Controversial Subject Matter
After thinking back to my adventures in the library the other day, I also remembered how difficult term paper time was. Some kids might have been content with topics like Yosemite National Park or the First Thanksgiving, but not I. When it came to research papers, I liked my topics rich and fascinating -- and in the mind of my sixth grade teacher, that also meant controversial.
In the fourth grade, my first experience in the world of research papers, we were all supposed to choose a country. Naturally, I picked China because my grandmother had recently visited there. I also really liked egg rolls, so it seemed like a great fit. In addition to writing the paper, we also gave presentations. I wore the pajamas my grandmother had brought me as a souvenir, and after a trip to the Asian market with my father (a fascinating outing to what I thought was a secret underworld, but was really just a strip mall in a part of town people from Mountain Brook didn't shop), my mother and I made chicken fried rice that we served to the class.
(I also remember not being able to understand who in the world came upwith the rules for a bibliography. Were the strange rules and offpunctuation really necessary? Reverse indentation? Seriously? I'm notsure I get it to this day.)
In the fifth grade, the field was wide open, so I chose the rain forest as my subject matter. While this might have seemed pretty innocuous -- and maybe it was -- I had just read about deforestation and had to know more. So, really, I like to think of that term paper as the first manifesto of a budding environmentalist.
But, the sixth grade was the most difficult year of all. Our teacher kept up with our papers at each stage of the process, so we earned points for a certain number of note cards, an outline, the rough draft, etc. While it seemed tedious at the time, there was no danger of the college research paper written the night before its due date.
The first step to the process was deciding on a topic. When the time came to earn those five points, I scribbled "Roe v. Wade" on a slip of paper and handed it in.
The teacher called me over after class. "Is this really the topic you want to do?" I nodded yes. "Why on earth is this what you want to research?" she said.
"Everyone talks about it all the time. And politicians always bring it up. I just want to know what it's all about."
"OK, then," she said, "but you're going to have to get a signed permission slip from your parents."
I had no idea why I needed permission to research a topic that was on the news and in books. I figured that if something was in the library, it was fair game. (Naive? Sure. I didn't really get what "controversial" was all about yet.) I went home, gave my parents the exact same reason for wanting to look into the topic, and being the liberals that they are, they signed my permission slip and sent me back to school the next day.
Reading and research were OK in their books.
When I went to actually research the topic though, I realized I was in a bit over my head for a 1,200 word paper. (An opus at the time, but not exactly enough room to cover the intricacies of one of the Supreme Court's most influential rulings.) Plus, the same librarian was still around, and I knew better than to ask her for help again.
Never one to back down from my school work, I prepared to tell my teacher that I needed to change topics, and I already had a back-up in mind. The next day I gave her a new piece of paper. "Really?" she said. I nodded again. "I'm going to need another permission slip."
I went home and had yet another conversation with my parents. They, of course, agreed to my wishes. My mother just had one caveat, "Please don't ever tell your grandmother you're doing a research paper on witchcraft. I don't think that will go over well."
On the bright side, by the next year when I chose Rev. Jim Jones and Jonestown as a topic, my teacher actually seemed relieved.
No Pain, No Gain
Right or wrong, I tend to think that nothing worth having ever came easy. In fact, for the most part, I think the most important accomplishments in our life should downright hurt.
Now, I'm not saying that nothing should come easy or it should be a constant hurt. If you date someone who hurts you terribly, you don't keep dating them. If you date someone who hurts you terribly, you learn something about yourself from that relationship and move on. (You also move on to someone who does not possess the same qualities/characteristics/immaturity that your previous significant other did. If you've never seen Straight Talk, a kind-of-wonderful, kind-of-awful movie starring Dolly Parton and James Woods, watch it just to understand this: if you keep finding yourself with corn flakes, despite what the outside label says, it's time to make a change.)
It's really that I think the journey should hurt. If you ever sit next to me while I'm watching an episode of MTV's Made or A&E's Intervention, you might think I'm a terrrible person. I watch those shows and beg the counselors/trainers/family members to "break" the individual. I almost want to see them shattered because I believe that only in breaking down our defenses and paradigms can we challenge ourselves to do and seek better.
I believe that when it comes to the things we want most in life, we have to try our hardest. Unfortunately, even when we try our hardest, we won't always succeed. And this is where the defensive part of us kicks in and says either not to try that hard, or not to try at all, for the sense of preserving our self-esteem, self-worth, etc. But, it's only in daring to truly fail that we do our best.
My second semester of graduate school, I signed up to audit a creative nonfiction class at the University of Alabama at Tuscaloosa. The class was all real MFA students, and when it was time to go around the room and introduce ourselves, those students tossed around terms like "When I was at Rolling Stone" and "my grant for my book" and "numerous poetry awards."
I had, "I like to read." I cried every week before I had to go to that class. I felt inadequate and stupid. I felt like there was nothing I could offer.
I psyched myself out badly, and I also became so afraid of the class' reaction to my work, that I couldn't hear my own voice. When it was time to present my piece to the class, there were barely any reactions because the piece was so terrible. (In a workshop, talking means people are engaged, the absence of talking means there might not be much to take away.) The comment I remember most was, "What you probably need to do is sit down and just write what comes to you without judging it at first."
I knew it was English 101 advice, and I knew it.
A week later, I ran into another student who was supposed to present a piece on the same day I did. "I just couldn't get my draft together," she said. "Everything I wrote just seemed to suck, and I couldn't let anyone see it."
"You shouldn't be afraid," I said. "You saw what I turned in."
"Yeah," she said, and then she couldn't look me in the eye.
In the weeks leading up to my next workshop for the class, I had a fair amount of time to reflect. A lot of me wanted to drop the class -- what was I doing there anyway? All the class did was make my cry and question my chosen vocation.
I also realized, though, that I had already failed miserably. No one in that class thought I could write -- teacher, peers and myself included. I couldn't do any worse. So, even if I dropped the class, I wouldn't get any of my dignity or sense of self back.
Instead of dropping, I went to work. I threw out 9 of the 11 pages I had written. I started fresh, and since I had already messed up so royally by trying to please everyone else and play it safe, it seemed best to just listen to myself. Any writer, or human being, will tell you that voice tends to matter the most anyway.
For my next workshop, the class was engaged. Everyone had comments. The girl who I thought hated me led the discussion and pointed out turns of phrase that she loved. My professor said, "This is what a revision should be. Excellent work. Really."
I was elated.
Of course, not all of my stories about failing have such a nice ending. Until recently, I thought I might be doomed in the relationship department. It took far more than a semester's worth of failing and self-doubt to get that one on the right track. And, I still haven't found a job since getting laid off nine months ago. However, in general, while failure and disappointment hurt like hell at the time, I would not trade the hurt for the freedom it provides -- the freedom to take your own path.
When I was nineteen, I knew that I was miserable at school. A lot of people tried to tell me that it was just life as a freshman, that once I made more friends/joined a sorority/got a new boyfriend, I'd be happy as a clam. But, I knew better.
I'll never forget sitting down with the dean of what was then the third ranked university in the country. "Why would you ever want to leave our little utopia?" he said.
"It's not a utopia for me," I said.
"I'll sign this little paper," he said, referring to a form I needed to transfer schools. "But you're making the biggest mistake of your life."
Personally, I don't believe in telling any teenager that a decision that doesn't involve heroin is the biggest mistake of his or her life. I also think, that no matter who the authority is, when it comes down to it, it's just one person's opinion. And who's to say the best authority on me and my own well-being, isnt, well, me?
I probably could have saved myself from a lot of bumps along the way, but I would have had to play it safe, and I'm not so sure I like safe. I like different, and inventive, and new, and even radical. I don't want to be told what to do, I want to find it for myself.
Maybe not everyone has to hurt, and maybe not everyone likes it. Maybe I only think hurt is worthwhile because it creates such a good contrast to happiness, just like dark and light. But, really, I think that without hurt, I wouldn't have figured out how to listen to myself, and that, as well as the choices I make as a result -- be it a romantic partner, career or cereal combination -- is worth the risk, the potential failure and the pain.
Plus, there's only one person's eyes that I need to be a success in, and that's my own. And, when I can really convince myself of that one, it's the most freedom I've every known.
P.S. This particular entry? Not so easy to illustrate. Hence, the weird graphic of a broken heart. Please just try to go with it.
My Piece de Resistance
As some of you know, I love carving pumpkins. It's one of my random skill sets that I take a ridiculous amount of pride in (other abilities on the list: how well I parallel park and my Erotic Photo Hunt scores). This Halloween, I carved three pumpkins. Normally I try to get to five, but there's recession on in case you hadn't heard. While I like all of my pumpkins, there's one I'll talk about for years to come. Be prepared friends and family:
Sketch Comedy
A few summers ago, while I was living in my inflatable apartment in Chicago, I took some sketch comedy writing classes as part of the adult one-week immersion classes at Second City. It was ridiculously fun, and I think it helped me have a better grasp of plot.
You also never know what you'll come up with when left entirely to your own devices. Since I mainly write nonfiction, few aliens, zombies or ninjas show up in my work. With pure fiction, anything can happen. That being said, I give you my out-of-context sketch:
"The Trainee"
CAROL: (Waving offstage.)OK, kids, just go on up tothe register. Enjoy your new furry friends!
MITCH: (ApproachingCarol.)Alright, Carol, at two wehave the Jennifer Thompson birthday party. Then, at four, we have Joey Miller’sshebang. And, we round it out at six with Sarah Champion’s party. They’re allbringing their own cakes, but you’re going to have to cut and serve, as usual.
CAROL: Look, Mitch, like I’ve toldyou before, I can’t handle all of these hours. I’ve already been thrown up ontwice today. You have to hire somebody else to help out on the weekends.
MITCH:Carol, I’ve listened toyour complaints. I really have.
CAROL: Oh, really? Well, what haveyou done about it?
MITCH: Actually, I’ve hiredsomebody new, and as soon as you train him, you can start spending more time atthe register and less time on birthday parties.
CAROL: That’s great, Mitch. Youknow I really appreciate that. I’m actually really excited...
MITCH: (over)Why don’t you come onover ... (Beckonsoffstage. Genghis enters.)Carol, I’d like you to meetGenghis Khan. Genghis, this is Carol.
CAROL: Uh, hi Genghis. It’s niceto meet you.
GENGHIS: (Grunting.) Good concubine.
CAROL: Excuse me?
MITCH:Well, now that you two areacquainted, I’ll leave you guys to get to it. Good luck Genghis.
CAROL:Well, I guess we’ll start withthe animal selection ... (Carolturns her back on Genghis while she gestures to the wall ofun-stuffed animals.) Some of these animals areincluded in the normal price, like the smaller teddy bears, and some of themare considered “premium” animals.
GENGHIS: (WhileCarol has her back to Genghis, he is digging through the boxof stuffing and triumphantly lifting fistfuls of it.)Infidels!
CAROL: (Turningback around.) Are you following me? (Genghis grunts excitedly,still holding his fistfuls of stuffing.) No, no, no, Genghis. One ofthe first rules of Build-A-Bear is that we never, ever play with the stuffingunless we are actually building a bear. (Genghis hangs his head in shame and drops the stuffingback into the big box.)
CAROL: (Turningher back again.) But, since you like thestuffing so much, I guess we could skip ahead to actually stuffing the bears ... (Carol isgently stuffing a bear.) Now, you want the bears tobe firm, but not un-huggable. And we also make sure to give all of the animalsa heart while we’re stuffing them ... (Genghis is stuffing hisbear violently, continually shoving his fist into the bear, so that he lookslike he’s stabbing it.) (Turningback around.) Do you need a heart foryour bear?
GENGHIS: (Grunting while still stabbing his bear.) The rivers will run withblood!
CAROL: Oh! No, no, no, no, noGenghis. Build-A-Bear is a gentle place. A place of love. One of our other veryimportant rules is not to scare the children. And violent stuffing techniquestend to do that. (Genghishangs his head in shame and grunts softly.) Don’t get too discouraged.Hopefully the third time’s the charm. (Carolturns back to the wall.) Now, once the bear isstuffed, the children might want to dress it up in any of the clothes or otheraccessories we offer.
GENGHIS: (Genghis rips the stuffedhead off of his bear, puts it on a stick in front of him, and nodsapprovingly.) Victory is mine!
CAROL: (Turningback around.) Oh my God! What have youdone?
GENGHIS: (Genghis grunts happily.)Conquered the enemy?
(Mitchenters.)
MITCH: What’s going on over here?
CAROL: (Gesturestowards the bear head on a stick.) I’m sorry, Mitch, but thisjust isn’t working out.
MITCH: OK, OK, I was afraid ofthis. Look, Genghis, I know you gave this a shot, but I just don’t think thatBuild-A-Bear is the right place for you.
GENGHIS: These things happen. (Genghis hangs his head,grunts, shrugs his shoulders, and walks offstage.)
CAROL: Well, what do we do now?
MITCH: Don’t worry yet, Carol. Ihad a back-up in case the training didn’t go well ... (Beckonsoffstage. Vlad enters.)Carol, this is Vlad theImpaler. Vlad, Carol.
(End.)
Halloween History: Part One
Halloween One: Superman
Halloween Two: Bumble Bee
Halloween Three: Bunny Rabbit
So far, I think the theme is "leotards." If I remember correctly, I really wanted to be a ghost for Halloween when I was three. Unfortunately, I hadn't thought of the fact that I didn't like having anything over my face. The moment the sheet went over my head, I freaked out -- and the ghost costume was out.
Halloween Four: ???
An all red outfit and a tiara? Was I a bejeweled lobster? An angry princess? When you consider that I wore my tiara nearly contantly, too, that might not even have been part of my costume. It was kind of an every day accessory at that point.
I really wish I knew what answer I gave to bewildered parents that year as I trick-or-treated. Rogue fireman? Clifford the big red dog?
Interestingly enough, my costume this year is leotard-like as well. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same.
"Culture Shock in Asia," Lipstick, March 2009
A travel-themed essay from Lipstick's last issue. Download Culture_shock
Banned Books
My grandmother believed that as long as my father was reading, he could read whatever he wanted. This is why, when an elementary school teacher "caught" him with an Ian Fleming novel and demanded "Does your mother know about this?" my father thought, "Who do you think bought it for me?"
My parents took a similar approach to my own reading. I was never told there was a book I couldn't read. And I can only remember being forbidden to watch one TV show. (It was "Married ... With Children," and now that I can watch it as an adult, I can't help but think the ban had more to do with the fact that the show just isn't funny than anything else.) As long as I was reading, I could pick out whatever book I wanted.
Now, of course, this philosophy wasn't understood by all. I can still remember being in the local library the summer before fifth grade. I had my summer reading list in front of me and had circled all of the books I was interested in. The one at the top of my list was "Death Be Not Proud." (I thought it sounded very adult.) But, since I was having a hard time with the Dewey Decimal system -- it's something I still struggle with -- I had to ask a librarian for help. I took her my list and asked her to help me find the books.
I knew I was in trouble when she turned away from the adult section of the library and headed towards the brightly-colored, way-too-much-construction-paper-on-the-walls "young adult" section. "Oh, you don't want these books," she said. "I'll find some much better books for you."
Then, she put something called "The Lemon Dog" in my hands. I can rarely recall feeling as powerless as I did in that moment. The cover was illustrated for God's sake, and I hadn't read a book with less than 100 pages an in illustrated cover in over three years. "But ..." I began.
Before I knew it, six more books with illustrated covers were piled in my hands. "Will that be all for today?" she said.
I nodded and went back to find my housekeeper who had driven my sisters and I to the library. "Did you get what you needed?" she asked.
I shook my head and showed her the books the librarian had "helped" me find.
"Are these the books you wanted?"
"No," I said. "Do I look like I want to read "The Lemon Dog"? "The Lemon Dog"?!?! I'm ten, Esther, not stupid."
My housekeeper then took my list from me and marched back to the same librarian. "These aren't the books she wanted to find," she said.
"Oh, well," the librarian said, "I didn't think those were good books for a child her age. I picked out more appropriate titles."
"I think we'll let her decide what she wants to read -- not you," Esther said. "Now what shelf is this one on?"
I walked out of the library that day vindicated and clutching my very own copy of "Death Be Not Proud." (I was also more in love with Esther than ever.)
Admittedly, I'm not a parent, but I still wonder why random adults have such strong opinions about what a child should and shouldn't be reading, watching, doing. I think this is especially true when they're asking for books. I wanted to read, after all, not have the librarian show me the best spot in the library for smoking crack.
And, it's also amazing to me how easy it is for me to feel like that powerless child again whenever someone questions my authority -- you're having another glass of wine? you're buying that? you let your dog do what?. As I near 30, I wonder if this feeling will ever go away, and I'm guessing that, unfortunately, the answer is probably "no."
My Cat Thinks He's A Dog
I have a love/hate relationship with my blog's stats. On the one hand, the narcissistic part of me has to know how many people clicked on my website in a given day. On the other hand, the numbers themselves can be a bit of a downer. Thank you Mom and Dad for continuing to visit, but in comparison to even some friend's Twitter followers, I'm not causing much of a stir on the world wide web.
For those of you wondering what any of this has to do with my cat's identity issues, here goes: One trend I have noticed is that anytime I put "cat" or "dog" in a blog title, my number of visitors doubles. (Strangely enough, my mention of "Scott Bakula" has a similar effect. Whether or not these two are related, I can't say.) So, in an effort to give the people what they want -- and boost my Google search rating -- here are the top three indicators my cat thinks he's a dog:
3. He tries drink out of the toilet. I have no idea where this came from, but it happened. I'm just glad I was around, and he didn't drown. I don't think he knows he isn't the same size as the dog either.
2. While he clearly has no use for the litter box, he has shown some success in the house-training department with puppy pads. My next step: putting the puppy pad in the litter box. Please keep your fingers crossed.
1. He tries to nurse on Cassidy. I had no idea what was going on when this first happened (my first clue anything was amiss was a very perplexed look from the dog), but sure enough, there was the cat trying to get milk out of the dog that's been fixed for five years. I read on the Internet that this is very common for young cats, especially when they're small and looking for comfort. It's also supposedly a sign that the cat sees Cassidy as his mom. The only problem? I don't think Cassidy wants to be anyone's mom. She's much happier being my very pampered baby. I imagine that this one will work itself out. There's only so many times you can go back to the pantry looking for nourishment when you know it's empty, right? Otherwise, I try to make sure Cassidy has plenty of her own space -- even if that space comes with the caveat of snuggling with me.
And for my own purely selfish reasons, I will also add that both Cassidy and the cat completely adore Scott Bakula.
David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness
Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.
(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)
In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:
He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.
"Basil," I said.
"That looks like basil?"
"No," I said, "I thought you asked what Laurel looks like. I think Laurel looks like basil."
"OK," he said, "but what does that look like?" and he pointed at his drawing again.
"Thyme?"
At that point, he gave up, wrote basil next to the bananas (?) and drew a marijuana leaf and a dime. We could both agree on those representations. Then, in my next book, he wrote:
Now, I'm pretty sure that I told no good stories. Other than the discussion of herbs and my compliment to his tie, I don't think anything close to "touching" ever happened. Yet, at the same time -- even though I know this has no bearing on reality -- I found myself incredibly moved by the sentiment.
The moral to this story: I'm a sucker. And what I choose to believe/remember is so much better than what actually happens.
My Life Is Hard
Some people wash their faces in the shower out of convenience. I do it out of necessity.
You see, that whole image perpetuated by Oil of Olay commercials and Neutrogena ads of a woman who is capable of rinsing her face with a perfectly controlled mini-splash from the sink is just beyond me. When I wash my face, it usually goes like this:
First, I knock over my toothbrush stand and hair brush using one hand to search for a towel while my eyes are clamped shut. (If I dare to open my eyes even a second too soon, I inevitably get face cleanser in my eye leading to some crying, frantic eye-rinsing and ten minutes of hyperventilating while I wonder whether or not I have inadvertently blinded myself.)
Then, once I find the towel and pat my face dry, I look in the mirror to see that stray face cleanser has found its way into my hair and ears. I spend more time cleaning up from washing my face than actually washing my face. Missed soap in the hair is the worst -- it does not dry well.
Next, not only will I have water stains on my shirt from out-of-control splashing, but the entire waistline of whatever I've decided to wear will also has a line of water across it from leaning over the sink. This routine always ends with having to find an entirely new outfit before leaving the house. (And, for me in my pre-underemployment days, picking out not one, but two, business casual outfits in a day was rather time-consuming.)
With the shower face wash, there's no danger of ruined outfits, and I can't tell you how much time and frustration this has saved. I repeat -- my life is hard.
On a completely unrelated note, if anyone has any blog topics to suggest, I'd love to hear them. Even I'm finding it hard to make my days seem at all interesting to anyone else. Not that you can tall from this post, of course.
My Life in Cosmetics
When I turned 12, my mother took me on a special outing to the Clinique counter at the mall so that I could learn about skin care. We bought soap, toner, moisturizer and a lip gloss in acknowledgment of what would be the beginning of my life with cosmetics. After all, I was about to be a teenager, and for the most part, teenage girls and makeup go hand in hand.
I already had a slew of products picked up from the drug store, but those bright blue eye shadows and hot pink lip colors were for inside the house and "play' time only. I could actually go to school in my new Clinique lip gloss, and it was thrilling.
As I approach the milestone of my thirtieth birthday, I started thinking about my life in cosmetics. (I know that 30 is "the new 20," but I still find myself thinking about this birthday a little more than others.) I even came up with a brief history of my makeup usage:
Age 12: Lip gloss.
Age 15: Powder, mascara, lip gloss.
Age 18: Concealer, powder, blush, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, lip liner, lipstick.
Age 21: Body glitter and mascara. (Body glitter was very popular then, I swear. And, back then, my skin just seemed to glow with youth and possibility. Or, maybe it was just over-confidence and naivety.)
Age 25: Foundation, powder, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick.
Around the age of 25, I realized $3 foundation wasn't going to cut it anymore. At 20, my foundation cost $5 and my eye shadow cost $25. Now, my foundation costs $35 and my eye shadow costs $5.
But, what's most interesting to me is the change in my "no makeup" face. Now, I don't know about you, but I just assume that anyone who looks decent and says they "don't have a stitch of makeup on" is lying. "Women who don't wear makeup" are just wearing very little makeup. I mean, my mom gave me some great genes, but if I don't slap on some concealer, even a blind man would know it.
And I can tell you with no shame whatsoever that if I say I'm not wearing makeup, I'm full of it. (Unless, of course, we run into each other at the hospital or the liquor store. And, in those moments, you won't say "Your skin looks great. Do you have anything on?" At those times, you'll say, "Are you OK?" or "Trouble sleeping lately?".)
At 21, my "no makeup" face required concealer and mascara. Today, my "no makeup" face is a careful balance of foundation, powder, eye base, eye brightener, bronzer, mascara, eyebrow filler and nude lipstick. (You can now see why I didn't type out my Age 29 makeup routine. I lost count after the tenth product.)
I only hope my income bracket can keep up with my growing need for cosmetics. (Sigh.) And, while I know that the alternative to aging is death--and in that scenario, I'll always take aging, I do wish my ever-expanding makeup case wasn't such a persistent sign of my deepening "maturity."
Warning: Graphic Content
I'm re-posting this today to join the conversation started by The Women's Fund of Birmingham and NBC13 about domestic violence. You can join the conversation here.
There was a lot of talk on the web about Keira Knightley's domestic violence ad. (It is posted above, and it is quite graphic,so please watch at your own discretion.) What fascinates me most aboutthe discussion though is how many people are saying that the ad is toographic and goes too far.
We live in a culture where women are regularly depicted as the objects of violence -- watch any episode of Law & Order, CSI or Criminal Minds, check out a Lifetime movie, or even watch one of the many true crime specials from TruTv to A&E to Datelineif you're not convinced of this. We regularly see women as victims whoare brutalized at the hands of others. Just last night, I watched anepisode of Medium in which a woman is killed by her brother andthen another woman is convinced by this same brother to undergo severalpainful surgeries so that he can get back into her mother's will.Regardless of how you feel about these shows or what the message behindthem is, it is impossible to deny how often we see images of womenbeing physically harmed in the media.
Yet, an ad that addresses a painful reality for 25% of Americanwomen is too much. I have a suggestion for those who think this ad goestoo far: If you're that upset by violence against women, work harder tostop it from happening. Let's give women the resources to get away fromabusive men. Let's put more rapists and abusers in prison. And, perhapsmost importantly, let's get real about the fact that domestic violenceis happening all around us.
In the past year, we have also seen coverage of the Jennifer Hudson tragedy and Chris Brown's attack on Rihanna.We've seen that no one is immune to domestic violence. But, I fearthat what we've also seen is a reinforcement of the idea that domesticviolence is a "private matter." Days after being arrested, Chris Brownwas photographed jet skiing, and the one person who said somethingabout how inappropriate it was to be having fun after choking the womanone supposedly loves, Usher, was also pressured to apologize for thesesame comments days later.
Chris Brown, I don't care how "remorseful" you are. You don't get to have fun on a jet ski before Rihanna'sbruised have healed. In fact, you can't have fun until you've answeredfor your transgressions in a court of law. If it was up to me, youwouldn't be allowed to smile until you had been punished for the brutalbeating you gave.
I'm also posting another domestic violence ad from the NationalCoalition Against Domestic Violence. While not quite as graphic as thevideo above, I think it is quite powerful.
Domestic violence isn't a "private" or "family" matter. It's aquestion of life and death. And it needs to be treated as such.Domestic violence is graphic. And maybe our collective denial about thereality of domestic violence is hurting rather than helping thesituation.
What do you think? Does the ad go too far? Does it go far enough?
Mean Girl
Forthe large part, I was a very good kid. In some ways, I was almost good to afault. I made straight A’s, rarely got in trouble and had more than a casualrelationship with the term “teacher’s pet.” I longed to be just a little bitbad—to watch R-rated movies without guilt, say the occasional bad word when nogrown-ups were around, make telephone calls after 9:00 p.m.—but I was far tooafraid of anyone’s disappointment, judgment or disapproval to strive foranything less than perfection.
Infourth grade, Bethanywas the new girl in class. Our school had small classes and little turnover, soa new kid was incredibly exciting. She’d also moved from the big city of Atlanta, so between the cosmopolitan background andnovelty factor, I liked Bethanyalmost immediately.
Shehad her own bathroom and a TV and VCR all to herself. When we had sleepovers,her mom drove us to the grocery story and video store, and we could pick outwhatever we wanted. We usually came back from the grocery with sour cream andonion potato chips, sour patch kids and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines.
(Bethany was also the onlygirl I knew to actually read Tiger Beat every week, and her closet was coveredin tear-out pages of pop stars and sitcom leads. I can’t quite remember if itwas Kirk Cameron or Johnny Depp’s poster that had worn lips from her goodnightkisses.)
Bethany sometimes called me LittleMiss Perfect, but it didn’t bother me too much, and it was pretty rare.
Byfifth grade, Bethany and I both loved to sing and perform. Fueled by too manypotato chips, we dressed up, staged photographs and choreographed dances duringmost of those sleepovers.
Theonly thing was that Bethanywas actually pretty good at singing, and I most definitely was not. (To loveBroadway musicals and be tone deaf is a burden I try to bear well.)
Oneday when we were in the hallway at school, some older kids overheard Bethany singing.
“That’sreally good,” one of them said. “Sing louder.”
“Yeah,”another seventh grader added, “You could totally be in the choir. Have you evertried out?”
Bethany was elated. “Can youbelieve they said that? I thought I was pretty good, but I didn’t know I wasthat good.”
I,on the other hand, was not. I’d lost a solo in our school’s holiday program tomy friend Leah years before, and I still wasn’t over it, and now Bethany was being praisedfor one of the talents I wanted most in the world.
“Icouldn’t actually join choir though. That’s too much, don’t you think? But, ifthey really thought I was that good, maybe I should give it a shot.”
Thirtyminutes later, in art class, when Bethanywas still going on and on about her great singing, I’d had enough.
“Ithink I’m going to do it. I think I’m going to try out for choir. What do youthink?”
“Ithink it’d be great,” I said. “Then you’d have something to do other than bragall the time.”
Bethany just stared back at me.Another friend at the same art table said, “Geez, Laurel. That was harsh.”
I’ddone it. The rule-abiding, sweet teacher’s pet had stepped outside her box andbeen sassy, confrontational—and mean. I felt guilty for days. As bad as it feltto have my voice ignored while Bethanywas praised and lavished with attention, it felt far worse to have been so rudeto a friend.
Myone flirtation with the dark side out of the way, I went right back to my goodgirl ways. For the time being, at least …
Tales of a Third-Grade Nothing
When I wasin third grade, the “Are you a virgin?” question was incredibly popular amongthe cool kids. (Two quick side notes: 1) I went to a private school with nomore than 30 people in a grade, “cool” is incredibly relative. 2) From what Ihear, this question still makes the rounds in elementary school. Based on whatI see on “Dateline: Undercover at Spring Break,” I would have thought there’dbe far more scintillating inquiries in schools these days.)
This isbasically how it went:
“Hey, X!” Giggle, giggle, giggle.
“Yeah?”
“So,”giggle, giggle, giggle, “Are you a virgin?” (You have to imagine that last partas VER-jin in Southern tween.)
If X said“no,” lots more giggling and mockery ensued. If X said “yes,” it was time tomove onto the next target. (In third grade, unlike eleventh grade, you got mademore fun of for saying that you weren’t a virgin rather than for saying thatyou were.)
I have noidea why this game was popular—other than the fact that “virgin” counts as anaughty word when you’re nine—but I do know the worst answer of all was torespond with, “I don’t know, what’s a virgin?” Because, of course, if youdidn’t know what a virgin was, you were soooo immature and unworldly. I was askedthe question in the hallway outside the class room one day before lunch.
“HeyLaurel, are you a virgin?”
“Ofcourse,” I said in one of my rare moments of confidence, “I’m only in the thirdgrade. I’ve never been married.”
(I’d askedmy mom what a virgin was. She told me it was someone who had never beenmarried. I admit that it was a good answer on her part. It just never wouldhave stood up to the scrutiny and torment of intent pre-teen girls.)
The teacher made us stop talking togo to lunch at that point—something I’m forever grateful for. Somehow in aterrain with three expected answers—two of which were sure to bring scorn, I’dmanaged to find the unchartered territory of a fourth answer. And I’m prettysure that having the wrong idea about what a virgin is would be far worse thanhaving no definition at all.
It was justone of many, many times to come that I’d welcome the distraction of an upcomingmeal. Red Mountain Law is happy to report that after nearly three years inbusiness, we are now stronger and more committed than ever to being the legalsolution for small businesses
Early to Nothing
I don't like being early.
I know lots of people are nuts for it, and any advice on job-searching always begins with "be early for the interview," but personally, I've never seen the point. After all, what's the best thing that's going to happen if I'm early? I'll get to wait in a non-descript room with outdated magazines, other people will know that I'm early and hopefully all events/appointments will begin on time?
Eh, I say. Events/appointments will also begin on time if I'm ON TIME, so what does this early nonsense really accomplish? (I never said I was a fan of being late as opposed to being early. For once, I'm opting for the non-excess, middle road of simple punctuality.) And if I'm early and my appointment begins early, I got nothing from this exchange that wouldn't also happen if I was on time.
Also, it seems that being early always involves waiting, and I hate waiting. I don't want to leave my house 15 minutes early to read a Birmingham Parent from 2006 about summer camp tips for teens when I could stay at my house for those 15 minutes and throw a load of clothes in the wash or catch the end of Cheaters. If I'm going to be wasting time anywhere, I want it to be at home and not in a corporate lobby.
People say, "What if there's traffic? What if you have trouble parking? Being early can prevent being late."
Again, I feel "eh" about this. Most of the time, there's not that much traffic. (I live in Birmingham, far, far from the dreaded 280.) Most of the time, I'll find a parking space. At worst, I'll be about five minutes behind. In truly dire circumstances, leaving the house 15 minutes early is just a drop in the bucket to a complete interstate back-up or shut-down highway anyway.
For the truly time-sensitive -- live TV, NASA -- I get being early. But, for the rest of us, who, let's be honest, can accomplish more with an e-mail that we can with an hour-long meeting but just want an excuse to get out from behind our computers for a little while and dig into the hours we all try to kill before going home to eat and sleep, does it really matter? Really?
I feel the same way about waking up early for no good reason. Other than Al Roker's antics, is there that much to be missed by getting out of bed at 7:45 instead of 6:45? If I don't have a flight to catch and I don't have a job, you won't find me roaming the neighborhood, coffee in hand, ready to greet the day. Some people brag about seeing the sunrise. I'd prefer to catch Conan's musical guest. It's simply a personal preference, like chocolate ice cream or the pink Starbursts.
Feel free to tell me about all that I'm missing out on or what I don't see about the joys of being early. You can even tell me how rude I'm being. Just don't give me that Benjamin Franklin nonsense about early to bed and whatnot. I don't think it matters when you get your eight hours -- it's what you do with the other 16 that seems to count. And it's not like I said I spent the rest of my day in bed eating bonbons.
Although, that bonbon thing doesn't sound like a bad job if I could get it ...
Predator at the Door
I won't lie to you. As soon as I found a boyfriend, I stopped killing bugs. Sure, I could still kill my own bugs (by "kill," I actually mean "draft a carefully worded detente understood by me and the bug granting the bug all rights of access to my home and yard provided said bug will not take up residence inside my shoes, fall on my head in the middle of the night or appear in glasses of red wine"). But I don't want to kill bugs, and I don't have to now. I see it as one of the best perks to dating.
But, every so often, I stumble on a bug that I can't even ask the Significant Other [SO] to kill. Pictured is one such bug.
This is the actual spider that spun a web outside my back door (while I won't ask the SO to kill all bugs, I will ask him to photograph them). The spider is huge. His butt is bulbous (which I interpret as being full of poison -- I CAN do science). And he has very long legs leading me to believe that he could outrun me if necessary (not really a challenge, but still).
I keep the SO from this bug mainly because I don't want to be charged with manslaughter in his death by arachnid. (Is "poverty" a viable courtroom plea yet? Bug spray ain't cheap, after all.)
I also think dating is hard enough without having to explain on one's match.com profile how they sacrificed their last boyfriend to a killer spider because unemployment made paying an exterminator out of the question.
Addendum: It turns out that my spider is actually a completely harmless and very common breed known as a garden spider. Unfortunately, fact does not keep the creepy crawly from scaring the bejesus out of me.
The Truth About Cats and Dogs
As we all know, I love my dog. (Hell, she even has her own blog.) She is my baby, my buddy and my near-constant companion. Since I love my dog so much, I never want her to feel neglected, dejected or put out. As crazy as it may sound, I don't want her to ever think she isn't absolutely adored.
So, clearly the decision to get another pet is not one that I take lightly. I already worry that Cassidy doesn't get enough attention because of how much time we spend with my Significant Other and his dog. But, then this stray little kitten showed up and needed a home, I found myself softening.
I was still really concerned about Cassidy, my time and my resources though, so I consulted a lot of other pet owners for help making a decision. Here's what all of my friends said when I was thinking about taking in a homeless cat:
"Oh my gosh, it's nothing like having a dog. Cats are so low maintenance."
"You don't need to worry about your furniture. That's what scratching posts are for."
"I don't know what it is, but cats just KNOW how to use a litter box. They don't have accidents, and you don't have to house train them."
Now, I love my friends dearly, so please forgive me when I say this (and remember that it's been a rather stressful week), but YOU ALL LIED.
My "low-maintenance" cat cries when he can't be in the same room with me. And do you know where he prefers to sleep? On my chest. Don't get me wrong -- he's cute -- but it's not exactly easy to get anything done when there's a cat glued to your collarbone. Plus, it's still September in Alabama, so I don't really require a semi-permanent neck warmer just yet.
The scratching post? A pointless expenditure at Wal-Mart that apparently can't hold a candle to my sofa, chairs and feet. I even drenched the sucker in cat nip. Effective? No. Smelly? Yes.
And when it comes to that litter box, don't even get me started. Either I have the one exception in the history of feline companionship or not all cats automatically know what to do when confronted with a pan full of odor-absorbing granules.
All of this adorable fluff really masks a needy, peeing destructor. Poor Cassidy -- who was supposed to end up with a part-time roommate who wanted little to nothing to do with us -- now has a sibling that camps on her mom's chest, marks her turf and thinks her tail is a fascinating toy to be chewed and batted.
Of course, the real problem is that it's all too late anyway. The cat isn't going anywhere. Neither is Cassidy, and neither am I. We're in it together now -- unused scratching post and all.
Haircut Hiccups
Week before last, I got a haircut. (I'm pictured at right, and even after my visit to the salon, I'm not blond.)
I decided it was time for a cut. I've worn my hair long for the last few years, and I needed a change. Since I've gone "freelance," much to my chagrin and that of the Significant Other, I've gotten a bit more lax about personal hygiene and dressing up. I can only think of two days out of the last 60 that my hair hasn't been in a ponytail. A shorter cut seemed like a good way to force my hair out of its rut.
(Laurel's two-step plan for improved physical appearance:
Step 1: New cut to avoid the ponytail.
Step 2: Change out sweatpants more than once per week.
I'll keep you posted on the progress of the second half of the plan.)
I've been very happy with my cut. I miss my hair some -- it's about six inches shorter -- but after the shock of that first shower when then just wasn't anything to wash, I've adjusted nicely. But, there's always been just one obstacle to my complete enjoyment of shorter hair.
That obstacle's name is Jennifer Love-Hewitt.
I wasn't even that big a fan of Miss Love-Hewitt's until a few years ago, but I've always found her hair quite intoxicating. Yes, I do like shows where women talk to dead people, but the real reason I watch Ghost Whisperer is for the hair and eyelashes.
I want Jennifer's hair, and I always have. I like the loose curls at the end of her long locks. I love the toned down highlights. I appreciate how the perfectly tousled pieces fall just right. Of course, it takes me a minimum of one hour's time, two products and lots of time with a large-barreled curling iron to even begin to approximate this look, but every time I do, I'm enamored with myself. (And that's all that really matters, right?)
Sure, I don't have that hour every day. Or most days. Nor do I have the inclination, but one glimpse of a Ghost Whisperer promo is enough to make me want to trade the weeks I spend with cute, shorter hair for the one day out of a season I could manipulate my long hair into something like this.
I suppose we all have our Achilles' heels. I'll count myself luckier than most that Jennifer Love-Hewitt happens to be mine.
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.