Am I A Grown Up Yet???

Next month I'm turning 27. Now that I'm on the downward spiral to 30, I don't feel at all freaked out about it. At some point I'm sure I will feel a strange sense of mortality lurking at my biological door but that hasn't kicked in yet. I find my age almost surreal. As the years tick off on the calendar I find myself asking more and more, "When am I supposed to start feeling like a grown up?"

My friend Tiffany recently wrote a blog about a similar subject. If you aren't on her readers list, CLICK! don't c-l-i-c-k to get to her subscription page (MySpace). (If you didn't get that, I mean don't waste time in not reading what the girl writes.) Anyhow, she and I had a conversation about getting older in which I made the observation that my current age doesn't feel old, I just always thought that my life would be so different than what it is by now.

On paper, I am an adult. I've lived out from under my parent's roof for ten years. I'm a mother of 2 beautiful kids. I've been married once and I have a comfortable job where I feel needed and most days appreciated. I've owned two houses, more cars than I can count, ran up credit cards, paid down credit cards and I even have a retirement account. But let's wad up the fact sheet for a moment and let me tell you how I really feel.

I feel sixteen with waaayyy too much responsibility.

I love my job (most of the time). I've been there for (gasp!) 8 years. I have a cozy office with a window and a nice cluttered desk with a filing cabinet hiding away toys for my kids. I have two computers that ding all day long with countless emails and reminders and a phone with more buttons on it than the NASA launch console. This has been my 8 to 5 reality for a long long time and yet I still have to remind myself that there is no summer break to look forward to, followed by a promotion in the fall.

My oldest child is turning five this year so I'm not brand new at the mom thing. However, some days I actually look at my kids and think, "When is someone going to realize that I am not mature enough to be a mother and take you away from me?" I think back now to when I was five and wonder if my mom felt the same way. She certainly seemed to have it all together and always know all the right answers. I'm just not even close to being there yet. Maybe my kids won't catch on.

And then there's the subject of boys. While over the years, they have lost some of the luster that they had when I was a teenager, I still get giddy, yes – giddy, over boys from time to time. Johnny Depp, Vin Diesel, David Beckham… yep, they all do it for me. And while it's been a while since I've encircled Johnny's name in a white-out "love heart" on the top of my stereo, I still watch "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" when I'm having a bad day and I instantly feel all butterfly-ish.

I discussed this with my mom over my last visit to see her in North Carolina. She said that even at 60 she still doesn't feel quite like an adult all the time.

I've concluded that maybe it's because we simply are who we are. We are the same person at six that we are at sixty. Everything in time will change: love, appearance, dreams, expectations, likes, dislikes… but at the core I'm still just a crazy kid that likes to dye her hair and eat too much peanut butter out of the jar.

And you know what? That's OK with me.

My Name is Elicia and I'm a textaholic.

Step one of any common Twelve Step Program is admitting you have a problem. So here goes… My name is Elicia and I am a cell phone addict.

Whew. I feel better already.

Regardless of setting, attire or company at any given time of day you will see attached to my hand or hip a shiny, silver, phone/pda/camera/nuclear-weapons-launcher. One day last week I actually challenged myself to walk all the way around my office building to talk to a co-worker and then visit the ladies room sans phone. I literally almost got the shakes. It was a sad sad moment.

The only thing that makes me feel better is knowing that I am not alone. I actually found an article online entitled Tech Addicts Need Textual Healing. When I stopped LMAO and actually read the article thinking it was a joke I realized it the "experts" were quite serious in their concern with the isolation of "textually active" individuals. It even went on to discuss "cell phone detox" and I was immediately reminded of my hurried trip to the little girl's room nervously thinking of my phone buzzing away on my desk. EEK! Have I been infected with some icky TTD? I thought I was being so careful hiding behind the light of my LCD touchscreen!

All jokes aside, I do believe that choosing electronic mail over a good 'ol face to face "Come to Jesus Meeting" can also have adverse effects on many relationships. Have you ever had something you've emailed, IM'd, blogged, or texted interpreted completely opposite of how you intended it??? I HAVE! It's amazing what some people can read into the words you've written. No matter how many cute emoticons you stick in there.

So why do I do it? Why do I admittedly prefer a chat session to an actual phone call 9 times out of 10? Because I'm a "get to the matter" kind of girl. If I need to know whether or not to bring a bottle of wine to dinner I don't want to go through "Hey, how are you? How's the family? I'm great. No, the house hasn't sold yet, but the realtor is dropping the sale price…" – I just want to know "white or red?"

I'm taking all of this into account and starting at step number one. Now that I've admitted that yes, I do have a problem, I'm slowly working on tearing down the digital walls that I've built between me and my loved ones.

BZZZZZZZZ, G2G I'm getting a text and need to reply. TTYL

Bikini Marketing 101

I will admit that this blog has been spawned by a dreadful trip (dum dum dum) to a department store dressing room with an armload of bathing suits. I hate bathing suit shopping worse than I hate mornings… can I get an AMEN?

Let's start with a little bit of history.

I am not, on most days, what I would deem as overweight. I am a pleasant size 4/6/8 depending on how smart the marketing team is in whatever store I find myself. I'm a decent height at 5'6 and tip the scales somewhere between 138 and 142. Not too bad. Most of the time this is just fine with me, except for in the TJ Maxx fitting room.

Clothing stores take note. I am going to give you some tips that I believe will drastically increase your sales during this time of the year. The economy is bad right? And I'm sure you need all the help you can get. So, get your copy and paste buttons ready for some advice.

Tip #1: LIE TO ME. And maybe in the grand scheme of things your dishonesty and my distorted body image will balance out. Did you know that a few years ago I purchased an $80 pair of Abercrombie khaki pants (on sale, mind you) simply because the tag said size 4? At the time I was probably a 10 and I KNEW that there was no way on God's green Earth that I was a true size 4, but I proudly swiped my VISA (shh… don't tell Dave) and WORE HOME the happy lying size 4 pants. I don't even like khaki. Here's the deal, my mental image of myself is much much worse than any realistic reflection is going to be. So, it's really just cruel to be realistic with someone so irrational. If you can boost my self esteem by dropping the number attached to the waistband, I will be much more likely to buy your garment.

Tip #2: JUST SAY NO TO HALOGEN. There should be a constitutional amendment concerning the use of halogen lighting in any atmosphere. Don't do it. Sure, it may give me a more accurate version of what my pasty white cellulite is going to look like reflecting against the water in the bright sunshine, but that's NOT what I want to see while I'm cramming my butt cheeks into a bikini bottom. I won't have a mirror standing on the sea shore. All I will have is the glowing memory of how lovely my silky smooth skin looked in the dimly lit dressing room while trying the suit on. What I choose to be oblivious to won't hurt me.

Tip #3: THE MIRROR SHOULD MAKE ME HAPPY. Tilt the mirror. Good grief, tilt the mirror. There is no reason to have 19 different angles of myself all reflecting back the same sad image at 90 degrees. Do you know how slimming a mirror tilted back just a tad can make me feel? Again… it's all about tip #1.

I'm going to the lake on Sunday with some friends. I have no interest in dressing to impress anyone, but today I still feel the need to pop another happy pill and wash it down with a half a serving of SlimFast. I will be wearing last year's clearance suit and a cover up, thank you TJ Maxx.

Echo In My Thoughts

Someone once said something extremely profound to me. He said, "Elicia, when you're dead and gone, people won't remember the things that you said, they'll probably forget the mistakes you've made, and after time they may even forget what you looked like. One thing that they will never forget is the way you made them feel."

Seven years later, that statement still echoes in my thoughts every day. It is my wish that I may live life making others around me feel like they matter to me. Not because of how I might benefit from them at the end of the day, but simply because I appreciate their presence in my life.

One girl shouldn't be allowed to have so many of you that love me. Thanks for all the prayers, phone calls for no real reason, laps around the gym, Men's Health magazines, pudding parties, SlimFast, Snappy trips, NASCAR weekends, witnessing Mom wet her pants, and for finding me again after 7 long years.

May I always be remembered for loving you as best I could. With all my heart, E.
-didn't mean for that last part to sound like a suicide note. Please don't call. I'm fine.

The God Bubble

In my dining room hangs a framed quote. Normally, I don't like art like this as it's not really art at all. Then again, I'm not a very artsy person in general so maybe my "non-art" fits me just right. Back on subject, the canvas says in big bold blue letters "JOURNEY" and below it "The bend in the road is not the end of the road, unless you refuse to take the turn." No one has ever asked me about the sign and I've never volunteered the story. Most just see it as pretty self-explanatory and don't think there's any significance to it other than an appreciation for inspiring sentences by anonymous people.


My journey has covered a lot of ground in my 26 (almost 27) years. Next month will be the 9 year anniversary of a really difficult time in my life. The tragic state I was in was admittedly self-induced by a lot of poor decision making on my part. It's the same old story… "I was a good kid, from a good Christian family that got mixed in with the wrong crowd… blah… blah… blah." What should've been one of the best years of my life was actually one of the lowest times I've ever experienced. While most of the rest of my graduating class was preparing for college I was living it up in a fine establishment called Bent Creek (my NC fan club will recognize this). Bent Creek is part of the national forest in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. My friends and I "lived" there for nearly a year… most of which I don't remember due to high amounts of LSD and THC pumping through my bloodstream. In a nutshell, we got busted with our friend, Sweet Mary Jane on federal property. It wasn't much, but to our surprise ANY amount of illegal substance in a national forest is a FELONY. Happy birthday to me. My boyfriend (at the time) took the rap for it and was carted off to big house. A few days later came the news that would bring me to my first major "bend in the road". I was pregnant.


We've already established that I was raised in the Southern Baptist church. If you've ever known a Southern Baptist during an election year you know that our moral sun rises and sets around the abolishment of abortion… among other valid but pointless arguments. Therefore, abortion was the sin I couldn't commit. Drug abuse, lying, stealing… I was ok with at the time, but when that little blue world-altering line appeared I knew that I had created a life and therefore I would not let myself end it.


My parents had at some point read some book called "Tough Love" (or something like that) and had basically closed the door to me. They told me not to call, come to visit, or try to contact them in any way until I was ready to get help. When I was finally ready, I picked up the phone to make that call and they were waiting on the other end of the line. Less than four weeks later I was on my way to Mercy Ministries in Nashville. Mercy is a free of charge home for girls dealing with everything from pregnancy (me), drug addiction (me), eating disorders (yep, me again) and anything else damaging that you can imagine. It's a Christ based treatment program that I liked to refer to as "The God Bubble". They take girls out of the world, but them in a Jesus-cocoon and nurse them back to health.


I was there out of obligation to this unborn child I was carrying and that was it. You can imagine what the next "bend in the road" felt like when I miscarried my only reason for saving myself. It was insane to me how losing a child that I didn't even want could be so devastating. As I lay in the hospital I knew that my time in Nashville had come to an end and it was time to go home and finish destroying myself. My parents cried when I told them I wanted to leave because they knew that certain death awaited me. Now, I'm not sure what happened to me while I was under anesthesia that day in the operating room…. I like to believe that it was angels or whispers from God while I slept, but when I woke up I had a newfound hope that life was going to go on. Seven months later, I graduated from Mercy.


What does this story have to do with my dining room "non-art"? I named that baby Journey in the days before he/she died and I found the framed quote shortly after giving birth to my daughter almost five years ago.


Lately, my days seem to be laced with bend after bend after bend. But every morning I am reminded that "The bend in the road is not the end of the road, unless you refuse to take the turn."
Mercy Ministries is celebrating 25 years of changing lives this year. For more information visit www.mercyministries.com

There’s Bible verses involved so it can’t be titled: Get Off Your A$$ and Do Something About It

A friend of mine recently asked me, "Why do I keep feeling this way???" The question was asked out of a moment of loneliness and depression which I understand all too well. Most would think that at this critical moment of my life I should be asking the same question. My response to my friend was short and maybe a little bit calloused, but I believe it was truth.

"You keep feeling this way because you're letting yourself feel this way. Do something to distract yourself. Go out, read a book, journal," was my sharp tongued response.

If you don't know me very well, let me give you a piece of my personality in a short description from my closest friends. My girlfriends and I decided a while back that we would give each other "friend job descriptions". It was the general consensus among the group that I would not be the friend that you would go to when seeking sympathy, someone to wallow in misery with, or someone to rock with you in the corner singing "it's gonna be alright, it's gonna be OK". I'm the friend that you come to when you've hit rock bottom and need a good swift kick in the you-know-what to get out of the wallow pit and move on. Now, that's not to say that I don't love you, that I'm unsympathetic, and as calloused as it all sounds. I'm just a "fixer" by nature and if something's broken I don't want to talk about the brokenness or how badly the brokenness sucks, I want to make it unbroken – or buy you something new and shiny to make you not care that the broken thing is broken beyond repair.

Life's really going to suck sometimes. If you haven't realized this by now, we need to have a chat so I can figure out what it is that you are smoking and get some of it. But when you're in the pit of despair (insert The Princess Bride voice of the Albino here) remember that you and God above are your only ticket out of that pit.

The letter to the Colossians says to "Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth". The letter to the Philippians goes on to tell us "Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy--meditate on these things…. Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content: I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere and in all things I have learned both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

Granted, these passages of scripture I'm sure could be exegeted out to mean something entirely different than the point I'm trying to make here. (I'm sorry to my Veritas scholar friend, as I am sure the word "exegeted" doesn't actually exist.) Anyhow, I think that these truths were recorded to remind us that God has given us all the tools that we need to be in control of our emotions, our bodies and our minds.

Sometimes we need a little push in the right direction. I'm all in favor of "happy pills" (see previous blog), counselors, friends, psychotherapists, and obviously blogging out all your feelings to the cyber-world. But when it comes down to it at the end of the day… you and only you are responsible for how life has effected your day.

It is now time for my happy pill and a hot bubble bath. Goodnight friends!

Talking Beavers and Agile Monkeys

Thanks for the title Tiff. :-)

I know that all parents have things that their children enjoy that drive them crazy. When I was a kid, my parents hated the Smurfs. Mom and Dad were probably anti-Smurf because of the witchcraft (we were Southern Baptist). Or maybe it was because Gargamel's cat was named Azrael (the Arabic name for The Death Angel – but again, we were Southern Baptists, so I doubt that was it). It could've been because of Vanity Smurf (remember him? The one with the pink flower in his hat?). Who knows… maybe it was that Smurfett whore who lived in the village as the sole woman among so many men. I mean, what kind of positive influence could that be for a young, impressionable girl?

Now that I have kids of my own I have joined the leagues of parents everywhere on a mission against a cartoon of some sort. Granted, my reasons are not nearly as arguable as my parents' reasons to crusade against the little blue dwarfs in funny white hats, but I am halfway "up the wall" none the less.

I hate Dora the (freaking) Explorer. I'm sure that I'm not the only one who feels this way about the bilingual, singing, animated headache. Maybe I can Google the statistics on that! There's got to be some anti-Dora sites out there somewhere. If not, I'll be sure to start one.
Sure, she's teaching my kids to speak another language that is extremely helpful in today's highly diverse society. My son now screams out "rojo!" whenever we are approaching a red light, but that's beside the point. The negatives of the show far surpass the positives any day!
First of all…. Where the crap are Dora's parents? And why on earth do they let their daughter (who is what, maybe 6 or 7 years old) wander through the valleys and the spooky forests all day accompanied by only a monkey? What are we encouraging here? I'm just waiting for Canaan to open the front door of the house and tell me, "It's OK, mom. I've got my backpack, flashlight and my talking map." I don't think so. I'm sure there are pedophiles in Mexico too! And these adventures she goes on! I don't want my kids thinking that it's acceptable to cross over any raging rivers laced with alligators or talking beavers no matter how agile their monkey escort is. BAD IDEA.

Don't get me started on Swiper the Fox. Swiper, for those who aren't privileged to hours of overexposure to Dora, is her nemesis. He's the rabid carnivore that stalks Dora on all of her explorations stealing her stuff and trying to wreck her day. In the adult world, Swiper, is usually known as the IRS (sorry, bunny trail there). Anyhow… Dora's response is always "Swiper! No Swiping!" Because that's what my four year old needs to say when she encounters a FOX in the woods. Maybe "Swiper, no swiping your mangy fangs across my jugular!" would be more appropriate.

Anyhow… guess how I'm spending my afternoon? Yep Yep Yep (Because Dora repeats everything 3 TIMES)

There is an upside…. She's not a talking purple dinosaur.

Praise Gee The Lord!

It has been my adventure for the past few weeks to observe the social lives of four small children. My two, Canaan (almost 4) and Will (almost 2) and their friends Moira (4) and Camden almost (3).

Today on our ride home Moira was trying to teach Canaan the latest song she learned at church. Some of you might know the song from children's church. It goes "Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu Hallelujah - Praise Ye the Lord!"

Canaan and Moira were in the far backseat of the van. Moira was bobbing her head and singing, "Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu Lu, Praise Gee the Lord!" over and over and over and over again.
Moira asked Canaan, "Do you want to sing with me? It goes Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu Lu, Praise Gee the Lord!"

Moira started the song and it was Canaan's job to finish.

Moira began, "Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu LU!"

Canaan sang, "Praise Jesus the Lord!"

Moira stopped and started shaking her head. "No, Canaan. It's Praise GEE the Lord!"

Canaan tried again. "Praise GEEsus the Lord!

"Ugh! No Canaan!" Moira said. "Praise Gee the Lord!"Moira started again. "Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu Hallelu LU!"

Canaan was now determined to get it right. She shouted, "Praise GEE!sus the Lord!"

"No Canaan!" Moira shouts. "Not Jesus! It's Praise GEE the Lord!"

Canaan just looks at her open mouthed for a moment, then turns to her window and sings, "Hey Hey You You! I don't like your girlfriend!"

I about died.

Mama... Welax

If you know me well enough, you know that Elicia does not do mornings well. In fact, if I could control the universe (which yes, I'm realizing that I cannot do) I would mandate that no one's day should ever begin prior to 9 am. Anything that happens before 9 am is, in my opinion, just not worth doing. I am the queen of snooze button and have been known to occasionally backhand the alarm clock with Olympic force off of the night stand. In my house, you should never expect a hot breakfast unless it is served for dinner, a bath unless you take it yourself or even a smile from me unless it is Saturday and I have realized I forgot to turn off my alarm for 6:30am the night before. Again, I will repeat… I don't do mornings well.

About six weeks ago I was running around frantic because it was 8:30 and I am supposed to be at work by 8:30. Not only do I live twenty minutes away from my office, but Canaan was still half asleep in her jammies on my bed, I was dripping wet from the shower, and my son would not put down Thomas ChooChoo to come get his clothes on. You can only imagine the level of frenzy in my house that morning. The scene was something like this:

"Will, come here!" I bellowed to where Will and Thomas were doing laps around the dining room table.

A tiny finger stretched through the bedroom doorway. "One second Mama."

"No, one second. Come here now!"

"One second!" he repeated.

Taking action into my own hands, I marched to the dining room, swung my son into my arms with magnificent speed sending Thomas ChooChoo spiraling into orbit through the living room. I plopped him down on my bed, ripped his shirt up and over his head and slung it on the floor. His eyes were wide and he lifted both hands in the air, palms out, as if to silence me. He paused for dramatic effect and then said calmly, "Mama… welax."

He's two. Barely.

My life has been anything but relaxing for the past few months. Most days are spent before I ever even fully realize that they have begun. I've come to fully understand those women who just pack up and skip the country without looking back because they just can't deal with life here anymore. I begrudgingly wake up, go to work, come home to play mommy, work some more and then go to bed just to get up and do it all over again. I realized that this is NO WAY TO LIVE.

Am I going to go and buy that plane ticket for Bora Bora? Not this week. J Instead I've decided to take my son's advice and WELAX. I have committed myself to three specific things:

1. I will in all cases, no matter what madness or drama comes my way, be thankful. Thankfulness doesn't come easy for me most days, it's a choice, not a feeling. I am thankful for God's faithfulness, my children, my family, my friends, my job, my home, and my bathtub…. Which brings me to thing number two.

2. I will indulge myself in some small way every day. That usually means I will take a bubble bath or two. (I have a rockin' great bathtub and a pretty hefty water bill.) Other forms of indulgence may also include a bucket of guilt-free dark chocolate M&M's, a glass of wine, or a new $8 dress that deserves a nice dinner out.

3. Thing number three in my quest to welaxation is to follow my heart and listen to myself. I will choose to listen to the real me rather than the imposter me that tells me that I am a failure, that I am incapable of making good decisions, that I am a bad mother, that I will always be the bad seed. This is simply not true and I will no longer listen to that voice.

Tomorrow is Monday. I hate Mondays, but maybe… just maybe I'll only hit the snooze button once. New day… here I come!