When I was just a little girl, I used to go to my friend Shallyn's house and play every day. She was the only girl of three children. Her father managed at a car dealership (which explained her first car at 11) and her mother always wanted a daughter. I am not in any place to judge, but in my opinion she was damn spoiled. Her room was the color she wanted (including carpet and decor). Her closet was overflowing. And she barely had to lift a finger. It was a far cry from the youngest girl of 6 with two minimum waged parents and a rented, three bedroom house.
We usually played at her house, obviously. She had a pool, a finished basement but more importantly, A BARBIE DREAMHOUSE. It was not one of those cheap ones. It was the real thing. Her dreamhouse had an elevator, balconies, even the really cool cardboard backing with the ocean painted on in the background. Even though she never let me play with the "good Barbies", or didn't so much let me live in the actual dreamhouse as behind the recliner in the corner, I still played with her every single day or as much as she allowed. I took the abuse when she had another friend over. I waited outside patiently while she had lunch, or on the patio when she said I wasn't allowed in the pool while she swam.
I wanted her life, I think. I actually admired/envied her. At home I made my own dreamhouse: The Meadowbrook Dreamhouse since it was made out of milk crates and shoeboxes. The fancy cardboard backing was paper towels and tissue paper. The beds were jewelry boxes (probably from Kmart) and my "Barbies" were the three for a dollar with hollow arms and legs. If ever we were at MY house, I'd always be sure to give her the best room and doll. She always insisted on making her own across my room because, put simply, she could do better.
When I was twelve years old, my parents moved me out to the country. I didn't speak to them for weeks. All I wanted was my old life back. I didn't understand why I needed new friends, a new house and why it took 45 minutes to get to Giant Eagle. At first, the only friends my brother and I had were each other. We scoured the neighborhood of more ponds than houses. We rode our bikes everywhere. But honestly, it didn't take long to make new friends. In my old town, when there was a new kid at school, the unwritten rule was you shunned them and made them earn your respect and friendship. You didn't even talk to them the first week. When I moved all urban, they passed countless notes to you the first hour wondering where you used to live, how many siblings you had and what you favorite ice cream cone flavor was. It was all new to me. It was a complete transformation. And when my old friend Shallyn had completely turned on me at my next birthday party where I introduced her to my new friends, I ended up sending her home even before I blew my candles out.
I've seen her out and about a few times in the last few years. After getting into drugs and many boys got into her, she had her daughter in high school and her son with her new boyfriend about 18 months ago. She bounced from her mother's to her father's house. I've seen her daughter once, when she was an infant. Since then, I never see her with her children. It doesn't matter if it's Walmart or the zoo.
I'm forever grateful to my parents that I got out when I did.
If I'm dreaming, don't you dare pinch me. Let me sleep. Let me slumber. For only in dreams can you float or cry wolf or tell someone how much they 
really don't mean to you. Only while sleeping can you jump off a cliff with only your clothes to slow 
I'm so tired; I don't ever want to wake up.
