Storm Damage And Sequin Shoes
We had quite the storm here in Birmingham on Sunday night. I, of course, was catching up on Friday's Medium while the SO was away, when I heard pounding against the side of the house that sounded like an invading army wanted in. In actuality, it was hail.
Hail rained down on the house like I haven't seen in years. (It looked like someone had taken garbage cans full of that rabbit pellet ice and dumped it all over the yard and driveway.) It was one of the loudest storms I can remember.
The dogs stuck pretty close to me, but other than that, they seemed to be handling the stress OK. However, when I went to the back room of the house to look for Kitty Cat Jones (he knows how to use the dog door), I realized he had not taken refuge from the storm, and I was going to have to go out there.
In my storm gear of fitflops and a hoodie, I stepped on to the front porch -- which is the same exact moment that Kitty Cat Jones shot past me. (I went out there to rescue him, and he responded by running to and past me because that's just the kind of cat that I have.) And, when he ran away from he, did he go to hide under the car or some other safe spot? Of course not. He went straight for the wooded area next to the house, and I spent some quality time in the bushes looking for him.
While I was outside, I was also able to observe the river of trash and leaves that the street had become. Water rushed down the street, carrying anything even remotely close to the curb with it.
Once I retrieved Kitty Cat Jones, I went back inside to dry him off and let him rest. Then, I waited for the rest of the storm to pass and went to bed. (I am paranoid about tornadoes and needed to make sure that I was not going to have to put all of the animals and myself in the bath tub with a mattress over us before tempting fate by going to sleep.)
On Monday, I learned why this storm was probably the loudest one I can remember. While hail was assaulting the house and I went in search of a cat, the house next door was collapsing. Collapsing.
The house next door was abandoned and pretty much stripped down to its frame. There were remnants of interior walls, but not too much else. However, it's still hard to believe that the storm itself was strong enough to blow the thing down.
References to The Three Little Pigs aside, when the SO and I went over to check out the damage on Monday night, I couldn't help but check for red sequin shoes or some other sign that the Wicked Witch of the East had been there.
In Which Laurel Discovers That She Likes Press Junkets
Despite five years in magazines, I have never been on a press junket. Yes, it's sad, but true.
In fact, I've never even traveled for business. No one has made travel plans for me. No one's offered me a stipend, and I've never even gotten to say that I was traveling for work ... [Read more]
What You Should Know Should I Become Lost At Sea
When I teach, I tend to give my students lots of writing exercises. This mainly comes from the fact that I think writing must be taught by actually writing rather than just talking about writing. However, I often get the feeling that most of my students think I just like quiet time (which I do) and that I'm trying to torture them -- especially when it comes to free writing.
So, most of the time, I do the exercises along with my students. It's helpful for me to get some new ideas down on paper, and I hope it demonstrates that I don't ask my classes to do anything I wouldn't, and don't commonly, engage in.
Last night, I was leading a short workshop on "Personal Essay as Message in a Bottle." (It's for a local non-profit group/writing center -- hence, the theme.) The general idea was, "What would you want someone to know about you if this message in a bottle was your last communication with the outside world?" However, being that that's a little dark, we started with what you'd want someone to know about you that might help them find you/recognize the urgency of the situation.
My list:
1. I'm a small (5'3") brunette with blue eyes. I do not look very good after a few days without bathing, but the salt water will have done wonders for my naturally curly hair.
2. My parents are Diane and Billy Mills. One is an engineer, and the other is a lawyer, so hopefully one will figure out a way to extract me from this Godforsaken place while the other will figure out who to sue the pants off/make me rich for life off of whatever trapped me here. (Hint: A large reward for my safe return -- emphasis on "safe" -- should be involved.)
3. I have two sisters and a brother-in-law. My brother-in-law being an avid paddler, I fully expect him to search the waters, by kayak, tirelessly, until I am found.
4. I'm 30 and have spent most of my life in the suburbs. I don't camp. I'm a fighter. (You do not want to sit next to me while playing Catch Phrase), but I'm not sure how a fair-skinned Scottish girl will fare under these conditions.
5. I cannot fish or throw a spear. I can knit. I should be able to create my own clothes from palm fronds. I think these same skills will translate to the making of my hut's roof. This is one of the few things I bring to the table in desert island survival.
6. I've watched enough Lost to know to avoid large clouds of dark smoke.
7. I am stronger than I look and can carry pieces of furniture that are far larger than myself. In addition to the aforementioned reward, I will help you with one, and only one, move if you resuce me.
8. I'm a writer. I also help businesses with blogging and new media. These skills are completely useless on this island.
9. I might go insane with no books, TV, laptop or companions. Just FYI.
10. Should I not make it off this island, please remember me from photos that are at least five years old and for the blog entries that don't show me trying to lure my cat out of various trees.
Best wishes,
Laurel Fame Mills
The Emperor's New Clothes
When I was little, I hated the story of The Emperor's New Clothes.
"But how could the king not know he was naked?' I said. "Why wouldn't any of those people tell him he was naked? It doesn't make any sense."
"How could the tailors really present pretend secretly-invisible clothes and get away with it?" I went on. "What would a whole crowd act like a naked man was wearing a pretty ouftit?"
Absolutely none of the story made sense to me at the time, and I was fairly positive Hans Christian Andersen had come up with a whole lot of hooey.
But, the older I get, the more I realize Hans Christian Andersen was really onto something there, and I see more and more of it every single day.
We've all met them -- people with big ideas but no follow-through, or even people whose very "ideas" have no substance to them whatsoever. (That's right. I went there with the air quotes.)
I call most of these people the "smoke and mirrors" sect. (Thank you for the phrasing, Dr. Phil. That is all I'm thanking you for.) They're not snake oile salesmen or con men, per say -- most of the time. They don't usually rob you blind, but they want you to think they have a whole lot more going on than they actually do. They talk the most and produce the least. They use words like "vision" and "dialogue" and "opening doors," but have no concrete steps or plans as to how they'll actually accomplish any of it. (I say "it" because in between all the words, there is nothing but the proverbial hot air. I doubt a lot of said proponents even know what "it" is.)
There can be no product without process (even Britney Spears did not build "Hit Me Baby One More Time" in one day), and whenever anyone speaks too much about the former without any indication of the latter, it makes me nervous. In said instances, I'm pretty sure the end product will be nothing more than, well, nothing.
There are many times that I want to say, "It's not that it couldn't be work, it's that you didn't work hard enough to make it happen." (A fault I'm as guilty of as anyone else.)
When I teach, I joke that you see a lot of the "smoke and mirrors" sect in coffee shops. They talk a lot about all of the projects on their plate, but their hands never touch the keyboard of their individual laptops. (Yes, yes, I know that plenty of real writers work in coffee shops, but if you know if I'm talking about you are safe.)
I've also noticed that the "smoke and mirrors" sect tends to really love one another. It's one of the many ways they perpetuate their reputations and propagate their own existence. (But, they'll call it "mobilization," "networking" or "collaboration." And, again, the difference between this kind of "mobilization" and the real one is that nothing actually comes of it.) A 19-year-old Diane Nash mobilized hundreds of college students to keep the Freedom Movement alive. (I just watched a documentary on the subect. Please forgive the over-the-top reference.) "Smoke and mirrors" people don't have results, they have more words, more excuses and more diversionary tactics -- "Hey! Let's build a "community-oriented hub" over there!"
Every day, I think I see more and more naked people in the streets, or in magazines, or even on the Internet, but no one seems to notice their lack of clothes. Instead, I see compliments and comments directed their way -- more praise, thanks and exultation -- from within their own circles.
And, every day, the fable I found so stupid seems more and more brilliant. I long for the voice that screams, "But he isn't wearing anything at all!"
Because, folks, most of the time, he or she isn't.
In Which Laurel Learns That Not Everyone Will Extend Her A Line Of Credit
We all have our low moments financially. (At least, I assume we all do. If you've never had even the slightest embarrassment caused by money, you're probably not reading this blog anyway. I don't know what an only-recently-underemployed Hyundai owner would really have to offer you.)
There's the first time you forget your wallet. "I'm sure it's here somewhere," you say, while standing at the register rummaging through a bag that contains old receipts, gum, lipstick, mace, ticket stubs, perfume samples, an emery board ... everything but your wallet, any cash or even a spare credit card that might get you out of the store with your purchases. Also, this will never happen when there are not at least three people in line behind you, one of which is an impatient mother with a screaming child and another of which is a large man who thinks his sighing alone will make you give up the ghost.
But, at least when you only forget your wallet (because you might have forgotten to pick it up from beside the computer where you left it while you were online shopping, but you were already late because you needed to see the end of Law & Order: SVU even though you'd watched the episode before but still had no memory of the ending and your hands were already full with a Diet Coke and your car keys, but whatever), you seem absent-minded.
When the credit card is declined, it ranks a little higher on the humiliation scale.
"Do you think you could run it just one more time?" you say. "I'm sure it's just the machine."
"You know, I was definitely near something really magnetic not that long ago. Maybe you need to enter the number manually."
"How about this one?"
I'll never forget the first time I had to walk out of a Target during my sophomore year of college because there just wasn't a way to pay for all of the seasonal decor and hair products I was positive I needed to survive. (At least, not a means of payment that came from any U.S.-backed financial institution.)
When you have to get out of line because of this kind of financial embarrassment, there will still be at least three people in line behind you, but they'll mostly just offer pity. In this situation, it's the clerk that tends to hate you for your perceived denial and holding up her line.
But, when it comes to shopping and financial shame, I still can't remember ever being as embarrassed as I was the first year after I graduated college.
Living in a nice place for the first time (despite some minor concerns about the surroundings in my at-the-beginning-of-gentrification neighborhood), I headed to the mall for a new slipcover, so that my love seat would match the sofa in the living room. (A living room with a fireplace by the way. I felt like I was on top of the world.)
After picking out my navy slipcover (all the better to hide beer stains, I was still young after all), I proceeded to the register.
"Would you like to save 15% on your purchase today by applying for an in-store credit card?"
As I was prone to say in those days -- and as my former credit report with Victoria's Secret, Limited, Lerner and Banana Republic cards, in addition to a couple of Amexs and a Mastercard prove -- I didn't even hesitate. "I'd love to," I said. "What do I need to do?"
I filled out the form, handed over my info and waited to hear my total announced minus the nine whole dollars this decision was going to save me.
I waited for awhile.
"I'm sorry, Miss," the clerk said. "It looks like we can't offer you a credit card today. Is there another way you'd like to pay?"
I handed over my Visa, took my bag and left the store quickly. I no longer felt wanted there.
You see, there's one thing to be said for not getting a credit line increase. There's another to be said for being turned down at Neiman Marcus or Saks. Even Macy's is somewhat respectable. But, I never, never thought that J.C. Penney wouldn't want me as a card-carrying member of their club.
Do you even know anyone with a J.C. Penney card? Of course you don't. No one shops there. How had they earned the right to turn me down? I was a Georgetown grad with a title that included "Assistant Director" in it; didn't they know I was going places?
In the years since, I've curbed my spending ways (largely out of necessity, but also partly due to the brilliant creation of my fake husband), and I have a credit score that is respectable. But, I still can't go near a J.C. Penney without feeling slightly inferior.
So, while my original rejection by Penney's did seem beyond cruel, I suppose it's kind of a blessing in hindsight. After all, who actually does shop at J.C. Penney? If it had been Anthropologie or Urban Outfitters, I probably wouldn't have ever recovered.
Impatient and Decisive, Not Always the Best Combo
I like to think of myself as a decisive person. I don’t linger over choices for too long – what color the bedroom should be, how many towels we need, what appetizer to order. I don’t like to linger over major decisions either – when I was offered a job in Nashville, I accepted it over lunch without even asking for 24 hours to think about it. I didn’t know anyone in Nashville, the pay wasn’t enough, but it was the only offer on the table (sorry for another bad pun), so in the span of about 45 seconds, I said “yes.” The SO knows that if we are faced with the end of the world, I want to see it through to the end. There will be no suicide or standing on the beach before the tidal wave for me. (I made that choice in about 20 seconds while watching some asteroid movie, and I don’t intend to go back.)
(Now, there are a few decisions I can’t, and probably never will make, but that has more to do with knowing myself than anything else. Never ask, “If you ever got a tattoo, what would it be?” My answer is that I would never get a tattoo. I have commitment issues, and I’m certainly not putting something permanent on my body when I’m usually tired of my “favorite sweater” after about four days.)
Truth be told, maybe it’s not that I’m decisive, it’s just that I’m impatient. I don’t like lingering, considering or going back and forth. If a wall color doesn’t work, repaint it. If a college doesn’t work, transfer. Can’t pick between two different colored sweaters? Buy both and return the other. (It also helps to only shop at stores with liberal return policies, save receipts and keep pertinent essays on file should you choose to live your life in this manner.)
Awhile ago, I decided that I would rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do, so I have a very hard time with the idea of opportunities passing me by. I once flew across an ocean because of an “I miss you." (In addition to saving receipts, one should also be prepared for a little heartbreak with this approach to life.)
Many of the decisions I do make, while they might seem impetuous, have been running around in my head for months, and thanks to the Internet, I can do lots of research before having to present a plan to potential nay-sayers.
A few years ago, after a lay-off and a bad break-up, I decided to get out of dodge. I took some money from a savings account and found a sub-let on an apartment north of Wrigleyville in Chicago for the rest of the summer.
By the time I had my plan in place, I approached my parents with a very familiar phrase, “Here’s the thing …”
After 20+ years, they’ve come to expect that this intro means I will either be relocating, changing schools, tearing down walls in my home, heading to a foreign country or possibly in need of bail (only kidding on that last one, knock on wood).
Yet, this past Saturday, I was a near wreck at Lowe’s when I couldn’t choose a color for the kitchen walls. I wanted chocolate brown, burnt red or some shade of orange, and the SO had to intervene.
“Remember,” he said, “when it comes to resale, most people like neutrals.” Not only was I reminded that I’m weird (I love color, what can I say?), I also became lost in a world of tans, taupes and sands. And if anything drives me crazier than cell phone rings that are animal sounds, it’s being unable to make a decision.
After 30 minutes, I let the guy who mixes the paint at Lowe’s make the call. “I’d go with that one,” he said. “It’s a little dark for my taste, but I like how plain it is.”
Plain? Plain? I took the paint and hung my head in shame.
Unfortunately, while this breakdown at Lowe’s probably should have been expected, it’s the harbinger of what to come when I can’t make choices that worries me most of all.
As sure as I can be when I’m making most decisions, there’s nothing like a little bout of depression to make me start questioning each and every one of those decisions – nearly dating back to whether or not I gave up the pacifier too soon.
When I was pretty sure I needed to transfer colleges, I didn’t just worry about the choice I’d made for school. I worried about the job I’d taken summer after my senior year of college, if I should have applied to schools further away from home/closer to home the year before, if I should have taken pre-cal my junior year rather than skipping it for straight-up calculus, whether Habitat for Humanity would have been a better club to join than Key Club.
After college, when I hated my job it was whether or not I should have studied abroad, where I should have studied abroad, if I should have majored in history instead of government, if I stopped taking French classes too soon, whether or not living off campus my senior year was the best choice, if I should have tried to make more friends, if I went out too little, if I went out too much.
Whenever my life doesn’t seem to be quite what I’d like it to be, rather than finding the strength to make a plan, get on a path and start working towards a new goal, I seem to need to spend at least two weeks questioning exactly where I went wrong in the 20 years beforehand.
Right now, I’m wondering if I sabotaged my career (forever, by the way) by never having lived in New York. If you want to write, you go to New York, right? You meet other writers. You spend long hours at magazines writing paragraphs that get torn apart and never carry a byline until someone lets you interview George Clooney and suddenly your piece is the cover of Esquire? True?
I was reading the memoir Please Excuse My Daughter this week, and when the author talked about the professional photo shoot for her contributor photo, all I could think about was how I’ve been on two contributor pages, and I had to crop my friend out of a beloved photo because it’s the only picture I think my hair looks nice in. I’m hardly complaining about the exposure and breaks that I have gotten, but I seemed to have missed a turn somewhere.
Even Chicago or L.A. would have probably been a good idea. If it’s not what you know, but who you know, what have I been doing all this time?
When I spent the summer in Chicago, I had a call back from Playboy for an fact-checking position, and I jumped on it. (They really do have articles.) By the time the editor-in-chief called me back (Wednesday to Friday, by the way), they’d already found someone for that job but wanted to “keep my resume on file.” That’s the last I heard from them.
Then again, when I have lived in bigger cities, it nearly drove me insane. Living in big cities is great – when you’re not poor. New York, Chicago and L.A. are meant for people with money. While it’s wonderful to have the world at your fingertips, if you have about $12.00 in expendable cash each month, there’s not a lot to do.
Plus, I think it should take less than three hours to go to the grocery store, less than 30 minutes to park and under an hour and a half to get home from work.
The big cities and I probably wouldn’t have made it together, but I still can’t help but think about it from time to time – would I still be toiling away in obscurity if I’d gone to New York at 21? Will I toil in obscurity forever? Does it matter? Maybe it’s not the place. Maybe it is the talent. And, if that’s the case, I have even more to worry about.
So, while I cannot offer any career advice to anyone (except to return editor’s phone calls immediately, even if it doesn’t work out, and not to turn down Oprah, ever), hand me a gift registry to choose from or ask what to read next, and I’m the gal with a quick answer.
In Which Laurel Discovers the Most Indecent Halloween Costume of Them All
I love Halloween. I could pretend that it goes back to a childhood love of free candy (and I really do like free candy), but it these days it's a little more than that.
Nowadays, what I primarily love about Halloween is spending a ridiculously long amount of time carving elaborate pumpkins (I've convinced myself it's a skill) and dressing up in outfits that would be considered "slutty" on any other occasion.
I'm 30, so time is running out on the latter, and I have to get out as much of that last urge as I can (be it annually) before the girls hit my waist. I already decided to get rid of all of my free alcohol-themed baby tees (nothing says "class" like "Stoli" emblazoned across your chest in rhinestones) and a particularly demure black tee that said "Hottie" in silver capital letters across the front at a garage sale last year. (I had fun in college -- and very little fashion discernment it seems.)
I tend to start thinking about my costume around Labor Day and then make a few returns and/or excahnges at Party City before the final reveal that last weekend of October. In recent years, I've gone as "naughty" Dorothy, Elvira and Silk Spectre II from The Watchmen. (Can you tell at which point I began dating a comic book lover?)
This year, I quickly honed in on Lilah from Jonah Hex (it reminds me of a modern saloon girl) and the Black Widow from Iron Man 2 (I love me some ScarJo). Both seemed like fun, and once I started with superheroes, I figured, "Why not keep going?"
However, there was something about the Lady Gaga costumes that kept calling to me.
I don't have particularly strong feelings about Lady Gaga, so all I can figure is that I really, really wanted the Lady Gaga wig to add to my collection. (Yes, I have a wig collection, and wearing wigs -- of the outrageous variety -- makes me very happy. Did I once throw a party whose only theme was "wigs"? Yes.)
Neither Lilah or the Black Widow would require a wig seeing as I already have long brown hair, and lessons-learned-from-the-recession Laurel is trying really, really hard not to buy things she doesn't need. Even though the Lilah wig is only $16.99, but bygones ...
I e-mailed the Lady Gaga costume photos to a friend (to see if it was too slutty), and her comment was something along the lines of, "Uh ... yeah ... that would be pretty daring."
Assuming the costume was just a blue leotard with a big collar and some cut-outs on the sides that would be lined with mesh, I still had hope. "What if I got those nearly opaque cheerleader tights that are kind of shiny and can almost seem like leggings?" I wrote back.
"Maybe," she said.
So, today, despite all of the reasonable warnings, on my third trip to Party City since September 1, I decided to try on the Gaga costume. The result, ladies and gentlemen, was not pretty. Be warned.
What I had assumed would be leotard/possibly Legg Avenue-esque concoction was actually more like a dicky with external shoulder pads and a butt flap attached -- you know, for modesty. There wasn't even fabric on the back -- nothing ran from the top of the bum to the neck. And those cut-outs? They weren't cut out of the suit. They never existed as part of the costume to begin with.
While I normally would not be willing put such a photo on the Internet (because God knows I've never posted unflattering photos of myself before), inspired by my friend Jen West and her amazing, bikini-clad documentation of her recent diet and fitness plan, as well as feeling that this post really does need a visual, I give you the most terrible and most indecent outfit I have ever put on my body.
The final blow? $49.99 for less than half a yard of fabric probably imported from China for $.35.
Parents of the world, beware: your child does not need to dress as Lady Gaga. Unless you want her to end up in soft-core porn or are willing to make the costume yourself. And women out there over the age of 21, just don't do this to yourself. Really. There are other, far more positive ways to gain men's attention.
For the first time, I actually think being a pop star probably isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially if you have a particularly aggressive stylist.
And next year, I might go back to that sheet/ghost costume.
Progress in the Kitchen
Subtitle: Let's Hope it Continues and Nothing Goes Off the Rails Anytime Soon
I apologize in advance for the colloquialisms, but a Southern adage is a Southern adage: I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but at least I ain't what I was.
You'll probably also notice that I really enjoy sampling paint colors.
Now, Meet My New Best Friend
As you may or may not be aware, I'm mildly obsessed with shapewear. (My philosophy is a little bit along the lines of "why go to the gym when there's lycra?") As my friend Tina pointed out, if I were to try and find supporters to fit my blog's "niche," it would most likely be pet care companies, red wine makers and Spanx.
Also, to quote two of my favorite women from Steel Magnolias. (Oh, who are we kidding? They're all my favorite women if they're in Steel Magnolias.):
Olympia Dukakis, commenting on the legs of a woman dancing at Shelby's wedding: "Looks like two pigs fighting under a blanket."
Dolly Parton: "Well, these thighs haven't gone out of the house without lycra on them since I was 14."
Olympia Dukakis: "You were brought up right."
Discovering Spanx changed my world, and I own everything from control top underwear to the full-on bodysuit that makes me look much thinner, but also a little like Marilyn Manson from that odd androgynous album cover underneath my clothes. (It's not full-on Silence of the Lambs skin suit, but it's kind of close.)
It took a while to grow my collection from foot-less hoses to the 15+ shaping garments that now line the bottoms of my drawers, but it happened. In the age-old debate so well articulated by Bridget Jones as to whether or not to wear the sexy lingerie that bares it all or the sucking-in, holding-in place, strange-nude-colored undies that create the illusion of a smooth body with no lumps, I long ago chose the world's ugliest underwear. (Hey, that's how Sarah Blakely herself, creator of Spanx and one of my heroes, describes them.)
*The part of this post that is not for my parents or young children*: For those of you wondering about how to hide one's Spanx in "delicate" moments, if you so choose, I've always used the excuse of needing to change out of "my work underwear." (After all, the underwear is working even if I'm not.) This ruse can only last so long, but it usually gets you over the hump. Cook some hearty homemade meals in the meantime -- lasagna, chicken pot pie, cobbler -- and the actual reveal should be far less traumatizing.
(Sadly, over time, if you stop cooking it will become far more of an issue than what your underwear looks like.)
Even since I came to love shapewear, I've continually flirted with the idea of whether or not I want an actual girdle. My stomach has always been my problem area, and even as a size 2-4 high school student that did 250 crunches after soccer practice each day, my stomach has never been flat -- let alone concave as some extremely lucky people I've heard of the existence of. Feel free to be appalled, but I'm guessing that ever since the phrase "muffin top" made it into the common vernacular, a lot of you have considered the same purchase. My internal debate of the last few years goes a lot like this:
"Women of the '50s were so lucky that girdles were everywhere. How small could I make my waist? Do you think that thing Scarlett O'Hara had to be laced into is still available? The Internet seems to have everything."
"A girdle? What was I thinking? I'm not 70, for God's sake. I should probably get a life -- and some sort of civic or political concern to rally behind. Wondering about girdles can't be the best use of my time."
But, as you've probably guessed by now, last week I broke when I discovered the Hanes Waist Cincher. While it may not be a full-on girdle, I feel like I have finally crossed the line. (There's tight boning holding my torso in, and I don't think I can go back.)
While we had a difficult adjustment period at first. "Ugh," I complained while laying on the couch Monday night, "it hurts so much." (In fairness, I had just consumed a Five Guys hamburger and fries, so it was not exactly a girdle-friendly meal (and I do see the irony here), but oh, it was not pleasant.)
In the days since, though, we've become quite close. (I wanted to leave the "literally" part unsaid on that last one, but then I did it anyway.) I don't ever want to leave the house without a waist cincher again. (If I wanted to make another bad pun, I'd say we were tied at the hip.) Tight t-shirts with jeans? I don't even worry. Clingy fabrics? Not a problem. I can even pretend I'm a delicate Victorian lady rather than someone who spends all of her time hauling tile at Lowe's if I want to.
A delicate Victorian lady in ragged jeans and a resin-stained Old Navy t-shirt, but still. If nothing else, fantasy has always been my other best friend.
How I Came to Own the World's Ugliest Sunglasses
I used to have nice sunglasses. I really did. I studied magazines with articles on your face shape and which frames fit it best. I even followed trends. (Yes, there was a period when I wanted to look a little too much like Mary J. Blige, but I cannot help it that she had kick-ass highlights and sunglasses at the time.) I even, shock of all shocks, had a carrying case for my glasses.
Of course, these sunglasses weren't cheap. I was willing to spend $80, even $90, for a great pair of sunglasses. ($100 was my line in the sand.) But, I reasoned that it was totally worth it for something I wore every day. Even if you only counted the three months of summer, I was spending no more than $1.00 each day to protect my pupils and look awesome. (A lot of my thinking was and is like taking the tactics of the Christian's Children's Fund and applying it to clothing and housewares purchases. Sad, but true.)
Inevitably, though, I would soon break or lose these sunglasses. I have sat on sunglasses (despite having a carrying case, it's not like I ever remembered to use it), left them on boats, dropped them in the water, abandoned them on store counters, crushed them under the weight of all the other nonsense I carry in my purse -- just to name a few of my glasses' unfortunate ends.
And, each and every time, I was heartbroken that the purchase I'd devoted so much time to ended in disaster.
That's when I came up with a plan: Each time I destroyed a pair of sunglasses, I had to punish myself by buying cheaper sunglasses the next time. I figured that this line of thinking would eventually teach me to appreciate and care for the sunglasses that I had. I would learn to love them and take care of them -- like a child who has to learn responsibility for a puppy.
The way this actually played out, the next-to-last pair of sunglasses that I owned came from the Dollar General.
Rather than learning anything about taking care of nice things (I apologize to all those pretty white shirts I lost to red wine, too), in the span of a few years, I went from $80 sunglasses to the $2 variety. And trust me when I say that it's hard to go much lower than $2 when it comes to purchasing sunglasses.
While I tried to work out my new dilemma (can you really wear Dollar Tree sunglasses?), I was temporarily sunglasses-less. (One pair was at the bottom of a river after a kayaking adventure, and another was crushed under the weight of some Lowe's purchases.)
Sunglasses-less, I was driving down to the lake for Labor Day weekend when I realized that these baby blues of mine would never survive a weekend in the Alabama sun without some kind of protection.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you find yourself shopping for new eye wear at a BP station in Childersburg, Alabama.
Unable to reasonably demote myself to a price of less than $2, I decided that if I was going to have BP sunglasses, I should have the worst BP sunglasses there were. Why pretend you bought your glasses anywhere other than the gas station? It's not like it won't be obvious. (Kind of like when someone tells you they're wearing an old bridesmaid dress to some non-wedding function and you act surprised even though you're not.)
So, I introduce you to the white, knock-off Ed Hardy (knock-off Ed Hardy?!?!) sunglasses I've been wearing for most of September.
Or, as a friend more adequately described them this past weekend, "Is that Laurel in the tacky glasses?"
Maybe one day I really will learn to take care of my things. Unfortunately, the open Diet Pepsi perched tediously close to this laptop begs to differ.
Better Late Than Never
There are few things I know how to do well. (I’ve often said that beyond writing, I’m only really qualified to run a bar. Plus, lately my pop culture knowledge is even slipping – Justin Bieber, Prince Poppycock and any American Idol from the last 5 years don’t even make the radar. Not even my irrelevant knowledge is what it used to be.)
However, one thing I do extremely well is read a receipt. I’ve been a dedicated shopper since near-birth and switched to a clothing allowance at 12 since my desire to spend time at the mall was far greater than my mom’s. I’m not only a dedicated shopper; I’m a dedicated bargain shopper.
I may have no memory of algebra or geometry, but I can calculate a discount and sales tax with no trouble whatsoever. Buy one, get one free (higher price prevailing)? Please. I’ll go through the line twice just to make sure I can save three extra dollars.
In other words, don’t hand this one a receipt and expect me not to know what’s up.
The other day, I went to Home Depot for the umpteenth time this week. (Again, if you learn nothing from this blog, a) never buy an old house and b) never renovate said old house. Unless, of course, you have the patience of saint, and I don’t. But, also, don’t let that “old house rule” of mine stop you from buying mine should you be interested.)
I needed one last cabinet for my kitchen, and I knew that the 20% off sale on pre-manufactured cabinets was ending shortly. Being the bargain hunter that I am, I sped down to the Home Depot for the last of my cabinet collection.
As I was checking out, I looked down at the electronic pad and noticed no “-20%, you saved $20.80” beneath the original price.”
“Did you remember the sale discount?” I asked (nicely, I might add).
“It’s automatically factored in.”
Now, again reviewing my limited knowledge base, a) sales prices are never factored in and b) having spent too much time at Home Depot, I know all sales associates have to scan the weekly sales bar code to get the right discounts.
“Are you sure about that?” I said. “I think you need the …”
“It’s already in there,” the clerk said, and she called up the next customer in line.
Not only has my personal budget been tighter lately, but I also have a little trouble letting things go. I looked down at the receipt as we were about to walk to the parking lot again and again.
“This just isn’t right,” I said.
Fortunately, the SO knows all too well my tendency to obsess.
“And this is like $20,” I went on.
“Do you want to go back in?”
“No, it’s OK,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to go back in?” he asked again. Sighing. (We had a bet going about how much time he was going to have to spend helping me at Home Depot, and I was already over my time limit by about five minutes.)
Almost before he had finished the question, I ran to the back of the store, checked the original price of the cabinet, ran back to the front of the store and beckoned him over to the customer service desk. (Once you cross me at the Home Depot, I will not deal with you again. Sadly, this severely limits who I can and cannot interact with at Home Depot.)
My new clerk did a return on the cabinet, and then ran it back up (making sure to scan the sheet of weekly specials). I could finally leave with my new cabinet and kicky savings.
Is this the most interesting story I’ve ever told? No. But, that’s what happens when you start renovating a home. (One of my friends keeps asking when I get a walker for all the stories I have to tell about Home Depot, Lowe’s and salvage home emporiums.)
But, at least you can all rest assured that while my pop culture knowledge and personal hygiene are slipping, I’m still razor sharp when it comes to getting my deals. Today’s agenda – searching for overstock tile. Try not to spend the entire weekend on the edge of your seat.
Meet My Husband
I am not a fan of the hard sell. I don't do well when people get in my face with "amazing offers," I don't like telemarketers that want to know "why I wouldn't be interested in their limited-time-only deal" and I really, really don't like large bins or buckets shoved in my face to collect change and dollars. (Yeah, I know that last one sounds mean, but come on, do you really like being solicited for money when all you want to do is run in the Wal-Mart for some shampoo and candy corn?)
That being sad, I'm also a huge softie. I find it very hard to say "no." Bring three side dishes to the party? Sure. Buy wrapping paper for your kid's school fundraiser? OK. I even used to have a hard time going into a store without any other customers in it because I felt guilty walking out without buying anything.
So, I suppose the real reason I don't like the hard sale is because I usually can't resist it. Unfortunately, like a dog can smell fear, I think most salesmen can still spot the softie in me from a mile off.
Then, I became an adult and realized that rampant spending -- not matter how difficult it was to say "no" -- wasn't going to do me well in life.
My real breaking point came one day as I was sitting in a gym membership office. (Number of times I have attempted to join a gym: 10+; number of times I have actually joined a gym: 0.) I had been there for 20 minutes with no end to the sales spiel in sight, and I was so, so hungry.
"If you put down just $5.oo today, I can guarantee you our special rate through the end of September," some very short man in a very red polo shirt kept saying.
"I need to think about it," I said.
"But it's just $5.00. Who doesn't have $5.00?"
For the first time, I realized that I just didn't want to cave. I knew I wasn't coming back to that gym (too many attractive D.C. denizens with way too much energy on the treadmills), and I really wanted that $5.oo for the McDonald's value meal I was going to eat as a pre-dinner snack on the way home.
"I'm not going to give you $5.00," I said, and yet, the conversation continued to go on and on in much the same way. When I finally did escape the gym membership office, I was exhausted. I said "no" for the first time, but it was far too time-consuming.
I needed a better way.
A few weeks later, I was in a department store buying linens (because I have an obsession with purchasing new sheets), and the all-too-familiar pitch came: "You know you can save 15% today if you sign-up for our in-store credit card."
"That's OK. I have enough credit cards," I said.
"But, you won't only save money on this purchase. You'll save 15% on everything you buy today."
And, that's when it came to my -- the line that has saved me hours upon hours of time in the years since. "Actually," I said, "it's my husband who won't let me have anymore credit cards."
"Oh, I understand," the clerk said, and she ran my debit card and put the sheets in a bag. "Have a nice day."
It was amazing (and sad for this women's libber), but just the implied presence of a man ended any attempt at further selling. (As they say, when a man says "no," it's the end of the conversation. When a woman says "no," it's the beginning of a negotiation.)
I tried it out again a few weeks later.
"If we upgrade your Internet and cable service today, you'll have free HBO for 10 whole days," the telemarketer said.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You'll have to call back later, my husband is the one who makes all of those decisions around the house."
"Of course. When do you think he'll be home?"
"I'd try Tuesday around 1:00," I said, knowing very well no one would be home then.
For an extreme people pleaser, this "husband" of mine was like finding the holy grail of avoidance.
And, when it comes to big purchases, my fictitious husband is the best.
"This mattress is only $900.00. You wouldn't believe what a steal that is, and I can only give you that price through today."
"I'll have to talk about it with my husband."
"You do that and give me a call."
In the past eight years, my "husband" has gotten me off car lots, out of more credit card offers than I can count and away from many a high-pressure gym guy (like I said, I almost join at least once a year).
He's also evolved quite a bit in the time that we've been together. My husband is no one-dimensional creation. Of course, he's in the military, so we can't sign up for any lawn services because "we never know when we'll be moving again." And, he can be a tad controlling and tight with the wallet -- I'm banned from both credit cards and have had an allowance at times. But, he's also quite liberal ("He'd kill me if I put that McCain sign in our yard") and takes great care of me ("Just the oil change today -- my husband handles the rest when he takes my car into the shop").
The older I get, the better I get at asserting myself. After all, I was only 22 when my "husband" came into being, so it's only natural that we'd do some growing apart over the years. But, every so often, when I'm just too tired or the guy at Best Buy is just a little too pushy about the quadrillion extra insurance options, I find he's still there to save me.
"I won't be getting the five-year extended warranty plus freak accident coverage today for my $40.00 DVD player. You don't know my husband -- he can fix just about anything."
The Crazy Cat Lady
In the list of stereotypes that I try to avoid, "crazy cat lady" is near the top of the list. (Not that there's anything wrong with that for my cat-loving friends; I'm definitely a crazy dog lady.) However, when you're Southern, 30, single and a often a bridesmaid, you'd be amazed how many people suggest your home life is full of stuffed animals, multiple cats and repeated references to Sex and the City.
For the record, I don't have stuffed animals. I didn't like Sex and the City. (Why do people judge you if Miranda's your favorite character? Wouldn't you be that dark if you spent all of your time with those three other crazies? Brunch chatter alone would be enough to push me over the homicidal edge.) And until recently, I didn't have a cat.
I am so paranoid about people thinking I might be slinking towards "crazy cat lady" territory that I won't buy cat food without buying dog food, too. Should I find myself in need of cat items alone, I will announce to the cashier and anyone within earshot that "I also have a dog." You know, just in case.
But, a few days ago, I found myself at a place called Cat Haven, and there really was no sense in pretending anymore.
Over Labor Day weekend, I decided to board Kitty Cat Jones since we all know how well he behaves when I go out of town, and hence the entry of Cat Haven into my life.
Now, having both a dog and a cat, I'm used to a vet's office that's pretty evenly divided between dog and cat paraphernalia. So, I wasn't quite prepared for the experience that was Cat Haven -- cat tunnels, cat calendars and about seven lounging cats to greet me as I arrived. (Also, though, complete with friendly staff and very reasonable prices.)
"Are you a first-time patient?"
"Yes," I said, putting Kitty Cat Jones on the counter in his carrier once I had adequately shut the door to prevent escaping cats -- as warned by the sign on the front door.
"We just have a few forms for you to fill out."
I provided all of the info about the cat's vaccination, etc. and handed the forms back to the lovely receptionist a few moments later.
"So, the cat's name is?" she said, eyeing the rather odd slash on my form.
"Well," I said, "he was Toonces, but them my boyfriend started calling him Kitty Cat Jones, so he kind of goes by that now. But, a lot of his medical records are under Toonces, so I thought I'd just put them both on there."
"I see."
"Yeah," I said. "He really will answer to either." It was kind of awkward.
"Well, I'm sure he'll be just fine here," the receptionist said. "Have a great Labor Day weekend."
"You, too," I said. "Thanks so much, and I'll see y'all on Tuesday."
I shook off my minor feelings of crazy, made sure no cats had tried to escape with me on my way out and went about the rest of my day.
About an hour later (bank deposit and Chik-fil-A run included), I noticed a missed call and voice mail on my phone. It was Cat Haven.
My first fear was that Kitty Cat Jones might have already made some enemies at Cat Haven, and I seriously considered ignoring the message and pretending I didn't receive it until after our vacation was over. I didn't have a back-up plan for Cat Haven expulsion two hours from departure time, and it's always better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?
Whether it was curiosity or self-sabotage, I listened to the message anyway and followed the directions to call Cat Haven back.
"Ms. Mills," the receptionist said, "we tried to confirm Toonces' vaccines and spaying with the Alabama Spay & Neuter clinic, but they seemed to have trouble locating his records."
Knowing I was about to sound even crazier, I attempted to apologize in advance, but the bottom line came down to this: "Oh, that's because his name was Cocoa back then. You'd have to look under Cocoa Mills for those records."
"I see."
The real lesson I learned this past weekend? My sanity/behavior has little to do with circumstance or pet choice. Cat or no, I'm just crazy, and I do appreciate the staff at Cat Haven for drawing as little attention to my off-beat behavior as possible.
But, should I decide a shopping cart is the best way to transport my belongings around the neighborhood or to the office, I want an intervention ASAP. Even I have limits.
Cat Watch 2010: Part Deux
I had the nerve to go out of town for the weekend. At least, I think the cat considered it nerve.
Maybe he was displeased. Maybe he doesn’t like other cats. Maybe he just really likes trees. Because sure enough, within four days of ending the first Cat Watch, the world’s oddest cat climbed yet another tree.
The cat food was disappearing each night, so I figured Toonces/Kitty Cat Jones (depending on who you talk to), was just out on one his adventures. Then, I saw a white and orange cat that was definitely not Kitty Cat Jones running away from the bowl one night and knew that Kitty Cat Jones might have wandered too far away from home. I grabbed the SO and insisted we patrol the neighborhood.
“Mew,” I called.
“Mew,” the SO reluctantly added his calls to my own.
Two houses down, a cat answered, but it was a black cat that was also not Kitty Cat Jones, so we kept going. Four houses down, I heard the distinctive – and loud – cries of one Kitty Cat Jones, and sure enough, rather than being on the ground like most four-legged creatures of God’s green earth, he was in a tree. And at least 25 feet in the air in said tree to boot.
“Sweetheart,” I called, for some reason thinking that this time he would just run right down to me rather than staging a three-day sit-in like the time before. (Sometimes my own logic baffles me.)
As per what-was-quickly-becoming usual, the cat stayed right where he was in the tree. He just started screaming louder. Since it was almost 10:00 at night, the SO took my arm and suggested we “walk quickly away” before the whole neighborhood woke up and realized we were to blame for the disturbing nighttime noises.
In the morning, I went back to the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was perched with another tin of Friskies. (Again, why I thought everything that didn’t work last time would work this time is beyond me. It must have been plain and simple desperation.)
No luck, so I went back around lunchtime, and that’s when I met the woman who owned the house with the yard and the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was. “Is that your cat?” she said.
“Yep,” I said. “That’s my cat.”
“Oh, he’s been up there for a couple of days. I called the humane society, but they weren’t much help.”
“Thank you for that,” I said. “But I know they aren’t much help with cats up trees.” I didn’t add that I’d done this before. Last week.
While I was standing there talking to the homeowner, the neighbor from across the street came over.
“That’s your cat?” he said. “He is scared to death up there.”
While I was talking to the across-the-street neighbor, another neighbor, who I happen to know from one of my writing classes came out. “Is that your cat?” she said. “I’ve been reading about ways to get him out of the tree on the Internet.”
When my former student arrived, I told her all about Kitty Cat Jones’ adventure from the week before while the across-the-street-neighbor lay on the lawn and smoked, and we all stared at the cat.
As if I couldn’t create more of a spectacle while we were all gathered on the sidewalk (me still holding a tin of Friskies), two more neighbors came over from across the street.
The husband said something that I couldn’t understand, and my former student said, “I’m sure he is thirsty in this heat.”
“That your cat?” the wife said.
“That’s my cat,” I said. I had had to own up to this a little more than I was hoping to – especially because we all know how I feel about the judging.
“You do something to make him mad?” she said.
“Well, I did go out of town for the weekend,” I said. “I guess that did it.”
“Yep,” she said, and then she offered her own diagnosis of the cant’s seemingly-growing neuroses. “He throwing a temper tantrum. That’s what it is. It’s a temper tantrum.”
“You think so?” I said.
“Oh yeah. He’ll back down out of there when he’s ready.
“Really?” I said. “It does seem like we’ve gotten into a battle of wills."
“Un-huh,” she said, “and you’re losing. The cat’s in a tree, and what are you doing? Standing out in the heat holding its food. Uh-huh. That cat got you. That cat throwing a temper tantrum, and it got you.”
Life lessons and I got to meet the neighbors -- not exactly what I had planned for the afternoon. I may not have gotten the cat down, but at least it was something.
Epilogue: The net morning, my former student flagged down a bucket truck and made it retrieve the cat. (Thank you!) I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to show Kitty Cat Jones the joys of life on the ground – like easy access to food and not making me run through my Xanax like their Tic-Tacs. I don’t think he’s too impressed by the latter.
In Which Laurel Must Hire a Plumber
Home ownership -- it’s an integral part of the American dream. Your very own place, your very own yard, a place to call your own. There’s just one tiny little pesky part of that grand dream of home ownership no one ever tells you during the “sell” phase – home repair.
Before I owned my own home, I had to call someone about home fix-it related issues exactly twice in my life. Once, I dropped a diamond necklace down the sink and called the plumber whose coupon was on the front cover of the yellow pages. (There was a diamond involved. Do I really need to describe how desperate I was?)
A plumber arrived within an hour, and after a five-minute fix, I wrote him a check for $125.00. (So much for the coupon.) On the plus side, he at least taught me how to save my own jewelry from the ell in the pipe in the future. On the down side, I went from having an ordinary, expense-free morning to a $100.00+ one. I was learning that nothing about hiring a handyman is ever cheap – or easy.
The other time I needed a handyman, it also happened to be a plumber. I was renting the upstairs of a house in Georgetown with four other girl friends during our senior year of college. It was a Saturday, and there was a clog. Our landlord was out of town, so what would have been a relatively stress-free situation quickly went to DEFCON one. It was already a stretch with five girls sharing one bathroom. Remove the toilet from the equation, and you’ve got real trouble.
With one roommate out of town and two suddenly having “plans,” it was left to me and another roommate to figure out how to handle the problem. As per usual, I turned to the yellow pages. (Only, this time I actually opened the thing.) Being all of 20, I went with the first big ad that said “no problem to small” and “available all hours of the day or night.” References, credentials and estimates didn’t even cross my mind.
“Hello, I need to hire a plumber,” I said as soon as someone answered the phone. “My toilet is clogged, and I really need it fixed as soon as possible.”
“We’ll send someone out right away,” the man on the other end of the line said, and he proceeded to take down my address and phone number.
When I got off the phone, I was relieved and couldn’t believe how easily I had taken care of what I considered to be a very grown-up problem. Then, my roommate and I went to pacing and trying not to drink or think about running water while we watched for the plumber’s arrival outside of the window.
About 30 minutes later, a blue Dodge Mini-van parked across the street. It reminded me of the one my family owned circa 1985 through the early ‘90s. Only, this was 2000, and our family car had had all of its seats in the back.
At that moment, my stomach dropped. “I think that’s our plumber,” I said, my gut telling me that it had been way too premature to pat myself on the back for this one.
“No way,” my roommate said.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Surely …”
A man in jeans and a white undershirt climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened the back of the van. In almost clown-like fashion, four younger men rolled out of the back of the car while someone else exited via the front passenger side door.
“No way,” my roommate said.
The man from the driver’s side and the man from the passenger’s seat of the car crossed the street and rang our doorbell. Luckily, it seemed like the four men from the back of the van were only there to spectate and smoke cigarettes on the curb, so at least we didn’t have half a dozen men on their way in.
We greeted the two “plumbers” and took them to our bathroom. (I’m still doubtful about whether or not they were actual plumbers despite the fact that they had a plunger and snake with them.)
“This is a nice house,” one of them said.
“But you sure got a mess in here,” the other said, staring into our bathroom.
“Well, you know,” I said, “with all of our boyfriends over all the time, there’s no telling what can happen. If they weren’t at football practice right now, I’m sure one of them could have helped us out.”
(1) Of course this was all lies, 2) I know the Georgetown football team really wasn’t much of a threat, but 3) a lifetime of procedural dramas and time with my father will cause your brain to default into a mode in which you make any and all strangers think someone will always be looking for you should you disappear and that that person is very large with possible rage control issues.)
Twenty minutes later, they were done, and I handed them a check. (I had asked for the price while they were toiling away in the bathroom and wrote it quickly in the hopes that we could usher them from our house as quickly as possible once the work was complete.)
“A check?” the first plumber said. “Do you think there’s any way you could pay us in cash?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is all we have.”
“We’d be more than happy to drive you to the ATM,” the other plumber said.
Now, I recognize that bad things happen to good people all the time, no matter how careful you are. But, I also knew that I had no intention of going out of this world because I decided to crawl in the back of a burned out minivan with six strange, large men I had never seen before that day and my ATM card.
“I don’t have an ATM card,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Both men looked at my roommate.
“Me neither,” she said. Was it reasonable for two college-age women not to have ATM cards in the 21st century? No, but I didn’t really care.
We both just started walking towards the front door with the check in hand, and thankfully the plumbers followed. After they were out the door (that we quickly bolted), we watched the whole team file back into the van and head away.
I learned a little lesson about the Yellow Pages that day, and we’ve had trust issues ever since.
Now, as a home owner in the midst of a kitchen renovation, I have to call plumbers, electricians and general handymen all the time. Even when I only go with recommendations from friends, I dread the process of finding phone numbers, getting estimates and waiting to see how much I get to spend on whatever has gone wrong in my 1928-era bungalow that day. Home repair = high stress, and that’s all there is to it.
In short, renters rejoice. Your landlord is probably crazy. (Generally, they all are, but I think that's what too much home repair does to people. It's like the chicken and the egg, and I have no idea if landlording or home repair comes first.) And I’m sure you have some neighbors with noise issues, but the odds of finding six men outside your door ready to take you to the nearest source of cash are probably much lower. You might even find the phone book helpful.
And at the end of the day, the person responsible for it all isn’t you, and in my book, that’s the best present of all.
In Defense of Memoir
Irecently finished reading the ginormously successful Eat Pray Love. Did I lovethe book? No. Do I have to see the movie? Have I learned Italian? Am I buyingthe World Market line of products based on the story? No, no and no. But, saywhat you want about the book – love it or hate it – the problem is not that theauthor spends too much time talking about herself. (A recent review of the movie claimed a bettertitle for the film would have been Me Me Me.)
After all, Eat Pray Love is a memoir and telling your own story is the verydefinition of memoir. It’s an autobiography. It’s supposed to be just about you.
Unfortunately,most of the time you only hear about memoir when it’s sensational (“you mayhave been sexually abused by your father as a child, but I had a sexualrelationship with my dad as an adult”), written by celebrities (while we’re onthe subject, Mackenzie Phillips) or not true (thanks for that one James Frey).However, as a genre, it’s not sensationalism that drives memoir.
Iapologize in advance to anyone that thinks I’m talking down to them by thebasics I’m about to go over. I am not nearly a good enough writer to talk downto anyone. It’s just that I need to start at the beginning. After all, as LewisCarroll taught us, the beginning is a very good place to start.
Allgood writing must have tension – the phenomenon that happens when two seemingopposites co-exist. It’s one of the reasons mysteries, romances and sportsstories are so prevalent and popular; the tension there is easiest to find.Will the protagonist win or lose? Be rejected or find love? Live or die? Thelatter being the most obvious example of tension one could find and the mostuniversal – mortality. It’s hard to find a bigger gap than the differencebetween life and death, and it’s the tightrope all of humanity walks everysingle day. (Hey, I said I was going back to basics.)
Eachindividual memoir has its own tension, but a tension drives the genre as well.As a literary art form (and I do think it is one), here’s how it works: bydelving as completely as possible into one’s own individual psyche, one triesto discover some universal truth. The opposing forces? The lone individual and the restof the world. A piece and the whole.
Wemay enjoy reading them, but the best memoirs aren’t stories that focusprimarily on other people – be it your mother, father or significant other.(Not that these elements aren’t important to memoir, but let’s not confuse thecharacter with the relationship. The main character in memoir is the author,and relationships are vital because of what they reveal about the author.However, generally speaking, memoirs that focus too much on other characters doit out of fear — talk all about crazy mom so you won’t have to acknowledge thescary truth about yourself.)
Thegenre is defined by revelation and isn’t necessarily for the faint of heart.You may laugh at anecdotes, but they don't qualify as art without the revelation of atruth that applies to a larger audience than one.
Memoiris an exploration of the depths of self – that terrifying abyss that includesour inner most thoughts, fears and failings. It isn’t easy to write, and it canbe hard to read. It’s beautiful because in daring to look at those darkestparts of ourselves, we can discover a universal truth of human nature. Indaring to be so completely exposed, we uncover that we aren’t alone in these vulnerabilities.That, generally speaking, we all sing along to the same songs on the radio fora reason. We all crave acceptance and fear rejection. No one wants to bevulnerable but we all are. We need love, and we’ll do desperate, awful andoften hurtful things to get and/or keep it. We’re primarily selfish even thoughwe try to pretend we’re not, and we all want to peek behind the neighbors’curtains to see just how different/alike from them we might be.
Memoirinvites you in. Memoir throws open the door and says, “Look, here I am, wartsand all. This is my most naked self. Feel free to have an opinion.”
It’sbrazen. And while it may be self-centered, in the most literal sense of theword, it is not narcissistic.
But,memoir also isn’t for everyone. Few things are. So, if you think a personalnarrator is kind of whiny, that’s fine. I’d just suggest you read fictioninstead. And while I think Elizabeth Gilbert is probably doing just fine withher international bestseller, film rights and ancillary products, I do thinkshe should be cut a little slack on those “me, me, me” criticisms.
Best Flea Market Ever*
Oneof my favorite parts of visiting my parents’ lake house is exploring the smalltowns in the surrounding area. This past weekend, the SO and I picked theSantuck flea market near Equality, ALfor our mini-adventure. The SO and I love a good flea market, so we wereexcited to finally be at my parents’ lake house for the first Saturday of themonth, the only day the flea market is held.
Sometimes,the SO and I can stay together when we’re shopping, and sometimes we have tosplit up. Worried about time, the SO quickly decided that we would have tosplit up to get through the vendors most efficiently. It’s possible that heloves flea markets more than I do, and while the sight of the airbrush trailerhad my blood pumping, he had other things on his mind. (Those things? Mainlycamera lenses and weapons – all with benevolent purposes, he claims.)
Likeany good Southern girl, I bought myself a cast iron skillet and some off-brandbump-its. The SO ended up with some electronics and a slingshot. (Yes, thesepurchases are pretty representative of who we are.)
Iwas able to move more quickly through the flea market because, shockingly, atleast to me, the Santuck flea market is far fuller of weapons and electronicsthan it is of cookware and knock-off As Seen on TV products.
Assuch, I decided to cross the street for some grilled corn on the cob and waitfor the SO to finish his perusing. That’s also when I happened upon the mostfascinating vendor of all – the live animal salesman.
Therewere chicks, grown chickens, rabbits, pheasants and so, so much more. It killedme that I didn’t have my camera because I the first thing I saw in this boothwas a large man in a sleeveless shirt, tattooed and smoking while he held afull-grown, live chicken under each arm. If that moment isn’t priceless (andkind of amazing considering the balancing act required to smoke and hold livechickens), I don’t know what is.
Ipicked up one of the bunnies. I pet the goats. (I’ve always wanted a goat, andI hear that they keep the grass in your yard very tidy, but I’m pretty sure myneighbors would object.) Then I stumbled upon the most magnificent creature ofall – the peacock.
Apeacock?!?! I didn’t even know that people other than Hugh Hefner were allowedthe luxury of a pet peacock. Surely, I thought, I could never afford such awonder. But, there, in the middle of the Santuck flea market was a peacock ondisplay and going for only $65.00. I wanted it. Desperately.
Theonly thing was, I didn’t want to keep it for myself. If I got the peacock, Iwas clearly going to leave it at my parents’ lake house just for the fun thatwould be this imagined telephone conversation:
“Laurel!”
“Yes,Mama?”
“Laurel, you are not goingto believe what I saw at the lake this morning.”
“Sawat the lake?” In my fantasy, I play this very coy, not that I am capable ofsubtlety in real life. “Were there some migrating geese?”
“No, not geese,” my mother says. “Laurel, I could have sworn I saw a peacockthis morning.”
“A peacock?”
“Yes, a peacock. I saw an actual peacock justwalking across the lawn.”
“But that can’t be,” I’d say. “What would a peacockbe doing in AlexanderCity?”
“I thought the very same thing, but there it was.Plain as day. A peacock.”
“Are you sure it was a peacock?” I’d say. “Did youget a picture?”
“Well, no,” my mother would admit.
“Maybe it was just a big bird. Or a weird plant.Had you had your coffee yet?”
“No, but I really think …”
“I mean, come on Mama, where would anyone get apeacock in AlexanderCity?”
I know; I’m terrible. But it would be really funny– at least to me.
Ofcourse, I didn’t end up with the peacock. It was primarily because I don’t knowwhat they eat (is it as simple as bird seed?), and it seemed cruel to get ananimal with no idea of its diet. (Yes, I will torture my mother and make herquestion her own eyes, but God forbid I don’t know what a bird eats inadvance.) I also think that considering how budget-friendly the peacock was,it’s possible that it wasn’t in the best of health and my mother’s and myfictitious conversation would have gone more like this:
“Laurel, do you know whythere’s a dead peacock on my dock?”
*No,the irony is not lost on me.
Cat Watch 2010
Becauseof my flea infestation, I decided to move the world’s most difficult cat to theSO’s house, so he would not be assaulted by the tiny bloodsuckers.
(Unfortunately,despite a flea treatment and a flea collar, the cat still had fleas, so I hadto bathe him with flea/tick shampoo. Bathing a cat? Not easy. Then Iflea-combed him. Also, not easy. After all that, I washed everything in thebathroom from the towels to the floor mats because of my ever-growing fleaparanoia. This is the short answer to why I haven’t been on Twitter as muchlately and why the water bill is late. Sorry social media and utilityprovider.)
Uponour arrival at the SO’s house, the cat seemed just fine. He lazed on the frontporch, as per usual, and taunted the dogs. All seemed right with the world.
Iwent out for the evening, and when I came home, I made my usual “mew” sound tocommunicate with him. (Yes, it is a ridiculous sight.) The cat responds to mymews with mews of his own, so we usually go back and forth for awhile. It’s likethe “Meow Mix” commercial, only in rounds with me being tone deaf and the catseeming kind of annoyed by how off-key I am. By sound, I was sure I should beright on top of him and was all sorts of confused as to why I couldn’t find himuntil I looked up.
Thecat had responded to his new surroundings by running up the tallest tree hecould find. For good measure, he also chose the tree closest to a power line.
Idon’t know what I thought the cat would do, but I continued mewing andstretched out my arms – like he might jump to me I suppose – before giving upand heading in to Google and sleep.
Surely,I thought, the Internet would have answers. That, or he would come down bymorning.
But,my little feline love did not earn the title of the world’s most difficult catfor nothing. He stayed in that tree all day. Every time he saw me or the SO hewould whine, and when he whined, we would go towards him and encourage him tocome down.
After24 hours, it was clear that I refused to buy an extension ladder and that thecat refused to budge from his limb. We were at a standstill.
Unfortunately,the cat also whined whenever he saw a neighbor, so I also felt that my pet-rearingskills were being scrutinized.
OnDay Two of Cat Watch 2010, one neighbor said, “I think you need to call 911about that thing.”
Thisjust made me feel bad for EMTs. As a sane person, I know that a cat up a treedoes not qualify as an emergency. I worry about the definitions other peoplehave.
Ialso learned that the fire department does not get cats out of trees (and theswitchboard operator will chuckle at you if you ask). The humane society,animal control and wildlife rescue don’t get cats out of trees. The treeservices will – for a price.
Andjudge me if you want – it certainly won’t be the first time in these past fewweeks – but I wasn’t about to drop what I figured would be at least $100 ongetting the cat out of a tree it would most likely run straight back up.
So,I took the age old-advice of “have you ever seen a dead cat in a tree?” andwaited for the dear to come down on his own.
Sureenough, right before the beginning of what would have been Day Three of CatWatch 2010, the cat came down ready to be petted and fed.
Whatgoes up must come down -- even when it’s a very stubborn cat.
Infested
There’san old Mitch Hedburg joke about how you never hear of any good infestations.“My apartment is infested with koala bears. It’s the cutest infestation ever.Much better than cockroaches. I turn the lights on and a bunch of koala bearsscatter. I'm like, come back! I want to hold one of you, and feed you a leaf.”
It’strue that “infestation” is never associated with anything positive, and assomeone in the midst of a flea infestation, I’m more than willing to vouch forthis.
Aflea infestation is terrible. By itself, it’s just awful. I mean, there arefleas everywhere – do I really need to elaborate on why this is horrendous?And, almost as bad as the fleas is the accompaniment to every infestation – thejudging.
Noone wants to believe that you get to the level of flea infestation without somegross misconduct. Whether it’s a messy kitchen or karmic-retribution for priorbad acts, people want to believe a flea infestation doesn’t just happen out ofthe blue.
Forthose of you wondering, I am a good housekeeper. My house is neat and orderly,and I am in love with my sanitizing steam mop. I am also a good pet owner(despite what happened during Cat Watch 2010, but we’ll get to that tomorrow).My dog does not have fleas -- it’s just my house, and I have devoted myself totheir eradication:
- Vacuumedthe entire house and burned the contents of the vacuum cleaner afterwards.
- Fleabombed my house. Twice.
- Fleabombed my car and vacuumed it afterwards.
- Burnedthe cat’s bed. (I felt like I was in some required school reading about ScarletFever epidemics in the 18th century, but I did it anyways.)
- Hadthe exterminator out. Twice.
- Takenthe flea bomb the exterminator left me, set it off and thrown it under thehouse grenade-style in an effort to take out the possible offenders.
- Foggedthe inside of my house, for the fifth time, with the prescription-strength bugkiller left behind by the exterminator.
Ispend more time talking to my exterminator than I do speaking to some membersof my own family, I might be barren because of how many pesticides I haveencountered in the last two weeks and I haven’t had access to all of my clothesin what seems like a mini-eternity. (Oh, short-sleeved cardigans, how I missyou.) But all of this is to no avail.
Thereare still fleas. Fleas that like to bite me. For awhile, I was going to bed apinkish hue from all of the calomine lotion on my body. I don’t know what theyfeed on (other than me, occasionally). I don’t know where they’re coming from –all of the animals are at the SO’s house. And despite what anyone tells you,rosemary is not a flea-deterring plant because it is the only thing I’m capableof growing, and it flourishes right near the back door/main flea point ofattack.
Iam so tired, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to enjoy the inside of my houseagain – if ever. Please send positive thoughts into the universe for me. Andvery, very bad thoughts about fleas.
Striking The Perfect Balance Of Customer Service
Iappreciate good customer service. I really do. In a world of “I can’t doanything about that,” “That’s not my problem” and apathetic shrugs, it’srefreshing to find someone who actually wants to help you. (Mylatest adventure in bad customer service? Never being apologized to by theconsignment store that lost a $90 piece of my jewelry. I work in PR, I know howfar a simple “I’m sorry” can go. Perhaps more importantly, when an apologyisn’t there, you really, really notice.)
Thatbeing said, I’m not always a fan of chatty customer service. I know thatcomputers are slow, records take awhile to come up and sometimes there’s a badphone connection. None of that means that I need to fill the silence with whatthe weather is like where I am, how many pets I have or whether or not I’mmarried with some kids. Really, I’ll be OK for those two minutes without havinga lively discussion about the heat. Trust me, I’m fine.
I’mparticularly anti chatty customer service after a long car trip. When it comesto road trips, I don’t like to stop. So, while I save lots of time on the driveto my destination, I’m usually pretty anxious to get to a bathroom the moment Ido arrive at said destination. Therefore, I like efficient hotel clerks.Extremely efficient.
I was not so lucky on my last trip to Atlanta.
“Welcome,”said the very lovely woman who greeted us at the check-in desk, “we’re so gladto have you.” She was smiling. She seemed to like her job. It was pleasant.
Then she went to her computer to pull up our reservation.
“Ohdear,” she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it looks like youroriginal room isn’t available. Rather than having the downtown view from yourroom, you’re going to have the midtown view.”
Isthe view different anywhere in Atlanta?No. Midtown, downtown, don’t care. This is really the least of my concerns.
“That’sjust fine,” my friend said. The reservation was in her name, and as theresponsible one, we left her to the check-in duties.
“And what brings you to our fair city?” thecheck-in clerk said. “I hope it’s something fun.”
“We’re actually here for a wedding,” my friendsaid.
“Thatsounds so nice,” she said. “Would you like me to check the wedding schedule tosee when you can catch the shuttle to the church?”
“Sure.” By this time, I’m crossing my legs in atoddler-like fashion.
“It looks like you’re leaving at six. I’m sure the Walker family is glad tohave you.”
“Actually, we’re here with a different wedding.”
“Ohmy,” the check-in clerk said. “I had no idea we had so many weddings. Let melook for the other schedules.”
Asshe rifles through a stack of papers at least an inch think, all I can think is“Are you kidding me?” She stopped typing as soon as she gave us the bad newsabout the view, and I dread thinking how far from actual check-in we are. (Incase you’re wondering, the lobby bathroom was nowhere in sight, and I am a girlwith girl issues. I needed to get to the room, and I’m going to leave it atthat.)
“TheHarris party?”
“No,” my friend said, “that’s not us.”
Iwas 60 seconds from a fetal position or an accident at this particular moment intime. Dear God woman, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but just swipe somecards and write a room number on an envelope.
“I wonder where that information is …”
Luckyfor me, by this point, my friend sensed my desperation and moved things along.“I think we’ll just figure it out in the room.”
“It’s really no trouble.”
“We’re fine.” At last, I saw the keys being tuckedin their paper sleeve.
“Youknow,” the check-in clerk said, “I almost forgot to tell you about ourcomplimentary wine hour at five. You really should come to that.” (I don’t knowif she thought this information was important because we clearly liked ouralcohol -– I was holding a 12-pack of Miller Lite and our other friend had abottle of red wine from the Publix down the street, or she didn’t realize thatthe pre-party was taken care of.)
Iwill love my friend forever for taking the keys from her at that moment. “We’llsee you there,” and we booked it to the elevator.
There are things I need to know and things Idon’t. There are also times I want to talk and times I don’t. And when I’ve gotto go, I’ve got to go. I so appreciate it when my customer service and I matchup on these levels.