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 ...

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. 

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.

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 (Or Why John Thompson Might Think I’m A Stalker)

 At 8:30 on October 20, I walked into the lobby and was almost immediately approached by one of the people from Cake Group PR.

“Laurel?” he said ... [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]

In Which Laurel Discovers That She Likes Press Junkets

Despite five years in magazines, I have never been on a press junket. Yes, it's sad, but true.

In fact, I've never even traveled for business. No one has made travel plans for me. No one's offered me a stipend, and I've never even gotten to say that I was traveling for work ... [Read more]

How I Came to Own the World's Ugliest Sunglasses

I used to have nice sunglasses. I really did. I studied magazines with articles on your face shape and which frames fit it best. I even followed trends. (Yes, there was a period when I wanted to look a little too much like Mary J. Blige, but I cannot help it that she had kick-ass highlights and sunglasses at the time.) I even, shock of all shocks, had a carrying case for my glasses.

Of course, these sunglasses weren't cheap. I was willing to spend $80, even $90, for a great pair of sunglasses. ($100 was my line in the sand.) But, I reasoned that it was totally worth it for something I wore every day. Even if you only counted the three months of summer, I was spending no more than $1.00 each day to protect my pupils and look awesome. (A lot of my thinking was and is like taking the tactics of the Christian's Children's Fund and applying it to clothing and housewares purchases. Sad, but true.)

Inevitably, though, I would soon break or lose these sunglasses. I have sat on sunglasses (despite having a carrying case, it's not like I ever remembered to use it), left them on boats, dropped them in the water, abandoned them on store counters, crushed them under the weight of all the other nonsense I carry in my purse -- just to name a few of my glasses' unfortunate ends.

And, each and every time, I was heartbroken that the purchase I'd devoted so much time to ended in disaster.

That's when I came up with a plan: Each time I destroyed a pair of sunglasses, I had to punish myself by buying cheaper sunglasses the next time. I figured that this line of thinking would eventually teach me to appreciate and care for the sunglasses that I had. I would learn to love them and take care of them -- like a child who has to learn responsibility for a puppy.

The way this actually played out, the next-to-last pair of sunglasses that I owned came from the Dollar General.

Rather than learning anything about taking care of nice things (I apologize to all those pretty white shirts I lost to red wine, too), in the span of a few years, I went from $80 sunglasses to the $2 variety. And trust me when I say that it's hard to go much lower than $2 when it comes to purchasing sunglasses.

While I tried to work out my new dilemma (can you really wear Dollar Tree sunglasses?), I was temporarily sunglasses-less. (One pair was at the bottom of a river after a kayaking adventure, and another was crushed under the weight of some Lowe's purchases.)

Sunglasses-less, I was driving down to the lake for Labor Day weekend when I realized that these baby blues of mine would never survive a weekend in the Alabama sun without some kind of protection.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you find yourself shopping for new eye wear at a BP station in Childersburg, Alabama.

Unable to reasonably demote myself to a price of less than $2, I decided that if I was going to have BP sunglasses, I should have the worst BP sunglasses there were. Why pretend you bought your glasses anywhere other than the gas station? It's not like it won't be obvious. (Kind of like when someone tells you they're wearing an old bridesmaid dress to some non-wedding function and you act surprised even though you're not.)

So, I introduce you to the white, knock-off Ed Hardy (knock-off Ed Hardy?!?!) sunglasses I've been wearing for most of September.

Or, as a friend more adequately described them this past weekend, "Is that Laurel in the tacky glasses?"

Maybe one day I really will learn to take care of my things. Unfortunately, the open Diet Pepsi perched tediously close to this laptop begs to differ.

Best Flea Market Ever*

Oneof my favorite parts of visiting my parents’ lake house is exploring the smalltowns in the surrounding area. This past weekend, the SO and I picked theSantuck flea market near Equality, ALfor our mini-adventure. The SO and I love a good flea market, so we wereexcited to finally be at my parents’ lake house for the first Saturday of themonth, the only day the flea market is held.

Sometimes,the SO and I can stay together when we’re shopping, and sometimes we have tosplit up. Worried about time, the SO quickly decided that we would have tosplit up to get through the vendors most efficiently. It’s possible that heloves flea markets more than I do, and while the sight of the airbrush trailerhad my blood pumping, he had other things on his mind. (Those things? Mainlycamera lenses and weapons – all with benevolent purposes, he claims.)

Likeany good Southern girl, I bought myself a cast iron skillet and some off-brandbump-its. The SO ended up with some electronics and a slingshot. (Yes, thesepurchases are pretty representative of who we are.)

Iwas able to move more quickly through the flea market because, shockingly, atleast to me, the Santuck flea market is far fuller of weapons and electronicsthan it is of cookware and knock-off As Seen on TV products.

Assuch, I decided to cross the street for some grilled corn on the cob and waitfor the SO to finish his perusing. That’s also when I happened upon the mostfascinating vendor of all – the live animal salesman.

Therewere chicks, grown chickens, rabbits, pheasants and so, so much more. It killedme that I didn’t have my camera because I the first thing I saw in this boothwas a large man in a sleeveless shirt, tattooed and smoking while he held afull-grown, live chicken under each arm. If that moment isn’t priceless (andkind of amazing considering the balancing act required to smoke and hold livechickens), I don’t know what is.

Ipicked up one of the bunnies. I pet the goats. (I’ve always wanted a goat, andI hear that they keep the grass in your yard very tidy, but I’m pretty sure myneighbors would object.) Then I stumbled upon the most magnificent creature ofall – the peacock.

Apeacock?!?! I didn’t even know that people other than Hugh Hefner were allowedthe luxury of a pet peacock. Surely, I thought, I could never afford such awonder. But, there, in the middle of the Santuck flea market was a peacock ondisplay and going for only $65.00. I wanted it. Desperately.

Theonly thing was, I didn’t want to keep it for myself. If I got the peacock, Iwas clearly going to leave it at my parents’ lake house just for the fun thatwould be this imagined telephone conversation:

“Laurel!”

“Yes,Mama?”

“Laurel, you are not goingto believe what I saw at the lake this morning.”

“Sawat the lake?” In my fantasy, I play this very coy, not that I am capable ofsubtlety in real life. “Were there some migrating geese?”

“No, not geese,” my mother says. “Laurel, I could have sworn I saw a peacockthis morning.”

“A peacock?”

“Yes, a peacock. I saw an actual peacock justwalking across the lawn.”

“But that can’t be,” I’d say. “What would a peacockbe doing in AlexanderCity?”

“I thought the very same thing, but there it was.Plain as day. A peacock.”

“Are you sure it was a peacock?” I’d say. “Did youget a picture?”

“Well, no,” my mother would admit.

“Maybe it was just a big bird. Or a weird plant.Had you had your coffee yet?”

“No, but I really think …”

“I mean, come on Mama, where would anyone get apeacock in AlexanderCity?”

I know; I’m terrible. But it would be really funny– at least to me.

Ofcourse, I didn’t end up with the peacock. It was primarily because I don’t knowwhat they eat (is it as simple as bird seed?), and it seemed cruel to get ananimal with no idea of its diet. (Yes, I will torture my mother and make herquestion her own eyes, but God forbid I don’t know what a bird eats inadvance.) I also think that considering how budget-friendly the peacock was,it’s possible that it wasn’t in the best of health and my mother’s and myfictitious conversation would have gone more like this:

“Laurel, do you know whythere’s a dead peacock on my dock?”

*No,the irony is not lost on me.

Meeting Senator Ted Stevens

Sometimes,I get all too depressed thinking that this is the face of Alaskan politics.(Although, I suppose that if you resign your governorship to focus on your bookdeal and possible reality show, you’re not really a representative of Alaska anyway.)

Iget even more depressed when I think that this might be the face of women's,national and/or populist politics, so you can see why, if I have to make achoice, I want to relegate her just to Alaska. (Sorry Alaska. Really.)

Long before Sarah Palin, Alaskan politics had another face, and thisweek, Alaska and the country lost Senator TedStevens, the man who represented his statewith such passion and commitment. (Albeit not without controversy, I know.)

I met Senator Stevens in 2001. I was just out of college andworking for a non-profit in D.C. that provided housing and medical care forretired career military officers and their spouses/widows. (This translatesinto running a continuing care retirement community complete with independentliving, assisted living and nursing care. Founded by Mamie Eisenhower, we werevery well-funded, and walking down the plush corridor that ran by the diningroom past the lobby and to the elevators, my boss and I often remarked that wefelt like the activities directors on some kind of luxury cruise line.Especially if there was a game of croquet on the lawn or a bridge tournamentgoing on.)

Onemonth into the job, it was time for the Foundation’s largest annual fundraiser,a gala, and to say that I was feeling a little overwhelmed would be quite theunderstatement.

Decorumand manners I’m used to. I did grow up Southern and in a family that prizedmanners very highly. I know how to eat a banana with a knife and fork, whichsilverware belongs to which course and for the first 18 years of my life, Inever left a table without asking to be excused. Professionalism I could handleas well, but military customs were not part of my repertoire at the time,and I worried about the offenses I could cause addressing a “General” as a “Colonel”and who knows what else.

Ifirst became flustered when the advance team for General Shinseki, the head ofthe U.S. Army arrived.

Speakinginto his cuff, a large man told me that “the commander was on route.”

“What’syour plan for his arrival?” he asked.

Plan?I thought. Was I really supposed to be the one with the plan? I thought of myrole as involving more silent auction items and directions to the bar than howto schedule the arrival of one of the military’s most powerful men.

“Letme find my boss,” I said, which I stand by as a great answer until you becomethe boss. (I’ll also go ahead and mention that our banquet was held on Tuesday,September 4, 2001. At the time, we were all completely clueless that the worldwould change forever in one week. I met General Shinseki that evening, and thenext time I saw him, he was in the front row for President Bush’s post 9/11address to the nation as it was broadcast on every major, and not so major,television network. He directed hundreds of thousands of men and women as theyentered Afghanistan, andlater Iraq.I made invitations for a donor coffee in December.)

Then,they had to go and throw in Senators on top of all that.

Eachyear, the Foundation’s Gala honored a particular guest. In 2000, they hadhonored Senator Stevens, and he returned in 2001 to support that year’shonoree, his friend and fellow World War II veteran, Senator Daniel Inouye of Hawaii. Senator Inouyelost his right hand in the war, and I was also incredibly embarrassed to thinkthat I might have stared as we were introduced. (I also think I was in to thetwo-handed shake at that time. It was a phase, akin to and followed by mykissing everyone on the cheek, that I thought seemed very warm and genuine.Let’s just say that I’m glad I’ve moved on.)

Akind man, Senator Inouye didn’t seem to notice my floundering in this worldthat seemed way over my 21-year-old head. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Bothmen were obviously impressive, but what bowled me over most about each was thatin an environment dominated by politics and power, each with a long history ofgovernment service behind them, that night, both seemed to hold onto something thatwas relatively uncommon in Washington-– humility.

SenatorStevens really was there just to support his friend. He had no interest inpushing an agenda (not that there’s much of an agenda to push in a continuingcare retirement community, but the very fact that he came to spend his eveningwith a bunch of old women that it meant the world to also speaks to hischaracter). He didn’t seem bored. He was kind and gracious to each and everyperson that wanted the opportunity to meet him.   

Iknow his later career was troubled. I also know that controversy surrounds Senator Stevens, especially as it relates to pork belly spending and his often aggressive approach, but what I took fromthat night is that Senator Stevens cared  -- about his friends and the U.S. military. I know Senator Stevens will be missed, andI enjoyed our meeting very much.

Andsome of you think I never say anything good about Republicans …

Striking The Perfect Balance Of Customer Service

Iappreciate good customer service. I really do. In a world of “I can’t doanything about that,” “That’s not my problem” and apathetic shrugs, it’srefreshing to find someone who actually wants to help you. (Mylatest adventure in bad customer service? Never being apologized to by theconsignment store that lost a $90 piece of my jewelry. I work in PR, I know howfar a simple “I’m sorry” can go. Perhaps more importantly, when an apologyisn’t there, you really, really notice.)

Thatbeing said, I’m not always a fan of chatty customer service. I know thatcomputers are slow, records take awhile to come up and sometimes there’s a badphone connection. None of that means that I need to fill the silence with whatthe weather is like where I am, how many pets I have or whether or not I’mmarried with some kids. Really, I’ll be OK for those two minutes without havinga lively discussion about the heat. Trust me, I’m fine.

I’mparticularly anti chatty customer service after a long car trip. When it comesto road trips, I don’t like to stop. So, while I save lots of time on the driveto my destination, I’m usually pretty anxious to get to a bathroom the moment Ido arrive at said destination. Therefore, I like efficient hotel clerks.Extremely efficient.

I was not so lucky on my last trip to Atlanta.

“Welcome,”said the very lovely woman who greeted us at the check-in desk, “we’re so gladto have you.” She was smiling. She seemed to like her job. It was pleasant.

Then she went to her computer to pull up our reservation.

“Ohdear,” she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it looks like youroriginal room isn’t available. Rather than having the downtown view from yourroom, you’re going to have the midtown view.”

Isthe view different anywhere in Atlanta?No. Midtown, downtown, don’t care. This is really the least of my concerns.

“That’sjust fine,” my friend said. The reservation was in her name, and as theresponsible one, we left her to the check-in duties.

“And what brings you to our fair city?” thecheck-in clerk said. “I hope it’s something fun.”

“We’re actually here for a wedding,” my friendsaid.

“Thatsounds so nice,” she said. “Would you like me to check the wedding schedule tosee when you can catch the shuttle to the church?”

“Sure.” By this time, I’m crossing my legs in atoddler-like fashion.

“It looks like you’re leaving at six. I’m sure the Walker family is glad tohave you.”

“Actually, we’re here with a different wedding.”

“Ohmy,” the check-in clerk said. “I had no idea we had so many weddings. Let melook for the other schedules.”

Asshe rifles through a stack of papers at least an inch think, all I can think is“Are you kidding me?” She stopped typing as soon as she gave us the bad newsabout the view, and I dread thinking how far from actual check-in we are. (Incase you’re wondering, the lobby bathroom was nowhere in sight, and I am a girlwith girl issues. I needed to get to the room, and I’m going to leave it atthat.) 

“TheHarris party?”

“No,” my friend said, “that’s not us.”

Iwas 60 seconds from a fetal position or an accident at this particular moment intime. Dear God woman, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but just swipe somecards and write a room number on an envelope.

“I wonder where that information is …”

Luckyfor me, by this point, my friend sensed my desperation and moved things along.“I think we’ll just figure it out in the room.”

“It’s really no trouble.”

“We’re fine.” At last, I saw the keys being tuckedin their paper sleeve.

“Youknow,” the check-in clerk said, “I almost forgot to tell you about ourcomplimentary wine hour at five. You really should come to that.” (I don’t knowif she thought this information was important because we clearly liked ouralcohol -– I was holding a 12-pack of Miller Lite and our other friend had abottle of red wine from the Publix down the street, or she didn’t realize thatthe pre-party was taken care of.)

Iwill love my friend forever for taking the keys from her at that moment. “We’llsee you there,” and we booked it to the elevator.

There are things I need to know and things Idon’t. There are also times I want to talk and times I don’t. And when I’ve gotto go, I’ve got to go. I so appreciate it when my customer service and I matchup on these levels.   

In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding

This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*

I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.

This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)

However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?

Keep in mind that this is in addition to my other standard barrage of questions: Should I wear my hair up or down? Do you like this jewelry? Did I do my eye liner correctly? Do you think there's cilantro in that dressing? Would you call this ecru or beige? Do you think the cake is white icing on white cake or white icing on lemon cake? Where is the closest bar?

And so on and so on.

I'm lucky I still have friends (especially ones who invite me to their weddings), let alone those that don't seem to mind gently reminding me that the wait staff will fear me if I continue to attack the woman in charge of passing stuffed mushrooms.

* I am honored each and every time someone asks me to be part of their wedding. It's just a bonus for me that it also comes with a detailed schedule and coordinator responsible for most of my moves.

What I Did With My Holiday Weekend

Be prepared. It may be hard to respect me after reading this list. (If you had any respect for me to begin with.)

1. Bought Swim Goggles
Since I was going to spend most of the July 4th weekend in the pool, it only seemed logical for the SO and I to pick up some pool toys. We bought floats (or really one float because I had a deflated one back at my house). I got an air pump because I don't like to blow up floats (and blowing up floats seems beyond the extent of the SO's love for me). Then, we grabbed some goggles because after awhile that chlorine really irritates my eyes, and if I can't see underwater, I run into walls. The choices are few and far between.

Unfortunately, this purchase only reminded me of the same lesson I learned in a much more painful setting almost 20 years ago -- no woman, adolescent or grown, looks good in a pair of swim goggles. I don't know how anyone held back the laughter.

2. Ate Enough to Feed a Small Village in China
On Sunday, I treated myself to a turkey burger, baked beans and cole slaw. Not so bad, you say? I finished off the meal with a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog. If my arteries and societal pressure weren't involved, I'd eat a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog every day.

On Monday, I stopped off at Wings Plus 6 and polished off five honey mustard wings, five mild wings (because who knows how spicy wings might have affected my digestive system at that point), french fries and a slice of key lime pie.

I didn't count the beers.

3. Made Bad Choices
On Sunday night, I purchased Hot Tub Time Machine from Videos on Demand. (John Cusack stars and produces. Doesn't that make you wonder?) I didn't really laugh, but I have been thinking about the pivotal choices that affect each and every one of our lives and how those choices can shape our futures -- because of the movie's plot line, not John Cusack's production credit.

Or not. However, I have had "Let's Get it Started" stuck in my head for a week.

Wrong Number, Lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, the lessons of adulthood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: “I think you have the wrongnumber.”

Drunky: “No. I need my messages.”

Me: “I think you want voice mail.”

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

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

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

“I told you. You have the wrongnumber.”

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

I didn't get a lot of sleep mostweekends.

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

Not What I Wanted to Hear From Paula Deen*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dead Fowl Standard

Right after college, my roommates and I moved into a brand-new federal style townhouse off of the U Street Corridor in Washington, D.C. It was only a few blocks from Adam's Morgan, but at the time, the neighborhood was still considered very much "up and coming." (Today, the same area is mostly luxury condos and high-end retail, but that was not the case in 2001.)

I, however, could not have been more infatuated with my living situation. The house had gorgeous hardwood floors, a lovely balcony and even a garage. (You have no idea the premium on something like that in D.C.) I also had the master bedroom complete with two closets and a bathroom that had a shower and a whirlpool tub. The $825 I paid each month in rent was way too high a percentage of my salary, but it was comparable with what all of my friends paid, and I had a spectacular house two blocks from the Metro station. I was more than willing to put up with the occasional panhandling or "get out white bastards" greeting in exchange.

But, while I was completely comfortable with my surroundings, I sometimes forgot to warn visiting friends that we weren't in Georgetown anymore. (For those of you who have never been, Georgetown is a very wealthy neighborhood, and you can tell at every turn -- from the gorgeous row houses to the Armani store.)

A friend of mine decided to visit one day while she was in town from Alabama. Since her mother lived in Arlington, Virginia, we both figured she'd have absolutely no trouble taking the Metro to meet me at my new home.

When she was an hour late, I called, but figured she was just running behind and couldn't get reception on the subway. When she was two hours late, I was worried.

Just as I was about to call in the cavalry, I saw a figure that looked like my friend wandering the alley that ran behind my house. (I was on the back balcony.)

"Susan," I yelled, and she raised her head. "Why didn't you come to the front door?"

As her figure came into better view, I could see that Susan looked far more exhausted than seemed appropriate for a gal on vacation.

"Thank God it's you," she said. "And I would have come to the front door if I could have found it."

I quickly brought Susan into the house, poured her a glass of wine, and listened as she recounted the story of her continually delayed train ride and the treacherous one and a half block walk from the Metro station to my house. The highlights? Someone threw a shoe at the back of her head, and someone else tried to sell her a dead pigeon.

"A dead pigeon?" I said.

"It was wrapped in newspaper," she said. "He gave some thought to the presentation."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I'd be more than happy to pay him if he wouldn't make me take the pigeon."

Once Susan had recovered from the trauma, we spent the rest of the night drinking wine and catching up, and that dead pigeon became a kind of standard of ours. You got lost? It was terrible? You drove around for hours? Hey -- at least there wasn't a dead pigeon.

We found that the benchmark worked in a variety of situations. Bad break-up? Dressing down from the boss? Expensive shoes that can't be returned? It could always be worse. There could have been a dead pigeon -- and no one wants a dead pigeon shoved in their face.

Fast forward a few years: I'm working for a new magazine, and we've decided to put together a picnic photo shoot in a local park.

Unfortunately, nothing went right that day. A crowd of obnoxious 12-year-olds (who I still think should have been in school) surrounded us to ask insipid questions. The day was unseasonably hot, and everything melted (including us and our makeup). The ground was uneven. We spilled wine on the white picnic blanket. It seemed that the entire shoot was coming apart at the seams.

Shortly after the wine spill, my boss handed me some wrappers to throw away from the food we were "styling," and I walked over to the trash can. As I leaned over to toss in our garbage, I came upon a foul smell and sight. Someone had decided to throw a dead goose from the nearby pond into that very trash can.

Luckily, I was able to turn around before my stomach did a complete flip-flop. And even though the circumstances were far from favorable, after all that work, we were going to get a shot, dammit -- which also meant we'd have to stay near that dead goose for at least 20 minutes.

Again, once we cleaned up, got out of the unbearable sun and found some cocktails later in the evening, we made the dead goose our barometer for photo shoots and all else production-related. A writer didn't turn in a story on time? The photographer was a no-show? An order came from upstairs to slash half the magazine? At least there's not a dead goose.

Why dead fowl are a continuing theme in my life, I don't know. But, in these trying times, I think I'm going back to the standards I set with them. The checking account balance may be low, and the hours may be long, but at least none of my days have involved dead pigeons or geese.

I'm hoping it stays that way.

Heathens and Happy Hernando

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Archives: Laurel and Annie Travel the World

Well, as we boarded the minibus bound from Pattaya to Bangkok, Anniefound a large knot on her foot. It's probably some disease caused bythe lizard that shared our tropical hell hotel room for a couple ofdays, but she took an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory right afterthe discovery, and we think she's going to make it.

She's a brave soul.

Ithink Annie and I have never been so happy to leave a place as when weleft Bangkok. We were on an Air France flight and thanks to my highschool French teacher always calling Air France "Air Chance," myanxiety level was a little high.

I was about to have my faithin the French restored merely by the presence of personal TV screens atyour seat until we encountered the meanest French stewardess ever. Shewas downright scary, and I'm glad I got to sleep through most of theflight.

I did watch a nice French film as I tried to remaincultured despite the fact that my taste has been seriouslydeteriorating since we left the U.S. This is primarily due to the factthat every English-speaking program shown abroad sucks. Annie and Iactually looked forward to seeing Yes Dear at our hotel in Pattaya. We also loved Sorority Boys . All sad but true.

Of course, my attempts to culture myself went awry when Annie convinced me to watch Kangaroo Jack after the French film. If I come home only interested in CBS and UPN programs, I'm sorry.

Wealso almost missed our connection from Paris to Athens. Something wasup at the French airport. I don't know what kind of alert they were on,but I have never seen people inspect passports with such fervor. I havealso never seen so many people pulled out of line for furtherquestioning. One guy was actually smelling the passports. Our flight toAthens left 40 minutes late because someone was pulled off the planedue to an i.d. problem and the police were called. Perfect flyingconditions for someone who worries about terrorists, etc.

Beforethat, as Annie and I arrived at the terminal for our departure therewas a line of at least 100 people to go through security, and ourflight was already boarding. I had accepted the fact that we would missthis plane until Annie hit me and demanded, "Speak."

Annie hasnever hit me before and this simple act of violence on her part wasquite frightening. It was then that I realized she wanted me to speakFrench to convince the guy close to the front of the line that weshould be able to cut in front of him.

Thank God for my highschool French teacher (I forgive him for the "Air Chance" commentsbecause of this) because I was able to convince him of this and weactually jumped about 90 people in line. I even used the subjunctive.Who knows where that one came from.

After we talked to him, Icould hear him discussing our situation with his wife. He either saidthat my French was shit or that we were in deep shit because of ourflight. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt (and try tosalvage some of my self-esteem) by thinking it's the latter.

Athens is fabulous. I love Greece and don't think I can even say enoughabout how much I love this country. We've been exploring the city,climbed to the top of the Acropolis, and wine is cheaper than water.Tomorrow we're off to Mykonos for 4 days. I can't wait.

There are only 2 things I dislike about Greece thus far:

1. Gatorade tastes like orange Tang.

2.Every staircase and walkway is made of marble. Pretty, but bad forthose who lack coordination like myself. Some of you may be thinking,"Laurel, there's nothing bad about slipping as you climb to the top ofthe Acropolis. You're not in peak physical form, you were probablytired, a little jet-lagged."

The truth is that I slipped notnear the Acropolis, but rather leaving a clothing store and in ourhotel. I went sliding down about 4 steps in our hotel the other day.People in Mykonos are going to wonder who the extremely bruised girl onthe beach is.

Adventures in the Service Industry, Part Two

It was the end of day four, and I still hadn't made it past appetizers. Around 10:00 p.m., about the time I was dying to escape the restaurant training I had been in since 5:00 p.m., my manger, Lou, decided we were all in need of a pep talk.

"Now, I tell you, I don't know what's happened to this group," he said. "We started out 40 strong, and since then, you guys have been dropping like flies. People show up one day, don't come back the next. What is it? Is it an issue of commitment? Is it the tests?"

He then referenced the poster boards he kept to the right of his podium (because every restaurant manager requires a podium) where he kept multiple poster boards with our daily test scores written next to our names. (Want to know when I began cheating? The first day I saw that Joe, who spent his free time setting his jeans on fire with a lighter, had scored a 100 compared to my 97. No one -- not even pregnant smoker Jeannie -- scored less than a 95, and I figured cheating was the standard.) 

"I thought I selected a committed group, dedicated people," Lou went on. "Could someone tell me what's going on? Because I know it isn't me. So what the heck is it?"

This little lecture went on for 30 minutes. I can tell you because I checked my watch every minute on the dot. I had friends to meet after training. And five hours was more than enough for me. Five and a half hours was turning my barely contained annoyance into pure rage. It's not like there was a real opportunity for me to stand and say, "Hey Lou, I'm pretty sure the problem actually is you. You drive people away. You're controlling, annoying and clearly far too fixed on the notion that we're on a real island instead of being on the backside of a strip mall."

"Y'all can go tonight," Lou said, at last, "but I want you to think about each and every thing I've said."

That last command would have been far easier if I had been listening. I nearly ran out of our training space to grab beers and complain to some friends. (I should probably mention that I had also been told that day that the khakis I spent what little money I had left on weren't "regulation." I read "regulation" as "pleats." The idea of spending more money on khakis with pleats wasn't helping my mood.)

The next day was our break day. Eight days of training meant four days on, a day of rest, and four more days on.

I absolutely loved my day off. I slept in. I had a big breakfast. I didn't worry about tugs at my elbow or any greetings involving "island." The only problem was the nagging voice in the back of my head reminding me that I had to go back.

Morning dawned on my first day back to training, and I really thought I would make it to the restaurant. Even in the late afternoon, I thought I would make it. I was a grown-up with responsibilities, after all. So, you can imagine how surprised I was when my body seemed to go into a state of near-inertia around 4:00. By 4:45, I was nearly catatonic. I could not move, I could not grab my car keys, and I certainly couldn't get in the car and direct it towards the restaurant. Even at 5:30, I thought I might still arrive at work and come up with a brilliant excuse for my tardiness on the way over. In reality, I just never showed up. (I promise that I am rarely this irresponsible. Between khaki rules and offering Jamaica me crazies, I had clearly been pushed to the edge.)

The next morning, my cell phone rang. "Hello," I said.

"Is this Laurel? I need to speak with her."

Realizing it was Lou, I hung up.

He called back. By now, I recognized the number on the caller id and just didn't answer. He called again.

Finally, I went into my sister's room. (I was living at home after my recent move.) My sisters and I sound exactly alike on the phone. It's why my father answers each call from his daughters with "Hello Angel" until speech patterns and mannerisms give away the identity of the daughter in question. Apart from my family, for most of my life, this voice thing has been a problem. (I once spoke to my sister's boyfriend on the phone for 10 minutes thinking it was my boyfriend. When we both realized our mistake, we agreed to never speak of it again.) But, I finally saw how this identical voice issue could work to my benefit.

""Hey," I said, "do you think you could do me a little favor?"

"What's the favor?"

"Quit my job for me?" (Whereas I can easily be guilted into anything -- like cleaning stranger's apartments, giving people rides to and from the airport before dawn and washing your dog -- my sister is far more assertive. She doesn't really take crap from anyone, and I had no doubt she'd be far better equipped to make Lou go away once and for all.)

"What's in it for me?" she said.

"A six pack of your favorite beer?" My only bargaining chip: I was of age, and she was not. Go ahead and judge me.

"Give me the phone."

My 18-year-old sister then called my manager to quit my job for me. Here's what I heard: "Hi ... yeah ... I couldn't make it ... I didn't want to be there ... I won't be back ... I have another opportunity and it's far more lucrative ... you too." Click.

"What did he say?" I said. "Was it OK?"

"It's done," she said, "and he wishes you well in your new endeavors."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

"Awesome."

"Glad you're happy," she said. "Do you think you can hit the package store before five? I've got plans this evening."

It might be one of my more cowardly acts, but it was also pretty painless. Sadly, I have to admit that the easy way out has than name for a reason. And once in a blue moon, I do take it. (Feel free to continue judging me.)

Adventures in the Service Industry

Having been a writer/grad student/member of the under-employed at various points in my life, I've also spent my fair share of time waiting tables.

One of the many lessons I've learned as a former waitress is that being trained to wait tables is always far worse than actually waiting tables. At best, you end up doing the grunt work for whatever server you're shadowing for the shift. ("Yeah, if you sweep out the back and roll the next batch of silver, we should be good to go." There's no "we" when one of us keeps all the tips, and the other finishes out each shift in rubber gloves, my friend.) At worst, you have to role play waiting tables for your manager so that he can see how you'll perform with "Bad Guest #1" before allowing you on the floor.

This is a story about the latter. 

(First, I'd like to make it very, very clear that one of the activities I despise most is role-playing. (LARP-ers, please be assured that I'm not talking about your kind of role play. If I get to wear a wig and a corset, I'm in. Always.) And when I'm in an HR office and hear the words "why don't we role play a few scenarios?", my blood absolutely runs cold. If I wanted to pretend that I was talking to someone other than the person across the desk from me, I'd spend more time at the DMV. And I will not make believe I'm in a room with "Upset Donor Donna" just because your acting dream had to die.)

I was 23 or so and had just moved back to Birmingham from Washington, D.C. when I took a job waiting tables for an as-yet-unopened restaurant in a nearby suburb. (During my interview, I had to "sell" the manager a can of pencils that had been sitting on the table. It should have been my first sign.) Because the restaurant wasn't open, training was an eight-day activity that involved hour-long seminars with subjects like "refilling the sugar caddy" and "condiments 101," nightly tests and, of course, the aforementioned role play.

In the pretend world of restaurant role play, we also couldn't jump right in to waiting on a customer for the entire meal. If we were approved through the initial introduction, we could move on to drinks, then specials, and so on and so forth.

"Welcome to the other side of the island. Can I get you something to drink -- maybe a Bahama Mama or a Jamaica Me Crazy?" I said, each and every night.

And every time I walked away from my faux table, I'd feel a slight tug on my elbow and turn to see my manager standing behind me.

"Laurel, we're really going to need you to slow down a bit. Don't rush your island greeting."

"Yeah, Laurel, do you think you could pep it up a bit? Don't forget that you're an island ambassador, now. Really welcome your guests to our paradise." (If I'd paid better attention to those tests, rather than stealinganswers from the back of the book, I might be able to tell you/rememberwhat the "island" theme was all about. Seafood?)

"Someone forgot about beverage napkins."

"Laurel, do you know what it was that time?"

"That you Jamaica me crazy?" I thought, around the time of my fourth reprimand. "No, Lou," is what I said aloud.

"You walked away from the table before you were done talking. Eye contact and staying power are very important aspects of the server's tool box."

In four long, grueling days, I never made it past appetizers.

(Part 2 of this experience coming Friday ...)