Shameless Self-Promotion
I try not to ask for much (apart from attention, cash, understandingand fame -- if you even count those), but I would really appreciate asmall favor from the readers of this blog. (I'm sorry if this makes mea terrible person):
Please vote for me (story #1) at My Scoop's Valentine's Day Contest.It'd be the best V Day gift I've gotten since a single rose from theboy who gave everyone roses as part of my high school's Key Clubfundraiser.
Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's
I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.
As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.
Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.
Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.
(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)
We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.
As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.
In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.
So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.
There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)
I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.
Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)
"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.
"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."
"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"
"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."
"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."
"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."
"Cocks."
I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"
"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"
"Cocks."
"It's not his fault," I said.
"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."
"Cocks."
"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."
"You can do so much better than this baby."
"I can," I said. "I know you're right."
"Cocks."
"You ready to get back out there?"
"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.
"Go get 'em," the waitress said.
"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.
With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.
I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same.
* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.
The Week of Love
In honor of the time of year, I thought I'd share some Valentine's Day-related stories this week. However, as with all incidents filtered through me, there will be some caveats.
For the coupled up amongst you, I wouldn't expect too much insight into the world of over-the-top romance. I cringe during proposals on The Today Show or Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve because those moments seems private to me. And the idea of people watching and judging what should be an intimate moment? No, thank you. I don't want to attend your annual physical exam either. I like my sappy moments fictional and created by one Nicholas Sparks. Plus, these days, there's not much I appreciate more than finding out that the dirty dishes have already been put away or that the trip to the recycling center has already been accomplished.
As for the singles, please rest assured I have some tales that will make you only too happy to spend February 14 alone or celebrating with friends or candy, whichever floats your boat.
To go in what I consider to be reverse order, I thought I'd start with the story of my best Valentine's Day. (Best V-Day before the Significant Other showed up, of course. If confused, please reference previous paragraph about some privacy and intimate moments.)
The year was 1993, I was 13 years old and the Valentine's Day dance approached. I had been to exactly one dance before, but that dance hadn't really counted. (I.E., it wasn't school-sponsored. A friend's mom hosted a dance-themed party for our class in the clubhouse of her condominium complex the year before. While we were all very excited about the concept, no one ended up dancing, and because it was more of a "party" than a "dance," talking our moms into special shopping trips had been a bit of a challenge.)
The Valentine's Dance, on the other hand, was a time-honored tradition for seventh and eighth graders and came complete with shiny cardboard heart decorations, a DJ and teachers-turned-chaperones.
Naturally, I turned all of my attention to the outfit, and after bugging my mother incessantly, we set out for the mall one night after she got home from work. To share with you why this was an even bigger deal for me, let me reiterate what a late bloomer I was. I was the next-to-last girl in my grade to get her training bra, and sixth/seventh grade was just around the time I could finally start wearing "adult" clothes. (Oh, to have the problem of not being able to fit into a size 0 because it was too big, again.) I was stuck shopping in the kid's department for years, and the idea of showing up to a school dance -- of all places -- in an outfit you could also buy in a child's size 6 was too much for me to bear.
In those days, my mother and I always went to Express first because their clothes had a better chance of fitting me. Their outfits came in the now-I-hate-seeing-the-doll-clothes-next-to-my-curvy-body-shapers-built-in-nearly-maternity-style-tops 0/1 size.
Before we even crossed the threshold, I saw it. Sheath dress. Falling just above the knee. Scoop-necked. Black stripes alternating with neon stripes of pink, orange and yellow. (This was 1993.) It was the most beautiful, sexiest (by seventh grade terms) dress I had ever seen. I instantly saw my crush swooning the moment I walked in wearing it.
"Do you think it will fit?"
"We won't know until you try it on," my mother said, and I rushed to the dressing room.
In terms of fit, the dress came pretty close as I remember it. I think my mother and grandmother had to make a few alterations -- most likely taking in the chest -- but all in all, I was in heaven.
The night of the dance, I styled my permed and heavy-banged hair to perfection, zipped up my new and so-bright dress up and topped it all off with a velvet choker that had a single gold heart charm. (For Valentine's Day, of course.)
Arriving at the dance, I was nervous. But spurred on by my stellar look, I had more confidence than usual. And rather than finding boys on one side of the room and girls on the other, this dance actually had members of the opposite sex talking to one another. When the music started, members of the opposite sex even danced with one another.
Everyone was being very friendly. (When there's only 24 people in your grade, you kind of have to be that way. Private school. Sigh.) As the evening wore on I danced with my crush many times (!!! as my inner-adolescent would say) and a bunch of other boys, too.
But, it was the end of the night that was the most special of all.
"Last song," the DJ called.
It was all coming to an end, and everyone knows the last song at the dance is by far the most important song. (I mean, a last song is all about eternal and ever-lasting love. Marriages and babies are built on who you choose for that last dance. You might as well sign up for adjacent burial plots when you pick that partner for your last dance. Am I right people?)
"What to do?" I thought. People were already pairing off. I turned towards my crush to see what he was doing, and he looked right back at me. He then gave me the shrugged shoulders that mean "Why not? You wanna dance?" in seventh grade boy speak.
I shrugged back. ("Sure," in seventh grade girl speak.)
We moved closer together. He put his arms around my waist, I put my arms around his neck, and with enough room between us for a small person, we danced the last dance of Valentine's Day 1993 to "You're the Inspiration."
I fell asleep all aflutter, dreaming of rock ballads and would could happen at school that Monday.
I'd like to thank Express and Chicago for making such an incredible evening possible.
My (Brief) Life in Politics
I've had some bad job interviews -- and some bad dates, which are really a whole lot like interviews, if you think about it, except that money is rarely discussed upfront. (Unless, of course, you're on one of those kinds of "dates," which are something I, fortunately, know nothing about other than what I see on Law & Order: SVU.)
I once had a 45-minute date. That one even included a sit-down dinner, so I'm guessing I didn't look the way he remembered, or my meal-time conversation is not nearly as entertaining as I thought. During an adventure in speed dating, I was fist-bumped by one guy, informed by another that he "hated children," "like really hated them," loudly and to the point where other people stared, and sat across from a man who was, at best, extremely rude ("What could you possibly have to offer me?") and, at worst, off his meds and in need of professional help ("Should I really even bother talking to you?"). On a double date, the couple I was with had a loud argument that ended with a slap. (About that last one, I've said it before, and I'll say it again, there is little shame like the shame of realizing you are the most conspicuous table in the Olive Garden.)
But, of the two categories of getting-to-know-yous, it's my worst job interview that always stands out.
At the time, I was 21 years old and had just graduated from Georgetown University. Armed with my liberal arts degree and no practical skills, I was sure Iwould be a treasured asset to any corporation and couldn't wait for mysigning bonus and annual salary of at least $50,000. How could no one want to hire such a bright, bushy-tailed recent graduate of the Hilltop?
After six weeks of job hunting, I was shocked that I still hadn't found something. I'd said that I had no interest in a job on Capitol Hill, but with reality setting in -- and my bank account settling down -- I realized there was nothing to lose in taking my resume to the Hill's administrative offices.
(I can't remember the name of the Capitol's HR department now, I just know that there was an office where you could drop off your resume so that you would be considered for certain open positions throughout the House and Senate. I remember this mainly because I also remember tripping on the sidewalk in front of the Senate administrative offices while a homeless man pointed and laughed. It didn't help with the way I was feeling about my employment/life prospects at the time.)
I was thrilled when I got a call two days later inviting me to interview for a job in an Illinois Senator's office. It might not be my dream job, but it was most assuredly a job. I put on my most conservative suit and headed downtown.
From my brief experience with government positions, I learned that you have to meet with a lot of people to ever get a government job. I met with some sort of HR-type rep, an aide, the Office Manager, and the Legislative Director before being led to the office door of my last stop -- the Chief of Staff.
I walked into a small office and sat across from a very pale man with large, square glasses. He didn't smile, and looked over both me and my resume with quick, darting glances. After a few basic questions about my education, why I wanted to wok on the Hill, etc., he said, "Speak French."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Speak French. It says here on your resume that you're fluent in French, so speak it."
It's hard for me to be put on the spot about anything, much less delivering a monologue in another language. Asking for a scene from Hamlet probably would have gone over better. Conducting part of the interview in French, I probably could have handled. This? Not so much.
I said the equivalent of "Hi, my name is Laurel. I'm from Birmingham. I'd like a job please" in French. Not exactly inspired prose.
"Hm-mph," he said once I was done. "For those of us who have studied at the Sorbonne, an accent is included in fluency. And it's not a Southern one."
Despite my embarrassment, I wanted to say, "I'm sorry you couldn't get laid until well after college, it's clearly made you bitter." Instead, I said, "I'm sorry, sir."
I was not surprised when I got a phone call a week later telling me that the job went to someone else.
Of course, these days, I'm sure it worked out for the best. I don't think I would have made it too long in the office of a Republican senator. My unexpressed thoughts rarely stay that way for long.
Halfway through this post, I started to wonder if I'd written about this experience before. If I have, I apologize for the repeat. I can't always keep up -- even with myself.
My House is so Cold
How cold is it? you say.
My house is so cold, I've taken to closing off rooms so that I can try to concentrate the little heat I do have into a couple of rooms where I spend the most time.
Closing off rooms for the winter makes me feel like I'm in some fabulous 18th or 19th century Victorian novel. Of course, I don't have help I can order to re-open the rooms in the spring. (Picture maids taking the sheets off my chaises and settees and throwing open the shutters.)
I also don't remember any classic novels taking place in 3/1s just down the road from JoJo's Gun and Pawn, but maybe that's just me.
I Don't Do Lines
I believe there are certain attributes we're allotted fixed quantities of each day -- cleanliness, courtesy, tolerance for TNT promos. No matter what we do, only a new night will refresh our stores and allow us to again be thoughtful, caring members of the human race. I think patience is one such attribute.
I usually have a wealth of patience for children and animals. For everyone else, it's a crap shoot. Normally, I can allot my patience throughout the day -- an extra five minutes waiting in traffic, a few more minutes for the cashier in training at the BP station, deep breaths when someone asks how I ever expect to earn a living as a writer. But, if anything exceptionally time-consuming happens, my patience for the whole day is shot.
If the pharmacists takes 45 minutes to fill a prescription he or she promised in 10 minutes, I'll be perfectly cordial to that pharmacist. (Should I be worried that all of my anecdotes take place in the pharmacy? I guess we all write what we now.) I'll thank him or her and take my meds without complaint.
However, the next person to slow me down is out of luck.
Ruby Tuesday: "You said I'd have a table in 15 minutes. It's been 16, and I want some freakin' sliders!"
Intersections: "Are you color blind? Because that's the only reason to still be sitting still on a green light!"
Neighbors: "Of course, you had my mail for two days. Because Laurel Mills printed on an envelope looks just like your name you crazy b*&%^."
(I rarely get quite as bad as that last one, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility.)
On those days when my patience is gone, nothing from meditation to a cocktail can get me back on track, but I wake up the next morning feeling reset to zero and ready to cope with a world of lines, muzak and lagging Internet connections. I might be weird, but all I really know is that I don't get the appropriate daily store for a career in social services or mental health.
Despite what patience I have or don't have, as the case may be, for others, I tend to have no patience when it comes to myself. I often feel like Barbra Streisand's character in The Way We Were, I want, I want, I want, and I usually want now, now, now. I want a career and a family and thinner thighs. And when they're not right in front of me, I worry they'll never come to me. I call it a question of patience, but there's a lot of trust and faith tied up in there, too.
The scary thing is that my impatience often makes me hold onto things not worth having. I'd keep the wrong job or the wrong boyfriend because I didn't want to start all over. (Just think of all that lost time!) Because, if it was a question of will, I'd find a way to make it work. After all, I'm a smart girl, surely I could find a way to make someone love me/advance my career/bend the universe to my agenda. And we all know what pushing and holding on too tightly can do.
Oh, control, or the lack thereof, why must you taunt me always? Even in line at Ruby Tuesday?
I should probably do a little more waiting. Or, at least, a little less rushing.
In my struggles with patience and control, I like to think of something Terri Cheney wrote in her memoir, Manic, " ... My greatest victories have always been surrenders." Surrenders to the universe, to time, to fate. The surrender of letting go. Of trusting a little more and not forgetting to enjoy the ride. Easier said than done, but I'm trying.
I'm sure my pharmacist will be appreciative.
New Year, Same Me
I'm not much for New Year's Resolutions. Since I tend to find enough fault with myself as is, I prefer not to set myself up for failure with half-hearted proclamations that usually result from peer pressure. I've seen plenty of commercials for gyms, Nutri System and Wii Fit in the weeks leading up to today, but I don't think targeted ads and social norms are enough to bring about the will power I've lacked for the past 30 years. (Plus, chocolate-covered cherries are still half-price at Wal-Mart, and there aren't enough marketing dollars and judgmental stares for me to fight that kind of temptation.)
I also think the world is too hard on vices. Everything in moderation, as they say. Plus, I can't help but think the occasional vice -- whether it's a cocktail or some celebrity gossip -- keeps us all sane. I worked for a woman who did not drink, smoke, gamble or eat meat. She was one of the meanest and most difficult women I've ever known. If you ask me, a cheeseburger and a martini would have made all of our lives far better.
It's not that I don't think about self-improvement, I just prefer to do it in a different way. For example, I've spent the last year or so of my life working on approval. In the past couple of years, I've realized that there isn't an amount of praise that's enough for me.
If someone says that a story I wrote is "good," I want to know why they didn't use "great." If it's "great," I want to know why it wasn't "awesome." And if it's "the best work they've ever read and they bow down to me as the next great literary genius," I figure they're lying and trying to make me stop asking questions. (Not that the last comment has ever happened, but I wanted to paint a clear picture.)
If I hear 99 positive comments about my work or self and one negative comment, I only remember the negative comment. So, I decided that if others' approval was never going to do it for me, I should probably start cultivating my own.
Of course, this kind of attitude doesn't make everyone happy. People love to offer thoughts and advice because it makes them feel important, and if you've ever gone from a period of serious self-doubt to one of assurance or attempted self-confidence, you know how easily this can enrage those who were avoiding their own issues by taking care of yours. Luckily for me (?), upsetting people right off the bat was a great way to test my commitment to this notion of looking inside rather than outside for approval and self-worth.
It's been a good leg of the journey, but it's far from over. Next on my list: not comparing myself to others. And I'm sure that one's going to be a doozy. Hopefully I'll be ready for it by 2011.
But, back to the subject of New Year's resolutions. I was fine without having any sort of list this year, and I figured I'd just excuse myself to the bar whenever the subject came up at cocktail parties. Then, the SO and I climbed into the car:
SO: Got any New Year's resolutions for 2010?
Me: Not really. I'm not so much into that kind of thing.
SO: Would you like me to help you with your New Year's resolutions?
Me: I'd rather you not suggest areas of improvement for me. Unless, of course, you're planning on being single in the New Year.
He quickly relented. But, in the spirit of compromise to the SO and the world, I decided to cave anyway. I now give you my non-half-hearted New Year's resolutions:
1. Get a full-time job. For obvious reasons -- benefits and direct deposit being right at the top of the list.
2. Finish the manuscript for my children's book. It's only five years in the works; I'd rather not make it more than six.
3. Work on a proposal for my knitting book. When traditional publishing doesn't go your way, the wanting-to-be-published go non-traditional. Or something like that. Maybe?
4. Get the cat to pee in a litter box.
5. Deal with the series finale of Lost without some sort of post-partum-like depression. This will be far easier said than done.
I wish y'all the best in 2010! Thanks for reading! I really do appreciate each and every one of you.
Airport Style
For those of you wondering why I haven't posted much lately, I was out of town last week. The Significant Other took me to San Francisco for my birthday, and we had a blast exploring the city, getting out in Northern California and eating our weight in Italian food. We also happened to visit during one of the coldest weeks San Francisco has experienced in the last 15 years. (I think the weather is part of a family curse. Ten years ago, when we went to Melbourne, Australia, the weather was also unseasonably cold and wet. That weather was so bad, I hear no one has experienced it since.) Thanks to that weather, I also brought home a little cold in addition to my new hat, gloves and San Francisco hoodie.
As excited as I was about our trip, I also knew that to get to San Francisco, I'd have to engage in one of my least favorite activities -- flying.
When it comes to dressing for a flight, I try to wear clothes that are comfortable, but I also put on my bigger items so that I can save space in my luggage for later purchases. This means that instead of wearing the FAA-recommended rubber-soled shoes (because I do know these things), I tend to fly in boots, a long sweater and my heaviest coat (winter only, of course).
(My sister would say that this outfit has nothing to do with how much I have to pack. I have a style that she has often referred to as "celebrity at the airport." I think this has to do with my love of big boots and big sunglasses with little attention to anything else -- hairstyle, makeup and showering included -- but I could be wrong.)
Despite the fact that I was beyond layered, I thought I ended up looking pretty cute. I just had no idea how much my wardrobe choices would stand out from the other passengers.
At the Birmingham airport, it seems that you have to travel in your SEC team colors of choice. If you are not displaying your loyalty to one college football franchise or other, you just don't fit in. I saw more Alabama and Auburn sweatshirts and tees than I've seen outside a stadium in years.
At the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport (our stopover), women wore pants with elastic waists (in-flight comfort?) while men wore Vikings paraphernalia and jerseys. Seriously, I saw one guy not wearing Vikings merchandise and he made sure to display his book -- The Vikings Reader by Armand Peterson -- with such gusto that I can only assume he was worried about being assaulted by the other fans if he didn't make his feelings known.
In San Francisco, everyone had a baby strapped to them, and that's one accessory I'm nowhere close to having.
Long story short -- and the real point to this story -- after all of the thought I put into my outfit, not a single person complimented my new brown, slouchy boots. Not a single one.
The Hotel Talisi
My parents were the kind to go through phases.
In the late '80s they developed an incredible fondness for Cajun cuisine. This involved trips to cooking school in New Orleans, large pots of gumbo and cookie sheets full of pralines (my favorite part of this obsession), as well as a brief decorating scheme that had the kitchen island covered in faux netting with plastic lobsters and crabs trapped in its folds.
When my sisters and I took dance classes in a strip mall, we all started spending a lot more time at the pizza place two doors down from the studio. This ignited the period in which my parents would host "make your own pizza" dinner parties with each couple having their own genuine, fresh-from-the-pizzeria dough. (Lesson learned: tossing pizza dough is much, much harder than it looks.)
There were also musicals (for my mother), Dennis Quaid films (for dad), self-help books (darkness), ping pong and the Footloose finale. Perhaps most unsettling though, was the period during which my parents decided we should take more vacations -- and take more vacation to random Southern landmarks at that.
Please keep in mind that this was also in the beginning of my tween years, so the last thing I ever wanted to do was vacation with my parents. I was far more interested in talking on the phone for hours and writing involved notes about the injustices of 6th grade than something as silly as travel.
One Spring Break, we drove to see the homes and Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Then we were off to New Orleans. What I remember most about this trip is drifting off to sleep in the car, only to wake up and realize my parents had foregone the highway for back roads. ("Dear God, why did we leave the interstate?" I thought, "Why, God, why?")
We ended up on a tour of a "plantation." I use quotation marks there because I think that when half the tour involves, "This is the rumpus room we added in the '70s" or "We got rid of the old kitchen to make way for our pool," you've forfeited some of your historical clout and should no longer advertise as such.
Historical home remodels aside, the worst of these jaunts, by far, was a trip to Tallassee, Alabama.
For those of you wondering, no, Tallassee has nothing to do with Tallahassee, Florida. Florida would have a beach. Or some tourist trap. Maybe mini-golf. Tallassee had supposedly one of the best brunches in the South -- and absolutely nothing else.
We arrived after what seemed to be hours in the car (a two-hour drive is nothing unless you're a tween who measures everything by time spent away from the phone) and pulled up to the smallest hotel I'd ever seen. I think I asked, "What else is here?" only to learn from my mother that in Tallassee, what you see is what you get.
"This is it," she said. "The whole town is one block. Can you believe it?"
I could, but I didn't want to.
We checked in, and I proceeded to mope and complain about boredom. The next morning, we went to shop at the five and dime store across from the hotel where a strange man followed my mother around the store and I bought a mini-Barbie for a dollar.
In no way did we have fun for the whole family.
But, I was still sad to learn that the hotel in Tallassee burned down yesterday. Nowadays, I could really get into a quiet weekend with nothing to do but devour fried chicken. And I can't help but wonder how I'll torture my own children without such important Alabama landmarks.
I guess there's always Vicksburg.
No Pain, No Gain
Right or wrong, I tend to think that nothing worth having ever came easy. In fact, for the most part, I think the most important accomplishments in our life should downright hurt.
Now, I'm not saying that nothing should come easy or it should be a constant hurt. If you date someone who hurts you terribly, you don't keep dating them. If you date someone who hurts you terribly, you learn something about yourself from that relationship and move on. (You also move on to someone who does not possess the same qualities/characteristics/immaturity that your previous significant other did. If you've never seen Straight Talk, a kind-of-wonderful, kind-of-awful movie starring Dolly Parton and James Woods, watch it just to understand this: if you keep finding yourself with corn flakes, despite what the outside label says, it's time to make a change.)
It's really that I think the journey should hurt. If you ever sit next to me while I'm watching an episode of MTV's Made or A&E's Intervention, you might think I'm a terrrible person. I watch those shows and beg the counselors/trainers/family members to "break" the individual. I almost want to see them shattered because I believe that only in breaking down our defenses and paradigms can we challenge ourselves to do and seek better.
I believe that when it comes to the things we want most in life, we have to try our hardest. Unfortunately, even when we try our hardest, we won't always succeed. And this is where the defensive part of us kicks in and says either not to try that hard, or not to try at all, for the sense of preserving our self-esteem, self-worth, etc. But, it's only in daring to truly fail that we do our best.
My second semester of graduate school, I signed up to audit a creative nonfiction class at the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa. The class was all real MFA students, and when it was time to go around the room and introduce ourselves, those students tossed around terms like "When I was at Rolling Stone" and "my grant for my book" and "numerous poetry awards."
I had, "I like to read." I cried every week before I had to go to that class. I felt inadequate and stupid. I felt like there was nothing I could offer.
I psyched myself out badly, and I also became so afraid of the class' reaction to my work, that I couldn't hear my own voice. When it was time to present my piece to the class, there were barely any reactions because the piece was so terrible. (In a workshop, talking means people are engaged, the absence of talking means there might not be much to take away.) The comment I remember most was, "What you probably need to do is sit down and just write what comes to you without judging it at first."
I knew it was English 101 advice, and I knew it.
A week later, I ran into another student who was supposed to present a piece on the same day I did. "I just couldn't get my draft together," she said. "Everything I wrote just seemed to suck, and I couldn't let anyone see it."
"You shouldn't be afraid," I said. "You saw what I turned in."
"Yeah," she said, and then she couldn't look me in the eye.
In the weeks leading up to my next workshop for the class, I had a fair amount of time to reflect. A lot of me wanted to drop the class -- what was I doing there anyway? All the class did was make my cry and question my chosen vocation.
I also realized, though, that I had already failed miserably. No one in that class thought I could write -- teacher, peers and myself included. I couldn't do any worse. So, even if I dropped the class, I wouldn't get any of my dignity or sense of self back.
Instead of dropping, I went to work. I threw out 9 of the 11 pages I had written. I started fresh, and since I had already messed up so royally by trying to please everyone else and play it safe, it seemed best to just listen to myself. Any writer, or human being, will tell you that voice tends to matter the most anyway.
For my next workshop, the class was engaged. Everyone had comments. The girl who I thought hated me led the discussion and pointed out turns of phrase that she loved. My professor said, "This is what a revision should be. Excellent work. Really."
I was elated.
Of course, not all of my stories about failing have such a nice ending. Until recently, I thought I might be doomed in the relationship department. It took far more than a semester's worth of failing and self-doubt to get that one on the right track. And, I still haven't found a job since getting laid off nine months ago. However, in general, while failure and disappointment hurt like hell at the time, I would not trade the hurt for the freedom it provides -- the freedom to take your own path.
When I was nineteen, I knew that I was miserable at school. A lot of people tried to tell me that it was just life as a freshman, that once I made more friends/joined a sorority/got a new boyfriend, I'd be happy as a clam. But, I knew better.
I'll never forget sitting down with the dean of what was then the third ranked university in the country. "Why would you ever want to leave our little utopia?" he said.
"It's not a utopia for me," I said.
"I'll sign this little paper," he said, referring to a form I needed to transfer schools. "But you're making the biggest mistake of your life."
Personally, I don't believe in telling any teenager that a decision that doesn't involve heroin is the biggest mistake of his or her life. I also think, that no matter who the authority is, when it comes down to it, it's just one person's opinion. And who's to say the best authority on me and my own well-being, isnt, well, me?
I probably could have saved myself from a lot of bumps along the way, but I would have had to play it safe, and I'm not so sure I like safe. I like different, and inventive, and new, and even radical. I don't want to be told what to do, I want to find it for myself.
Maybe not everyone has to hurt, and maybe not everyone likes it. Maybe I only think hurt is worthwhile because it creates such a good contrast to happiness, just like dark and light. But, really, I think that without hurt, I wouldn't have figured out how to listen to myself, and that, as well as the choices I make as a result -- be it a romantic partner, career or cereal combination -- is worth the risk, the potential failure and the pain.
Plus, there's only one person's eyes that I need to be a success in, and that's my own. And, when I can really convince myself of that one, it's the most freedom I've every known.
P.S. This particular entry? Not so easy to illustrate. Hence, the weird graphic of a broken heart. Please just try to go with it.
Banned Books
My grandmother believed that as long as my father was reading, he could read whatever he wanted. This is why, when an elementary school teacher "caught" him with an Ian Fleming novel and demanded "Does your mother know about this?" my father thought, "Who do you think bought it for me?"
My parents took a similar approach to my own reading. I was never told there was a book I couldn't read. And I can only remember being forbidden to watch one TV show. (It was "Married ... With Children," and now that I can watch it as an adult, I can't help but think the ban had more to do with the fact that the show just isn't funny than anything else.) As long as I was reading, I could pick out whatever book I wanted.
Now, of course, this philosophy wasn't understood by all. I can still remember being in the local library the summer before fifth grade. I had my summer reading list in front of me and had circled all of the books I was interested in. The one at the top of my list was "Death Be Not Proud." (I thought it sounded very adult.) But, since I was having a hard time with the Dewey Decimal system -- it's something I still struggle with -- I had to ask a librarian for help. I took her my list and asked her to help me find the books.
I knew I was in trouble when she turned away from the adult section of the library and headed towards the brightly-colored, way-too-much-construction-paper-on-the-walls "young adult" section. "Oh, you don't want these books," she said. "I'll find some much better books for you."
Then, she put something called "The Lemon Dog" in my hands. I can rarely recall feeling as powerless as I did in that moment. The cover was illustrated for God's sake, and I hadn't read a book with less than 100 pages an in illustrated cover in over three years. "But ..." I began.
Before I knew it, six more books with illustrated covers were piled in my hands. "Will that be all for today?" she said.
I nodded and went back to find my housekeeper who had driven my sisters and I to the library. "Did you get what you needed?" she asked.
I shook my head and showed her the books the librarian had "helped" me find.
"Are these the books you wanted?"
"No," I said. "Do I look like I want to read "The Lemon Dog"? "The Lemon Dog"?!?! I'm ten, Esther, not stupid."
My housekeeper then took my list from me and marched back to the same librarian. "These aren't the books she wanted to find," she said.
"Oh, well," the librarian said, "I didn't think those were good books for a child her age. I picked out more appropriate titles."
"I think we'll let her decide what she wants to read -- not you," Esther said. "Now what shelf is this one on?"
I walked out of the library that day vindicated and clutching my very own copy of "Death Be Not Proud." (I was also more in love with Esther than ever.)
Admittedly, I'm not a parent, but I still wonder why random adults have such strong opinions about what a child should and shouldn't be reading, watching, doing. I think this is especially true when they're asking for books. I wanted to read, after all, not have the librarian show me the best spot in the library for smoking crack.
And, it's also amazing to me how easy it is for me to feel like that powerless child again whenever someone questions my authority -- you're having another glass of wine? you're buying that? you let your dog do what?. As I near 30, I wonder if this feeling will ever go away, and I'm guessing that, unfortunately, the answer is probably "no."
My Cat Thinks He's A Dog
I have a love/hate relationship with my blog's stats. On the one hand, the narcissistic part of me has to know how many people clicked on my website in a given day. On the other hand, the numbers themselves can be a bit of a downer. Thank you Mom and Dad for continuing to visit, but in comparison to even some friend's Twitter followers, I'm not causing much of a stir on the world wide web.
For those of you wondering what any of this has to do with my cat's identity issues, here goes: One trend I have noticed is that anytime I put "cat" or "dog" in a blog title, my number of visitors doubles. (Strangely enough, my mention of "Scott Bakula" has a similar effect. Whether or not these two are related, I can't say.) So, in an effort to give the people what they want -- and boost my Google search rating -- here are the top three indicators my cat thinks he's a dog:
3. He tries drink out of the toilet. I have no idea where this came from, but it happened. I'm just glad I was around, and he didn't drown. I don't think he knows he isn't the same size as the dog either.
2. While he clearly has no use for the litter box, he has shown some success in the house-training department with puppy pads. My next step: putting the puppy pad in the litter box. Please keep your fingers crossed.
1. He tries to nurse on Cassidy. I had no idea what was going on when this first happened (my first clue anything was amiss was a very perplexed look from the dog), but sure enough, there was the cat trying to get milk out of the dog that's been fixed for five years. I read on the Internet that this is very common for young cats, especially when they're small and looking for comfort. It's also supposedly a sign that the cat sees Cassidy as his mom. The only problem? I don't think Cassidy wants to be anyone's mom. She's much happier being my very pampered baby. I imagine that this one will work itself out. There's only so many times you can go back to the pantry looking for nourishment when you know it's empty, right? Otherwise, I try to make sure Cassidy has plenty of her own space -- even if that space comes with the caveat of snuggling with me.
And for my own purely selfish reasons, I will also add that both Cassidy and the cat completely adore Scott Bakula.
David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness
Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.
(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)
In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:
He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.
"Basil," I said.
"That looks like basil?"
"No," I said, "I thought you asked what Laurel looks like. I think Laurel looks like basil."
"OK," he said, "but what does that look like?" and he pointed at his drawing again.
"Thyme?"
At that point, he gave up, wrote basil next to the bananas (?) and drew a marijuana leaf and a dime. We could both agree on those representations. Then, in my next book, he wrote:
Now, I'm pretty sure that I told no good stories. Other than the discussion of herbs and my compliment to his tie, I don't think anything close to "touching" ever happened. Yet, at the same time -- even though I know this has no bearing on reality -- I found myself incredibly moved by the sentiment.
The moral to this story: I'm a sucker. And what I choose to believe/remember is so much better than what actually happens.
My Life Is Hard
Some people wash their faces in the shower out of convenience. I do it out of necessity.
You see, that whole image perpetuated by Oil of Olay commercials and Neutrogena ads of a woman who is capable of rinsing her face with a perfectly controlled mini-splash from the sink is just beyond me. When I wash my face, it usually goes like this:
First, I knock over my toothbrush stand and hair brush using one hand to search for a towel while my eyes are clamped shut. (If I dare to open my eyes even a second too soon, I inevitably get face cleanser in my eye leading to some crying, frantic eye-rinsing and ten minutes of hyperventilating while I wonder whether or not I have inadvertently blinded myself.)
Then, once I find the towel and pat my face dry, I look in the mirror to see that stray face cleanser has found its way into my hair and ears. I spend more time cleaning up from washing my face than actually washing my face. Missed soap in the hair is the worst -- it does not dry well.
Next, not only will I have water stains on my shirt from out-of-control splashing, but the entire waistline of whatever I've decided to wear will also has a line of water across it from leaning over the sink. This routine always ends with having to find an entirely new outfit before leaving the house. (And, for me in my pre-underemployment days, picking out not one, but two, business casual outfits in a day was rather time-consuming.)
With the shower face wash, there's no danger of ruined outfits, and I can't tell you how much time and frustration this has saved. I repeat -- my life is hard.
On a completely unrelated note, if anyone has any blog topics to suggest, I'd love to hear them. Even I'm finding it hard to make my days seem at all interesting to anyone else. Not that you can tall from this post, of course.
My Life in Cosmetics
When I turned 12, my mother took me on a special outing to the Clinique counter at the mall so that I could learn about skin care. We bought soap, toner, moisturizer and a lip gloss in acknowledgment of what would be the beginning of my life with cosmetics. After all, I was about to be a teenager, and for the most part, teenage girls and makeup go hand in hand.
I already had a slew of products picked up from the drug store, but those bright blue eye shadows and hot pink lip colors were for inside the house and "play' time only. I could actually go to school in my new Clinique lip gloss, and it was thrilling.
As I approach the milestone of my thirtieth birthday, I started thinking about my life in cosmetics. (I know that 30 is "the new 20," but I still find myself thinking about this birthday a little more than others.) I even came up with a brief history of my makeup usage:
Age 12: Lip gloss.
Age 15: Powder, mascara, lip gloss.
Age 18: Concealer, powder, blush, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, lip liner, lipstick.
Age 21: Body glitter and mascara. (Body glitter was very popular then, I swear. And, back then, my skin just seemed to glow with youth and possibility. Or, maybe it was just over-confidence and naivety.)
Age 25: Foundation, powder, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick.
Around the age of 25, I realized $3 foundation wasn't going to cut it anymore. At 20, my foundation cost $5 and my eye shadow cost $25. Now, my foundation costs $35 and my eye shadow costs $5.
But, what's most interesting to me is the change in my "no makeup" face. Now, I don't know about you, but I just assume that anyone who looks decent and says they "don't have a stitch of makeup on" is lying. "Women who don't wear makeup" are just wearing very little makeup. I mean, my mom gave me some great genes, but if I don't slap on some concealer, even a blind man would know it.
And I can tell you with no shame whatsoever that if I say I'm not wearing makeup, I'm full of it. (Unless, of course, we run into each other at the hospital or the liquor store. And, in those moments, you won't say "Your skin looks great. Do you have anything on?" At those times, you'll say, "Are you OK?" or "Trouble sleeping lately?".)
At 21, my "no makeup" face required concealer and mascara. Today, my "no makeup" face is a careful balance of foundation, powder, eye base, eye brightener, bronzer, mascara, eyebrow filler and nude lipstick. (You can now see why I didn't type out my Age 29 makeup routine. I lost count after the tenth product.)
I only hope my income bracket can keep up with my growing need for cosmetics. (Sigh.) And, while I know that the alternative to aging is death--and in that scenario, I'll always take aging, I do wish my ever-expanding makeup case wasn't such a persistent sign of my deepening "maturity."
Mean Girl
Forthe large part, I was a very good kid. In some ways, I was almost good to afault. I made straight A’s, rarely got in trouble and had more than a casualrelationship with the term “teacher’s pet.” I longed to be just a little bitbad—to watch R-rated movies without guilt, say the occasional bad word when nogrown-ups were around, make telephone calls after 9:00 p.m.—but I was far tooafraid of anyone’s disappointment, judgment or disapproval to strive foranything less than perfection.
Infourth grade, Bethanywas the new girl in class. Our school had small classes and little turnover, soa new kid was incredibly exciting. She’d also moved from the big city of Atlanta, so between the cosmopolitan background andnovelty factor, I liked Bethanyalmost immediately.
Shehad her own bathroom and a TV and VCR all to herself. When we had sleepovers,her mom drove us to the grocery story and video store, and we could pick outwhatever we wanted. We usually came back from the grocery with sour cream andonion potato chips, sour patch kids and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines.
(Bethany was also the onlygirl I knew to actually read Tiger Beat every week, and her closet was coveredin tear-out pages of pop stars and sitcom leads. I can’t quite remember if itwas Kirk Cameron or Johnny Depp’s poster that had worn lips from her goodnightkisses.)
Bethany sometimes called me LittleMiss Perfect, but it didn’t bother me too much, and it was pretty rare.
Byfifth grade, Bethany and I both loved to sing and perform. Fueled by too manypotato chips, we dressed up, staged photographs and choreographed dances duringmost of those sleepovers.
Theonly thing was that Bethanywas actually pretty good at singing, and I most definitely was not. (To loveBroadway musicals and be tone deaf is a burden I try to bear well.)
Oneday when we were in the hallway at school, some older kids overheard Bethany singing.
“That’sreally good,” one of them said. “Sing louder.”
“Yeah,”another seventh grader added, “You could totally be in the choir. Have you evertried out?”
Bethany was elated. “Can youbelieve they said that? I thought I was pretty good, but I didn’t know I wasthat good.”
I,on the other hand, was not. I’d lost a solo in our school’s holiday program tomy friend Leah years before, and I still wasn’t over it, and now Bethany was being praisedfor one of the talents I wanted most in the world.
“Icouldn’t actually join choir though. That’s too much, don’t you think? But, ifthey really thought I was that good, maybe I should give it a shot.”
Thirtyminutes later, in art class, when Bethanywas still going on and on about her great singing, I’d had enough.
“Ithink I’m going to do it. I think I’m going to try out for choir. What do youthink?”
“Ithink it’d be great,” I said. “Then you’d have something to do other than bragall the time.”
Bethany just stared back at me.Another friend at the same art table said, “Geez, Laurel. That was harsh.”
I’ddone it. The rule-abiding, sweet teacher’s pet had stepped outside her box andbeen sassy, confrontational—and mean. I felt guilty for days. As bad as it feltto have my voice ignored while Bethanywas praised and lavished with attention, it felt far worse to have been so rudeto a friend.
Myone flirtation with the dark side out of the way, I went right back to my goodgirl ways. For the time being, at least …
Tales of a Third-Grade Nothing
When I wasin third grade, the “Are you a virgin?” question was incredibly popular amongthe cool kids. (Two quick side notes: 1) I went to a private school with nomore than 30 people in a grade, “cool” is incredibly relative. 2) From what Ihear, this question still makes the rounds in elementary school. Based on whatI see on “Dateline: Undercover at Spring Break,” I would have thought there’dbe far more scintillating inquiries in schools these days.)
This isbasically how it went:
“Hey, X!” Giggle, giggle, giggle.
“Yeah?”
“So,”giggle, giggle, giggle, “Are you a virgin?” (You have to imagine that last partas VER-jin in Southern tween.)
If X said“no,” lots more giggling and mockery ensued. If X said “yes,” it was time tomove onto the next target. (In third grade, unlike eleventh grade, you got mademore fun of for saying that you weren’t a virgin rather than for saying thatyou were.)
I have noidea why this game was popular—other than the fact that “virgin” counts as anaughty word when you’re nine—but I do know the worst answer of all was torespond with, “I don’t know, what’s a virgin?” Because, of course, if youdidn’t know what a virgin was, you were soooo immature and unworldly. I was askedthe question in the hallway outside the class room one day before lunch.
“HeyLaurel, are you a virgin?”
“Ofcourse,” I said in one of my rare moments of confidence, “I’m only in the thirdgrade. I’ve never been married.”
(I’d askedmy mom what a virgin was. She told me it was someone who had never beenmarried. I admit that it was a good answer on her part. It just never wouldhave stood up to the scrutiny and torment of intent pre-teen girls.)
The teacher made us stop talking togo to lunch at that point—something I’m forever grateful for. Somehow in aterrain with three expected answers—two of which were sure to bring scorn, I’dmanaged to find the unchartered territory of a fourth answer. And I’m prettysure that having the wrong idea about what a virgin is would be far worse thanhaving no definition at all.
It was justone of many, many times to come that I’d welcome the distraction of an upcomingmeal. Red Mountain Law is happy to report that after nearly three years inbusiness, we are now stronger and more committed than ever to being the legalsolution for small businesses
Haircut Hiccups
Week before last, I got a haircut. (I'm pictured at right, and even after my visit to the salon, I'm not blond.)
I decided it was time for a cut. I've worn my hair long for the last few years, and I needed a change. Since I've gone "freelance," much to my chagrin and that of the Significant Other, I've gotten a bit more lax about personal hygiene and dressing up. I can only think of two days out of the last 60 that my hair hasn't been in a ponytail. A shorter cut seemed like a good way to force my hair out of its rut.
(Laurel's two-step plan for improved physical appearance:
Step 1: New cut to avoid the ponytail.
Step 2: Change out sweatpants more than once per week.
I'll keep you posted on the progress of the second half of the plan.)
I've been very happy with my cut. I miss my hair some -- it's about six inches shorter -- but after the shock of that first shower when then just wasn't anything to wash, I've adjusted nicely. But, there's always been just one obstacle to my complete enjoyment of shorter hair.
That obstacle's name is Jennifer Love-Hewitt.
I wasn't even that big a fan of Miss Love-Hewitt's until a few years ago, but I've always found her hair quite intoxicating. Yes, I do like shows where women talk to dead people, but the real reason I watch Ghost Whisperer is for the hair and eyelashes.
I want Jennifer's hair, and I always have. I like the loose curls at the end of her long locks. I love the toned down highlights. I appreciate how the perfectly tousled pieces fall just right. Of course, it takes me a minimum of one hour's time, two products and lots of time with a large-barreled curling iron to even begin to approximate this look, but every time I do, I'm enamored with myself. (And that's all that really matters, right?)
Sure, I don't have that hour every day. Or most days. Nor do I have the inclination, but one glimpse of a Ghost Whisperer promo is enough to make me want to trade the weeks I spend with cute, shorter hair for the one day out of a season I could manipulate my long hair into something like this.
I suppose we all have our Achilles' heels. I'll count myself luckier than most that Jennifer Love-Hewitt happens to be mine.
In Which I Learn That I'm Not as Funny as I Thought
I spent Labor Day weekend at my parents' lake house with some friends and the significant other (SO). While we were all hanging out in Coosa County, we decided to eat lunch in Alexander City. And, since Cecil's Public House was closed, and I couldn't seem to get a group consensus on Jim Bob's Chicken Fingers, J.R.'s Sports Bar & Grill was the establishment of choice.
(My father's favorite spot for lunch in Alexander City is the Carlisle Drug Soda Fountain. I'm sure the food is great, but having visited, I think the main appeal for my father is the frugality. The man who refuses to pay more than a quarter for a soda -- and who made us travel to Europe with our own Cokes so we wouldn't ended up paying "ridiculous" European price tags for cola -- can have a selection of sandwiches for $2.65. Yes, it's rather amazing in this day and age. No, the Soda Fountain is not somehow located in 1970.)
J.R.'s has everything the sports bar needs -- chicken fingers, wings, big TVs and rolls of paper towels on the tables instead of napkins. I also appreciate a restaurant that knows its audience and does what it does well.
In case you can't read the menu from the photo, J.R.'s has a relatively limited bar menu. These are your options: wine (white only, there's no red), margaritas, Pina Colada, Fuzzy Navel, Tequila Sunrise, Jack & Coke, Crown & Coke or Scotch & Coke. (Personally, I really want to meet someone who's ordered a Tequila Sunrise in the last decade.) I can only imagine how many people had to order Scotch & Coke before it earned a permanent spot on the menu.
The SO and I both ordered the fingers and wings combo. It included chicken fingers, buffalo wings, french fries and Texas toast and was absolutely delicious. I enjoyed every bite, but it's entirely possible that the SO enjoyed his even more. He ordered the hot wings, as opposed to my mild ones, and spent most of his meal sweating and/or crying. Apparently, he did so much sweating/crying that the waitress mentioned it.
"Did you like those?" she asked.
"I liked them very much," SO said. "I always cry when I'm happy."
That's when I chimed in, "That's what he tells me all the time, but I'm not sure if I believe him."
Afterwards, our waitress stared at me for a long, non-laughing, smile-less time. Finally, she said, "Oh. I get it now." Beat. "Is this all on one check?"
I proceeded to hang my head in shame.
Of course, I've had jokes fail before, but at least I usually get a bit of pity laughter. But, there was no pity laughter in Alexander City. There wasn't even a pity smile in Alexander City. I imagine that this moment was like a preview for when I have children and one of them declares -- in a state of extreme teen angst, of course -- "Maybe, I don't want to be funny!" or "You're not funny, Mom!"
Because, let's face it, you can send a lot of insults my way -- I don't have a job, I'm a single Southern girl turning 30 and what my hair will do from day to day is a total crap shoot -- but I've always tried to maintain my sense of humor. "Funny" is a descriptor I prize far above many others.
I'll get over this soon enough, but it really is too bad for my friends we'll never be able to eat at J.R.'s again. I can only accomplish so much, the rest is up to denial and avoidance.
What Makes Me Cry
We all have our emotional hot-buttons.
A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite.
I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)
But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.
I blame this on two main components:
1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.
2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.
For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.
When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.
But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.