A Birthday and the Unexpected
When I was about five, my family moved into a new house on Crestside Road in Mountain Brook near the water tower and the local public high school. It took me quite awhile to recover from the indignity of the move. (How could they tear me away from my childhood home just like that? And it wasn't just any home -- there was an elementary school across the street complete with the largest playground I had ever seen. To take a child away from her very own across-the-street playground? The cruelty astounds me to this day.)
Eventually, I recovered from the trauma and came to enjoy our much bigger backyard and the decadence of living in a three story house. (It was actually just a split level.) There were also a lot more children our age around, and it was fun to ride bikes, organize kickball games and dig around looking for arrowheads.
There were two new girls, in particular, that I decided I needed to immediately befriend. Both were my age, and while one lived across the street, the other lived a block and a half down or so. They seemed to do everything together, and I had to be a part of it.
It was after a few days of playing house (and trying to get them to like me even though they knew all the same people from school while I was the odd private-school-kid out) that I learned even more about them, "Oh, we're not just friends," Sally said, "we're cousins, too."
I was in awe. For my five-year-old self, being friends was one thing. Being best friends was a whole other sacred and longed-for entity, but being best friends and cousins was cooler and by far better than anything I could ever think of. You chose each other, and you were real-life -- not-just-blood-brothers -- related? I couldn't think of anything better.
I could even hear myself on the playground, bold and surer of myself than I had ever been, "We're more than best friends. She's my cousin." Then, of course, my fabulous cousin and I would walk off hand-in-hand, and the other kids could only wish their relationships were as cool.
In real life, I was lucky enough to have a cousin my age. Her name was Lauren, and we were just under four months apart. The bad part was that she lived in Texas -- not down the street -- and around the third or fourth grade, my aunt, my uncle and Lauren moved half a world away to Australia.
I'd like to say I knew Lauren well. I'd like to say we were close regardless of distance. What I can say is that I always thought we'd be close one day, and I'm going to leave off the cliche that always goes along with that thought.
As many of you know, my cousin died on January 22, 2007. I grieve her loss even though I'm not always sure I'm entitled to the pain I feel. She wasn't my daughter, and she wasn't my sister, and she wasn't anyone I ever shared late night sleepovers or heartbreaks with. But, when you're family, I also think it's always hard to watch those you love -- like my aunt, uncle and cousin -- go through their pain. And grief permeates a whole family; it just does.
At the time of her death (and afterwards), people were generous and kind and some said things I'd like to forget while others were very helpful.
Within 48 hours of Lauren's death, I wanted to hand write an apology note to anyone and everyone I'd ever told "everything happens for a reason." I believe that without each other, we'd all collapse and burn on a daily basis, but I hardly think that's the reason young people die, earthquakes take thousands of lives and we can't cure cancer.
That "Everything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger" nonsense always made me feel like I was in the final round of a game show.
"Well, Laurel," the host would say, "you've made it this far. Now let's see what your prize is."
The audience oohs.
"Behind door #1, we have grinning and bearing it and moving on, and behind door #2, we have death."
"I'd like to take the option that's not dying, Alex. Thanks so much for letting me play."
And when it comes to stages of grief, I'll just add that I think I skipped right past shock to anger, and I stayed in anger for a very long time. Denial and bargaining didn't even cross my radar. Secretly, I was angry most of the time. I was angry at people with living cousins, I was angry at people who had conversations about elective surgeries and such like nothing bad could ever happen to them. I was even angry at friends of mine who lost grandparents and great aunts or uncles. I knew they were in pain, but so much of me wanted to scream, "Ninety-year-olds are supposed to die, twenty-six-year-olds aren't. Get over it." (I never did, and I still feel guilty for the thoughts, but most of us know that grief has to have its own way.)
Soon, you realize you're in a club that no one wants to be a member of -- the club of people attached to tragedies. And this club gives you different advice. "Drink the glass of wine." "Cry it out some days." "It sucks, and it always will."
At one point, I sat down with a friend of mine who had lost his mother and his brother within a short period of time. I told him that I knew I would never get over this, but that I would get on with it. (Something I stole from a guest appearance by Bill Cosby on Touched by an Angel.) But, I also wanted to know when it would be the hardest -- first Christmas, first anniversary of her death -- and when it might start to seem somewhat OK -- although a new OK -- again.
"Here it is," he said, a Manhattan in his hand, "there's no answer to that one either."
"Come on," I said, "you've got to give me something. Anything."
"You're going to have no idea when it's going to hit you and when it isn't," he said. "You might sail through the first anniversary of her death only to be taken over on Arbor Day. And it won't be the milestones you think. It's going to be some event you didn't even think would be or have significance until it happens. You'll be fine, and then something will hit you out of the blue, and that's just how it's always going to be."
In the last three years, there have been many holidays without Lauren. There have been three anniversaries of her death (obviously). There's been part of a very public coroner's inquest. My sister even announced her engagement this summer, and we're all preparing for a family wedding Lauren can't and won't attend.
I thought I was doing OK, and then March 5 hit me like a ton of bricks.
The summer after I graduated high school, my family went to visit my aunt's family in Australia. At the time, I was dating a relatively quiet, Ivy-League-bound boy that went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Lauren was dating a 24-year-old stockbroker named James. (Oh, the sophistication.)
I remember first meeting her boyfriend because most of the family was in the back room. When the doorbell rang, my aunt went to answer it, boyfriend entered, Lauren didn't stand to greet him and my father gave me the look that said "that's how you play hard to get and that's how you let a boy know who's in charge."
Later, Lauren and I talked more about boyfriends. "So, do you think James is the one?" I asked.
"The one?" she said. "The one what?"
"The one you'll marry?"
"Why would I think about marriage now?" she said. "Marriage is for when you turn 30 or something like that."
"Really? Thirty?" I said.
"Oh yeah. What do you think?"
"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "By 30 I think I'd like to be settled down with a husband and a couple of kids."
"Kids at 30? What about traveling or getting around the world. A career. There's so much to do."
"Maybe it's a Southern thing," I said. "We tend to have families young, and I'm not so sure how many places I want to see."
We talked more about the cultural differences in how we grew up -- Southern vs. Australian. I was moving away from home for school, something not commonly done in Oz, and Lauren was preparing for her next line of course work. She wanted to be a fashion designer. I was thinking about law. And so on.
In the end, we both broke up with those boyfriends. I did see the world (on an around the world ticket I still consider well worth it). Lauren did, too. I rediscovered my creative side. She spent too much money on shoes, me on handbags.
Now, at 30, I don't have that family or husband, but I do have a great dog, one very difficult cat, a house of my own and a passion (writing, in case it isn't obvious) that I had no clue about at 18. My own 30th, while sometimes difficult (I did keep telling the SO that this was the best I was ever going to look so he should take it all in now), went pretty smoothly. I had good friends to share it with. I had made it.
March 5 is the day that reminds me that Lauren didn't. It is what would have been her 30th birthday, and I would have liked to have known and seen her at this age just as I would have like to have known and seen her at any and every age.
I didn't count on being the only of us to make it to 30. When we talked of imagined futures, it never occurred to me death would be the reason one of us didn't get there. And like my friend tried to warn me, it's the ones younever suspect that bring you right back to the beginning. I never thought a conversation I had 12 years ago would break my heart open all over again today.
So, for whatever March 5 is for you, enjoy it. Regardless of what you're doing, who you are or where you think you're going, you deserve nice things. Have a happy day.
Worst Date Ever
As I mentioned earlier this week, I'm no stickler when it comes to romance. I don't have to receive a dozen red roses on every important occasion, and I'd be perfectly fine if no one ever dedicated a Celine Dion song to me on the radio.
However, I do think certain qualities (apart from my short list of fidelity, truthfulness and not signing on with extremist groups/militias) are important to keep love alive:
Thoughtfulness: "My partner seemed really stressed about getting everything done today, I think I'll pick up dinner on the way home."
Paying Attention: "My partner said it was very important that I get this video back to the store today, I'll do that right now."
Reason/Rational: "My partner is not a fan of Pink Floyd. His/her birthday is probably not the time to buy the complete works of Pink Floyd and force my tastes upon him/her. Maybe I'll buy something he/she likes instead."
The story I'm about to tell you completely violates all three of the above. And, while these events did not happen on Valentine's Day, I think the lessons about love -- or lack thereof -- are more than appropriate to the spirit of the holiday.
It was the summer before an election year. I was going to school in Washington, D.C. and my then boyfriend and I had been breaking up and getting back together for weeks. After yet another one of our loud and embarrassing-if-I-ever-had-to-see-those-neighbors-again fights, he told me that he really wanted us to work out.
"I need more from you," I said. "I need to know how much you care about me."
"I can do that," he said. "I can show you how much I care. I'll be more romantic."
"Really? You'll be more romantic?"
"I will. I'll even plan us a trip."
So, we got back together, and the ex-bf took to working on the details of a trip that was supposed to be even more romantic because it was going to be a surprise to me. Him taking the initiative and making plans for something we could do together? I was pretty excited.
The day of our trip, I put on a dress that was a far cry from my standard classroom uniform of capri pants and a tank top and turned in my summer school assignments early. Then I went back to my apartment to wait for the bf.
He arrived in his standard uniform of khakis and a button-down shirt. "Ready?"
"Sure," I said. "Where are we headed?"
"Philadelphia," he said.
I smiled and nodded.
"For the Republican National Convention."
To make it very, very clear how bad this was (as if it isn't clear enough already): a) there is nothing about politics or a party's national convention that I find the least bit romantic and b) I am not a republican.
"OK then," I said. (Please keep in mind that I did not have anywhere close to the self-esteem or mouth that I have on me now.) "How are we getting there?"
"I thought you could drive."
For more clarity, I am now: a) going to the national convention of a party I do not support and b) acting as chauffeur. In the abbreviated words of Charles Dickens, "... it was the worst of times."
"We better get on the road," he said, ushering me towards the door. "I don't want to be late."
Slightly more than two hours later, we arrived in Philadelphia. "There it is," he said, pointing to a large complex or closed-in stadium (I was a bit blinded by disbelief and barely-suppressed rage to remember the architectural details). "That's where the convention is."
"I see it," I said.
"Now, if we can find the box office, we'll be set."
That's right, ladies and gentlemen -- he didn't have tickets. His plan was for us to arrive at the door and get, I don't know, nosebleed section or lawn seating for one of the nation's biggest political rallies. First, all romance went out the door. Now, any consideration I might have given to his planning skills was gone, too.
Of course, no one can just walk up and buy tickets to the Republican National Convention. (I imagine it has something to do with demand and security clearance. But, I don't know for sure, and I never plan to find out. This is not the kind of trip I will make again.) And since we couldn't get in, and I refused to make a two-hour trip in vain, we decided to grab dinner instead.
We found an Italian restaurant nearby. I want to say there were TVs in the restaurant so the bf could would the convention that he couldn't attend, but I can't be sure on that point. What I do know is that we didn't talk much, and we were literally the only two people trying to get dinner in that part of Philadelphia at that time.
And, for all of you still reading, here comes the real kicker. It's also the part that you might not believe, but let me assure you that I'm not that creative and life is, by far, stranger than fiction.
When the check arrived, the server handed it to the bf. He picked it up, looked it over and started patting his back pockets.
"Oh man," he said, "I think I left everything in D.C. Could you get this one?"
For some reason I still don't understand, I then paid $75 for a meal in a town two hours from home that I drove to in my own car for the convention of a party I don't belong to and couldn't attend.
As the saying goes, I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but thank God I ain't what I was. (And thank God I've begun to learn the word "no.") This Valentine's Day, I hope you're lucky enough to spend the holiday with someone very special. And if not, it could always be worse. Believe me.
Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's
I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.
As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.
Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.
Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.
(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)
We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.
As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.
In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.
So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.
There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)
I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.
Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)
"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.
"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."
"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"
"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."
"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."
"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."
"Cocks."
I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"
"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"
"Cocks."
"It's not his fault," I said.
"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."
"Cocks."
"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."
"You can do so much better than this baby."
"I can," I said. "I know you're right."
"Cocks."
"You ready to get back out there?"
"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.
"Go get 'em," the waitress said.
"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.
With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.
I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same.
* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.
The Week of Love
In honor of the time of year, I thought I'd share some Valentine's Day-related stories this week. However, as with all incidents filtered through me, there will be some caveats.
For the coupled up amongst you, I wouldn't expect too much insight into the world of over-the-top romance. I cringe during proposals on The Today Show or Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve because those moments seems private to me. And the idea of people watching and judging what should be an intimate moment? No, thank you. I don't want to attend your annual physical exam either. I like my sappy moments fictional and created by one Nicholas Sparks. Plus, these days, there's not much I appreciate more than finding out that the dirty dishes have already been put away or that the trip to the recycling center has already been accomplished.
As for the singles, please rest assured I have some tales that will make you only too happy to spend February 14 alone or celebrating with friends or candy, whichever floats your boat.
To go in what I consider to be reverse order, I thought I'd start with the story of my best Valentine's Day. (Best V-Day before the Significant Other showed up, of course. If confused, please reference previous paragraph about some privacy and intimate moments.)
The year was 1993, I was 13 years old and the Valentine's Day dance approached. I had been to exactly one dance before, but that dance hadn't really counted. (I.E., it wasn't school-sponsored. A friend's mom hosted a dance-themed party for our class in the clubhouse of her condominium complex the year before. While we were all very excited about the concept, no one ended up dancing, and because it was more of a "party" than a "dance," talking our moms into special shopping trips had been a bit of a challenge.)
The Valentine's Dance, on the other hand, was a time-honored tradition for seventh and eighth graders and came complete with shiny cardboard heart decorations, a DJ and teachers-turned-chaperones.
Naturally, I turned all of my attention to the outfit, and after bugging my mother incessantly, we set out for the mall one night after she got home from work. To share with you why this was an even bigger deal for me, let me reiterate what a late bloomer I was. I was the next-to-last girl in my grade to get her training bra, and sixth/seventh grade was just around the time I could finally start wearing "adult" clothes. (Oh, to have the problem of not being able to fit into a size 0 because it was too big, again.) I was stuck shopping in the kid's department for years, and the idea of showing up to a school dance -- of all places -- in an outfit you could also buy in a child's size 6 was too much for me to bear.
In those days, my mother and I always went to Express first because their clothes had a better chance of fitting me. Their outfits came in the now-I-hate-seeing-the-doll-clothes-next-to-my-curvy-body-shapers-built-in-nearly-maternity-style-tops 0/1 size.
Before we even crossed the threshold, I saw it. Sheath dress. Falling just above the knee. Scoop-necked. Black stripes alternating with neon stripes of pink, orange and yellow. (This was 1993.) It was the most beautiful, sexiest (by seventh grade terms) dress I had ever seen. I instantly saw my crush swooning the moment I walked in wearing it.
"Do you think it will fit?"
"We won't know until you try it on," my mother said, and I rushed to the dressing room.
In terms of fit, the dress came pretty close as I remember it. I think my mother and grandmother had to make a few alterations -- most likely taking in the chest -- but all in all, I was in heaven.
The night of the dance, I styled my permed and heavy-banged hair to perfection, zipped up my new and so-bright dress up and topped it all off with a velvet choker that had a single gold heart charm. (For Valentine's Day, of course.)
Arriving at the dance, I was nervous. But spurred on by my stellar look, I had more confidence than usual. And rather than finding boys on one side of the room and girls on the other, this dance actually had members of the opposite sex talking to one another. When the music started, members of the opposite sex even danced with one another.
Everyone was being very friendly. (When there's only 24 people in your grade, you kind of have to be that way. Private school. Sigh.) As the evening wore on I danced with my crush many times (!!! as my inner-adolescent would say) and a bunch of other boys, too.
But, it was the end of the night that was the most special of all.
"Last song," the DJ called.
It was all coming to an end, and everyone knows the last song at the dance is by far the most important song. (I mean, a last song is all about eternal and ever-lasting love. Marriages and babies are built on who you choose for that last dance. You might as well sign up for adjacent burial plots when you pick that partner for your last dance. Am I right people?)
"What to do?" I thought. People were already pairing off. I turned towards my crush to see what he was doing, and he looked right back at me. He then gave me the shrugged shoulders that mean "Why not? You wanna dance?" in seventh grade boy speak.
I shrugged back. ("Sure," in seventh grade girl speak.)
We moved closer together. He put his arms around my waist, I put my arms around his neck, and with enough room between us for a small person, we danced the last dance of Valentine's Day 1993 to "You're the Inspiration."
I fell asleep all aflutter, dreaming of rock ballads and would could happen at school that Monday.
I'd like to thank Express and Chicago for making such an incredible evening possible.
Bad Jokes*
While I appreciate a good joke as much as the next person, I've never been much of an actual joke-teller. Most of my humor is anecdotal, in case no one noticed, and when it comes to jokes, I tend to forget the punch lines, so the whole enterprise becomes pretty anti-climactic pretty quickly.
I've also never really been into potty humor -- and my mother will back me up on the fact that even as a child, farts and burps did not make me giggle; I just seemed uncomfortable and ready to move on. Physical comedy irks me, too. I don't laugh when people trip or get hit in the face with hams. For both of these reasons, I've never enjoyed a Ben Stiller movie.
I could pretend that my sense of humor is sophisticated, but that would be a lie. You have no idea how much I enjoyed the movie Corky Romano. Chris Kattan dressed as a girl scout? Too much!
Basically, this is all a really long intro into what are, despite these general biases, my two favorite clean jokes:
Joke #1 (which I'm pretty sure came from a Laffy Taffy wrapper): What did the grape say when the elephant stepped on it?
Nothing. It just let out a little wine.
Grape? Wine? Seriously, there are tears in my eyes.
Joke #2 (courtesy of a former teacher): What is the last thing to go through a fly's head when it hits the windshield?
Its butt.
After that, I think we can all agree I will never again get to pretend that my sense of humor is anywhere close to sophisticated -- or even adolescent. Hannah Montana fans can probably do better.
*My career path is not one of them. Or so I'm told.
Season's Greetings!
I hope you have a wonderful holiday! Now that the shopping is done, enjoy yourself. And I wish you a stress-free, zero-embarrassment time with family and friends!
The Hotel Talisi
My parents were the kind to go through phases.
In the late '80s they developed an incredible fondness for Cajun cuisine. This involved trips to cooking school in New Orleans, large pots of gumbo and cookie sheets full of pralines (my favorite part of this obsession), as well as a brief decorating scheme that had the kitchen island covered in faux netting with plastic lobsters and crabs trapped in its folds.
When my sisters and I took dance classes in a strip mall, we all started spending a lot more time at the pizza place two doors down from the studio. This ignited the period in which my parents would host "make your own pizza" dinner parties with each couple having their own genuine, fresh-from-the-pizzeria dough. (Lesson learned: tossing pizza dough is much, much harder than it looks.)
There were also musicals (for my mother), Dennis Quaid films (for dad), self-help books (darkness), ping pong and the Footloose finale. Perhaps most unsettling though, was the period during which my parents decided we should take more vacations -- and take more vacation to random Southern landmarks at that.
Please keep in mind that this was also in the beginning of my tween years, so the last thing I ever wanted to do was vacation with my parents. I was far more interested in talking on the phone for hours and writing involved notes about the injustices of 6th grade than something as silly as travel.
One Spring Break, we drove to see the homes and Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Then we were off to New Orleans. What I remember most about this trip is drifting off to sleep in the car, only to wake up and realize my parents had foregone the highway for back roads. ("Dear God, why did we leave the interstate?" I thought, "Why, God, why?")
We ended up on a tour of a "plantation." I use quotation marks there because I think that when half the tour involves, "This is the rumpus room we added in the '70s" or "We got rid of the old kitchen to make way for our pool," you've forfeited some of your historical clout and should no longer advertise as such.
Historical home remodels aside, the worst of these jaunts, by far, was a trip to Tallassee, Alabama.
For those of you wondering, no, Tallassee has nothing to do with Tallahassee, Florida. Florida would have a beach. Or some tourist trap. Maybe mini-golf. Tallassee had supposedly one of the best brunches in the South -- and absolutely nothing else.
We arrived after what seemed to be hours in the car (a two-hour drive is nothing unless you're a tween who measures everything by time spent away from the phone) and pulled up to the smallest hotel I'd ever seen. I think I asked, "What else is here?" only to learn from my mother that in Tallassee, what you see is what you get.
"This is it," she said. "The whole town is one block. Can you believe it?"
I could, but I didn't want to.
We checked in, and I proceeded to mope and complain about boredom. The next morning, we went to shop at the five and dime store across from the hotel where a strange man followed my mother around the store and I bought a mini-Barbie for a dollar.
In no way did we have fun for the whole family.
But, I was still sad to learn that the hotel in Tallassee burned down yesterday. Nowadays, I could really get into a quiet weekend with nothing to do but devour fried chicken. And I can't help but wonder how I'll torture my own children without such important Alabama landmarks.
I guess there's always Vicksburg.
Dubious Origins
I know many writers who seemed to show two primary interests as children -- reading and lying. (It makes perfect sense after all, even though I'm sure a parent's first thought when his or her child tells a bold-faced lie isn't, "Maybe I'm raising the next Hemingway!")
While I had no interest in lying, I did like to tell stories. I often wrote plays for my sisters and I to perform in. Of course, being a little control freak as well, I liked to write, direct and star in my plays. And, when my sisters gave what I deemed to be unsatisfactory performances or refused to learn their lines verbatim, I would take on their roles as well. By premiere time, I was usually performing all of the roles except for brief cameos by Snuggles the bear. I'm sure it was not the easiest story for my audience, a.k.a. Mom and Dad, to follow.
And while many older sisters like to torture their younger siblings with tales of how they were actually adopted, I had something else in mind.
"You know you're not one of us," I told my youngest sister while we were at the beach for a family vacation. I think we were having breakfast. She was three to my wise and mature nine, and I'm guessing she'd either gotten on my nerves, or I was bored. (I was so loving at that age.)
"Not one of us?"
"You know, not a human." I continued eating my cereal with one eye on the cartoons.
"Not a human?"
"You're an alien," I said. "A per dern dern. From the planet per dern dern."
"A per what?" she said. (Also, while I was clearly creative at that age, I was also clearly not creative enough to come up with a different name for her alien race and her planet.)
"A per dern dern. The aliens dropped you off one day when you were just a baby, and Mama and Daddy took you in."
"I am not an alien! Take that back!"
"But you are an alien. Sorry."
"Am not," she said.
"That's not the worst part though," I added. "The worst part is that they're going to have to come back for you -- the per dern derns. I bet you the mother ship will be here any day now."
This is the point when my sister's disbelief turned to tears. She was not too pleased with my story about her alien origins. And, unfortunately for her, when she ran to my parents to ask about this, they thought all of this talk about per dern derns was pretty funny. Instead of getting on to me, my dad said, "I guess you better watch out for that mother ship, Sarah."
I think she forgave us once she went to college. Think.
Birthdays
I've had my fair share of birthday disasters:
5. A boyfriend forgot my birthday until he was reminded about the date by my roommate. We had been dating for two years. (20)
4. A friend threw a tantrum -- and I mean show-stopping tantrum -- in the middle of my birthday party. (22)
3. I was once dumped on my birthday. Between the celebration and the depression, way too many shots were involved. I saw much more of the bathroom than my friends on that one. (25)
2. Stomach virus. (18)
1. One year, I decided to go to Girl Scout camp in Cullman for the weekend even though it coincided with my birthday. On that fateful weekend, a girl with no teeth went through my underwear, I was forced to learn the polka from middle-aged women in culottes and a homeless man stole my pink and purple duffel bag from the front steps of the school while I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. Not even cake could erase the mental image of Tanya holding my Jockey for Girls up above her head. (9)
Of course, I've also had some great birthdays:
5. Show-biz pizza. It was Show-biz people, do I really need to say more? My chair had a crown on it. There were two cakes. My dreams and my reality have rarely been so aligned. (5)
4. A surprise limo ride. My mom had a limo driver pick me and the family up to go to a Japanese restaurant where they cooked before your eyes. For the early '90s, this was the height of cool and sophistication in my eyes. (13)
3. My driver's license, a car and freedom. My birthday was on a Saturday the year I turned 16 and waiting 48 extra hours to take my driver's test seemed unbearable. Thank goodness, I passed the test. I can still remember turning up the radio to whatever volume I wanted when my mom climbed out of the car so I could drive alone for the first time and grinning from ear to ear. (16)
2. Being legal. Surprise, surprise -- 21 was big for me. Going to Georgetown meant that a lot of the college social scene revolved around bars. (Wow, how's that for marketing my alma mater?) I was also a year younger than most of my friends. Not having to worry about whether or not I would get into the bar was a huge relief to me. It was the beginning of a new era. (21)
1. As I'm writing this, the day isn't over yet, but I'm going to pick this year as a great b'day. Partly, I think it's best to try and appreciate the moment you're in. I also have really fabulous people to share this day with -- friends, family and the significant other. And last by not least, I'm glad to be here. To feel comfortable in my own skin, to have failed and succeeded, to know what I want -- for now, and to have a pretty good idea that it's all going to be OK. (30)
Maybe I'll even get two cakes before the celebration is over.
Controversial Subject Matter
After thinking back to my adventures in the library the other day, I also remembered how difficult term paper time was. Some kids might have been content with topics like Yosemite National Park or the First Thanksgiving, but not I. When it came to research papers, I liked my topics rich and fascinating -- and in the mind of my sixth grade teacher, that also meant controversial.
In the fourth grade, my first experience in the world of research papers, we were all supposed to choose a country. Naturally, I picked China because my grandmother had recently visited there. I also really liked egg rolls, so it seemed like a great fit. In addition to writing the paper, we also gave presentations. I wore the pajamas my grandmother had brought me as a souvenir, and after a trip to the Asian market with my father (a fascinating outing to what I thought was a secret underworld, but was really just a strip mall in a part of town people from Mountain Brook didn't shop), my mother and I made chicken fried rice that we served to the class.
(I also remember not being able to understand who in the world came upwith the rules for a bibliography. Were the strange rules and offpunctuation really necessary? Reverse indentation? Seriously? I'm notsure I get it to this day.)
In the fifth grade, the field was wide open, so I chose the rain forest as my subject matter. While this might have seemed pretty innocuous -- and maybe it was -- I had just read about deforestation and had to know more. So, really, I like to think of that term paper as the first manifesto of a budding environmentalist.
But, the sixth grade was the most difficult year of all. Our teacher kept up with our papers at each stage of the process, so we earned points for a certain number of note cards, an outline, the rough draft, etc. While it seemed tedious at the time, there was no danger of the college research paper written the night before its due date.
The first step to the process was deciding on a topic. When the time came to earn those five points, I scribbled "Roe v. Wade" on a slip of paper and handed it in.
The teacher called me over after class. "Is this really the topic you want to do?" I nodded yes. "Why on earth is this what you want to research?" she said.
"Everyone talks about it all the time. And politicians always bring it up. I just want to know what it's all about."
"OK, then," she said, "but you're going to have to get a signed permission slip from your parents."
I had no idea why I needed permission to research a topic that was on the news and in books. I figured that if something was in the library, it was fair game. (Naive? Sure. I didn't really get what "controversial" was all about yet.) I went home, gave my parents the exact same reason for wanting to look into the topic, and being the liberals that they are, they signed my permission slip and sent me back to school the next day.
Reading and research were OK in their books.
When I went to actually research the topic though, I realized I was in a bit over my head for a 1,200 word paper. (An opus at the time, but not exactly enough room to cover the intricacies of one of the Supreme Court's most influential rulings.) Plus, the same librarian was still around, and I knew better than to ask her for help again.
Never one to back down from my school work, I prepared to tell my teacher that I needed to change topics, and I already had a back-up in mind. The next day I gave her a new piece of paper. "Really?" she said. I nodded again. "I'm going to need another permission slip."
I went home and had yet another conversation with my parents. They, of course, agreed to my wishes. My mother just had one caveat, "Please don't ever tell your grandmother you're doing a research paper on witchcraft. I don't think that will go over well."
On the bright side, by the next year when I chose Rev. Jim Jones and Jonestown as a topic, my teacher actually seemed relieved.
No Pain, No Gain
Right or wrong, I tend to think that nothing worth having ever came easy. In fact, for the most part, I think the most important accomplishments in our life should downright hurt.
Now, I'm not saying that nothing should come easy or it should be a constant hurt. If you date someone who hurts you terribly, you don't keep dating them. If you date someone who hurts you terribly, you learn something about yourself from that relationship and move on. (You also move on to someone who does not possess the same qualities/characteristics/immaturity that your previous significant other did. If you've never seen Straight Talk, a kind-of-wonderful, kind-of-awful movie starring Dolly Parton and James Woods, watch it just to understand this: if you keep finding yourself with corn flakes, despite what the outside label says, it's time to make a change.)
It's really that I think the journey should hurt. If you ever sit next to me while I'm watching an episode of MTV's Made or A&E's Intervention, you might think I'm a terrrible person. I watch those shows and beg the counselors/trainers/family members to "break" the individual. I almost want to see them shattered because I believe that only in breaking down our defenses and paradigms can we challenge ourselves to do and seek better.
I believe that when it comes to the things we want most in life, we have to try our hardest. Unfortunately, even when we try our hardest, we won't always succeed. And this is where the defensive part of us kicks in and says either not to try that hard, or not to try at all, for the sense of preserving our self-esteem, self-worth, etc. But, it's only in daring to truly fail that we do our best.
My second semester of graduate school, I signed up to audit a creative nonfiction class at the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa. The class was all real MFA students, and when it was time to go around the room and introduce ourselves, those students tossed around terms like "When I was at Rolling Stone" and "my grant for my book" and "numerous poetry awards."
I had, "I like to read." I cried every week before I had to go to that class. I felt inadequate and stupid. I felt like there was nothing I could offer.
I psyched myself out badly, and I also became so afraid of the class' reaction to my work, that I couldn't hear my own voice. When it was time to present my piece to the class, there were barely any reactions because the piece was so terrible. (In a workshop, talking means people are engaged, the absence of talking means there might not be much to take away.) The comment I remember most was, "What you probably need to do is sit down and just write what comes to you without judging it at first."
I knew it was English 101 advice, and I knew it.
A week later, I ran into another student who was supposed to present a piece on the same day I did. "I just couldn't get my draft together," she said. "Everything I wrote just seemed to suck, and I couldn't let anyone see it."
"You shouldn't be afraid," I said. "You saw what I turned in."
"Yeah," she said, and then she couldn't look me in the eye.
In the weeks leading up to my next workshop for the class, I had a fair amount of time to reflect. A lot of me wanted to drop the class -- what was I doing there anyway? All the class did was make my cry and question my chosen vocation.
I also realized, though, that I had already failed miserably. No one in that class thought I could write -- teacher, peers and myself included. I couldn't do any worse. So, even if I dropped the class, I wouldn't get any of my dignity or sense of self back.
Instead of dropping, I went to work. I threw out 9 of the 11 pages I had written. I started fresh, and since I had already messed up so royally by trying to please everyone else and play it safe, it seemed best to just listen to myself. Any writer, or human being, will tell you that voice tends to matter the most anyway.
For my next workshop, the class was engaged. Everyone had comments. The girl who I thought hated me led the discussion and pointed out turns of phrase that she loved. My professor said, "This is what a revision should be. Excellent work. Really."
I was elated.
Of course, not all of my stories about failing have such a nice ending. Until recently, I thought I might be doomed in the relationship department. It took far more than a semester's worth of failing and self-doubt to get that one on the right track. And, I still haven't found a job since getting laid off nine months ago. However, in general, while failure and disappointment hurt like hell at the time, I would not trade the hurt for the freedom it provides -- the freedom to take your own path.
When I was nineteen, I knew that I was miserable at school. A lot of people tried to tell me that it was just life as a freshman, that once I made more friends/joined a sorority/got a new boyfriend, I'd be happy as a clam. But, I knew better.
I'll never forget sitting down with the dean of what was then the third ranked university in the country. "Why would you ever want to leave our little utopia?" he said.
"It's not a utopia for me," I said.
"I'll sign this little paper," he said, referring to a form I needed to transfer schools. "But you're making the biggest mistake of your life."
Personally, I don't believe in telling any teenager that a decision that doesn't involve heroin is the biggest mistake of his or her life. I also think, that no matter who the authority is, when it comes down to it, it's just one person's opinion. And who's to say the best authority on me and my own well-being, isnt, well, me?
I probably could have saved myself from a lot of bumps along the way, but I would have had to play it safe, and I'm not so sure I like safe. I like different, and inventive, and new, and even radical. I don't want to be told what to do, I want to find it for myself.
Maybe not everyone has to hurt, and maybe not everyone likes it. Maybe I only think hurt is worthwhile because it creates such a good contrast to happiness, just like dark and light. But, really, I think that without hurt, I wouldn't have figured out how to listen to myself, and that, as well as the choices I make as a result -- be it a romantic partner, career or cereal combination -- is worth the risk, the potential failure and the pain.
Plus, there's only one person's eyes that I need to be a success in, and that's my own. And, when I can really convince myself of that one, it's the most freedom I've every known.
P.S. This particular entry? Not so easy to illustrate. Hence, the weird graphic of a broken heart. Please just try to go with it.
Halloween History: Part One
Halloween One: Superman
Halloween Two: Bumble Bee
Halloween Three: Bunny Rabbit
So far, I think the theme is "leotards." If I remember correctly, I really wanted to be a ghost for Halloween when I was three. Unfortunately, I hadn't thought of the fact that I didn't like having anything over my face. The moment the sheet went over my head, I freaked out -- and the ghost costume was out.
Halloween Four: ???
An all red outfit and a tiara? Was I a bejeweled lobster? An angry princess? When you consider that I wore my tiara nearly contantly, too, that might not even have been part of my costume. It was kind of an every day accessory at that point.
I really wish I knew what answer I gave to bewildered parents that year as I trick-or-treated. Rogue fireman? Clifford the big red dog?
Interestingly enough, my costume this year is leotard-like as well. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Banned Books
My grandmother believed that as long as my father was reading, he could read whatever he wanted. This is why, when an elementary school teacher "caught" him with an Ian Fleming novel and demanded "Does your mother know about this?" my father thought, "Who do you think bought it for me?"
My parents took a similar approach to my own reading. I was never told there was a book I couldn't read. And I can only remember being forbidden to watch one TV show. (It was "Married ... With Children," and now that I can watch it as an adult, I can't help but think the ban had more to do with the fact that the show just isn't funny than anything else.) As long as I was reading, I could pick out whatever book I wanted.
Now, of course, this philosophy wasn't understood by all. I can still remember being in the local library the summer before fifth grade. I had my summer reading list in front of me and had circled all of the books I was interested in. The one at the top of my list was "Death Be Not Proud." (I thought it sounded very adult.) But, since I was having a hard time with the Dewey Decimal system -- it's something I still struggle with -- I had to ask a librarian for help. I took her my list and asked her to help me find the books.
I knew I was in trouble when she turned away from the adult section of the library and headed towards the brightly-colored, way-too-much-construction-paper-on-the-walls "young adult" section. "Oh, you don't want these books," she said. "I'll find some much better books for you."
Then, she put something called "The Lemon Dog" in my hands. I can rarely recall feeling as powerless as I did in that moment. The cover was illustrated for God's sake, and I hadn't read a book with less than 100 pages an in illustrated cover in over three years. "But ..." I began.
Before I knew it, six more books with illustrated covers were piled in my hands. "Will that be all for today?" she said.
I nodded and went back to find my housekeeper who had driven my sisters and I to the library. "Did you get what you needed?" she asked.
I shook my head and showed her the books the librarian had "helped" me find.
"Are these the books you wanted?"
"No," I said. "Do I look like I want to read "The Lemon Dog"? "The Lemon Dog"?!?! I'm ten, Esther, not stupid."
My housekeeper then took my list from me and marched back to the same librarian. "These aren't the books she wanted to find," she said.
"Oh, well," the librarian said, "I didn't think those were good books for a child her age. I picked out more appropriate titles."
"I think we'll let her decide what she wants to read -- not you," Esther said. "Now what shelf is this one on?"
I walked out of the library that day vindicated and clutching my very own copy of "Death Be Not Proud." (I was also more in love with Esther than ever.)
Admittedly, I'm not a parent, but I still wonder why random adults have such strong opinions about what a child should and shouldn't be reading, watching, doing. I think this is especially true when they're asking for books. I wanted to read, after all, not have the librarian show me the best spot in the library for smoking crack.
And, it's also amazing to me how easy it is for me to feel like that powerless child again whenever someone questions my authority -- you're having another glass of wine? you're buying that? you let your dog do what?. As I near 30, I wonder if this feeling will ever go away, and I'm guessing that, unfortunately, the answer is probably "no."
My Life Is Hard
Some people wash their faces in the shower out of convenience. I do it out of necessity.
You see, that whole image perpetuated by Oil of Olay commercials and Neutrogena ads of a woman who is capable of rinsing her face with a perfectly controlled mini-splash from the sink is just beyond me. When I wash my face, it usually goes like this:
First, I knock over my toothbrush stand and hair brush using one hand to search for a towel while my eyes are clamped shut. (If I dare to open my eyes even a second too soon, I inevitably get face cleanser in my eye leading to some crying, frantic eye-rinsing and ten minutes of hyperventilating while I wonder whether or not I have inadvertently blinded myself.)
Then, once I find the towel and pat my face dry, I look in the mirror to see that stray face cleanser has found its way into my hair and ears. I spend more time cleaning up from washing my face than actually washing my face. Missed soap in the hair is the worst -- it does not dry well.
Next, not only will I have water stains on my shirt from out-of-control splashing, but the entire waistline of whatever I've decided to wear will also has a line of water across it from leaning over the sink. This routine always ends with having to find an entirely new outfit before leaving the house. (And, for me in my pre-underemployment days, picking out not one, but two, business casual outfits in a day was rather time-consuming.)
With the shower face wash, there's no danger of ruined outfits, and I can't tell you how much time and frustration this has saved. I repeat -- my life is hard.
On a completely unrelated note, if anyone has any blog topics to suggest, I'd love to hear them. Even I'm finding it hard to make my days seem at all interesting to anyone else. Not that you can tall from this post, of course.
My Life in Cosmetics
When I turned 12, my mother took me on a special outing to the Clinique counter at the mall so that I could learn about skin care. We bought soap, toner, moisturizer and a lip gloss in acknowledgment of what would be the beginning of my life with cosmetics. After all, I was about to be a teenager, and for the most part, teenage girls and makeup go hand in hand.
I already had a slew of products picked up from the drug store, but those bright blue eye shadows and hot pink lip colors were for inside the house and "play' time only. I could actually go to school in my new Clinique lip gloss, and it was thrilling.
As I approach the milestone of my thirtieth birthday, I started thinking about my life in cosmetics. (I know that 30 is "the new 20," but I still find myself thinking about this birthday a little more than others.) I even came up with a brief history of my makeup usage:
Age 12: Lip gloss.
Age 15: Powder, mascara, lip gloss.
Age 18: Concealer, powder, blush, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, lip liner, lipstick.
Age 21: Body glitter and mascara. (Body glitter was very popular then, I swear. And, back then, my skin just seemed to glow with youth and possibility. Or, maybe it was just over-confidence and naivety.)
Age 25: Foundation, powder, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick.
Around the age of 25, I realized $3 foundation wasn't going to cut it anymore. At 20, my foundation cost $5 and my eye shadow cost $25. Now, my foundation costs $35 and my eye shadow costs $5.
But, what's most interesting to me is the change in my "no makeup" face. Now, I don't know about you, but I just assume that anyone who looks decent and says they "don't have a stitch of makeup on" is lying. "Women who don't wear makeup" are just wearing very little makeup. I mean, my mom gave me some great genes, but if I don't slap on some concealer, even a blind man would know it.
And I can tell you with no shame whatsoever that if I say I'm not wearing makeup, I'm full of it. (Unless, of course, we run into each other at the hospital or the liquor store. And, in those moments, you won't say "Your skin looks great. Do you have anything on?" At those times, you'll say, "Are you OK?" or "Trouble sleeping lately?".)
At 21, my "no makeup" face required concealer and mascara. Today, my "no makeup" face is a careful balance of foundation, powder, eye base, eye brightener, bronzer, mascara, eyebrow filler and nude lipstick. (You can now see why I didn't type out my Age 29 makeup routine. I lost count after the tenth product.)
I only hope my income bracket can keep up with my growing need for cosmetics. (Sigh.) And, while I know that the alternative to aging is death--and in that scenario, I'll always take aging, I do wish my ever-expanding makeup case wasn't such a persistent sign of my deepening "maturity."
Mean Girl
Forthe large part, I was a very good kid. In some ways, I was almost good to afault. I made straight A’s, rarely got in trouble and had more than a casualrelationship with the term “teacher’s pet.” I longed to be just a little bitbad—to watch R-rated movies without guilt, say the occasional bad word when nogrown-ups were around, make telephone calls after 9:00 p.m.—but I was far tooafraid of anyone’s disappointment, judgment or disapproval to strive foranything less than perfection.
Infourth grade, Bethanywas the new girl in class. Our school had small classes and little turnover, soa new kid was incredibly exciting. She’d also moved from the big city of Atlanta, so between the cosmopolitan background andnovelty factor, I liked Bethanyalmost immediately.
Shehad her own bathroom and a TV and VCR all to herself. When we had sleepovers,her mom drove us to the grocery story and video store, and we could pick outwhatever we wanted. We usually came back from the grocery with sour cream andonion potato chips, sour patch kids and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines.
(Bethany was also the onlygirl I knew to actually read Tiger Beat every week, and her closet was coveredin tear-out pages of pop stars and sitcom leads. I can’t quite remember if itwas Kirk Cameron or Johnny Depp’s poster that had worn lips from her goodnightkisses.)
Bethany sometimes called me LittleMiss Perfect, but it didn’t bother me too much, and it was pretty rare.
Byfifth grade, Bethany and I both loved to sing and perform. Fueled by too manypotato chips, we dressed up, staged photographs and choreographed dances duringmost of those sleepovers.
Theonly thing was that Bethanywas actually pretty good at singing, and I most definitely was not. (To loveBroadway musicals and be tone deaf is a burden I try to bear well.)
Oneday when we were in the hallway at school, some older kids overheard Bethany singing.
“That’sreally good,” one of them said. “Sing louder.”
“Yeah,”another seventh grader added, “You could totally be in the choir. Have you evertried out?”
Bethany was elated. “Can youbelieve they said that? I thought I was pretty good, but I didn’t know I wasthat good.”
I,on the other hand, was not. I’d lost a solo in our school’s holiday program tomy friend Leah years before, and I still wasn’t over it, and now Bethany was being praisedfor one of the talents I wanted most in the world.
“Icouldn’t actually join choir though. That’s too much, don’t you think? But, ifthey really thought I was that good, maybe I should give it a shot.”
Thirtyminutes later, in art class, when Bethanywas still going on and on about her great singing, I’d had enough.
“Ithink I’m going to do it. I think I’m going to try out for choir. What do youthink?”
“Ithink it’d be great,” I said. “Then you’d have something to do other than bragall the time.”
Bethany just stared back at me.Another friend at the same art table said, “Geez, Laurel. That was harsh.”
I’ddone it. The rule-abiding, sweet teacher’s pet had stepped outside her box andbeen sassy, confrontational—and mean. I felt guilty for days. As bad as it feltto have my voice ignored while Bethanywas praised and lavished with attention, it felt far worse to have been so rudeto a friend.
Myone flirtation with the dark side out of the way, I went right back to my goodgirl ways. For the time being, at least …
Tales of a Third-Grade Nothing
When I wasin third grade, the “Are you a virgin?” question was incredibly popular amongthe cool kids. (Two quick side notes: 1) I went to a private school with nomore than 30 people in a grade, “cool” is incredibly relative. 2) From what Ihear, this question still makes the rounds in elementary school. Based on whatI see on “Dateline: Undercover at Spring Break,” I would have thought there’dbe far more scintillating inquiries in schools these days.)
This isbasically how it went:
“Hey, X!” Giggle, giggle, giggle.
“Yeah?”
“So,”giggle, giggle, giggle, “Are you a virgin?” (You have to imagine that last partas VER-jin in Southern tween.)
If X said“no,” lots more giggling and mockery ensued. If X said “yes,” it was time tomove onto the next target. (In third grade, unlike eleventh grade, you got mademore fun of for saying that you weren’t a virgin rather than for saying thatyou were.)
I have noidea why this game was popular—other than the fact that “virgin” counts as anaughty word when you’re nine—but I do know the worst answer of all was torespond with, “I don’t know, what’s a virgin?” Because, of course, if youdidn’t know what a virgin was, you were soooo immature and unworldly. I was askedthe question in the hallway outside the class room one day before lunch.
“HeyLaurel, are you a virgin?”
“Ofcourse,” I said in one of my rare moments of confidence, “I’m only in the thirdgrade. I’ve never been married.”
(I’d askedmy mom what a virgin was. She told me it was someone who had never beenmarried. I admit that it was a good answer on her part. It just never wouldhave stood up to the scrutiny and torment of intent pre-teen girls.)
The teacher made us stop talking togo to lunch at that point—something I’m forever grateful for. Somehow in aterrain with three expected answers—two of which were sure to bring scorn, I’dmanaged to find the unchartered territory of a fourth answer. And I’m prettysure that having the wrong idea about what a virgin is would be far worse thanhaving no definition at all.
It was justone of many, many times to come that I’d welcome the distraction of an upcomingmeal. Red Mountain Law is happy to report that after nearly three years inbusiness, we are now stronger and more committed than ever to being the legalsolution for small businesses
What Makes Me Cry
We all have our emotional hot-buttons.
A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite.
I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)
But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.
I blame this on two main components:
1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.
2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.
For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.
When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.
But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.
A Trip to Florence -- But Not Italy
WhenI was 18 or 19, my then-boyfriend took me to Sheffield, Alabamato meet his grandparents. I was thrilled about the purpose of the trip. Ifigured that after a year and a half of dating, I must really mean something tohim if he would take me to meet his grandparents.
Iwas less thrilled about the destination. Sheffield,Alabama is part of a small conglomerate ofcities making up the Shoals area of Northern Alabama.Florence, Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals and Sheffield make up this bustling metropolis. The University of North Alabama is there, and Tuscumbia isthe birthplace of Helen Keller. (Their tourist slogan: “Come see what shecouldn’t.”)
Ispent the entire night before we left stressing out about what to wear. Withthe help of my mother, I very carefully chose a long, blue cotton dress thatbuttoned up the back. Attractive? Not so much. Seemingly appropriate formeeting conservative senior citizens in Sheffield?Yes. (At the time, I think everything else I owned stopped above the kneeand/or involved cleavage. I was young and less self-concious then.)
Aftera two + hour drive the next day, we arrived in Sheffield.We entered through the back of the house and immediately sat down in the familyroom for introductions and pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation,Grandma said, “Why don’t we move to the living room? It’s so much nicer inthere, and we rarely have company.”
Weall stood to file into the living room, and I heard a muffled “Oh, Dear,”followed by the feel of strange hands at my back. I looked over my shoulder tosee Grandma frantically trying to re-button my dress – which, much to myembarrassment, had come undone from the middle of my back down to my knees.
Damnthose buttons.
Toadd insult to injury, at the time, I was rather obsessed with panty lines.Because of my undergarment choices, nothing more than a thin T of fabric(probably missed in a panic) separated me from full-on mooning my boyfriend’sgrandmother.
Iturned bright red, and it took all of the strength I had not to spend the restof the trip in the car, hoping and praying it would be time to go home soon.
Insome ways, I suppose you could say that the trip could only get better fromthere. After some more visiting, we drove to the Wilson Lock and Bridge and ateat one of Florence’sbest known restaurants – an eatery at the top of a tower. The outside edge ofthe restaurant rotates while you enjoy a meal and a 360 degree view of all thatthe Shoals have to offer.
Afterthat boyfriend and I broke up (I don’t think I ever grew on Grandma after shesaw so much of me), one of the few places I thought I’d never see again was thetown that was the source of my shame and the rotating outer edge of a Florencerestaurant.
Andthat remained true until this past weekend when I joined my Significant Otherat the Shoals Marriott while he filmed a promotional video for the hotel. As hewas telling me about our upcoming trip, he mentioned the 360 Grille, but Inever put the name with anything from my past.
But,when we arrived in Florenceon Sunday, I looked up from the parking lot to see the tower restaurant of mypast. “There’s the grill I was telling you about,” the SO said.
“Actually,”I said, “I’ve been here before …”
Neversay never, I suppose.
The Southeastern Hair Expo of '96 and its Aftermath
For most of my sophomore year of high school, my hair looked just like it did in the picture to the right.
I've been known to experiment with my hair color. (I have been a red head, a Blondel and a brunette in my time. The only color I've never dyed my hair is black. I worry that with my fair, fair complexion, I'd end up with too much of a Snow White thing going on.) But, I didn't mess with the style too much before my sophomore year. I liked a nice heavy bang with a strong curl-under on the ends. It was the mid-1990's and such a bold look was not at all uncommon.
Then, one day, my friend Susan had a proposition for me: "Hey Laurel, how would you like to be a model in a hair show?"
Of course, it was the word "model" that hooked me. I didn't care about the context, I just wanted to be able to say that I "had modeled" at some point in my life.
"All of our hair services will be free. It'll be like getting a makeover."
As if the model part wasn't good enough, Susan offered my adolescent self her other dream -- a makeover, otherwise known as the promise of change. With that, I was done for. I sold my soul -- or, at least, my somewhat normal tresses -- for a chance to "model" in the 1996 Southeastern Hair Show held at the Birmingham Jefferson Convention Complex.
About a week later, on a Friday, Susan and I went down for our beauty consultations before the big event. I was told they would be turning me into a red head and giving me a "body treatment" to help my limp locks plump up. I thought it sounded like fun.
It wasn't until that Saturday when I was having my hair shampooed by a chain-smoking platinum blond with acrylic nails in a portable sink in the basement of the BJCC that I realized what I was really in for. As soon as the "body treatment" began, I recognized a certain odor from my childhood.
"Am I getting a perm?" I asked.
"What's that baby doll?" platinum blond said in between puffs and after interrupting a conversation about her gay ex-husband's struggle to find himself.
"Are you giving me a perm? I thought I was having a body treatment."
"It's the same thing, baby. Don't worry though, this won't be one of those '80s perms. The technology's gotten so much better."
And so it began. (We all know how great my hair looks with a permanent. This is also the short version of how I showed up to my cousin's wedding with purple hair -- a fact my mother has never forgotten.)
Still, from the photo above, you can see that despite my whore-like makeup, my hair was still somewhat normal after Saturday's dye job and perm. Even if it wasn't normal, it was salvageable. But, that was all before Sunday's main Southeastern Hair Expo event -- the spectacle I didn't know was going to happen until that very morning.
I was going to have my hair cut on stage.
With no mirrors in sight, I was pulled into a chair, on stage, in front of about 30 hair dressers there to "hone their craft." All I'd gotten to say before I was pulled on stage was, "You're not going to cut my hair too short, are you?"
"Not TOO short," was the only answer I got from a woman I'd barely seen before who clearly did not consider my adolescent insecurities as part of her vision of what her role in the Southeastern Hair Expo should be.
My hair was cut in 15 minutes. I then had to walk around the room with a Polaroid of my "before" picture while strange women could touch and investigate my hair cut. Nearly 50 people had seen what was on my head before I had a chance to run to the bathroom and check myself out in the mirror.
I was not happy with what I saw. (This picture was actually taken before I'd seen myself --hence the smile.)
I ran from the bathroom, out of the BJCC, to my car, where I cried for 20 minutes before I thought I could even see well enough to drive. What had been shoulder-length brown hair was now a short, bright read mushroom-like explosion on the top of my head.
I knew that not only did I have a terrible new hair cut, but I also hadan incredibly noticeable new hair cut that would have to be explainedor, at least, gawked at by everyone within a 100-yard radius.
"What's that?" is all I could imagine hearing for the next six weeks.
I was so upset, I had to drive to my best friend's house to have the courage to go to school the next day. If she hadn't said it "wasn't too terrible," I don't think I could have made it.
That Monday back at school wasn't pleasant. There were some snickers -- including some from the boy I thought hung the moon. But there was a lot more sympathy than scorn.
The Southeastern Hair Expo wasn't the makeover I had hoped for. (A true example of why you should be careful what you wish for.) But I learned that sometimes a good story and the right attitude can make up for other foibles.
I also learned that, most of the time, hair grows back. And despite the way I felt about my hair cut, I tried to keep it out of how I felt about myself.
Even though I still had a red mushroom-type explosion on top of my head, the smile in that last photo is real.