Name the Kitten
I have never considered myself a cat person.
When I was eight, I asked for a kitten for my birthday and was promptly informed that my mother was allergic. (A generation before that, my mother had been informed that her mother was allergic to cats when she asked for a kitten.) I didn't think about kittens much after that. When I was 12, my sisters and I got our very own puppy, and then I really forgot about cats.
But, about eight weeks ago, a lone, emaciated cat showed up on my porch. She was so small and so hungry that almost before I knew it, I had purchased cat food and was feeding her every day.
And my stray cat did not come alone. She showed up pregnant. (I figured that she might be pregnant, but I didn't think she could be more than a month or so along -- most of me still hoped she was just engorged from going from near-starvation to daily feedings. She proved me wrong by birthing a litter of five on the neighbors' porch two weeks ago.)
The neighbors are going to keep Mama, and I'm taking one of the kittens. (Two kittens still need homes if you know of anyone looking for a new pet ...)
As usual, I'm having lots of trouble with the naming process. It took me three weeks to name my first dog (in those three weeks, he was called every thing from Jake to Milton to JD before I settled on Milo). Cassidy would have a different name if it hadn't me take so long to come up with something new that I thought I would confuse her. God help me if I were ever part of a band.
Since I have this here blog though, I thought I would turn to y'all for help. I've compiled a list of names below. Vote for your favorite or send a new suggestion along. The only requirement is that the kitty have a "c" name so she'll fit in with the rest of the crew. (Yes, I did consider just "cat," but I'm scared the people at the vet's office would think I was flippant and judge me.) Here goes:
http://www.micropoll.com/akira/MicroPoll?id=192626
Thanks for you help! If I can figure out video uploads, I'll share more photos soon.
Extreme Wives
Thanks to the glorious WE network, I've discovered a new television show that I cannot get enough of. (Me love Women's Entertainment network? Who would have guessed?)
British reporter and writer Dawn Porter completed a four-part series in 2008 entitled Extreme Wife. (Sidenote: Dawn Porter is totally my new girl crush. She's adorable and adventurous, and I really like what she did in Super Slim Me.) In each part of the series, she examines very different kinds of relationships including polygamy, free love, mail order brides and Japanese geishas.
I watched the mail order brides episode on Tuesday night. (I don't think many Southerners have much personal experience with mail order brides -- rather, I didn't -- but when I lived in Washington, D.C., my roommate and I liked to try and spot mail order brides at national monuments. Maybe there were just a lot more older men who happened to meet younger, foreign women there, but often, it seemed like something more was going on.)
For Extreme Bride, Dawn takes a trip to Odessa, Ukraine with a company that arranges meetings between American men and Russian/Ukrainian women. I now think that the eligible bachelors along for the ride might explain some of why our image is so poor abroad. (I don't want to be accused of libel here, but let's just say that the phrase ild-chay olester-may occurred to me more than once.)
Bachelor #1 tries to break the ice by giving women bags of Jelly Belly jelly beans with Christian cartoons attached. (???) He also has a moustache. Enough said.
Bachelor #2 is nearly 60 and talks a lot about how American women don't know how to be wives anymore. He also has a propensity for walking around without a shirt on, and I think it's possible that a small former-Soviet republic could have been swallowed up by his overhanging gut. (Hey, I know it takes all kinds, but leaving the shirt on would be a nice start.) Has anyone heard from Moldova lately?
Bachelor #3 has an assault conviction. He says it's because the "young girl" he was seeing had a father that threatened him and he had to defend himself. All I know is that I'd be pretty pissed if someone picked up my kid from her girl scout meeting without my permission, too. (Actual details of that last sentence entirely fabricated by me, but I wouldnt' put it past Bachelor #3.) He also cries on a date and tries to hit on Dawn at one point. I think Bachelor #3 should be in prison somewhere. If you are a law enforcement official, please watch Extreme Wife and look through your cold cases.
Despite the fact that Bachelor #3 made my skin crawl, it was Bachelor #4 who I really worried about being allowed in the general population. In summation:
1. Bachelor #4 says that women date him because he has a cool car -- a Ford Mustang. He also brags that his license plate is "BadBoy3" because he's "a bad boy."
2. B4 wants a younger woman because he's "just a kid at heart." His favorite shows are Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. (Cough, ild-chay, cough, olseter-may.)
3. B4 buys his cologne at the Dollar Tree. Dawn nearly gags entering his hotel room for a pre-social interview.
4. B4 describes himself as "sexually aggressive." He likes to pull hair.
5. In addition to the Mustang, B4 drives a van with the back seats removed to make space for a mattress. He says his friends always want to know how he "gets such young girls." (Between this show and Dateline's To Catch a Predator, I'm wondering how many men use "young girls" as a synonym for "women not yet of the age of legal consent." With B4, I imagine "getting young girls" has a lot to do with the Internet, low self-esteem and images he stole out of store-bought picture frames.)
When Dawn tried to follow up with the lovely men, Bachelor #4's phone number had been diconnected. I can only hope he went to jail.
I've left one Bachelor out because with his seeming respect for women and insistence that he wanted to meet someone his age, in comparison, I was starting to think he was a real catch -- despite the all-white three-piece suit.
Considering my fascination with Mormons (only the Fundamentalist ones), I can't wait for the next episode of Extreme Wife. It may be the most exciting thing that happens to me all week ...
Premature Aging?
Thanks to a heads up from my friend Amelia, this has quickly become one of my favorite videos. (And I'm a hard sell as I've always found SNL's fake commercials to be brilliant. This one had to beat out Annuale, Mom Jeans and Schmitt's Gay.)
http://www.hulu.com/embed/VEOwhtHzcXPNH44JcyZaXQ
And, of course, I can relate. My mother will never live down the fact that she once told my father and I she wanted to see Bad, Bad Things despite the negative publicity. While my father stared at her, trying to comprehend, I explained that she really wanted to go to Eyes Wide Shut. (The connection? Chris Isaak's "Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing" played during the trailer.
While I'd like to pretend that only moms are capable of this behavior, of late, I've been making similar mistakes.
I told a group of friends how much I'd like to see Away We Go with Maya Angelou and Jim Krasinski. (Actual stars: Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski.) Half the time I look through US Weekly, I find myself thinking, "Who is that starlet? I didn't know she was famous. Maybe she's from Idols Got Talent or that High School Gym Class movie. I wish she'd get her hair out of her eyes." And once during a particularly wine-fueled conversation about literature, I referred to Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night ...") as Dylan McKay (fictional character on Beverly Hills, 90210).
If I hadn't been drinking on that last one, I'm pretty sure I would have had my M.A. in English revoked.
So, if birthing a child isn't necessary for this kind of confusion, is it just a product of age? Brain chemistry? Changing hormones? Diet? Too many lost brain cells from my misspent youth?
What can I expect next? Rambling stories? Overly rosy references to the past? Referring to every store I visit by the name of the establishment that hasn't been there in 10 years? Clipping coupons? An overt fondness for the Hallmark channel and Matlock?
Oh dear ...
Well, I suppose that if loving The Golden Girls and a good bargain down at the Walgreen's is wrong, I don't want to be right. When does that senior citizen's discount kick in, again?
Which is Worse?
A) The fact that despite an M.A. (yes, it's in English, but still),the only job that's available, I'm qualified for and pays above minimumwage involves waiting tables at someplace called the Tilted Kilt.
or
B) The fact that I'm fairly positive this 29-year-old body couldn't get past the front door at the in-person-only interview.
or
C)That I'm far more bothered by B than A. (I know, I know, I'm angryenough at myself. I'd much rather be regarded for my intelligence thanabilities than as a sexual object, but I still can't help but want a smokin' bod -- without diet or exercise -- and a seat on the Supreme Court. Oh, the conundrums of womanhood.)
Oxymorons
I am confused.
The other day, while visiting Crestline Village with my mom, I noticed a store named "Lazy Bags." The name alone gave me some trouble. What could a lazy bag mean? As a work-from-home gal, "lazy" got my attention, but the "bags" part just seemed to get in the way. Was it an all-purpose transport system? A means of toting children and/or pets? Some kind of deluxe travel pillow?
Then I noticed that the name of the store was in rainbow-colored letters. Could it be a gay-friendly boutique? And, if it was, "lazy bags" took on some entirely new connotations. (None of which I understand or make much sense mind you, but it seems like the possibilities should not be discussed here.)
(A quick note to the uninitiated: The regular rainbow of seven colors (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, indigo) is just a rainbow. A rainbow with six colors (when you combine the purples) represents gay pride. Since Lazy Bags repeats red and orange after using a six-colored rainbow, I'm guessing their rainbow is just a rainbow or wasn't given nearly this much thought.)
Then, I looked underneath the main sign to see "Fine Bean Bag Furniture." Now, I'm sure that the proprietors of Lazy Bags are incredibly lovely people with lovely products, but as a child of the '80s, I have a really hard time imagining "fine bean bag furniture." I assumed bean bag chairs only existed as part of the I'm-about-to-waste-hours-of-my-life-that-I'll-never-get-back trifecta of bean bag chair, video game console and pot. (I also assumed no one over the age of 18 could get out of a bean bag chair without a roll-out and pulling themselves up on the nearest door knob or nailed-down object. If they can, I don't want to know about it. I still have some rug burn scars -- and less pride -- from the last time I attempted a bean bag escape.)
Plus, this store is in Crestline, one of the hubs of Mountain Brook, an affluent neighborhood of Birmingham. Known for ladies who lunch, I can't seen many women wrapping up a day at the Club by inviting their friends back for martinis in the bean bag lounge.
This is one trend I'll be keeping my eye on, and I wish those behind Lazy Bags the best of luck. In the meantime, I'll be practicing my discreet roll technique.
The Problem With a Unicorn Collection
The problem with a unicorn collection is ... (Because, yes, I had one. When I was younger, my mother's decorator thought all children should have collections in their rooms. And if you ask a five-year old what her favorite animal is, you're going to get an answer like "unicorn." This is how I came to have a table full of porcelain unicorns until long after the acceptable age for such a thing.)
But, getting back to the point, the problem with a unicorn collection is that no matter how carefully you store the darn things, those horns are so delicate, they always break off.
And that's how a grown woman ends up with a hidden box full of ceramic horses with stubs on their foreheads.
I never said I was normal.
Proof of a Dirty Mind?
This past Saturday, the SO (significant other) and I headed out for some quality time and yard sale perusing. After running by the farmer's market (aren't we fabulously young and hip? -- if you ignore the whole yard sale tour), our second stop was a large rummage sale at the local Catholic school.
Now, being that it was a Catholic school, you can imagine my surprise to look up and see the word "SEX" in huge red letters on the gym wall. I went to Georgetown after all; I'm familiar with how the Catholics feel about sex of the pre-marital variety and couldn't help but wonder why "no," "never" or "only if you're married" weren't posted nearby for the impressionable youth crowd.
I spent a good 30 seconds staring at the wall and wondering why, oh why, this would be what the priests and nuns chose to put there and another 30 seconds wondering why no one else was as taken aback as I was. Was a priest going to find me and reprimand me just for staring at the word?
On closer inspection, I realized that, of course, "sex" was not painted on the gym wall after all. Instead it was the initials SFX. (For Saint Francis Xavier. Thank you, Georgetown.) No wonder no one else was as agog as I was.
Now the question that remains is this: Is it proof of a dirty mind that I immediately assumed I saw "sex" rather than some other far more mundane word or phrase? We were at a Catholic school after all. Dirty mind or not, you'd think the context clues would have helped me figure this one out. (Sorry, expensive-education Georgetown.)
I think I know what the priest would say about this one ...
Shame on You
As someone with an anxiety disorder, I tend to be more sensitive to media and news than others. Because of this, I keep an eye out for anything I might find panic-inducing. Even without my political leanings, I wouldn't watch Fox News because they seem to classify everything as "breaking news" and just the words "breaking news" kick start my brain into a downhill spiral of worry about what happened, where it was, whether or not anyone I care about might have been hurt, what's going to happen, how strong the foundation of my house is, who the known nuclear powers are, and on and on until I'm hunkered in the bath tub with my dog and a bag of Oreos preparing for the end of the world.
You can just imagine how exhausting that would be as a daily routine. (Which is why I didn't get much done in 2002, but that's another story for another day.)
I actually try to avoid most 24-hour news channels (Internet news is much better for me), scary movies and stories about single women killed in their beds by strangers because of the anxious thoughts that ensue.
So you can probably see why I'm not so happy when people sneak the scary into commercials. I can't plan for ads -- they don't put those on the digital cable menu. (Also, I work from home during the day with the Style and Lifetime networks on. Why I should ever see a commercial for anything other than Midol, diapers and selling my gold for cash, I do not know.) And If I had to choose the biggest offender in this scary ad category, it would be Brinks Home Security Systems.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1K8DKH7tCRU&hl=en&fs=1&&w=425&h=344]
Brinks doesn't just portray break-ins on TV. Apparently, in their brilliant marketing strategy, they've decided that the best way to sell security systems is to scare the be-jesus out of people. They only portray the most violent and nightmarish of break-ins. If someone comes into your house, it won't be a drug addict picking up jewelry while you're at work. No, if someone comes into your house, it's going to be a huge thug that attacks (by throwing open the front door and glaring, by the way) the moment you leave your teenage daughter home alone, when your wife and small children are home in the middle of the day or as soon as you dare to put on headphones for a run on the treadmill.
Neighborhood Nicknames
When I lived in Washington,D.C., most of the Safeways (achain of grocery stores) were known by certain monikers.
There was the Social Safeway (where you could not go lookingat all frumpy or haggard because you were basically guaranteed to run into someoneyou knew; I even think local legend held that many encounters at the SocialSafeway led to weddings), the Suburban Safeway (the most boring of them all,you never saw anyone other than a minivan-driving mom with her kids shoppinghere) and the Soviet Safeway (where you often had to wait in line for bread ormilk).
Even thought it’s been almost seven years since I lived inD.C., I still find myself assigning names to the places I visit most often.
First, there’s the Wild Wal-Mart. While all Wal-Marts havesomething of a “survival of the fittest” mentality (you don’t know what you’recapable of until Digiorno Supreme pizzas are on super sale), at the WildWal-Mart, all of the rules you thought you understood about human interactiongo out the window.
I’ve seen grown men spit on the floors there, a father andson get into a near fist fight at the cash register and a woman attempting toreturn open peanut butter because once she got home she realized it was 10cents more than she thought she should have paid for it.
Then, there’s the callous CVS. I once called this drugstoreto ask if my doctor had called in my prescription yet. “I haven’t spoken toher,” my pharmacist said. “But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t called. I haven’tanswered the phone in awhile, and I won’t check the messages for another halfhour.”
Awesome. Never mind that it was five minutes to five, and Iwould have to go overnight without meds if I couldn’t verify that myprescription order had come in. It was cool. (Extra care indeed.)
Another time I called and asked if my prescription wasdefinitely ready to pick because I felt awful and didn’t want to be out of thehouse any longer than necessary. “It is ready for pick up Ms. Mills.”
“You’re sure it’s ready?” I said. “Because I’ll just wait anhour or so to leave the house if it isn’t.”
“Nope, it’s ready.”
It wasn’t. Instead of remaining on my couch for the waittime, I spent 20 minutes in a folding chair next to the pharmacy’s privacypartition clutching my stomach in pain. Hence, the callous part of the CallousCVS.
I also have the Incompetent CVS. (Unfortunately, these aremy two closest pharmacies.) At the Incompetent CVS, you always have to wait for15 minutes at the counter while they find the prescription that’s placed in abin ALPHABETICALLY.
God forbid you be in line at the Incompetent CVS because thepharmacists there love to talk. The line can be ten deep, and they’ll find timeto ask Mrs. Wilson about why she prefers the Ensure shakes to V8 or doubleprice check Mr. Smith’s Sensodyne. I’ve been tempted to yell “I have anuncomfortable feminine problem” (true or not) for the sake of embarrassing theminto either moving through the line faster or fast-tracking me to the front.
And I haven’t even gotten to the Classy Krystal’s, the DirtyKrystal’s, Moody Moe’s or the Ghetto Winn-Dixie yet.
I have no idea what’s more disturbing about this: that Iactually took time to name (and catalog) all of the places I run errands, orthat, as a lover of words and writer, these are the best descriptors I couldcome up with.
I Drive Me Crazy
We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Some people work out. Some people paint. Others drink. (Not that I'm saying any one particular coping mechanism on that list stands out to me ...)
We all also have our ways of not dealing with stress -- the little idiosyncrasies and quirks that arise when there's a bit too much on our plates and our subconscious rears up in revolt. Some people scream, Some people cry. I forget how to pump gas.
I know, I know, you're probably thinking that that sounds absolutely crazy. But, there's something about the ability to complete day-to-day, mundane tasks that goes completely out the window when I'm consumed by other matters or living too much in my head.
In a situation where others might squeeze a stress ball or indulge in an ice cream Sunday, I find myself absolutely baffled by the idea of choosing an Octane rating.
In high school, when I was struggling with AP Calculus and SAT prep, I went to fill-up at the gas station across the street and just couldn't get the pump to work. I told the gas station attendant that his pump was broken and that he might want to check on that ASAP.
"The pump isn't broken," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. "Why else wouldn't I be able to get gas? I'm not an idiot, you know."
The only trouble was that in that situation, I was being an idiot. After fuming back to my car, I realized I hadn't lifted the lever that triggers gas flow at the pump.
I have probably been spoken to through the intercom at the pump more than any other human being on earth. That magical, difficult-to-comprehend voice has informed me that I forgot to pay at a pre-pay (overwhelmed by errands), do not have a Diesel engine (dressing down from the boss) and, during an ill-fated trip to New Jersey, that it was illegal to pump one's own gas in that state (relationship trouble).
No matter how well I think I'm handling life, the gas station is my ultimate test: Can I fill the tank without threatening the attendant or banging my head against the steering wheel? Will I find myself entangled in the gas hose? Will I be able to reward myself with a single bag of Cheetos?
Luckily, in these days of working from home, I'm operating on far fewer tanks of gas per month. Otherwise, between the bills and my concerns for the characters of General Hospital, there could be trouble.
In the News
If you were referred here from another site, like Media of Birmingham or The Terminal, you might be looking for these stories: This One Time at Camp ... and/or Lauren. Thanks so much for visiting!
I Hope it Isn't Me
I used to blame myself a lot. If a friend was in a bad mood, I had upset them or made them mad with something I'd said. If a teacher was short-tempered, I should have taken more time on my homework or studied harder for the last test. If a boyfriend was quite and withdrawn, I must have been too clingy, needy or annoying.
Sometime during my teen years, I realized that this attitude of self-blame was really quite self-involved. As fabulous as I might be, I'm not actually the centerpiece of anyone's life but my own. No one else spends hours going over what I said or should have said, evaluating my outfits or pondering how much my weight has fluctuated since college.
And it was quite freeing to realize that 1) no one was as obsessed with me as I was and 2) if anything, everyone else probably spends as much time on their own behavior and appearances as I do on mine. (Translation: Most people are way too busy thinking about themselves to take any note of what anyone else is up to.)
My epiphany helped me be less self-conscious (and stop thinking I was responsible for everyone else's bad moods), but I can still play the blame game pretty well.
If I was a better writer, I'd have a published book by now. A better housekeeper? You'd never see a single bug. I should respond to e-mails faster, write more thank you notes, cook healthier meals, and on and on and on.
Due to the state of my chosen career path (publishing), it's easier than ever to get on this track with my employment history. One company had no more room for me, another went belly-up two weeks after I resigned, and I was let go from the now-defunct Lipstick in February. The what-ifs and possibilities for self-blame seem endless.
Luckily, I have incredibly supportive friends and family who are pretty good at helping me see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can also recognize that my narcissism sneaks in a bit here, too -- I am not responsible for an entire company, economic trend or the recession. (You can see my issues with control at play here, too -- i.e., the illusion I have much of it.)
With that being said, and on a seemingly unrelated note -- wait for it, I did manage to make my way to the pages of Skirt! this July (photo and story can be found at the link). Yay, right? (I was pumped because the story was about Tina Harris and all the awesome things she does as the editor of PMS, a literary journal I read for and adore.)
Then I heard the news on Friday that Skirt!'s future is up in the air. And I can't help but think, is it me? Have I become a jinx for media outlets I don't even work for?
I'm fairly positive the answer is "no." (But I do still worry.) Then again, even Johnny Depp was considered box office poison for many years. You never know when things could turn around -- or when you're ripe for a comeback.
Foot in Mouth ... Again
1. I'm borderline inept at applying my own makeup. I hear a lot of "Hold on, there's something on your face" when I leave the house after having done my own makeup.
2. Makeup that doesn't come from the drug store is expensive. The older I get, the more I realize I need to invest in products that cost more than $3.99, but it still pains me. If I'm going to spend $50 on liquid foundation, I've got to get something else out of it, and I consider the makeup application my own private free gift.
Anyway, after about 20 minutes of browsing, I picked up some products and found a very nice African-American makeup artist to help me decide what would work best with my skin tone and texture. As I sat in her chair, we started talking about various products we had tried and what worked and what didn't. She told me about a new deodorant that wasn't worth buying. I offered the following:
"Have you ever tried the Tarte Sunburst self-tanner?"
Long pause.
"No, I've never given that one a shot."
Why I would ask an African-American woman about her self-tanning habits, I do not know. It really seems like I should have thought that one through a bit more before it escaped my mouth. She probably doesn't have the same skincare needs as my near-translucent self does. And, in case you were wondering where this is going, my Sephora incident reminded me of one of my near-constant dilemmas: When something awkward and/or inane is said, is it best to call attention to the idiocy or move on?
When I saw my vet out at a social function, rather than saying "hello" or "how are you" like a normal person, I led with "My dogs are good." No greeting, no lead-in, just "my dogs are good." Then I promptly ran away and pretended the moment had never happened.
When I accidentally ask a friend about a relationship that has since ended or a family member that has passed on, I say, "Well, that was awkward of me, wasn't it?" afterwards. And, unfortunately, I usually can't stop myself from giving a jab on the arm, too.
At Sephora, I went with the move on/avoidance approach, but I'm probably pretty evenly split on how often I make a joke and how often I deny the moment ever happened. What about you?
Laurel vs. Bear
I've heard about the bizarre antics and survival tips on Man vs. Wild for months, but it wasn't until this past weekend that I was able to witness the strange adventure for myself. (For those of you who don't know, Man vs. Wild revolves around a man -- hence the "man" part of the title -- who fends for himself and makes do with the worst of nature supposedly under the auspices of demonstrating how to stay alive when desperately lost in the outdoors -- i.e., "wild.")
I must say that I cannot imagine a man I have less in common with than Man vs. Wild host Bear Grylls. (Hey, even Bobby Knight and I both dislike Duke University.)
1. Bear enjoys dropping himself in the middle of nowhere. I can't imagine why I would ever need or want to be outside a safe radius and/or walking distance of a Krystal's or vending machine stocked to the gills with Diet Coke.
2.Bear eats stinging ants. Apart from the fact that ants hardly seem worth consuming because of their size (bird or boar, anyone?), why would you need to eat the stinging ants when I'm sure most jungles, deserts and forests are full of ants of all shapes and sizes? You could even branch out from ants to other bugs. If for some reason a baffling wilderness sprung up between me and the nearest Walgreen's, I'd much prefer making do on a meal of the debit card receipts in my wallet or even dirt for God's sake.
3. If Bear didn't have enough water, he'd run into the brush full of deadly snakes and try to find the one non-poisonous leafy plant in a wall of terribly lethal shrubs. I'd take the dehydration.
4. Bear uses his pants as a flotation device, a pillow and a means of paddling a boat. The only use my pants serve -- apart from public decency -- is to remind me of how I've had far too many a meal at the Krystal's lately.
5. Bear chooses all of this despite being a television star with access to modern conveniences and a camera crew. If I had my own TV show, there'd be mimosas and french fries as refreshments -- not bear poop and my own urine.
(I also can't help but think that the Man vs. Wild cameramen can't love their jobs. In addition to having to leap over deadly creatures and stay out under the hot sun with a crazy man eating bat vomit, when Bear takes off his pants, he's never wearing anything underneath.
I imagine the internal monologue goes something like this: "Another day, another dollar, another moment of my life lost to the glare of Bear's exposed man parts.")
In short, I just can't relate to Man vs. Wild, and I think my first episode will probably be my last. It's back to Lifetime and shows where women talk to dead people for this gal.
Phone Fear and Fantasy*
I am not a phone person.
I'm not sure exactly when I became anti-phone, but my best guess puts it on the time line somewhere between begging my mother for my own line in the sixth grade so I could watch Melrose Place while "talking" to Elizabeth (not that we did any actual talking when the show was on) and the week I lost my cell phone behind the couch and couldn't have felt more free. (That last story involves wine and less-than-stellar-search-tactics, naturally.)
I also think the fact that I have trouble hearing on a cell phone has a lot to do with my phone phobia. My good Southern manners/laziness dictate that I won't ask anyone to repeat a phrase or question more than twice. And, since I often can't make out all of the words on two tries alone, I end up saying a lot of "Uh-huh, yeah, interesting" and hoping the person on the other end of the line didn't want specifics or details.
My fear of being judged is also a factor as I've been told by more than one person I can sound "like death" or "suicidal" on the phone. Some of this is my morning voice (which, like what I understand of morning sickness, is not necessarily relegated to the morning, but is most prevalent then). The morning voice is husky, gruff and best cured by Diet Coke. The rest of my incredibly morose phone voice turns into a form of the chicken/egg situation: Do I dislike the phone because I sound terrible on it or do I sound terrible because of how much I dislike talking on the phone?
Because of all this, I rarely talk on the phone. (E-mail all the way, baby!) And I have a tendency to do my fair share of call screening. If I don't know the number, I don't answer.
But, for some reason, phone numbers I don't know also have a tendency to fill me with unbridled hope. I think this strange burst of optimism/self-delusion dates back to my college days. When I saw a number I didn't recognize, I'd think "He finally called!" only to listen to the message and realize that yet another telemarketer wanted to sign me up for a Discover card.
And even though I'm not waiting on a boy to call these days, I still get the same feeling when numbers I don't know pop up on the caller id -- especially those with exotic and far-off area codes. When I saw three unidentified, out of area phone numbers on my cell last week, these were the actual thoughts that went through my mind: "Someone finally recognized my talent! Maybe it's a literary agent! Maybe it's a book publisher! Someone wants to talk to me about publishing!"
(Sure, I should know that it takes a lot of hard work to get a book publisheror agent, and they rarely fall out of the sky, but the impulse wasthere anyway.)
In reality, the calls came from my cell phone company and a real estate agent wondering about my now three-year-old interest in housing in Nashville, and I came face-to-face with cold, hard reality yet again. Sigh.
But, for me at least, hope springs eternal ... And should anyone with a 212 number that I don't recognize call -- telemarketer or president of Penguin Books -- I'm going to make sure there's no morning voice involved.
*FYI: You don't know me at all if you think I would ever dare to name this post "Fone Fear and Fantasy."
It's Worse Than I Thought
Thanks to some quality time with my sisters this weekend, I was reminded that my obsession with "As Seen on TV" products began long before I first admitted.
In high school, I was one of the first people to jump on the ExerSlide trend. Don't remember the ExerSlide trend? (Admittedly, "trend" is probably an exaggeration. Think "scam" or "fly-by-night operation" instead.) You probably didn't watch as much late night television as I did, or you had more sense. Either way.
With the ExerSlide, I got to put paper booties around my shoes and slide my way to fitness. And, by "slide my way to fitness," I mean "spend 15 minutes finding mself unable to get from one end of the plastic mat to the other before giving up entirely and sticking the ExerSlide under my bed until I left for college."
You think I would have learned my lesson. Oh well.
The Age-Old Dilemma: What do you do with an old pair of leather pants?
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Leather pants? Really? How can this even be considered a problem? No one actually wears leather pants."
But, back in the day, you cannot imagine how much I loved these pants. I was young (read: foolish). I barely weighed anything (that's a small budget and the energy to go out every night for you). I was even blond. It was one of the few times in my life my self-esteem was over-inflated.
I thought these pants were hot, and I had to have them.
(And, "hot" they were. One of the truest things ever put on television was a certain episode of Friends in which Ross finds himself trapped in the bathroom of a date's apartment because he can't get back into the leather pants he took off because they made him sweat. Leather pants are not something you can try on, change your mind and take off for another outfit. If you want to wear leather pants, you've got to commit. Because once you're in them, you're in them. For better or worse. (I've never thought of leather pants as a metaphor for marriage before, but now that I'm there, I kind of like it.))
These pants were also expensive. To this day, they are the one and only item I've ever bought from Neiman Marcus. I think they were originally priced at $350, but I got them on sale for something like $170. (Again, paying that much for these pants is another indication that I was young and had no real concept of money.) I only found them on sale because they're a size 8, which is like a size 2 in skintight designer leather. They're made by Laundry for goodness' sake.
The one time I can recall going out in these, my roommates and I were having some kind of theme party. I had my blond hair fluffed up, the leather pants on and wore a t-shirt that said "Hottie" in silver glitter. For real.
Oh, the shame.
Yet, despite the unpleasant memories these pants give rise to, and the fact that I know I couldn't even get these over one ankle these days, when I pulled up to the Goodwill store yesterday, I just couldn't bear the thought of them sitting on a rack next to all the normal (read: mundane/no history) pants.
There's Ebay, but this guy already did that, and his write-up was far more fabulous than mine could ever be.
I could take them to a consignment store, but they're hardly a summer item. (A fact I ignored completely the one time I wore these. It was July. Again, the shame is strong.)
I could try to schlep them off on some unfortunate reader of this blog, but I'm pretty sure that after I admitted to wearing the pants in the heat of summer, no one's interested.
What becomes of a once-loved pair of leather pants never to be worn again? Is a second-life as a wallet all they can really hope for?
If Cassidy doesn't want to go as a dog biker for next Halloween, it might finally be time for me to let these pants go.
First Love, Vampires and Cynicism
After numerous recommendations, I finally read Twilight this month.
While the book snob in me tries to avoid "popular" fiction, I happen to not-so-secretly love young adult fiction and some sci-fi. Plus, I also have a really-not-secret love of vampire lore. (This does not mean I've ever bought a cape over the Internet, but it does mean that I've seen every episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. I've also seen everything the History channel has to offer on Vlad the Impaler.)
With Twilight, I thought the stage was set for me to fall in love with a book. And boy was I wrong.
* SPOILER ALERT* For those of you who haven't read the book and don't want to know the ending, I suggest you stop reading now.
Truth be told, I was doing great with Twilight for most of the novel. I liked all of the snuggling and touching. Edward sounded hot. It was all good.
Then I got to the part where Bella wants Edward to turn her into a vampire, and I just started to feel pissed off.
At 17, this girl is ready to die to be with the boy she loves, and that's considered romantic? I'm sorry. I just can't get on board with that. What about college? A job? Kissing other boys? Not living eternally among the undead?
Now, maybe I'm being too hard on the story, but I feel like Bella is the opposite of the role model I would want for my unborn daughters.Call me crazy, but I think a girl should have dreams beyond her high school boyfriend. And I'm not thrilled about romanticizing death either.
I do wonder if my experience with Twilight was so negative because of how I feel about my first relationship. My own experience with first love wasn't exactly rosy. I don't have fond memories of my first real boyfriend that make me smile. I don't keep love letters or mementos. If anything, I'm immensely grateful for the fact that my first love didn't last and that I went on to have other boyfriends and other loves.
If I'd made anything about my first love permanent, I'd be a very unhappy person today. I would also be a person without her own voice or identity and what fun would that be?
What do you think? Am I being too hard on Twilight? Did you like the book or not?Am I missing out on the romance? Has my own experience with first love jaded me too much?
For coming of age love stories, my money's still on Forever by Judy Blume.
Weekend Tidbits
Here's the most awkward conversation I participated in over the weekend:
On Saturday, I had lunch with a friend. I noticed that the soups of the day weren't posted anywhere, so I approached the woman working behind the counter.
Me: Do you have soup today?
Female Employee: Yes.
I waited because surely she would understand that wasn't enough of an answer. She didn't.
Me: Could you tell me what they are?
Did she really think that I just wanted to know that there was soup? Next time I visit this particular establishment, I'm going to order a soup and sandwich combo -- without specifying which soup or salad. It seems that the details are getting in the way.
Here's the most awkward conversation I witnessed over the weekend:
On Sunday, I went to pick up some photos at the One Hour Photo Booth at Walgreen's. (Please keep in mind that I visited the ONE HOUR Photo Booth.) A woman and her daughter were in front of me in line.
Walgreen's Photo Lady: When would you like these back?
Mom: When can I have them back?
Walgreen's: We can have them ready in an hour.
Mom (to her daughter): Wow, can you believe that? Only an hour? That's so fast.
Who would ever guess that the One Hour Photo Booth could have pictures back in an hour? And they say truth in advertising is dead ...
All About Me
Call it self-indulgent,but lately I've spent a lot of time thinking about compliments. Ofcourse, we all like compliments — they make us feel good aboutourselves. And, we've all also experienced the sting of the infamousback-handed compliment: "The extra weight looks good on you."What's most interesting to me though, is the compliments/kudos thatwe remember years later. When I'm having a bad day (not a simple badhair day or getting a flat tire in the rain), but I really bad day --one where I doubt myself, second guess every decision I've made inthe last five years, can't seem to find my own self-worth -- thinkingabout the times my SO [significant other] tells me I look great justaren't enough.
And, I guess that's whatI find so fascinating. When I was a little girl, I desperately wantedpeople to think that I was pretty (probably so that I'd think ofmyself as pretty), and other compliments rarely mattered to me.Smart, sweet, funny, cute -- there wasn't an adjective I wanted tohear if it wasn't "pretty" or "beautiful," andlater in college, "hot." It sounds so vain now, but avalidation of my looks was all that I wanted. In true the grass isalways greener fashion, I also bet all of the girls told that theywere pretty desperately wanted to be acknowledged for something otherthan their looks -- like a sense of humor or intelligence.
So, getting back to thepoint of the best compliment I've ever received, here goes: When Iwas a freshman in college, I was absolutely miserable. I wasattending Duke University, the kind of college that was my dream anda lot of people's dreams, but I could barely make myself get out ofbed in the morning. I had thought that I could make myself lovecollege. I tried being as social as I could at frat parties, throwingmyself into classes, looking into activities, even a therapist, butnone of it seemed to matter. And coupled with the fact that I wasmiserable, I also felt like a failure. What kind of person doesn'tenjoy college? I worried that I was socially inept, incapable ofbeing independent or just plain bratty.
Eventually, I decidedthat maybe it was the place and not me. Or, at least, that maybe Iwasn't the type of person for that particular kind of place. Istarted looking into the idea of transferring and began filling outapplications to other schools. A lot of people thought I was insane,which didn't do much for my feelings of failure. Even the dean I hadto see for one of my transfer applications was skeptical. "You'remaking the biggest mistake of your life," he told me. "Ifyou do this, you'll always regret it."
(Call me crazy, but I'mpretty sure that telling any 19-year-old a decision that doesn'tinvolve narcotics or firearms is the biggest mistake of their lifeleans towards the dramatic.)
For one of the firsttimes, I decided to trust myself. I decided to believe that maybe Iwasn't just bad at college, I was bad at being a Duke student. I wentahead with my transfer applications, and my very kind and graciouscollege counselor from high school even volunteered to help me withmy second round of applications and essays. In May of that year, Iwas accepted to Georgetown University. I moved to my D.C. dorm thatfall and spent the next few years loving my life as a Hoya.
During that applicationtime, it was my former college counselor who gave me my bestcompliment. As I was sitting in her office one day, she told me, "I'mso proud of you. You're so brave. I don't even think you realize howbrave you're being."
Sure, I wasn't savinganyone from a burning building, but for a "good girl" wholiked to please others and seek their approval, walking away fromDuke and ignoring the legions of people unhappy with my choice wasn'tthe easiest option. Plus, as someone who startles easily and can'twatch scary movies, I'm far more prone to think of myself as cowardlythan brave.
When I'm having a badday, I remember that someone thought I was brave. And I try my bestto be that. I also remember that I'm the one responsible for my lifeand what becomes of it, and I'm capable of making my own choices.Even when I think about being recently laid off, I let the idea ofbeing "brave" help me see this as the time to go after whatI want and not a reason to buckle. Basically, I do my best tofearlessly be me and hope that the rest falls into place.