Saying Goodbye to Neil
My father’s tone remains the same when he’s trying to tell me a joke and when he’s delivering bad news. (And his voice doesn't show sadness - only his pauses.) That’s how he told me about Neil – with no forewarning. I had called home on my way out to meet my friend Lauren at Andrew’s downtown.
“We just got a call from Chuck who was with Neil in
Charleston last weekend. He said
Neil was out riding his motorcycle and he was in another accident. Except he didn’t make it."
Didn’t make it – like it was a sports team or a flight he wasn’t quite adequate or timely enough to “make.” I was sobbing as I turned my car back towards my apartment. There was nothing to say, but as soon as I got off the phone with them, I wanted to call back.
I wanted to crawl through the phone and cry in their arms. Everything was going on as usual here. I wanted to be with the people whose lives also felt interrupted.
Neil wasn’t technically family, but when he took over David’s downstairs apartment and started working for my dad, you couldn’t have told any of us that. He had the run of the house, and spent many late nights in kitchen talks with the family. He was always polite, but he was also always going to do what he wanted. My mom would always call after him to wear his helmet and be safe. He would “yes ma’am,” and then we’d hear him doing a wheelie down the street. Neil was so charming and irresistible, no one could ever actually get mad at him – just shake their heads and smile.
He loved his motorcycle – a sporty little Honda – and I think it fit him well. He could enjoy how it felt to speed. He made up errands just so he could run all over Charleston. I don’t know of him making any long-term plans – he just wanted to enjoy the ride. He was carefree, but not flaky. He would sit around and talk about God, or love, or happiness with anyone. Everybody loved Neil.
I think that’s why we were all very sad to hear that he died. He had been doing tricks in the Anderson Mall parking lot with some of his buddies. He lost control while attempting a wheelie and crashed into a concrete wall. He died almost instantly – or at least I’d like to think that since I don’t really know – from severe chest trauma and a spinal fracture. The newspaper said that his friends were standing in the rain and watching, and couldn’t offer any comments. A dark black stain and orange spots of police spray paint mark the spot now. Ah, Neil.
People came from all over for his funeral – Florida, California, Virginia, North Carolina…It has been hard to say goodbye. I think if I remove myself from it and make it a story I’m telling, it’s easier. I’m observing, not experiencing. And the guy in the casket looked nothing like Neil. His face was twice its size and it was covered in thick makeup. I feel like I told the guy in the casket goodbye, but I still expect Neil to come around.
His grandmother, Mama Jo, stood by the head of the casket to receive condolences. Neil grew up in Mama Jo's house. She hugged me and told me that they had donated his organs, so that part of Neil still lives on. “He was a perfect specimen 'cause he's young. They even took his eyes. I asked the man to cut his hair while they're at it. It was too long. He'd always say, 'The girls like it.'”
When we walked away, my brother said he catches himself thinking of how he wants to call Neil and laugh with him about who was there and how he was dressed and what they were saying, but...
While it was sad, I think most people there felt peace that Neil is in heaven. Most, but not everyone. His father gave an emphatic plea for everyone to, “Next time you want to make a bad decision, don’t. Don’t do it for Neil. Make his death mean something.” I’m just as guilty of always wanting a reason for something, but something in the way his father said that made me question this tendency. We want reasons and meaning and purpose so that everything can fit nicely, be processed, and then be filed as a “lesson” for future reference. I don’t think life is random, but I also don’t think we should always feel like we can understand everything. We can’t. But this is always easy to say when my emotions aren’t suppressing my reasoning.
That was this past weekend. In two days, I drove from Tallahassee to Atlanta to Anderson and back. I got back late Sunday night and now I’m off. As long as I stay busy, I’m okay. Maybe this coming weekend, when I’m with my family again, I can grieve a little more. I’ll let the pressure out slowly so I don’t spill over. There’s enough to do during the week now.
One thing that still needed doing was finding a new home. My roommate and I had decided to make everything easier on ourselves by 
just staying in the same apartment for next year – a perfect plan…except the property managers had already rented our place. Mims called to tell me that around noon today. The hunt was on again, and she’s studying for an exam tomorrow and, on Thursday, leaves for a one month volunteer gig in Charlotte. We had to move quickly. She gave me permission to just find a place for us and take care of everything, but I didn’t feel good making such a big decision for both of us. I went through several websites, put 
together a listing of places that met our criteria (2/2, W/D, close(ish) to school, affordable). I suppressed my inner-cheapskate in favor of safety (i.e. – the 2/2 that was $430 and in a notorious neighborhood). I gave her the list, made an appointment to see one place, and we began our hunt (again). This met all of the above qualifications, but it was small. Outside felt dry and deserted. Another place I kept going back to – literally around the corner from where we live now- was also managed by the same company. It was being shown at the same time, so our girl sent us over to look at it. It’s a 1,200 sq. ft. 2/2 townhouse WITH an enclosed back patio. It’s nice. And it’s BIG (when it’s empty) with high ceilings and walk-in attic storage space AND window seats in the upstairs room. I’m most
excited about the wall of built-in bookshelves on the second floor. We saw it at 4:45, and signed the lease by 5:45. (And, it’s Bruiser-friendly.) Neither of us had time to mess around. The only problem is that we’ll have maybe a 5 day move-in window. Worst case scenario will be one day, and Mims gets back from her trip only several days before. It’ll be rough. The fact that I will need to prime my “picked acorn” room doesn’t make it any easier.
Now that things are a little more settled, I’ve fallen back into Walker Percy. The Second Coming. I’m reading for pleasure. It’s my therapy. (Also reading The Burden of Representation by John Tagg. Percy’s a little more accessible and fun.) I’ve missed reading.
Now, work beckons. Actually, it has gotten sick of beckoning. It’s giving me the cold shoulder. I must woo my work. Maybe I’ll remember all the reasons I fell in love with it in the first place? Maybe.
(Mims just moments before we signed our lease.)
My Doppelganger and the Governor's Handshake
A few months ago, I was so overwhelmed by a Memphis music and movie store that I balked and bought one of the first things that caught my eye – Superchick (1973). I was repulsed by the bawdy cover until I turned it over to read, “Tara B. True has created the perfect life for herself as a plain, unassuming airline stewardess. But once she lands she really takes off, transforming into Superchick – blonde, beautiful, and ready for action…” It was vain – I know this. But the appeal of hearing my name (which never makes it to personalized pencils, keychains, mini-license plates…) when it wasn’t referring to a big ole house was worth the $5. Plus, I’ve developed an unhealthy appreciation for things that are bad. It has been worth every penny.
Am I recommending this movie? Not really. Were it produced today, the movie would never earn the mild “R” rating it was given in 1973. One website describes the movie as, “Arguably campy and noticeably tame by today's cinematic standards, Superchick's humor, attitude, and ‘what-were-they-smoking?’ inherent quirkiness has proudly earned the film prominent billing in the 99 Cent Video Review movie library.” One of Tara’s love interests is a surgeon who won’t kiss her because “Germs. They’re everywhere. I…sigh…I just can’t kiss you.” (Even though we
can see now that her promiscuity made this a wise decision by the surgeon.) This is after he proposed to her by saying, “Tara, you should marry me. I’m rich, you know.” (Other gems are not really appropriate for a general audience and will not be reprinted here. My roommate and I would look at each other and say, “Did they really just say that!?”) As a “stewardess,” Tara sported a baggier version of the airline’s uniform. “With my shape and measurements, I couldn’t wear my uniform form-fitting. I did that once and I was even hit on by the autopilot.” She only travels with a large empty white purse that carries her skimpy white tennis outfit and knee-high red boots, among other outfits. Obviously, many things separate me from Superchick.
However, some similarities warranted more research on our heroine. Tara’s “frumpy-girl” hair is similar to my current style. Then it got a little weird. Joyce Jillson (“Tara B. True”) is my exact height. She was born on – get this – December 26, 1946. (If you continue a sequence of single-digit even numbers, it goes 4-6-8-0-2-4-6… and I was born in 1980 – the next numbers in the sequence! Okay, that’s a stretch.) She is better known as Nancy Reagan’s astrological advisor during her husband’s administration. She claims to have recommended George H. W. Bush to the Reagans. George H. W. Bush is the father of John Ellis “Jeb” Bush – the Governor of Florida. Ole Jeb-o stopped by my desk today on his way through the DOE. The circle is complete.
You’re spooked, right?
Quick commercial break before we go back to the Tara Connection – I actually did meet the Governor today. The word went out on email that Jeb Bush would be coming by our cubicles this afternoon. I didn’t believe it until I saw a photographer with a really big camera walking around our floor. I organized my cubey, concentrated on my posture, and tried to read through the reports in front of me. I didn’t know he is so tall. He was very nice – asked us what we were working on and what we do when we’re not working part-time – and seemed very pleasant. Despite my complaints about certain administrations, I was momentarily star-struck. And here I thought I was excited when the Office Depot order came in and I got more page flags and red pens.
Commercial break over. Back to my doppelganger…
Another source says, “Cashing in on the blossoming 1970s' sexual liberation movement, [Superchick ‘s director) Forsyth chose Jillson to epitomize the ideal post-feminist woman: self-reliant, successful, self-assured, and seductive enough to possess a suitor in every port. ‘Life's made up of people, not just one person,’ Superchick (who's devoid of any ‘superpowers’ other than her own intellect and sexual frankness) tells her multiple love interests in the film's 
surprisingly philosophical conclusion. ‘I take life the way it is -- people the way they are. I don't want to change it or them. I will live the lives I choose, with or without you.” While I don’t agree that this movie is a model for the feminist woman, I dig her independence and self-awareness. I’ll abandon the rest of that rant off for now and leave you with one last comment about Joyce Jillson. Astrologist. Richard S. Newcombe, president of Creators Syndicate, writes, "She took something that was somewhat stodgy and made it full of life -- just as she was.” Stodgy and full of life – that’s our Tara (B. True).
Thanks for humoring me.
I started my spring cleaning this week in anticipation of Mike’s arrival on Saturday. Spring cleaning means that everything gets pulled out and trashed or organized according to a system I can never keep consistent. But Mike surprised me Friday evening at dinnertime; the house was still mid-cleaning. I was still excited to see him.
Bruiser, however, wasn’t as excited as I had hoped. We know he hates men, but we didn’t realize how much. Now we’re a little more aware of his feelings. Friday night, he barked until he threw up. We worked out a system where if Mike wanted to come into the apartment, I would shoo Bruiser into his comfortable residence or into the kitchen. The barking would only stop if Mims was here or if I gave him a dirty look and a stern “NO!” I felt like an ogre. Instead of warming up to Mike, Bruiser became more brave and actually nipped his heels twice. We were getting desperate; I was afraid we’d get evicted. The solution? Leftover salmon, water guns, and a system of “time out” places from his crate to the kitchen to his crate in the kitchen. After one very miserable day for Bruiser, it worked beautifully. We had been afraid to do anything “mean” to him, but an episode of SuperNanny convinced me that we needed to set some boundaries for our problem child. By the time Mike left this morning, Bruiser was eating out of his hand. Score.
The long weekend with Mike was fun. We ate too much at good restaurants and I was finally introduced to Shingle’s – the best friend chicken I’ve tasted. He goes right about my speed – it’s really nice. And it will be a long and very very sad two months until I see him again. (He’ll be busy at a job with JHU’s Center for Talented Youth in Pennslyvania.) I get used to him being here (in a good way) and it gets harder each time.
On Monday, we drove down to Alligator Point for the day, but the tropical storm was starting to show and the waves were starting to splash onto the road. We ate our convenience store grub and drove back to Tallhassee. The rainy days made for nice naps and movie-watching opportunities. And, many opportunities for me to beat him in Mancala and air hockey. (But he dominated in Scrabble.)
Now, I’m back to work and making my own excitement. I found an apartment but I’m not moving until August. Until then, Mims and I are having fun watching bad movies, studying for law school (her), and reading for a thesis (supposed to be me)…and Bruiser has been sleeping a lot. And stretching. We have a little over a month to work out our differences. Wish me luck. Until then…Your Pseudo-Superchick
"OUR HOUSE...in the middle of the street"
Ever since last Saturday, I've been on a relentless hunt for a new place. There isn't really a rush since we probably won't officially be out until mid-August, but I'm afraid that as the 18-22 crowd start their trek back to Tallahasee, the half-desirable places will be taken. I will be stuck sharing a flat with a gaggle of squealy, happy-to-be-away-from-home girls with no hygiene. (Not that there's anything wrong with that - some of my best friends are squealy, happy-to-be-away-from-home girls with no hygiene...)
But trying to find a place to house both Cujo and I hasn't been easy. Many places that allow pets do so because the old stains will not be easily distinguishable from the new. This is less than desirable. Even though I'm already over on my cell phone minutes (the only phone I have), I still spend at least four hours (not necessarily on the phone) every day trying to find a place to stay. I've also become the unofficial real estate agent for another lady in our office, who is trying to find a cheap apartment for her college-aged son. I've got it down to a science.
I considered a studio efficiency, but only because I am easily won
over by gimmicks. Give me hardwood floors, high ceilings, and a translucent, wood-frame divider for the bathroom walls, and my discretion gets lost in my "ooohs." It was a peach cinder-block palace on the outside. When I realized only two pieces of [my cheap] furniture could make the move with me, I kept looking. Plus, Cujo and I might need some space.
The place I'm set on now is a 1/1 apartment in a newly renovated complex. Apparently this place used to be sort of bad before they evicted half of the tenants and got strict about their renters. It's next to good neighborhoods. They even made their own website. Even if they are all stock photos, I like the image they want to create for themselves. (Only one photo is actually from the Franklin Pointe Apartments.) I'm not sure about the big-brother-eyes on the "maintenance request" page...but the rest of it is pretty good.
The best part is that they'll take the Cooj and I'll have a nice amount of space to myself. If the
Cooj and I can't make it work, I'll still like the apartment and the price. The bitter rental agent (personality conflicts with the other employees, I think) gave me insider tips on what to request so I get a really nice apartment. She mentioned that a seven pounder like Cooj might not make his mark enough to warrant the pet deposit ($100) and increased rent ($25) that comes with loving an animal. And, just like the translucent-bathroom-divider thingy in the studio, I think I got a little suckered by the decorating.
Once my dog and I love each other and I find an apartment, I'm afraid my life might just fade into a blue-grey cubicled monotony that is too bored to post entries. (I'm countering this by requesting the deluxe apt. with a large living room/dining room.) Until then, I'll keep you updated. A few years ago, I was writing about my solo travels. Now I'm just happy to be ankle-deep in housing possibilities. And I just found a great foam that deep cleans your carpet. "Don't get too close to my fire 'cause, uh, you'll just get burned."
The Decisionator Makes a Hasty Retreat (and Considers a Name Change)
For those of you following my adventures - on Saturday, I found an apartment. I gave an enthusiastic "I'll take it", even after I saw her checking out my FSU license tag and then tell me that I needed to give her, up front, $485 x 3 ($1,455 - first and last month's rent and a security deposit). It's funny the little warning signs that you don't take into consideration.
Fortunately, there was Someone looking out for me with this little deal. I happened to stop by the house on my way back from the gym yesterday, and I ran into the previous tenants as they were clearing out their stuff. I asked one little question, "What do I need to know about the apartment?" They showed me the mildew on the baseboards, windowsills, and in the backs of the closets; the faucet that only turns off with pliers and pressure or the one that gives no hot water; the broken door that they were
also told would be replaced before they moved in...they gave me strict instructions to have someone look at the plumbing, and they told me that their electric bill averages $150 because of the in-the-window AC unit that gobbles electricity. They had never heard of her asking for that much money up front. She hates college students.
By the time I left an hour later, I had already seen the woman's scar from where she had half of her liver removed, I knew the location of each of their seven children and how bored she gets at her mother-in-law's house, and I heard about how their relationship with the landlords (husband and wife) went sour when the wife-landlord decided to try to run the show. (They gave me the husband-landlord's cell phone number. Told me not to deal with her anymore.) I think they were happy that I stopped by because the wife-landlord tried to make them sound ignorant and irresponsible. I saw the other side of the story when I talked to them. They felt like they were trying to always do the honorable thing with these people - to be fair and to answer to God with their actions - and everything was playing against them. That being said, we agreed to not discuss the fact that we had our little meeting when I talk to the landlord again. They are in enough trouble, and I don't want to start off on a bad foot.
I feel a little foolish for not researching what I need to look for, such as the telling details of decay and neglect, before I made a decision. I won't make that mistake twice. (Another red flag: she wanted me to go ahead and turn the electricity on in my name on Monday [today] so the guys can have electricity when they go to replace the floor in the bath
room. I had already decided that I would only do this if the electricity they used is deducted from my rent.)
This doesn't mean this is definitely a "no" - i like the apartment. But, once you add in the utilities, I could get a really nice studio apartment (FROG) that includes EVERYTHING + amenities in Southwood! (see -->)
But I plan to walk through the apartment with her before I give her a single penny, get a list of things she plans on fixing before I will move in, and then only giving her the rest of the money once those things are done. And I will take pictures before I arrive, read the lease with a careful eye, and then keep a record of when I make complaints and how long it takes before they arrive to fix them. Actually, that might be a good general strategy full stop.
sigh...I feel like I'm back at square one. And I'm still feeling like an ogre for breaking up the blissful roommate/Bruiser relationship if I move, and it is becoming very difficult to find a decent place that allows pets, so...
Stay tuned - The Decisionator might just be changing her name to The Deliberator.
That might be my best transformation to date.
The Decisionator Strikes Again
For the fifth time in two years, I am moving. Quick recap:
#1- Moved to Tallahassee from North Carolina - sublet townhouse for the first six weeks
#2- Moved to current apt. complex with new roommate Jen - had to settle for a micro apartamento for the first few weeks until the bigger one opened up
#3- Moved to townhouse with Jen
#4- Moved to other apt. with Miriam
#5- Move to my own little bungalow (pending)
I still hate moving. Since I had been planning on moving to Gainesville in the fall, I wasn't prepared for apartment-hunting in Tallahassee again.
Knowing my propensity to collect an overwhelming number of options before evaluating a single one, I decided that I needed to go with my gut a little more. Today, I drove aimlessly through the city and left many messages with property management companies. I finally realized that everything is pretty much the same (with broad margins). The best deal I could get on a place was in the $400-$560 range. I just needed to find the least bad place.
As I finally decided to cry "uncle" and go home to wait for a call from the cheap little apt. in the semi-sketchy complex by the railroad tracks, I saw THE place. A small, grey house with white trim. I called the number on the "FOR RENT" sign. The price was good, her description was good. I went home to relax and start my other
work, but I kept thinking about this house. I called the owner, and we met for a quick walk-through. It's not perfect, but it suits me for a year. It's older - the former residents did a doozie of damage on the floor and tub in the bathroom. All should be well before I move in. A young couple lives in the front half of the house, which makes me feel more safe.
The lack of a dishwasher only slightly dampens my enthusiasm. The stove is cute. Mentally, I've already started planting flowers and taking meals on my oversized deck. Of course, I may be anti-flower if I have to wake up to this (see below) wallpaper every day. I've always liked having a roommate, so this change will be huge. My current roommate had already put a deposit down on a new place much closer
to campus because I told her I was leaving.) Actually, she's not around right now, so this will be posted on the internet before she even knows I found a place. I should probably work on that.
In other news, Bruiser and I are starting to bond ever so slightly. We'll have to see how this all plays out once I introduce him to La Casa de las Flores.
And, I played with the law school students last night at Big Daddy's - probably the dirtiest little place on the Tennessee Street strip. My roommate's study partner has a band. I had a fantastic time. My quality of life has increased significantly recently; it makes me not hate myself quite so much. Everything is pretty enjoyable now. And the things that aren't - well I just have to let them go.
I hear the roommate stirring, so I should go give her the news and brush up on my dishwashing skills - or maybe I'll just enjoy the last few weeks of the whirring and whooshing of clean dishes.
just staying in the same apartment for next year – a perfect plan…except the property managers had already rented our place. Mims called to tell me that around 
together a listing of places that met our criteria (2/2, W/D, close(ish) to school, affordable). I suppressed my inner-cheapskate in favor of safety (i.e. – the 2/2 that was $430 and in a notorious neighborhood). I gave her the list, made an appointment to see one place, and we began our hunt (again). This met all of the above qualifications, but it was small. Outside felt dry and deserted. Another place I kept going back to – literally around the corner from where we live now- was also managed by the same company. It was being shown at the same time, so our girl sent us over to look at it. It’s a 1,200 sq. ft. 2/2 townhouse WITH an enclosed back patio. It’s nice. And it’s BIG (when it’s empty) with high ceilings and walk-in attic storage space AND window seats in the upstairs room. I’m most
excited about the wall of built-in bookshelves on the second floor. We saw it at 
(Mims just moments before we signed our lease.)
