An Argument With History
Florence, Alabama is home to the only Frank Lloyd Wright house in the state of Alabama. (Don't worry. This is my last Florence-themed post. Sometimes I can't help myself I have so much to say.) The Wright-Rosenbaum house is also one of only 60 Frank Lloyd Wright houses open to the general public. And, I was already in Florence, so I figured why not take a tour.
The Wright-Rosenbaum house is under 3,000 square feet, so there's not a ton to see, but because it was a Tuesday, and I think our tour guide was bored, the SO and I got a private guided tour that lasted over an hour. (Such details aren't for everyone ...) If I was better at math, I could let you know how much time was spent on each inch of the house. Since I'm not a numbers gal, I'll just estimate that our tour guide left no stone unturned in his description of the home.
I loved being able to see a piece of architectural history. I also like anything that makes me feel smarter, so learning details about Frank Lloyd Wright, Florence history and details of the home was a great time for me. But, what I really took away from the tour is that I could never have had a Frank Lloyd Wright home.
I didn't know about Frank Lloyd Wright's very controlling (and often egotistical) ways. This is how I would imagine our encounters:'
Meeting #1
Me: I really think I need more closet space in the master bedroom.
Darkness and stares from Frank Lloyd Wright.
Me: Maybe a walk-in?
FLW: If you don't like the closets I've provided, what you need is fewer clothes.
Meeting #2
Me: These doors seem small. How big are they?
FLW: 22 inches wide [this is the real number from the Wright-Rosenbaum house].
Me: Honey, my family is Southern. We like the fried foods. I don't think this is the best long-term plan.
More darkness and stares from FLW: I can fit through them, so everyone should be able to.
Meeting #3
Me: I think this chair would look better on the other side of the living room.
FLW: I already bolted it to the floor.
Until the tour, I had no idea that Frank Lloyd Wright wrote contracts preventing occupants of his homes from acquiring new furniture, rearranging rooms or putting art on the walls without his approval. (He didn't like art because his home was the art.) And I didn't make up that detail about him bolting furniture to the floor so that it wouldn't be moved. I don't think Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have even made it to three meetings before the relationship imploded. Pardon the third person, but if Laurel's paying, Laurel gets what she wants.
Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have been like oil and water -- or like matching poles of a magnet that repel each other rather than attract. There can only be one lead dog, after all.
All photos by the great Arik Sokol.
A Trip to Florence -- But Not Italy
WhenI was 18 or 19, my then-boyfriend took me to Sheffield, Alabamato meet his grandparents. I was thrilled about the purpose of the trip. Ifigured that after a year and a half of dating, I must really mean something tohim if he would take me to meet his grandparents.
Iwas less thrilled about the destination. Sheffield,Alabama is part of a small conglomerate ofcities making up the Shoals area of Northern Alabama.Florence, Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals and Sheffield make up this bustling metropolis. The University of North Alabama is there, and Tuscumbia isthe birthplace of Helen Keller. (Their tourist slogan: “Come see what shecouldn’t.”)
Ispent the entire night before we left stressing out about what to wear. Withthe help of my mother, I very carefully chose a long, blue cotton dress thatbuttoned up the back. Attractive? Not so much. Seemingly appropriate formeeting conservative senior citizens in Sheffield?Yes. (At the time, I think everything else I owned stopped above the kneeand/or involved cleavage. I was young and less self-concious then.)
Aftera two + hour drive the next day, we arrived in Sheffield.We entered through the back of the house and immediately sat down in the familyroom for introductions and pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation,Grandma said, “Why don’t we move to the living room? It’s so much nicer inthere, and we rarely have company.”
Weall stood to file into the living room, and I heard a muffled “Oh, Dear,”followed by the feel of strange hands at my back. I looked over my shoulder tosee Grandma frantically trying to re-button my dress – which, much to myembarrassment, had come undone from the middle of my back down to my knees.
Damnthose buttons.
Toadd insult to injury, at the time, I was rather obsessed with panty lines.Because of my undergarment choices, nothing more than a thin T of fabric(probably missed in a panic) separated me from full-on mooning my boyfriend’sgrandmother.
Iturned bright red, and it took all of the strength I had not to spend the restof the trip in the car, hoping and praying it would be time to go home soon.
Insome ways, I suppose you could say that the trip could only get better fromthere. After some more visiting, we drove to the Wilson Lock and Bridge and ateat one of Florence’sbest known restaurants – an eatery at the top of a tower. The outside edge ofthe restaurant rotates while you enjoy a meal and a 360 degree view of all thatthe Shoals have to offer.
Afterthat boyfriend and I broke up (I don’t think I ever grew on Grandma after shesaw so much of me), one of the few places I thought I’d never see again was thetown that was the source of my shame and the rotating outer edge of a Florencerestaurant.
Andthat remained true until this past weekend when I joined my Significant Otherat the Shoals Marriott while he filmed a promotional video for the hotel. As hewas telling me about our upcoming trip, he mentioned the 360 Grille, but Inever put the name with anything from my past.
But,when we arrived in Florenceon Sunday, I looked up from the parking lot to see the tower restaurant of mypast. “There’s the grill I was telling you about,” the SO said.
“Actually,”I said, “I’ve been here before …”
Neversay never, I suppose.
My Trip to Publix
"I'd like spicy mustard and lite mayo on the sandwich, please."
"I gotta tell you. That says lite mayo, but it isn't actually lite mayo," the lovely woman behind the deli counter told me. "It's the regular stuff. Do you still want it?"
"Oh, yeah."
"OK, but it won't be lite."
"That's fine. I'll pretend," I said. "I'm very good at lying to myself."
Most surprsingly, unlike most Publix employees I share too much with, the deli woman laughed and said that sounded good to her.
The Southeastern Hair Expo of '96 and its Aftermath
For most of my sophomore year of high school, my hair looked just like it did in the picture to the right.
I've been known to experiment with my hair color. (I have been a red head, a Blondel and a brunette in my time. The only color I've never dyed my hair is black. I worry that with my fair, fair complexion, I'd end up with too much of a Snow White thing going on.) But, I didn't mess with the style too much before my sophomore year. I liked a nice heavy bang with a strong curl-under on the ends. It was the mid-1990's and such a bold look was not at all uncommon.
Then, one day, my friend Susan had a proposition for me: "Hey Laurel, how would you like to be a model in a hair show?"
Of course, it was the word "model" that hooked me. I didn't care about the context, I just wanted to be able to say that I "had modeled" at some point in my life.
"All of our hair services will be free. It'll be like getting a makeover."
As if the model part wasn't good enough, Susan offered my adolescent self her other dream -- a makeover, otherwise known as the promise of change. With that, I was done for. I sold my soul -- or, at least, my somewhat normal tresses -- for a chance to "model" in the 1996 Southeastern Hair Show held at the Birmingham Jefferson Convention Complex.
About a week later, on a Friday, Susan and I went down for our beauty consultations before the big event. I was told they would be turning me into a red head and giving me a "body treatment" to help my limp locks plump up. I thought it sounded like fun.
It wasn't until that Saturday when I was having my hair shampooed by a chain-smoking platinum blond with acrylic nails in a portable sink in the basement of the BJCC that I realized what I was really in for. As soon as the "body treatment" began, I recognized a certain odor from my childhood.
"Am I getting a perm?" I asked.
"What's that baby doll?" platinum blond said in between puffs and after interrupting a conversation about her gay ex-husband's struggle to find himself.
"Are you giving me a perm? I thought I was having a body treatment."
"It's the same thing, baby. Don't worry though, this won't be one of those '80s perms. The technology's gotten so much better."
And so it began. (We all know how great my hair looks with a permanent. This is also the short version of how I showed up to my cousin's wedding with purple hair -- a fact my mother has never forgotten.)
Still, from the photo above, you can see that despite my whore-like makeup, my hair was still somewhat normal after Saturday's dye job and perm. Even if it wasn't normal, it was salvageable. But, that was all before Sunday's main Southeastern Hair Expo event -- the spectacle I didn't know was going to happen until that very morning.
I was going to have my hair cut on stage.
With no mirrors in sight, I was pulled into a chair, on stage, in front of about 30 hair dressers there to "hone their craft." All I'd gotten to say before I was pulled on stage was, "You're not going to cut my hair too short, are you?"
"Not TOO short," was the only answer I got from a woman I'd barely seen before who clearly did not consider my adolescent insecurities as part of her vision of what her role in the Southeastern Hair Expo should be.
My hair was cut in 15 minutes. I then had to walk around the room with a Polaroid of my "before" picture while strange women could touch and investigate my hair cut. Nearly 50 people had seen what was on my head before I had a chance to run to the bathroom and check myself out in the mirror.
I was not happy with what I saw. (This picture was actually taken before I'd seen myself --hence the smile.)
I ran from the bathroom, out of the BJCC, to my car, where I cried for 20 minutes before I thought I could even see well enough to drive. What had been shoulder-length brown hair was now a short, bright read mushroom-like explosion on the top of my head.
I knew that not only did I have a terrible new hair cut, but I also hadan incredibly noticeable new hair cut that would have to be explainedor, at least, gawked at by everyone within a 100-yard radius.
"What's that?" is all I could imagine hearing for the next six weeks.
I was so upset, I had to drive to my best friend's house to have the courage to go to school the next day. If she hadn't said it "wasn't too terrible," I don't think I could have made it.
That Monday back at school wasn't pleasant. There were some snickers -- including some from the boy I thought hung the moon. But there was a lot more sympathy than scorn.
The Southeastern Hair Expo wasn't the makeover I had hoped for. (A true example of why you should be careful what you wish for.) But I learned that sometimes a good story and the right attitude can make up for other foibles.
I also learned that, most of the time, hair grows back. And despite the way I felt about my hair cut, I tried to keep it out of how I felt about myself.
Even though I still had a red mushroom-type explosion on top of my head, the smile in that last photo is real.
Jazz Hands
It seems I'm just going to keep adding to the list of photos that prove I was a child of the '80s and early '90s. (The tell-tale signs in this particular pic? Perm, neon, sequins, sequined choker, jaunty hat.)
This is the photo from what would have been my third grade jazz recital. (Do people even still take jazz class? I remember thinking it was very "modern" of me. I only ever mastered step-ball-change, despite weeks of training. And I can't remember if I knew "jazz hands" before the life-changing event that was Bring it On.)
I also can't remember whether or not I liked this outfit or not. I think I dug the one-shoulder look, but I also remember being very jealous that my middle sister got to wear a big pink tutu that reminded me of Glinda the Good Witch for her part of the same recital.
Wearing this outfit was the first time someone ever whistled at me -- a sweet older man who worked at the Western Supermarket -- and I glowed because of it.
Sadly, though, I never got to perform in this amazing ensemble.
About two weeks before the recital, I broke both of my arms.
Yes, both of them. There was a tree house involved, and let's just say that the natural instinct to defend yourself from the ground in a fall is not a good one. I lay on the ground thinking that I had hurt my chest because that's where I could feel the pain. But, when I stood up, it looked like my hands were on top of my arms. (That's a compound fracture for you.) I then ran like the wind (a true rarity) to get my friend's mom's attention so I could go somewhere with doctors ASAP.
Many hours later, I had casts on both arms and was an extremely unhappy child. (A nurse tried to help me with slings, and I ended up looking like I was in a straight jacket. It was awkward.) And I hadn't just broken both my arms. I'd broken both my arms three days before school ended for the summer. No class trip, no pool parties and no jazz recital.
In fairness to the ladies of my dance school, when my mom and I went to pick up my sister from her dance class a day or two before the recital, the receptionist thought I could still perform. "If we cut off the one arm, I'm sure we could get the costume on her," she said. "Then she'd at least be able to dance."
My mother, who is usually full of tact and grace, stared at that women in a way I've rarely seen her look at anyone. "I don't think so."
Who would think that putting a nine-year-old with two broken arms on stage in ballet shoes to dance is a good idea, I don't know. (Other than the naive receptionist, of course.) But my mother was having none of it, and I'm grateful for that nearly every day.
This photo is bad enough. Can you even imagine what it would look like with white plaster invovled, too?
Premature Aging?
Thanks to a heads up from my friend Amelia, this has quickly become one of my favorite videos. (And I'm a hard sell as I've always found SNL's fake commercials to be brilliant. This one had to beat out Annuale, Mom Jeans and Schmitt's Gay.)
http://www.hulu.com/embed/VEOwhtHzcXPNH44JcyZaXQ
And, of course, I can relate. My mother will never live down the fact that she once told my father and I she wanted to see Bad, Bad Things despite the negative publicity. While my father stared at her, trying to comprehend, I explained that she really wanted to go to Eyes Wide Shut. (The connection? Chris Isaak's "Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing" played during the trailer.
While I'd like to pretend that only moms are capable of this behavior, of late, I've been making similar mistakes.
I told a group of friends how much I'd like to see Away We Go with Maya Angelou and Jim Krasinski. (Actual stars: Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski.) Half the time I look through US Weekly, I find myself thinking, "Who is that starlet? I didn't know she was famous. Maybe she's from Idols Got Talent or that High School Gym Class movie. I wish she'd get her hair out of her eyes." And once during a particularly wine-fueled conversation about literature, I referred to Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night ...") as Dylan McKay (fictional character on Beverly Hills, 90210).
If I hadn't been drinking on that last one, I'm pretty sure I would have had my M.A. in English revoked.
So, if birthing a child isn't necessary for this kind of confusion, is it just a product of age? Brain chemistry? Changing hormones? Diet? Too many lost brain cells from my misspent youth?
What can I expect next? Rambling stories? Overly rosy references to the past? Referring to every store I visit by the name of the establishment that hasn't been there in 10 years? Clipping coupons? An overt fondness for the Hallmark channel and Matlock?
Oh dear ...
Well, I suppose that if loving The Golden Girls and a good bargain down at the Walgreen's is wrong, I don't want to be right. When does that senior citizen's discount kick in, again?
The Eleven-Year-Old Working Girl
All children go through phases.
As a four-year-old, I spent a month wanting to learn anything and everything I could about ostriches. In the first grade, I would only take a jar of Vienna sausages for lunch each day. In third grade, I became obsessed with Divorce Court and thought playing an attorney on the show meant I would not have to choose between my goals of being a lawyer and an actress when I grew up. (Even my nine-year-old peers thought that last one was stupid.)
And, when I was in the fifth grade, I only wanted to wear little suits.
Sure, most kids have to be begged to dress up, but not me. I never had a naked phase where I ran around the neighborhood refusing to put on clothes, I never screamed in protest about taking baths and I didn't even run barefoot like my Montgomery cousins. I suppose my anti-norms-of-society feelings ran more towards inappropriate formal wear than getting back to nature or the wild. (If you're wondering where one even finds suits for pre-teens, trust me that in the early '90s, the Limited Too was full of them.)
I can still vividly remember the summer after fourth grade when I found a circular for Kids 'R' Us in the daily paper and saw my first miniature suit. It was black with a white pattern, and the child model looked downright jaunty in it.
I had to have it. And, unfortunately for everyone involved, it was only the first of many suits in my back-to-school wardrobe that year.
I wore my more casual suits with t-shirts underneath for a laid-back approach (pictured) and my more refined suits (including a navy one with a pleated skirt and flared back on the jacket) with bodysuits. (Again, you have to remember that this was circa 1990-1991. Units had just gone out of style, and I was desperately trying to fill the hole created by the lack of tubes and tunics in my life. And bodysuits were abundant. At least I didn't insist on purchasing dickeys.)
When you combine these clothing choices with the fact that I was still growing out a just-as-unfortunate perm from a year before, I looked much too much like a pre-makeover Melanie Griffith in Working Girl most days.
And I certainly cut an odd silhouette when it was time for P.E. class and dodge ball.
Like most childhood phases, I eventually grew out of my desire to dress business casual at elementary school (long before I started working from home, thank you very much), and I moved on to a love of the cloth head band in sixth grade. But, I often wonder, in the karmic sense of things, what my own kids will put me through in the wardrobe phase department. (Let's not forget my tiara years.)
If I'm lucky enough to have kids of my own, I'm hoping for superheroes and costumes instead of those aforementioned naked children. If nothing else, it seems cleaner.
Which is Worse?
A) The fact that despite an M.A. (yes, it's in English, but still),the only job that's available, I'm qualified for and pays above minimumwage involves waiting tables at someplace called the Tilted Kilt.
or
B) The fact that I'm fairly positive this 29-year-old body couldn't get past the front door at the in-person-only interview.
or
C)That I'm far more bothered by B than A. (I know, I know, I'm angryenough at myself. I'd much rather be regarded for my intelligence thanabilities than as a sexual object, but I still can't help but want a smokin' bod -- without diet or exercise -- and a seat on the Supreme Court. Oh, the conundrums of womanhood.)
The Problem With a Unicorn Collection
The problem with a unicorn collection is ... (Because, yes, I had one. When I was younger, my mother's decorator thought all children should have collections in their rooms. And if you ask a five-year old what her favorite animal is, you're going to get an answer like "unicorn." This is how I came to have a table full of porcelain unicorns until long after the acceptable age for such a thing.)
But, getting back to the point, the problem with a unicorn collection is that no matter how carefully you store the darn things, those horns are so delicate, they always break off.
And that's how a grown woman ends up with a hidden box full of ceramic horses with stubs on their foreheads.
I never said I was normal.
Neighborhood Nicknames
When I lived in Washington,D.C., most of the Safeways (achain of grocery stores) were known by certain monikers.
There was the Social Safeway (where you could not go lookingat all frumpy or haggard because you were basically guaranteed to run into someoneyou knew; I even think local legend held that many encounters at the SocialSafeway led to weddings), the Suburban Safeway (the most boring of them all,you never saw anyone other than a minivan-driving mom with her kids shoppinghere) and the Soviet Safeway (where you often had to wait in line for bread ormilk).
Even thought it’s been almost seven years since I lived inD.C., I still find myself assigning names to the places I visit most often.
First, there’s the Wild Wal-Mart. While all Wal-Marts havesomething of a “survival of the fittest” mentality (you don’t know what you’recapable of until Digiorno Supreme pizzas are on super sale), at the WildWal-Mart, all of the rules you thought you understood about human interactiongo out the window.
I’ve seen grown men spit on the floors there, a father andson get into a near fist fight at the cash register and a woman attempting toreturn open peanut butter because once she got home she realized it was 10cents more than she thought she should have paid for it.
Then, there’s the callous CVS. I once called this drugstoreto ask if my doctor had called in my prescription yet. “I haven’t spoken toher,” my pharmacist said. “But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t called. I haven’tanswered the phone in awhile, and I won’t check the messages for another halfhour.”
Awesome. Never mind that it was five minutes to five, and Iwould have to go overnight without meds if I couldn’t verify that myprescription order had come in. It was cool. (Extra care indeed.)
Another time I called and asked if my prescription wasdefinitely ready to pick because I felt awful and didn’t want to be out of thehouse any longer than necessary. “It is ready for pick up Ms. Mills.”
“You’re sure it’s ready?” I said. “Because I’ll just wait anhour or so to leave the house if it isn’t.”
“Nope, it’s ready.”
It wasn’t. Instead of remaining on my couch for the waittime, I spent 20 minutes in a folding chair next to the pharmacy’s privacypartition clutching my stomach in pain. Hence, the callous part of the CallousCVS.
I also have the Incompetent CVS. (Unfortunately, these aremy two closest pharmacies.) At the Incompetent CVS, you always have to wait for15 minutes at the counter while they find the prescription that’s placed in abin ALPHABETICALLY.
God forbid you be in line at the Incompetent CVS because thepharmacists there love to talk. The line can be ten deep, and they’ll find timeto ask Mrs. Wilson about why she prefers the Ensure shakes to V8 or doubleprice check Mr. Smith’s Sensodyne. I’ve been tempted to yell “I have anuncomfortable feminine problem” (true or not) for the sake of embarrassing theminto either moving through the line faster or fast-tracking me to the front.
And I haven’t even gotten to the Classy Krystal’s, the DirtyKrystal’s, Moody Moe’s or the Ghetto Winn-Dixie yet.
I have no idea what’s more disturbing about this: that Iactually took time to name (and catalog) all of the places I run errands, orthat, as a lover of words and writer, these are the best descriptors I couldcome up with.
I Drive Me Crazy
We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Some people work out. Some people paint. Others drink. (Not that I'm saying any one particular coping mechanism on that list stands out to me ...)
We all also have our ways of not dealing with stress -- the little idiosyncrasies and quirks that arise when there's a bit too much on our plates and our subconscious rears up in revolt. Some people scream, Some people cry. I forget how to pump gas.
I know, I know, you're probably thinking that that sounds absolutely crazy. But, there's something about the ability to complete day-to-day, mundane tasks that goes completely out the window when I'm consumed by other matters or living too much in my head.
In a situation where others might squeeze a stress ball or indulge in an ice cream Sunday, I find myself absolutely baffled by the idea of choosing an Octane rating.
In high school, when I was struggling with AP Calculus and SAT prep, I went to fill-up at the gas station across the street and just couldn't get the pump to work. I told the gas station attendant that his pump was broken and that he might want to check on that ASAP.
"The pump isn't broken," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. "Why else wouldn't I be able to get gas? I'm not an idiot, you know."
The only trouble was that in that situation, I was being an idiot. After fuming back to my car, I realized I hadn't lifted the lever that triggers gas flow at the pump.
I have probably been spoken to through the intercom at the pump more than any other human being on earth. That magical, difficult-to-comprehend voice has informed me that I forgot to pay at a pre-pay (overwhelmed by errands), do not have a Diesel engine (dressing down from the boss) and, during an ill-fated trip to New Jersey, that it was illegal to pump one's own gas in that state (relationship trouble).
No matter how well I think I'm handling life, the gas station is my ultimate test: Can I fill the tank without threatening the attendant or banging my head against the steering wheel? Will I find myself entangled in the gas hose? Will I be able to reward myself with a single bag of Cheetos?
Luckily, in these days of working from home, I'm operating on far fewer tanks of gas per month. Otherwise, between the bills and my concerns for the characters of General Hospital, there could be trouble.
I Hope it Isn't Me
I used to blame myself a lot. If a friend was in a bad mood, I had upset them or made them mad with something I'd said. If a teacher was short-tempered, I should have taken more time on my homework or studied harder for the last test. If a boyfriend was quite and withdrawn, I must have been too clingy, needy or annoying.
Sometime during my teen years, I realized that this attitude of self-blame was really quite self-involved. As fabulous as I might be, I'm not actually the centerpiece of anyone's life but my own. No one else spends hours going over what I said or should have said, evaluating my outfits or pondering how much my weight has fluctuated since college.
And it was quite freeing to realize that 1) no one was as obsessed with me as I was and 2) if anything, everyone else probably spends as much time on their own behavior and appearances as I do on mine. (Translation: Most people are way too busy thinking about themselves to take any note of what anyone else is up to.)
My epiphany helped me be less self-conscious (and stop thinking I was responsible for everyone else's bad moods), but I can still play the blame game pretty well.
If I was a better writer, I'd have a published book by now. A better housekeeper? You'd never see a single bug. I should respond to e-mails faster, write more thank you notes, cook healthier meals, and on and on and on.
Due to the state of my chosen career path (publishing), it's easier than ever to get on this track with my employment history. One company had no more room for me, another went belly-up two weeks after I resigned, and I was let go from the now-defunct Lipstick in February. The what-ifs and possibilities for self-blame seem endless.
Luckily, I have incredibly supportive friends and family who are pretty good at helping me see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can also recognize that my narcissism sneaks in a bit here, too -- I am not responsible for an entire company, economic trend or the recession. (You can see my issues with control at play here, too -- i.e., the illusion I have much of it.)
With that being said, and on a seemingly unrelated note -- wait for it, I did manage to make my way to the pages of Skirt! this July (photo and story can be found at the link). Yay, right? (I was pumped because the story was about Tina Harris and all the awesome things she does as the editor of PMS, a literary journal I read for and adore.)
Then I heard the news on Friday that Skirt!'s future is up in the air. And I can't help but think, is it me? Have I become a jinx for media outlets I don't even work for?
I'm fairly positive the answer is "no." (But I do still worry.) Then again, even Johnny Depp was considered box office poison for many years. You never know when things could turn around -- or when you're ripe for a comeback.
Foot in Mouth ... Again
1. I'm borderline inept at applying my own makeup. I hear a lot of "Hold on, there's something on your face" when I leave the house after having done my own makeup.
2. Makeup that doesn't come from the drug store is expensive. The older I get, the more I realize I need to invest in products that cost more than $3.99, but it still pains me. If I'm going to spend $50 on liquid foundation, I've got to get something else out of it, and I consider the makeup application my own private free gift.
Anyway, after about 20 minutes of browsing, I picked up some products and found a very nice African-American makeup artist to help me decide what would work best with my skin tone and texture. As I sat in her chair, we started talking about various products we had tried and what worked and what didn't. She told me about a new deodorant that wasn't worth buying. I offered the following:
"Have you ever tried the Tarte Sunburst self-tanner?"
Long pause.
"No, I've never given that one a shot."
Why I would ask an African-American woman about her self-tanning habits, I do not know. It really seems like I should have thought that one through a bit more before it escaped my mouth. She probably doesn't have the same skincare needs as my near-translucent self does. And, in case you were wondering where this is going, my Sephora incident reminded me of one of my near-constant dilemmas: When something awkward and/or inane is said, is it best to call attention to the idiocy or move on?
When I saw my vet out at a social function, rather than saying "hello" or "how are you" like a normal person, I led with "My dogs are good." No greeting, no lead-in, just "my dogs are good." Then I promptly ran away and pretended the moment had never happened.
When I accidentally ask a friend about a relationship that has since ended or a family member that has passed on, I say, "Well, that was awkward of me, wasn't it?" afterwards. And, unfortunately, I usually can't stop myself from giving a jab on the arm, too.
At Sephora, I went with the move on/avoidance approach, but I'm probably pretty evenly split on how often I make a joke and how often I deny the moment ever happened. What about you?
Phone Fear and Fantasy*
I am not a phone person.
I'm not sure exactly when I became anti-phone, but my best guess puts it on the time line somewhere between begging my mother for my own line in the sixth grade so I could watch Melrose Place while "talking" to Elizabeth (not that we did any actual talking when the show was on) and the week I lost my cell phone behind the couch and couldn't have felt more free. (That last story involves wine and less-than-stellar-search-tactics, naturally.)
I also think the fact that I have trouble hearing on a cell phone has a lot to do with my phone phobia. My good Southern manners/laziness dictate that I won't ask anyone to repeat a phrase or question more than twice. And, since I often can't make out all of the words on two tries alone, I end up saying a lot of "Uh-huh, yeah, interesting" and hoping the person on the other end of the line didn't want specifics or details.
My fear of being judged is also a factor as I've been told by more than one person I can sound "like death" or "suicidal" on the phone. Some of this is my morning voice (which, like what I understand of morning sickness, is not necessarily relegated to the morning, but is most prevalent then). The morning voice is husky, gruff and best cured by Diet Coke. The rest of my incredibly morose phone voice turns into a form of the chicken/egg situation: Do I dislike the phone because I sound terrible on it or do I sound terrible because of how much I dislike talking on the phone?
Because of all this, I rarely talk on the phone. (E-mail all the way, baby!) And I have a tendency to do my fair share of call screening. If I don't know the number, I don't answer.
But, for some reason, phone numbers I don't know also have a tendency to fill me with unbridled hope. I think this strange burst of optimism/self-delusion dates back to my college days. When I saw a number I didn't recognize, I'd think "He finally called!" only to listen to the message and realize that yet another telemarketer wanted to sign me up for a Discover card.
And even though I'm not waiting on a boy to call these days, I still get the same feeling when numbers I don't know pop up on the caller id -- especially those with exotic and far-off area codes. When I saw three unidentified, out of area phone numbers on my cell last week, these were the actual thoughts that went through my mind: "Someone finally recognized my talent! Maybe it's a literary agent! Maybe it's a book publisher! Someone wants to talk to me about publishing!"
(Sure, I should know that it takes a lot of hard work to get a book publisheror agent, and they rarely fall out of the sky, but the impulse wasthere anyway.)
In reality, the calls came from my cell phone company and a real estate agent wondering about my now three-year-old interest in housing in Nashville, and I came face-to-face with cold, hard reality yet again. Sigh.
But, for me at least, hope springs eternal ... And should anyone with a 212 number that I don't recognize call -- telemarketer or president of Penguin Books -- I'm going to make sure there's no morning voice involved.
*FYI: You don't know me at all if you think I would ever dare to name this post "Fone Fear and Fantasy."
It's Worse Than I Thought
Thanks to some quality time with my sisters this weekend, I was reminded that my obsession with "As Seen on TV" products began long before I first admitted.
In high school, I was one of the first people to jump on the ExerSlide trend. Don't remember the ExerSlide trend? (Admittedly, "trend" is probably an exaggeration. Think "scam" or "fly-by-night operation" instead.) You probably didn't watch as much late night television as I did, or you had more sense. Either way.
With the ExerSlide, I got to put paper booties around my shoes and slide my way to fitness. And, by "slide my way to fitness," I mean "spend 15 minutes finding mself unable to get from one end of the plastic mat to the other before giving up entirely and sticking the ExerSlide under my bed until I left for college."
You think I would have learned my lesson. Oh well.
The Age-Old Dilemma: What do you do with an old pair of leather pants?
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Leather pants? Really? How can this even be considered a problem? No one actually wears leather pants."
But, back in the day, you cannot imagine how much I loved these pants. I was young (read: foolish). I barely weighed anything (that's a small budget and the energy to go out every night for you). I was even blond. It was one of the few times in my life my self-esteem was over-inflated.
I thought these pants were hot, and I had to have them.
(And, "hot" they were. One of the truest things ever put on television was a certain episode of Friends in which Ross finds himself trapped in the bathroom of a date's apartment because he can't get back into the leather pants he took off because they made him sweat. Leather pants are not something you can try on, change your mind and take off for another outfit. If you want to wear leather pants, you've got to commit. Because once you're in them, you're in them. For better or worse. (I've never thought of leather pants as a metaphor for marriage before, but now that I'm there, I kind of like it.))
These pants were also expensive. To this day, they are the one and only item I've ever bought from Neiman Marcus. I think they were originally priced at $350, but I got them on sale for something like $170. (Again, paying that much for these pants is another indication that I was young and had no real concept of money.) I only found them on sale because they're a size 8, which is like a size 2 in skintight designer leather. They're made by Laundry for goodness' sake.
The one time I can recall going out in these, my roommates and I were having some kind of theme party. I had my blond hair fluffed up, the leather pants on and wore a t-shirt that said "Hottie" in silver glitter. For real.
Oh, the shame.
Yet, despite the unpleasant memories these pants give rise to, and the fact that I know I couldn't even get these over one ankle these days, when I pulled up to the Goodwill store yesterday, I just couldn't bear the thought of them sitting on a rack next to all the normal (read: mundane/no history) pants.
There's Ebay, but this guy already did that, and his write-up was far more fabulous than mine could ever be.
I could take them to a consignment store, but they're hardly a summer item. (A fact I ignored completely the one time I wore these. It was July. Again, the shame is strong.)
I could try to schlep them off on some unfortunate reader of this blog, but I'm pretty sure that after I admitted to wearing the pants in the heat of summer, no one's interested.
What becomes of a once-loved pair of leather pants never to be worn again? Is a second-life as a wallet all they can really hope for?
If Cassidy doesn't want to go as a dog biker for next Halloween, it might finally be time for me to let these pants go.
All About Me
Call it self-indulgent,but lately I've spent a lot of time thinking about compliments. Ofcourse, we all like compliments — they make us feel good aboutourselves. And, we've all also experienced the sting of the infamousback-handed compliment: "The extra weight looks good on you."What's most interesting to me though, is the compliments/kudos thatwe remember years later. When I'm having a bad day (not a simple badhair day or getting a flat tire in the rain), but I really bad day --one where I doubt myself, second guess every decision I've made inthe last five years, can't seem to find my own self-worth -- thinkingabout the times my SO [significant other] tells me I look great justaren't enough.
And, I guess that's whatI find so fascinating. When I was a little girl, I desperately wantedpeople to think that I was pretty (probably so that I'd think ofmyself as pretty), and other compliments rarely mattered to me.Smart, sweet, funny, cute -- there wasn't an adjective I wanted tohear if it wasn't "pretty" or "beautiful," andlater in college, "hot." It sounds so vain now, but avalidation of my looks was all that I wanted. In true the grass isalways greener fashion, I also bet all of the girls told that theywere pretty desperately wanted to be acknowledged for something otherthan their looks -- like a sense of humor or intelligence.
So, getting back to thepoint of the best compliment I've ever received, here goes: When Iwas a freshman in college, I was absolutely miserable. I wasattending Duke University, the kind of college that was my dream anda lot of people's dreams, but I could barely make myself get out ofbed in the morning. I had thought that I could make myself lovecollege. I tried being as social as I could at frat parties, throwingmyself into classes, looking into activities, even a therapist, butnone of it seemed to matter. And coupled with the fact that I wasmiserable, I also felt like a failure. What kind of person doesn'tenjoy college? I worried that I was socially inept, incapable ofbeing independent or just plain bratty.
Eventually, I decidedthat maybe it was the place and not me. Or, at least, that maybe Iwasn't the type of person for that particular kind of place. Istarted looking into the idea of transferring and began filling outapplications to other schools. A lot of people thought I was insane,which didn't do much for my feelings of failure. Even the dean I hadto see for one of my transfer applications was skeptical. "You'remaking the biggest mistake of your life," he told me. "Ifyou do this, you'll always regret it."
(Call me crazy, but I'mpretty sure that telling any 19-year-old a decision that doesn'tinvolve narcotics or firearms is the biggest mistake of their lifeleans towards the dramatic.)
For one of the firsttimes, I decided to trust myself. I decided to believe that maybe Iwasn't just bad at college, I was bad at being a Duke student. I wentahead with my transfer applications, and my very kind and graciouscollege counselor from high school even volunteered to help me withmy second round of applications and essays. In May of that year, Iwas accepted to Georgetown University. I moved to my D.C. dorm thatfall and spent the next few years loving my life as a Hoya.
During that applicationtime, it was my former college counselor who gave me my bestcompliment. As I was sitting in her office one day, she told me, "I'mso proud of you. You're so brave. I don't even think you realize howbrave you're being."
Sure, I wasn't savinganyone from a burning building, but for a "good girl" wholiked to please others and seek their approval, walking away fromDuke and ignoring the legions of people unhappy with my choice wasn'tthe easiest option. Plus, as someone who startles easily and can'twatch scary movies, I'm far more prone to think of myself as cowardlythan brave.
When I'm having a badday, I remember that someone thought I was brave. And I try my bestto be that. I also remember that I'm the one responsible for my lifeand what becomes of it, and I'm capable of making my own choices.Even when I think about being recently laid off, I let the idea ofbeing "brave" help me see this as the time to go after whatI want and not a reason to buckle. Basically, I do my best tofearlessly be me and hope that the rest falls into place.
My Misspent Youth?
This probably won’t come as a surprise to most, but I spent a large portion of my elementary years as a mathlete.
For the fifth and sixth grades, I was a proud, non-alternate member of my school’s math team. Yes, I chose to take tests outside of the designated school hours, and I spent at least one afternoon a week engaged in our “practices” of reviewing math principles and playing with protractors. (Well, we weren’t “playing with” protractors – that would have been contrary to our goal. We drew perfect circles and measured radii for a reason.)
The high point of every math team season was the two tournaments we participated in – one was held at Highland’s Day in Birmingham, and the other was an “away” tournament at Montgomery Academy.
(If you ever want to feel better about your own adolescent years, consider this:
I attended private school – where I prided myself on being on the honor roll and participating in the French Club – but played sports in the league associated with the local public school. I knew no one on my team. I was “the weird private school kid.” And, with my athletic abilities, there was already more than enough to make fun of me for just based on what I did on the field. I am not kidding when I say that I usually had to go through 20 minutes of keep away before having the cap I needed to play.
What could make this worse, you ask? I once missed a game because of one of my math tournaments. This is a fact I was more than willing to keep to myself. But, as my softball coach was giving me my award for “best sportsmanship” – yep, you heard it right – he announced that I put as much heart into my softball playing as I did into my math tournaments.
I can still hear the snickers.
The most difficult part of the math tournament was known as “ciphering.” Ciphering is also the most active part of a math tournament because it’s the only activity that doesn’t involve sitting in a silent room taking a test.For ciphering, a member of each team takes a seat at the front of the auditorium and waits for a math problem to be placed on an overhead projector. The team member must them solve the problem and hand it off to the checker behind them.
And, here’s the real kicker: If you finish the problem in 30 seconds, you get two points. If you finish in 60 seconds, you get one point. (No answers were accepted after 60 seconds.) What is a mathlete to do? Double-check your work and be sure of the one point? Or, throw caution to the wind and try for the two points? Oh, the dilemma.
When I was 11, ciphering terrified me. It used to make me almost sick to my stomach. Mood rings were pretty popular around the time I was on the math team, and I remember thinking that if I wore a mood ring during ciphering, it would be pitch black because of all the nerves I had. (Of course, I would never wear a mood ring during actual ciphering – it might have slowed down my pencil work.)
I would always cipher. (I didn’t want to risk being bumped down to the team’s alternate position.) But, I was never quite comfortable with it. And, I don't think I ever scored more than two points for every five questions I answered.
Even today, I get a little taste of those old ciphering (and softball) nerves every time I have to speak in front of a room full of people, go on a first date or introduce myself to strangers. (Will they judge me? Will I get something wrong? Is my skirt tucked in the back of my underwear?) I may not look much like the fifth grader who had to jump for her softball cap, but she’s still there.
I’ve come to accept that no matter how old I get, how much experience I gather or how much makeup I have on, I’ve got an adolescent girl on the inside who still can’t believe she’s out of a training bra. And, for the most part, I think I like it that way. It reminds me that despite some of the ups and downs of the last few years, I have made some progress.
After all, I can wear a baseball cap whenever I want, and when I do balance my checkbook, it happens in under 60 seconds without me hyperventilating a single bit.
The Friendly Skies
I’m not a good flier.
I’m sure it’s shocking to most, but something about my fear of heights, death and touching strangers added to my anxiety disorder doesn’t make for the best mix. I tend to vacillate between near-hyperventilation, the temptation to start inappropriate conversations with strangers (“Tila Tequila, what a whore, huh?”) and staring into the abyss of my own mortality from the moment I enter the airport until my last flight touches the tarmac.
I’ve developed a series of rituals to deal with this fear. They includes touching the plane before I board, crossing myself on takeoff and landing and listening to the safety instructions every single time so that no greater power decides to strike me down for my arrogance.
Let’s just say that between my panic and having to remember all of the little details that keep the plane in the air (you’re welcome pilots), I find air travel absolutely exhausting.
So, I don’t fly that much. And since I don’t fly that much, I often forget about the one thing I do actually like about planes, mainly, the Skymall catalog. (I actually have so much to say about Skymall, I’m thinking of subtitling this blog “The Summer of Skymall” for the next few months. More on that later.)
When I first saw a Skymall catalog, I became obsessed with the four-compartment shampoo, conditioner, soap and lotion shower dispenser. I wanted it so badly, I begged my mother to let me order one for about two years. After all, what high school sophomore wouldn’t love her own wall-mounted shower dispenser, right?
When the darn thing finally came, I was intrigued for about five minutes before it ended up under my bathroom sink never to be filled or used again. (A turn most likely evident of even more of my mother’s wisdom.)
But, while I may remember the Skymall catalog as being both fascinating and useless, I don’t remember it being racist.
Which is one of the reasons I was so surprised to see a table like this in its pages. What on earth do you think when you spy this in someone’s home? And how do they explain buying it?
“Here’s a coaster, and feel free to put that drink right on top of the Asian man on all fours.”
I just don’t think crouching people are a very good choice in furniture design. And I really can’t see this item going over well on international flights.
Rainy Days and Dog Blogs
I have often thought about giving my dog Cassidy her own blog. (Tentative title: I'm All Ears -- because Cassidy has both very large ears and tons of great advice to give.) I thought it could be a fun forum, and re-telling the events of the day from a dog's perspective might make the rather mundane tasks of waiting for the mailman and seeing who is on today's episode of WifeSwap slightly more interesting. Might.
Up until now, the main reason I haven't created a blog for Cassidy is that I didn't want to have to share this information with potential boyfriends. After all, one of my primary goals in life, after publishing a book and developing the self-control not to eat my weight in chips and salsa after every single Mexican restaurant I visit, is not dying alone. And, somehow I think that explaining to dates that one of my hobbies is writing an Internet journal in an affected canine third person wouldn't help me out with that last one.
But, ever since the BF didn't seem too frightened when I mentioned wanting a blog for Cassidy, I've gone back to the idea.
(Plus, Cassidy's blog is only the beginning of what I imagine to be our joint celebrity life as humorists and general gals-about-town.)
Unfortunately though, then there are days like yesterday when all Cassidy and I do are wait for the rain to pass, watch Lifetime movies and ponder the stray cat that seems to live on my porch now. Even with Cassidy's gleaming wit and keen observation, I'm pretty sure all I could get out of that one are:
"Cats suck. I didn't know Daphne Zuniga still got work." ~Cassidy Belle Mills
I don't think that one's going to get us any closer to Oprah or international renown.
*Photo represents the slightly terrifying extent of my fantasies about Cassidy's and my future celebrity.