What I Won't Do For $100

I have worked a rather wide varietyof jobs in my years on this planet. Some out of convenience (they workedaround my class schedule), some out of necessity (unemployment benefitsonly go so far, after all) and some because I like being paid in cash(just kidding IRS!).

At the first magazine I workedfor, after beginning yet another story with, “When I was working atx …,” one of my co-workers finally said, “How many jobs haveyou had, Laurel?”

Here’s the pre-college list:I started babysitting at 10 for a little girl who lived across the streetand built up quite a client list by the time I left for college. I tookmy first $5.00/hour, I-have-to-pay-taxes job at a small produce marketthe summer I was 16. The next summer, I worked at a card store wherethey forgot I was an employee due to some sort of management changeafter I went on a 10-day school-sponsored summer program. (I was ridiculouslyrelieved because that place was way too tense for a vendor of PreciousMoments figurines and soothing nature sounds CDs.) My senior year ofhigh school, I worked behind the front desk of a gym, so I would havemoney for a trip to Italy that Spring Break, and that summer I taughtat a daycare.

In the 12 years since that gymjob, I have also been a restaurant hostess, waited tables, worked foran NFL hockey team, done fundraising for a continuing care retirementcommunity, been a paralegal at the Department of Justice, worked asa bank teller, been a substitute teacher and written wine labels. (That’swithout getting into the magazine and PR work that is supposedly partof my elusive “career track.”)

Of all the training and orientationsI have gone through, it was the one for my work as a bank teller thatwas by far the most interesting – and, most likely, exasperatingfor them.

Despite how the ledger for mychecking account may look (or looked, when it existed), I’m actuallypretty good with numbers. And the OCD part of me has no problem countingmoney three times so that I rarely came up short by more than a dimeor so in my drawer.

(Side note: The one time I didlose a lot of money, I accidentally gave the president of the bank $1,000more than I should have. On the bright side, I quickly realized themoney was with the president of the bank and called his secretary toget it back. On the not-so-bright-side, I screwed up in front of thepresident of the freaking bank. Not exactly a career-builder.)

When one is training to be a bankteller, after chats about the cash-in and cash-out forms, legal holidaysand proper forms of identification for dispensing cash, there is theinevitable chat about what to do in case of a bank robbery.

Now, I will not give away thesecrets of the banking world here, but regardless to say, as a teller,you are asked to perform certain fail safes and warnings so that anywould-be bank robber gets away with as little money as possible. Youare also supposed to keep any robber away from all safes and vaults.

As most people are aware, I’msomething of a scaredy cat. I’m also someone who has watched far toomany procedural dramas on TV – the CSI franchise, Law & Order,The First 48 … So, as the leader of our training is discussing earlywarnings and fail safes in the “unlikely event” of a bank robbery,I raised my hand.

“What if you don’t reallyfeel comfortable doing any of that?” I said, imaging a burly, angryman with a gun in my face saying that he knows about the panic buttonand the dye pack.

“Well,” she said, “we wouldnever ask you to do anything that puts your life in danger, but we dostrongly encourage you to use whatever means you have available to youto stop or minimize the loss of a potential robbery.”

“I see,” I said. Then I waiteda minute and raised my hand again, “I kind of think I should tellyou right now that if a guy with a gun wants my, or really, your money,I’m going to give it to him.” (I left out the part about probablydrawing him a map to the largest vault in the place if that would keephim and his weapons away from me.)

“Well, we do offer a very niceincentive program for any teller that thwarts a robbery attempt.”Then she smiled at the rest of the room in what I suppose was an encouragingway.

“And what would that be?”I said.

“We issue $100 checks for thosetellers who minimize financial losses during robbery attempts.” Shekept smiling, but I was still imagining guns in my face and those terrible,terrible ski masks.

“I think I’m going to haveto stick with what I said earlier.” Our trainer gave me one more longglance and then quickly moved on.

And I’m guessing that I musthave scored pretty highly on my initial teller test because they stilllet me work for the bank after that.

But, in all seriousness, and Idon’t know about most people, but I tend to value my life and evenmy general personal safety/general appearance (no black eyes, twistedarms, etc.) at far more than $100. You could even make that check for$1,000 or $10,000, and I’m still giving away codes and access to secretdrawers like the drunk at a family reunion. (And shock of shocks, theCIA has never come calling on me.)

I’m a cautious gal who has neverhad a love or risk and considers the lack of indoor plumbing almosttoo much adventure. I watch TV shows and think the cops with the dreaded“desk jobs” are the lucky ones. I’m not your go-to girlfor stopping a bank robbery – incentive check or not. 

A Krispy Kreme shoplifting caper-- especially if it looks like the chocolate-covered, crème-filledsupply will be depleted? Maybe. But a bank robbery? You’re going tohave to call someone else; I’ll be the one booking it for the door.And you’re more than welcome to charge me $100 for that.   

Unsolicited Advice

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

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

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

On Food:

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

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

On relationships:

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

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

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

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

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

On Happiness:

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

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

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

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

On Self-Esteem:

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

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

On Myself:

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

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

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

The Dead Fowl Standard

Right after college, my roommates and I moved into a brand-new federal style townhouse off of the U Street Corridor in Washington, D.C. It was only a few blocks from Adam's Morgan, but at the time, the neighborhood was still considered very much "up and coming." (Today, the same area is mostly luxury condos and high-end retail, but that was not the case in 2001.)

I, however, could not have been more infatuated with my living situation. The house had gorgeous hardwood floors, a lovely balcony and even a garage. (You have no idea the premium on something like that in D.C.) I also had the master bedroom complete with two closets and a bathroom that had a shower and a whirlpool tub. The $825 I paid each month in rent was way too high a percentage of my salary, but it was comparable with what all of my friends paid, and I had a spectacular house two blocks from the Metro station. I was more than willing to put up with the occasional panhandling or "get out white bastards" greeting in exchange.

But, while I was completely comfortable with my surroundings, I sometimes forgot to warn visiting friends that we weren't in Georgetown anymore. (For those of you who have never been, Georgetown is a very wealthy neighborhood, and you can tell at every turn -- from the gorgeous row houses to the Armani store.)

A friend of mine decided to visit one day while she was in town from Alabama. Since her mother lived in Arlington, Virginia, we both figured she'd have absolutely no trouble taking the Metro to meet me at my new home.

When she was an hour late, I called, but figured she was just running behind and couldn't get reception on the subway. When she was two hours late, I was worried.

Just as I was about to call in the cavalry, I saw a figure that looked like my friend wandering the alley that ran behind my house. (I was on the back balcony.)

"Susan," I yelled, and she raised her head. "Why didn't you come to the front door?"

As her figure came into better view, I could see that Susan looked far more exhausted than seemed appropriate for a gal on vacation.

"Thank God it's you," she said. "And I would have come to the front door if I could have found it."

I quickly brought Susan into the house, poured her a glass of wine, and listened as she recounted the story of her continually delayed train ride and the treacherous one and a half block walk from the Metro station to my house. The highlights? Someone threw a shoe at the back of her head, and someone else tried to sell her a dead pigeon.

"A dead pigeon?" I said.

"It was wrapped in newspaper," she said. "He gave some thought to the presentation."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I'd be more than happy to pay him if he wouldn't make me take the pigeon."

Once Susan had recovered from the trauma, we spent the rest of the night drinking wine and catching up, and that dead pigeon became a kind of standard of ours. You got lost? It was terrible? You drove around for hours? Hey -- at least there wasn't a dead pigeon.

We found that the benchmark worked in a variety of situations. Bad break-up? Dressing down from the boss? Expensive shoes that can't be returned? It could always be worse. There could have been a dead pigeon -- and no one wants a dead pigeon shoved in their face.

Fast forward a few years: I'm working for a new magazine, and we've decided to put together a picnic photo shoot in a local park.

Unfortunately, nothing went right that day. A crowd of obnoxious 12-year-olds (who I still think should have been in school) surrounded us to ask insipid questions. The day was unseasonably hot, and everything melted (including us and our makeup). The ground was uneven. We spilled wine on the white picnic blanket. It seemed that the entire shoot was coming apart at the seams.

Shortly after the wine spill, my boss handed me some wrappers to throw away from the food we were "styling," and I walked over to the trash can. As I leaned over to toss in our garbage, I came upon a foul smell and sight. Someone had decided to throw a dead goose from the nearby pond into that very trash can.

Luckily, I was able to turn around before my stomach did a complete flip-flop. And even though the circumstances were far from favorable, after all that work, we were going to get a shot, dammit -- which also meant we'd have to stay near that dead goose for at least 20 minutes.

Again, once we cleaned up, got out of the unbearable sun and found some cocktails later in the evening, we made the dead goose our barometer for photo shoots and all else production-related. A writer didn't turn in a story on time? The photographer was a no-show? An order came from upstairs to slash half the magazine? At least there's not a dead goose.

Why dead fowl are a continuing theme in my life, I don't know. But, in these trying times, I think I'm going back to the standards I set with them. The checking account balance may be low, and the hours may be long, but at least none of my days have involved dead pigeons or geese.

I'm hoping it stays that way.

From the Archives: Laurel and Annie Travel the World

Well, as we boarded the minibus bound from Pattaya to Bangkok, Anniefound a large knot on her foot. It's probably some disease caused bythe lizard that shared our tropical hell hotel room for a couple ofdays, but she took an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory right afterthe discovery, and we think she's going to make it.

She's a brave soul.

Ithink Annie and I have never been so happy to leave a place as when weleft Bangkok. We were on an Air France flight and thanks to my highschool French teacher always calling Air France "Air Chance," myanxiety level was a little high.

I was about to have my faithin the French restored merely by the presence of personal TV screens atyour seat until we encountered the meanest French stewardess ever. Shewas downright scary, and I'm glad I got to sleep through most of theflight.

I did watch a nice French film as I tried to remaincultured despite the fact that my taste has been seriouslydeteriorating since we left the U.S. This is primarily due to the factthat every English-speaking program shown abroad sucks. Annie and Iactually looked forward to seeing Yes Dear at our hotel in Pattaya. We also loved Sorority Boys . All sad but true.

Of course, my attempts to culture myself went awry when Annie convinced me to watch Kangaroo Jack after the French film. If I come home only interested in CBS and UPN programs, I'm sorry.

Wealso almost missed our connection from Paris to Athens. Something wasup at the French airport. I don't know what kind of alert they were on,but I have never seen people inspect passports with such fervor. I havealso never seen so many people pulled out of line for furtherquestioning. One guy was actually smelling the passports. Our flight toAthens left 40 minutes late because someone was pulled off the planedue to an i.d. problem and the police were called. Perfect flyingconditions for someone who worries about terrorists, etc.

Beforethat, as Annie and I arrived at the terminal for our departure therewas a line of at least 100 people to go through security, and ourflight was already boarding. I had accepted the fact that we would missthis plane until Annie hit me and demanded, "Speak."

Annie hasnever hit me before and this simple act of violence on her part wasquite frightening. It was then that I realized she wanted me to speakFrench to convince the guy close to the front of the line that weshould be able to cut in front of him.

Thank God for my highschool French teacher (I forgive him for the "Air Chance" commentsbecause of this) because I was able to convince him of this and weactually jumped about 90 people in line. I even used the subjunctive.Who knows where that one came from.

After we talked to him, Icould hear him discussing our situation with his wife. He either saidthat my French was shit or that we were in deep shit because of ourflight. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt (and try tosalvage some of my self-esteem) by thinking it's the latter.

Athens is fabulous. I love Greece and don't think I can even say enoughabout how much I love this country. We've been exploring the city,climbed to the top of the Acropolis, and wine is cheaper than water.Tomorrow we're off to Mykonos for 4 days. I can't wait.

There are only 2 things I dislike about Greece thus far:

1. Gatorade tastes like orange Tang.

2.Every staircase and walkway is made of marble. Pretty, but bad forthose who lack coordination like myself. Some of you may be thinking,"Laurel, there's nothing bad about slipping as you climb to the top ofthe Acropolis. You're not in peak physical form, you were probablytired, a little jet-lagged."

The truth is that I slipped notnear the Acropolis, but rather leaving a clothing store and in ourhotel. I went sliding down about 4 steps in our hotel the other day.People in Mykonos are going to wonder who the extremely bruised girl onthe beach is.

My Jury Duty Story Can Beat Your Jury Duty Story

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

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

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

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

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

Aboutmid-way through his list, he did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inshort, I’m a big, fat jerk. 

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

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

Theremight even have been a cold sweat involved.  

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

Thankgoodness. 

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

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

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

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

More on Me and the Pole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me, Myself and the Pole

Last night, I finally tried what was probably the hottest exercise trend of 2006 -- stripper aerobics. (I'm only four years behind. If you saw the cell phone I carry, you'd think it was far, far worse.)

In many ways, I feel guilty even talking or writing about my "Pole Yourself Thin" class. I'm pretty sure my father has spent the last 30+ years of his life doing everything in his power to keep me away from anything even remotely resembling a stripper pole, and yet, here I am, paying a woman to teach me moves likes the "seahorse," "pole push off" and "stripper legs."

(In my defense, it was a girlfriend's idea, and it seemed like a fun way to work out in addition to the possible makings of a good story. I'll do a lot for a good story. Plus, you wear normal workout clothes, so no one needs to get too carried away out there.)

When we first arrived, we chose stage names for class, so for two hours yesterday, I was Lola Luscious. ("Lola" is also a name my younger, drunken self enjoyed going by after two a.m. This is really something that probably should not be spoken of, so I'll move on.)

Anyways, then we were taken to our poles and began to learn our first routine. After a quick walk around the pole (on tip toe to simulate high heels, of course), we dove right in to the basic moves like the "kick boxer" and "pole kick." I quickly learned that I have a great fireman (this does involve swinging around the pole), but a terrible crawl. 

One thing I could not get used to? Hearing "Lola cannot get her crawl on!" called out by the teacher from the front of the room time and time again.

I also learned about a little thing called "pole burn," which apparently occurs when one spends too much time on the pole or does not hold the pole properly. When it happens, your skin becomes very red and sore from the wrist to about halfway down the forearm. According to our teacher, it is a difficult injury to explain to your friends and co-workers as well.

So, after two quite eye-opening hours, my entire body is sore (strippers must use muscles I didn't even know I had), and I have a nasty case of pole burn.

It's probably a very good thing that I work from home on Fridays. And I've never been more thankful for my education. 

*Sure, this photo is of a dude doing tai chi, but you'd actually be surprised by how few public domain images that are also family-friendly can be found by typing "stripper" or "pole" in the search field. My logic is that both are exercise, so it's related.

Writer's Block, Comedy and Insurance Companies

I tell my students that there' no such thing as writer's block. 

I claim that there is this: unwillingness to do the work (because writing is hard work and anyone who tells you anything different is lying), procrastination and fear. (The fear comes in when you worry too much that when you do actually write, what you write won't be good enough.)

I recommend all the tricks for getting started -- lists, clustering and the always-dreaded free-writing. (Free-writing = writing non-stop for a set period of time, and it is more than a bit trying on the brain and the hand.) I tell them to start in the middle if they don't have a beginning or an end. Or start at the end if there's no beginning or middle. I trot out one of my favorite books, Writing Without the Muse, for ideas and inspiration. 

I am so full of mettle, advice and, hopefully support, I just don't know what to do with myself.

There is always something to write, I say. It may not be profound, but as long as you can put pen to paper, there is always something to write. 

And, until lately, I believed there was always humor. As a friend told me long ago, "When you're either going to laugh or cry, laugh." I've tried to keep that in mind. I've even been called irreverent because of it. Another old saying goes that "the only difference between comedy and tragedy is a laugh track."I believe that, too.

But, right now, no matter how hard I work at it, I can't seem to do enough laughing, and I'm having a really hard time putting the writing and the humor together. My free-writing does not lead to fodder for good blog posts. (My latest free-writing? Too many sentences as to what it means to be "enough.") I look at the chore list on the refrigerator in the office -- a chore list grown-ups are supposed to follow of their own free will -- and I want to laugh. Three months ago, I think I would have. But, the last time I found myself in the break room, I just sighed. I sighed, pulled my Lean Cuisine out of the microwave and went back to my desk.

I'm not surprised life isn't what I thought it would be. I'm surprised my primary coping mechanism isn't kicking in like it used to.

So, I apologize for the tone of recent posts. I wish they were funnier. I decided that no matter what I had to do to pay the mortgage, I would still update this blog at least twice a week. I promised that I would still write because if I give up on that, I really will have given up, and that is something I refuse to do. I want to write, and the best thing about writing is that when that's all you want to do, you can just do it. (Finding a reader is the hard part. Finding an editor even harder.) I say to work more and work harder. (Another lovely thought, but difficult in practice when no one wants what you've already written and each day seems to bring the return of more and more envelopes I addressed and stamped myself.) I try to remember that the difference between optimism and pessimism isn't just about how you see the glass, but about focusing on what you have rather than what you don't have. I keep in mind that on some days just trying is enough.

Mostly, I'm tired, and I tear up every time I see the Allstate commercial where everybody quotes FDR from the Great Depression.

If you're also having trouble getting through insurance company ads without crying, know that you're not alone. If you've got it all figured out, I'd love to know your secrets (unless they involve Jesus -- what goes on between me and Jesus is what goes on between me and Jesus, and I like to keep that off the Internet). 

In the meantime, I promise I'll do the best I can to get the funny back -- for myself and for those of you kind enough to stop by and read my thoughts every so often.

The True Spirit of Easter

In honor of Good Friday, here's a little look at Easters past from a 2010 post.

The Mills are a competitive bunch.

We pull out rule books when there's a question of awarding points in board games, we do not believe in do-overs and we never, ever let anyone win. In general, it makes us a tough, formidable lot when it comes to a game of Balderdash or charades. It does not, however, always make it fun to be a kid in our family.

When I say that we don't let anyone win, I really mean anyone. It does not matter if you are three or thirty, if there's a chance to take you in tic-tac-toe, Scrabble or even Candy Land, we seize it. Once during a game of bocce on my great aunt's lawn, I thought that maybe I should change my throws a little so one of the children could win. (I was twenty-eight to their five, six and eight after all. And, yes, they all probably could have taken me on their own, since this particular game did involve throwing and sports stuff, but let's leave that off the table for now.) Then I looked over and realized that my cousin had just knocked his own son's ball out of the competition, and I figured it was our usual "no holds barred" approach to all gaming.  

My father thinks it's character-building. Does life ever let you win? No. Do you have to work hard and earn your victories? Yes. So, the rules are uniform and the same for every one.

Since I could talk, I have never beaten my father in a game of ping pong, Monopoly or Gin Rummy. 

My friends often ask me to join poker games, but I always turn down the invitation. They assume it's because I can't play. "I'll teach you before the game," usually follows my "no thanks."

I can play poker just fine, and I'm actually kind of good at it, but playing poker reminds me of sitting around the kitchen table playing with my dad and sisters when we were much younger. Not only did my dad always win, but he also made us turn over our hands after every game. "Now, Laurel, why would you ever have held onto that eight? What good was that card to you?"

We didn't just lose, we also had to evaluate why we lost. There were times it was a tad excruciating. On the down side, I can't stand poker. On the plus side, it's nearly impossible to beat me in Gin, and I can almost count cards.

No reason or extenuating circumstance could temper this competitive edge -- even on some of the holiest of holy days. And the Mills family Easter egg hunt was one of the most blood-thirsty events of them all.

See that cute picture up there? Those sweet smiles are just facades to hide the plotting we'd already begun. ("There were an egg above the door frame last year. Check there first.") Two minutes after this photo was taken, hair-pulling, pushing and diversionary tactics ("Is someone eating your chocolate bunny over there?") were all fair game as we grabbed Easter eggs from their hiding places like they were pieces of pure gold or coupons for unlimited Barbie dolls.

My middle sister still claims injuries from the hunt of '91. I say I was ten feet away when she fell into that sticker bush.

And even though we're too old to hunt Easter eggs now (I was undefeated when I retired at 13, by the way), it's a tradition we've tried to pass on to our younger cousins. For better or worse, we've given them many of our old tricks, and I look forward to seeing how this Sunday's festivities play themselves out.  

Whatever your leanings/beliefs are, Happy Easter, Happy Passover or just enjoy the weekend! I can't wait for mine -- potential injuries and all.

Adventures in the Service Industry, Part Two

It was the end of day four, and I still hadn't made it past appetizers. Around 10:00 p.m., about the time I was dying to escape the restaurant training I had been in since 5:00 p.m., my manger, Lou, decided we were all in need of a pep talk.

"Now, I tell you, I don't know what's happened to this group," he said. "We started out 40 strong, and since then, you guys have been dropping like flies. People show up one day, don't come back the next. What is it? Is it an issue of commitment? Is it the tests?"

He then referenced the poster boards he kept to the right of his podium (because every restaurant manager requires a podium) where he kept multiple poster boards with our daily test scores written next to our names. (Want to know when I began cheating? The first day I saw that Joe, who spent his free time setting his jeans on fire with a lighter, had scored a 100 compared to my 97. No one -- not even pregnant smoker Jeannie -- scored less than a 95, and I figured cheating was the standard.) 

"I thought I selected a committed group, dedicated people," Lou went on. "Could someone tell me what's going on? Because I know it isn't me. So what the heck is it?"

This little lecture went on for 30 minutes. I can tell you because I checked my watch every minute on the dot. I had friends to meet after training. And five hours was more than enough for me. Five and a half hours was turning my barely contained annoyance into pure rage. It's not like there was a real opportunity for me to stand and say, "Hey Lou, I'm pretty sure the problem actually is you. You drive people away. You're controlling, annoying and clearly far too fixed on the notion that we're on a real island instead of being on the backside of a strip mall."

"Y'all can go tonight," Lou said, at last, "but I want you to think about each and every thing I've said."

That last command would have been far easier if I had been listening. I nearly ran out of our training space to grab beers and complain to some friends. (I should probably mention that I had also been told that day that the khakis I spent what little money I had left on weren't "regulation." I read "regulation" as "pleats." The idea of spending more money on khakis with pleats wasn't helping my mood.)

The next day was our break day. Eight days of training meant four days on, a day of rest, and four more days on.

I absolutely loved my day off. I slept in. I had a big breakfast. I didn't worry about tugs at my elbow or any greetings involving "island." The only problem was the nagging voice in the back of my head reminding me that I had to go back.

Morning dawned on my first day back to training, and I really thought I would make it to the restaurant. Even in the late afternoon, I thought I would make it. I was a grown-up with responsibilities, after all. So, you can imagine how surprised I was when my body seemed to go into a state of near-inertia around 4:00. By 4:45, I was nearly catatonic. I could not move, I could not grab my car keys, and I certainly couldn't get in the car and direct it towards the restaurant. Even at 5:30, I thought I might still arrive at work and come up with a brilliant excuse for my tardiness on the way over. In reality, I just never showed up. (I promise that I am rarely this irresponsible. Between khaki rules and offering Jamaica me crazies, I had clearly been pushed to the edge.)

The next morning, my cell phone rang. "Hello," I said.

"Is this Laurel? I need to speak with her."

Realizing it was Lou, I hung up.

He called back. By now, I recognized the number on the caller id and just didn't answer. He called again.

Finally, I went into my sister's room. (I was living at home after my recent move.) My sisters and I sound exactly alike on the phone. It's why my father answers each call from his daughters with "Hello Angel" until speech patterns and mannerisms give away the identity of the daughter in question. Apart from my family, for most of my life, this voice thing has been a problem. (I once spoke to my sister's boyfriend on the phone for 10 minutes thinking it was my boyfriend. When we both realized our mistake, we agreed to never speak of it again.) But, I finally saw how this identical voice issue could work to my benefit.

""Hey," I said, "do you think you could do me a little favor?"

"What's the favor?"

"Quit my job for me?" (Whereas I can easily be guilted into anything -- like cleaning stranger's apartments, giving people rides to and from the airport before dawn and washing your dog -- my sister is far more assertive. She doesn't really take crap from anyone, and I had no doubt she'd be far better equipped to make Lou go away once and for all.)

"What's in it for me?" she said.

"A six pack of your favorite beer?" My only bargaining chip: I was of age, and she was not. Go ahead and judge me.

"Give me the phone."

My 18-year-old sister then called my manager to quit my job for me. Here's what I heard: "Hi ... yeah ... I couldn't make it ... I didn't want to be there ... I won't be back ... I have another opportunity and it's far more lucrative ... you too." Click.

"What did he say?" I said. "Was it OK?"

"It's done," she said, "and he wishes you well in your new endeavors."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

"Awesome."

"Glad you're happy," she said. "Do you think you can hit the package store before five? I've got plans this evening."

It might be one of my more cowardly acts, but it was also pretty painless. Sadly, I have to admit that the easy way out has than name for a reason. And once in a blue moon, I do take it. (Feel free to continue judging me.)

Adventures in the Service Industry

Having been a writer/grad student/member of the under-employed at various points in my life, I've also spent my fair share of time waiting tables.

One of the many lessons I've learned as a former waitress is that being trained to wait tables is always far worse than actually waiting tables. At best, you end up doing the grunt work for whatever server you're shadowing for the shift. ("Yeah, if you sweep out the back and roll the next batch of silver, we should be good to go." There's no "we" when one of us keeps all the tips, and the other finishes out each shift in rubber gloves, my friend.) At worst, you have to role play waiting tables for your manager so that he can see how you'll perform with "Bad Guest #1" before allowing you on the floor.

This is a story about the latter. 

(First, I'd like to make it very, very clear that one of the activities I despise most is role-playing. (LARP-ers, please be assured that I'm not talking about your kind of role play. If I get to wear a wig and a corset, I'm in. Always.) And when I'm in an HR office and hear the words "why don't we role play a few scenarios?", my blood absolutely runs cold. If I wanted to pretend that I was talking to someone other than the person across the desk from me, I'd spend more time at the DMV. And I will not make believe I'm in a room with "Upset Donor Donna" just because your acting dream had to die.)

I was 23 or so and had just moved back to Birmingham from Washington, D.C. when I took a job waiting tables for an as-yet-unopened restaurant in a nearby suburb. (During my interview, I had to "sell" the manager a can of pencils that had been sitting on the table. It should have been my first sign.) Because the restaurant wasn't open, training was an eight-day activity that involved hour-long seminars with subjects like "refilling the sugar caddy" and "condiments 101," nightly tests and, of course, the aforementioned role play.

In the pretend world of restaurant role play, we also couldn't jump right in to waiting on a customer for the entire meal. If we were approved through the initial introduction, we could move on to drinks, then specials, and so on and so forth.

"Welcome to the other side of the island. Can I get you something to drink -- maybe a Bahama Mama or a Jamaica Me Crazy?" I said, each and every night.

And every time I walked away from my faux table, I'd feel a slight tug on my elbow and turn to see my manager standing behind me.

"Laurel, we're really going to need you to slow down a bit. Don't rush your island greeting."

"Yeah, Laurel, do you think you could pep it up a bit? Don't forget that you're an island ambassador, now. Really welcome your guests to our paradise." (If I'd paid better attention to those tests, rather than stealinganswers from the back of the book, I might be able to tell you/rememberwhat the "island" theme was all about. Seafood?)

"Someone forgot about beverage napkins."

"Laurel, do you know what it was that time?"

"That you Jamaica me crazy?" I thought, around the time of my fourth reprimand. "No, Lou," is what I said aloud.

"You walked away from the table before you were done talking. Eye contact and staying power are very important aspects of the server's tool box."

In four long, grueling days, I never made it past appetizers.

(Part 2 of this experience coming Friday ...)

As a Mule*

I have been known to be a bit stubborn.

I won't shop at stores if I learn that they don't have a bathroom for customers. (Not only is this one practical, but I firmly believe that if you're willing to take someone's money, you should be willing to let them use your toilet as well.) I think gift certificates should not have an expiration date, and have had chats with many a manager over this. (They still have all your money, right?) And I do not share desserts unless the terms of the dessert sharing were agreed upon before said dessert was ordered.   

While some people might see these habits as idiosyncrasies, or just kind of odd/difficult, I think it's my commitment to these rules that pushes me into the stubborn territory. No bathroom for customers? You really will never see me in your store again -- unless of course I hear a change in policy has occurred.

But, perhaps the best example of my stubborn streak is what happened in my computer class from the fifth through the seventh grade.

Once or twice a week, we had to go to something called computer class. (I've honestly tried to block this particular part of my elementary education out, so the details on time might be a bit off.) There wasn't much to the curriculum -- we did typing tutorials for 45 minutes. Each and every time. For three years.

We learned absolutely nothing else about computers, and the only incentive to complete the typing tutorials was that if you finished early, you could play computer games.

Now, it just so happened that computer class was taught by one of my least favorite teachers. I thought he was cocky, condescending and seemed far more interested in what the boys had to say than what the girls had to say. For this last reason alone, he was really at the bottom of my list.

When we started our typing tutorials, I found it incredibly boring to pick out "sad," "fad" and "dad" on the keyboard over and over again. Plus, we'd had a home computer since I was much younger (my mother is an engineer by training, after all), and I was used to using the complete keyboard all the time. I was one of the fastest two finger typists you'd ever seen. I'd finish my tests for the day in about 10 minutes and play games.

The problem, of course, was that my teacher could tell I was using the two-finger method rather than actually typing. So, he approached me one day.

"Laurel," he said, "you have to learn to type."

"I can type," I said.

"No, you have to type the new way," he said. "My way." (Like he'd invented it?!?!)

"Why?" I said. "I'm just as fast with my way."

"But you can't use your way forever," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not how it's done."

That was hardly enough of an explanation for me, and I'm an explanations kind of gal. I needed to know how an egg was made at the age of four and nearly drove my mother crazy trying to find an adequate answer.

(Plus, my fifth grade self figured that I'd be a lawyer or actress with an assistant anyway, so why even bother with the mundane tasks like typing?)

The teacher then made me take higher and higher level tests. Each time, I earned what would have been A's with my two-finger method, and since we were only graded on our test skills, we were at a bit of standstill: I didn't like him, and he didn't like me.

So, for the next three years, I refused to learn how to type. I decided it was a skill that I wouldn't take up because I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of thinking he had taught me anything.

That, my friends, is stubborn.

When I changed schools in the eighth grade and had a typing workshop with a lovely woman who smiled often and treated everyone with respect, I picked up real typing in a week and have never gone back.

In many ways, those were some very wasted three years (except for the computer games), and really mature people would probably have moved past the typing debate quickly and never thought of it again. These people probably are also good at letting go, don't stay angry and have really low blood pressures.

I have a lot to learn from these people. But, I also can't completely lie -- a big part of me still takes some pride in being able to say that that man never taught me a thing. And when this here blog really takes off (did I mention I can be stubborn and delusional?), he won't be getting any of the "thank yous" or credit. 

Then again, this same approach could lead to me having a heart attack at 40, so he might get the last laugh after all. 

*My metaphor here is clearly "stubborn as a mule." But this story might make me look like more of an ass. And then the only public domain picture I could find was of a donkey, so the animal metaphors here, or lack thereof, are all a mess now, and I apologize. Please mentally picture the four-legged creature of your choice to go along with this here post.

Mace in Your Face

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

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

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

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

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

Then, I met the Stunning Gal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birth Order

For most of my life, I took incredible pride in being the oldest sister. (I have two sisters, one three years younger, and the other five and a half years behind me. Yes, my mother had three kids in less than six years. She and my father both worked full-time, too, so she does admit that most of our collective childhoods are "something of a blur.")

For many, many years, I equated "oldest" with "wisest," "most powerful," and "most entitled." (My middle sister is currently thinking that last sentence shouldn't be in the past tense.)

When we moved into a new house, who should have the biggest bedroom? Me, of course. And why? Because I was the oldest. Last piece of cake? Oldest. Right to check the mail, swim in the deep end of the pool and first shot at all gifts simply labeled "for the girls"? Oldest. Oldest. Oldest.

My middle sister still resents the "trades" I talked her into whereby somehow she ended up with my old pack of playing cards missing three Jacks, and I got her newest stuffed animal or Barbie doll. And my youngest sister spent about two years as my personal gopher because every time I wanted something from another room or part of the house, I simply said, "But I'm timing you. Don't you want to know how fast you can go?" (In my defense on that last one, two years? Seriously? You have to admit she had plenty of time to figure out what I was up to.)

Anyone out there who isn't an oldest child (and maybe even some of those that are) is probably having the exact same thought right now -- "Wow, she was evil." But, at the time, it made the most perfect sense to me. After all, I'd gotten to the world first, by the accident of birth sure, but I was still first. These created perks seemed like quite the fair trade for the attention-grabbing and parent-stealing both my siblings had been up to since entering the world.

(One of my favorite home movies is shot right after my middle sister was born. Obviously, my parents were making a tape because they wanted footage of their new daughter in her infancy. It is also quite obvious that this did not go over very well with me. My father holds the camera while my mother shows off Rachael and they talk to each other about how beautiful she is, and blah, blah, blah. In the meantime, I change into every conceivable outfit I can come up with, finally ending up in a leotard and tap shoes so that they will film my dance instead of the baby. I won't even refer to Rachael by name -- in that video she is only "the baby" to me. My father tries to placate me with comments like "how nice" while still keeping the camera most definitely pointed at Rachael. You can also see the wheels turning in my head so clearly, "I can sing, make up stories and tap dance, and all they want to do is stare at 'the baby' who can't do anything yet? What happened to my world?")

Despite the occasional downside (blame for any and all physical altercations, regardless of whether I started it or was even involved), I loved being the oldest sister.

But, as they say, what comes around, goes around. I might have inflicted plenty of abuses on my younger sisters in the past, but their time for comeuppance has arrived. Ever since my third 28th birthday, it has been absolutely no fun being "the oldest sister."

No matter who you are, where you go, or how many years go by, for some reason, people still care about birth order. "Where do you fall?" or "Which sister are you?" are common questions when my family attends an event or I'm with my parents and we run into someone they know from years ago.

And always, before I can get out one of my answers like "somewhere in there," or "the youngest, of course," my mother someone else quickly states, "She's the oldest." (I'm still struggling with whether my mother's other answer of "the unemployed one" is better or worse than "the oldest." I lean towards better because I do think unemployment is associated with youth, but if the conversation happens to reveal that I am both the oldest and the unemployed one, I tend to hide under the covers for a few days afterward.)

Then it hangs there: oldest. Just floating above all our heads -- like crows have just flown out from the corners of my eyes and I should have good advice on whether Clairol or Nice 'n' Easy is better for covering grays. Based on what I see with my grandmother and her sisters, I also know this will never end. God willing I make it to 90, people will still feel perfectly comfortable referring to me as "the oldest one."

So, younger sisters, I think we're finally even. In my mind, having to acknowledge my comparatively advanced age for next 30-50 years more than makes up for all those Barbie dolls and cookie-retrievals.

In fact, maybe I should even get a few more considerations (foot rubs, valet parking, cash) for all the reminders you'll both get about your youth because of it. When it comes to that valet parking, I'll even time you.

What No One Tells You

I always thought that being able to work from home would be my perfect job. I think that's true for most Americans. After all, you can be in the comfort of your own home, work in jammies and avoid all of the office politics. There's no pretending to care about Peggy's photos from her trip to Phoenix, pressure to buy $10 gift wrap because Paul's kid has a school fund raiser or having to remember to swing by Winn Dixie at 7:30 a.m. because you're the one in charge of pimento cheese for the company pot luck.

Work from home, live the dream, right?

I once even accepted a piddly salary (that I later found out put me about $8,000 behind all of my male counterparts) because I was told there would be the possibility of working from home on some days. (Said possibility never materialized.) And every time I've been part of a large office and overheard someone talking about spreadsheets or how to shake the toner cartridge in the copier to get more life out of it, I've stared off into space and dreamed of doing my daily tasks from home. 

Let's just say that after a year of working from home, yet another of my dreams is dead. Here's the stuff they don't tell you about that domestic office:

1. Weight Gain. I thought I had it bad when I spent eight hours in my ergonomically-designed chair a mere 15 feet from the nearest vending machine. (I don't even want to think about what the consultant made who convinced companies that all chairs should have curved backs for happier workers. Note to said consultant: raises, better benefits and even some modicum of respect from management would have made me far happier than that chair.) These days, I sit on my couch instead, and the Cheeto's-laden BP station is less than a mile away. I refuse to admit my number of visits.

2. House Cleaning. When I first started working from home, I thought I should have a spotless house. After all, I was home all day, so why not use some of my break time or those periods when I was waiting for an e-mail response to throw in a load of laundry or Swiffer the floor? In the first month I worked from home, all of my slip covers had been washed, and I'd scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. Whereas I used to think, "Look how much I can do both professionally and domestically in a day," I now think, "The dirt and dust only come back. Maybe it's time to let them win."

3. Personal Hygiene. When you don't see anyone all day, it's pretty easy to forget about your appearance. If you avoid all of your mirrors, it gets even easier. For awhile, I changed clothes at night just so the SO wouldn't think I'd sat around in the same sweats for 24 hours straight. Lately, not even that seems to be a priority. I realize I could dress up just to do it, but rather than helping, I think I'd just feel even sillier -- like I'd turned into the delusional girl who talked about her high-powered job to anyone who would listen while pushing an empty shopping cart down the street or waiting for the guy to read the water meter.

4. Vices. Now, I'm not one looking to live in a 1984-esque world run by Big Brother, but there is something to be said for social norms. Others' eyes can do a little to keep us in check (and keep us from walking around in our underwear 18 hours a day.) When you work at home, there's no one watching. (I do realize that Judge Judy cannot see me through the TV screen even though I can see her. What a piercing glare that one has!) You can start drinking at 10 a.m. (Not that I do -- yet.) You can pop pills. You can spends hours looking at Internet pornography. For all you know, I could be drinking a dirty martini, smoking a pack of Capris and torturing one of the cats from my neighborhood at this very second. I'm not, but those boundaries can get looser and looser for us work-from-home folks.

5. Paranoia. The combination of A&E network, needing breaks from staring at the computer screen and being home all day on a cul-de-sac seems to have turned me into some sort of one-woman neighborhood watch. As someone who never wanted to be a nosy neighbor, I now know my mailman's route like the back of my hand and call tell you who recycles and who doesn't. I also have a loose theory that the people across the street take in homeless men in poor health, take out life insurance policies on them, and wait for "nature" to take it's course. I could very well be wrong, but if a news crew ever shows up in my life, I don't intend to be the interviewee saying, "They were the quietest people. I new saw this coming. I want to be the one to say, "I knew it all along. They were always weird, and I'm not a bit surprised."

(My goals used to involve publishing; now I want to be the smart-ass on the local news. Something is amiss.)

6. General Sanity. In case all of the previous points didn't lead you to this conclusion naturally, I do think mental health can suffer from working at home. Social interaction does more than keep our vices and hygiene in check. I really think it is good for the soul. No man is an island after all. There are days that the longest conversations I have are with my dog. And after the pets and talking aloud to myself, I end up in the worst of all possible places for interact with humanity ... message boards. LM6947* has a lot to say, and I'm not sure I like it one bit.

Of course, anyone working in an office right now probably has very little sympathy for this list, and I'm sure that if I went back to an office environment, I'd be nostalgic for my sofa and Cold Case Files within about two hours. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side -- whether that alluring other grass is a felted cubicle or desk shoved against the guest room wall. 

* Not my real message board name. Although, sadly, I do have one.

A Birthday and the Unexpected

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The audience oohs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The one you'll marry?"

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

"Really? Thirty?" I said.

"Oh yeah. What do you think?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Southern Hospitality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, I'm Taken

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just had a feeling," he said.

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

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

He is a sweet, forgiving, brave man.

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

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

A Memorable Exit

I have not always been a friend to the earth. (Hey, I'm a Southern girl. I love some hair spray, and as much as it pains me to say it, there's no hold like the hold that comes from an aerosol can. The rest just can't compete.)

But, a few years ago, I decided to make a concentrated effort to be a better citizen of the planet. I'm by no means perfect, but I found that once I started recycling, it became easier and easier to do little things to reduce my carbon footprint.

I try my best to get all of my mixed paper, plastic, aluminum and glass down to the recycling center, and I never set my heat above 68 degrees in the winter. I also may have gone a little insane on the "reuse" part -- I knit from plastic bags, make cork wreaths and turn bottle caps and lids into chains and magnets. (I can just imagine fewer and fewer people looking forward to gifts from me as they read that.)

I'm also a big fan of making it easier for people to recycle. The more I recycle, the more it pains me to throw away anything that could be recycled. But, the neat freak/germ phobic part of me also disdains the idea of carrying around a dirty soda can or sticky bottle in my purse when there's no recycling bin to dispose of it in. 

This next story follows directly from that inner conflict of mine:

The last company I worked for did not have recycling bins for anything other than mixed paper. Their reasoning? It attracted too many bugs and was messy. My response? Messier than plain, old trash? Really?

Anyway, at the time (and until I decided to wean myself a few days ago), I had a nasty diet soda habit. Two per day was my minimum, and on those days when I was particularly tired or dragging, I could hit three, easy.  

At the beginning of each week, I would bring in a 12-pack of either Diet Coke or Diet Dr. Pepper (my drugs of choice) and store them in the file cabinet and drawers behind my desk. (I like to keep most of my records on the computer and back-up disks, so I didn't use the file cabinet for much.) And every day, when I was done with my soda, I would wash out the empty can and put it back in the same file cabinet and drawers with the intention of running everything to the recycling center when I got a chance.

Well, that trip to the recycling center kept getting put off, and the cabinet just filled up with more and more cans. This probably would have been fine and just turned into a weekend trip to the office to clean out the cabinet had I not been laid off.

Newly jobless with a cardboard box in front of me for my personal belongings, I also found myself faced with no less than 200 or so empty soda cans. What's a girl to do?

1) Leave the cans right where they were. What did I care? I didn't have a job anymore, and legally, I don't think you can mention someone's potential hoarding when called for a job reference. The problem? It's not like management would be the one cleaning out my office, and the cleaning crew was too sweet for me to leave such a mess for. I wouldn't do that to them, and even I'm not that unprofessional (i.e., management, leaving a company).

2) Pile those cans into the largest trash bag I could find and carry them right out to my car with everything else. Yep, in a building where no one had cubicles, and all of the employees overlooked a common space, I would carry my large, clanging, commercial-size trash bag out with me as I handed in my badge and parking pass to the security guard. I may not have much dignity, but even I couldn't face being remembered as that employee.

3) Take the back stairs and throw all of the cans into the dumpster, wasting all of the potential energy that would have come from recycling the aluminum.

Needless to say, in the end, I chose option three, and I've felt guilty ever since. But, on one of my worst career days, looking like the Santa Claus of the gutter as I left the building for the last time just wasn't a realistic option. I've been doing my best to make it up to Mother Earth ever since. Former plastic bag wine tote, anyone?

Worst Date Ever

As I mentioned earlier this week, I'm no stickler when it comes to romance. I don't have to receive a dozen red roses on every important occasion, and I'd be perfectly fine if no one ever dedicated a Celine Dion song to me on the radio.

However, I do think certain qualities (apart from my short list of fidelity, truthfulness and not signing on with extremist groups/militias) are important to keep love alive:

Thoughtfulness: "My partner seemed really stressed about getting everything done today, I think I'll pick up dinner on the way home."

Paying Attention: "My partner said it was very important that I get this video back to the store today, I'll do that right now."

Reason/Rational: "My partner is not a fan of Pink Floyd. His/her birthday is probably not the time to buy the complete works of Pink Floyd and force my tastes upon him/her. Maybe I'll buy something he/she likes instead."

The story I'm about to tell you completely violates all three of the above. And, while these events did not happen on Valentine's Day, I think the lessons about love -- or lack thereof -- are more than appropriate to the spirit of the holiday.

It was the summer before an election year. I was going to school in Washington, D.C. and my then boyfriend and I had been breaking up and getting back together for weeks. After yet another one of our loud and embarrassing-if-I-ever-had-to-see-those-neighbors-again fights, he told me that he really wanted us to work out.

"I need more from you," I said. "I need to know how much you care about me."

"I can do that," he said. "I can show you how much I care. I'll be more romantic."

"Really? You'll be more romantic?"

"I will. I'll even plan us a trip."

So, we got back together, and the ex-bf took to working on the details of a trip that was supposed to be even more romantic because it was going to be a surprise to me. Him taking the initiative and making plans for something we could do together? I was pretty excited.

The day of our trip, I put on a dress that was a far cry from my standard classroom uniform of capri pants and a tank top and turned in my summer school assignments early. Then I went back to my apartment to wait for the bf.

He arrived in his standard uniform of khakis and a button-down shirt. "Ready?"

"Sure," I said. "Where are we headed?"

"Philadelphia," he said.

I smiled and nodded.

"For the Republican National Convention."

To make it very, very clear how bad this was (as if it isn't clear enough already): a) there is nothing about politics or a party's national convention that I find the least bit romantic and b) I am not a republican.

"OK then," I said. (Please keep in mind that I did not have anywhere close to the self-esteem or mouth that I have on me now.) "How are we getting there?"

"I thought you could drive."

For more clarity, I am now: a) going to the national convention of a party I do not support and b) acting as chauffeur. In the abbreviated words of Charles Dickens, "... it was the worst of times."

"We better get on the road," he said, ushering me towards the door. "I don't want to be late."

Slightly more than two hours later, we arrived in Philadelphia. "There it is," he said, pointing to a large complex or closed-in stadium (I was a bit blinded by disbelief and barely-suppressed rage to remember the architectural details). "That's where the convention is."

"I see it," I said.

"Now, if we can find the box office, we'll be set."

That's right, ladies and gentlemen -- he didn't have tickets. His plan was for us to arrive at the door and get, I don't know, nosebleed section or lawn seating for one of the nation's biggest political rallies. First, all romance went out the door. Now, any consideration I might have given to his planning skills was gone, too.

Of course, no one can just walk up and buy tickets to the Republican National Convention. (I imagine it has something to do with demand and security clearance. But, I don't know for sure, and I never plan to find out. This is not the kind of trip I will make again.) And since we couldn't get in, and I refused to make a two-hour trip in vain, we decided to grab dinner instead.

We found an Italian restaurant nearby. I want to say there were TVs in the restaurant so the bf could would the convention that he couldn't attend, but I can't be sure on that point. What I do know is that we didn't talk much, and we were literally the only two people trying to get dinner in that part of Philadelphia at that time. 

And, for all of you still reading, here comes the real kicker. It's also the part that you might not believe, but let me assure you that I'm not that creative and life is, by far, stranger than fiction.

When the check arrived, the server handed it to the bf. He picked it up, looked it over and started patting his back pockets.

"Oh man," he said, "I think I left everything in D.C. Could you get this one?"

For some reason I still don't understand, I then paid $75 for a meal in a town two hours from home that I drove to in my own car for the convention of a party I don't belong to and couldn't attend.

As the saying goes, I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but thank God I ain't what I was. (And thank God I've begun to learn the word "no.") This Valentine's Day, I hope you're lucky enough to spend the holiday with someone very special. And if not, it could always be worse. Believe me.