"Exercise" -- The Laurel Way
In what might not have been one of the wisest decisions, I went in search of fitness programs to go with the Wii on Monday. The SO loves his Mario brothers, but since I prefer games where you don’t die (because what’s the fun in that – especially when you lack good hand-eye coordination), our Wii games are an odd mix of action-packed games that require You Tube video walk-throughs for secret level access and those designed for five-year-olds.
It’s pretty easy to figure out my games – Family Feud, Haunted House, Mickey Paints, and my favorite, Guilty Party. I had “The Malgrave Incident,” which is a puzzle and hidden objects game, but after solving it twice, I decided to trade it in.
In case you’re wondering, Guilty Party allows me to solve mysteries about a missing walrus by questioning witnesses, gathering cards and completing tasks like following the suspect’s eyes with a flashlight. I can play for hours. (Plus, until L.A. Noir comes out for Wii, this is the closest I can get to cracking cases from my sofa.)
We also have the Wii fit game, but due to an unfortunate reading of the E-bay listing, we don’t have the board to go with it.
After eating half a sackful of Krystals on Monday and watching three episodes of Supernatural in a row, I thought that it might not be the worst idea to add some kind of fitness element to the Wii.
I started at Walmart, where I learned that balance boards are $100. That’s a big investment for something that I might only use once, so I moved on to Game Stop in the hopes of finding a pre-owned one.
As an aside, my favorite part of going to Game Stop is that the staff there never knows what to do with me. I’m usually in my yoga clothes that I don’t practice yoga in, and they always ask if I’m looking for my kid first. When they learn that I’m shopping for myself, they tend to get really confused and leave me alone. After the “I want to solve crimes with my Wii” conversation from a few months ago, there’s one guy who avoids me like the plague.
There were no pre-owned balance boards, so I started digging through the used products bin and discovered Personal Trainer 2. At $40, it seemed reasonable, and I went to check out.
While I was at the register, I asked about whether or not pre-owned balance boards ever came in. That’s when the Game Stop employee pointed out, “You know this game is for Playstation, right?”
I did not. (This might be another reason the Game stop staff hates me.)
He and I went back to the bin, but all I could find was a used copy of Personal Trainer Version One for Wii. It was really beat up, and now that I knew Personal Trainer 2 was $40, why would I pay $40 for Version 1?
All of this is to explain how I ended up bringing home the UFC Trainer game. Do I know anything about the UFC? No. However, the game was brand new, promised a work out and cost $30. I figured, “What they hey?”
The SO was confused, to say the least.
So far, in my two attempts to play the game, I barely made it through the four-minute fitness test, and I’ve been yelled at by some guy named Chase or Tito for not getting my jabs in fast enough.
It’s not looking good.
In a few months, I could be able to take you in any fight. More likely, I will be trying to pawn off my “awesome” game at a “great price.”
The lesson: This is why I only spend $30 on my impulse purchases – especially when there’s a Zaxby’s on the way home from Game Stop.
The Hidden Dangers Of Seasonal Paper Products
The summer I was 17, I took a job at a greeting card store. (I know, I know. As one co-worked once said, “How many jobs have you had?” I’ve never counted, but let’s just go with “a lot.”) I won’t name the store, but I will add that if you turned over one of our cards, you would not be greeted with the special gold crown that lets you know someone cares.
For a place that was supposed to specialize in spreading joy and sentiment, it was an unusually tense environment. Our manager cried a lot. I think it had to do with a boyfriend, but after a week, I wanted to spend most of my days crying, too.
I blame this weepiness on two unfortunate aspects of the job:
- I actually had to spend two days inventorying Precious Moments figurines. Even if I liked Precious Moment figurines, going down a three page list and counting statuettes like “Bobby Fishes,” “Bobby and Ellen Down by the Lake” and “Susie’s Goodnight Prayer,” would nearly bore anyone to death.
2. We sold those nature sounds CDs that were very popular in the mid-‘90s, and they were housed in a special display that ran samples of each soundtrack over and over again in an hour-long loop. No human being is meant to hear laughing dolphins at 15 minutes past the hour, every hour, and maintain his or her sanity. I finally understood what drove Noriega out.
As a card store, we also carried a lot of seasonal merchandise, and according to the employee handbook (the very long employee handbook, I might add), seasonal merchandise that did not sell on clearance had to be destroyed after a certain point. Employees couldn’t take it home, it couldn’t be donated – it had to be thrown away. (It makes no sense to me either.)
As the lowest member on the card store totem pole, I was also on trash duty. One mid-August day, it was finally time for me to tote the St. Patrick’s Day napkins up to the dumpster.
(If you have never worked in a mall, you do not know the joy of going to the dumpster through the maze of hallways that runs through the back of your shopping center. This is not a job you want to do after dark.)
Anyway, as I was toting my boxes of St. Patrick’s day table décor through the back of the mall to the dumpster, I ran into one of the security guards.
“Those new napkins?” he said.
“I don’t know about new,” I said, “but they haven’t been opened.”
“Where you going with those?”
“The trash.”
“Really?” he said.
“Really,” I said. “Store Policy.”
“That’s a shame,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
When we got to his floor, he looked back over at me and said, “Oh s&%$,” and grabbed all of my seasonal décor before exiting the elevator. I continued my ride up to the dumpsters.
What he was going to do with all of those St. Patrick’s Day table decorations, I don’t know. Why he would take them from a 17-year-old girl, I really don’t know. I can only imagine that he really disdained waste, or for an older black man, loved March 17th with a passion few can understand.
However, knowing our store policy, I wasn’t really into the idea of getting fired from the poor man’s version of Hallmark for “stealing” plastic shamrock tablecloths. With cameras being everywhere and all, and the products never making it to the trash, I thought I should report the incident to my always-tense manager.
“What happened to the paper plates?” she said, her tears turning to an odd form of rage.
I repeated my story.
“I’m calling security,” she said.
Since a security guard committed “the crime,” this did not seem like a good idea to me, but what was a girl to do?
Another security guard showed up to take my report. (All of this over six-month-old paper products, by the way.)
This created a terrible conundrum in my teenage brain: If I really reported the security guard, I might get a guy fired over napkins. If I said next-to-nothing, I’d have a security guard that really hated me wandering the mall. After all, it’s not like there were going to be a ton of suspects for who reported the theft that happened with two people in an elevator, and I was sure my story would be the focus of some mall-wide security meeting.
I ended up giving a ridiculously vague description of the security guard. “He was average?”
It felt like enough to seem like I was trying, but not nearly enough to get anyone fired. It was not, however, good for assuaging my manager’s rage. “I don’t think you’re anywhere close to being ready for cash register duty.”
The next week, I went on a planned vacation. There was some trouble with my return flight, so I asked my mom to call the card store and ask about my schedule. I’d done so much not to get fired, I didn’t really want to get in trouble for missing a shift over a late plane.
When my mom called back, she said, “They said you weren’t anywhere on the schedule. I think they forgot you work there.”
“I think we should just keep it that way.”
And there you have the illustrious story of my two-week career in retail, as well as the reason I prefer to buy all of my greeting cards at Target.
Squatting: What All The Cool Kids Are Doing
There are many titles that I’ve strived for and continue to strive for in life, as well as titles I hope to achieve one day: good daughter, excellent student, editor, best-selling author, good partner, hot chick, best friend, good mom. The list goes on.
Squatter was never on that list, but that’s exactly what I became this past weekend in, of all places, Oxford, Mississippi.
The SO and I were traveling for a film festival. He needed to lead a meeting, so he left me with the primary responsibility of checking in to the hotel. (He might call this his first mistake.)
The guy behind the desk gave me the map of the hotel and directions as to how to drive around and park in front of our room. I took the keys and was off.
When I pulled up in front of our row of rooms, I saw what I thought was the first door. There was a maid in the room, but since we were checking in before noon, long before the regular check-in time of 3:00, I assumed she wasn’t expecting our arrival.
“Do you mind if I just sit here while you finish up?” I said.
“Not a problem,” she said.
I unpacked our bags and sat down at the desk in the room. Once the housekeeper was done, I texted the SO with the room number and plopped down on the bed with my laptop and started working.
Awhile later, my phone rang, “Why aren’t you answering the door?” the SO said.
“Because you aren’t knocking,” I said.
“I’ve been knocking for five minutes,” he said.
“Hold on,” I said. “I’m going to the door.”
I went to the door, opened it and there was no SO.
Then, I looked down the corridor and saw the SO standing in front of the room next door. I turned around to look at the door to the room I was in and saw A120.
We were supposed to be in A119.
“I’m in the wrong room,” I said.
“You’re in the wrong room,” the SO said, emotionally somewhere between hang-my-head in confusion and bewilderment that this is my girlfriend and an extreme fit of laughter.
We quickly gathered up all of our things.
“Once this door locks,” he said, “remember that we can’t get back in. Make sure you get everything. Because our keys don’t go to this room.”
We made a beeline for our actual room, and I knew lots and lots of jokes were coming.
Sadly, at one point while I was in the wrong room, a hotel employee even came in, was surprised that I was there, said her sheet from management must be wrong, and it still didn’t occur to me that I might be in the wrong place.
For a good solid hour, I was a squatter, and while my part of me is embarrassed, the other part of me has to admit that getting away with even the smallest of illicit acts is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in months.
As the SO now says, who needs Priceline anymore?; I just take the rooms I want.
Whitney, The Misuse Of Poison Lyrics And A Valentine
I was a big fan of Whitney Houston.
When I was 9, I sang “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” on a near-daily basis. I even performed her song in front of six grades during our school’s annual dance contest. (Long story short: We didn’t even get an honorable mention, and I was pissed. My hand motions were so descriptive.)
When I first opened the cassette tape holding “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and found the mass-produced, signed photo of Whitney at the back of the lyrics booklet, I thought I had Whitney’s actual autograph and carried it around with me for weeks.
(On another note, what do you call that thing that you unfold with all the song lyrics and info about the producers? Does it have a name? I considered it a study guide for learning my favorite songs for mirror performances, but I imagine any musician reading this is hanging his or her head in shame with such a description.)
When The Bodyguard came out, I was still carrying a torch for Kevin Costner. (I know, I know, but I thought Dances With Wolves was a really sensitive film.) I could not wait to see Whitney and Kevin together, and “I Will Always Love You” became my new ideal for romantic love.
Incidentally, at the time, I also thought the movie had a happy ending. When Whitney climbed off the plane to hug Kevin Costner on the tarmac, I thought they were getting back together. I think this is the same kind of wishful thinking/re-writing of history that made me want to be a writer, but I also just might not be that bright. Mulholland Falls is way beyond me, and I’ve also crafted my own ending to Beverly Hills, 90210 that has nothing to do with the finale or the current incarnation of the show. (In my mind, Brandon and Kelly got back together. I live on the precipice of fan fiction.)
At 20, I broke up with someone using Whitney Houston lyrics. The remix of “It’s Not Right But It’s OK,” was pretty popular at the time. Said boyfriend was explaining to me, after arguing that we should get back together, that he was going to continue dating me and another girl when we started back to school in the fall, and something finally clicked.
“It’s not right, but it’s OK,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s not right, but it’s OK.”
Then there was some staring.
“I’d rather be alone that unhappy,” I said. Then I stood up to leave. (I loved melodrama back in the day). “And I’d rather be alone,” I said.
(This same boyfriend once quoted Poison lyrics to me during one of our fights, so it seemed reasonable to me at the time. Plus, I think my choice was far more dignified than, “Instead of making love, we both made our separate ways.” I also stand by the sentiment – no relationship is worth constant misery. I would rather be alone than unhappy.)
In summation, I guess this cheesy, nerdy, completely lacking in rhythm and soul, tone deaf girl wants it known that she’ll miss Whitney Houston. She was a great talent, and she made some wonderful music. I’m also pretty appreciative for that break-up. Senior year of college was a lot more fun without a BF.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to let a certain someone know that I’d like to feel the heat with him* this Valentine’s Day.
*Mom and Dad -- that is not meant to be dirty.
Landlords Are Crazy
From the time I rented my first apartment at 19 until about six months ago, I operated under a basic assumption: all landlords are crazy.
Apartment landlords, or any complex run by a company or management firm, maybe not so much. However, when you rented a house, it seemed to me that all landlords were nuts.
The landlord of that apartment I rented at 19 had a house he divided into an upstairs apartment, a main level that was kept in tact “for the family to visit” and a basement apartment. We basically lived above a creepy museum, and my landlord liked to work on the house shirt-less (at 70), made snide comments about boys coming over and let his son-in-law use the back of the house for his “art” at any given time – which usually translated to the hours of 10:00 p.m. – 2:00 a.m.
I did not like that man.
I had another landlord that tried to keep our security deposit because we didn’t clean the front of the garbage disposal.
Yet, none of these compared to the landlord I had to take to small claims court. He changed the lease after we signed it (not something to do to a lawyer’s daughter), and one of its new clauses included charging us tenants a $50 fee for any repair done on the house.
We discovered this on the day we asked him to send over a plumber because two out of the three toilets weren’t working. (Little known fact: I can fix most toilet issues. I have two sisters; you learn. Even in the 300-year old house where I shared one bathroom with four other girls, we only had one plumbing issue in a year.)
I was not pleased, and seeing how we had not approved the revised lease, my roommate and I decided to move out nine days after moving in. At the time, the landlord said he was fine with that and agreed to return our security deposit and 21 days worth of the first month’s rent.
Three months and no check later, I filed papers at the D.C. courthouse.
I got my money back, but moving in and out of a house in the span of nine days isn’t something you get over quickly.
I had one landlord I adored. “This is my investment property,” Peter said. “Please keep it nice for me.”
When I signed the lease at his (gorgeous) house, and his dog lay down at my feet, we were both sold.
“She’s a very good judge of character,” he said, referring to the dog. “I think you’re supposed to be in this house.”
Based on the original Picassos in the house, I also don’t think he worried too much about money, so Peter tended not to get too involved in our affairs. He even helped me look for a job. When he sold the same house a year later for double what he paid, there were no security deposit issues. Everyone was happy.
Apart from my beloved Peter, I’ve had many other landlords over the years, and they all led me to the same conclusion, landlords = crazy.
He was the one shining exception to my rule.
So, you can imagine how difficult it was when I became a landlord this past August. By my own rules, I’m now in the ranks of the crazy. (This one’s a whole different kind of crazy than the weird, quirky, medicated categories I already fall into.)
In addition to sometimes staying up at night wondering how my hardwood floors are faring, I also worry that my tenants think I’m nuts. (Who worries about how their tenants feel about them? Crazy insecure people, I know.)
I understand a little more of the landlord crazy. I wonder how my new cast iron sink is doing without me. I hope the washing machine is being treated well. I think about chipping paint.
But I also try to give my tenants their space and recognize that they are paying for a place to live, after all.
Hopefully I’ll figure out the balance. But if you ever catch me complaining about the grime on the garbage disposal, I expect a friendly reminder about the small versus the big things in life.
White People Problems
My birthday is November 18, and despite the fact that that seems far away from Christmas, when you throw in Thanksgiving, I contend that most birthdays from Nov. 15 - Jan. 15 probably go a tad less noticed because of their proximity to the holidays. (Not that 32 requires a throw down or the complete attention of my friends. I'm actually going somewhere else with this, so please bear with me.)
The lesser attention really gets made up for in the fact that you basically get to open presents for weeks on end. It almost becomes customary to receive gifts, so when January rolls around with it's cold temperatures and historically-significant holidays (that are incredibly important, of course, but have no presents), it's kind of a letdown.
To handle this down slide, and get the most for my money, years ago I started saving my Christmas and birthday money to spend after Christmas when all of the sales are really good. I know I sound like a spoiled consumerist here, but I can't deny that I like stuff. Plus, when you mail order your sale items, it's like you get to keep opening presents because packages are always arriving at the door.
(Seasonal depression, meet my new handbag.)
The other day, I was contemplating one of my purchases, a Kate Spade cocktail ring (because I like to have nice things but only if I can pay less than half the retail price), and I asked the SO what he thought of it.
"It just doesn't look like it did on the Internet," I said. "I really expected more. Do you think I should send it back?" (Also, if you are indecisive about your purchases, you can prolong the whole present/packages deal with exchanges and returns for weeks. Yes, I may have a problem.)
His answer: "White people problems."
And it's true. Whether or not my cocktail ring was purchased under false pretenses hardly has much to do with the world at large. I probably should spend more brain power and time on the debt ceiling or North Korea or something, but I don't. So, in acknowledgement of my not-so-problemy problems, I give you "White People Problems" from last week's Saturday Night Live. Thanks to this particular skit, I can no longer use the word "awkward" without feeling uncomfortable, and since "awkward" was half of my vocabulary (and the real word I wanted to use instead of "uncomfortable"), it's been hard on me. Then again, that's just another white people problem.
Karaoke And WASPs
Being tone deaf and all, karaoke has always been a challenge. With no musical ability whatsoever, you're pretty much left with three options:
1. Make sure your song is a group song that involves lots of other girls so you're never close to the microphone. Of course, this comes with the obvious side effect that you are part of a large obnoxious group of girls on stage most likely singing "Love Shack" or "I Will Survive," and your dignity is lost somewhere amongst the red headed slut shots you've been taking all evening.*
2. Only sing once everyone else in the bar is too drunk to realize how bad you really are. If you're me, there's always one table left that cannot -- either due to court mandates or liver problems -- reach this level of inebriation.*
3. Learn a song that involves more speaking than singing.
I once saw a girl perform Eminem's "Lose Yourself" and bring the house down. Admittedly, said house was a smoky bar between a Days Inn and a Waffle House, but I still count it as an accomplishment.
Naturally, I went in search of my speaking v. singing karaoke song. I tried Snow's "Informer," but well, it's really hard, and I don't have that much will power. The obvious fallback? Young MC's "Bust A Move."
Now, while I never did actually learn all the words (and more importantly, timing) to "Bust A Move," I did spend a lot of time studying the song.
Since I cannot embed the actual video, I give you this:
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wJCmtZMc1g]
Last week, the SO and I were in the car listening to the Glee soundtrack (that he bought me, by the way), when he declared their version of "Bust A Move" as the whitest version ever. (Clearly, if I had ever mastered "Bust A Move," my rendition would have been the whitest ever, but I digress.)
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRpKy4MbMms]
I countered that I believe the whitest version of "Bust A Move" ever was performed on One Tree Hill. Their version is not only on One Tree Hill, but is also off-key and involves five-year olds.
Unfortunately, you'll have to follow the link on this one, but I think the evidence speaks for itself.
Dissension is welcome in the comments.
*Neither of these have ever stopped me from singing karaoke when I wanted to.
The Magic Room
In The Magic Room, Jeffrey Zaslow explores the world of Becker’s Bridal, a decades-run family business in the small town of Fowler, Michigan, as well as changing trends in marriage and weddings and the lives of the individual brides who come to Becker’s in droves.
Becker’s Bridal itself has been a destination for engaged women for generations, with many mothers who bought their dresses there returning years later with their own daughters, in search of “the one” – the perfect dress. Zaslow unveils (no pun intended) the story behind the store and what it took for a family to keep the business growing and thriving throughout the years.
Zaslow also delves into the personal narratives of eight soon-to-be-married women – from a chaste twenty-something who saved her first kiss for the man she would marry to a forty-year-old bride who thought she might never have a wedding of her own. The stories are heartfelt, thoughtful and touching.
The title refers to a special place within Becker’s Bridal with soft lighting, many mirrors and the opportunity for women to see themselves as they’d always hoped on such a special occasion – as a truly beautiful bride ready to begin the next phase of her life.
In all honesty, I didn’t expect to like The Magic Room. The topic struck be as a bit saccharine, and I worried I would find the book sappy, but The Magic Room is anything but. Each aspect of the book – from the struggles of the Becker family to the portraits of the eight brides and their families – is well-told, and I was struck by the honesty, depth and beauty of the stories. There is no pretense of perfection or princesses, and this makes The Magic Room all the more powerful a read.
The Magic Room is about far more than weddings. It is about love, possibility, and, in some ways, fear. As The Magic Room unfolds, one is struck by the commonalities between theses brides, their families and the Becker’s – all of whom have known love, know how quickly life can change and still stand ready to face the uncertainties of the future with strength, grace and ultimately, hope.
If you’re anything like me, you’ll want to keep the Kleenex nearby.
I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.
Rocks, Signs And Boobs
A recent How I Met Your Mother episode discussed how every sign had a story behind it.
When I was 16, I became responsible for a rock slides road sign. For anyone unfamiliar with the topography of Birmingham, Alabama, let me assure you that our fair city is quite hilly. Being in the foothills of the Appalachians will do that to you. The Southern half of Alabama is quite flat. Montgomery, Mobile, Gulf Shores – all flat. Birmingham, not so much.
The particular suburb I grew up in is also known for being particularly difficult to drive through. The roads are curvy, there’s lots of greenery and very little lighting. I say all this to explain how a 16-year old, with a month-old driver’s license, would have some trouble with a curvy road at the bottom of the hill on a very rainy day. When the rain washes rocks down, well, that’s how I ended up with the first of what would be many flat tires.
Since I cared for more about my appearance in high school than I do today, I ended up on the side of the road in a downpour while my adorable pleated mini skirt (hello 1995) from the Junior’s Department at Macy’s was pretty much ruined as I stared at a flat tire I had no idea what to do about. I’d been given the lesson on fixing a flat, but I wasn’t really planning on doing it. Luckily, a kind police officer arrived at the scene to help me out, and since I was less than a mile from my house, my mom was also on her way to pick me up. I told the police officer about the rock, and there was a sign up the next day. I’ve been taking credit for it ever since.
Last week, I was in the elevator on a way to doctor’s appointment. I climbed into the elevator with another man. Since I no longer have the standards I had in high school, I was wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt from the SO’s improv comedy troupe.
“So,” the stranger said, “what’s that across your tit … t-shirt?”
I don’t believe I’ve ever had a man ask about my t%$&s. Or even use the word in front of me. I get the Freudian slip, but seriously?
“It’s the logo for my boyfriend’s improv group,” I said. If you’re going to call someone out, I say the time to do it is not when you’re enclosed in a small box known for occasionally getting stuck.
“Improv? Really? What’s it called?”
I told him the name, and then turned around to show him the name since it’s written on the back of the shirt. I’ve found that reading a phrase people aren’t familiar with is easier than dealing with, “What did you say again?” “Ugly what?” and “What does that mean?”
When I turned around, elevator man brushed my ponytail aside to read the shirt. In a word: creepy. Also, if having your body discussed in said small box known for occasionally getting stuck is uncomfortable, you can only imagine how much worse it is to be touched by a stranger in there.
Luckily, the building only has five floors.
When I got to my appointment, I told my doctor the story, thinking it would be funny. Plus, once I was no longer inside the elevator, I thought it was funny. A grown man who can’t stop himself from using the word t&%$s? Really?
My doctor wondered if we needed to put up a sign in the elevator, and I started thinking about what it might say. “Please don’t touch strangers while riding?” “Watch your language in the elevator?” “Questions not related to directions or deliveries not allowed?”
I can handle being responsible for a rock slides sign, but I’m not sure how I’d feel about being the reason behind an elevator sign that read, “No Discussion of t&%$s allowed.”
And on that glorious, and rather inappropriate note, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas and a festive Kwanzaa to all!
Two Dreams And My Top 10 Break-Up Songs
In my 32 years of television and movie viewing/life, I have come to want two things:
- A montage set to music: Me falling in love, me moving up the career ladder, me getting a makeover. Any scenario would work really so long as my montage included me throwing papers into the air, twirling in an evening gown and smiling meaningfully at a member of the opposite sex.
- A soundtrack.
Neither of these wishes are real possibilities, what with me being a person leading a life and not the star of a movie, but it does seem that I have unwittingly given all of my break-ups soundtracks.
Each time I have felt rejected or suffered a broken heart, I tended to become obsessed with one song or album. (You don’t want to know how many times I can listen to the same song on repeat.)
My poor, poor best friend from college not only suffered through many of my break-up soundtracks, she also had to listen to my pontifications on what the song meant and how it related to my life.
“Don’t you see? I’m in love with his ghost.” (“Ghost,” Indigo Girls)
“I’m such a good girl. Where’s my reward?” (“Underneath Your Clothes,” Shakira)
“That’s all it was – it was all just a bed of lies.” (“Bed of Lies,” Matchbox 20)
When I’m down, I tend to gravitate towards country, songs you’d find at Lilith Fair and pop no one can admit to liking and still be considered cool.
As I watched the Adele/good cry skit on this past weekend’s Saturday Night Live, I was actually torn between laughing and crying. For God’s sake, “Someone Like You” is a killer. Basically, the SO can never leave me because now that that song is out, I don’t think any one person has the stamina for both the fetal position and my tone deaf ramblings about “that you’d be reminded that for me, it wasn’t over.”
I’m not one to recommend this particular form of grieving, but when it comes to break-ups, I’m a wallower. I sing along to depressing songs on, cry, throw mini-tantrums, knit and watch Steel Magnolias for extended periods of time. Then, one day I wake up, and I’m fine. It’s like I have an internal switch. After the wallowing, I shower, put my party shoes on, bring the cleavage out and hit the town. Healthy or not, it’s my M.O.
So, for no particular reason, I now give you my top 10 list of break-ups songs along with the lines you would have to “see the meaning of” or agree “were just like me and X” were we friends. (I think many of you will both feel for my friends and decide we might not need to meet in real life after reading this.) For the full effect, I recommend hearing a torn, near-teary voice quoting the lyrics with way too much weight/melodrama and more pauses than the songwriter would be happy with.
1. “Landslide,” Stevie Nicks or The Dixie Chicks. I’m cool with either.
“I built my life around you.”
2. “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” Bonnie Raitt.
‘Nuf said.
3. “You Were Mine,” The Dixie Chicks.
“Sometimes I wake up crying at night.”
4. “Almost Lover,” A Fine Frenzy.
“Goodbye my almost lover, goodbye my hopeless dream.”
5, “Be Be You Love,” Rachael Yamagata
“Everybody’s got the way I should feel. Everybody’s talking how I can’t can’t be in love, but I want want to be in love for real.”
6. “La Cienega Just Smiled,” Ryan Adams. (It does not help that a lot of Ryan Adams songs played during the last season of Felicity.)
“I’m too scared to know how I feel about you now.”
(These last few usually signaled that I was on more of an upswing, or at least seeing another side to the situation.)
7. “I’m Moving On,” Rascal Flatts. (“God Bless the Broken Road” is also a good one if you’re more of an optimist.)
“I’ve loved like I should, but lived like I shouldn’t.”
8. “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye,” David Gray.
“It was a kind of so, so love, and I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
9. “Please Remember Me,” Tim McGraw.
“Part of you will live in me – way down deep inside my heart.”
10. “Outbound Plane,” Nanci Griffith.
“I don’t want to be standing her, I don’t want to be talking here and I don’t really care who’s to blame. ‘Cause if love won’t’ fly of its own free will, I’m going to catch that outbound plane.”
Nancy Griffith is usually the sign that I’m ready to move on, but if it’s followed by Aerosmith’s “Jaded,” it just means I’m in the anger stage rather than depression.
I can be a downer.
In short, my iTunes collection is scary, I have some really understanding friends and if anyone knows anyone who loves to edit video, I’ve still got my fingers crossed on that video montage – and we’ll use much peppier songs there. KT Tunstall anyone?
If I’m singing along to show tunes (Les Mis or Wicked in particular), we’re all good. I’d like to thank the SO for my years of musicals. We might argue more about what to play when we’re traveling, but I promise it’s a good thing.
Unforseen Side Effects
Once you start editing, you can’t ever really stop.* You’d think you could leave the commas and semi-colons at the door once you leave whatever magazine/newspaper/website you’re working for, but it doesn’t work that way.**
You become an editor of everything – menus, billboards, banners. If you pass a car wash that used a possessive when it should have used a plural or vice versa, it irks you.
For 11 months, I lived down the street from Annnie’s Auto Repair and not having a talk with management took all the will power I had.
Then, before you know it, you’re taking pictures on your cell phone at garage sales because you just can’t believe the errors people make.
I might need help.
* I probably shouldn’t speak for all editors or former editors. Most of them are probably far less neurotic than I am. They probably have photos of their kids on their cell phones and not “hilarious” spelling errors.
** This post also in no way implies that I will not commit future spelling or grammatical errors.
What Happens When You Talk Too Much About Your Wigs
I get that my love of wigs might seem strange to some, but I really did see it as a little quirk, maybe an eccentricity if you will. It may be weird, but it's not intervention- or even therapy-worthy. It's not like I'm Star Jones or Wendy Williams. Apart from certain major holidays or bachelorette parties, you're seeing my real hair.
Then, the other day, shortly after I posted about Halloween, this -- no joke -- arrived in my e-mail inbox:
Hi!
I am the Associate Producer for the new TLC series that is showcasing serious and dedicated collectors and passionate enthusiasts of all kinds. We will follow the individuals on their pursuits for the next great piece, or delve into their world as they teach us what it is that drives their passion.
I came across your article about your wigs, and wanted to discuss the possibility of appearing on our show.
Let me know your thoughts!
Since it was Halloween, I thought it might be a joke. However, I checked out the production company mentioned in the e-mail signature, and it seemed legit. Never one to let even the oddest opportunity pass me by, I wrote back. If curiosity really did kill the cat, I don't know how I made it past pre-school.
Hi Laurel
Here's where I bowed out. My earlier concerns aside, I'm just not the level of collector they need, and I can't lie to anyone affiliated with the network that produces Kate Plus Eight. They'd probably sic some of those Duggar kids on me, and I'd be repenting or procreating far more than I ever planned. That, or again, I'd run the risk of being stuck with hoarders. I wrote back:
The "Mills Slip"
I am not a subtle person.
It’s just one of those gifts I wasn’t born with. My sister is fond of saying that I am incapable of subtlety or keeping anything close to the vest. (Could this very blog be proof of her theory?)
I can’t lie, I tend to say what I’m thinking and when I can’t say what I’m thinking, you can read my emotions all over my face.
I may tell you that I love your haircut, but odds are that if I don’t, my face will involuntarily recoil into a look that implies you took scissors to your head while drunk and taking style cues from the Sneetches.
More than one teacher told me that they judged how well a lecture was going based on my face because it was always obvious whether or not I was getting the point of the lesson.
(When you’re not a subtle person, it’s usually best to have friends who aren’t subtle either. Since I’m likely to use language that some people might find offensive or over-share at any time, it’s best to surround myself with like-minded people. If I ask, “Do my nipples looks askew in this dress?” – which, yes, is an actual quote from a time I tried on a bridesmaid’s dress – I need a friend who finds that funny or is fully prepared to examine my chest area and give me an honest answer.)
In addition to lacking subtlety, I also lack patience, but love efficiency, so I find that these three traits can actually work together in a kind of oddly beautiful congruence. Anyone who uses the word “lady” in a non-ironic way or can’t admit to a secret crush on JWoww, or other embarrassing reality star, would probably best be seated next to someone else at the dinner party. We aren’t going to be pals, and I prefer to know that kind of thing without the tedium of 30 minutes of small talk.
Unfortunately though, sometimes my lack of subtlety even sneaks up on me. Through the years, I have adapted some filters, but my lack of subtlety is so strong that even this thin veil can fail, and when it does, it fails miserably.
If Freud were alive, I think he would have reconsidered calling the “Freudian Slip” a “Mills Slip.” (Sorry to indict the rest of the family, but I have to be consistent. If it were a “Sigmund Slip,” I would have gone with a “Laurel Slip.”)
Many, many years ago before I was deliriously happy and in a committed relationship, a male friend and I went out to eat at a restaurant. When the meal was over, and we were pulling out of the parking lot, I said, “The next time we have sex, we really should go to …”
And complete silence fell over the car.
It took a few seconds, but the look of shock and confusion on my friend’s face helped me realize what I’d said. The name of whatever restaurant, café or taco stand I’d meant to finish that sentence with as a suggestion for our next meal was gone, and it was gone for good.
Where I’d meant to say “lunch,” I’d said “sex,” and there’s no coming back from that one -- especially when you put the words “we” and “have” in front of it. (Luckily, most men are flattered by the idea that you might want to or have thought about sleeping with them, but it’s still hardly an ideal situation.)
In this type of instance, an “I meant to say lunch” is pointless. Not even laugher works well. Silence is an option, but it seems to just turn the uncomfortable moment into a gaping chasm of social faux pas.
I’ve found that when you’ve blown any cover that you have, it’s usually best just to keep the lack of subtlety going.
“So, that was awkward and weird,” I said. “Want a coffee or ice cream?”
Because, really, who doesn’t love a coffee or ice cream? And you’ve got to figure that conversationally, unless you have actual Tourette’s, there’s nowhere to go but up from there.
My Odd Local Movie Theater And Why The SO Will Never Take Me Back to Disney World
Not all that long ago, the SO took me on a trip to Disney World. Now, while I understand that “it’s the most magical place on earth” and “no one can wear a frown at Disney World,” I’m not exactly one of those people who appreciates the magic. (I'm pretty sure the latter isn't really a common phrase, but I feel like it could be.)
My own mother once said, “I think I had the only children in the world that never asked to go back to Disney World.”
I visited when I was nine. I told Mickey that he and I had the same birthday. He seemed pleased (at least, he clapped his over-sized white gloves). I went down Space Mountain, and I bought large Lady and the Tramp stuffed animals from our hotel. As far as I could tell, I was done. For life.
Today, for me, Disney World is a trifecta of things I don’t enjoy: lines/large groups of people, heights and loud noises.
Since new technology allows for rides where you actually just move around in a kind of virtual reality while your cart shifts from side to side, you can also add small spaces and motion sickness to the discomforts mentioned above.
Also, seeing how I feel about parades, you can understand why this might not necessarily be my ideal vacation.
I tried to buck up, but as the SO rarely fails to remind me, I didn’t do a very good job. I’m sorry that I don’t see the point to going down the same roller coaster twice from different sides (it’s just the mirror image!) and that I like to nap, but that’s just how I am.
(I will say that Orlando has excellent outlet shopping – Kate Spade, David Yurman and Burberry? Amazing.)
One of my favorite parts of the trip was actually visiting the MGM Studio Theme Park. They had one of those rides that isn’t a ride – if you’ve been to Orlando in the last 20 years, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You wait in line to be shuffled into a room where you’re lead into another room where nothing really happens. While you’re seated (or standing, depending on the situation), a character of some sort appears and tells a story or is threatened by some other creature you probably don’t recognize and your seat vibrates or pinches you at opportune moments. Then, you exit through the gift shop.
Call me a traditionalist, but being poked by a chair doesn’t count as a ride. In fact, I think it’s illegal in a few states.
At MGM, one of these “rides” is the Twister experience. You wait, you’re shuffled onto a stage and while you’re watching, the area below gets windy, there’s some lightning and fake trees fall over.
If I have to be at an amusement park, I want The Mummy roller coaster, not a decrepit sound stage.
But, getting back to my favorite part of the ride, while you’re waiting to be shuffled from spot to spot, Helen Hunt (khakis pulled up to the waist and pleated in classic mid-‘90s style) and Bill Pullman, stars of Twister, discuss the harrowing experience of making Twister on screens that are meant to entertain you while the previous group of most-likely-disappointed “riders” make their way out and through the gift shop.
I kid you not: At one point, Helen Hunt says something along the lines of, “It was terrifying to experience the fury and power of an F5 tornado first-hand.”
A note to Helen Hunt, maybe you’ve been in Hollywood too long, but having large industrial-size fans pointed in your direction on a movie set does not replicate the experience of an F5 tornado. It's kind of like how Richard Dreyfuss can't claim to have netted a Great White despite the intensity of filming Jaws. While it might have been realistic, it was still pretend. Maybe we need to dial back that adventurer/survivor attitude just a little bit.
If nothing else, I think a real F5 tornado would have messed with those very crisp pleats on your shorts.
So in the kind of related but kind of not category, when they installed the Hurricane Simulator machine at my local movie theater, there was no way I wasn’t trying it. For a mere $2.00, I too could experience the fury of a hurricane and have something to talk to Helen Hunt about the next (or first) time we ran into each other.
I stood in a tube while “the winds” reached 80 mph, and I have this to say: 1) It wasn’t even my worst hair day and 2) An average thunderstorm is more threatening.
I guess the moral(s) of my story is, simulation isn’t the real thing, maybe we should all be a little careful about the experiences we claim to have had and Bill Pullman never should have had an earring.
That is all.
Dessert And A Case Of Mistaken Identity
In my ongoing attempts not to implicate people and organizations in my misadventures and misdeeds, let’s just say that I was at a storytelling event the other night. (The details from this one are a little harder to disguise, but let’s all pretend, shall we?)
As much as I like storytelling at cocktail parties and on this here blog, I tend to avoid storytelling in public public. I love listening to other people’s stories, but I can be reluctant to tell my own. However, throw in an open bar and a relatively intimate atmosphere, and I tend to find myself signed up for an activity I didn’t plan to participate in at the beginning of the evening.
In an effort to make myself seem slightly more advanced than someone ruled by wine and peer pressure, I also believe in making yourself do something that makes you uncomfortable at least once in awhile. Whether it’s a particularly steep water slide or a scary movie, I like to get out of my comfort zone from time to time.
So, during the storytelling event, lots of people from many different walks of like stood before the group to tell their food stories. Topics ranged from grandmother’s cobbler and eating abroad to arguing over Doritos.
When I got up to tell my story, I talked about my attempts to woo the SO with food. In the beginning of our relationship, I wanted to make him complete meals, from scratch, that included dessert. The only problem was that I didn’t want to go so simple as to make brownies from a box or through the rigmarole of making a cake from scratch. (Plus, every cake I’d made from scratch has turned out horribly dry, and I’ve wished I just went with Betty Crocker to begin with.)
I chose the middle ground of my mother’s easy cobbler – it doesn’t taste like it came from a box, but it doesn’t require the hours of effort of a homemade cake, torte or mousse either.
The recipe is simple. You take a can of pile filling, a Jiffy box of cake mix and a melted stick of butter and put them in a dish in that order. Then, you bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes.
The SO was wowed.
When I found a pie filling of mixed berries, he thought I’d spent hours chopping and assembling his favorite fruits.
The only problem, of course, with keeping up such a ruse is that you have to make the simple dessert seem complicated. Aprons, spilled flour and strategic stains are involved. You also have to be on top of taking out the trash.
Then, one day, the SO came into the kitchen and found the empty can of pie filling.
“Are we having pie instead of cobbler?” Disappointment was clear on his face.
“Why is there a box of cake mix? Did you make a cake?”
I finally had to admit that the homemade cobbler I “toiled” over was nothing more than three ingredients. Ever since, the SO has called that “the day he saw the man behind the curtain,” but truthfully, I was exhausted, and it’s been easier since the truth came out.
The cobbler story went over well. There were laughs, and despite my many, many nervous hand gestures, I’d told my story aloud and in public. It was a minor triumph.
When the event ended, I went to speak with the emcee for the night whom was also talking with a couple. I wanted her to know how much I enjoyed her hosting. The couple next to her told me how much they enjoyed my story.
“It was one of my favorites,” the woman said.
“I really liked it,” the man said.
“I really liked your story, too,” I said to the man.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said.
“No,” I said, very, very sure of myself. “You were in China and you got lost? Some strangers fed you?”
“That wasn’t me,” he said.
Confused, I left the group and went to join the friend I’d come to the party with. “Why is that guy pretending he didn’t tell that food story?” I said. “Do you think he’s embarrassed?”
“Laurel,” my friend said, “there are two Indian men in the room. That’s not the one who told the story.”
Another guest tried to comfort me, “I think that guy was from Colorado, soat least you’ll never have to see him again.”
“No,” I thought, “but now he’s going to go back to Colorado and tell everyone that people from Alabama think all Indians look alike.”
(In my defense, the two Indian men were also wearing nearly-identical checkered shirts. (“One was blue and one was green,” my friend said, but I’m sticking with my story.) Either way, I was extremely embarrassed.)
I went from being the deceptive cobbler girl to the racist in the room in less than five minutes.
Now, there’s no telling which will be more compelling – my story for the event or my story from the event.
I’ll let you know the next time I'm out and about, brimming with information and wine, and you can decide for yourself.
4 Things That Do Not Belong At Forever 21
For anyone who might live in a cave, or avoid the mall, Forever 21 is a large discount store designed for tweens and teens.
1. Me
Yes, I am willing to admit that at 31, I have no business shopping at Forever 21. As much as this girl likes being able to try out trends at bargain basement prices, it's not exactly self-esteeming building to sometimes find myself trapped in a large shirt. Plus, there are only so many times I can hear a 15-year-old girl next to me in the dressing room say, "Does this make me look fat?"
For the teens out there, the answer is always, "No." You are most likely in the best years of your body. (Sorry, but it's true.) Enjoy it while you have it.
However, when the question is, "Is this a dress or a shirt?" the answer is most always, "It's a shirt."
Please dress accordingly.
2. Pleather Zip-Up Dresses
It doesn't matter how old you are, there are only two places that this dress is appropriate to wear. Those are:
1. A strip club, and
2. A strip club.
Unless you have a career as an exotic dancer planned for yourself, or dear God, your daughter, this one needs to stay on the rack.
3. The Snooki Shirt
I know we've all been into irony since Justin Timberlake or Ashton Kutcher put on his first trucker hat, but I think it's time for that trend to die. Should this shirt not be meant in a spirit of irony, I think we have bigger problems.
As women, can we not aspire to more than drunkenness, hook-ups and bump-its? Do we want our daughters wearing Snooki on their bodies with pride?
I hope not.
4. Maternity Wear
If we're going to take it at its word, the target age for Forever 21 would be 21. 21-year-olds, ideally, should be picking out majors and decorating their first apartments -- not buying maternity starter kits.
I know that life doesn't always go as planned, and I admire anyone who can make a young pregnancy work, but I'm not sure Forever 21 should be selling the coolness of maternity wear to its fan base. I feel like I did when I found out American Eagle sold thongs with phrases like "Too Hot"* on them.
(In my opinion, the very phrase "starter kit" gives this one an extra creep factor. I got a skincare starter kit from Clinique when I was 12. I don't like the comparison.)
4b. Maternity Models
Again, we're in Forever 21 -- let's lay off the pregnancy gear.
If there's a maternity version of the pleather zip-up dress, I don't want to know about it.
* I have no idea what the actual phrases on American Eagle thongs were, but I know they existed. You'll just have to roll with me on this one.
The Parade Of Shame
I grew up with “do-it-yourself” kind of parents. My school projects were never taken over by an eager Mom or Dad who wanted it to be just perfect or an anxious parent fearing for my grade. My dioramas looked like they were made by a nine-year-old, and my science fair projects were usually far less than stunning.
One year I did take home a third place ribbon for “Will your plant grow faster if you talk to it?” (Even as a child, I talked to plants and myself. A sign of genius or madness? Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.) However, I think most of that win had to do with the fact that fourth grade is around the time kids figure out that it isn’t cool to be smart, so the level of competition was way down. Also, I used the tri-fold white board as instructed by my science teacher, and we all know how science teachers like rule-followers.
However, the worst do-it-yourself incident of all probably occurred in the fourth grade, the year that our class participated in the annual historic building parade.
“What’s a historical building parade?” you say. Well, let me enlighten you.
A historical building parade involves dressing children up in cardboard boxes that represent some of the finest and most famous works of architecture in the city. I think it might also be some cruel form of torture dreamed up by a particularly bitter city administrator or school official to humiliate 10-year-olds.
Either way, I learned two things the fateful day of the parade:
1. It is really uncomfortable to wear a cardboard box. Seriously, having your neck and arms rub up against cardboard for a few city blocks is quite chafing, and when your one of the shortest kids in class, it’s not too kind on the knees either.
2. 10-year-olds really don’t have the capability of making a cardboard box look like a historical building all on their own.
I vividly remember taking Polaroid snapshots of my building. (It was Firehouse #4. There was also a lot of competition over who got the “best” buildings, but surprisingly, there weren’t too many people jockeying for Firehouse #4. It was quite a relief at the time.)
I then remember spray painting my cardboard box and going to work recreating what I was sure would be an amazing representation. (I was sure all of my projects were going to be amazing. What I lacked in talent, I made up for in dreams. In kindergarten, when I turned in my depiction of the first Thanksgiving, I learned about the wide gap between talent and dreams – not that I let it stop me.)
Firehouse #4 featured a trellis, which was quite a challenge. It also had bricks of a uniform shape and size, a seemingly easy feature to recreate, but when it came down to actually doing it – not so much. While the first row of bricks kind of resembled rectangles, it was all downhill from there, and I mean that in a pretty literal way since my lines started to drift downward from one side of the box to the other creating strange shapes there were narrow on one side and really wide on the other.
In short, I was a mess.
The mother of one of my classmates took her building photos, made them into slides, and then projected the slide onto her box so she could trace every outline of her building.
I couldn’t even trace a ruler from one side of the box to the other.
Then, as if having a terribly homemade project wasn’t bad enough, I think I realized the absolute absurdity of walking through the streets of my hometown dressed as a building just before our teacher sent us out into the street.
And if you are thinking that people don’t judge fourth graders, let me tell you that you are wrong. People judge fourth graders, and you notice the hushes when you and your horribly distorted bricks are marching down Main Street.*
(In fairness, my sister probably had it worst of all because she had to dress up as the fairgrounds. This meant she couldn’t even wear a box, but instead had to strap a piece of white board over herself with something like suspenders. We used cake decorations to try and give her a balloon vendor.)
So, if anyone ever wonders why my bio mentions an extreme dislike of parades – here you go.
Fire Station #4, on the other hand, seems to have escaped unscathed. It turns out that it just got new tenants and everything.
I don’t know whether or not the annual Historic Building Parade still exists, but every time I think back on my experience then, I can’t help but think there has to be a better way to help children develop civic pride. Would a coloring book or guest speaker really have been so much less educational?
*It was actually 20th Street if you’re from Birmingham, but I think we can all tell I’m trying to make a point.
** If you were hoping for photos of me dressed as a building, I’m sorry to say you’re out of luck. No such photos exist. Thank God.
In Which Laurel Proves She's A Grown-Up -- Sort Of
Last weekend was Sidewalk, Birmingham’s big film festival. There are hundreds of films throughout multiple venues as well as talks, parties, etc. To be perfectly honest, I am lucky to make it to four movies during the course of the festival. I have trouble sitting still for that long – unless I’m in a place that has alcoholic beverages, then I can sit for hours – and I have a relatively low threshold for angst, so a lot of relationship films are out for me.
This year, I made it to three movies, which is really pretty good for me. I saw The Innkeepers (very scary) as well as The Greater Good about vaccines and Page One: Inside the New York Times. I don’t think I have to explain what that last one was about, and as a former print journalist, I have lots more thoughts on that one to come.
The SO loves film festivals. In fact, he works at many throughout the Southeast as a jury wrangler (which, as far as I can tell, means that he makes sure the jurors hand in their votes for the winning movies in a timely manner). I’ve traveled with him to film festivals in Atlanta, Memphis and Oxford. All were great fun. That man can watch more movies than anyone I’ve ever met, and all of those cities have great shopping and restaurants for me. He can sit in a theater, and I can hit up IKEA. It’s really a win/win for us.
However, this year’s Sidewalk was particularly special because Christine Elise was on the jury. For those of you who are scratching your heads right now, Christine Elise will always be Emily Valentine in my book. For anyone who is still confused, well then, I don’t know how we’ve made it together this long, but she was on Beverly Hills, 90210, and she was awesome.
Now, the SO does tend to worry a little about me embarrassing myself/him when celebrities are involved.
“You know they’re just people right?”
And really, most of the time, this isn’t a problem. (There was one year that Joshua Jackson was supposed to show up to Sidewalk and WEATHER got in the way, but that was years ago and long before I met the SO.) I continually explain to him that I prefer my fantasies to reality, so if someone I adore turns out to be a jerk, it would just ruin everything. Not to mention the fact that usually I’m not all that familiar with the people on film festival juries because I don’t watch a lot of movies, so it tends to work out.
However, he had concerns about Christine Elise.
“You’re going to be OK, right”
“Of course, what do you think I’m going to do? Ask her about Jason Priestley and Luke Perry for three hours? I’m not 14 anymore.”
“Like I said,” he went on, “you’re going to be OK, right?”
On opening night, as we were standing in the Alabama Theatre, I suddenly noticed that Christine Elise was standing next to the SO.
I went to shake her hand and said, “I hope I’m not intruding, but I’m a huge, huge fan.”
“No, that’s always nice to hear,” she said.
I believe the SO was quite relieved.
Later, at an after party, I had the SO ask if she wouldn’t mind being in a picture with me. She let me take a series to get a good one, and I was a happy gal.
All in all, it was a lovely weekend.
In honor of my “maturity,” here’s the real list of questions/conversation topics I was dying to go over with Christine if I really didn't have any dignity:
1. How many takes did the “I’m going to set the homecoming float on fire” scene take? Were you nervous? Did you know how awesome and “I’m making Beverly Hills, 90210 history” that scene would be? Have you re-watched it and seen Ian Ziering’s facial expression of “shock and fear” when they cut away from you? Two words: not pretty.
2. Did you think it was weird that they called the drug you slipped Brandon at the rave UB40? I mean, how likely is it that the band UB40 would be associated with a drug? If you’re going to go that way, wouldn’t Keith Richards or Aerosmith be a far more logical choice. Or, maybe y’all new UB40 wouldn’t complain. You don’t have to say anymore. I think I get it. (Then I would have attempted a wink, and it would have gone badly because I am genetically incapable of winking. Seriously, neither my mother nor one of my sisters can wink either.)
3. I really enjoyed the school talent show when you, Kelly and Brenda wore Robert Palmer-style dresses but decided to sing “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” in honor of your new found friendship after you went out with both Brandon and Dylan while you were still “the new girl” in school. Was Shannen Doherty a total bitch during that one? I can see her trying to bump y’all out of the way during the performance. Again, if you don’t want to say anything, just blink once for “yes” and twice for “no."
4. Mother Knows Best is one of my favorite Lifetime movies. And your character’s name in that one is Laurel. We have so much in common! How was it working with Lifetime veteran Joanna Kerns? Have you thought about doing more Lifetime movies? I thought Josie Bisset’s Obituary was particularly good. They’ve got some good stuff happening over at that network.
And the silly, silly SO worries.
*As for the photos: 1. In retrospect, I really should have washed my hair that day., 2. I also own the dress Christine Elise is wearing!, 3. That second photo shows our mutual annoyance when the SO refused to take a photo while we were both looking at the camera.
Big Kahunas
Last week, I went to the beach. I love the beach, and I also happen to have a certain fondness for water parks.
Now, some people seem to find this strange. I’ve heard a lot of “you went to a water park without kids?” and “why?” since the end of the trip.
I think the first thing I need to explain is that I will do just about anything for a lazy river. I have looked into joining a gym that will cost me $45/month not because I would ever touch an elliptical or a treadmill, but because the facility houses an indoor lazy river.
Yes, I am considering paying an annual fee of $540 just for the privilege of year-round lazy river access.
When I visited a friend in Indianapolis last summer, I insisted that despite our limited time together, we go to the lazy river at the JCC near her house. I’m sure she mentioned her lazy river in passing having no idea that I would not be able to let it go.
Way too many of our conversations went like this:
My Friend: “Is anyone hungry?”
“Should we go to the museum?”
“Who wants to try [insert the blank]?”
Me: “What about the lazy river you told me about?”
I’m sure it was not at all annoying.
I also happen to love water slides, and after years of water park experience, I have learned one very important lesson: there is no bathing suit that will not lead to some kind of flashing incident at a water park.
There’s something about that rushing water at the end of a slide that seems capable of dislodging the delicate areas of even the most demure one-piece. So, when I visit the water park, I’m also the super cool person with a t-shirt over her swimsuit.
Well, at the water park in Destin, Florida, it seems that the t-shirt is against the rules on certain slides. Why, I don’t know, and I have to imagine that any lifeguards at the end of the ride would prefer to be flashed by co-eds rather than 30-somethings.
When the only lifeguard who wasn’t from the Ukraine told me I’d have to take off my shirt, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. She didn’t blow her whistle, but her “that’s not allowed” was very firm.
(I’d also like to know why most water park employees seem to be from obscure European countries. If you visit Alabama Adventure, every name tag tends to bear some derivation of “Hi, My Name is X. My Hometown is Reykjavik.” Is there some sort of exchange program I don’t know about? Are there a bunch of kids from Bessemer working amusement parks in Iceland? I’ve always wondered.)
After riding the one slide sans t-shirt and receiving a terrible wedgie, I retrieved my shirt and headed for another slide.
As the SO and I were climbing the stairs, I saw yet another sign that read, “No t-shirts allowed.”
I was on the verge of reluctantly removing my boob-protection when a different lifeguard said, “Don’t worry about it.”
That’s when I realized one of the few plus sides to aging – anyone who’s probably going to call you “ma’am” probably isn’t going to make you obey all of the rules (especially in environments where cardboard totem poles tell you how tall you must be to ride).
In a land of skimpy bikinis and tramp stamps*, I was a ma’am, and ma’ams got to keep their t-shirts. (Probably more so for the sake of the lifeguards than myself, but I’m OK with that.)
I’ve never been so happy to be a ma’am in all my life.
*On a somewhat related note, in all seriousness my sister spotted two guys on the beach, one with “Dude” tattooed on his neck, and the other with “Sweet” tattooed on his. Almost more so than what’s happening in the market, the fact that people permanently ink their bodies with slogans from “Dude, Where’s My Car?” terrifies me about the fate of this nation.
Giraffes, Grocery Packaging And Guest Posts
I'm guest posting today, so if you'd like to read about some of the wacky stuff that popped into my head over the weekend, please head over to highly-entertaining Jamie's Rabbits written by the very talented Jamie Golden.