My mom is everything a good, strong Southern woman should be, except a chef. Bless her heart. I eat a lot of popcorn when I’m home.

So by nurture and nature alike, my cooking skills are not up to par. However, I LOVE TO BAKE. I find it to be the best stress reliever.

How unfortunate, right?

What I do could not really be described as cooking; it’s more like doing a science project, or making magic potions! And I don’t really follow recipes too strictly at all.

Let me paint you a picture.

Me, dancing to some Ed Sheeran, spoon in hand mouth, pouring a mixture of flour, peanut butter and probably some sort of oats or granola in a huge, plastic bowl. There is most likely a mess of white powder on my black leggings and Blue Bonnet butter melting on the counter, dripping on my fuzzy, red Christmas socks and the tile floor.

As of late, I’ve been trying to make my final product a little on the healthy side, so I’m all about apple sauce and pumpkin puree  when I do my kitchen magic. Oh, and coconut milk. It gets weird.

My crazy concoctions aren’t always a hit with my roommates, but that’s beside the point, and I have my mother to blame for that.

The importance of this is for my half hour of Top Chef-meets-dance party cooking segment, I am in absolute bliss. All my worries get blended, chopped and baked away. I don’ t think about my exam next week, that text I’m anxiously waiting for from the guy last weekend or even the pimple I feel is about to erupt between my eyebrows.

Nope, I am nothing but master of the sweets and nothing can stop me!

The timer dings….or the smoke detector goes off, (whatever) and I take my craft out of the oven. Emerging it from the smoke and chocolatey aroma, I force my poor roomies to take a bite, and usually I get a forced smile or blank face.

What I’m getting at is none of that matters. I don’t follow recipes nor do I understand the difference between baking soda and baking powder; I’m not looking to be the next Gigi.

As a break from all the things on my to-do list that have to be perfect: school, work, project, internships, resumes, applications, etc., it’s nice to be able to create something without rules guiding it or expectations following it.

I just like to have fun at mediocre muffin-making and using a peanut butter-covered spoon as a mic . And that’s fine.

What are your passions/hobbies that you fail at without shame?

Try a bite? ; )

resized baking pic2


Grad School

This blog of mine has been forgotten about and pushed out to the wayside, to say the least. But thanks to some Tennessee snow and ice, I find myself back here, FINALLY. With a mimosa in hand and the heat on full blast, I write to you about one thing that crosses my mind daily these days.

Graduate school.

I always knew I’d go for more school after I got my Bachelor’s degree. I like school. Let’s face it: I am a student and will be, in some way or another, till I die. There’s just so much to know!

So, I began to wonder (in the most philosophical thinking voice ever) “For what should I go to grad school?” Majoring in journalism and Spanish, I ruled those two things out, wanting to open doors to different professions.

Looking to one of my idols and fav gals, Reese Witherspoon, it was made clear to me I could go to law school. Me, the girl who likes cupcakes and Glamour Magazine, can go to law school!

“What? Like it’s hard?” -Elle Woods

It took me a long while to admit to myself I was actually going through with this. It came in steps.

1. I was looking into grad schools.

2. I was flirting with the idea of law school.

3. I was studying for the LSAT.

4. I was taking the LSAT. I may go to law school.

5. OK, fine, this is something I want to do.

6. I applied. :0

7. We’re at Step 7 now! I’m checking the mail daily for acceptance letters & scholarship offers!

Through this process, there were doubts, tears, conversations with my momma, followed by more doubts and tears. I have learned however, people want to help those who are taking the same journey they once did. I also have realized I can have bigger-than-my-body dreams and bigger-than-my-tommorow dreams.

I am not taking myself too seriously. If I surprise or impress someone, then I must be doing something right. And if I’m surprising or impressing myself, then my past self should’ve known what I was capable of, so shame on you, past self!

“Do you think she woke up one morning and said ‘I think I’ll go to law school today’?” -Professor Callahan in Legally Blonde

I don’t know what kind of law I want to study nor what career I wish to be pursuing five, ten or thirty years from now, but I do know my intentions are genuine, naive and passionate.

The thought of attending law school sounds treacherous, much like driving in this icy weather to the closest grocery store, which I am contemplating for the sake of Ben & Jerry’s. I am a studious student, but I am also a typical girl in her twenties who enjoys making a fool of herself, who sometimes just doesn’t get the joke. But then I remember that awesome feeling I get when I totally kill a presentation in class or that boost of confidence that warms my cheeks when I receive the highest grade in my communication law class. I can do this!

“I feel comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life.” -Elle Woods

Of course, Miss Elle Woods is not my only inspiration igniting this next step of my educational career. Women like Hilary Clinton, Diane Sawyer and recently Amal Ramzi Clooney are individuals in which I see the characteristics I want to see in myself.

Beauty. Strength. Intelligence. Relentless hunger for change. Unapologetic curiosity for the truth.

With these, I will begin my L1 year of law school fearlessly!

“This is going to be just like senior year, only funner!” -Elle Woods

Oh, and when all else fails…

….do the Bend & Snap 😉


The frigid bitch has come.

After months of diligently working up a tan and putting in long hours at the pool, something peculiar happens. We see it coming; we feel it. The leaves take dancing lessons and the wind has a sort of energy about it. The promises of pumpkin patches and costume parties put a smile on our faces.

However, this rush of excitement and seasonal change has a cost. Fall cannot stay and nothing green will last. More change is on the way.
The fire-y leaves will be extinguished from their beauty. Trees will shrink timid and fearful. Animals will hibernate as will shorts and sandals. Look around, for it is here.

The frigid bitch has come. Winter has arrived.

She brings us bone chilling temperatures and her laugh stings us in the face by way of a cold and dry wind. She spends her mornings
watching us pry open our frozen-shut car doors only so we later can slip and slide on black-iced roads.

Pipes burst and schools close, skin cracks and flights cancel. Power lines break, the flu rages it’s war, summer vacations are only dreamed about, and yet there are some people who claim this to be their favorite season.

Some people are summer people, others lovers of fall, and a few can’t wait for spring. This leaves that last group. They must be confused or perhaps blind and numb to physical feeling. They are winter people.

And then there is a smaller, more select group of people, the most dedicated group of all. These people are triumphant, huddling in packs, shaking and quivering. Nothing can stop them. They are the brave, the bold: the smokers. I have never seen such unwavering loyalty on a sidewalk. I am no smoker myself, but if I were I’d have to say I couldn’t do it in this weather. I’d be a sort of “seasonal smoker.” So kudos to those of you who pollute your lungs when it’s too cold to breathe anyway. Really, I solute you.

So as you trudge your way through the arctic blast, curse this bitch and her ice-y cruel ways because don’t you worry, her reign is not forever. Hatching ducklings, fuzzy bunnies, April showers and May flowers will rule the world before you know it!

frigid bitch

Short Stories

We all have a collection of past “things” that never graduated to a something. Instead, they remain as almosts and what-could’ve-beens.

I’m not talking about life changing opportunities, travel, or career dreams. I’m talking about the monster of confusion, headache and heartbreak: the romantic relationship.

We meet someone, hit it off with anxiousness and excitement, explore the possibilities, and after deciding to invest in this someone, it happens.

Or rather, it doesn’t. It occurs in one of two ways, and I like to categorize them by reaction. There’s the “Well OK then” and the “Oh my God, really?”

Well OK then.
This is when your potential something gets blown off the possibility chart abruptly. The two of you text daily, and you look forward to that second kiss. You both love Jeni’s ice cream and the Hunger Games, so marriage seems like the logical next move. But then you see on your newsfeed your someone is in a relationship with [not your name]. “Well okay then.”

Oh my God, really?
Again, the shared love of overpriced ice cream and teenagers killing each other should bond you for life. However, there is no talk of a commitment and gaps between dates get longer. You think a casual text can’t hurt, but your “hey stranger, when are we hanging out again?” gets no reply. You might even fire again with the clever “hey, I think I still have that book you let me barrow.” At least now you can say you tried, although it makes no sense; everything was going so well. Now your texts don’t get responses. “Oh my God, really?”

What really sucks is this person never became a something in your life. A person whom you built a relationship with will always mean something to you and deserve a thought now and then.

But knowing how to address a person whom you have had a “thing” with isn’t clear. The person’s name could slip your mind, but the two of you have shared saliva. Great.

But perhaps this should be viewed differently. Maybe, when looking back on these fleeting “things,”  we should choose to see a book filled with romantic but tragic stories ending with unrequited love. Short stories.


Hometowns are Weird. Or am I?


I lug my 46-pound suitcase in a room that is not my own. One wall is painted bright blue. The twice-used exercise equipment is piled in a corner that once housed my bed. Now, a tall bed with an unfamiliar paisley comforter sits in the center of the room, promising to make me feel at home.

The thing is: the place that has been my home for the majority of my life doesn’t feel at all like home compared to the place I’ve been the past three years. How is that? A teeny apartment in Nashville I share with other young and lost 20 something-year-olds is more fitting than my mother’s house in small town USA?

My hometown is weird. Or am I?

I go to our Walgreens in town and die when I see an old high school classmate. I am not this unsocial. When I see people I know in Nashville, I am first to say hello. Why am I dreading talking to her? I go to the front to pay for my popcorn tin with Chritmas puppies on it and smile at the cashier. Of course she works here. Of course she tells me she is doing great. Of course she doesn’t plan on ever leaving this town. Of course she’s married.

Her being married really isn’t that weird of a thing. In fact, coming back home single seems to be the out of the ordinary around here. Getting a boyfriend in college seems to be as expected as getting a degree, and everyone asks how both are going.

Home is still home.

Friends and family do make things familiar again, thank the Lord. I have the best of best friends in the entire world. She and I live 300 miles apart and once we are back together, the distance melts and the lost memories take its place. And if she doesn’t do it, I still have my southern family to do the trick. Family Christmas dinner never fails to remind me where I have come from with thick country accents in the air and thicker banana pudding on the dessert table.

The one who made me.

After a few days of my momma using up her work PTO on me, I feel like nothing more than my mother’s daughter. Which is a nice thing after doing my own laundry and paying bills for the first time. The cliché “home cooked meals” don’t really apply here though. With my momma in charge of feeding me, I have mostly eaten popcorn and things frozen from the back of the freezer. It is just further reinforces she is Lorelai Gilmore and I Rory.

This is home and I will be forever grateful to have it to come back to.

hometowns are weird. or am i

a look at what's behind it

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