Thank you!
I'd like to thank everyone who has voted, RT-ed my tweets, commented on my blog, put up with my blog and liked posts on Facebook to help me in my quest to be Volvo's Biggest Fan of the Big East. I appreciate your support and patience, and I never could have made it through to the final four without you ... [Read more]
The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same
I wish I was still this excited on Christmas morning. Of course, I still like gifts (who doesn't?), but there's something to that child-like wonder of not being able to control yourself. For this picture, I'm assuming I was given a line not to cross before a certain hour of the morning and was absolutely tortured by the restrictions.
Isn't the hat a festive, early '80s touch?
Twenty-nine years later, I do still ask Santa for handbags. I also still check the insides just in case someone decided to leave a little cash in there, even though I know it's tacky, so I pretend I'm admiring the lining.
A Crime Against Criminal Minds
Criminal Minds happens to be one of my favorite shows on television. Sure, it’s formulaic, and yes, the quotes read as the jet takes off each week can be a little cheesy, but I still love the show. (For those who don’t know, it’s about a special FBI team that profiles particularly hard to catch serial killers known as the BAU, Behavioral Analysis Unit.) Thomas Gibson, Paget Brewster, Shemar Moore and all the rest are welcome at my house any time.
(If you’re wondering how anyone with as much paranoia as I have can watch a show about serial killers every week, I’d like to remind you of two points, 1. I still can (barely) draw the line between reality and fantasy and 2. With Criminal Minds, I’m pretty much guaranteed that the bad guy(s) will get caught.)
The show also lets me indulge the fantasy part that I would be a great criminal profiler. I’ve always thought it would be awesome to be a cop with a desk job. No way, no how do I want to run after bad guys or face armed people, but the idea of solving crimes and putting together clues – awesome. Considering my occasionally obsessive mind, I think I’d be good at it. Criminal Minds has also led me to believe that the FBI employs PR people just to feed the right clues to the media. In my new role as a freelance PR person, I have decided this would also be a cool job although I doubt its existence.
Last year, during what I thought was one of the best seasons of Criminal Minds, I found myself crying and yelling “Aaron” at the TV screen (because obviously after five years together, Thomas Gibson’s character and I are clearly on a first name basis) as Agent Hotchner faced off against the man who had killed his wife. (The SO really thought I’d lost my mind on that one.) I’m also convinced Agent Prentiss and Agent Hotchner are totally in love with one another, but that’s another story for another day.
Spoiler Alert: So, considering my love of Criminal Minds, you can see why I’d be particularly wary whenever they introduce a new character (especially since they already had a great character in JJ before they let her go). Last week, said new character was introduced, and I am not happy.
My issue isn’t necessarily that they introduced a new character; I knew it was inevitable. My issue isn’t even that they introduced a new character who looks just like the old character they’re replacing. My issue is that the new character totally sucks as an FBI agent. Let’s examine:
The new agent was brought in because murders were happening in a gated community, and traits of all the supposed suspects were too homogenous. So, new character being – wait for it – the daughter of a serial killer, was coming in to identify traits in the families that might tip the team off as to who the killer was. She grew up with a serial killer, so she’d know what the daughter of another serial killer would act like. Makes sense, no?
As an aside, the fourth murder happens while the team has called together all of the community residents for a meeting about the murders. The woman who doesn’t go to the meeting gets killed. Note to everyone: if your neighborhood is being taken out one by one, don’t stay home alone while the police and FBI and EVERYONE YOU KNOW head to the local church for a briefing. There’ll be plenty of opportunities for peace, quite and “me” time once the psycho stalking your streets is caught.
Now, let me get back to our new agent. Instead of getting anywhere close to identifying the serial killer, she decides to settle her own demons and apologize to the family of one of the victims because she never got a chance to apologize to her father’s victims. So, without telling anyone or taking a firearm, she marches over to the house of the third victim.
Of course, the husband of the third victim also happens to be the serial killer, which means our supposedly brilliant and very-sensitive-because-of-her-dark-past agent not only can’t help identify the serial killer, she walks straight into his house. He even negotiates with her three times when she says “no,” and any Oprah viewer can tell you there’s trouble when a man turns a single “no” into the beginning of a negotiation.
How is she saved? Hotchner calls her cell phone and she doesn’t really answer his questions, so he, being a good profiler and FBI agent, goes in to save her butt.
Not only is she a terrible profiler, walking into the murderer’s house and all, but she probably got him killed because we all know that a normal Criminal Minds episode ends with a chase scene and Shemar Moore tackling the suspect. This one ended with the suspect being shot. Need I say more?
Then, our new agent spends the whole plane ride home crying about how tough it was and how she’ll never go out into the field alone, and unarmed, again.
Do you know what I’m crying over? The fact that a show built on the premise of incredibly perceptive and intelligent FBI agents solving the most difficult and disturbing crimes there are would allow this dolt as part of their team. For God’s sake, a bloodhound would do more for them than this kid.
It is my hope that we won’t see Miss Great-at-the-obstacle-course-but-really-clueless-about-everything-else again – unless the team decides to use her as bait during a sting. That I could get behind.
It's Serious Now Folks
Yesterday, I received a little update from the good people at Cake Group New York. It turns out that there's no longer just a trip to the Big East championship game at stake in this competition for the Biggest Fan of the Big East ... [Read more]
Update: Because You Love America
*So, I decided to update this post with various photos of me from my years at Georgetown, and do you know what I learned? I spent all of college leaning into or hugging someone else. The cropping alone could lead to some severe carpal tunnel, but it's all worth it for the Big East ... [Read more]
Big East Media Day (Or Why John Thompson Might Think I’m A Stalker)
At 8:30 on October 20, I walked into the lobby and was almost immediately approached by one of the people from Cake Group PR.
“Laurel?” he said ... [Read more]
Big East Media Day: The Prologue
I don’t get too many calls from New York. Truthfully, I don’t get too many calls in general. And when I get e-mails that say “great opportunity” anywhere in the subject line, it’s usually spam ... [Read more]
The Emperor's New Clothes
When I was little, I hated the story of The Emperor's New Clothes.
"But how could the king not know he was naked?' I said. "Why wouldn't any of those people tell him he was naked? It doesn't make any sense."
"How could the tailors really present pretend secretly-invisible clothes and get away with it?" I went on. "What would a whole crowd act like a naked man was wearing a pretty ouftit?"
Absolutely none of the story made sense to me at the time, and I was fairly positive Hans Christian Andersen had come up with a whole lot of hooey.
But, the older I get, the more I realize Hans Christian Andersen was really onto something there, and I see more and more of it every single day.
We've all met them -- people with big ideas but no follow-through, or even people whose very "ideas" have no substance to them whatsoever. (That's right. I went there with the air quotes.)
I call most of these people the "smoke and mirrors" sect. (Thank you for the phrasing, Dr. Phil. That is all I'm thanking you for.) They're not snake oile salesmen or con men, per say -- most of the time. They don't usually rob you blind, but they want you to think they have a whole lot more going on than they actually do. They talk the most and produce the least. They use words like "vision" and "dialogue" and "opening doors," but have no concrete steps or plans as to how they'll actually accomplish any of it. (I say "it" because in between all the words, there is nothing but the proverbial hot air. I doubt a lot of said proponents even know what "it" is.)
There can be no product without process (even Britney Spears did not build "Hit Me Baby One More Time" in one day), and whenever anyone speaks too much about the former without any indication of the latter, it makes me nervous. In said instances, I'm pretty sure the end product will be nothing more than, well, nothing.
There are many times that I want to say, "It's not that it couldn't be work, it's that you didn't work hard enough to make it happen." (A fault I'm as guilty of as anyone else.)
When I teach, I joke that you see a lot of the "smoke and mirrors" sect in coffee shops. They talk a lot about all of the projects on their plate, but their hands never touch the keyboard of their individual laptops. (Yes, yes, I know that plenty of real writers work in coffee shops, but if you know if I'm talking about you are safe.)
I've also noticed that the "smoke and mirrors" sect tends to really love one another. It's one of the many ways they perpetuate their reputations and propagate their own existence. (But, they'll call it "mobilization," "networking" or "collaboration." And, again, the difference between this kind of "mobilization" and the real one is that nothing actually comes of it.) A 19-year-old Diane Nash mobilized hundreds of college students to keep the Freedom Movement alive. (I just watched a documentary on the subect. Please forgive the over-the-top reference.) "Smoke and mirrors" people don't have results, they have more words, more excuses and more diversionary tactics -- "Hey! Let's build a "community-oriented hub" over there!"
Every day, I think I see more and more naked people in the streets, or in magazines, or even on the Internet, but no one seems to notice their lack of clothes. Instead, I see compliments and comments directed their way -- more praise, thanks and exultation -- from within their own circles.
And, every day, the fable I found so stupid seems more and more brilliant. I long for the voice that screams, "But he isn't wearing anything at all!"
Because, folks, most of the time, he or she isn't.
In Defense of Memoir
Irecently finished reading the ginormously successful Eat Pray Love. Did I lovethe book? No. Do I have to see the movie? Have I learned Italian? Am I buyingthe World Market line of products based on the story? No, no and no. But, saywhat you want about the book – love it or hate it – the problem is not that theauthor spends too much time talking about herself. (A recent review of the movie claimed a bettertitle for the film would have been Me Me Me.)
After all, Eat Pray Love is a memoir and telling your own story is the verydefinition of memoir. It’s an autobiography. It’s supposed to be just about you.
Unfortunately,most of the time you only hear about memoir when it’s sensational (“you mayhave been sexually abused by your father as a child, but I had a sexualrelationship with my dad as an adult”), written by celebrities (while we’re onthe subject, Mackenzie Phillips) or not true (thanks for that one James Frey).However, as a genre, it’s not sensationalism that drives memoir.
Iapologize in advance to anyone that thinks I’m talking down to them by thebasics I’m about to go over. I am not nearly a good enough writer to talk downto anyone. It’s just that I need to start at the beginning. After all, as LewisCarroll taught us, the beginning is a very good place to start.
Allgood writing must have tension – the phenomenon that happens when two seemingopposites co-exist. It’s one of the reasons mysteries, romances and sportsstories are so prevalent and popular; the tension there is easiest to find.Will the protagonist win or lose? Be rejected or find love? Live or die? Thelatter being the most obvious example of tension one could find and the mostuniversal – mortality. It’s hard to find a bigger gap than the differencebetween life and death, and it’s the tightrope all of humanity walks everysingle day. (Hey, I said I was going back to basics.)
Eachindividual memoir has its own tension, but a tension drives the genre as well.As a literary art form (and I do think it is one), here’s how it works: bydelving as completely as possible into one’s own individual psyche, one triesto discover some universal truth. The opposing forces? The lone individual and the restof the world. A piece and the whole.
Wemay enjoy reading them, but the best memoirs aren’t stories that focusprimarily on other people – be it your mother, father or significant other.(Not that these elements aren’t important to memoir, but let’s not confuse thecharacter with the relationship. The main character in memoir is the author,and relationships are vital because of what they reveal about the author.However, generally speaking, memoirs that focus too much on other characters doit out of fear — talk all about crazy mom so you won’t have to acknowledge thescary truth about yourself.)
Thegenre is defined by revelation and isn’t necessarily for the faint of heart.You may laugh at anecdotes, but they don't qualify as art without the revelation of atruth that applies to a larger audience than one.
Memoiris an exploration of the depths of self – that terrifying abyss that includesour inner most thoughts, fears and failings. It isn’t easy to write, and it canbe hard to read. It’s beautiful because in daring to look at those darkestparts of ourselves, we can discover a universal truth of human nature. Indaring to be so completely exposed, we uncover that we aren’t alone in these vulnerabilities.That, generally speaking, we all sing along to the same songs on the radio fora reason. We all crave acceptance and fear rejection. No one wants to bevulnerable but we all are. We need love, and we’ll do desperate, awful andoften hurtful things to get and/or keep it. We’re primarily selfish even thoughwe try to pretend we’re not, and we all want to peek behind the neighbors’curtains to see just how different/alike from them we might be.
Memoirinvites you in. Memoir throws open the door and says, “Look, here I am, wartsand all. This is my most naked self. Feel free to have an opinion.”
It’sbrazen. And while it may be self-centered, in the most literal sense of theword, it is not narcissistic.
But,memoir also isn’t for everyone. Few things are. So, if you think a personalnarrator is kind of whiny, that’s fine. I’d just suggest you read fictioninstead. And while I think Elizabeth Gilbert is probably doing just fine withher international bestseller, film rights and ancillary products, I do thinkshe should be cut a little slack on those “me, me, me” criticisms.
Meeting Senator Ted Stevens
Sometimes,I get all too depressed thinking that this is the face of Alaskan politics.(Although, I suppose that if you resign your governorship to focus on your bookdeal and possible reality show, you’re not really a representative of Alaska anyway.)
Iget even more depressed when I think that this might be the face of women's,national and/or populist politics, so you can see why, if I have to make achoice, I want to relegate her just to Alaska. (Sorry Alaska. Really.)
Long before Sarah Palin, Alaskan politics had another face, and thisweek, Alaska and the country lost Senator TedStevens, the man who represented his statewith such passion and commitment. (Albeit not without controversy, I know.)
I met Senator Stevens in 2001. I was just out of college andworking for a non-profit in D.C. that provided housing and medical care forretired career military officers and their spouses/widows. (This translatesinto running a continuing care retirement community complete with independentliving, assisted living and nursing care. Founded by Mamie Eisenhower, we werevery well-funded, and walking down the plush corridor that ran by the diningroom past the lobby and to the elevators, my boss and I often remarked that wefelt like the activities directors on some kind of luxury cruise line.Especially if there was a game of croquet on the lawn or a bridge tournamentgoing on.)
Onemonth into the job, it was time for the Foundation’s largest annual fundraiser,a gala, and to say that I was feeling a little overwhelmed would be quite theunderstatement.
Decorumand manners I’m used to. I did grow up Southern and in a family that prizedmanners very highly. I know how to eat a banana with a knife and fork, whichsilverware belongs to which course and for the first 18 years of my life, Inever left a table without asking to be excused. Professionalism I could handleas well, but military customs were not part of my repertoire at the time,and I worried about the offenses I could cause addressing a “General” as a “Colonel”and who knows what else.
Ifirst became flustered when the advance team for General Shinseki, the head ofthe U.S. Army arrived.
Speakinginto his cuff, a large man told me that “the commander was on route.”
“What’syour plan for his arrival?” he asked.
Plan?I thought. Was I really supposed to be the one with the plan? I thought of myrole as involving more silent auction items and directions to the bar than howto schedule the arrival of one of the military’s most powerful men.
“Letme find my boss,” I said, which I stand by as a great answer until you becomethe boss. (I’ll also go ahead and mention that our banquet was held on Tuesday,September 4, 2001. At the time, we were all completely clueless that the worldwould change forever in one week. I met General Shinseki that evening, and thenext time I saw him, he was in the front row for President Bush’s post 9/11address to the nation as it was broadcast on every major, and not so major,television network. He directed hundreds of thousands of men and women as theyentered Afghanistan, andlater Iraq.I made invitations for a donor coffee in December.)
Then,they had to go and throw in Senators on top of all that.
Eachyear, the Foundation’s Gala honored a particular guest. In 2000, they hadhonored Senator Stevens, and he returned in 2001 to support that year’shonoree, his friend and fellow World War II veteran, Senator Daniel Inouye of Hawaii. Senator Inouyelost his right hand in the war, and I was also incredibly embarrassed to thinkthat I might have stared as we were introduced. (I also think I was in to thetwo-handed shake at that time. It was a phase, akin to and followed by mykissing everyone on the cheek, that I thought seemed very warm and genuine.Let’s just say that I’m glad I’ve moved on.)
Akind man, Senator Inouye didn’t seem to notice my floundering in this worldthat seemed way over my 21-year-old head. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
Bothmen were obviously impressive, but what bowled me over most about each was thatin an environment dominated by politics and power, each with a long history ofgovernment service behind them, that night, both seemed to hold onto something thatwas relatively uncommon in Washington-– humility.
SenatorStevens really was there just to support his friend. He had no interest inpushing an agenda (not that there’s much of an agenda to push in a continuingcare retirement community, but the very fact that he came to spend his eveningwith a bunch of old women that it meant the world to also speaks to hischaracter). He didn’t seem bored. He was kind and gracious to each and everyperson that wanted the opportunity to meet him.
Iknow his later career was troubled. I also know that controversy surrounds Senator Stevens, especially as it relates to pork belly spending and his often aggressive approach, but what I took fromthat night is that Senator Stevens cared -- about his friends and the U.S. military. I know Senator Stevens will be missed, andI enjoyed our meeting very much.
Andsome of you think I never say anything good about Republicans …
In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding
This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*
I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.
This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)
However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?
Keep in mind that this is in addition to my other standard barrage of questions: Should I wear my hair up or down? Do you like this jewelry? Did I do my eye liner correctly? Do you think there's cilantro in that dressing? Would you call this ecru or beige? Do you think the cake is white icing on white cake or white icing on lemon cake? Where is the closest bar?
And so on and so on.
I'm lucky I still have friends (especially ones who invite me to their weddings), let alone those that don't seem to mind gently reminding me that the wait staff will fear me if I continue to attack the woman in charge of passing stuffed mushrooms.
* I am honored each and every time someone asks me to be part of their wedding. It's just a bonus for me that it also comes with a detailed schedule and coordinator responsible for most of my moves.
If You Weren't Aware, I Don't Lack For Opinions
In case you read yesterday's Birmingham News and were wondering what topics other than Facebook, my love life, why I always lose my car keys and how much I should spend on foundation and eye liner that I like to grossly over-think and over-analyze, pro wrestling happens to be one of them. (P.S. This is not really a kid-friendly post.)
I hope you all had a lovely weekend!
What I Did With My Holiday Weekend
Be prepared. It may be hard to respect me after reading this list. (If you had any respect for me to begin with.)
1. Bought Swim Goggles
Since I was going to spend most of the July 4th weekend in the pool, it only seemed logical for the SO and I to pick up some pool toys. We bought floats (or really one float because I had a deflated one back at my house). I got an air pump because I don't like to blow up floats (and blowing up floats seems beyond the extent of the SO's love for me). Then, we grabbed some goggles because after awhile that chlorine really irritates my eyes, and if I can't see underwater, I run into walls. The choices are few and far between.
Unfortunately, this purchase only reminded me of the same lesson I learned in a much more painful setting almost 20 years ago -- no woman, adolescent or grown, looks good in a pair of swim goggles. I don't know how anyone held back the laughter.
2. Ate Enough to Feed a Small Village in China
On Sunday, I treated myself to a turkey burger, baked beans and cole slaw. Not so bad, you say? I finished off the meal with a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog. If my arteries and societal pressure weren't involved, I'd eat a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog every day.
On Monday, I stopped off at Wings Plus 6 and polished off five honey mustard wings, five mild wings (because who knows how spicy wings might have affected my digestive system at that point), french fries and a slice of key lime pie.
I didn't count the beers.
3. Made Bad Choices
On Sunday night, I purchased Hot Tub Time Machine from Videos on Demand. (John Cusack stars and produces. Doesn't that make you wonder?) I didn't really laugh, but I have been thinking about the pivotal choices that affect each and every one of our lives and how those choices can shape our futures -- because of the movie's plot line, not John Cusack's production credit.
Or not. However, I have had "Let's Get it Started" stuck in my head for a week.
Where To Go From Here?
I remember applying to colleges as one of the most stressful periods of my life. It seemed like so much -- my future career, earning potential and even life mate -- hung on the decision I made then. Not to mention the fact that I had tied my self-worth directly to the U.S. News & World Report ranking of the school(s) that accepted me.
Seven days before one round of applications was due, I had an emergency root canal (one the endodontist called the worst he'd seen "in ten years" of oral surgery). Full of painkillers and Valium (I do not do well around the sound of a dentist's drill), I called my best friend and insisted that she drive me to my closed-for-the-Christmas-holidays school, so that I could use the typewriter in the library to put some finishing touches on the common application.
I was a little obsessed.
When the large and small envelopes finally started rolling in, I was devastated to learn that my first choice [Stanford] didn't want me. Despite my poor attempt at a brave face, I was crushed and spent more than a few afternoons in my car crying.
(Before I sound like too much of a whiner, I would like to acknowledge that I was accepted into some wonderful and amazing schools, and I absolutely believe I ended up right where I needed to be. But, hindsight is always 20/20 as they say.)
The only people this period of my high school career might have been more stressful on than me were my parents. Not only did they have to accept that I seemingly refused to apply anywhere with anything near a reasonable tuition cost, I was anxious, constantly tired and insecure. Being parents, the moment my rejection from Stanford arrived, they went into protective/consolation mode: "We love you no matter what. This is just a bump in the road. You're brilliant. You're special. You're going to get into so many other schools."
But, I wouldn't have any of it. Every time they tried to console me, I just got more upset. "You don't get it," I said. "I'm not special. I'm just like tens of thousands of other kids out there who make good grades and join clubs and think that it's going to matter."
"You're always special to us."
"Well," I said, "when it comes down to it, I look like everybody else on a sheet of paper, and I'm not special to them. And they're the ones that don't want me."
(I was kind of dark in addition to being a little obsessed.)
If only I had known then that there would be days I feel a lot like that now, too.
I am a writer with dozens of clips -- many from national magazines. But, I'm also an unemployed writer and editor in an era when print media is dying. And thanks to the dire press market in Birmingham, you can't really throw a rock in this town without hitting someone just like me -- many with more experience and better clips. It's a small pond full of writers and editors with great resumes and no magazines or papers to write for.
So, the thought recurs: I'm not special.
I have been a blogger for five years now, but now I don't even think I know anyone without a blog, and as an unmarried, childless 30-year-old, I don't even have a blog category. I am no longer "young" by most standards -- as in I don't write about clubs, drunken escapades or school. I haven't given birth, so that keeps me out of the "mommy blogger" set. I don't have a wedding in the works, so there's no way to write about flower vendors and mother-in-law issues. Food? I like it, and I occasionally cook it, but I don't have anything to say that you can't find on far better web sites like Food Revival, Cookthink or Simply Recipes (check my favorite sites).
Without a category, I don't have a market share, and without a market share, this blog is never going to make me much more than the $.26 my one ad has brought in in recent weeks.
My market share possibilities? Former party girls who can't afford shoes that don't come from Target? Pet lovers with an extensive collection of Spanx? Those of us who have accepted boxed wine as a party staple?
Not special and without a market share, I keep filling this blog with what I have -- my stories, my voice, my bouts of depressive thinking. I use it to make myself write. I try to remember to exercise the skills that I need -- showing v. telling, using dialogue, setting scenes and avoiding the empty words and phrases that have no examples or illustrations to flesh them out.
When I started this blog, I wanted to write 365 blog posts, so that I'dhave 365 stories/anecdotes written down. (I also started this blogbecause my friends seemed tired of my mass e-mails detailing what Ithought about that day's episode of Cheaters, but I digress.) Plus, atthe time, I never imagined I wouldn't have something else to take up mytime long before I hit that far-off and absurd number of 365 posts. This is my 402nd post, and thanks to my tendency to write aboutCheaters and what Tori Spelling wore to her second wedding, I'm noteven sure I have 365 stories to go along with it. Sigh.
One of my teachers once told me, "Most of the stories have beentold. The only difference is that there's never been a you to tellthem."
I tell my students this. I try to tell myself this. If Iwere to have a mantra, I think it'd have to be something aboutbelieving in my own voice.
At least when I finished high school, the gave me a copy of Oh, The Places You'll Go. (At least it was optimistic.) I think I could use the sequel now.
P.S. Oddly enough, I sort of love Tori Spelling these days. I blame the Oxygen network.
Welcome to 1984 (and Not in a Good, Footloose-is-Back-on-Top-of-the-Charts Kind of Way)
Sometimes I worry that I could easily become aconspiracy nut. (I realize that most people probably don’t have this on theirlist of concerns, but my worry list has always been longer, and stranger, thanmost.) I blame some of it on the fact that I spent most of my childhoodwatching soap operas, Phil Donahue and Unsolved Mysteries. There was even abrief – and unfortunate – period when I believed that Elvis faked his own death.
And despite what my occasionally rational braintells me about accidents and coincidence, I think I’ve watched far too many politicalthrillers as an adult, too. (I still find it odd that one of the most liberalmembers of the Senate, Paul Wellstone, died in a plane crash shortly beforesome key votes under the Bush administration, but I try to keep this mostly tomyself.)
However, I do not think I’m paranoid when I saythat we are, at present, on the verge of living in the world created by GeorgeOrwell in 1984. But, it’s not big government we need to be afraid of -– it’sFacebook.
Even without the latest issues Facebook has hadwith privacy, revealing information to other web sources, etc., social networkinghas always had the potential to implement a kind of social control that noinvading army or government entity is capable of. And the key to that societalcontrol rests entirely in surveillance.
For an anthropology class nearly a decade ago(when I sat down on the first day and saw that half the room was full ofathletes, I knew I’d found a good place to be), I read a book called Depraved andDisorderly. It’s a study of women in penal colonies in Australia (aka, thefounding women of Australia), and for the large part, the book discusses howconstant surveillance and the removal of all privacy was used to turn these “wildwomen” into the model citizens the English government wanted them to be at thetime.
For most of any community, it’s not the threat ofpunishment or pain that keeps us in line -– it’s the threat of discovery or exposure. We don’twant our innermost thoughts judged, nor do we want our most intimate actsexposed.
If you think about it, can you be yourself onFacebook? The answer most of the time is “no.” Facebook, Twitter, Ning, MySpace,etc. are not places to express what is really going on with you. They areplaces for the cleaned-up, civilized you. The you without too strong an opinionor emotion. The you that doesn’t want to alienate or offend -– especially onceyou allow co-workers, colleagues, clients and Grandma into the mix. So, whileseeming open and connected to everyone around us, in so many ways, we’ve simplyjoined the herd.
When I Twitter, I constantly wonder about thelines of how much is too much and what goes too far. If I want to do any sortof business or promotion on Facebook (which as a writer, of course, I do), whatcan and can’t I say? If I say what I really think about the Bible (be it theliteral word of God, a historical document or the creation of aliens -– I’m notgiving the real answer away just yet), how many readers did I just lose? Whoisn’t coming back? Are there those who will never want to hire me again? Did Ijust assign myself to one and only audience?
And the same questions are with me when it comesto my views on politics, sexuality or even which brand of deodorant I likebest.
In another way, we’ve also all become our own brands -–only allowing the crafted Laurel Mills or the character of Laurel Mills outonto the Internet , rather than the real one. Even the vulnerabilities we showon Facebook are the ones we choose to show -- our calculated and approvedfoibles.
So, in many ways, just as we’ve embraced our own constantsurveillance and societal control, we’ve also become the ultimate consumers. Webuy what we’re sold on TV or the Internet (I’d say magazines too, but we all knowwhat happened to those), and we buy each other at a constantly alarming andescalating rate.
An example? We don’t even watch scriptedtelevision anymore. We watch reality stars/the people that could be ourneighbors.
Facebook profiles weren’t enough? Add statusupdates. Not enough of those? Twitter. Away from your computer? iPhones, iPads,Droids, Blackberries –- whatever it takes to be constantly consuming the words,actions and whereabouts (I’m looking at you Four Square) of those around you.
We watch each other, all the time. We are our ownjailers. And the more we watch, the less we do.
So, while I’m just as guilty as anyone ofeverything I just talked about, I think the end result could be something noneof us are prepared for –- an international community without identities stuckbehind screens unable to react to any threat or injustice in any way moremeaningful than starting a Facebook group that hopes to eventually be 1,000,000strong.
The pen may be mightier than the sword, but westill have to live lives in addition to just watching them for it to matter.
If after reading this, you’ve ended up branding mea conspiracy nut, so be it. I’ve been called worse, and I just might have earned it.
* While I'm sure there are people with similar views, I haven't read their specific thoughts on the topic. If you've stumbled upon similar or dissimilar thoughts, please leave me some suggested reading material in the comments.
* I really think that, in an odd way, Nathaniel Hawthorne tread similar themes in The Blithedale Romance (1852), and yes, I once included reality TV in one of my graduate level English papers because of it.
The Dead Fowl Standard
Right after college, my roommates and I moved into a brand-new federal style townhouse off of the U Street Corridor in Washington, D.C. It was only a few blocks from Adam's Morgan, but at the time, the neighborhood was still considered very much "up and coming." (Today, the same area is mostly luxury condos and high-end retail, but that was not the case in 2001.)
I, however, could not have been more infatuated with my living situation. The house had gorgeous hardwood floors, a lovely balcony and even a garage. (You have no idea the premium on something like that in D.C.) I also had the master bedroom complete with two closets and a bathroom that had a shower and a whirlpool tub. The $825 I paid each month in rent was way too high a percentage of my salary, but it was comparable with what all of my friends paid, and I had a spectacular house two blocks from the Metro station. I was more than willing to put up with the occasional panhandling or "get out white bastards" greeting in exchange.
But, while I was completely comfortable with my surroundings, I sometimes forgot to warn visiting friends that we weren't in Georgetown anymore. (For those of you who have never been, Georgetown is a very wealthy neighborhood, and you can tell at every turn -- from the gorgeous row houses to the Armani store.)
A friend of mine decided to visit one day while she was in town from Alabama. Since her mother lived in Arlington, Virginia, we both figured she'd have absolutely no trouble taking the Metro to meet me at my new home.
When she was an hour late, I called, but figured she was just running behind and couldn't get reception on the subway. When she was two hours late, I was worried.
Just as I was about to call in the cavalry, I saw a figure that looked like my friend wandering the alley that ran behind my house. (I was on the back balcony.)
"Susan," I yelled, and she raised her head. "Why didn't you come to the front door?"
As her figure came into better view, I could see that Susan looked far more exhausted than seemed appropriate for a gal on vacation.
"Thank God it's you," she said. "And I would have come to the front door if I could have found it."
I quickly brought Susan into the house, poured her a glass of wine, and listened as she recounted the story of her continually delayed train ride and the treacherous one and a half block walk from the Metro station to my house. The highlights? Someone threw a shoe at the back of her head, and someone else tried to sell her a dead pigeon.
"A dead pigeon?" I said.
"It was wrapped in newspaper," she said. "He gave some thought to the presentation."
"What did you do?"
"I told him I'd be more than happy to pay him if he wouldn't make me take the pigeon."
Once Susan had recovered from the trauma, we spent the rest of the night drinking wine and catching up, and that dead pigeon became a kind of standard of ours. You got lost? It was terrible? You drove around for hours? Hey -- at least there wasn't a dead pigeon.
We found that the benchmark worked in a variety of situations. Bad break-up? Dressing down from the boss? Expensive shoes that can't be returned? It could always be worse. There could have been a dead pigeon -- and no one wants a dead pigeon shoved in their face.
Fast forward a few years: I'm working for a new magazine, and we've decided to put together a picnic photo shoot in a local park.
Unfortunately, nothing went right that day. A crowd of obnoxious 12-year-olds (who I still think should have been in school) surrounded us to ask insipid questions. The day was unseasonably hot, and everything melted (including us and our makeup). The ground was uneven. We spilled wine on the white picnic blanket. It seemed that the entire shoot was coming apart at the seams.
Shortly after the wine spill, my boss handed me some wrappers to throw away from the food we were "styling," and I walked over to the trash can. As I leaned over to toss in our garbage, I came upon a foul smell and sight. Someone had decided to throw a dead goose from the nearby pond into that very trash can.
Luckily, I was able to turn around before my stomach did a complete flip-flop. And even though the circumstances were far from favorable, after all that work, we were going to get a shot, dammit -- which also meant we'd have to stay near that dead goose for at least 20 minutes.
Again, once we cleaned up, got out of the unbearable sun and found some cocktails later in the evening, we made the dead goose our barometer for photo shoots and all else production-related. A writer didn't turn in a story on time? The photographer was a no-show? An order came from upstairs to slash half the magazine? At least there's not a dead goose.
Why dead fowl are a continuing theme in my life, I don't know. But, in these trying times, I think I'm going back to the standards I set with them. The checking account balance may be low, and the hours may be long, but at least none of my days have involved dead pigeons or geese.
I'm hoping it stays that way.
Serious Friday: The Media and Me
I have always consideredmyself a writer first.
It’s not that I have a problem with the term“journalist,” it’s just that I knew I could never be one. Even in all my yearsin magazines, I always referred to what I did as Lifestyles journalism. It wasthe fluff of the world – plan your next vacation, how to spruce up your moodwith color, what to plant when. Mostly, I was the queen of lists. If you neededa top (fill in number here), I was your girl. At last count, I believe I hadwritten over 100 top lists of some sort (not including my five or the moviesthat always make me cry). I preferred it that way.
I briefly considered real journalism. For awhile, Ithought I wanted to run the school newspaper, but Gabrielle Carteris’ ratherunflattering role as Andrea Zuckerman on BeverlyHills, 90210 made me question that dream. (Truthfully,I was not confident enough about my writing to think I could earn any place onany newspaper then.)
Even as my confidence and abilities grew,journalism still didn’t seem very viable. I’ve never liked interviewing people,and it’s something I’m not very good at. I always make a list of at least 10questions and then quickly decide that 8 of them are stupid while talking tosomeone over the phone or in person. I don’t like to probe (outside of myfriends’ personal lives and the world of celebrities, of course), and I tend tofeel bad when I write about people. And considering the number of people I’velistened to complain about the “puff” profiles in their lives, I don’t think Iwould have made it very long in any newsroom.
(As a very wise professor of mine once told me,“Everyone thinks they want to be written about. No one actually does.”)
A large part of the reason I picked creativenonfiction as the genre to pursue is that, mostly, the only person I riskoffending is me. I expose my own secrets, make my own revelations of self, andcan largely stay out of other people’s business. (My mother would disagree, butI’m sticking by that assertion.)
Still, for most of my career (until the lastlay-off, that is), I was considered a member of the media. Both liked(freebies) and feared (“Don’t say that! She’ll write it somewhere.”), it’s thegroup I was most associated with. I had colleagues who actually broke stories,people in my life who always knew what was happening before anyone else did andassociated with those who wrote in-depth about people, places and things.
So, despite my hesitance to call myself a“journalist,” I am a card-carrying (yes, the Association of ProfessionalJournalists does actually give out cards) member of the media.
This is one of only a number of reasons I find itso strange to be on the other side of a media spectrum as of late. As I’vewritten about before, my cousin passed away three years ago. What I don’tbelieve I’ve mentioned is that there is also a coroner’s inquest into herdeath. My cousin’s death was national news in Australia when she died, and theaforementioned inquest is also national news there.
In November, when the inquest began, there weredaily stories of the court procedures and testimony, many re-counting the finaldays, hours and minutes of my cousin’s life. (You think your life is prettynormal, and then you read a piece in The Australian detailing the swornstatements of a woman your cousins refer to as “Gigi.” (My cousins and I don’tshare a grandmother even though we have the same grandfather – which is anotherstory for another day -- so I just call her Margaret.) And there arepaparazzi-style photos of her leaving the building after the inquest adjournedfor the day.) And when the inquest picked up again in March, reporters were there again.
It’s not easy going, looking over the stories about your own family, and the reading (andre-reading, I think we all realize I can be a bit obsessive) is plenty painful. Out of respect for my family, I'll try not to re-hash too much of the graphic detail that is already available on the Internet. I only know that for me, the headline including "in agony" is hard to shake. I don’t know how my aunt sits through allof this – live and in open court. I only know she has to be one of the bravestpeople I know.
And to get back to where I was going with all this,I guess I have to say that despite the unsettling details of late, and seeingmy family’s tragedy played out on a national stage, my feelings about the mediaand being part of it remain the same.
I think it’s important to tell people’s stories. Ithink people need to know what happened to Lauren. I hope other families andindividuals make different choices because of what they read about her. I hopelaws change. I hope punishments are doled out. Does it hurt? Hell yes. Is itnecessary? Yes, too.
Injustice, corruption, greed and general suckiness(best word I've got right now) need to be exposed. As do the triumphs of the human race – relief efforts,rescues and those who live their lives with honesty, compassion andintegrity. We have to tell each other our stories so that we can begin to understand and relate to one another.
I also think that when it all comes down to it, all anyonewants to know is that they mattered, that they were heard. I think we all wantto know that when we leave this world, we leave a legacy, whether that’s afamily, a friend who misses us, a grand estate or a stranger who remembers thatwe were kind to them once. It’s why we create. It’s why we love. It’s why wepaint, sculpt, sing songs and write. It’s all so we matter. (Please forgive the cheese factor there.)
The media is a voice, and it plays its part in thequest to matter. Lauren would have mattered without a single news story; we alldo and would. But I do hope good comes of this media coverage that no one can evenimagine now.
But, while I respect the place of the media, I’dstill rather not be the one asking the really tough questions. Give me a top 10 list over the earthquakes and political scandals any day.
Writer's Block, Comedy and Insurance Companies
I tell my students that there' no such thing as writer's block.
I claim that there is this: unwillingness to do the work (because writing is hard work and anyone who tells you anything different is lying), procrastination and fear. (The fear comes in when you worry too much that when you do actually write, what you write won't be good enough.)
I recommend all the tricks for getting started -- lists, clustering and the always-dreaded free-writing. (Free-writing = writing non-stop for a set period of time, and it is more than a bit trying on the brain and the hand.) I tell them to start in the middle if they don't have a beginning or an end. Or start at the end if there's no beginning or middle. I trot out one of my favorite books, Writing Without the Muse, for ideas and inspiration.
I am so full of mettle, advice and, hopefully support, I just don't know what to do with myself.
There is always something to write, I say. It may not be profound, but as long as you can put pen to paper, there is always something to write.
And, until lately, I believed there was always humor. As a friend told me long ago, "When you're either going to laugh or cry, laugh." I've tried to keep that in mind. I've even been called irreverent because of it. Another old saying goes that "the only difference between comedy and tragedy is a laugh track."I believe that, too.
But, right now, no matter how hard I work at it, I can't seem to do enough laughing, and I'm having a really hard time putting the writing and the humor together. My free-writing does not lead to fodder for good blog posts. (My latest free-writing? Too many sentences as to what it means to be "enough.") I look at the chore list on the refrigerator in the office -- a chore list grown-ups are supposed to follow of their own free will -- and I want to laugh. Three months ago, I think I would have. But, the last time I found myself in the break room, I just sighed. I sighed, pulled my Lean Cuisine out of the microwave and went back to my desk.
I'm not surprised life isn't what I thought it would be. I'm surprised my primary coping mechanism isn't kicking in like it used to.
So, I apologize for the tone of recent posts. I wish they were funnier. I decided that no matter what I had to do to pay the mortgage, I would still update this blog at least twice a week. I promised that I would still write because if I give up on that, I really will have given up, and that is something I refuse to do. I want to write, and the best thing about writing is that when that's all you want to do, you can just do it. (Finding a reader is the hard part. Finding an editor even harder.) I say to work more and work harder. (Another lovely thought, but difficult in practice when no one wants what you've already written and each day seems to bring the return of more and more envelopes I addressed and stamped myself.) I try to remember that the difference between optimism and pessimism isn't just about how you see the glass, but about focusing on what you have rather than what you don't have. I keep in mind that on some days just trying is enough.
Mostly, I'm tired, and I tear up every time I see the Allstate commercial where everybody quotes FDR from the Great Depression.
If you're also having trouble getting through insurance company ads without crying, know that you're not alone. If you've got it all figured out, I'd love to know your secrets (unless they involve Jesus -- what goes on between me and Jesus is what goes on between me and Jesus, and I like to keep that off the Internet).
In the meantime, I promise I'll do the best I can to get the funny back -- for myself and for those of you kind enough to stop by and read my thoughts every so often.
The True Spirit of Easter
In honor of Good Friday, here's a little look at Easters past from a 2010 post.
The Mills are a competitive bunch.
We pull out rule books when there's a question of awarding points in board games, we do not believe in do-overs and we never, ever let anyone win. In general, it makes us a tough, formidable lot when it comes to a game of Balderdash or charades. It does not, however, always make it fun to be a kid in our family.
When I say that we don't let anyone win, I really mean anyone. It does not matter if you are three or thirty, if there's a chance to take you in tic-tac-toe, Scrabble or even Candy Land, we seize it. Once during a game of bocce on my great aunt's lawn, I thought that maybe I should change my throws a little so one of the children could win. (I was twenty-eight to their five, six and eight after all. And, yes, they all probably could have taken me on their own, since this particular game did involve throwing and sports stuff, but let's leave that off the table for now.) Then I looked over and realized that my cousin had just knocked his own son's ball out of the competition, and I figured it was our usual "no holds barred" approach to all gaming.
My father thinks it's character-building. Does life ever let you win? No. Do you have to work hard and earn your victories? Yes. So, the rules are uniform and the same for every one.
Since I could talk, I have never beaten my father in a game of ping pong, Monopoly or Gin Rummy.
My friends often ask me to join poker games, but I always turn down the invitation. They assume it's because I can't play. "I'll teach you before the game," usually follows my "no thanks."
I can play poker just fine, and I'm actually kind of good at it, but playing poker reminds me of sitting around the kitchen table playing with my dad and sisters when we were much younger. Not only did my dad always win, but he also made us turn over our hands after every game. "Now, Laurel, why would you ever have held onto that eight? What good was that card to you?"
We didn't just lose, we also had to evaluate why we lost. There were times it was a tad excruciating. On the down side, I can't stand poker. On the plus side, it's nearly impossible to beat me in Gin, and I can almost count cards.
No reason or extenuating circumstance could temper this competitive edge -- even on some of the holiest of holy days. And the Mills family Easter egg hunt was one of the most blood-thirsty events of them all.
See that cute picture up there? Those sweet smiles are just facades to hide the plotting we'd already begun. ("There were an egg above the door frame last year. Check there first.") Two minutes after this photo was taken, hair-pulling, pushing and diversionary tactics ("Is someone eating your chocolate bunny over there?") were all fair game as we grabbed Easter eggs from their hiding places like they were pieces of pure gold or coupons for unlimited Barbie dolls.
My middle sister still claims injuries from the hunt of '91. I say I was ten feet away when she fell into that sticker bush.
And even though we're too old to hunt Easter eggs now (I was undefeated when I retired at 13, by the way), it's a tradition we've tried to pass on to our younger cousins. For better or worse, we've given them many of our old tricks, and I look forward to seeing how this Sunday's festivities play themselves out.
Whatever your leanings/beliefs are, Happy Easter, Happy Passover or just enjoy the weekend! I can't wait for mine -- potential injuries and all.