivaled my Canon Powershot, it was much more effective for reconnaissance missions, especially when a mullet was in sight.

Emily and late-night movie viewings don't mix, and evidently her narcolepsy was contagious, because Mandy's laid out right beside her. Ten bucks says that we were watching SHAG or Zoolander, and the time was only 9 p.m...

I had been begging Mom and Dad to get a new puppy, and I got a call to come home one evening for a surprise. Stella looks so sweet in Mom's arms, but it's just because the breeder gave her puppy sedatives to make her travel peaceful. Her true personality emerged during day two, and she hasn't looked back since.

It's time to pass the torch to a new phone in order to create new memories. Rest in peace old friend.

The rumors are true!!!

The shabby-chic mecca of goods, and one of my all-time favorite places to shop, is FINALLY building a home in Nashville. Yes, that's right---Anthropologie is moving to town. Whenever I travel, I typically research a handful of stores to visit at my destination. These stores include Sephora, Sanrio, Urban Outfitters, and of course, Anthropologie. This Nashville addition is a long-awaited joy and I am SO excited!!!

Shirataki To Me

What's a girl to do if she's eating low-carb and she's craving pasta? She stays far away from Carrabbas, and heads right to the refrigerated section at Wild Oats for some Tofu Shirataki Noodles, that's what. And she uses her imagination, because while Shirataki Noodles are a great substitute, they aren't the real thing. She gets a little creative, that's all.

Tofu Shirataki Noodles are made from the root of the Konjac plant, grown in Asia. Basically, it's a type of yam vegetable that contains a lot of fiber called glucomannan. Glucomannan is suspected to be effective in controllig blood sugar. The entire package of noodles (2 servings), is only 20 calories, 0.5 fat grams and get this--3 total carbs, 2 of which are fiber!!!! Seriously???? And that's not all--Shirataki Noodles come in two varieties: spaghetti and fettucine.

So, last night, I made myself Fettucine Alfredo with one package of Shirataki Fettucine Noodles, 2 tbsp. of light sour cream, 2 wedges of Laughing Cow (one swiss, one garlic & herb), a pat of butter, a dash of salt, and a generous sprinkle of freshly grated parmesan cheese. The prep of the noodles is a little time consuming, considering they need to be rinsed well (they come in a fish-like vinegar solution for freshness), parboiled and then dried before they're ready to use. Or, I skipped the parboil step and microwaved them wet until hot. I was incredibly surprised at how good this dish tasted.

I don't think Shirataki works for every noodle dish. Recently, I tried the spaghetti noodles with meat sauce, and it didn't take. I've read that asian-style dishes, especially ones that involve stir-frying, and cheesy dishes work the best. Either way, I'm not done with these noodles, and with a little experimentation, I can have my pasta guilt-free!

Everybody Chicken Down!

I'm exhausted. I've voiced the preceding statement aloud on numerous occasions this week. And I mean it. I'm exhausted. But, for good reason. Last Thursday night, myself and eight other girls pulled an all-nighter on empty Alabama backroads, our destination: sun, sand, surf. Never did we imagine that we would also find studs, Sammy, and Serious Brown.

At 9:30 Thursday evening, I anxiously hopped in the car and drove down the street to Starbucks for a caffeinated beverage. Afterall, I was Siebe's co-pilot on the seven hour commute, and the responsibility required vigilance. So, I did what any good wingman would do--I ordered a quadruple shot of espresso. Gulping it down within five minutes, I was plugged-in by the time I arrived at Lana's apartment to pick her up. And notice she did.

After laughing while Lana drags her suitcase down three flights of stairs (banging loudly on each step), we drive to the church, where we're all meeting to leave our cars. As I'm flying toward the back parking lot, I see a police officer waiting. I pull up beside him, roll down my window, and blurt out excitedly, "we're going to the beach! we're leaving our cars here! we go to church here! don't mind us girls!" He was a bit bewildered, methinks.

Slowly, the rest of the tribe trickles in and seven of us are waiting on the final two ladies to join the caravan. We're killing time, running around the parking lot like Phoebe Buffay, when Rhonda mentions a rustling in the tall grasses surrounding the back parking lot. A few minutes pass, and I wink and signal at Mandy to play along. As the gals stand around chatting, I gasp, and motion fear with my hands and arms, turning around and bolting in the opposite direction. Mandy follows suit, and within seconds, the remaining six girls are screaming and running from this imaginary beast. Mandy and I stop and watch the spectacle, and are doubled-over in laughter. After she catches her breath, Siebe says that her first thought was, "I've got to get past these girls," translation: I don't want to be the first to die. At least we all now know Siebe's true colors... I'm exposing her to the world!

Lisa, MA, Rhonda, Amy, Lana

Melissa, Siebe, Mandy, Amanda

Our first hour in the car took F-O-R-E-V-E-R, despite our traditional renditions of urban rhymes mixed to operatic sounds, and our annual Spring Break cd, which we lovingly re-named, "the History of Rap." At some point during the next seven hours, Lana records her first official Spring Break 2007 entry into "the Tao of Lana." I quote: "My journey in life is to always find my next seat." You do that Laney--on your deep and wide.

At about 2 a.m., we make one last stop at a tiny gas station for a pit stop. Mandy, Amanda, Siebe and I are already in the car, and the back passenger door is wide open. Lana is lingering at Lisa's car, and we're ready to go, so Siebe pulls the car forward slowly. Lana walks toward the car, and Siebe pulls up even more. Lana, characteristically, throws a fit, and we laugh that it's like Little Miss Sunshine, and Lana needs to chase the car and get in.

Fast-forward to four a.m., and Mandy, Lana, & Amanda are drooling on each other in the backseat. Siebe and I are delirious. So delirious that I'm having to repeat the next turn in the directions aloud over and over again, just to keep us awake. I even begin to refer to County Road 191 as Country Road 191. We roll into Mary Esther, Florida, desperate for some sustinence. You'd think there would be a ton of breakfast joints around the Redneck Riviera, but alas, pickin's are slim. We end up at a dirty IHOP, and sit down to order. Our waitress takes our drink orders, and while we're waiting, we meet la cucaracha. The cockroach. The very large cockroach, crawling across the wall, across the table, across the booth, back to the wall, to another table, and down the crack of a booth. IHOP or IHOR???

Now, you may hear the words "large roach," and wonder if I'm exaggerating. Fair enough, but my estimate that this roach was an inch-and-a-half long are conservative. Don't ask if we ate the food. Don't judge us. We were hungry. Besides, the redneck waitress poo-pooed the roach, saying, "I'm from Florida. We're used to these kinds of things around here."

By daybreak, we arrived at our condo and were able to check in six hours early. I had my toes in the ocean by nine a.m. Friday morning. Unfortunately, there was a tropical storm way out in the Gulf, and so we had red-flag conditions to contend. I've never seen bigger waves in the Gulf before, and I've been no less than twenty times.

Lana and I like to swim in the ocean, and after a rough-and-tumble struggle with the undertoe, I walk toward the sand to dry off. Lana is tossing around in the waves, and I order her out of the water, saying that it's not safe for her to be by herself. I was serious, but it was hilarious, and she was laughing as I barked at her. After much commandeering, Lana emerges from the water, and tells me that I'm such a "Mother B!tch." This cracks me up, mostly because it's so true, but primarily because I know Lana means it endearingly. The name stuck.

Day Three arrives, and after hours spent baking in the oven-hot sun, we gussy up and travel to Pensacola for dinner. We arrive rather late at a place called Hemingway's, and we're all a bit cranky due to our hunger. The nine of us walk up to the third level deck to wait on our table, and have a seat at the large rounded bar. The bartender walks over to us, looks us up and down, and asks where we're from and why we're here. When we reply appropriately, he asks again with a puzzled expression, "but why are you here?" Annoyed, we answer. The bartender finally concedes, and tells us that there is a gay pride convention in town. Increduously, we proclaim we are NOT lesbians. A few minutes later, we ask the bartender to take a picture of all of us, and Amy exclaims, "look like lesbians!"

Our table is finally ready (after we walk through tables upon tables of homosexuals), and a ripe, young waiter...er...server walks up to introduce himself and the specials. His name is Forrest, and after the conversation leads to our age, we tell him that we are older women. He replies, "I'm obedient." Good answer, Forrest.

After dinner, we travel to a local beach bar to get our dance on. We walk up the boardwalk steps, our eyes are met with hoardes of lesbian couples, all of them wearing plaid boy shorts, polos with popped collars or wifebeaters. We comment on the standard issue dress code, and walk back down the steps. A girl shouts out as we leave, "it's gay tonight!" As if we needed a reminder, Mandy gets hit on by the lesbians in the car next to us when we pull out of the parking lot.

We're supremely disappointed, and decide to head back to the beach bar, Juanas, close to our condo. During the half-hour commute, Lana and I get a little restless crammed in the backseat, and debate the structure of the typical rap song. I joke that rap songs are like Mexican food; it's the same ingredients, just arranged in different ways. I give her examples by chanting rap terms to my own rhyme: Yo-Ass-Ho-Smoke-Dirty-so-on-and-so-forth. Lana bursts out, "cut him!!!!" I pause, and then begin to gasp with laughter. Cut him??? Instead of gun or kill, it's "cut him." Priceless.

Juanas is hoppin' by the time we arrive, and affords us quite the entrance. I know we looked HOTT, but you'd think those local boys had never seen such pretty ladies before. We might as well have been celebrities, the way the men were fawning (and fighting) over us. Some who shant be named made a love connection...er...lust connection, and we shut down the joint at 3:30 a.m.

Our last full day of the beach went by too quickly, but I was really looking forward to a hot date or two (or three) waiting at Juanas that evening. It was another successful night with the mens, although my Ron Livingston, a.k.a. Jack Berger, look-a-like was playing games with my heart. And this blog wouldn't be complete if I didn't mention that a very tall black man complimented Lana on her "cornbread-fed" body, and Siebe on her "coke-bottle" figure.

Our late night turned into early morning, and after a last jaunt on the beach, we packed up our cars and headed for dry land. Siebe and I had been lusting after Arby's all weekend long, so we talked our car into stopping on the mainland for lunch. As we're eating, Lana grabs a cheesestick from the box, bites into it, and realizes it's hollow. Completely hollow, as in no cheesy center. She throws a little fit, pouts, and then marches up to the counter, shoving the cheesestick in the face of the Arby's cashier. We are practically rolling on the floor in laughter, while she demands a replacement. Lana came back a minute later with a fresh new box of cheesy-fried-goodness.

Somewhere in the backwoods of Alabama, I acquired a new tag. Evidently in conversation, I have a tendency to play devil's advocate or thoughtfully ponder an alternative solution to a problem or situation. I'm not so sure that I've ever really noticed this about myself, and none of my friends have ever pointed it out. Siebe is rather perceptive, and she'd told me all weekend that I could turn serious on a dime. Lana added her Tao at lunch when she blurted, "MA's always got an 'although' around the corner." I told them that a long time ago, an ex used to call me "Serious Brown," for the same reason. Well, it took. They had a fit with that one, and I'm sure I haven't heard the last of it.

Who remembers this?

On the way down to Florida on Thursday, I spotted the Montgomery exit and had a thought--"Flea Market. Montgomery. It looks like. It looks like. A mi-ni mall." We decided to stop at Sammy's place on the way home, but I didn't actually think I could get everyone on board. Surprisingly, everyone was okay with stopping, so about an hour outside of Montgomery, I called the Flea Market for directions. A woman answered the phone, and when she couldn't give me specific directions, she handed the phone to a man. He picked up and gave me directions to the "Flea Market. Montgomery. It looks like. It looks like. A mi-ni mall." Sammy Stephens actually sang to me on the phone. I had a cow.

As we pulled into the Flea Market parking lot, I found myself rather nervous. With camera in tow, nine girls walked up to the building with trepidation. A quick glance around, and we realized that the mini-mall was a bit deserted. We walked through the lattice work, passing booths full of hair extensions, gold grills, fake Coach bags, and airbrushed t-shirts. We rounded the corner toward the main desk, and our eyes were met with a long, tall staircase. Floating down the steps was a large black man, in a three piece suit. I was so humbled that I couldn't even look in his direction.

It was Sammy Stephens. He marched right up to us, thrust out his hand, and introduced himself to each of us individually. We broke out in grins as he broke out in song. It all happened so fast that none of us knew whether to laugh or sing.



I was laughing hard in disbelief at how preposterous the situation. We snapped up t-shirts and tote bags, and Sammy signed every one of them. He led us over to a large screen tv, and we watched his appearance on Ellen.

Sammy led us all outside to the parking lot, so we could participate as his backup dancers. As we're walking to our places, a police car flys into the parking log, and two officers start chanting the mini-mall theme song over their bullhorn. They pull up just in time for the show. Sammy taught us the dance and our vocal parts, and Amy started filming. Again, we were all laughing so hard that keeping time was impossible. After a group photo and a bid adieu, we walk back to the cars, hearts racing.

We're on a high for several hours, and need to make a pit-stop outside Birmingham. My car wasn't hungry, but the other car wanted food. After much drama in deciding where we should eat, we drove to the Chik-Fil-A. While the other car and its five occupants pile out to get food for the road, my car sits stubbornly in the parking lot. I ran in to go to the bathroom, and on my way back out, I see Siebe pulling into the drive-thru lane. I climb in the car, and Mandy, Lana and Siebe look at me mischeviously. They want food now. Nuggets. But this is a top secret mission, and we have to hide our hunger. Twenty-four nuggets later, we're on the road. As we pass Lisa's car on the interstate, Siebe shouts, "everybody chicken down!"

Mandy may not have gotten her What.A.Burger during Spring Break 2007, but What.A.Trip.