Today is my 25th birthday. Anxious feelings have haunted my insides for weeks now, forcing me to take deep breaths. Twenty five is a big deal, a big number. I'm nowhere near where I thought I'd be in life. When I was in high school, I had a plan of how life would be after college; it very much echoed Shelby Eatenton's in Steel Magnolias, but without the kidney problems, dialysis and dying business. But that's not to say my life at 25 is bad, far from it. It's just been eye opening going against the grain of American society's expectations of people my age. I felt by the time I turned 25, I would be working a trendy or career-oriented job, paying a mortgage, dating someone for a while now, looking into buying a new car, owning a dog. Personally, I successfully have completed none of these. Sorry, society and, possibly, Mom & Dad! I'm doing alright on my own, but obviously, I've chosen a road less traveled. And you know what? I've learned to say forget society! There are plenty of people I know who are in my shoes and it's ok! So what! There's plenty of time to be enslaved to a mortgage and own a turtle. So, my life has been nothing like Shelby's, except for the love of the pink shades blush and bashful, Louisiana lawyers and the charismatic dynamic with my folks.
It's going to be a good year. Any birthday rung in at a Mexican restaurant without the typical fiesta music and cheesy birthday song is as good an omen as any. I am thankful for a few things: friends & family, urban hayrides, marshmellow fights, iTunes gift certificates, my haircut, the fact I don't own a dog or a baby, the face I do have two jobs, a free gym membership, a passionate dedication to activities involving yarn, a love of Real Simple and someone who told me he loved me on my voice mail.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Standin' on the corner, waiting for the bus.
The usual suspects, African Americans, folks fresh out of jail, frugal students, and musicians ride the bus on holidays. How do I know such a thing? This year, Dad bought me a ticket home to North Florida on the Greyhound bus. No big deal, I thought. I'll take my books, knitting and headphones and become a recluse, enjoying quiet time amidst a busload of travelers.
I've taken public transportation many times, so I'm no stranger to awkward seating situations and avoiding eye contact. Inspired by Johnny Cash's song "Hey Porter," I've taken the train from Jacksonville to North Carolina a couple of times, "smell[ing] frost on cotton leaves and feel[ing] that Southern breeze." That trip was memorable, to say the least. A man and woman that met on the train obviously purchased too many cocktails and were kissing like newlyweds. At one point, the lady's shirt was off and she had mounted her new friend. Thank goodness for the Amtrak employee quashing their enthusiasm, or I think everyone in my car would have been in for an unpleasant 15 minutes. Another Amtrak adventure Cale and I took, a guy with a Coke bottle full of Crown liquor, a stench of marijana and a grill so shiny even he kept his sunglasses on, started asking questions. His accent dripping with ebonics, I avoided the conversation, gazing down the car, leaving Cale to his own devices to enterpret the incoming inquiries.
These two trips were like butter compared to the bus ride. Amtrak, for one, goes up and down the East coast, while the bus can zigzag, backtrack, and reverse. While a trip from Jacksonville to Cary, North Carolina takes about 9 hours, the bus ride took 13.5. I saw more of South Carolina than I cared to.
The bus bound for Savannah pulled up, already half an hour behind schedule at 9:30 in the morning. Checking luggage requires leaving it on the oil-stained, cigarette-littered ground and hoping the driver chuckes it under the bus. Nestled in a window-seat near the back, a tall black guy folded his long legs into the seat next to mine. Vincent, 47, traveled to Fayetteville from Detroit, a 36 hour ride. His nine year old daugther and wife smartly stayed home. Family traditions and stories were traded; when we got to the food, he was impressed that a white girl's Thanksgiving would include mustard greens, which Granny Thornton cooks better than Paula Dean. All around us, everyone was eager to talk about their family traditions and what foods were expected to fill the table. Some fancy feasts included: collards, corn bread, butterbeans, turkey, stuffing, and pecan pie. It was clear one man's job was to bring the pecans for the pie, as he carried a plastic Wal-Mart bag chock full of unshelled pecans; the only problem was, he tried to sell the bag for $10 and his selling technique was tempting: "Dees comes from the Soufs. You can't git dees in da Norfs." Someone should have told him our bus was headed into the deep "Soufs", where pecans trees grow aplenty. Vincent praised the Lord quite a bit and made his religious roots known. This inspired me to relay that Jesus was also my homeboy. Vincent and I had lots of time to talk during our journey to Columbia, and after the religion chat, Vincent slipped into the conversation the he wished a little weed was available to ease the discomfort of the last leg of his journey.
Vincent switched buses in Columbia and Herold took his place. I'd say Herold was homeless or flirting with homelessness. His carry-on included the popular plastic Wal-Mart bag. Missing front teeth, his slight Jamaican accent made it difficult to understand his vernacular. Small talk allowed us to get acquainted, but it was the evangelist seated across from Herold that encouraged him to further engage me in conversation. Herold's passion was partying in Folly Beach, South Carolina. I promised him I'd have my bachelorette party there. Interestingly, we talked about stereotypes and why people should not be judged before getting t know his or her character. This is when Herold disclosed he had judged me, believing me to be snobby. A white girl with good jeans, a green sweater and bangs reads as snobby.
During the trek from Savannah to Brunswick to Jacksonville, I sat next to two more people: one older woman with a tight bun and disapproving scowl who said little, and a young guy from New Jersey heading to Tampa. To this young man, I could only think to talk about Bon Jovi and the cast of Real Housewives of New Jersey. Like South Carolina, I believe New Jersey to be the armpit of America. Maybe I should have brought up Zach Braff's Garden State.
Along the way, the bus driver discouraged people from smoking at the back of the bus and clipping fingernails, like the bus was acutally a hotel room or a public bathroom.
Hugging my parents at the packed Jacksonville station, my dad recoiled due to bus stench. One trip, 13.5 hours later, I was finally on Florida soil.
I've taken public transportation many times, so I'm no stranger to awkward seating situations and avoiding eye contact. Inspired by Johnny Cash's song "Hey Porter," I've taken the train from Jacksonville to North Carolina a couple of times, "smell[ing] frost on cotton leaves and feel[ing] that Southern breeze." That trip was memorable, to say the least. A man and woman that met on the train obviously purchased too many cocktails and were kissing like newlyweds. At one point, the lady's shirt was off and she had mounted her new friend. Thank goodness for the Amtrak employee quashing their enthusiasm, or I think everyone in my car would have been in for an unpleasant 15 minutes. Another Amtrak adventure Cale and I took, a guy with a Coke bottle full of Crown liquor, a stench of marijana and a grill so shiny even he kept his sunglasses on, started asking questions. His accent dripping with ebonics, I avoided the conversation, gazing down the car, leaving Cale to his own devices to enterpret the incoming inquiries.
These two trips were like butter compared to the bus ride. Amtrak, for one, goes up and down the East coast, while the bus can zigzag, backtrack, and reverse. While a trip from Jacksonville to Cary, North Carolina takes about 9 hours, the bus ride took 13.5. I saw more of South Carolina than I cared to.
The bus bound for Savannah pulled up, already half an hour behind schedule at 9:30 in the morning. Checking luggage requires leaving it on the oil-stained, cigarette-littered ground and hoping the driver chuckes it under the bus. Nestled in a window-seat near the back, a tall black guy folded his long legs into the seat next to mine. Vincent, 47, traveled to Fayetteville from Detroit, a 36 hour ride. His nine year old daugther and wife smartly stayed home. Family traditions and stories were traded; when we got to the food, he was impressed that a white girl's Thanksgiving would include mustard greens, which Granny Thornton cooks better than Paula Dean. All around us, everyone was eager to talk about their family traditions and what foods were expected to fill the table. Some fancy feasts included: collards, corn bread, butterbeans, turkey, stuffing, and pecan pie. It was clear one man's job was to bring the pecans for the pie, as he carried a plastic Wal-Mart bag chock full of unshelled pecans; the only problem was, he tried to sell the bag for $10 and his selling technique was tempting: "Dees comes from the Soufs. You can't git dees in da Norfs." Someone should have told him our bus was headed into the deep "Soufs", where pecans trees grow aplenty. Vincent praised the Lord quite a bit and made his religious roots known. This inspired me to relay that Jesus was also my homeboy. Vincent and I had lots of time to talk during our journey to Columbia, and after the religion chat, Vincent slipped into the conversation the he wished a little weed was available to ease the discomfort of the last leg of his journey.
Vincent switched buses in Columbia and Herold took his place. I'd say Herold was homeless or flirting with homelessness. His carry-on included the popular plastic Wal-Mart bag. Missing front teeth, his slight Jamaican accent made it difficult to understand his vernacular. Small talk allowed us to get acquainted, but it was the evangelist seated across from Herold that encouraged him to further engage me in conversation. Herold's passion was partying in Folly Beach, South Carolina. I promised him I'd have my bachelorette party there. Interestingly, we talked about stereotypes and why people should not be judged before getting t know his or her character. This is when Herold disclosed he had judged me, believing me to be snobby. A white girl with good jeans, a green sweater and bangs reads as snobby.
During the trek from Savannah to Brunswick to Jacksonville, I sat next to two more people: one older woman with a tight bun and disapproving scowl who said little, and a young guy from New Jersey heading to Tampa. To this young man, I could only think to talk about Bon Jovi and the cast of Real Housewives of New Jersey. Like South Carolina, I believe New Jersey to be the armpit of America. Maybe I should have brought up Zach Braff's Garden State.
Along the way, the bus driver discouraged people from smoking at the back of the bus and clipping fingernails, like the bus was acutally a hotel room or a public bathroom.
Hugging my parents at the packed Jacksonville station, my dad recoiled due to bus stench. One trip, 13.5 hours later, I was finally on Florida soil.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Vegan MoFo
Because I'm hung over and still in bed at 6 p.m., having left it only to throw up and urinate, I hit the "next blog" button. Entitled Vegan Fun, it is super lame, cluttering up the internet with vegan recipes and trying to encourage me to forgo the cheese, meat and and general splendor I usually eat to try cabbage pie that literally looks like horse shit and a black bean burger I swore was a hockey puck.
Last night, while eating pizza with bacon, bbq sauce and awesomeness on top, I asked one of Dano's amigas if she was a vegetarian. Thankfully, she said no. I then commented that my roommate is a vegetarian. Dan's response without hesitation: your roommate's an idiot.
I like roasted vegetables as much as any vegetarian, but in the words of Ron White, I did not get to the top of the food chain to eat grass.
Reader, if you are a vegan, I refuse to apologize. Eating sausage is a passion of mine (that's what she said) and I don't care how long you've gone without a real burger. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Wendy's for a delicious hangover-over square shaped burger.
Last night, while eating pizza with bacon, bbq sauce and awesomeness on top, I asked one of Dano's amigas if she was a vegetarian. Thankfully, she said no. I then commented that my roommate is a vegetarian. Dan's response without hesitation: your roommate's an idiot.
I like roasted vegetables as much as any vegetarian, but in the words of Ron White, I did not get to the top of the food chain to eat grass.
Reader, if you are a vegan, I refuse to apologize. Eating sausage is a passion of mine (that's what she said) and I don't care how long you've gone without a real burger. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Wendy's for a delicious hangover-over square shaped burger.
Realization
The best thing about having a DUI is the fact that your friends have to drive when going to see, say, Lucero, since driving after 8 p.m. is not permitted. This forces someone else to be the designated driver. Uh! Take that, judicial system! Thanks for forcing me not be the DD for a year.
Or, if you prefer tigers:
Either way, it's the silver lining to an absolute crap ordeal.
An End in Sight
This week, I busted my booty and completed all but 2.5 hours of my community service. I must say, I've met some really interesting people, and had an almost pleasant experience. The bosses seem impressed that I actually work and I've been awarded an extra half hour here and there. Also, with the youngest boss man, a flirtatious smile works wonders when trying to add a bit of extra time. I'm shameless, really.
There are three questions that community servicers ask one another and they always proceed in the following order: 1. What did you do? 2. Do you have kids and how many? 3. Do you want to take a smoke break? I don't partake in the smoke breaks, but standing around with folks easily chatting is a great way to spend half an hour instead of sorting bins full of disgusting junk. Lucinda and I are the only ones who actually do any work. Lucinda is 28, does not like dresses, has three kids and her boyfriend just started dabbling in weed again. She doesn't like it and may kick him out of the apartment. But since he's probably going to jail for something else, she figures he'll be out soon enough. She jabbers on about all kinds of things even if I've walked across the store to hang the "new" crotchless undies that arrived earlier.
Jamar taught me how to waste time. Jamar's crime was possession, earning him 60 hours. He has actually worked 30 minutes of the 20 hours completed already and talked on the phone for the rest. He lives with his mama, has twins with his baby mama, but pursues another fine fox, as he says, because "she fine." We bonded while riding the rolling clothing racks. Jamar says I work ham, which means I work hard. Being white, I asked him to repeat the expression a dozen times before he explained its true meaning.
Jamal, my favorite co-worker, has three children and on of his his baby mamas lives in Boston. He unloads dump trucks for a living, and smokes more cigarettes at Goodwill than he does at work because if you're either smoking or working or smoking to get out of working. Jamal and I discuss liquor. Jamal prefers "white liquor" to brown liquor, while my favorite is the other way around, preferring brown to clear, although vodka and water has fewer calories and I'm trying to look like Michelle Obama. The concoctions of booze he comes up with makes me want to vomit, but he swears by them. From the black folks, I learned that Tanqueray is the gin of choice, but because it was referred to as Tang, I got confused because I pictured Lucinda and Jamal consuming the orange powder mixed with water, which is popular among astronauts. The white manager also pictured them sipping a Tang drink, too, so I felt my misunderstanding was justified.
The bossman I'm referring to is named Nathan. He's 20, drives a Ford 150 and used to weigh 175 pounds in high school, which he got kicked out of for smoking pot, but has gained 40 pounds since then. He works out at The Rush fitness center after work for two hours, but it doesn't show. Nathan asked if I wanted him to be my boyfriend the second day on the job. I wonder if he would have added extra hours to my time sheet if I'd said yes.
Bobby calls me Fran because I'm a nanny.
Spending so much time with a mixture of African Americans causes me to absorb the way they speak. Sometimes I sound so ridiculous I don't recognize my own words or realize that I have an inner Tyra Banks when she gets all ghetto on America's Next Top Model.
Today, I wanted to complete the final 2.5 hours but because my head won't stop spinning from all the beers I drank last night at the Lucero show. Tomorrow after church, I'll finish up and then maybe Nathan and I can hit the gym.
There are three questions that community servicers ask one another and they always proceed in the following order: 1. What did you do? 2. Do you have kids and how many? 3. Do you want to take a smoke break? I don't partake in the smoke breaks, but standing around with folks easily chatting is a great way to spend half an hour instead of sorting bins full of disgusting junk. Lucinda and I are the only ones who actually do any work. Lucinda is 28, does not like dresses, has three kids and her boyfriend just started dabbling in weed again. She doesn't like it and may kick him out of the apartment. But since he's probably going to jail for something else, she figures he'll be out soon enough. She jabbers on about all kinds of things even if I've walked across the store to hang the "new" crotchless undies that arrived earlier.
Jamar taught me how to waste time. Jamar's crime was possession, earning him 60 hours. He has actually worked 30 minutes of the 20 hours completed already and talked on the phone for the rest. He lives with his mama, has twins with his baby mama, but pursues another fine fox, as he says, because "she fine." We bonded while riding the rolling clothing racks. Jamar says I work ham, which means I work hard. Being white, I asked him to repeat the expression a dozen times before he explained its true meaning.
Jamal, my favorite co-worker, has three children and on of his his baby mamas lives in Boston. He unloads dump trucks for a living, and smokes more cigarettes at Goodwill than he does at work because if you're either smoking or working or smoking to get out of working. Jamal and I discuss liquor. Jamal prefers "white liquor" to brown liquor, while my favorite is the other way around, preferring brown to clear, although vodka and water has fewer calories and I'm trying to look like Michelle Obama. The concoctions of booze he comes up with makes me want to vomit, but he swears by them. From the black folks, I learned that Tanqueray is the gin of choice, but because it was referred to as Tang, I got confused because I pictured Lucinda and Jamal consuming the orange powder mixed with water, which is popular among astronauts. The white manager also pictured them sipping a Tang drink, too, so I felt my misunderstanding was justified.
The bossman I'm referring to is named Nathan. He's 20, drives a Ford 150 and used to weigh 175 pounds in high school, which he got kicked out of for smoking pot, but has gained 40 pounds since then. He works out at The Rush fitness center after work for two hours, but it doesn't show. Nathan asked if I wanted him to be my boyfriend the second day on the job. I wonder if he would have added extra hours to my time sheet if I'd said yes. 
Bobby calls me Fran because I'm a nanny. Spending so much time with a mixture of African Americans causes me to absorb the way they speak. Sometimes I sound so ridiculous I don't recognize my own words or realize that I have an inner Tyra Banks when she gets all ghetto on America's Next Top Model.
Today, I wanted to complete the final 2.5 hours but because my head won't stop spinning from all the beers I drank last night at the Lucero show. Tomorrow after church, I'll finish up and then maybe Nathan and I can hit the gym.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Where the Bearded-Things Are
Due to court-ordered community service, I have been assigned to service my Bumcombe county community at the Goodwill down the street from my asylum. Saturday, I tried to have a good attitude, but with breakup business at large, it was hard to feel jolly that I was "changing lives," as the back of the required vests announce, by allowing crack addicts to by crack and a new t-shirt without breaking the weekly budget. However, smiles crept onto my face when I saw a Mexican Chicken Man! (See Halloween post for reference.) This particular man looked like Frank Holcombe on Halloween night, if he ran around in the sun for a few days to expedite a deep tan.
All day I sorted through old clothes, trying to keep to myself, not wanting to be acknowledged by customers or other workers. When the other community servicers tried to pry into my business, asking about my crime of choice, I told them I was doing research for my new book about the benefits of community service.
There are rules to this job like any other, such as no sniffing coke in the bathroom during 10 minute breaks, no working while intoxicated, and no flippy-floppies. The only rule I wish did not exist is no purchasing items until after my service time is up. So, if that amazing Bearcats sweatshirt is still there after my 24 hours is completed, I can happily purchase it, but for now, all I can do is dream about the day it will be mine!
Sunday, after talking to Daddy, I strolled into Goodwill, head held high, dressed for success and willing to work. I figured if I had to participate in this learning experience, I may as well find a way to enjoy it. Maybe I'd find a connection to buy weed, like I'm in an episode of Weeds. Having a good attitude was the best decision I made. The manager, Nathan, asked me to push the button on the compactor while he stood on the junk to force it into the machine, I actually laughed with my co-workers about sorting through bras, and I spotted the most gorgeous Ashevillian men.
I now know where all of Asheville's hottest men with beards and "trendy" mustaches go: Goodwill. Most of them look like hard working men, hippies or Trustafarians who own organic farms outside Asheville, most likely with their beautiful pregnant girlfriends with dreaded hair. These men don't want to buy new clothes to get dirty, so the perfect solution is scouring Goodwill for old rugged britches. There were handsome blond beards and long dark beards. It was only the elusive red beard that did not frolic onto my radar. Spotting these resplendent men, I did what any girl in my situation would do: hide! Flirting with a man while we're shopping at Goodwill is much different than flirting with a man who is shopping at Goodwill. Maybe I can lure them with my ability to nab all the great, vintage finds, which of course, I've sought out during my community service. Maybe this isn't such a bad gig after all.
All day I sorted through old clothes, trying to keep to myself, not wanting to be acknowledged by customers or other workers. When the other community servicers tried to pry into my business, asking about my crime of choice, I told them I was doing research for my new book about the benefits of community service.
There are rules to this job like any other, such as no sniffing coke in the bathroom during 10 minute breaks, no working while intoxicated, and no flippy-floppies. The only rule I wish did not exist is no purchasing items until after my service time is up. So, if that amazing Bearcats sweatshirt is still there after my 24 hours is completed, I can happily purchase it, but for now, all I can do is dream about the day it will be mine!
Sunday, after talking to Daddy, I strolled into Goodwill, head held high, dressed for success and willing to work. I figured if I had to participate in this learning experience, I may as well find a way to enjoy it. Maybe I'd find a connection to buy weed, like I'm in an episode of Weeds. Having a good attitude was the best decision I made. The manager, Nathan, asked me to push the button on the compactor while he stood on the junk to force it into the machine, I actually laughed with my co-workers about sorting through bras, and I spotted the most gorgeous Ashevillian men.
I now know where all of Asheville's hottest men with beards and "trendy" mustaches go: Goodwill. Most of them look like hard working men, hippies or Trustafarians who own organic farms outside Asheville, most likely with their beautiful pregnant girlfriends with dreaded hair. These men don't want to buy new clothes to get dirty, so the perfect solution is scouring Goodwill for old rugged britches. There were handsome blond beards and long dark beards. It was only the elusive red beard that did not frolic onto my radar. Spotting these resplendent men, I did what any girl in my situation would do: hide! Flirting with a man while we're shopping at Goodwill is much different than flirting with a man who is shopping at Goodwill. Maybe I can lure them with my ability to nab all the great, vintage finds, which of course, I've sought out during my community service. Maybe this isn't such a bad gig after all.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Good will to all!
Meeting with my community service coordinator today, he placed me at Goodwill. So, if you need a dirty couch or clothes for your own Be Your Favorite Duggar Par-tay, I'll keep my eyes peeled for you. Twenty-four hours of sorting, hanging, moving, lifting, smelling like moldy clothes and serving will release me from the court ordered community service required with the DUI charge. The ironic thing is, I had to pay $225 for this chance to reach into plastic bags full of gems. If I hadn't had to work the next day, I would have rather spent 24 hours in jail because it is free and maybe I could have gotten to wear a jumpsuit and have my meals provided. Sure, peeing in front of people would have been a challenge, but limiting liquid intake would solve that problem. Or wearing a diaper like the lady astronaut who drove from Houston to Florida. Why couldn't I get roadside trash pickup like Silas in the HBO show Weeds? At least I'd get to be outside with the Mexicanos (joke).
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