Better Late Than Never

There are few things I know how to do well. (I’ve often said that beyond writing, I’m only really qualified to run a bar. Plus, lately my pop culture knowledge is even slipping – Justin Bieber, Prince Poppycock and any American Idol from the last 5 years don’t even make the radar. Not even my irrelevant knowledge is what it used to be.)

However, one thing I do extremely well is read a receipt. I’ve been a dedicated shopper since near-birth and switched to a clothing allowance at 12 since my desire to spend time at the mall was far greater than my mom’s. I’m not only a dedicated shopper; I’m a dedicated bargain shopper.

I may have no memory of algebra or geometry, but I can calculate a discount and sales tax with no trouble whatsoever. Buy one, get one free (higher price prevailing)? Please. I’ll go through the line twice just to make sure I can save three extra dollars.

In other words, don’t hand this one a receipt and expect me not to know what’s up.

The other day, I went to Home Depot for the umpteenth time this week. (Again, if you learn nothing from this blog, a) never buy an old house and b) never renovate said old house. Unless, of course, you have the patience of saint, and I don’t. But, also, don’t let that “old house rule” of mine stop you from buying mine should you be interested.)

I needed one last cabinet for my kitchen, and I knew that the 20% off sale on pre-manufactured cabinets was ending shortly. Being the bargain hunter that I am, I sped down to the Home Depot for the last of my cabinet collection.

As I was checking out, I looked down at the electronic pad and noticed no “-20%, you saved $20.80” beneath the original price.”

“Did you remember the sale discount?” I asked (nicely, I might add).

“It’s automatically factored in.”

Now, again reviewing my limited knowledge base, a) sales prices are never factored in and b) having spent too much time at Home Depot, I know all sales associates have to scan the weekly sales bar code to get the right discounts.

“Are you sure about that?” I said. “I think you need the …”

“It’s already in there,” the clerk said, and she called up the next customer in line.

Not only has my personal budget been tighter lately, but I also have a little trouble letting things go. I looked down at the receipt as we were about to walk to the parking lot again and again.

“This just isn’t right,” I said.

Fortunately, the SO knows all too well my tendency to obsess.

“And this is like $20,” I went on.

“Do you want to go back in?”

“No, it’s OK,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to go back in?” he asked again. Sighing. (We had a bet going about how much time he was going to have to spend helping me at Home Depot, and I was already over my time limit by about five minutes.)

Almost before he had finished the question, I ran to the back of the store, checked the original price of the cabinet, ran back to the front of the store and beckoned him over to the customer service desk. (Once you cross me at the Home Depot, I will not deal with you again. Sadly, this severely limits who I can and cannot interact with at Home Depot.)

My new clerk did a return on the cabinet, and then ran it back up (making sure to scan the sheet of weekly specials). I could finally leave with my new cabinet and kicky savings.

Is this the most interesting story I’ve ever told? No. But, that’s what happens when you start renovating a home. (One of my friends keeps asking when I get a walker for all the stories I have to tell about Home Depot, Lowe’s and salvage home emporiums.)

But, at least you can all rest assured that while my pop culture knowledge and personal hygiene are slipping, I’m still razor sharp when it comes to getting my deals. Today’s agenda – searching for overstock tile. Try not to spend the entire weekend on the edge of your seat. 

Meet My Husband

I am not a fan of the hard sell. I don't do well when people get in my face with "amazing offers," I don't like telemarketers that want to know "why I wouldn't be interested in their limited-time-only deal" and I really, really don't like large bins or buckets shoved in my face to collect change and dollars. (Yeah, I know that last one sounds mean, but come on, do you really like being solicited for money when all you want to do is run in the Wal-Mart for some shampoo and candy corn?)

That being sad, I'm also a huge softie. I find it very hard to say "no." Bring three side dishes to the party? Sure. Buy wrapping paper for your kid's school fundraiser? OK. I even used to have a hard time going into a store without any other customers in it because I felt guilty walking out without buying anything.

So, I suppose the real reason I don't like the hard sale is because I usually can't resist it. Unfortunately, like a dog can smell fear, I think most salesmen can still spot the softie in me from a mile off.

Then, I became an adult and realized that rampant spending -- not matter how difficult it was to say "no" -- wasn't going to do me well in life.

My real breaking point came one day as I was sitting in a gym membership office. (Number of times I have attempted to join a gym: 10+; number of times I have actually joined a gym: 0.) I had been there for 20 minutes with no end to the sales spiel in sight, and I was so, so hungry.

"If you put down just $5.oo today, I can guarantee you our special rate through the end of September," some very short man in a very red polo shirt kept saying.

"I need to think about it," I said.

"But it's just $5.00. Who doesn't have $5.00?"

For the first time, I realized that I just didn't want to cave. I knew I wasn't coming back to that gym (too many attractive D.C. denizens with way too much energy on the treadmills), and I really wanted that $5.oo for the McDonald's value meal I was going to eat as a pre-dinner snack on the way home.

"I'm not going to give you $5.00," I said, and yet, the conversation continued to go on and on in much the same way. When I finally did escape the gym membership office, I was exhausted. I said "no" for the first time, but it was far too time-consuming.

I needed a better way.

A few weeks later, I was in a department store buying linens (because I have an obsession with purchasing new sheets), and the all-too-familiar pitch came: "You know you can save 15% today if you sign-up for our in-store credit card."

"That's OK. I have enough credit cards," I said.

"But, you won't only save money on this purchase. You'll save 15% on everything you buy today."

And, that's when it came to my -- the line that has saved me hours upon hours of time in the years since. "Actually," I said, "it's my husband who won't let me have anymore credit cards."

"Oh, I understand," the clerk said, and she ran my debit card and put the sheets in a bag. "Have a nice day."

It was amazing (and sad for this women's libber), but just the implied presence of a man ended any attempt at further selling. (As they say, when a man says "no," it's the end of the conversation. When a woman says "no," it's the beginning of a negotiation.)

I tried it out again a few weeks later.

"If we upgrade your Internet and cable service today, you'll have free HBO for 10 whole days," the telemarketer said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You'll have to call back later, my husband is the one who makes all of those decisions around the house."

"Of course. When do you think he'll be home?"

"I'd try Tuesday around 1:00," I said, knowing very well no one would be home then.

For an extreme people pleaser, this "husband" of mine was like finding the holy grail of avoidance.

And, when it comes to big purchases, my fictitious husband is the best.

"This mattress is only $900.00. You wouldn't believe what a steal that is, and I can only give you that price through today."

"I'll have to talk about it with my husband."

"You do that and give me a call."

In the past eight years, my "husband" has gotten me off car lots, out of more credit card offers than I can count and away from many a high-pressure gym guy (like I said, I almost join at least once a year).

He's also evolved quite a bit in the time that we've been together. My husband is no one-dimensional creation. Of course, he's in the military, so we can't sign up for any lawn services because "we never know when we'll be moving again." And, he can be a tad controlling and tight with the wallet -- I'm banned from both credit cards and have had an allowance at times. But, he's also quite liberal ("He'd kill me if I put that McCain sign in our yard") and takes great care of me ("Just the oil change today -- my husband handles the rest when he takes my car into the shop").

The older I get, the better I get at asserting myself. After all, I was only 22 when my "husband" came into being, so it's only natural that we'd do some growing apart over the years. But, every so often, when I'm just too tired or the guy at Best Buy is just a little too pushy about the quadrillion extra insurance options, I find he's still there to save me.

"I won't be getting the five-year extended warranty plus freak accident coverage today for my $40.00 DVD player. You don't know my husband -- he can fix just about anything."

The Crazy Cat Lady

In the list of stereotypes that I try to avoid, "crazy cat lady" is near the top of the list. (Not that there's anything wrong with that for my cat-loving friends; I'm definitely a crazy dog lady.) However, when you're Southern, 30, single and a often a bridesmaid, you'd be amazed how many people suggest your home life is full of stuffed animals, multiple cats and repeated references to Sex and the City.

For the record, I don't have stuffed animals. I didn't like Sex and the City. (Why do people judge you if Miranda's your favorite character? Wouldn't you be that dark if you spent all of your time with those three other crazies? Brunch chatter alone would be enough to push me over the homicidal edge.) And until recently, I didn't have a cat. 

I am so paranoid about people thinking I might be slinking towards "crazy cat lady" territory  that I won't buy cat food without buying dog food, too. Should I find myself in need of cat items alone, I will announce to the cashier and anyone within earshot that "I also have a dog." You know, just in case.

But, a few days ago, I found myself at a place called Cat Haven, and there really was no sense in pretending anymore.

Over Labor Day weekend, I decided to board Kitty Cat Jones since we all know how well he behaves when I go out of town, and hence the entry of Cat Haven into my life.

Now, having both a dog and a cat, I'm used to a vet's office that's pretty evenly divided between dog and cat paraphernalia. So, I wasn't quite prepared for the experience that was Cat Haven -- cat tunnels, cat calendars and about seven lounging cats to greet me as I arrived. (Also, though, complete with friendly staff and very reasonable prices.)

"Are you a first-time patient?"

"Yes," I said, putting Kitty Cat Jones on the counter in his carrier once I had adequately shut the door to prevent escaping cats -- as warned by the sign on the front door.

"We just have a few forms for you to fill out."

I provided all of the info about the cat's vaccination, etc. and handed the forms back to the lovely receptionist a few moments later.

"So, the cat's name is?" she said, eyeing the rather odd slash on my form.

"Well," I said, "he was Toonces, but them my boyfriend started calling him Kitty Cat Jones, so he kind of goes by that now.  But, a lot of his medical records are under Toonces, so I thought I'd just put them both on there."

"I see."

"Yeah," I said. "He really will answer to either." It was kind of awkward.

"Well, I'm sure he'll be just fine here," the receptionist said. "Have a great Labor Day weekend."

"You, too," I said. "Thanks so much, and I'll see y'all on Tuesday."

 I shook off my minor feelings of crazy, made sure no cats had tried to escape with me on my way out and went about the rest of my day.

About an hour later (bank deposit and Chik-fil-A run included), I noticed a missed call and voice mail on my phone. It was Cat Haven.

My first fear was that Kitty Cat Jones might have already made some enemies at Cat Haven, and I seriously considered ignoring the message and pretending I didn't receive it until after our vacation was over. I didn't have a back-up plan for Cat Haven expulsion two hours from departure time, and it's always better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

Whether it was curiosity or self-sabotage, I listened to the message anyway and followed the directions to call Cat Haven back.

"Ms. Mills," the receptionist said, "we tried to confirm Toonces' vaccines and spaying with the Alabama Spay & Neuter clinic, but they seemed to have trouble locating his records."

Knowing I was about to sound even crazier, I attempted to apologize in advance, but the bottom line came down to this: "Oh, that's because his name was Cocoa back then. You'd have to look under Cocoa Mills for those records."

"I see."

The real lesson I learned this past weekend? My sanity/behavior has little to do with circumstance or pet choice. Cat or no, I'm just crazy, and I do appreciate the staff at Cat Haven for drawing as little attention to my off-beat behavior as possible.

But, should I decide a shopping cart is the best way to transport my belongings around the neighborhood or to the office, I want an intervention ASAP. Even I have limits.

Cat Watch 2010: Part Deux

I had the nerve to go out of town for the weekend. At least, I think the cat considered it nerve.

Maybe he was displeased. Maybe he doesn’t like other cats. Maybe he just really likes trees. Because sure enough, within four days of ending the first Cat Watch, the world’s oddest cat climbed yet another tree.

The cat food was disappearing each night, so I figured Toonces/Kitty Cat Jones (depending on who you talk to), was just out on one his adventures. Then, I saw a white and orange cat that was definitely not Kitty Cat Jones running away from the bowl one night and knew that Kitty Cat Jones might have wandered too far away from home. I grabbed the SO and insisted we patrol the neighborhood.

“Mew,” I called.

“Mew,” the SO reluctantly added his calls to my own.

Two houses down, a cat answered, but it was a black cat that was also not Kitty Cat Jones, so we kept going. Four houses down, I heard the distinctive – and loud – cries of one Kitty Cat Jones, and sure enough, rather than being on the ground like most four-legged creatures of God’s green earth, he was in a tree. And at least 25 feet in the air in said tree to boot.

“Sweetheart,” I called, for some reason thinking that this time he would just run right down to me rather than staging a three-day sit-in like the time before. (Sometimes my own logic baffles me.)

As per what-was-quickly-becoming usual, the cat stayed right where he was in the tree. He just started screaming louder. Since it was almost 10:00 at night, the SO took my arm and suggested we “walk quickly away” before the whole neighborhood woke up and realized we were to blame for the disturbing nighttime noises.

In the morning, I went back to the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was perched with another tin of Friskies. (Again, why I thought everything that didn’t work last time would work this time is beyond me. It must have been plain and simple desperation.)

No luck, so I went back around lunchtime, and that’s when I met the woman who owned the house with the yard and the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was. “Is that your cat?” she said.

“Yep,” I said. “That’s my cat.”

“Oh, he’s been up there for a couple of days. I called the humane society, but they weren’t much help.”

“Thank you for that,” I said. “But I know they aren’t much help with cats up trees.” I didn’t add that I’d done this before. Last week.

While I was standing there talking to the homeowner, the neighbor from across the street came over.

“That’s your cat?” he said. “He is scared to death up there.”

While I was talking to the across-the-street neighbor, another neighbor, who I happen to know from one of my writing classes came out. “Is that your cat?” she said. “I’ve been reading about ways to get him out of the tree on the Internet.”

When my former student arrived, I told her all about Kitty Cat Jones’ adventure from the week before while the across-the-street-neighbor lay on the lawn and smoked, and we all stared at the cat.

As if I couldn’t create more of a spectacle while we were all gathered on the sidewalk (me still holding a tin of Friskies), two more neighbors came over from across the street.

The husband said something that I couldn’t understand, and my former student said, “I’m sure he is thirsty in this heat.”

“That your cat?” the wife said.

“That’s my cat,” I said. I had had to own up to this a little more than I was hoping to – especially because we all know how I feel about the judging.

“You do something to make him mad?” she said.

“Well, I did go out of town for the weekend,” I said. “I guess that did it.”

“Yep,” she said, and then she offered her own diagnosis of the cant’s seemingly-growing neuroses. “He throwing a temper tantrum. That’s what it is. It’s a temper tantrum.”

“You think so?” I said.

“Oh yeah. He’ll back down out of there when he’s ready.

“Really?” I said. “It does seem like we’ve gotten into a battle of wills."

“Un-huh,” she said, “and you’re losing. The cat’s in a tree, and what are you doing? Standing out in the heat holding its food. Uh-huh. That cat got you. That cat throwing a temper tantrum, and it got you.”

Life lessons and I got to meet the neighbors -- not exactly what I had planned for the afternoon. I may not have gotten the cat down, but at least it was something.

Epilogue: The net morning, my former student flagged down a bucket truck and made it retrieve the cat. (Thank you!) I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to show Kitty Cat Jones the joys of life on the ground – like easy access to food and not making me run through my Xanax like their Tic-Tacs. I don’t think he’s too impressed by the latter.

In Which Laurel Must Hire a Plumber

Home ownership -- it’s an integral part of the American dream. Your very own place, your very own yard, a place to call your own. There’s just one tiny little pesky part of that grand dream of home ownership no one ever tells you during the “sell” phase – home repair.

Before I owned my own home, I had to call someone about home fix-it related issues exactly twice in my life. Once, I dropped a diamond necklace down the sink and called the plumber whose coupon was on the front cover of the yellow pages. (There was a diamond involved. Do I really need to describe how desperate I was?)

A plumber arrived within an hour, and after a five-minute fix, I wrote him a check for $125.00. (So much for the coupon.) On the plus side, he at least taught me how to save my own jewelry from the ell in the pipe in the future. On the down side, I went from having an ordinary, expense-free morning to a $100.00+ one. I was learning that nothing about hiring a handyman is ever cheap – or easy.

The other time I needed a handyman, it also happened to be a plumber. I was renting the upstairs of a house in Georgetown with four other girl friends during our senior year of college. It was a Saturday, and there was a clog. Our landlord was out of town, so what would have been a relatively stress-free situation quickly went to DEFCON one. It was already a stretch with five girls sharing one bathroom. Remove the toilet from the equation, and you’ve got real trouble.

With one roommate out of town and two suddenly having “plans,” it was left to me and another roommate to figure out how to handle the problem. As per usual, I turned to the yellow pages. (Only, this time I actually opened the thing.) Being all of 20, I went with the first big ad that said “no problem to small” and “available all hours of the day or night.” References, credentials and estimates didn’t even cross my mind.

“Hello, I need to hire a plumber,” I said as soon as someone answered the phone. “My toilet is clogged, and I really need it fixed as soon as possible.”

“We’ll send someone out right away,” the man on the other end of the line said, and he proceeded to take down my address and phone number.

When I got off the phone, I was relieved and couldn’t believe how easily I had taken care of what I considered to be a very grown-up problem. Then, my roommate and I went to pacing and trying not to drink or think about running water while we watched for the plumber’s arrival outside of the window.

About 30 minutes later, a blue Dodge Mini-van parked across the street. It reminded me of the one my family owned circa 1985 through the early ‘90s. Only, this was 2000, and our family car had had all of its seats in the back.

At that moment, my stomach dropped. “I think that’s our plumber,” I said, my gut telling me that it had been way too premature to pat myself on the back for this one.

“No way,” my roommate said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Surely …”

A man in jeans and a white undershirt climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened the back of the van. In almost clown-like fashion, four younger men rolled out of the back of the car while someone else exited via the front passenger side door.

“No way,” my roommate said.

The man from the driver’s side and the man from the passenger’s seat of the car crossed the street and rang our doorbell. Luckily, it seemed like the four men from the back of the van were only there to spectate and smoke cigarettes on the curb, so at least we didn’t have half a dozen men on their way in.

We greeted the two “plumbers” and took them to our bathroom. (I’m still doubtful about whether or not they were actual plumbers despite the fact that they had a plunger and snake with them.)

“This is a nice house,” one of them said.

“But you sure got a mess in here,” the other said, staring into our bathroom.

“Well, you know,” I said, “with all of our boyfriends over all the time, there’s no telling what can happen. If they weren’t at football practice right now, I’m sure one of them could have helped us out.”

(1) Of course this was all lies, 2) I know the Georgetown football team really wasn’t much of a threat, but 3) a lifetime of procedural dramas and time with my father will cause your brain to default into a mode in which you make any and all strangers think someone will always be looking for you should you disappear and that that person is very large with possible rage control issues.)

Twenty minutes later, they were done, and I handed them a check. (I had asked for the price while they were toiling away in the bathroom and wrote it quickly in the hopes that we could usher them from our house as quickly as possible once the work was complete.)

“A check?” the first plumber said. “Do you think there’s any way you could pay us in cash?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is all we have.”

“We’d be more than happy to drive you to the ATM,” the other plumber said.

Now, I recognize that bad things happen to good people all the time, no matter how careful you are. But, I also knew that I had no intention of going out of this world because I decided to crawl in the back of a burned out minivan with six strange, large men I had never seen before that day and my ATM card.

“I don’t have an ATM card,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Both men looked at my roommate.

“Me neither,” she said. Was it reasonable for two college-age women not to have ATM cards in the 21^st century? No, but I didn’t really care.

We both just started walking towards the front door with the check in hand, and thankfully the plumbers followed. After they were out the door (that we quickly bolted), we watched the whole team file back into the van and head away.

I learned a little lesson about the Yellow Pages that day, and we’ve had trust issues ever since.

Now, as a home owner in the midst of a kitchen renovation, I have to call plumbers, electricians and general handymen all the time. Even when I only go with recommendations from friends, I dread the process of finding phone numbers, getting estimates and waiting to see how much I get to spend on whatever has gone wrong in my 1928-era bungalow that day.  Home repair = high stress, and that’s all there is to it.

In short, renters rejoice. Your landlord is probably crazy. (Generally, they all are, but I think that's what too much home repair does to people. It's like the chicken and the egg, and I have no idea if landlording or home repair comes first.) And I’m sure you have some neighbors with noise issues, but the odds of finding six men outside your door ready to take you to the nearest source of cash are probably much lower. You might even find the phone book helpful.

And at the end of the day, the person responsible for it all isn’t you, and in my book, that’s the best present of all.

Meeting Senator Ted Stevens

Sometimes,I get all too depressed thinking that this is the face of Alaskan politics.(Although, I suppose that if you resign your governorship to focus on your bookdeal and possible reality show, you’re not really a representative of Alaska anyway.)

Iget even more depressed when I think that this might be the face of women's,national and/or populist politics, so you can see why, if I have to make achoice, I want to relegate her just to Alaska. (Sorry Alaska. Really.)

Long before Sarah Palin, Alaskan politics had another face, and thisweek, Alaska and the country lost Senator TedStevens, the man who represented his statewith such passion and commitment. (Albeit not without controversy, I know.)

I met Senator Stevens in 2001. I was just out of college andworking for a non-profit in D.C. that provided housing and medical care forretired career military officers and their spouses/widows. (This translatesinto running a continuing care retirement community complete with independentliving, assisted living and nursing care. Founded by Mamie Eisenhower, we werevery well-funded, and walking down the plush corridor that ran by the diningroom past the lobby and to the elevators, my boss and I often remarked that wefelt like the activities directors on some kind of luxury cruise line.Especially if there was a game of croquet on the lawn or a bridge tournamentgoing on.)

Onemonth into the job, it was time for the Foundation’s largest annual fundraiser,a gala, and to say that I was feeling a little overwhelmed would be quite theunderstatement.

Decorumand manners I’m used to. I did grow up Southern and in a family that prizedmanners very highly. I know how to eat a banana with a knife and fork, whichsilverware belongs to which course and for the first 18 years of my life, Inever left a table without asking to be excused. Professionalism I could handleas well, but military customs were not part of my repertoire at the time,and I worried about the offenses I could cause addressing a “General” as a “Colonel”and who knows what else.

Ifirst became flustered when the advance team for General Shinseki, the head ofthe U.S. Army arrived.

Speakinginto his cuff, a large man told me that “the commander was on route.”

“What’syour plan for his arrival?” he asked.

Plan?I thought. Was I really supposed to be the one with the plan? I thought of myrole as involving more silent auction items and directions to the bar than howto schedule the arrival of one of the military’s most powerful men.

“Letme find my boss,” I said, which I stand by as a great answer until you becomethe boss. (I’ll also go ahead and mention that our banquet was held on Tuesday,September 4, 2001. At the time, we were all completely clueless that the worldwould change forever in one week. I met General Shinseki that evening, and thenext time I saw him, he was in the front row for President Bush’s post 9/11address to the nation as it was broadcast on every major, and not so major,television network. He directed hundreds of thousands of men and women as theyentered Afghanistan, andlater Iraq.I made invitations for a donor coffee in December.)

Then,they had to go and throw in Senators on top of all that.

Eachyear, the Foundation’s Gala honored a particular guest. In 2000, they hadhonored Senator Stevens, and he returned in 2001 to support that year’shonoree, his friend and fellow World War II veteran, Senator Daniel Inouye of Hawaii. Senator Inouyelost his right hand in the war, and I was also incredibly embarrassed to thinkthat I might have stared as we were introduced. (I also think I was in to thetwo-handed shake at that time. It was a phase, akin to and followed by mykissing everyone on the cheek, that I thought seemed very warm and genuine.Let’s just say that I’m glad I’ve moved on.)

Akind man, Senator Inouye didn’t seem to notice my floundering in this worldthat seemed way over my 21-year-old head. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Bothmen were obviously impressive, but what bowled me over most about each was thatin an environment dominated by politics and power, each with a long history ofgovernment service behind them, that night, both seemed to hold onto something thatwas relatively uncommon in Washington-– humility.

SenatorStevens really was there just to support his friend. He had no interest inpushing an agenda (not that there’s much of an agenda to push in a continuingcare retirement community, but the very fact that he came to spend his eveningwith a bunch of old women that it meant the world to also speaks to hischaracter). He didn’t seem bored. He was kind and gracious to each and everyperson that wanted the opportunity to meet him.   

Iknow his later career was troubled. I also know that controversy surrounds Senator Stevens, especially as it relates to pork belly spending and his often aggressive approach, but what I took fromthat night is that Senator Stevens cared  -- about his friends and the U.S. military. I know Senator Stevens will be missed, andI enjoyed our meeting very much.

Andsome of you think I never say anything good about Republicans …

Cat Watch 2010

Becauseof my flea infestation, I decided to move the world’s most difficult cat to theSO’s house, so he would not be assaulted by the tiny bloodsuckers.

(Unfortunately,despite a flea treatment and a flea collar, the cat still had fleas, so I hadto bathe him with flea/tick shampoo. Bathing a cat? Not easy. Then Iflea-combed him. Also, not easy. After all that, I washed everything in thebathroom from the towels to the floor mats because of my ever-growing fleaparanoia. This is the short answer to why I haven’t been on Twitter as muchlately and why the water bill is late. Sorry social media and utilityprovider.)

Uponour arrival at the SO’s house, the cat seemed just fine. He lazed on the frontporch, as per usual, and taunted the dogs. All seemed right with the world.

Iwent out for the evening, and when I came home, I made my usual “mew” sound tocommunicate with him. (Yes, it is a ridiculous sight.) The cat responds to mymews with mews of his own, so we usually go back and forth for awhile. It’s likethe “Meow Mix” commercial, only in rounds with me being tone deaf and the catseeming kind of annoyed by how off-key I am. By sound, I was sure I should beright on top of him and was all sorts of confused as to why I couldn’t find himuntil I looked up.

Thecat had responded to his new surroundings by running up the tallest tree hecould find. For good measure, he also chose the tree closest to a power line.

Idon’t know what I thought the cat would do, but I continued mewing andstretched out my arms – like he might jump to me I suppose – before giving upand heading in to Google and sleep.

Surely,I thought, the Internet would have answers. That, or he would come down bymorning.

But,my little feline love did not earn the title of the world’s most difficult catfor nothing. He stayed in that tree all day. Every time he saw me or the SO hewould whine, and when he whined, we would go towards him and encourage him tocome down.

After24 hours, it was clear that I refused to buy an extension ladder and that thecat refused to budge from his limb. We were at a standstill.

Unfortunately,the cat also whined whenever he saw a neighbor, so I also felt that my pet-rearingskills were being scrutinized.

OnDay Two of Cat Watch 2010, one neighbor said, “I think you need to call 911about that thing.”

Thisjust made me feel bad for EMTs. As a sane person, I know that a cat up a treedoes not qualify as an emergency. I worry about the definitions other peoplehave.

Ialso learned that the fire department does not get cats out of trees (and theswitchboard operator will chuckle at you if you ask). The humane society,animal control and wildlife rescue don’t get cats out of trees. The treeservices will – for a price.

Andjudge me if you want – it certainly won’t be the first time in these past fewweeks – but I wasn’t about to drop what I figured would be at least $100 ongetting the cat out of a tree it would most likely run straight back up.

So,I took the age old-advice of “have you ever seen a dead cat in a tree?” andwaited for the dear to come down on his own.

Sureenough, right before the beginning of what would have been Day Three of CatWatch 2010, the cat came down ready to be petted and fed.

Whatgoes up must come down -- even when it’s a very stubborn cat.

Infested

There’san old Mitch Hedburg joke about how you never hear of any good infestations.“My apartment is infested with koala bears. It’s the cutest infestation ever.Much better than cockroaches. I turn the lights on and a bunch of koala bearsscatter. I'm like, come back! I want to hold one of you, and feed you a leaf.”

It’strue that “infestation” is never associated with anything positive, and assomeone in the midst of a flea infestation, I’m more than willing to vouch forthis.

Aflea infestation is terrible. By itself, it’s just awful. I mean, there arefleas everywhere – do I really need to elaborate on why this is horrendous?And, almost as bad as the fleas is the accompaniment to every infestation – thejudging.

Noone wants to believe that you get to the level of flea infestation without somegross misconduct. Whether it’s a messy kitchen or karmic-retribution for priorbad acts, people want to believe a flea infestation doesn’t just happen out ofthe blue.

Forthose of you wondering, I am a good housekeeper. My house is neat and orderly,and I am in love with my sanitizing steam mop. I am also a good pet owner(despite what happened during Cat Watch 2010, but we’ll get to that tomorrow).My dog does not have fleas -- it’s just my house, and I have devoted myself totheir eradication:

1. Vacuumedthe entire house and burned the contents of the vacuum cleaner afterwards.
2. Fleabombed my house. Twice.
3. Fleabombed my car and vacuumed it afterwards.
4. Burnedthe cat’s bed. (I felt like I was in some required school reading about ScarletFever epidemics in the 18^th century, but I did it anyways.)
5. Hadthe exterminator out. Twice.
6. Takenthe flea bomb the exterminator left me, set it off and thrown it under thehouse grenade-style in an effort to take out the possible offenders.
7. Foggedthe inside of my house, for the fifth time, with the prescription-strength bugkiller left behind by the exterminator.

Ispend more time talking to my exterminator than I do speaking to some membersof my own family, I might be barren because of how many pesticides I haveencountered in the last two weeks and I haven’t had access to all of my clothesin what seems like a mini-eternity. (Oh, short-sleeved cardigans, how I missyou.) But all of this is to no avail.

Thereare still fleas. Fleas that like to bite me. For awhile, I was going to bed apinkish hue from all of the calomine lotion on my body. I don’t know what theyfeed on (other than me, occasionally). I don’t know where they’re coming from –all of the animals are at the SO’s house. And despite what anyone tells you,rosemary is not a flea-deterring plant because it is the only thing I’m capableof growing, and it flourishes right near the back door/main flea point ofattack.

Iam so tired, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to enjoy the inside of my houseagain – if ever. Please send positive thoughts into the universe for me. Andvery, very bad thoughts about fleas.   

Striking The Perfect Balance Of Customer Service

Iappreciate good customer service. I really do. In a world of “I can’t doanything about that,” “That’s not my problem” and apathetic shrugs, it’srefreshing to find someone who actually wants to help you. (Mylatest adventure in bad customer service? Never being apologized to by theconsignment store that lost a $90 piece of my jewelry. I work in PR, I know howfar a simple “I’m sorry” can go. Perhaps more importantly, when an apologyisn’t there, you really, really notice.)

Thatbeing said, I’m not always a fan of chatty customer service. I know thatcomputers are slow, records take awhile to come up and sometimes there’s a badphone connection. None of that means that I need to fill the silence with whatthe weather is like where I am, how many pets I have or whether or not I’mmarried with some kids. Really, I’ll be OK for those two minutes without havinga lively discussion about the heat. Trust me, I’m fine.

I’mparticularly anti chatty customer service after a long car trip. When it comesto road trips, I don’t like to stop. So, while I save lots of time on the driveto my destination, I’m usually pretty anxious to get to a bathroom the moment Ido arrive at said destination. Therefore, I like efficient hotel clerks.Extremely efficient.

I was not so lucky on my last trip to Atlanta.

“Welcome,”said the very lovely woman who greeted us at the check-in desk, “we’re so gladto have you.” She was smiling. She seemed to like her job. It was pleasant.

Then she went to her computer to pull up our reservation.

“Ohdear,” she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it looks like youroriginal room isn’t available. Rather than having the downtown view from yourroom, you’re going to have the midtown view.”

Isthe view different anywhere in Atlanta?No. Midtown, downtown, don’t care. This is really the least of my concerns.

“That’sjust fine,” my friend said. The reservation was in her name, and as theresponsible one, we left her to the check-in duties.

“And what brings you to our fair city?” thecheck-in clerk said. “I hope it’s something fun.”

“We’re actually here for a wedding,” my friendsaid.

“Thatsounds so nice,” she said. “Would you like me to check the wedding schedule tosee when you can catch the shuttle to the church?”

“Sure.” By this time, I’m crossing my legs in atoddler-like fashion.

“It looks like you’re leaving at six. I’m sure the Walker family is glad tohave you.”

“Actually, we’re here with a different wedding.”

“Ohmy,” the check-in clerk said. “I had no idea we had so many weddings. Let melook for the other schedules.”

Asshe rifles through a stack of papers at least an inch think, all I can think is“Are you kidding me?” She stopped typing as soon as she gave us the bad newsabout the view, and I dread thinking how far from actual check-in we are. (Incase you’re wondering, the lobby bathroom was nowhere in sight, and I am a girlwith girl issues. I needed to get to the room, and I’m going to leave it atthat.) 

“TheHarris party?”

“No,” my friend said, “that’s not us.”

Iwas 60 seconds from a fetal position or an accident at this particular moment intime. Dear God woman, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but just swipe somecards and write a room number on an envelope.

“I wonder where that information is …”

Luckyfor me, by this point, my friend sensed my desperation and moved things along.“I think we’ll just figure it out in the room.”

“It’s really no trouble.”

“We’re fine.” At last, I saw the keys being tuckedin their paper sleeve.

“Youknow,” the check-in clerk said, “I almost forgot to tell you about ourcomplimentary wine hour at five. You really should come to that.” (I don’t knowif she thought this information was important because we clearly liked ouralcohol -– I was holding a 12-pack of Miller Lite and our other friend had abottle of red wine from the Publix down the street, or she didn’t realize thatthe pre-party was taken care of.)

Iwill love my friend forever for taking the keys from her at that moment. “We’llsee you there,” and we booked it to the elevator.

There are things I need to know and things Idon’t. There are also times I want to talk and times I don’t. And when I’ve gotto go, I’ve got to go. I so appreciate it when my customer service and I matchup on these levels.   

The Wall

A few months ago, I went through what can probably be best described as an identity crisis. After five years producing magazine and web content, I had been out of work for a year with seemingly few possibilities or opportunities in front of me. I was depressed, I spent too much time at home by myself and I had no idea what to do next.

It seemed to me that if I couldn't make money doing what I loved, then I should probably find something else to do. And in doing that, maybe I should even look for something less stressful, or at least something I took less personally than my concepts and writing. That elusive "leave it at the door" kind of job.

The only problem with that plan, for me, was that if I did decide to do something just for the money -- sell high-end wedding gowns (I've certainly been involved with enough brides over the years), look at recruiting jobs or even go back to school for something super-practical like accounting -- I wasn't quite sure who I'd be afterwards. For the past seven years, I've defined myself, both personally and professionally, as a writer. So, if I wasn't a professional writer anymore, could I still be a writer? And if I wasn't a writer, could I be happy with whatever other title I chose to give myself? (Why Americans in particular seem to define themselves by what they do is another question for another time.)

Now, there are also lots of ways to go about handling this kind of crisis (some people might just call it a clash between reality and idealism). I could have gotten on a healthier diet, exercised more to release some endorphins, networked my butt off with a can-do attitude, gone to therapy ...

From that very rational list, I actually did pick going to therapy. The problem was that I couldn't get in for an appointment for two weeks from my initial phone call. So, like anyone would do with that waiting period, I decided the best way to handle this emotional roller coaster was by taking out a wall.

Yes, I said taking out a wall. 

You see, my adorable 1928 Craftsman-style bungalow featured a rather obnoxious wall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. The only problem being that the breakfast nook was not big enough to actually eat in, and with said wall in place, my refrigerator actually had to be in the laundry room because there was nowhere else for it to fit. (Unless, it, and it alone, took up the entire breakfast nook -- an idea I did not find aesthetically pleasing.)

While I was toying with what to do with my life, I took the wall cabinets down one day. A few days after that. I took out the base cabinets that ran along the wall and called my mom to help me take out the counter.

"What exactly are you working on here?" she asked, leveraging her weight against one side of the counter while I pushed from the other end.

"Not sure yet."

A few days after that, I took a hammer and swung it into the wall. Hearing the crackle of plaster was oddly satisfying, so I took another swing at the wall. Then I walked away. Holes could be patched, I figured, and I wasn't sure how committed I was.

"You know, I have a crowbar," my friend Tina said, "when you're ready."

"I might as well have it around," I thought. 

Within 24 hours, I was off. I devoted most every spare moment to my wall and it's careful dismantling. Not one to mess with a sledgehammer, I pulled each interior slat out, one by one. I carted every piece of plaster out to my garbage can by myself. I pulled wood and rock away, piece by tiny piece. I even convinced and  myself I was in the midst of some sort of Zen-like metaphor (the poor woman's Eat, Pray, Love journey of self-discovery): "By taking down the wall, I am putting my faith in the fact that I will know what to do when I reach the other side."

I also learned that I have some really odd thoughts while using a crowbar, like "no one can tell me what I can and can't do." Who knew?

Of course, the problem with taking down a wall (with electrical) is that you do have to hire someone to come behind you and finish up some of the work. You've also fully devoted yourself to a kitchen renovation -- ready or not. The wall is and was, at least in my situation, only the beginning.

Four months later, my wall is entirely gone, I seem to be doing OK career-wise and my refrigerator has even escaped the laundry room. I still don't have a floor, and there's a question about cabinets. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle, somewhere between where I was and where I want to be. But, I don't mind so much. It seems a little bit easier to take it one step at a time.

Maybe I should thank the therapist for that last bit of acceptance. Or maybe the credit does go to the wall. Either way, my only recommendation is to try and keep your home renovations and your emotions separate. I'm very, very lucky that thing wasn't load-bearing.

In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding

This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*

I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.

This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)

However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?

Keep in mind that this is in addition to my other standard barrage of questions: Should I wear my hair up or down? Do you like this jewelry? Did I do my eye liner correctly? Do you think there's cilantro in that dressing? Would you call this ecru or beige? Do you think the cake is white icing on white cake or white icing on lemon cake? Where is the closest bar?

And so on and so on.

I'm lucky I still have friends (especially ones who invite me to their weddings), let alone those that don't seem to mind gently reminding me that the wait staff will fear me if I continue to attack the woman in charge of passing stuffed mushrooms.

* I am honored each and every time someone asks me to be part of their wedding. It's just a bonus for me that it also comes with a detailed schedule and coordinator responsible for most of my moves.

Grover, Horton And The Woman I Am Today

A few years ago, I got into a discussion with some friends about our favorite children's books. After naming all of our favorites, I started to wonder if maybe those early reading choices might have been some kind of sign as to the adults we would all grow into.

One friend named a book about a little girl who wanted to go live alone in her own apartment and her own house (even at five), and twenty-five years later, I can't say that I was all that surprised. Is Alexander's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day the pick of a future pessimist? Goodnight Moon the sign of a calm, content child? If You Give a Mouse a Cookie the favorite of a suspicious tot, always wondering what request is coming next?

Personally, I had two favorites. The first was There's a Monster at the End of This Book. For those of you haven't read it -- here come the spoilers. Grover from Sesame Street is the main character, and he begins the book by begging the reader not to turn the page because there is a monster waiting at the end of the story. (Hence the title, although that hardly needs to be said. I just feel like typing today.)

Of course, you have to turn the pages. I mean, that is the point of reading the book after all. And with every turn of the page, Grover grows more desperate. He puts up fences and builds brick walls to keep you from going forward. And every time you do, he screams, "I told you not to turn the page! What about the monster!"

I thought it was hysterical and giggled out loud every single time because at the very end, there is no monster. It turns out that Grover is the monster, and he realizes how silly he's been this whole time. All that worry when he was the supposed culprit all along.

As a natural worrier, it seems quite appropriate that I would have fallen for this one. Constant concern about the future? Worrying about what's coming next only to find that, really, what's most detrimental every time is fear itself? That anyone can be his or her own worst enemy? Not much of a shocker there.

My other favorite was Horton Hears a Who. I was appalled by the injustice of the fact that no one would listen to Horton when all he wanted to do was save a cute, little town full of cute, tiny people. So what that no one else could see them? Horton heard them, and they should have believed him. When they called Horton crazy and tried to tear the flower away from him that was full of that miniature colony, I was beyond distressed. Why wouldn't they listen to him? Why didn't they care?

Horton was right, he was the only one who was right and no one would listen. How couldn't they see that?

Again, I know it's bewildering that a gal with as many opinions and convictions as myself would find herself appalled by the fact that someone so right could be ignored time and time again. That she would want to hear this particular story repeatedly at bedtime.

I just felt all of Horton's pain. It is so hard to be right all the time. Poor, poor Horton and me. 

I'm Going to Learn How to Fly

I get a lot of questions about my middle name.

“What was that you said?”

“Fain.”

“Fain?”

“Yes, it’s just like ‘rain’ but with an ‘f’ instead of an ‘r.’”

“Fain? F-A-I-N. Really?”

“Yep, Fain.”

“That’s interesting. [Beat.] What’s a Fain?”

When I’m not in a hurry, I explain that it’s a family name.When I am rather rushed, I hope the topic will pass and we can move on to thelast four digits of my social security number or my city of birth because thisconversation usually occurs when I’m trying to talk to someone about my gasbill or credit card statement, and it hardly seems like the time to discuss myfamily heritage and naming traditions.

After my sister’s wedding a few weeks ago, I noticed that oneof her friends asked “So, how many last names do you have now?”

It’s true that all of the Mills girls have last names as theirmiddle names.  I have my maternalgrandmother’s maiden name, my middle sister has my paternal grandmother’smaiden name and my baby sister ended up with my mother’s aunt’s married name.(My mother’s own maiden name is Stubbs, and I thank her for leaving that one ofout of the naming equation.) If all goes well, we’ll each have three, and onlythree, last names before all is said and done (knock on wood).

I use Fain often in my own life because Mills tends to be a lot(a lot) more common in the U.S. population than other surnames, and even though“Laurel” is a little on the unusual side, I decided many moons ago that I wouldrather be laurelfain via e-mail than LaurelMills27 or LMills4206. After thatfateful choice, it just kind of stuck. (My guy friends especially seem to enjoycalling out “Laurel Fain” to get my attention.)

Also, with there being the other writing Laurel Mills, I figureFain is a good distinguishing factor to throw in there somewhere.

Nothing bothers me about my middle name – other than having toanswer lots of questions – and I’ve come to accept it just fine. I say “accept”because probably unlike the Sarah Elizabeths, Jennifer Claires and ChristineAnnes of the world, I spent the first five years of my life thinking I had avery different middle name.

Maybe it was a hearing thing, maybe it had something to do withpronunciation or maybe it was the simple fact that I couldn’t read or writeyet, but until I was five, I thought that my middle name was “Fame.”

Now, “Fame” was a middle name I could get behind. Not only didit seem to destine me for greatness, but having grown up during the time of acertain very popular Debbie Allen –led TV show, I felt like my name allowed meto personally share in the show’s success.

There was no song I loved more than the movie and TV show’stheme. “Fame! I’m going to live forever! I’m going to learn how to fly!”

My little tone-deaf self sang it again, and again, and again.As far as I was concerned, it was the greatest song ever, and I had the greatestname ever.

So, you can probably also imagine my disappointment when my momasked me why I was so enamored with the theme song from a show I don’t think Iever got to watch. “Because it’s my name,” I said, sure, confident and proud.

“What’s your middle name?” she said.

“Fame,” I said. “I’m Laurel Fame Mills.” (I really thought sheshould have already known the answer to that one.)

“Oh honey,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re middle nameisn’t ‘Fame.’ It’s ‘Fain.’ From your grandmother.”

Once the initial shock wore off, crestfallen, I found myselfasking the same question I’ve heard so often in the 25 years since, “Fain?!?!What’s a Fain?”

What I Did With My Holiday Weekend

Be prepared. It may be hard to respect me after reading this list. (If you had any respect for me to begin with.)

1. Bought Swim Goggles
Since I was going to spend most of the July 4th weekend in the pool, it only seemed logical for the SO and I to pick up some pool toys. We bought floats (or really one float because I had a deflated one back at my house). I got an air pump because I don't like to blow up floats (and blowing up floats seems beyond the extent of the SO's love for me). Then, we grabbed some goggles because after awhile that chlorine really irritates my eyes, and if I can't see underwater, I run into walls. The choices are few and far between.

Unfortunately, this purchase only reminded me of the same lesson I learned in a much more painful setting almost 20 years ago -- no woman, adolescent or grown, looks good in a pair of swim goggles. I don't know how anyone held back the laughter.

2. Ate Enough to Feed a Small Village in China
On Sunday, I treated myself to a turkey burger, baked beans and cole slaw. Not so bad, you say? I finished off the meal with a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog. If my arteries and societal pressure weren't involved, I'd eat a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog every day.

On Monday, I stopped off at Wings Plus 6 and polished off five honey mustard wings, five mild wings (because who knows how spicy wings might have affected my digestive system at that point), french fries and a slice of key lime pie.

I didn't count the beers.

3. Made Bad Choices
On Sunday night, I purchased Hot Tub Time Machine from Videos on Demand. (John Cusack stars and produces. Doesn't that make you wonder?) I didn't really laugh, but I have been thinking about the pivotal choices that affect each and every one of our lives and how those choices can shape our futures -- because of the movie's plot line, not John Cusack's production credit.

Or not. However, I have had "Let's Get it Started" stuck in my head for a week.

Dear Laurel?

I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)

It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.

It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.

For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.

I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa

In this case, the advice-seeker is clearly an idiot. If it doesn't occur to you as you're writing these words on a piece of paper, sealing them in an envelope, affixing a stamp and walking to the mail box that your husband is a two-timing jerk, I don't know what will. My advice? "Hey Troubled -- your husband is cheating on you and has been for years. He is also a liar. Move out and take all of his money." Love Laurel.

(Of course, this could also be an example of b) because I imagine that this woman has been told by everyone she's ever opened her mouth to that her husband is cheating on her and his behavior is not normal, but she's just not quite ready to accept it yet.)

Another letter I read said something to the effect of: "I've been married for 20 years, have four beautiful children and a loving husband, but I've been talking to my high school boyfriend on the Internet for the past few months and think he might be the real love of my life. We only broke up because he impregnated my best friend our senior year, but I know we've both done a lot of growing up since then. My husband is great and all, but don't you think I should give Frankie another chance? How often do soul mates come along after all?" -- Lovelorn in Laredo

Again, we've got some b) as I'm guessing none of this woman's friends support her decision to leave her husband for Mr. Facebook, and also some c) because for this woman, maybe, just maybe, if Dear Abby or whoever says it's OK and all, Lovelorn can throw away her life, drive her children into intensive therapy and live out her days with Frankie (who might or might not have ever earned that GED and require "just a little spending money" to get through most of his days) with little to no guilt.

I also think I'd like that advice column because sometimes I think that Dear Abby's answers really suck. (Note to Jeanne Phillips, you are not your mother.) Ask Amy, Carolyn Hax and Savage Love are up there for me, but that's another story for another day.

Here's an excerpt from Sunday's paper:

DEAR ABBY: I work in a doctor’s office. One of our patients makes abig scene if we do not address him by his title — “Reverend Smith.” Hehas to tell everyone within earshot that he went to school for eightyears to get that title. He insists that, out of respect, we shouldaddress him as such.

Abby, this man is not my reverend. So far, I have avoided calling him this. Am I being disrespectful, or is he being pompous?

Unimpressed In Louisville

DEAR UNIMPRESSED: You are not only being disrespectful, but alsopassive-aggressive. Because this patient has made clear that he prefersto be addressed by the title he has earned, you should use it.

Now, I have to say that I don't know anyone who goes to school for eight years to earn the title of Reverend. (And I live in the bible belt for God's sake.) It seems to me that if you have Ph.D. in divinity, maybe you can ask to be called Dr. But Reverend? Can't we let that one go? The nice part of me would tell Unimpressed to call the gentleman "sir." It's respectful, but refuses to acknowledge how full of himself he is. The passive-aggressive part of me would advise her to call him "Joe," but only if that wasn't his name. He'd spend so much time trying to get her to remember his first name, he'd probably forget all about the Reverend stuff.

Another note to Dear Abby about her Sunday column -- it ended with "CONFIDENTIAL TO MY READERS: Happy Fourth of July, everyone!"

Dear Abby: a) The moment you put something in the paper, it's not confidential, and b) when you're addressing all of your readers (and not just Sue in Salem who's having trouble with her best friend and doesn't want her letter to be printed), why can't you just freakin' say "Happy Fourth of July"?

I guess I want that advice column because of the ire Dear Abby causes me. Maybe I'm more magnanimous and just want to point out to all of those advice-seekers that the answers have been with them all along. Or, maybe I just like to boss people around.

I'll let you decide.

Why I Had to Walk Away From the Pole

I'm sure many of you are wondering what became of my pole-aerobics class. (Or, you're not, either way, you're getting the answer.) I'm somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I only made it through half of my stripper classes. I could build an elaborate argument about feminist principles or coming to some incredible revelation about female politics and my body, whether or not women should embrace or reject their own objectification, etc.

However, the truth as to why I had to give it all up is as simple as this: bruises.

At one point, my knees were black. Bruises ran from the arches of my feet to my inner thighs. I was wearing long pants constantly to hide all of the marks on my legs. (This is not an easy thing to do in the Alabama summers. It wasn't quite as bad as the August I had to wear mock turtlenecks to class because of an unfortunate hickey, but it was uncomfortable.) Even three weeks after my last attempt at the pole, I found the remnants of a pale brown bruise running along my thigh.

Of course, there were a few other factors -- a lot of them having to do with the fact that I sucked at the exercise. When asked to climb the pole, I couldn't even get on the pole, much less move my body once I was wrapped around it. I had hoped for rock hard arms in time for my sister's wedding. Instead, I was facing a black and blue body and the very real chance that I would never lift my arms above my shoulders again. Eventually, I had to decide -- pain and visible injury or perfecting the c-stand.

I picked the former.

Also, for a class that would seemingly improve one's confidence, I was beginning to think that I would never feel sexy again. Seeing my body attempt these moves, with strained facial expressions, from every mirror in the room made me question by self-image more than the cover of the annual Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

In the end, what I did come away with is a very important (and unexpected) life lesson: if Kevin James looks better engaged in any seductive practice than I do, it's probably time to pack it in for the day/the rest of my life.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HPa2onPT3Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&w=470&h=385]

I'd Really Like To Get Down Now Please

In all of my musings about Camp McDowell,I can’t believe that I forgot to mention the most perilous part of the entireweekend – the high dive. (It’s interesting to me that I wrote about both myterrible swimming lessons and CampMcDowell last week, but completelyforgot to mention it. Subconsciously, it must have been floating around upthere somewhere, but I guess I never put it together.)

We covered that I’m not the greatest swimmer. (I do love the water though, I’m just more of a lazyriver/"let’s float this one out with a cocktail" kind of gal.) Well, I also happen to have alittle trouble with heights. I think it began when I broke both of my armsfalling out of a tree house, but with the anxiety in this brain of mine, it’sentirely possible the phobia would have come about regardless.  

(Technically speaking, I think I have what is known asobsessive bad thoughts rather than a phobia. I can be in high spaces – I didn’tmiss out on the top of the Hancock building when I spent the summer in Chicago,but all I think about when I’m too far off the ground is falling. It’s prettymuch the only notion/image that runs through my head once I’m more than 10 feetoff the ground. Once I saw Clueless, even the third floor of the mall couldmake me a little sick to my stomach. Am I the only person in Americatraumatized by Clueless for reasons other than the fact that Alecia Silverstone’slove interest ends up being her former step-brother? Probably.)

But, you know, I’ve done a lot of work to understand myselfbetter in the past few months. I turned 30. I have a prescription for Xanax.Surely, I thought, I can handle the high dive now.

Only a few minutes after the SO and I arrived at the pool, Iheaded straight for the high dive. (That’s right, I didn’t even warm up withthe lower diving board. I wanted to be bold, so I decided to climb right onup.) I’d watched my 11-year old and 7-year old cousins go off again and again-- surely this would be fine.

The ladder itself was not a problem. I went up those rungs likeit was my job. It was the diving board at the top of those stairs that posed aproblem.

Were you aware that those things are wobbly? I know this is forpeople who actually want to jump off the diving board and gain even more heightbefore diving gracefully into the water, but once I was atop the diving boardand actually had to look down, wobbly is not something I was interested in.

I took a few steps forward, and then I took a few steps back.

“You can do it LaLa,” my adorable 11-year old cousin yelledfrom the bottom of the stairs. (I think she was anxious to take another turn.)She is a gem and my heart, so don’t question how much I love her despite whatis about to occur in the rest of this re-telling.

I took another few steps forward and froze again.

“You’ll do great honey,” the SO yelled from the shallow end.“Just like Greg Louganis.”

If I had been closer, I would have taken the Super Soaker tohim for that one.

“I’m not so sure about this,” I said, my knees beginning to goa little weak, and I stepped backwards on the board again.

“Jump LaLa!” More cousins had joined in. The young people’s excitement was tangible. Itjust wasn’t quite contagious.

“I think I might need to come down instead,” I said. “Your bigcousin isn’t as brave as she thought she was.”

“Uh-uh,” my cousin said. “There’s no coming down.” I lookeddown to see that a line had formed at the base of the ladder with more than oneof my tween-aged cousins gathered at the bottom of the steps to prevent mefrom  getting down. Plus, they’re Mills,and you should never try to out-stubborn a Mills. Even though I am one, I knewI’d at least need back-up. They were three or four deep down there. You mightbe thinking, “oh, but they’re just children.” If you are, I’ll just let youtake them on yourselves. It can be quite a pack.

I tried to go towards the end of the board again. “Now, kids …”I began, thinking I might pull the sympathy card instead. I was even preparedto offer silly bands or Miley Cyrus mementos for a reprieve.

“If you don’t go off that board, I’m going to climb up there andbounce on the end until you jump,” my cousin said.

And with that terrifying image in my head, I ran off the end ofthe board into the water. Was it a dive? Of course not. Was it graceful? Not atall. Was it even an attempt at a jump you might recognize like the cannonballor can opener? No. All I wanted right then was to get off the board, and I knewthe only way to do it was to move before I could think much more and shut myeyes tight. (If you’re curious, yes, this is how I get through a lot in life –getting on an airplane, climbing into the dentist’s chair and having my fingerpricked included.) 

So, in the end, you could kind of say that I overcame one of myfears to do something  unexpected. Or, Icould admit the truth – that it turns out my fear of tween-agers is far greaterthan my fear of heights.

Lord help me if I ever find myself in the vicinity of a Justin Bieber concert. 

Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding

There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.

There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):

1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"

2. Another boy would come around each night and serenade all of the girls' cabins. He played his guitar and sang Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train." It was quite dreamy. One of his friends would accompany him. I don't think the friend did any singing or guitar-playing, but he seemed to recognize that his friend had figured out the key to getting girls' attention, and he was hoping to pick up the leftovers. (Hey, maybe he, too, could make out with someone special in the pool that week.)

3. We learned the song "Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life." This was a problem for me on many levels -- the title, hand motions and metaphor being just the beginning. Since I'm sure you're all dying to know, here are the lyrics:

Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life/End over end neither left nor the right/Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights/Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life.

Yeah, I still don't get it either.

It also appears from my seventh grade scrapbook that we had a '70s night that involved dressing up, but what we did that night, and why the camp assumed that a bunch of 13-year-olds would travel with time-sensitive outfits for theme dressing, I don't know.

I do know that what I'm wearing had to be borrowed since this was not from my closet -- now, then or ever.

However, a few years ago my sister ended up working in the Environmental Education Program at Camp McDowell. (No, I didn't visit. Please don't judge my sister-ing.) While she was there, she met another employee of the Environmental Education Program,  and in the classic story of boy meets girl, after they met, they fell in love and decided to get married.

So, this past weekend, I made my first trip back to Camp McDowell in 17 years for their wedding. The wedding was beautiful, and I learned that camp is much better when you can stay in lodges rather than cabins and are of the age to legally drink. 

I even re-visited the same pool, but since I spent most of the time playing with my cousins and their children, I'm happy to report no traumatic make out experiences.

The one thing that was most definitely the same? The heat, but that's just an Alabama summer for you.

I now give you an updated photo of me at Camp McDowell, and in case you have trouble recognizing me, I'm two over from the bride on the right in a sage green dress two other girls are also wearing. (It's probably the tan that's confusing since I'm usually pretty translucent. Don't worry about my skin's health though -- it's a spray-on.)  

 

*Yes, I'm counting the photo from '70s night as a memory even though I don't technically remember it. You have to admit it improved the title of this post.

A Horse is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course

I think most little girls go through a phase when they're obsessed with horses. I'm not sure what it is about horses that's so fascinating when you have two X chromosomes and are under the age of 10, but there you have it.

At five, my favorite show to watch after school was Black Beauty. (At least, I think that's what it was called. There was a horse. It was black. It may or may not have been the main character, but it came on after Today's Special, and that's what I called it.) I had many My Little Ponies in addition to a score of off-brand plastic horses that I also liked to gallop across the living room floor. I even did my own horse impersonation that involved neighing. (I can only imagine now how annoying that must have been.)

A few years later, my horse obsession still strong but no longer My-Little-Pony-focused, I was a dedicated viewer or Mr. Ed on Nick at Nite. I watched that crazy talking horse every single night, and every single night, I hoped for Wilbur's sake that someone else would just hear that horse talk. Oh, that wily Mr. Ed -- he was a stinker.

I dreamed of owning my own horse and brushing its mane. I wanted to be so good with horses that I'd be like one of those shaggy-haired dudes who played by no one's rules but his own but could tame a wild mustang like you would not believe. (I either wanted to be like that person -- but a girl, how crazy! -- or marry him. At eight, I was still torn.)

For years, I thought that I couldn't love anything more than horses. That was until, of course, I actually rode one.

It was summer camp, and horseback riding was one of the class offerings. I was beside myself. What color would my horse be? Could I feed him carrots or oats? How long would it reasonably take until we started jumping gates together? Three days? Four?

"You're up," the counselor called on the first day after a couple of girls had gotten on horses in front of me. "So, just swing that leg on over."

That was the first problem. Being less than five feet tall and all torso, it's not exactly easy to throw your leg over a horse's saddle -- even when a ladder is involved.

"That's OK," the counselor said after another counselor had to come over and help her pull me on top of the horse. "I'm sure you'll get it next time." While I appreciated her optimism, I also knew that two weeks was not enough time for me to grown another six inches. 

Once we had all mounted our horses, we started off down a trail. Everyone else seemed to have no trouble staying in line, but my horse had little interest in staying on the trail. So, not only was I hit with the occasional twig, I was also being reprimanded by my counselor for deviating from the path. (I did not like to be reprimanded at that age. I was the kid who thought that the lifeguard hated her for the entire rest of the summer if he or she had to tell me not to run around the pool. I much preferred to be the good one.)

And when I did try to tug slightly on the reins to keep my horse with the others, it threw its head back -- a gesture I found mildly terrifying. (Horses were far larger and more powerful in person than I had imagined in all my years of cartoon-viewing and neighing.)

My horse did the same extreme head-tossing when I tried to pet its mane. It seemed to me that my horse disliked human contact, and I can only imagine that the forced contact of having to carry small people on its back six hours a day, five days a week, was an indignity it did not want to bear in its golden years. 

I also didn't count on horses being so sweaty. Rather than being on an adventure in the woods with a beautiful and majestic creature, I felt like I was trapped on a large, smelly, overgrown thing that wanted nothing to do with me.

It was one of the longest hours of my life.

After that, I don't think I ever rode a horse again. I gave up any thoughts I might have had about the life equestrian and moved on.

I moved on to bigger dreams, dreams of theater -- musical theater to be exact. Surely, my Broadway fantasies would turn out better than the whole horse thing, even if I was tone deaf ... 

Where To Go From Here?

I remember applying to colleges as one of the most stressful periods of my life. It seemed like so much -- my future career, earning potential and even life mate -- hung on the decision I made then. Not to mention the fact that I had tied my self-worth directly to the U.S. News & World Report ranking of the school(s) that accepted me.

Seven days before one round of applications was due, I had an emergency root canal (one the endodontist called the worst he'd seen "in ten years" of oral surgery). Full of painkillers and Valium (I do not do well around the sound of a dentist's drill), I called my best friend and insisted that she drive me to my closed-for-the-Christmas-holidays school, so that I could use the typewriter in the library to put some finishing touches on the common application. 

I was a little obsessed.

When the large and small envelopes finally started rolling in, I was devastated to learn that my first choice [Stanford] didn't want me. Despite my poor attempt at a brave face, I was crushed and spent more than a few afternoons in my car crying.

(Before I sound like too much of a whiner, I would like to acknowledge that I was accepted into some wonderful and amazing schools, and I absolutely believe I ended up right where I needed to be. But, hindsight is always 20/20 as they say.)

The only people this period of my high school career might have been more stressful on than me were my parents. Not only did they have to accept that I seemingly refused to apply anywhere with anything near a reasonable tuition cost, I was anxious, constantly tired  and insecure. Being parents, the moment my rejection from Stanford arrived, they went into protective/consolation mode: "We love you no matter what. This is just a bump in the road. You're brilliant. You're special. You're going to get into so many other schools."

But, I wouldn't have any of it. Every time they tried to console me, I just got more upset. "You don't get it," I said. "I'm not special. I'm just like tens of thousands of other kids out there who make good grades and join clubs and think that it's going to matter."

"You're always special to us."

"Well," I said, "when it comes down to it, I look like everybody else on a sheet of paper, and I'm not special to them. And they're the ones that don't want me."

(I was kind of dark in addition to being a little obsessed.)

If only I had known then that there would be days I feel a lot like that now, too.

I am a writer with dozens of clips -- many from national magazines. But, I'm also an unemployed writer and editor in an era when print media is dying. And thanks to the dire press market in Birmingham, you can't really throw a rock in this town without hitting someone just like me -- many with more experience and better clips. It's a small pond full of writers and editors with great resumes and no magazines or papers to write for. 

So, the thought recurs: I'm not special.

I have been a blogger for five years now, but now I don't even think I know anyone without a blog, and as an unmarried, childless 30-year-old, I don't even have a blog category. I am no longer "young" by most standards -- as in I don't write about clubs, drunken escapades or school. I haven't given birth, so that keeps me out of the "mommy blogger" set. I don't have a wedding in the works, so there's no way to write about flower vendors and mother-in-law issues. Food? I like it, and I occasionally cook it, but I don't have anything to say that you can't find on far better web sites like Food Revival, Cookthink or Simply Recipes (check my favorite sites).

Without a category, I don't have a market share, and without a market share, this blog is never going to make me much more than the $.26 my one ad has brought in in recent weeks.

My market share possibilities? Former party girls who can't afford shoes that don't come from Target? Pet lovers with an extensive collection of Spanx? Those of us who have accepted boxed wine as a party staple?

Not special and without a market share, I keep filling this blog with what I have -- my stories, my voice, my bouts of depressive thinking. I use it to make myself write. I try to remember to exercise the skills that I need -- showing v. telling, using dialogue, setting scenes and avoiding the empty words and phrases that have no examples or illustrations to flesh them out.

When I started this blog, I wanted to write 365 blog posts, so that I'dhave 365 stories/anecdotes written down. (I also started this blogbecause my friends seemed tired of my mass e-mails detailing what Ithought about that day's episode of Cheaters, but I digress.) Plus, atthe time, I never imagined I wouldn't have something else to take up mytime long before I hit that far-off and absurd number of 365 posts. This is my 402nd post, and thanks to my tendency to write aboutCheaters and what Tori Spelling wore to her second wedding, I'm noteven sure I have 365 stories to go along with it. Sigh.

One of my teachers once told me, "Most of the stories have beentold. The only difference is that there's never been a you to tellthem."

I tell my students this. I try to tell myself this. If Iwere to have a mantra, I think it'd have to be something aboutbelieving in my own voice.

At least when I finished high school, the gave me a copy of Oh, The Places You'll Go. (At least it was optimistic.) I think I could use the sequel now.

P.S. Oddly enough, I sort of love Tori Spelling these days. I blame the Oxygen network.