Say The Word….Arkansas…Damn It!!!

mapBowling ball sized hail is falling outside.  The hairs on my arm stand up because a tornado is six miles up the road. Devastation is on my door step so I turn on the TV. The handsome national weather man is standing in front of a map of our beautiful country.  Instantly, I notice the angry red blob covering the south east corner of America.

He smiles and says, “Now this is a dangerous part of the country right now. Death storms are swirling across Texas, West of Oklahoma all the way to Tennessee, and this area above Louisiana is really gonna get wiped off the map.” His hand hangs over the Natural State, over Arkansas….but he never ever says the word. ARKANSAS.

Why don’t weather men ever say the name of our state? It’s bizarre and kind of hurts my feelings.  Arkansas is part of the club, we pay taxes, we have Wal-Marts, we vote and have guns and we know the secret hand-shake. But weather men ignore us constantly.

We are more than “the area under Missouri”  or “this expanse from Dallas to Memphis”.  That’s Arkansas you moron. Why can’t you just say the name of the state?

We were granted statehood back in 1836, so it’s not like we’re the new kid in class. You should be able to remember our name.

It’s true, we have an obesity problem, and a poverty problem, an education problem and a football problem but we are a great state.  Lot’s of awesome people came from Arkansas, including Al Green, Johnny Cash, Glen Campbell, Sonny Liston and Bill Clinton.

So when the zombie apocalypse begins and Little Rock and Hot Springs are taken over, when the country is flooded and a thirty foot wall of water rolls over Malvern and Bismarck, when a freak lightening storm sets the entire freaking state on fire and we are nothing but a scalded, smoldering wasteland….say our name! It’s ARKANSAS!!

Dumb Ass…Don’t Smoke While Nursing Your Baby…Mom

My husband, Alex, smokes.

Gross, I know, but I’m going to say thank you to him right now because 95% of the time he smokes outside. sure, I sometimes bust him out on the couch in his underwear and robe in the middle of the night because it’s raining and 36 degrees outside. But for the most part he’s pretty good about taking his filthy habit outside.

And that’s a good thing cause I just read about 3rd hand smoke in Time Magazine(yes, I still read magazines made out of paper). 3rd hand smoke is the toxic stuff left behind by 1st and 2nd hand smoke. If a smoker hangs out in your living room it gets in your sofa, our carpet it’s even in clothing.

So Alex, thank you for smoking outside, most of the time. That in itself is an act of love.

So, how do I explain my parents who smoked all the time and everywhere, in the car, the house, the bathroom.   I remember my mom tried not to smoke when she taught Sunday school but she kept a cigarette in her hand to wave around throughout the class.  She literally used her unlit cigarette it as a pointer on the black board.

Lord, as a child I must have smelled wretched, and our lovely home must have reeked. There were ashtrays in every room of course (expensive artsy ones of course). But I guess we didn’t’ notice because everybody had parents who smoked.

Here’s the really “great” part. My mom admitted when I was a baby she would nurse me, smoke a cigarette and have a cocktail…at the same time. It was her “relaxing time”. It’s a wonder I didn’t grow a third arm just to slap her with. Can you imagine watching your baby nursing then blowing cigarette smoke on that perfect face. I was awash in 1.5, 2nd and 3rd hand smoke.  It’s a wonder I didn’t have a smoker’s hack by the time I turned two. No wonder I’ve got “issues”.

So Alex, I know your sitting at the computer right now, reading this and nobody else is home so you’re probably lighting up a Marlboro  as I type but thanks anyway. Just light a candle before I get home, ok?