Golden Birthday Adventure Wrap-Up: Goodbye South, Goodbye House

The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings…

Alice in Wonderland

I am the Walrus! No I’m not, just kidding. I is not the Walrus BUT I do love a little rhyme-time here and there and I thought the beginning of the Walrus’s poem from Alice in Wonderland was just way too apropos for this moment.

Because its true. Its time for me to wrap-up my little back down South adventure series and get back to blaggin’ about my usual nonsense. However, before we depart entirely (and trust me we are departing ENTIRELY in the next post featuring a little story about a trip I took to the Kardashian end-all-be-all Mecca aka their LA Dash store) I’d like to wrap up my ‘back down South’ adventure by sharing a few more precious moments.

No, not referring to the giftware collection of precious moments porcelain figurines. Think its safe to say I’m done with any small porcelain figurines for the time being…but YA’LL GET EXCITED FOR CHRISTMAS CLOWNVENTION 2K12.

I’m no expert but IS this moment really “precious”?

Anyway, on with the show! So once again, lets get cooky y’all.



Hanging with these two yahoos, Mumsie and Popsicle.

Not going home for 9 months is just the worst HOWEVER there are minor perks. Like my parents being so friggin’ excited to see me that they create a fun filled agenda of field trips and activities. They wore me out.



BECAUSE ITS SUPER MAGICAL AND DOES NOT HAPPEN IN CALIFORNIA. Basically its water that falls from the sky but Missygurl told me the technical term for it is “rain” and that she “is sick of putting up with it.”


Going to ‘Hokus Pokus Liquor.’ Okay, I’ve got to break this one down for you guys.

  1. ‘Hokus Pokus’ is spelled with K’s. For why? Well I don’t know but I like it Mr. Rebel Speller Liquor Shop Owner.
  2. The sign says to go here if you need a ‘Spiritual Advisor.’ Spiritual Advisor at a ‘spirits’ store? What a play on words! Once again, I like it Mr. Clever Liquor Shop Owner
  3. Is it just me or does the ‘ghost,’ with his arms spread out wide and his legs a-danglin’ so he is in the shape of, let’s just say a “T,” look familiar? What are you trying to tell me Mr. Liquor Shop Owner? Should I take this as a sign of some sort?
  4.  Whilst picking out a t-shirt to purchase (OBVIOUSLY GOTTA BUY THE T-SHIRT FROM HOKUS POKUS SPELLED WITH SOME Ks) an older and very tan lady with mousey blonde hair shooting off in every direction walked up to me and asked, “Do you work here or what?” I guess I’m going to go with “or what?” She seemed pissed and started muttering under her breath so obviously I took this opportunity to get out the old iPhone notes app and follow her around the store.

Does anyone work here?! Who works here!? You work here. Come here you. I need some help.

Ohhh yes ma’am. You said it, however, I think the liquor store is probably not where you’re going to find the kind of “help” you need. In fact, its probably exactly the opposite of where you’re going to find it.

She orders the liquor store cashier to follow her. She leads us to an aisle, starts pointing every which way then says…

Now listen. I don’t like coffee.

Good. Not a coffee shop ma’am. We are on the right track.

BUT I like coffee if it has liquor in it. Pacifically, tequila.

I’m sorry, Pacifically? Is this some sort of Tequila from the Pacific Ocean? And should I even begin to open up commentary on the fact that you’re mixing coffee (a drink you don’t like…) with tequila? So you’re basically just accessorizing your alcohol habit? No? Oh okay my bad. Please continue.

And I want a good tequila. I want one that works.


And I want one that comes in a good box and imma take that box home with me and I’m gunna use it at Chrismahtime to gift wrap some socks.

So we didn’t ask but thanks for volunteering that sock information because now we are super curious. The equally intrigued liquor store guy asks her what exactly does she mean when she says she is going to gift wrap socks in a tequila box.

It means exactly what I just said. I’m gunna put socks in this box and someone is gunna get it all gift wrapped at Chrismahtime and they going tah thinks its tequila but its not going tah be tequila its going tah be socks. I’m gunna deceive them.

Cue both myself and the liquor store guy doing the ole cocked head eye squint as we think this one through.

Then I get it and it all comes full circle. Hokus Pokus. Spirits. Witchcraft. ECETRA. She’s obviously a witch. A ‘deceiving’ witch, no less. And in that case, you go gurl! But please don’t attempt to operate a motor vehicle.

Stick to the broom, Hermoine.


Many-a-local telling me how horrible the Lafayette traffic is.

Good one, you guys. Hysterical, in fact, considering Los Angeles Traffic is killing me softly with his song.


While on the topic of driving… We all know my loyalties lie with her majesty, my BFF the Pretty Pretty Alien Princess Prius BUT it was pretty yahdorable when Missygurl introduced me to her new car, “Pretty Prius’s big sister the Toyota Venza of Venus.” So my mom not only joins in on the insanity but now we also have a family of cars from outerspace.

What did your mom do today?


Whilst getting my teeth cleaned getting asked where I went to school. I told her I went to ESA for high school and then Vanderbilt. The teeth cleaning lady said she didn’t know Vanderbilt was a boarding school.


I tell her its a college so, yeah, I guess in a way its kinda like a boarding school.

Her turn for a big ‘HUH?’

Sure enough, after much explaining on both her and my part, she had never heard of a university called ‘Vanderbilt’ (with a ‘R’) and thought I said I went to Vandebilt (no ‘R’) which is a Catholic high school in Thibodeaux, Louisiana and definitely not a boarding school.

Guys, I can’t even…I mean…But I already said I went to ESA for high school so why would I…So you thought I…But seriously, ya’ll…I mean…VANDERBILT IS IN THE FREAKING SEC.


Go Dores


Judice Inn. Yes, on my birthday too no less. I know not everyone will get this, heck I don’t even really get it, but these tiny, not necessarily super appetizing looking burgers from this tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant are magical. Sometimes I dream about eating them and then wake up and realize I’m 2,000+ miles away. And guess what? IN-N-OUT AIN’T GOT SHIT ON JUDICE INN.

Favorite meal. On my birthday. BOOM. DONE. COUNT IT.


Any and every time I got asked any of the following questions:

  • Does it REALLY never rain in California or are they just saying that?
  • Do you know any celebrities?
  • But just how poor are you?
  • Do you drive a Prius?
  • How big is your bedroom?
  • Does anyone out there eat Chick Fil A?
  • Do you know any homeless people?
  • Do you know anyone who has a marijuana card?
  • Do you know ANY Republicans?
  • How many asian people do you know?
  • Is everyone out there gay?
  • I bet you drive a Prius, don’t you?
  • Are you sure about this whole “California” thing?

And my favorite, “So when are you moving back?”


ALSO, just to be fair to my Louisianians, the Californians ask me some pretty ridiculous questions too. My favorite to date?

“Do you really like eating those little red roach things?”

Took me a while to figure out what exactly I was being asked but, yes, I do enjoy eating crawfish.


Going to a 10 PM movie with my best friend, Goose. Super excited when we arrive and see no one else in the theater. BUT SUPER BUMMED to see we are late and the movie already started. What’s a girl to do? Easy. Just go ask the theater to restart it. Tell them you’re in from California for just a few days, all you want to do is see this movie and ITS YOUR 24TH BIRTHDAY!

But didn’t you just show us a student ID from Vanderbilt in Tennessee?

Oh, you’ve heard of Vanderbilt?! Finally someone has heard of… NO WAIT THATS BESIDE THE POINT PLEASE JUST RESTART THE MOVIE FOR MY BIRTHDAY.

Dazzle, distract, make the movie lady forget about the Student ID fib.

She obliges. Goose and I enjoy a nice bottle of cabernet sauvignon I snuck into the movie via my oversized purse.

But then I fall asleep for the last 15 minutes of the movie. DAMNIT. FOILED AGAIN.

To be honest Gus and I were probably late for the movie because we were trying to teach Lincoln how to take selfies beforehand.



Got my eyes dilated. Pretended I was Gaga on the streets of Lafayette in the stunner shades the Optometrist provided me with.


Being a child again– aka not having to drive or pay for things or worry about the electricity bill running all day or any other nonsense adult things I have to put up with whilst being a nonsense adult thing in Los Angeles. However mother did keep me on my toes by making me do some manual labor and, keeping up the whole “Imma Kid Again” charade, I pitched a minor fit. Missygurl documented the event.

Fat dachshunds laughed at me.


Stopped by Lake Charles for a quick visit with my grandparents, affectionately referred to as Ganny and Podge.

Let me just say my Podge has always been a boss. Football coach turned principal and father of 4 has worked his entire life and now he just can’t stop. He tried retirement. It did not work. So where does he choose to spend his days? The funeral home.

Yes, the funeral home. Ohhh and he thinks its hilarious too. Makes jokes about how he is going to end up there one day anyway so he’s “just getting comfortable.” Anyways, he told me he was sitting in the back pew during a funeral service recently and a now middle aged man who had played on his football team back in the day walked up to him and said, “Coach Moore I thought you were already dead!” My grandfather decided this was a prime opportunity to play ‘Ghost of Football Coach Past.’

And you thought I was goofy.


Also while at my grandparents house I took the time to peruse some old photos and I have just one question.


Young Wilhelmina, left. Young Missygurl, right.

Guys. How in the world could Missygurl (aka my mother) let this haircut happen to me when she went through the same torture herself? It just doesn’t make sense.


My Louisiana sky, ya’ll.

I mean really.


Last but not least, we’re gunna get real y’all…

When my parents said they bought me a plane ticket home for my birthday I was ecstatic, HOWEVER, I soon found out that free trip home came with a twist. Mumsie and Popsicle wanted me back in Louisiana to not only celebrate my 24th year on Earth but also to pack up my worldly possessions.

Yup, they decided to move out of the house I grew up in and they needed me to prance on over from California so that I could go through my old stuff and put it in boxes. I see what you did there parents…even wooed me with first class plane tickets. Very. Clever.

Now we’re all adults here and I get it. It just doesn’t make sense for them to stay in the house. Its too big and they want to be able to travel more and be able to visit my sister and I more without being too tied down in Louisiana. Makes sense, right? I can be reasonable about them moving, right? I can totally be an adult about this decision, right?

Google Earthed my own house. That’s whats up.

Wrong again, Willy.

And here is the ridiculous part. Take a guess when it hit me that I was really saying goodbye to the house I grew up in.

Maybe when I was driving away for the last time?

Perhaps when I walked out the door for the last time?

When I packed the last box?

While I was taking one last photograph of my bedroom?


In true Queen Wilhelmina fashion it hit me whilst on the throne.

Yes, while peeing for the last time in the toilet of my youth. I just completely broke down.

Nothing like a good pee to get those emotions out, y’all.

So there I was…yes, number one-ing…and, yes, sobbing…in the bathroom of my childhood and my mother comes running up to my room because she hadn’t heard me cry like that since circa 96′ when I busted my chin open doing one legged “flamingo” spins on the freshly mopped flower store linoleum floor.

By the time she got upstairs I had taken the time to pull up my pants up and sprawl myself out on the floor of my bedroom. So really putting a dramatic spin on things, Missygurl found me face down and crying like a banshee.

And when she said (read: screamed over my sobbing), “What’s wrong, Mina?” I managed to turn over and really tell her how I was feeling. You know, really use my vocabulary.

“Its just that– MOMMMMMMM.”



Try again.

“Mommmmmm it just hit–and–”

Okay, champ, you got it this time.

“But MOOOOOOOMMMMMM this is the exact spot where…I grew up and MOOMMM… this is exactly where I was reading Harry Potter when Dummmmbblllleeedooore diiiiiieeeeeeeed.”

Yeah, so out of all the things I grew up doing in that house and out of all the memories and all the unforgettable times, the first thing that came to mind was that this is where I was when a fictional character died.

Sometimes I just don’t even understand…

But you know what homies? All said and done and sobbed and cried out, I don’t have to understand because I feel pretty great. Do you know what it feels like to be 24 years old, after years of practiced emotions and reigning it all in to “be cool” and then to just LET. IT. ALL. OUT?

I mean really cry like a toddler…?

I highly recommend it once in a while.

I think crying for the house was just an excuse to let go and let myself feel any and everything I was keeping pint up inside. Moreover, now that I’ve let it all out I’m okay with passing the house on to another family– hopefully one that will have as much fun as us Ross’s did.

And as if there was any question, we definitely had a ball.


So that’s it. Goodbye South. Goodbye House.

Back to wonderland.

The Golden Birthday Adventure Begins: A Trippy Trip Through The Airports

Well gyns, what can I say? Its my muther-effing birthday.

And, yeah, I’m rolling into 24 like a boss– or much better than I rolled into 23, anyway. But thats mostly just because I was kinda fat last year.

Good news gorillas: 24 is a skinnier year thus far. Whooooo-WHOOOOOOOOOP.

Bad news barracudas: 25 is definitely looking like I’m going to revert back to fat. I’ve had no less than 4 S-bucks cake pops and 2 non-non-fat caramel lattes this morning. Whatever,  its a rotational system of fat years and skinny years, happy years and sad years, single years and marriage potential years, blacking out my mirrors years and taking clavicle popping mirror selfies years.


This year being my golden birthday (24 on the 24th, try to keep up) I decided I deserved something I really wanted and I could think of nothing I wanted more than to spend some Q-time with dear old mummsies and poopsicles.


So I hopped on a plane at LAX with my… yeah, sorrz, I won’t go there. Miley Cyrus teen supah star throwbacks aside, I did hop on a plane Wednesday night to take the red-eye back down south. Howevs, quite out of character, I was feeling some anxiety about the flight and consulted my local LA doctor for some advice and in typical LA doc fashion, boy did he give me some ‘advice.’ Miley Cyrus still a teen but with peroxide butch haircut references not aside, I took one xanax.


Yeah, haters gunna hate but it was my first time and a FREAKING DOCTOR TOLD ME TO. If you have a prob with that you can just get over it, yahdogs. It was a one time deal. Trust me on that, and here’s why:

This is what I remember. Arriving at LAX. Deciding it would be fun to wear sunglasses, look towards the ground and answer any and all questions with as few words as possible so as to appear famous. Sitting in my seat on a plane to Houston (yeah, the booming metropolis of Lafayette, Louisiana does not yet provide overnight direct flights to and fro) and then a stewardess coming by and tapping me on the shoulder and telling me it was my turn to “deplane.” Okay first of all, “DEPLANE” is not a freaking word and second, seriously, WHAT. THE. FOCK. Didn’t I just sit down?

Nope. I have no recollection of ever being in the air and I very well might have apparated like a Harry-Potter-boss and just don’t even remember casting the spell.

What’s going on here, Hairs?

So then I found myself in the Houston airport and I had about 1 hour before my flight home started boarding. Let me just say that was a hazy hour. Walking, alone, was a challenge. I just kinda propped myself against the wall as I walked down the hallways. AND THERE WERE SO MANY HALLWAYS. SO MANY LETTERS. SO MANY TERMINALS. And it just so happened that my fantasy-island-definitely-not-up-to-safety-codes “plane” was located at gate B-84-K. Um, I’m sorry, what? Can one of the golf carts just take me there? Oh wait guess what guys. The golf carts with the people yelling COMING THROUGH do not COME THROUGH FOR YOU AT 3 IN THE MORNING WHEN YOU’RE “A LITTLE DIZZY.”

But my smartz prevailed through the haze of my drug-induced situation and after a train ride in the wrong direction and then one in the right direction I finally found the terminal. But at this point I’m wiggin’ out like the immigrant character that is Tom Hanks in the terminal. What language are you people speaking? How do I get to the other side? What is ‘american dollar’? Can I paint something? Oh and mind you, I’m still proppin’ myself up against walls.

We iz just like some lost Polish speaking puppies, right Tomsies?

For me, finding my gate was like when Michael Phelps won his 40th Olympic gold medal– mostly meaning I beat my chest and howled. Victory was mine.


And then disaster struck. Of course of course of course.

A gentleman of the country decided to take it upon himself to join me. One second I’m muttering the prologue of The Canterbury Tales to stay awake (yeah, I still know it and in friggin’ Middle English, no less) and the next thing I know there’s just this dude sitting next to me. OUT OF NOWHERE. I did not see him coming. What DID I see? His tribal tatoos (yes, plural), various patterns of camouflage on various pieces of his ensemble, a bedazzled belt buckle and a hefty wad of tobac he was making no attempts to conceal or even keep from kinda sorta falling out of the side of his mouth piece by disgusting piece.

I’m sorry did you need something from me? Theres no way you’re possibly over here to ‘chat me up,’ right? I mean let’s review: its 3 in the morning, I’m rockin’ a top knot like I’m smuggling a family of squirrels up there, no make up, a shirt bearing an oversized cat face, I’m muttering what probably sounds like she-devil speak under my breath and OH YEAH, I’M OUT OF MY MIND ON THE XANAX. All good things, ya’ll, all good things.


Alas, my new companion tells me “he recognizes me from somewhere.” I ask him where he’s from. He tells me he lives in North Louisiana (East Texas) and then he tells me a few more details about himself and his past. I put the pieces together and realize we were not in high school at the same time so we couldn’t have seen each other at any sort of high school sporting competitions or student council bonanzas, “he don’t get to Lafayette that often,” and “he never been west-a-Texas.” So yeah, I don’t know this dude. AND THEN IT HITS ME.


Does homeboi “recognize me” from the only other place I let my light shine? The televisions? The three times this spring I was on the show for seven second increments?

Werqs it.

No, this is too good to be true. This “never been west-a-Texas,” toe-bac chewin’, bedazzled belt lovin’ man could not possibly be a fan of Kathy, right?! Or even a Bravo watcher, right?! Do I even ask? Maybe it’ll be better to just let this live in infamy– I can just assume he does, in fact, recognize me from the show and is, in fact, a KG fan. And then I’ll forever remember him as the very southern, very straight open-minded gentleman that loves our gurl.

Self control aside since the day I was born, I ask.

“Do you know who Kathy Griffin is? Or have you seen her talk show?”

Wait for it…

“Someone gave that red-headed bitch her own gah-damn talk show?”

Glad we cleared that up.

Yup, they sure did and ITS AWESOME, THANKS.

Then we cleared up a few other things. He wanted to talk politics. He told me not to “lose it to the liberals outta ways out there in Cali-forn-knee-yah” (too many syllables, hombre). He had a few other choice comments and then went off on a 30 minute history of his life. Thank god, cause I was super curious… It was really a short history though. Definitely didn’t require the full 30 minutes but I think he had a flair for embellishing a bit. All good things, ya’ll, all good things.

So then finally I was saved, as if God himself was speaking through the airport intercom. It was time for me to get on the plane and my new friend was NOT on my flight. But, always mindful of being cordial despite any other ‘issues,’ I turn to this man and say, “nice to meet you, have a nice trip.” And when doing so I finally noticed what was going on here…

His eyes were at half-mast and supah blood shot. And down below the sockets was some blimp sized puffiness. Very clear to me now. My new friend was ALSO having a bout with some “doctor’s advice.” Howevs, I do not think we were rolling in the same deep if you know what I’m saying. If you don’t know what I’m saying let me just spell it out for you– I took one xanax on my doctor’s orders for flight anxiety. I’m thinking this guy took a bottle of xanax on top of some meth on top of some alcohol on top of some red-bull on his own advice. One more time: all good things, ya’ll, all good things.

But whatever. I say goodbye and turn to leave but then he asks, “can I get your number?”

“No I don’t think that’s really going to work out.”

“Well can I at least Facebook you. I just posted a bunch of pictures of this huge-ass rattlesnake I killed while digging a pipeline. I cut off its rattler and am keeping it in a jar.”


Guys. Lets just listen here and now. What’s my number one deal breaker? Snakes, ya’ll. (See Post RE: GIANT SNAKES ROAMING AROUND LOS ANGELES)

He begins scrolling through his phone to pull up a picture of said “rattler.” Hazy but not stupid I see what he’s doing, tell him “don’t bother I’ll see it on facebook,” and also say “look me up, my name is Willy Jones” (which technically is a half-truth because Willy is a variation on Wilhelmina but, really, Willy Jones is all I could comes up with on the spot? Yet somehow he believed me…?). Then I got the FACK out of dodge.

I hope he has a long and fulfilling Facebook friendship with any and all Willy Joneses he so chooses to friend.

Good luck you guys!

Basically it was a, “you had me at hello” situation but only, “you lost me when you called my boss a bitch” or maybe just at the bedazzled belt or maybe when you told me you life long dream was to win “at least just one MMA match” in your backyard.

So then I got home. MISSYGURL and Don fed me real Louisiana food and my taste buds were all like, “hey yo Mina, you’ve deprived us in California, yahbetch.”

You just haven’t lived until you’ve tried the boudin eggs benedict smothered in gumbo from French Press in downtown Lafayette.

I finally got to see my pups, yelled at my father for over-feeding them (supes fat little wiener dogs) and I introduced them to the dog-face shirt that I wear in their honor.

For my next magic trick my lovely assistant Don will be hoisting overfed Dachshunds in the air whilst I introduce them to the big guy.

And now its my birthday and I’m going to go eat some cheeseburgers.

Peace out, ya’ll. And seriously thanks for the bday wishes. My only birthday wish is for everyone everywhere to stop using the comic sans font. Thank you.

The most melancholic dachshund, Lincoln, and I will be sharing this bottle of red later.


P.S. Seriously don’t worry about the X. Over it. And I mean that. Not kidding. Really. Seriously. Like legitimately. Like legitimately seriously. Actually. Not lying. Nor kidding. Nor ‘joking around.’ I’m serious. Seriously.