Shameless Self-Promotion
I try not to ask for much (apart from attention, cash, understandingand fame -- if you even count those), but I would really appreciate asmall favor from the readers of this blog. (I'm sorry if this makes mea terrible person):
Please vote for me (story #1) at My Scoop's Valentine's Day Contest.It'd be the best V Day gift I've gotten since a single rose from theboy who gave everyone roses as part of my high school's Key Clubfundraiser.
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.
Poor Products
I love animals, I really do. My dog is one of the most spoiled creatures on the planet. (Only, though, if you count her wardrobe and chest of toys; she in no way has the demeanor of a spoiled dog because she is sweet, loving and perfect.)
I didn't even like cats until I got my own, but now I am enamored, and he regularly sleeps on my chest. Hell, the cat isn't even litter-box trained, and I still love him, and I think we all know there's no true test of one's devotion and affection like finding random puddles of pee -- or worse.
If you were to hurt one of my pets, you would most definitely know my wrath. But, despite how strongly I feel about animals, I'm not so sure where I fall on the spectrum of animal rights. If you abuse an animal, you should go to jail, and I think people who hurt animals deserve a special, fire-filled place in the great beyond, too. However, I also have no problem with the food chain. Mama loves her meat, after all. I own leather handbags (and once upon a time, I had a pair of leather pants).I never objected to a biology class dissection, and when it comes to life-saving, cancer-fighting kinds of drugs, I'm pretty OK with what it takes to make sure those are safe for humans.
I also like the zoo -- the sloping, expansive kinds of zoos where animals graze in arenas akin to their natural habitats and get three square meals a day. I know it's not as simple as this, but I have to tell you that if I was a giraffe or a gazelle, I'd be more than willing to give up the wild for prepared meals and a tidy, maintained home. Hunting for food? Defending myself from predators? Hyenas? I'd be the first animal you ever saw volunteer, and I'd take the zoo over the Serengeti just like I now take the Hampton over a nylon tent.
Regardless, I think it's important to respect the opinions and choices of others. So, that's all I'm going to say on the subject before I get to my real point: No matter how lackadaisical my own stand on animal rights might seem, I would never buy my non-existent child the toy pictured above.
A rolling cage for your pet monkey? Really? Clearly this is some sort of circus toy, but there has to be a better way to let your child "play circus" (another hot bed for those very invested in animal rights) than letting them paint their own rolling, wooden cage. Right? If nothing else, isn't this super, super dated? I haven't been to a State Fair in awhile, but there aren't caged animals rolling down the highway anymore, are there? Please, please say it ain't so.
What's almost worse is that I found this right next to the cute little doghouses with stuffed puppies sticking their heads out of the door. Large cage for exotic animals as the equivalent to dog houses? I think not.
I may be wrong, but I think this is where all that trouble with King Kong started ...
New Year, Same Me
I'm not much for New Year's Resolutions. Since I tend to find enough fault with myself as is, I prefer not to set myself up for failure with half-hearted proclamations that usually result from peer pressure. I've seen plenty of commercials for gyms, Nutri System and Wii Fit in the weeks leading up to today, but I don't think targeted ads and social norms are enough to bring about the will power I've lacked for the past 30 years. (Plus, chocolate-covered cherries are still half-price at Wal-Mart, and there aren't enough marketing dollars and judgmental stares for me to fight that kind of temptation.)
I also think the world is too hard on vices. Everything in moderation, as they say. Plus, I can't help but think the occasional vice -- whether it's a cocktail or some celebrity gossip -- keeps us all sane. I worked for a woman who did not drink, smoke, gamble or eat meat. She was one of the meanest and most difficult women I've ever known. If you ask me, a cheeseburger and a martini would have made all of our lives far better.
It's not that I don't think about self-improvement, I just prefer to do it in a different way. For example, I've spent the last year or so of my life working on approval. In the past couple of years, I've realized that there isn't an amount of praise that's enough for me.
If someone says that a story I wrote is "good," I want to know why they didn't use "great." If it's "great," I want to know why it wasn't "awesome." And if it's "the best work they've ever read and they bow down to me as the next great literary genius," I figure they're lying and trying to make me stop asking questions. (Not that the last comment has ever happened, but I wanted to paint a clear picture.)
If I hear 99 positive comments about my work or self and one negative comment, I only remember the negative comment. So, I decided that if others' approval was never going to do it for me, I should probably start cultivating my own.
Of course, this kind of attitude doesn't make everyone happy. People love to offer thoughts and advice because it makes them feel important, and if you've ever gone from a period of serious self-doubt to one of assurance or attempted self-confidence, you know how easily this can enrage those who were avoiding their own issues by taking care of yours. Luckily for me (?), upsetting people right off the bat was a great way to test my commitment to this notion of looking inside rather than outside for approval and self-worth.
It's been a good leg of the journey, but it's far from over. Next on my list: not comparing myself to others. And I'm sure that one's going to be a doozy. Hopefully I'll be ready for it by 2011.
But, back to the subject of New Year's resolutions. I was fine without having any sort of list this year, and I figured I'd just excuse myself to the bar whenever the subject came up at cocktail parties. Then, the SO and I climbed into the car:
SO: Got any New Year's resolutions for 2010?
Me: Not really. I'm not so much into that kind of thing.
SO: Would you like me to help you with your New Year's resolutions?
Me: I'd rather you not suggest areas of improvement for me. Unless, of course, you're planning on being single in the New Year.
He quickly relented. But, in the spirit of compromise to the SO and the world, I decided to cave anyway. I now give you my non-half-hearted New Year's resolutions:
1. Get a full-time job. For obvious reasons -- benefits and direct deposit being right at the top of the list.
2. Finish the manuscript for my children's book. It's only five years in the works; I'd rather not make it more than six.
3. Work on a proposal for my knitting book. When traditional publishing doesn't go your way, the wanting-to-be-published go non-traditional. Or something like that. Maybe?
4. Get the cat to pee in a litter box.
5. Deal with the series finale of Lost without some sort of post-partum-like depression. This will be far easier said than done.
I wish y'all the best in 2010! Thanks for reading! I really do appreciate each and every one of you.
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.
All Smiles
Like most human beings, Iuse body language to give me clues about what another person is thinking orfeeling and how they are likely to respond to a given situation. I assume thatthe grimacing person with their arms crossed is unlikely to buy whatever I amselling or give me a good teacher evaluation at the end of the semester or evenwant to offer a flotation device if I was drowning. I hope the grinning personwho makes eye contact is a fan.
This might be just one of the reasons that I am continually amazed at the things people will say and do with a smile on. (Another reason probably has something to do with those who misrepresent themselves for the purpose of deceit and some underlying trust issues, but reason #1 seems far easier to tackle in a simple blog post.)
A few years ago, I was sitting at a party with a new acquaintance. We were discussing books because we both liked to read. Beers were in hand. We were both smiling and laughing. I mentioned how amazing I thought Oprah’s book club was because of the boon ithad given to so many writers sales- and publicity-wise.
“Yep,” he said, seeming to take in my words and give them some thoughtful consideration, “because she’s black.”
I sat there a tad surprised, to say the least.
“Don’t even get me started on the blacks.”
Now, let’s just say that based on his body language cues and everything that had gone before, I did not expect for racism to be on the menu in that conversation. A lively discussion on the true merits of William Faulkner? Maybe. Me having to feign interest inbooks related Nascar? Most likely. But outright racism? No. It made me thinkthat I really needed to listen more carefully.
Many people know that one of my personal pet peeves is fundamentalist churches that take a super casual approach to worship. I feel like there are a fair number of churches out there with the attitude of, “Come on in! Hey, we’re laid back here. Look, we wearjeans. Our minister is in a golf shirt. There’s a tambourine. This isn’t yourusual stuffy church; don’t be afraid.”
Only, then you find out, “Yeah, our church isn’t about being fancy or singing hymns from hundreds of years ago. We’re modern. We’re hip. And we’re super inclusive as long as you promise to hate gays, too.”
The point of all of this is that this is one of the reasons I was so upset by a visit to the vet a few weeks ago. I was having my cat fixed. Now, I want to say that overall, my experience was wonderful. The staff was caring. The facility was exceptionallyclean and convenient. The prices were astounding. Five stars out of five.However, shortly after entering the clinic, I was approached by a woman withthe brightest smile. She emanated warmth, and I kind of wanted to ask her for ahug -- just because.
“Don’t worry about your little one at all,” she said. “For the boys especially, it’s a really simple procedure.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.
“So simple,” she said, still smiling. “All we really have to do is grab the testicles [there was a hand motion], make an incision, pull back the skin …”
Let me just say that there are many early morning hours when the last thing I want to hear about is testicles. (Call me crazy.) Also, while being a fairly sensible person, I still don’t like hearing words like “pull back,” “yank” and “cut through the veins” in relation to my feline companion. It was more than a bit much, and I could see the horror on the woman’s face behind my in line as the nurse continued to describe this procedure graphically and in too much detail.
All I’m really looking for is a little truth in advertising – a few more hints about what I’m getting into. Or, maybe just someone who knows that I don’t consider racism, homophobia and/or bloody operations things to smile about.
*If you feel that the photo accompanying this blog post is false advertising for the subject matter, I apologize. Using only royalty-free photos has severely limited my options. I just really don't want to go to jail, and I can't afford fines. Sorry.
Warning: Graphic Content
I'm re-posting this today to join the conversation started by The Women's Fund of Birmingham and NBC13 about domestic violence. You can join the conversation here.
There was a lot of talk on the web about Keira Knightley's domestic violence ad. (It is posted above, and it is quite graphic,so please watch at your own discretion.) What fascinates me most aboutthe discussion though is how many people are saying that the ad is toographic and goes too far.
We live in a culture where women are regularly depicted as the objects of violence -- watch any episode of Law & Order, CSI or Criminal Minds, check out a Lifetime movie, or even watch one of the many true crime specials from TruTv to A&E to Datelineif you're not convinced of this. We regularly see women as victims whoare brutalized at the hands of others. Just last night, I watched anepisode of Medium in which a woman is killed by her brother andthen another woman is convinced by this same brother to undergo severalpainful surgeries so that he can get back into her mother's will.Regardless of how you feel about these shows or what the message behindthem is, it is impossible to deny how often we see images of womenbeing physically harmed in the media.
Yet, an ad that addresses a painful reality for 25% of Americanwomen is too much. I have a suggestion for those who think this ad goestoo far: If you're that upset by violence against women, work harder tostop it from happening. Let's give women the resources to get away fromabusive men. Let's put more rapists and abusers in prison. And, perhapsmost importantly, let's get real about the fact that domestic violenceis happening all around us.
In the past year, we have also seen coverage of the Jennifer Hudson tragedy and Chris Brown's attack on Rihanna.We've seen that no one is immune to domestic violence. But, I fearthat what we've also seen is a reinforcement of the idea that domesticviolence is a "private matter." Days after being arrested, Chris Brownwas photographed jet skiing, and the one person who said somethingabout how inappropriate it was to be having fun after choking the womanone supposedly loves, Usher, was also pressured to apologize for thesesame comments days later.
Chris Brown, I don't care how "remorseful" you are. You don't get to have fun on a jet ski before Rihanna'sbruised have healed. In fact, you can't have fun until you've answeredfor your transgressions in a court of law. If it was up to me, youwouldn't be allowed to smile until you had been punished for the brutalbeating you gave.
I'm also posting another domestic violence ad from the NationalCoalition Against Domestic Violence. While not quite as graphic as thevideo above, I think it is quite powerful.
Domestic violence isn't a "private" or "family" matter. It's aquestion of life and death. And it needs to be treated as such.Domestic violence is graphic. And maybe our collective denial about thereality of domestic violence is hurting rather than helping thesituation.
What do you think? Does the ad go too far? Does it go far enough?
Pat Conroy, Writing and Family
Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)
I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.
Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."
That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.
"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."
"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)
"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."
Extreme Wives
Thanks to the glorious WE network, I've discovered a new television show that I cannot get enough of. (Me love Women's Entertainment network? Who would have guessed?)
British reporter and writer Dawn Porter completed a four-part series in 2008 entitled Extreme Wife. (Sidenote: Dawn Porter is totally my new girl crush. She's adorable and adventurous, and I really like what she did in Super Slim Me.) In each part of the series, she examines very different kinds of relationships including polygamy, free love, mail order brides and Japanese geishas.
I watched the mail order brides episode on Tuesday night. (I don't think many Southerners have much personal experience with mail order brides -- rather, I didn't -- but when I lived in Washington, D.C., my roommate and I liked to try and spot mail order brides at national monuments. Maybe there were just a lot more older men who happened to meet younger, foreign women there, but often, it seemed like something more was going on.)
For Extreme Bride, Dawn takes a trip to Odessa, Ukraine with a company that arranges meetings between American men and Russian/Ukrainian women. I now think that the eligible bachelors along for the ride might explain some of why our image is so poor abroad. (I don't want to be accused of libel here, but let's just say that the phrase ild-chay olester-may occurred to me more than once.)
Bachelor #1 tries to break the ice by giving women bags of Jelly Belly jelly beans with Christian cartoons attached. (???) He also has a moustache. Enough said.
Bachelor #2 is nearly 60 and talks a lot about how American women don't know how to be wives anymore. He also has a propensity for walking around without a shirt on, and I think it's possible that a small former-Soviet republic could have been swallowed up by his overhanging gut. (Hey, I know it takes all kinds, but leaving the shirt on would be a nice start.) Has anyone heard from Moldova lately?
Bachelor #3 has an assault conviction. He says it's because the "young girl" he was seeing had a father that threatened him and he had to defend himself. All I know is that I'd be pretty pissed if someone picked up my kid from her girl scout meeting without my permission, too. (Actual details of that last sentence entirely fabricated by me, but I wouldnt' put it past Bachelor #3.) He also cries on a date and tries to hit on Dawn at one point. I think Bachelor #3 should be in prison somewhere. If you are a law enforcement official, please watch Extreme Wife and look through your cold cases.
Despite the fact that Bachelor #3 made my skin crawl, it was Bachelor #4 who I really worried about being allowed in the general population. In summation:
1. Bachelor #4 says that women date him because he has a cool car -- a Ford Mustang. He also brags that his license plate is "BadBoy3" because he's "a bad boy."
2. B4 wants a younger woman because he's "just a kid at heart." His favorite shows are Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. (Cough, ild-chay, cough, olseter-may.)
3. B4 buys his cologne at the Dollar Tree. Dawn nearly gags entering his hotel room for a pre-social interview.
4. B4 describes himself as "sexually aggressive." He likes to pull hair.
5. In addition to the Mustang, B4 drives a van with the back seats removed to make space for a mattress. He says his friends always want to know how he "gets such young girls." (Between this show and Dateline's To Catch a Predator, I'm wondering how many men use "young girls" as a synonym for "women not yet of the age of legal consent." With B4, I imagine "getting young girls" has a lot to do with the Internet, low self-esteem and images he stole out of store-bought picture frames.)
When Dawn tried to follow up with the lovely men, Bachelor #4's phone number had been diconnected. I can only hope he went to jail.
I've left one Bachelor out because with his seeming respect for women and insistence that he wanted to meet someone his age, in comparison, I was starting to think he was a real catch -- despite the all-white three-piece suit.
Considering my fascination with Mormons (only the Fundamentalist ones), I can't wait for the next episode of Extreme Wife. It may be the most exciting thing that happens to me all week ...
In the News
If you were referred here from another site, like Media of Birmingham or The Terminal, you might be looking for these stories: This One Time at Camp ... and/or Lauren. Thanks so much for visiting!
I Hope it Isn't Me
I used to blame myself a lot. If a friend was in a bad mood, I had upset them or made them mad with something I'd said. If a teacher was short-tempered, I should have taken more time on my homework or studied harder for the last test. If a boyfriend was quite and withdrawn, I must have been too clingy, needy or annoying.
Sometime during my teen years, I realized that this attitude of self-blame was really quite self-involved. As fabulous as I might be, I'm not actually the centerpiece of anyone's life but my own. No one else spends hours going over what I said or should have said, evaluating my outfits or pondering how much my weight has fluctuated since college.
And it was quite freeing to realize that 1) no one was as obsessed with me as I was and 2) if anything, everyone else probably spends as much time on their own behavior and appearances as I do on mine. (Translation: Most people are way too busy thinking about themselves to take any note of what anyone else is up to.)
My epiphany helped me be less self-conscious (and stop thinking I was responsible for everyone else's bad moods), but I can still play the blame game pretty well.
If I was a better writer, I'd have a published book by now. A better housekeeper? You'd never see a single bug. I should respond to e-mails faster, write more thank you notes, cook healthier meals, and on and on and on.
Due to the state of my chosen career path (publishing), it's easier than ever to get on this track with my employment history. One company had no more room for me, another went belly-up two weeks after I resigned, and I was let go from the now-defunct Lipstick in February. The what-ifs and possibilities for self-blame seem endless.
Luckily, I have incredibly supportive friends and family who are pretty good at helping me see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can also recognize that my narcissism sneaks in a bit here, too -- I am not responsible for an entire company, economic trend or the recession. (You can see my issues with control at play here, too -- i.e., the illusion I have much of it.)
With that being said, and on a seemingly unrelated note -- wait for it, I did manage to make my way to the pages of Skirt! this July (photo and story can be found at the link). Yay, right? (I was pumped because the story was about Tina Harris and all the awesome things she does as the editor of PMS, a literary journal I read for and adore.)
Then I heard the news on Friday that Skirt!'s future is up in the air. And I can't help but think, is it me? Have I become a jinx for media outlets I don't even work for?
I'm fairly positive the answer is "no." (But I do still worry.) Then again, even Johnny Depp was considered box office poison for many years. You never know when things could turn around -- or when you're ripe for a comeback.
The Missing
Every time an amber alert goes out or I see a missing persons bulletin, I, of course, think about the missing man, woman or child and his or her distraught family. But after I'm done worrying about what has happened to the poor soul and if he or she will ever be found, my thoughts always return to the same selfish, selfish notion: what pictures of me would my family post on television and fliers if I couldn't be found.
(I needlessly worry about what would be said about me if I ever died in a freak accident, too. I'm nice to my neighbors mainly because I don't want them telling some reporter "She was always walking that dog in a bathrobe and curlers" or "I never did see a man come around" should there be a tornado or flash flood. My friendliness on the block is about self-preservation and has nothing to do with block parties or borrowing sugar.)
Sure, if I was missing, my first concern should probably be rescue. And with my safety as the number one priority, you'd think that I'd want the most accurate and true-to-life photos out there. But I just can't have that many people seeing me without makeup, in velour pants, chowing down on a Krystal four pack.
(I haven't even mentioned the photos of myself that should never, ever, ever make the media rounds — nothing taken after midnight during my senior year of college, no pics from the summer I worked in a Mexican restaurant and devoured handfuls of fried tortilla on a daily basis and certainly nothing from the pixie cut years).
I can only think of a select handful of pictures incorporating good lighting and flattering angles of my very round face that I would want to have televised. (And they better get my weight from my driver's license and not the doctor's office.) While it might seem like these demands would hinder the search rather than help it, truth be told, I'm pretty sure people are more likely to look for an attractive girl than the one who might not have bathed in a week even under normal circumstances.
Plus, if my case made national news, I couldn't have Meredith Viera seeing what I wore for Halloween last year. It just wouldn't be right.
Picture with post is an example of what NOT to use when attempting to find a missing Laurel.
Not My Kind of White Wedding
I just don't think I can move on with my life until I get these feelings off of my chest. In short, I need to vent.
Here's my issue: This woman is ridiculously wealthy. Ridiculously. We all know this. Yet, even with what should be "the best that money can buy" she still seems to make so many missteps.Let's look at the facts.
Misstep #1: Her plastic surgeon. Tori has the most plastic looking breasts I have seen on a woman outside of a pink Mattel box. How did this happen? Her father owns Hollywood. Couldn't Daddy Aaron refer her to someone capable of not turning her chest into the equivalent of the upper half of a mannequin? After all, he found someone capable of covering up all of Alyssa Milano and Rose McGowan's tattoos on Charmed. He made Gabrielle Carteris popular for awhile. He even tamed Shannen Doherty briefly -- at two different points in modern history. He should be able to keep his daughter from play-doh boobs. Come on.
Misstep #2: Hair. It looks more crimped than casual, day-on-the-beach wave. If a passerby looks at your hair and even thinks "crimped," it's bad.
Misstep #3: What is going on with this dress? Why does it appear to have a strange, unnecessary cut-out in the back? Did Tori want to assure everyone that she was indeed wearing a bra by specifically setting it off from the rest of the dress? Is the wedding dress really just an elaborate cover-up for her swimsuit? ("We were lying on the beach in Fiji when I just tied this old thing over the front of my bathing suit and said, 'Dean, let's get married!'") And, what's with the explosion of eyelet in the front? I just don't understand. My eyes are overwhelmed. Do I look at the bow? Do I stare at the lace ruffles? Patch of exposed back skin? Tori's button nose? Wafting hair ends? It's too much. I just feel tired.
And, that was all before I saw the bottom half. Why is she encased from torso to knee and then outfitted with a rounded tuft of white? This picture clearly shows Tori dancing, but I have a hard time believing that with the style of this dress she can really move her legs in a way that is conducive to dancing or walking.In fact, I imagine much more shuffling.
Is anyone else reminded of Donna Martin's mermaid costume from the high school Halloween party where Kelly was almost date raped in her slutty witch get-up?
Anyway, all I'm saying is that I ever earn an income that lifts me into a decent tax bracket, I promise to use my money for fashion good and not evil.