You Know You're in a Recession When Your Neighborhood BP Station Starts Selling Porn

Times are tough. We're all looking for new ways to make and save money. If you're in business, you've got to innovate to stay alive.

And if you're my local gas station, "innovate" means "turn to the skin industry." (Actually, come to think of it, those two concepts are probably synonymous for a lot of the population. Sigh.)

You can imagine my surprise when I walked in to the convenience store for a bag of Cheetos and some Diet Coke after my fill-up and discovered pornography where the donut boxes used to be. Sure, you can't find wine or liquor in the BP, but there is porn. Because that makes sense.

I was also surprised by the "grab bag" concept of porn in which you trade a non-de-script box labeled "black," "white" or "latina" for an actual title from behind the cash register. It seems like an odd formula, but my guess is that if you're accustomed to getting your jollies at the gas station, you're not all that particular to begin with.

My Yard is so Bad

"How bad is it?" you might ask.

My yard is so bad, it's not just the lawn that has weeds. Even the street in front of my house has weeds. How I managed to have weeds in asphalt is completely beyond me.

It's almost enough to make a girl throw in the towel. Oh wait, the laissez-faire strategy to yard work is what got me here in the first place.

I'm sure the city and the guy who has to check my water meter love me.

Can You Neuter a Tree?: And Other Questions that Arise when I Dare to do Yard Work

In my yard, I have one tree. (I live on a smaller lot, so it's just the one.) And it is quite a lovely tree at that. It's tall with strong branches and lots of beautiful green leaves. This is a photo of my actual tree, and not something taken off the internet, so you can see for yourself how nice it is.

I imagine that a lot of people would like to have this tree.

And after years of renting, there was something very appealing about having my own tree. I've been thinking about getting one of those hammock chairs, but between the steep downward slope just past the trunk and my general aversion to bugs, it's seems like a recipe for disaster. (Laurel in Hammock Chair + Flying Bug = Laurel's wild swatting and ensuing fall down the hill)

But my tree provides nice shade, and in my attempts to live a greener lifestyle, I appreciate my tree for what it adds to the atmosphere. (That's oxygen, right? The tree takes in carbon dioxide and puts out oxygen? I don't think I paid attention in science class past the sixth grade, so my knowledge on these finer points of botany is pretty limited.)

The tree and I were all good until our first Spring together.

I had no idea that my tree reproduced by generating hundreds and hundred of spiky balls that are incredibly painful to the touch should you make the mistake of trying to pick one up, get hit in the face by one falling off the tree or just walk through the yard in anything less than steel-toed work boots and come within a 12-inch radius of one of the little suckers. 

After some googling careful research, I discovered that I have a chestnut tree, and these spiky balls are actually the protective cover of the chestnuts themselves. Now, I know what you're thinking. A chestnut tree? How lovely.

You can probably even hear Nat King Cole in your head singing about "chestnuts roasting on an open fire."

I'll tell you why those chestnuts are roasting on an open fire -- it's a preview of the hell fire they deserve for centuries of lodging painful spikes in puppy paws, unprotected feet and fingertips.

My yard is like a minefield of the worst splinters you've ever had.

Plus, when you live in the American South, the climate isn't right for chestnuts to ripen, so there's no payoff for all of the pain. 

And all this leads to my original question: Can you neuter a tree?

I like my tree immensely, I just don't want it to reproduce or go through "heat." (It'd be like having a baby but skipping the painful puberty years. In other words, perfection.) Without these spiky seed coverings, my tree, my yard, my dog and I could live in blissful harmony.

If you or someone you know has any info on the de-sexualization of trees, please let me know. My flip flop-clad feet and I can't take much more of this.

A Skymall Summer

The only stainless steel wallet? How can that bet? Surely other companies have been dying to jump on this bandwagon. There must be copy cats galore. After all, who wouldn't want a stiff, relatively un-malleable material to carry in their back pocket. The seat of one's pants is definitely the place for discomfort if there ever was one.

And, even if the wallet is woven of stainless steel and has rounded edges as the ad claims (for the safety of the buyer), what's the point of having a stainless steel wallet to begin with? Do that many credit cards and driver's licenses break and suffer unnecessary damage because the wallet holding them just isn't strong enough?

At $89.95, I'm going to pass.

The Friendly Skies

I’m not a good flier.

I’m sure it’s shocking to most, but something about my fear of heights, death and touching strangers added to my anxiety disorder doesn’t make for the best mix. I tend to vacillate between near-hyperventilation, the temptation to start inappropriate conversations with strangers (“Tila Tequila, what a whore, huh?”) and staring into the abyss of my own mortality from the moment I enter the airport until my last flight touches the tarmac.

I’ve developed a series of rituals to deal with this fear. They includes touching the plane before I board, crossing myself on takeoff and landing and listening to the safety instructions every single time so that no greater power decides to strike me down for my arrogance.

Let’s just say that between my panic and having to remember all of the little details that keep the plane in the air (you’re welcome pilots), I find air travel absolutely exhausting.

So, I don’t fly that much. And since I don’t fly that much, I often forget about the one thing I do actually like about planes, mainly, the Skymall catalog. (I actually have so much to say about Skymall, I’m thinking of subtitling this blog “The Summer of Skymall” for the next few months. More on that later.)

 When I first saw a Skymall catalog, I became obsessed with the four-compartment shampoo, conditioner, soap and lotion shower dispenser. I wanted it so badly, I begged my  mother to let me order one for about two years. After all, what high school sophomore wouldn’t love her own wall-mounted shower dispenser, right?

When the darn thing finally came, I was intrigued for about five minutes before it ended up under my bathroom sink never to be filled or used again. (A turn most likely evident of even more of my mother’s wisdom.)

 But, while I may remember the Skymall catalog as being both fascinating and useless, I don’t remember it being racist.

Which is one of the reasons I was so surprised to see a table like this in its pages. What on earth do you think when you spy this in someone’s home? And how do they explain buying it?

“Here’s a coaster, and feel free to put that drink right on top of the Asian man on all fours.”

I just don’t think crouching people are a very good choice in furniture design. And I really can’t see this item going over well on international flights.

Rainy Days and Dog Blogs

I have often thought about giving my dog Cassidy her own blog. (Tentative title: I'm All Ears -- because Cassidy has both very large ears and tons of great advice to give.) I thought it could be a fun forum, and re-telling the events of the day from a dog's perspective might make the rather mundane tasks of waiting for the mailman and seeing who is on today's episode of WifeSwap slightly more interesting. Might.

Up until now, the main reason I haven't created a blog for Cassidy is that I didn't want to have to share this information with potential boyfriends. After all, one of my primary goals in life, after publishing a book and developing the self-control not to eat my weight in chips and salsa after every single Mexican restaurant I visit, is not dying alone. And, somehow I think that explaining to dates that one of my hobbies is writing an Internet journal in an affected canine third person wouldn't help me out with that last one.

But, ever since the BF didn't seem too frightened when I mentioned wanting a blog for Cassidy, I've gone back to the idea. 

(Plus, Cassidy's blog is only the beginning of what I imagine to be our joint celebrity life as humorists and general gals-about-town.)

Unfortunately though, then there are days like yesterday when all Cassidy and I do are wait for the rain to pass, watch Lifetime movies and ponder the stray cat that seems to live on my porch now. Even with Cassidy's gleaming wit and keen observation, I'm pretty sure all I could get out of that one are:

"Cats suck. I didn't know Daphne Zuniga still got work." ~Cassidy Belle Mills

I don't think that one's going to get us any closer to Oprah or international renown.

*Photo represents the slightly terrifying extent of my fantasies about Cassidy's and my future celebrity.

The Great Outdoors

In so many ways, I was never destined for the outdoors. My fair skin and appeal to mosquitoes are only the beginning -- direct sunlight hurts my eyes, I don't like being hot and I try to avoid dirt whenever possible. If there's not a pool within a five foot radius, I'd just rather be inside. (FYI: that puts you closer to the bar and reality TV, too.)

Which is why any urge I have to do yard work always surprises me. (Keep in mind I said "urge." It's rarely fulfilled -- hence my lawn looks the way it does. I'd like to blame the stolen lawnmower, but I had lost the battle against weeds and growth long before that.)

I think it's the Type A/OCD side of me that wants to work in the yard. I like things to be neat and ordered. My yard tends to be anything but. Some would call this laziness. I blame the aforementioned genetics/quirks.

But, lately, not even I can ignore how bad my yard has gotten. I dream about towering weeds, creeping vines and sink holes. So, for the past two days, I've ventured out. Gardening gloves on, clippers in hand, rake by my side, I decided to do yard work. 

I picked up branches. I pulled weeds. I piled debris on the curb to be picked up. It felt good. I felt like a real homeowner.

Then, as I was pulling some dead vines up, I saw it. A little baby garden snake slithered in front of me before disappearing back into the ground. Being a big girl now, I didn't scream. I didn't even jump back. I acknowledged that it was just a little garden snake -- to myself, over and over again. I kept working in the yard. I congratulated myself on being so mature and brave. About 20 minutes later, I packed up for the day and headed inside.

Sometime in the night though, everything changed. (It didn't help that I watched the "Fringe" episode about a genetically-engineered, part-snake monster, but bygones.) I thought way too much about small, slithery snakes. (And not just because of my love of alliteration.) Sure, that was just a baby garden snake, but where were its brothers and sisters? Or, worse yet, its mama? That snake had been much smaller than the creature I saw last year, but how much could a creature grow in 12 months?

It took 24 whole hours for me to lose my nerve.

I went back into the great outdoors today, but my new found anxiety made me wary of touching the ground or plants, and let's just say it's pretty hard to get much accomplished in the yard when you're only willing to poke at anything green with the end of your rake.

As soon as I figure out how to make money on this here blog (or any other venture for that matter), I'm hiring a landscape firm to deal with all the creepy crawlies, snakes and creatures around my house. Until then, the lawn is theirs. 

Green Bags, the LDS and Secret Hair

I am a sucker for as seen on TV products.

At last count, I own a Malibu Pilates chair, the Pedi-Paws nail trimming system, the Shed Ender for pet grooming, a Ped-Egg, ProActive, green bags and bread bags. (I don't actually buy most of my as seen on TV products off the television since most of them can be found at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and I always have a coupon for that store, but that's really neither here nor there.)

And despite some people's opinions, I'm also considering Aqua Globes, Hercules Hooks and trading in my old gold jewelry for cash. (Those gold-seekers own the refinery so they can cut out the middle man and put more money in your pocket!)

For awhile in the late '90s, I even wanted a pressure cooking system(despite the fact that I lived in a dorm room) and Jose Eber Secret Hair, but thankfully, no one would give me much of a credit line back then.

I do draw the line at the Xpress 101, though. Sure, I love the idea of having meals in just four minutes, but the fact that all the food comes out looking the same just freaks me out. A calzone, stuffed chicken breast and lemon pie shouldn't be identical when they hit the table. It's just not right.

Now, you may think that I have problem (and you might be right), but my devotion to as seen on TV products is yet another thing I blame on my insomnia. I also think that I can attribute my Ebay addiction, love of all B movies and the belief I briefly held in the winter of 1999 that I could become fluent in Spanish by watching enough Telemundo to my insomnia.

There's not a whole lot to do between 1:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. (and this was particularly true in the pre-Internet days) other than watch television. And that's what certain people are counting on.

Here's who wants your attention when you can't sleep and probably aren't thinking clearly: the infomercials with products, the infomercials with motivational tapes about anxiety and depression and the Mormons. (No offense meant to the Mormons. I've seen a whole lot of commercials for the LDS church in the wee hours of the morn'. It's just true.)

Insomnia is bad enough -- the frustration of wanting to sleep but not being able to, knowing you'll be exhausted the next day at school/work -- and when you add eight potential hours of shopping to that, it's just no good. No one needs bags under their eyes and the shame that comes with looking your mailman in the eye as he hands you a box with "Time Life" as the return address.

Neighborhood Watch

In the past few days or so, I've gotten new neighbors. Now, since I don't have the best of luck with neighbors, one of the features I love most about my house is that it's on the end of a cul-de-sac (since I don't live in a suburb, I think I'm really on a dead end rather than a cul-de-sac, but bygones). Because of my prime location, I only have one real neighbor rather than the customary two.

The house next door to me has also been vacant since August, so I've gotten really spoiled with the whole no neighbors thing. No one keeps me up late at night with loud trance music, no one wakes me up mowing the lawn at sun up on Saturdays and no one knocks on the door trying to sell me wrapping paper or candy bars for their kid's school.

Since neighbors aren't my favorite thing, I was hoping for a quiet young professional or someone who travels a lot. I did not want frat boys.

Unfortunately, based on the number of beer bottles by the trash can one Sunday morning, I figured my worst nightmare had come true -- I had fratastic neighbors.

Great, I thought. Now there are going to be parties all the time. And music. And kegs. And they'll probably even expect me to come to some of the parties. Ugh.

Yesterday, I finally met these new neighbors, who I think are college seniors.

"I'm Laurel, and I'm sorry I haven't introduced myself sooner."

"No worries. I'm John."

"Are y'all renting, John?"

"Yes ma'am." 

Ma'am. Now, I've been called "ma'am" before, but it was always by my little cousins or tweens at the mall whose moms were watching. No one in college has ever called me ma'am. Ever. A few years ago, guys his age were hitting on me. Now they call me ma'am.

"I hope we didn't keep you up the other night," John said next.

Now, not only am I a ma'am, but I'm also the dreaded lady neighbor who might call the cops if you have too much fun. I kept thinking about the Friends episode when Chandler becomes the angry downstairs neighbor who pounds on the ceiling to make the noise stop.

On the bright side, I guess I don't need to worry about having to attend their parties. Apparently, the only way my new neighbors expect to see me when they're socializing is if I show up in a bathrobe and curlers demanding that they "turn that darn boom box down."

A Little Girl's Dream

This past weekend, I went to two days of Davis Cup matches held here in Birmingham. I'm not necessarily the biggest tennis fan, but I like to experience new things, and I thought I shouldn't pass up the chance to watch some professional tennis played live. And I may or may not have wanted to see Andy Roddick, but let's not rate my motivations here.

Watching so much tennis reminded me of one of my rather odd childhood dreams: to be a ball girl.

For some reason or other, I really wanted to be one of the people that runs out on the court to grab stray tennis balls.

I imagine that a large part of my motivation was the outfit. Like most activities, including ice skating and tap dance, I was mainly in it for the clothes. As a girl who refused to wear pants as a child ("because ladies didn't do that") and often sported a tiara to school (like that one should really come as a surprise), I would do a lot for sequins or cute skirts. It must have been the skirt because as much as I remember loving tennis skirts, I also remember loathing the one tennis lesson my mom made me take.

I'm guessing the other motivation might have been that ball girl seemed like a pretty fool-proof way to participate in sports. I closed my eyes when the ball came towards me in batting practice, and it took a lot of Barbies for me to make the move from the kiddie pool to actual swimming, so I did a lot more bench-sitting than playing when it came to sports.

Another activity I joined for the outfit, cheer leading, even ended in humiliating defeat when I was on a squad that earned the "most improved" award at cheer leading camp. (Next to being at mascot camp -- sorry mascots -- winning the pity award at Southern cheer leading camp is no more prestigious than my time spent on the Math team.)

Although, as an adult, I can now see that being a ball girl would have been just as terrible as playing actual sports for me. Imagining myself in the role of ball girl at the Davis Cup, I envisioned a lot of tennis balls bouncing off my body and farther down the court, poor rolls that interrupted play and many, many dropped towels. (Never throw keys in my direction. Just trust me on that one.)

Plus, with matches that last at least two hours long, I would have been strolling towards the ball rather than running after it within a half hour. And that crouching position? Not with these knees.

In short, ball girls (and boys) of the world, I salute you. I'm pretty sure that blogging about watching a tennis event is as close as I'll get to the actual court ever again.

Friday Night Fever

A few weeks ago, I went down to Mobile for the Osiris Mardi Gras ball.(Osiris is the only all-inclusive Mardi Gras ball in Mobil, if you getmy drift. In 2008, there were two kings rather than the standard kingand queen.) I had a great time, and despite my normal aversion toparades, I found that my love for free stuff far outweighs my disdainof floats and crowds. Once I had collected a few dozen moon pies, somenecklaces and a plastic rose, I deemed the Mardi Gras parade a success.

Anyways, on my way down, I had to stop for gas.

Now,I am not a stopper. When I'm on a long car trip, my pit stops areminimal. My poor sister still complains that when we drove home for theholidays from D.C. she was allowed two stops — one in Roanoke and onein Knoxville. (Those are the cities 1/3 and 2/3 of the way home foranyone wondering about the logic.) A common conversation went somethinglike this:

Rachael: Laurel, I think I need to go to the bathroom.

Me: Ooh ... Hmmm ... Do you think you could hold it for awhile?

Rachael: How long is awhile?

Me: Two hours ... two and a half hours tops ...

With the rideto Mobile being about four hours, I figured that I could have one stop,max. I would have to get gas, food and a bathroom break all in oneplace. And, since I knew I wouldn't have much time between arriving inMobile and going to the ball, I also had to pick up anything I mighthave forgotten there. (I usually have to find an exit with a CrackerBarrel for the books on tape and a BP gas station for my gas card, sothis particular combination wasn't even really all that taxing.)

Ipulled over in Clanton for the Whataburger and the BP station with theconvenience store. There, I bought batteries for my digital camera,minis of white zinfandel for my pre-ball cocktail and duct tape for myboobs. (I couldn't wear a bra with the dress I had brought.) I stillfelt somewhat shameful about my shopping list three hours later, so Ihad to tell my friend R about it.

Me: Is it sad that I bought batteries, white zin and duct tape in a Clanton convenience store to start this Friday night off?

R: What's sadder is that most Friday nights in Clanton probably start out that way.

From the mouths of gays, I say. From the mouths of gays ...

Super Models Have it Rough

Thanks to Cosmo (a gift subscription, I promise, and something I never would have read apart from the oh-so-ridiculous cover blurb "An Orgasm Almost Killed Her: We Are Not Kidding"), I have discovered the top three reasons I will never look like Victoria's Secret swim suit model Marisa Miller -- apart from genetics and an aversion to exercise, of course:

According to Marisa, one must "cut out soda, salt and booze. They cause bloating, so don't have them before you have to get into a swimsuit."

Oh, Marisa. Sure, you have a life of exotic travel, money and fabulous clothes, but a life withou Diet Coke and red wine? I don't think so. And no salt? Salt is a wonder. Have you ever had the bread at Macaroni Grill? The one covered in sea salt? And don't even get me started on kosher salt. Add kosher salt to a little olive oil, and I would probably eat in on anything. In fact, I find it makes green vegetables and anything whole wheat that much better ...

So, if the choice is soda, salt and booze or bathing suits, my vices are going to win (as per usual). And I think that's the way it should be.

Old Adages

Another day, another dollar ... oh, wait ... that phrase only applies to the employed. Anyways ...

So far this week, I have:

1. Washed all of the couch cushions. They'll be covered in dog hair again by Friday, but it passed the time.

2. Framed four new pieces of "art." Two of these were my degrees. I find it easier to pretend that I have a "home office" instead of a table in my spare bedroom when I can look over at my B.A. and my M.A. I give it two weeks until this sense of accomplishment is replaced by bitterness and/or resignation.

3. Started reading Designing Web Pages for Dummies. I'm a little worried it's over my head.

4. Read a young adult romance novel called Going Too Far that I enjoyed far more. I think it comes out in March. It's by a local author, and I highly recommend it.

5. Eaten an entire box of chocolates. (Actually, that was just yesterday, and it took 20 minutes. But, the last piece I had was coconut, so I had to eat lots of Tootsie Rolls, too, to erase the taste memory.)

Good times. Good, good times.

An Open Letter to the Women of Rock of Love and the Teachers of America

As we all know, I love reality television. I don't consider myself a cruel person, but I do love watching people make fools of themselves in front of cameras. And since no one these days can claim that they "didn't know what there were getting into" with any sort of reality program, I don't even feel bad about it.

To that end, I spent most of my Saturday watching Rock of Love 3 and Tool Academy. (I'll get to Tool Academy later, but if you are not watching this show, you are missing out. Nine men are in boot camp so that can stop being crappy boyfriends. One contestant even had two girlfriends, and they switched places on the show in one episode. I ask, what is more amazing: that this dude had two girlfriends who didn't seem all that fazed finding out about the other one or that both of this guy's girlfriends signed him up for something called Tool Academy? Feel free to discuss.)

Anyways, on Saturday's Rock of Love, Ashley (of the near-beehive hairdo) referred to Rock of Love as "an opportunity," and I had an epiphany: This is why teaching English is so important.

If Ashley understood the meaning of the word "opportunity," then maybe her life would have taken a different path.

You see, Ashley, an opportunity is usually considered a good thing. Ask around. Here's what dictionary.com had to say about opportunity: 1. an appropriate or favorable time or occasion; 2. a situation or condition favorable for attainment of a goal; 3. a good position, chance, or prospect, as for advancement or success.

Examples of opportunities include going to a good college, getting a job with a great starting salary and benefits or finding a mentor in your field of interest.

The chance to sleep with Brett Michaels is not an opportunity. It's a chance to get crabs but not an "opportunity." Let's not confuse the two. Other options that should not be considered "opportunities" are meeting a guy in the food court who says he can make you a star if you pose for a few "artsy" photos, keeping the car running while your boyfriend runs into a bank he does not have an account at and letting anyone borrow your kitchen for a project "you're better off not knowing about."

Opportunities will not involve taking off your clothes, playing in mud with other women or crystal meth.

Let's remember: opportunity = good = self-respect. In general, none of these terms will overlap with Brett Michaels, Flavor Flav or I Love Money in any way, shape or form.

And teachers of the world, hold your heads high. Your job may seem thankless, but your efforts could stop the next Ashley, Bikini Girl or New York from making a fool of themselves on national television.

Or, at the very least, you might keep one little girl from making out with a man with a weave.

My Day

Well, I've been unemployed for three days. So far, I haven't gotten much done. According to What Color is Your Parachute, I'm allowed to sleep, apply for unemployment and check on my medical coverage in the first throes of unemployment, and that's it!

Check, check and check.

In the "absolute proof that God has a sense of humor" column, the lady handling my unemployment claim is a big Lipstick fan. She even had the February issue on her desk and verified my old position by checking the masthead.

Sigh.

Other than that, I've spent most of my time watching Law & Order, tinkering (successfully) with my washer/dryer connection and ordering weight loss drugs online. (Hey, if I'm going to be out of a job, I might as well be thin, too. Plus, hopefully I'll save money on grocery bills this way. It's time to ration, and a smaller stomach would make that much simpler.)

Truth be told, I want to take some time to figure out what I really want to do next. Life is short, after all, and I want to give my dreams my all, and yadda, yadda, yadda. While I know this is best for me, when I'm home during the day it's really hard for me to get the mental image of Goldie Hawn from Death Becomes Her out of my head. Not the svelte, gorgeous Goldie Hawn, but the obese one watching game shows, eating frosting from the tub and ignoring the police trying to fight their way into her apartment.

Double sigh.

The End of an Era

So, by now I'm pretty sure the word is out about Lipstick. I was laid off on Friday, and the March issue will be the magazine's last. As to what my plans are for the future -- I have no idea.

At someone's rather insistent suggestion, I'm reading What Color is Your Parachute for some guidance. While I've learned a lot working for start-ups in the past few years, the instability is starting to get to me. Then again, I'm not sure I'm meant for life in a big corporation either. Supposedly, this book is going to help with my dilemma. No surprise here, I'm skeptical, but I'm also hopeful. Yesterday, there was an NCIS marathon on. Today, in its absence, I'm starting to feel the abyss that is deciding what I want to do next.

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.

Foot in Mouth Disease

I have a sense of humor that's not for everyone.

Anyone who has visited this blog before or picked up a copy of Lipstick probably knows this already, but the truth is that I tone myself down in print. If we were at the same cocktail party, I might be overhead talking about what differentiates my starting line Spanx from their second string counterparts or any one of a bevy of other topics that really aren't appropriate for discussion on a Monday morning in one's place of business. (Seriously, every example I just thought of to finish that last sentence cannot be entertained without more forgiving lighting and wine. My cousin and I were once engaged in a trading of jokes and one-liners that led to an argument as to who would be struck down by lightning first. Sadly, we agreed it would be me.)

I accept that many people think It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is a terrible, terrible display of what I wrong with our society. I think it's hilarious. Again, my tastes/self are not for everyone.

Usually, this kind of self-awareness just means that I have to choose friends who are extremely, er, tolerant or keep my mouth shut in public. (And, since keeping my thoughts to myself only worked for about 20 minutes in 1994, if then, I mainly stick with the "picking similar friends" strategy.) For the most part, this means that my humor is appreciated, but being Southern, there's always one fatal flaw to this plan — showers.

As we all know, when you're invited to a wedding or baby shower, you don't just get to see your friend or even your friend group, you're going to be thrown in with people from all walks of your friend's life — be that elementary school, college, summer jobs, relatives or family friends.

This is not an environment in which I shine.

And this was quite clear yesterday when I made a joke about brides and heavy sedation at a friend's shower. There was some staring. And some nervous laughter. I even got an elbow to the ribs from one friend and a "did you really say that out loud to the whole room?" wide-eyed glare.

(It reminded me of the time that my cousins told me I could not say "butt" around their children because it was a bad word. I had been so proud of myself for remembering not to say "a%#.")

So, here's how I exited yesterday's event:
Bride: "Thank you so much for the cocktail plates."
Me: "I'm so sorry I said 'xanax' at your wedding shower."

Walking the Dog

Every morning, my adorable dog Cassidy and I go for a walk. (Before I go any further, I'll admit that if I had a fenced-in yard, these morning walks would never happen. As anyone who has every worked with or lived with me can attest, I am not a morning person. At my last job, I tried to implement the rule that if you hadn't seen me get up for a coffee refill yet, you probably shouldn't speak to me. I'm not fully human before about 9:30 a.m. — as evidenced by my tendency to growl and grunt as communication before then.)

Being that mornings are not my peak time, these walks tend to vary greatly in duration and rigor. Sometimes we make it a couple of blocks. Other days, Cassidy is lucky if we get to the end of the neighbor's driveway.

I'm also not the most coordinated person (please see bio under "about" for further details), and the more tired I am, the more likely I am to hurt myself. I've come back from many a morning walk with a bruise from tripping over the curb or scratches from sideswiping a holly bush. I once even broke my toe walking smack dab into one of those metal stakes used to anchor trees. (Yes, I am a danger to myself, but rarely others.)

Cassidy puts up with a lot, and I do my best to reward her with peanut butter treats because of it.

So, the other morning, I'm stumbling down the sidewalk in my velour sweat suit, eyes half open, plastic bag in hand when I hear shouting behind me.

"Eva Diane! Eva Diane!!"

Now, I'm expecting to turn around a see a small child darting into the street based on the use of the first and middle names as well as the level of panic in the voice.

Imagine my surprise when I look back and see a Jack Russell Terrier instead.

In the middle of the walk, there's one of my neighbors frantically screaming at Eva Diane, the Jack Russell, to get back inside the house. And, while at first, I thought this was a completely absurd name for a dog — I feel like "Eva Diane" is an aging socialite and not a terrier — I also quickly realized that I wasn't one to judge. After all, Cassidy also has a middle name.

Please keep in mind that I never intended to give my dog a middle name. I never even intended to give her a three syllable first name. As a rescue dog, she came to  live with me already bearing the name Cassidy. And, in addition to being more than rough-around-the-edges in the morning and clumsy, I can also be somewhat indecisive. I spent weeks trying to come up with another name for my new dog. (Since she's a redhead, I thought about Ginger because of the character from Gilligan's Island, but that seemed too girly. Gigi was also a contender, but seemed more suited to a Pomeranian than a mutt, and by the time I had considered all of the options, it had been a month and it seemed unreasonable to change the name then.)

Then, one day when I got mad at Cassidy for chasing after a cat, I found myself yelling "Cassidy Belle Mills get back here this instant."

I was as surprised to hear "Cassidy Belle" come out of my mouth as anyone, but it stuck. I guess I don't really don't have anything on old Eva Diane.

Unfortunate Questions

Around this time of the month, Tina, Nadria and I usually spend mostof our days out and about. We're often on the hunt for products tofeature in the magazine, story ideas, etc. This can be really fun — weget to get out of the office, we talk to new people, we hear whatpeople think about the magazine — but on some days this is not so fun.Yesterday was one of those not so fun days.

Tina and I were strolling through Mountain Brook Village. We wereminding our own business. A strange man walked past me. He stopped. Hegave me the once over. (Up until this point, he is mildly annoying, butI do not yet want to punch him in the face.) Then he says, "You have tostop and take notice of a beautiful woman, even when she's pregnant."

The problem here? I'm not pregnant.

In short, I was pretty much devastated. Tina tried to help me out."Laurel, he had like one eye. He was practically blind." I feel that ifhe had one eye, I should have seemed smaller since he was seeing lessof me. "Maybe it's because you have big boobs. He thinks you'relactating or something." Not cutting it either. Boobs and the stomachare two very different terrains.

The bottom line is this: If someone asks if you are pregnant when you are not in fact pregnant, there is no way to mitigate the situation.Softening the blow or explaining away the insult are not viableoptions. I don't care if it's a blind, deaf person with no hands (sohe/she can't feel for a stomach) who claims that unicorns are runningrampant through town doing the asking. Hell, the character from Johnny Got His Guncould use his one remaining chest hair to ask if I was pregnant when Iwasn't pregnant in Morse code, and I'd still be bothered by it.

At times like these, I'm reminded of some very good advice from afriend in Huntsville. She says that there's never a need to ask aboutrelationships or pregnancies. She argues that if these things are goingwell, the person is going to tell you about it. It's much easier to bepatient and wait for the, "Steven and I are doing really well — we justbought a house," than to ask about a significant other (especially ofsomeone you don't see that often) and sit through the painful, "we'reactually not together anymore, he's in love with his secretary" part ofthe conversation.

Personally, I don't want anyone to ask about my stomach unless Igrab them by the arm to tell them that I'm going into labor. But,trying to use that I'm-not-the-center-of-the-world mentality I've beenworking on lately (with limited success, I'm still bothered that TomKatstole the thunder from my 27th birthday by getting married on November18), I realize that this incident, while upsetting, is not the worstthing that could have happened to me. There are plenty of people reallysuffering in the Midwest right now (as well as all over the world). Andthe rational part of me knows that I don't actually look pregnant. (I'dlike to be in the "so what if I did, I love my body anyway" place, butI'm not there yet.)

And, in true "every cloud has a silver lining" fashion, at leastthis incident is some good motivation to use that rather expensive Malibu Pilates chair I just bought.