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.