A Sunday School Drop-Out Spared
My parents tend to worry – a lot. Kidnapping, hostage-taking, teen pregnancy, drugs, drunk driving – you name a problem; my parents have considered how to keep it from happening to their kids.
There’s only one thing my parents never worried about when it came to me and that had to do with joining a cult. Their theory? “You had so much trouble with conventional religion; we never really figured you’d fall for some extreme splinter group.”
I guess there’s at least one plus to raising a natural skeptic.
My parents both taught Sunday school when I was growing up. My father taught kindergarten, and my mother usually taught sixth grade.
Through what I will claim is no fault of my own, I tended to be a troublemaker in Sunday school class. It’s not that I ever meant to get in trouble; I just like to ask a lot of questions. (Outside of Sunday school, my mother and I spent many hours in the library researching my various topics of interest from why ostriches liked to stick their heads in the sand, how an egg develops and the growth of asparagus.) Curiosity, neurotic-ism or annoyance? You decide.
Wikipedia and IMDB have been Godsends in my adult life.
Long before I knew the difference between evolution and creationism, when one of my Sunday school teachers went over Genesis, I had to ask why she seemed to be in direct conflict with my science teacher. “If the Earth was created in six days, what about the dinosaurs?” I said.
Mrs. Johnson, my science teacher at the time, had explained that dinosaurs roamed the Earth with no humans, and I really didn’t see where Adam and Eve fit in on this time frame.
Then, there was the day our Sunday school teacher came in to explain that “We were all adopted because we were all God’s children, and He had given us to our parents on loan.” (The “on loan” might not be a direct quote, but I promise that that Sunday school teacher was not particularly eloquent.)
I think I started the crying that day, but I know a lot of other kids eventually joined in. I think adoption is lovely, but as a kid who feared learning she was one day adopted, breaking the news this way seemed insensitive to say the least.
I also did not know how much I would upset my first grade Sunday school teacher when I answered the question, “What’s the last movie you all saw?” with “Aliens.” My mom had been out of town, and it was true. I’m sorry she only wanted Disney answers.
Eventually, my Sunday school teachers seemed really tired of my questions, and it could be hard to get them to notice my raised hand, but I’m not one to give up easily.
“Would King Herod really have cut the baby in half? What if none of the moms said anything?”
“How could you really have all of your power in your hair?”
“Wouldn’t the whale’s stomach acid be a problem for Jonah?”
“Just going from Saul to Paul doesn’t seem like a real earth-shattering name change. Wouldn’t Joe or Sam have been more dramatic?”
Apart from making my class the Bible Trivia champion of 1980-something, I was not an asset to most Sunday school classes. (I actually had to share that title with another Sunday school class, a decision I contested and still consider to be an unfair ruling, but the journey to move on continues.)
I don’t know whether or not it was discussed during some sort of Sunday school teacher conference, but from fourth grade on, I spent three years in my mother’s Sunday school class. She was used to my questions, and I imagine my departure from the regular course of Methodist teachings was a relief to many.
So, this Mother’s Day, I’d like to thank my mom for putting up with a lot – from the struggle to define infinity for me to typing up the school newspaper my third grade class dreamed up one day. But, I suppose that most of all, I’d like to thank her for taking me in when no one else was eager to, listening to and trying to find answers to my questions and never making me feel like I was the weird one for going against the flow.
Happy Mother’s Day Mama! I love you!
The Beach, Perfection And Big Wheels
This past weekend I went to the beach, and I was reminded how important it was for me when I was little to create a “perfect” last day vacation memory. Basically, if we were leaving the beach the next morning, I thought that the last time I stepped off the beach the day before needed to be postcard-worthy ideal. (Can we say obsessive much? This is even before that obligatory age when you have to read Our Town, after which I tried desperately to notice life in the moment. I found it exhausting and only made it about two weeks.)
In particular, I remember a time that we were staying at one of those condo units where you had to use a raised bridge to safely cross the street from the beach to your hotel.
On our last day of the trip, I walked up the center of the stairs at sunset (because no perfect memory happens without symmetry or when you’re too close to the hand rail), turned around to face the ocean, took in a deep breath of sea air, and then turned to walk down the center of the bridge – without looking back – towards our condo.
At the time, I thought, “This is a perfect moment.”
Since then, it’s been my experience that trying for perfect moments is more likely to ruin an experience than enhance it. Putting too much pressure on anything other than a bleeding wound usually tends to backfire, and it’s pretty hard to manufacture perfection outside of a movie set. I find imperfection much funnier (usually) as well as a good indicator of whom you should and should not be dating. (I mean, if you’re going to be stuck in the airport for added hours, wouldn’t you far rather it be with someone who can find some fun in the situation rather than the person who yells at every flight crew member they spot?)
Also, being quite flawed myself, a life that didn’t involve embracing imperfection would be pretty darn frustrating. And I just don’t think Thornton Wilder wants that for any of us.
Moving back to what was going to be my core topic, I also remembered some other awesome ideas/beliefs/misconceptions I had as a child. Here are a few of the “brilliant” ideas from my youth:
1. Doctors should use magnets on gunshot wounds. If a bullet is metal, why wouldn’t the magnet just pull it out of the skin?
2. Unicorns – real. Everyone else – confused and unwilling to believe.
3. Drinking and driving applied to any beverage. Therefore, I would not take a coke or water with me before a bicycle or Big Wheel ride.
4. There’s no such thing as infinity. Space may be vast, but it has an ending or borders. It just fit inside a really, really big box.
5. Policemen were mind readers. If you had done anything wrong and were anywhere within their vicinity, they would know – whether it was sneaking cookies or robbing banks.
Truthfully, I’m still holding out hope on #2, and every policeman makes me nervous to this day, but at least I’ve given up on the idea of patenting #1. As for those perfect vacation memories? They have a much broader definition as well. As long as I don’t drown in the ocean, I tend to call it a good day.
Acts Of God And Nature
Not to go all Patch Adams on everyone, but I really do feel like laughter can be the best medicine (along with antibiotics and all the traditional Western stuff that is). I think we should look for laughter – and joy – whenever we can because life can be pretty darn hard.
However, there are also plenty of times when laughter doesn’t seem appropriate. Or when there doesn’t seem like there’s much to laugh about. For the past few months, I often haven’t felt like laughing, but that’s another story for another day, when I’m ready to tell it.
More immediately, today is not a day that I feel like I can share anecdotes or talk about my annoyances from trips to the pharmacy, talking on the phone or attempting to fit in the clothes at Forever 21 (because at 31, I still believe I can be Forever 21).
On Wednesday, as most of the nation knows, a tornado unlike anything I have ever seen tore through my state and my city. The worst reports I hear have the main funnel at 1.5 miles wide and traveling a 200-mile path. Hundreds of people are dead, missing or homeless. So, even though I’ve spent most of my life being called irreverent, I’m going to just let today be today. There but for the grace of God, they say.
Also, at the risk of sounding preachy (which is not anywhere I ever want to go), I’ve been thinking about the ring my best friend gave me when I graduated from college. She’d had the same one for years, and I’d always wanted one of my own. It’s made of silver and says “This too shall pass” in Hebrew. A skyline of Jerusalem is engraved on the inside.
(I’m not Jewish. I have a St. Jude medal, too, even though I’m not Catholic. I don’t worry about it, so I ask you not to either, if you’d be so kind.)
At the time, I thought my “This too shall pass” was just a reminder that the bad times aren’t permanent and won’t last forever. (I’m sure it’s the depressive in me.) However, my friend reminded me that the adage isn’t just for the dark moments. It’s a reminder in the happy ones, too. We will not always be sad, just as we will not always be happy. Life happens in the ebb and flow, and you have to appreciate each of the moments when you’re in them because you have no idea how long they’ll last or what you might learn.
Like we all know, life is hard, and it isn’t fair. I’m just trying to figure it out like anyone else. And what do I know? Very little. But I know that today I’m lucky while others aren’t, and I may not always be the lucky one.
To quote more pop culture (because that’s what I do) I like what Morgan Freeman says in Bruce Almighty. When it’s all going downhill, sometimes it’s not the time to look up, but to look around. I am thankful for the family, friends, volunteers and general human beings who share in our triumphs and do want they can to make the tough times a little easier to bear.
Handling Telemarketers
In the last few days, my cell phone has become telemarketer central.
I’m not entirely sure how this happened, but I think it has something to do with a pre-caffeine, I-know-it’s-too-good-to-be-true-but-I’m-feeling-overly-optimistic-today visit to a site that promised free iPads. My punishment for this lack of good judgment? Counting down the 31 days until I can start filing complaints with the Do Not Call Registry.
Fortunately, I treat my phone like I treat the front door – if I don’t know you, and I’m not expecting you, I don’t answer. Unfortunately, because ringing phones drive me mildly insane no matter where they are, I’d still put this in the “nuisance” category.
(One of these repeat callers is not a telemarketer, but rather the mail-order drug company I “have the privilege” of using under my new health insurance. Note to my health care company: It’s not a privilege if I don’t want to use the service but have to if I don’t want to pay the full-price of my medications. I really wish more people would check the dictionary before speaking. This information is not relevant, but it bugs me, so it gets included.)
Tired of the ever-ringing phone, I finally decided to answer one of these unidentified calls. My usual M.O. for telemarketers goes something like this:
“Hi, do you have time to listen to our great offer about X?”
“Sure, I’d love to,” I say.
Click.
I’m a hanger-upper. I don’t like to converse. I don’t like to argue. I just hang up. It’s cowardly, but it works. It’s either that or I tell them to call me back during a time I know I won’t be available. Like the title’s said for over five years now, it is what it is.
But, this time it was a little different.
“Hi, I’m calling from X* publishers.”
Publishers? In whatever delusional optimism I’ve been suffering from these past few days (like the free iPads that originally got me into this mess), for a few seconds I considered whether or not this might have something to do with my writing.
It didn’t.
“We’d like to inform you that you’ve been selected to receive a $1,000 gift certificate from our company. You can log on to our website and choose for a variety of home goods, clothes, shoes …”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, you’re probably thinking that this sounds too good to be true.”
This would be exactly what I’m thinking, but now I’m kind of intrigued by what the catch is.
“In addition to this gift certificate that you can spend immediately, you’ll also receive a subscription to five magazines, including Woman’s Day … for the next 60 months.”
“I see,” I say. I wonder if it’s like Barnes & Noble, and I can cancel these subscriptions whenever I like and still keep the gift certificate. Again, for some reason that might have to do with my new vitamin supplement, I’ve gotten a whole lot more gullible lately.
“All you’ll have to day is pay us a weekly fee of $3.95 for the next 60 months so we can manage your magazine subscriptions.”
Despite my issues with calculus, I know enough about math to figure that $3.95 charge is about $208.00 per year. I also know that 60 months is five years, so we’ve just put the cost of this “great service” at $1,040.00. The $1,000 gift certificate immediately makes sense. Buy over-priced crap, and we’ll bleed your checking account slowly buy surely for the next five years.
For some reason though, this isn’t what upsets me. I expected a catch from a telemarketer. What bugs me is the “subscription management service.” Is there really anyone out there who feels overwhelmed by the process of subscribing to magazines? When do I renew? How do I do it? What day of the month will my issue arrive? There’s so much paper in my mailbox!
Yeah, I don’t think so. And if there is someone out there who needs that much help with their magazines, I’m more than willing to provide the same service for a mere $3.50 per week. (You’ll find my contact info under the About Me tab.) I imagine these are the same people who struggle with blankets and watering ferns, but bygones.
Since I’d had this conversation for too long to just hang up, I had to default to my “Why don’t you call me back later” excuse and have proceeded to avoid the same number ever since.
It’s been a good time, and I only have 30 more days to go …
* Clearly, the name has been changed.
My Beef Of The Week
First of all, let me say that I like babies. I like them a lot in fact. I like pregnant people. I have no issues there. I love my pregnant friends and their babies. I love strangers that are pregnant and their babies. Little people are cute.
However, what I do not like is a certain big box baby story that has taken the name of a lovely musical and turned it into a play on words celebrating capitalism and conspicuous consumption. (Yes, Buy Buy Baby, I’m looking at you. I won’t say that you’re a lot of what’s wrong with America because that would obviously be a bit extreme, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about it occasionally.)
This past Saturday, I had the pleasure of going to Buy Buy Baby. Clearly, my first mistake was going on a Saturday. I work from home, I have other opportunities to shop and I should have known better. I will take responsibility for throwing myself in with the stroller stampede at such an inopportune time.
Inside, I walked straight to the registry desk and gave the lovely woman behind the counter my friend’s name. Now, while she’s pulling up my friend’s registry, I can clearly see a line, three-deep of gift bags behind her. Are these gift bags for anyone using the registry service? Of course not. These gift bags are for registering pregnant ladies. What I’m about to say will probably sound selfish and I like I need to feel special all the time, but well, I can fall into that category, so I’m just going to own it. Pregnant women come in to Buy Buy Baby to scan gifts they want and leave, and they get the free stuff? I come in here to print out a piece of paper that will tell me what to spend money on, and I get nothing? I think there’s a flaw in the system. Why can’t we all have gift bags for being in the store? Hell, I’d even settle for a sticker. Did no one hear read about reciprocity in Psych 101? You have no idea the unnecessary shopping I’ve done for a logo-embossed stress ball or ruler.
As the registry attendant hands me my print out, she says, “When you check out, don’t forget to give the cashier your registry so you can enjoy the free gift wrap service.”
I thank her and move on. This is when I discover that the registries at Buy Buy Baby are arranged in no way that is at all helpful. I want aisle numbers and kiosk locations. What I get are headings like “Feeding” and “Bedding.” Bottles are in feeding? Really? And crib sheets belong in bedding? What would I have done without this oh-so-handy information?
Going through the list, I decide that I want something like the Go Monkey Pack ‘n’ Play Travel Go Set. I walk to the “Toys” section, but can’t seem to find it in the sea of other themed baby items, so I look for an associate.
“Can you help me find the Go Monkey Pack ‘n’ Play Travel Go Set?” I ask the first person in a blue shirt I can find.
It is at this point that I realize Buy Buy Baby has caused me to speak complete nonsense. A Go Monkey yadda yadda go set? Who am I?
We walk to toys together. (I will say that the Buy Buy Baby staff is incredibly nice. My strong feelings are reserved for their employer – “The Baby Man,” “The Baby Machine,” “The Baby Capitalist” or whatever you want to call it.) Our conversation continues, and while these were not the exact words used, this is what if felt like.
“I don’t see Go Monkey, but how about Chimpanzee Play Park?”
“I’d really rather have Go Monkey.”
“Are you sure that it say’s it available there? If it says that it’s available, I’m going to have to go to the back.”
I nod, and I wait.
“It says it’s available because only the display model is left. Would you like to special order it?”
I think, “And drive the 15 miles back here to pick it up?” I say, “No thank you.”
Three people then apologize to me about the dearth of Go Monkeys.
“It’s fine, really. I’ll find something else.”
I’m temped to go look for the Cuddle ‘n’ Love Sleepy Time Lamb Buddy (do you not see what I mean about this nonsense language?), but since it’s under the “Miscellaneous” heading, I assume I will never locate the item in the store. (Is that a wire basket near the cash register? A wall in between sections?) The Soft Fleece Wrap Wrist Buddy also confuses me, and unable to handle another conversation with a sales associate, I head to feeding feeling like I probably can’t get bottles wrong.
Purchase at last in hand, I head to check-out and hand over my items and my registry print-out.
“Thank you for shopping with us today, and please feel free to make use of our gift-wrapping station.”
Wrapping station? Now, in my mind, complimentary gift wrap service is labor-free. At Buy Buy Baby, complimentary gift wrap is exactly what it sounds like – free wrapping paper.
At the station, I wrap my gifts in paper covered with the Buy Buy Baby logo. So, really, what I’m doing here is perpetuating Buy Buy Baby’s advertising while annoying everyone in line behind me because of my ribbon-tying difficulties. This only reminds me that for my help with their marketing, I really should have gotten one of those free gift bags from behind the registry counter, and I use an extra piece of the nice ribbon in my own passive-aggressive revenge move.
Finally free of the store, I nearly skip to my car. I would vow to only shop online in the future, but I’m not sure how I’d use my coupons that way. Then I’m off to pick up another baby registry at Target.
Oh, Target, how I love you. I can print my own registry. The registry is organized by aisles. I actually find what I need without having to say the words “nipple,” breast pump” or “Me Learn To Drive Baby” aloud.
And then I see it. In aisle N22. Just below the bibs. It’s the exact two items I just purchased from Buy Buy Baby. For less.
Luckily, I find it to hard to get too angry when surrounded by onesies, and I knew it was better to just walk away.
Pregnant and mom friends, I love you dearly, but I might have to start some sort of campaign for a price-matching program at the baby box store. I apologize in advance if I embarrass you.
As for Buy Buy Baby, I know we will meet again, but as far as I’m concerned, this isn’t over – not by a long shot.
The End Of An Era And A Day of Mourning
All My Children and One Life to Live were cancelled yesterday. (AMC and OLTL for those of use in the Soap Opera Digest know.) While this may not seem like a big deal to some, it’s the end of a very special era for me, and dare I say it, America.
I have never hidden my love of soap operas. Without them, I probably wouldn’t be the slightly dramatic, prone-to-hyperbole gal that I am today. My secret wish in life has always been to be a soap actress (preferably playing my own evil twin as well). I believe soap operas taught me as much about dialogue as any other writing. If you think about it, that’s all that really happens on a soap anyway.
I may not have watched a soap in years (I got too old for the drama. Once my couple is together, I want them to stay together), but that doesn’t mean my love for the characters or the genre is at all diminished.
Perhaps more important than my personal loss is what this means for television. Is this just another nail in the coffin of scripted television? Will our children grow up on reruns of Nancy Grace, Judge Judy and Jersey Shore? Will Maury’s paternity tests go on indefinitely? Will Cheaters be the default for tired moms folding laundry throughout the day?
On soap operas, despite the shenanigans, the good are eventually rewarded while those who lie, trick and manipulate are punished. Can I come even close to saying the same thing about any of the Real Housewives? No.
Even taking me and the fate of television out of the equation, who will teach the children? How will they know all that they’re missing?:
1. The L-Shaped Sheet: That special sheet used in post-coital daytime scenes to cover the woman to her sternum and the man to his waist.
2. How easy and inevitable it is for the heir from the right side of the tracks to fall for the girl from the wrong side of the tracks (most likely after a lifetime of playing together while her mother worked in the rich people’s home).
3. A kinder, gentler and generally more attractive mafia.
4. Is there a better memory exercise than keeping tracks of characters’ changing last names? I’m not convinced.
5. The aforementioned evil twins.
6. The common, everyday nature of long-lost siblings and children.
7. The inevitability of aging – how toddlers will go upstairs in the Spring and re-emerge as teenagers during May sweeps (usually just in time for Summer story lines to capture the teen demographic).
8. Hospitals run by three doctors that don’t need specialties because they have to treat every problem from pregnancy to trauma in a town of 40.
9. The real emotional toil of amnesia and multiple personality disorder.
10. Paternity tests limited to two candidates – one’s loving husband/boyfriend and the ex you accidentally slept with while thinking your loving partner was cheating on you.
11. How to run a city with only cops, lawyers, doctors, competing corporate magnates, models, the help and the staff of one restaurant/night club/coffee shop/country club.
I’m nervous about a world without Oprah, Susan Lucci or Erica Sleazak. Someone please hold me and tell me it’s all going to be OK.
R-Rated Souvenirs
I’m not always up to date on the latest lingo and certain slang terms. If you text me any short hand other than LOL or OMG, I’m completely lost. I have recently added IDK (I don’t know) and IRL (in real life) to my vocabulary, but for the longest time I thought an IDK just meant someone had probably been drinking and was having trouble spelling.
Despite my wide range of friends, sub-sets of society with their own terms also tend to be beyond me. (It took me two years, and extensive questioning, to grasp “emo.”)
When I was living in Chicago for the summer, I lived a few blocks north of Wrigley Field and not far from Boystown, a well-known area for gay men. (According to Wikipedia, it was the first recognized gay village in the United States. I’ve learned something new today.) One day, there was a street fair in Boystown, and a friend and I were off to enjoy the festivities. The primary highlight of the day had been a Menudo/Spice Girls style group singing in matching white outfits with different colored sash belts (to represent all the colors of the gay rainbow) until I spotted a carnival game.
A couple of men were standing next to rows of plastic pigs. For a dollar, you could purchase rings to toss around the pigs, and if you rung one, you could choose between some prizes. Condoms were free just for participating, but what I really wanted was this adorable little pig keychain. The booth was sponsored by Steamworks, which I assumed was some kind of gym.
“Can I please borrow a couple of dollars?” I begged of my friend since I never carry cash.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he said.
“Of course I’m sure,” I said. “Look how adorable those pigs are.”
I think it took more than a couple of dollars, but I finally got one of those rings around a pig and got my keychain. I was also decked out in some free beads and condoms for my patronage.
Wearing my beads proudly, my friend and I continued our walk through the street festival, until my friend couldn’t hold his laughter in anymore.
“Did you know what Steamworks is, Laurel?”
“Something fitness-related?” I said.
“It’s a bathhouse.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, I was not so sure about the logo stamped on the keychain I adored so much.
“And did you happen to notice the name of the game?”
“The game had a name?”
“It was written in big letters,” he said. “Give a pig a pearl necklace?”
“Uh-huh.” This meant nothing to me. I knew the “pearl necklace” part did not reference jewelry thanks to having gone to high school, but it still wasn’t clicking for me.
Then, my friend leaned in and whispered what it all meant.
“Oh,” I said again.
“I just thought you should know,” he said, before feeling free to really laugh out loud.
I looked down at my beads that had a medallion reading, “I gave a pig a pearl necklace at Steamworks.”
“I think I’ll take these off now,” I said.
“I thought that might be the case.”
I still have the beads and keychain because, let’s be honest, it’s not like I’ll have another chance to get such unique mementos, but I don’t wear them out and about. And if clueless-ness provides you with endless entertainment, I’m clearly your gal for all sorts of adventures.
From The Way Back Machine: Laurel As Marketing Guru
From my days on the Lipstick magazine blog, circa 2008. (Although, in my new incarnation as media guru, I would like to add for my clients that I understand -- and love -- e-blasts and viral videos, but I remain ambivalent about mass text alerts.):
I will be the first to confess that I am no marketing guru.
I have an OK head for business — supply and demand, profit margin, yada, yada. But I could care less about packaging, price points, focus groups and all the rest of it. (My brilliant slogans for Lipstick — "Read Lipstick magazine!" "Lipstick is a good magazine!" — were met with blank stares, and probable questioning of whether or not I was a good hire on the fourth floor.) I like what I like, and I tend to assume that other people will like what I like, too. Self-involved? Yes, but it's gotten me this far — 8' X 4' cubicle and all the printer paper a girl could want — so why ask questions now.
Apart from my love of funnyordie.com, I don't necessarily understand all of the new-fangled means of marketing like e-mail blasts, viral videos and text message alerts either. But, despite the fact that I can be out touch with what the kids are doing these days, I do still think of myself as a relatively informed and intelligent human being.
And it is for this very reason that I am completely baffled by CNN's latest venture. When you go to the CNN.com main page, you'll notice that certain stories have a little video camera and a little t-shirt icon next to them. The video icon is so that you can watch the story. This makes sense. After all, CNN stands for cable news network. The little t-shirt icon is so that you can purchase a t-shirt with that particular headline on it.
Seriously?
I read US Weekly; I've noticed how much fun people have putting pithy sayings on t-shirts. I've seen plenty of "Your boyfriend thinks I'm hot" and "Everyone loves an Italian boy." And, while sometimes it's hard to find the appeal of this ("Give me my coffee and no one gets hurt"? on a shirt? why?), I can accept it.
What I can't understand is why anyone would want to wear a CNN headline. Here are some examples from yesterday:
Colossal squid has soccer-ball eyes
Teen too young for 'come hither' pose?
And my personal favorite: Crying 4-year-old found along highway
Why on earth would anyone need a shirt emblazoned with "Crying 4-year-old found along highway"? I hardly think it's the same frat boy market that buys up "Beer drinkers get more head," or the politicos looking for "Every time you vote democratic, God kills a kitten." And I can't really see how slogan-ed t-shirts would be the final piece of Ted Turner's multi-layered, much-researched media empire.
Then again, I'm no marketing guru.
My Sordid Past And New Relationships
I’m not sure how common this is in the rest of the country, but there are many Southern homes that still love their portraiture.
(If you are imagining English royals sitting on velvet tufts while petting King Charles Spaniels as you read “portraiture,” you wouldn’t be that far off the mark. Though, personally, I and no one I know have ever been painted on a velvet tuft, I can’t say for sure that it hasn’t occurred in the 21st century. The dog is also not out of the question. In my part of the country, it’s just more likely to be a lab in an outdoor scene than a lap dog.)
Olan Mills doesn’t count here. I’m talking about honest-to-goodness, calls-for-a-sitting, put-forever-in-oil portrait.
I believe portraits of children are most common – the kind with girls in smocked and French hand sewn dresses (you’ll have to Google it) and boys in, well, similar smocked and French hand sewn outfits. (In the South, we really don’t have issues with dressing boys much like girls until at least the age of two. Usually their smocked outfits are jumpers or shorts, but there are no guarantees.)
Some homes have portraits of adults, and there are even some people known to have nude portraits of themselves. The former are often rather wealthy. The latter are usually discussed in whispers at cocktail parties.
Personally, I have three portraits hanging in my parents’ house. One is actually in pastels, so I’m not sure I have to count it, but I’m in smocked dress, and I’m two. The second portrait is of my mother, my sisters and me. Again, my sisters and I are in very delicate dresses. I think I was six. The last, and final portrait, is of me at 17 in the dress from my junior cotillion. (Some day I will subtitle my memoir “Tales of an Irreverent Debutante.” Until then, I’ll leave the topic of cotillions alone.)
Now, portraits are hardly likely to come up in day-to-day conversation. Most of the time, I forget they even exist. I also tend to forget all of the other pictures from childhood to adolescence that my mom and dad still have. That is, until, a boyfriend is invited to the house to meet the parents. In the living room, the two following questions always ensue:
1. Is that you on a five and half foot canvas hung in a gold frame in the living room?
2. When was your hair red?
The answers are:
1. Yes. My mom likes portraits. Wouldn’t you rather check out the one of my sister in her bowl cut years? (Sorry to throw you under the bus, Sis.)
2. Off and on between the ages of 15 and 20. I was also blond at 22. If there’s a hair color, I’ve had it.
In my father’s study, we get into even more trouble:
"Why are you in a hoop skirt?"
It’s that one that takes a little longer to explain. (Note to reader: the hoop skirt is in a photo and not a portrait, just like the Birmingham Belle ceremony is separate from the junior cotillion. I wore the hoop skirt twice – once as a Belle and once for Halloween. For the sake of family peace, I’ll just say that I wasn’t too excited about joining that organization.)
For the uninitiated, the Birmingham Belles are a group of girls chosen to represent Arlington, Birmingham’s only remaining antebellum home. Arlington is also open for tours and home to a museum. Originally, Belles had all sorts of civic duties, like going to community functions and giving tours of the house. Then, thank heavens, Birmingham finally caught on to the fact that sending girls in hoop skirts, hats and white gloves to the airport to pick up visitors was a) incredibly embarrassing and b) not exactly doing a lot for the image of “The New South.” They also realized that self-guided tours were sufficient for a home with 7 rooms.
My friend and I attended one volunteer event as Birmingham Belles, and it was a bake sale where we wore jeans. I think I was still embarrassed even though we didn’t have our bloomers on.
In short, the visual artifacts of my adolescence can be quite fascinating – especially if you’re not from here. You also have some frightening insight into the kinds of information a Mills boyfriend is bound to discover.
* I apologize that the hoop skirt photo is not available at this time.
Cat Update
For anyone still keeping track of the cat's name changes, here are the latest developments in Kitty Cat Jones' life.
1. We started calling Kitty Cat Jones by his initials, so we've been calling him KKJ for a few months now. Then, one day, while yelling "KKJ" across the yard, we realized some of the neighbors might think we're racists if they misheard us or didn't listen too carefully.
2. I was asking a friend of mine whether or not she thought our neighbors might think we were extremely prejudiced when she paused.
"You know that Kitty Cat Jones' initials would actually be KCJ, right?"
So, not only might we be considered the white supremacists in the neighborhood, but we can't spell either.
3. I went home and told the SO about our mistake, and he responded, "No, that cat is KKJ. End of story. I don't care what his actual initials are."
4. Despite Coco, Cocoa, Toonces, Kitty Cat Jones, KKJ and KCJ, we've actually just been referring to the fluffy little dude as "the stationary cat" because he does not move from the spot in the picture for days. And I mean days. Other than raising his head occasionally, I don't think he leaves the dog's bed for hours (in the multiples of 24 variety) on end.
5. Meet the stationary cat! (Sure to be TSC or some other bizarre incarnation by Spring.)
Thank you!
I'd like to thank everyone who has voted, RT-ed my tweets, commented on my blog, put up with my blog and liked posts on Facebook to help me in my quest to be Volvo's Biggest Fan of the Big East. I appreciate your support and patience, and I never could have made it through to the final four without you ... [Read more]
D.C. Trip Part One: In Which We Barely Make It Out Of The Airport
This past weekend, Volvo graciously sponsored a trip for me to return to my Alma mater, Georgetown, and watch one of the biggest games of the season, Georgetown v. Syracuse.
Our trip began with a two-hour delay due to winds in Baltimore ... [Read more]
My Trinity And Good Intentions (With Video)
I fully believe the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Of course, I’ve also always hoped the adage wasn’t referring to a literal hell. I just figured it was pretty obvious that we all get more than we bargain for when we try a little too hard ... [Read more]
911
A few years ago, the SO and I were in the car coming back from Atlanta when we saw a dog wandering down the median of the highway.
“Call 911,” he said. “We need to report this.”
“Report the dog?”
“Yes, report the dog. Call 911.”
Now, clearly I love dogs as much as the next person. If we could have stopped without causing an accident, I would have insisted on pulling over to rescue the poor thing. But call 911? I wasn’t so sure about that.
“Why aren’t you calling 911?”
“Are you sure we should call?”
“Yes, I’m sure we should call.”
“Really sure?”
“Really sure. Would you feel better if I called?” he said. “Even though I’m the one driving?”
“Yes,” I said, “I do think that would be better.”
The SO called 911 to report the dog, and then we had an extended conversation about why I wouldn’t call 911 and how I didn’t recognize that the dog could have caused a car crash at any second, etc., etc. (Sometimes I envy people who lived before the invention of motor vehicles because there was no such thing as being trapped in a car with someone – no matter how much you love and adore them. Not that I'm sure covered wagons going across the plains were all that much better, but at least you had buffalo, raids and other more pressing concerns to occupy your time. Incidentally, the car is also where my mother always chose to try and talk to me about sex, drugs and other teen issues.)
The problem I have is that ever since I can remember, I’ve had a terrible fear of calling 911.
In high school, I called 911 twice. Once because a woman in the store where I was working had a stroke and once because a friend and I drove by someone slumped over in his car. Both incidents required lots of cajoling.
In the first, an older man I worked with had to grab the phone from me and explain what was actually happening to the 911 operator. In the second, my friend and I agreed that if we drove by the same car twice, and the guy still hadn’t moved, we’d call 911.
On our second drive by, I made the call. “Yeah,” my 16-year-old self said, “there’s this guy in his car, and he’s like not moving or anything. He could be asleep or he could be, like, dead.”
“We’ll send someone to check it out.”
Then, I gave the female operator the address, and my friend and I went home.
It’s not that I was worried about the circumstances that could lead to such an awful call, or that I was afraid of accidents, it’s that I felt like the 911 operator would judge me if the reason I called wasn’t urgent enough or “emergency worthy.” I fear the judgment of a stranger on the other end of a phone line. Where this comes from, I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s related to my feelings about pizza orders and utility customer service.
“But it’s their job to take your calls,” the SO said. “And it’s their job to decide what to do in the situation?”
“Really?” I said.
“Really.”
Well, this little conversation was like being freed from a lifetime of 911 fear. I called 911 when I heard really loud noises outside my house at night. I reported a fighting couple outside of a housing project. I felt like justice was my mission and 911 was my weapon. I was on a tear.
Of course, like all good or bad things, this bent of mine eventually came to an end. This time it was after a particularly confusing conversation with a 911 operator.
I was driving home one night, when I saw a car pulled over in the parking area of a fire station that was being built. A man was laid out on the ground, and a woman was bending over him. (Now before you judge me for not acting in these kinds of situations, know that I don’t get out of my car for anything – especially after dark. It’d be lovely if we lived in a world where everyone could be trusted and no one used your desire to help someone in distress as a weakness, but we don’t. I’ll make a call for you, but I won’t unlock my door, at home or on the road.)
“911.”
“Hi,” I said, “I think there’s someone in trouble on 5th Avenue South.”
“What makes you think that?”
I described the scene.
“Where on 5th Avenue South did you see this?”
“Near 45th Street,” I said. “Across from that building …”
“What building?”
“Oh, it’s where’s 3rd Avenue and 5th Avenue split,” I said. “You know, where the new fire station is going to be.”
“Are you saying this man is going to be at this address?”
“No, the man is there. It’s the fire station that isn’t there yet.”
“When will this man be at the address?”
I had gone from savior to suspect because of what I’m hoping was a bad cell phone connection. In my best case scenario, she thought I was a drug user who was going to dump a friend having a bad trip. In my worst case scenario, she thought I was a murderer/mob king pin with a body to get rid of.
“The man is already there,” I said. “He’s there right now.”
“And where are you?”
That’s when I hung up, my fear of 911 returned and fully-realized yet again. I won't be rising to the title of the Savior of Avondale anytime soon.
The Curious Case Of The Found Pants
Like most kids, I enjoyed my mystery series, with Encyclopedia Brown being at the top of the list. (It was in the ice cubes the whole time!)
Well, I enjoyed most mystery series. Nancy Drew was an exception. When my mom handed me my first Nancy Drew book, The Secret of the Old Clock, I remember looking at the cover art – which was of a girl kneeling next to a clock with a document next to it – and thinking, “There’s a will in the clock. Done.” I never read past page four, and I never picked up another Nancy Drew novel. Truthfully, I was a little insulted. (Insulted by the series, not my mom.)
I also liked to watch Alfred Hitchcock Presents on Nick at Nite, so I preferred my mysteries with unexpected twists – murder victims that became feed on the farm didn’t bother me at all.
And, thanks to my grandmother’s love of Murder, She Wrote, my favorite murder giveaway goes something like this:
“I can’t believe poor Mrs. Winters was shot to death.”
“I never said anything about Mrs. Winters being shot. How could you know that? Unless …”
[Insert slow clap.] “Well, I guess you’re onto me now, aren’t you?” Or, for the more sympathetic criminals, there were doe eyes and, “She was going to ruin me Jessica! Don’t you understand? She was going to ruin me!”
As an adult or child, I never get into Sherlock Holmes (unless he is being played by Robert Downey, Jr. – another story for another day). I want a chance to figure out a mystery, and if I have to know obscure 18th century ceramic patterns and cigar bands from India to solve the crime, I’m just not interested.
I will, however, watch most anything loosely-based on Sherlock Holmes – House (until they got rid of Cameron and ruined it for me), The Mentalist and Psych included. (Hugh Laurie, Simon Baker and James Roday may, or may not, have something to do with that.)
While I also like to play armchair detective when it comes to the news (“The killer is obviously a white male with Mommy issues”), I prefer not to go looking for mysteries in my own life. As a child, yes, I was all about lost money or old wills or treasure, but as an adult, I find the daily hunt for my missing keys to be enough of an extracurricular mental challenge.
This is only one of the many reasons I don’t like it when strange things occur around my house. These days, I have no need for secret admirers, long-lost relatives or neighbors trying to stuff rugs in the backs of their cars late at night. A quiet, peaceful home works just fine for me.
So, to whoever left their pants outside my door over the weekend – stop it! I don’t want to consider the possibilities of how your pants got there (ew), why you were pants-less on my property (more ew) or why you picked my house of all places, to gallivant. (The pants incident is still very jarring for me, so I’ve kind of run out of words for the whole thing. Hence, for you unfortunate reader, “gallivant.”)
As far as I’m concerned, clothes belong on people, and if anyone is going to leave clothes around my house, he or she is going to at least be someone I know.
Whoever you are, oh mysterious provider of pants, please find another stoop for your leftovers. This particular armchair detective has enough to worry about with her car keys and finding that tax form I tried to file last week.
My Top 5 Car Care Pointers
I don’t think this will come as a surprise to most people, but I am a very neat person. I love storage bins – easily identified thanks to my handy label maker. I enjoy doing laundry, and I might consider my steam mop more than just a cleaning apparatus – it’s kind of like an anti-bacterial friend ... [Read more]
Most Awkward First Dates
In my dating life, there have been a number of unfortunate moments. And I may or may not have once inadvertently forced some wait staff to stay long past their shifts were over because no one wanted to tell the crying girl at table 7 the restaurant was closed, but since I decided to limit this post to first dates, here you have it:
1. The World’s Shortest Date
Shortly after I graduated college, I met a man who was out with some guy friends of mine. He was in D.C. to interview for a job on the Hill. He asked for my number so he could call me when he moved to town. I gave it to him thinking, “I’m sure I’ll hear from this one.”
But, strangely enough, three weeks later while I was shopping in the Safeway, my phone rang. “Laurel, it’s Joe.”
Luckily, he was kind enough to give me some context clues because I had no idea who Joe was by then.
“Anyway, I got that job,” he said, “so I was thinking I could take you to dinner once I got up there.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, and we made plans for an upcoming Thursday.
Joe came to pick me up, and we decided to walk to a restaurant in my neighborhood for dinner. We ate, talked about what might have happened to Chandra Levy, and he walked me home. From doorstep to doorstep, it took all of 45 minutes.
“How about I give you a call this weekend when I know what I’m up to?”
“Sure,” I said, knowing full well that phone call would never come.
Maybe the real me didn’t match up to the memory, but I’m not sure what I did to warrant holding onto my phone number for three weeks only to end up being someone Joe didn’t even want to spend an hour with.
2. We Shouldn’t Have Talked About Music
Date #2, who we’ll call Dan, was an office fix-up. Now, in my opinion there is little more awkward than the office fix-up. It’s pretty hard to say “no” when Sue from HR or Tammy from accounting wants you to go out with their adorable nephew or wonderful son when they know you’re single. There’s never a good excuse (especially if you did not create a pretend boyfriend on day 1 of the job), and you usually just have to go. Also, if it goes wrong, as it usually will, you quickly go from being the cutest girl in the office to the evil heart breaker who thinks she’s too good for everyone.
While Dan was watching me eat nachos on our date (he couldn’t have so much food because of a recent surgery), I turned to the gold standard of dating small talk – music. Since “With or Without You” happened to be playing overhead, I said, “I really like U2.”
“What?” he said.
“I really like U2.” I even pointed upwards thinking he would somehow catch the music playing in the background even though he couldn’t hear me, and I was sitting right next to him.
There was a long pause.
“Oh, uh, I like you, too,” he said.
Then an even longer silence set in – partly because I was embarrassed and partly because I really didn’t know where to go from there. I also didn't like him that much, so half an hour into our "relationship," it was already based on a lie.
When he walked me to my car after I made up an excuse to go home before 10, I literally said, “Good luck with everything” and gave him the double pistol shoot with my hands to make sure there was plenty of space between us as I got into the car.
If there’s ever a biopic of my life, I’m hoping that moment of social genius doesn’t make the cut.
3. There is little shame like the shame of being judged at the Olive Garden
My first date was a double date with another couple. While I’m sure the other couple was brought along to make the situation less uncomfortable and awkward for me and my date, well, we all know what they say about the best-laid plans.
The couple my date and I were doubling with had recently gone through a break up due to some cheating but had gotten back together.
After our 45-minute wait at the Olive Garden, we were seated. We ordered our meals. Things seemed to be going well. Then, the trouble began.
I’m not sure how the cheating came back up, but as the waitress was delivering our food, my friend said, “You know Mike, if you aren’t happy with what you had, you’re welcome to send it back for something else.”
“No, I’m perfectly happy with what I have,” he said.
“Well, you certainly don’t act like it. Maybe you’d like something newer and more interesting.”
“No, no. I like what I have.”
This conversation went on much longer, but my date and I were able to finally signal to the bewildered waitress that she could deliver the food and walk away. (The metaphor was not nearly as clear to her, and she kept offering to ask for changes in the kitchen.)
The fight culminated when my friend slapped her date. In the middle of Olive Garden.
You’d think it’s impossible to bring everyone to a dead halt in a chain restaurant, but just like that, you learn that it isn’t all that hard after all. Everyone was looking at our table. The room was silent.
My date and I spent the rest of our meal staring into our plates of spaghetti. On the ride home, my friend and her date “made up” in the back seat for most of the trip. Needless to say, we didn't go out again.
Not to point any fingers, but this may be one of the reasons it took me about 15 years to get a better handle on the dating thing.
Proposals
I have never been proposed to. Considering that I’ve never been engaged and/or married, I didn’t think this was at all odd. Proposals = engagements = weddings, right?
Then, I was out with a single friend who mentioned “one of the guys who’d proposed to her.”
“One of the guys?” I said. “How many people have proposed to you?”
“Three, I think,” she said.
“You think?”
“Three sounds right.”
“How long had you been dating this particular guy?” I said, going back to the original proposer to try and make sense of it all.
“A few months, but he had the ring before he met me. He was looking for a wife. He wasn’t necessarily looking for me.”
Fair enough. We discussed the other two proposals, and life went on.
A few weeks after that, I ran into someone else who talked about her engagement rings. As in plural.
“How many people have proposed to you?” I said.
“Just the two,” she said.
"Just two" still seemed high to me (not in a bad way, just an unexpected way). I mean, having zero proposals under my belt, I’m easily trumped by any number, but still. Two drunken boyfriends (at different times) each said, “I’m gonna marry you,” but I don’t think that counts when you consider how many beers were involved.
Admittedly, my type before the age of 25 was unemployed and emotionally unavailable, but I still had no idea so many men were running around with diamond solitaires out there. (Is this what EHarmony is for?)
Mulling the subject over for the bit, it finally hit me – I had been proposed to! The only problem was that I was nine at the time.
In third grade, our elementary school welcomed a new student, and he became rather instantly smitten with me. (I only wore red, black or white and had a perm. I’m sure you can imagine what a catch I was.) Years ago, I vowed not to use real names in my writing, and you have no idea how much that is killing me right now because this particular boy had one of the most awesome names ever. I hate having to replace a rhyming name (complete with alliteration) with Harry, but a rule is a rule.
What I remember about Harry is that he loved to wear a yellow Starvin’ Marvin t-shirt, and he had no qualms about making his love for me known. He referred to me as his future wife on the playground and brought me lots of gifts like erasers and colorful pencils.
One day, before lunch, he asked me to marry him. Now, before you dismiss this story as not counting as an actual proposal, I need to add one key detail – he had a sapphire and diamond ring with him. And that ring was far more impressive than the plastic happy-faced ring he’d presented me with the day before.
I was all set to give my usual “no” when I saw the sparkles. “That’s nice,” I said, instantly entranced.
“Please, please marry me,” he said.
“I need to think about it,” I said. What I really needed to think about was how to get out of being betrothed before I got to junior high and managing to hold on to that ring. Mulling it over with my best friend, I said, “Can I say ‘no’ and keep the ring?”
Clearly, I was a sensitive child.
While I was still wrestling with whether or not to marry for money, Harry’s mom called the school. It seemed it hadn’t taken her long to connect the missing ring from her jewelry box to her son’s classroom crush. I guess Harry had (correctly) realized he wasn’t getting my attention with the trinkets he could afford – erasers, colored pencils and smiley-faced rings – and stepped it up a notch.
Unfortunately for me, before the end of the day, the ring (which was beautiful) was locked away safely in Mrs. Treater’s desk drawer until it was time for our parents to pick us up. Harry had some explaining to do when he got home, and my dilemma was over.
While I know I can’t count that as a real proposal, I am changing my number to a .5. It seems fair to me, and this is my blog. So there. (Oh, how the sensitive child has matured in the passing years …)