Oxymorons
I am confused.
The other day, while visiting Crestline Village with my mom, I noticed a store named "Lazy Bags." The name alone gave me some trouble. What could a lazy bag mean? As a work-from-home gal, "lazy" got my attention, but the "bags" part just seemed to get in the way. Was it an all-purpose transport system? A means of toting children and/or pets? Some kind of deluxe travel pillow?
Then I noticed that the name of the store was in rainbow-colored letters. Could it be a gay-friendly boutique? And, if it was, "lazy bags" took on some entirely new connotations. (None of which I understand or make much sense mind you, but it seems like the possibilities should not be discussed here.)
(A quick note to the uninitiated: The regular rainbow of seven colors (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, indigo) is just a rainbow. A rainbow with six colors (when you combine the purples) represents gay pride. Since Lazy Bags repeats red and orange after using a six-colored rainbow, I'm guessing their rainbow is just a rainbow or wasn't given nearly this much thought.)
Then, I looked underneath the main sign to see "Fine Bean Bag Furniture." Now, I'm sure that the proprietors of Lazy Bags are incredibly lovely people with lovely products, but as a child of the '80s, I have a really hard time imagining "fine bean bag furniture." I assumed bean bag chairs only existed as part of the I'm-about-to-waste-hours-of-my-life-that-I'll-never-get-back trifecta of bean bag chair, video game console and pot. (I also assumed no one over the age of 18 could get out of a bean bag chair without a roll-out and pulling themselves up on the nearest door knob or nailed-down object. If they can, I don't want to know about it. I still have some rug burn scars -- and less pride -- from the last time I attempted a bean bag escape.)
Plus, this store is in Crestline, one of the hubs of Mountain Brook, an affluent neighborhood of Birmingham. Known for ladies who lunch, I can't seen many women wrapping up a day at the Club by inviting their friends back for martinis in the bean bag lounge.
This is one trend I'll be keeping my eye on, and I wish those behind Lazy Bags the best of luck. In the meantime, I'll be practicing my discreet roll technique.
The Problem With a Unicorn Collection
The problem with a unicorn collection is ... (Because, yes, I had one. When I was younger, my mother's decorator thought all children should have collections in their rooms. And if you ask a five-year old what her favorite animal is, you're going to get an answer like "unicorn." This is how I came to have a table full of porcelain unicorns until long after the acceptable age for such a thing.)
But, getting back to the point, the problem with a unicorn collection is that no matter how carefully you store the darn things, those horns are so delicate, they always break off.
And that's how a grown woman ends up with a hidden box full of ceramic horses with stubs on their foreheads.
I never said I was normal.
Proof of a Dirty Mind?
This past Saturday, the SO (significant other) and I headed out for some quality time and yard sale perusing. After running by the farmer's market (aren't we fabulously young and hip? -- if you ignore the whole yard sale tour), our second stop was a large rummage sale at the local Catholic school.
Now, being that it was a Catholic school, you can imagine my surprise to look up and see the word "SEX" in huge red letters on the gym wall. I went to Georgetown after all; I'm familiar with how the Catholics feel about sex of the pre-marital variety and couldn't help but wonder why "no," "never" or "only if you're married" weren't posted nearby for the impressionable youth crowd.
I spent a good 30 seconds staring at the wall and wondering why, oh why, this would be what the priests and nuns chose to put there and another 30 seconds wondering why no one else was as taken aback as I was. Was a priest going to find me and reprimand me just for staring at the word?
On closer inspection, I realized that, of course, "sex" was not painted on the gym wall after all. Instead it was the initials SFX. (For Saint Francis Xavier. Thank you, Georgetown.) No wonder no one else was as agog as I was.
Now the question that remains is this: Is it proof of a dirty mind that I immediately assumed I saw "sex" rather than some other far more mundane word or phrase? We were at a Catholic school after all. Dirty mind or not, you'd think the context clues would have helped me figure this one out. (Sorry, expensive-education Georgetown.)
I think I know what the priest would say about this one ...
Shame on You
As someone with an anxiety disorder, I tend to be more sensitive to media and news than others. Because of this, I keep an eye out for anything I might find panic-inducing. Even without my political leanings, I wouldn't watch Fox News because they seem to classify everything as "breaking news" and just the words "breaking news" kick start my brain into a downhill spiral of worry about what happened, where it was, whether or not anyone I care about might have been hurt, what's going to happen, how strong the foundation of my house is, who the known nuclear powers are, and on and on until I'm hunkered in the bath tub with my dog and a bag of Oreos preparing for the end of the world.
You can just imagine how exhausting that would be as a daily routine. (Which is why I didn't get much done in 2002, but that's another story for another day.)
I actually try to avoid most 24-hour news channels (Internet news is much better for me), scary movies and stories about single women killed in their beds by strangers because of the anxious thoughts that ensue.
So you can probably see why I'm not so happy when people sneak the scary into commercials. I can't plan for ads -- they don't put those on the digital cable menu. (Also, I work from home during the day with the Style and Lifetime networks on. Why I should ever see a commercial for anything other than Midol, diapers and selling my gold for cash, I do not know.) And If I had to choose the biggest offender in this scary ad category, it would be Brinks Home Security Systems.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1K8DKH7tCRU&hl=en&fs=1&&w=425&h=344]
Brinks doesn't just portray break-ins on TV. Apparently, in their brilliant marketing strategy, they've decided that the best way to sell security systems is to scare the be-jesus out of people. They only portray the most violent and nightmarish of break-ins. If someone comes into your house, it won't be a drug addict picking up jewelry while you're at work. No, if someone comes into your house, it's going to be a huge thug that attacks (by throwing open the front door and glaring, by the way) the moment you leave your teenage daughter home alone, when your wife and small children are home in the middle of the day or as soon as you dare to put on headphones for a run on the treadmill.
Neighborhood Nicknames
When I lived in Washington,D.C., most of the Safeways (achain of grocery stores) were known by certain monikers.
There was the Social Safeway (where you could not go lookingat all frumpy or haggard because you were basically guaranteed to run into someoneyou knew; I even think local legend held that many encounters at the SocialSafeway led to weddings), the Suburban Safeway (the most boring of them all,you never saw anyone other than a minivan-driving mom with her kids shoppinghere) and the Soviet Safeway (where you often had to wait in line for bread ormilk).
Even thought it’s been almost seven years since I lived inD.C., I still find myself assigning names to the places I visit most often.
First, there’s the Wild Wal-Mart. While all Wal-Marts havesomething of a “survival of the fittest” mentality (you don’t know what you’recapable of until Digiorno Supreme pizzas are on super sale), at the WildWal-Mart, all of the rules you thought you understood about human interactiongo out the window.
I’ve seen grown men spit on the floors there, a father andson get into a near fist fight at the cash register and a woman attempting toreturn open peanut butter because once she got home she realized it was 10cents more than she thought she should have paid for it.
Then, there’s the callous CVS. I once called this drugstoreto ask if my doctor had called in my prescription yet. “I haven’t spoken toher,” my pharmacist said. “But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t called. I haven’tanswered the phone in awhile, and I won’t check the messages for another halfhour.”
Awesome. Never mind that it was five minutes to five, and Iwould have to go overnight without meds if I couldn’t verify that myprescription order had come in. It was cool. (Extra care indeed.)
Another time I called and asked if my prescription wasdefinitely ready to pick because I felt awful and didn’t want to be out of thehouse any longer than necessary. “It is ready for pick up Ms. Mills.”
“You’re sure it’s ready?” I said. “Because I’ll just wait anhour or so to leave the house if it isn’t.”
“Nope, it’s ready.”
It wasn’t. Instead of remaining on my couch for the waittime, I spent 20 minutes in a folding chair next to the pharmacy’s privacypartition clutching my stomach in pain. Hence, the callous part of the CallousCVS.
I also have the Incompetent CVS. (Unfortunately, these aremy two closest pharmacies.) At the Incompetent CVS, you always have to wait for15 minutes at the counter while they find the prescription that’s placed in abin ALPHABETICALLY.
God forbid you be in line at the Incompetent CVS because thepharmacists there love to talk. The line can be ten deep, and they’ll find timeto ask Mrs. Wilson about why she prefers the Ensure shakes to V8 or doubleprice check Mr. Smith’s Sensodyne. I’ve been tempted to yell “I have anuncomfortable feminine problem” (true or not) for the sake of embarrassing theminto either moving through the line faster or fast-tracking me to the front.
And I haven’t even gotten to the Classy Krystal’s, the DirtyKrystal’s, Moody Moe’s or the Ghetto Winn-Dixie yet.
I have no idea what’s more disturbing about this: that Iactually took time to name (and catalog) all of the places I run errands, orthat, as a lover of words and writer, these are the best descriptors I couldcome up with.
I Drive Me Crazy
We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Some people work out. Some people paint. Others drink. (Not that I'm saying any one particular coping mechanism on that list stands out to me ...)
We all also have our ways of not dealing with stress -- the little idiosyncrasies and quirks that arise when there's a bit too much on our plates and our subconscious rears up in revolt. Some people scream, Some people cry. I forget how to pump gas.
I know, I know, you're probably thinking that that sounds absolutely crazy. But, there's something about the ability to complete day-to-day, mundane tasks that goes completely out the window when I'm consumed by other matters or living too much in my head.
In a situation where others might squeeze a stress ball or indulge in an ice cream Sunday, I find myself absolutely baffled by the idea of choosing an Octane rating.
In high school, when I was struggling with AP Calculus and SAT prep, I went to fill-up at the gas station across the street and just couldn't get the pump to work. I told the gas station attendant that his pump was broken and that he might want to check on that ASAP.
"The pump isn't broken," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. "Why else wouldn't I be able to get gas? I'm not an idiot, you know."
The only trouble was that in that situation, I was being an idiot. After fuming back to my car, I realized I hadn't lifted the lever that triggers gas flow at the pump.
I have probably been spoken to through the intercom at the pump more than any other human being on earth. That magical, difficult-to-comprehend voice has informed me that I forgot to pay at a pre-pay (overwhelmed by errands), do not have a Diesel engine (dressing down from the boss) and, during an ill-fated trip to New Jersey, that it was illegal to pump one's own gas in that state (relationship trouble).
No matter how well I think I'm handling life, the gas station is my ultimate test: Can I fill the tank without threatening the attendant or banging my head against the steering wheel? Will I find myself entangled in the gas hose? Will I be able to reward myself with a single bag of Cheetos?
Luckily, in these days of working from home, I'm operating on far fewer tanks of gas per month. Otherwise, between the bills and my concerns for the characters of General Hospital, there could be trouble.
In the News
If you were referred here from another site, like Media of Birmingham or The Terminal, you might be looking for these stories: This One Time at Camp ... and/or Lauren. Thanks so much for visiting!
I Hope it Isn't Me
I used to blame myself a lot. If a friend was in a bad mood, I had upset them or made them mad with something I'd said. If a teacher was short-tempered, I should have taken more time on my homework or studied harder for the last test. If a boyfriend was quite and withdrawn, I must have been too clingy, needy or annoying.
Sometime during my teen years, I realized that this attitude of self-blame was really quite self-involved. As fabulous as I might be, I'm not actually the centerpiece of anyone's life but my own. No one else spends hours going over what I said or should have said, evaluating my outfits or pondering how much my weight has fluctuated since college.
And it was quite freeing to realize that 1) no one was as obsessed with me as I was and 2) if anything, everyone else probably spends as much time on their own behavior and appearances as I do on mine. (Translation: Most people are way too busy thinking about themselves to take any note of what anyone else is up to.)
My epiphany helped me be less self-conscious (and stop thinking I was responsible for everyone else's bad moods), but I can still play the blame game pretty well.
If I was a better writer, I'd have a published book by now. A better housekeeper? You'd never see a single bug. I should respond to e-mails faster, write more thank you notes, cook healthier meals, and on and on and on.
Due to the state of my chosen career path (publishing), it's easier than ever to get on this track with my employment history. One company had no more room for me, another went belly-up two weeks after I resigned, and I was let go from the now-defunct Lipstick in February. The what-ifs and possibilities for self-blame seem endless.
Luckily, I have incredibly supportive friends and family who are pretty good at helping me see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can also recognize that my narcissism sneaks in a bit here, too -- I am not responsible for an entire company, economic trend or the recession. (You can see my issues with control at play here, too -- i.e., the illusion I have much of it.)
With that being said, and on a seemingly unrelated note -- wait for it, I did manage to make my way to the pages of Skirt! this July (photo and story can be found at the link). Yay, right? (I was pumped because the story was about Tina Harris and all the awesome things she does as the editor of PMS, a literary journal I read for and adore.)
Then I heard the news on Friday that Skirt!'s future is up in the air. And I can't help but think, is it me? Have I become a jinx for media outlets I don't even work for?
I'm fairly positive the answer is "no." (But I do still worry.) Then again, even Johnny Depp was considered box office poison for many years. You never know when things could turn around -- or when you're ripe for a comeback.
Foot in Mouth ... Again
1. I'm borderline inept at applying my own makeup. I hear a lot of "Hold on, there's something on your face" when I leave the house after having done my own makeup.
2. Makeup that doesn't come from the drug store is expensive. The older I get, the more I realize I need to invest in products that cost more than $3.99, but it still pains me. If I'm going to spend $50 on liquid foundation, I've got to get something else out of it, and I consider the makeup application my own private free gift.
Anyway, after about 20 minutes of browsing, I picked up some products and found a very nice African-American makeup artist to help me decide what would work best with my skin tone and texture. As I sat in her chair, we started talking about various products we had tried and what worked and what didn't. She told me about a new deodorant that wasn't worth buying. I offered the following:
"Have you ever tried the Tarte Sunburst self-tanner?"
Long pause.
"No, I've never given that one a shot."
Why I would ask an African-American woman about her self-tanning habits, I do not know. It really seems like I should have thought that one through a bit more before it escaped my mouth. She probably doesn't have the same skincare needs as my near-translucent self does. And, in case you were wondering where this is going, my Sephora incident reminded me of one of my near-constant dilemmas: When something awkward and/or inane is said, is it best to call attention to the idiocy or move on?
When I saw my vet out at a social function, rather than saying "hello" or "how are you" like a normal person, I led with "My dogs are good." No greeting, no lead-in, just "my dogs are good." Then I promptly ran away and pretended the moment had never happened.
When I accidentally ask a friend about a relationship that has since ended or a family member that has passed on, I say, "Well, that was awkward of me, wasn't it?" afterwards. And, unfortunately, I usually can't stop myself from giving a jab on the arm, too.
At Sephora, I went with the move on/avoidance approach, but I'm probably pretty evenly split on how often I make a joke and how often I deny the moment ever happened. What about you?
Laurel vs. Bear
I've heard about the bizarre antics and survival tips on Man vs. Wild for months, but it wasn't until this past weekend that I was able to witness the strange adventure for myself. (For those of you who don't know, Man vs. Wild revolves around a man -- hence the "man" part of the title -- who fends for himself and makes do with the worst of nature supposedly under the auspices of demonstrating how to stay alive when desperately lost in the outdoors -- i.e., "wild.")
I must say that I cannot imagine a man I have less in common with than Man vs. Wild host Bear Grylls. (Hey, even Bobby Knight and I both dislike Duke University.)
1. Bear enjoys dropping himself in the middle of nowhere. I can't imagine why I would ever need or want to be outside a safe radius and/or walking distance of a Krystal's or vending machine stocked to the gills with Diet Coke.
2.Bear eats stinging ants. Apart from the fact that ants hardly seem worth consuming because of their size (bird or boar, anyone?), why would you need to eat the stinging ants when I'm sure most jungles, deserts and forests are full of ants of all shapes and sizes? You could even branch out from ants to other bugs. If for some reason a baffling wilderness sprung up between me and the nearest Walgreen's, I'd much prefer making do on a meal of the debit card receipts in my wallet or even dirt for God's sake.
3. If Bear didn't have enough water, he'd run into the brush full of deadly snakes and try to find the one non-poisonous leafy plant in a wall of terribly lethal shrubs. I'd take the dehydration.
4. Bear uses his pants as a flotation device, a pillow and a means of paddling a boat. The only use my pants serve -- apart from public decency -- is to remind me of how I've had far too many a meal at the Krystal's lately.
5. Bear chooses all of this despite being a television star with access to modern conveniences and a camera crew. If I had my own TV show, there'd be mimosas and french fries as refreshments -- not bear poop and my own urine.
(I also can't help but think that the Man vs. Wild cameramen can't love their jobs. In addition to having to leap over deadly creatures and stay out under the hot sun with a crazy man eating bat vomit, when Bear takes off his pants, he's never wearing anything underneath.
I imagine the internal monologue goes something like this: "Another day, another dollar, another moment of my life lost to the glare of Bear's exposed man parts.")
In short, I just can't relate to Man vs. Wild, and I think my first episode will probably be my last. It's back to Lifetime and shows where women talk to dead people for this gal.
Phone Fear and Fantasy*
I am not a phone person.
I'm not sure exactly when I became anti-phone, but my best guess puts it on the time line somewhere between begging my mother for my own line in the sixth grade so I could watch Melrose Place while "talking" to Elizabeth (not that we did any actual talking when the show was on) and the week I lost my cell phone behind the couch and couldn't have felt more free. (That last story involves wine and less-than-stellar-search-tactics, naturally.)
I also think the fact that I have trouble hearing on a cell phone has a lot to do with my phone phobia. My good Southern manners/laziness dictate that I won't ask anyone to repeat a phrase or question more than twice. And, since I often can't make out all of the words on two tries alone, I end up saying a lot of "Uh-huh, yeah, interesting" and hoping the person on the other end of the line didn't want specifics or details.
My fear of being judged is also a factor as I've been told by more than one person I can sound "like death" or "suicidal" on the phone. Some of this is my morning voice (which, like what I understand of morning sickness, is not necessarily relegated to the morning, but is most prevalent then). The morning voice is husky, gruff and best cured by Diet Coke. The rest of my incredibly morose phone voice turns into a form of the chicken/egg situation: Do I dislike the phone because I sound terrible on it or do I sound terrible because of how much I dislike talking on the phone?
Because of all this, I rarely talk on the phone. (E-mail all the way, baby!) And I have a tendency to do my fair share of call screening. If I don't know the number, I don't answer.
But, for some reason, phone numbers I don't know also have a tendency to fill me with unbridled hope. I think this strange burst of optimism/self-delusion dates back to my college days. When I saw a number I didn't recognize, I'd think "He finally called!" only to listen to the message and realize that yet another telemarketer wanted to sign me up for a Discover card.
And even though I'm not waiting on a boy to call these days, I still get the same feeling when numbers I don't know pop up on the caller id -- especially those with exotic and far-off area codes. When I saw three unidentified, out of area phone numbers on my cell last week, these were the actual thoughts that went through my mind: "Someone finally recognized my talent! Maybe it's a literary agent! Maybe it's a book publisher! Someone wants to talk to me about publishing!"
(Sure, I should know that it takes a lot of hard work to get a book publisheror agent, and they rarely fall out of the sky, but the impulse wasthere anyway.)
In reality, the calls came from my cell phone company and a real estate agent wondering about my now three-year-old interest in housing in Nashville, and I came face-to-face with cold, hard reality yet again. Sigh.
But, for me at least, hope springs eternal ... And should anyone with a 212 number that I don't recognize call -- telemarketer or president of Penguin Books -- I'm going to make sure there's no morning voice involved.
*FYI: You don't know me at all if you think I would ever dare to name this post "Fone Fear and Fantasy."
Funny Stuff
Despite years of fighting peer pressure in high school, it seems I've found myself falling in with a bad crowd in my late '20s -- improvisational actors.
I'm not a member of the troupe, but I spend an awful lot of time at their shows, and if you're looking for some funny to get you through until Friday, I recommend a bit of the Extemporaneous Theatre Company.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hntlxRupP-I&hl=en&fs=1&&w=425&h=344]
It's Worse Than I Thought
Thanks to some quality time with my sisters this weekend, I was reminded that my obsession with "As Seen on TV" products began long before I first admitted.
In high school, I was one of the first people to jump on the ExerSlide trend. Don't remember the ExerSlide trend? (Admittedly, "trend" is probably an exaggeration. Think "scam" or "fly-by-night operation" instead.) You probably didn't watch as much late night television as I did, or you had more sense. Either way.
With the ExerSlide, I got to put paper booties around my shoes and slide my way to fitness. And, by "slide my way to fitness," I mean "spend 15 minutes finding mself unable to get from one end of the plastic mat to the other before giving up entirely and sticking the ExerSlide under my bed until I left for college."
You think I would have learned my lesson. Oh well.
The Age-Old Dilemma: What do you do with an old pair of leather pants?
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Leather pants? Really? How can this even be considered a problem? No one actually wears leather pants."
But, back in the day, you cannot imagine how much I loved these pants. I was young (read: foolish). I barely weighed anything (that's a small budget and the energy to go out every night for you). I was even blond. It was one of the few times in my life my self-esteem was over-inflated.
I thought these pants were hot, and I had to have them.
(And, "hot" they were. One of the truest things ever put on television was a certain episode of Friends in which Ross finds himself trapped in the bathroom of a date's apartment because he can't get back into the leather pants he took off because they made him sweat. Leather pants are not something you can try on, change your mind and take off for another outfit. If you want to wear leather pants, you've got to commit. Because once you're in them, you're in them. For better or worse. (I've never thought of leather pants as a metaphor for marriage before, but now that I'm there, I kind of like it.))
These pants were also expensive. To this day, they are the one and only item I've ever bought from Neiman Marcus. I think they were originally priced at $350, but I got them on sale for something like $170. (Again, paying that much for these pants is another indication that I was young and had no real concept of money.) I only found them on sale because they're a size 8, which is like a size 2 in skintight designer leather. They're made by Laundry for goodness' sake.
The one time I can recall going out in these, my roommates and I were having some kind of theme party. I had my blond hair fluffed up, the leather pants on and wore a t-shirt that said "Hottie" in silver glitter. For real.
Oh, the shame.
Yet, despite the unpleasant memories these pants give rise to, and the fact that I know I couldn't even get these over one ankle these days, when I pulled up to the Goodwill store yesterday, I just couldn't bear the thought of them sitting on a rack next to all the normal (read: mundane/no history) pants.
There's Ebay, but this guy already did that, and his write-up was far more fabulous than mine could ever be.
I could take them to a consignment store, but they're hardly a summer item. (A fact I ignored completely the one time I wore these. It was July. Again, the shame is strong.)
I could try to schlep them off on some unfortunate reader of this blog, but I'm pretty sure that after I admitted to wearing the pants in the heat of summer, no one's interested.
What becomes of a once-loved pair of leather pants never to be worn again? Is a second-life as a wallet all they can really hope for?
If Cassidy doesn't want to go as a dog biker for next Halloween, it might finally be time for me to let these pants go.
First Love, Vampires and Cynicism
After numerous recommendations, I finally read Twilight this month.
While the book snob in me tries to avoid "popular" fiction, I happen to not-so-secretly love young adult fiction and some sci-fi. Plus, I also have a really-not-secret love of vampire lore. (This does not mean I've ever bought a cape over the Internet, but it does mean that I've seen every episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. I've also seen everything the History channel has to offer on Vlad the Impaler.)
With Twilight, I thought the stage was set for me to fall in love with a book. And boy was I wrong.
* SPOILER ALERT* For those of you who haven't read the book and don't want to know the ending, I suggest you stop reading now.
Truth be told, I was doing great with Twilight for most of the novel. I liked all of the snuggling and touching. Edward sounded hot. It was all good.
Then I got to the part where Bella wants Edward to turn her into a vampire, and I just started to feel pissed off.
At 17, this girl is ready to die to be with the boy she loves, and that's considered romantic? I'm sorry. I just can't get on board with that. What about college? A job? Kissing other boys? Not living eternally among the undead?
Now, maybe I'm being too hard on the story, but I feel like Bella is the opposite of the role model I would want for my unborn daughters.Call me crazy, but I think a girl should have dreams beyond her high school boyfriend. And I'm not thrilled about romanticizing death either.
I do wonder if my experience with Twilight was so negative because of how I feel about my first relationship. My own experience with first love wasn't exactly rosy. I don't have fond memories of my first real boyfriend that make me smile. I don't keep love letters or mementos. If anything, I'm immensely grateful for the fact that my first love didn't last and that I went on to have other boyfriends and other loves.
If I'd made anything about my first love permanent, I'd be a very unhappy person today. I would also be a person without her own voice or identity and what fun would that be?
What do you think? Am I being too hard on Twilight? Did you like the book or not?Am I missing out on the romance? Has my own experience with first love jaded me too much?
For coming of age love stories, my money's still on Forever by Judy Blume.
Weekend Tidbits
Here's the most awkward conversation I participated in over the weekend:
On Saturday, I had lunch with a friend. I noticed that the soups of the day weren't posted anywhere, so I approached the woman working behind the counter.
Me: Do you have soup today?
Female Employee: Yes.
I waited because surely she would understand that wasn't enough of an answer. She didn't.
Me: Could you tell me what they are?
Did she really think that I just wanted to know that there was soup? Next time I visit this particular establishment, I'm going to order a soup and sandwich combo -- without specifying which soup or salad. It seems that the details are getting in the way.
Here's the most awkward conversation I witnessed over the weekend:
On Sunday, I went to pick up some photos at the One Hour Photo Booth at Walgreen's. (Please keep in mind that I visited the ONE HOUR Photo Booth.) A woman and her daughter were in front of me in line.
Walgreen's Photo Lady: When would you like these back?
Mom: When can I have them back?
Walgreen's: We can have them ready in an hour.
Mom (to her daughter): Wow, can you believe that? Only an hour? That's so fast.
Who would ever guess that the One Hour Photo Booth could have pictures back in an hour? And they say truth in advertising is dead ...
All About Me
Call it self-indulgent,but lately I've spent a lot of time thinking about compliments. Ofcourse, we all like compliments — they make us feel good aboutourselves. And, we've all also experienced the sting of the infamousback-handed compliment: "The extra weight looks good on you."What's most interesting to me though, is the compliments/kudos thatwe remember years later. When I'm having a bad day (not a simple badhair day or getting a flat tire in the rain), but I really bad day --one where I doubt myself, second guess every decision I've made inthe last five years, can't seem to find my own self-worth -- thinkingabout the times my SO [significant other] tells me I look great justaren't enough.
And, I guess that's whatI find so fascinating. When I was a little girl, I desperately wantedpeople to think that I was pretty (probably so that I'd think ofmyself as pretty), and other compliments rarely mattered to me.Smart, sweet, funny, cute -- there wasn't an adjective I wanted tohear if it wasn't "pretty" or "beautiful," andlater in college, "hot." It sounds so vain now, but avalidation of my looks was all that I wanted. In true the grass isalways greener fashion, I also bet all of the girls told that theywere pretty desperately wanted to be acknowledged for something otherthan their looks -- like a sense of humor or intelligence.
So, getting back to thepoint of the best compliment I've ever received, here goes: When Iwas a freshman in college, I was absolutely miserable. I wasattending Duke University, the kind of college that was my dream anda lot of people's dreams, but I could barely make myself get out ofbed in the morning. I had thought that I could make myself lovecollege. I tried being as social as I could at frat parties, throwingmyself into classes, looking into activities, even a therapist, butnone of it seemed to matter. And coupled with the fact that I wasmiserable, I also felt like a failure. What kind of person doesn'tenjoy college? I worried that I was socially inept, incapable ofbeing independent or just plain bratty.
Eventually, I decidedthat maybe it was the place and not me. Or, at least, that maybe Iwasn't the type of person for that particular kind of place. Istarted looking into the idea of transferring and began filling outapplications to other schools. A lot of people thought I was insane,which didn't do much for my feelings of failure. Even the dean I hadto see for one of my transfer applications was skeptical. "You'remaking the biggest mistake of your life," he told me. "Ifyou do this, you'll always regret it."
(Call me crazy, but I'mpretty sure that telling any 19-year-old a decision that doesn'tinvolve narcotics or firearms is the biggest mistake of their lifeleans towards the dramatic.)
For one of the firsttimes, I decided to trust myself. I decided to believe that maybe Iwasn't just bad at college, I was bad at being a Duke student. I wentahead with my transfer applications, and my very kind and graciouscollege counselor from high school even volunteered to help me withmy second round of applications and essays. In May of that year, Iwas accepted to Georgetown University. I moved to my D.C. dorm thatfall and spent the next few years loving my life as a Hoya.
During that applicationtime, it was my former college counselor who gave me my bestcompliment. As I was sitting in her office one day, she told me, "I'mso proud of you. You're so brave. I don't even think you realize howbrave you're being."
Sure, I wasn't savinganyone from a burning building, but for a "good girl" wholiked to please others and seek their approval, walking away fromDuke and ignoring the legions of people unhappy with my choice wasn'tthe easiest option. Plus, as someone who startles easily and can'twatch scary movies, I'm far more prone to think of myself as cowardlythan brave.
When I'm having a badday, I remember that someone thought I was brave. And I try my bestto be that. I also remember that I'm the one responsible for my lifeand what becomes of it, and I'm capable of making my own choices.Even when I think about being recently laid off, I let the idea ofbeing "brave" help me see this as the time to go after whatI want and not a reason to buckle. Basically, I do my best tofearlessly be me and hope that the rest falls into place.
Not Something I Recommend
When Iwas still working for Lipstick, my former co-workers and I decided to do “research”on an upcoming profile story we were publishing about Southern Magic, the localchapter of the Romance Writers of America. (Sidenote: these ladies are awesome!I think about joining their group all the time, but I’m too intimidated.) Inthe name of “research,” we walked down to the Birmingham Public Library to seewhat romance books were around. (Hey, we were thorough journalists, after all.)
And that’s the short version of how I ended up in thepossession of what might be the worst book I’ve ever read. (Which was not written by a Southern Magic writer, by the way.) I warn you now.From here on out, there will be lots of spoilers, and this post will not beappropriate for those below a certain age.
What itall comes down to is that I should have known any book mentioning an “ass-toe”in the first 100 hundred words wasn’t going to be any good, but it was a trainwreck that I couldn’t turn away from.
Trippin’tells the story of seven Kansas City denizens: Madetra, Kaylantra, Darryn, Finesse, Destanie (please not thealternate spelling), E’An and Gerald St. John. At first I thought, “Who thehell thought of these names?” and “E’An?!?!” but then I got to page two and theass-toe, and I had bigger questions on my mind.
Madetra is a psychiatrist with a once-passionate,now-floundering marriage to Darryn, her college sweetheart. E’An is a fellowpsychiatrist in Madetra’s office who regularly refers to her as “Dr. KillerBody.” (According to the discussion questions in the back of the book, because,yes, Trippin’ COMES WITH DISCUSSION QUESTIONS, E’An’s treatment of Madetra ismeant to provide some insight about workplace sexual harassment. I can onlyassume that Trippin’ is to the issue of sexual harassment as Paris Hilton is tothe Protestant work ethic.) Kaylantra is Madetra’s identical twin sister, butwhile her sister pursued medicine, Kaylantra took the path of stripping andInternet porn. Finesse is a local news anchor who used to date Destanie, hisproducer with a history of stalking exes, but now they’re apart. And, last butcertainly not least, is Gerald St. John, Madetra’s massage therapist who makesextra money by giving female clients happy endings and selling drugs. (Ofcourse, Madetra does not receive happy endings because she honors her marriagevows, and Gerald is in love with her, so he wants Mad for more than just anhour’s joyride + tip.)
How thesecharacters know each other is explained, but it’s a sucky explanation, so let’sjust go with the idea that a woman would spend time outside of the office withthe man who sexually harasses her while a cocky news anchor and his certifiablyinsane ex would do that same. Long story short, these seven form a travel clubcalled Destination Anticipation Travel Club, or DAT Club for short (as ismentioned throughout the book to the point of absurdity) and proceed to visit Minneapolis, Lake Tahoe, Hedonism III in Jamaica and Las Vegas over the next year.
Kaylantraand Finesse quickly become an item. But, even though Kay is really falling forFinesse, she doesn’t stop sleeping with her boss Eddie in exchange for $100 andher job at the strip club (she’s been fired by all the other strip clubs forher bad attitude.) She also still sees her mystery customer, who comes in everyThursday and pays Kay $1000 for a naughty lap dance with one catch — she has towear a blindfold the entire time. So, even though Kay has been sleeping withthis man for a year, she’s never seen his face. (Remember this because it’sgoing to be important later.)
Destaniecontinues to go off the deep end once Finesse finds another girlfriend, so shetakes to leaving him some incredibly disturbing voice mails. I’d say more, butit would make this post X-rated. Let’s just say that I almost wished I wasilliterate having to read that part of the book. I didn’t learn the Englishlanguage to have to know things like that.
Madetraand Darryn just can’t seem to get their relationship back on track. Madetra isconfused by her husband’s disinterest, but it probably has to do with herhusband’s growing crack problem. His need to feed his addiction causes him tomug and murder a stranger for money and turn to male prostitution. (Darryn isalso the one with the ass-toe. It seems he needed some reconstructive toesurgery after a frostbite incident in college. Whenever his ass-toe itches,Darryn is either going to have great sex or be in trouble. And I know what you’rethinking because I was thinking it, too: Keeper!) If it weren’t for Madetra’saffair with Gerald, I’m sure she’d be lost. (Oh, I should also mention thatGerald is the one supplying drugs to Madetra’s husband because he wants Hubbyout of the way so he can have Madetra.)
E’An justcontinues to be E’An, and this mainly entails making inappropriate comments toMadetra whenever they’re in the same scene.
Anyways,about halfway through the book, we end up with not one, but two, instances ofblackmail. E’An has photographic evidence of Madetra’s affair with Gerald, sohe threatens to tell her husband unless she starts sleeping with him.Humiliation sex ensues.
Meanwhile,Destanie has photographic proof that Kaylantra is not faithful to Fineese, andwill expose her to her newly-live-in boyfriend if Kaylantra refuses to be asurrogate for her baby. (Back in the day, Finesse made Destanie get anabortion. She is now sterile, and in addition to wanting a child, she thinksKaylantra and Finesse will break up once Kaylantra is pregnant because she’llbe fat. No joke. She verbalizes this logic. Also, as per the discussionquestions, “The issue of surrogacy is an important one in the novel. If youwere asked to carry a child for someone else, would you do it?”) The doublewhammy is that Destanie has photos of Kaylantra with her mystery customer whoturns out to be …. Drum roll please … her brother-in-law Darryn.
Shockedand appalled, Kaylantra agrees to be Destanie’s surrogate. Only, once she’spregnant, she learns that she’s actually carrying Finesse’s baby. (You see,early in the book, Finesse and Destanie have some ex sex, and she throws himout of her house because she has to get to “the bank.” Finesse tells her not toworry about the ATM. But, Destanie wasn’t talking about a financial bank. She’soff to the sperm bank with the condom that Finesse used that night. Check andmate!)
Kaylantracan’t hand over her and Finesse’s baby to crazy Destanie, so she decides totell Finesse about the blackmail (leaving out the stuff about sexing up herbrother-in-law, of course.) Finesse becomes enraged, and takes off withKaylantra in the car to confront Destanie.
Only hedrives too fast.
The carflips and Kaylantra, Finesse and their unborn baby are killed. Arriving at thescene of the accident, Madetra is horrified to find that her sister is dead.Then, as if by some divine hand by the name of too many absurd plot twists, sheis handed the only thing that survived the crash (bodies and car included) —photos of her husband knocking boots with her sister.
So,somewhere between her husband’s downward spiral, degradation sex with acolleague, her sister’s death and having to remember how to spell the names ofall the members of DAT Club, Madetra has a homicidal break. Her only goalthroughout the rest of the book is to sex the remaining members of DAT Club todeath. “Mad is mad,” as the books says. (Both her nickname and an emotion! Bothcrazy and angry! Oh the double entendre!)
Shepoisons Darryn and E’An with dioxin (she is a doctor after all), so that theyhave heart attacks mid-coitus. Then, after a bout of switched-teams sex withDestanie, she shoots up pure, uncut cocaine into Destanie’s bathing suit area. (Ifyou saw that one coming, I think you should drive to the nearest psychiatricfacility immediately.)
Her finalcoup de grace, and proof that not a single police officer in Kansas City ispaying attention to the amazingly-similar deaths in town of people who ALL KNEWEACH OTHER FOR YEARS, is to get rid of Gerald.
WhenMadetra arrives at Gerald’s home, he is happy to see her because the fact thatthey’re the only two surviving members of DAT Club means that they must be soul mates.
Here’s how it would go if I was part of a group thathad only two surviving members:
Other Living Soul: Can you believe we’re the only twoleft?!?!
Me: Silence – because I’m running as far away from you asI can get.
If I was in a club where everyone had been killedexcept for me and one other person, you can bet like hell I’d be staying awayfrom that other person. I know I’m not the murderer. Odds that the only othersurviving club member is also not a murderer? Not good.
So, inher last act of sex death, Madetra eats a peanut butter sandwich (to whichGerald is severely allergic), covers the smell on her breath with cinnamonAltoids and tongue lashes Gerald until he goes into anaphylactic shock anddies.
"ForMadetra, it was finally over.”
I onlywish that it could be over for me. Since reading this book, I feel like I havebeen Trippin’ is the worst possible sense.
My Misspent Youth?
This probably won’t come as a surprise to most, but I spent a large portion of my elementary years as a mathlete.
For the fifth and sixth grades, I was a proud, non-alternate member of my school’s math team. Yes, I chose to take tests outside of the designated school hours, and I spent at least one afternoon a week engaged in our “practices” of reviewing math principles and playing with protractors. (Well, we weren’t “playing with” protractors – that would have been contrary to our goal. We drew perfect circles and measured radii for a reason.)
The high point of every math team season was the two tournaments we participated in – one was held at Highland’s Day in Birmingham, and the other was an “away” tournament at Montgomery Academy.
(If you ever want to feel better about your own adolescent years, consider this:
I attended private school – where I prided myself on being on the honor roll and participating in the French Club – but played sports in the league associated with the local public school. I knew no one on my team. I was “the weird private school kid.” And, with my athletic abilities, there was already more than enough to make fun of me for just based on what I did on the field. I am not kidding when I say that I usually had to go through 20 minutes of keep away before having the cap I needed to play.
What could make this worse, you ask? I once missed a game because of one of my math tournaments. This is a fact I was more than willing to keep to myself. But, as my softball coach was giving me my award for “best sportsmanship” – yep, you heard it right – he announced that I put as much heart into my softball playing as I did into my math tournaments.
I can still hear the snickers.
The most difficult part of the math tournament was known as “ciphering.” Ciphering is also the most active part of a math tournament because it’s the only activity that doesn’t involve sitting in a silent room taking a test.For ciphering, a member of each team takes a seat at the front of the auditorium and waits for a math problem to be placed on an overhead projector. The team member must them solve the problem and hand it off to the checker behind them.
And, here’s the real kicker: If you finish the problem in 30 seconds, you get two points. If you finish in 60 seconds, you get one point. (No answers were accepted after 60 seconds.) What is a mathlete to do? Double-check your work and be sure of the one point? Or, throw caution to the wind and try for the two points? Oh, the dilemma.
When I was 11, ciphering terrified me. It used to make me almost sick to my stomach. Mood rings were pretty popular around the time I was on the math team, and I remember thinking that if I wore a mood ring during ciphering, it would be pitch black because of all the nerves I had. (Of course, I would never wear a mood ring during actual ciphering – it might have slowed down my pencil work.)
I would always cipher. (I didn’t want to risk being bumped down to the team’s alternate position.) But, I was never quite comfortable with it. And, I don't think I ever scored more than two points for every five questions I answered.
Even today, I get a little taste of those old ciphering (and softball) nerves every time I have to speak in front of a room full of people, go on a first date or introduce myself to strangers. (Will they judge me? Will I get something wrong? Is my skirt tucked in the back of my underwear?) I may not look much like the fifth grader who had to jump for her softball cap, but she’s still there.
I’ve come to accept that no matter how old I get, how much experience I gather or how much makeup I have on, I’ve got an adolescent girl on the inside who still can’t believe she’s out of a training bra. And, for the most part, I think I like it that way. It reminds me that despite some of the ups and downs of the last few years, I have made some progress.
After all, I can wear a baseball cap whenever I want, and when I do balance my checkbook, it happens in under 60 seconds without me hyperventilating a single bit.
You Know You're in a Recession When Your Neighborhood BP Station Starts Selling Porn
Times are tough. We're all looking for new ways to make and save money. If you're in business, you've got to innovate to stay alive.
And if you're my local gas station, "innovate" means "turn to the skin industry." (Actually, come to think of it, those two concepts are probably synonymous for a lot of the population. Sigh.)
You can imagine my surprise when I walked in to the convenience store for a bag of Cheetos and some Diet Coke after my fill-up and discovered pornography where the donut boxes used to be. Sure, you can't find wine or liquor in the BP, but there is porn. Because that makes sense.
I was also surprised by the "grab bag" concept of porn in which you trade a non-de-script box labeled "black," "white" or "latina" for an actual title from behind the cash register. It seems like an odd formula, but my guess is that if you're accustomed to getting your jollies at the gas station, you're not all that particular to begin with.