Pregnancy: The ULTIMATE Sport

So there is one thing that I have noticed since being in Louisiana.

There are A LOT of teen parents down here.  Babies are everywhere.

Now, please keep in mind, I lived in Rural Alaska before moving here.  Rural Alaska everyone was pregnant, but it was understandable.  It was cold, there was nothing to do, and everyone needed some way to keep warm.  I totally understood it.  Hence why most babies in Alaska were born in the summer: the colder it got, the more pregnancies happened.  Nearly all of my Alaskan friends are born in the summer.

Honestly, I don’t understand why there are so many pregnancies down here.  With as hot as it is, I don’t even liked to shake hands with people, much less do anything else.  I’m far too sweaty to want to be near anyone, myself included.

None the less, there is an insane amount of teen pregnancy, and many families are large families.  Such as more than four kids large families.  Two of my coworkers have over five kids.  All but one of them has kids.  Everyone keeps asking me why I don’t have kids yet, which is strange to me considering I’m only 23 years old.  I thought most people waited until their late 20s to have kids.

Finally, curiosity was killing me.  I asked my coworker who was at least ten years older than me, and had five kids, why teen pregnancy was so prevalent here in the south.

“Oh, teenagers make a sport of it here.”

Not the answer I was expecting.  When he said this, all I could think was “Who wants to get knocked up the fastest?  Ready! Set! GO!”

He saw my confusion and decided to elaborate.  “Girls have a boyfriend they like and think, ‘I need this man, so I’m going to get pregnant so he can’t leave me,’ so then the girls get pregnant, to which the guy still leaves because he didn’t want a baby in the first place.”

It's a trap!

It’s a trap!

This still blows my mind away.

Never, in a million years, would I get knocked up in order to keep a man.  For me, I just had to get into a car crash and nearly die to keep my husband.*

This did bring back one memory of when my mother and I were house hunting in Louisiana a month before we were stationed here.  We were having breakfast at an awesome diner that is no longer in business, when a waitress saw my Alaskan ID and asked me why I went to Alaska.

“Oh, it’s ten men to one woman up there so I thought I’d try my luck.  Got married pretty quickly.”

She laughed and said “I need to get myself a man soon, maybe I’ll try Alaska.”

My mom shook her head, and for my mom, this is quite a bit out of her mouth.  A quiet woman who is very opinionated with her children.  When my mother shakes her head, my brother and I usually know what she’s thinking.  At this instance, she was screaming at the girl in her head, No woman needs a damn man.  I raised two kids by myself and I didn’t need a damn man to help me do it.  Seriously kid, grow up and realize that men are not needed.

I imagine it more along the lines of this.


This, by the way, is the voice of my mother in my head.  I’m pretty sure she’d never say the “f” word though, being a good catholic and all.

While my mom did tell me in the car that the girl didn’t need a man, and went on a rampage for the rest of the day on why girls are stupid to the fact that men are useless, I feel myself getting off topic.

I asked a former teacher of mine, and all he said was “Never underestimate how socioeconomic classes affect the general populous.”  Poverty is much higher down here than it is up north, so I figure being broke has a big part of it.

But I thought condoms were cheaper.


What are your thoughts, oh internets?  Do you see a similar trend in your area?

*When I was dating my husband, about two months in, I got in a pretty horrific car accident that should have killed me, but left me with a bruise from my seatbelt and lower back problems that are mostly cured now.  My husband and I were engaged two days after the accident.  We were talking marriage jokingly, but after the accident we realized that we loved each other a whole bunch and got married.


I Have Simple Goals, I Just Complicate Them

While working the Zombie Bowling Event at my work earlier this week, I had a little time to think about where my life is going.  I get fairly good grades in school, but I realize more and more that I would like to not be a cook.  I also realize that many people do not have the same intelligence level I do, and it’s frustrating.

So when I got home, I decided to make a list of goals.  Probably not my best idea.

After I was done cleaning at my work tonight, I went to my coworker and told her “When Alex is out of the military, I’m buying eighty fucking acres of land, putting barbed wire around my entire fucking property, and I’m going to stand in my fucking yard naked every day because nobody will fucking see.”

This will be my house, but more trees and less people.  And more nakedness.

This will be my house, but more trees and less people. And more nakedness.

She responded with, “Or you could just join a nudist colony and be naked all the time and it being okay.”

“But then I might be looking at people like you, and I would feel awkward being naked around super hot chicks.”

She smiled, unable to retort my comment because we both know that she’s insanely hot.

But I have decided that when either my husband is out of the military or when we win the lottery, I’m buying 80 acres of land.

I’m building a house in the middle of it.

I’m going to stand naked in the middle of the yard.  Every fucking day.

And if my best friend calls and says “Hey!  I want to paint naked in your yard!” which is TOTALLY what artists do, I think, I can call her back and be like “You can paint naked in my yard because there’s nobody near my fucking yard.”

Best friend painted this, think of the awesomeness

My Best friend painted this, think of the awesomeness


And I really want to learn how to brew beer.  So I can save money on alcohol by making my own alcohol so I can be an efficient fucking alcoholic.

Want to start going to the gym… so I can stand naked in my yard.

If you’re noticing a trend, so am I.  I want to live where no passer-by’s will fucking see me.


But I have to say that my number one goal for living in Louisiana is to make one friend that I can talk to.  It would be nice to have coffee with a friend instead of having coffee alone.

So what are your thoughts?  What are some goals you have for the future?  What is something that you want to do to make yourself a better, happier person?

All Criminals Need To Do To Stop Being Criminals Is To Be Told To Stop Being Criminals

So this happened a few months ago. 

I had to take a test with the state to be able to apply for select jobs. I’ll leave it at that.


The day started with me getting up at five in the morning because the website said to get there early.  The test was at eight AM so I figured two hours would be enough considering it was supposed to be first come, first serve.  In Minnesota, when it says get there early, you get there a couple hours early and bring a book, and at exactly 8:00 AM on the atomic clock, they seat you as needed.  Not the case in the South.

I got to the place where I was supposed to take the test, to find that nobody was there.  Confused, I checked my phone to make sure I had the right address.  I did, so I sat in my car and waited.  After over an hour, the second and third person began to show, and slowly, cars began to trickle in.  After a few people were in line, I decided to get out of my car and stand in line with the rest of the people.  About fifteen minutes before the test was supposed to start, people were running from their cars to secure a spot in line. 

Not a big deal.


The first person in line, however, was around my age, and was very privileged growing up.  Now, I say privileged because you can tell this kid wanted and currently wants for nothing.  He had ironed pants and an ironed shirt.  His glasses were hipster and brand new, he had a man purse, no acne scarring, a soft southern drawl, and even said that he graduated five months prior and decided that he should get a job before his student loans kicked in.

The second person in line, was probably the polar opposite of this guy.  It was a woman, but she had tattoos and piercings everywhere.  Her clothes were ripped, she had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, her voice was raspy, her hair was several different colors, and as she spoke about herself, it all made sense.  She was a maximum security prison guard at Colorado’s most dangerous men’s prison.  She worked with Serial Killers, well, she used to before she moved to Louisiana.  This woman was, by far, the most badass woman I had ever seen.  If I ever meet her again, I’m buying her coffee and I’m just going to listen to her talk about stories of her work.  She was the goddess of punk.  She was a plethora of badass and hilarity in the best possible way.  Madam, if you are reading this, I would marry you if I were a lesbian and not married.

Sorry, getting off topic.  Let’s just say this chick was a badass. From here on out, I’m calling her The Goddess.

The Goddess looks over at the young gentleman in front of her, and asks him what he’s taking the test for.

“Oh, I’m a criminal justice major.  I’m taking the state test to qualify,” he tells her cheerfully.  She begins to laugh… Like she’s laughing at him.

“Sweetie, I’ve worked in maximum security prisons before.  I have worked with every type of criminal you could even imagine and worse.  You are not going to survive in the Criminal Justice system.”

He looks at her confused.  “You don’t know that…”

She responds to him as if she had this all scripted.  “I’m working on a doctorate, my job is to read people to see how well they’ll survive.  Looking at you, they’d eat you alive.”

“I got good grades.  And I figure that as long as you give them a little love and a push in the right direction, they’ll straighten out and not commit crimes anymore.  All criminals need is a stern talking to and they’ll stop.”

The Goddess just chuckled and shook her head.  “Trust me, they need a lot more than that.”

The rest of the time was silence, idle chit chat, but you could tell this guy was eager to prove her wrong.  In a weird way, I hope he does. 


What are your thoughts?


Note: If the guy in this story ever reads this, please note that I was not laughing at you, I was merely amused by your sincerity.  It was very refreshing to see someone think like that, even after taking CJ classes.   But it was still hilarious. 

Giant Rats Are Not To Be Trifled With

There are many critters that freak me out here in Louisiana.  Being from Minnesota, the worst we ever had to worry about was mosquitos and the occasional bear or moose.  In Alaska, we had to deal with a lot of moose and every so often a bear.  In Louisiana, these are the critters you have to watch out for:



Giant Beetles

Silverfish (A type of disgusting insect)

Brown Recluse Spiders (Most deadly spider in North America)

All of these snakes


And even the Rodents of Unusual Size (If you’re a princess bride fan, the ROUS’s).

Now you’re probably thinking that ROUS’s don’t exist.  I mean hell, a ten pound rat that eats everything and supposedly tastes like chicken?  Nah…


Except that they’re FUCKING REAL!

When I took my dogs outside to go to the bathroom, usually they dart into the yard and run around until their little legs tell them that they need to go inside to get their muddy paws on everything, but this particular night, they looked at the neighbors yard and tried to go back into the house.  Curious as to why they’re freaking out, I decide to go into my back yard to see what scared my “fearless” dogs.  I see a silhouette of what looked like a rat that was half the size of my smaller dog.  Walking very slowly across the yard, it stops to look at us, it’s giant tail dragging behind it, before moving on.  Doing the only logical thing I can think of, I do it.


My husband walks over to see what the big deal is, to respond with, “Holy shit, what IS that?”

“I think it’s a swamp rat.”

He looks at me with question, to which I respond.  “They’re rats that are a little smaller than a beaver.”

“Oh, the R-O-U-S’s?  I don’t think they exist.”

My “brave” dogs decided to run back into the house like babies after seeing a rat that could kick their ass.

On a related topic, I saw a raccoon chase a kid down the street and the parents just watched.  Free entertainment I guess.

Pink Flamingos Are Sexy

While this post isn’t really about the south, it is about a little bit of culture shock and an overall shock to my brain when confronted with morals.

For those of you who do not know, I married an active duty enlisted man who is enlisted in the Air Force.  What that means is that he’s not an officer, he’s a grunt man.  From what I can tell, he doesn’t hate his job too terribly, and from what I’ve been told, he’s damn good at it.

When we were first married, I had to learn about an entirely new culture: The Military Life.

The military life surrounds the military wife.  Through the military, I have met women who have said to me “You can’t say that to me!  I’m an officer’s wife!” or “How dare you!  I’m a staff sergeants wife!”

My husband once told me a joke.  “A woman walks up to a pilot and says ‘You have to respect me, I’m a fighter pilot’s wife.’  To which the pilot responds, ‘I am a fighter pilot.’  The woman responds with ‘Pfft, who cares about a pilot?”  That joke, while to me is hilarious, gives a very adept example of how some wives are.  While I have met my fair share of military wives who are an absolute ball to hang out with, there is a percentage that are conceited like that.  Hence why I avoid going on base, it’s easier to just avoid the high school drama.

Anyways, when I was first married, one thing I noticed quite a bit at our last base.  There were pink flamingos in people’s yard.  Almost half of the yards had pink flamingos. Some of you may think that a lot of people like flamingos, but considering I was living in Alaska where it snowed 9 months of the year, almost nobody had pink flamingos in their yard, at least in this area, unless they were military.

Curious, I asked my coworker who had been married to the military for 28 years.  She was a plethora of knowledge for a naïve girl like me and was able to explain every strange phenomenon I encountered.

“Oh, the pink flamingos means that they’re swingers.”

Confused, considering I thought that “swinger” meant someone who went swing dancing, I responded with “I love swinging!”

She looked at me with a very concerned look and said, “What do you think swinging is?”

“Swing dancing?” I ask, suddenly realizing that I answered incorrectly.  She laughed.

“No sweetie, swinging means changing sex partners.”

This blew my mind.  Mostly because swinging is illegal for military  members, especially cheating.  Technically, a military member can’t live with a boyfriend or girlfriend before getting married.  Military is very traditional like that.

“Also, if you notice an upside down broom on a porch or a garage door that’s open about six inches from the bottom, that’s also a sign of a swinger.  The pink flamingo usually throws people off more though.  Go ahead, drive around base.  See how many houses match that description.”

So that night I tell my husband about the pink flamingo theory, to which he decides to leave it alone.  And by leave it alone, I mean drive around base with me to see how many people are swingers.

Found out that there were a lot more swingers than I first realized.

Being in the south, I have not seen any houses that match those descriptions, so I think each base is different.  When I ask different people about swinging, they say “Ew!  Nobody does that here!  That’s just weird and gross!”

I think mum’s the word.



UPDATE:  So I have been informed that pink flamingos are universal for swingers.  Thanks to a couple friends of mine who know about the subject (though I don’t know how).  Apparently also having a red brick in your yard?  Something about a red brick.  And according to this, a pineapple door knocker in some areas means that your neighbors share their spouses.

I might have to do some more research.

My German Shepherd is a Blood Thirsty Killer (According to Non-Dog Owners)

Quick back story before continuing.

When I was in Alaska, I adopted two dogs.  An Alaskan Husky/German Shepherd mix, and a German Shepherd/I have no clue mix.  The husky mix looks like a very streamline husky that always looks particularly annoyed.

Luna is not amused by your shenanigans.... ever

Luna is not amused by your shenanigans…. ever.

 However, I have my German Shepherd/I don’t know what mix who tends to look surprising happy or miserable at any given moment.

When people see Sahara, who is sixty pounds of pure idiocy, they think she’s a police dog.  Little do they know, she’s missing a few brain cells.

She runs into doors, barks at her own farts, chases laser pointers until she throws up from the excitement, barks at the wind, sleeps in the bed between my husband and I, knocks over the trash can when my husband and I are in the room and when we yell at her, she looks at us like “What?  You’re not eating it.”  While she usually is pretty well behaved (I’m not a bad pet parent, she’s just dopey), she has her moments of pure stupidity.  Which is probably why I love her so darn much.

She's a blood thirsty killer.. oh yes she is!

She’s a blood thirsty killer.. oh yes she is!

Anyways, on to the story!

I decided one afternoon, where it was only in the 70s, that I would take my girls on a walk.  It was about an hour until sunset and I figured that since it’s such a small neighborhood, I wouldn’t get lost.

Of course I got lost.

According to the military installation, we live in a high risk area for gang activity, but for the most part it’s retired military who own the houses and the gang activity is pretty nonexistent.  Mostly it’s middle aged couples raising young kids in an area with a couple of elementary schools.  During the day, it’s perfect suburbia.  In the evening, it can get fairly dangerous.

So as I was walking around, hoping that someone would be sitting on their porch drinking sweet tea (that’s what people do here, right?) the sky begins to get fairly dark and the dogs are overly excited at the prospect of a very long walk.  They’re jumping around and trying to rip my arm off chasing squirrels and raccoons.  Finally, when I see the road that connects to the street I live on, I see what looks like a crowd of “hoods,” or wannabe gang members.  I think.  I don’t know, they were wearing baggy pants, wife beaters, big shoes, black zip up hoodies, and there was about six of them.  They were passing around what I assume was a cigarette, and laughing.  I got a little nervous, but kept walking, thinking if I kept my cool they wouldn’t approach me.

They began to walk towards me, and stopped like they ran into a brick wall when they saw this.

Run.  She might slobber on you.

Run. She might slobber on you.

I know, absolutely terrifying, right?  You can tell by the tongue hanging out of her mouth that she’s going to rip the hamstring right out of your leg and find every ounce of drugs in your pants because she’s a German Shepherd.

I heard one of the members yell out to me.  “Hey, what kind of dog is that?”

Deciding to be sarcastic, I say “She’s a retired police dog. German Shepherd.”*

The man waived to me and said “Have a nice evening ma’am.”

I was saved by a runt German Shepherd because she looks like a German Shepherd.  Not even an aggressive one at that.

I was later informed that only those who are law enforcement usually have German Shepherds, or at least most commonly.  So the reason why nobody ever knocks on my door, why nobody talks to me when I walk my dogs, is because they’re German Shepherds.

Best. Dogs. Ever.

*Note:  Sahara is NOT a retired police dog.  She was found off Chena Hot Springs Road over a year ago.  We have no idea where she’s from.  We just know that she’s ours now and nobody can have her.

A Clown Gave Me Communion at Catholic Church

So my mom was visiting us this week and last Sunday, she expressed interest in going to church, since she is a good catholic woman.  Being as I’m a horrible Catholic and haven’t gone to mass in several months, I really didn’t have room to argue, and since my husband was eager to please my catholic mother, he hesitantly agreed to go as well.

So she then tells me she wants to go to the historic church in downtown Shreveport.  Holy Trinity Catholic Church that was built in the 1850s and is quite possibly one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen, but I’m getting off topic.

We find out that the only mass this particular Sunday is at 10:30 AM, which for us, is kind of a late mass.  We figure oh well and decide to go.  We got breakfast before going, and this is when trouble began to strike.

We first can’t find any parking in downtown shreveport on a Sunday because, well, every person in the south is at church and everyone drove their own car.  So first we have to walk a couple of blocks, which really wasn’t a big deal.

Then we get to the church and the doors are locked.  Concerned, we look around and see that the parking garage across the street is very crowded.  A woman then informs us that mass is in the parking garage this sunday because of the fall festival.

My mom and I look at each other with looks of disbelief.  Since both of us have been catholics for our entire lives, we have never had mass anywhere but in a church or chapel.  So we begin to walk over, and everyone is wearing New Orleans Saints jerseys instead of the usual dresses and dress pants, and the clergy is all dressed as clowns.

There were no chairs available for us because we arrived  a little later than everyone there, so we decided to stand in the back.

At this point my husband is almost dying from trying not to laugh.  It was all just too much for him.  He was wearing dress pants and a button down shirt because I was nagging him from the moment we got up to make sure he looked his Sunday’s best.  But for my husband, what put the icing on the cake, was the Clifford the Big Red Dog bouncy castle that was behind the priest, so whenever he raised his hands in prayer, he looked like he was praising Clifford.  Even my mother, who would usually kick our behinds if we ever laughed in church, was laughing her ass off as well.

During the mass, the priest said “May God bless the New Orelans Saints against the New England Patirots today in their game.”

When it came time for communion, is when everything just seemed to finally make sense.  A woman dressed in full clown make up, her name was Cee-Cee the clown, came around and gave us communion.  My husband, who is not catholic, is technically not supposed to take communion.  This clown refused to take his “No, I can’t take communion,” by shoving it in his hands and glaring at him darkly.

The mass ended shortly after, and catfish was served to everyone who stayed.

Yep.  Welcome to the South.