The Wall

A few months ago, I went through what can probably be best described as an identity crisis. After five years producing magazine and web content, I had been out of work for a year with seemingly few possibilities or opportunities in front of me. I was depressed, I spent too much time at home by myself and I had no idea what to do next.

It seemed to me that if I couldn't make money doing what I loved, then I should probably find something else to do. And in doing that, maybe I should even look for something less stressful, or at least something I took less personally than my concepts and writing. That elusive "leave it at the door" kind of job.

The only problem with that plan, for me, was that if I did decide to do something just for the money -- sell high-end wedding gowns (I've certainly been involved with enough brides over the years), look at recruiting jobs or even go back to school for something super-practical like accounting -- I wasn't quite sure who I'd be afterwards. For the past seven years, I've defined myself, both personally and professionally, as a writer. So, if I wasn't a professional writer anymore, could I still be a writer? And if I wasn't a writer, could I be happy with whatever other title I chose to give myself? (Why Americans in particular seem to define themselves by what they do is another question for another time.)

Now, there are also lots of ways to go about handling this kind of crisis (some people might just call it a clash between reality and idealism). I could have gotten on a healthier diet, exercised more to release some endorphins, networked my butt off with a can-do attitude, gone to therapy ...

From that very rational list, I actually did pick going to therapy. The problem was that I couldn't get in for an appointment for two weeks from my initial phone call. So, like anyone would do with that waiting period, I decided the best way to handle this emotional roller coaster was by taking out a wall.

Yes, I said taking out a wall. 

You see, my adorable 1928 Craftsman-style bungalow featured a rather obnoxious wall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. The only problem being that the breakfast nook was not big enough to actually eat in, and with said wall in place, my refrigerator actually had to be in the laundry room because there was nowhere else for it to fit. (Unless, it, and it alone, took up the entire breakfast nook -- an idea I did not find aesthetically pleasing.)

While I was toying with what to do with my life, I took the wall cabinets down one day. A few days after that. I took out the base cabinets that ran along the wall and called my mom to help me take out the counter.

"What exactly are you working on here?" she asked, leveraging her weight against one side of the counter while I pushed from the other end.

"Not sure yet."

A few days after that, I took a hammer and swung it into the wall. Hearing the crackle of plaster was oddly satisfying, so I took another swing at the wall. Then I walked away. Holes could be patched, I figured, and I wasn't sure how committed I was.

"You know, I have a crowbar," my friend Tina said, "when you're ready."

"I might as well have it around," I thought. 

Within 24 hours, I was off. I devoted most every spare moment to my wall and it's careful dismantling. Not one to mess with a sledgehammer, I pulled each interior slat out, one by one. I carted every piece of plaster out to my garbage can by myself. I pulled wood and rock away, piece by tiny piece. I even convinced and  myself I was in the midst of some sort of Zen-like metaphor (the poor woman's Eat, Pray, Love journey of self-discovery): "By taking down the wall, I am putting my faith in the fact that I will know what to do when I reach the other side."

I also learned that I have some really odd thoughts while using a crowbar, like "no one can tell me what I can and can't do." Who knew?

Of course, the problem with taking down a wall (with electrical) is that you do have to hire someone to come behind you and finish up some of the work. You've also fully devoted yourself to a kitchen renovation -- ready or not. The wall is and was, at least in my situation, only the beginning.

Four months later, my wall is entirely gone, I seem to be doing OK career-wise and my refrigerator has even escaped the laundry room. I still don't have a floor, and there's a question about cabinets. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle, somewhere between where I was and where I want to be. But, I don't mind so much. It seems a little bit easier to take it one step at a time.

Maybe I should thank the therapist for that last bit of acceptance. Or maybe the credit does go to the wall. Either way, my only recommendation is to try and keep your home renovations and your emotions separate. I'm very, very lucky that thing wasn't load-bearing.

Part 2: My Top 10 TV Tearjerkers

Picking up right where we left off, with my great love for the fourth wall and all, here's the second part of my list:

5. Medium: Very Merry Maggie

So, I dig the shows where people talk to dead people. I can't help myself. In this one, the D.A., Manuel Devalos, and his wife Lily are dealing with the anniversary of their daughter's death. The wife has hired a supposed psychic to communicate with their daughter, and the D.A. becomes very angry. He then asks Alison about his daughter but all she does is write down the name of a place without realizing it.

Later, as Devalos and his wife are driving to visit their daughter's grave, they get into an argument. The wife thinks she should have come alone. They pull the car over. (Right past a sign with whatever word Alison had written down.) Devalos argues that when people are dead, they're just dead, and that's all there is to it. He can't get on board with his wife's need to believe in more.

They're out of the car having this argument, when they walk into a field of white zinnias (their daughter's favorite flower) blooming in the middle of January. And for a moment, they both believe and know their daughter is somewhere else, and she's OK.

It kills me. Every. Single. Time.

4. Dawson's Creek: All Good Things ... Must Come to an End

I won't lie to you. I stopped watching Dawson's Creek after season four. Season three was awesome -- Pacey buys Joey a wall, Pacey pulls the car over to kiss Joey after her disastrous weekend with college boy, Joey kisses Pacey while "Daydream Believer" plays in the background at Dawson's aunt's house, Pacey and Joey dance at the anti-prom and he knows that the bracelet she's wearing is her mother's and it all ends with the two of them taking off on a boat for the summer. It was perfect.

And then they went and f-ed it all up. They broke up Pacey and Joey. They made Joey and Dawson sleep together. (One word: ew.) Oliver Hudson shows up. Eh.

None of that means I was going to miss the end of a show I had loved very, very deeply. Plus, I had to believe that Pacey and Joey would finally end up together after all of that other nonsense.

What I didn't count on was them giving Jen a heart condition five years in the future. It was destined to be a train wreck. The scenes between all of the characters were too much for me, but when Jack tells Jen that she belonged to him, I really lost it. I still have this on VHS -- that's how attached to it I am.

3. ER: Dr. Greene's Death

I can't narrow this one down to a single episode, but let's just say that I did not handle Dr. Greene's terminal cancer very well. My roommate at the time threatened to keep me from watching ER because every episode ended with my face swollen and red from tears. Anthony Edwards is one fine actor.

Then came Hawaii and "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." I still think it's some of the best writing that ever was on television.

2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer: Becoming

Now, I had plenty of Buffy moments, too. After all, they killed Buffy off in the end of season five. What kind of show kills off its own main character?!?! Then, they brought her back, but she was miserable because she'd been in heaven that whole time -- not hell, as her friends had assumed. They kill Buffy's mom. They sent Giles away. They killed Kendra, Anya and Tara. This was not a show that it was wise to watch if you became easily attached to characters.

However, the end of season two is one of the most dramatic in the entire series. Angel, the love of Buffy's life, has no soul because they slept together, and he experienced a moment of perfect happiness, so he lost his soul because of an old Gypsy curse. (That makes complete sense, right?) He's been super evil since, hanging out with his old bad vampire buddies and all, and Buffy has been miserable.

Then, when Angel finally gets his soul back, it's after he's begun the process of opening the hell mouth, and the only way for Buffy to close it is by driving a sword through her now soul-restored great love.

My phone rang immediately after the episode ended, and there was no talking on the other line, but I automatically knew it was my friend Margaret, and she and I both just cried into the phone for a good 20 minutes. My high school soccer coach gave me a condolence card the next day because he knew how much I watched the show. For a teenage girl, that one was beyond rough, and I don't own the series DVDs today because I'm not sure I could handle it much better now either.

1. Lost: The Final Journey

Why is this one number one on my list? Because I'm still not over it. Literally. I've watched it three times and still just keep on crying. I've thought of turning to message boards to work out my emotions. Jack and his dad. Jack and Kate. Sawyer and Juliet. The dog. My list goes on and on. After all, I'm the girl who cried for an hour when Charlie died, and I'd know for three months that Charlie was going to die. You can hardly say it was the shock that got to me.

Say what you want to about Lost, but I think this show was phenomenal and forever changed the way television is made. Who knew what you could even do on the small screen before Lost? The cast of characters. The complexity. The acting. Come on.

I also think for those of us who tend to get a little attached and over-think, what this episode/series was really all about -- redemption and peace, is pretty powerful. I think what the creators of the show did manage to give the viewers -- for all of the characters -- is beyond impressive. I'd say more, but those final two and half hours speak for themselves, and I'm already a little misty as I type over here.

Should I ever get to the point where I can have a conversation about the show that doesn't involve crying, I'll let you know. Until then, I've just given you all of my kryptonite in a way. Want to keep me away from your party or make sure I stay home knitting for a few days? Just put one of these on the television. I'll be useless for days.

Part 1: My Top 10 TV Tearjjerkers

The other day, over Mexican food, the SO accidentally mistook Scott Bakula for Scott Wolf. While for most couples, this probably wouldn't have been a big deal, being the Quantum Leap fan that I am, this was something I had to correct and assure would never happen again. Somehow, I managed to go from telling him how to never mistake the two again to tearing up over salsa as I recounted the end of the Quantum Leap series and the most pivotal episodes that led to it.

I know.

So, in light of the fact that I've already almost started crying this week just telling the story of Quantum Leap's end, I thought I would take on the topic head-on and present my list of the most tear-jerking TV moments. Warning: there will be lots of spoilers. I also had to split this post in two because, apparently, I have a lot to say on this topic.

10. Alf's Special Christmas

It only seems fair to begin this list where it all began. In 1987, I was a big fan of Alf, the Alien Life Form, who lived with the Tanners. (He always wanted to eat the cat!) During that year's Christmas special, Alf somehow ended up in the hospital with a very sick girl named Tiffany. I think Tiffany had leukemia, and I also think she died or was dying. (This is hard to confirm through any Internet sources. It seems that no one has bothered to do an episode-by-episode breakdown of Alf, and I, for one, am shocked.) The idea of a dying child was too much for me, and I just started sobbing. I cried and cried. I cried so much, my father decided to have a talk with me about the difference between fantasy and reality and moving on.

Clearly, it didn't stick.

9. Cheers: The Finale

Even though I was also relatively young when I watched Cheers, I remember loving the show. Woody and his naivete, Carla the sassy waitress and, of course, Sam. Who didn't love Sam Malone, the scamp? And if you didn't, I don't really want to know you.

In the episode when Diane left, my memory is that she and Sam are alone in the bar. She's going, but she just wants to say "see you later" or something like that. Once she left the bar, Sam said, "Have a nice life." At the time, I thought, "How does he know she isn't coming back?" and "Adult life is complicated."

When the show went off the air, and Sam was left alone in his bar -- the implication being that Cheers was the true love of his life -- I, again, cried like a baby.

8. Party of Five: The Intervention

You've got a family of five who has already lost both of their parents to a drunk driver. They have to keep the family restaurant going. Rebellious Charlie has to be a dad, and then you go and throw in the normal teenage stuff like lost virginity, break-ups, drugs and pregnancy scares. On top of all this, sometime in season three, Bailey becomes an alcoholic and begins driving drunk, oh irony of ironies. Of course, the family has to intervene.

All of the siblings are there, and even Sarah, the ex-girlfriend shows up, because she loves him that much. I won't get into all of the lines that killed me because nothing about this episode wasn't a tear-fest for me. But, in the end, when Bailey brushes Claudia aside to walk out on his family and picks drinking over them, there was a breakdown.   

7. House: Wilson's Heart

Sure, for the most part, I didn't like a lot of season 4 (too little Cameron). I also couldn't stand Amber. That doesn't mean it didn't crush me when she died. House has the key to saving her, somewhere in his fragmented memory, only to realize that there's nothing anyone can do. She's going to die no matter what, and so they wake Amber up for everyone to say goodbye.

Oh, Wilson. Twice-divorced, finally-found-love Wilson. It was all too much for me. I just laid on the couch and sobbed. All over that poor cut-throat bitch. 

6. Quantum Leap: Mirror Image

Clearly, if I can'tget through a burrito without crying over this one, it affected me. Thethree episodes that had gotten to me most before this were, of course,M.I.A. (when Sam won't tell Al's wife Beth that Al is coming home tohim from Vietnam, even though Al begs for it, because Sam believes theyshould not use their leaps for selfish reasons), The Leap Home (whenSam leaps into his own teenage self and sees his dead father andbrother again) and The Leap Home: Part 2 (when Sam does change historyselfishly to save his brother in Vietnam, and in the end, also keeps Alfrom being rescued early and going home to Beth).

So, Samspends most of this leap in the series finale trying to figure out where he isand why he can finally see his own reflection in the mirror. It's hisbirthday. He keeps seeing people he recognizes from the past. He andthe bartender banter and argue. Is the bartender God? Sam says thathe's done enough. The bartender asks if he really has, if he's really done. Sam is supposed to accept that he is the one leaping him through time and space. For the firsttime in five years (in a way), Sam will be able to choose where he leaps next.Will he finally go home?

No, he goes back to Beth, and he tellsher that Al will come home to her. "Georgia on my Mind" plays in the background. Theviewer learns that Beth and Al remain married happily for the rest oftheir lives and have four children. Dr. Sam Beckett never leaps home.

Give me just a minute here. The keyboard is a little wet. 

More to come ...

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.

Dear Laurel?

I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)

It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.

It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.

For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.

I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa

In this case, the advice-seeker is clearly an idiot. If it doesn't occur to you as you're writing these words on a piece of paper, sealing them in an envelope, affixing a stamp and walking to the mail box that your husband is a two-timing jerk, I don't know what will. My advice? "Hey Troubled -- your husband is cheating on you and has been for years. He is also a liar. Move out and take all of his money." Love Laurel.

(Of course, this could also be an example of b) because I imagine that this woman has been told by everyone she's ever opened her mouth to that her husband is cheating on her and his behavior is not normal, but she's just not quite ready to accept it yet.)

Another letter I read said something to the effect of: "I've been married for 20 years, have four beautiful children and a loving husband, but I've been talking to my high school boyfriend on the Internet for the past few months and think he might be the real love of my life. We only broke up because he impregnated my best friend our senior year, but I know we've both done a lot of growing up since then. My husband is great and all, but don't you think I should give Frankie another chance? How often do soul mates come along after all?" -- Lovelorn in Laredo

Again, we've got some b) as I'm guessing none of this woman's friends support her decision to leave her husband for Mr. Facebook, and also some c) because for this woman, maybe, just maybe, if Dear Abby or whoever says it's OK and all, Lovelorn can throw away her life, drive her children into intensive therapy and live out her days with Frankie (who might or might not have ever earned that GED and require "just a little spending money" to get through most of his days) with little to no guilt.

I also think I'd like that advice column because sometimes I think that Dear Abby's answers really suck. (Note to Jeanne Phillips, you are not your mother.) Ask Amy, Carolyn Hax and Savage Love are up there for me, but that's another story for another day.

Here's an excerpt from Sunday's paper:

DEAR ABBY: I work in a doctor’s office. One of our patients makes abig scene if we do not address him by his title — “Reverend Smith.” Hehas to tell everyone within earshot that he went to school for eightyears to get that title. He insists that, out of respect, we shouldaddress him as such.

Abby, this man is not my reverend. So far, I have avoided calling him this. Am I being disrespectful, or is he being pompous?

Unimpressed In Louisville

DEAR UNIMPRESSED: You are not only being disrespectful, but alsopassive-aggressive. Because this patient has made clear that he prefersto be addressed by the title he has earned, you should use it.

Now, I have to say that I don't know anyone who goes to school for eight years to earn the title of Reverend. (And I live in the bible belt for God's sake.) It seems to me that if you have Ph.D. in divinity, maybe you can ask to be called Dr. But Reverend? Can't we let that one go? The nice part of me would tell Unimpressed to call the gentleman "sir." It's respectful, but refuses to acknowledge how full of himself he is. The passive-aggressive part of me would advise her to call him "Joe," but only if that wasn't his name. He'd spend so much time trying to get her to remember his first name, he'd probably forget all about the Reverend stuff.

Another note to Dear Abby about her Sunday column -- it ended with "CONFIDENTIAL TO MY READERS: Happy Fourth of July, everyone!"

Dear Abby: a) The moment you put something in the paper, it's not confidential, and b) when you're addressing all of your readers (and not just Sue in Salem who's having trouble with her best friend and doesn't want her letter to be printed), why can't you just freakin' say "Happy Fourth of July"?

I guess I want that advice column because of the ire Dear Abby causes me. Maybe I'm more magnanimous and just want to point out to all of those advice-seekers that the answers have been with them all along. Or, maybe I just like to boss people around.

I'll let you decide.

Why I Had to Walk Away From the Pole

I'm sure many of you are wondering what became of my pole-aerobics class. (Or, you're not, either way, you're getting the answer.) I'm somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I only made it through half of my stripper classes. I could build an elaborate argument about feminist principles or coming to some incredible revelation about female politics and my body, whether or not women should embrace or reject their own objectification, etc.

However, the truth as to why I had to give it all up is as simple as this: bruises.

At one point, my knees were black. Bruises ran from the arches of my feet to my inner thighs. I was wearing long pants constantly to hide all of the marks on my legs. (This is not an easy thing to do in the Alabama summers. It wasn't quite as bad as the August I had to wear mock turtlenecks to class because of an unfortunate hickey, but it was uncomfortable.) Even three weeks after my last attempt at the pole, I found the remnants of a pale brown bruise running along my thigh.

Of course, there were a few other factors -- a lot of them having to do with the fact that I sucked at the exercise. When asked to climb the pole, I couldn't even get on the pole, much less move my body once I was wrapped around it. I had hoped for rock hard arms in time for my sister's wedding. Instead, I was facing a black and blue body and the very real chance that I would never lift my arms above my shoulders again. Eventually, I had to decide -- pain and visible injury or perfecting the c-stand.

I picked the former.

Also, for a class that would seemingly improve one's confidence, I was beginning to think that I would never feel sexy again. Seeing my body attempt these moves, with strained facial expressions, from every mirror in the room made me question by self-image more than the cover of the annual Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

In the end, what I did come away with is a very important (and unexpected) life lesson: if Kevin James looks better engaged in any seductive practice than I do, it's probably time to pack it in for the day/the rest of my life.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HPa2onPT3Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&w=470&h=385]

I'd Really Like To Get Down Now Please

In all of my musings about Camp McDowell,I can’t believe that I forgot to mention the most perilous part of the entireweekend – the high dive. (It’s interesting to me that I wrote about both myterrible swimming lessons and CampMcDowell last week, but completelyforgot to mention it. Subconsciously, it must have been floating around upthere somewhere, but I guess I never put it together.)

We covered that I’m not the greatest swimmer. (I do love the water though, I’m just more of a lazyriver/"let’s float this one out with a cocktail" kind of gal.) Well, I also happen to have alittle trouble with heights. I think it began when I broke both of my armsfalling out of a tree house, but with the anxiety in this brain of mine, it’sentirely possible the phobia would have come about regardless.  

(Technically speaking, I think I have what is known asobsessive bad thoughts rather than a phobia. I can be in high spaces – I didn’tmiss out on the top of the Hancock building when I spent the summer in Chicago,but all I think about when I’m too far off the ground is falling. It’s prettymuch the only notion/image that runs through my head once I’m more than 10 feetoff the ground. Once I saw Clueless, even the third floor of the mall couldmake me a little sick to my stomach. Am I the only person in Americatraumatized by Clueless for reasons other than the fact that Alecia Silverstone’slove interest ends up being her former step-brother? Probably.)

But, you know, I’ve done a lot of work to understand myselfbetter in the past few months. I turned 30. I have a prescription for Xanax.Surely, I thought, I can handle the high dive now.

Only a few minutes after the SO and I arrived at the pool, Iheaded straight for the high dive. (That’s right, I didn’t even warm up withthe lower diving board. I wanted to be bold, so I decided to climb right onup.) I’d watched my 11-year old and 7-year old cousins go off again and again-- surely this would be fine.

The ladder itself was not a problem. I went up those rungs likeit was my job. It was the diving board at the top of those stairs that posed aproblem.

Were you aware that those things are wobbly? I know this is forpeople who actually want to jump off the diving board and gain even more heightbefore diving gracefully into the water, but once I was atop the diving boardand actually had to look down, wobbly is not something I was interested in.

I took a few steps forward, and then I took a few steps back.

“You can do it LaLa,” my adorable 11-year old cousin yelledfrom the bottom of the stairs. (I think she was anxious to take another turn.)She is a gem and my heart, so don’t question how much I love her despite whatis about to occur in the rest of this re-telling.

I took another few steps forward and froze again.

“You’ll do great honey,” the SO yelled from the shallow end.“Just like Greg Louganis.”

If I had been closer, I would have taken the Super Soaker tohim for that one.

“I’m not so sure about this,” I said, my knees beginning to goa little weak, and I stepped backwards on the board again.

“Jump LaLa!” More cousins had joined in. The young people’s excitement was tangible. Itjust wasn’t quite contagious.

“I think I might need to come down instead,” I said. “Your bigcousin isn’t as brave as she thought she was.”

“Uh-uh,” my cousin said. “There’s no coming down.” I lookeddown to see that a line had formed at the base of the ladder with more than oneof my tween-aged cousins gathered at the bottom of the steps to prevent mefrom  getting down. Plus, they’re Mills,and you should never try to out-stubborn a Mills. Even though I am one, I knewI’d at least need back-up. They were three or four deep down there. You mightbe thinking, “oh, but they’re just children.” If you are, I’ll just let youtake them on yourselves. It can be quite a pack.

I tried to go towards the end of the board again. “Now, kids …”I began, thinking I might pull the sympathy card instead. I was even preparedto offer silly bands or Miley Cyrus mementos for a reprieve.

“If you don’t go off that board, I’m going to climb up there andbounce on the end until you jump,” my cousin said.

And with that terrifying image in my head, I ran off the end ofthe board into the water. Was it a dive? Of course not. Was it graceful? Not atall. Was it even an attempt at a jump you might recognize like the cannonballor can opener? No. All I wanted right then was to get off the board, and I knewthe only way to do it was to move before I could think much more and shut myeyes tight. (If you’re curious, yes, this is how I get through a lot in life –getting on an airplane, climbing into the dentist’s chair and having my fingerpricked included.) 

So, in the end, you could kind of say that I overcame one of myfears to do something  unexpected. Or, Icould admit the truth – that it turns out my fear of tween-agers is far greaterthan my fear of heights.

Lord help me if I ever find myself in the vicinity of a Justin Bieber concert. 

Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding

There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.

There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):

1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"

2. Another boy would come around each night and serenade all of the girls' cabins. He played his guitar and sang Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train." It was quite dreamy. One of his friends would accompany him. I don't think the friend did any singing or guitar-playing, but he seemed to recognize that his friend had figured out the key to getting girls' attention, and he was hoping to pick up the leftovers. (Hey, maybe he, too, could make out with someone special in the pool that week.)

3. We learned the song "Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life." This was a problem for me on many levels -- the title, hand motions and metaphor being just the beginning. Since I'm sure you're all dying to know, here are the lyrics:

Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life/End over end neither left nor the right/Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights/Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life.

Yeah, I still don't get it either.

It also appears from my seventh grade scrapbook that we had a '70s night that involved dressing up, but what we did that night, and why the camp assumed that a bunch of 13-year-olds would travel with time-sensitive outfits for theme dressing, I don't know.

I do know that what I'm wearing had to be borrowed since this was not from my closet -- now, then or ever.

However, a few years ago my sister ended up working in the Environmental Education Program at Camp McDowell. (No, I didn't visit. Please don't judge my sister-ing.) While she was there, she met another employee of the Environmental Education Program,  and in the classic story of boy meets girl, after they met, they fell in love and decided to get married.

So, this past weekend, I made my first trip back to Camp McDowell in 17 years for their wedding. The wedding was beautiful, and I learned that camp is much better when you can stay in lodges rather than cabins and are of the age to legally drink. 

I even re-visited the same pool, but since I spent most of the time playing with my cousins and their children, I'm happy to report no traumatic make out experiences.

The one thing that was most definitely the same? The heat, but that's just an Alabama summer for you.

I now give you an updated photo of me at Camp McDowell, and in case you have trouble recognizing me, I'm two over from the bride on the right in a sage green dress two other girls are also wearing. (It's probably the tan that's confusing since I'm usually pretty translucent. Don't worry about my skin's health though -- it's a spray-on.)  

 

*Yes, I'm counting the photo from '70s night as a memory even though I don't technically remember it. You have to admit it improved the title of this post.

Wrong Number, Lady

Back in the day, when I was a young, naive 18-year-old, I couldn'twait to establish my first "adult" residence, the representation ofall freedom, lawlessness (aka, lack of a curfew) and grown-up-ness there couldbe -- the college dorm room. (The underlying question? Can you be in an"adult" residence when your parents are shelling out$15,000/semester?)

As far as I was concerned, there were three very important tasksthat came with establishing my sophisticated, mature digs:

1. Bed linens. As the main fixture in any dorm room, I consideredit paramount that my bed linens be extraordinary – cute, but not childish – soas to showcase both my taste and incredible sense of style. I’ll give you twowords on this one: Pottery Barn. Need I really say more? Most of my wardrobecame from J.Crew, too. 

2. The mini-fridge. At Duke, mini-fridges with microwaves wereavailable to rent for all freshman, and of course, my roommate and I had tohave one of these as well for our room snacks, sodas and maybe, if we werelucky, some beer. Also, without the mini-fridge, it would have been impossible to have the roommate fight that I imagine might have started the whole Cain/Abel thing over who ate who's Pringles and which party finished the last of the peanut butter. (Little did I know that this fight would find a way to rear its ugly little head in pretty much all of my co-habitation situations since.)

3. A phone line. Now, for those of you too young to remember thedays before cell phones, I’ll date myself by saying that when I went tocollege, no one had cell phones. (Of course, some people had cell phones,myself included, but Duke kids at that time mocked anyone who had a cell phone,and since mine was, in theory, for emergency purposes only, I hid it beneathmany layers of underwear and hoped it never rang when anyone else was in theroom. Considering how well I did at making friends at Duke, this wasn’t toomuch of a concern.)

Also, without a land line, you can’t fight with your roommateover who hogs the phone talking to her boyfriend at another school or spend theend of every month scrambling to pay the long distance bill that comes from toomany conversations with said boyfriend. (For that one, all the guilt’s on me.)However, a land line also provides plenty of opportunities for your roommate’smom to ask where she is even though you yourself haven’t seen her in days, soit’s an unfortunate lesson in deception and being thrown under the bus, so that someone else can spend all her time with her on-campus boyfriend. (“I’msorry, Mom, Laurel just didn’t give me the messages.”)

Oh, the lessons of adulthood.

When I arrived at Duke, unpackingmy clothes, setting up my bed linens and stocking the mini-fridge were toppriorities. Then came the incredible thrill of having my very own phone linecomplete with options for individual voice mail.

My roommate and I couldn’t believeour luck at being given such an easy number to remember: 919-234-4000. We’dhave no trouble recounting that to anyone who asked – from new friends to theJimmy John’s delivery guy.

It wasn’t until the first Saturdaynight after orientation, when all of the classes, from freshmen to seniors,were back on campus that we realized that what we thought was good fortune wasactually a terrible turn of bad luck.

You see, the number to accessDuke’s voice mail system was 919-234-0000. And any phone in the hands of a drunkco-ed often seemed to punch that 4 one too many times and end up dialing ourroom instead. Every girl who wanted to know if a boy had called (and viceversa) began ringing us up about 2:00 a.m. (when campus parties and the onecampus bar had to shut down) each and every Saturday night. (Sometimes, it wasThursdays and Fridays, too.)

Now, for those of you wonderingwhy I would still answer the phone at that hour, please keep in mind that 1) Ihad a long-distance boyfriend who also had a knack for calling when the barsclosed on Saturday night and 2) With my kind of anxiety, it’s nearly impossibleto let a phone go unanswered in the middle of the night. Even though I knew itwas probably Candy looking for her ATO hook-up, I always thought, “What if thisis the one time someone is stuck in a ditch somewhere?"

Most people who called our linequickly realized their mistake, and the calls were either hang-ups or terse“sorrys” before a hang-up. But, there’s always one in every bunch, and eachSaturday night, there was always at least one super drunk who didn’t play bythe same rules.

You see, even though this was wayback in the days of land lines and rented mini-fridges, the Duke voice mailsystem was still AUTOMATED. If you wanted your messages, you entered a code(just like we do today), and then you went through a series of prompts to getyour messages.

Still, every Saturday night, I hadat least one conversation that went like this:

Me: “Hello?” I was usually sleepy,frat parties not being much of my scene.

Drunky: “Hey, I need to get mymessages.” (Because, of course, despite weeks and months of encountering asynthesized voice, Saturday night would be the time to switch over to a real,live operator.)

Me: “I think you have the wrongnumber.”

Drunky: “No. I need my messages.”

Me: “I think you want voice mail.”

Drunky: “My code is 2473, OK? Nowcan you just give me my messages. I mean, what’s with the attitude?”

This is usually when I hung up,but the particularly persistent ones would call back.

“I’m trying to get my messages.”Then I’d hear the grating beeps as the person on the other end of the linepunched a series of buttons on the number pad.

“I told you. You have the wrongnumber.”

“Why this isn’t working?” wouldusually be the last thing I heard as whatever drunk it was complained to aroommate I was sure would soon be holding their hair back in the bathroomlater.

I didn't get a lot of sleep mostweekends.

And, so, there you have it kids --some inside information on Duke, the #3 university in the country according to1998’s U.S. News & World Report.You just wouldn’t have any idea about all of that brain power if you watchedhalf the campus try to work a phone on Saturday nights. 

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.

What I Won't Do For $100

I have worked a rather wide varietyof jobs in my years on this planet. Some out of convenience (they workedaround my class schedule), some out of necessity (unemployment benefitsonly go so far, after all) and some because I like being paid in cash(just kidding IRS!).

At the first magazine I workedfor, after beginning yet another story with, “When I was working atx …,” one of my co-workers finally said, “How many jobs haveyou had, Laurel?”

Here’s the pre-college list:I started babysitting at 10 for a little girl who lived across the streetand built up quite a client list by the time I left for college. I tookmy first $5.00/hour, I-have-to-pay-taxes job at a small produce marketthe summer I was 16. The next summer, I worked at a card store wherethey forgot I was an employee due to some sort of management changeafter I went on a 10-day school-sponsored summer program. (I was ridiculouslyrelieved because that place was way too tense for a vendor of PreciousMoments figurines and soothing nature sounds CDs.) My senior year ofhigh school, I worked behind the front desk of a gym, so I would havemoney for a trip to Italy that Spring Break, and that summer I taughtat a daycare.

In the 12 years since that gymjob, I have also been a restaurant hostess, waited tables, worked foran NFL hockey team, done fundraising for a continuing care retirementcommunity, been a paralegal at the Department of Justice, worked asa bank teller, been a substitute teacher and written wine labels. (That’swithout getting into the magazine and PR work that is supposedly partof my elusive “career track.”)

Of all the training and orientationsI have gone through, it was the one for my work as a bank teller thatwas by far the most interesting – and, most likely, exasperatingfor them.

Despite how the ledger for mychecking account may look (or looked, when it existed), I’m actuallypretty good with numbers. And the OCD part of me has no problem countingmoney three times so that I rarely came up short by more than a dimeor so in my drawer.

(Side note: The one time I didlose a lot of money, I accidentally gave the president of the bank $1,000more than I should have. On the bright side, I quickly realized themoney was with the president of the bank and called his secretary toget it back. On the not-so-bright-side, I screwed up in front of thepresident of the freaking bank. Not exactly a career-builder.)

When one is training to be a bankteller, after chats about the cash-in and cash-out forms, legal holidaysand proper forms of identification for dispensing cash, there is theinevitable chat about what to do in case of a bank robbery.

Now, I will not give away thesecrets of the banking world here, but regardless to say, as a teller,you are asked to perform certain fail safes and warnings so that anywould-be bank robber gets away with as little money as possible. Youare also supposed to keep any robber away from all safes and vaults.

As most people are aware, I’msomething of a scaredy cat. I’m also someone who has watched far toomany procedural dramas on TV – the CSI franchise, Law & Order,The First 48 … So, as the leader of our training is discussing earlywarnings and fail safes in the “unlikely event” of a bank robbery,I raised my hand.

“What if you don’t reallyfeel comfortable doing any of that?” I said, imaging a burly, angryman with a gun in my face saying that he knows about the panic buttonand the dye pack.

“Well,” she said, “we wouldnever ask you to do anything that puts your life in danger, but we dostrongly encourage you to use whatever means you have available to youto stop or minimize the loss of a potential robbery.”

“I see,” I said. Then I waiteda minute and raised my hand again, “I kind of think I should tellyou right now that if a guy with a gun wants my, or really, your money,I’m going to give it to him.” (I left out the part about probablydrawing him a map to the largest vault in the place if that would keephim and his weapons away from me.)

“Well, we do offer a very niceincentive program for any teller that thwarts a robbery attempt.”Then she smiled at the rest of the room in what I suppose was an encouragingway.

“And what would that be?”I said.

“We issue $100 checks for thosetellers who minimize financial losses during robbery attempts.” Shekept smiling, but I was still imagining guns in my face and those terrible,terrible ski masks.

“I think I’m going to haveto stick with what I said earlier.” Our trainer gave me one more longglance and then quickly moved on.

And I’m guessing that I musthave scored pretty highly on my initial teller test because they stilllet me work for the bank after that.

But, in all seriousness, and Idon’t know about most people, but I tend to value my life and evenmy general personal safety/general appearance (no black eyes, twistedarms, etc.) at far more than $100. You could even make that check for$1,000 or $10,000, and I’m still giving away codes and access to secretdrawers like the drunk at a family reunion. (And shock of shocks, theCIA has never come calling on me.)

I’m a cautious gal who has neverhad a love or risk and considers the lack of indoor plumbing almosttoo much adventure. I watch TV shows and think the cops with the dreaded“desk jobs” are the lucky ones. I’m not your go-to girlfor stopping a bank robbery – incentive check or not. 

A Krispy Kreme shoplifting caper-- especially if it looks like the chocolate-covered, crème-filledsupply will be depleted? Maybe. But a bank robbery? You’re going tohave to call someone else; I’ll be the one booking it for the door.And you’re more than welcome to charge me $100 for that.   

Unsolicited Advice

I am not a fan of unsolicited advice. At 30, I still have a lot in common with a three-year-old -- the fastest way to get me to do something is to tell me that you think I should do the opposite. Tell me new houses are so much more trouble- and maintenance-free? I'll have purchased a 1928 bungalow "full of character and charm" by the end of the day. Suggest the blue top? I'll buy red. "Tell me" to do anything from changing the oil in my car every 3,000 miles to putting more acai berry in my diet? I think not.

When I'm talking, I usually just want to talk. And if I'm not talking, I don't have anything to say. Rarely, unless specifically stated, do I ever want advice/help/aid on what to do next. Unless there's an open manhole involved, I have to find it out for myself.

That being said, of the wisdom given to me by others, these tidbits have been, by far, the most helpful:

On Food:

"Everyone should know how to make a good sandwich." -- My grandfather

Supposedly,my grandfather thought that there were two keys to success in life.Unfortunately, the only one anyone can remember involves making a goodsandwich. (Hopefully, this blog will at least keep future generationsfrom forgetting all of what he tried to pass on.) The Mills don't makesimple ham and cheese sandwiches. We love our condiments. We addhorseradish and roasted red pepper to the mix. We line toasted breadwith hummus. Don't even show me a Kraft single with iceberg letter ifyou expect me to take you seriously -- or eat.

On relationships:

"No matter what, never say a bad word about a friend's boyfriend. Even if they break up. You never know who's going to get married to who, and the odds are your friend will dump you long before she dumps the boyfriend." -- My Mom

It's just true. And unless your friend has an abusive or crack-addicted boyfriend, you just swallow whatever it is you might want to say. Swallow, swallow, swallow. Because no matter how much you may despise a friend's partner, you love your friend more, and the only way to ensure that you get to stay in his or her life is to play nice with the romantic partner.

"Why do you care that he has a new girlfriend? All that means is that he found someone willing to accept what you already decided you were too good for. He didn't become the magical, wonderful boyfriend that you dreamed of overnight for her. He's the exact same boyfriend you had. He's just with her now." -- A college friend

When my first love and I broke up, I was devastated. I remember torturing myself with images of the romantic dinners, thoughtful gifts and kind words he showered her with that I never got. Then my friend Sylvie stepped in, and she helped me realize that the new girl wasn't dating the perfect version of my old boyfriend; she was just dating my old boyfriend. Most likely, she just had a higher tolerance for watching frat boys play video games while shotgunning beers.

The same applies to most old boyfriends, so that day I learned to be careful with the torture and the nostalgia.

On Happiness:

"The fastest route to unhappiness is trying to make everyone else happy." -- The manager of the Mexican restaurant I worked in after my freshman year of college

We all know this one doesn't work. Make yourself happy because otherwise you'll either constantly fail or exhaust yourself trying.

"Trying to be perfect won't make you happy. There's no prize at the end for making it through with the fewest mistakes." -- Another friend

No mortal I know of has reached perfection, so trying to be the one person that does is pretty much as exhausting as trying to make everyone happy. It took a lot of work, but I learned to embrace my vulnerabilities. And what comes with vulnerability? Relativity and intimacy. I'll take those, and knowing I'm liked just the way I am, over perfection any day.

On Self-Esteem:

"Just go ahead and think of the world like this: one third of the people are going to love you. Another third is going to hate you. And the last third just doesn't give a damn." -- A colleague from my first "real" job"

This one kind of goes along with my happiness advice, but sometimes I have to remember that, no matter what I do, I'll never be loved by everyone. It also helps me remember that maybe I shouldn't be in all this to please others, that maybe pleasing myself is that aloof enough. Hell, at least two billion people are never going to pay attention anyway.

On Myself:

"I'm not going to tell you what to do because the very fact that you're asking means that you haven't figured it out yet. I know you'll figure it out." -- My father

Of course, it's the natural conclusion when you spend your entire life dismissing what anyone else has to say, but now I can't get advice to save my life. Unless diaper rash or the perfect pie is involved, it should probably stay that way. We all have to find our own path and stumbling is just part of the journey. Plus, I do think I'm supposed to be a grown-up now, which means owning my life and picking for myself. Whatever that may be.

How about y'all? Any great advice or particularly meaningful words out there? I'll have to cover horrendous advice ("The key to a good marriage is accepting he'll have a woman in every port") in some future post, so please save those stories for later. I'm sure we'll find some doozies.

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.

Not What I Wanted to Hear From Paula Deen*

Last week, the SO and I had to make an impromptu visit to Savannah, Georgia for some family matters. Between both of our work schedules, we also knew that we'd probably get to spend less than 24 hours in town.

After the SO price-lined our hotel (one of his favorite activities), I jumped on the web link he sent me to check out the amenities we would be enjoying in the 14 hours between check-in and check-out. Of course, there was your standard pool, restaurants and fitness center, but what immediately caught my eye was the advertised proximity of Paula Deen's The Lady and Sons Restaurant.

I like to think that Paula and I have a lot in common, and the short list includes a love of butter, cheese, cheese grits and deep frying.

Knowing that we were going to be cutting it close by rolling into Savannah just around 9:00 p.m., I asked the SO to call and see if we might make a reservation for the last seating. I also figured that even if they were booked, there would hopefully be a bar where we might be able to find open seats and order dinner.

The he broke the news to me: "They only take reservations for parties of 10 or me. I'm sorry."

I was disappointed, but figured it was still worth a walk down to the restaurant when we arrived. It was only 9:20 at the time, and plenty of people were still milling about the streets and dining in the open windows of restaurants. Also, sometimes, when I look sad or wear low-cut shirts, people give me things -- tables, free movie tickets, the fresher peaches from the back of the store. I was going to ask, and I was even willing to pull out all of the stops.

As we approached the restaurant, I could see at least five tables still full of diners, and when we walked through the door, I spotted the buffet. (A buffet? I mean, come on. That's a server's dream -- the completely low-maintenance dining experience. Plus, presented with a challenge and given the chance, the SO and I could have more than done our damage at the buffet and been out of the restaurant before closing time.)

"Are you still seating?" I asked the host when he approached.

"No," he said. "I'm sorry. We stopped seating 20 minutes ago."

Please keep in mind that I am within 30 feet of hot fried chicken at this moment.

"But, if you want," he went on, "you're welcome to come back at 8:30 in the morning and line up for tomorrow night's reservations."

Now, while I knew that this was the parties-of-less-than-10-reservation policy at The Ladys And Sons Restaurant before this moment thanks to the SO's iPhone research, I hardly expected to be confronted with it as a viable alternative to my present hunger and proximity to fried deliciousness.

"Yeah, sorry lady, you can't eat right now, but you're more than welcome to come back ELEVEN HOURS LATER at 8:30 in THE A.M. so you can LINE UP for a CHANCE at reservations"?!?!

This is your counter-offer? Really? How is this supposed to motivate me? Let alone how is this any kind of incentive to come back to your restaurant? Lines? Mornings? I think not.

We walked away, and my guess is that we will never go back. I can be stubborn, and more truthfully, the odds of me waking up in time to make it anywhere by 8:30 when I've lost an hour between the Central and Eastern time zones is slim to none.

So, when it comes to fried chicken, I guess it's just me and Zaxby's for now. With their chicken nibblers at my side, I think I'll find a way to persevere.

* Clearly Paula Deen herself did not turn me down (and I still refuse to believe that she would), but you have to admit that using her name makes for a far better headline than "Not What I Wanted to Hear From the Random Savannah Host."

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.

Heathens and Happy Hernando

A few weeks ago, the SO and I took a trip to DeSoto Caverns outside of Childersburg, Alabama. (I like to do really cheesy things, and the SO likes to take pictures, and amazingly, these two interests often coincide.)

For those of you who don't know, DeSoto Caverns is the country's first recorded cave (I don't know what this honor means either), and it's a rather amazing natural phenomenon full of stalactites, stalagmites and the like. (By "the like," I mean stuff I didn't bother to pay attention to in either science class or the guided tour.)

The good people who own the cave have seen fit to fill the area around it with attractions like panning for gemstones, a maze and water gun shooting forts. The attractions are pretty fun, and a good way to drive up the price of admission. Of course, rock candy and fudge are for sale in the gift shop, too.

The SO and I had a good time. We engaged in some archery. (I say we didn't keep score. The SO claims victory.) I fed some llamas, and of course, there was the panning for gemstones, maze-running (that I did kick ass at) and cave-touring. But, there were two rather troublesome aspects to the whole adventure.

1. The mascot for DeSoto Caverns is Happy Hernando. Now, while I have no problem with lying to children in some respects -- the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, "Of course Mom and Dad never smoked pot" -- I have my limits. And turning Hernando DeSoto into Happy Hernando, the cutest of the conquistadors, just seems wrong. After all, we're talking about a man known for his cruelty in wiping out and enslaving indigenous peoples wherever he went. Dressing him in all primary colors and adding a jaunty hat doesn't seem like enough to whitewash that past. 

(Then again, maybe it's not so much of a lie. I'm sure Hernando himself was happy, it's just that everyone who encountered him was miserable.)

2. In the middle of the one-hour tour of the actual DeSoto Cavern, everyone is asked to take a seat. All the lights go out, and you experience total darkness. I enjoyed that. As our tour guide pointed out, "A cave is one of the only places on earth other than the ocean floor one can experience total darkness."

Then, total darkness was broken by a laser light show coming out of a rock formation and the words, "And on the first day, God made light ..." The laser lights continued while the rest of the first chapter of Genesis was read -- loudly and with great enunciation. Once the scripture reading was over, the lights stopped, and all that was left was a giant neon cross. The tour guide stood back up, and we continued on our way through some more rock formations.

Now, call me crazy, but I like to be prepared before someone attempts to indoctrinate me, and I don't think a cave tour is the right time for a creationism pitch. (I'm not judging the creationists, I'm just saying that I wouldn't surprise you with a lesson on evolution while you were still high from finding an 1/8 inch amethyst in a man-made, above-ground stream.) If I'm entering a political or religious forum, I want to know about it beforehand. And nothing about that Happy Hernando prepared me for Evangelical Christianity.

A little warning is all I'm asking for. That and maybe some bigger amethysts.

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.  

My Jury Duty Story Can Beat Your Jury Duty Story

Thefirst and (knock on wood) only time I’ve ever been called for jury duty, I wasin my second year of graduate school. Believe it or not, I think jury duty ispart of one’s civic duty and one of the responsibilities that comes with havingthe world’s greatest, though not perfect, judicial system. It’s also one ofthe two excused absences at UAB (the other being military service), so I knew Iwouldn’t have to worry about flack from any of my professors.  

ThatMonday, I packed a couple of books in my purse and headed down to thecourthouse fairly sure that despite my willingness to serve, my status as agrad student and the fact that I was a lawyer’s daughter would keep me off anyjury.  

Ifound a seat in the large room where the few hundred people called for juryduty that week waited and started to read. (I quickly learned that no matterhow deep I buried my nose in a book, some elderly person would insist on havinga conversation at me. Yes, at, not with.) When the first foreman entered theroom and called my juror number, I was relieved to get away from the crowd andmy seat neighbor.

Iwas struck from the first jury after voir dire (when you declare your name, ageand workplace in front of everyone for those who've never had the pleasure), took my lunch break and went back to thecourt house for more waiting in the large jury pool room. 

Around3:30 in the afternoon, a rather handsome* and somewhat familiar-looking youngman entered the room and walked over to the desk to pick up a list of potentialjurors. Seeing as he was cute, and I hadn’t had anything to do for the past twohours, I was kind of hoping he’d call my number.  

Aboutmid-way through his list, he did. 

Asmyself and the other 35 potential jurors made our way to the court room, I dideverything in my power to flirt with this guy, even under the restrictedcircumstances. I smiled. I batted my eyelashes. I maintained extended eyecontact when I said “thank you” as he held the door open for us. And since hekept looking back at me, I thought I might have been successful. 

Whenwe arrived in the court room, we all took our seats in the rows for a trial’saudience, and the young man went to the court clerk’s seat.  

“Welcomeladies and gentlemen,” the judge said from the bench. “Thank you for servingtoday. I’d like to introduce you to the players involved in this case before wemove on.”  

Then,the judge proceeded to introduce himself, the prosecutor, the prosecutor’sclient, the defense attorney and the defendant. “And, of course, I can’t forgetmy court clerk, Tim Smith*,” he said. “It’s his second day on the job.” 

Andthat’s when it hit me. I knew exactly why I had a) thought I recognized theyoung man and b) found him so attractive. Four years before that fateful momentin the court room, Tim Smith and I had made out.  

Asa little background, for most of my life before 25, I liked bad boys. Ifsomeone was going to get hurt in any given romantic situation, that person wasgoing to be me. Unfortunately, there are two glaring exceptions to that rule,and Tim Smith was one of them. 

Imet Tim when I was a senior in college, home for the holidays and celebratingNew Year’s Even in a now-closed bar. Tim was sweet and thoughtful and, if Iasked him to, he would call me when I was in town from Georgetown. But, between the distance and my“love” for one of those bad boys who actually lived in Washington, D.C.,I let him slip off the radar without much of an explanation. I just neverreturned his last e-mail. (I know, I know – shame, shame.)  

So,not only am I now in a court room with a guy I used to see sometimes, I’ve alsofailed to recognize him even though we went out on multiple occasions, and I’veflirted with him after having already rejected him years before. And it’s onlyhis first week in the legal system. 

Inshort, I’m a big, fat jerk. 

“Now,if anyone here knows anyone in this court room,” the judge said, “we’re goingto need to get that out of the way first and foremost.” 

That was when my heart started beating far faster than it should. Am I going to haveto say that I know Tim in open court? Are they going to ask how I know him? Ifso, can I say that we dated? Does three dates count as dating? Should I justsay we hung out? Will I have to acknowledge the making out? Will there be furtherquestions about the details? Are all of these strangers going to think I’m afloozy? 

Theremight even have been a cold sweat involved.  

Luckily,despite my many, many worries, it turns out that when it comes to jury duty, noone cares whether or not you know the court clerk. Only judge, prosecutor,defense attorney and suing parties matter.  

Thankgoodness. 

Iwas struck after voir dire again, and since it was 4:30 by that time, once wewere excused, I ran from that court house with a speed that probably rivals somenewly-released felons.  

Thelesson here? I don’t really know. Be careful who you go out with? You neverknow who you’ll see at jury duty? My facial recognition sucks? All I can sayfor sure is, that with odds like these – finding myself in the one court room ofthe one person in the court house I’ve dated the one the only time I’ve everhad jury duty in his first week of work – I should have won the lottery by now. 

* Not nearly as handsome as the SO, of course.

*Names have been changes because this story is embarrassing enough as is.