My Top 5 Car Care Pointers

 I don’t think this will come as a surprise to most people, but I am a very neat person. I love storage bins – easily identified thanks to my handy label maker. I enjoy doing laundry, and I might consider my steam mop more than just a cleaning apparatus – it’s kind of like an anti-bacterial friend ... [Read more]

Staying Up Past My Bedtime, The Economy And Crepes

It turns out that a lot can change between a decade and a systemic economic collapse. Last week, Volvo challenged me to write about my top picks for late night eating near my Alma mater. While this would seem like a really easy topic for someone who likes both food and late nights as much as I do, let’s just say time and geography have not been on my side in this one ... [Read more]

Save The Skeet

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does the wall sound hollow to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“So I guess you’re coming with us?”

“I guess so.”

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

My Top 5 Road Trip Play List

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

Stamped On The Forehead

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #1: Have a Pitcher of Miller High Life at The Tombs ... [Read more]

The Laurel Tour Of Homes

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #2: Revisit my old residences.

I am one of those people who really likes to visit places she used to live. And, yes, I also stand there and say, “Everything seems so small now!” [Read more]

Mateo And Betsey Johnson

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #3: Shop on M Street and Wisconsin.

My mother took me on my first trip to visit colleges during the winter of my junior year of high school. I was 17 at the time. Before then, I'd only ever set foot on the campuses of Samford (Vacation Bible School) and Auburn (football games) ... [Read more]

The Capitals And My Need For Capital

 The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend,#4: Return to the Verizon Center.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that I am old enough for the Verizon Center to have been named the MCI Center when I went to Georgetown ... [Read more]

Queen Of The Road

 As a part of the Volvo/Big East program, I'll be going back to Washington, D.C. for a weekend to visit Georgetown and and attend a Big East basketball game. Over the course of the week, I'll be sharing what I look forward to most about my return trip.

The Top 5 Things I'm Excited To Do On My Alma Mater Weekend, #5: Drive ... [Read more]

It's Serious Now Folks

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

Laurel, The Very Bad Volunteer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We have lunch,” my friend said.

“You seen my kids?” she said.

“Your kids?” my friend said.

“I think they’re out back. Go look.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Every Bride Wants To Find On Her Wedding Day

This past weekend, as we were sitting in the bridal suite preparing for my friend's wedding, we discovered every bride's dream -- a giant, costume rabbit head in the closet.

So many questions, so few answers: What was it doing there? Who put it there? Where's the rabbit's body? Why would anyone need a bunny costume in November when Easter is usually in April? Can we even be sure this is an Easter bunny? Could plushies have been nearby? Would they come back?

I'm pretty sure that if anyone had had a bag big enough for this special souvenir, he wouldn't be in New Jersey anymore.  After all, it's not every day that you find your very own costume bunny head. 

Also, I must apologize for the quality of my bunny head photo. I managed to spill water in the bottom of my purse while I was in Brooklyn, and now all of my pictures are a bit on the blurry side. As a blogger, I need so few tools, and I still managed to ruin one of the few that makes my life easier. Oh well.

Update: Because You Love America

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

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

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

“Laurel?” he said ... [Read more]

Big East Media Day: The Prologue

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

In Which Laurel 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]

What You Should Know Should I Become Lost At Sea

When I teach, I tend to give my students lots of writing exercises. This mainly comes from the fact that I think writing must be taught by actually writing rather than just talking about writing. However, I often get the feeling that most of my students think I just like quiet time (which I do) and that I'm trying to torture them -- especially when it comes to free writing.

So, most of the time, I do the exercises along with my students. It's helpful for me to get some new ideas down on paper, and I hope it demonstrates that I don't ask my classes to do anything I wouldn't, and don't commonly, engage in.

Last night, I was leading a short workshop on "Personal Essay as Message in a Bottle." (It's for a local non-profit group/writing center -- hence, the theme.) The general idea was, "What would you want someone to know about you if this message in a bottle was your last communication with the outside world?" However, being that that's a little dark, we started with what you'd want someone to know about you that might help them find you/recognize the urgency of the situation.

My list:

1. I'm a small (5'3") brunette with blue eyes. I do not look very good after a few days without bathing, but the salt water will have done wonders for my naturally curly hair.

2. My parents are  Diane and Billy Mills. One is an engineer, and the other is a lawyer, so hopefully one will figure out a way to extract me from this Godforsaken place while the other will figure out who to sue the pants off/make me rich for life off of whatever trapped me here. (Hint: A large reward for my safe return -- emphasis on "safe" -- should be involved.)

3. I have two sisters and a brother-in-law. My brother-in-law being an avid paddler, I fully expect him to search the waters, by kayak, tirelessly, until I am found.

4. I'm 30 and have spent most of my life in the suburbs. I don't camp. I'm a fighter. (You do not want to sit next to me while playing Catch Phrase), but I'm not sure how a fair-skinned Scottish girl will fare under these conditions.

5. I cannot fish or throw a spear. I can knit. I should be able to create my own clothes from palm fronds. I think these same skills will translate to the making of my hut's roof. This is one of the few things I bring to the table in desert island survival.

6. I've watched enough Lost to know to avoid large clouds of dark smoke.

7. I am stronger than I look and can carry pieces of furniture that are far larger than myself. In addition to the aforementioned reward, I will help you with one, and only one, move if you resuce me.

8. I'm a writer. I also help businesses with blogging and new media. These skills are completely useless on this island.

9. I might go insane with no books, TV, laptop or companions. Just FYI.

10. Should I not make it off this island, please remember me from photos that are at least five years old and for the blog entries that don't show me trying to lure my cat out of various trees.

Best wishes,

Laurel Fame Mills

Impatient and Decisive, Not Always the Best Combo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Crazy Cat Lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you a first-time patient?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I see."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I see."

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

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

Worst Pet Ever*

There are pets that are good ideas -- dogs, cats, parakeets. (Some people might argue for the ferret, but I'm not one of them.) Then, there are pets that are bad ideas -- rabbits, mice, anything that could become dinner if you live on a farm. (If you would pay someone to remove it from your home, I also contend it does not fall into the "pet" category, so I've never understood the market for mice, rats or snakes frankly.)

Of course, as a child, you have no idea what constitutes a good idea pet or a bad idea pet. And while my mother was in her "we're not getting a dog" phase, I'm pretty sure I begged for every pet under the sun -- chicks, kittens, bunnies and birds included. I started with fish, had a hamster and eventually, around the time I turned 12, graduated to birds. But somewhere in between, I had the worst bad idea pet there is -- the hermit crab.

We all know how it happens. You're down at the beach. You go into some store with a shark's mouth for a door, and within 15 minutes, no souvenir T-shirt, bag of shells or gull  perched on a piece of driftwood will do. What better way to take the beach home with you than in the form of a tiny hermit crab who lives in a portable, plastic case with sand and plastic green grass?

(I should probably also mention that I was the child who tried to catch minnows at the lake so that they could be my pets at home. I prayed that unsuspecting turtles would find their way into my yard, and I was heartbroken on the day that some other super lucky kid took the class chick home after we had all carefully incubated him/her from egg to hatchling.) 

"Please, please, please," were very common pleas the moment I came within the vicinity of anything that could warrant a name, habitat and feeding schedule. I was an animal lover from the get-go.

But, I digress. My primary point remains that there is no worse pet than the hermit crab.

My sisters and I were always allowed to purchase three of the creatures and take them with us after a trip to the beach. After all, they were cheap and didn't require too much in the way of care and feeding. Plus, it's not easy to take a five-hour drive home with three whining and disappointed girls in the back.

And every year, despite my high hopes for the hermit crab, nothing ever quite worked out the way I planned. I often wanted to "race" them, but considering their speed (and that half the time they hadn't left their shells when I called "go"), I usually forgot about the competition, wandered off to do something else and when I remembered my "pets" three hours later, it was a desperate search to find them in the house before my mom got home and wondered when I'd gotten the permission for free-range crabs.

The other joy I found in having hermit crabs was waiting for them to molt.

"You'll have to keep plenty of shells around," the teen at the shark's mouth star would always explain. "As they grow, they have to leave their smaller shells and move to bigger ones."

This promised transformation fascinated me, and I made sure plenty of shells were on hand, at all times, just in case. I even hand-picked the shells hoping my hermit crab would find an even prettier home than the one it had before.

On the one occasion my hermit crab did decide to move out of its shell, it walked around naked for a few hours before settling right back into its old shell. Then, it stayed curled up in there for the next month, or however long it took for my mother and I to decide that the hermit crabs were probably dead and throw them out. 

Years later, someone told me that hermit crabs actually hibernate, so I probably threw away live crabs every year, but I'm not sure my hermits and I would have had much of a future together anyway. There's only so much entertainment a crustacean and plastic grass can provide, and hence, why I stand behind the hermit crab as the worst pet ever.

I do sometimes wonder if landfills are full of hundreds of recently-awoken hermit crabs along the lines of the alligator/sewer urban legend, but despite my desire for infamy, I'm pretty sure the hermit crab/landfill legend isn't the legacy I'm looking for.

* Yes, I'm in to the absolutes lately.