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.