Proposals

I have never been proposed to. Considering that I’ve never been engaged and/or married, I didn’t think this was at all odd. Proposals = engagements = weddings, right?

Then, I was out with a single friend who mentioned “one of the guys who’d proposed to her.”

“One of the guys?” I said. “How many people have proposed to you?”

“Three, I think,” she said.

“You think?”

“Three sounds right.”

“How long had you been dating this particular guy?” I said, going back to the original proposer to try and make sense of it all.

“A few months, but he had the ring before he met me. He was looking for a wife. He wasn’t necessarily looking for me.”

Fair enough. We discussed the other two proposals, and life went on. 

A few weeks after that, I ran into someone else who talked about her engagement rings. As in plural.

“How many people have proposed to you?” I said.

“Just the two,” she said.

"Just two" still seemed high to me (not in a bad way, just an unexpected way). I mean, having zero proposals under my belt, I’m easily trumped by any number, but still. Two drunken boyfriends (at different times) each said, “I’m gonna marry you,” but I don’t think that counts when you consider how many beers were involved.

Admittedly, my type before the age of 25 was unemployed and emotionally unavailable, but I still had no idea so many men were running around with diamond solitaires out there. (Is this what EHarmony is for?)

Mulling the subject over for the bit, it finally hit me – I had been proposed to! The only problem was that I was nine at the time.

In third grade, our elementary school welcomed a new student, and he became rather instantly smitten with me. (I only wore red, black or white and had a perm. I’m sure you can imagine what a catch I was.) Years ago, I vowed not to use real names in my writing, and you have no idea how much that is killing me right now because this particular boy had one of the most awesome names ever. I hate having to replace a rhyming name (complete with alliteration) with Harry, but a rule is a rule.

What I remember about Harry is that he loved to wear a yellow Starvin’ Marvin t-shirt, and he had no qualms about making his love for me known. He referred to me as his future wife on the playground and brought me lots of gifts like erasers and colorful pencils.

One day, before lunch, he asked me to marry him. Now, before you dismiss this story as not counting as an actual proposal, I need to add one key detail – he had a sapphire and diamond ring with him. And that ring was far more impressive than the plastic happy-faced ring he’d presented me with the day before.

I was all set to give my usual “no” when I saw the sparkles. “That’s nice,” I said, instantly entranced.

“Please, please marry me,” he said.

“I need to think about it,” I said. What I really needed to think about was how to get out of being betrothed before I got to junior high and managing to hold on to that ring. Mulling it over with my best friend, I said, “Can I say ‘no’ and keep the ring?”

Clearly, I was a sensitive child.

While I was still wrestling with whether or not to marry for money, Harry’s mom called the school. It seemed it hadn’t taken her long to connect the missing ring from her jewelry box to her son’s classroom crush. I guess Harry had (correctly) realized he wasn’t getting my attention with the trinkets he could afford – erasers, colored pencils and smiley-faced rings – and stepped it up a notch.

Unfortunately for me, before the end of the day, the ring (which was beautiful) was locked away safely in Mrs. Treater’s desk drawer until it was time for our parents to pick us up. Harry had some explaining to do when he got home, and my dilemma was over.

While I know I can’t count that as a real proposal, I am changing my number to a .5. It seems fair to me, and this is my blog. So there. (Oh, how the sensitive child has matured in the passing years …)  

We're Not That Close

* Quick note: this one's not for you Mom and Dad. And it's not because we're not close; it's just not for you.

The only thing I dislike more than overly chatty customer service is overly intimate customer service. Despite the fact that a whole lot of my life is on the Internet, I believe in boundaries, and I like them.

Back when you still had film developed, I can remember picking up some pictures from the one-hour photo. As I was pulling out my wallet to pay, the lab tech said, “Thanks for your business. It looks like you had a great vacation.”

I didn’t like that. You may think I’m rude, but I want there to be a wall between me and the people that help me in a business or commercial way. (Unless you’re my hair dresser. I’m not a complete freak.) We are not friends. We don’t share. There is no intimacy between us. I want to be another nameless, faceless customer in the crowd. Being recognized or having someone remember my dog’s name and favorite color isn’t a plus in my book.

Honestly, I find it downright creepy.

A few weeks ago at the bank, as I was depositing checks, the teller struck up a conversation with me. “So,” she said, “what do you do at the college?” (One of my checks was from a university.)

Despite the fact that I felt this was a little intrusive, I answered. “I teach,” I said.

“What do you teach?”

Yes, I can be paranoid, and I think way too much about stalking because of my love of procedural crime dramas, but even without those factors, I still don’t think I’d like these kinds of questions. It’s not like I was wearing a college t-shirt, something that would be visible to the world. The name of a college was on a check I was putting into the bank – a confidential matter in my opinion, just like having personal photos developed.

Want to know about my shoes, watch, hat or the book I’m reading? Fine. Those are items I display to the world. They are public. My bank deposits, photos, prescriptions and superstore purchases are not.

I stopped going to a particular Walgreen’s in Nashville because the pharmacist said, “So, have you gained weight or lost weight?” as I was checking out.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Have you gained weight or lost weight?” As if this really was his business. “It tends to go either way with this particular medication.” I also could have sworn he started to eye my waistline when I didn’t answer.

“Uh-huh,” I said. Then I took my purchase and left without answering. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t have an M.D. behind your name, you don’t get to ask about my meds or my weight.

But, the worst of the worsts occurred at Target a few years ago.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was on my monthly run through Target. As usual, I spent far more money than I should have. When the cashier told me the total, my face must have registered some sort of distress.

“Is everything OK?” she said.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I answered. “I just spent more than I should have. Again.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think he’ll mind too much because you picked up the you know.” Then she eyed one of my bags.

“He?” I said.

“Your husband,” she said. Now, as we all know, I don’t have a husband. I have a fake husband when it comes to high-pressure sales people and credit card offers, but no actual husband. I also don’t wear any rings.

“My husband,” I said, mulling it over. “And the ‘you know’?”

“I think he’ll forgive you this time,” she said and eyed one of my bags again. It was then that I finally remembered that I might have gone down the "family planning" aisle during my shopping spree. (Not for me, of course, because I am an innocent angel oh parents who might have read this post despite the upfront warning not to do so.)

I felt violated. It was a terrible reminder that what we all trick ourselves into believing – that the people we encounter out in the world are just doing their jobs and certainly don’t have time to notice our measly (and embarrassing) individual purchases like tampons, various creams or books on less-than-mainstream topics -- never happens.

It is this long-standing denial that allows me to pass through the Wal-Mart with some form of my dignity intact.

But, that's all it is -- denial and lies. Or, at least, some people are paying a lot more attention than others. These days, I look for bloodshot eyes and a seeming inability to recognize reality when I shop. I’d take a good hangover or even an oxycontin problem over keen observational skills any day. I may not always get correct change, but at least I can pretend I have some privacy.

Save The Skeet

When I was younger, we took a lot of family vacations that were combined with various lawyers’ conferences. At nine, I took my first trip on a plane, and we went to Disney World. It was awesome (and that’s only talking about the plane trip), and since my dad took me with him to pick up some papers in the hospitality area, I had some unexpected and treasured one-on-one time with Mickey and Minnie Mouse.

For fourth grade Spring Break, we went skiing. I liked skiing, but what I remember most from that trip is boarding the chartered bus that would take us from the airport to our condos and being surrounded by attorneys demanding a stop to buy booze on the way. (I kid you not when I say there was an actual chant at one point along the lines of “li-quor store, li-quor store.”)

However, it was our trip to the Greenbrier in West Virginia when I was 11 that was my favorite vacation by far. It was July, and I loved everything about the place. There were huge indoor and outdoor pools as well as a bowling alley and movie theater in the hotel. (How is that even possible?) The Greenbrier is also one of the few places I know of where you can practice falconry even though my dad wasn’t handing over the money for that one.

Also, being 11, I was right at the cut-off age for the kids’ activity groups. (At lawyer conferences, it’s very important to separate the children from the adults as soon as possible so that networking and happy hour can commence immediately.) While at first I resented not being able to go with the 12 and older set, once I made a friend, we, armed with our respective sisters, ran the under 11 group. The popularity and power were intoxicating. People fought for the right to sit at our dinner table – where we enjoyed three-course meals and used all of the correct silverware so as not to shame our professional parents.

This was also around the time that the news was beginning to break that there might be bunkers for government officials built in various strategic locations throughout the country in the event of nuclear war. The Greenbrier was a prime candidate, and my sisters and I liked exploring the resort hoping to break the story wide open.

“I think I see a tear in the wall paper over there.”

“Does the wall sound hollow to you?”

Superb detectives we were not. Good shuffleboard players? Yes.

At 16, we went back to the Greenbrier, but it wasn’t quite the same experience. By then, the Greenbrier had admitted to its underground bunker, so it was very cool to actually tour it. On the other hand, trying to reconnect with my lawyers’ conference friends from five years earlier didn’t exactly go as I had hoped, and I was full of the expected teen angst.

I spent most of the week lounging by the pool and reading The Virgin Suicides.

My father did want us to participate in one day outing as a family, and it happened to be skeet shooting. He figured it was one of the safest ways for us to learn to use a gun. (Even though we’re not gun owners, as anxiety-driven people, we do feel compelled to know how to do all things in case an emergency should ever arise. The killer drops his weapon? Be prepared to take charge of the situation. Not that a shotgun is often used in burglary and/or stalker-confrontation moments.)

Anyways, being as I was, full of teen angst and toying with vegetarianism, I was fairly dead set against not going. I looked my father straight in the eye and said, “Doesn’t anybody think about the poor skeet? Why should they be sacrificed for sport? The poor things.”

“Laurel,” my father said, “skeet are clay pigeons. Clay.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I guess you’re coming with us?”

“I guess so.”

I’m sure my father has never been more proud that he paid for all of that private education.

My Top 5 Road Trip Play List

Being tone deaf and a huge nerd, my iPod is an embarrassment or riches – if you really love show tunes, Shakira and soulful girl ballads about break-ups. (When I was going through some old CDs from the mid-90s, a friend commented, “I didn’t realize you were a lesbian in high school.”) I have been making mixes titled “Mellow Music” since I was about 14 ... [Read more]

One Resolution I Won't Be Making

As we all know, I tend to think that we all have limited supplies of certain virtues or abilities, like patience, and every so often, we need a refill.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been feeling that way about my creativity. No new ideas. No outside-the-box thinking. Not even adjectives with more than two syllables. I kind of figured I’d run out of this year’s supply and would probably need to wait for 2011 for some good stuff – knock on wood. (Or mediocre stuff. I’d take either at this point.) So far, I haven’t had much luck.

Fortunately, the SO, in a lovely show of support for my writing, gave me a box full of journals, pens and other fun stuff for Christmas. (He also included The Art of War for Writers, which would only be his fifth attempt to get me to read anything related to Sun Tzu, earlier versions including the plain old Art of War, Art of War flash cards, a mini-book/abbreviated version of The Art of War and The Art of War for Women at Work. Do you think he might be trying to tell me something?)

Moving on, one of those gifts is a small book shaped like a block called, wait for it, The Writer’s Block. (How I love those clever marketing gurus.) It comes complete with 786 ideas to jump-start your imagination – and a hilarious attack on The Bridges of Madison County, which I might have appreciated more than the ideas.

The first prompt I turned to was a jump-start word. So, with that in mind, here we go with “diet.”

I have never been good at dieting. Of course, until I was 19, I didn’t need to. I could eat whatever I wanted. I was that person with a naturally high metabolism that I now despise. I’ve covered this before, but since I lost 15 pounds my freshman year and ended up with a sunken in face, I actually needed to gain weight in the summer of ’99. Luckily, I took a job at a Mexican restaurant, so between that and my boyfriend’s all carb/athlete diet, I gained back those 15 pounds and about 15 more. For the first time in my life, I was overweight, so I turned to Slim Fast.

I gave myself two weeks to get rid of the weight, so I was on a bit of Slim Fast extreme. I remember sitting at Chili’s (a family favorite back in the day; the Mills love an awesome blossom) with my head on the table. “I’m just so hungry,” I said. “So, so hungry.”

But, I wouldn’t give up, and by the time I got to Georgetown to start my sophomore year, I was back to my self-imposed ideal weight of 118 pounds. (Just writing that number is hard for me right now.)

I was fine again (mainly because I spent too much of my budget on clothes rather than food) until I took my first office job. That’s when I learned the hard way that if you sit all day and make regular trips to the vending machine, you will not exactly stay thin.

When I literally split a pair of rather expensive capris ($105 is a lot to pay for pants that are going to take both your money and your dignity), I looked myself in the mirror and decided it was time to take action.

Unable to afford a gym, I went back to Slim Fast for breakfast, Lean Cuisine for lunch, a piece of toast as a mid-afternoon snack, some kind of dinner and hour-long walks around my neighborhood. Most of my waking moments were devoted to the thought, “I’m so hungry,” but after a few weeks, I got the affirmation every woman wants:

“Have you lost weight?”

(One thing I don’t allow in my house is a scale. I go by the way my clothes fit. Scales just depress me, and I make the nurse hide my weight at the doctor’s office, too. I have only seen my weight twice in the last seven years, and both times were by accident.)

I was content again, and sure that I would remain my lovely size four self forever.  A few years later, when I gained some depression weight, my father got me a personal trainer. (Yes, I used to work out six days a week. Strange, but true.) It seemed that there was always a simple solution.

Then, I turned 25, and my metabolism died. I also realized that I was faced with a choice. Having an addictive personality is not always the most fun. I can speed through jigsaw puzzles, but when it comes to food and exercise, addictions can be ugly.

During the days when I worked out six days a week – hours of cardio alternated with weight training – all I could see when I looked at food was a number. A bowl of soup wasn’t a tomato bisque, it was x calories and required x number of minutes on the elliptical to take it off. Gatorade was 120 calories. Worth it or not? And don’t even get me started on desserts. I started to realize that I could either enjoy food or actually remain a size four for the rest of my life. I admire people who can stick to regimens. (Really, it's more awe than simple admiration.) I had to make a different choice.

These days, I’m a pretty content size eight, and I like it that way. Plus, a nice mini quiche on a holiday party platter looks like a delectable snack without the number 220 (or worse) floating above it.

Eating and living healthier? Always a worthwhile goal. Personally, I just prefer to stay away from the "d" word -- I don't need another avenue to show my OCD tendencies.

The Wig Collection Exposed

When it comes to this blog, I try not to talk about my relationship or work. (Imagine trying to exclude these two things from your life and see what kind of topics you end up with for those of you who’ve noticed that some entries aren’t exactly thrilling.) Sure, I let the SO appear in certain stories, but he’s there more as a character to show a reaction to what’s happening or provide context. I do not want our true personal life on the Internet. Plus, just because he dates a writer, it doesn’t mean he signed up for full disclosure of certain parts of his life on the web.

As for the work thing, I will talk (occasionally ad nauseum) about working from home and my frustrations with writing/life, but you’ll also notice that I never name my clients or what I do for them. That’s because I want to keep my clients, and I want to keep the SO, too.

However, I do feel that this one story warrants the SO playing a slightly larger role than he normally does, so please bear with me and we’ll see how this goes.

The SO and I met at an improv comedy practice. (This probably isn’t all that surprising.) I was there with a friend who’d mentioned that she might want me to collaborate with her on writing some comedy sketches, so I tagged along to see what her group was like. Little did I know, I’d leave with a crush, too.

Dating someone in improv means that I attend a lot of comedy shows. Some shows are in the style of “Who’s Line is it Anyway?” and some are longer form. For the longer form shows, the SO has to develop a character he’ll be throughout the evening. For his last performance, he decided to play Scott Bakula’s brother Trent, whose mild obsession with his brother’s fame meant that he thought he was continually leaping through time and space.

Now, if there’s ever a role I was qualified to help someone prepare for, it’s this one. Does anyone know more about Quantum Leap than me? Doubtful. I own the soundtrack for God’s sake. So, being the girlfriend that I am, I decided to help the SO get ready by watching episodes of the show with him and pointing out some of Dr. Sam Beckett’s most outstanding characteristics.

Choosing which episode to start with was the first obstacle. “Should we just go straight to ‘The Leap Home’ when Scott jumps into his younger self and plays his own father? Is he ready for the Beth episode? Maybe we should start with something more basic. Glitter Rock?”

“Can we please just pick a show? It’s getting late.”

Oh, but how to pick just one.

Since my disk with ‘The Leap Home’ wouldn’t play – something I have yet to deal with because of the emotional trauma – the SO insisted that we just watch whatever was first in line on the next disk.

“Now, every time Sam leaps into a new person, he says ‘Oh, boy,’” I said as I began our tutorial.

“Is he always blue when he leaps?”

“Of course he’s always blue when he leaps? Have you even seen this show before?”

Then, I went on. “Al is the hologram, and he’ll spend most of the episode giving Sam info from Ziggy, a super computer. There’s also Gushy, who has really bad breath, but I’m probably getting ahead of myself.”

“He just said ‘Oh, boy,’ for like the fourth time this episode.”

“Well, that’s not standard,” I said. “Let’s get back to Al. He’s been married five times and is always chasing women …”

Eventually, the SO fell asleep, and strangely enough, he said “he was good” with the one episode, and we didn’t need to complete our study through “Private Dancer,” “What Price Gloria?” or any of the other episodes I suggested.

On the night of his performance, whenever the SO decided it was time for his character to leap, he’d turn around, make a strange sound (once shouting, “It feels like childbirth”) and put on a new wig to be a new character. Then, another performer would bring in a mirror of some sort so that he could figure out who he was. (I was so proud he knew about that already.)

At intermission, the SO’s character was much discussed, and the conversation seemed to revolve around his wigs.

“Where did he get so many wigs?” someone asked.

“He borrowed them from me,” I said.

“He got them from you?” Long pause. “Why do you have so many wigs, Laurel?”

“Well …”

“Laurel’s wigs,” a friend chimed in. “You really don’t know about those? She has tons.”

“Tons? You mean there’s more than what I’ve seen on stage?”

That’s when I decided that I wanted the conversation to be over. Yes, I have a wig collection. Why? Because I think wigs are fun. That’s really all there is to it.

When I went on a bachelorette weekend in Nashville, I knew that I was fading fast on the drive up. I also knew that I was going to have to rally because a big night of bar-hopping lay ahead of me. What to do? I put on a wig and decided to wear it out. Something about it lifted my mood. Plus, I was in a different town and the wig was so ridiculous, it gave me the push I needed to stop yawning and get with the program. (The program being shots and hitting up Coyote Ugly.)

The next day as everyone was getting ready for lunch, one of the girls I didn’t know turned to me and said, “You have such pretty hair. You really don’t need the wig.”

It didn’t occur to me that anyone would think I was wearing the wig for real. It was cheap and magenta. If I were going to go Wendy Williams, I’d put a little more money into it. This Halloween, I did pull a Star Jones and buy a wig to go with my costume an hour before my Halloween party because I realized I wouldn’t have time to do my hair, but that really was a one-time thing. I swear.

In college, on bad or boring nights, I’d pull out some wigs for me and the roommates, and the mood in the apartment was instantly lifted. I repeat, wigs are just fun.  

I started buying wigs to go with my Halloween costumes years ago. (One of which was a washed-up country singer who had one hit with “Why did you have to ruin my credit score while you ruined my virtue?” That wig is not attractive – imagine Reba McEntire with alopecia.) And like anything you have more than one of, people assume you’re collecting whether you are or aren’t. A friend leaving a job gave me all of the wigs that had gone with her promotional activities, and before you know it, I was in the 20+ range.

So, yes, it’s weird. But I also challenge you to give it a shot. Bad day at the office? Stuck in traffic for too long? Too many bills? Grab a wig and pour yourself a glass of wine. The secret is that it’s nearly impossible to take yourself too seriously in a cheap wig, and that’s exactly the point. The shear ridiculousness of it all should have you in a better mood before long. After all, as someone much smarter than me once said, life really is too short to be taken so seriously.

I Already Gave At Home

I have often discussed the pitfalls of working from home – my inability to apply makeup, thinking of black yoga pants as business casual attire, sometimes prioritizing the shape of my eyebrows over a writing project – but even with the downside, there is one thing I will never miss about working in an office.

That thing, my friends, is co-workers trying to force their kids’ school fundraising catalogs down your throat.

Maybe that seems overly angry to you. Maybe you think I don’t like children. Or fundraising. But, the truth is, and I think any honest, sane person would admit the same, that I am sometimes sick to my stomach thinking of the $15 cheesecakes, rolls of $8 wrapping paper that only cover two gifts and Mary Kay blushers I’ve been guilted into purchasing.

It always starts innocently enough. “I’m just going to leave this brochure in the break room.”

But when sales get sluggish, the cubicle-to-cubicle approach kicks in. “Knock, knock.” (Not that I’ve ever had an actual office door.)

“Hi Linda.”

“I noticed you haven’t placed an order for any amaryllis bulbs yet. Would you like to get some now?”

“Oh, gee, Linda. I don’t have any cash or checks on me.”

“That’s OK. You can always pay me when the order comes in.”

“Well, I’ve really got to get this project to the boss before 5:00.”

“That’s OK, too. I’ll just leave this on your desk for awhile.”

“No, really, you can take it.”

“Oh no dear, I’ll be back for it later. Take your time.”

And we all know that if you don’t order something, said co-worker will only return later with a more powerful weapon – the uncapped pen and hover. I have tried to slip catalogues into mail boxes, I have refused to go into the office kitchen and I’ve even lied about allergies I don’t have, but somehow, I still end up buying something from one of those booklets.

“I’ll just put you down for two [fill in the blank],” Linda and all the other nameless, faceless office mates have always said.

And don’t even get me started on the holidays, when everyone in the office has a kid with at least one fundraising project. You can spend $100.00 before lunch if you’re not careful.

There is only one acceptable food for your child to sell and that is Girl Scout cookies. Girl Scout cookies are tasty. They cost $3.00/box. I would probably sell some of my relatives for a case of Thin Mints. This is a worthwhile and reasonably priced fundraising item.

Giant tubs of cookie dough, dream catchers and cheese baskets – at a 75% mark up – are not.

Worried your child will be disappointed that he or she isn’t the top seller in the class? Life is tough, and guess what? The electric company doesn’t accept scented candles as a form of payment. I would rather go to the Dollar Tree and buy your child a tub of sidewalk chalk or sheet of stickers that is probably comparable to whatever shiny item is being dangled in front of a second grader as a reward for selling enough pineapples to get that soccer team to a tournament in Selma than fill out one more form.

I am childless, and I pay property taxes – there’s my contribution to our schools. Please keep your entertainment books full of coupons only valid on Tuesdays between 2:00 and 2:30 to yourself.

But if you have Tagalongs, well, then we can talk.

It's Serious Now Folks

 Yesterday, I received a little update from the good people at Cake Group New York. It turns out that there's no longer just a trip to the Big East championship game at stake in this competition for the Biggest Fan of the Big East ... [Read more]

My Black Thumb

While we're kind of on the subject of Birmingham's Food Summit, I think it's only fair to own up to the fact that I don't really belong at any Food Summit. When it comes to farming, eating local and anything related to agriculture, I am little more than an impostor.

During the storytelling hour I mentioned in my last post, someone told a story about slaughtering pigs because he wanted to get back in touch with the source of his food and not just think about it as something that came wrapped in cellophane at the Piggly Wiggly. (If I can work the Piggly Wiggly into a story, I will.)

Now, unless my adventure at the stocked catfish pond counts as getting back to the source of my childhood fish sticks, I can hardly claim anything as bold and dedicated as that.

When a friend of mine gave me fresh beef and told me that it had come from his cow, Nacho, I couldn't eat it. I have never knowingly ingested venison. I don't do wild game. If I came from any sort of you eat what you kill culture, I'd be the Calista Flockhart of the group or dead.

Maybe you're thinking this makes me the perfect candidate for vegetarianism. If knowing that something was once alive makes it impossible for me to eat it, of course I should be a vegetarian. It makes perfect sense.

I, however, do not make perfect sense. So, I've chosen denial and Five Guys over more obvious conclusions.

I also have a black thumb. I have killed every plant I've ever bought. The only items that bloom at my house are the ones that were hearty enough to survive five months of neglect and four years of renters before I moved in. In short, I have rosemary.

I don't even have grass. I have very green weeds that when cropped close enough to the ground appear to be grass. When the SO proposed astro turf for his backyard, I pretended to object, but I really thought it was kind of awesome. Plus, with the backyard, I figured no one would know how lazy/incapable of gardening we really are. I'm not willing to put our collective failings out on the front lawn for all of the neighbors to see just yet.

So, you can see why an 11th grade biology project that involved growing and tending your own garden plot would pose a problem.

For six weeks, my partner and I were supposed to plant, tend and maintain garden plots. The success of our gardens determined the majority of our grade for that trimester. (My high school was on trimesters, not semesters. I'm not confusing pregnancy and school, really.)

The great part about this project was that hanging out outside counted as class time. The downside was the fact that your garden was supposed to not only survive, but thrive.

My partner and I planted cucumbers, squash and some other kind of vegetable. (I'd probably remember it better if anything had actually bloomed.)

One week before we were supposed to be graded, I can remember staring at my plot with my partner. It looked a lot like it had before we'd planted anything. I think the cucumbers took, but they seemed to keep to themselves unaware that they could have taken over rather than sticking to their solitary little spot in the back of the "garden."

"This doesn't look good," I said.

"No, it doesn't."

"This isn't an "A" project."

"Nope."

Being a little obsessed with college and something of an overachiever, I couldn't let a little thing like Mother Nature stand between me and a decent grade.

"Meet me back here on Sunday?" I said. 

That weekend I drove to Wal-Mart, where for a small sum, I picked out some lovely pansies to line the edges of our garden as well as something else that was green to fill out the plot. Then, we drove back to our school, dug up anything that was dead and replaced it with our recent purchases from Wal-Mart. (Hey, there was no clause in the project description that said your original plants had to make it through the entire six weeks.)

For a few days, we diligently tended to those plants. (I have a very good track record with keeping plants alive for a week. It's after those first seven days that everything seems to go awry. Sorry recently-purchased mums.) Four days later, I kept my fingers crossed as our biology teacher walked the perimeter of our garden. 

"I wish you'd gotten a little more out of those cukes," he said, "but I'm giving you an "A.'"

I was quite relieved. I had saved my biology grade and my GPA, but I never learned how to keep plants alive. Although, given the choice between a GPA and plants, I still think I'd pick the GPA, and hence, why I have no real place at the Food Summit. I hope all of the real foodies can show me a little mercy. Just please don't ask me any questions about high fructose corn syrup. You don't want to hear the answer ...

Laurel, The Very Bad Volunteer

When I was a sophomore in high school, a friend and I decided to volunteer with a local, health-related non-profit. (I’d like to say it’s because we were moved by a presentation during one of our school’s “development days” – when we were supposed to learn more about ourselves and the community, or something like that – but it probably had more to do with the fact that sophomore year was the time people started talking about “college applications” and “extracurricular activities” and “standing out.” Also, in fairness, I should probably only implicate myself in the resume-building motive. My friend was probably much more pure-hearted.)

Anyway, the volunteer job we ended up with involved delivering meals to homebound patients. And while this job probably sounds easy enough, we were pretty terrible at it. I blame two primary culprits:

1. My complete lack of direction in neighborhoods I’d never visited before and
2. Naked people.

We usually only had four or five meals to deliver each Saturday, and I really don’t think more than two ever made it to their intended destination. I also think we were pretty liberal with our definition of “lunch time.”

You see, as a newly-minted driver it turns out that I was pretty good at driving in Mountain Brook and going to and from my high school. Shockingly, most of the meals we were supposed to deliver were not 1. In the suburb of Mountain Brook or 2. Next to my high school.

In the dark ages, armed only with a paper map of Birmingham, we did our best, but I’m afraid our best was sorely lacking.

“Which exit do we take again?” I said.

“Greensprings,” my friend said. “I think.”

“You think?”

“It could be Green Valley. I’m not sure.”

Without a doubt, I’d usually miss both exits, and even if I found the right one, the side streets after that were nightmares. Many a volunteer run ended with me in near tears saying, “Are we ever going to get home?”

Unfortunately for the poor woman in charge of volunteers, each run also tended to wrap up with the return of at least one undelivered lunch.

Even without the trauma of navigation, I probably wouldn’t have lasted long as volunteer because of the latter aforementioned issue – naked people.

When we finally did find a house or apartment, my friend and I took turns going in to deliver the meals. (Someone had to stay in the car and try to get a head start on how we were going to get to our next destination.)

After knocking at one house, I heard a “come in” and went through the front door.

“Hi,” I said. “I have the meal you requested.”

“He’s in the back,” a young woman about my age said.

With the go-ahead to keep walking through a stranger’s house, I walked through the living room, down a hallway until I came to the first open door on the right. Inside was a very large and very nude man.

“Here’s your meal,” I said, not at all sure how I was supposed to respond in said situation (it, and maps, weren’t covered in the volunteer training), especially when he didn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’d found him naked. (We WASPs generally show great shame when caught without clothes on, so you can see how I would be confused.) I dropped the bag of food on a chair near the bed and high-tailed it out of there.

“How was it?” my friend said when I got back to the car.

“Naked,” I said. From then on, we agreed to go into all homes together.

A week or so later, we finally found our way to yet another house where we were directed to another back room. This time, we found a naked woman sitting straight up in bed.

“We have lunch,” my friend said.

“You seen my kids?” she said.

“Your kids?” my friend said.

“I think they’re out back. Go look.”

My friend (again, I suspect her motives were purer than mine) handed me the bag of food we had and went outside to start yelling for this woman’s children. While she was being a saint, I stared at the walls of the room I was in saying, “Would you like me to get your lunch out for you?” which was only met with, “I want to know where my kids are.”

At no time during this “conversation” did she ever try to cover herself or find clothes.

 At the end of that day, I was pretty sure we had to talk to the volunteer coordinator. Only a month in, I was near burn-out level.

“You found a naked one,” she said, shaking her head almost in anticipation of my concerns. “We just have some patients that won’t wear clothes.”

Eventually, we didn’t get very many calls to deliver meals (shocking, I know) and soccer season started, so our tenure as volunteers came to an end. However, one of my most vivid memories of being lost is sailing through the red light where 5^th Avenue South divides – one side headed to Eastwood and the other to Woodlawn – with my hands in the air. “Where on earth are we?”

I had no idea what a common part of town I was in or how close that major thoroughfare was to my own home, downtown and many, many businesses. I was just a tired, lost 16-year-old that really wanted a route with more clothed people on it.

Sometimes it can be hard to believe that 15 years later, I live less than a mile from the very same intersection and drive through it at least three or four times per week. (It's a necessary part of my many, many trips to Home Depot.)

I’d like to say I’ve learned a lot in that time, but I think the truth is that the most important info I’ve picked up along the way is that there is a light there, and it’s better to go on your way once it’s turned green.

Why I'm a Bad Person

I like to eavesdrop. I can’t help it. It comes down to two simple facts:

1. I’m nosy.

2. Judging other people makes me feel better about myself.

I could pretend there were other reasons. When I started taking writing classes, one exercise that was supposed to help us learn to write dialogue involved eavesdropping on strangers and writing down their conversations. I could tell you that exercise got me hooked. That afterwards, I couldn’t go back. But, truthfully, I’ve always loved to eavesdrop. People are fascinating, and there is some stuff that you can’t make up. On that note, here are the two best conversations I’ve overheard as of late:

“How are things with Claire?” Person #1 says.

“Awesome,” Person #2 says.

“Did I hear you two were living together?”

“Yeah, we are.”

“How’s that going?”

“It’s great. It’s really great. Except for her bitch of a roommate that is.”

“What’s wrong with the roommate?” Person #1 says.

“Oh, you know,” Person #2 says. “She’s single, and she doesn’t like me being around, so she can be kind of difficult.”

“Well, you’re paying rent, right?”

“No, I don’t pay rent.”

“Oh,” Person #1 says.

“But, I mean I pay for everything else. Like food and where we go at night.”

“That’s cool,” Person #1 says. “So, I guess you pay utilities?”

“Nah,” Person #2 says, “I don’t pay utilities.”

“Have you thought about offering?”

“I mean, I’ve thought about it,” Person #2 says, “but that just seems so official.”

Note to stranger: You are not living with your girlfriend; you are free-loading and I’m totally on the bitchy roommate’s side.

Conversation #2:

“Hey, is Wall Street Journal two words or three?” Person #1 says.

“Two words,” Person #2 says.

(I won’t lie, as an English major and former editor, I was dying a little on the inside here. I mean, I live and die by spell check, but come on?!?! It’s also really hard for me not to intervene -- shock of shocks -- but then, of course, I would have given away the fact that I was eavesdropping.)

There is a long pause.

“Actually, I just looked it up on the Internet, and Wall Street Journal is three words,” Person #1 says.

“Really?”

“Yep, I just looked it up.”

There is another long pause.

“You know why I said it was two words,” Person #2 says. “I was thinking of Wall Street the movie … Wall Street is only one word in the movie.”

Note to stranger #2: Yes, because a movie named for an actual place, that is a street, would be one big word. In fact, that's one of the reasons New York City is such a crazy place, unlike the rest of us in "real" America, their street names are all one word. On my own trip there, I visited Fifthavenue, Madisonavenue and Wallstreet. It was a crazy time.

It’s overhearing stuff like this that reminds me why I have to get out of the house. Without such nonsense, I’d be a shut-in who gathered all of her information from Wikipedia and made all of her meals from Papa John’s cheese sticks in no time. (Wait a second …)

Update: Because You Love America

 *So, I decided to update this post with various photos of me from my years at Georgetown, and do you know what I learned? I spent all of college leaning into or hugging someone else. The cropping alone could lead to some severe carpal tunnel, but it's all worth it for the Big East ... [Read more]

Big East Media Day (Or Why John Thompson Might Think I’m A Stalker)

 At 8:30 on October 20, I walked into the lobby and was almost immediately approached by one of the people from Cake Group PR.

“Laurel?” he said ... [Read more]

Big East Media Day: The Prologue

 I don’t get too many calls from New York. Truthfully, I don’t get too many calls in general. And when I get e-mails that say “great opportunity” anywhere in the subject line, it’s usually spam ... [Read more]

In Which Laurel Learns That Not Everyone Will Extend Her A Line Of Credit

We all have our low moments financially. (At least, I assume we all do. If you've never had even the slightest embarrassment caused by money, you're probably not reading this blog anyway. I don't know what an only-recently-underemployed Hyundai owner would really have to offer you.)

There's the first time you forget your wallet. "I'm sure it's here somewhere," you say, while standing at the register rummaging through a bag that contains old receipts, gum, lipstick, mace, ticket stubs, perfume samples, an emery board ... everything but your wallet, any cash or even a spare credit card that might get you out of the store with your purchases. Also, this will never happen when there are not at least three people in line behind you, one of which is an impatient mother with a screaming child and another of which is a large man who thinks his sighing alone will make you give up the ghost.

But, at least when you only forget your wallet (because you might have forgotten to pick it up from beside the computer where you left it while you were online shopping, but you were already late because you needed to see the end of Law & Order: SVU even though you'd watched the episode before but still had no memory of the ending and your hands were already full with a Diet Coke and your car keys, but whatever), you seem absent-minded.

When the credit card is declined, it ranks a little higher on the humiliation scale.

"Do you think you could run it just one more time?" you say. "I'm sure it's just the machine."

"You know, I was definitely near something really magnetic not that long ago. Maybe you need to enter the number manually."

"How about this one?"

I'll never forget the first time I had to walk out of a Target during my sophomore year of college because there just wasn't a way to pay for all of the seasonal decor and hair products I was positive I needed to survive. (At least, not a means of payment that came from any U.S.-backed financial institution.)

When you have to get out of line because of this kind of financial embarrassment, there will still be at least three people in line behind you, but they'll mostly just offer pity. In this situation, it's the clerk that tends to hate you for your perceived denial and holding up her line.

But, when it comes to shopping and financial shame, I still can't remember ever being as embarrassed as I was the first year after I graduated college.

Living in a nice place for the first time (despite some minor concerns about the surroundings in my  at-the-beginning-of-gentrification neighborhood), I headed to the mall for a new slipcover, so that my love seat would match the sofa in the living room. (A living room with a fireplace by the way. I felt like I was on top of the world.)

After picking out my navy slipcover (all the better to hide beer stains, I was still young after all), I proceeded to the register.

"Would you like to save 15% on your purchase today by applying for an in-store credit card?"

As I was prone to say in those days -- and as my former credit report with Victoria's Secret, Limited, Lerner and Banana Republic cards, in addition to a couple of Amexs and a Mastercard prove -- I didn't even hesitate. "I'd love to," I said. "What do I need to do?"

I filled out the form, handed over my info and waited to hear my total announced minus the nine whole dollars this decision was going to save me. 

I waited for awhile.

"I'm sorry, Miss," the clerk said. "It looks like we can't offer you a credit card today. Is there another way you'd like to pay?"

I handed over my Visa, took my bag and left the store quickly. I no longer felt wanted there.

You see, there's one thing to be said for not getting a credit line increase. There's another to be said for being turned down at Neiman Marcus or Saks. Even Macy's is somewhat respectable. But, I never, never thought that J.C. Penney wouldn't want me as a card-carrying member of their club.

Do you even know anyone with a J.C. Penney card? Of course you don't. No one shops there. How had they earned the right to turn me down? I was a Georgetown grad with a title that included "Assistant Director" in it; didn't they know I was going places?

In the years since, I've curbed my spending ways (largely out of necessity, but also partly due to the brilliant creation of my fake husband), and I have a credit score that is respectable. But, I still can't go near a J.C. Penney without feeling slightly inferior.

So, while my original rejection by Penney's did seem beyond cruel, I suppose it's kind of a blessing in hindsight. After all, who actually does shop at J.C. Penney? If it had been Anthropologie or Urban Outfitters, I probably wouldn't have ever recovered.

Impatient and Decisive, Not Always the Best Combo

I like to think of myself as a decisive person. I don’t linger over choices for too long – what color the bedroom should be, how many towels we need, what appetizer to order. I don’t like to linger over major decisions either – when I was offered a job in Nashville, I accepted it over lunch without even asking for 24 hours to think about it. I didn’t know anyone in Nashville, the pay wasn’t enough, but it was the only offer on the table (sorry for another bad pun), so in the span of about 45 seconds, I said “yes.” The SO knows that if we are faced with the end of the world, I want to see it through to the end. There will be no suicide or standing on the beach before the tidal wave for me. (I made that choice in about 20 seconds while watching some asteroid movie, and I don’t intend to go back.)

(Now, there are a few decisions I can’t, and probably never will make, but that has more to do with knowing myself than anything else. Never ask, “If you ever got a tattoo, what would it be?” My answer is that I would never get a tattoo. I have commitment issues, and I’m certainly not putting something permanent on my body when I’m usually tired of my “favorite sweater” after about four days.)

Truth be told, maybe it’s not that I’m decisive, it’s just that I’m impatient. I don’t like lingering, considering or going back and forth. If a wall color doesn’t work, repaint it. If a college doesn’t work, transfer. Can’t pick between two different colored sweaters? Buy both and return the other. (It also helps to only shop at stores with liberal return policies, save receipts and keep pertinent essays on file should you choose to live your life in this manner.)

Awhile ago, I decided that I would rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do, so I have a very hard time with the idea of opportunities passing me by. I once flew across an ocean because of an “I miss you." (In addition to saving receipts, one should also be prepared for a little heartbreak with this approach to life.)

Many of the decisions I do make, while they might seem impetuous, have been running around in my head for months, and thanks to the Internet, I can do lots of research before having to present a plan to potential nay-sayers.

A few years ago, after a lay-off and a bad break-up, I decided to get out of dodge. I took some money from a savings account and found a sub-let on an apartment north of Wrigleyville in Chicago for the rest of the summer.

By the time I had my plan in place, I approached my parents with a very familiar phrase, “Here’s the thing …”

After 20+ years, they’ve come to expect that this intro means I will either be relocating, changing schools, tearing down walls in my home, heading to a foreign country or possibly in need of bail (only kidding on that last one, knock on wood).

Yet, this past Saturday, I was a near wreck at Lowe’s when I couldn’t choose a color for the kitchen walls. I wanted chocolate brown, burnt red or some shade of orange, and the SO had to intervene.

“Remember,” he said, “when it comes to resale, most people like neutrals.” Not only was I reminded that I’m weird (I love color, what can I say?), I also became lost in a world of tans, taupes and sands. And if anything drives me crazier than cell phone rings that are animal sounds, it’s being unable to make a decision.

After 30 minutes, I let the guy who mixes the paint at Lowe’s make the call. “I’d go with that one,” he said. “It’s a little dark for my taste, but I like how plain it is.”

Plain? Plain? I took the paint and hung my head in shame.

Unfortunately, while this breakdown at Lowe’s probably should have been expected, it’s the harbinger of what to come when I can’t make choices that worries me most of all.

As sure as I can be when I’m making most decisions, there’s nothing like a little bout of depression to make me start questioning each and every one of those decisions – nearly dating back to whether or not I gave up the pacifier too soon.

When I was pretty sure I needed to transfer colleges, I didn’t just worry about the choice I’d made for school. I worried about the job I’d taken summer after my senior year of college, if I should have applied to schools further away from home/closer to home the year before, if I should have taken pre-cal my junior year rather than skipping it for straight-up calculus, whether Habitat for Humanity would have been a better club to join than Key Club.

After college, when I hated my job it was whether or not I should have studied abroad, where I should have studied abroad, if I should have majored in history instead of government, if I stopped taking French classes too soon, whether or not living off campus my senior year was the best choice, if I should have tried to make more friends, if I went out too little, if I went out too much.

Whenever my life doesn’t seem to be quite what I’d like it to be, rather than finding the strength to make a plan, get on a path and start working towards a new goal, I seem to need to spend at least two weeks questioning exactly where I went wrong in the 20 years beforehand.

Right now, I’m wondering if I sabotaged my career (forever, by the way) by never having lived in New York. If you want to write, you go to New York, right? You meet other writers. You spend long hours at magazines writing paragraphs that get torn apart and never carry a byline until someone lets you interview George Clooney and suddenly your piece is the cover of Esquire? True?

I was reading the memoir Please Excuse My Daughter this week, and when the author talked about the professional photo shoot for her contributor photo, all I could think about was how I’ve been on two contributor pages, and I had to crop my friend out of a beloved photo because it’s the only picture I think my hair looks nice in. I’m hardly complaining about the exposure and breaks that I have gotten, but I seemed to have missed a turn somewhere.

Even Chicago or L.A. would have probably been a good idea. If it’s not what you know, but who you know, what have I been doing all this time?

When I spent the summer in Chicago, I had a call back from Playboy for an fact-checking position, and I jumped on it. (They really do have articles.) By the time the editor-in-chief called me back (Wednesday to Friday, by the way), they’d already found someone for that job but wanted to “keep my resume on file.” That’s the last I heard from them.

Then again, when I have lived in bigger cities, it nearly drove me insane. Living in big cities is great – when you’re not poor. New York, Chicago and L.A. are meant for people with money. While it’s wonderful to have the world at your fingertips, if you have about $12.00 in expendable cash each month, there’s not a lot to do.

Plus, I think it should take less than three hours to go to the grocery store, less than 30 minutes to park and under an hour and a half to get home from work.

The big cities and I probably wouldn’t have made it together, but I still can’t help but think about it from time to time – would I still be toiling away in obscurity if I’d gone to New York at 21? Will I toil in obscurity forever? Does it matter? Maybe it’s not the place. Maybe it is the talent. And, if that’s the case, I have even more to worry about.

So, while I cannot offer any career advice to anyone (except to return editor’s phone calls immediately, even if it doesn’t work out, and not to turn down Oprah, ever), hand me a gift registry to choose from or ask what to read next, and I’m the gal with a quick answer. 

In Which Laurel Discovers the Most Indecent Halloween Costume of Them All

I love Halloween. I could pretend that it goes back to a childhood love of free candy (and I really do like free candy), but it these days it's a little more than that.

Nowadays, what I primarily love about Halloween is spending a ridiculously long amount of time carving elaborate pumpkins (I've convinced myself it's a skill) and dressing up in outfits that would be considered "slutty" on any other occasion.

I'm 30, so time is running out on the latter, and I have to get out as much of that last urge as I can (be it annually) before the girls hit my waist. I already decided to get rid of all of my free alcohol-themed baby tees (nothing says "class" like "Stoli" emblazoned across your chest in rhinestones) and a particularly demure black tee that said "Hottie" in silver capital letters across the front at a garage sale last year. (I had fun in college -- and very little fashion discernment it seems.)

I tend to start thinking about my costume around Labor Day and then make a few returns and/or excahnges at Party City before the final reveal that last weekend of October. In recent years, I've gone as "naughty" Dorothy, Elvira and Silk Spectre II from The Watchmen. (Can you tell at which point I began dating a comic book lover?)

This year, I quickly honed in on Lilah from Jonah Hex (it reminds me of a modern saloon girl) and the Black Widow from Iron Man 2 (I love me some ScarJo). Both seemed like fun, and once I started with superheroes, I figured, "Why not keep going?"

However, there was something about the Lady Gaga costumes that kept calling to me.

I don't have particularly strong feelings about Lady Gaga, so all I can figure is that I really, really wanted the Lady Gaga wig to add to my collection. (Yes, I have a wig collection, and wearing wigs -- of the outrageous variety -- makes me very happy. Did I once throw a party whose only theme was "wigs"? Yes.)

Neither Lilah or the Black Widow would require a wig seeing as I already have long brown hair, and lessons-learned-from-the-recession Laurel is trying really, really hard not to buy things she doesn't need. Even though the Lilah wig is only $16.99, but bygones ...

I e-mailed the Lady Gaga costume photos to a friend (to see if it was too slutty), and her comment was something along the lines of, "Uh ... yeah ... that would be pretty daring."

Assuming the costume was just a blue leotard with a big collar and some cut-outs on the sides that would be lined with mesh, I still had hope. "What if I got those nearly opaque cheerleader tights that are kind of shiny and can almost seem like leggings?" I wrote back.

"Maybe," she said.

So, today, despite all of the reasonable warnings, on my third trip to Party City since September 1, I decided to try on the Gaga costume. The result, ladies and gentlemen, was not pretty. Be warned.

What I had assumed would be leotard/possibly Legg Avenue-esque concoction was actually more like a dicky with external shoulder pads and a butt flap attached -- you know, for modesty. There wasn't even fabric on the back -- nothing ran from the top of the bum to the neck. And those cut-outs? They weren't cut out of the suit. They never existed as part of the costume to begin with.

While I normally would not be willing put such a photo on the Internet (because God knows I've never posted unflattering photos of myself before), inspired by my friend Jen West and her amazing, bikini-clad documentation of her recent diet and fitness plan, as well as feeling that this post really does need a visual, I give you the most terrible and most indecent outfit I have ever put on my body.

The final blow? $49.99 for less than half a yard of fabric probably imported from China for $.35.

Parents of the world, beware: your child does not need to dress as Lady Gaga. Unless you want her to end up in soft-core porn or are willing to make the costume yourself. And women out there over the age of 21, just don't do this to yourself. Really. There are other, far more positive ways to gain men's attention.

For the first time, I actually think being a pop star probably isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially if you have a particularly aggressive stylist.

And next year, I might go back to that sheet/ghost costume.

The French Connection

2003 was a rough year for me, and it had nothing to do with a boyfriend or a job or even poor fashion choices I'm forced to relive in tagged Facebook photos. 2003 was particularly rough because of our feud with the French.

You see, while as an adult I can't say I really have strong feelings about the French in any way, shape or form, being forced to order "freedom fries" did remind me of my desperate childhood obsession with the French. (Did we go so far as to call it "freedom kissing"? I'm just curious.) And while I shouldn't have cared anymore, the little girl in me really, really wanted to make up with our beret-creating European neighbors.

When I was little, I wanted to be an actress, a lawyer and French. The first two were going to require more education and resources than I had access to at the time, but I figured the latter might be something I could actually work towards.

I knew there wasn’t much I could do about actually being French in the present, having been born in Alabama and all, but I was willing to settle for French ancestry. Also, after the disappointment of learning that my middle name was not actually "Fame," I figured Fain might be able to work for me in other ways.

“What are we?” I asked my mother one day. I was hard at work on a first grade family tree project, and she was trying to get dinner ready.

“We are a family,” she said.

 Not what I was hoping for. “No,” I said. “Where did we come from?”

“Montgomery,” she said, continuing to devote her attention to pork chops or something similar.

“No,” I said, “before that?”

“Troy.”

This was not going well. “No,” I said. “What countries did we come from before that?”

“Our ancestors? Is that what you’re asking about?”

I nodded, wondering if I would ever get this project done. Even at six, my mother and I had a history of communication problems. At four, I asked her how it was possible that God made the world in seven days if dinosaurs were around for so long, but there weren’t people when there were dinosaurs. She told me that Adam and Eve had dinosaurs as pets, but when they got kicked out of Eden, the dinosaurs became extinct. This might have worked out OK until I could advance further in school and learn about the Big Bang theory, evolution v. creation, etc., except for an incredibly embarrassing Sunday school incident when my drawing of Paradise included Eve walking a triceratops.

“Scotland, I think,” she said, still struggling with my questions. “But Mills is definitely English. I'd focus your project on Great Britain.”

“What about, oh, I don’t know…” I said, trying to seem as if this thought had just occurred to me, "France?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t it possible anyone in our family came from France? Maybe one of those Scottish people married someone from France?”

“I don’t think so, Honey. Could you set the table?”

“Couldn’t ‘Fain’ be French?” I said. They did start with the same letter after all.

“I really don’t think so,” she answered. “But I suppose you never know. Do you want to call your grandmother?” I didn't want to make any phone calls, and the truth was, and is, I come from a long line of WASPs, and there's very little that can be done about it.

So, instead of preparing a project about my brilliant French ancestors, I had to settle for pretending to be French. I couldn’t imagine anything better than being part of a long line of people with accents and great clothes. After all, they had an Eiffel Tower, restaurants called cafes, and they were too good for water – only coffee and wine for the French.

When I had tea parties with my stuffed animals, we only spoke in French. And, we ate pretend croissants rather than muffins or cupcakes. Of course, we didn’t actually speak French; I simply spoke in a long string of nonsense syllables that I substituted for a foreign language, but it was enough for me. (Although, I was pretty jealous of every single kid in my class who got to present a family tree that involved French ancestors.)

Within a few weeks of my family tree work and the made-up language gatherings, I'd moved on to other pursuits -- begging for a kitten, trying to finish The Boxcar Children before the rest of the kids in my class, convincing my parents I deserved a later bedtime because of my incredible maturity -- and that desire to be French was buried somewhere far beneath a love of Jem and the Holograms and a need to get the attention of my elementary school crush. I went on with my life, and I even survived that pesky 2003 international disagreement.

But, every so often, my little Francophile does rear its ugly head.

A few years ago, my sister and I were riding in the care discussing our extreme WASP-iness.

"Being Scottish works for me," I said. "We gave the world Scoth and bold plaids. You're welcome Universe."

"Yeah," she said, "but I don't think we're really completely 100% WASP."

"Rachael," I said, "our entire family tree is Scottish, English and Irish. We're Episcopalean, and you and Sarah are the only people in the family capable of tanning."

"I'm not sure," she said. "What about 'Fain.' I'm pretty sure that one's French."

Where had that kind of conviction been 20 years before when I really needed it?

Four Movies That Make Me (And Only Me) Cry

I've said it too many times -- love that fourth wall. So, without further ado, the list:

4. Hotel for Dogs

It's a kid's movie. Emma Roberts stars. Dreamworks and Nickelodeon produce. What could go wrong, right? Well, throw in homeless dogs and kids in foster care, and apparently, I just can't cope. About an hour into the movie, I became convinced that all of the dogs would end up at the pound, where they would most assuredly be euthanized, and Emma Roberts and her little brother would never find a forever family or see their dog again. This thought spiral led to intense waterworks.

"You know there's still half an hour left in the movie, right?" the SO said. "Everything is going to work out. This is Hotel for Dogs, Laurel."

"It may work out in the movie," I said, "but that doesn't mean it would work out in real life."

A real life hotel for dogs?!?! Feel free to be just as bewildered as the SO. I guess in the absence of a good reason for crying during the actual movie, which was, of course, going to turn out fine, I decided to blame my tears on the tragedy of real homeless dogs and children in the foster care system. It's a legitimate reason to cry, but the truth is that those little four-legged critters running from the law (and the very presence of Don Cheadle)  just got to me.  

3. Frequency

Now, this movie is genuinely touching. A recently-separated-from-his-wife son finds a way to connect with his dead father through an antique radio in the back room of the family home he inherited. There are firemen, baseball games and '60s nostalgia. It's a lovely and magical combination. A lot of people probably teared up.

Most people probably did not cry so hard that they had to remain in the theater past the credits to compose themselves.

I have a special place in my heart for Dennis Quaid, and I do love James Caviezel. (Confession: I didn't see Passion of the Christ because of the controversy or the violence or the fact that I'm not Catholic,  etc., etc. I didn't watch the movie because I had issues with the idea of being sexually attracted to Jesus. There, I said it -- it's kind of nice to have that one off my chest.) But, it was something about a family getting to be that wasn't that, well, kept me in the theater trying to get it together long past the last scene. 

You know it's bad when strangers seek you out in the dark. "Are you going to be OK, princess?" a very kind gay couple asked me on their way out.

2. Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events

I love kids books and I love kids movies. (Holes is another favorite, and I did get choked up on that one, too, but I'm trying to maintain my forward momentum.) I particularly love the way that the Lemony Snicket books are written, and I recognize that they are a bit darker than your standard children's fare.

In fact, I don't even think I'd be embarrassed to have cried so much during this one if I hadn't been with actual children at the time.

You see, I took my nine- and seven-year-old cousins to see Lemony Snicket while they were out of school for Christmas vacation. They thought Jim Carrey was funny. I held their hands when the snake got away. We were having a good time. Then, right at the end, came that montage about "sanctuary" and what it means, and I was a mess.

"I'm ready Laurel," Cousin #1 said as soon as the film ended.

"In just a minute."

"Can't we go yet?" Cousin #2 said, much more emphatically.

So, we left the theater in a throng of children and their parents -- my cousins happy as larks and dry to the bone while I trailed behind them puffy-eyed and sniffling.

1. Road Trip

I know what you're thinking -- Stiffler and Tom Green made a movie that brought anyone to tears for a reason other than pure embarrassment for their careers/parents? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is yes. (But, no, it was not a prostate joke that caused the crying.)

Just after my sophomore year of college, I found out that my boyfriend of a few years was cheating on me. (We were young and at different schools, and it was bound to happen, but the end of first love is the end of first love. To say that I was a little vulnerable would be like saying Alabama's gubernatorial candidates are kind of conservative.) To keep me from staring at photos or the ceiling and asking "why, why, why," my cousin decided to get me out of the house for awhile.

"Staring at Russell Crowe makes everyone feel better," she said when we got to the theater.

We were supposed to see Gladiator that day, and Gladiator probably would have been a good distraction. At least I didn't have to deal with an evil emperor and fight strangers to the death, right? Maybe I could have found a little perspective there.

"We're sold out for Gladiator," the guy behind the ticket counter said.

"What about the 3:45 showing?"

"We're all sold out for both," he said.

"How about a comedy then?" my cousin said, turning around. "Some laughter will do you good."

Her logic was spot on. The only trouble was that the entire premise for Road Trip is that the main character, who goes to a different school from his girlfriend, cheats on her, makes a tape of it and then accidentally mails said tape to the girlfriend. The whole road trip that gives the movie its name is a desperate attempt to get to the  girlfriend's college before the sex tape does.

Let's just say that I didn't cheer up that day.

Also, a large number of teenage boys probably thinks that they saw that film with someone with severe emotional and/or psychological issues sitting in the theater.

Now, Meet My New Best Friend

As you may or may not be aware, I'm mildly obsessed with shapewear. (My philosophy is a little bit along the lines of "why go to the gym when there's lycra?") As my friend Tina pointed out, if I were to try and find supporters to fit my blog's "niche," it would most likely be pet care companies, red wine makers and Spanx.

Also, to quote two of my favorite women from Steel Magnolias. (Oh, who are we kidding? They're all my favorite women if they're in Steel Magnolias.):

Olympia Dukakis, commenting on the legs of a woman dancing at Shelby's wedding: "Looks like two pigs fighting under a blanket."

Dolly Parton: "Well, these thighs haven't gone out of the house without lycra on them since I was 14."

Olympia Dukakis: "You were brought up right."

Discovering Spanx changed my world, and I own everything from control top underwear to the full-on bodysuit that makes me look much thinner, but also a little like Marilyn Manson from that odd androgynous album cover underneath my clothes. (It's not full-on Silence of the Lambs skin suit, but it's kind of close.)

It took a while to grow my collection from foot-less hoses to the 15+ shaping garments that now line the bottoms of my drawers, but it happened. In the age-old debate so well articulated by Bridget Jones as to whether or not to wear the sexy lingerie that bares it all or the sucking-in, holding-in place, strange-nude-colored undies that create the illusion of a smooth body with no lumps, I long ago chose the world's ugliest underwear. (Hey, that's how Sarah Blakely herself, creator of Spanx and one of my heroes, describes them.)

*The part of this post that is not for my parents or young children*: For those of you wondering about how to hide one's Spanx in "delicate" moments, if you so choose, I've always used the excuse of needing to change out of "my work underwear." (After all, the underwear is working even if I'm not.) This ruse can only last so long, but it usually gets you over the hump. Cook some hearty homemade meals in the meantime -- lasagna, chicken pot pie, cobbler -- and the actual reveal should be far less traumatizing.

(Sadly, over time, if you stop cooking it will become far more of an issue than what your underwear looks like.)

Even since I came to love shapewear, I've continually flirted with the idea of whether or not I want an actual girdle. My stomach has always been my problem area, and even as a size 2-4 high school student that did 250 crunches after soccer practice each day, my stomach has never been flat -- let alone concave as some extremely lucky people I've heard of the existence of. Feel free to be appalled, but I'm guessing that ever since the phrase "muffin top" made it into the common vernacular, a lot of you have considered the same purchase.  My internal debate of the last few years goes a lot like this:

"Women of the '50s were so lucky that girdles were everywhere. How small could I make my waist? Do you think that thing Scarlett O'Hara had to be laced into is still available? The Internet seems to have everything."

"A girdle? What was I thinking? I'm not 70, for God's sake. I should probably get a life -- and some sort of civic or political concern to rally behind. Wondering about girdles can't be the best use of my time."

But, as you've probably guessed by now, last week I broke when I discovered the Hanes Waist Cincher. While it may not be a full-on girdle, I feel like I have finally crossed the line. (There's tight boning holding my torso in, and I don't think I can go back.)

While we had a difficult adjustment period at first. "Ugh," I complained while laying on the couch Monday night, "it hurts so much." (In fairness, I had just consumed a Five Guys hamburger and fries, so it was not exactly a girdle-friendly meal (and I do see the irony here), but oh, it was not pleasant.)

In the days since, though, we've become quite close. (I wanted to leave the "literally" part unsaid on that last one, but then I did it anyway.) I don't ever want to leave the house without a waist cincher again. (If I wanted to make another bad pun, I'd say we were tied at the hip.) Tight t-shirts with jeans? I don't even worry. Clingy fabrics? Not a problem. I can even pretend I'm a delicate Victorian lady rather than someone who spends all of her time hauling tile at Lowe's if I want to.

A delicate Victorian lady in ragged jeans and a resin-stained Old Navy t-shirt, but still. If nothing else, fantasy has always been my other best friend.