Queen Of The Road
As a part of the Volvo/Big East program, I'll be going back to Washington, D.C. for a weekend to visit Georgetown and and attend a Big East basketball game. Over the course of the week, I'll be sharing what I look forward to most about my return trip.
The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #5: Drive ... [Read more]
It's Serious Now Folks
Yesterday, I received a little update from the good people at Cake Group New York. It turns out that there's no longer just a trip to the Big East championship game at stake in this competition for the Biggest Fan of the Big East ... [Read more]
My Black Thumb
While we're kind of on the subject of Birmingham's Food Summit, I think it's only fair to own up to the fact that I don't really belong at any Food Summit. When it comes to farming, eating local and anything related to agriculture, I am little more than an impostor.
During the storytelling hour I mentioned in my last post, someone told a story about slaughtering pigs because he wanted to get back in touch with the source of his food and not just think about it as something that came wrapped in cellophane at the Piggly Wiggly. (If I can work the Piggly Wiggly into a story, I will.)
Now, unless my adventure at the stocked catfish pond counts as getting back to the source of my childhood fish sticks, I can hardly claim anything as bold and dedicated as that.
When a friend of mine gave me fresh beef and told me that it had come from his cow, Nacho, I couldn't eat it. I have never knowingly ingested venison. I don't do wild game. If I came from any sort of you eat what you kill culture, I'd be the Calista Flockhart of the group or dead.
Maybe you're thinking this makes me the perfect candidate for vegetarianism. If knowing that something was once alive makes it impossible for me to eat it, of course I should be a vegetarian. It makes perfect sense.
I, however, do not make perfect sense. So, I've chosen denial and Five Guys over more obvious conclusions.
I also have a black thumb. I have killed every plant I've ever bought. The only items that bloom at my house are the ones that were hearty enough to survive five months of neglect and four years of renters before I moved in. In short, I have rosemary.
I don't even have grass. I have very green weeds that when cropped close enough to the ground appear to be grass. When the SO proposed astro turf for his backyard, I pretended to object, but I really thought it was kind of awesome. Plus, with the backyard, I figured no one would know how lazy/incapable of gardening we really are. I'm not willing to put our collective failings out on the front lawn for all of the neighbors to see just yet.
So, you can see why an 11th grade biology project that involved growing and tending your own garden plot would pose a problem.
For six weeks, my partner and I were supposed to plant, tend and maintain garden plots. The success of our gardens determined the majority of our grade for that trimester. (My high school was on trimesters, not semesters. I'm not confusing pregnancy and school, really.)
The great part about this project was that hanging out outside counted as class time. The downside was the fact that your garden was supposed to not only survive, but thrive.
My partner and I planted cucumbers, squash and some other kind of vegetable. (I'd probably remember it better if anything had actually bloomed.)
One week before we were supposed to be graded, I can remember staring at my plot with my partner. It looked a lot like it had before we'd planted anything. I think the cucumbers took, but they seemed to keep to themselves unaware that they could have taken over rather than sticking to their solitary little spot in the back of the "garden."
"This doesn't look good," I said.
"No, it doesn't."
"This isn't an "A" project."
"Nope."
Being a little obsessed with college and something of an overachiever, I couldn't let a little thing like Mother Nature stand between me and a decent grade.
"Meet me back here on Sunday?" I said.
That weekend I drove to Wal-Mart, where for a small sum, I picked out some lovely pansies to line the edges of our garden as well as something else that was green to fill out the plot. Then, we drove back to our school, dug up anything that was dead and replaced it with our recent purchases from Wal-Mart. (Hey, there was no clause in the project description that said your original plants had to make it through the entire six weeks.)
For a few days, we diligently tended to those plants. (I have a very good track record with keeping plants alive for a week. It's after those first seven days that everything seems to go awry. Sorry recently-purchased mums.) Four days later, I kept my fingers crossed as our biology teacher walked the perimeter of our garden.
"I wish you'd gotten a little more out of those cukes," he said, "but I'm giving you an "A.'"
I was quite relieved. I had saved my biology grade and my GPA, but I never learned how to keep plants alive. Although, given the choice between a GPA and plants, I still think I'd pick the GPA, and hence, why I have no real place at the Food Summit. I hope all of the real foodies can show me a little mercy. Just please don't ask me any questions about high fructose corn syrup. You don't want to hear the answer ...
In Which a Young Laurel Attempts to Fish
Last Friday night, I attended an evening of storytelling devoted to food courtesy of DISCO and Birmingham’s Food Summit. While I declined to tell a story (I wanted to give everyone else a chance, you see, it has nothing at all to do with my fear of public speaking, really), it did get me thinking about food and the sources of food. Plus, with it being Thanksgiving and all, it seemed like a fine time for a food-related tale. So, here we go.
Since my father has no boys, he was intent on teaching his daughters many of the skills most dads imparted to their sons. When he (quite admirably) decided to help my Brownie troop earn its sports badge, I remember two primary lessons:
1. Centers need to be tall. (I found this out when I, at fewer than five feet, volunteered to be the center, and my father suggested that Callie, at over five feet, would probably make a better choice.)
2. For “real” players, “no blood, no foul.”
While the latter was not enforced, it was still a little on the intense side for a gaggle of nine-year-olds.
My sisters and I were subject to many an action film, the library of all things James Bond and some very “involved” softball coaching. But, what stood out as the food stories were going around was the many times my father tried to get us interested in fishing.
Since we have a lake house, this makes perfect sense. Lake = water = fish. However, when you’re trying to teach three girls to fish, there are a few problems, and while you might think worms would be the worst of it, I think patience was the much bigger problem.
Fishing adventures tended to end shortly after the first or fifteenth, “I’m bored.”
Plus, whenever we did catch a fish, it was always a throw-away on the dumb side of fish life. (I can remember more than a couple holes or hooks already in its mouth.)
One day though, my father came in with some news.
“We’re going fishing!” he said.
Three collective sighs went around the table – especially since we were in Birmingham and nowhere near our lake house.
“This time is going to be different,” my dad said. “We’re going to a special pond. Guaranteed good fishing.”
Reluctantly, we got in the car, drove for about half an hour and came to a stop at the smallest “lake” I had ever seen. But sure enough, nearly a minute after I put my line in the water, I pulled out one of the biggest catfish I had ever seen.
Soon, I caught two more fish, and my sisters were just as lucky. “This is a special pond,” I thought.
“I think we should only keep three a piece,” my dad said later. “We’ve got to leave some for everybody else.”
I wanted to keep every fish I caught. (Boy, were they biting that day!) But my dad’s logic made sense, in addition to the fact that he was my dad and he made the rules, so we quickly agreed.
It wasn’t until we were leaving, and a man pulled my father aside to weigh and pay for our fish that I realized we weren’t quite at a “special pond.” We were at a stocked pond, and this little adventure was costing my father quite a bit of money.
It was an especially expensive outing when you consider that later that night, after my father had prepared and cooked a full fish meal (with a freezer full of catfish to spare), we each responded with, “I don’t like catfish,” and opted for other dinner options instead.
That’s just my dad though – always going out of his way and doing his best to make sure that his girls were never disappointed. Whether it was making his daughters think of themselves as star fishermen, attending every softball, soccer and volleyball game or enduring hours at the mall, he always made us feel like he wanted to and enjoyed just being there. (I can imagine that it wasn’t always the dream of a “no blood, no foul” kind of guy to spend hours watching a fashion show after shopping.)
So, this Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for my dad, and all of the ways he made us feel special and cared for. I’m also thankful for my mom, who is equally awesome and attentive, two great sisters, a new brother-in-law, a kid my sister dates who feels like a member of the family, my own SO and the rest of the crazy bunch I’ll get to spend tomorrow with.
I’m also incredibly thankful we’ll be enjoying a meal full of glorious carbs and sugar – catfish not included.
Laurel, The Very Bad Volunteer
When I was a sophomore in high school, a friend and I decided to volunteer with a local, health-related non-profit. (I’d like to say it’s because we were moved by a presentation during one of our school’s “development days” – when we were supposed to learn more about ourselves and the community, or something like that – but it probably had more to do with the fact that sophomore year was the time people started talking about “college applications” and “extracurricular activities” and “standing out.” Also, in fairness, I should probably only implicate myself in the resume-building motive. My friend was probably much more pure-hearted.)
Anyway, the volunteer job we ended up with involved delivering meals to homebound patients. And while this job probably sounds easy enough, we were pretty terrible at it. I blame two primary culprits:
- My complete lack of direction in neighborhoods I’d never visited before and
- Naked people.
We usually only had four or five meals to deliver each Saturday, and I really don’t think more than two ever made it to their intended destination. I also think we were pretty liberal with our definition of “lunch time.”
You see, as a newly-minted driver it turns out that I was pretty good at driving in Mountain Brook and going to and from my high school. Shockingly, most of the meals we were supposed to deliver were not 1. In the suburb of Mountain Brook or 2. Next to my high school.
In the dark ages, armed only with a paper map of Birmingham, we did our best, but I’m afraid our best was sorely lacking.
“Which exit do we take again?” I said.
“Greensprings,” my friend said. “I think.”
“You think?”
“It could be Green Valley. I’m not sure.”
Without a doubt, I’d usually miss both exits, and even if I found the right one, the side streets after that were nightmares. Many a volunteer run ended with me in near tears saying, “Are we ever going to get home?”
Unfortunately for the poor woman in charge of volunteers, each run also tended to wrap up with the return of at least one undelivered lunch.
Even without the trauma of navigation, I probably wouldn’t have lasted long as volunteer because of the latter aforementioned issue – naked people.
When we finally did find a house or apartment, my friend and I took turns going in to deliver the meals. (Someone had to stay in the car and try to get a head start on how we were going to get to our next destination.)
After knocking at one house, I heard a “come in” and went through the front door.
“Hi,” I said. “I have the meal you requested.”
“He’s in the back,” a young woman about my age said.
With the go-ahead to keep walking through a stranger’s house, I walked through the living room, down a hallway until I came to the first open door on the right. Inside was a very large and very nude man.
“Here’s your meal,” I said, not at all sure how I was supposed to respond in said situation (it, and maps, weren’t covered in the volunteer training), especially when he didn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’d found him naked. (We WASPs generally show great shame when caught without clothes on, so you can see how I would be confused.) I dropped the bag of food on a chair near the bed and high-tailed it out of there.
“How was it?” my friend said when I got back to the car.
“Naked,” I said. From then on, we agreed to go into all homes together.
A week or so later, we finally found our way to yet another house where we were directed to another back room. This time, we found a naked woman sitting straight up in bed.
“We have lunch,” my friend said.
“You seen my kids?” she said.
“Your kids?” my friend said.
“I think they’re out back. Go look.”
My friend (again, I suspect her motives were purer than mine) handed me the bag of food we had and went outside to start yelling for this woman’s children. While she was being a saint, I stared at the walls of the room I was in saying, “Would you like me to get your lunch out for you?” which was only met with, “I want to know where my kids are.”
At no time during this “conversation” did she ever try to cover herself or find clothes.
At the end of that day, I was pretty sure we had to talk to the volunteer coordinator. Only a month in, I was near burn-out level.
“You found a naked one,” she said, shaking her head almost in anticipation of my concerns. “We just have some patients that won’t wear clothes.”
Eventually, we didn’t get very many calls to deliver meals (shocking, I know) and soccer season started, so our tenure as volunteers came to an end. However, one of my most vivid memories of being lost is sailing through the red light where 5th Avenue South divides – one side headed to Eastwood and the other to Woodlawn – with my hands in the air. “Where on earth are we?”
I had no idea what a common part of town I was in or how close that major thoroughfare was to my own home, downtown and many, many businesses. I was just a tired, lost 16-year-old that really wanted a route with more clothed people on it.
Sometimes it can be hard to believe that 15 years later, I live less than a mile from the very same intersection and drive through it at least three or four times per week. (It's a necessary part of my many, many trips to Home Depot.)
I’d like to say I’ve learned a lot in that time, but I think the truth is that the most important info I’ve picked up along the way is that there is a light there, and it’s better to go on your way once it’s turned green.
What Every Bride Wants To Find On Her Wedding Day
This past weekend, as we were sitting in the bridal suite preparing for my friend's wedding, we discovered every bride's dream -- a giant, costume rabbit head in the closet.
So many questions, so few answers: What was it doing there? Who put it there? Where's the rabbit's body? Why would anyone need a bunny costume in November when Easter is usually in April? Can we even be sure this is an Easter bunny? Could plushies have been nearby? Would they come back?
I'm pretty sure that if anyone had had a bag big enough for this special souvenir, he wouldn't be in New Jersey anymore. After all, it's not every day that you find your very own costume bunny head.
Also, I must apologize for the quality of my bunny head photo. I managed to spill water in the bottom of my purse while I was in Brooklyn, and now all of my pictures are a bit on the blurry side. As a blogger, I need so few tools, and I still managed to ruin one of the few that makes my life easier. Oh well.
Update: Because You Love America
*So, I decided to update this post with various photos of me from my years at Georgetown, and do you know what I learned? I spent all of college leaning into or hugging someone else. The cropping alone could lead to some severe carpal tunnel, but it's all worth it for the Big East ... [Read more]
In Which Laurel Discovers the Most Indecent Halloween Costume of Them All
I love Halloween. I could pretend that it goes back to a childhood love of free candy (and I really do like free candy), but it these days it's a little more than that.
Nowadays, what I primarily love about Halloween is spending a ridiculously long amount of time carving elaborate pumpkins (I've convinced myself it's a skill) and dressing up in outfits that would be considered "slutty" on any other occasion.
I'm 30, so time is running out on the latter, and I have to get out as much of that last urge as I can (be it annually) before the girls hit my waist. I already decided to get rid of all of my free alcohol-themed baby tees (nothing says "class" like "Stoli" emblazoned across your chest in rhinestones) and a particularly demure black tee that said "Hottie" in silver capital letters across the front at a garage sale last year. (I had fun in college -- and very little fashion discernment it seems.)
I tend to start thinking about my costume around Labor Day and then make a few returns and/or excahnges at Party City before the final reveal that last weekend of October. In recent years, I've gone as "naughty" Dorothy, Elvira and Silk Spectre II from The Watchmen. (Can you tell at which point I began dating a comic book lover?)
This year, I quickly honed in on Lilah from Jonah Hex (it reminds me of a modern saloon girl) and the Black Widow from Iron Man 2 (I love me some ScarJo). Both seemed like fun, and once I started with superheroes, I figured, "Why not keep going?"
However, there was something about the Lady Gaga costumes that kept calling to me.
I don't have particularly strong feelings about Lady Gaga, so all I can figure is that I really, really wanted the Lady Gaga wig to add to my collection. (Yes, I have a wig collection, and wearing wigs -- of the outrageous variety -- makes me very happy. Did I once throw a party whose only theme was "wigs"? Yes.)
Neither Lilah or the Black Widow would require a wig seeing as I already have long brown hair, and lessons-learned-from-the-recession Laurel is trying really, really hard not to buy things she doesn't need. Even though the Lilah wig is only $16.99, but bygones ...
I e-mailed the Lady Gaga costume photos to a friend (to see if it was too slutty), and her comment was something along the lines of, "Uh ... yeah ... that would be pretty daring."
Assuming the costume was just a blue leotard with a big collar and some cut-outs on the sides that would be lined with mesh, I still had hope. "What if I got those nearly opaque cheerleader tights that are kind of shiny and can almost seem like leggings?" I wrote back.
"Maybe," she said.
So, today, despite all of the reasonable warnings, on my third trip to Party City since September 1, I decided to try on the Gaga costume. The result, ladies and gentlemen, was not pretty. Be warned.
What I had assumed would be leotard/possibly Legg Avenue-esque concoction was actually more like a dicky with external shoulder pads and a butt flap attached -- you know, for modesty. There wasn't even fabric on the back -- nothing ran from the top of the bum to the neck. And those cut-outs? They weren't cut out of the suit. They never existed as part of the costume to begin with.
While I normally would not be willing put such a photo on the Internet (because God knows I've never posted unflattering photos of myself before), inspired by my friend Jen West and her amazing, bikini-clad documentation of her recent diet and fitness plan, as well as feeling that this post really does need a visual, I give you the most terrible and most indecent outfit I have ever put on my body.
The final blow? $49.99 for less than half a yard of fabric probably imported from China for $.35.
Parents of the world, beware: your child does not need to dress as Lady Gaga. Unless you want her to end up in soft-core porn or are willing to make the costume yourself. And women out there over the age of 21, just don't do this to yourself. Really. There are other, far more positive ways to gain men's attention.
For the first time, I actually think being a pop star probably isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially if you have a particularly aggressive stylist.
And next year, I might go back to that sheet/ghost costume.
The French Connection
2003 was a rough year for me, and it had nothing to do with a boyfriend or a job or even poor fashion choices I'm forced to relive in tagged Facebook photos. 2003 was particularly rough because of our feud with the French.
You see, while as an adult I can't say I really have strong feelings about the French in any way, shape or form, being forced to order "freedom fries" did remind me of my desperate childhood obsession with the French. (Did we go so far as to call it "freedom kissing"? I'm just curious.) And while I shouldn't have cared anymore, the little girl in me really, really wanted to make up with our beret-creating European neighbors.
When I was little, I wanted to be an actress, a lawyer and French. The first two were going to require more education and resources than I had access to at the time, but I figured the latter might be something I could actually work towards.
I knew there wasn’t much I could do about actually being French in the present, having been born in Alabama and all, but I was willing to settle for French ancestry. Also, after the disappointment of learning that my middle name was not actually "Fame," I figured Fain might be able to work for me in other ways.
“What are we?” I asked my mother one day. I was hard at work on a first grade family tree project, and she was trying to get dinner ready.
“We are a family,” she said.
Not what I was hoping for. “No,” I said. “Where did we come from?”
“Montgomery,” she said, continuing to devote her attention to pork chops or something similar.
“No,” I said, “before that?”
“Troy.”
This was not going well. “No,” I said. “What countries did we come from before that?”
“Our ancestors? Is that what you’re asking about?”
I nodded, wondering if I would ever get this project done. Even at six, my mother and I had a history of communication problems. At four, I asked her how it was possible that God made the world in seven days if dinosaurs were around for so long, but there weren’t people when there were dinosaurs. She told me that Adam and Eve had dinosaurs as pets, but when they got kicked out of Eden, the dinosaurs became extinct. This might have worked out OK until I could advance further in school and learn about the Big Bang theory, evolution v. creation, etc., except for an incredibly embarrassing Sunday school incident when my drawing of Paradise included Eve walking a triceratops.
“Scotland, I think,” she said, still struggling with my questions. “But Mills is definitely English. I'd focus your project on Great Britain.”
“What about, oh, I don’t know…” I said, trying to seem as if this thought had just occurred to me, "France?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Isn’t it possible anyone in our family came from France? Maybe one of those Scottish people married someone from France?”
“I don’t think so, Honey. Could you set the table?”
“Couldn’t ‘Fain’ be French?” I said. They did start with the same letter after all.
“I really don’t think so,” she answered. “But I suppose you never know. Do you want to call your grandmother?” I didn't want to make any phone calls, and the truth was, and is, I come from a long line of WASPs, and there's very little that can be done about it.
So, instead of preparing a project about my brilliant French ancestors, I had to settle for pretending to be French. I couldn’t imagine anything better than being part of a long line of people with accents and great clothes. After all, they had an Eiffel Tower, restaurants called cafes, and they were too good for water – only coffee and wine for the French.
When I had tea parties with my stuffed animals, we only spoke in French. And, we ate pretend croissants rather than muffins or cupcakes. Of course, we didn’t actually speak French; I simply spoke in a long string of nonsense syllables that I substituted for a foreign language, but it was enough for me. (Although, I was pretty jealous of every single kid in my class who got to present a family tree that involved French ancestors.)
Within a few weeks of my family tree work and the made-up language gatherings, I'd moved on to other pursuits -- begging for a kitten, trying to finish The Boxcar Children before the rest of the kids in my class, convincing my parents I deserved a later bedtime because of my incredible maturity -- and that desire to be French was buried somewhere far beneath a love of Jem and the Holograms and a need to get the attention of my elementary school crush. I went on with my life, and I even survived that pesky 2003 international disagreement.
But, every so often, my little Francophile does rear its ugly head.
A few years ago, my sister and I were riding in the care discussing our extreme WASP-iness.
"Being Scottish works for me," I said. "We gave the world Scoth and bold plaids. You're welcome Universe."
"Yeah," she said, "but I don't think we're really completely 100% WASP."
"Rachael," I said, "our entire family tree is Scottish, English and Irish. We're Episcopalean, and you and Sarah are the only people in the family capable of tanning."
"I'm not sure," she said. "What about 'Fain.' I'm pretty sure that one's French."
Where had that kind of conviction been 20 years before when I really needed it?
Now, Meet My New Best Friend
As you may or may not be aware, I'm mildly obsessed with shapewear. (My philosophy is a little bit along the lines of "why go to the gym when there's lycra?") As my friend Tina pointed out, if I were to try and find supporters to fit my blog's "niche," it would most likely be pet care companies, red wine makers and Spanx.
Also, to quote two of my favorite women from Steel Magnolias. (Oh, who are we kidding? They're all my favorite women if they're in Steel Magnolias.):
Olympia Dukakis, commenting on the legs of a woman dancing at Shelby's wedding: "Looks like two pigs fighting under a blanket."
Dolly Parton: "Well, these thighs haven't gone out of the house without lycra on them since I was 14."
Olympia Dukakis: "You were brought up right."
Discovering Spanx changed my world, and I own everything from control top underwear to the full-on bodysuit that makes me look much thinner, but also a little like Marilyn Manson from that odd androgynous album cover underneath my clothes. (It's not full-on Silence of the Lambs skin suit, but it's kind of close.)
It took a while to grow my collection from foot-less hoses to the 15+ shaping garments that now line the bottoms of my drawers, but it happened. In the age-old debate so well articulated by Bridget Jones as to whether or not to wear the sexy lingerie that bares it all or the sucking-in, holding-in place, strange-nude-colored undies that create the illusion of a smooth body with no lumps, I long ago chose the world's ugliest underwear. (Hey, that's how Sarah Blakely herself, creator of Spanx and one of my heroes, describes them.)
*The part of this post that is not for my parents or young children*: For those of you wondering about how to hide one's Spanx in "delicate" moments, if you so choose, I've always used the excuse of needing to change out of "my work underwear." (After all, the underwear is working even if I'm not.) This ruse can only last so long, but it usually gets you over the hump. Cook some hearty homemade meals in the meantime -- lasagna, chicken pot pie, cobbler -- and the actual reveal should be far less traumatizing.
(Sadly, over time, if you stop cooking it will become far more of an issue than what your underwear looks like.)
Even since I came to love shapewear, I've continually flirted with the idea of whether or not I want an actual girdle. My stomach has always been my problem area, and even as a size 2-4 high school student that did 250 crunches after soccer practice each day, my stomach has never been flat -- let alone concave as some extremely lucky people I've heard of the existence of. Feel free to be appalled, but I'm guessing that ever since the phrase "muffin top" made it into the common vernacular, a lot of you have considered the same purchase. My internal debate of the last few years goes a lot like this:
"Women of the '50s were so lucky that girdles were everywhere. How small could I make my waist? Do you think that thing Scarlett O'Hara had to be laced into is still available? The Internet seems to have everything."
"A girdle? What was I thinking? I'm not 70, for God's sake. I should probably get a life -- and some sort of civic or political concern to rally behind. Wondering about girdles can't be the best use of my time."
But, as you've probably guessed by now, last week I broke when I discovered the Hanes Waist Cincher. While it may not be a full-on girdle, I feel like I have finally crossed the line. (There's tight boning holding my torso in, and I don't think I can go back.)
While we had a difficult adjustment period at first. "Ugh," I complained while laying on the couch Monday night, "it hurts so much." (In fairness, I had just consumed a Five Guys hamburger and fries, so it was not exactly a girdle-friendly meal (and I do see the irony here), but oh, it was not pleasant.)
In the days since, though, we've become quite close. (I wanted to leave the "literally" part unsaid on that last one, but then I did it anyway.) I don't ever want to leave the house without a waist cincher again. (If I wanted to make another bad pun, I'd say we were tied at the hip.) Tight t-shirts with jeans? I don't even worry. Clingy fabrics? Not a problem. I can even pretend I'm a delicate Victorian lady rather than someone who spends all of her time hauling tile at Lowe's if I want to.
A delicate Victorian lady in ragged jeans and a resin-stained Old Navy t-shirt, but still. If nothing else, fantasy has always been my other best friend.
How I Came to Own the World's Ugliest Sunglasses
I used to have nice sunglasses. I really did. I studied magazines with articles on your face shape and which frames fit it best. I even followed trends. (Yes, there was a period when I wanted to look a little too much like Mary J. Blige, but I cannot help it that she had kick-ass highlights and sunglasses at the time.) I even, shock of all shocks, had a carrying case for my glasses.
Of course, these sunglasses weren't cheap. I was willing to spend $80, even $90, for a great pair of sunglasses. ($100 was my line in the sand.) But, I reasoned that it was totally worth it for something I wore every day. Even if you only counted the three months of summer, I was spending no more than $1.00 each day to protect my pupils and look awesome. (A lot of my thinking was and is like taking the tactics of the Christian's Children's Fund and applying it to clothing and housewares purchases. Sad, but true.)
Inevitably, though, I would soon break or lose these sunglasses. I have sat on sunglasses (despite having a carrying case, it's not like I ever remembered to use it), left them on boats, dropped them in the water, abandoned them on store counters, crushed them under the weight of all the other nonsense I carry in my purse -- just to name a few of my glasses' unfortunate ends.
And, each and every time, I was heartbroken that the purchase I'd devoted so much time to ended in disaster.
That's when I came up with a plan: Each time I destroyed a pair of sunglasses, I had to punish myself by buying cheaper sunglasses the next time. I figured that this line of thinking would eventually teach me to appreciate and care for the sunglasses that I had. I would learn to love them and take care of them -- like a child who has to learn responsibility for a puppy.
The way this actually played out, the next-to-last pair of sunglasses that I owned came from the Dollar General.
Rather than learning anything about taking care of nice things (I apologize to all those pretty white shirts I lost to red wine, too), in the span of a few years, I went from $80 sunglasses to the $2 variety. And trust me when I say that it's hard to go much lower than $2 when it comes to purchasing sunglasses.
While I tried to work out my new dilemma (can you really wear Dollar Tree sunglasses?), I was temporarily sunglasses-less. (One pair was at the bottom of a river after a kayaking adventure, and another was crushed under the weight of some Lowe's purchases.)
Sunglasses-less, I was driving down to the lake for Labor Day weekend when I realized that these baby blues of mine would never survive a weekend in the Alabama sun without some kind of protection.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you find yourself shopping for new eye wear at a BP station in Childersburg, Alabama.
Unable to reasonably demote myself to a price of less than $2, I decided that if I was going to have BP sunglasses, I should have the worst BP sunglasses there were. Why pretend you bought your glasses anywhere other than the gas station? It's not like it won't be obvious. (Kind of like when someone tells you they're wearing an old bridesmaid dress to some non-wedding function and you act surprised even though you're not.)
So, I introduce you to the white, knock-off Ed Hardy (knock-off Ed Hardy?!?!) sunglasses I've been wearing for most of September.
Or, as a friend more adequately described them this past weekend, "Is that Laurel in the tacky glasses?"
Maybe one day I really will learn to take care of my things. Unfortunately, the open Diet Pepsi perched tediously close to this laptop begs to differ.
Better Late Than Never
There are few things I know how to do well. (I’ve often said that beyond writing, I’m only really qualified to run a bar. Plus, lately my pop culture knowledge is even slipping – Justin Bieber, Prince Poppycock and any American Idol from the last 5 years don’t even make the radar. Not even my irrelevant knowledge is what it used to be.)
However, one thing I do extremely well is read a receipt. I’ve been a dedicated shopper since near-birth and switched to a clothing allowance at 12 since my desire to spend time at the mall was far greater than my mom’s. I’m not only a dedicated shopper; I’m a dedicated bargain shopper.
I may have no memory of algebra or geometry, but I can calculate a discount and sales tax with no trouble whatsoever. Buy one, get one free (higher price prevailing)? Please. I’ll go through the line twice just to make sure I can save three extra dollars.
In other words, don’t hand this one a receipt and expect me not to know what’s up.
The other day, I went to Home Depot for the umpteenth time this week. (Again, if you learn nothing from this blog, a) never buy an old house and b) never renovate said old house. Unless, of course, you have the patience of saint, and I don’t. But, also, don’t let that “old house rule” of mine stop you from buying mine should you be interested.)
I needed one last cabinet for my kitchen, and I knew that the 20% off sale on pre-manufactured cabinets was ending shortly. Being the bargain hunter that I am, I sped down to the Home Depot for the last of my cabinet collection.
As I was checking out, I looked down at the electronic pad and noticed no “-20%, you saved $20.80” beneath the original price.”
“Did you remember the sale discount?” I asked (nicely, I might add).
“It’s automatically factored in.”
Now, again reviewing my limited knowledge base, a) sales prices are never factored in and b) having spent too much time at Home Depot, I know all sales associates have to scan the weekly sales bar code to get the right discounts.
“Are you sure about that?” I said. “I think you need the …”
“It’s already in there,” the clerk said, and she called up the next customer in line.
Not only has my personal budget been tighter lately, but I also have a little trouble letting things go. I looked down at the receipt as we were about to walk to the parking lot again and again.
“This just isn’t right,” I said.
Fortunately, the SO knows all too well my tendency to obsess.
“And this is like $20,” I went on.
“Do you want to go back in?”
“No, it’s OK,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to go back in?” he asked again. Sighing. (We had a bet going about how much time he was going to have to spend helping me at Home Depot, and I was already over my time limit by about five minutes.)
Almost before he had finished the question, I ran to the back of the store, checked the original price of the cabinet, ran back to the front of the store and beckoned him over to the customer service desk. (Once you cross me at the Home Depot, I will not deal with you again. Sadly, this severely limits who I can and cannot interact with at Home Depot.)
My new clerk did a return on the cabinet, and then ran it back up (making sure to scan the sheet of weekly specials). I could finally leave with my new cabinet and kicky savings.
Is this the most interesting story I’ve ever told? No. But, that’s what happens when you start renovating a home. (One of my friends keeps asking when I get a walker for all the stories I have to tell about Home Depot, Lowe’s and salvage home emporiums.)
But, at least you can all rest assured that while my pop culture knowledge and personal hygiene are slipping, I’m still razor sharp when it comes to getting my deals. Today’s agenda – searching for overstock tile. Try not to spend the entire weekend on the edge of your seat.
The Crazy Cat Lady
In the list of stereotypes that I try to avoid, "crazy cat lady" is near the top of the list. (Not that there's anything wrong with that for my cat-loving friends; I'm definitely a crazy dog lady.) However, when you're Southern, 30, single and a often a bridesmaid, you'd be amazed how many people suggest your home life is full of stuffed animals, multiple cats and repeated references to Sex and the City.
For the record, I don't have stuffed animals. I didn't like Sex and the City. (Why do people judge you if Miranda's your favorite character? Wouldn't you be that dark if you spent all of your time with those three other crazies? Brunch chatter alone would be enough to push me over the homicidal edge.) And until recently, I didn't have a cat.
I am so paranoid about people thinking I might be slinking towards "crazy cat lady" territory that I won't buy cat food without buying dog food, too. Should I find myself in need of cat items alone, I will announce to the cashier and anyone within earshot that "I also have a dog." You know, just in case.
But, a few days ago, I found myself at a place called Cat Haven, and there really was no sense in pretending anymore.
Over Labor Day weekend, I decided to board Kitty Cat Jones since we all know how well he behaves when I go out of town, and hence the entry of Cat Haven into my life.
Now, having both a dog and a cat, I'm used to a vet's office that's pretty evenly divided between dog and cat paraphernalia. So, I wasn't quite prepared for the experience that was Cat Haven -- cat tunnels, cat calendars and about seven lounging cats to greet me as I arrived. (Also, though, complete with friendly staff and very reasonable prices.)
"Are you a first-time patient?"
"Yes," I said, putting Kitty Cat Jones on the counter in his carrier once I had adequately shut the door to prevent escaping cats -- as warned by the sign on the front door.
"We just have a few forms for you to fill out."
I provided all of the info about the cat's vaccination, etc. and handed the forms back to the lovely receptionist a few moments later.
"So, the cat's name is?" she said, eyeing the rather odd slash on my form.
"Well," I said, "he was Toonces, but them my boyfriend started calling him Kitty Cat Jones, so he kind of goes by that now. But, a lot of his medical records are under Toonces, so I thought I'd just put them both on there."
"I see."
"Yeah," I said. "He really will answer to either." It was kind of awkward.
"Well, I'm sure he'll be just fine here," the receptionist said. "Have a great Labor Day weekend."
"You, too," I said. "Thanks so much, and I'll see y'all on Tuesday."
I shook off my minor feelings of crazy, made sure no cats had tried to escape with me on my way out and went about the rest of my day.
About an hour later (bank deposit and Chik-fil-A run included), I noticed a missed call and voice mail on my phone. It was Cat Haven.
My first fear was that Kitty Cat Jones might have already made some enemies at Cat Haven, and I seriously considered ignoring the message and pretending I didn't receive it until after our vacation was over. I didn't have a back-up plan for Cat Haven expulsion two hours from departure time, and it's always better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?
Whether it was curiosity or self-sabotage, I listened to the message anyway and followed the directions to call Cat Haven back.
"Ms. Mills," the receptionist said, "we tried to confirm Toonces' vaccines and spaying with the Alabama Spay & Neuter clinic, but they seemed to have trouble locating his records."
Knowing I was about to sound even crazier, I attempted to apologize in advance, but the bottom line came down to this: "Oh, that's because his name was Cocoa back then. You'd have to look under Cocoa Mills for those records."
"I see."
The real lesson I learned this past weekend? My sanity/behavior has little to do with circumstance or pet choice. Cat or no, I'm just crazy, and I do appreciate the staff at Cat Haven for drawing as little attention to my off-beat behavior as possible.
But, should I decide a shopping cart is the best way to transport my belongings around the neighborhood or to the office, I want an intervention ASAP. Even I have limits.
Cat Watch 2010: Part Deux
I had the nerve to go out of town for the weekend. At least, I think the cat considered it nerve.
Maybe he was displeased. Maybe he doesn’t like other cats. Maybe he just really likes trees. Because sure enough, within four days of ending the first Cat Watch, the world’s oddest cat climbed yet another tree.
The cat food was disappearing each night, so I figured Toonces/Kitty Cat Jones (depending on who you talk to), was just out on one his adventures. Then, I saw a white and orange cat that was definitely not Kitty Cat Jones running away from the bowl one night and knew that Kitty Cat Jones might have wandered too far away from home. I grabbed the SO and insisted we patrol the neighborhood.
“Mew,” I called.
“Mew,” the SO reluctantly added his calls to my own.
Two houses down, a cat answered, but it was a black cat that was also not Kitty Cat Jones, so we kept going. Four houses down, I heard the distinctive – and loud – cries of one Kitty Cat Jones, and sure enough, rather than being on the ground like most four-legged creatures of God’s green earth, he was in a tree. And at least 25 feet in the air in said tree to boot.
“Sweetheart,” I called, for some reason thinking that this time he would just run right down to me rather than staging a three-day sit-in like the time before. (Sometimes my own logic baffles me.)
As per what-was-quickly-becoming usual, the cat stayed right where he was in the tree. He just started screaming louder. Since it was almost 10:00 at night, the SO took my arm and suggested we “walk quickly away” before the whole neighborhood woke up and realized we were to blame for the disturbing nighttime noises.
In the morning, I went back to the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was perched with another tin of Friskies. (Again, why I thought everything that didn’t work last time would work this time is beyond me. It must have been plain and simple desperation.)
No luck, so I went back around lunchtime, and that’s when I met the woman who owned the house with the yard and the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was. “Is that your cat?” she said.
“Yep,” I said. “That’s my cat.”
“Oh, he’s been up there for a couple of days. I called the humane society, but they weren’t much help.”
“Thank you for that,” I said. “But I know they aren’t much help with cats up trees.” I didn’t add that I’d done this before. Last week.
While I was standing there talking to the homeowner, the neighbor from across the street came over.
“That’s your cat?” he said. “He is scared to death up there.”
While I was talking to the across-the-street neighbor, another neighbor, who I happen to know from one of my writing classes came out. “Is that your cat?” she said. “I’ve been reading about ways to get him out of the tree on the Internet.”
When my former student arrived, I told her all about Kitty Cat Jones’ adventure from the week before while the across-the-street-neighbor lay on the lawn and smoked, and we all stared at the cat.
As if I couldn’t create more of a spectacle while we were all gathered on the sidewalk (me still holding a tin of Friskies), two more neighbors came over from across the street.
The husband said something that I couldn’t understand, and my former student said, “I’m sure he is thirsty in this heat.”
“That your cat?” the wife said.
“That’s my cat,” I said. I had had to own up to this a little more than I was hoping to – especially because we all know how I feel about the judging.
“You do something to make him mad?” she said.
“Well, I did go out of town for the weekend,” I said. “I guess that did it.”
“Yep,” she said, and then she offered her own diagnosis of the cant’s seemingly-growing neuroses. “He throwing a temper tantrum. That’s what it is. It’s a temper tantrum.”
“You think so?” I said.
“Oh yeah. He’ll back down out of there when he’s ready.
“Really?” I said. “It does seem like we’ve gotten into a battle of wills."
“Un-huh,” she said, “and you’re losing. The cat’s in a tree, and what are you doing? Standing out in the heat holding its food. Uh-huh. That cat got you. That cat throwing a temper tantrum, and it got you.”
Life lessons and I got to meet the neighbors -- not exactly what I had planned for the afternoon. I may not have gotten the cat down, but at least it was something.
Epilogue: The net morning, my former student flagged down a bucket truck and made it retrieve the cat. (Thank you!) I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to show Kitty Cat Jones the joys of life on the ground – like easy access to food and not making me run through my Xanax like their Tic-Tacs. I don’t think he’s too impressed by the latter.
In Which Laurel Must Hire a Plumber
Home ownership -- it’s an integral part of the American dream. Your very own place, your very own yard, a place to call your own. There’s just one tiny little pesky part of that grand dream of home ownership no one ever tells you during the “sell” phase – home repair.
Before I owned my own home, I had to call someone about home fix-it related issues exactly twice in my life. Once, I dropped a diamond necklace down the sink and called the plumber whose coupon was on the front cover of the yellow pages. (There was a diamond involved. Do I really need to describe how desperate I was?)
A plumber arrived within an hour, and after a five-minute fix, I wrote him a check for $125.00. (So much for the coupon.) On the plus side, he at least taught me how to save my own jewelry from the ell in the pipe in the future. On the down side, I went from having an ordinary, expense-free morning to a $100.00+ one. I was learning that nothing about hiring a handyman is ever cheap – or easy.
The other time I needed a handyman, it also happened to be a plumber. I was renting the upstairs of a house in Georgetown with four other girl friends during our senior year of college. It was a Saturday, and there was a clog. Our landlord was out of town, so what would have been a relatively stress-free situation quickly went to DEFCON one. It was already a stretch with five girls sharing one bathroom. Remove the toilet from the equation, and you’ve got real trouble.
With one roommate out of town and two suddenly having “plans,” it was left to me and another roommate to figure out how to handle the problem. As per usual, I turned to the yellow pages. (Only, this time I actually opened the thing.) Being all of 20, I went with the first big ad that said “no problem to small” and “available all hours of the day or night.” References, credentials and estimates didn’t even cross my mind.
“Hello, I need to hire a plumber,” I said as soon as someone answered the phone. “My toilet is clogged, and I really need it fixed as soon as possible.”
“We’ll send someone out right away,” the man on the other end of the line said, and he proceeded to take down my address and phone number.
When I got off the phone, I was relieved and couldn’t believe how easily I had taken care of what I considered to be a very grown-up problem. Then, my roommate and I went to pacing and trying not to drink or think about running water while we watched for the plumber’s arrival outside of the window.
About 30 minutes later, a blue Dodge Mini-van parked across the street. It reminded me of the one my family owned circa 1985 through the early ‘90s. Only, this was 2000, and our family car had had all of its seats in the back.
At that moment, my stomach dropped. “I think that’s our plumber,” I said, my gut telling me that it had been way too premature to pat myself on the back for this one.
“No way,” my roommate said.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Surely …”
A man in jeans and a white undershirt climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened the back of the van. In almost clown-like fashion, four younger men rolled out of the back of the car while someone else exited via the front passenger side door.
“No way,” my roommate said.
The man from the driver’s side and the man from the passenger’s seat of the car crossed the street and rang our doorbell. Luckily, it seemed like the four men from the back of the van were only there to spectate and smoke cigarettes on the curb, so at least we didn’t have half a dozen men on their way in.
We greeted the two “plumbers” and took them to our bathroom. (I’m still doubtful about whether or not they were actual plumbers despite the fact that they had a plunger and snake with them.)
“This is a nice house,” one of them said.
“But you sure got a mess in here,” the other said, staring into our bathroom.
“Well, you know,” I said, “with all of our boyfriends over all the time, there’s no telling what can happen. If they weren’t at football practice right now, I’m sure one of them could have helped us out.”
(1) Of course this was all lies, 2) I know the Georgetown football team really wasn’t much of a threat, but 3) a lifetime of procedural dramas and time with my father will cause your brain to default into a mode in which you make any and all strangers think someone will always be looking for you should you disappear and that that person is very large with possible rage control issues.)
Twenty minutes later, they were done, and I handed them a check. (I had asked for the price while they were toiling away in the bathroom and wrote it quickly in the hopes that we could usher them from our house as quickly as possible once the work was complete.)
“A check?” the first plumber said. “Do you think there’s any way you could pay us in cash?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is all we have.”
“We’d be more than happy to drive you to the ATM,” the other plumber said.
Now, I recognize that bad things happen to good people all the time, no matter how careful you are. But, I also knew that I had no intention of going out of this world because I decided to crawl in the back of a burned out minivan with six strange, large men I had never seen before that day and my ATM card.
“I don’t have an ATM card,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Both men looked at my roommate.
“Me neither,” she said. Was it reasonable for two college-age women not to have ATM cards in the 21st century? No, but I didn’t really care.
We both just started walking towards the front door with the check in hand, and thankfully the plumbers followed. After they were out the door (that we quickly bolted), we watched the whole team file back into the van and head away.
I learned a little lesson about the Yellow Pages that day, and we’ve had trust issues ever since.
Now, as a home owner in the midst of a kitchen renovation, I have to call plumbers, electricians and general handymen all the time. Even when I only go with recommendations from friends, I dread the process of finding phone numbers, getting estimates and waiting to see how much I get to spend on whatever has gone wrong in my 1928-era bungalow that day. Home repair = high stress, and that’s all there is to it.
In short, renters rejoice. Your landlord is probably crazy. (Generally, they all are, but I think that's what too much home repair does to people. It's like the chicken and the egg, and I have no idea if landlording or home repair comes first.) And I’m sure you have some neighbors with noise issues, but the odds of finding six men outside your door ready to take you to the nearest source of cash are probably much lower. You might even find the phone book helpful.
And at the end of the day, the person responsible for it all isn’t you, and in my book, that’s the best present of all.
Striking The Perfect Balance Of Customer Service
Iappreciate good customer service. I really do. In a world of “I can’t doanything about that,” “That’s not my problem” and apathetic shrugs, it’srefreshing to find someone who actually wants to help you. (Mylatest adventure in bad customer service? Never being apologized to by theconsignment store that lost a $90 piece of my jewelry. I work in PR, I know howfar a simple “I’m sorry” can go. Perhaps more importantly, when an apologyisn’t there, you really, really notice.)
Thatbeing said, I’m not always a fan of chatty customer service. I know thatcomputers are slow, records take awhile to come up and sometimes there’s a badphone connection. None of that means that I need to fill the silence with whatthe weather is like where I am, how many pets I have or whether or not I’mmarried with some kids. Really, I’ll be OK for those two minutes without havinga lively discussion about the heat. Trust me, I’m fine.
I’mparticularly anti chatty customer service after a long car trip. When it comesto road trips, I don’t like to stop. So, while I save lots of time on the driveto my destination, I’m usually pretty anxious to get to a bathroom the moment Ido arrive at said destination. Therefore, I like efficient hotel clerks.Extremely efficient.
I was not so lucky on my last trip to Atlanta.
“Welcome,”said the very lovely woman who greeted us at the check-in desk, “we’re so gladto have you.” She was smiling. She seemed to like her job. It was pleasant.
Then she went to her computer to pull up our reservation.
“Ohdear,” she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it looks like youroriginal room isn’t available. Rather than having the downtown view from yourroom, you’re going to have the midtown view.”
Isthe view different anywhere in Atlanta?No. Midtown, downtown, don’t care. This is really the least of my concerns.
“That’sjust fine,” my friend said. The reservation was in her name, and as theresponsible one, we left her to the check-in duties.
“And what brings you to our fair city?” thecheck-in clerk said. “I hope it’s something fun.”
“We’re actually here for a wedding,” my friendsaid.
“Thatsounds so nice,” she said. “Would you like me to check the wedding schedule tosee when you can catch the shuttle to the church?”
“Sure.” By this time, I’m crossing my legs in atoddler-like fashion.
“It looks like you’re leaving at six. I’m sure the Walker family is glad tohave you.”
“Actually, we’re here with a different wedding.”
“Ohmy,” the check-in clerk said. “I had no idea we had so many weddings. Let melook for the other schedules.”
Asshe rifles through a stack of papers at least an inch think, all I can think is“Are you kidding me?” She stopped typing as soon as she gave us the bad newsabout the view, and I dread thinking how far from actual check-in we are. (Incase you’re wondering, the lobby bathroom was nowhere in sight, and I am a girlwith girl issues. I needed to get to the room, and I’m going to leave it atthat.)
“TheHarris party?”
“No,” my friend said, “that’s not us.”
Iwas 60 seconds from a fetal position or an accident at this particular moment intime. Dear God woman, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but just swipe somecards and write a room number on an envelope.
“I wonder where that information is …”
Luckyfor me, by this point, my friend sensed my desperation and moved things along.“I think we’ll just figure it out in the room.”
“It’s really no trouble.”
“We’re fine.” At last, I saw the keys being tuckedin their paper sleeve.
“Youknow,” the check-in clerk said, “I almost forgot to tell you about ourcomplimentary wine hour at five. You really should come to that.” (I don’t knowif she thought this information was important because we clearly liked ouralcohol -– I was holding a 12-pack of Miller Lite and our other friend had abottle of red wine from the Publix down the street, or she didn’t realize thatthe pre-party was taken care of.)
Iwill love my friend forever for taking the keys from her at that moment. “We’llsee you there,” and we booked it to the elevator.
There are things I need to know and things Idon’t. There are also times I want to talk and times I don’t. And when I’ve gotto go, I’ve got to go. I so appreciate it when my customer service and I matchup on these levels.
The Wall
A few months ago, I went through what can probably be best described as an identity crisis. After five years producing magazine and web content, I had been out of work for a year with seemingly few possibilities or opportunities in front of me. I was depressed, I spent too much time at home by myself and I had no idea what to do next.
It seemed to me that if I couldn't make money doing what I loved, then I should probably find something else to do. And in doing that, maybe I should even look for something less stressful, or at least something I took less personally than my concepts and writing. That elusive "leave it at the door" kind of job.
The only problem with that plan, for me, was that if I did decide to do something just for the money -- sell high-end wedding gowns (I've certainly been involved with enough brides over the years), look at recruiting jobs or even go back to school for something super-practical like accounting -- I wasn't quite sure who I'd be afterwards. For the past seven years, I've defined myself, both personally and professionally, as a writer. So, if I wasn't a professional writer anymore, could I still be a writer? And if I wasn't a writer, could I be happy with whatever other title I chose to give myself? (Why Americans in particular seem to define themselves by what they do is another question for another time.)
Now, there are also lots of ways to go about handling this kind of crisis (some people might just call it a clash between reality and idealism). I could have gotten on a healthier diet, exercised more to release some endorphins, networked my butt off with a can-do attitude, gone to therapy ...
From that very rational list, I actually did pick going to therapy. The problem was that I couldn't get in for an appointment for two weeks from my initial phone call. So, like anyone would do with that waiting period, I decided the best way to handle this emotional roller coaster was by taking out a wall.
Yes, I said taking out a wall.
You see, my adorable 1928 Craftsman-style bungalow featured a rather obnoxious wall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. The only problem being that the breakfast nook was not big enough to actually eat in, and with said wall in place, my refrigerator actually had to be in the laundry room because there was nowhere else for it to fit. (Unless, it, and it alone, took up the entire breakfast nook -- an idea I did not find aesthetically pleasing.)
While I was toying with what to do with my life, I took the wall cabinets down one day. A few days after that. I took out the base cabinets that ran along the wall and called my mom to help me take out the counter.
"What exactly are you working on here?" she asked, leveraging her weight against one side of the counter while I pushed from the other end.
"Not sure yet."
A few days after that, I took a hammer and swung it into the wall. Hearing the crackle of plaster was oddly satisfying, so I took another swing at the wall. Then I walked away. Holes could be patched, I figured, and I wasn't sure how committed I was.
"You know, I have a crowbar," my friend Tina said, "when you're ready."
"I might as well have it around," I thought.
Within 24 hours, I was off. I devoted most every spare moment to my wall and it's careful dismantling. Not one to mess with a sledgehammer, I pulled each interior slat out, one by one. I carted every piece of plaster out to my garbage can by myself. I pulled wood and rock away, piece by tiny piece. I even convinced and myself I was in the midst of some sort of Zen-like metaphor (the poor woman's Eat, Pray, Love journey of self-discovery): "By taking down the wall, I am putting my faith in the fact that I will know what to do when I reach the other side."
I also learned that I have some really odd thoughts while using a crowbar, like "no one can tell me what I can and can't do." Who knew?
Of course, the problem with taking down a wall (with electrical) is that you do have to hire someone to come behind you and finish up some of the work. You've also fully devoted yourself to a kitchen renovation -- ready or not. The wall is and was, at least in my situation, only the beginning.
Four months later, my wall is entirely gone, I seem to be doing OK career-wise and my refrigerator has even escaped the laundry room. I still don't have a floor, and there's a question about cabinets. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle, somewhere between where I was and where I want to be. But, I don't mind so much. It seems a little bit easier to take it one step at a time.
Maybe I should thank the therapist for that last bit of acceptance. Or maybe the credit does go to the wall. Either way, my only recommendation is to try and keep your home renovations and your emotions separate. I'm very, very lucky that thing wasn't load-bearing.
Part 2: My Top 10 TV Tearjerkers
Picking up right where we left off, with my great love for the fourth wall and all, here's the second part of my list:
5. Medium: Very Merry Maggie
So, I dig the shows where people talk to dead people. I can't help myself. In this one, the D.A., Manuel Devalos, and his wife Lily are dealing with the anniversary of their daughter's death. The wife has hired a supposed psychic to communicate with their daughter, and the D.A. becomes very angry. He then asks Alison about his daughter but all she does is write down the name of a place without realizing it.
Later, as Devalos and his wife are driving to visit their daughter's grave, they get into an argument. The wife thinks she should have come alone. They pull the car over. (Right past a sign with whatever word Alison had written down.) Devalos argues that when people are dead, they're just dead, and that's all there is to it. He can't get on board with his wife's need to believe in more.
They're out of the car having this argument, when they walk into a field of white zinnias (their daughter's favorite flower) blooming in the middle of January. And for a moment, they both believe and know their daughter is somewhere else, and she's OK.
It kills me. Every. Single. Time.
4. Dawson's Creek: All Good Things ... Must Come to an End
I won't lie to you. I stopped watching Dawson's Creek after season four. Season three was awesome -- Pacey buys Joey a wall, Pacey pulls the car over to kiss Joey after her disastrous weekend with college boy, Joey kisses Pacey while "Daydream Believer" plays in the background at Dawson's aunt's house, Pacey and Joey dance at the anti-prom and he knows that the bracelet she's wearing is her mother's and it all ends with the two of them taking off on a boat for the summer. It was perfect.
And then they went and f-ed it all up. They broke up Pacey and Joey. They made Joey and Dawson sleep together. (One word: ew.) Oliver Hudson shows up. Eh.
None of that means I was going to miss the end of a show I had loved very, very deeply. Plus, I had to believe that Pacey and Joey would finally end up together after all of that other nonsense.
What I didn't count on was them giving Jen a heart condition five years in the future. It was destined to be a train wreck. The scenes between all of the characters were too much for me, but when Jack tells Jen that she belonged to him, I really lost it. I still have this on VHS -- that's how attached to it I am.
3. ER: Dr. Greene's Death
I can't narrow this one down to a single episode, but let's just say that I did not handle Dr. Greene's terminal cancer very well. My roommate at the time threatened to keep me from watching ER because every episode ended with my face swollen and red from tears. Anthony Edwards is one fine actor.
Then came Hawaii and "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." I still think it's some of the best writing that ever was on television.
2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer: Becoming
Now, I had plenty of Buffy moments, too. After all, they killed Buffy off in the end of season five. What kind of show kills off its own main character?!?! Then, they brought her back, but she was miserable because she'd been in heaven that whole time -- not hell, as her friends had assumed. They kill Buffy's mom. They sent Giles away. They killed Kendra, Anya and Tara. This was not a show that it was wise to watch if you became easily attached to characters.
However, the end of season two is one of the most dramatic in the entire series. Angel, the love of Buffy's life, has no soul because they slept together, and he experienced a moment of perfect happiness, so he lost his soul because of an old Gypsy curse. (That makes complete sense, right?) He's been super evil since, hanging out with his old bad vampire buddies and all, and Buffy has been miserable.
Then, when Angel finally gets his soul back, it's after he's begun the process of opening the hell mouth, and the only way for Buffy to close it is by driving a sword through her now soul-restored great love.
My phone rang immediately after the episode ended, and there was no talking on the other line, but I automatically knew it was my friend Margaret, and she and I both just cried into the phone for a good 20 minutes. My high school soccer coach gave me a condolence card the next day because he knew how much I watched the show. For a teenage girl, that one was beyond rough, and I don't own the series DVDs today because I'm not sure I could handle it much better now either.
1. Lost: The Final Journey
Why is this one number one on my list? Because I'm still not over it. Literally. I've watched it three times and still just keep on crying. I've thought of turning to message boards to work out my emotions. Jack and his dad. Jack and Kate. Sawyer and Juliet. The dog. My list goes on and on. After all, I'm the girl who cried for an hour when Charlie died, and I'd know for three months that Charlie was going to die. You can hardly say it was the shock that got to me.
Say what you want to about Lost, but I think this show was phenomenal and forever changed the way television is made. Who knew what you could even do on the small screen before Lost? The cast of characters. The complexity. The acting. Come on.
I also think for those of us who tend to get a little attached and over-think, what this episode/series was really all about -- redemption and peace, is pretty powerful. I think what the creators of the show did manage to give the viewers -- for all of the characters -- is beyond impressive. I'd say more, but those final two and half hours speak for themselves, and I'm already a little misty as I type over here.
Should I ever get to the point where I can have a conversation about the show that doesn't involve crying, I'll let you know. Until then, I've just given you all of my kryptonite in a way. Want to keep me away from your party or make sure I stay home knitting for a few days? Just put one of these on the television. I'll be useless for days.
Part 1: My Top 10 TV Tearjjerkers
The other day, over Mexican food, the SO accidentally mistook Scott Bakula for Scott Wolf. While for most couples, this probably wouldn't have been a big deal, being the Quantum Leap fan that I am, this was something I had to correct and assure would never happen again. Somehow, I managed to go from telling him how to never mistake the two again to tearing up over salsa as I recounted the end of the Quantum Leap series and the most pivotal episodes that led to it.
I know.
So, in light of the fact that I've already almost started crying this week just telling the story of Quantum Leap's end, I thought I would take on the topic head-on and present my list of the most tear-jerking TV moments. Warning: there will be lots of spoilers. I also had to split this post in two because, apparently, I have a lot to say on this topic.
10. Alf's Special Christmas
It only seems fair to begin this list where it all began. In 1987, I was a big fan of Alf, the Alien Life Form, who lived with the Tanners. (He always wanted to eat the cat!) During that year's Christmas special, Alf somehow ended up in the hospital with a very sick girl named Tiffany. I think Tiffany had leukemia, and I also think she died or was dying. (This is hard to confirm through any Internet sources. It seems that no one has bothered to do an episode-by-episode breakdown of Alf, and I, for one, am shocked.) The idea of a dying child was too much for me, and I just started sobbing. I cried and cried. I cried so much, my father decided to have a talk with me about the difference between fantasy and reality and moving on.
Clearly, it didn't stick.
9. Cheers: The Finale
Even though I was also relatively young when I watched Cheers, I remember loving the show. Woody and his naivete, Carla the sassy waitress and, of course, Sam. Who didn't love Sam Malone, the scamp? And if you didn't, I don't really want to know you.
In the episode when Diane left, my memory is that she and Sam are alone in the bar. She's going, but she just wants to say "see you later" or something like that. Once she left the bar, Sam said, "Have a nice life." At the time, I thought, "How does he know she isn't coming back?" and "Adult life is complicated."
When the show went off the air, and Sam was left alone in his bar -- the implication being that Cheers was the true love of his life -- I, again, cried like a baby.
8. Party of Five: The Intervention
You've got a family of five who has already lost both of their parents to a drunk driver. They have to keep the family restaurant going. Rebellious Charlie has to be a dad, and then you go and throw in the normal teenage stuff like lost virginity, break-ups, drugs and pregnancy scares. On top of all this, sometime in season three, Bailey becomes an alcoholic and begins driving drunk, oh irony of ironies. Of course, the family has to intervene.
All of the siblings are there, and even Sarah, the ex-girlfriend shows up, because she loves him that much. I won't get into all of the lines that killed me because nothing about this episode wasn't a tear-fest for me. But, in the end, when Bailey brushes Claudia aside to walk out on his family and picks drinking over them, there was a breakdown.
7. House: Wilson's Heart
Sure, for the most part, I didn't like a lot of season 4 (too little Cameron). I also couldn't stand Amber. That doesn't mean it didn't crush me when she died. House has the key to saving her, somewhere in his fragmented memory, only to realize that there's nothing anyone can do. She's going to die no matter what, and so they wake Amber up for everyone to say goodbye.
Oh, Wilson. Twice-divorced, finally-found-love Wilson. It was all too much for me. I just laid on the couch and sobbed. All over that poor cut-throat bitch.
6. Quantum Leap: Mirror Image
Clearly, if I can'tget through a burrito without crying over this one, it affected me. Thethree episodes that had gotten to me most before this were, of course,M.I.A. (when Sam won't tell Al's wife Beth that Al is coming home tohim from Vietnam, even though Al begs for it, because Sam believes theyshould not use their leaps for selfish reasons), The Leap Home (whenSam leaps into his own teenage self and sees his dead father andbrother again) and The Leap Home: Part 2 (when Sam does change historyselfishly to save his brother in Vietnam, and in the end, also keeps Alfrom being rescued early and going home to Beth).
So, Samspends most of this leap in the series finale trying to figure out where he isand why he can finally see his own reflection in the mirror. It's hisbirthday. He keeps seeing people he recognizes from the past. He andthe bartender banter and argue. Is the bartender God? Sam says thathe's done enough. The bartender asks if he really has, if he's really done. Sam is supposed to accept that he is the one leaping him through time and space. For the firsttime in five years (in a way), Sam will be able to choose where he leaps next.Will he finally go home?
No, he goes back to Beth, and he tellsher that Al will come home to her. "Georgia on my Mind" plays in the background. Theviewer learns that Beth and Al remain married happily for the rest oftheir lives and have four children. Dr. Sam Beckett never leaps home.
Give me just a minute here. The keyboard is a little wet.
More to come ...
In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding
This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*
I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.
This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)
However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?
Keep in mind that this is in addition to my other standard barrage of questions: Should I wear my hair up or down? Do you like this jewelry? Did I do my eye liner correctly? Do you think there's cilantro in that dressing? Would you call this ecru or beige? Do you think the cake is white icing on white cake or white icing on lemon cake? Where is the closest bar?
And so on and so on.
I'm lucky I still have friends (especially ones who invite me to their weddings), let alone those that don't seem to mind gently reminding me that the wait staff will fear me if I continue to attack the woman in charge of passing stuffed mushrooms.
* I am honored each and every time someone asks me to be part of their wedding. It's just a bonus for me that it also comes with a detailed schedule and coordinator responsible for most of my moves.