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]

Volvo Off The Court Excellence Award*

*For those of you who don’t just come to my blog for Georgetown/Volvo stuff, I offer you the alternate title “In Which Laurel Attempts To Write About Sports.” I feel like that should provide some potential amusement ... [Read more]

The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same

I wish I was still this excited on Christmas morning. Of course, I still like gifts (who doesn't?), but there's something to that child-like wonder of not being able to control yourself. For this picture, I'm assuming I was given a line not to cross before a certain hour of the morning and was absolutely tortured by the restrictions.

Isn't the hat a festive, early '80s touch?

Twenty-nine years later, I do still ask Santa for handbags. I also still check the insides just in case someone decided to leave a little cash in there, even though I know it's tacky, so I pretend I'm admiring the lining.

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]

In Which a Young Laurel Attempts to Fish

Last Friday night, I attended an evening of storytelling devoted to food courtesy of DISCO and Birmingham’s Food Summit. While I declined to tell a story (I wanted to give everyone else a chance, you see, it has nothing at all to do with my fear of public speaking, really), it did get me thinking about food and the sources of food. Plus, with it being Thanksgiving and all, it seemed like a fine time for a food-related tale. So, here we go.

Since my father has no boys, he was intent on teaching his daughters many of the skills most dads imparted to their sons. When he (quite admirably) decided to help my Brownie troop earn its sports badge, I remember two primary lessons:

1. Centers need to be tall. (I found this out when I, at fewer than five feet, volunteered to be the center, and my father suggested that Callie, at over five feet, would probably make a better choice.)

2. For “real” players, “no blood, no foul.”

While the latter was not enforced, it was still a little on the intense side for a gaggle of nine-year-olds.

My sisters and I were subject to many an action film, the library of all things James Bond and some very “involved” softball coaching. But, what stood out as the food stories were going around was the many times my father tried to get us interested in fishing.

Since we have a lake house, this makes perfect sense. Lake = water = fish. However, when you’re trying to teach three girls to fish, there are a few problems, and while you might think worms would be the worst of it, I think patience was the much bigger problem.

Fishing adventures tended to end shortly after the first or fifteenth, “I’m bored.”

Plus, whenever we did catch a fish, it was always a throw-away on the dumb side of fish life. (I can remember more than a couple holes or hooks already in its mouth.)

One day though, my father came in with some news.

“We’re going fishing!” he said.

Three collective sighs went around the table – especially since we were in Birmingham and nowhere near our lake house.

“This time is going to be different,” my dad said. “We’re going to a special pond. Guaranteed good fishing.”

Reluctantly, we got in the car, drove for about half an hour and came to a stop at the smallest “lake” I had ever seen. But sure enough, nearly a minute after I put my line in the water, I pulled out one of the biggest catfish I had ever seen.  

Soon, I caught two more fish, and my sisters were just as lucky. “This is a special pond,” I thought.

“I think we should only keep three a piece,” my dad said later. “We’ve got to leave some for everybody else.”

I wanted to keep every fish I caught. (Boy, were they biting that day!) But my dad’s logic made sense, in addition to the fact that he was my dad and he made the rules, so we quickly agreed.

It wasn’t until we were leaving, and a man pulled my father aside to weigh and pay for our fish that I realized we weren’t quite at a “special pond.” We were at a stocked pond, and this little adventure was costing my father quite a bit of money.

It was an especially expensive outing when you consider that later that night, after my father had prepared and cooked a full fish meal (with a freezer full of catfish to spare), we each responded with, “I don’t like catfish,” and opted for other dinner options instead.

That’s just my dad though – always going out of his way and doing his best to make sure that his girls were never disappointed. Whether it was making his daughters think of themselves as star fishermen, attending every softball, soccer and volleyball game or enduring hours at the mall, he always made us feel like he wanted to and enjoyed just being there. (I can imagine that it wasn’t always the dream of a “no blood, no foul” kind of guy to spend hours watching a fashion show after shopping.)

So, this Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for my dad, and all of the ways he made us feel special and cared for. I’m also thankful for my mom, who is equally awesome and attentive, two great sisters, a new brother-in-law, a kid my sister dates who feels like a member of the family, my own SO and the rest of the crazy bunch I’ll get to spend tomorrow with.

I’m also incredibly thankful we’ll be enjoying a meal full of glorious carbs and sugar – catfish not included. 

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.

The French Connection

2003 was a rough year for me, and it had nothing to do with a boyfriend or a job or even poor fashion choices I'm forced to relive in tagged Facebook photos. 2003 was particularly rough because of our feud with the French.

You see, while as an adult I can't say I really have strong feelings about the French in any way, shape or form, being forced to order "freedom fries" did remind me of my desperate childhood obsession with the French. (Did we go so far as to call it "freedom kissing"? I'm just curious.) And while I shouldn't have cared anymore, the little girl in me really, really wanted to make up with our beret-creating European neighbors.

When I was little, I wanted to be an actress, a lawyer and French. The first two were going to require more education and resources than I had access to at the time, but I figured the latter might be something I could actually work towards.

I knew there wasn’t much I could do about actually being French in the present, having been born in Alabama and all, but I was willing to settle for French ancestry. Also, after the disappointment of learning that my middle name was not actually "Fame," I figured Fain might be able to work for me in other ways.

“What are we?” I asked my mother one day. I was hard at work on a first grade family tree project, and she was trying to get dinner ready.

“We are a family,” she said.

 Not what I was hoping for. “No,” I said. “Where did we come from?”

“Montgomery,” she said, continuing to devote her attention to pork chops or something similar.

“No,” I said, “before that?”

“Troy.”

This was not going well. “No,” I said. “What countries did we come from before that?”

“Our ancestors? Is that what you’re asking about?”

I nodded, wondering if I would ever get this project done. Even at six, my mother and I had a history of communication problems. At four, I asked her how it was possible that God made the world in seven days if dinosaurs were around for so long, but there weren’t people when there were dinosaurs. She told me that Adam and Eve had dinosaurs as pets, but when they got kicked out of Eden, the dinosaurs became extinct. This might have worked out OK until I could advance further in school and learn about the Big Bang theory, evolution v. creation, etc., except for an incredibly embarrassing Sunday school incident when my drawing of Paradise included Eve walking a triceratops.

“Scotland, I think,” she said, still struggling with my questions. “But Mills is definitely English. I'd focus your project on Great Britain.”

“What about, oh, I don’t know…” I said, trying to seem as if this thought had just occurred to me, "France?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t it possible anyone in our family came from France? Maybe one of those Scottish people married someone from France?”

“I don’t think so, Honey. Could you set the table?”

“Couldn’t ‘Fain’ be French?” I said. They did start with the same letter after all.

“I really don’t think so,” she answered. “But I suppose you never know. Do you want to call your grandmother?” I didn't want to make any phone calls, and the truth was, and is, I come from a long line of WASPs, and there's very little that can be done about it.

So, instead of preparing a project about my brilliant French ancestors, I had to settle for pretending to be French. I couldn’t imagine anything better than being part of a long line of people with accents and great clothes. After all, they had an Eiffel Tower, restaurants called cafes, and they were too good for water – only coffee and wine for the French.

When I had tea parties with my stuffed animals, we only spoke in French. And, we ate pretend croissants rather than muffins or cupcakes. Of course, we didn’t actually speak French; I simply spoke in a long string of nonsense syllables that I substituted for a foreign language, but it was enough for me. (Although, I was pretty jealous of every single kid in my class who got to present a family tree that involved French ancestors.)

Within a few weeks of my family tree work and the made-up language gatherings, I'd moved on to other pursuits -- begging for a kitten, trying to finish The Boxcar Children before the rest of the kids in my class, convincing my parents I deserved a later bedtime because of my incredible maturity -- and that desire to be French was buried somewhere far beneath a love of Jem and the Holograms and a need to get the attention of my elementary school crush. I went on with my life, and I even survived that pesky 2003 international disagreement.

But, every so often, my little Francophile does rear its ugly head.

A few years ago, my sister and I were riding in the care discussing our extreme WASP-iness.

"Being Scottish works for me," I said. "We gave the world Scoth and bold plaids. You're welcome Universe."

"Yeah," she said, "but I don't think we're really completely 100% WASP."

"Rachael," I said, "our entire family tree is Scottish, English and Irish. We're Episcopalean, and you and Sarah are the only people in the family capable of tanning."

"I'm not sure," she said. "What about 'Fain.' I'm pretty sure that one's French."

Where had that kind of conviction been 20 years before when I really needed it?

Four Movies That Make Me (And Only Me) Cry

I've said it too many times -- love that fourth wall. So, without further ado, the list:

4. Hotel for Dogs

It's a kid's movie. Emma Roberts stars. Dreamworks and Nickelodeon produce. What could go wrong, right? Well, throw in homeless dogs and kids in foster care, and apparently, I just can't cope. About an hour into the movie, I became convinced that all of the dogs would end up at the pound, where they would most assuredly be euthanized, and Emma Roberts and her little brother would never find a forever family or see their dog again. This thought spiral led to intense waterworks.

"You know there's still half an hour left in the movie, right?" the SO said. "Everything is going to work out. This is Hotel for Dogs, Laurel."

"It may work out in the movie," I said, "but that doesn't mean it would work out in real life."

A real life hotel for dogs?!?! Feel free to be just as bewildered as the SO. I guess in the absence of a good reason for crying during the actual movie, which was, of course, going to turn out fine, I decided to blame my tears on the tragedy of real homeless dogs and children in the foster care system. It's a legitimate reason to cry, but the truth is that those little four-legged critters running from the law (and the very presence of Don Cheadle)  just got to me.  

3. Frequency

Now, this movie is genuinely touching. A recently-separated-from-his-wife son finds a way to connect with his dead father through an antique radio in the back room of the family home he inherited. There are firemen, baseball games and '60s nostalgia. It's a lovely and magical combination. A lot of people probably teared up.

Most people probably did not cry so hard that they had to remain in the theater past the credits to compose themselves.

I have a special place in my heart for Dennis Quaid, and I do love James Caviezel. (Confession: I didn't see Passion of the Christ because of the controversy or the violence or the fact that I'm not Catholic,  etc., etc. I didn't watch the movie because I had issues with the idea of being sexually attracted to Jesus. There, I said it -- it's kind of nice to have that one off my chest.) But, it was something about a family getting to be that wasn't that, well, kept me in the theater trying to get it together long past the last scene. 

You know it's bad when strangers seek you out in the dark. "Are you going to be OK, princess?" a very kind gay couple asked me on their way out.

2. Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events

I love kids books and I love kids movies. (Holes is another favorite, and I did get choked up on that one, too, but I'm trying to maintain my forward momentum.) I particularly love the way that the Lemony Snicket books are written, and I recognize that they are a bit darker than your standard children's fare.

In fact, I don't even think I'd be embarrassed to have cried so much during this one if I hadn't been with actual children at the time.

You see, I took my nine- and seven-year-old cousins to see Lemony Snicket while they were out of school for Christmas vacation. They thought Jim Carrey was funny. I held their hands when the snake got away. We were having a good time. Then, right at the end, came that montage about "sanctuary" and what it means, and I was a mess.

"I'm ready Laurel," Cousin #1 said as soon as the film ended.

"In just a minute."

"Can't we go yet?" Cousin #2 said, much more emphatically.

So, we left the theater in a throng of children and their parents -- my cousins happy as larks and dry to the bone while I trailed behind them puffy-eyed and sniffling.

1. Road Trip

I know what you're thinking -- Stiffler and Tom Green made a movie that brought anyone to tears for a reason other than pure embarrassment for their careers/parents? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is yes. (But, no, it was not a prostate joke that caused the crying.)

Just after my sophomore year of college, I found out that my boyfriend of a few years was cheating on me. (We were young and at different schools, and it was bound to happen, but the end of first love is the end of first love. To say that I was a little vulnerable would be like saying Alabama's gubernatorial candidates are kind of conservative.) To keep me from staring at photos or the ceiling and asking "why, why, why," my cousin decided to get me out of the house for awhile.

"Staring at Russell Crowe makes everyone feel better," she said when we got to the theater.

We were supposed to see Gladiator that day, and Gladiator probably would have been a good distraction. At least I didn't have to deal with an evil emperor and fight strangers to the death, right? Maybe I could have found a little perspective there.

"We're sold out for Gladiator," the guy behind the ticket counter said.

"What about the 3:45 showing?"

"We're all sold out for both," he said.

"How about a comedy then?" my cousin said, turning around. "Some laughter will do you good."

Her logic was spot on. The only trouble was that the entire premise for Road Trip is that the main character, who goes to a different school from his girlfriend, cheats on her, makes a tape of it and then accidentally mails said tape to the girlfriend. The whole road trip that gives the movie its name is a desperate attempt to get to the  girlfriend's college before the sex tape does.

Let's just say that I didn't cheer up that day.

Also, a large number of teenage boys probably thinks that they saw that film with someone with severe emotional and/or psychological issues sitting in the theater.

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."

Worst Pet Ever*

There are pets that are good ideas -- dogs, cats, parakeets. (Some people might argue for the ferret, but I'm not one of them.) Then, there are pets that are bad ideas -- rabbits, mice, anything that could become dinner if you live on a farm. (If you would pay someone to remove it from your home, I also contend it does not fall into the "pet" category, so I've never understood the market for mice, rats or snakes frankly.)

Of course, as a child, you have no idea what constitutes a good idea pet or a bad idea pet. And while my mother was in her "we're not getting a dog" phase, I'm pretty sure I begged for every pet under the sun -- chicks, kittens, bunnies and birds included. I started with fish, had a hamster and eventually, around the time I turned 12, graduated to birds. But somewhere in between, I had the worst bad idea pet there is -- the hermit crab.

We all know how it happens. You're down at the beach. You go into some store with a shark's mouth for a door, and within 15 minutes, no souvenir T-shirt, bag of shells or gull  perched on a piece of driftwood will do. What better way to take the beach home with you than in the form of a tiny hermit crab who lives in a portable, plastic case with sand and plastic green grass?

(I should probably also mention that I was the child who tried to catch minnows at the lake so that they could be my pets at home. I prayed that unsuspecting turtles would find their way into my yard, and I was heartbroken on the day that some other super lucky kid took the class chick home after we had all carefully incubated him/her from egg to hatchling.) 

"Please, please, please," were very common pleas the moment I came within the vicinity of anything that could warrant a name, habitat and feeding schedule. I was an animal lover from the get-go.

But, I digress. My primary point remains that there is no worse pet than the hermit crab.

My sisters and I were always allowed to purchase three of the creatures and take them with us after a trip to the beach. After all, they were cheap and didn't require too much in the way of care and feeding. Plus, it's not easy to take a five-hour drive home with three whining and disappointed girls in the back.

And every year, despite my high hopes for the hermit crab, nothing ever quite worked out the way I planned. I often wanted to "race" them, but considering their speed (and that half the time they hadn't left their shells when I called "go"), I usually forgot about the competition, wandered off to do something else and when I remembered my "pets" three hours later, it was a desperate search to find them in the house before my mom got home and wondered when I'd gotten the permission for free-range crabs.

The other joy I found in having hermit crabs was waiting for them to molt.

"You'll have to keep plenty of shells around," the teen at the shark's mouth star would always explain. "As they grow, they have to leave their smaller shells and move to bigger ones."

This promised transformation fascinated me, and I made sure plenty of shells were on hand, at all times, just in case. I even hand-picked the shells hoping my hermit crab would find an even prettier home than the one it had before.

On the one occasion my hermit crab did decide to move out of its shell, it walked around naked for a few hours before settling right back into its old shell. Then, it stayed curled up in there for the next month, or however long it took for my mother and I to decide that the hermit crabs were probably dead and throw them out. 

Years later, someone told me that hermit crabs actually hibernate, so I probably threw away live crabs every year, but I'm not sure my hermits and I would have had much of a future together anyway. There's only so much entertainment a crustacean and plastic grass can provide, and hence, why I stand behind the hermit crab as the worst pet ever.

I do sometimes wonder if landfills are full of hundreds of recently-awoken hermit crabs along the lines of the alligator/sewer urban legend, but despite my desire for infamy, I'm pretty sure the hermit crab/landfill legend isn't the legacy I'm looking for.

* Yes, I'm in to the absolutes lately.