Cain & Abel

Whatever little I know of the Bible I owe to my father's storytelling. To teach me a point he would reference the Bible to give a story of how lessons were learned. Sick as it is, Cain and Abel is my favorite. My father stood by this story and used it multiple times in my growing up to tell me how important it was to love my sister but most of all to never be jealous. Perhaps his brother's contemptment for him made this story a favorite of his.

Disliking my sister has never been an option because of this story. As a matter of fact, every time Im angry with her I remind myself it isn't allowed because it is displeasing to God and my father. Displeasing either sends one to Hell.

At age 20 I find myself disagreeing with my father on many ideas. In the past I have changed my mind to suit his beliefs because I thought that is what children are supposed to do. This new found idea independence is wonderful. Instead of "Oh, okay, I see what you're saying, you're right." I now say "Then I guess we disagree.."

A new area of disagreement, though I wouldn't dare tell him, is my take on the story of Cain and Abel. Now hold on a minute; Cain committed murder out of jealousy and I will stand firm that that was wrong of him for the rest of my life. What I am not so firm on nowadays is that I am not allowed to dislike my sister because of the story.

I am going to put this plain; I love my sister because she is just that. But I am appalled at her lack of respect for anyone, including herself. My days of caring whole-heartedly for someone who treats me like dirt, are done. She was to be my maid of honor, I planned to name any future daughter Alison, she is someone I have always thought I could love unconditionally, she is someone I would have taken a bullet for. Now I feel that I can only love her as I love thy neighbor--as a common woman, not a blood sister.

I will continue to pray about this and hope that the Lord can change my mind; as for my father--he cannot.

I spent another night up crying until i was so exhausted I just couldnt stand it any longer. This isnt the kind of crying I do some nights when I miss my grandmother or my sister; this is terrible, whole body crying. The kind that makes noise. I don't worry Tim with this unless he asks how I slept, then I mention it nonchalantly like it's nothing.

During the day I am busy & when I'm not I find something to read. Ive taken up working out which fills in some gaps. But I dread the night when all I can do is think of how alone Ill be come Saturday.

I have a beautiful engagement ring that reminds me Im loved. Thats nice to look down and notice when Im depressed. Funny, I feel like I need to fix myself up to keep up with how gorgeous it is.

I look forward to next fall with a great group of girls that I can share things with. Im so thrilled to live with them. I have to look forward. I have to have something to work towards.

Tim

I realized a couple of nights ago that I pray for Tim more than I pray for anyone else on my prayer list. What does this mean?
Tim is what I would consider agnostic; when I go to church on Sunday I wait for people to ask where my future husband is and plan what I will say. "I am a very patient woman." What do I mean by this?
Tim may never believe in my God & thats okay with me. But if one day he asked to go with me to church, I would be tickled. For now, this remains a very quiet subject in our life. And that's okay too.

I pray that Tim be motivated to do well. With his terrible luck and some of the hands he has been dealt I know that it would be so much easier to stay in bed & dwell on the bad things. I like to think that since I have come in to his life I have made things a little easier. I don't want him to ever worry about anything. I want to take his pain and worry and see him smile.

I pray that Tim make smart decisions. He doesn't have great judgment and he can be very impulsive. I like to think that since I have been in his life he is using me for advice to make decisions that are right for him.

I pray that God be with him in all his times of need. From a bad day at work to God-forbid a car accident or the like. I dont know who else prays for Tim; maybe no one. I like to think that since Ive been in his life he is getting all the prayer he can stand.

Through thick and thin I promise to be the best wife I can be to him. Thats what women are supposed to do, and that's what I will do.

Amen.

Weight & Culture

It is no coincidence that women in California are a size 2 on average while women in Texas are a 10+.

I am surrounded by and include myself in a group of women who constantly look in the mirror & are unsatisfied. My sister, a perfect 10 on the beauty scale is 5'3'', 100 lbs, tans year 'round, whitens her teeth, avoids the clearance racks, and defines herself by all of these things. This girl must be miserable.

My mom is 5'1'', incredibly busty blonde, a bitch on her best day, and gets a good scold on her fried chicken. A breath of fresh air to be around.

I find myself comfortably in between.

You see, food is the centerpiece of southern tradition. We plan our life around our meals.
Jim: "Can you come fix my tractor t'marra night?"
Bill: "You bet, after supper; Sarah's cookin' a roast."

Liz: "Hey sugar, lets get together n talk."
Jane: "Oh Id love to, I'll make us a pie."

My point is, us women cannot be expected to be the same weight and have the same appearance as those who arent southern.
I was recently watching a show called Southern Bells. The women were like my sister...the only thing southern about them was their birthplace. They were well kept, on the verge of starvation, and sittin at home while their husbands made their shopping money. This could not be further from the definition of a southern bell. They should have had my mother and I on the show..

I'm 5'4' 135 lbs, blonde, curvy in college to be a school teacher. I like raising pigs, ridin horses, huntin deer, and Im not done with lunch before Im plannin supper. Im tee shirt and levi's with whatever shoes don't have horse shit on 'em and I been known to wear my boots to church. My favorite color is camo and there aint a song miranda lambert wrote that I dont know. I cuss like a sailor when Im being lady like and though I like a glass of wine with dinner sometimes, Bud Light is my drink of choice. Damn right I cant stand a yankee, & from what I can tell they cant stand me neither. I been plannin a weddin since I was 12 & Ive got all my babies named; at 20 I should have had a couple by now. I aint afraid to sweat and if there is one thing farm life will teach ya, its that there aint no such thing as "man and woman's work". Ladies, if ya want it done...putchya boots on & go do it.

As appetizing as that lettuce looks, ill stick with my meat n potata's

Judgments

I sat in a somewhat sketchy coffee shop in a seat that was actually an old wooden school desk. The place was full of mismatched places to sit. A chair from a yard sale, a loveseat from Goodwill, etc. I looked around feeling like an elephant in a china shop. My silk blonde hair rustled every chance it got at the opening of the shop door. This set me apart as the other folks had dyed hair of orange and red; most of which hadn't been washed since Christmas and the dred locks formed naturally, making me instantly curious what that rat's nest could possibly smell like.

My outfit was casual, bought right out of an American Eagle outlet store in Charlotte; it was a simple black, but wrinkle-free and smelling of Snuggle. This also set me apart. The last concert tee I bought was probably Kenny Chesney; somehow I didn't think to wear it. They had theirs on however. The women in long skirts, bra-less with homemade bags that hung heavy across their shoulders. It's only the first of March but they are so proud of their white, shiny, skin that they shown it off as if it were June.

I ordered a tall (tall, as in small, not tall as in large; I always found this coffee lingo a little confusing) decaf, vanilla latte, with two shots of espresso from a man covered in tattoos. The worst part about trying a new coffee shop is attempting to understand the menu. I looked at it dumbfounded for a couple seconds, then decided to disregard it altogether. Instead,
"Okay, Im just gonna tell you what I want, & I trust you will make it happen for me." I like to eliminate the guess work. I walked away forgetting to pay. I guess this is because the gentleman didn't ask for any money, he and his tattoos just stared at me, enjoying the view of a woman who had recently showered.

I looked down at myself remembering how I thought I might be under-dressed for an interview. I couldn't have been more wrong. The three average Joes at the counter wore oversized t shirts that most men I knew would wear as undershirts or to mow the yard in if anything. Their hair was a a mass of clusters rather than individual strands that peeked out from their ball caps. But they worked diligently and made the best latte I had ever had. At one point I caught the chashier staring at me sipping my drink & turned my eyes away quick as possible. "Get me out of here already".

They don't know it, but I knew the TOOL song playing on the radio as well as I knew my name. I had seen those Frank Zappa posters a thousand times. And I could tell you the name of the tour the man sitting next to me's Cure t shirt came from and probably what year. I was singing rock n roll before a had my ABC's down. They don't know it but Im a writer. I sing country music pretty well. I've got a tattoo they'd have to strip me naked to find.

I'm pretty sure I didn't get that barista job because the interviewer took one look at me and sent me on my preppy way, back to my Taylor Swift listening, Hannah Montanna watching, do gooder way. She did what I do, judged.