A Little Bit Southern, a Little Bit Hood

Who likes this random picture of my pretty work of charcuterie in a teacup? Who also heard “cootie” in charcuterie?

I’ll never change, I swear.

I’ve done this before. I started a blog, immediately wondered if everyone would like it, and then started writing for everyone except myself. I wanted it to be pretty. Relatable. Helpful. Likable, and I don’t want to do that this time. Not that you can’t do that; you do you, boo. But I want to write the way I think, the way I feel, and that’s the way the cookie will crumble around here!

I suppose I’m kind of like this teacup with a bunch of random things holding down the fort. Pretty on the outside, maybe delicate with a bunch of random info and things going on to share. I mean, my goodness, have you ever thought of what a charcuterie is? A bunch of random sh*t thrown in or on something in hopes that at least one item to share is liked. Brilliant really.

Truth be told, I’m a much better writer than I am a speaker. Give me a keyboard or a journal, and suddenly I have thoughts with ideas on how to change the world and who I’m taking with me! Praise Jesus! Give me a room full of people, and suddenly I’m very interested in the floor and can tell you how many steps I took to make it in. I’m also a little bit of a people pleaser. I like keeping the peace most times; I don’t want to be in the way or the reason for a bad day, and I will think of the perfect thing I should have said approximately six hours after the conversation ended. But writing gives me time to actually say it. You know, with actual words.

So maybe this can be a place where I say the things I don’t always say out loud; maybe this is where the freedom to be me sets in. You’re either going to love it or hate it. Either way, buckle up, buttercup.

Little Bit Southern, Little Bit Hood.

To understand the title, you have to go back to Tucson, Arizona, where I grew up. If you know you know.

I was quiet. Not mysterious, cool-girl quiet. More like please don’t look at me because I would prefer to disappear into the wall quiet. I was taller than most and rale skinny. My feet were always far too big for my skinny frame, but rest assured I grew into them.

Middle school was rough. I got made fun of, I ate lunch in bathroom stalls, and I absolutely hated PE. I was never picked for teams, so I developed what I considered a very sophisticated survival strategy: run to the office and sit there until it was time for my next class.

Honestly, not my strongest athletic era. But maybe where it began. I could time the bell and how many steps it took, double if I ran, and best believe I beat my own time.

…But I always admired my sisters.

They were fun. Outgoing. They made friends everywhere they went. You know, confident. They could walk into a room and somehow leave with three new best friends and a dinner invitation. When we finally moved middle schools, I had to remind my sister that she had to sit with me at lunch if I didn’t make any friends by then. She was the cool one. Thankfully, I did make friends who I’m still friends with to this day.

My mom is the same way.

My mom can walk into a room and somehow make sunshine come out of people’s ears. Seriously. She has always had this ability to talk to anyone and make anything funny. “Laughter is the secret to life after all,” she would say. Damn it, she’s right.

She used to tell me, even to this day, “You never know who you’re going to meet. You just have to talk to everyone. “And in my head, I was always like…That is A LOT of people. She’s right, though; when I do put myself out there and chit-chat, I do find people I really like and have way more fun. I then have to recover for 3 days.

See, I’m not really interested in talking to everyone. I have to feel it. If there’s a genuine connection or something we both care about? I’m in. Otherwise, I’m probably going to smile politely and go find a plant to stand next to. Yes, a plant. Or animal. Is there a dog nearby? My dad’s the same way; we get each other, haha. Or maybe we can’t be bothered.

Then I Found My Hood

High school changed me.

I started learning that being quiet didn’t mean I had to let people walk all over me. Kinda forced it out of me, to be honest, and I’m thankful. Let’s just say I learned to stand up for myself.

Yep. I got into fights. A couple of them, and it was a proud moment for me. I learned quickly that words don’t have to be spoken to be heard.

I had a little bit of a hood era. If you don’t know what “hood” is, Google it. K-bye.

There were fights. There were suspensions. There were charges pressed. There was even a memorable night involving me and juvenile detention. Pretty Hood.

Would I recommend this character development arc?

Eh, maybe not.

Did it teach me something?

yes.

For the first time, I felt like I didn’t have to back down. After years of swallowing my feelings, I had finally found my boundaries. ME. And maybe I went a little too hard in the beginning. Okay, fine. A lot too hard. But underneath all of that was something I still carry with me today:

I will protect myself. And I will protect the people I love. Period.

That part of me never really went away. I still carry that side with me, and she shows up from time to time in case I forget who the Eff I am.

Now I Live in the South (not that it changes anything)

And somehow, here I am… Drinking tea. Picking flowers. Playing with kids, practicing table setting, and napkin folding, subscribing to Martha Stuert Newsletters like it’s the Super Bowl. Secretly, I have always loved this! I am a fancy gal at heart; what can I say? I have always dreamt of going to Paris, staying at the Ritz, and continuing to idolize Princess Diana. A true dream I will do one day. I’m not telling you this story because I want you to think I’m confrontational. I’m actually the opposite. I don’t like arguing. I don’t like fighting. I don’t enjoy confrontation. Most of the time, I’ll probably just stay quiet. I’m an empath to my core. I feel things deeply. I pick up on people’s moods. I overthink conversations. I can sense tension from approximately three rooms away, which gives me social anxiety, but I refuse labels and push past because I also have a very strong protective instinct. Especially for my kids… and animals, bugs, and all living creatures. I still hold funerals for ants. It’s a gift, really. Just ask my momma.

Point is, that little mama bear lives in here somewhere, and she may be drinking tea now, but she is still very much employed.

I Believe in Being Kind—But I Also Believe in Boundaries

I was raised with the whole: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

I mean, who hasn’t heard that? And I still believe that. Why do you think I’m quiet most of the time? I’m kidding; I wish that was the real reason.

But I also think there’s a difference between being kind and allowing people to disrespect you. You can be compassionate and still have boundaries. You can forgive someone and still not give them access to you. You can love people and still say, “Absolutely not.” And if you’re going to point fingers at everyone else, especially my kids, just make sure your own fingers are clean.

Because, respectfully…

I know you scratch your a** and they ain’t clean, Karen.

This Is My Journal

To sum this up, I don’t really care if everyone likes this blog, and that feels incredibly freeing to say. You can love it. You can hate it. You can scroll past it. Maybe you like my YouTube instead, eh, eh?

Just don’t be a dick.

This space is for me.

It’s where I want to write about the ordinary days and the ridiculous ones. The things my kids say that make me laugh. The things I’m learning. The things I’m still figuring out. I want to write about motherhood. About growing older. About beauty and home and random things I swear actually work.

Yes, there will probably be a completely unnecessary amount of information about coconut oil.

There will be funny stories. There will be hard stories. There will be grief. There will be days when I want to talk about losing my siblings and days when I don’t. There will be moments where I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. And there will probably be a lot of flowers and ways to use them because why the eff not.

I want my mom to read something and laugh while she’s driving around in her convertible—although, Mom, please do not actually read this while driving.

I want my dad to remember picking me up from high school after I got in trouble for fighting, and now he knows I’m a freaking bad a** and can hold my own. Always have been, daddio!

I want the kids’ grandparents to read about the funny things their grandchildren say or do in the moment. I want my family to have the stories I might forget to capture on video.

But most of all, I want my kids to have my words.

Not a perfectly curated version of me. Not the version that always knows what to say… or never knows what to say, or where a comma goes all the time. I guess that is important, but still!

Me. The real me.

The woman who was once the quiet kid eating lunch in a bathroom stall. The girl who learned how to fight. The woman who learned she didn’t always need to. The mom who will absolutely protect her kids. The person who feels everything a little too deeply because words do matter so may be a little quieter on purpose. The woman who now lives in the South, drinks tea, picks flowers, and still will always have a little bit of hood left in her. That and a right hook I swear by. Some days I might be sweet as Pie, and others? Others I may not give a Eff and you shouldn’t either. That’s life, honey! We like some, we lose some.

No filter. No perfectionism. No pretending (never do). Just my words. The way I think them. Because someday, I want my kids to be able to open these pages and hear my voice—even when I’m not in the room. And if that’s the only people that truly read this blog? I think that’s enough.

A little bit Southern.

A little bit hood.

That’s Me. Maybe that tag should go on my tombstone…