Bees and Efs: ‘Forever Friends’ Don’t Always Last

Do you — or did you ever — have a Best Friend? Do you believe in the idea of one person whose friendship matters the most? Tell us a story about your BFF (or lack thereof).

There’s a funny thing I’ve noticed about BFF’s. For most people, the second ‘f’ is optional. To be honest, most people seem to think all of it is optional. People often go through best friends faster than they go through wardrobes. I am not one of those people. I do not even consider someone a friend unless we’ve been through several wardrobes together. By this, of course, I mean I prefer friends who are really my friends rather than people I’ve hung out with a few times. If we haven’t had time to really get to know each other and build trust, then we aren’t really friends. We’re acquaintances.

This is no different with my ‘best friend.’ Though, I would consider her more like a sister. We hardly see each other. In fact, we’ve never lived in the same state.

How are you like sisters if you’ve never lived in the same state, you ask?

Our fathers grew up together, and as a result we grew up together. Summers, holidays, every chance we get we spend together. It only adds up to a few visits each year, but our status as ‘besties’ still remains.

One of the funniest things about our friendship is that we are nothing alike, and I mean nothing alike. She is a sun-worshiping, hyper-social, extremely emotional, pop and country music-loving, chesty blonde. I am a night-loving, anti-social, not-so-emotional, rock music-loving, big booty brunette. Yes, our physical characteristics are as opposite as our psychological and emotional differences. She is the eldest of two with one brother while I am the youngest of four with three older brothers. We argue almost constantly when we are together, and we have trouble agreeing on activities to enjoy unless it involves going to Olive Garden (don’t judge! It’s our age-old tradition) and watching horror movies.

Despite all of our differences, I know she will always be there if I need her, and I will always be there for her. She is the sister I never had, and no matter where our lives take us, she will always be my best friend.

That is, in my opinion, what a true best friend is.

The family kind of forever.



An OB/GYN’s opinion on the Supreme Court, Hobby Lobby, and contraception

Everything I’ve tried to explain to too many people. It is overwhelming how little people care until it directly affects them.

Dr. Jen Gunter

The Supreme Court, in a 5-4 decision, sided with Hobby Lobby (and much of the religious right in the United States) and ruled that a closely held private corporation does not have to provide insurance coverage for certain birth control methods. Justice Alito, speaking for the majority wrote:

“The owners of the businesses have religious objections to abortion, and according to their religious beliefs the four contraceptive methods at issue are abortifacients. If the owners comply with the HHS mandate, they believe they will be facilitating abortions…It is not for us to say that their religious beliefs are mistaken or insubstantial.”

As an OB/GYN I see six disastrous consequences of this decision:

1) The idea that religious beliefs of some are more important that the religious beliefs of others. Any woman wanting to use one of the 4 methods of contraception listed obviously doesn’t share the same beliefs…

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Guest Post – Wading Against Mental Health Stigma in the Work Place

I am nowhere near being a professional, but I do have a degree in psychology. My education has taught me enough to realize how idiotic most people are when it comes to mental illness. The lack of understanding and compassion baffles me. Every time someone does something bad, people want to blame mental illness. When I hear, “That guy killed twenty people! He must be schizophrenic or something!” I want to punch them in the throat. When I find out a friend has depression, or is bipolar, but does not want to go to the doctor or take anything for it because they don’t want to be labeled as “crazy,” I feel lost for words. More so, ignorance is no excuse for invidious discrimination. The stigma has to stop.

Profanity in the Profound

Everyone wants to be profound. It’s almost funny how hard people try. I think we’re beyond profound by now. I see the profound as the ramblings of a drug addict in the middle of his or her journey to oblivion.

That’s so profound, man.

Is it really that important? Be honest, even if your honesty is boring, or irritating, or completely misunderstood. I’d rather be with one boringly honest person than a hundred “truly profound” individuals.

I’m not profound. I never have been. There was a time in my teens when I believed a whimsically beautiful view of the world could bring about a sense of enlightenment.

I was happy, but I was wrong.

Call me cynical, jaded, or whatever else you might like. I enjoy the cold, hard reality I’ve found outside of the comforting fog.

If what you know is this beautiful and optimistic world, or the dream of changing lives with just a few words, then by all means continue.

I’ll stick to what I do, even if it isn’t always so pretty and well-received.

So I’ve written a book…

Yeah, who hasn’t written a book now-a-days?

Seriously, though, I have written a book. I am in the editing phase now. To be honest, I’m in about the fiftieth editing phase, but I’ve gotten all of the scenes written for this one so it’s the first full-fledged editing phase. That’s saying something, right?

Now I am tasked with submitting my manuscript to publishers, but I have no idea where to start! Do I just send my manuscript out to whatever publishers I find online? Who can I trust with my baby? Am I so desperate to be published that I would put my characters, and their lives, in jeopardy?

I am excited to be so close to finished, but I am also overwhelmed. Not to mention terrified. I’m sure every author goes through this, but that does not guarantee my future as an author.

Deep breaths.


An Ode to Ranon and Mims

I could sit for hours

Just listening to you sing

It’s a song I’ll never hear again

You sat trapped

Such a small place

Yet the music still came

It broke my heart to hold you

But I feared letting you go

You deserved better than me

Now you sail through the sky

Your world open and free

I miss you, your song

And the light you brought into my life

But I smiled, I laughed

Even as my heart broke

I saw you fly away

I watched you soar

You are beautiful

You are free

Heebie Jeebies: A symptom of weevils.

I have recently been seeing an occasional bug in my apartment. I only saw one or two over a week, and they were tiny so I did not worry about it. I killed them, of course, but I was not overly concerned. I continued to see more as the days passed. Not often. One, maybe two a day. I decided to look them up. The next time I saw one on the carpet, I caught it in a small container to get a better look and turned to the all-knowing google. After several attempts at searching insect sites I finally found it.

I have weevils.

I kill weevils, not photograph them.

The name says it all. We Evils. While they are not harmful, they do eat rice, grains, seeds, etc., which can make them a nuisance. Not to mention they’re creepy and gross. Who wants little bugs crawling around their apartment? Certainly not me.

Google was helpful, as it often is with simple information requests. The wonderful thing about this search; it was actually pretty consistent in its results.

Weevil larvae can travel into your home in any of the food products they frequent (rice, grains, seeds, etc.), or they can fly in. Through a quick process of elimination, I believe I have found the source of my weevils.

My bird seed.

I have two pet birds, Rannon and Mims, and I bought new food for them just before the weevils showed their ugly little faces. When I moved my bird cage, I found several weevils under the cage, and in the treats I threw away. Their full bag of food, not wanting to waste it (the weevils and their eggs will not harm Rannon and Mims), is in the freezer to kill anything still in the mixture.

Now, I am set with the task of throwing away half of my pantry, cleaning out each of the cabinets, scrubbing my entire apartment, and setting out bay leaves to keep the creatures from infesting again. I have already purchased a number of containers for storing the rice and grains I will have to re-purchase after the infestation is under control. It’s going to be a process, but the weevil infestation will be manageable.

What I may not be able to manage, though, is the heebie jeebies plaguing me. My entire body itches, and I’m afraid to walk through my apartment without shoes. I can’t sleep thanks to the images of my unconscious body being covered in small insects. It is a feeling I expect to live with for at least a few weeks, even after I am certain I have destroyed the monsters invading my home.

Now, I am going to take half of a muscle relaxer to knock me out. The faster tomorrow comes, the faster I can vacuum and scrub my apartment.

Thanks Rannon and Mims.




Ranon and Mims have left me. During the cleaning process (which took place outside), Ranon made a quick escape out of the cage. I released Mims shortly after because they are a mated pair and because Mims hated me anyway. I hope they are able to enjoy their freedom while it lasts. Sadly, their bright plumage, and their seed-fed/caged upbringing, will hinder their ability to survive in the wild.

Goodbye Ranon (left) and Mims (right). I’ll miss you.

Making a Bucket List

When I first heard of the concept of a bucket list, I thought it silly. I would say, “Just do what you want to do.” As I get older, and find less and less time to do the things I want to do, I see the importance of making a list. If I set everything out in an organized fashion, I might actually be able to get to some of it. So, I am starting a bucket list. This will be a running list, but I’ll start off with the two or three things on my mind now. These, I’d say, are the most important.

  1. Become a published author.
  2. Travel

Yeah, it’s a slow start, but at least it’s a start.



For anyone who likes to say, “If I can do it, anyone can.” This rant is for you.

If I can do it, anyone can.

Every time I hear this phrase I want to say, “Shut the hell up.”

Of course, my southern roots will not allow for me to be so terribly rude, but it does not change my irritation at the phrase. This single phrase is insulting to everyone, including the person speaking it.

We can start with the insult to “everyone else.”

What the hell makes you an expert on what others are capable of? Are you saying if someone else cannot achieve anything and everything you have, they are not good enough? Not trying hard enough?

Guess what? Maybe they aren’t you. Maybe they do not have the same drive. Maybe they don’t want to put in the work.

OR maybe they don’t have the necessary components which create the aptitude and/or abilities necessary for whatever task you are capable of.

Another person’s body may not work or feel quite like yours.

Another person’s pain threshold may be different.

Someone else may not have the aptitude for understanding that which you have excelled or accomplished.

Beyond the mere physical and mental aspects, not all people have the same resources and lifestyles. It is more difficult for a person who works two or three full time jobs to barely get their family through each week to change their life than it is for a single person with no dependents. A person’s circumstances, whether self-created or not, can affect their actions and reactions to life’s challenges.

There is a beautiful concept often cited in psychology called “individual difference.” No matter how many similarities we have, it does not change the fact that we, and our experiences in the world, are not all the same.

Now, let’s forget about “them” and instead talk about the figurative “you.”

I see this phrase as a form of self-deprecation. Why do you have to demean your own accomplishments? You worked hard to accomplish your goals, and to get where you are. Maybe you had help and encouragement from others, but you are still the person who accomplished this feat. Show appreciation for all of the people who helped you along the way, but also show appreciation to yourself for making it through the journey to get where you are. You worked hard, had the talent, or maybe you had the simple, blind, good luck. Whatever the case, you did this, and you should be proud.

Finally, my biggest problem with this phrase; if it were true, no one would ever fail at anything and everyone would be capable of anything.

“If I can lose my excess weight and get in shape, anyone can.”

“If I can learn another language, anyone can.”

“If I can get a Ph.D., anyone can.”

“If I can climb Mount Everest, anyone can.”

“If I can make it to the Olympics, anyone can.”

And the list goes on. If anyone could do it, then it would not be an accomplishment. If anyone could do it, then we would have no winners or losers, no world records, and no “unskilled workers.”

If you have done something difficult, accept that it is an accomplishment. Accept that you have done something exceptional. Accept that you may actually be capable of something not everyone can do, just as other people may be capable of something you cannot do.

Oh, and let’s not forget the simple fact that they just might not want to. You may think cycling is the greatest thing ever, but it’s just not my cup of tea. Get over it.




Skydiving to prostitution. I should probably seek help.

I like to play the “What If” game. It’s a game that gives leave to the imagination to do as it pleases. The funny thing about my imagination, it likes to play “Worst Case Scenario” when I try to play “What If.”

There are a lot of ways to play “What If.” The most common is probably “What if I won the lottery.” Well, I’d spend a lot of money, hopefully not all of it, but let’s be honest, I’d spend it all then end up broke again. I’d like to think I’m smarter than that, but it’s all a moot point since I don’t play the lottery. This game, though, gets interesting when I begin to think of random events, and my mind goes directly to the absolutely worst possible outcome. This generally ends with me saying “Nope, I’m not going to do that.”

For instance, I’ve never been skydiving. It’s something people do, right? I have plenty of friends who have, or who want to, go skydiving.

So, what if I went skydiving?

I know what you’re thinking. “M, I bet you’re thinking your parachute won’t open and you’ll turn into an M-splat. That’s just unlikely.”

I wish my worst case scenario were so simple. Here’s what would happen if I went skydiving. (Of course I’ll leave out the fact that I would, in reality, have a professional attached to me. This is my fantasy people. It may be screwed up, but it’s 100% my delusional reality.)

The pilot calls out that we’re almost ready to jump. My parachute is secure. It has been checked ten times. I know, I’m the one who badgered them to check it over and over on the way up. I’ve been shaking since I stepped onto the plane, but this is it. I’m going to do it.

I’m going skydiving.

I hesitate at the door. It’s too much, too scary. I remember the brilliant words of Mr. Homolka just before he jumped out of a plane.

“Push me, please. Harder, please.”**

I repeat his words to whomever is behind me. I do not look back to see who it is. If I do, I may retreat. I will not admit defeat.

One quick shove and I’m on my way. I plummet at what feels like a hundred miles an hour. I should be terrified, but I’m exhilarated. My heart is banging wildly in my chest, and it’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. All I can hear is the wind rushing by my ears.

Wait. I hear something. It’s an odd, high-pitched screech.

I see the large bird just before his slams into me. It scratches at me with its talons, and pecks at me with its beak. What is it? An eagle? A hawk? I don’t know anything beyond the pain of it’s beak and talons tearing into my skin. I swing my hands wildly to bat away the creature, but it only attacks more viciously with every hit I land. In my fervent attempt to protect myself I accidentally release my parachute. It’s too early. I’m too high. My descent slows, but this only gives the animal more time to attack. I kick and punch at it now that I am more able to move in my slowed fall. It flaps its wings back only to return within a second. Like a scene from shark week, I watch the animal come towards me again with malicious intent, and I am helpless to stop that attack I know is coming.

I am closer to the ground now, bleeding from all of the cuts and missing flesh the bird has torn away. I’m not even sure I can call it a bird. It seems huge, and more vicious than any bird I have ever heard of. Did someone pull a Jurassic park and bring back pterodactyls without telling me? Shouldn’t that be in the skydiving brochure?

Doesn’t anyone learn anything from movies anymore?

Then the unthinkable happens. A talon catches the ropes attaching me to my parachute. The parachute twists, and I am sent into a free fall once more. I am too close to the ground for the fall to kill me, too high up to walk away unharmed. As I slam into the earth, I feel bones snap all over my body. The sound is deafening, but is quickly overcome by the squawk of the beast, my tormentor, as it descends on me once more.  It pecks at my flesh, attempting to tear away chunks of meat. We are in a field, I realize, there must be some mice or snakes for the animal to capture. But it has captured an animal. It has captured me. I cover my face as best I can, but it is difficult to move.

My companions from the plane begin to land around the field. I can hear them screaming to me, and running to my side. They attack the bird, and it releases its meal.

I am rushed to the hospital alive and in pain. Pain meds course through my veins to keep the worst of the pain away, but that is the least of my worries. The talons that tore into my flesh were used to carry many things, dead things, and they were not clean. An infection runs rampant through my system, and I am losing the battle to control it. Finally, the doctors cut off my leg to stop the progression of the flesh eating bacteria, and I will live.

If that is what you can call it.

I heal as best I can, but the pain meds were too strong; stronger than I. I am addicted, and lost. I cannot walk. I cannot function. I cannot get through one day without that beautiful poison floating through my veins.

The money quickly runs out, and I am unable to find work. I probably wouldn’t if I could.

I resort to prostitution to fuel my needs. It starts of easy. What’s a little show and tell, or a hand job in exchange for peace of mind? Oblivion and peace are kind of the same thing, right? Only, my addiction grows. It overwhelms me, and the meager amounts I get for my solicitous acts is not enough to sustain me. I become a full blown whore.

One day when my regular supplier refuses my services, I don’t know if he is out of stock or just tiring of my withering body, I seek out a new ‘healthcare provider’ to obtain my meds. It is a place I have never been, and my body is not prepared for this batch.

I begin to convulse on the floor, and a foul substance shoots from my mouth. It is nothing to me, of course. I am no longer aware of my existence. Someone is kind enough to dump me in front of an emergency room, and I am saved.

Rehab is not my idea, but I do not have a choice. It is miserable. This is nothing like the rehab Sandra Bullock went to in “28 days.” There is no love, no singing, no fun horses to see. I do not even get to meet, let alone make out with, a hot baseball player.

Rehab sucks, but I get through it.

My sober days don’t last long. When I get out, I am back to my old tricks again. I hobble from place to place, a scarred one-legged junkie just looking for the next score. This time, I hope no one does me any favors.


You see, I’m insane.

Also, I’m never going skydiving.


**”Congo” (1995)