I ruin a moment.

I'm totally hooked on Sister Wives, not gonna lie. I don't know why - something about the different culture, the chaos, maybe my obvious girl-crush on Christine.

I sat down to watch tonight's episode and graciously offered to let Drew watch with me. How could he resist? Tonight's the episode in which Robyn gives birth. Compelling television, folks. He sat down and pretended he was interested in a book on his Kindle app.

Robyn grunts and moans her way through an all-natural home birth, and Kody pulls the baby out and holds him up. The baby, of course, is covered in all kinds of fluids. Kody lays the baby on Robyn's chest.

I, horrified, yelled "F*** that s***, clean that s*** off, don't let that thing touch me!" Like, it had blood and fluid and WHO KNOWS what else all over it. Yyyyyyuck.

Drew hung his head down low, shook it in disbelief, and said "I love when you show your maternal side like this."

What can I say. Like, I'm sure it was one of the happiest moments of Robyn's life, but I'm pretty sure I'd at least want some Brawny paper towels on my chest before a gooey newborn is plopped down on it.

You know what I hate?

Vaguebooking.

Dude, you know what I mean. The status updates that are just a vague hint at something much larger going on.

Like this:





Well, we don't know. Why don't you tell us, instead of making us worry sick about your two beautiful children? Predictably, the first 9 comments are alarmed and questioning, "WHAT HAPPENED??!?!?!!?" "OMG, are [your kids] okay??!!!"

Like, just tell us from the beginning why you called, what happened, and the resolution.

You know what else I hate?

Passive-aggressive Facebooking.

Like, if your status includes the words "some people," and you're actually referring to someone on your friends list, delete the whole thing, learn some healthy communication skills, and start over.

I don't know if I'm being passive-aggressive in saying this, because as far as I know, none of my 6 existing readers does this. But if you do either, CUT IT OUT!

Thanks. Kisses.

Egg on my face.

"Ace, let's think of states that start with M."
"Mississippi!"
"Yep."
"Maine and Missouri!"
"Very good!"
"Michigan!"
"Awesome!"
"Ummmm..."
"There's another state that starts with M whose capital is Billings."
"Are you talking about Montana?"
"Yes! Good job!"
"Mom? The capital of Montana is Helena."
"...yep. Atta boy."

Stella

Drew and I had been married and living in El Segundo, California, for two months when he flew back to New Orleans to see his oldest friend graduate from college. When he called me from the airport to let me know he had arrived safely, I told him "IgotacathernameisStellaIloveyoudon'tbemad." He wasn't mad.

I gave Stella free reign of our apartment as soon as I got her home. She sniffed around for at least an hour while I watched TV in my recliner in the living room. After her exploration, she surprised me by jumping right up in my lap, turning around a few times, and laying down. "She already knows I'm her new mommy!" I thought, and reached out slowly to pet her head. She screeched, bit the hell out of my hand, ran under our bed, and didn't come out for 2 hours. She didn't let us actually pet her for about 2 years, but by golly, our laps were HERS.

She was nonplussed by Ace's arrival, and as he grew older, he was always fascinated by her. The other cats would run away from Ace if he got too handsy, but when Stella occupied a space, it was her space, and so help you if you tried to move her. It took her biting him a few times before he figured out not to mess with her. Ace was always tender with her after that, petting her exactly when and where she wanted, and his lap became her favorite spot.

We noticed Stella was losing weight earlier this year and took her to the vet over the summer. The diagnosis was basically "she's old." Unfortunately, after several episodes over the last two months that brought us back to the vet's office, it became clear that her body was simply shutting down.

When Drew shook me awake late Sunday evening to tell me that Stella was going to need to go to the vet again in the morning, I told him he was going to have to take her, because I knew there was no way I could make the decision that had to be made. He made an appointment for 8:30, just when I was dropping Ace off at school. As I was driving back toward Brandon, I realized that no call from Drew meant that the decision had been made. I arrived at the vet's office and walked in the exam room just in time to see Drew, his eyes red with tears, signing the euthanasia consent form.

She passed mercifully quickly.

After Drew buried her, we sat at the kitchen table for what seemed like hours wiping away tears and holding hands. He left for work, and I started rehearsing what I would tell Ace.

Nothing could have prepared me for Ace's reaction. When my grandmother passed away in January, he seemed sad but mostly just had a lot of questions. I assumed he still didn't have a grasp on the finality of death and would just have similar questions about Stella. I was very wrong. In the middle of his sobs, my precious boy asked "who's going to pet her? She's going to be all alone." His screaming slowed to sniffling, and we went outside to play.

Drew came home from work early so we could have a funeral. Ace again broke down into deep sobs, shaking my normally unshakeable husband, and we all stood in the backyard and cried and hugged for a while. I told Ace how I'd surprised Dada with Stella and asked him to tell me his favorite things about her. Drew said a prayer, we all hugged again, and we came inside.

Goodbye, sweet Stella. I hope you like God's lap as much as you loved Ace's and that you have a big couch to lay on, unlimited cold water to drink, and the best wet food heaven has to offer. Rest in peace, my beautiful, sassy kitty.

Wins.

Saints beat the Buccaneers on Sunday.

Mississippi beat 26 on Tuesday.

Saints beat the Falcons today, by 3 points in overtime.

Good week.

dadgummit

I used to sleep in like a CHAMP. Now, if I sleep past 7, it's probably because I was up late reading Damn You Autocorrect or partying with my friends*. Of course, my body THINKS it's 7, but now it's actually 6, so I was in my kitchen looking menacingly at the coffee maker at 6:21 this morning. Today is SATURDAY. Tell me how that's fair.

I told Drew that I'd spend all day doing laundry, cleaning, and grocery shopping to make up for the last 2 months of neglect. I'm thinking more realistically I'll do 3 loads, go to Walgreens for some Lean Cuisines and Coke Zero, and go party with my friends**. It's Saturday, after all.

*watching Sister Wives
**Actually party with my friends. It's girls' night!

awkward

I don't take compliments well. Like, at all. I generally just mumble thanks and duck my head and change the subject to the weather or whose mama makes the best fried chicken, anything that'll redirect attention.

That's why all the people who called me "brave" over the past few months made me feel all awkward as heck. Brave for writing my column, brave for doing the video, brave for speaking out, period. I really don't think "brave" is necessarily accurate. I think more accurate was the person who grumpily called me an "attention whore" behind my back. I do enjoy attention, not gonna lie - more specifically, I thrive on interaction. That's why I do social media the way I do it - I love posting things that make people laugh, think, angry, and most importantly, talk to me. I'm a stay-at-home mom, for heaven's sake. I don't get much adult interaction.

I don't know any other way to be, other than an "attention whore." When I'm feeling anything, I tell people about it. If I'm enjoying a Saints game, I tell people about it. If I had a great pedicure, I tell people about it. People seem to care - I have over 1,000 followers on Twitter, so I'm doing something right. But believe me, when something pisses me off as profoundly as 26 did, I'm shouting from the rooftops until someone takes notice. And once I have their attention, I'm gonna get them worked up until they shout it from the rooftops. So maybe I was an attention whore. But I wasn't standing on a bar booty-dancing with my boobs hanging out, I was using my influence to bring attention to something that needed it. I don't call that brave.

No, brave were the people who spoke out in tiny Mississippi towns surrounded by Southern Baptists, the driving force behind 26. Like I said, the religious pressure surrounding 26 was oppressive. Seeing the opponents get absolutely torn apart by their "friends" on Facebook was heartbreaking sometimes, but they stood up against them anyway - that's brave.

Brave was my friend who convinced her church in her tiny Mississippi town to not put up a Yes On 26 sign because it might make a woman considering going there feel shame about her past and stay away.

Brave was the woman who got her BIG Baptist church to take down their BIG Yes On 26 sign.

Brave was the woman going up to the Yes On 26 booth alone at her tiny Mississippi town fair and calling them out on their nonsense.

Brave were the people who confronted their conservative traditionalist parents and in-laws and eventually converted them.

Brave was the senior pastor of First Baptist Church of Greenville, Mississippi speaking out against 26.

Brave was the woman who went against her mother's wishes (something you Do Not Do here) and registered to vote for the first time in 20 years JUST to vote no on 26.

Brave were the people who were not allowed to voice their opinions because of their jobs, but did so in sneaky ways anyway.

So no, me speaking out to my mostly liberal followers on Twitter and my friends on Facebook who have already written me off as slightly left-of-center is not especially brave. Not compared to the people who went completely against their surrounding culture. They are the brave ones, and they are the unsung heroes of this victory.