Grover, Horton And The Woman I Am Today

A few years ago, I got into a discussion with some friends about our favorite children's books. After naming all of our favorites, I started to wonder if maybe those early reading choices might have been some kind of sign as to the adults we would all grow into.

One friend named a book about a little girl who wanted to go live alone in her own apartment and her own house (even at five), and twenty-five years later, I can't say that I was all that surprised. Is Alexander's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day the pick of a future pessimist? Goodnight Moon the sign of a calm, content child? If You Give a Mouse a Cookie the favorite of a suspicious tot, always wondering what request is coming next?

Personally, I had two favorites. The first was There's a Monster at the End of This Book. For those of you haven't read it -- here come the spoilers. Grover from Sesame Street is the main character, and he begins the book by begging the reader not to turn the page because there is a monster waiting at the end of the story. (Hence the title, although that hardly needs to be said. I just feel like typing today.)

Of course, you have to turn the pages. I mean, that is the point of reading the book after all. And with every turn of the page, Grover grows more desperate. He puts up fences and builds brick walls to keep you from going forward. And every time you do, he screams, "I told you not to turn the page! What about the monster!"

I thought it was hysterical and giggled out loud every single time because at the very end, there is no monster. It turns out that Grover is the monster, and he realizes how silly he's been this whole time. All that worry when he was the supposed culprit all along.

As a natural worrier, it seems quite appropriate that I would have fallen for this one. Constant concern about the future? Worrying about what's coming next only to find that, really, what's most detrimental every time is fear itself? That anyone can be his or her own worst enemy? Not much of a shocker there.

My other favorite was Horton Hears a Who. I was appalled by the injustice of the fact that no one would listen to Horton when all he wanted to do was save a cute, little town full of cute, tiny people. So what that no one else could see them? Horton heard them, and they should have believed him. When they called Horton crazy and tried to tear the flower away from him that was full of that miniature colony, I was beyond distressed. Why wouldn't they listen to him? Why didn't they care?

Horton was right, he was the only one who was right and no one would listen. How couldn't they see that?

Again, I know it's bewildering that a gal with as many opinions and convictions as myself would find herself appalled by the fact that someone so right could be ignored time and time again. That she would want to hear this particular story repeatedly at bedtime.

I just felt all of Horton's pain. It is so hard to be right all the time. Poor, poor Horton and me. 

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.

Dear Laurel?

I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)

It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.

It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.

For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.

I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa

In this case, the advice-seeker is clearly an idiot. If it doesn't occur to you as you're writing these words on a piece of paper, sealing them in an envelope, affixing a stamp and walking to the mail box that your husband is a two-timing jerk, I don't know what will. My advice? "Hey Troubled -- your husband is cheating on you and has been for years. He is also a liar. Move out and take all of his money." Love Laurel.

(Of course, this could also be an example of b) because I imagine that this woman has been told by everyone she's ever opened her mouth to that her husband is cheating on her and his behavior is not normal, but she's just not quite ready to accept it yet.)

Another letter I read said something to the effect of: "I've been married for 20 years, have four beautiful children and a loving husband, but I've been talking to my high school boyfriend on the Internet for the past few months and think he might be the real love of my life. We only broke up because he impregnated my best friend our senior year, but I know we've both done a lot of growing up since then. My husband is great and all, but don't you think I should give Frankie another chance? How often do soul mates come along after all?" -- Lovelorn in Laredo

Again, we've got some b) as I'm guessing none of this woman's friends support her decision to leave her husband for Mr. Facebook, and also some c) because for this woman, maybe, just maybe, if Dear Abby or whoever says it's OK and all, Lovelorn can throw away her life, drive her children into intensive therapy and live out her days with Frankie (who might or might not have ever earned that GED and require "just a little spending money" to get through most of his days) with little to no guilt.

I also think I'd like that advice column because sometimes I think that Dear Abby's answers really suck. (Note to Jeanne Phillips, you are not your mother.) Ask Amy, Carolyn Hax and Savage Love are up there for me, but that's another story for another day.

Here's an excerpt from Sunday's paper:

DEAR ABBY: I work in a doctor’s office. One of our patients makes abig scene if we do not address him by his title — “Reverend Smith.” Hehas to tell everyone within earshot that he went to school for eightyears to get that title. He insists that, out of respect, we shouldaddress him as such.

Abby, this man is not my reverend. So far, I have avoided calling him this. Am I being disrespectful, or is he being pompous?

Unimpressed In Louisville

DEAR UNIMPRESSED: You are not only being disrespectful, but alsopassive-aggressive. Because this patient has made clear that he prefersto be addressed by the title he has earned, you should use it.

Now, I have to say that I don't know anyone who goes to school for eight years to earn the title of Reverend. (And I live in the bible belt for God's sake.) It seems to me that if you have Ph.D. in divinity, maybe you can ask to be called Dr. But Reverend? Can't we let that one go? The nice part of me would tell Unimpressed to call the gentleman "sir." It's respectful, but refuses to acknowledge how full of himself he is. The passive-aggressive part of me would advise her to call him "Joe," but only if that wasn't his name. He'd spend so much time trying to get her to remember his first name, he'd probably forget all about the Reverend stuff.

Another note to Dear Abby about her Sunday column -- it ended with "CONFIDENTIAL TO MY READERS: Happy Fourth of July, everyone!"

Dear Abby: a) The moment you put something in the paper, it's not confidential, and b) when you're addressing all of your readers (and not just Sue in Salem who's having trouble with her best friend and doesn't want her letter to be printed), why can't you just freakin' say "Happy Fourth of July"?

I guess I want that advice column because of the ire Dear Abby causes me. Maybe I'm more magnanimous and just want to point out to all of those advice-seekers that the answers have been with them all along. Or, maybe I just like to boss people around.

I'll let you decide.

I'd Really Like To Get Down Now Please

In all of my musings about Camp McDowell,I can’t believe that I forgot to mention the most perilous part of the entireweekend – the high dive. (It’s interesting to me that I wrote about both myterrible swimming lessons and CampMcDowell last week, but completelyforgot to mention it. Subconsciously, it must have been floating around upthere somewhere, but I guess I never put it together.)

We covered that I’m not the greatest swimmer. (I do love the water though, I’m just more of a lazyriver/"let’s float this one out with a cocktail" kind of gal.) Well, I also happen to have alittle trouble with heights. I think it began when I broke both of my armsfalling out of a tree house, but with the anxiety in this brain of mine, it’sentirely possible the phobia would have come about regardless.  

(Technically speaking, I think I have what is known asobsessive bad thoughts rather than a phobia. I can be in high spaces – I didn’tmiss out on the top of the Hancock building when I spent the summer in Chicago,but all I think about when I’m too far off the ground is falling. It’s prettymuch the only notion/image that runs through my head once I’m more than 10 feetoff the ground. Once I saw Clueless, even the third floor of the mall couldmake me a little sick to my stomach. Am I the only person in Americatraumatized by Clueless for reasons other than the fact that Alecia Silverstone’slove interest ends up being her former step-brother? Probably.)

But, you know, I’ve done a lot of work to understand myselfbetter in the past few months. I turned 30. I have a prescription for Xanax.Surely, I thought, I can handle the high dive now.

Only a few minutes after the SO and I arrived at the pool, Iheaded straight for the high dive. (That’s right, I didn’t even warm up withthe lower diving board. I wanted to be bold, so I decided to climb right onup.) I’d watched my 11-year old and 7-year old cousins go off again and again-- surely this would be fine.

The ladder itself was not a problem. I went up those rungs likeit was my job. It was the diving board at the top of those stairs that posed aproblem.

Were you aware that those things are wobbly? I know this is forpeople who actually want to jump off the diving board and gain even more heightbefore diving gracefully into the water, but once I was atop the diving boardand actually had to look down, wobbly is not something I was interested in.

I took a few steps forward, and then I took a few steps back.

“You can do it LaLa,” my adorable 11-year old cousin yelledfrom the bottom of the stairs. (I think she was anxious to take another turn.)She is a gem and my heart, so don’t question how much I love her despite whatis about to occur in the rest of this re-telling.

I took another few steps forward and froze again.

“You’ll do great honey,” the SO yelled from the shallow end.“Just like Greg Louganis.”

If I had been closer, I would have taken the Super Soaker tohim for that one.

“I’m not so sure about this,” I said, my knees beginning to goa little weak, and I stepped backwards on the board again.

“Jump LaLa!” More cousins had joined in. The young people’s excitement was tangible. Itjust wasn’t quite contagious.

“I think I might need to come down instead,” I said. “Your bigcousin isn’t as brave as she thought she was.”

“Uh-uh,” my cousin said. “There’s no coming down.” I lookeddown to see that a line had formed at the base of the ladder with more than oneof my tween-aged cousins gathered at the bottom of the steps to prevent mefrom  getting down. Plus, they’re Mills,and you should never try to out-stubborn a Mills. Even though I am one, I knewI’d at least need back-up. They were three or four deep down there. You mightbe thinking, “oh, but they’re just children.” If you are, I’ll just let youtake them on yourselves. It can be quite a pack.

I tried to go towards the end of the board again. “Now, kids …”I began, thinking I might pull the sympathy card instead. I was even preparedto offer silly bands or Miley Cyrus mementos for a reprieve.

“If you don’t go off that board, I’m going to climb up there andbounce on the end until you jump,” my cousin said.

And with that terrifying image in my head, I ran off the end ofthe board into the water. Was it a dive? Of course not. Was it graceful? Not atall. Was it even an attempt at a jump you might recognize like the cannonballor can opener? No. All I wanted right then was to get off the board, and I knewthe only way to do it was to move before I could think much more and shut myeyes tight. (If you’re curious, yes, this is how I get through a lot in life –getting on an airplane, climbing into the dentist’s chair and having my fingerpricked included.) 

So, in the end, you could kind of say that I overcame one of myfears to do something  unexpected. Or, Icould admit the truth – that it turns out my fear of tween-agers is far greaterthan my fear of heights.

Lord help me if I ever find myself in the vicinity of a Justin Bieber concert. 

Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding

There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.

There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):

1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"

2. Another boy would come around each night and serenade all of the girls' cabins. He played his guitar and sang Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train." It was quite dreamy. One of his friends would accompany him. I don't think the friend did any singing or guitar-playing, but he seemed to recognize that his friend had figured out the key to getting girls' attention, and he was hoping to pick up the leftovers. (Hey, maybe he, too, could make out with someone special in the pool that week.)

3. We learned the song "Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life." This was a problem for me on many levels -- the title, hand motions and metaphor being just the beginning. Since I'm sure you're all dying to know, here are the lyrics:

Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life/End over end neither left nor the right/Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights/Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life.

Yeah, I still don't get it either.

It also appears from my seventh grade scrapbook that we had a '70s night that involved dressing up, but what we did that night, and why the camp assumed that a bunch of 13-year-olds would travel with time-sensitive outfits for theme dressing, I don't know.

I do know that what I'm wearing had to be borrowed since this was not from my closet -- now, then or ever.

However, a few years ago my sister ended up working in the Environmental Education Program at Camp McDowell. (No, I didn't visit. Please don't judge my sister-ing.) While she was there, she met another employee of the Environmental Education Program,  and in the classic story of boy meets girl, after they met, they fell in love and decided to get married.

So, this past weekend, I made my first trip back to Camp McDowell in 17 years for their wedding. The wedding was beautiful, and I learned that camp is much better when you can stay in lodges rather than cabins and are of the age to legally drink. 

I even re-visited the same pool, but since I spent most of the time playing with my cousins and their children, I'm happy to report no traumatic make out experiences.

The one thing that was most definitely the same? The heat, but that's just an Alabama summer for you.

I now give you an updated photo of me at Camp McDowell, and in case you have trouble recognizing me, I'm two over from the bride on the right in a sage green dress two other girls are also wearing. (It's probably the tan that's confusing since I'm usually pretty translucent. Don't worry about my skin's health though -- it's a spray-on.)  

 

*Yes, I'm counting the photo from '70s night as a memory even though I don't technically remember it. You have to admit it improved the title of this post.

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. 

Unsolicited Advice

I am not a fan of unsolicited advice. At 30, I still have a lot in common with a three-year-old -- the fastest way to get me to do something is to tell me that you think I should do the opposite. Tell me new houses are so much more trouble- and maintenance-free? I'll have purchased a 1928 bungalow "full of character and charm" by the end of the day. Suggest the blue top? I'll buy red. "Tell me" to do anything from changing the oil in my car every 3,000 miles to putting more acai berry in my diet? I think not.

When I'm talking, I usually just want to talk. And if I'm not talking, I don't have anything to say. Rarely, unless specifically stated, do I ever want advice/help/aid on what to do next. Unless there's an open manhole involved, I have to find it out for myself.

That being said, of the wisdom given to me by others, these tidbits have been, by far, the most helpful:

On Food:

"Everyone should know how to make a good sandwich." -- My grandfather

Supposedly,my grandfather thought that there were two keys to success in life.Unfortunately, the only one anyone can remember involves making a goodsandwich. (Hopefully, this blog will at least keep future generationsfrom forgetting all of what he tried to pass on.) The Mills don't makesimple ham and cheese sandwiches. We love our condiments. We addhorseradish and roasted red pepper to the mix. We line toasted breadwith hummus. Don't even show me a Kraft single with iceberg letter ifyou expect me to take you seriously -- or eat.

On relationships:

"No matter what, never say a bad word about a friend's boyfriend. Even if they break up. You never know who's going to get married to who, and the odds are your friend will dump you long before she dumps the boyfriend." -- My Mom

It's just true. And unless your friend has an abusive or crack-addicted boyfriend, you just swallow whatever it is you might want to say. Swallow, swallow, swallow. Because no matter how much you may despise a friend's partner, you love your friend more, and the only way to ensure that you get to stay in his or her life is to play nice with the romantic partner.

"Why do you care that he has a new girlfriend? All that means is that he found someone willing to accept what you already decided you were too good for. He didn't become the magical, wonderful boyfriend that you dreamed of overnight for her. He's the exact same boyfriend you had. He's just with her now." -- A college friend

When my first love and I broke up, I was devastated. I remember torturing myself with images of the romantic dinners, thoughtful gifts and kind words he showered her with that I never got. Then my friend Sylvie stepped in, and she helped me realize that the new girl wasn't dating the perfect version of my old boyfriend; she was just dating my old boyfriend. Most likely, she just had a higher tolerance for watching frat boys play video games while shotgunning beers.

The same applies to most old boyfriends, so that day I learned to be careful with the torture and the nostalgia.

On Happiness:

"The fastest route to unhappiness is trying to make everyone else happy." -- The manager of the Mexican restaurant I worked in after my freshman year of college

We all know this one doesn't work. Make yourself happy because otherwise you'll either constantly fail or exhaust yourself trying.

"Trying to be perfect won't make you happy. There's no prize at the end for making it through with the fewest mistakes." -- Another friend

No mortal I know of has reached perfection, so trying to be the one person that does is pretty much as exhausting as trying to make everyone happy. It took a lot of work, but I learned to embrace my vulnerabilities. And what comes with vulnerability? Relativity and intimacy. I'll take those, and knowing I'm liked just the way I am, over perfection any day.

On Self-Esteem:

"Just go ahead and think of the world like this: one third of the people are going to love you. Another third is going to hate you. And the last third just doesn't give a damn." -- A colleague from my first "real" job"

This one kind of goes along with my happiness advice, but sometimes I have to remember that, no matter what I do, I'll never be loved by everyone. It also helps me remember that maybe I shouldn't be in all this to please others, that maybe pleasing myself is that aloof enough. Hell, at least two billion people are never going to pay attention anyway.

On Myself:

"I'm not going to tell you what to do because the very fact that you're asking means that you haven't figured it out yet. I know you'll figure it out." -- My father

Of course, it's the natural conclusion when you spend your entire life dismissing what anyone else has to say, but now I can't get advice to save my life. Unless diaper rash or the perfect pie is involved, it should probably stay that way. We all have to find our own path and stumbling is just part of the journey. Plus, I do think I'm supposed to be a grown-up now, which means owning my life and picking for myself. Whatever that may be.

How about y'all? Any great advice or particularly meaningful words out there? I'll have to cover horrendous advice ("The key to a good marriage is accepting he'll have a woman in every port") in some future post, so please save those stories for later. I'm sure we'll find some doozies.

Welcome to 1984 (and Not in a Good, Footloose-is-Back-on-Top-of-the-Charts Kind of Way)

Sometimes I worry that I could easily become aconspiracy nut. (I realize that most people probably don’t have this on theirlist of concerns, but my worry list has always been longer, and stranger, thanmost.) I blame some of it on the fact that I spent most of my childhoodwatching soap operas, Phil Donahue and Unsolved Mysteries. There was even abrief – and unfortunate – period when I believed that Elvis faked his own death.

And despite what my occasionally rational braintells me about accidents and coincidence, I think I’ve watched far too many politicalthrillers as an adult, too. (I still find it odd that one of the most liberalmembers of the Senate, Paul Wellstone, died in a plane crash shortly beforesome key votes under the Bush administration, but I try to keep this mostly tomyself.)

However, I do not think I’m paranoid when I saythat we are, at present, on the verge of living in the world created by GeorgeOrwell in 1984. But, it’s not big government we need to be afraid of -– it’sFacebook.

Even without the latest issues Facebook has hadwith privacy, revealing information to other web sources, etc., social networkinghas always had the potential to implement a kind of social control that noinvading army or government entity is capable of. And the key to that societalcontrol rests entirely in surveillance.

For an anthropology class nearly a decade ago(when I sat down on the first day and saw that half the room was full ofathletes, I knew I’d found a good place to be), I read a book called Depraved andDisorderly. It’s a study of women in penal colonies in Australia (aka, thefounding women of Australia), and for the large part, the book discusses howconstant surveillance and the removal of all privacy was used to turn these “wildwomen” into the model citizens the English government wanted them to be at thetime.

For most of any community, it’s not the threat ofpunishment or pain that keeps us in line -– it’s the threat of discovery or exposure. We don’twant our innermost thoughts judged, nor do we want our most intimate actsexposed.

If you think about it, can you be yourself onFacebook? The answer most of the time is “no.” Facebook, Twitter, Ning, MySpace,etc. are not places to express what is really going on with you. They areplaces for the cleaned-up, civilized you. The you without too strong an opinionor emotion. The you that doesn’t want to alienate or offend -– especially onceyou allow co-workers, colleagues, clients and Grandma into the mix. So, whileseeming open and connected to everyone around us, in so many ways, we’ve simplyjoined the herd.

When I Twitter, I constantly wonder about thelines of how much is too much and what goes too far. If I want to do any sortof business or promotion on Facebook (which as a writer, of course, I do), whatcan and can’t I say? If I say what I really think about the Bible (be it theliteral word of God, a historical document or the creation of aliens -– I’m notgiving the real answer away just yet), how many readers did I just lose? Whoisn’t coming back? Are there those who will never want to hire me again? Did Ijust assign myself to one and only audience?

And the same questions are with me when it comesto my views on politics, sexuality or even which brand of deodorant I likebest.

In another way, we’ve also all become our own brands -–only allowing the crafted Laurel Mills or the character of Laurel Mills outonto the Internet , rather than the real one. Even the vulnerabilities we showon Facebook are the ones we choose to show -- our calculated and approvedfoibles.

So, in many ways, just as we’ve embraced our own constantsurveillance and societal control, we’ve also become the ultimate consumers. Webuy what we’re sold on TV or the Internet (I’d say magazines too, but we all knowwhat happened to those), and we buy each other at a constantly alarming andescalating rate.

An example? We don’t even watch scriptedtelevision anymore. We watch reality stars/the people that could be ourneighbors.

Facebook profiles weren’t enough? Add statusupdates. Not enough of those? Twitter. Away from your computer? iPhones, iPads,Droids, Blackberries –- whatever it takes to be constantly consuming the words,actions and whereabouts (I’m looking at you Four Square) of those around you.

We watch each other, all the time. We are our ownjailers. And the more we watch, the less we do.

So, while I’m just as guilty as anyone ofeverything I just talked about, I think the end result could be something noneof us are prepared for –- an international community without identities stuckbehind screens unable to react to any threat or injustice in any way moremeaningful than starting a Facebook group that hopes to eventually be 1,000,000strong.

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but westill have to live lives in addition to just watching them for it to matter.

If after reading this, you’ve ended up branding mea conspiracy nut, so be it. I’ve been called worse, and I just might have earned it.

* While I'm sure there are people with similar views, I haven't read their specific thoughts on the topic. If you've stumbled upon similar or dissimilar thoughts, please leave me some suggested reading material in the comments.

* I really think that, in an odd way, Nathaniel Hawthorne tread similar themes in The Blithedale Romance (1852), and yes, I once included reality TV in one of my graduate level English papers because of it.

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.

Serious Friday: The Media and Me

I have always consideredmyself a writer first.  

It’s not that I have a problem with the term“journalist,” it’s just that I knew I could never be one. Even in all my yearsin magazines, I always referred to what I did as Lifestyles journalism. It wasthe fluff of the world – plan your next vacation, how to spruce up your moodwith color, what to plant when. Mostly, I was the queen of lists. If you neededa top (fill in number here), I was your girl. At last count, I believe I hadwritten over 100 top lists of some sort (not including my five or the moviesthat always make me cry). I preferred it that way.  

I briefly considered real journalism. For awhile, Ithought I wanted to run the school newspaper, but Gabrielle Carteris’ ratherunflattering role as Andrea Zuckerman on BeverlyHills, 90210 made me question that dream. (Truthfully,I was not confident enough about my writing to think I could earn any place onany newspaper then.) 

Even as my confidence and abilities grew,journalism still didn’t seem very viable. I’ve never liked interviewing people,and it’s something I’m not very good at. I always make a list of at least 10questions and then quickly decide that 8 of them are stupid while talking tosomeone over the phone or in person. I don’t like to probe (outside of myfriends’ personal lives and the world of celebrities, of course), and I tend tofeel bad when I write about people. And considering the number of people I’velistened to complain about the “puff” profiles in their lives, I don’t think Iwould have made it very long in any newsroom.  

(As a very wise professor of mine once told me,“Everyone thinks they want to be written about. No one actually does.”) 

A large part of the reason I picked creativenonfiction as the genre to pursue is that, mostly, the only person I riskoffending is me. I expose my own secrets, make my own revelations of self, andcan largely stay out of other people’s business. (My mother would disagree, butI’m sticking by that assertion.)   

Still, for most of my career (until the lastlay-off, that is), I was considered a member of the media. Both liked(freebies) and feared (“Don’t say that! She’ll write it somewhere.”), it’s thegroup I was most associated with. I had colleagues who actually broke stories,people in my life who always knew what was happening before anyone else did andassociated with those who wrote in-depth about people, places and things.   

So, despite my hesitance to call myself a“journalist,” I am a card-carrying (yes, the Association of ProfessionalJournalists does actually give out cards) member of the media. 

This is one of only a number of reasons I find itso strange to be on the other side of a media spectrum as of late. As I’vewritten about before, my cousin passed away three years ago. What I don’tbelieve I’ve mentioned is that there is also a coroner’s inquest into herdeath. My cousin’s death was national news in Australia when she died, and theaforementioned inquest is also national news there.  

In November, when the inquest began, there weredaily stories of the court procedures and testimony, many re-counting the finaldays, hours and minutes of my cousin’s life. (You think your life is prettynormal, and then you read a piece in The Australian detailing the swornstatements of a woman your cousins refer to as “Gigi.” (My cousins and I don’tshare a grandmother even though we have the same grandfather – which is anotherstory for another day -- so I just call her Margaret.) And there arepaparazzi-style photos of her leaving the building after the inquest adjournedfor the day.) And when the inquest picked up again in March, reporters were there again.  

It’s not easy going, looking over the stories about your own family, and the reading (andre-reading, I think we all realize I can be a bit obsessive) is plenty painful. Out of respect for my family, I'll try not to re-hash too much of the graphic detail that is already available on the Internet. I only know that for me,  the headline including "in agony" is hard to shake. I don’t know how my aunt sits through allof this – live and in open court. I only know she has to be one of the bravestpeople I know.

And to get back to where I was going with all this,I guess I have to say that despite the unsettling details of late, and seeingmy family’s tragedy played out on a national stage, my feelings about the mediaand being part of it remain the same. 

I think it’s important to tell people’s stories. Ithink people need to know what happened to Lauren. I hope other families andindividuals make different choices because of what they read about her. I hopelaws change. I hope punishments are doled out. Does it hurt? Hell yes. Is itnecessary? Yes, too.  

Injustice, corruption, greed and general suckiness(best word I've got right now) need to be exposed. As do the triumphs of the human race – relief efforts,rescues and those who live their lives with honesty, compassion andintegrity. We have to tell each other our stories so that we can begin to understand and relate to one another.    

I also think that when it all comes down to it, all anyonewants to know is that they mattered, that they were heard. I think we all wantto know that when we leave this world, we leave a legacy, whether that’s afamily, a friend who misses us, a grand estate or a stranger who remembers thatwe were kind to them once. It’s why we create. It’s why we love. It’s why wepaint, sculpt, sing songs and write. It’s all so we matter. (Please forgive the cheese factor there.) 

The media is a voice, and it plays its part in thequest to matter. Lauren would have mattered without a single news story; we alldo and would. But I do hope good comes of this media coverage that no one can evenimagine now.  

But, while I respect the place of the media, I’dstill rather not be the one asking the really tough questions. Give me a top 10 list over the earthquakes and political scandals any day.  

My Jury Duty Story Can Beat Your Jury Duty Story

Thefirst and (knock on wood) only time I’ve ever been called for jury duty, I wasin my second year of graduate school. Believe it or not, I think jury duty ispart of one’s civic duty and one of the responsibilities that comes with havingthe world’s greatest, though not perfect, judicial system. It’s also one ofthe two excused absences at UAB (the other being military service), so I knew Iwouldn’t have to worry about flack from any of my professors.  

ThatMonday, I packed a couple of books in my purse and headed down to thecourthouse fairly sure that despite my willingness to serve, my status as agrad student and the fact that I was a lawyer’s daughter would keep me off anyjury.  

Ifound a seat in the large room where the few hundred people called for juryduty that week waited and started to read. (I quickly learned that no matterhow deep I buried my nose in a book, some elderly person would insist on havinga conversation at me. Yes, at, not with.) When the first foreman entered theroom and called my juror number, I was relieved to get away from the crowd andmy seat neighbor.

Iwas struck from the first jury after voir dire (when you declare your name, ageand workplace in front of everyone for those who've never had the pleasure), took my lunch break and went back to thecourt house for more waiting in the large jury pool room. 

Around3:30 in the afternoon, a rather handsome* and somewhat familiar-looking youngman entered the room and walked over to the desk to pick up a list of potentialjurors. Seeing as he was cute, and I hadn’t had anything to do for the past twohours, I was kind of hoping he’d call my number.  

Aboutmid-way through his list, he did. 

Asmyself and the other 35 potential jurors made our way to the court room, I dideverything in my power to flirt with this guy, even under the restrictedcircumstances. I smiled. I batted my eyelashes. I maintained extended eyecontact when I said “thank you” as he held the door open for us. And since hekept looking back at me, I thought I might have been successful. 

Whenwe arrived in the court room, we all took our seats in the rows for a trial’saudience, and the young man went to the court clerk’s seat.  

“Welcomeladies and gentlemen,” the judge said from the bench. “Thank you for servingtoday. I’d like to introduce you to the players involved in this case before wemove on.”  

Then,the judge proceeded to introduce himself, the prosecutor, the prosecutor’sclient, the defense attorney and the defendant. “And, of course, I can’t forgetmy court clerk, Tim Smith*,” he said. “It’s his second day on the job.” 

Andthat’s when it hit me. I knew exactly why I had a) thought I recognized theyoung man and b) found him so attractive. Four years before that fateful momentin the court room, Tim Smith and I had made out.  

Asa little background, for most of my life before 25, I liked bad boys. Ifsomeone was going to get hurt in any given romantic situation, that person wasgoing to be me. Unfortunately, there are two glaring exceptions to that rule,and Tim Smith was one of them. 

Imet Tim when I was a senior in college, home for the holidays and celebratingNew Year’s Even in a now-closed bar. Tim was sweet and thoughtful and, if Iasked him to, he would call me when I was in town from Georgetown. But, between the distance and my“love” for one of those bad boys who actually lived in Washington, D.C.,I let him slip off the radar without much of an explanation. I just neverreturned his last e-mail. (I know, I know – shame, shame.)  

So,not only am I now in a court room with a guy I used to see sometimes, I’ve alsofailed to recognize him even though we went out on multiple occasions, and I’veflirted with him after having already rejected him years before. And it’s onlyhis first week in the legal system. 

Inshort, I’m a big, fat jerk. 

“Now,if anyone here knows anyone in this court room,” the judge said, “we’re goingto need to get that out of the way first and foremost.” 

That was when my heart started beating far faster than it should. Am I going to haveto say that I know Tim in open court? Are they going to ask how I know him? Ifso, can I say that we dated? Does three dates count as dating? Should I justsay we hung out? Will I have to acknowledge the making out? Will there be furtherquestions about the details? Are all of these strangers going to think I’m afloozy? 

Theremight even have been a cold sweat involved.  

Luckily,despite my many, many worries, it turns out that when it comes to jury duty, noone cares whether or not you know the court clerk. Only judge, prosecutor,defense attorney and suing parties matter.  

Thankgoodness. 

Iwas struck after voir dire again, and since it was 4:30 by that time, once wewere excused, I ran from that court house with a speed that probably rivals somenewly-released felons.  

Thelesson here? I don’t really know. Be careful who you go out with? You neverknow who you’ll see at jury duty? My facial recognition sucks? All I can sayfor sure is, that with odds like these – finding myself in the one court room ofthe one person in the court house I’ve dated the one the only time I’ve everhad jury duty in his first week of work – I should have won the lottery by now. 

* Not nearly as handsome as the SO, of course.

*Names have been changes because this story is embarrassing enough as is.

More on Me and the Pole

For those of you anxiously awaiting an update on the Pole Yourself Thin/Stripper Aerobics class, here it comes:

1. I cannot wear shorts or skirts because there are bruises that run from my feet all the way up my thighs. I have bruises on my biceps and forearms. If the SO didn't look like such a sweetheart, I worry people would assume he's been beating me. Maybe the near-translucently-pale aren't meant for this line of work. Maybe someone should invent a foam floor. It could be like that memory foam mattress stuff. I'm just saying ... I'd want one even if I wasn't into pole dancing. It just sounds so pleasant.

2. My upper body has no desire to support the weight of my lower body whatsoever. There's a move called the "cartwheel" in which you use your arms to pull your legs up and over to the other side of the pole. My feet want to stay planted just where they are, and my arms want it that way, too. Neither half is willing to give, and neither half listens to a single message sent by my brain.

3. If the class handout (because, yes, we have a syllabus and vocab sheets) says that the exercise is a "comfort move," that exercise is neither comforting nor does it allow the muscles used in it to move the next day. 

4.There is nothing remotely sexy about any of this. Even without the bruises and my lack of talent, if you could see the strain on my face as I even attempt to pole dance, I think there'd be far more pity than attraction. What I imagine if I were to have an actual audience? Cringing, looking away and the occasional "Sweetie, are you going to be OK?" or "Honey, are you stuck?"

5. My dream of making it from beginner to intermediate class dies a little more each and every day.

* This is a photo of the red light district. It seemed kind of appropriate and related to the theme. Again, this is not the easiest subject matter to search on public domain photo sites.

APB: Missing Freelance Pants

For the first time ever, I accused the SO of thievery the other day.

"Did you hide my black pants," I said, hands on hips and a very stern look on my face. For more than a week now, my favorite yoga pants have been missing (not that I actually practice yoga in them -- they just happen to have the perfect amount of stretch). When they first went missing, I just assumed there was a load of laundry I had misplaced. Four days in, I began to suspect more sinister motives.

I thought that I might have broken the SO. Maybe a man can only see his partner in so many pairs of velour pants, sweats and clothes with drawstring waists before he has to take action. Before he has to destroy. 

"I did not get rid of your freelance pants," he said. "Freelance pants" is a term he stole from a local paper's cartoon to describe the lounge wear that became much more prominent once I started primarily working from home.

"Are you sure?" I said, also giving him the eye that says "we may joke a lot in this relationship, but I mean business about these pants."

"Yes, I'm sure," he said.

"And how do I know that?" Trust only goes so far in any relationship after all.

"Because if I did take and hide all of your sweats, you'd just start wearing mine."

That logic was solid. Taking my yoga pants would really just end up as a lose/lose situation for him.

"Fair enough," I said, and we moved on. (And I didn't even accuse him of a single other crime for the rest of the night.)

But if anyone sees a seemingly homeless pair of nearly-perfect cotton, black pants out there, please let me know. Mine are still on the loose, and the situation is growing dire.

I'm about two days away from posting flyers around the neighborhood. Ever since I went rogue from the corporate environment, zippers just don't work for me like they used to. 

*Photo approximates pants but should not be considered an accurate representation for searching purposes.

The Yard Sale Aficionado

My grandmother is a yard sale pro.

Sure, sure, you might think one of your relatives is a yard sale expert, but trust me when I tell you that your grandparent/aunt/long-known family friend has nothing on my grandmother.

When I was little, my grandmother would give me and each of my sisters $1.00 on Saturday mornings, and we would head out to garage/yard sales. We could spend that dollar however we wanted, but it was the only money we were getting for the day. You might think you had fallen in love with a stuffed unicorn at the first sale, but if it took your whole dollar, you could easily spend the rest of the day full of regret. 

"I like this red teddy bear, but it's a whole fifty cents."

"If you like it, you should probably get it. I heard that we're only hitting up two more sales after this."

Thanks to one great aunt who owned an antiques stall (often full of garage sale finds whose owners didn't know their worth), I can also spot reproductions, silver plate and long-past-their-prime collectibles from an impressive distance.

My grandmother didn't just visit yard sales. She also held three of her own when she was downsizing her home. After attending a class at the community center, she learned that all yard sale signs should be neon (better visibility), to hold sales after the third of the month (that's when most people cash their social security checks) and that dragging a large, nice piece of furniture to the curb is necessary to attract the "drive-bys." (This piece of furniture does not actually have to be for sale, but it lures in the iffy shoppers and a simple "sold" sign keeps you from having to talk about it.)

From the time my sisters and I were ten, seven and five respectively, we could add our own items to the sale if we wanted. Of course, we were also responsible for pricing and bargaining when it came to our personal things. (Don't ever ask my sister about the bike she sold for $12. She's still bitter someone talked her down from $20. To her credit, when you think that the woman was taking eight dollars from a seven-year-old, I can see her point on that one.)

And when we weren't peddling our own items, my sisters' and my primary job at each sale was to help my grandmother and another great aunt watch the perimeter for anyone with sticky fingers.

It was a thrilling time in all of our lives.

So, for those of you who might be planning your own garage/yard sales in the near future, I'd thought I'd offer you a few tips from my years of experience:

1. Everyone loves a good tabloid. It doesn't matter how old the rag is, I watched my grandmother sell each and every one of her National Enquirers within the first half hour of every yard sale.

2. The most common move for stealing from any garage/yard sale is to put on a hat or sweater like you're just trying it on and then waltz off with the item. Watch out for the ones who "just want to test it out."

3. Mark everything with a plug or run by batteries "as is." It'll save you a lot of grief down the line.

4. Get lots of change in advance. Most people bring a $20 but spend about fifty cents.

5. One man's trash really is another man's treasure. Unfortunately, this also means you'll never know what you can sell and what you can't. At a friend's garage sale, I assumed my Queen Anne chair would be a popular item. It ended up being donated to charity at the end of the afternoon, but I made a dollar on the plastic gazelle figurine someone used to decorate my place setting at a safari-themed party.

Wow -- all that, and you don't even have to enroll in a night class at the community center. Feel free to thank me when you're rolling in soiled one dollar bills and the occasional fiver.

Mace in Your Face

I have worked in plenty seemingly-less-than-safe areas: downtown parking garages, poorly-lit parking lots next to wooded areas, restaurants in neighborhoods that seemed abandoned by the time you finished closing up from the last shift.

I've even lived in the suspect cities of Washington, D.C., Chicago and Durham, North Carolina. (For those of you thinking Durham doesn't belong on that list, please keep in mind they were on the hunt for a serial rapist during my freshman orientation week at Duke.) Even Birmingham is no picnic with its high homicide rate and large incidence of robbery and break-ins. And need I remind you of the potential peril that was my apartment in Nashville?

But, for most of my time in these jobs and cities, I didn't worry too much about my safety. (By "worry too much," I actually mean "purchase a firearm." I always worry -- it's just a matter of degrees.) If I could find someone to walk me to my car, I would. If I couldn't, I'd go anyway, keep an eye out and have my largest key ready for stabbing if necessary.

Then, I took a new job a couple of years ago, and I really started to worry. It wasn't that the locale was that different from anywhere I'd worked before, it was the comments I heard around the building that got to me, like "the security guard had to draw his gun on the guy" or "someone chased me up the stairs in the parking garage." (Plus, it was a genuine, bona fide runner who had been chased in the stairwell. She stood a shot. I, with my hobbies of wine and Lost, did not.)

Like a lot of my thoughts, none of it really went anywhere for quite awhile. I worried. Sometimes I worried more, sometimes I worried less. But it was still just worry.

Then, I met the Stunning Gal.

It was the Southern Women's Show of 2008, and I had to be there for work. During our occasional breaks from the booth, we would walk other parts of the show. (For those of you wondering, the Southern Women's Show pretty much involves a bunch of vendors stuck in the basement of the Civic Center for three days. Some people go to collect as much free stuff as is humanly possible, others go to shop their a%$es off. I was working, but also in the "grab as much free stuff as possible" category.)

On one of these breaks, rather than walking by the booth with free hand sanitizer again and again, I found myself drawn to the section of the Civic Center that periodically emitted a loud "Bzzz" sound. The Bzzz came from a stun gun, and Stunning Gal, as she is known at the show, sells stun guns in addition to mace, tasers, safes that look like Diet Coke cans and the like.

"I'll give you my show special," she said as I eyed a display case full of objects about the size of a deck of cards with various voltages written across the top. "Since you're working a booth, I'll even give you a price below the show special. You just can't tell anyone."

Suddenly, all my worry seemed to have a solution, and it was right in front of me at a price below the show special.

"I'll throw in some mace, too," she said.

A gift with purchase? The temptation was so, so strong, I had to walk away. I moved a few booths down and decided to give my SO/Voice of Reason a call.

"I'm thinking of buying a stun gun," I said. "But it could be that the lack of natural light and Mega-Vitamin-Water pyramid schemes have gotten to me. Am I insane?"

"Would a stun gun make you feel safer?" he said. Wisely, he did not address the second question.

"Yeah," I said. "I think so. But seriously, is this something I should do?"

"I think you should do whatever you think is necessary to be safe," he said, and our conversation came to an end.

With him in my corner, I was completely sold. A co-worker and I returned to the Stunning Gal booth, where my co-worker (with the far batter bargaining skills) got us each a pink one million volt stun gun and foam mace (it sprays foam that dyes your attacker's face -- how's that for an easy line-up pick?) for the low, low price of ... well, sorry, but I can't tell you. You don't break a promise you made to a woman that's always armed.   

I walked out of that Southern Women's Show with two means of self-protection, and I was quite pleased with myself. Maybe even a little too pleased.

What I didn't count on was becoming drunk with power now that I had these tools at my disposal. A girlfriend thought we should wait a few minutes before entering a store with shady characters at the door? Not necessary -- I'd keep them away. No parking attendant on duty? No worries, I could fend for myself. Dark paths? Piece of cake.

It was when I found myself walking through a parking lot thinking, "Come on, I dare you. Give me a reason to mace your face," that I realized I had a problem.

And as the SO pointed out, "Just because you can defend yourself, it doesn't mean you should stop using common sense. And you certainly shouldn't put yourself in dangerous situations." (For the sake of my father who is reading this, please know that I never really intentionally put myself in a dangerous situation. It was mostly daydreaming.)

He was right, and I relegated my stun gun and mace to the pocket of my handbag where they should be -- for emergency use only and as a last resort. The buddy system and vigilance are what I rely on most.

But, there's still nothing quite like the sound of a far-off Bzzz to get my pulse pounding, my heart racing and my mind filled with images of myself as a completely competent vigilante and awesome superhero.

A Birthday and the Unexpected

When I was about five, my family moved into a new house on Crestside Road in Mountain Brook near the water tower and the local public high school. It took me quite awhile to recover from the indignity of the move. (How could they tear me away from my childhood home just like that? And it wasn't just any home -- there was an elementary school across the street complete with the largest playground I had ever seen. To take a child  away from her very own across-the-street playground? The cruelty astounds me to this day.)

Eventually, I recovered from the trauma and came to enjoy our much bigger backyard and the decadence of living in a three story house. (It was actually just a split level.) There were also a lot more children our age around, and it was fun to ride bikes, organize kickball games and dig around looking for arrowheads.

There were two new girls, in particular, that I decided I needed to immediately befriend. Both were my age, and while one lived across the street, the other lived a block and a half down or so. They seemed to do everything together, and I had to be a part of it.

It was after a few days of playing house (and trying to get them to like me even though they knew all the same people from school while I was the odd private-school-kid out) that I learned even more about them, "Oh, we're not just friends," Sally said, "we're cousins, too."

I was in awe. For my five-year-old self, being friends was one thing. Being best friends was a whole other sacred and longed-for entity, but being best friends and cousins was cooler and by far better than anything I could ever think of. You chose each other, and you were real-life -- not-just-blood-brothers -- related? I couldn't think of anything better.

I could even hear myself on the playground, bold and surer of myself than I had ever been, "We're more than best friends. She's my cousin." Then, of course, my fabulous cousin and I would walk off hand-in-hand, and the other kids could only wish their relationships were as cool.

In real life, I was lucky enough to have a cousin my age. Her name was Lauren, and we were just under four months apart. The bad part was that she lived in Texas -- not down the street -- and around the third or fourth grade, my aunt, my uncle and Lauren moved half a world away to Australia.

I'd like to say I knew Lauren well. I'd like to say we were close regardless of distance. What I can say is that I always thought we'd be close one day, and I'm going to leave off the cliche that always goes along with that thought.

As many of you know, my cousin died on January 22, 2007. I grieve her loss even though I'm not always sure I'm entitled to the pain I feel. She wasn't my daughter, and she wasn't my sister, and she wasn't anyone I ever shared late night sleepovers or heartbreaks with. But, when you're family, I also think it's always hard to watch those you love -- like my aunt, uncle and cousin -- go through their pain. And grief permeates a whole family; it just does.

At the time of her death (and afterwards), people were generous and kind and some said things I'd like to forget while others were very helpful.

Within 48 hours of Lauren's death, I wanted to hand write an apology note to anyone and everyone I'd ever told "everything happens for a reason." I believe that without each other, we'd all collapse and burn on a daily basis, but I hardly think that's the reason young people die, earthquakes take thousands of lives and we can't cure cancer.

That "Everything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger" nonsense always made me feel like I was in the final round of a game show.

"Well, Laurel," the host would say, "you've made it this far. Now let's see what your prize is."

The audience oohs.

"Behind door #1, we have grinning and bearing it and moving on, and behind door #2, we have death."

"I'd like to take the option that's not dying, Alex. Thanks so much for letting me play."

And when it comes to stages of grief, I'll just add that I think I skipped right past shock to anger, and I stayed in anger for a very long time. Denial and bargaining didn't even cross my radar. Secretly, I was angry most of the time. I was angry at people with living cousins, I was angry at people who had conversations about elective surgeries and such like nothing bad could ever happen to them. I was even angry at friends of mine who lost grandparents and great aunts or uncles. I knew they were in pain, but so much of me wanted to scream, "Ninety-year-olds are supposed to die, twenty-six-year-olds aren't. Get over it." (I never did, and I still feel guilty for the thoughts, but most of us know that grief has to have its own way.)

Soon, you realize you're in a club that no one wants to be a member of -- the club of people attached to tragedies. And this club gives you different advice. "Drink the glass of wine." "Cry it out some days." "It sucks, and it always will."

At one point, I sat down with a friend of mine who had lost his mother and his brother within a short period of time. I told him that I knew I would never get over this, but that I would get on with it. (Something I stole from a guest appearance by Bill Cosby on Touched by an Angel.) But, I also wanted to know when it would be the hardest -- first Christmas, first anniversary of her death -- and when it might start to seem somewhat OK -- although a new OK -- again.

"Here it is," he said, a Manhattan in his hand, "there's no answer to that one either."

"Come on," I said, "you've got to give me something. Anything."

"You're going to have no idea when it's going to hit you and when it isn't," he said. "You might sail through the first anniversary of her death only to be taken over on Arbor Day. And it won't be the milestones you think. It's going to be some event you didn't even think would be or have significance until it happens. You'll be fine, and then something will hit you out of the blue, and that's just how it's always going to be."

In the last three years, there have been many holidays without Lauren. There have been three anniversaries of her death (obviously). There's been part of a very public coroner's inquest. My sister even announced her engagement this summer, and we're all preparing for a family wedding Lauren can't and won't attend.

I thought I was doing OK, and then March 5 hit me like a ton of bricks.

The summer after I graduated high school, my family went to visit my aunt's family in Australia. At the time, I was dating a relatively quiet, Ivy-League-bound boy that went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Lauren was dating a 24-year-old stockbroker named James. (Oh, the sophistication.)

I remember first meeting her boyfriend because most of the family was in the back room. When the doorbell rang, my aunt went to answer it, boyfriend entered, Lauren didn't stand to greet him and my father gave me the look that said "that's how you play hard to get and that's how you let a boy know who's in charge."

Later, Lauren and I talked more about boyfriends. "So, do you think James is the one?" I asked.

"The one?" she said. "The one what?"

"The one you'll marry?"

"Why would I think about marriage now?" she said. "Marriage is for when you turn 30 or something like that."

"Really? Thirty?" I said.

"Oh yeah. What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "By 30 I think I'd like to be settled down with a husband and a couple of kids."

"Kids at 30? What about traveling or getting around the world. A career. There's so much to do."

"Maybe it's a Southern thing," I said. "We tend to have families young, and I'm not so sure how many places I want to see."

We talked more about the cultural differences in how we grew up -- Southern vs. Australian. I was moving away from home for school, something not commonly done in Oz, and Lauren was preparing for her next line of course work. She wanted to be a fashion designer. I was thinking about law. And so on.

In the end, we both broke up with those boyfriends. I did see the world (on an around the world ticket I still consider well worth it). Lauren did, too. I rediscovered my creative side. She spent too much money on shoes, me on handbags.

Now, at 30, I don't have that family or husband, but I do have a great dog, one very difficult cat, a house of my own and a passion (writing, in case it isn't obvious) that I had no clue about at 18. My own 30th, while sometimes difficult (I did keep telling the SO that this was the best I was ever going to look so he should take it all in now), went pretty smoothly. I had good friends to share it with. I had made it.

March 5 is the day that reminds me that Lauren didn't. It is what would have been her 30th birthday, and I would have liked to have known and seen her at this age just as I would have like to have known and seen her at any and every age. 

I didn't count on being the only of us to make it to 30. When we talked of imagined futures, it never occurred to me death would be the reason one of us didn't get there. And like my friend tried to warn me, it's the ones younever suspect that bring you right back to the beginning. I never thought a conversation I had 12 years ago would break my heart open all over again today.

So, for whatever March 5 is for you, enjoy it. Regardless of what you're doing, who you are or where you think you're going, you deserve nice things. Have a happy day.

Southern Hospitality

This past weekend, I attended a series of readings for pms (a literary journal produced by U.A.B. that is an acronym for poem memoir story). Dr. Alison Chapman was one of the readers, and she read from a piece about her work teaching in Donaldson Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in Alabama. While the entire essay was of great interest, the point of interest that lead to a discussion between another colleague and myself was this: Are Southern women ,in particular, torn between honest expression and the need to placate, please or be polite to others?

In short, are we more likely to keep our mouths shut? Do you tell your friend she looks huge in a particular dress when she asks, or do you say, "No, of course not, you're always beautiful"? While no friend, colleague or stranger likes these kinds of confrontations, it seems that Southerner women, especially, have trouble with the concept of expressing what they're really thinking.

This is also a conversation I've had many times before, especially with Northern transplants to the South. "Is everyone always this polite?" "Will someone stare if I want to talk about something other than tea sandwiches at the luncheon?" "Does anyone ever say anything negative about anyone?" "And what is this 'bless her heart'' stuff?"

And here's how I explain it: While Southern women may have been raised with a lot of decorum and a lot manners, we're also raised with a fair amount of sass, and we're not idiots.

If you invite me to your house and you might have accidentally shit on the floor just before my arrival (not that this has ever happened, mind you, but I like an extreme example every once in awhile), I will do everything in my power to pretend that I do not notice or smell the crap in the corner.

My most likely response? "Maybe I'll get the tour later. Want to grab your bag and head out for lunch?"

Surely, this was not something you meant to do, and there is no need for me to draw attention to something that is clearly embarrassing and upsetting to you. Anyone and everyone in entitled to their own human dignity, and when, pardon the terrible pun, shit happens, there's no need to make anyone feel worse than they already do.

If, however, you invite me over to your house, shit on the floor, and then expect me to walk over to that corner with you and tell you it smells like roses, we have a problem. Manners is one thing. Delusion is another.

I can overlook to a certain degree, but I will not lie. And I'll agree not to discuss certain hot-button topics -- God, sex, politics -- in public, out of respect for others' opinion and general cordiality, but if you keep picking, be prepared.

Most of the time, this isn't a problem. After all, I do live in the South, so everyone else pretty much goes by the same rules. Unfortunately though, you might also see how my take on my role as a Southern female has gotten me into more than a few tight spots at work.

Certain generations of Southern men and women don't see things the same way I do. If we're in a meeting, and ideas are expressed that I don't agree with, I will respectfully present my point and vocalize my own opinion. I am always open to a discussion. And when the majority wins, the majority wins.

But, I do think a good discussion is warranted -- especially when my reputation is attached to the project. And I am not open to being told what I will and will not put my name on without my input.

I consider it a kind of continuation of the same idea of being a Southern woman. I may not love a project 100%, but if I've had my say, and I'm on a team, I'll grin and bear it. I will not, however, being told what my contribution is and what my own words will be, impale myself on the leg of the present presentation easel, claim it was all my idea, and then say "thank you sir" afterwards.

I don't represent us all, but this is just the kind of Southern girl I am.

Yep, I'm Taken

I've heard girlfriends and talk show experts discuss relationship weight gain for almost as long as I can remember. I believe one woman even made the bestseller list because she coined the term "the newlywed 19" in her book. (Get it? She plays off "the freshman 15," but it's all about gaining weight in your first year of marriage. I don't know who wouldn't be astounded. Then again, that woman does have a bestseller, and I do not, so I should probably move on now.)

I've also heard all the reasons for the new pounds and even offered a few of own. When you're newly in love, who wants to do anything but spend time with his or her significant other? There goes the gym or fitness center. Even something as simple as staying home on a Saturday night to cuddle and watch a movie means there are no long walk from the best parking spot you could find to the bar -- in stilettos -- or dancing until the wee hours.

I tend to fall into the "I don't want this guy to think I'm one of those obnoxious women who counts every calorie and only eats salad," so I'll end up ordering a Rib Eye or pasta coated in cream on those first few dates just to prove how awesome and self-assured I am.

And when it comes to cooking for a date, there's no way I'm going to load his first (or fifteenth) home cooked-by-Laurel meals with my standard made from 2% milk cheese, non-fat sour cream or low-sodium, 98% fat free cream of anything soup. It's only full fat on those first creations. (And it's also why my dad pantomimes reeling in a fish whenever I tell him what I plan to make the SO for dinner that night.)

Plus, there's always the "if he loves me just as I am, why do I have to kill myself with lite, daily yogurt and hours on the Stair Master?" train of thought.

Luckily, I've only had one problem with relationship weight. This is partly because I'm not as skinny as a lot of girls before they start dating and also partly because, until recently, I've never been capable of maintaining a stable relationship beyond the six-month mark or so.

The only time it was a real issue was the summer after my freshman year of college. My first-year of college, rather than gaining the 15 lbs that comes with late night pizza and beer, I lost weight like I never have before. (And please keep in mind, I was a size four at the time who got into a size two BCBG dress for my high school graduation.) Here's what happened:

1. The dining hall food made me sick. The only option I had was to eat at the dining hall, since it was required of freshman, and because I preferred to spend my $200 monthly allowance on long-distance phone calls to the BF. Since the food made me sick, and we had communal bathrooms on the hallway, I decided that the best choice between my gastrointestinal embarrassment and eating campus meals was to stop eating. (I had been accepted to a great school, but was clearly lacking some fundamental reasoning ability.)

2. Since I didn't like frat parties, I didn't drink, so no new calories were introduced to my body every week. (Again, I'm sure the idea of me not drinking is foreign to most. Remember that this was many, many years ago.)

3. Because I didn't like frat parties, and there was so much empty time in my day, I'd often go to the 24-hour gym just to stave off the loneliness.

By the end of that year, I wavered between a size two and a zero. I also had the appearance of high cheek bones for the first time in my life because the rest of my face became so sunken.

Anyways, you're probably wondering how this is a story of relationship weight gain, so here goes. When I got back to Birmingham for the summer, I weighed nothing and wasn't used to eating much of anything. I was also thrilled to be reunited by my not-long-distance-for-the-summer boyfriend.

Now, I don't know how many of you have dated athletes before, but there are a lot of carbs involved (and if you're lucky, only carbs). After all, they're going to burn them all of with hours of daily physical activity. However, if you go from eating next to nothing to having every meal with your carb-fueled boyfriend (pizza, cheeseburgers and the occasional Chinese were his standards), not only do you gain your lost weight back, but you get about 15 or 20 bonus pounds, too. (It's not like I had or was inclined to hours of running around after all of our lunches and dinners.)

By July, I can remember putting on jeans that wouldn't have stayed on my waist before and barely being able to zip them up. I looked in the mirror and then looked over to my sister.

"That's borderline indecent," she said. "You cannot wear that to visit our cousins."

So, I set about to taking off that weight, and have tried not to let relationships mess with my weight since. According to recent events, however, I've been worrying about the wrong problem.

A few weeks ago, some friends and I were having girl's night at a local bar. A table of men was nearby, and one of my (bolder) friends decided to strike up a conversation, "What are y'all doing by yourselves over there?" she said, "There's clearly a group of attractive single girls right here."

"Oh really?" one of the guys said. "You're all single?"

"Four of us are," my friend said. "Two are taken, but those are still some pretty good odds for you."

The men then came over and sat down. Introductions were made. One guy looked at my friend Lesley and said, "You're one of the taken ones." (Her wedding ring is pretty easy to spot.) She nodded.

Then, he turned to me, "You're taken, too, right?"

"I am," I said, "What gave it away?"

"Just had a feeling," he said.

I smiled. "It's because I'm the one who didn't bother to take a shower before going out on a Friday night, isn't it? I've got to have someone at home if I'm willing to leave the house looking like this, huh?"

We both laughed, but I did realize that rather than having my relationship weight, I've just got some relationship laziness. I still dress up for our dinners out, but by now, it's quite possible the SO thinks of my black yoga pants as formal attire. And the more he tells me how beautiful I look without makeup, the less of it I wear. (Eyeliner? Who has the time?)

He is a sweet, forgiving, brave man.

But, I've also decided to do my best to draw the line at visible-from-50-yards zit cream or anything that resembles a dental headgear.

P.S. My waist has never and will never look like the one in the above photo.