Best Flea Market Ever*
Oneof my favorite parts of visiting my parents’ lake house is exploring the smalltowns in the surrounding area. This past weekend, the SO and I picked theSantuck flea market near Equality, ALfor our mini-adventure. The SO and I love a good flea market, so we wereexcited to finally be at my parents’ lake house for the first Saturday of themonth, the only day the flea market is held.
Sometimes,the SO and I can stay together when we’re shopping, and sometimes we have tosplit up. Worried about time, the SO quickly decided that we would have tosplit up to get through the vendors most efficiently. It’s possible that heloves flea markets more than I do, and while the sight of the airbrush trailerhad my blood pumping, he had other things on his mind. (Those things? Mainlycamera lenses and weapons – all with benevolent purposes, he claims.)
Likeany good Southern girl, I bought myself a cast iron skillet and some off-brandbump-its. The SO ended up with some electronics and a slingshot. (Yes, thesepurchases are pretty representative of who we are.)
Iwas able to move more quickly through the flea market because, shockingly, atleast to me, the Santuck flea market is far fuller of weapons and electronicsthan it is of cookware and knock-off As Seen on TV products.
Assuch, I decided to cross the street for some grilled corn on the cob and waitfor the SO to finish his perusing. That’s also when I happened upon the mostfascinating vendor of all – the live animal salesman.
Therewere chicks, grown chickens, rabbits, pheasants and so, so much more. It killedme that I didn’t have my camera because I the first thing I saw in this boothwas a large man in a sleeveless shirt, tattooed and smoking while he held afull-grown, live chicken under each arm. If that moment isn’t priceless (andkind of amazing considering the balancing act required to smoke and hold livechickens), I don’t know what is.
Ipicked up one of the bunnies. I pet the goats. (I’ve always wanted a goat, andI hear that they keep the grass in your yard very tidy, but I’m pretty sure myneighbors would object.) Then I stumbled upon the most magnificent creature ofall – the peacock.
Apeacock?!?! I didn’t even know that people other than Hugh Hefner were allowedthe luxury of a pet peacock. Surely, I thought, I could never afford such awonder. But, there, in the middle of the Santuck flea market was a peacock ondisplay and going for only $65.00. I wanted it. Desperately.
Theonly thing was, I didn’t want to keep it for myself. If I got the peacock, Iwas clearly going to leave it at my parents’ lake house just for the fun thatwould be this imagined telephone conversation:
“Laurel!”
“Yes,Mama?”
“Laurel, you are not goingto believe what I saw at the lake this morning.”
“Sawat the lake?” In my fantasy, I play this very coy, not that I am capable ofsubtlety in real life. “Were there some migrating geese?”
“No, not geese,” my mother says. “Laurel, I could have sworn I saw a peacockthis morning.”
“A peacock?”
“Yes, a peacock. I saw an actual peacock justwalking across the lawn.”
“But that can’t be,” I’d say. “What would a peacockbe doing in AlexanderCity?”
“I thought the very same thing, but there it was.Plain as day. A peacock.”
“Are you sure it was a peacock?” I’d say. “Did youget a picture?”
“Well, no,” my mother would admit.
“Maybe it was just a big bird. Or a weird plant.Had you had your coffee yet?”
“No, but I really think …”
“I mean, come on Mama, where would anyone get apeacock in AlexanderCity?”
I know; I’m terrible. But it would be really funny– at least to me.
Ofcourse, I didn’t end up with the peacock. It was primarily because I don’t knowwhat they eat (is it as simple as bird seed?), and it seemed cruel to get ananimal with no idea of its diet. (Yes, I will torture my mother and make herquestion her own eyes, but God forbid I don’t know what a bird eats inadvance.) I also think that considering how budget-friendly the peacock was,it’s possible that it wasn’t in the best of health and my mother’s and myfictitious conversation would have gone more like this:
“Laurel, do you know whythere’s a dead peacock on my dock?”
*No,the irony is not lost on me.
Striking The Perfect Balance Of Customer Service
Iappreciate good customer service. I really do. In a world of “I can’t doanything about that,” “That’s not my problem” and apathetic shrugs, it’srefreshing to find someone who actually wants to help you. (Mylatest adventure in bad customer service? Never being apologized to by theconsignment store that lost a $90 piece of my jewelry. I work in PR, I know howfar a simple “I’m sorry” can go. Perhaps more importantly, when an apologyisn’t there, you really, really notice.)
Thatbeing said, I’m not always a fan of chatty customer service. I know thatcomputers are slow, records take awhile to come up and sometimes there’s a badphone connection. None of that means that I need to fill the silence with whatthe weather is like where I am, how many pets I have or whether or not I’mmarried with some kids. Really, I’ll be OK for those two minutes without havinga lively discussion about the heat. Trust me, I’m fine.
I’mparticularly anti chatty customer service after a long car trip. When it comesto road trips, I don’t like to stop. So, while I save lots of time on the driveto my destination, I’m usually pretty anxious to get to a bathroom the moment Ido arrive at said destination. Therefore, I like efficient hotel clerks.Extremely efficient.
I was not so lucky on my last trip to Atlanta.
“Welcome,”said the very lovely woman who greeted us at the check-in desk, “we’re so gladto have you.” She was smiling. She seemed to like her job. It was pleasant.
Then she went to her computer to pull up our reservation.
“Ohdear,” she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it looks like youroriginal room isn’t available. Rather than having the downtown view from yourroom, you’re going to have the midtown view.”
Isthe view different anywhere in Atlanta?No. Midtown, downtown, don’t care. This is really the least of my concerns.
“That’sjust fine,” my friend said. The reservation was in her name, and as theresponsible one, we left her to the check-in duties.
“And what brings you to our fair city?” thecheck-in clerk said. “I hope it’s something fun.”
“We’re actually here for a wedding,” my friendsaid.
“Thatsounds so nice,” she said. “Would you like me to check the wedding schedule tosee when you can catch the shuttle to the church?”
“Sure.” By this time, I’m crossing my legs in atoddler-like fashion.
“It looks like you’re leaving at six. I’m sure the Walker family is glad tohave you.”
“Actually, we’re here with a different wedding.”
“Ohmy,” the check-in clerk said. “I had no idea we had so many weddings. Let melook for the other schedules.”
Asshe rifles through a stack of papers at least an inch think, all I can think is“Are you kidding me?” She stopped typing as soon as she gave us the bad newsabout the view, and I dread thinking how far from actual check-in we are. (Incase you’re wondering, the lobby bathroom was nowhere in sight, and I am a girlwith girl issues. I needed to get to the room, and I’m going to leave it atthat.)
“TheHarris party?”
“No,” my friend said, “that’s not us.”
Iwas 60 seconds from a fetal position or an accident at this particular moment intime. Dear God woman, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but just swipe somecards and write a room number on an envelope.
“I wonder where that information is …”
Luckyfor me, by this point, my friend sensed my desperation and moved things along.“I think we’ll just figure it out in the room.”
“It’s really no trouble.”
“We’re fine.” At last, I saw the keys being tuckedin their paper sleeve.
“Youknow,” the check-in clerk said, “I almost forgot to tell you about ourcomplimentary wine hour at five. You really should come to that.” (I don’t knowif she thought this information was important because we clearly liked ouralcohol -– I was holding a 12-pack of Miller Lite and our other friend had abottle of red wine from the Publix down the street, or she didn’t realize thatthe pre-party was taken care of.)
Iwill love my friend forever for taking the keys from her at that moment. “We’llsee you there,” and we booked it to the elevator.
There are things I need to know and things Idon’t. There are also times I want to talk and times I don’t. And when I’ve gotto go, I’ve got to go. I so appreciate it when my customer service and I matchup on these levels.
I'd Really Like To Get Down Now Please
In all of my musings about Camp McDowell,I can’t believe that I forgot to mention the most perilous part of the entireweekend – the high dive. (It’s interesting to me that I wrote about both myterrible swimming lessons and CampMcDowell last week, but completelyforgot to mention it. Subconsciously, it must have been floating around upthere somewhere, but I guess I never put it together.)
We covered that I’m not the greatest swimmer. (I do love the water though, I’m just more of a lazyriver/"let’s float this one out with a cocktail" kind of gal.) Well, I also happen to have alittle trouble with heights. I think it began when I broke both of my armsfalling out of a tree house, but with the anxiety in this brain of mine, it’sentirely possible the phobia would have come about regardless.
(Technically speaking, I think I have what is known asobsessive bad thoughts rather than a phobia. I can be in high spaces – I didn’tmiss out on the top of the Hancock building when I spent the summer in Chicago,but all I think about when I’m too far off the ground is falling. It’s prettymuch the only notion/image that runs through my head once I’m more than 10 feetoff the ground. Once I saw Clueless, even the third floor of the mall couldmake me a little sick to my stomach. Am I the only person in Americatraumatized by Clueless for reasons other than the fact that Alecia Silverstone’slove interest ends up being her former step-brother? Probably.)
But, you know, I’ve done a lot of work to understand myselfbetter in the past few months. I turned 30. I have a prescription for Xanax.Surely, I thought, I can handle the high dive now.
Only a few minutes after the SO and I arrived at the pool, Iheaded straight for the high dive. (That’s right, I didn’t even warm up withthe lower diving board. I wanted to be bold, so I decided to climb right onup.) I’d watched my 11-year old and 7-year old cousins go off again and again-- surely this would be fine.
The ladder itself was not a problem. I went up those rungs likeit was my job. It was the diving board at the top of those stairs that posed aproblem.
Were you aware that those things are wobbly? I know this is forpeople who actually want to jump off the diving board and gain even more heightbefore diving gracefully into the water, but once I was atop the diving boardand actually had to look down, wobbly is not something I was interested in.
I took a few steps forward, and then I took a few steps back.
“You can do it LaLa,” my adorable 11-year old cousin yelledfrom the bottom of the stairs. (I think she was anxious to take another turn.)She is a gem and my heart, so don’t question how much I love her despite whatis about to occur in the rest of this re-telling.
I took another few steps forward and froze again.
“You’ll do great honey,” the SO yelled from the shallow end.“Just like Greg Louganis.”
If I had been closer, I would have taken the Super Soaker tohim for that one.
“I’m not so sure about this,” I said, my knees beginning to goa little weak, and I stepped backwards on the board again.
“Jump LaLa!” More cousins had joined in. The young people’s excitement was tangible. Itjust wasn’t quite contagious.
“I think I might need to come down instead,” I said. “Your bigcousin isn’t as brave as she thought she was.”
“Uh-uh,” my cousin said. “There’s no coming down.” I lookeddown to see that a line had formed at the base of the ladder with more than oneof my tween-aged cousins gathered at the bottom of the steps to prevent mefrom getting down. Plus, they’re Mills,and you should never try to out-stubborn a Mills. Even though I am one, I knewI’d at least need back-up. They were three or four deep down there. You mightbe thinking, “oh, but they’re just children.” If you are, I’ll just let youtake them on yourselves. It can be quite a pack.
I tried to go towards the end of the board again. “Now, kids …”I began, thinking I might pull the sympathy card instead. I was even preparedto offer silly bands or Miley Cyrus mementos for a reprieve.
“If you don’t go off that board, I’m going to climb up there andbounce on the end until you jump,” my cousin said.
And with that terrifying image in my head, I ran off the end ofthe board into the water. Was it a dive? Of course not. Was it graceful? Not atall. Was it even an attempt at a jump you might recognize like the cannonballor can opener? No. All I wanted right then was to get off the board, and I knewthe only way to do it was to move before I could think much more and shut myeyes tight. (If you’re curious, yes, this is how I get through a lot in life –getting on an airplane, climbing into the dentist’s chair and having my fingerpricked included.)
So, in the end, you could kind of say that I overcame one of myfears to do something unexpected. Or, Icould admit the truth – that it turns out my fear of tween-agers is far greaterthan my fear of heights.
Lord help me if I ever find myself in the vicinity of a Justin Bieber concert.
Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding
There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.
There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):
1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"
2. Another boy would come around each night and serenade all of the girls' cabins. He played his guitar and sang Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train." It was quite dreamy. One of his friends would accompany him. I don't think the friend did any singing or guitar-playing, but he seemed to recognize that his friend had figured out the key to getting girls' attention, and he was hoping to pick up the leftovers. (Hey, maybe he, too, could make out with someone special in the pool that week.)
3. We learned the song "Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life." This was a problem for me on many levels -- the title, hand motions and metaphor being just the beginning. Since I'm sure you're all dying to know, here are the lyrics:
Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life/End over end neither left nor the right/Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights/Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life.
Yeah, I still don't get it either.
It also appears from my seventh grade scrapbook that we had a '70s night that involved dressing up, but what we did that night, and why the camp assumed that a bunch of 13-year-olds would travel with time-sensitive outfits for theme dressing, I don't know.
I do know that what I'm wearing had to be borrowed since this was not from my closet -- now, then or ever.
However, a few years ago my sister ended up working in the Environmental Education Program at Camp McDowell. (No, I didn't visit. Please don't judge my sister-ing.) While she was there, she met another employee of the Environmental Education Program, and in the classic story of boy meets girl, after they met, they fell in love and decided to get married.
So, this past weekend, I made my first trip back to Camp McDowell in 17 years for their wedding. The wedding was beautiful, and I learned that camp is much better when you can stay in lodges rather than cabins and are of the age to legally drink.
I even re-visited the same pool, but since I spent most of the time playing with my cousins and their children, I'm happy to report no traumatic make out experiences.
The one thing that was most definitely the same? The heat, but that's just an Alabama summer for you.
I now give you an updated photo of me at Camp McDowell, and in case you have trouble recognizing me, I'm two over from the bride on the right in a sage green dress two other girls are also wearing. (It's probably the tan that's confusing since I'm usually pretty translucent. Don't worry about my skin's health though -- it's a spray-on.)
*Yes, I'm counting the photo from '70s night as a memory even though I don't technically remember it. You have to admit it improved the title of this post.
Not What I Wanted to Hear From Paula Deen*
Last week, the SO and I had to make an impromptu visit to Savannah, Georgia for some family matters. Between both of our work schedules, we also knew that we'd probably get to spend less than 24 hours in town.
After the SO price-lined our hotel (one of his favorite activities), I jumped on the web link he sent me to check out the amenities we would be enjoying in the 14 hours between check-in and check-out. Of course, there was your standard pool, restaurants and fitness center, but what immediately caught my eye was the advertised proximity of Paula Deen's The Lady and Sons Restaurant.
I like to think that Paula and I have a lot in common, and the short list includes a love of butter, cheese, cheese grits and deep frying.
Knowing that we were going to be cutting it close by rolling into Savannah just around 9:00 p.m., I asked the SO to call and see if we might make a reservation for the last seating. I also figured that even if they were booked, there would hopefully be a bar where we might be able to find open seats and order dinner.
The he broke the news to me: "They only take reservations for parties of 10 or me. I'm sorry."
I was disappointed, but figured it was still worth a walk down to the restaurant when we arrived. It was only 9:20 at the time, and plenty of people were still milling about the streets and dining in the open windows of restaurants. Also, sometimes, when I look sad or wear low-cut shirts, people give me things -- tables, free movie tickets, the fresher peaches from the back of the store. I was going to ask, and I was even willing to pull out all of the stops.
As we approached the restaurant, I could see at least five tables still full of diners, and when we walked through the door, I spotted the buffet. (A buffet? I mean, come on. That's a server's dream -- the completely low-maintenance dining experience. Plus, presented with a challenge and given the chance, the SO and I could have more than done our damage at the buffet and been out of the restaurant before closing time.)
"Are you still seating?" I asked the host when he approached.
"No," he said. "I'm sorry. We stopped seating 20 minutes ago."
Please keep in mind that I am within 30 feet of hot fried chicken at this moment.
"But, if you want," he went on, "you're welcome to come back at 8:30 in the morning and line up for tomorrow night's reservations."
Now, while I knew that this was the parties-of-less-than-10-reservation policy at The Ladys And Sons Restaurant before this moment thanks to the SO's iPhone research, I hardly expected to be confronted with it as a viable alternative to my present hunger and proximity to fried deliciousness.
"Yeah, sorry lady, you can't eat right now, but you're more than welcome to come back ELEVEN HOURS LATER at 8:30 in THE A.M. so you can LINE UP for a CHANCE at reservations"?!?!
This is your counter-offer? Really? How is this supposed to motivate me? Let alone how is this any kind of incentive to come back to your restaurant? Lines? Mornings? I think not.
We walked away, and my guess is that we will never go back. I can be stubborn, and more truthfully, the odds of me waking up in time to make it anywhere by 8:30 when I've lost an hour between the Central and Eastern time zones is slim to none.
So, when it comes to fried chicken, I guess it's just me and Zaxby's for now. With their chicken nibblers at my side, I think I'll find a way to persevere.
* Clearly Paula Deen herself did not turn me down (and I still refuse to believe that she would), but you have to admit that using her name makes for a far better headline than "Not What I Wanted to Hear From the Random Savannah Host."
Heathens and Happy Hernando
A few weeks ago, the SO and I took a trip to DeSoto Caverns outside of Childersburg, Alabama. (I like to do really cheesy things, and the SO likes to take pictures, and amazingly, these two interests often coincide.)
For those of you who don't know, DeSoto Caverns is the country's first recorded cave (I don't know what this honor means either), and it's a rather amazing natural phenomenon full of stalactites, stalagmites and the like. (By "the like," I mean stuff I didn't bother to pay attention to in either science class or the guided tour.)
The good people who own the cave have seen fit to fill the area around it with attractions like panning for gemstones, a maze and water gun shooting forts. The attractions are pretty fun, and a good way to drive up the price of admission. Of course, rock candy and fudge are for sale in the gift shop, too.
The SO and I had a good time. We engaged in some archery. (I say we didn't keep score. The SO claims victory.) I fed some llamas, and of course, there was the panning for gemstones, maze-running (that I did kick ass at) and cave-touring. But, there were two rather troublesome aspects to the whole adventure.
1. The mascot for DeSoto Caverns is Happy Hernando. Now, while I have no problem with lying to children in some respects -- the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, "Of course Mom and Dad never smoked pot" -- I have my limits. And turning Hernando DeSoto into Happy Hernando, the cutest of the conquistadors, just seems wrong. After all, we're talking about a man known for his cruelty in wiping out and enslaving indigenous peoples wherever he went. Dressing him in all primary colors and adding a jaunty hat doesn't seem like enough to whitewash that past.
(Then again, maybe it's not so much of a lie. I'm sure Hernando himself was happy, it's just that everyone who encountered him was miserable.)
2. In the middle of the one-hour tour of the actual DeSoto Cavern, everyone is asked to take a seat. All the lights go out, and you experience total darkness. I enjoyed that. As our tour guide pointed out, "A cave is one of the only places on earth other than the ocean floor one can experience total darkness."
Then, total darkness was broken by a laser light show coming out of a rock formation and the words, "And on the first day, God made light ..." The laser lights continued while the rest of the first chapter of Genesis was read -- loudly and with great enunciation. Once the scripture reading was over, the lights stopped, and all that was left was a giant neon cross. The tour guide stood back up, and we continued on our way through some more rock formations.
Now, call me crazy, but I like to be prepared before someone attempts to indoctrinate me, and I don't think a cave tour is the right time for a creationism pitch. (I'm not judging the creationists, I'm just saying that I wouldn't surprise you with a lesson on evolution while you were still high from finding an 1/8 inch amethyst in a man-made, above-ground stream.) If I'm entering a political or religious forum, I want to know about it beforehand. And nothing about that Happy Hernando prepared me for Evangelical Christianity.
A little warning is all I'm asking for. That and maybe some bigger amethysts.
From the Archives: Laurel and Annie Travel the World
Well, as we boarded the minibus bound from Pattaya to Bangkok, Anniefound a large knot on her foot. It's probably some disease caused bythe lizard that shared our tropical hell hotel room for a couple ofdays, but she took an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory right afterthe discovery, and we think she's going to make it.
She's a brave soul.
Ithink Annie and I have never been so happy to leave a place as when weleft Bangkok. We were on an Air France flight and thanks to my highschool French teacher always calling Air France "Air Chance," myanxiety level was a little high.
I was about to have my faithin the French restored merely by the presence of personal TV screens atyour seat until we encountered the meanest French stewardess ever. Shewas downright scary, and I'm glad I got to sleep through most of theflight.
I did watch a nice French film as I tried to remaincultured despite the fact that my taste has been seriouslydeteriorating since we left the U.S. This is primarily due to the factthat every English-speaking program shown abroad sucks. Annie and Iactually looked forward to seeing Yes Dear at our hotel in Pattaya. We also loved Sorority Boys . All sad but true.
Of course, my attempts to culture myself went awry when Annie convinced me to watch Kangaroo Jack after the French film. If I come home only interested in CBS and UPN programs, I'm sorry.
Wealso almost missed our connection from Paris to Athens. Something wasup at the French airport. I don't know what kind of alert they were on,but I have never seen people inspect passports with such fervor. I havealso never seen so many people pulled out of line for furtherquestioning. One guy was actually smelling the passports. Our flight toAthens left 40 minutes late because someone was pulled off the planedue to an i.d. problem and the police were called. Perfect flyingconditions for someone who worries about terrorists, etc.
Beforethat, as Annie and I arrived at the terminal for our departure therewas a line of at least 100 people to go through security, and ourflight was already boarding. I had accepted the fact that we would missthis plane until Annie hit me and demanded, "Speak."
Annie hasnever hit me before and this simple act of violence on her part wasquite frightening. It was then that I realized she wanted me to speakFrench to convince the guy close to the front of the line that weshould be able to cut in front of him.
Thank God for my highschool French teacher (I forgive him for the "Air Chance" commentsbecause of this) because I was able to convince him of this and weactually jumped about 90 people in line. I even used the subjunctive.Who knows where that one came from.
After we talked to him, Icould hear him discussing our situation with his wife. He either saidthat my French was shit or that we were in deep shit because of ourflight. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt (and try tosalvage some of my self-esteem) by thinking it's the latter.
Athens is fabulous. I love Greece and don't think I can even say enoughabout how much I love this country. We've been exploring the city,climbed to the top of the Acropolis, and wine is cheaper than water.Tomorrow we're off to Mykonos for 4 days. I can't wait.
There are only 2 things I dislike about Greece thus far:
1. Gatorade tastes like orange Tang.
2.Every staircase and walkway is made of marble. Pretty, but bad forthose who lack coordination like myself. Some of you may be thinking,"Laurel, there's nothing bad about slipping as you climb to the top ofthe Acropolis. You're not in peak physical form, you were probablytired, a little jet-lagged."
The truth is that I slipped notnear the Acropolis, but rather leaving a clothing store and in ourhotel. I went sliding down about 4 steps in our hotel the other day.People in Mykonos are going to wonder who the extremely bruised girl onthe beach is.
Attacked at the Aquarium
There are many exotic fish I've had the privilege to see up-close and in person -- including a hammerhead shark. When I was 18, my parents took my sisters and I to the Great Barrier Reef.
(Whenever anyone asks about your trip to a reef, they always say, "Did you get a piece of the reef?" as if the first rule you learn on the reef isn't "Never, ever step on the reef." Those things are far more fragile than they might seem on TV.)
There are also some less than-exotic fish I've had the opportunity to see up-close and in person. My father took me to the Bass Fishing Museum in Eufala when I was a child, too.
So, a few weeks ago, when I went to Atlanta, the aquarium was one of my first stops.
The Georgia Aquarium is a great place, and it was fascinating to see the Beluga whales, Tiger sharks, giant Flounder and all of the colorful rest. (Is it wrong that all I could think of when I saw the giant Japanese crabs was "drawn butter"?)
The Georgia aquarium also has some great touch tanks. You could reach in to pet rays, little sharks, horseshoe crabs and the like.
Unfortunately, there was a moment in one of the touch tanks that led to the SO and I being drenched in water. At one of these tanks, the SO became startled by one of the creatures inside, and as he jerked his hand from the tank, he covered himself in water and splashed me pretty good, too.
The animal that took him by such surprise, you might ask? A shark? No. Manta ray? Nope. Even a spindly, tentacle-y plant? No. It was the shrimp and prawn tank that got him. I suppose he's never been around anything but the frozen kind because he wasn't really expecting the shrimp to move when he touched it. He jumped, and his shirt was soaked -- because a shrimp frightened him. (Sorry, I usually try to leave the SO alone when it comes to this blog, but that one still makes me laugh.)
Of course, I had my comeuppance when we went back to the ray/shark tank on our way out and one of the very large rays tried climbing the wall of the tank in front of me. (I could have sworn I heard a very faint "save me," but I was also in a little bit of shock.) Then it was my turn to jump back. I was fine with touching the smooth back of the ray. I did not know what it would do if it found my hand in its mouth.
So, if you find yourself in Atlanta, I'd definitely put the aquarium on your to-do list. And while many people are biased towards the penguins in the "most adorable" category, when it comes to the cute factor, otters take the cake for me every time.
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.
Worst Date Ever
As I mentioned earlier this week, I'm no stickler when it comes to romance. I don't have to receive a dozen red roses on every important occasion, and I'd be perfectly fine if no one ever dedicated a Celine Dion song to me on the radio.
However, I do think certain qualities (apart from my short list of fidelity, truthfulness and not signing on with extremist groups/militias) are important to keep love alive:
Thoughtfulness: "My partner seemed really stressed about getting everything done today, I think I'll pick up dinner on the way home."
Paying Attention: "My partner said it was very important that I get this video back to the store today, I'll do that right now."
Reason/Rational: "My partner is not a fan of Pink Floyd. His/her birthday is probably not the time to buy the complete works of Pink Floyd and force my tastes upon him/her. Maybe I'll buy something he/she likes instead."
The story I'm about to tell you completely violates all three of the above. And, while these events did not happen on Valentine's Day, I think the lessons about love -- or lack thereof -- are more than appropriate to the spirit of the holiday.
It was the summer before an election year. I was going to school in Washington, D.C. and my then boyfriend and I had been breaking up and getting back together for weeks. After yet another one of our loud and embarrassing-if-I-ever-had-to-see-those-neighbors-again fights, he told me that he really wanted us to work out.
"I need more from you," I said. "I need to know how much you care about me."
"I can do that," he said. "I can show you how much I care. I'll be more romantic."
"Really? You'll be more romantic?"
"I will. I'll even plan us a trip."
So, we got back together, and the ex-bf took to working on the details of a trip that was supposed to be even more romantic because it was going to be a surprise to me. Him taking the initiative and making plans for something we could do together? I was pretty excited.
The day of our trip, I put on a dress that was a far cry from my standard classroom uniform of capri pants and a tank top and turned in my summer school assignments early. Then I went back to my apartment to wait for the bf.
He arrived in his standard uniform of khakis and a button-down shirt. "Ready?"
"Sure," I said. "Where are we headed?"
"Philadelphia," he said.
I smiled and nodded.
"For the Republican National Convention."
To make it very, very clear how bad this was (as if it isn't clear enough already): a) there is nothing about politics or a party's national convention that I find the least bit romantic and b) I am not a republican.
"OK then," I said. (Please keep in mind that I did not have anywhere close to the self-esteem or mouth that I have on me now.) "How are we getting there?"
"I thought you could drive."
For more clarity, I am now: a) going to the national convention of a party I do not support and b) acting as chauffeur. In the abbreviated words of Charles Dickens, "... it was the worst of times."
"We better get on the road," he said, ushering me towards the door. "I don't want to be late."
Slightly more than two hours later, we arrived in Philadelphia. "There it is," he said, pointing to a large complex or closed-in stadium (I was a bit blinded by disbelief and barely-suppressed rage to remember the architectural details). "That's where the convention is."
"I see it," I said.
"Now, if we can find the box office, we'll be set."
That's right, ladies and gentlemen -- he didn't have tickets. His plan was for us to arrive at the door and get, I don't know, nosebleed section or lawn seating for one of the nation's biggest political rallies. First, all romance went out the door. Now, any consideration I might have given to his planning skills was gone, too.
Of course, no one can just walk up and buy tickets to the Republican National Convention. (I imagine it has something to do with demand and security clearance. But, I don't know for sure, and I never plan to find out. This is not the kind of trip I will make again.) And since we couldn't get in, and I refused to make a two-hour trip in vain, we decided to grab dinner instead.
We found an Italian restaurant nearby. I want to say there were TVs in the restaurant so the bf could would the convention that he couldn't attend, but I can't be sure on that point. What I do know is that we didn't talk much, and we were literally the only two people trying to get dinner in that part of Philadelphia at that time.
And, for all of you still reading, here comes the real kicker. It's also the part that you might not believe, but let me assure you that I'm not that creative and life is, by far, stranger than fiction.
When the check arrived, the server handed it to the bf. He picked it up, looked it over and started patting his back pockets.
"Oh man," he said, "I think I left everything in D.C. Could you get this one?"
For some reason I still don't understand, I then paid $75 for a meal in a town two hours from home that I drove to in my own car for the convention of a party I don't belong to and couldn't attend.
As the saying goes, I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but thank God I ain't what I was. (And thank God I've begun to learn the word "no.") This Valentine's Day, I hope you're lucky enough to spend the holiday with someone very special. And if not, it could always be worse. Believe me.
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."
Conversation and Interpretation
Sometimes, you know exactly where someone stands on issues of race. "I'm afraid of black people" and "All Hispanics are lazy" are pretty strong indicators. In other instances, the personality of the speaker usually lets you know if the comment is racist or said in irony to draw attention to others' prejudices -- "If that's the way they feel, then maybe the Jews shouldn't have killed Jesus" or continued use of the term "Freedom Fries" eight years after the fact.
Then, there are times you're in Sausalito having a few drinks while you wait for the last ferry back to San Francisco for the night and you have no idea whether or not your bartender spends his weekends plotting the downfall of the federal government and conducting eugenics experiments or just watching the ballgame with his other open-minded friends.
This is one such story.
"So, where are you guys from?"
"Alabama," I said, and the bartender handed me my glass of house Pinot Grigio.
"Alabama, huh? I used to date a cheerleader from Auburn."
"Oh, really?" I said. "How interesting."
"But that was back in the '70s. I bet things were really different then. Lots of Civil Rights stuff going on. What's it like down there now?"
"Much better than those days, I hope," I said. "But I'm still surprised by some of the things that come out of people's mouths. When Obama ran for president, I heard some ugly terms I really thought we were past." (This is all true, and I go in to conversations assuming that people are not racist and that we might have an open dialogue about what goes on in our world.)
"Is it like here?" he said.
"I don't really know what it's like here, but I imagine y'all are pretty open-minded."
"Yeah, here," he said. "We're all PC. So PC. You can't say anything anymore." And before he could elaborate, he had to go get more lemon slices.
Hmmm.
Later, I heard him recommending some of the happy hour food specials to another bar patron.
"We've got these great small plates for only $5.00. You could have the sliders or the fish tacos."
"Those both sound good," the girl said.
"The fish tacos are really great. Very authentic. You know, it's all Mexicans back there."
Ah.
Then, on the trip back to our hotel, the Significant Other turned to me and said, "Did you notice anything funny about that bartender?"
"Like what?"
"Like he might have been a racist?"
Maybe our bartender was misunderstood. Maybe he had some real issues -- like xenophobia. I can't really say for sure. But, I probably should have known that $5.00 drinks in Northern California had to come with some strings.
The Problem With Prison
One of the big debates the Significant Other [SO] and I had while in San Francisco was whether or not to visit Alcatraz. The SO had been before and wasn't sure he wanted to go back. I'd never been but could leave it off my list should, say, shopping and/or food options take greater priority. (Pan-fried gnocchi? Yes, please.) Plus, we reasoned that we'd see Alcatraz plenty from our ferry trips to Vallejo and Sausalito.
But, the more time we spent in San Francisco, and the more times I saw America's toughest prison looming across the bay, the more I realized that I really did want to visit. The outside wasn't enough; I needed photos of myself in a cell. Needed them, I tell you.
So, we went to Alcatraz. And I'll tell you the biggest lesson I learned from our visit: I would not fare well in prison.
Sure, sure, it seems pretty obvious -- I'm not a joiner and my reflexes are frighteningly slow -- but I was still surprised by how many aspects of prison life would present major problems for someone such as myself. (Although I guess that is the point. Crime deterrent accomplished.) I give you my list of the scariest things about life in the big house:
1. The bathroom situation. I don't like for people to be able to hear me pee. And you're highly unlikely to get me to admit that I do anything other than pee in the bathroom -- ever. In college, when faced with group bathrooms on coed floors, I always spent the first day of the new semester seeking out the handicapped restrooms because they were solitary and private. There's not much of a chance I'd be OK using the bathroom in my cell with no door, no curtain and the constant patrolling of guards. Oh, the horror. If I were locked up, there probably wouldn't need to be a suicide watch because the backed-up kidneys would get me first.
2. Meal time. Where to sit? Who to sit with? Will someone try and take my lunch? Junior high was tough enough, and that seating didn't involve quite the same level of group allegiance and potential repercussions. The worst thing that happened when you were the least popular kid at our school lunch tables was a half hour of mockery followed by having to be the one who wiped down the table after wards -- no shanks or payback in the recreation yard. What if I sat with the wrong gang? Got in front of a particularly angry person in line? Will I make friends/allies/people willing to stand between me and a taser? I'm sure the stress alone would lead to gastrointestinal issues, and then I'd be back to concern #1. (What a vicious, vicious cycle!) Add emaciation to the list of worries about what would happen to me in prison.
3. Group showers. Need I really say more? I haven't seen myself naked from behind in three years. (I didn't like what was happening back there -- I swear my ass used to have much better positioning -- so I just decided to stop looking.) I certainly don't want other people seeing me without clothes on. And sharing hot water? I grew up with two sisters and one bathroom, and I thought that was bad. What can I really say? I'm weak, and I don't mind admitting it.
4. Solitary. Some people enjoy being alone with their thoughts. I'm not one of them. I watched a movie about 12-hour silent Zen meditations once. The film was billed as a documentary. I saw it as a horror movie. I need to talk, I need noise and I need distractions. There's only one time I would want solitary, and that's covered in #1. When my mind is left to roam, something like this happens: What a pretty bridge. I wonder how long it took to build that bridge. It would be hard to be an engineer. I wonder what kind of grades that engineer had. Do you think they accepted the lowest bid for contractors? There are a lot of cars on the bridge. Did they know that many cars would travel on the bridge at once? Are state inspectors well-paid? Maybe they take bribes. DEAR GOD THAT BRIDGE IS GOING To COLLAPSE! No. Thank. You.
Since the cell, meals and other inmates tends to cover all aspects of prison life, I'm pretty much out. I will do my best to stay on the straight and narrow. I'm also happy to report that we did get what I hope will be our only behind-bars photos.
Airport Style
For those of you wondering why I haven't posted much lately, I was out of town last week. The Significant Other took me to San Francisco for my birthday, and we had a blast exploring the city, getting out in Northern California and eating our weight in Italian food. We also happened to visit during one of the coldest weeks San Francisco has experienced in the last 15 years. (I think the weather is part of a family curse. Ten years ago, when we went to Melbourne, Australia, the weather was also unseasonably cold and wet. That weather was so bad, I hear no one has experienced it since.) Thanks to that weather, I also brought home a little cold in addition to my new hat, gloves and San Francisco hoodie.
As excited as I was about our trip, I also knew that to get to San Francisco, I'd have to engage in one of my least favorite activities -- flying.
When it comes to dressing for a flight, I try to wear clothes that are comfortable, but I also put on my bigger items so that I can save space in my luggage for later purchases. This means that instead of wearing the FAA-recommended rubber-soled shoes (because I do know these things), I tend to fly in boots, a long sweater and my heaviest coat (winter only, of course).
(My sister would say that this outfit has nothing to do with how much I have to pack. I have a style that she has often referred to as "celebrity at the airport." I think this has to do with my love of big boots and big sunglasses with little attention to anything else -- hairstyle, makeup and showering included -- but I could be wrong.)
Despite the fact that I was beyond layered, I thought I ended up looking pretty cute. I just had no idea how much my wardrobe choices would stand out from the other passengers.
At the Birmingham airport, it seems that you have to travel in your SEC team colors of choice. If you are not displaying your loyalty to one college football franchise or other, you just don't fit in. I saw more Alabama and Auburn sweatshirts and tees than I've seen outside a stadium in years.
At the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport (our stopover), women wore pants with elastic waists (in-flight comfort?) while men wore Vikings paraphernalia and jerseys. Seriously, I saw one guy not wearing Vikings merchandise and he made sure to display his book -- The Vikings Reader by Armand Peterson -- with such gusto that I can only assume he was worried about being assaulted by the other fans if he didn't make his feelings known.
In San Francisco, everyone had a baby strapped to them, and that's one accessory I'm nowhere close to having.
Long story short -- and the real point to this story -- after all of the thought I put into my outfit, not a single person complimented my new brown, slouchy boots. Not a single one.
The Hotel Talisi
My parents were the kind to go through phases.
In the late '80s they developed an incredible fondness for Cajun cuisine. This involved trips to cooking school in New Orleans, large pots of gumbo and cookie sheets full of pralines (my favorite part of this obsession), as well as a brief decorating scheme that had the kitchen island covered in faux netting with plastic lobsters and crabs trapped in its folds.
When my sisters and I took dance classes in a strip mall, we all started spending a lot more time at the pizza place two doors down from the studio. This ignited the period in which my parents would host "make your own pizza" dinner parties with each couple having their own genuine, fresh-from-the-pizzeria dough. (Lesson learned: tossing pizza dough is much, much harder than it looks.)
There were also musicals (for my mother), Dennis Quaid films (for dad), self-help books (darkness), ping pong and the Footloose finale. Perhaps most unsettling though, was the period during which my parents decided we should take more vacations -- and take more vacation to random Southern landmarks at that.
Please keep in mind that this was also in the beginning of my tween years, so the last thing I ever wanted to do was vacation with my parents. I was far more interested in talking on the phone for hours and writing involved notes about the injustices of 6th grade than something as silly as travel.
One Spring Break, we drove to see the homes and Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Then we were off to New Orleans. What I remember most about this trip is drifting off to sleep in the car, only to wake up and realize my parents had foregone the highway for back roads. ("Dear God, why did we leave the interstate?" I thought, "Why, God, why?")
We ended up on a tour of a "plantation." I use quotation marks there because I think that when half the tour involves, "This is the rumpus room we added in the '70s" or "We got rid of the old kitchen to make way for our pool," you've forfeited some of your historical clout and should no longer advertise as such.
Historical home remodels aside, the worst of these jaunts, by far, was a trip to Tallassee, Alabama.
For those of you wondering, no, Tallassee has nothing to do with Tallahassee, Florida. Florida would have a beach. Or some tourist trap. Maybe mini-golf. Tallassee had supposedly one of the best brunches in the South -- and absolutely nothing else.
We arrived after what seemed to be hours in the car (a two-hour drive is nothing unless you're a tween who measures everything by time spent away from the phone) and pulled up to the smallest hotel I'd ever seen. I think I asked, "What else is here?" only to learn from my mother that in Tallassee, what you see is what you get.
"This is it," she said. "The whole town is one block. Can you believe it?"
I could, but I didn't want to.
We checked in, and I proceeded to mope and complain about boredom. The next morning, we went to shop at the five and dime store across from the hotel where a strange man followed my mother around the store and I bought a mini-Barbie for a dollar.
In no way did we have fun for the whole family.
But, I was still sad to learn that the hotel in Tallassee burned down yesterday. Nowadays, I could really get into a quiet weekend with nothing to do but devour fried chicken. And I can't help but wonder how I'll torture my own children without such important Alabama landmarks.
I guess there's always Vicksburg.
In Which I Learn That I'm Not as Funny as I Thought
I spent Labor Day weekend at my parents' lake house with some friends and the significant other (SO). While we were all hanging out in Coosa County, we decided to eat lunch in Alexander City. And, since Cecil's Public House was closed, and I couldn't seem to get a group consensus on Jim Bob's Chicken Fingers, J.R.'s Sports Bar & Grill was the establishment of choice.
(My father's favorite spot for lunch in Alexander City is the Carlisle Drug Soda Fountain. I'm sure the food is great, but having visited, I think the main appeal for my father is the frugality. The man who refuses to pay more than a quarter for a soda -- and who made us travel to Europe with our own Cokes so we wouldn't ended up paying "ridiculous" European price tags for cola -- can have a selection of sandwiches for $2.65. Yes, it's rather amazing in this day and age. No, the Soda Fountain is not somehow located in 1970.)
J.R.'s has everything the sports bar needs -- chicken fingers, wings, big TVs and rolls of paper towels on the tables instead of napkins. I also appreciate a restaurant that knows its audience and does what it does well.
In case you can't read the menu from the photo, J.R.'s has a relatively limited bar menu. These are your options: wine (white only, there's no red), margaritas, Pina Colada, Fuzzy Navel, Tequila Sunrise, Jack & Coke, Crown & Coke or Scotch & Coke. (Personally, I really want to meet someone who's ordered a Tequila Sunrise in the last decade.) I can only imagine how many people had to order Scotch & Coke before it earned a permanent spot on the menu.
The SO and I both ordered the fingers and wings combo. It included chicken fingers, buffalo wings, french fries and Texas toast and was absolutely delicious. I enjoyed every bite, but it's entirely possible that the SO enjoyed his even more. He ordered the hot wings, as opposed to my mild ones, and spent most of his meal sweating and/or crying. Apparently, he did so much sweating/crying that the waitress mentioned it.
"Did you like those?" she asked.
"I liked them very much," SO said. "I always cry when I'm happy."
That's when I chimed in, "That's what he tells me all the time, but I'm not sure if I believe him."
Afterwards, our waitress stared at me for a long, non-laughing, smile-less time. Finally, she said, "Oh. I get it now." Beat. "Is this all on one check?"
I proceeded to hang my head in shame.
Of course, I've had jokes fail before, but at least I usually get a bit of pity laughter. But, there was no pity laughter in Alexander City. There wasn't even a pity smile in Alexander City. I imagine that this moment was like a preview for when I have children and one of them declares -- in a state of extreme teen angst, of course -- "Maybe, I don't want to be funny!" or "You're not funny, Mom!"
Because, let's face it, you can send a lot of insults my way -- I don't have a job, I'm a single Southern girl turning 30 and what my hair will do from day to day is a total crap shoot -- but I've always tried to maintain my sense of humor. "Funny" is a descriptor I prize far above many others.
I'll get over this soon enough, but it really is too bad for my friends we'll never be able to eat at J.R.'s again. I can only accomplish so much, the rest is up to denial and avoidance.
Avoiding The Hangover
I saw The Hangover a few months ago, and I thought it was hilarious.
However, as I was leaving the theater, I couldn't help but comment that the movie never could have been made with women as the leading characters.
Now, this has nothing to do with sexism or that I think women aren't capable of such large-scale debauchery and stupidity. (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?) Women can easily go wild, drink too much, hire strippers and think that stealing is a great idea. It's the conversation that occurs in the lobby of the hotel when the guys check in that would have destroyed the trip for women.
Check-in Clerk: So, I have you in a two-bedroom suite on the twelfth floor. Is that OK?
Doug: Sounds perfect.
Bradley Cooper: Actually, I was wondering if you had any villas available?
Ed Helms: Phil, we're not even going to be in the room.
Bradley Cooper then accepts the $4200/night villa on behalf of the guys and has Ed Helms put the room on his credit card. Here's where this would have fallen apart with women:
Woman 1: Why should I put it on my card? What's wrong with your card?
Woman 2: I'll get you back later. It's no big deal.
Woman 1: No big deal? That's what you always said in college. You know I was the only one who ever bought peanut butter. But did I ever get to eat my peanut butter? No, of course not. You always ate all of the peanut butter, and whenever I asked you to buy more, you always said, "It's just peanut butter, I'll get you back next time." But you never did.
Woman 2: Are you really still not over the peanut butter?
Woman 3: It's OK guys. I'll put the room on my card for now.
Woman 2: Oh no, you won't. This is about whether or not one of our supposed best friends trusts me. Do you trust me, Lisa? Do you?
Woman 1: I think that's what you said to me after you fooled around with Tom Jenkins, too. You knew I had a crush on him!
Woman 2: You had a crush on him, but you'd never even talked to him. Was I supposed to avoid all men you had seen and thought you might want to talk to one day?
Woman 1: He was special.
Woman 3: Guys, really. We just want to have a good time this weekend. Can we all relax?
Woman 2: I can't relax knowing I'm traveling with someone who doesn't trust me.
Woman 1: And I don't think I want to take a trip with someone who can't appreciate me ...
And, thus, the trip is ruined, and The Hangover never happens ... for better or worse. You can doubt me, but as a female, I feel like I've got this one right.
An Argument With History
Florence, Alabama is home to the only Frank Lloyd Wright house in the state of Alabama. (Don't worry. This is my last Florence-themed post. Sometimes I can't help myself I have so much to say.) The Wright-Rosenbaum house is also one of only 60 Frank Lloyd Wright houses open to the general public. And, I was already in Florence, so I figured why not take a tour.
The Wright-Rosenbaum house is under 3,000 square feet, so there's not a ton to see, but because it was a Tuesday, and I think our tour guide was bored, the SO and I got a private guided tour that lasted over an hour. (Such details aren't for everyone ...) If I was better at math, I could let you know how much time was spent on each inch of the house. Since I'm not a numbers gal, I'll just estimate that our tour guide left no stone unturned in his description of the home.
I loved being able to see a piece of architectural history. I also like anything that makes me feel smarter, so learning details about Frank Lloyd Wright, Florence history and details of the home was a great time for me. But, what I really took away from the tour is that I could never have had a Frank Lloyd Wright home.
I didn't know about Frank Lloyd Wright's very controlling (and often egotistical) ways. This is how I would imagine our encounters:'
Meeting #1
Me: I really think I need more closet space in the master bedroom.
Darkness and stares from Frank Lloyd Wright.
Me: Maybe a walk-in?
FLW: If you don't like the closets I've provided, what you need is fewer clothes.
Meeting #2
Me: These doors seem small. How big are they?
FLW: 22 inches wide [this is the real number from the Wright-Rosenbaum house].
Me: Honey, my family is Southern. We like the fried foods. I don't think this is the best long-term plan.
More darkness and stares from FLW: I can fit through them, so everyone should be able to.
Meeting #3
Me: I think this chair would look better on the other side of the living room.
FLW: I already bolted it to the floor.
Until the tour, I had no idea that Frank Lloyd Wright wrote contracts preventing occupants of his homes from acquiring new furniture, rearranging rooms or putting art on the walls without his approval. (He didn't like art because his home was the art.) And I didn't make up that detail about him bolting furniture to the floor so that it wouldn't be moved. I don't think Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have even made it to three meetings before the relationship imploded. Pardon the third person, but if Laurel's paying, Laurel gets what she wants.
Frank Lloyd Wright and I would have been like oil and water -- or like matching poles of a magnet that repel each other rather than attract. There can only be one lead dog, after all.
All photos by the great Arik Sokol.
A Trip to Florence -- But Not Italy
WhenI was 18 or 19, my then-boyfriend took me to Sheffield, Alabamato meet his grandparents. I was thrilled about the purpose of the trip. Ifigured that after a year and a half of dating, I must really mean something tohim if he would take me to meet his grandparents.
Iwas less thrilled about the destination. Sheffield,Alabama is part of a small conglomerate ofcities making up the Shoals area of Northern Alabama.Florence, Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals and Sheffield make up this bustling metropolis. The University of North Alabama is there, and Tuscumbia isthe birthplace of Helen Keller. (Their tourist slogan: “Come see what shecouldn’t.”)
Ispent the entire night before we left stressing out about what to wear. Withthe help of my mother, I very carefully chose a long, blue cotton dress thatbuttoned up the back. Attractive? Not so much. Seemingly appropriate formeeting conservative senior citizens in Sheffield?Yes. (At the time, I think everything else I owned stopped above the kneeand/or involved cleavage. I was young and less self-concious then.)
Aftera two + hour drive the next day, we arrived in Sheffield.We entered through the back of the house and immediately sat down in the familyroom for introductions and pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation,Grandma said, “Why don’t we move to the living room? It’s so much nicer inthere, and we rarely have company.”
Weall stood to file into the living room, and I heard a muffled “Oh, Dear,”followed by the feel of strange hands at my back. I looked over my shoulder tosee Grandma frantically trying to re-button my dress – which, much to myembarrassment, had come undone from the middle of my back down to my knees.
Damnthose buttons.
Toadd insult to injury, at the time, I was rather obsessed with panty lines.Because of my undergarment choices, nothing more than a thin T of fabric(probably missed in a panic) separated me from full-on mooning my boyfriend’sgrandmother.
Iturned bright red, and it took all of the strength I had not to spend the restof the trip in the car, hoping and praying it would be time to go home soon.
Insome ways, I suppose you could say that the trip could only get better fromthere. After some more visiting, we drove to the Wilson Lock and Bridge and ateat one of Florence’sbest known restaurants – an eatery at the top of a tower. The outside edge ofthe restaurant rotates while you enjoy a meal and a 360 degree view of all thatthe Shoals have to offer.
Afterthat boyfriend and I broke up (I don’t think I ever grew on Grandma after shesaw so much of me), one of the few places I thought I’d never see again was thetown that was the source of my shame and the rotating outer edge of a Florencerestaurant.
Andthat remained true until this past weekend when I joined my Significant Otherat the Shoals Marriott while he filmed a promotional video for the hotel. As hewas telling me about our upcoming trip, he mentioned the 360 Grille, but Inever put the name with anything from my past.
But,when we arrived in Florenceon Sunday, I looked up from the parking lot to see the tower restaurant of mypast. “There’s the grill I was telling you about,” the SO said.
“Actually,”I said, “I’ve been here before …”
Neversay never, I suppose.
Prosthetic Hands, Shower Heads and Niki Taylor's Restraining Order
As most readers have probably figured out, when it comes to celebrities, I like to read about them, judge their choices, and generally discuss anyone who has been on television, in movies or on the radio like I actually know them or have any idea what they're like outside of an interview or movie role.
Every so often, I even have an in-person run-in with a real-life, living, breathing celebrity. (Although, I do use the term "celebrity" pretty loosely.) I've already written about the times I saw Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.
When I lived in Chicago for the summer, even though it was only for two months, I was hoping for at least a handful of celebrity encounters -- Vince Vaughn, John Cusack or Oprah, maybe. (After all, I come from Birmingham. The best we can hope for is running into Charles Barkley at Tiki Bob's every so often.) Alas, I didn't see a single famous person in the Windy City.
My life would almost suffer from a dearth of "celebrity" encounters if it weren't for my time in Nashville, Tennessee.
In the Music City, I say Cowboy Troy at an Oyster Bar. (For those unfamiliar with the Cowboy's work, he was at the forefront of a movement known as Hick-Hop, a stunning collaboration of country music and hip-hop. His most famous song, "I Played Chicken With the Train," featured the lyrics "I played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train y'all.") He wore a cowboy hat, lots of bling and was surrounded by some, uh, interesting ladies.
I ran into former model Niki Taylor at the Target. (Side note: Niki Taylor is covered in tattoos. And not just Japanese symbols and delicate butterflies. Niki Taylor has some deep ink on her, which I take as a real testament to the power of Hollywood concealers.) Niki Taylor seemed nervous around me. I think she thought I was following her because she was famous. In fairness, I was following her, but it was because she had the attention of the one Target employee in a 100-foot radius and apparently both the super model and I needed shower heads that day. Who knew?
And last but not least, I saw Christian Kane at Joey's House of Pizza. (Yes, I used to eat at Joey's House of Pizza. It was located in a strip mall, had a soup Nazi-esque calzone maker and I don't think I could have loved it more.) For those of you wondering who Christian Kane is, I will acknowledge that unless you were obsessed with a certain vampire slayer and her true love vampire-with-a-soul who got his own spin-off show, you probably wouldn't recognize the name. Christian Kane was lawyer Lindsay on the first two seasons of Angel -- his character's main attribute was a prosthetic hand. I think today he's best known for bad hair and TNT's Leverage.
So, I'm in Joey's House of Pizza kind of staring at Christian Kane because while I think I recognize him, I'm not quite sure. (I have no idea his name is even Christian Kane until I go back to the office and IMDB him.) And Christian Kane is looking back at me kind of like he wants to be recognized. (I do imagine it's an exciting event for smaller stars.) And we're both trying to avoid leaving covered in tomato sauce.
In the end, I never approached Christian Kane. I just didn't think, "Hey, aren't you the guy from the vampire show with a girl's name and a fake hand?" was an appropriate lead-in to conversation. Oh well.