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]

Happy Halloween From the Biggest Fan of the Big East!

He isn't lit up yet because he's awaiting his big debut tonight, but I present my Georgetown bulldog complete with Georgetown hat ... [Read more]

In Which Laurel Discovers That She Likes Press Junkets

Despite five years in magazines, I have never been on a press junket. Yes, it's sad, but true.

In fact, I've never even traveled for business. No one has made travel plans for me. No one's offered me a stipend, and I've never even gotten to say that I was traveling for work ... [Read more]

Meet My Husband

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I needed a better way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tried it out again a few weeks later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You do that and give me a call."

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

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

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

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

If You Weren't Aware, I Don't Lack For Opinions

In case you read yesterday's Birmingham News and were wondering what topics other than Facebook, my love life, why I always lose my car keys and how much I should spend on foundation and eye liner that I like to grossly over-think and over-analyze, pro wrestling happens to be one of them. (P.S. This is not really a kid-friendly post.)

I hope you all had a lovely weekend!

What I Did With My Holiday Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

I didn't count the beers.

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

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

Why I Had to Walk Away From the Pole

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

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

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

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

I picked the former.

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

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

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

I'd Really Like To Get Down Now Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I took another few steps forward and froze again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Which Laurel Refuses to Leave the Baby Pool

I was not a child who wanted to learn how to swim.

In the first swimming classes my mother ever took me to, every time they made us put our heads under the water, I would go under for about a second, immediately raise my head back up, climb out of the pool and rush towards the nearest dry towel to wipe all of the water off of my face.

(If I had grown up in a time like today when they toss two-year-olds into the pool assuming their natural instincts will take over and cause them to swim or at least dog paddle, I probably would have sunk, at best, and drowned, at worst. Nothing about me was interested in swimming.)

This isn't to say that I didn't like the pool. I just preferred the baby pool, water wings, floaties and any other space in which my feet could be placed firmly on the ground while my head remained free to breathe as much oxygen as I pleased.

Truthfully, I didn't even like the ball pit at Showbiz because I was always a little afraid I might be able to drown in that, too. (What if I became trapped under all those colorful balls and no one could hear my cries for help?) I would walk the perimeter of the ball pit to get to the slide rather than going straight through. On the day I did finally fall in, there were a few minutes of flailing until I realized that I could touch the bottom of that space, too. I calmed down and eventually started to act like something of a normal kid in that token and ticket extravaganza. (You can only imagine what a growing up moment that was for me.)

Nothing my parents could say would get me in the big pool.

"You know that's where all of the big girls are," they said.

I shrugged.

"And you know you can't stay in the baby pool forever, sweetie."

I was pretty sure they were wrong on that one. The baby pool was made of concrete after all; I knew it wasn't going anywhere.

The only word out of their mouth that managed to even get my attention was this: Barbie.

"Barbie?" I said, the first time the subject came up.

"What if we bought you a new Barbie after your swim lesson?"

"Barbie?"

"Yes, a Barbie. All you have to do is go to swimming class."

So, I went to swimming class. And after swimming class, my parents drove me to Smith's (a local toy store) and bought me a new Barbie. What I don't think they realized at the time was that that Barbie was only good for one swimming lesson.

"Are you ready to go back to the pool, honey?" 

"Sure," I said, and I went straight for my floaties.

"But what about everything you learned in swim class the other day?"

There was more shrugging. I still wasn't convinced. So, there had to be the promise of another Barbie.

By the end of that summer, I had quite the collection of Barbies in addition to a wide variety of outfits for said Barbies and even Barbie's dream pool complete with plastic plants decorating the edges of her patio. 

I remember it as a glorious time.

My sisters think I was a "slow learner," as they took to swimming like the proverbial "fish to water," but I tend to disagree. They didn't come out of their swim lessons with nearly as much loot.

A Horse is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was one of the longest hours of my life.

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

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

More on Me and the Pole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

APB: Missing Freelance Pants

For the first time ever, I accused the SO of thievery the other day.

"Did you hide my black pants," I said, hands on hips and a very stern look on my face. For more than a week now, my favorite yoga pants have been missing (not that I actually practice yoga in them -- they just happen to have the perfect amount of stretch). When they first went missing, I just assumed there was a load of laundry I had misplaced. Four days in, I began to suspect more sinister motives.

I thought that I might have broken the SO. Maybe a man can only see his partner in so many pairs of velour pants, sweats and clothes with drawstring waists before he has to take action. Before he has to destroy. 

"I did not get rid of your freelance pants," he said. "Freelance pants" is a term he stole from a local paper's cartoon to describe the lounge wear that became much more prominent once I started primarily working from home.

"Are you sure?" I said, also giving him the eye that says "we may joke a lot in this relationship, but I mean business about these pants."

"Yes, I'm sure," he said.

"And how do I know that?" Trust only goes so far in any relationship after all.

"Because if I did take and hide all of your sweats, you'd just start wearing mine."

That logic was solid. Taking my yoga pants would really just end up as a lose/lose situation for him.

"Fair enough," I said, and we moved on. (And I didn't even accuse him of a single other crime for the rest of the night.)

But if anyone sees a seemingly homeless pair of nearly-perfect cotton, black pants out there, please let me know. Mine are still on the loose, and the situation is growing dire.

I'm about two days away from posting flyers around the neighborhood. Ever since I went rogue from the corporate environment, zippers just don't work for me like they used to. 

*Photo approximates pants but should not be considered an accurate representation for searching purposes.

Me, Myself and the Pole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The True Spirit of Easter

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

The Mills are a competitive bunch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mace in Your Face

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

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

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

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

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

Then, I met the Stunning Gal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, I'm Taken

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just had a feeling," he said.

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

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

He is a sweet, forgiving, brave man.

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

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

Major Awards

I'm not one to let a chain letter die. (Are you surprised considering all this anxiety? I can't risk death by steamroller, exploding gas pipes or break-ups for failing to do something as simple as send a letter. P.S. Sorry e-mail contact list!) And while the "major award" is not a chain letter, I still feel like I have to keep it going.

Thank you, Tina, for bestowing this blessed honor upon me. I haven't won anything in a really long time -- unless you count the $20 Omaha Steaks gift card I received for all my coke rewards points, which I don't -- so I'm going to have to milk this one for all it's worth. Let me say that Tina is just one of the most awesome people I know. When we worked together at Lipstick, people used to ask if we were sisters. I took it as a huge compliment. 

Now, on to the first requirement of the award: I will now share five random facts about me. (I know, I know, as if you all don't know too much already. Is it hard to sleep yet?)

1. When I was little, I wanted to be an actress. I read biographies of Katherine Hepburn and Tallulah Bankhead for school projects. I attended drama classes, and I wrote and starred in my own plays. Then, I realized that I didn't like people looking at me. (Kind of an obstacle in that career trajectory.) Plus, I decided I couldn't deal with all of the rejection. So, I decided to be a writer. Great call on that rejection nonsense, right?

2. What I miss most in the Great Recession is my bi-weekly pedicures. I take great pride in my toes, and seeing them without color makes me sad.

3. I don't like brushing my teeth. (Don't worry, I still do it.) I find it to be the most boring part of my day. And knowing that I have to do it, at least twice a day, with no discernible change in technique or pattern, for the rest of my life, just makes me sigh. Every day, as I brush my teeth, I think, "Really? This? For the course of my natural life?" Bleh.

4. I love chocolate-covered cherries -- the cheaper, the better. I see a red box in the Walgreen's, and it takes all of my self-control not to buy in bulk. 

5. My temper may not be short, but my memory is long. Too long for my own good at times. I carry the memory of insults and slights far longer than necessary. Some people might call it a grudge ... I prefer to think of it as "a history."

For the second requirement, I will now bestow the major award on five other bloggers. Here goes:

1. In the first grade, I fell madly in love with a boy named Chris Knight. I nursed a crush on him for the next seven years -- except for a brief break in fourth grade when I decided his Webelo uniform was "dorky." My love was unrequited, but by ninth grade, when we both reached high school, we were very good friends, and we've remained that way since. He's an incredibly talented, smart and funny guy, who also happens to be a Jeopardy! champion. (And perhaps the smartest thing he's done is pick Julie Bryan Knight for his wife.) A movie buff, he maintains a flog (film blog) that is witty and insightful. I could not agree more with his thoughts on the greatest Christmas movie of all time, Die Hard. 

2. I can't play sports, and I know next to nothing about them. This hardly matters when I read John Bagby's blog. A true sports aficionado, he's also laugh-out-loud funny when commenting on everything from bowl games to a life without gluten. His dead pan delivery and to-the-quick observations get me every time. 

3. In Nashville, I met Phil Thornton, who I worked with at ReZoom.com, andhis lovely wife, Mindy. There were many, many days that co-workers likePhil got me through the job.A funny, talented guy with an awesome, talented wife, they are both wedding photographers, and I consider their blog a visual feast. It's gorgeous, real and intimate -- a true stunner -- like the couple themselves. 

4. I love food. I like to cook, but when I can't find the energy, time or ingredients, I still like to look at recipes and other people's culinary creations. When it comes to food blogs, I'm a glutton (coincidence, I think not). Here are just a few of my favorites: Food Revival, Simply Recipes, Cookthink and Foodimentary.

5. I only recently discovered Jamie Golden's blog, but I'm enjoying it immensely. She understands my love of shiny things, what else can I say?

5.5. I can't end this post without mentioning the website of one Arik Sokol. Talented, sweet, kind, professional and incredible behind the camera, I just can't say enough about him. His portraits are compelling and insightful. The perspective he brings to each and every subject is unique and considered. Color and light seem to perform in front of his lens. I'll stop now before I begin gushing ... As if I haven't already.

Travel Needs

The one thing I desperately needed in San Francisco? A topographical map. Sure, San Francisco is known for its hills, but none of that seemed to occur to me as I looked at our grid-like map each morning to plot our trek through the city. 

My failure to account for San Fran's landscape wasn't too much of a problem for the walk to Fisherman's Wharf or Chinatown, but it was far more than I bargained for when I decided the Significant Other [SO] and I should have no problem getting from Union Square to Grace Cathedral/Nob Hill.

I may be prone to exaggeration, but I really don't think there is any hyperbole in saying that this involved a near-vertical ascent. Between gasps, the conversation went something like this:

"How far are we going again?" SO said.

"Top," I said. "To the top."

"That top?" he asked, pointing.

"California Street. Keep moving towards California Street."

"Uh-huh."

Minutes passed.

"Can your heart explode at 30?" I asked.

"Do you think you're having a heart attack?"

"I want to know if your heart can literally explode? Like Pow?"

"I think you're fine, Honey," he said.

"What about your lungs? Can they collapse from exertion?"

"I don't think so, Babe. Do you need a break?"

"No, if we stop now, I don't think I'll start moving again."

More minutes pass.

"How much farther?" I said.

"California Street," he said. "Remember? We're so close."

"I need a break. Let's take a break."

"But, you said ..."

"Break."

"There's a rail over there," he said. "We can grab on to that when we get there." (I was a little afraid that if there wasn't something to hold on to, I'd just start rolling backwards, and then where would be we?)

"Ahhh." It was a glorious, glorious rail. But when I looked up after making sure that my feet were still attached to the rest of my body, I saw that the SO was still on the move. "You left me?"

"I didn't think you'd actually cling to a rail in the middle of the street," he called back. "I'm going to keep going."

So, despite my best judgment, I had to keep going, too. I couldn't be too far away from the SO -- without him, there'd be no one to call 911 when any one of my internal organs caved under the stress. A minute later, I made it to the top of Nob Hill. Ten minutes after that, I caught my breath, and we went to lunch. 

"And to think we did it without oxygen," the SO said.

"Very funny," I said, "but I wouldn't turn down a sherpa."

My Misspent Youth?

This probably won’t come as a surprise to most, but I spent a large portion of my elementary years as a mathlete.

For the fifth and sixth grades, I was a proud, non-alternate member of my school’s math team. Yes, I chose to take tests outside of the designated school hours, and I spent at least one afternoon a week engaged in our “practices” of reviewing math principles and playing with protractors. (Well, we weren’t “playing with” protractors – that would have been contrary to our goal. We drew perfect circles and measured radii for a reason.)

The high point of every math team season was the two tournaments we participated in – one was held at Highland’s Day in Birmingham, and the other was an “away” tournament at Montgomery Academy.

(If you ever want to feel better about your own adolescent years, consider this:

I attended private school – where I prided myself on being on the honor roll and participating in the French Club – but played sports in the league associated with the local public school. I knew no one on my team. I was “the weird private school kid.” And, with my athletic abilities, there was already more than enough to make fun of me for just based on what I did on the field. I am not kidding when I say that I usually had to go through 20 minutes of keep away before having the cap I needed to play.

What could make this worse, you ask? I once missed a game because of one of my math tournaments. This is a fact I was more than willing to keep to myself. But, as my softball coach was giving me my award for “best sportsmanship” – yep, you heard it right – he announced that I put as much heart into my softball playing as I did into my math tournaments.

I can still hear the snickers.

The most difficult part of the math tournament was known as “ciphering.” Ciphering is also the most active part of a math tournament because it’s the only activity that doesn’t involve sitting in a silent room taking a test.For ciphering, a member of each team takes a seat at the front of the auditorium and waits for a math problem to be placed on an overhead projector. The team member must them solve the problem and hand it off to the checker behind them.

And, here’s the real kicker: If you finish the problem in 30 seconds, you get two points. If you finish in 60 seconds, you get one point. (No answers were accepted after 60 seconds.) What is a mathlete to do? Double-check your work and be sure of the one point? Or, throw caution to the wind and try for the two points? Oh, the dilemma.

When I was 11, ciphering terrified me. It used to make me almost sick to my stomach. Mood rings were pretty popular around the time I was on the math team, and I remember thinking that if I wore a mood ring during ciphering, it would be pitch black because of all the nerves I had. (Of course, I would never wear a mood ring during actual ciphering – it might have slowed down my pencil work.)

I would always cipher. (I didn’t want to risk being bumped down to the team’s alternate position.) But, I was never quite comfortable with it. And, I don't think I ever scored more than two points for every five questions I answered.

Even today, I get a little taste of those old ciphering (and softball) nerves every time I have to speak in front of a room full of people, go on a first date or introduce myself to strangers. (Will they judge me? Will I get something wrong? Is my skirt tucked in the back of my underwear?) I may not look much like the fifth grader who had to jump for her softball cap, but she’s still there.

I’ve come to accept that no matter how old I get, how much experience I gather or how much makeup I have on, I’ve got an adolescent girl on the inside who still can’t believe she’s out of a training bra. And, for the most part, I think I like it that way. It reminds me that despite some of the ups and downs of the last few years, I have made some progress.

After all, I can wear a baseball cap whenever I want, and when I do balance my checkbook, it happens in under 60 seconds without me hyperventilating a single bit.