Two Dreams And My Top 10 Break-Up Songs
In my 32 years of television and movie viewing/life, I have come to want two things:
- A montage set to music: Me falling in love, me moving up the career ladder, me getting a makeover. Any scenario would work really so long as my montage included me throwing papers into the air, twirling in an evening gown and smiling meaningfully at a member of the opposite sex.
- A soundtrack.
Neither of these wishes are real possibilities, what with me being a person leading a life and not the star of a movie, but it does seem that I have unwittingly given all of my break-ups soundtracks.
Each time I have felt rejected or suffered a broken heart, I tended to become obsessed with one song or album. (You don’t want to know how many times I can listen to the same song on repeat.)
My poor, poor best friend from college not only suffered through many of my break-up soundtracks, she also had to listen to my pontifications on what the song meant and how it related to my life.
“Don’t you see? I’m in love with his ghost.” (“Ghost,” Indigo Girls)
“I’m such a good girl. Where’s my reward?” (“Underneath Your Clothes,” Shakira)
“That’s all it was – it was all just a bed of lies.” (“Bed of Lies,” Matchbox 20)
When I’m down, I tend to gravitate towards country, songs you’d find at Lilith Fair and pop no one can admit to liking and still be considered cool.
As I watched the Adele/good cry skit on this past weekend’s Saturday Night Live, I was actually torn between laughing and crying. For God’s sake, “Someone Like You” is a killer. Basically, the SO can never leave me because now that that song is out, I don’t think any one person has the stamina for both the fetal position and my tone deaf ramblings about “that you’d be reminded that for me, it wasn’t over.”
I’m not one to recommend this particular form of grieving, but when it comes to break-ups, I’m a wallower. I sing along to depressing songs on, cry, throw mini-tantrums, knit and watch Steel Magnolias for extended periods of time. Then, one day I wake up, and I’m fine. It’s like I have an internal switch. After the wallowing, I shower, put my party shoes on, bring the cleavage out and hit the town. Healthy or not, it’s my M.O.
So, for no particular reason, I now give you my top 10 list of break-ups songs along with the lines you would have to “see the meaning of” or agree “were just like me and X” were we friends. (I think many of you will both feel for my friends and decide we might not need to meet in real life after reading this.) For the full effect, I recommend hearing a torn, near-teary voice quoting the lyrics with way too much weight/melodrama and more pauses than the songwriter would be happy with.
1. “Landslide,” Stevie Nicks or The Dixie Chicks. I’m cool with either.
“I built my life around you.”
2. “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” Bonnie Raitt.
‘Nuf said.
3. “You Were Mine,” The Dixie Chicks.
“Sometimes I wake up crying at night.”
4. “Almost Lover,” A Fine Frenzy.
“Goodbye my almost lover, goodbye my hopeless dream.”
5, “Be Be You Love,” Rachael Yamagata
“Everybody’s got the way I should feel. Everybody’s talking how I can’t can’t be in love, but I want want to be in love for real.”
6. “La Cienega Just Smiled,” Ryan Adams. (It does not help that a lot of Ryan Adams songs played during the last season of Felicity.)
“I’m too scared to know how I feel about you now.”
(These last few usually signaled that I was on more of an upswing, or at least seeing another side to the situation.)
7. “I’m Moving On,” Rascal Flatts. (“God Bless the Broken Road” is also a good one if you’re more of an optimist.)
“I’ve loved like I should, but lived like I shouldn’t.”
8. “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye,” David Gray.
“It was a kind of so, so love, and I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
9. “Please Remember Me,” Tim McGraw.
“Part of you will live in me – way down deep inside my heart.”
10. “Outbound Plane,” Nanci Griffith.
“I don’t want to be standing her, I don’t want to be talking here and I don’t really care who’s to blame. ‘Cause if love won’t’ fly of its own free will, I’m going to catch that outbound plane.”
Nancy Griffith is usually the sign that I’m ready to move on, but if it’s followed by Aerosmith’s “Jaded,” it just means I’m in the anger stage rather than depression.
I can be a downer.
In short, my iTunes collection is scary, I have some really understanding friends and if anyone knows anyone who loves to edit video, I’ve still got my fingers crossed on that video montage – and we’ll use much peppier songs there. KT Tunstall anyone?
If I’m singing along to show tunes (Les Mis or Wicked in particular), we’re all good. I’d like to thank the SO for my years of musicals. We might argue more about what to play when we’re traveling, but I promise it’s a good thing.
The Obligatory Halloween Post
I tend to write a lot about Halloween. It’s one of my favorite holidays. My mother says I’ve always been this way about Halloween, and I can only assume that I never saw the downside to elaborate costuming and free candy.
I used to spend hours trick or treating, always hoping to stumble on the one cool house that gave out full-sized candy bars. One year, I found that house, and the candy bars were Snickers (my favorite). It was a true triumph. I vowed that when I grew up, I would be that person on the street, but we don’t get trick or treaters, and those full-size candy bars are expensive, so basically, I’d be spending a lot of money to gain five to ten pounds.
When I was younger, I also tended to bounce back and forth between choosing ordinary costumes and those that were incredibly difficult for my mother to make and made no sense to the neighbors.
When I was a witch (normal, yes?), I also had to have a wig, face paint and fake nails. The year I decided to be a ghost, I freaked out the moment I found myself covered from head to toe in a sheet and insisted on wearing my tutu instead. All in all though, I think we can still classify “witch,” “ghost” and “ballerina” as pretty standard.
Then, I decided I needed to be Jem from Jem and the Holograms. Apart from tearing one of my mother’s workout shirts and putting glitter on my face, there wasn’t a lot of room to work with that one.
The same thing happened the year I decided to be Jessica Rabbit. I mean, really, how is a kid in elementary school going to pull that one off? But I took one of my mother’s long red skirts, wore it as a dress and told people that I was Jessica Rabbit. I’m sure my mom feared what the other mothers thought of her allowing her daughter to dress as a cartoon sex symbol, but I was, and always have been, a determined gal.
(Between my love of Jessica Rabbit and Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, I can only assume that apart from an actress and lawyer, I also aspired to be a busty redhead as an adult. Lord only knows what I would have chosen for costumes if Kristina Hendricks had been around then.)
Despite my much-discussed love of the slutty costumes, I’m still a fan of the offbeat, too.
One year, I dressed up as a washed-up country singer because I happened to have a hideous and cheap red wig as well as a Western-style shirt from Old Navy. (Wigs inspire much of my dressing up -- it’s the only reason I was ever Elvira – but if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.)
Fortunately or unfortunately, the year I dressed up as a washed-up country singer also happened to be the year I discovered the voice memo feature on my cell phone. I woke up to a lot of song ideas in the style of “note to self” dictations at various levels of slurring, like:
“Why Did You Have To Ruin My Credit While You Ruined My Virtue?” (the one I apparently shared with everyone all night)
“You Robbed Me Blind While I Was Blinded by Love”
and “You Took Everything But My Tears.”
Considering I have never lent a boyfriend money (what would there be to give?), so-signed an ex’s loan or even shared a utility bill with a man, I have no idea why I was fixated on lost love and financial ruin that night, but there you have it.
This year, I didn’t have quite the same zeal for Halloween costumes. Not even my pumpkin carving was at its finest. I’m not sure if the dampened enthusiasm began when my first costume arrived in the mail damaged, and I had to send it back, or if it’s just that I acted like a normal person for once, but there you have it.
Either way, I ended up at the thrift story on the morning of the one much-anticipated Halloween party I was attending with few ideas. I came home with a housecoat and an ugly dress (‘80s career woman came to mind).
I told a friend about my purchases, and she said, “If you’ve come up with a valid reason to wear a housecoat around all night, go for it. Think of how comfortable you’ll be.”
That night, I put on my housecoat, some blue eye shadow, the ugliest earrings I could find and a shower cap. When anyone asked what was up, I said, “Oh, I’m not a guest. I’m just a neighbor from across the street who came to complain about the noise.”
The "Mills Slip"
I am not a subtle person.
It’s just one of those gifts I wasn’t born with. My sister is fond of saying that I am incapable of subtlety or keeping anything close to the vest. (Could this very blog be proof of her theory?)
I can’t lie, I tend to say what I’m thinking and when I can’t say what I’m thinking, you can read my emotions all over my face.
I may tell you that I love your haircut, but odds are that if I don’t, my face will involuntarily recoil into a look that implies you took scissors to your head while drunk and taking style cues from the Sneetches.
More than one teacher told me that they judged how well a lecture was going based on my face because it was always obvious whether or not I was getting the point of the lesson.
(When you’re not a subtle person, it’s usually best to have friends who aren’t subtle either. Since I’m likely to use language that some people might find offensive or over-share at any time, it’s best to surround myself with like-minded people. If I ask, “Do my nipples looks askew in this dress?” – which, yes, is an actual quote from a time I tried on a bridesmaid’s dress – I need a friend who finds that funny or is fully prepared to examine my chest area and give me an honest answer.)
In addition to lacking subtlety, I also lack patience, but love efficiency, so I find that these three traits can actually work together in a kind of oddly beautiful congruence. Anyone who uses the word “lady” in a non-ironic way or can’t admit to a secret crush on JWoww, or other embarrassing reality star, would probably best be seated next to someone else at the dinner party. We aren’t going to be pals, and I prefer to know that kind of thing without the tedium of 30 minutes of small talk.
Unfortunately though, sometimes my lack of subtlety even sneaks up on me. Through the years, I have adapted some filters, but my lack of subtlety is so strong that even this thin veil can fail, and when it does, it fails miserably.
If Freud were alive, I think he would have reconsidered calling the “Freudian Slip” a “Mills Slip.” (Sorry to indict the rest of the family, but I have to be consistent. If it were a “Sigmund Slip,” I would have gone with a “Laurel Slip.”)
Many, many years ago before I was deliriously happy and in a committed relationship, a male friend and I went out to eat at a restaurant. When the meal was over, and we were pulling out of the parking lot, I said, “The next time we have sex, we really should go to …”
And complete silence fell over the car.
It took a few seconds, but the look of shock and confusion on my friend’s face helped me realize what I’d said. The name of whatever restaurant, café or taco stand I’d meant to finish that sentence with as a suggestion for our next meal was gone, and it was gone for good.
Where I’d meant to say “lunch,” I’d said “sex,” and there’s no coming back from that one -- especially when you put the words “we” and “have” in front of it. (Luckily, most men are flattered by the idea that you might want to or have thought about sleeping with them, but it’s still hardly an ideal situation.)
In this type of instance, an “I meant to say lunch” is pointless. Not even laugher works well. Silence is an option, but it seems to just turn the uncomfortable moment into a gaping chasm of social faux pas.
I’ve found that when you’ve blown any cover that you have, it’s usually best just to keep the lack of subtlety going.
“So, that was awkward and weird,” I said. “Want a coffee or ice cream?”
Because, really, who doesn’t love a coffee or ice cream? And you’ve got to figure that conversationally, unless you have actual Tourette’s, there’s nowhere to go but up from there.
My Odd Local Movie Theater And Why The SO Will Never Take Me Back to Disney World
Not all that long ago, the SO took me on a trip to Disney World. Now, while I understand that “it’s the most magical place on earth” and “no one can wear a frown at Disney World,” I’m not exactly one of those people who appreciates the magic. (I'm pretty sure the latter isn't really a common phrase, but I feel like it could be.)
My own mother once said, “I think I had the only children in the world that never asked to go back to Disney World.”
I visited when I was nine. I told Mickey that he and I had the same birthday. He seemed pleased (at least, he clapped his over-sized white gloves). I went down Space Mountain, and I bought large Lady and the Tramp stuffed animals from our hotel. As far as I could tell, I was done. For life.
Today, for me, Disney World is a trifecta of things I don’t enjoy: lines/large groups of people, heights and loud noises.
Since new technology allows for rides where you actually just move around in a kind of virtual reality while your cart shifts from side to side, you can also add small spaces and motion sickness to the discomforts mentioned above.
Also, seeing how I feel about parades, you can understand why this might not necessarily be my ideal vacation.
I tried to buck up, but as the SO rarely fails to remind me, I didn’t do a very good job. I’m sorry that I don’t see the point to going down the same roller coaster twice from different sides (it’s just the mirror image!) and that I like to nap, but that’s just how I am.
(I will say that Orlando has excellent outlet shopping – Kate Spade, David Yurman and Burberry? Amazing.)
One of my favorite parts of the trip was actually visiting the MGM Studio Theme Park. They had one of those rides that isn’t a ride – if you’ve been to Orlando in the last 20 years, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You wait in line to be shuffled into a room where you’re lead into another room where nothing really happens. While you’re seated (or standing, depending on the situation), a character of some sort appears and tells a story or is threatened by some other creature you probably don’t recognize and your seat vibrates or pinches you at opportune moments. Then, you exit through the gift shop.
Call me a traditionalist, but being poked by a chair doesn’t count as a ride. In fact, I think it’s illegal in a few states.
At MGM, one of these “rides” is the Twister experience. You wait, you’re shuffled onto a stage and while you’re watching, the area below gets windy, there’s some lightning and fake trees fall over.
If I have to be at an amusement park, I want The Mummy roller coaster, not a decrepit sound stage.
But, getting back to my favorite part of the ride, while you’re waiting to be shuffled from spot to spot, Helen Hunt (khakis pulled up to the waist and pleated in classic mid-‘90s style) and Bill Pullman, stars of Twister, discuss the harrowing experience of making Twister on screens that are meant to entertain you while the previous group of most-likely-disappointed “riders” make their way out and through the gift shop.
I kid you not: At one point, Helen Hunt says something along the lines of, “It was terrifying to experience the fury and power of an F5 tornado first-hand.”
A note to Helen Hunt, maybe you’ve been in Hollywood too long, but having large industrial-size fans pointed in your direction on a movie set does not replicate the experience of an F5 tornado. It's kind of like how Richard Dreyfuss can't claim to have netted a Great White despite the intensity of filming Jaws. While it might have been realistic, it was still pretend. Maybe we need to dial back that adventurer/survivor attitude just a little bit.
If nothing else, I think a real F5 tornado would have messed with those very crisp pleats on your shorts.
So in the kind of related but kind of not category, when they installed the Hurricane Simulator machine at my local movie theater, there was no way I wasn’t trying it. For a mere $2.00, I too could experience the fury of a hurricane and have something to talk to Helen Hunt about the next (or first) time we ran into each other.
I stood in a tube while “the winds” reached 80 mph, and I have this to say: 1) It wasn’t even my worst hair day and 2) An average thunderstorm is more threatening.
I guess the moral(s) of my story is, simulation isn’t the real thing, maybe we should all be a little careful about the experiences we claim to have had and Bill Pullman never should have had an earring.
That is all.
Dessert And A Case Of Mistaken Identity
In my ongoing attempts not to implicate people and organizations in my misadventures and misdeeds, let’s just say that I was at a storytelling event the other night. (The details from this one are a little harder to disguise, but let’s all pretend, shall we?)
As much as I like storytelling at cocktail parties and on this here blog, I tend to avoid storytelling in public public. I love listening to other people’s stories, but I can be reluctant to tell my own. However, throw in an open bar and a relatively intimate atmosphere, and I tend to find myself signed up for an activity I didn’t plan to participate in at the beginning of the evening.
In an effort to make myself seem slightly more advanced than someone ruled by wine and peer pressure, I also believe in making yourself do something that makes you uncomfortable at least once in awhile. Whether it’s a particularly steep water slide or a scary movie, I like to get out of my comfort zone from time to time.
So, during the storytelling event, lots of people from many different walks of like stood before the group to tell their food stories. Topics ranged from grandmother’s cobbler and eating abroad to arguing over Doritos.
When I got up to tell my story, I talked about my attempts to woo the SO with food. In the beginning of our relationship, I wanted to make him complete meals, from scratch, that included dessert. The only problem was that I didn’t want to go so simple as to make brownies from a box or through the rigmarole of making a cake from scratch. (Plus, every cake I’d made from scratch has turned out horribly dry, and I’ve wished I just went with Betty Crocker to begin with.)
I chose the middle ground of my mother’s easy cobbler – it doesn’t taste like it came from a box, but it doesn’t require the hours of effort of a homemade cake, torte or mousse either.
The recipe is simple. You take a can of pile filling, a Jiffy box of cake mix and a melted stick of butter and put them in a dish in that order. Then, you bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes.
The SO was wowed.
When I found a pie filling of mixed berries, he thought I’d spent hours chopping and assembling his favorite fruits.
The only problem, of course, with keeping up such a ruse is that you have to make the simple dessert seem complicated. Aprons, spilled flour and strategic stains are involved. You also have to be on top of taking out the trash.
Then, one day, the SO came into the kitchen and found the empty can of pie filling.
“Are we having pie instead of cobbler?” Disappointment was clear on his face.
“Why is there a box of cake mix? Did you make a cake?”
I finally had to admit that the homemade cobbler I “toiled” over was nothing more than three ingredients. Ever since, the SO has called that “the day he saw the man behind the curtain,” but truthfully, I was exhausted, and it’s been easier since the truth came out.
The cobbler story went over well. There were laughs, and despite my many, many nervous hand gestures, I’d told my story aloud and in public. It was a minor triumph.
When the event ended, I went to speak with the emcee for the night whom was also talking with a couple. I wanted her to know how much I enjoyed her hosting. The couple next to her told me how much they enjoyed my story.
“It was one of my favorites,” the woman said.
“I really liked it,” the man said.
“I really liked your story, too,” I said to the man.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said.
“No,” I said, very, very sure of myself. “You were in China and you got lost? Some strangers fed you?”
“That wasn’t me,” he said.
Confused, I left the group and went to join the friend I’d come to the party with. “Why is that guy pretending he didn’t tell that food story?” I said. “Do you think he’s embarrassed?”
“Laurel,” my friend said, “there are two Indian men in the room. That’s not the one who told the story.”
Another guest tried to comfort me, “I think that guy was from Colorado, soat least you’ll never have to see him again.”
“No,” I thought, “but now he’s going to go back to Colorado and tell everyone that people from Alabama think all Indians look alike.”
(In my defense, the two Indian men were also wearing nearly-identical checkered shirts. (“One was blue and one was green,” my friend said, but I’m sticking with my story.) Either way, I was extremely embarrassed.)
I went from being the deceptive cobbler girl to the racist in the room in less than five minutes.
Now, there’s no telling which will be more compelling – my story for the event or my story from the event.
I’ll let you know the next time I'm out and about, brimming with information and wine, and you can decide for yourself.
The Parade Of Shame
I grew up with “do-it-yourself” kind of parents. My school projects were never taken over by an eager Mom or Dad who wanted it to be just perfect or an anxious parent fearing for my grade. My dioramas looked like they were made by a nine-year-old, and my science fair projects were usually far less than stunning.
One year I did take home a third place ribbon for “Will your plant grow faster if you talk to it?” (Even as a child, I talked to plants and myself. A sign of genius or madness? Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.) However, I think most of that win had to do with the fact that fourth grade is around the time kids figure out that it isn’t cool to be smart, so the level of competition was way down. Also, I used the tri-fold white board as instructed by my science teacher, and we all know how science teachers like rule-followers.
However, the worst do-it-yourself incident of all probably occurred in the fourth grade, the year that our class participated in the annual historic building parade.
“What’s a historical building parade?” you say. Well, let me enlighten you.
A historical building parade involves dressing children up in cardboard boxes that represent some of the finest and most famous works of architecture in the city. I think it might also be some cruel form of torture dreamed up by a particularly bitter city administrator or school official to humiliate 10-year-olds.
Either way, I learned two things the fateful day of the parade:
1. It is really uncomfortable to wear a cardboard box. Seriously, having your neck and arms rub up against cardboard for a few city blocks is quite chafing, and when your one of the shortest kids in class, it’s not too kind on the knees either.
2. 10-year-olds really don’t have the capability of making a cardboard box look like a historical building all on their own.
I vividly remember taking Polaroid snapshots of my building. (It was Firehouse #4. There was also a lot of competition over who got the “best” buildings, but surprisingly, there weren’t too many people jockeying for Firehouse #4. It was quite a relief at the time.)
I then remember spray painting my cardboard box and going to work recreating what I was sure would be an amazing representation. (I was sure all of my projects were going to be amazing. What I lacked in talent, I made up for in dreams. In kindergarten, when I turned in my depiction of the first Thanksgiving, I learned about the wide gap between talent and dreams – not that I let it stop me.)
Firehouse #4 featured a trellis, which was quite a challenge. It also had bricks of a uniform shape and size, a seemingly easy feature to recreate, but when it came down to actually doing it – not so much. While the first row of bricks kind of resembled rectangles, it was all downhill from there, and I mean that in a pretty literal way since my lines started to drift downward from one side of the box to the other creating strange shapes there were narrow on one side and really wide on the other.
In short, I was a mess.
The mother of one of my classmates took her building photos, made them into slides, and then projected the slide onto her box so she could trace every outline of her building.
I couldn’t even trace a ruler from one side of the box to the other.
Then, as if having a terribly homemade project wasn’t bad enough, I think I realized the absolute absurdity of walking through the streets of my hometown dressed as a building just before our teacher sent us out into the street.
And if you are thinking that people don’t judge fourth graders, let me tell you that you are wrong. People judge fourth graders, and you notice the hushes when you and your horribly distorted bricks are marching down Main Street.*
(In fairness, my sister probably had it worst of all because she had to dress up as the fairgrounds. This meant she couldn’t even wear a box, but instead had to strap a piece of white board over herself with something like suspenders. We used cake decorations to try and give her a balloon vendor.)
So, if anyone ever wonders why my bio mentions an extreme dislike of parades – here you go.
Fire Station #4, on the other hand, seems to have escaped unscathed. It turns out that it just got new tenants and everything.
I don’t know whether or not the annual Historic Building Parade still exists, but every time I think back on my experience then, I can’t help but think there has to be a better way to help children develop civic pride. Would a coloring book or guest speaker really have been so much less educational?
*It was actually 20th Street if you’re from Birmingham, but I think we can all tell I’m trying to make a point.
** If you were hoping for photos of me dressed as a building, I’m sorry to say you’re out of luck. No such photos exist. Thank God.
In Which Laurel Proves She's A Grown-Up -- Sort Of
Last weekend was Sidewalk, Birmingham’s big film festival. There are hundreds of films throughout multiple venues as well as talks, parties, etc. To be perfectly honest, I am lucky to make it to four movies during the course of the festival. I have trouble sitting still for that long – unless I’m in a place that has alcoholic beverages, then I can sit for hours – and I have a relatively low threshold for angst, so a lot of relationship films are out for me.
This year, I made it to three movies, which is really pretty good for me. I saw The Innkeepers (very scary) as well as The Greater Good about vaccines and Page One: Inside the New York Times. I don’t think I have to explain what that last one was about, and as a former print journalist, I have lots more thoughts on that one to come.
The SO loves film festivals. In fact, he works at many throughout the Southeast as a jury wrangler (which, as far as I can tell, means that he makes sure the jurors hand in their votes for the winning movies in a timely manner). I’ve traveled with him to film festivals in Atlanta, Memphis and Oxford. All were great fun. That man can watch more movies than anyone I’ve ever met, and all of those cities have great shopping and restaurants for me. He can sit in a theater, and I can hit up IKEA. It’s really a win/win for us.
However, this year’s Sidewalk was particularly special because Christine Elise was on the jury. For those of you who are scratching your heads right now, Christine Elise will always be Emily Valentine in my book. For anyone who is still confused, well then, I don’t know how we’ve made it together this long, but she was on Beverly Hills, 90210, and she was awesome.
Now, the SO does tend to worry a little about me embarrassing myself/him when celebrities are involved.
“You know they’re just people right?”
And really, most of the time, this isn’t a problem. (There was one year that Joshua Jackson was supposed to show up to Sidewalk and WEATHER got in the way, but that was years ago and long before I met the SO.) I continually explain to him that I prefer my fantasies to reality, so if someone I adore turns out to be a jerk, it would just ruin everything. Not to mention the fact that usually I’m not all that familiar with the people on film festival juries because I don’t watch a lot of movies, so it tends to work out.
However, he had concerns about Christine Elise.
“You’re going to be OK, right”
“Of course, what do you think I’m going to do? Ask her about Jason Priestley and Luke Perry for three hours? I’m not 14 anymore.”
“Like I said,” he went on, “you’re going to be OK, right?”
On opening night, as we were standing in the Alabama Theatre, I suddenly noticed that Christine Elise was standing next to the SO.
I went to shake her hand and said, “I hope I’m not intruding, but I’m a huge, huge fan.”
“No, that’s always nice to hear,” she said.
I believe the SO was quite relieved.
Later, at an after party, I had the SO ask if she wouldn’t mind being in a picture with me. She let me take a series to get a good one, and I was a happy gal.
All in all, it was a lovely weekend.
In honor of my “maturity,” here’s the real list of questions/conversation topics I was dying to go over with Christine if I really didn't have any dignity:
1. How many takes did the “I’m going to set the homecoming float on fire” scene take? Were you nervous? Did you know how awesome and “I’m making Beverly Hills, 90210 history” that scene would be? Have you re-watched it and seen Ian Ziering’s facial expression of “shock and fear” when they cut away from you? Two words: not pretty.
2. Did you think it was weird that they called the drug you slipped Brandon at the rave UB40? I mean, how likely is it that the band UB40 would be associated with a drug? If you’re going to go that way, wouldn’t Keith Richards or Aerosmith be a far more logical choice. Or, maybe y’all new UB40 wouldn’t complain. You don’t have to say anymore. I think I get it. (Then I would have attempted a wink, and it would have gone badly because I am genetically incapable of winking. Seriously, neither my mother nor one of my sisters can wink either.)
3. I really enjoyed the school talent show when you, Kelly and Brenda wore Robert Palmer-style dresses but decided to sing “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” in honor of your new found friendship after you went out with both Brandon and Dylan while you were still “the new girl” in school. Was Shannen Doherty a total bitch during that one? I can see her trying to bump y’all out of the way during the performance. Again, if you don’t want to say anything, just blink once for “yes” and twice for “no."
4. Mother Knows Best is one of my favorite Lifetime movies. And your character’s name in that one is Laurel. We have so much in common! How was it working with Lifetime veteran Joanna Kerns? Have you thought about doing more Lifetime movies? I thought Josie Bisset’s Obituary was particularly good. They’ve got some good stuff happening over at that network.
And the silly, silly SO worries.
*As for the photos: 1. In retrospect, I really should have washed my hair that day., 2. I also own the dress Christine Elise is wearing!, 3. That second photo shows our mutual annoyance when the SO refused to take a photo while we were both looking at the camera.
In Other News
Please check out my upcoming creative writing classes in the left-hand sidebar. "Telling Your Story" will be a class focused on essay and memoir as well as general good-writing practices at Canterbury United Methodist Church. "Fundamentals of Creative Writing" is a broader course covering the basics of creative writing as well as both fiction and non-fiction genres offered through Samford University's After Sundown Continuing Education program.
My friend and former colleague Michelle Hazelwood-Hyde and I have also recently published a children's book for the Birmingham area entitled Night Night Birmingham. I invite you to check it out and also join us at our launch party at Oak Hill Bar & Grill on Thursday, September 15 from 5-8 p.m.
Thanks so much!
Big Kahunas
Last week, I went to the beach. I love the beach, and I also happen to have a certain fondness for water parks.
Now, some people seem to find this strange. I’ve heard a lot of “you went to a water park without kids?” and “why?” since the end of the trip.
I think the first thing I need to explain is that I will do just about anything for a lazy river. I have looked into joining a gym that will cost me $45/month not because I would ever touch an elliptical or a treadmill, but because the facility houses an indoor lazy river.
Yes, I am considering paying an annual fee of $540 just for the privilege of year-round lazy river access.
When I visited a friend in Indianapolis last summer, I insisted that despite our limited time together, we go to the lazy river at the JCC near her house. I’m sure she mentioned her lazy river in passing having no idea that I would not be able to let it go.
Way too many of our conversations went like this:
My Friend: “Is anyone hungry?”
“Should we go to the museum?”
“Who wants to try [insert the blank]?”
Me: “What about the lazy river you told me about?”
I’m sure it was not at all annoying.
I also happen to love water slides, and after years of water park experience, I have learned one very important lesson: there is no bathing suit that will not lead to some kind of flashing incident at a water park.
There’s something about that rushing water at the end of a slide that seems capable of dislodging the delicate areas of even the most demure one-piece. So, when I visit the water park, I’m also the super cool person with a t-shirt over her swimsuit.
Well, at the water park in Destin, Florida, it seems that the t-shirt is against the rules on certain slides. Why, I don’t know, and I have to imagine that any lifeguards at the end of the ride would prefer to be flashed by co-eds rather than 30-somethings.
When the only lifeguard who wasn’t from the Ukraine told me I’d have to take off my shirt, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. She didn’t blow her whistle, but her “that’s not allowed” was very firm.
(I’d also like to know why most water park employees seem to be from obscure European countries. If you visit Alabama Adventure, every name tag tends to bear some derivation of “Hi, My Name is X. My Hometown is Reykjavik.” Is there some sort of exchange program I don’t know about? Are there a bunch of kids from Bessemer working amusement parks in Iceland? I’ve always wondered.)
After riding the one slide sans t-shirt and receiving a terrible wedgie, I retrieved my shirt and headed for another slide.
As the SO and I were climbing the stairs, I saw yet another sign that read, “No t-shirts allowed.”
I was on the verge of reluctantly removing my boob-protection when a different lifeguard said, “Don’t worry about it.”
That’s when I realized one of the few plus sides to aging – anyone who’s probably going to call you “ma’am” probably isn’t going to make you obey all of the rules (especially in environments where cardboard totem poles tell you how tall you must be to ride).
In a land of skimpy bikinis and tramp stamps*, I was a ma’am, and ma’ams got to keep their t-shirts. (Probably more so for the sake of the lifeguards than myself, but I’m OK with that.)
I’ve never been so happy to be a ma’am in all my life.
*On a somewhat related note, in all seriousness my sister spotted two guys on the beach, one with “Dude” tattooed on his neck, and the other with “Sweet” tattooed on his. Almost more so than what’s happening in the market, the fact that people permanently ink their bodies with slogans from “Dude, Where’s My Car?” terrifies me about the fate of this nation.
How To Make A Man Feel Special
The SO and I had our first date on August 2. We went to a Def Leppard concert, which is really another story for another day, but I will say that it was memorable. Believe it or not, when you don’t know someone very well, it’s uncomfortable to sit through “Pour Some Sugar on Me” sober.
“It’s kind of awkward that this song is so dirty, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah.”
I’m also not sure whether or not this means our song has to be “Rock of Ages,” but I try not to worry about it too much.
Later, when I realized that we might make it past the first three weeks of hanging out, I thought I would do him a huge favor and move our anniversary to August 1. Men are infamously bad at remembering dates, right? So, if I turned our anniversary into the first of the month, how much easier would that be on him? Plus, I kind of passed my romantic phase at the age of 23, so the 24 hours didn’t really bother me.
(Maybe it’s not that my romantic phase went out the window, I just decided that remembering umbrellas, putting dishes in the dishwasher and letting me watch chick flicks on occasion was more important than flowers, chocolates or limos. My love languages are quality time and acts of service. It turns out that gifts are way down the list. I also have no problem using gift cards and coupons on dates. I consider that smart, not cheap.)
Fast-forward a few months. When I happened to mention that I was looking forward to our August 1 anniversary, the SO looked at me funny.
“Our first date was on August 2nd. What’s with this August 1 stuff?”
“I didn’t really expect you to remember the day,” I said and then explained my reasoning behind the little shift.
“Are you saying we have a real anniversary and an observed anniversary?” he said. “Is this like what happens when the 4th of July falls in the middle of the week but your boss wants to make sure you have a long weekend?”
At first, I think the SO thought it was a way for me to get more gifts – that he might have to honor the two anniversary nights instead of the one. Or, maybe, he’s just a good guy.
Either way, every year I hear about whether I’d like to celebrate our real anniversary or our observed anniversary. I usually go for real – unless it’s easier to get reservations on the observed one or something like that.
I’m totally normal.
My Cans
Here's a little story that I told back in April of 2008.
I am a diet soda addict.
Rare is the day that I have less than two diet drinks (Diet Coke and Diet Dr. Pepper are my two favorites, but I'm also likely to enjoy a Diet Pepsi from time to time), and sometimes, when it's dark (in that emotional "how will I get through the day" kind of way) and I haven't gotten enough sleep, I'll drink up to three. After 4:00, when I don't allow myself caffeine anymore, I might even try a Fanta Orange Zero, Sprite Zero or Diet Sierra Mist because I just like the way fizzy drinks taste.
It used to be that, when the diet soda cans built up on my desk, it didn't bother me to stick them in the trash when no one was looking. Of course, that was before we went and did a green issue of Lipstick. After reading about the ozone and lessening my carbon footprint and energy-efficiency and local eating for four weeks, I can't even think about throwing away those cans without finding myself awash with guilt (and shame from the judging stares of Tina and Nadria).
Unfortunately, between my addiction and my busy work schedule, I had ended up with about 25 empty aluminum cans on my desk. (It was starting to look like I time-shared my desk with a frat boy, only being that Diet Coke was taking over and not Miller Lite, I guess he would have been the most boring brother in the chapter — you know the one, you'd probably ask him to do your homework before you asked him to join you at Innisfree on a Friday night.)
When one of my co-workers from HR walked in, peeked at my desk and said, "Have you heard of water, Laurel?" I decided it was time to take action. On my lunch break, I went over to the recycling center on 25th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenue North. And, what a lovely time I had — seriously. It was so easy to sort my cans and plastic bottles, and once I was done discarding the evidence of the carbonated monkey on my back, I took apart the cardboard box I had transported the cans in and recycled it, too.
In five minutes at the recycling center I accomplished far more than any other lunch break I've had. (Unless, of course, you count the time I was challenged to a corn stick eating contest over at John's ...)
Laurel's Unplanned Cat Rescue Service
A few weeks ago, I found a cat behind the SO’s house. This is not really an unusual occurrence. In general, the area behind the SO’s house is kind of like feral cat central (lots of woods), and none of the cats let me get near them. This is why I occasionally feel like I’m feeding a marauding band of homeless cats Meow Mix if Kitty Cat Jones dines al fresco.
(In my mind, they’re a gang kind of like The Outsiders, and they talk to each other in lots of, “What were you thinking man?” and “Ain’t nobody going to care about a bunch of greasers.” Yes, I know I’m nuts.)
This cat was different though. Scraggly, covered in fleas and crying, she didn’t seem like she was built for life on the outside. When she let me pick her up, I knew she was different. (And as soon as I realized she was de-clawed, I knew she was most certainly not running with the other gang.)
I treated the cat for fleas, and because of the intense crying, took her pretty quickly to my vet.
(As a not-really cat person, I still have no idea how I end up with so many cats.)
“Now what is your goal here?” the vet asked. (The vet my friends call SuperVet based solely on the way I talk about him. Really, I love this man.)
Knowing that two dogs and one cat was more than enough, and a second cat was probably a deal-breaker in my relationship, I explained that I wanted to get her better so that I could either find her owner or find her a new home.
“The let’s get started,” he said, and we agreed on a plan of action that involved a feline leukemia/HIV screening, steroids and cortisone.
Since the rescue kitty tested negative for all major diseases, she came back to my house later that day, and we started the work of putting some fat and some hair on her. So far, it’s going pretty well. Or, at least, I thought it was going pretty well.
The SO says, “I think this is one of those cats that will just never be pretty.”
(For awhile, in the early days, holding her was kind of like being in the Family Guy episode where Peter is surrounded by sickly cats and holds one at arm’s length saying, “No, no, you’re cute,” while wincing.)
My friend’s husband says, “She’s going to be one of those she’s so ugly she’s cute cats.”
Either way, she’s got a great little personality.
Of course though, in keeping with the tradition of ever changing cat names at our house, she’s already on name number three.
I started with Katniss because I was reading The Hunger Games and wanted to give her some appeal in the teen market/demographic.
A few days later, I went to Amy Whinehouse because she looks a little like Amy Whinehouse during the rough days, and she is kind of in rehab at my house.
Now, as of Saturday, she’s Buscemi (in honor of Steve Buscemi) because the SO says her looks would destine her for life as a character actor no matter how much talent she had.
So, Katniss Amy Buscemi continues to fatten up at my house. I don’t know if she’ll ever respond to a name, but at least no one is holding her at arm’s length anymore.
It Feels Like Burning
In evolutionary terms, I’m not sure I was really meant for life in the South. By the standards of nurture, thanks to manners classes, ballroom dancing and some great stationary, I’ve done just fine here. However, if we have to look at nature, I’m not sure this pale, WASP-y body was meant for Alabama.
It’s not just the heat. You see, what comes with or causes the heat is the sun (I told you I never really paid attention in science class), and this fair skin and the sun don’t mix well.
(I’d like to thank my Scottish ancestors for the dark body hair and bushy eyebrows that come with my porcelain complexion. I’m sure if my forefathers had settled in Minnesota, I’d be more than prepared for the winters. Instead, I swelter and invest a lot of money in good tweezers. I guess the Scots never figured that they’d put all the distilleries in the South. (This really is the best reason I can figure for previous generations of my family to pick this region of the U.S.) In my family, you don’t follow the money; you follow the line to the bar.)
Luckily, I’ve had 30+ years to adapt, and I spend good money keeping the sunscreen companies in business, too. Still, every so often, I fail.
A few weeks ago, I didn’t just fail to protect my skin. I think I almost melted it.
I fell asleep reading on the beach, and when I woke up, I felt like I could be a little pink, but I wasn’t too worried.
“Why don’t you toss me some more of that Banana Boat, and I’ll reapply?”
Later that afternoon, I figured out that I was more than a little pink. While my shoulders and thighs could be described as pink/red, my stomach looked like the color of a tomato set on fire and felt about the same.
I dosed myself with Advil, slathered on the aloe and went to bed with a cold Miller Lite – not for drinking, but so I could hold it against my stomach in the night. Even the sheets were unbearable to touch.
For the next five days, I climbed out of chairs like I was eight months pregnant so as not to in any way agitate the skin on my torso and slept clutching either bags of frozen vegetables or frozen bottles of water for some sense of relief.
By day six, I thought I might need to turn to more than Internet forums for help.
In case you’re wondering, this is the advice I shouldn’t have taken:
1. The Vinegar Soak: Despite what the masterminds of the World Wide Web might say, vinegar does not “pull out the burn.” All that really happens is that you have to hope your friends always secretly wanted to know what it was like to spend time with a giant pickle.
2. A Baking Soda Bath: It’s not as stinky, but it’s equally as un-helpful.
3. No store-bought aloe is really better than any other aloe. Just make sure you buy the one with some kind of painkiller in it. I think the effect can be at least mildly psychosomatic.
I headed to my local pharmacy.
“What do y’all have for sunburn?” I said.
“Have you got aloe?” the clerk said.
“We’re a little bit past that,” I said.
“Let’s wait for the pharmacist to get off the phone then.”
While we waited on the pharmacist, the clerk and I discussed a number of different options for my sunburn, and she told me about some of her bad burns. (If nothing else, in a land where tanning beds are still prevalent, I didn’t feel judged for the potentially-hazardous-to-my-future-health slip-up.)
When the pharmacist did come over, I explained the problem.
“We have x, y, z and even a to treat sunburns,” she said. It was a litany of products with names I don’t remember. “How long have you had the sunburn?”
It was then that I decided the only good explanation would be to flash the pharmacist, so in front of her and the clerk, I pulled up my shirt to show them what we were dealing with.
“Foille,” she said. “It has to be Foille.”
It’s amazing how a little visual can take your list of potential saviors from 10 to 1 in a split second.
She was absolutely right about the Foille. If you’re ever in any kind of burn trouble, I highly recommend it. (Plus, it only costs about $4/tube.)
I know that normally one should only flash one’s doctor with skin abnormalities followed by awkward questions, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Nearly a week of burning tomato-colored flesh was my desperate time.
I’m a little embarrassed to go into the pharmacy again this month, considering how I’ve exposed myself to the staff and all, but a girl’s neighborhood pharmacy is a girl’s neighborhood pharmacy.
I’d like to pretend that they’ve forgotten about me, but I have a sinking feeling that the girl without shame and siren red stomach might have made more of an impression than I’d like.
Hot Times In The City
I have a knack for getting myself in trouble in the heat.
When I was 16, I had a mild heat stroke at my parents’ country club on July 4th weekend. I had gone with them to work out when I got slightly overheated. (It’s possible that my failure to exert myself physically in the previous two months might have had something to do with it, too.)
After sitting in front of a fan for 15 minutes or so, I decided to go to the snack bar for something to drink. That’s when I proceeded to faint and start vomiting -- in front of about 30 kids and their parents enjoying the pool over their holiday weekend. Oddly enough, if you know me, throwing up doesn’t bother me, but throwing up in public upsets me immensely. My legs were wobbly, and I was covered in some throw-up and shame. It was every teenager’s dream.
My father found me, scooped me up like a child and carried me to the car, so we could go home.
At 18, as a freshman in college, some friends and I were on our way to the first football game of the season when someone started complaining about the heat.
“You can’t think this is bad,” I said. “You should try living in Alabama.”
Well, I might as well have shot myself in the foot because it wasn’t even 30 minutes later that I had an EMT student checking my vitals and recommending that I get back to my dorm before I had a real heat stroke.
Here comes the weird part of this story: A friend of mine decided to help me back to the dorm, and to do so, she had her arm under me for support. We were ambling along when a frat boy on his way into the stadium yelled, “Lesbians!”
It’s not that I was offended; I just think it’s really strange. It was almost like he thought he was on a road trip and should point out interesting specimens on route to his friends. “Oh my gosh, did you see that deer by the side of the road?” Only this time, his fascinating find was lesbians?
Surely a college male has seen women and women that are close to one another before in his life. Also, everyone else was already in the stadium. There was one, count it, one, person, to hear him, and if he really wanted to be offensive, I’m sure you can imagine the terms we would have expected to hear.
My friend thought his behavior was very rude and would have liked to tell him so, but since I was having a little health issue, we tried to turn it around. We agreed that we would make an incredibly attractive lesbian couple, took it as a compliment and moved on.
However, the hottest I can ever remember being is in the summer of 2003. My friend Annie and I had purchased around the world plane tickets and were on the last leg of our global tour in Italy. There was an infamous heat wave in Europe during the summer of 2003 – to the point that the train was often delayed by melted sections of track.
We were in Venice, and we checked ourselves into the hotel we’d found in our guidebook. Being 23, we thought we’d save money by staying in a hotel without central air.
This was not a good idea.
As Annie later said, “The next time we see a woman lose consciousness in the lobby of a hotel as we check in, it’s probably a sign that we shouldn’t stay there.”
After dinner and some drinks, I feel fairly confident in saying that I then spent the most uncomfortable night of my life trying to fall asleep in that sauna they called a hotel. At one point, I even got up in the middle of the night convinced that a cold shower might save my sanity.
I stepped into the icy cold water only to have it switch to burning hot water within three minutes. I stepped back out of the shower and waited. A few minutes later, there was more cold water, and I climbed back in. Then the hot water came back.
I couldn’t even find cold sink water to save myself. By the time the morning came, I was an angry and nearly insane person.
“We said we’d stay here for two nights,” Annie said.
“I don’t care,” I said, when I decided to speak. I was so angry with Mother Nature or the world or our guidebook – you can pick one --- I didn’t even want to talk. “I don’t care what we have to pay. I can’t spend another night in this misery.”
“But they have our passports.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
Believe it or not, I am normally a nice, non-confrontational person. Most of my bad thoughts are just that, thoughts, and when I recount long strings of crazy, confrontational statements, it’s what I wish I’d said, not what I actually did.
This was a different day.
After we had packed, I walked into the hotelier’s office. I had money to pay her for one night in cash and was hell bent on a passport for cash trade. “We’ll be leaving now,” I said. “I’d like our passports back, please.”
“You made reservations for two nights,” she said.
“We changed our mind.”
“But you said you would stay for two nights.”
“Your shower runs boiling hot on the coldest setting.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“That happens sometimes?” My voice was rising at this point, and I thought I might lose it. I wanted to ask where this happens. I thought most of the Western world had conquered plumbing and faucet settings, but we were in a very delicate place in our negotiations. I’d also seen her turn towards the cabinet where our travel documents were, and I wanted to keep what little of my wits I had left since I was pretty sure I was going to get what I wanted.
“In the summer. It is hot here in the summer.”
The idea of a physical attack briefly crossed my mind. As if I didn’t know that summer was the hottest month of the year? Instead, I nodded.
She brought the passports over; I basically snatched them out of her hand, gave her cash with my other hand and was at the door before she could say anything else.
Annie said a little “Thank you,” while I told her to book it out the door before the conversation could go any further.
Still angry – heat makes you crazy, there’s a reason the South has so many more crimes of passion than other areas of the country – we went to find lunch, and half a pizza and some white wine later, I finally felt human again.
Annie found us a great hotel for that night. It was more expensive, but you have no idea what I would have paid for a bucket of ice, let alone an air-conditioned room at that point. When we opened the door to our new room, and I saw a thermostat I could control on the wall, I think I cried tears of joy.
My advice to fellow travelers is to pay attention to those hotel ratings in travel books. Two stars are not enough, three is cutting it close and you will pay in so many non-financial ways if you’re not careful.
Also, if you ever really need an enforcer, deprive me of some AC for a few hours, and it’s like having a hive of angry hornets at your disposal.
When You're Not Out In The Club
Weekend before last, I went up North to hang out with my friend Jane* and meet her new four-month old baby. Our friend Rita joined us, and we had a great time together. On the Saturday afternoon of our weekend, we decided (or really the one of us who is actually a mom decided) to hire a babysitter so that we could go see Bridesmaids (loved it, wish I could be Kristen Wiig, must move on now).
When we got back from the movie, Rita and I decided that it was wine time. This set us off on a slew of questions:
Was the babysitter 21? The answer: yes.
Should we offer the babysitter a glass of wine? I mean, we’re Southern, so it feels rude not to ask, but she is the babysitter and has to drive. We went with “no” on that one.
Is the babysitter going to judge us for drinking at five? Does she think we’re the lush friends of our suburban mom friend? The answer to that one is probably a sad yes.
I could have sworn that yesterday I was babysitting to supplement my income (and due to the Great Recession, “yesterday” is probably closer than you’d think), and suddenly I was on the other side of the babysitter scenario. I do not know when this happened. (In my head, I’m 17. Seriously. I just wish my face would stop giving me away.)
The next day, the babysitter came back so that Jane could drive Rita and I to the train station and the airport, respectively. While I was trying to hide just how much wine S and I actually drank the night before, we struck up another conversation with the babysitter.
“So, did you go out last night?” Rita said.
“Not really,” the babysitter said, “I was pretty tired.”
I decided to ask my own questions about where she liked to go and what there was to do around town.
And then it happened. I should have seen it coming, but it was a little like a freight train – not really welcome, but unstoppable. Within five minutes of what should have been a very innocuous conversation, I started to relive my “glory days” that were, if you know me well, not really so glorious. (I thank the magazine writer who put a piece in something I read about how she spent most of her early ‘20s in a bar bathroom stall crying about some dude or other before getting her act together. It gave me far more hope than any older adult or mental health professional at the time.)
Before I knew it, Rita and I were on a little bit of a roll. These are the kinds of phrases that came out of my mouth:
“I actually had a fake id that said I was 30 for awhile. It came complete with a social security card. Can you believe that?”
“Hey Rita, remember when I used to have a beer or two while I wrote my summer school papers? Did I really think Latin American economic policy and Bud Lite were a good mix?”
“What was that guy’s name we met in Adams Morgan over Spring Break? Didn’t somebody make out with him?”
And my favorite, which I believe I threw in there as I was walking out the door (a parting gift if you will):
“Don’t worry about having a gay ex-boyfriend or two. It happens to all of us.”
?!?!?!
In a way, my hope is that the babysitter got bored and stopped listening to us pretty quickly. Otherwise, I have a sinking suspicion she went home that night hopeful not to turn into the older crazy lady that was disposing of wine bottles and reminiscing about her borderline-indecent going out wardrobe from college.
*Names have been changed.
In The Event Of The End Of The World
I realize that some people think the world might end tomorrow. I’m not actually one of those people, and honestly, I don’t even know what the theory is based on, but I do pay attention to the four stories that pop up on my Yahoo! home page, and May 21 has been getting a lot of attention lately.
I mean, if the world is going to end, it’s not like there’s a lot I can do about it. (Not that this is an excuse to stop recycling or pursuing green initiatives in case there are still any conservatives left in my blog audience.) As I was discussing with a friend over the weekend, I think most generations would almost like to think that the end of the world would come within their lifetimes. It’s a good way to put off the unnerving truth/realization that, most likely, life will go on without us, for generations and generations, and possibly even eons. An ongoing world means we’re all a little more forgettable, and no one wants to be forgettable. (Sorry to get a little dark there.)
I also know some people are freaked out by the fact that the Mayan calendar ends in 2012. Anxiety disorder and all, I think this is one of the least upsetting signs of a possible impending apocalypse. Let’s be real. For a group of people that went out around 1450, I think it’s pretty impressive they even bothered taking the calendar to 2012. How far out front are you supposed to get with those? I doubt anyone is working on day planners with New Yorker cartoons in them for 2415 right now, and I hardly take it as a sign that the world will end whenever the people down at the warehouse decide to stop making kitten calendars.
However, since we never know what can happen, I might need to get a few things off my chest before tomorrow – just in case.
1. I cheated on my menu tests at both La Paz and Calypso Joe’s. I have never cheated on any other tests in my life, but those menus presented some problems. At La Paz, I was a hostess, so I didn’t really see a need to learn the menu. They were going to make me take the test until I passed, so I used the menu as the hard surface on which to take my paper test. (I did learn a little though. That job is the only reason that I know the difference between an enchilada and a burrito is that a burrito is made with a flour tortilla while an enchilada is made with a corn one.) As for Calypso Joe’s, well, that one was just pride. The manager liked to post scores at the end of the day, and I refused to come in behind a bunch of perfect scores because I couldn’t have cared less about what dipping sauce came with the conch fritters.
2. I didn't like Titanic -- or Sex and the City.
3. From the ages of 21-25, I gave out my fake phone number to boys far too many times. It wasn’t very nice, but that’s kind of what happens when you’re a slightly cowardly people pleaser. It’s probably a little late, but I’d like to say I’m sorry anyway.
4. I don’t like the symphony, ballet or opera. I find them boring, and they always remind me of being forced to do educational stuff when I was a kid. (And this is coming from a girl who likes learning new vocabulary words.) If I nod when these topics of conversation come up, I’m only pretending to be cultured (or listening).
5. In the third grade, I stole my classmate's square dancing partner. I had a crush on the tallest boy in class, and square dancing partners were assigned by height. As the shortest girl in class, I was screwed -- and stuck with the boy who got very, very angry every time we played dodge ball in gym. When my classmate was out for a couple of days with a stomach bug, I saw my chance to move up, and we she came back to school, I pretty much implied that our teacher thought the new dance partner relationship was better. (Although, I hardly think our teacher had an opinion about the dancing partners.) Oh, the things we do for love ... And again, sorry about that one.
6. I prefer my dog to a lot of people. I can’t help it. She’s adorable, snuggly and completely non-critical. I should probably have some more love and compassion for humanity, but in general, a lot of my affection goes towards the dog. And that whole thing about there not actually being dogs in heaven if you go by strict theology? (I told you Sunday school was quite upsetting for me.) I’m not pleased.
7. For a few years now, my chest has actually been known as “the rapture.” It was a name that a female friend came up with for my boobs while we were drinking one night. I kind of thought it was awesome (especially since my late-blooming meant I didn't have a chest until the age of 18), and the name stuck. I hope this will not be considered blasphemous during the actual rapture, but clearly I can’t be sure. Even in the end of days, we can all appreciate a good joke, right? Maybe?
Anyway, I look forward to our continued interactions next week when I will most likely be experiencing some shame for what I hope are a few very premature confessions.
Truth And Fiction
Sorry for the short post today. Other than the big news coming about my Bissell SpotBot, it's been a less-than-creative week.
When I was working on my Master’s degree, I signed up for a fiction workshop one semester. Actually, I am no good at making things up. It’s the very reason I write creative nonfiction.
I cannot lie, I cannot cover for anyone and if you want to commit or have committed a crime, do not tell me about it.
Naturally, all of my fiction was based on my life, which is why it was so incredibly upsetting to go through a workshop and have the primary comment be, “This premise just isn’t believable. Something like this would never happen.”
(In case you’re wondering, the story in question was about a married couple with squatters in their back yard. At the time, my great aunt and uncle were trying to deal with some vagrants that had taken up behind their house – in Southside.)
So, whether or not anyone believes me when I write essay and memoir, at least I’ve gone ahead and called it truth to try and avoid that particular criticism.
For God’s sake, I have an anxiety disorder and occasionally still suffer from night terrors, and I was born on Elm Street.
The only time I almost got in a bar fight I was at a place called "The Trailer Park."
And, as I’ve said so many times before, I’ll never write a joke as good as this: My senior year of college, I took “Social Inequality” with Ivanka Trump.
She defended Reagan-omics, shock of shocks.
Acts Of God And Nature
Not to go all Patch Adams on everyone, but I really do feel like laughter can be the best medicine (along with antibiotics and all the traditional Western stuff that is). I think we should look for laughter – and joy – whenever we can because life can be pretty darn hard.
However, there are also plenty of times when laughter doesn’t seem appropriate. Or when there doesn’t seem like there’s much to laugh about. For the past few months, I often haven’t felt like laughing, but that’s another story for another day, when I’m ready to tell it.
More immediately, today is not a day that I feel like I can share anecdotes or talk about my annoyances from trips to the pharmacy, talking on the phone or attempting to fit in the clothes at Forever 21 (because at 31, I still believe I can be Forever 21).
On Wednesday, as most of the nation knows, a tornado unlike anything I have ever seen tore through my state and my city. The worst reports I hear have the main funnel at 1.5 miles wide and traveling a 200-mile path. Hundreds of people are dead, missing or homeless. So, even though I’ve spent most of my life being called irreverent, I’m going to just let today be today. There but for the grace of God, they say.
Also, at the risk of sounding preachy (which is not anywhere I ever want to go), I’ve been thinking about the ring my best friend gave me when I graduated from college. She’d had the same one for years, and I’d always wanted one of my own. It’s made of silver and says “This too shall pass” in Hebrew. A skyline of Jerusalem is engraved on the inside.
(I’m not Jewish. I have a St. Jude medal, too, even though I’m not Catholic. I don’t worry about it, so I ask you not to either, if you’d be so kind.)
At the time, I thought my “This too shall pass” was just a reminder that the bad times aren’t permanent and won’t last forever. (I’m sure it’s the depressive in me.) However, my friend reminded me that the adage isn’t just for the dark moments. It’s a reminder in the happy ones, too. We will not always be sad, just as we will not always be happy. Life happens in the ebb and flow, and you have to appreciate each of the moments when you’re in them because you have no idea how long they’ll last or what you might learn.
Like we all know, life is hard, and it isn’t fair. I’m just trying to figure it out like anyone else. And what do I know? Very little. But I know that today I’m lucky while others aren’t, and I may not always be the lucky one.
To quote more pop culture (because that’s what I do) I like what Morgan Freeman says in Bruce Almighty. When it’s all going downhill, sometimes it’s not the time to look up, but to look around. I am thankful for the family, friends, volunteers and general human beings who share in our triumphs and do want they can to make the tough times a little easier to bear.
My Beef Of The Week
First of all, let me say that I like babies. I like them a lot in fact. I like pregnant people. I have no issues there. I love my pregnant friends and their babies. I love strangers that are pregnant and their babies. Little people are cute.
However, what I do not like is a certain big box baby story that has taken the name of a lovely musical and turned it into a play on words celebrating capitalism and conspicuous consumption. (Yes, Buy Buy Baby, I’m looking at you. I won’t say that you’re a lot of what’s wrong with America because that would obviously be a bit extreme, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about it occasionally.)
This past Saturday, I had the pleasure of going to Buy Buy Baby. Clearly, my first mistake was going on a Saturday. I work from home, I have other opportunities to shop and I should have known better. I will take responsibility for throwing myself in with the stroller stampede at such an inopportune time.
Inside, I walked straight to the registry desk and gave the lovely woman behind the counter my friend’s name. Now, while she’s pulling up my friend’s registry, I can clearly see a line, three-deep of gift bags behind her. Are these gift bags for anyone using the registry service? Of course not. These gift bags are for registering pregnant ladies. What I’m about to say will probably sound selfish and I like I need to feel special all the time, but well, I can fall into that category, so I’m just going to own it. Pregnant women come in to Buy Buy Baby to scan gifts they want and leave, and they get the free stuff? I come in here to print out a piece of paper that will tell me what to spend money on, and I get nothing? I think there’s a flaw in the system. Why can’t we all have gift bags for being in the store? Hell, I’d even settle for a sticker. Did no one hear read about reciprocity in Psych 101? You have no idea the unnecessary shopping I’ve done for a logo-embossed stress ball or ruler.
As the registry attendant hands me my print out, she says, “When you check out, don’t forget to give the cashier your registry so you can enjoy the free gift wrap service.”
I thank her and move on. This is when I discover that the registries at Buy Buy Baby are arranged in no way that is at all helpful. I want aisle numbers and kiosk locations. What I get are headings like “Feeding” and “Bedding.” Bottles are in feeding? Really? And crib sheets belong in bedding? What would I have done without this oh-so-handy information?
Going through the list, I decide that I want something like the Go Monkey Pack ‘n’ Play Travel Go Set. I walk to the “Toys” section, but can’t seem to find it in the sea of other themed baby items, so I look for an associate.
“Can you help me find the Go Monkey Pack ‘n’ Play Travel Go Set?” I ask the first person in a blue shirt I can find.
It is at this point that I realize Buy Buy Baby has caused me to speak complete nonsense. A Go Monkey yadda yadda go set? Who am I?
We walk to toys together. (I will say that the Buy Buy Baby staff is incredibly nice. My strong feelings are reserved for their employer – “The Baby Man,” “The Baby Machine,” “The Baby Capitalist” or whatever you want to call it.) Our conversation continues, and while these were not the exact words used, this is what if felt like.
“I don’t see Go Monkey, but how about Chimpanzee Play Park?”
“I’d really rather have Go Monkey.”
“Are you sure that it say’s it available there? If it says that it’s available, I’m going to have to go to the back.”
I nod, and I wait.
“It says it’s available because only the display model is left. Would you like to special order it?”
I think, “And drive the 15 miles back here to pick it up?” I say, “No thank you.”
Three people then apologize to me about the dearth of Go Monkeys.
“It’s fine, really. I’ll find something else.”
I’m temped to go look for the Cuddle ‘n’ Love Sleepy Time Lamb Buddy (do you not see what I mean about this nonsense language?), but since it’s under the “Miscellaneous” heading, I assume I will never locate the item in the store. (Is that a wire basket near the cash register? A wall in between sections?) The Soft Fleece Wrap Wrist Buddy also confuses me, and unable to handle another conversation with a sales associate, I head to feeding feeling like I probably can’t get bottles wrong.
Purchase at last in hand, I head to check-out and hand over my items and my registry print-out.
“Thank you for shopping with us today, and please feel free to make use of our gift-wrapping station.”
Wrapping station? Now, in my mind, complimentary gift wrap service is labor-free. At Buy Buy Baby, complimentary gift wrap is exactly what it sounds like – free wrapping paper.
At the station, I wrap my gifts in paper covered with the Buy Buy Baby logo. So, really, what I’m doing here is perpetuating Buy Buy Baby’s advertising while annoying everyone in line behind me because of my ribbon-tying difficulties. This only reminds me that for my help with their marketing, I really should have gotten one of those free gift bags from behind the registry counter, and I use an extra piece of the nice ribbon in my own passive-aggressive revenge move.
Finally free of the store, I nearly skip to my car. I would vow to only shop online in the future, but I’m not sure how I’d use my coupons that way. Then I’m off to pick up another baby registry at Target.
Oh, Target, how I love you. I can print my own registry. The registry is organized by aisles. I actually find what I need without having to say the words “nipple,” breast pump” or “Me Learn To Drive Baby” aloud.
And then I see it. In aisle N22. Just below the bibs. It’s the exact two items I just purchased from Buy Buy Baby. For less.
Luckily, I find it to hard to get too angry when surrounded by onesies, and I knew it was better to just walk away.
Pregnant and mom friends, I love you dearly, but I might have to start some sort of campaign for a price-matching program at the baby box store. I apologize in advance if I embarrass you.
As for Buy Buy Baby, I know we will meet again, but as far as I’m concerned, this isn’t over – not by a long shot.
R-Rated Souvenirs
I’m not always up to date on the latest lingo and certain slang terms. If you text me any short hand other than LOL or OMG, I’m completely lost. I have recently added IDK (I don’t know) and IRL (in real life) to my vocabulary, but for the longest time I thought an IDK just meant someone had probably been drinking and was having trouble spelling.
Despite my wide range of friends, sub-sets of society with their own terms also tend to be beyond me. (It took me two years, and extensive questioning, to grasp “emo.”)
When I was living in Chicago for the summer, I lived a few blocks north of Wrigley Field and not far from Boystown, a well-known area for gay men. (According to Wikipedia, it was the first recognized gay village in the United States. I’ve learned something new today.) One day, there was a street fair in Boystown, and a friend and I were off to enjoy the festivities. The primary highlight of the day had been a Menudo/Spice Girls style group singing in matching white outfits with different colored sash belts (to represent all the colors of the gay rainbow) until I spotted a carnival game.
A couple of men were standing next to rows of plastic pigs. For a dollar, you could purchase rings to toss around the pigs, and if you rung one, you could choose between some prizes. Condoms were free just for participating, but what I really wanted was this adorable little pig keychain. The booth was sponsored by Steamworks, which I assumed was some kind of gym.
“Can I please borrow a couple of dollars?” I begged of my friend since I never carry cash.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he said.
“Of course I’m sure,” I said. “Look how adorable those pigs are.”
I think it took more than a couple of dollars, but I finally got one of those rings around a pig and got my keychain. I was also decked out in some free beads and condoms for my patronage.
Wearing my beads proudly, my friend and I continued our walk through the street festival, until my friend couldn’t hold his laughter in anymore.
“Did you know what Steamworks is, Laurel?”
“Something fitness-related?” I said.
“It’s a bathhouse.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, I was not so sure about the logo stamped on the keychain I adored so much.
“And did you happen to notice the name of the game?”
“The game had a name?”
“It was written in big letters,” he said. “Give a pig a pearl necklace?”
“Uh-huh.” This meant nothing to me. I knew the “pearl necklace” part did not reference jewelry thanks to having gone to high school, but it still wasn’t clicking for me.
Then, my friend leaned in and whispered what it all meant.
“Oh,” I said again.
“I just thought you should know,” he said, before feeling free to really laugh out loud.
I looked down at my beads that had a medallion reading, “I gave a pig a pearl necklace at Steamworks.”
“I think I’ll take these off now,” I said.
“I thought that might be the case.”
I still have the beads and keychain because, let’s be honest, it’s not like I’ll have another chance to get such unique mementos, but I don’t wear them out and about. And if clueless-ness provides you with endless entertainment, I’m clearly your gal for all sorts of adventures.