My reflection.

When I look at her? I see the woman I hope to be. I see bits and pieces of who I already am. And I couldn't be happier.

I am a product of two people. Not many of my father's characteristics can be found within me. But, I look like, act like, and think like my mama. I am my mother's daughter.

Mama and I didn't always get along. It was hard to accept her leaving my father. I remember collapsing on my bedroom floor at our home, crying because I didn't want to leave. I wanted all of us to be together in one home. I remember arguing with her over things that were out of her control. I remember revealing parts of myself that I didn't share with everyone. I also remember her embracing every bit of who I was. I was nineteen when I learned of unconditional love. It was my mother who showed me.

She tried, and succeeded, at being the mother she never had. The mother that was proud of anything and everything you did. The mother that complimented you on making good grades, but never rewarded you for doing something she knew you could do all along. The mother that listened. Listened to every little detail of your day, and every thought that pops into your head. Like how one nose hair is longer than the others. Listened to you as you tried to make yourself believe a lie and calmly told you to believe what your gut was telling you. Listened as you griped about your father but never offered anything other than kind words about him. Listened when you were so excited about moving out even though, deep down, she was dreading it. Mama has always listened. I think that's what I love about her most.

She's the kind of woman you're lucky to know. The kind of woman you look up to. The kind of woman you run to for advice. She's the woman who will sit with you, knowing you or not, to make sure you're okay. The woman who didn't give up when everything and everyone was telling her to. The woman who never stops being a mama.

I love my mama more than words can express. She's done a hell of a lot for my brother and I. More than either of us realize. She's pushed aside her pride, gotten her hands dirty, and skipped a meal for the better of her kids.

Mama doesn't judge. She will not belittle you. She will, however, remind you that she was right all along when you finally come to your senses. And, trust me, it will be hard to admit that to her.

I fought so hard throughout my teenage years to not be like her. Now? I embrace the things about me that came from her. Because she is wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I couldn't have found a better mama, or best friend, if I tried.

I love you mama. Happy 23rd Birthday :)

The Transporter

It doesn't come on the radio. I just remember the lyrics. Better Than Ezra's "Fit."

"Oh how you fit me. Oh how you do. You know that you only. I'm head over you. Oh how it hit me. I'm caught up and bruised. Despite all these cynical lies, I finally found a piece to fit in my life."

And instantly? I'm lying in his bed. Covered only by a sheet. Looking at him. Looking into his big, beautiful, brown eyes. I've yet to meet anyone with those chocolate eyes. I stare. Not realizing just yet that I am in love with him. I run my fingers down his forearm. Legs intertwined. Feeling his lips meet mine.

"I was adrift out on my own. You came along and carried me home. 'Cause you are a spark. A distant headlight. I can't stop my eyes from keeping you insight."

We arrive at dinner. Italian. Baked ziti. The best baked ziti. He asks if he can sit next to me. "You've been inside me. I don't believe I'll mind if you sit next to me." He blushes. And moves. We people watch. Neither of us is hungry. My hair smells of Amber Romance. He smells of Burberry. He places his arm around my shoulder. I lean in. Comfortable. Home.

"'Cause I'm made long. I've faded some, look at what I've become. And my eyes were drawn 'til you came along. The world is quite confused. You are my only absolute."

And now? I realize I have romanticized him. The relationship. I pick at the pieces that seem to be worth chewing on. I push the bad pieces aside. Because those pieces? Don't fit.

Little boxes

I work in Huntersville. It's about an hour from home. An entire world away from everything I've known.

I leave home. Drive down broken roads. Swerve to miss pot holes and roadkill. Marvel at God's creation that is the country. I pass several pastures filled with cows, bulls, horses, and goats. I slow. Annoyed with the tractor that's seen more of this day than I have. I cross paths with three white vehicles displaying pink John Deere license plates. I fall in line with older model vehicles. Some that are taking their last trip. Some that are older than I. Smokers litter the main road that takes you from back roads to the interstate that is i-85. Worried faces fly past me. Hard working, wrinkled hands throw a wave. It's front porches and glasses of sweet tea out here.

I greet the tractor trailers at the Pilot. All impatient wanting to get off the road. All reluctant to get the day started. And then? Swallowed by the south traveling drivers. We are the melting pot that connects my home to my work. A hodge podge of people. Driving.

I exit. Still familiar. I travel down subdivision lane. One. After. Another. And then? The greenhouses. And country. Comforting. Freeing. And then? More subdivisions. Here I am. Entering into a world that is only mine Monday through Friday. Nine in the morning to six in the evening. And even then? I don't fit in.

I trade in my tractors, farmland, cattle, pot holes, smokers, sweet tea and grace. Instead? Mercedes, Cannon School bumper stickers, bicyclists, Starbucks, Chanel sunglasses, and freshly shined shoes. I am in the world of soccer moms. Jealous? Just a little. Their appearance is everything I am not. Perfectly highlighted, blown out hair. Real pearl earrings. Slim, gym toned bodies. Manicured nails. Whitened teeth. Clean cars. Seemingly perfect lives. And these women? Most of these women? Having lunch dates. Talking about little Sophie's ballet recital. Little Aiden's awesome catch at his baseball game. Talking about Mary who was forced to go back to work because they over extended themselves with the new addition on the house. Mary who used to be with them at their lunch dates. They talk about who isn't holding up her end of the benefit committee. The same person that suggested they contribute 25k to her favorite charity. They talk about the maid that didn't make the bed correctly. And, wouldn't you know it? This ISN'T her first offense. Mundane talk. Soap opera talk. Sad talk. Jealous? A little.

Are they really happy? Can they be happy when all they are, at least all they seem to be, are play dates, little league baseball games, dance recitals, husband's work parties, benefit committees, spoiled rotten housewives?

I am jealous of the outward appearance. Of the endless amount of money. Of the fancy cars. Of the oblivion to the real world. The real world that exists outside of play dates, little league baseball games, dance recitals, husband's work parties, benefit committees, and 3500 square feet homes. I mock because I am jealous. The reality? Sophie's probably a grade behind in reading and Aiden is slightly cross-eyed. They envy Mary for having something to call her own- a career, an escape. They probably aren't holding up their end of the benefit committee either but feel it necessary to redirect the attention to someone else so no one will notice their lack of promised donations. The maid that didn't make the bed correctly is more upsetting because she's the most action that bed has seen in a while. Some life.

Now, before you get your panties in a twist, I am generalizing. But, I promise you. Come to the Starbucks on Gilead and Reese. Sit for half an hour. And you'll witness the same conversation I described above.

I like working in the city. I love living in the country. The hour drive? Doesn't bother me. I enjoy the transformation. From working class to upper class. From Carhardt and Levis to Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein. From John Deere tractors to FlexFuel Suburbans. From houses on acres of land to little boxes on the hillside.

Never back down

Do y'all have a friend that you would do anything for? Not hypothetically speaking. You've literally done most, if not all, of the things they've ever asked you to do?

I have a small group of friends. Genna, Nicole, Keri, Mary, and Brittany. I live with Genna. I am best-best friends with Nicole. Keri and Mary both live hours away but, we've still been able to maintain a friendship. And Brittany is the newcomer. I don't see Brittany often. When I do, though? It's like time hasn't passed. I love each and every relationship with my friends. The six of us aren't all friends. And, by that I mean, Brittany has never met Mary and Mary doesn't keep in contact with anyone but me. I'm all special like that.

There is one friend though, out of the aforementioned five, that I would do anything, and have done most everything, she's asked me to do. I know that I bend over backwards for this person. I know I go out of my way 99% of the time to do something nice for her (asked or not). I also know that it's hardly ever reciprocated. I know that most times I'm her back-up plan. And, I know that I'm getting tired of it. Tired of not being appreciated. Of being taken for granted. Of allowing myself to accept the latter two.

Until recently? I never felt unappreciated nor taken for granted. I love doing things for other people. Especially for her. I guess part of me knows how much she's gone through and feels the need to be there for her. To do things for her that no one else has ever done. To love her unconditionally and care about her. I'm not saying no one has ever done this for her. She does have parents. But, sometimes? Those parents? Weren't there when she needed them the most. And, sometimes, friends? Were busy with other things.

She's not one to openly talk about her feelings or problems. She keeps them bottled up. At the same time, she'll expect you to know that she's having a hard time and want you to be there for her. I've tried to read into her mannerisms, body language, and words. Sometimes I succeed at getting to the root of her frustration. Sometimes I don't. But, I've always tried.

It's not a friendship I care to lose. In fact, it's one that I love and would be heartbroken if it ever ended. Having said that, I'm not backing down any more. I'm refusing to be the back-up plan. And, I won't allow myself to be treated badly by her.

I don't feel that she's completely aware of how she makes me feel. Actually, I know she doesn't. I also know that she takes more time and pays more attention to people who beat her down mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. She caters to those relationships and forgets about the ones that have been there for years. The ones that, ultimately, will remain in tact after the bad ones break.

I love her. And, if she reads this, I hope she knows that it's her. I hope she knows that I love her and care about her. I hope she sees what I've done and takes a moment to appreciate what a great friend I am. What a great friend I will continue to be. But, a great friend who is going to demand respect. I'm not backing down. Not again.

Stream of Consciousness

Moondance by Van Morrison.
Romance.
Dirty song disguised.
Dreamt of Jason and pineapple chucking.
Pineapple would be good.
Fourth of July.
Fruity drinks and vomit in the lake.
Best friends and hopes you have for them.
My wish- Rascal Flats.
Freshman year at ASU.
Nicole, Scott, me.
421 meets 321.
Cloudy day.
Failure to succeed at ASU.
Hopes my sister won't follow in my footsteps.
UNCG has a beautiful campus.
Realized I am so much older/wise/more mature now.
Optimism I once shared.
Family.
Mama.
Chirping birds- spring time.
Cool breeze.
Fat bottomed girls.
ASU- CD I made mama for her bday.
Can't believe that was four years ago.
Indention on finger from nail.
Need to cut/file nails.
Jittery hands.
Too much caffeine? Not enough food?
Ha! Always too much food.
Steady now.
The Perfect Storm.
Staying up late watching the movie on St. Stephens in living room.
Mmmmmmmm. George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg.
My obsession with Mark Wahlberg.
Own most of his movies.
Too many movies, I own.
Sell?
Boogie Nights.
Disturbing.
Glad I was made in the 80's.
T-shirt.
Apartment in Salisbury.
Natalia's wedding.
Sleeping on floor in VA.
Spray on tan.
Small apartment.
First met Tony and his kids.
Guarded.
Jason and Finding Nemo.
Angry. Immature. Guarded.
Always guarded.
Even now, only less guards.
Prison. Prison reform.
Doing nothing to rehabilitate inmates.
The Pact.
Good book.
Slow to start.
Love remembering reading that book.
And The Beach House- Jane Greene.
Want to go to Jane Greene's Nantucket.
Crisp white linens.
Light blue walls.
Clean.
Gardens.
Dusty, dirt roads.
Bicycles.
Riding bicycle down to Genna's.
Getting caught driving her dad's orange car.
Memories of a better friendship.
Easier time.
Moondance.

Stuart Little

I have a mouse. A mouse that was a wee little lad two months ago. A mouse that has tripled in size. A mouse that must go.

The apartment that I live in? Built in the seventies. Needless to say, there are TONS of entries for bugs and, evidently, rodents. I think Stuart came in when we moved the washer and dryer into the house. That's not the point, though. The point? Stuart is a messy roommate.

He likes to come out between one and two a.m. He will run along the front living room wall. Crawl back in behind our book shelf. Hide for about fifteen minutes. Then dart along the wall with the sliding glass door and make a quick refuge under the entertainment center. He hides there for about five minutes then disappears into the abyss that is my dark apartment. It is, after all, two in the morning. I didn't know where he lived. And, I suppose I still don't. I just know it's not under the refrigerator. I think it's the laundry room.

If Stuart doesn't find his way out of mi casa ahora mismo? I am bringing in my secret weapon. Peanut Butter and Sir Maximus. Max is a mean little kitty. He will play and then kill grasshoppers, moths, and random other bugs that find themselves victim to his cruelty. I have faith that Max will find Stuart within an hour of being here. I just hope I get Stuart before Max eats him. Cause that's gross. And having a mouse as a roommate? Totally not.

Give A Little Bit

I've mentioned my bad luck with a certain charity in my hometown. Well, before that bad luck, there was a lot of love, admiration, and fun.

Mama started to volunteer there when she was laid off. So, because I pretty much follow in my mama's footsteps, I, too, began volunteering. I had volunteered in high school. I was in Jr. Civitan's and the entire mission of the club was to give back. We did Easter dinners for a local nursing home, canned food drive for the homeless shelter, worked in the homeless shelter bagging groceries for families (did you know they have a "food count" for each family? Family of 5? One turkey, 12 canned goods, two loaves of bread, etc.), care packages for our troops, etc. I enjoy volunteering. Honestly, nothing compares to the feeling I get during and after my time spent for and with others.

One of my favorite moments? I was getting my hair trimmed one day at Great Clips and I, out of no where, asked if they did any charity work. The manager of the shop wasn't in but, the girl cutting my hair said she'd love to be a part of something. So, I called her and asked if she would be willing to give wash/cut/style treatments free of charge to a good cause. The answer? YES! It was right before Mother's Day and I thought it would be a wonderful gift to the women and children this charity cares for. I was delighted with her response and willingness to help so, I reached out again within my community. One of my best girlfriend's family owns a local restaurant. I asked if they'd be willing to provide dinner. We would come into the restaurant and they would have a designated menu for everyone. Not everything would be available for dinner. They AGREED! But, the restaurant wouldn't be paying for dinner. The kids of the owners, my girlfriend's mama and uncles, would be covering the costs. How amazing?! They pulled from their own pockets to make the night possible. I was immediately humbled.

The Mother's Day outing, as it was referred to, took place the weekend before Mother's Day. Saturday night, a friend of mine at the time, my mama, and I took all the ladies and kids to dinner. When we arrived, they had a table saved for us and, to my surprise, said they could have anything on the menu, anything to drink, AND any dessert they wanted. Everyone loved their meals and were extremely grateful. Those people at the restaurant? While they already hold a special place in my heart, will forever have the utmost respect and love from me. Sunday night, I took the ladies and kids to Great Clips to get their hair washed/cut/styles. The ladies at Great Clips? Amazing! They had goodie bags for each parent and kid, snacks for everyone, and balloons.

It was a successful outing and a memorable one. I enjoyed orchestrating the event. I enjoyed seeing the smiles on their faces. I enjoyed knowing that people were willing to give to complete strangers.

When I get angry with said charity? I think of what that outing did for those families. Because? At the end of the day, it isn't about you and me. It's about them. The families who find themselves in awful situations. The families who have no one else to turn to. The families who seem to have more gratitude than humanly possible.

If you don't volunteer, I encourage you to.

Gratitude

Sometimes, I forget to say 'thank you.' More often than not, I'll remember later and call/text/e-mail that person and thank them. If I've ever forgotten to say 'thank you' to you, please accept my apology.

I grew up in a house where we said 'please' and 'thank you.' We were also taught to use sir and ma'am. Living at home for twenty-one, nearly twenty-two, years, I didn't think people lived any other way. I couldn't have been more wrong. Everyone grows up differently. Everyone grows up with a different set of parents. I just thought, even with the different backgrounds and parents, gratitude would be a common value. Apparently not.

Have you ever felt taken advantage of? Used? Unappreciated? Has the person who made you feel one, if not all, of the latter three been your best friend? Your boyfriend? A co-worker? Your boss?

I don't think people realize how much I do for them. I'm a selfish person. I own that. However, I was raised to be a selfless person. To help those who need it. To do nice things for people, just because. For the most part, I do that. Sure, there are times when I don't feel like being there for someone. There are definitely times when I don't feel like helping out. But, at the end of the day, I do.

A friend of mine asked me to be there for her during a hard time. It required me to go a party with her filled with people I didn't know. I told her I would go. Not because I wanted to go. Not because I wanted to mingle. She wanted me there and that was reason enough. Did I get a 'thank you?' No. Do I feel she would do the same for me? No.

I'm no Mother Teresa. Believe me. But, I take pride in my willingness to help. It makes me feel good to help others. However, it becomes tiring when you never receive any thanks.

I offered to help out our local battered women's shelter last Christmas (I volunteered there prior to this insistance and my mother was on the board). My girlfriends and I had adopted a family through the Salvation Army and I was in the giving mood. I offered to gather items for their "Christmas Store" and use their cause for our Christmas drive at work. I e-mailed and called. I was told, time and time again, that so-and-so would get back with me. Christmas was a week away and I hadn't heard anything from anyone. We chose another charity to donate to at work, that wasn't my concern. My concern was for those women and children at the shelter. It wasn't their fault the employees and volunteers of the home didn't give a crap. It wasn't their fault someone else wasn't going to donate to help them out at Christmas. It wasn't their fault. The women who work there, the women who volunteer there felt no need to provide any form of assistance to their residents. I wrote a very, very ugly e-mail to the director of the shelter and copied the women who had told me they'd be in contact. I also included my mother. Not as my mama but, as a member of the board. What did I get? An apology. That's it. No solution to the problem. Not even a 'thank you for letting me know,' 'thank you for your interest.' Nothing.

Karma's a bitch, people. It really is. Trust me. I've had my fair share of bad Karma.

If someone offers to help? Take it and show your gratitude. If someone does something nice for you? Say thanks.

It's not that hard. Really, it isn't.

Thank you for listening to me rant.

Lapse in memory.

You will not find humor, wittiness, nor thoughtfully constructed sentences in this post. No. You will only find truth.

Tyler Poole was my neighbor for six years. He was my first older crush. I adored him. He would play basketball with Justin or throw a baseball around. I wasn't included. Which was fine. Cause he was pretty to look at. He was friends with the Hedrick girls down the street. He was a popular guy. Not an only child. But treated like one. He had numerous vehicles. His first vehicle, a black ford f-150, was wrecked on Old Beatty's Ford Road when he reached for something (a cd I think) and lost control. He broke his left arm (I think, could've been his right). I picked him flowers and brought them over. He had a girlfriend at the time, Maggie. He also got a Maltese. Also named Maggie. I remember going into his bedroom and my mama hugging him and telling him how glad she was that he was okay. They had to put a steel rod in his arm. His muscle grew around the rod and they were unable to take it out. Then he had the beige ford f-150. This vehicle he did not wreck. This was the vehicle that he would take me to school in my freshman year of high school. Some mornings, at least. He got his tongue pierced one weekend. The following Monday, he was constantly spitting. When we got to school, and parked in the teacher's parking lot which was a "no, no," he pulled out the Listerine to show me what he was spitting and told me why. I thought it was silly. After he graduated from high school, he moved on to a bigger, better truck. A Ford Lightning. I haven't seen one on the roads in ages. But he loved his truck. He would wash it once, maybe twice, a week. After he finished washing it, he would drive down our road to dry it off. He loved that truck.

I cleaned his parents house. Gary and Vickie paid me to do it. Which was nice. I remember taking extra time to clean his room. Baseballs, trophies, video games haphazardly placed. We were invited to Mr. Trail's wedding in December (we being all of his current and former students and a crap load of other people). Tyler took me. We picked up Dexter and Chad on the way. Sat through the ceremony. Then he took me home. He wasn't like an older brother. He would have to care to be something of the sort. I just enjoyed being in his company. For many reasons. He was hot. He was popular and I wasn't (something I had on all the other girls in my class that drooled over him. I was his neighbor. I cleaned his room. I saw his underwear! Take that). And, I always hoped that one day, he might decide to, oh, I don't know, date me. The thought of it wasn't ludicrous then. Well, it was but, I was hopelessly in love with someone so unreachable, so intangible to me.

One Saturday afternoon, Mama and I had just gotten back from Mooresville, we did a little shopping, to find my father bloodied and burnt. He started a fire and it came flying back at him. I sat in the drive way, scared, crying. I didn't want to go with them to the hospital. I stayed over at Tyler's. Vickie let me watch TV in the living room. Tyler came in and asked me if I was okay. He was headed to a Tim McGraw (I believe) concert. He asked me if I would iron a shirt for him. It was a cream, red, blue, and green plaid (my description makes the shirt sound hideous but, it really wasn't) Tommy button-up. He dressed, in that shirt, blue jeans, a cowboy hat, and boots, and headed out the door.

He threw a party when his parents were out of town. A lot of the kids from my class were there. Dad went over to have a beer with them (oh the joys of having an alcoholic father) and told Tyler to have the people who were parked in Nancy's lawn (our neighbor) to move into our yard. Dad, Justin, and I went over to his house the following morning to help him clean up. There were a lot of bottles. A lot. Months after the party, I was cleaning the house and found a Corona bottle with a mold-y, fungus-y lime in it. Disgusting. Tyler graduated from high school and went up to Surry Community College to play baseball. He was only there one semester and came home to work for Gary.

He hadn't been home long. He was on his way to meet some friends down at the beach for spring break on April 9th, 2004. He took St. Stephen's Church Road (why? I will never understand that boy's sense of direction). His truck slid on the gravel laid out on a turn. He wasn't wearing his seat belt. His body had been thrown from the vehicle. Had been landed on by the vehicle. Had been left for someone to find.

I was at my dad's house when Nicole called to tell me. We all piled in the living room. Waiting to hear the awful news on TV. Channel 9. Brandon Trexler appeared saying he told Tyler to just wait and come down the next day. I was in shock. How could he be gone? He was only 19. He was just washing his truck the other day.

My softball games were canceled. Too many players would miss the game to go to the viewing. This kid was loved. By EVERYONE. I went with my dad and brother. My mama met us there. We waited in line to sign the book, sign the poster, and see him. A bunch of people waiting to get a glimpse of Tyler. A dead teenager. We walked up to the casket. It was open. He didn't look like the Tyler I remembered seeing. No. This Tyler had make-up on. Oh, but something was familiar. The shirt. They buried him in the shirt I ironed for him once upon a time. The shirt that I so horribly described to y'all earlier. Why that shirt?!

The service was held at Emanuel Lutheran Church and it was packed. People were standing in the aisles, in the back of the church, and outside. I was bawling my eyes out. Brandon Sides played the guitar and Gary spoke.

Justin played on the baseball team. Tyler was their first base coach. The first game after his death? They laid an East Rowan baseball hat down on the first base line. For him. For their beloved coach.

Looking back, it's almost as if I don't know him. Almost as if I wrote this to remind myself of who he was to me. It's easy to forget after six plus years. Not that he is no longer with us. But, how amazing, how real he once was. Tyler's family doesn't need to be reminded of that. They know. I think I just forgot.

Soul of the South

"The soul of the South is its people. We love to share food, stories, and advice- whether you ask us or not! There's no mistaking us. We're the women who can walk into any room and immediately find out everything about everybody in there, whether we know them or not. We're the men who forget a birthday yet memorize home game dates for our favorite college team. In our world, Coke is a food group and Mama rules the roost. We are a passionate people. We're the first to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance, but we can't stand bad barbecue. We love who we are and where we are. And we don't take it for granted." - Eleanor Griffin, Editor in Chief of Southern Living

It's true. What Eleanor said. I consider myself to be a southerner. I was born in New York and held onto my Yankee roots for many years. Until, one day about a year ago, I realized that I loved living in the South. I loved all things Southern. I could never live far away from my mama and I adore my daddy. I take a red cup of diet coke every where I go. Even if I'm only going ten minutes down the road. I say "y'all" and "I'm fixin' to go to the store." I appreciate a guy who opens the door for me and says "yes ma'am" ('cause what woman wants to hear no?). I do believe in God and have the utmost respect for my elders. I grew up always saying "thank you" and was taught true hospitality.

My blog is called "Sweet Tea and Grace." One would assume that I drink sweet tea. Well people, I'm here to tell you that I do not. I will not order sweet tea at a restaurant nor ask for a glass when visiting friends. It's not that I don't like it, I just prefer something else. You may be asking yourself, "Self? Why did she call her blog 'Sweet Tea and Grace' if she doesn't like sweet tea?" A logical question. Those two things? Sweet Tea and Grace? Are the epitome of the South. In my eyes.

Don't get me wrong. People in other regions are hospitable, graceful, elegant, and genuine. We're just known for it. And also? We can swear like sailors. Every last one of us. We may not do it in the fashion you're accustomed to. For instance? "Bless your heart?" Is like saying "You're an asshole/idiot/bitch/retard." We just say it a little slower and sweeter. And those of you who don't live in the south? Think we're being nice.

Living in the south? Like eating your favorite foods, watching your favorite movies, listening to your favorite music, kissing the most kissable person. It's blissful. It's amazing. It's home.

Fragile: Handle with care.

With only twenty-two years behind me, twenty-two years of knowledge, twenty-two years of observance, I've realized something. Today's children? Completely sheltered.

When did they become so fragile? When I was little? We played outside for hours without parental supervision. My brother and I grew up in a very safe neighborhood. Nothing, I mean nothing, happened there. So, it was okay for Justin and I to hop on our bikes and ride down to the park to explore. Now? Parents freak out if they can't see their children. Constantly under supervision. And, while this can be a good thing, it's crippling them.

There are so many things that you can't feed your children, can't let your children play with, can't let your children watch, can't let your children use. I mean, c'mon. It's not going to hurt your child if they eat something with high fructose corn syrup in it and it sure as hell won't kill them if they eat dirt. Heaven forbid they want to play on a swing set that was made before 2000. Don't expose them to TV after seven pm! They might see something they witness in public! Using a lawn mower? Completely out of the question. And don't even think about allowing them to use a non-green cleaning product.

A lot of older people, and some of my generation, complain about how we don't know a hard day's work. Newsflash people! If you thought we were bad, wait until your grandchildren, children, neices, and nephews grow up. They won't know how to actually have a conversation with a real, live person. And that? Way worse than not knowing a hard day's work.

Each generation is different than the next. I firmly believe that my generation was given the chance to play sports and be involved with after school programs because our parents didn't have that opportunity. They wanted to give us what they didn't have. Can you hold a job, maintain your grades, and play sports/be involved with a club? Sure. But how many parents made their children do that? I was one of the few that was involved with clubs, worked, and maintained my grades. My brother? He wasn't asked to work. He played sports. And, to give those who played sports in high school a little credit, it is time consuming. The children of the future? Probably won't be playing sports. They won't even be asked to work. And, hell, they may not even be involved with any clubs. They'll be too concerned with who's on Facebook, where so-and-so just checked in on Four Square, and the latest YouTube phenom.

They won't be allowed to venture off and explore the unknown that is the neighbor's basement. They won't be allowed to ride a mile down the road to their best friend's house. They won't be allowed to go to the beach for a weekend with their girlfriends when they're sixteen without parents/adults. They'll be too worried about getting dirty, grabbing germs from someone's house, and the possible dangers from driving outside the five mile radius their parents have set up for them.

Did I have a rough childhood. No. Hell no. But, compared to the little tots in elementary, middle, and even high school, I was roughin' it. They'd be amazed that my brother and I, only fifteen months apart, stayed at home when we were in the fourth and fifth grades by ourselves. They'd be baffled by the fact that we had to do chores when we got home from school. Empty the dishwasher? Take out the trash? Fold the laundry? Set the table? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!?!?! No, I'm not. We had to "earn our keep." We had to set the table because we actually ate dinner at a table. Weird concept, huh?

I'm not a parent. I don't know what I will be like as a parent. But, if I start talking about the dangers that exist in allowing my children to be children, please call DSS.

A little Jack Nicholson, a little Morgan Freeman.

Combine the two? The Bucket List.

My sister writes a blog (and is totally better at this blogging thing than I am) and she recently posted a few of the items on her bucket list. So, because I'm an awesome big sister, I'm going to follow in her footsteps and create a bucket list of my own.

Here are my top nine:

-Renovate a home with my father. Y'all know my dad is a carpenter. And I have inherited his passion for old homes. I love them. When I was looking for a place to live, I visited old, run down homes. Why? Because they all had character. And possibly termites, mice, and roaches (my apartment doesn't have any of those...we only have a chicken). I wanted to live in a house that my dad could turn into a home. He's truly gifted.

-Visit all of the united states. Every last one. And truly visit. Not- I drove threw there once. Thus far? I've been to Florida, New York, North Carolina, Montana, Wyoming, and DC. All the other places? I've only driven through. Visiting the rest stop in VA or PA doesn't exactly count. I want to be a tourist.

-Graduate from college! Yup. So bad at the whole college thing that it went on my bucket list.

-Fall completely in love. The kind of love that cannot be explained. The kind of love that doesn't fade in and out. I want a real, Katherine Hepburn/Henry Fonda via On Golden Pond kind of love.

-I want to learn how to paint. AND, I want to create a work of art. That, obviously, will be featured in my renovated home.

-Learn how to make, bake, and design cupcakes. I love to make cupcakes. Like, LOVE to make cupcakes. Betty Crocker and I kick some ass at baking cupcakes. I'd like to ditch Betty though. She's kind of a prude. I want to start my own bake shop and create decadent, delicious, and delightful cupcakes. Alliteration totally kicks ass. Thank you elementary english.

-Go to a nude beach. Because people? I love to be naked. I could be naked all the time. When my roommate isn't home? It's naked time. I don't look like Angelina Jolie or Megan Fox but, I love the way I feel in my own skin. And, don't get me wrong. I would totally have naked time when she was home but, I'm courteous like that.

-Write my own book. I started writing a story for my creative writing class (where the people in my class? were old, unimaginative, and had horrible grammar/spelling) and haven't finished it. I might share it with y'all. Might.

-Have a crazy, passionate, intense, love making session(s) with an Spanish man. Because I've heard? The meat in Spain? Is to die for. I'm a sucker for a dark-headed, mysterious, tall man. And, all Spanish men look like that. Duh.

After coming up with the nine, I've realized something. When I was younger? I was all kinds dreamy. Now? I'm more realistic. I miss that endless dreaming. The kind that was uninhibited. I don't have that anymore. Perhaps I should add that to the bucket list.

Take luck.

It's been a year. One whole year. And you? Are still fresh in my mind.

One would imagine that after the lying I would be completely rid of you. I'm not. Little things remind me of you: any new ford f-150, zac brown's "whatever it is", (ironically enough) he's just not that into you, ole miss, and htc phones. I wouldn't jump at the chance at getting involved with you again. I wouldn't even welcome a friendship. I just like torturing myself. Apparently.

Not only do I keep you in my memory, I also keep her. The conversation exists as if it happened yesterday. "It wasn't like he wasn't getting any at home. He was just getting more of it somewhere else." "I notice when you haven't shaved in a couple of days. Not when you've taken out the trash or emptied the dishwasher." "I can't believe he cheated on me with someone ten years younger than me! And his assistant, at that!" You and me both.

Part of me doesn't want to let him go. While I remember what happened, how I was treated, and the lies, I also remember the things he said that could make me smile. The way he could stay calm when everyone else was freaking out at work. The way his hands felt against my skin. The way his lips felt against mine. And then? I realize that she probably loved the way he stayed calm in an unnerving situation. And the way his hands felt against her skin. And the way his lips matched hers. And then? I'm pissed.

I don't feel that he's a bad guy. I think he just got caught up in something that was readily available. I provided an outlet from his mundane life as a husband and father. I am everything she is not.

Am I allowed to feel cheated on too? I was, after all, the other woman. Had I known, though? Not even. Breaking up a happy home? Not on my to-do list.

He was my first for many things. I'd never had a boyfriend prior to him. I'd never allowed anyone to get close. To really see who Amanda was. I could love with all my being, but it was extremely hard to allow someone to love me back. It was hard to accept that I was worthy of some one's love. When he said those three words to me, I melted. I felt worthy of his love. I felt he was worthy of mine. Hindsight's 20/20.

Last I heard, they were in marriage counseling. Trying to repair the damage. Trying to trust each other again. Trying to make a ten year marriage, an eleven year marriage. I wish them luck.

And, when I think of wishing luck? I think of something he said, "Don't wish for luck. Take luck."

Pregunta?

Yeah, I'm pretty much bilingual. Be jealous.

I've been seeing a lot of people from high school lately and they're all asking the same questions:

1. How have you been?
2. Did you graduate from college yet?
3. Where are you working?
4. Where do you live now?
5. Have you heard from [insert random person here]?

And because I know that EVERYONE reads my blog, I'm just going to answer those questions here so we don't have that awkward conversation.

1. I've been wonderful.
2. No. In fact, I'm currently not in college. I didn't qualify for financial aid because the government hates the middle class. I do plan on returning next year, though. I have two ideas of what I will be going for. One practical and one dreamy.
3. I work for an environmental testing firm in Huntersville. You know all that crap that happened with BP? We're one of the few labs that is certified to test their samples. I, however, do none of the testing. I just pay the bills and take payments from people.
4. I live in BFE with Genna and her son Andrew.
5. I only keep up with Nicole, Genna, and Keri. The same people I was friends with in high school.

I was talking with mama the other day about where I am in life compared to others I graduated with. Some have gotten married, started families, developed promising careers. I, on the other hand, have not. I'm twenty-two years old and do not feel grown-up. I do not have a boyfriend, and if I did, I have no idea when I would see him. I do not have a baby, and if I did, I have no idea when I would have time to take care of him/her (because, obviously, I would continue to do everything I do now, just with a child). I do not have a career, and if I did, I have no idea when I would find the time to do anything else in my life.

Truth is? I don't want a boyfriend right now. I don't want a baby right now. I don't want a career right now. Because? I'm not ready. I'm not ready to be committed to anyone nor casually date. I don't get involved half-heartedly. If I'm interested in you? You have all of me. And, right now? I'm not ready. I'm not ready to be a mother. Because, well, I'm selfish. And babies are a lot of work. Plus? I'm only twenty-two. And, for me, that's reason enough. I don't want a career because I have no idea what I want to do for the rest of my life. I mean, people? Until three months ago I didn't eat anything on my pizza. I would order the pizza with toppings and then take them off. Now, I love toppings. If I can change my mind about something I've been pretty adamant about for the last seven years, I don't trust myself to make a decision like that. Right now? I'm looking at either a business degree or an anthropology degree. Business? Practical. Anthropology? Not so much.

And while I don't feel as mature as my fellow classmates, I do feel good about where I am in life. I may not have a degree, a boyfriend, nor a career, but, what I do have? A happy life. A life that will change when I don't want it to. A life that will surprise me constantly. A life that I have to call my own.

I'll get the degree, the boyfriend, and the career I want. Eventually. Until then? I'm enjoying every minute of my degree-less, boyfriend-less, career-less life.

Page One.

I spend wayyyyy too much money on books. Seriously. I used to be much worse than I am now but, it's an addiction. Most girls spend money on shoes, clothes, jewelry. I spend money on books, sheets, and picture frames.

Back to the books though. I purchased three books today. One was on sale so it automatically cancels out the bad-ness of the purchase. While buying books is great because you are contributing to the author, it's even better when you actually read them. And, sadly enough, I don't read them. I keep them. On my shelves. To collect dust. I buy them with the intention of reading them. I just never get around to it.

Some of you may be thinking, "why don't you just go to the library and marvel at the books that live there?" Well, my friends, the library smells. For many reasons. Reason number one: books get moldy and mildewy with age. Reason number two: it doesn't cost anything to go to the library. Therefore, those without homes can stay cool or warm without having to purchase anything. Reason number three: they are significantly understaffed so, cleanliness isn't exactly on their to-do list.

Back to the books. The books I bought today? I have every intention of reading them. And, if I don't read them? I'm donating them to the library. Or taking them back. Either, or. Depends on how well my olfactory system is working that day.

Levis, work boots, and a baseball hat.

Do y'all know those dad's that wear the white tennis shoes, khaki shorts, and a crisp polo? The one's that always have a kind word to give when you're feeling down? The dad's that will sit down with you and help you do your homework? Do y'all know that kind of dad? Cause I don't.

My father wears Levis, work boots, and a baseball cap. My father will be the first to tell you if you screwed up. My father rarely asked if we had homework. But, my father was genuine. My father has a huge heart. And, my father loves me.

When my mama found out that she was pregnant with me, daddy started buying toys and books for me. I was born on Father's Day, and I still maintain that I was the best Father's Day gift EVER. His second father's day, mama bought him a wheel barrow that he needed to assemble. There's video of me, sitting in the wheel barrow, trying to help my daddy put on the handles. He was patient and gentle with me.

My parents divorced when I was thirteen and they both remarried. My stepmother and I didn't get along for a very long time. I was daddy's little girl and she didn't know how to deal with it (we get along beautifully now). I also think she didn't like the fact that I was (and still am) a lot like my mama. During my teenage years, dad didn't know how to talk to me. We were watching A League of Their Own, and he pointed out that if he had to raise me on his own, I would end up like Marla Hooch. So, because my stepmother and I did not get along, I didn't spend much time over at dad's. In fact, I rarely talked to him. It makes me sad to think about it now but, I held a lot of anger against him because he chose to appease his wife over his daughter. I forgave him three years ago and haven't been bitter towards him since.

Over the past year, I've gotten closer to my dad. When I moved into my apartment, he came over and fixed the front door, put up Genna's curtains, fixed my bedroom door, and checked out the apartment to make sure we were good to go. He's been back since to hang my curtains, towel racks, and a couple of pictures. He built a coffee table for me and I am super proud of it! Dad takes the initiative to work on things for me. It's his way of showing that he cares because he's not good at asking about work, my friends, or school.

When this song came out, I knew it was about my daddy. A man that hasn't always gotten it right. A man that's pissed me off a time or two. A man that will forever and always be my daddy.

Happy 50th birthday daddy! I love you.

Migraines? Are for the fucking birds.

Warning: Talk of vomit.

I've never had a migraine before. Ever. My cousin gets them regularly and I believe she takes medicine for them. I never really thought much about them.

Last night I was having another weird dream (not about bloody pregnancies or old boyfriends). I thought it was part of the dream to wake up, roll over, and go back to bed. Until, that is, I realized I had an awful headache. A sinus headache, I assume. I've never been woken up by a headache, so this was unusual from the start. I get out of bed, take some medicine, and climb back into bed. I look at the clock. 3:18am. And then it happens. An overwhelming need to vomit.

I'm not a big fan of throwing up. Although, who, aside from bulimics, likes to throw up? So, I projectile vomit in the bathroom for about ten minutes. I clean up a bit then go back into bed. I get into my bed and I am FREEZING! I throw all my blankets on me and get the throw (let me tell you, my room does not get cold/cool. I have the ceiling fan on full blast and an oscillating fan at the foot of my bed and it still doesn't get cool. It does, however, get comfortable enough to sleep). I have duck bumps all over. Then, it hits me again.

At this point, I'm thinking it's the leftover spaghetti I ate. It'll eventually get out of my system. I'll eventually be able to go to bed. And this headache of mine? Will eventually go away. I've never been more wrong in my life.

I started vomiting at 3:18am. The last time I threw up? 5:33am. Two hours and fifteen minutes of vomit, upset stomach, and blinding pain. And, apparently, when you have a migraine? Your senses go into overdrive. The little light from my laptop? Like staring into the fucking sun. While I'm throwing up, the stench of my throw up is making me throw up even more. I did all of this in the dark, by the way.

I finally got to sleep only to be woken up by my alarm...twenty minutes later. I called my mama and had her call work to tell them I wouldn't be in. Oh, and I picked the perfect day to get a migraine. I was the only person in administrative support today (if we're not there, no one answers the phones, places orders, looks up account information, pays bills, submits payment, sends up expense reports, etc. So, basically, everyone (customers and coworkers) were up shit creek without a paddle). My counterpart and boss are both on vacation. Fuck me, right? I'll update y'all on whether or not I still have a job tomorrow.

I wake up at 10:30 feeling much better. Still a little sensitive to light but, hearing and smelling are okay. I eat breakfast, talk to my mama again, call my doctor and pharmacist about the prescriptions I'm on and if they're the cause of this night-o-terror (they totally were), and call work. I'd decided that if I could hold down breakfast and get rid of the little headache, I'd go into work. If only it were that easy. The "little headache" turns into another blinding migraine and I was in bed until 4. I am happy to report that there was no vomit this time. Yay.

It is now 8: 20 and my migraine is gone. I have an appetite (Lord knows I couldn't have gone without food). I do, however, have sore neck muscles, back muscles, and a sore throat. Oh well. At least I'm not channeling Linda Blair.

Diets, Chicken, and Triathlons.

Today is a day full of posts. Mainly because I actually have time to get on my turtle speed computer and because I feel like writing.

I've been going to the gym. Well, the last time I went was a week ago. But, prior to that, I was going nearly every day. For two weeks. I loved the way I felt after going to the gym. Refreshed, sexy, slim. So, you may be asking yourself, "Self, why did she stop going?" That's a damn good question. And, it has nothing to do with the gym.

My roommate is training for a triathlon. So, along with a rigorous exercise routine, she also has a rigorous menu. Chicken, veggies, and potatoes Monday through Wednesday and fish, veggies, and potatoes Thursday through Saturday (there's more than that but, I only eat dinner with her and this is what we eat). For the past three weeks I've pretty much consumed chicken, veggies, and potatoes (not a big fish fan). That's it. Oh, I have had salads, fruit/yogurt, and, of course, my special k red berries. I virtually gave up Coke Zero and Diet Coke. And then it happened. The thing that happens with every diet. I got sick of it. Literally. If I had to eat another chicken breast, I was going to kill someone. So, instead of getting lean meat and still trying to stay healthy, I ate myself out of house and home. So, the whole two pounds I lost in my three weeks of diet and exercise? Have possibly quadrupled during the course of a week. Because, this just in, if you eat crap food, you feel like crap. Gym wasn't in my vocabulary.

I hate diets. And chicken. And stupid triathlons.

So, I've decided that I am not going to be following her "menu" any longer. I am going to eat healthy, but with variety. I'm not going to have a "cheat" day because I won't need one. AND, I'm going back to the gym tomorrow after work.

I'm determined to be healthier. I want to be a granolaandyogurt/yoga/gym/freshveggiesoverfriedfood kind of person. I want to wear my size 8s again, damn it!
So, here's to a healthier, happier, size 8 start. Wish me luck!

Sleeping to dream.

I've never had a dream in which I was preggo. Until two nights ago. It was creepy.

A family member is currently pregnant and she and her husband chose not to find out the sex of the baby. In my dream? She had a boy. And I had a baby that I do not remember giving birth to.

I remember bleeding. A lot. The doctor didn't seem alarmed. I kept telling people I couldn't sit down because I would get blood all over their chairs. It was normal. I remember watching a father with his two boys who kept getting into everything. Then, said family member's mother came to inform me that she had the baby. I remember that I didn't look like I was pregnant and I never saw my baby. The dream just ended.

Last night, I had a dream about a friend from high school. I haven't talked to him in over a year. In that last conversation I had with him, he told me he was thinking about going into the Air Force. He's one of those people who is extremely intelligent but never applied himself. Like, ever. I envied his intelligence. We were quite close for several years and I never figured out why he didn't just try.

Anyhoo, in my dream, he had just finished Air Force "school" and was back in town. I was walking down a street and saw him. I stopped and hugged him and we talked for a while. His girlfriend, in dream and real life, came up and spoke to me as well. There's always been tension between the two of us. Ultimately, though, she won his heart. Back to the dream- he and I spent the afternoon talking. He pulled out a ring and told me that I would love it. The engagement ring he planned on giving his girlfriend.

I don't know if y'all have seen My Best Friend's Wedding, but I was Julia Roberts in my dream. What's even better? His dream/real girlfriend looks similar to Cameron Diaz. He, however, doesn't look a thing like Dermot Mulroney.

She went on a ride with us and somehow we ended up driving through a hospital parking lot. The last image that I have of my dream is of us three driving down a wet road. I was in the front seat, she was in the back, and he was driving.

Those are my weird, odd, slightly disgusting dreams. Please don't google what they might mean. I know I'm a little weird. I just don't need to know how weird.

Sweet Dreams Y'all :)

Victoria's secret is out.

Is it just me or do you feel sexier with a matching bra and panty set? 'Cause I feel like Megan Fox when I slip on that black lace. I even feel a bit naughty knowing that my bra and panties are really, really sexy.

My body shape does not change (well, with a good bra it does slightly change). I do not have an insta-tan. I do not have bikini worthy abs. What I do have, however, is a confidence, a sense of power, that can only be found in my unmentionables drawer.

Let me tell you 'bout my beeeest friend: The Nicole Edition.

Name: Nicole Marie
Age: 22
Best friends since: 1997
Favorite memory: We went to Myrtle Beach one summer and, while taking her bathing suit coverup off, she accidentally untied her bottoms and flashed a good amount of people. I did not help her. I was laughing too hard.

When I think about my thirteen year friendship with Nicole, I begin to get teary eyed. I am extremely lucky. When I tell people how long she and I have been friends, they're amazed. I generally think, why? Then I realize, not many people are lucky enough to have a best friend for thirteen years.

Nicole and I have had our fair share of arguments. We have completely different political views and we sometimes differ in opinion when it comes to religion. We were raised differently. Our differences even boil down to our dress. She prefers brown and I love my black. She wears flow-y, colorful prints. I prefer jeans and a plain tee.

We've been through two divorces, four remarriages, new friends, new loves, lost friendships, lost loves, deaths, births, success, failure, hopes, dreams, weight gain, weight loss, and first apartments.

I know her like the back of my hand. And she knows me like hers. Last night, for instance, she left and told me to lock the door. I was busy reading another blog and didn't bother to get up. She sends me a text: Get off your ass and lock the door. She knows me. When she gets upset or frustrated, she begins to hum "Amazing Grace." I know her.

There is never a dull moment when she and I get together. She's one of the few people I can be myself around. I can tell her anything and not feel silly. She's always supportive of me. She may not agree with what I'm doing but, she supports me. We don't bullshit each other. If she asks, "Does this look good on me?" and it doesn't, I'll tell her. When looking at pictures from two years ago, I said, "Why didn't anyone tell me I was fat? Why didn't someone just say, put the cheeseburger down?" Her response? "I called you fatgirl. Fat. Girl. What part of that didn't you get?" That's Nicole. That's my best friend.

When I think of what my life would be like without her, a sadness begins to grow in my heart. She's a wonderful person. She'd do just about anything for anyone. She's sacrificed a lot throughout her life and never once wished she hadn't. She's a patient, caring, and thoughtful person. I am honored to know her. I am blessed to call her my best friend.

Modnar is Random

No, really, it is. As is this post.

I didn't really have anything in particular that I wanted to talk about. So, I've decided that I'm going to compile a modnar list of things that've been on my mind. Besides, I'm better with lists.

- Case in point: I created a word document (complete with headings and bullets- my mother would be proud) listing all of the coupons I had for the month of July. Not only do I need a coupon for Act mouthwash, I need a life. And a boyfriend. And to get laid. But, that's another post.

- I fear that my future children will not know what a pencil is. I fear that they will not know what a newspaper, a book, nor a cd/tape player looks like. I abhor technology in so many ways. It's impersonal and cold. At work, I will actually call people, and hold for five minutes, instead of sending an e-mail because I want a connection with them. BUT- if you even think about getting rid of my dual monitors, I will break your fingers and spit in your face. Capiche?

- I love people watching. I don't make up stories for the people like Tina Fey and Steve Carell did in Date Night. I do, however, enjoy the occasional giggle when I spot someone picking their nose, tripping over their own two feet, or spilling their venti, non-fat, vanilla latte all over themselves. It's truly the best entertainment.

- So, how about that oil spill? Seriously. It's bad. Like, really, really bad. However, it's not bad when you work in the environmental testing field. Well, it's still bad but, sad to say, it's good for business. And, I sound like a complete asshole.

- Chris, my ex, made fun of me because I loved making mixed cds. "Why don't you just get an iPod?" So, when I ask for a mixed cd for my 21st, guess what I got?! A shiny, new, blue iPod. It's whatever. He got marriage counseling, I got an iPod. I win.

- Isn't it horrible when you find out what someone looks like, or how old they really are, after only hearing their voice? Corporate is located in Minnesota. Most of the clients I speak with are not based in North Carolina. So, I only talk to them via phone (because, remember, I'd rather spend ten minutes getting a 'yes,' than to shoot a two second e-mail). Well, I recently learned that one of the girls that I consistently bug up at Corporate, isn't 25. She sounds 25 and, in my mind, looks 25. But, alas, she is not. She is in her 40s. Also, I listen to 107.9 The Link throughout the work day and learned, not too long ago, that Ramona is black. I'm all for being politically correct 'n shit but, she sounded white. It's okay. I can say that. My neighbor is black.

- My pants and shirts are beginning to get a little snug. And, by a little, I mean a lot. Fatgirl has gotten fatter. Bye, bye size 8s :( Hello stretch pants.

- You'd be surprised at how many people can't spell my last name. I mean, c'mon people. It's not that friggin' hard. On the upside, though, I have several great alias': Amanda Rhodes, Amanda Roads, and Amanda Rofe. Yup. That's me.

- The people next door are sketchy. Among the other things my landlord told me, I wish he would've mentioned their sketchy-ness. Seriously. She is probably poisoning his food as he mixes her nightly Corona with rohypnol. They're not the worst. The people two doors down? Have adopted a chicken. Mr. Chicken wandered up two days after we moved in. He disappeared. Then, the other day I saw one of the children trying to put a leash on him. I've never felt more sorry for a chicken. They also have a redneck slip-n-slide. If you are unfamiliar with this type of slip-n-slide, you are lucky. A redneck s-n-s consists of two blue tarps, some twine and duct tape, and the sprinkler watering the garden. Git-R-Done. Old man river isn't too bad. He mows the grass and lets us use his trash can if ours fills up. I am, however, waiting for him to say, "You got a purty mouth."

Somebody has to say it...

I'm not one to keep quiet. Ever. My mama taught me at a very young age to voice my opinion. You can blame her. I have, however, become a bit more tactful and graceful in my approach...most of the time.

-Dear Bradley Cooper, you broke our hearts in Valentine's Day. It was not funny nor appreciated. Don't do it again. Sincerely, straight women all over the world.

-If you are a grown adult, you should not be allowed to wear silly bands UNLESS, a small child gave you one. If you bought silly bands for yourself, you should promptly return to grade school. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Do, however, try to collect your dignity and self respect on the way.

-To the jerk off tailgating me down I-85: if you're going to ride my ass, atleast scream my name.

-Why do people automatically assume, if something's missing, that it was the cleaning lady? Listen, they don't want your crap. After cleaning up your filth all day, the last thing they want to do is take something to remind them of you later.

-While it may not be socially acceptable, I will high-five you for smacking the shit out of your 18+ year old son/daughter when he/she disrespects you in public. Please and thank you.

-Speaking of socially acceptable, getting drunk and flirting/humping the twenty-somethings at the pool while your twelve year old child watches, is generally frowned upon. Just sayin'.

One runny nose and two sticky hands.

Let me begin this post by saying, I love, LOVE, being an aunt. More importantly, I love my nephew, Andrew. He's not my nephew by any relation. He's my best friend's little boy. And one of my new roommates.

He is such a happy, well-behaved boy (I credit this to both of his parents, both sets of grandparents, and, of course, me). He loves playing with his toys, "air plane" rides, being tickled, peek-a-boo, screaming into my oscillating fan, sliding all over mommy's bed, swimming, people watching, bath time, and any meal. His smile and little giggle can erase a bad day at work and financial worries.

It is very rare that I will actually take care of Andrew (I changed my first poopy diaper about two weeks ago). Generally, when I get home, I make dinner as Genna prepares Andrew's food. We all eat at the table; then, Genna gives Andrew his bath as I clean up from dinner and wash the dishes. He gets his pre-bed bottle and we play a little bit. Shortly thereafter, it's bedtime. I get "fun time" with Andrew and virtually no responsibility (other than making him smile and laugh).

This morning was my first time taking care of him (well, I watched him when he was wee little and couldn't get into things). We both woke up at 6:30 and I finally got him back to bed at 7 (did I mention I didn't go to bed until 1:30?!?!). I washed dishes, folded laundry, started another load, picked up, and enjoyed my morning coffee until 9 when I woke him up to get ready for church. After feeding him his breakfast (cinnamon raisins and pears), he had his bath (I let him play in the tub a bit longer than Mommy does, 'cause I'm a good aunt). We got dressed, which wasn't as hard as getting his diaper on, and played in the living room for a bit. Then we walked around outside until Aunt Nicole came to get him for the 11 o'clock service and lunch with her family.

In the small amount of time I was with him, I quickly realized that being a single parent is extremely difficult. I also realized that you find strength you didn't know you had to take care of yourself and someone else (anyone who knows me, knows that I HATE/ABHOR/LOATHE not getting my sleep and will be crabby and ugly to everyone until I fully wake up...not this morning). Finding this strength doesn't make it easy, it just makes it easier.

I enjoy living with Andrew and couldn't have asked for a better one-year-old to live with. I love him with every ounce of me (and that's a lot of ounces). I do, however, also enjoy "me-time" and know that I could not, within the next ten years, have a child. I am a selfish person and I own that.

I give SERIOUS praise and credit to ALL single parents out there. You have my respect forever and always.

Negative Nancy

I'm just going to list all the things that have been worrying me lately:

#1: I received a letter from RCCCCCCCCCCC the other day informing me that I was not eligible for financial aid. It seems that I am on track for my ten year associates degree. As we say at work, Pace Yourself.

#2: ALL of my bills are due Friday. FML.

#3: I have no time. Seriously. I'm gone from 8am - 7pm, M-F. I come home, cook dinner, wash dishes, and all of a sudden, it's 8:30-9pm. Where did my day go?!

#4: I created a spreadsheet at work and I fear that it may be too much for me. Only, my boss, the big boss, loves the spreadsheet. Ultimately it will help him with our budget. I suppose I need to suck it up.

That's it. Those are my four negatives. When I started writing this I thought of so many more but, a commercial came on for those starving kids in Africa, and I couldn't bring myself to bitch about the rotten strawberries.

Perhaps Positive Pamela will visit y'all next time.

The Laundry Mat Chronicles: Volume One

Prior to moving out, I'd never been to a laundry mat. In fact, the only image I've ever had is this scene (it's 1:27 in):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2UeOh5ngSw

So, imagine my surprise when there is no hot guy. Instead, I get this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny8VqcEe7dw

Needless to say, I shove my unmentionables down to the very bottom of my laundry basket.

However, I met a very interesting person today. Relax, it was a sixty-one year old lady named Sarah. Sarah has two daughters and three grandchildren. She has been a widow for thirty-four years and never remarried. I knew Sarah prior to today. Well, I didn't know-know her. She and her sister frequented Old Navy during my three and a half years there (Her sister was my substitute Spanish teacher one day. Her Spanish? "Hola Y'all!" I am not even kidding). In the sixty minutes I was there, I learned that she had dated quite a few S.O.B's- her words. However, this morning she received a phone call from a gentleman who works at the produce stand she visits for her tomatoes, cantelope, and cucumbers. In a matter of seconds, the sixty-one year old lady transformed into a sixteen year old girl. Her eyes lit up and she smiled. I'm pretty positive she was blushing too. She was optimistic about this man. She asked if I liked her hair (she recently dyed it) and what I thought she should wear. "Well, I'll tell ya one thing...I'm not gonna wear heels for a man. That'll be the only time he'll see me in them. He better get used to my flip flops and run-arounds."

She finished her laundry before I did and wished me the best of luck with my schooling and with my (non-existent) love life. She had hope, at sixty-one, in finding the man she wanted to live with for the rest of her life. Why, at twenty-one, should I feel any different?

Things I believe in...

I believe in a good cup of coffee every morning.
I believe in spending money on sheets-not shoes.
I believe in classic rock on a sunny spring day.
I believe in volunteering your time over donating your money.
I believe in watching Disney movies after the age of five.
I believe in getting an education.
I believe in quilts.
I believe in sending snail mail.
I believe in providing great customer service.
I believe in broken hearts and lasting love.
I believe in wearing only face lotion, mascara, and chapstick.
I believe in rocking flip flops during a snow storm.
I believe in best friends and family.
I believe in getting massages once a month.
I believe in returning someone's phone call.
I believe in celebrating birthdays.
I believe in feeling sexy in your own skin.
I believe in pink tool boxes.
I believe in comfortable jeans, sweettea shirts, and bare feet.
I believe in learning how to cook.
I believe in waking up early- even on weekends.
I believe in wearing sunblock and trying my best to avoid skin cancer.
I believe in shamelessly flirting with your mechanic to get a free oil change.
I believe in all forms of art.
I believe in God and he believes in me.

Moving

It's that time. A time my mama and stepdad have prayed about for more than two years. I should be used to this whole moving thing. Since my parents divorced, I've moved five times with my mama and three times with my dad. Eight, count 'em, EIGHT, times within eight years. And, if you want to count my stint at ASU, that would be nine moves within eight years. Needless to say, I should own a moving business.

Anyhoo, I'll be moving into my first place by the end of next week. My bedroom looks like a Fisher Scientific warehouse with all of the Methylene Chloride boxes. And, chill, I'm using them for moving purposes...not to start a meth lab. I should probably make that clear to my new neighbors.

It's still not real yet. It didn't feel real when I called about and visited the apartment. It didn't feel real when we signed the lease and paid the deposit and first month's. It didn't feel real when I scheduled Time Warner Cable and Duke Power. Honestly, it won't feel real until I spend my first night there. Scratch that. It won't feel real until I walk through my parent's house to make sure I haven't missed anything; until I give my house key back and give my dogs kisses goodbye. It won't feel real until I'm completely broke with nothing to eat, no gas in my car, and tons of laundry to do with no detergent. THAT'S when it'll feel real.

Now, before you get the wrong idea, I'm only moving ten minutes down the road from my mama. And, I'll live less than a quarter of a mile from my best friend and her family (which I have adopted as my second family). So, I will not be miles away from my family(ies). I'm just being completely dramatic and over the top. Which is not like me. This is what moving does to me. It makes me an emotional wreck and, aparently, a drama queen. Where's my crown?

There are only a couple of things that we'll need to "complete" the apartment- a broom, mop, shower curtain rings, etc. My dad has to sand, stain, and set the glass in our coffee table. That should be ready in about two weeks. He's also making our end tables (one of the many, many perks of having a father who is extremely skilled with wood). Genna still has to get our TV stand but, everything else is a go.

I'm excited and terrified all at once. And, like most things in my life, I've put off packing for about a week or so. I'd rather not face this huge life change until I have to.

I suck at this blog thing...

Seriously. I am the worst blogger ever. BUT, I do have two good excuses.

#1: Finals. The time of year when you cram an entire semester's worth of reading into one week :) So, until they are over with, you will not be reading anything from me (and by you, I mean the two people who actually read this...hi mom!).

#2: I'm moving! Woohoo! In less than a month, I'll be living in an apartment with my girlfriend (as in best friends for 15 years, not lover), Genna, and her son Andrew. He is the cutest little guy in the entire world. Do not challenge the latter statement/fact (I've been known to cut a bitch).

Wish me luck ya'll!

The Cove

http://www.thecovemovie.com/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KRD8e20fBo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k62kc07m1Dc

I generally don't do these kinds of things. However, after seeing this on Oprah (go ahead and laugh), I felt the need to educate those around me. I'm not asking that you make a donation, I'm just asking that you take a look and see what awful (and that's worded mildly) things they are doing to dolphins in Japan. The nature of the videos aren't too graphic.

Tirade Tuesday

Attention Drivers on Ramah Ch. Rd.: Why is it necessary to make a left hand turn onto HWY 73 at 6pm? It isn't. Find another way around.

Today's Youth: Gentleman, do you really think you look attractive with your pants/shorts draping below your butt? You look like an idiot. Grow up and pull 'em up. Ladies, it is not appropriate to show everyone what color thong you decided to pull out of your panty drawer. Learn from Vicki- keep it a secret.

Dear boys, it is NOT okay to leave me gifts by my bedroom door. I DO NOT appreciate them. Keep it up and, one day, I'll try to return them.

To my fellow classmates: GET A FRIGGIN' DICTIONARY! Also, please return to 2nd grade for basic grammar lessons. Most of you are in your forties, there is NO excuse. And, for the woman who hails from Baltimore, you did not grow up a slave. You do not know what Alex Haley is talking about. More importantly, quit talking crap about southern white people. In fact, MOVE BACK TO BALTIMORE!

What's ticking you off?

Little Secrets of Happiness

The secret of happiness is keeping your heart open to others, and to life's experiences. For the heart is like the door of a building. The sunlight can enter only when the door is open wide.

Little Secrets of Happiness

The secret of happiness is smiling at others; comforting them when they're sad. For just as a candle shines more brightly in a room if the walls are white, so our happiness shines more brightly when reflected back to us in the smiles of others.

Top 3

So, a girlfriend of mine has a blog and it is absolutley hilarious (because she is absolutely hilarious :) ). Anyhoo, I read it whenever she has a new post and have decided to join her in the blogging world (wish me luck).

Who are your Top 3 "guilty" celebrity crushes?

#3: Matthew Gray Gubler. His character on Criminal Minds is completely intelligent, awkward, and so, so sexy. I doubt any of you will agree with me but, I've always had a thing for tall, thin men. I'd let him profile me any day.

#2: Mike Rowe. Ahhhh. I could just listen to him talk. His voice and rough, manly looks are extremely appealing. I love a man who's good with his hands :)

#1: Mark Wahlberg. And, no, not because of Boogie Nights. His Calvin Klein modeling days did it for me. I own every single one of his movies, and, while I'm not proud to say this, his book. Obsessive? No. In love? Yes.

Who are your top three guilty celeb crushes?

This week's life lessons.

#13: I take my work counterpart for granted. Trust me, never again.
#12: I've actually gotten used to no ac/heat.
#11: I've missed my girlfriends.
#10: I have A LOT to pack. Seriously. I had no idea I was a hoarder.
#9: Note to self: you need to clean your car more than once every six months. I'm pretty positive there was a science experiment growing under my driver's seat.
#8: At 21, it's not okay to want to stay in on a Saturday night and watch Criminal Minds...or any night of the week for that matter.
#7: More than five hours of sleep is needed to function properly. Plan your evening accordingly.
#6: While the cost of living in Charlotte is more than it is in Faith, I find it ridiculous that a homeless man would ask for $20.
#5: Thomas at Rock Bottom is the best waiter. If you go, ask for him.
#4: I need to cook more.
#3: Correction: I need to cook.
#2: Sometimes I give advice when I know nothing of the situation or have never been in the situation. I'm going to work on that.
#1: I enjoy children's movies more than any adult should.

Little Secrets of Happiness

Your happiness grows when you help other people. But, the less you try to help them, the more it shrivels and dries up. For happiness is like a plant: It must be watered daily with giving thoughts and actions.