Oh, that’s original [/sarcasm]

I think I might be growing up. Well, I guess what it is is that I’m certain that I am growing up and developing new tastes in everything.

I used to be intrigued by boys who dyed their hair black and wore tight pants and band tees. Now I want them to get a pair of pants that fit them properly in certain places and to get the hair dye removed. The band tees can stay, I suppose. Until I want those to be gone as well. They think they are so “unique” just because they have the guts to put on some eyeliner. I am over that.

Then there are these girls that have the “scene” hair  and wear makeup that makes it look like they’re dead. Yeah, that’s attractive. Or they have regular colored and styled hair, but they have such a huge side part that they have to tilt their head and whip their hair around just to keep it in place. They all think that no one else is like them and hate on people that “just don’t understand.” They sport skinny jeans and Twilight tees and strut around like they own the world. They are so awesome because they can claim that they are “emo” and “bi” (how do these girls know that they’re bisexual if they’ve never even had experiences with the opposite sex? I can’t seem to understand that) and get away with whining about how “nobody understands me and everyone thinks I cut myself just because I’m emo!” Well, duh. Grow up and get used to it.

Not going to lie, I used to want the scene hair. I thought it was neat and super unique. Now I have realized that it really isn’t. I wake up every morning with my curly bedhead and just insert a clip somewhere before rushing out the door. I don’t have time to get all gussied up and straighten my hair every morning just so I can look like everyone else that thinks they’re unique. I’m happy with my curls and don’t want to chase them away with a straightener. I have three pairs of skinny jeans because I like how I look in them – my other thirteen pairs of jeans are what I think are comfortable. I put on mascara so my eyes don’t disappear and then walk out the door to begin my day.

I used to think I was all “emo” and awesome. Now I laugh at those who think the same thing. I’m over it. I’m just me; original in every way because I don’t do what everyone else does.

As you would have done unto you

I have learned many lessons in my fifteen years. Not as many as other people have, I’m sure, but I am getting there.  I could sit here and try to think of them all, but there is only one that stands out to me everyday to show just how prominent it is. Being polite gets you far. No question about it.

My parents have always taught me to say “please” and “thank you” whenever the chance arises; to be courteous and open a door or two for people, and to help an old lady out by loading her groceries into her car. (Okay, so that hasn’t happened yet, but I am waiting for the chance to do so!) It’s not like we – or I – believe in karma, that what goes around comes around (in this case, it’s a good “what”), it’s more like we go by “do unto others as you would have done unto you.” It’s that sort of thing. So, when I have to pass in front of a person or need a person to move out of the way, I say “excuse me” and get what I needed accomplished complete in a polite and sincere manner. I hold doors open for people, and when I hear a simple “thank you” it makes me happy and brightens my day considerably. I am careful to lower my voice when in public so as to not annoy or aggravate those around me whom I do not know. I am considerate, courteous, and thoughtful. I think about not only what I need, but what others need and wish for as well.

Now, what’s the point of this insightful post? Well, today was one of those days where every person I met was not polite in any way whatsoever. In Walmart, my mother and I were in the produce department looking at the Clementine oranges, and this lady came over and leaned over where we were standing without a single uttering of “excuse me.” Each time someone does this to us, either my mother or myself will say “excuse me” for the person who lacked to do so. It is so rude to just barge in near a person whom you are not acquainted with. The nerve of some people!

Lastly, my mother and I went to Kohls to check out what kind of a selection of flannel shirts they carried. We purchased what we wanted, and headed out the door. Well, almost entering the  door we are heading out of troops three women. Okay, so my mom went on through and opened the outside door for them, and I opened the second door that led to the inside of the store. They walked on by. No acknowledgment. Not a single one of those three women said a tiny little “thank you.” They didn’t even look at us. Well, my mom yelled “you’re welcome!” and then we walked across the parking lot, ranting about how there are no polite people these days.

And it’s the truth. Honestly, some people have no class and are so rude that it kills me. No wonder our country is so messed up. People take the help they receive for granted, and don’t know how to feel thankful for anything. I was raised to be cordial and polite to everyone I ever come in contact with, whether I like the person or not. You’d better believe that my children will have manners and know how to say “thank you” more than every once in awhile. They will appreciate everything I have provided them with, and will hopefully spread it on to this thankless nation. The people in this state, in this country, no, in this world, need a little make-over. Maybe I shall build an arc and rid the world of all of these people with a teensy little flood. Start the world over with a group of people that know and adhere to my policy. “Do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

Name obsession

Trevor always has the best music playing when we go for a ride somewhere. He’s the one that really got me into the music I am into today. He also helped fuel an obsession of mine.

One day a few years ago, we were riding along listening to a mix when a song announced itself with a bold acoustic guitar. Then a screechy voice came in. I wasn’t really listening until I heard “there’s no one in the world like Emily.” All I could think was, hey, he’s right! Come to find out that the song was “Emily” by From First To Last, and though Sonny’s voice is somewhat annoying in the song, I absolutely adore it. It’s…cute.

After I gained the love for music that I now possess, I began searching youtube for new music. I found a song called “Emily” by Anadivine. When I typed it in to download it, another song came up that had my name in the title. Hmm…

One day I spent a lot of time at the computer, just searching iTunes for “Emily.” It’s an obsession of mine.

Here’s what I have today:

• “Emily” by Alice In Videoland,
• “Emily” by Anadivine,
• “Emily” by Bowling For Soup,
• “See Emily Play” covered by David Bowie,
• “Rocky Loves Emily” by Four Letter Lie,
• “Emily” by From First To Last (of course),
• “Emily” by Keane,
• “See Emily Play” by Pink Floyd,
• “Me and Emily” by Rachel Proctor,
• “For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her” by Simon and Garfunkel, and
• “Emily” by Stephen Fretwell.

My favorite?

It’s between From First To Last, Pink Floyd, and Stephen Fretwell. I simply can’t choose.

It all started with a record player

A few weeks ago, I bought myself a record player. I was ecstatic to find it at such a good price, and was beaming as I walked out of the store with the box in my arms.

When we got home, I immediately took it into the Living Room and set it up. My parents taught me how to use it and to be careful not to jump around whilst listening to it. My mother and I ventured into the cave (our basement) to retrieve some of their old records to bring back some of the past. We carried armload after armload upstairs to the Living Room and left them in stacks all around the room. I left the ones I bought earlier that day (Coheed & Cambria and a Fueled By Ramen package that were extremely cheap) on the couch and my dad and I had a look-see to pick out what I should listen to first.

I thought my brothers would think it cool for me to have purchased a record player, but they avoided me like I had the plague. They seemed pretty pissed off and jealous that I got to one first and because my parents’ old one needs a new needle thing. Trevor especially because I bought Coheed & Cambria. Because he likes them, I’m not allowed to. Oh well.

My dad sat on the couch as I rifled through stack after stack, holding record after record up seeking his approval. All of the ones with his name written on them were the ones approved – all of the ones with Barbra Streisand on the cover were kept in a pile that I would not listen to. Sorry, mom.

I have discovered a whole new music taste thanks to my record player (though it does have a CD player, radio and iPod hookup included, I tend to listen to records on it more). I found out that I love the bands Sweet, REO Speedwagon (You Can Tune A Piano But You Can’t Tuna Fish), Joan Jett & The Black Hearts, The Knack, Boomtown Rats, Supertramp, Cheap Trick, Pink Floyd, London Town and some Pat Benatar. I still love Escape the Fate, Paramore, Tilly and the Wall, and all of the other bands I have always loved, but I am now broadening my music taste. It’s cool to think that my parents played these records once at the same age I am now. I wish I could go back and meet the teenage versions of them. My mom and I would be identical, and I bet my dad and I would have fun listening to music together – just like we do now.

Bouquet of needles

My grandfather got up from his seat at the table and left the room. I had no idea where he went: all I knew was that he was getting something for me. He returned and set a box in front of me that I had seen earlier that day. It was a long box with screwdrivers featured on the top of it. I had disregarded it earlier because it had tools on the cover.

I guess I never thought that there could have been anything else in there besides tools. My grandparents never did either. They had always thought there were tools of some kind in there and never bothered opening it. I lifted the lid, and my grandma smiled at the awe written on my face.

Inside this tool box were quite a collection of knitting needles. Big, small, wooden, plastic, metal… you name it. “I’m sorry we didn’t get these to you sooner,” my grandma said. “We always thought that the box was full of screwdrivers and never thought to open it.”

“Are these yours, Grandma?” I asked. She let my grandfather answer my question.

“They were my mom’s,” said Papa.

So there I was. Holding a box full of knitting needles that have seen more than I could ever imagine. They had aided my great-grandmother with her hobby, and had probably created a sweater or two for Papa when he was younger.

It’s neat how a hobby can bring people together. My love for writing brings Jordan, my mother and me together, and then there’s knitting. Knitting is the one hobby that my mom and grandma and I can relate to. And if Great-Grandma were still alive, I’m sure she’d be the one to give me tips and pointers in the big world of knitting. It’s cool to use her needles and think that at one point in time she was probably sitting in a rocking chair knitting while a younger version of my grandfather looked on. Right now I am using a pretty blue pair that are relatively wide, and I cannot help but wonder as to what she used them for. I guess I will never know.

On my vanity sits a green vase with a bouquet of colorful knitting needles spilling out of it. Mixed in this vase are the needles I bought myself, and the ones that my great-grandma bought way back when. I will never have to buy myself another pair of needles as long as I live.