Worst Date Ever

As I mentioned earlier this week, I'm no stickler when it comes to romance. I don't have to receive a dozen red roses on every important occasion, and I'd be perfectly fine if no one ever dedicated a Celine Dion song to me on the radio.

However, I do think certain qualities (apart from my short list of fidelity, truthfulness and not signing on with extremist groups/militias) are important to keep love alive:

Thoughtfulness: "My partner seemed really stressed about getting everything done today, I think I'll pick up dinner on the way home."

Paying Attention: "My partner said it was very important that I get this video back to the store today, I'll do that right now."

Reason/Rational: "My partner is not a fan of Pink Floyd. His/her birthday is probably not the time to buy the complete works of Pink Floyd and force my tastes upon him/her. Maybe I'll buy something he/she likes instead."

The story I'm about to tell you completely violates all three of the above. And, while these events did not happen on Valentine's Day, I think the lessons about love -- or lack thereof -- are more than appropriate to the spirit of the holiday.

It was the summer before an election year. I was going to school in Washington, D.C. and my then boyfriend and I had been breaking up and getting back together for weeks. After yet another one of our loud and embarrassing-if-I-ever-had-to-see-those-neighbors-again fights, he told me that he really wanted us to work out.

"I need more from you," I said. "I need to know how much you care about me."

"I can do that," he said. "I can show you how much I care. I'll be more romantic."

"Really? You'll be more romantic?"

"I will. I'll even plan us a trip."

So, we got back together, and the ex-bf took to working on the details of a trip that was supposed to be even more romantic because it was going to be a surprise to me. Him taking the initiative and making plans for something we could do together? I was pretty excited.

The day of our trip, I put on a dress that was a far cry from my standard classroom uniform of capri pants and a tank top and turned in my summer school assignments early. Then I went back to my apartment to wait for the bf.

He arrived in his standard uniform of khakis and a button-down shirt. "Ready?"

"Sure," I said. "Where are we headed?"

"Philadelphia," he said.

I smiled and nodded.

"For the Republican National Convention."

To make it very, very clear how bad this was (as if it isn't clear enough already): a) there is nothing about politics or a party's national convention that I find the least bit romantic and b) I am not a republican.

"OK then," I said. (Please keep in mind that I did not have anywhere close to the self-esteem or mouth that I have on me now.) "How are we getting there?"

"I thought you could drive."

For more clarity, I am now: a) going to the national convention of a party I do not support and b) acting as chauffeur. In the abbreviated words of Charles Dickens, "... it was the worst of times."

"We better get on the road," he said, ushering me towards the door. "I don't want to be late."

Slightly more than two hours later, we arrived in Philadelphia. "There it is," he said, pointing to a large complex or closed-in stadium (I was a bit blinded by disbelief and barely-suppressed rage to remember the architectural details). "That's where the convention is."

"I see it," I said.

"Now, if we can find the box office, we'll be set."

That's right, ladies and gentlemen -- he didn't have tickets. His plan was for us to arrive at the door and get, I don't know, nosebleed section or lawn seating for one of the nation's biggest political rallies. First, all romance went out the door. Now, any consideration I might have given to his planning skills was gone, too.

Of course, no one can just walk up and buy tickets to the Republican National Convention. (I imagine it has something to do with demand and security clearance. But, I don't know for sure, and I never plan to find out. This is not the kind of trip I will make again.) And since we couldn't get in, and I refused to make a two-hour trip in vain, we decided to grab dinner instead.

We found an Italian restaurant nearby. I want to say there were TVs in the restaurant so the bf could would the convention that he couldn't attend, but I can't be sure on that point. What I do know is that we didn't talk much, and we were literally the only two people trying to get dinner in that part of Philadelphia at that time. 

And, for all of you still reading, here comes the real kicker. It's also the part that you might not believe, but let me assure you that I'm not that creative and life is, by far, stranger than fiction.

When the check arrived, the server handed it to the bf. He picked it up, looked it over and started patting his back pockets.

"Oh man," he said, "I think I left everything in D.C. Could you get this one?"

For some reason I still don't understand, I then paid $75 for a meal in a town two hours from home that I drove to in my own car for the convention of a party I don't belong to and couldn't attend.

As the saying goes, I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but thank God I ain't what I was. (And thank God I've begun to learn the word "no.") This Valentine's Day, I hope you're lucky enough to spend the holiday with someone very special. And if not, it could always be worse. Believe me. 

Shameless Self-Promotion

I try not to ask for much (apart from attention, cash, understandingand fame -- if you even count those), but I would really appreciate asmall favor from the readers of this blog. (I'm sorry if this makes mea terrible person):

Please vote for me (story #1) at My Scoop's Valentine's Day Contest.It'd be the best V Day gift I've gotten since a single rose from theboy who gave everyone roses as part of my high school's Key Clubfundraiser. 

Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's

I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.

As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.

Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.

Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.

(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)

We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.

As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.

In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.

So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.

There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)

I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.

Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)

"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.

"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."

"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."

"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"

"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."

"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."

"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."

"Cocks."

I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"

"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"

"Cocks."

"It's not his fault," I said.

"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."

"Cocks."

"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."

"You can do so much better than this baby."

"I can," I said. "I know you're right."

"Cocks."

"You ready to get back out there?"

"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.

"Go get 'em," the waitress said.

"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.

With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.

I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same. 

* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.

Major Awards

I'm not one to let a chain letter die. (Are you surprised considering all this anxiety? I can't risk death by steamroller, exploding gas pipes or break-ups for failing to do something as simple as send a letter. P.S. Sorry e-mail contact list!) And while the "major award" is not a chain letter, I still feel like I have to keep it going.

Thank you, Tina, for bestowing this blessed honor upon me. I haven't won anything in a really long time -- unless you count the $20 Omaha Steaks gift card I received for all my coke rewards points, which I don't -- so I'm going to have to milk this one for all it's worth. Let me say that Tina is just one of the most awesome people I know. When we worked together at Lipstick, people used to ask if we were sisters. I took it as a huge compliment. 

Now, on to the first requirement of the award: I will now share five random facts about me. (I know, I know, as if you all don't know too much already. Is it hard to sleep yet?)

1. When I was little, I wanted to be an actress. I read biographies of Katherine Hepburn and Tallulah Bankhead for school projects. I attended drama classes, and I wrote and starred in my own plays. Then, I realized that I didn't like people looking at me. (Kind of an obstacle in that career trajectory.) Plus, I decided I couldn't deal with all of the rejection. So, I decided to be a writer. Great call on that rejection nonsense, right?

2. What I miss most in the Great Recession is my bi-weekly pedicures. I take great pride in my toes, and seeing them without color makes me sad.

3. I don't like brushing my teeth. (Don't worry, I still do it.) I find it to be the most boring part of my day. And knowing that I have to do it, at least twice a day, with no discernible change in technique or pattern, for the rest of my life, just makes me sigh. Every day, as I brush my teeth, I think, "Really? This? For the course of my natural life?" Bleh.

4. I love chocolate-covered cherries -- the cheaper, the better. I see a red box in the Walgreen's, and it takes all of my self-control not to buy in bulk. 

5. My temper may not be short, but my memory is long. Too long for my own good at times. I carry the memory of insults and slights far longer than necessary. Some people might call it a grudge ... I prefer to think of it as "a history."

For the second requirement, I will now bestow the major award on five other bloggers. Here goes:

1. In the first grade, I fell madly in love with a boy named Chris Knight. I nursed a crush on him for the next seven years -- except for a brief break in fourth grade when I decided his Webelo uniform was "dorky." My love was unrequited, but by ninth grade, when we both reached high school, we were very good friends, and we've remained that way since. He's an incredibly talented, smart and funny guy, who also happens to be a Jeopardy! champion. (And perhaps the smartest thing he's done is pick Julie Bryan Knight for his wife.) A movie buff, he maintains a flog (film blog) that is witty and insightful. I could not agree more with his thoughts on the greatest Christmas movie of all time, Die Hard. 

2. I can't play sports, and I know next to nothing about them. This hardly matters when I read John Bagby's blog. A true sports aficionado, he's also laugh-out-loud funny when commenting on everything from bowl games to a life without gluten. His dead pan delivery and to-the-quick observations get me every time. 

3. In Nashville, I met Phil Thornton, who I worked with at ReZoom.com, andhis lovely wife, Mindy. There were many, many days that co-workers likePhil got me through the job.A funny, talented guy with an awesome, talented wife, they are both wedding photographers, and I consider their blog a visual feast. It's gorgeous, real and intimate -- a true stunner -- like the couple themselves. 

4. I love food. I like to cook, but when I can't find the energy, time or ingredients, I still like to look at recipes and other people's culinary creations. When it comes to food blogs, I'm a glutton (coincidence, I think not). Here are just a few of my favorites: Food Revival, Simply Recipes, Cookthink and Foodimentary.

5. I only recently discovered Jamie Golden's blog, but I'm enjoying it immensely. She understands my love of shiny things, what else can I say?

5.5. I can't end this post without mentioning the website of one Arik Sokol. Talented, sweet, kind, professional and incredible behind the camera, I just can't say enough about him. His portraits are compelling and insightful. The perspective he brings to each and every subject is unique and considered. Color and light seem to perform in front of his lens. I'll stop now before I begin gushing ... As if I haven't already.

You Need Us, You Really Do

A few months ago, I shared some thoughts on the movie The Hangover. While I completely stick by what I said then, I also don't want to give the impression that I was only dogging on women. By no means is the other gender off the hook.

I love movies like Old School, Knocked Up and The Hangover. I saw Old School twice in the theater, and both times, I laughed so hard that I was crying. To this day, listening to Kansas can always make me smile.

And one of the tried and true archetypes in these films is the girlfriend/wife who always gets in the way of fun. She nags. She's skeptical. She's forever anti-guys' weekend. And in all of these films, she's also absolutely right.

Taking The Hangover as an example, let's look at just a few of the situations the male characters get themselves into when left to their own devices (and in case you haven't figured it out yet: SPOILER ALERT):

1. Theft of wild, dangerous, big-teeth-baring animal from the home of a convicted rapist and possible cannibal, a.k.a. Mike Tyson.

2. Quickie marriage to a prostitute -- not to mention consummating a marriage to a prostitute that could lead to potential STDs, etc.

3. Theft of cop car. Stealing is never good. Stealing from cops is worse.

4. Misplaced friend. They lose a person. AN ENTIRE PERSON.

5. Near-complete destruction of very expensive hotel suite.

When I saw The Hangover in the theater, three what I assume to be only-recently-of-legal-drinking-age men sat in the row in front of me. After the movie, their conversation went something like this:

"Dude, that was so awesome," Guy #1 said.

"I wish our trip to Vegas had been like that," Guy #2 said.

"That's what Vegas should be," Guy #3 added.

I nearly leaned over their row and slapped each and every one of them. For starters, I think it's pretty important to keep in mind that all movies are fantasies. Men don't like it when women think dating should resemble When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless in Seattle. Tit for tat, let's be careful what models we pick for our bro-mances.

Secondly, if the events in The Hangover had actually occurred, there would have been three possible outcomes:

1. Death.

2. Prison.

3. Financial Ruin. (Those Vegas chalets aren't cheap. Repairing the structural damage alone would wipe out most people's worldly assets.)

No one would have gotten married. No one would come home with the greatest Facebook photo album ever, and at least one member of the group would have needed years of intensive psychotherapy.

It's no wonder the female characters in these movies are suspicious of guys' trips. They have every right to be. I'm amazed they allow their fictitious partners to walk to the mail box, let alone drive a car or operate the can opener.

When it comes to the battle of the sexes, I'm forever on the side of living in a world with plenty of both men and women (and plenty of all types of men and women, clearly I'm discussing mainstream gender designations and assumptions here, but I recognize the many, many exceptions to the rule). Whenever I hear cries for "an all-female world without war or sports" I'm just as terrified as when guys talk about "getting rid of women and only focusing on fun." I like the balance that comes with varied viewpoints and gender perspectives. After all, my need for a good cry can be just as strong as my love of baby back ribs. 

And when it comes to planning weekend away for either gender, let's all remember that it's all fun and games until someone loses a finger -- or the bridegroom.

Birthdays

I've had my fair share of birthday disasters:

5. A boyfriend forgot my birthday until he was reminded about the date by my roommate. We had been dating for two years. (20)

4. A friend threw a tantrum -- and I mean show-stopping tantrum -- in the middle of my birthday party. (22)

3. I was once dumped on my birthday. Between the celebration and the depression, way too many shots were involved. I saw much more of the bathroom than my friends on that one. (25)

2. Stomach virus. (18)

1. One year, I decided to go to Girl Scout camp in Cullman for the weekend even though it coincided with my birthday. On that fateful weekend, a girl with no teeth went through my underwear, I was forced to learn the polka from middle-aged women in culottes and a homeless man stole my pink and purple duffel bag from the front steps of the school while I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. Not even cake could erase the mental image of Tanya holding my Jockey for Girls up above her head. (9)

Of course, I've also had some great birthdays:

5. Show-biz pizza. It was Show-biz people, do I really need to say more? My chair had a crown on it. There were two cakes. My dreams and my reality have rarely been so aligned. (5)

4. A surprise limo ride. My mom had a limo driver pick me and the family up to go to a Japanese restaurant where they cooked before your eyes. For the early '90s, this was the height of cool and sophistication in my eyes. (13)

3. My driver's license, a car and freedom. My birthday was on a Saturday the year I turned 16 and waiting 48 extra hours to take my driver's test seemed unbearable. Thank goodness, I passed the test. I can still remember turning up the radio to whatever volume I wanted when my mom climbed out of the car so I could drive alone for the first time and grinning from ear to ear. (16)

2. Being legal. Surprise, surprise -- 21 was big for me. Going to Georgetown meant that a lot of the college social scene revolved around bars. (Wow, how's that for marketing my alma mater?) I was also a year younger than most of my friends. Not having to worry about whether or not I would get into the bar was a huge relief to me. It was the beginning of a new era. (21)

1. As I'm writing this, the day isn't over yet, but I'm going to pick this year as a great b'day. Partly, I think it's best to try and appreciate the moment you're in. I also have really fabulous people to share this day with -- friends, family and the significant other. And last by not least, I'm glad to be here. To feel comfortable in my own skin, to have failed and succeeded, to know what I want -- for now, and to have a pretty good idea that it's all going to be OK. (30)

Maybe I'll even get two cakes before the celebration is over.

All Smiles

Like most human beings, Iuse body language to give me clues about what another person is thinking orfeeling and how they are likely to respond to a given situation. I assume thatthe grimacing person with their arms crossed is unlikely to buy whatever I amselling or give me a good teacher evaluation at the end of the semester or evenwant to offer a flotation device if I was drowning. I hope the grinning personwho makes eye contact is a fan.

This might be just one of the reasons that I am continually amazed at the things people will say and do with a smile on. (Another reason probably has something to do with those who misrepresent themselves for the purpose of deceit and some underlying trust issues, but reason #1 seems far easier to tackle in a simple blog post.)

A few years ago, I was sitting at a party with a new acquaintance. We were discussing books because we both liked to read. Beers were in hand. We were both smiling and laughing. I mentioned how amazing I thought Oprah’s book club was because of the boon ithad given to so many writers sales- and publicity-wise.

“Yep,” he said, seeming to take in my words and give them some thoughtful consideration, “because she’s black.”

I sat there a tad surprised, to say the least.

“Don’t even get me started on the blacks.”

Now, let’s just say that based on his body language cues and everything that had gone before, I did not expect for racism to be on the menu in that conversation. A lively discussion on the true merits of William Faulkner? Maybe. Me having to feign interest inbooks related Nascar? Most likely. But outright racism? No. It made me thinkthat I really needed to listen more carefully.

Many people know that one of my personal pet peeves is fundamentalist churches that take a super casual approach to worship. I feel like there are a fair number of churches out there with the attitude of, “Come on in! Hey, we’re laid back here. Look, we wearjeans. Our minister is in a golf shirt. There’s a tambourine. This isn’t yourusual stuffy church; don’t be afraid.”

Only, then you find out, “Yeah, our church isn’t about being fancy or singing hymns from hundreds of years ago. We’re modern. We’re hip. And we’re super inclusive as long as you promise to hate gays, too.”

The point of all of this is that this is one of the reasons I was so upset by a visit to the vet a few weeks ago. I was having my cat fixed. Now, I want to say that overall, my experience was wonderful. The staff was caring. The facility was exceptionallyclean and convenient. The prices were astounding. Five stars out of five.However, shortly after entering the clinic, I was approached by a woman withthe brightest smile. She emanated warmth, and I kind of wanted to ask her for ahug -- just because.

“Don’t worry about your little one at all,” she said. “For the boys especially, it’s a really simple procedure.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.

“So simple,” she said, still smiling. “All we really have to do is grab the testicles [there was a hand motion], make an incision, pull back the skin …”

Let me just say that there are many early morning hours when the last thing I want to hear about is testicles. (Call me crazy.) Also, while being a fairly sensible person, I still don’t like hearing words like “pull back,” “yank” and “cut through the veins” in relation to my feline companion. It was more than a bit much, and I could see the horror on the woman’s face behind my in line as the nurse continued to describe this procedure graphically and in too much detail.

All I’m really looking for is a little truth in advertising – a few more hints about what I’m getting into. Or, maybe just someone who knows that I don’t consider racism, homophobia and/or bloody operations things to smile about. 

*If you feel that the photo accompanying this blog post is false advertising for the subject matter, I apologize. Using only royalty-free photos has severely limited my options. I just really don't want to go to jail, and I can't afford fines. Sorry. 

David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness

Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.

(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)

In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:

He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.

"Basil," I said.

"That looks like basil?"

"No," I said, "I thought you asked what Laurel looks like. I think Laurel looks like basil."

"OK," he said, "but what does that look like?" and he pointed at his drawing again.

"Thyme?"

At that point, he gave up, wrote basil next to the bananas (?) and drew a marijuana leaf and a dime. We could both agree on those representations. Then, in my next book, he wrote:

Now, I'm pretty sure that I told no good stories. Other than the discussion of herbs and my compliment to his tie, I don't think anything close to "touching" ever happened. Yet, at the same time -- even though I know this has no bearing on reality -- I found myself incredibly moved by the sentiment.

The moral to this story: I'm a sucker. And what I choose to believe/remember is so much better than what actually happens.

Happy Early Halloween!

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Mean Girl

Forthe large part, I was a very good kid. In some ways, I was almost good to afault. I made straight A’s, rarely got in trouble and had more than a casualrelationship with the term “teacher’s pet.” I longed to be just a little bitbad—to watch R-rated movies without guilt, say the occasional bad word when nogrown-ups were around, make telephone calls after 9:00 p.m.—but I was far tooafraid of anyone’s disappointment, judgment or disapproval to strive foranything less than perfection.

Infourth grade, Bethanywas the new girl in class. Our school had small classes and little turnover, soa new kid was incredibly exciting. She’d also moved from the big city of Atlanta, so between the cosmopolitan background andnovelty factor, I liked Bethanyalmost immediately.

Shehad her own bathroom and a TV and VCR all to herself. When we had sleepovers,her mom drove us to the grocery story and video store, and we could pick outwhatever we wanted. We usually came back from the grocery with sour cream andonion potato chips, sour patch kids and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines.

(Bethany was also the onlygirl I knew to actually read Tiger Beat every week, and her closet was coveredin tear-out pages of pop stars and sitcom leads. I can’t quite remember if itwas Kirk Cameron or Johnny Depp’s poster that had worn lips from her goodnightkisses.)

Bethany sometimes called me LittleMiss Perfect, but it didn’t bother me too much, and it was pretty rare.

Byfifth grade, Bethany and I both loved to sing and perform. Fueled by too manypotato chips, we dressed up, staged photographs and choreographed dances duringmost of those sleepovers.

Theonly thing was that Bethanywas actually pretty good at singing, and I most definitely was not. (To loveBroadway musicals and be tone deaf is a burden I try to bear well.)

Oneday when we were in the hallway at school, some older kids overheard Bethany singing.

“That’sreally good,” one of them said. “Sing louder.”

“Yeah,”another seventh grader added, “You could totally be in the choir. Have you evertried out?”

Bethany was elated. “Can youbelieve they said that? I thought I was pretty good, but I didn’t know I wasthat good.”

I,on the other hand, was not. I’d lost a solo in our school’s holiday program tomy friend Leah years before, and I still wasn’t over it, and now Bethany was being praisedfor one of the talents I wanted most in the world.

“Icouldn’t actually join choir though. That’s too much, don’t you think? But, ifthey really thought I was that good, maybe I should give it a shot.”

Thirtyminutes later, in art class, when Bethanywas still going on and on about her great singing, I’d had enough.

“Ithink I’m going to do it. I think I’m going to try out for choir. What do youthink?”

“Ithink it’d be great,” I said. “Then you’d have something to do other than bragall the time.”

Bethany just stared back at me.Another friend at the same art table said, “Geez, Laurel. That was harsh.”

I’ddone it. The rule-abiding, sweet teacher’s pet had stepped outside her box andbeen sassy, confrontational—and mean. I felt guilty for days. As bad as it feltto have my voice ignored while Bethanywas praised and lavished with attention, it felt far worse to have been so rudeto a friend.

Myone flirtation with the dark side out of the way, I went right back to my goodgirl ways. For the time being, at least …

Tales of a Third-Grade Nothing

When I wasin third grade, the “Are you a virgin?” question was incredibly popular amongthe cool kids. (Two quick side notes: 1) I went to a private school with nomore than 30 people in a grade, “cool” is incredibly relative. 2) From what Ihear, this question still makes the rounds in elementary school. Based on whatI see on “Dateline: Undercover at Spring Break,” I would have thought there’dbe far more scintillating inquiries in schools these days.)            

This isbasically how it went:           

“Hey, X!” Giggle, giggle, giggle.         

“Yeah?”            

“So,”giggle, giggle, giggle, “Are you a virgin?” (You have to imagine that last partas VER-jin in Southern tween.)           

If X said“no,” lots more giggling and mockery ensued. If X said “yes,” it was time tomove onto the next target. (In third grade, unlike eleventh grade, you got mademore fun of for saying that you weren’t a virgin rather than for saying thatyou were.)            

I have noidea why this game was popular—other than the fact that “virgin” counts as anaughty word when you’re nine—but I do know the worst answer of all was torespond with, “I don’t know, what’s a virgin?” Because, of course, if youdidn’t know what a virgin was, you were soooo immature and unworldly.  I was askedthe question in the hallway outside the class room one day before lunch.           

“HeyLaurel, are you a virgin?”           

“Ofcourse,” I said in one of my rare moments of confidence, “I’m only in the thirdgrade. I’ve never been married.”           

(I’d askedmy mom what a virgin was. She told me it was someone who had never beenmarried. I admit that it was a good answer on her part. It just never wouldhave stood up to the scrutiny and torment of intent pre-teen girls.)            

The teacher made us stop talking togo to lunch at that point—something I’m forever grateful for. Somehow in aterrain with three expected answers—two of which were sure to bring scorn, I’dmanaged to find the unchartered territory of a fourth answer. And I’m prettysure that having the wrong idea about what a virgin is would be far worse thanhaving no definition at all.            

It was justone of many, many times to come that I’d welcome the distraction of an upcomingmeal.  Red Mountain Law is happy to report that after nearly three years inbusiness, we are now stronger and more committed than ever to being the legalsolution for small businesses

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

As we all know, I love my dog. (Hell, she even has her own blog.) She is my baby, my buddy and my near-constant companion. Since I love my dog so much, I never want her to feel neglected, dejected or put out. As crazy as it may sound, I don't want her to ever think she isn't absolutely adored. 

So, clearly the decision to get another pet is not one that I take lightly. I already worry that Cassidy doesn't get enough attention because of how much time we spend with my Significant Other and his dog. But, then this stray little kitten showed up and needed a home, I found myself softening.

I was still really concerned about Cassidy, my time and my resources though, so I consulted a lot of other pet owners for help making a decision. Here's what all of my friends said when I was thinking about taking in a homeless cat:

"Oh my gosh, it's nothing like having a dog. Cats are so low maintenance."

"You don't need to worry about your furniture. That's what scratching posts are for."

"I don't know what it is, but cats just KNOW how to use a litter box. They don't have accidents, and you don't have to house train them."

Now, I love my friends dearly, so please forgive me when I say this (and remember that it's been a rather stressful week), but YOU ALL LIED. 

My "low-maintenance" cat cries when he can't be in the same room with me. And do you know where he prefers to sleep? On my chest. Don't get me wrong -- he's cute -- but it's not exactly easy to get anything done when there's a cat glued to your collarbone. Plus, it's still September in Alabama, so I don't really require a semi-permanent neck warmer just yet.

The scratching post? A pointless expenditure at Wal-Mart that apparently can't hold a candle to my sofa, chairs and feet. I even drenched the sucker in cat nip. Effective? No. Smelly? Yes.

And when it comes to that litter box, don't even get me started. Either I have the one exception in the history of feline companionship or not all cats automatically know what to do when confronted with a pan full of odor-absorbing granules. 

All of this adorable fluff really masks a needy, peeing destructor. Poor Cassidy -- who was supposed to end up with a part-time roommate who wanted little to nothing to do with us -- now has a sibling that camps on her mom's chest, marks her turf and thinks her tail is a fascinating toy to be chewed and batted.

Of course, the real problem is that it's all too late anyway. The cat isn't going anywhere. Neither is Cassidy, and neither am I. We're in it together now -- unused scratching post and all.

In Which I Learn That I'm Not as Funny as I Thought

I spent Labor Day weekend at my parents' lake house with some friends and the significant other (SO). While we were all hanging out in Coosa County, we decided to eat lunch in Alexander City. And, since Cecil's Public House was closed, and I couldn't seem to get a group consensus on Jim Bob's Chicken Fingers, J.R.'s Sports Bar & Grill was the establishment of choice.

(My father's favorite spot for lunch in Alexander City is the Carlisle Drug Soda Fountain. I'm sure the food is great, but having visited, I think the main appeal for my father is the frugality. The man who refuses to pay more than a quarter for a soda -- and who made us travel to Europe with our own Cokes so we wouldn't ended up paying "ridiculous" European price tags for cola -- can have a selection of sandwiches for $2.65. Yes, it's rather amazing in this day and age. No, the Soda Fountain is not somehow located in 1970.)

J.R.'s has everything the sports bar needs -- chicken fingers, wings, big TVs and rolls of paper towels on the tables instead of napkins. I also appreciate a restaurant that knows its audience and does what it does well.

In case you can't read the menu from the photo, J.R.'s has a relatively limited bar menu. These are your options: wine (white only, there's no red), margaritas, Pina Colada, Fuzzy Navel, Tequila Sunrise, Jack & Coke, Crown & Coke or Scotch & Coke. (Personally, I really want to meet someone who's ordered a Tequila Sunrise in the last decade.) I can only imagine how many people had to order Scotch & Coke before it earned a permanent spot on the menu.

The SO and I both ordered the fingers and wings combo. It included chicken fingers, buffalo wings, french fries and Texas toast and was absolutely delicious. I enjoyed every bite, but it's entirely possible that the SO enjoyed his even more. He ordered the hot wings, as opposed to my mild ones, and spent most of his meal sweating and/or crying. Apparently, he did so much sweating/crying that the waitress mentioned it.

"Did you like those?" she asked.

"I liked them very much," SO said. "I always cry when I'm happy."

That's when I chimed in, "That's what he tells me all the time, but I'm not sure if I believe him."

Afterwards, our waitress stared at me for a long, non-laughing, smile-less time. Finally, she said, "Oh. I get it now." Beat. "Is this all on one check?"

I proceeded to hang my head in shame.

Of course, I've had jokes fail before, but at least I usually get a bit of pity laughter. But, there was no pity laughter in Alexander City. There wasn't even a pity smile in Alexander City. I imagine that this moment was like a preview for when I have children and one of them declares -- in a state of extreme teen angst, of course -- "Maybe, I don't want to be funny!" or "You're not funny, Mom!"

Because, let's face it, you can send a lot of insults my way -- I don't have a job, I'm a single Southern girl turning 30 and what my hair will do from day to day is a total crap shoot -- but I've always tried to maintain my sense of humor. "Funny" is a descriptor I prize far above many others.

I'll get over this soon enough, but it really is too bad for my friends we'll never be able to eat at J.R.'s again. I can only accomplish so much, the rest is up to denial and avoidance.

Avoiding The Hangover

I saw The Hangover a few months ago, and I thought it was hilarious.

However, as I was leaving the theater, I couldn't help but comment that the movie never could have been made with women as the leading characters.

Now, this has nothing to do with sexism or that I think women aren't capable of such large-scale debauchery and stupidity. (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?) Women can easily go wild, drink too much, hire strippers and think that stealing is a great idea. It's the conversation that occurs in the lobby of the hotel when the guys check in that would have destroyed the trip for women.

Check-in Clerk: So, I have you in a two-bedroom suite on the twelfth floor. Is that OK?

Doug: Sounds perfect.

Bradley Cooper: Actually, I was wondering if you had any villas available?

Ed Helms: Phil, we're not even going to be in the room. 

Bradley Cooper then accepts the $4200/night villa on behalf of the guys and has Ed Helms put the room on his credit card. Here's where this would have fallen apart with women:

Woman 1: Why should I put it on my card? What's wrong with your card?

Woman 2: I'll get you back later. It's no big deal.

Woman 1: No big deal? That's what you always said in college. You know I was the only one who ever bought peanut butter. But did I ever get to eat my peanut butter? No, of course not. You always ate all of the peanut butter, and whenever I asked you to buy more, you always said, "It's just peanut butter, I'll get you back next time." But you never did.

Woman 2: Are you really still not over the peanut butter?

Woman 3: It's OK guys. I'll put the room on my card for now.

Woman 2: Oh no, you won't. This is about whether or not one of our supposed best friends trusts me. Do you trust me, Lisa? Do you?

Woman 1: I think that's what you said to me after you fooled around with Tom Jenkins, too. You knew I had a crush on him!

Woman 2: You had a crush on him, but you'd never even talked to him. Was I supposed to avoid all men you had seen and thought you might want to talk to one day?

Woman 1: He was special.

Woman 3: Guys, really. We just want to have a good time this weekend. Can we all relax?

Woman 2: I can't relax knowing I'm traveling with someone who doesn't trust me.

Woman 1: And I don't think I want to take a trip with someone who can't appreciate me ...

And, thus, the trip is ruined, and The Hangover never happens ... for better or worse. You can doubt me, but as a female, I feel like I've got this one right.

What Makes Me Cry

We all have our emotional hot-buttons.

A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite. 

I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)

But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.

I blame this on two main components:

1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.

2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.

For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his  death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.

When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.

But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.

I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.

For the "Truth is Stranger Than Fiction" File

Christmas break my senior year of college, oneof my friends became infatuated with the drummer of a relativelypopular local band. Because of her crush, we spent most of our breakfrom school attending the group's nightly shows.

One Wednesday, we found ourselves at a small bar/coffee house. Afterwe had our drinks in hand, we looked for seats only to notice a prettydiverse crowd. It certainly wasn't the sea of college kids and young20-somethings we were used to seeing at the band's shows. 

There were a lot more middle aged men in the crowd, and a lot of thewomen were carrying around plastic magic wands. One woman, inparticular, really stood out -- she was more than a bit overweight, hadA LOT of hair and wore a red feather boa wrapped around her neck. (DidI mention that this show was still during prime time television hourson a Wednesday? Not really feather boa attire time in my book.)

Shortly thereafter, we learned that in addition to the band's show,a group of people from a local Internet chat room had decided to meetin person for the first time that evening.The magic wands helped identify the group, and their name tags all had their screen names on them.

The name tag of the woman with the red boa read "Angry Snatch."

We all learned that the Internet is a fascinating and terrifying place. And that you just never can tell with some people.

The Southeastern Hair Expo of '96 and its Aftermath

For most of my sophomore year of high school, my hair looked just like it did in the picture to the right.

I've been known to experiment with my hair color. (I have been a red head, a Blondel  and a brunette in my time. The only color I've never dyed my hair is black. I worry that with my fair, fair complexion, I'd end up with too much of a Snow White thing going on.) But, I didn't mess with the style too much before my sophomore year. I liked a nice heavy bang with a strong curl-under on the ends. It was the mid-1990's and such a bold look was not at all uncommon. 

Then, one day, my friend Susan had a proposition for me: "Hey Laurel, how would you like to be a model in a hair show?"

Of course, it was the word "model" that hooked me. I didn't care about the context, I just wanted to be able to say that I "had modeled" at some point in my life.

"All of our hair services will be free. It'll be like getting a makeover."

As if the model part wasn't good enough, Susan offered my adolescent self her other dream -- a makeover, otherwise known as the promise of change. With that, I was done for. I sold my soul -- or, at least, my somewhat normal tresses -- for a chance to "model" in the 1996 Southeastern Hair Show held at the Birmingham Jefferson Convention Complex.

About a week later, on a Friday, Susan and I went down for our beauty consultations before the big event. I was told they would be turning me into a red head and giving me a "body treatment" to help my limp locks plump up. I thought it sounded like fun.

It wasn't until that Saturday when I was having my hair shampooed by a chain-smoking platinum blond with acrylic nails in a portable sink in the basement of the BJCC that I realized what I was really in for. As soon as the "body treatment" began, I recognized a certain odor from my childhood.

"Am I getting a perm?" I asked.

"What's that baby doll?" platinum blond said in between puffs and after interrupting a conversation about her gay ex-husband's struggle to find himself.

"Are you giving me a perm? I thought I was having a body treatment."

"It's the same thing, baby. Don't worry though, this won't be one of those '80s perms. The technology's gotten so much better."

And so it began. (We all know how great my hair looks with a permanent. This is also the short version of how I showed up to my cousin's wedding with purple hair -- a fact my mother has never forgotten.)

Still, from the photo above, you can see that despite my whore-like makeup, my hair was still somewhat normal after Saturday's dye job and perm. Even if it wasn't normal, it was salvageable. But, that was all before Sunday's main Southeastern Hair Expo event -- the spectacle I didn't know was going to happen until that very morning.

I was going to have my hair cut on stage.

With no mirrors in sight, I was pulled into a chair, on stage, in front of about 30 hair dressers there to "hone their craft." All I'd gotten to say before I was pulled on stage was, "You're not going to cut my hair too short, are you?"

"Not TOO short," was the only answer I got from a woman I'd barely seen before who clearly did not consider my adolescent insecurities as part of her vision of what her role in the Southeastern Hair Expo should be.

 My hair was cut in 15 minutes. I then had to walk around the room with a Polaroid of my "before" picture while strange women could touch and investigate my hair cut. Nearly 50 people had seen what was on my head before I had a chance to run to the bathroom and check myself out in the mirror.

I was not happy with what I saw. (This picture was actually taken before I'd seen myself --hence the smile.)

I ran from the bathroom, out of the BJCC, to my car, where I cried for 20 minutes before I thought I could even see well enough to drive. What had been shoulder-length brown hair was now a short, bright read mushroom-like explosion on the top of my head.

I knew that not only did I have a terrible new hair cut, but I also hadan incredibly noticeable new hair cut that would have to be explainedor, at least, gawked at by everyone within a 100-yard radius.

"What's that?" is all I could imagine hearing for the next six weeks.

I was so upset, I had to drive to my best friend's house to have the courage to go to school the next day. If she hadn't said it "wasn't too terrible," I don't think I could have made it.

That Monday back at school wasn't pleasant. There were some snickers -- including some from the boy I thought hung the moon. But there was a lot more sympathy than scorn. 

The Southeastern Hair Expo wasn't the makeover I had hoped for. (A true example of why you should be careful what you wish for.) But I learned that sometimes a good story and the right attitude can make up for other foibles.  

I also learned that, most of the time, hair grows back. And despite the way I felt about my hair cut, I tried to keep it out of how I felt about myself.

Even though I still had a red mushroom-type explosion on top of my head, the smile in that last photo is real.

Premature Aging?

Thanks to a heads up from my friend Amelia, this has quickly become one of my favorite videos. (And I'm a hard sell as I've always found SNL's fake commercials to be brilliant. This one had to beat out Annuale, Mom Jeans and Schmitt's Gay.)

http://www.hulu.com/embed/VEOwhtHzcXPNH44JcyZaXQ

And, of course, I can relate. My mother will never live down the fact that she once told my father and I she wanted to see Bad, Bad Things despite the negative publicity. While my father stared at her, trying to comprehend, I explained that she really wanted to go to Eyes Wide Shut. (The connection? Chris Isaak's "Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing" played during the trailer. 

While I'd like to pretend that only moms are capable of this behavior, of late, I've been making similar mistakes.

I told a group of friends how much I'd like to see Away We Go with Maya Angelou and Jim Krasinski. (Actual stars: Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski.) Half the time I look through US Weekly, I find myself thinking, "Who is that starlet? I didn't know she was famous. Maybe she's from Idols Got Talent or that High School Gym Class movie. I wish she'd get her hair out of her eyes." And once during a particularly wine-fueled conversation about literature, I referred to Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night ...") as Dylan McKay (fictional character on Beverly Hills, 90210).

If I hadn't been drinking on that last one, I'm pretty sure I would have had my M.A. in English revoked. 

So, if birthing a child isn't necessary for this kind of confusion, is it just a product of age? Brain chemistry? Changing hormones? Diet? Too many lost brain cells from my misspent youth?

What can I expect next? Rambling stories? Overly rosy references to the past? Referring to every store I visit by the name of the establishment that hasn't been there in 10 years? Clipping coupons? An overt fondness for the Hallmark channel and Matlock?

Oh dear ...

Well, I suppose that if loving The Golden Girls and a good bargain down at the Walgreen's is wrong, I don't want to be right. When does that senior citizen's discount kick in, again?

Foot in Mouth ... Again

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Sephora with a friend. We both wanted some new makeup, and when I buy makeup, I have to have someone else, ideally a professional, put it on for me. This serves two purposes:

1. I'm borderline inept at applying my own makeup. I hear a lot of "Hold on, there's something on your face" when I leave the house after having done my own makeup.

2. Makeup that doesn't come from the drug store is expensive. The older I get, the more I realize I need to invest in products that cost more than $3.99, but it still pains me. If I'm going to spend $50 on liquid foundation, I've got to get something else out of it, and I consider the makeup application my own private free gift.

Anyway, after about 20 minutes of browsing, I picked up some products and found a very nice African-American makeup artist to help me decide what would work best with my skin tone and texture. As I sat in her chair, we started talking about various products we had tried and what worked and what didn't. She told me about a new deodorant that wasn't worth buying. I offered the following:

"Have you ever tried the Tarte Sunburst self-tanner?"

Long pause.

"No, I've never given that one a shot."

Why I would ask an African-American woman about her self-tanning habits, I do not know. It really seems like I should have thought that one through a bit more before it escaped my mouth. She probably doesn't have the same skincare needs as my near-translucent self does. And, in case you were wondering where this is going, my Sephora incident reminded me of one of my near-constant dilemmas: When something  awkward and/or inane is said, is it best to call attention to the idiocy or move on?

When I saw my vet out at a social function, rather than saying "hello" or "how are you" like a normal person, I led with "My dogs are good." No greeting, no lead-in, just "my dogs are good." Then I promptly ran away and pretended the moment had never happened.

When I accidentally ask a friend about a relationship that has since ended or a family member that has passed on, I say, "Well, that was awkward of me, wasn't it?" afterwards. And, unfortunately, I usually can't stop myself from giving a jab on the arm, too.

At Sephora, I went with the move on/avoidance approach, but I'm probably pretty evenly split on how often I make a joke and how often I deny the moment ever happened. What about you?

Funny Stuff

Despite years of fighting peer pressure in high school, it seems I've found myself falling in with a bad crowd in my late '20s -- improvisational actors.

I'm not a member of the troupe, but I spend an awful lot of time at their shows, and if you're looking for some funny to get you through until Friday, I recommend a bit of the Extemporaneous Theatre Company.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hntlxRupP-I&hl=en&fs=1&&w=425&h=344]