Staying Up Past My Bedtime, The Economy And Crepes

It turns out that a lot can change between a decade and a systemic economic collapse. Last week, Volvo challenged me to write about my top picks for late night eating near my Alma mater. While this would seem like a really easy topic for someone who likes both food and late nights as much as I do, let’s just say time and geography have not been on my side in this one ... [Read more]

We're Not That Close

* Quick note: this one's not for you Mom and Dad. And it's not because we're not close; it's just not for you.

The only thing I dislike more than overly chatty customer service is overly intimate customer service. Despite the fact that a whole lot of my life is on the Internet, I believe in boundaries, and I like them.

Back when you still had film developed, I can remember picking up some pictures from the one-hour photo. As I was pulling out my wallet to pay, the lab tech said, “Thanks for your business. It looks like you had a great vacation.”

I didn’t like that. You may think I’m rude, but I want there to be a wall between me and the people that help me in a business or commercial way. (Unless you’re my hair dresser. I’m not a complete freak.) We are not friends. We don’t share. There is no intimacy between us. I want to be another nameless, faceless customer in the crowd. Being recognized or having someone remember my dog’s name and favorite color isn’t a plus in my book.

Honestly, I find it downright creepy.

A few weeks ago at the bank, as I was depositing checks, the teller struck up a conversation with me. “So,” she said, “what do you do at the college?” (One of my checks was from a university.)

Despite the fact that I felt this was a little intrusive, I answered. “I teach,” I said.

“What do you teach?”

Yes, I can be paranoid, and I think way too much about stalking because of my love of procedural crime dramas, but even without those factors, I still don’t think I’d like these kinds of questions. It’s not like I was wearing a college t-shirt, something that would be visible to the world. The name of a college was on a check I was putting into the bank – a confidential matter in my opinion, just like having personal photos developed.

Want to know about my shoes, watch, hat or the book I’m reading? Fine. Those are items I display to the world. They are public. My bank deposits, photos, prescriptions and superstore purchases are not.

I stopped going to a particular Walgreen’s in Nashville because the pharmacist said, “So, have you gained weight or lost weight?” as I was checking out.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Have you gained weight or lost weight?” As if this really was his business. “It tends to go either way with this particular medication.” I also could have sworn he started to eye my waistline when I didn’t answer.

“Uh-huh,” I said. Then I took my purchase and left without answering. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t have an M.D. behind your name, you don’t get to ask about my meds or my weight.

But, the worst of the worsts occurred at Target a few years ago.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was on my monthly run through Target. As usual, I spent far more money than I should have. When the cashier told me the total, my face must have registered some sort of distress.

“Is everything OK?” she said.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I answered. “I just spent more than I should have. Again.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think he’ll mind too much because you picked up the you know.” Then she eyed one of my bags.

“He?” I said.

“Your husband,” she said. Now, as we all know, I don’t have a husband. I have a fake husband when it comes to high-pressure sales people and credit card offers, but no actual husband. I also don’t wear any rings.

“My husband,” I said, mulling it over. “And the ‘you know’?”

“I think he’ll forgive you this time,” she said and eyed one of my bags again. It was then that I finally remembered that I might have gone down the "family planning" aisle during my shopping spree. (Not for me, of course, because I am an innocent angel oh parents who might have read this post despite the upfront warning not to do so.)

I felt violated. It was a terrible reminder that what we all trick ourselves into believing – that the people we encounter out in the world are just doing their jobs and certainly don’t have time to notice our measly (and embarrassing) individual purchases like tampons, various creams or books on less-than-mainstream topics -- never happens.

It is this long-standing denial that allows me to pass through the Wal-Mart with some form of my dignity intact.

But, that's all it is -- denial and lies. Or, at least, some people are paying a lot more attention than others. These days, I look for bloodshot eyes and a seeming inability to recognize reality when I shop. I’d take a good hangover or even an oxycontin problem over keen observational skills any day. I may not always get correct change, but at least I can pretend I have some privacy.

Toy Story What?

So, is this a product marketed towards children or very, very short frat boys?

Cargo shorts, sunglasses and what looks like a Tervis tumbler? Either somebody's dad still wears his class ring and works out in tees from his '99 Beta formal, or this kid showed up with some scary, scary eyes on the day of the shoot.

My Top 5 Road Trip Play List

Being tone deaf and a huge nerd, my iPod is an embarrassment or riches – if you really love show tunes, Shakira and soulful girl ballads about break-ups. (When I was going through some old CDs from the mid-90s, a friend commented, “I didn’t realize you were a lesbian in high school.”) I have been making mixes titled “Mellow Music” since I was about 14 ... [Read more]

One Resolution I Won't Be Making

As we all know, I tend to think that we all have limited supplies of certain virtues or abilities, like patience, and every so often, we need a refill.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been feeling that way about my creativity. No new ideas. No outside-the-box thinking. Not even adjectives with more than two syllables. I kind of figured I’d run out of this year’s supply and would probably need to wait for 2011 for some good stuff – knock on wood. (Or mediocre stuff. I’d take either at this point.) So far, I haven’t had much luck.

Fortunately, the SO, in a lovely show of support for my writing, gave me a box full of journals, pens and other fun stuff for Christmas. (He also included The Art of War for Writers, which would only be his fifth attempt to get me to read anything related to Sun Tzu, earlier versions including the plain old Art of War, Art of War flash cards, a mini-book/abbreviated version of The Art of War and The Art of War for Women at Work. Do you think he might be trying to tell me something?)

Moving on, one of those gifts is a small book shaped like a block called, wait for it, The Writer’s Block. (How I love those clever marketing gurus.) It comes complete with 786 ideas to jump-start your imagination – and a hilarious attack on The Bridges of Madison County, which I might have appreciated more than the ideas.

The first prompt I turned to was a jump-start word. So, with that in mind, here we go with “diet.”

I have never been good at dieting. Of course, until I was 19, I didn’t need to. I could eat whatever I wanted. I was that person with a naturally high metabolism that I now despise. I’ve covered this before, but since I lost 15 pounds my freshman year and ended up with a sunken in face, I actually needed to gain weight in the summer of ’99. Luckily, I took a job at a Mexican restaurant, so between that and my boyfriend’s all carb/athlete diet, I gained back those 15 pounds and about 15 more. For the first time in my life, I was overweight, so I turned to Slim Fast.

I gave myself two weeks to get rid of the weight, so I was on a bit of Slim Fast extreme. I remember sitting at Chili’s (a family favorite back in the day; the Mills love an awesome blossom) with my head on the table. “I’m just so hungry,” I said. “So, so hungry.”

But, I wouldn’t give up, and by the time I got to Georgetown to start my sophomore year, I was back to my self-imposed ideal weight of 118 pounds. (Just writing that number is hard for me right now.)

I was fine again (mainly because I spent too much of my budget on clothes rather than food) until I took my first office job. That’s when I learned the hard way that if you sit all day and make regular trips to the vending machine, you will not exactly stay thin.

When I literally split a pair of rather expensive capris ($105 is a lot to pay for pants that are going to take both your money and your dignity), I looked myself in the mirror and decided it was time to take action.

Unable to afford a gym, I went back to Slim Fast for breakfast, Lean Cuisine for lunch, a piece of toast as a mid-afternoon snack, some kind of dinner and hour-long walks around my neighborhood. Most of my waking moments were devoted to the thought, “I’m so hungry,” but after a few weeks, I got the affirmation every woman wants:

“Have you lost weight?”

(One thing I don’t allow in my house is a scale. I go by the way my clothes fit. Scales just depress me, and I make the nurse hide my weight at the doctor’s office, too. I have only seen my weight twice in the last seven years, and both times were by accident.)

I was content again, and sure that I would remain my lovely size four self forever.  A few years later, when I gained some depression weight, my father got me a personal trainer. (Yes, I used to work out six days a week. Strange, but true.) It seemed that there was always a simple solution.

Then, I turned 25, and my metabolism died. I also realized that I was faced with a choice. Having an addictive personality is not always the most fun. I can speed through jigsaw puzzles, but when it comes to food and exercise, addictions can be ugly.

During the days when I worked out six days a week – hours of cardio alternated with weight training – all I could see when I looked at food was a number. A bowl of soup wasn’t a tomato bisque, it was x calories and required x number of minutes on the elliptical to take it off. Gatorade was 120 calories. Worth it or not? And don’t even get me started on desserts. I started to realize that I could either enjoy food or actually remain a size four for the rest of my life. I admire people who can stick to regimens. (Really, it's more awe than simple admiration.) I had to make a different choice.

These days, I’m a pretty content size eight, and I like it that way. Plus, a nice mini quiche on a holiday party platter looks like a delectable snack without the number 220 (or worse) floating above it.

Eating and living healthier? Always a worthwhile goal. Personally, I just prefer to stay away from the "d" word -- I don't need another avenue to show my OCD tendencies.

The Wig Collection Exposed

When it comes to this blog, I try not to talk about my relationship or work. (Imagine trying to exclude these two things from your life and see what kind of topics you end up with for those of you who’ve noticed that some entries aren’t exactly thrilling.) Sure, I let the SO appear in certain stories, but he’s there more as a character to show a reaction to what’s happening or provide context. I do not want our true personal life on the Internet. Plus, just because he dates a writer, it doesn’t mean he signed up for full disclosure of certain parts of his life on the web.

As for the work thing, I will talk (occasionally ad nauseum) about working from home and my frustrations with writing/life, but you’ll also notice that I never name my clients or what I do for them. That’s because I want to keep my clients, and I want to keep the SO, too.

However, I do feel that this one story warrants the SO playing a slightly larger role than he normally does, so please bear with me and we’ll see how this goes.

The SO and I met at an improv comedy practice. (This probably isn’t all that surprising.) I was there with a friend who’d mentioned that she might want me to collaborate with her on writing some comedy sketches, so I tagged along to see what her group was like. Little did I know, I’d leave with a crush, too.

Dating someone in improv means that I attend a lot of comedy shows. Some shows are in the style of “Who’s Line is it Anyway?” and some are longer form. For the longer form shows, the SO has to develop a character he’ll be throughout the evening. For his last performance, he decided to play Scott Bakula’s brother Trent, whose mild obsession with his brother’s fame meant that he thought he was continually leaping through time and space.

Now, if there’s ever a role I was qualified to help someone prepare for, it’s this one. Does anyone know more about Quantum Leap than me? Doubtful. I own the soundtrack for God’s sake. So, being the girlfriend that I am, I decided to help the SO get ready by watching episodes of the show with him and pointing out some of Dr. Sam Beckett’s most outstanding characteristics.

Choosing which episode to start with was the first obstacle. “Should we just go straight to ‘The Leap Home’ when Scott jumps into his younger self and plays his own father? Is he ready for the Beth episode? Maybe we should start with something more basic. Glitter Rock?”

“Can we please just pick a show? It’s getting late.”

Oh, but how to pick just one.

Since my disk with ‘The Leap Home’ wouldn’t play – something I have yet to deal with because of the emotional trauma – the SO insisted that we just watch whatever was first in line on the next disk.

“Now, every time Sam leaps into a new person, he says ‘Oh, boy,’” I said as I began our tutorial.

“Is he always blue when he leaps?”

“Of course he’s always blue when he leaps? Have you even seen this show before?”

Then, I went on. “Al is the hologram, and he’ll spend most of the episode giving Sam info from Ziggy, a super computer. There’s also Gushy, who has really bad breath, but I’m probably getting ahead of myself.”

“He just said ‘Oh, boy,’ for like the fourth time this episode.”

“Well, that’s not standard,” I said. “Let’s get back to Al. He’s been married five times and is always chasing women …”

Eventually, the SO fell asleep, and strangely enough, he said “he was good” with the one episode, and we didn’t need to complete our study through “Private Dancer,” “What Price Gloria?” or any of the other episodes I suggested.

On the night of his performance, whenever the SO decided it was time for his character to leap, he’d turn around, make a strange sound (once shouting, “It feels like childbirth”) and put on a new wig to be a new character. Then, another performer would bring in a mirror of some sort so that he could figure out who he was. (I was so proud he knew about that already.)

At intermission, the SO’s character was much discussed, and the conversation seemed to revolve around his wigs.

“Where did he get so many wigs?” someone asked.

“He borrowed them from me,” I said.

“He got them from you?” Long pause. “Why do you have so many wigs, Laurel?”

“Well …”

“Laurel’s wigs,” a friend chimed in. “You really don’t know about those? She has tons.”

“Tons? You mean there’s more than what I’ve seen on stage?”

That’s when I decided that I wanted the conversation to be over. Yes, I have a wig collection. Why? Because I think wigs are fun. That’s really all there is to it.

When I went on a bachelorette weekend in Nashville, I knew that I was fading fast on the drive up. I also knew that I was going to have to rally because a big night of bar-hopping lay ahead of me. What to do? I put on a wig and decided to wear it out. Something about it lifted my mood. Plus, I was in a different town and the wig was so ridiculous, it gave me the push I needed to stop yawning and get with the program. (The program being shots and hitting up Coyote Ugly.)

The next day as everyone was getting ready for lunch, one of the girls I didn’t know turned to me and said, “You have such pretty hair. You really don’t need the wig.”

It didn’t occur to me that anyone would think I was wearing the wig for real. It was cheap and magenta. If I were going to go Wendy Williams, I’d put a little more money into it. This Halloween, I did pull a Star Jones and buy a wig to go with my costume an hour before my Halloween party because I realized I wouldn’t have time to do my hair, but that really was a one-time thing. I swear.

In college, on bad or boring nights, I’d pull out some wigs for me and the roommates, and the mood in the apartment was instantly lifted. I repeat, wigs are just fun.  

I started buying wigs to go with my Halloween costumes years ago. (One of which was a washed-up country singer who had one hit with “Why did you have to ruin my credit score while you ruined my virtue?” That wig is not attractive – imagine Reba McEntire with alopecia.) And like anything you have more than one of, people assume you’re collecting whether you are or aren’t. A friend leaving a job gave me all of the wigs that had gone with her promotional activities, and before you know it, I was in the 20+ range.

So, yes, it’s weird. But I also challenge you to give it a shot. Bad day at the office? Stuck in traffic for too long? Too many bills? Grab a wig and pour yourself a glass of wine. The secret is that it’s nearly impossible to take yourself too seriously in a cheap wig, and that’s exactly the point. The shear ridiculousness of it all should have you in a better mood before long. After all, as someone much smarter than me once said, life really is too short to be taken so seriously.

I Already Gave At Home

I have often discussed the pitfalls of working from home – my inability to apply makeup, thinking of black yoga pants as business casual attire, sometimes prioritizing the shape of my eyebrows over a writing project – but even with the downside, there is one thing I will never miss about working in an office.

That thing, my friends, is co-workers trying to force their kids’ school fundraising catalogs down your throat.

Maybe that seems overly angry to you. Maybe you think I don’t like children. Or fundraising. But, the truth is, and I think any honest, sane person would admit the same, that I am sometimes sick to my stomach thinking of the $15 cheesecakes, rolls of $8 wrapping paper that only cover two gifts and Mary Kay blushers I’ve been guilted into purchasing.

It always starts innocently enough. “I’m just going to leave this brochure in the break room.”

But when sales get sluggish, the cubicle-to-cubicle approach kicks in. “Knock, knock.” (Not that I’ve ever had an actual office door.)

“Hi Linda.”

“I noticed you haven’t placed an order for any amaryllis bulbs yet. Would you like to get some now?”

“Oh, gee, Linda. I don’t have any cash or checks on me.”

“That’s OK. You can always pay me when the order comes in.”

“Well, I’ve really got to get this project to the boss before 5:00.”

“That’s OK, too. I’ll just leave this on your desk for awhile.”

“No, really, you can take it.”

“Oh no dear, I’ll be back for it later. Take your time.”

And we all know that if you don’t order something, said co-worker will only return later with a more powerful weapon – the uncapped pen and hover. I have tried to slip catalogues into mail boxes, I have refused to go into the office kitchen and I’ve even lied about allergies I don’t have, but somehow, I still end up buying something from one of those booklets.

“I’ll just put you down for two [fill in the blank],” Linda and all the other nameless, faceless office mates have always said.

And don’t even get me started on the holidays, when everyone in the office has a kid with at least one fundraising project. You can spend $100.00 before lunch if you’re not careful.

There is only one acceptable food for your child to sell and that is Girl Scout cookies. Girl Scout cookies are tasty. They cost $3.00/box. I would probably sell some of my relatives for a case of Thin Mints. This is a worthwhile and reasonably priced fundraising item.

Giant tubs of cookie dough, dream catchers and cheese baskets – at a 75% mark up – are not.

Worried your child will be disappointed that he or she isn’t the top seller in the class? Life is tough, and guess what? The electric company doesn’t accept scented candles as a form of payment. I would rather go to the Dollar Tree and buy your child a tub of sidewalk chalk or sheet of stickers that is probably comparable to whatever shiny item is being dangled in front of a second grader as a reward for selling enough pineapples to get that soccer team to a tournament in Selma than fill out one more form.

I am childless, and I pay property taxes – there’s my contribution to our schools. Please keep your entertainment books full of coupons only valid on Tuesdays between 2:00 and 2:30 to yourself.

But if you have Tagalongs, well, then we can talk.

Stamped On The Forehead

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #1: Have a Pitcher of Miller High Life at The Tombs ... [Read more]

The Laurel Tour Of Homes

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #2: Revisit my old residences.

I am one of those people who really likes to visit places she used to live. And, yes, I also stand there and say, “Everything seems so small now!” [Read more]

Mateo And Betsey Johnson

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #3: Shop on M Street and Wisconsin.

My mother took me on my first trip to visit colleges during the winter of my junior year of high school. I was 17 at the time. Before then, I'd only ever set foot on the campuses of Samford (Vacation Bible School) and Auburn (football games) ... [Read more]

The Capitals And My Need For Capital

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend,#4: Return to the Verizon Center.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that I am old enough for the Verizon Center to have been named the MCI Center when I went to Georgetown ... [Read more]

Queen Of The Road

 As a part of the Volvo/Big East program, I'll be going back to Washington, D.C. for a weekend to visit Georgetown and and attend a Big East basketball game. Over the course of the week, I'll be sharing what I look forward to most about my return trip.

The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #5: Drive ... [Read more]

It's Serious Now Folks

 Yesterday, I received a little update from the good people at Cake Group New York. It turns out that there's no longer just a trip to the Big East championship game at stake in this competition for the Biggest Fan of the Big East ... [Read more]

My Black Thumb

While we're kind of on the subject of Birmingham's Food Summit, I think it's only fair to own up to the fact that I don't really belong at any Food Summit. When it comes to farming, eating local and anything related to agriculture, I am little more than an impostor.

During the storytelling hour I mentioned in my last post, someone told a story about slaughtering pigs because he wanted to get back in touch with the source of his food and not just think about it as something that came wrapped in cellophane at the Piggly Wiggly. (If I can work the Piggly Wiggly into a story, I will.)

Now, unless my adventure at the stocked catfish pond counts as getting back to the source of my childhood fish sticks, I can hardly claim anything as bold and dedicated as that.

When a friend of mine gave me fresh beef and told me that it had come from his cow, Nacho, I couldn't eat it. I have never knowingly ingested venison. I don't do wild game. If I came from any sort of you eat what you kill culture, I'd be the Calista Flockhart of the group or dead.

Maybe you're thinking this makes me the perfect candidate for vegetarianism. If knowing that something was once alive makes it impossible for me to eat it, of course I should be a vegetarian. It makes perfect sense.

I, however, do not make perfect sense. So, I've chosen denial and Five Guys over more obvious conclusions.

I also have a black thumb. I have killed every plant I've ever bought. The only items that bloom at my house are the ones that were hearty enough to survive five months of neglect and four years of renters before I moved in. In short, I have rosemary.

I don't even have grass. I have very green weeds that when cropped close enough to the ground appear to be grass. When the SO proposed astro turf for his backyard, I pretended to object, but I really thought it was kind of awesome. Plus, with the backyard, I figured no one would know how lazy/incapable of gardening we really are. I'm not willing to put our collective failings out on the front lawn for all of the neighbors to see just yet.

So, you can see why an 11th grade biology project that involved growing and tending your own garden plot would pose a problem.

For six weeks, my partner and I were supposed to plant, tend and maintain garden plots. The success of our gardens determined the majority of our grade for that trimester. (My high school was on trimesters, not semesters. I'm not confusing pregnancy and school, really.)

The great part about this project was that hanging out outside counted as class time. The downside was the fact that your garden was supposed to not only survive, but thrive.

My partner and I planted cucumbers, squash and some other kind of vegetable. (I'd probably remember it better if anything had actually bloomed.)

One week before we were supposed to be graded, I can remember staring at my plot with my partner. It looked a lot like it had before we'd planted anything. I think the cucumbers took, but they seemed to keep to themselves unaware that they could have taken over rather than sticking to their solitary little spot in the back of the "garden."

"This doesn't look good," I said.

"No, it doesn't."

"This isn't an "A" project."

"Nope."

Being a little obsessed with college and something of an overachiever, I couldn't let a little thing like Mother Nature stand between me and a decent grade.

"Meet me back here on Sunday?" I said. 

That weekend I drove to Wal-Mart, where for a small sum, I picked out some lovely pansies to line the edges of our garden as well as something else that was green to fill out the plot. Then, we drove back to our school, dug up anything that was dead and replaced it with our recent purchases from Wal-Mart. (Hey, there was no clause in the project description that said your original plants had to make it through the entire six weeks.)

For a few days, we diligently tended to those plants. (I have a very good track record with keeping plants alive for a week. It's after those first seven days that everything seems to go awry. Sorry recently-purchased mums.) Four days later, I kept my fingers crossed as our biology teacher walked the perimeter of our garden. 

"I wish you'd gotten a little more out of those cukes," he said, "but I'm giving you an "A.'"

I was quite relieved. I had saved my biology grade and my GPA, but I never learned how to keep plants alive. Although, given the choice between a GPA and plants, I still think I'd pick the GPA, and hence, why I have no real place at the Food Summit. I hope all of the real foodies can show me a little mercy. Just please don't ask me any questions about high fructose corn syrup. You don't want to hear the answer ...

Laurel, The Very Bad Volunteer

When I was a sophomore in high school, a friend and I decided to volunteer with a local, health-related non-profit. (I’d like to say it’s because we were moved by a presentation during one of our school’s “development days” – when we were supposed to learn more about ourselves and the community, or something like that – but it probably had more to do with the fact that sophomore year was the time people started talking about “college applications” and “extracurricular activities” and “standing out.” Also, in fairness, I should probably only implicate myself in the resume-building motive. My friend was probably much more pure-hearted.)

Anyway, the volunteer job we ended up with involved delivering meals to homebound patients. And while this job probably sounds easy enough, we were pretty terrible at it. I blame two primary culprits:

1. My complete lack of direction in neighborhoods I’d never visited before and
2. Naked people.

We usually only had four or five meals to deliver each Saturday, and I really don’t think more than two ever made it to their intended destination. I also think we were pretty liberal with our definition of “lunch time.”

You see, as a newly-minted driver it turns out that I was pretty good at driving in Mountain Brook and going to and from my high school. Shockingly, most of the meals we were supposed to deliver were not 1. In the suburb of Mountain Brook or 2. Next to my high school.

In the dark ages, armed only with a paper map of Birmingham, we did our best, but I’m afraid our best was sorely lacking.

“Which exit do we take again?” I said.

“Greensprings,” my friend said. “I think.”

“You think?”

“It could be Green Valley. I’m not sure.”

Without a doubt, I’d usually miss both exits, and even if I found the right one, the side streets after that were nightmares. Many a volunteer run ended with me in near tears saying, “Are we ever going to get home?”

Unfortunately for the poor woman in charge of volunteers, each run also tended to wrap up with the return of at least one undelivered lunch.

Even without the trauma of navigation, I probably wouldn’t have lasted long as volunteer because of the latter aforementioned issue – naked people.

When we finally did find a house or apartment, my friend and I took turns going in to deliver the meals. (Someone had to stay in the car and try to get a head start on how we were going to get to our next destination.)

After knocking at one house, I heard a “come in” and went through the front door.

“Hi,” I said. “I have the meal you requested.”

“He’s in the back,” a young woman about my age said.

With the go-ahead to keep walking through a stranger’s house, I walked through the living room, down a hallway until I came to the first open door on the right. Inside was a very large and very nude man.

“Here’s your meal,” I said, not at all sure how I was supposed to respond in said situation (it, and maps, weren’t covered in the volunteer training), especially when he didn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’d found him naked. (We WASPs generally show great shame when caught without clothes on, so you can see how I would be confused.) I dropped the bag of food on a chair near the bed and high-tailed it out of there.

“How was it?” my friend said when I got back to the car.

“Naked,” I said. From then on, we agreed to go into all homes together.

A week or so later, we finally found our way to yet another house where we were directed to another back room. This time, we found a naked woman sitting straight up in bed.

“We have lunch,” my friend said.

“You seen my kids?” she said.

“Your kids?” my friend said.

“I think they’re out back. Go look.”

My friend (again, I suspect her motives were purer than mine) handed me the bag of food we had and went outside to start yelling for this woman’s children. While she was being a saint, I stared at the walls of the room I was in saying, “Would you like me to get your lunch out for you?” which was only met with, “I want to know where my kids are.”

At no time during this “conversation” did she ever try to cover herself or find clothes.

 At the end of that day, I was pretty sure we had to talk to the volunteer coordinator. Only a month in, I was near burn-out level.

“You found a naked one,” she said, shaking her head almost in anticipation of my concerns. “We just have some patients that won’t wear clothes.”

Eventually, we didn’t get very many calls to deliver meals (shocking, I know) and soccer season started, so our tenure as volunteers came to an end. However, one of my most vivid memories of being lost is sailing through the red light where 5^th Avenue South divides – one side headed to Eastwood and the other to Woodlawn – with my hands in the air. “Where on earth are we?”

I had no idea what a common part of town I was in or how close that major thoroughfare was to my own home, downtown and many, many businesses. I was just a tired, lost 16-year-old that really wanted a route with more clothed people on it.

Sometimes it can be hard to believe that 15 years later, I live less than a mile from the very same intersection and drive through it at least three or four times per week. (It's a necessary part of my many, many trips to Home Depot.)

I’d like to say I’ve learned a lot in that time, but I think the truth is that the most important info I’ve picked up along the way is that there is a light there, and it’s better to go on your way once it’s turned green.

Why I'm a Bad Person

I like to eavesdrop. I can’t help it. It comes down to two simple facts:

1. I’m nosy.

2. Judging other people makes me feel better about myself.

I could pretend there were other reasons. When I started taking writing classes, one exercise that was supposed to help us learn to write dialogue involved eavesdropping on strangers and writing down their conversations. I could tell you that exercise got me hooked. That afterwards, I couldn’t go back. But, truthfully, I’ve always loved to eavesdrop. People are fascinating, and there is some stuff that you can’t make up. On that note, here are the two best conversations I’ve overheard as of late:

“How are things with Claire?” Person #1 says.

“Awesome,” Person #2 says.

“Did I hear you two were living together?”

“Yeah, we are.”

“How’s that going?”

“It’s great. It’s really great. Except for her bitch of a roommate that is.”

“What’s wrong with the roommate?” Person #1 says.

“Oh, you know,” Person #2 says. “She’s single, and she doesn’t like me being around, so she can be kind of difficult.”

“Well, you’re paying rent, right?”

“No, I don’t pay rent.”

“Oh,” Person #1 says.

“But, I mean I pay for everything else. Like food and where we go at night.”

“That’s cool,” Person #1 says. “So, I guess you pay utilities?”

“Nah,” Person #2 says, “I don’t pay utilities.”

“Have you thought about offering?”

“I mean, I’ve thought about it,” Person #2 says, “but that just seems so official.”

Note to stranger: You are not living with your girlfriend; you are free-loading and I’m totally on the bitchy roommate’s side.

Conversation #2:

“Hey, is Wall Street Journal two words or three?” Person #1 says.

“Two words,” Person #2 says.

(I won’t lie, as an English major and former editor, I was dying a little on the inside here. I mean, I live and die by spell check, but come on?!?! It’s also really hard for me not to intervene -- shock of shocks -- but then, of course, I would have given away the fact that I was eavesdropping.)

There is a long pause.

“Actually, I just looked it up on the Internet, and Wall Street Journal is three words,” Person #1 says.

“Really?”

“Yep, I just looked it up.”

There is another long pause.

“You know why I said it was two words,” Person #2 says. “I was thinking of Wall Street the movie … Wall Street is only one word in the movie.”

Note to stranger #2: Yes, because a movie named for an actual place, that is a street, would be one big word. In fact, that's one of the reasons New York City is such a crazy place, unlike the rest of us in "real" America, their street names are all one word. On my own trip there, I visited Fifthavenue, Madisonavenue and Wallstreet. It was a crazy time.

It’s overhearing stuff like this that reminds me why I have to get out of the house. Without such nonsense, I’d be a shut-in who gathered all of her information from Wikipedia and made all of her meals from Papa John’s cheese sticks in no time. (Wait a second …)

What Every Bride Wants To Find On Her Wedding Day

This past weekend, as we were sitting in the bridal suite preparing for my friend's wedding, we discovered every bride's dream -- a giant, costume rabbit head in the closet.

So many questions, so few answers: What was it doing there? Who put it there? Where's the rabbit's body? Why would anyone need a bunny costume in November when Easter is usually in April? Can we even be sure this is an Easter bunny? Could plushies have been nearby? Would they come back?

I'm pretty sure that if anyone had had a bag big enough for this special souvenir, he wouldn't be in New Jersey anymore.  After all, it's not every day that you find your very own costume bunny head. 

Also, I must apologize for the quality of my bunny head photo. I managed to spill water in the bottom of my purse while I was in Brooklyn, and now all of my pictures are a bit on the blurry side. As a blogger, I need so few tools, and I still managed to ruin one of the few that makes my life easier. Oh well.

Update: Because You Love America

 *So, I decided to update this post with various photos of me from my years at Georgetown, and do you know what I learned? I spent all of college leaning into or hugging someone else. The cropping alone could lead to some severe carpal tunnel, but it's all worth it for the Big East ... [Read more]

Big East Media Day: The Prologue

 I don’t get too many calls from New York. Truthfully, I don’t get too many calls in general. And when I get e-mails that say “great opportunity” anywhere in the subject line, it’s usually spam ... [Read more]

Happy Halloween From the Biggest Fan of the Big East!

He isn't lit up yet because he's awaiting his big debut tonight, but I present my Georgetown bulldog complete with Georgetown hat ... [Read more]