My (Brief) Life in Politics
I've had some bad job interviews -- and some bad dates, which are really a whole lot like interviews, if you think about it, except that money is rarely discussed upfront. (Unless, of course, you're on one of those kinds of "dates," which are something I, fortunately, know nothing about other than what I see on Law & Order: SVU.)
I once had a 45-minute date. That one even included a sit-down dinner, so I'm guessing I didn't look the way he remembered, or my meal-time conversation is not nearly as entertaining as I thought. During an adventure in speed dating, I was fist-bumped by one guy, informed by another that he "hated children," "like really hated them," loudly and to the point where other people stared, and sat across from a man who was, at best, extremely rude ("What could you possibly have to offer me?") and, at worst, off his meds and in need of professional help ("Should I really even bother talking to you?"). On a double date, the couple I was with had a loud argument that ended with a slap. (About that last one, I've said it before, and I'll say it again, there is little shame like the shame of realizing you are the most conspicuous table in the Olive Garden.)
But, of the two categories of getting-to-know-yous, it's my worst job interview that always stands out.
At the time, I was 21 years old and had just graduated from Georgetown University. Armed with my liberal arts degree and no practical skills, I was sure Iwould be a treasured asset to any corporation and couldn't wait for mysigning bonus and annual salary of at least $50,000. How could no one want to hire such a bright, bushy-tailed recent graduate of the Hilltop?
After six weeks of job hunting, I was shocked that I still hadn't found something. I'd said that I had no interest in a job on Capitol Hill, but with reality setting in -- and my bank account settling down -- I realized there was nothing to lose in taking my resume to the Hill's administrative offices.
(I can't remember the name of the Capitol's HR department now, I just know that there was an office where you could drop off your resume so that you would be considered for certain open positions throughout the House and Senate. I remember this mainly because I also remember tripping on the sidewalk in front of the Senate administrative offices while a homeless man pointed and laughed. It didn't help with the way I was feeling about my employment/life prospects at the time.)
I was thrilled when I got a call two days later inviting me to interview for a job in an Illinois Senator's office. It might not be my dream job, but it was most assuredly a job. I put on my most conservative suit and headed downtown.
From my brief experience with government positions, I learned that you have to meet with a lot of people to ever get a government job. I met with some sort of HR-type rep, an aide, the Office Manager, and the Legislative Director before being led to the office door of my last stop -- the Chief of Staff.
I walked into a small office and sat across from a very pale man with large, square glasses. He didn't smile, and looked over both me and my resume with quick, darting glances. After a few basic questions about my education, why I wanted to wok on the Hill, etc., he said, "Speak French."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Speak French. It says here on your resume that you're fluent in French, so speak it."
It's hard for me to be put on the spot about anything, much less delivering a monologue in another language. Asking for a scene from Hamlet probably would have gone over better. Conducting part of the interview in French, I probably could have handled. This? Not so much.
I said the equivalent of "Hi, my name is Laurel. I'm from Birmingham. I'd like a job please" in French. Not exactly inspired prose.
"Hm-mph," he said once I was done. "For those of us who have studied at the Sorbonne, an accent is included in fluency. And it's not a Southern one."
Despite my embarrassment, I wanted to say, "I'm sorry you couldn't get laid until well after college, it's clearly made you bitter." Instead, I said, "I'm sorry, sir."
I was not surprised when I got a phone call a week later telling me that the job went to someone else.
Of course, these days, I'm sure it worked out for the best. I don't think I would have made it too long in the office of a Republican senator. My unexpressed thoughts rarely stay that way for long.
Halfway through this post, I started to wonder if I'd written about this experience before. If I have, I apologize for the repeat. I can't always keep up -- even with myself.
Poor Products
I love animals, I really do. My dog is one of the most spoiled creatures on the planet. (Only, though, if you count her wardrobe and chest of toys; she in no way has the demeanor of a spoiled dog because she is sweet, loving and perfect.)
I didn't even like cats until I got my own, but now I am enamored, and he regularly sleeps on my chest. Hell, the cat isn't even litter-box trained, and I still love him, and I think we all know there's no true test of one's devotion and affection like finding random puddles of pee -- or worse.
If you were to hurt one of my pets, you would most definitely know my wrath. But, despite how strongly I feel about animals, I'm not so sure where I fall on the spectrum of animal rights. If you abuse an animal, you should go to jail, and I think people who hurt animals deserve a special, fire-filled place in the great beyond, too. However, I also have no problem with the food chain. Mama loves her meat, after all. I own leather handbags (and once upon a time, I had a pair of leather pants).I never objected to a biology class dissection, and when it comes to life-saving, cancer-fighting kinds of drugs, I'm pretty OK with what it takes to make sure those are safe for humans.
I also like the zoo -- the sloping, expansive kinds of zoos where animals graze in arenas akin to their natural habitats and get three square meals a day. I know it's not as simple as this, but I have to tell you that if I was a giraffe or a gazelle, I'd be more than willing to give up the wild for prepared meals and a tidy, maintained home. Hunting for food? Defending myself from predators? Hyenas? I'd be the first animal you ever saw volunteer, and I'd take the zoo over the Serengeti just like I now take the Hampton over a nylon tent.
Regardless, I think it's important to respect the opinions and choices of others. So, that's all I'm going to say on the subject before I get to my real point: No matter how lackadaisical my own stand on animal rights might seem, I would never buy my non-existent child the toy pictured above.
A rolling cage for your pet monkey? Really? Clearly this is some sort of circus toy, but there has to be a better way to let your child "play circus" (another hot bed for those very invested in animal rights) than letting them paint their own rolling, wooden cage. Right? If nothing else, isn't this super, super dated? I haven't been to a State Fair in awhile, but there aren't caged animals rolling down the highway anymore, are there? Please, please say it ain't so.
What's almost worse is that I found this right next to the cute little doghouses with stuffed puppies sticking their heads out of the door. Large cage for exotic animals as the equivalent to dog houses? I think not.
I may be wrong, but I think this is where all that trouble with King Kong started ...
Romance
You would be hard-pressed to find a copy of Love Story or The Bridges of Madison County in my house. The only romance novels I have would fall under the category of gag gifts, and while I know many people who love the books, I don't read Nora Roberts. I'm also not touchy-feely, I don't hold hands and sing in the round and I've never been a fan of Grey's Anatomy.
That being said, apart from Nights in Rodanthe, I have seen every movie ever made from a Nicholas Sparks book. In the theater. Multiple times. And cried.
It's easy to see why I'd like The Notebook. I think Rachel McAdams is awesome, and I think we all know that Ryan Gosling is hot. I also have a not-so-secret old man crush on James Garner. Judge me if you want, but that man is still darn charming. And if you doubt me, find some pictures of Mr. Garner circa 1962.
In a few words: Hubba. Hubba.
I didn't know what to expect with A Walk to Remember, but something in my gut told me that this was a movie I needed to see. At the time the movie was released, I had two male roommates (platonic) and was living in D.C. While one of my roommates had accompanied me to Legally Blonde and Unfaithful, I was still pretty sure that A Walk to Remember would be a hard sell. So, one Saturday afternoon, I snuck out of the house without telling anyone where I was headed and made my way to the movie theater at Union Station.
I started seeing movies by myself the summer after my sophomore year of college. I was going through a bad break-up and was worried that what I would miss most about my relationship was not having anyone to go to the movies with. I figured a head-long dive into one of my biggest break-up anxieties would help with the heartache. It didn't, but I discovered a new favorite past time.
I like sitting in the dark by myself while a fantasy unfolds on the screen. I find it relaxing. When I'm very stressed, I try to find time to escape and see a movie by myself -- cell phone off and no thoughts beyond those related to the story in front of me.
"Most people go to church for that," a friend of mine once said. Maybe they do, but I prefer the movies.
As I took my seat in Union Station that day, I noticed that most of the crowd was women about my age either in small groups of two or three, or also by themselves. There wasn't a man in sight. The theater went dark, and we all watched as Mandy Moore and Shane West fell in love.
As the movie progressed, we, as a crowd, also got girlier and girlier. We aaw-ed during particularly touching moments. ("You're in two places at once. Scratch if off your list!") There were audible sobs during the important reveals. ("I'm sick, Landon.") And when Shayne West proposed to Mandy, a woman in the back yelled, "Yes!" and we all clapped. A bunch of jaded, city-dwelling 20-somethings fresh off The Rules and too many Cosmopolitan articles about dating like a man letting their inner eight-year-olds (complete with drugstore bride costumes and teddy bears filling in as the minister) out for a few hours.
It was the most fun I've ever had in a room full of strangers.
Where am I going with all this? Dear John comes out soon, and I can't wait. So, if you find yourself at the theater, sitting next to a mysteriously veiled woman who travels with a lot of Kleenex in her purse, I may not acknowledge it in public, but we're both there for all the same reasons.
This photo: because it's relevant, and because I can.
My House is so Cold
How cold is it? you say.
My house is so cold, I've taken to closing off rooms so that I can try to concentrate the little heat I do have into a couple of rooms where I spend the most time.
Closing off rooms for the winter makes me feel like I'm in some fabulous 18th or 19th century Victorian novel. Of course, I don't have help I can order to re-open the rooms in the spring. (Picture maids taking the sheets off my chaises and settees and throwing open the shutters.)
I also don't remember any classic novels taking place in 3/1s just down the road from JoJo's Gun and Pawn, but maybe that's just me.
You Need Us, You Really Do
A few months ago, I shared some thoughts on the movie The Hangover. While I completely stick by what I said then, I also don't want to give the impression that I was only dogging on women. By no means is the other gender off the hook.
I love movies like Old School, Knocked Up and The Hangover. I saw Old School twice in the theater, and both times, I laughed so hard that I was crying. To this day, listening to Kansas can always make me smile.
And one of the tried and true archetypes in these films is the girlfriend/wife who always gets in the way of fun. She nags. She's skeptical. She's forever anti-guys' weekend. And in all of these films, she's also absolutely right.
Taking The Hangover as an example, let's look at just a few of the situations the male characters get themselves into when left to their own devices (and in case you haven't figured it out yet: SPOILER ALERT):
1. Theft of wild, dangerous, big-teeth-baring animal from the home of a convicted rapist and possible cannibal, a.k.a. Mike Tyson.
2. Quickie marriage to a prostitute -- not to mention consummating a marriage to a prostitute that could lead to potential STDs, etc.
3. Theft of cop car. Stealing is never good. Stealing from cops is worse.
4. Misplaced friend. They lose a person. AN ENTIRE PERSON.
5. Near-complete destruction of very expensive hotel suite.
When I saw The Hangover in the theater, three what I assume to be only-recently-of-legal-drinking-age men sat in the row in front of me. After the movie, their conversation went something like this:
"Dude, that was so awesome," Guy #1 said.
"I wish our trip to Vegas had been like that," Guy #2 said.
"That's what Vegas should be," Guy #3 added.
I nearly leaned over their row and slapped each and every one of them. For starters, I think it's pretty important to keep in mind that all movies are fantasies. Men don't like it when women think dating should resemble When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless in Seattle. Tit for tat, let's be careful what models we pick for our bro-mances.
Secondly, if the events in The Hangover had actually occurred, there would have been three possible outcomes:
1. Death.
2. Prison.
3. Financial Ruin. (Those Vegas chalets aren't cheap. Repairing the structural damage alone would wipe out most people's worldly assets.)
No one would have gotten married. No one would come home with the greatest Facebook photo album ever, and at least one member of the group would have needed years of intensive psychotherapy.
It's no wonder the female characters in these movies are suspicious of guys' trips. They have every right to be. I'm amazed they allow their fictitious partners to walk to the mail box, let alone drive a car or operate the can opener.
When it comes to the battle of the sexes, I'm forever on the side of living in a world with plenty of both men and women (and plenty of all types of men and women, clearly I'm discussing mainstream gender designations and assumptions here, but I recognize the many, many exceptions to the rule). Whenever I hear cries for "an all-female world without war or sports" I'm just as terrified as when guys talk about "getting rid of women and only focusing on fun." I like the balance that comes with varied viewpoints and gender perspectives. After all, my need for a good cry can be just as strong as my love of baby back ribs.
And when it comes to planning weekend away for either gender, let's all remember that it's all fun and games until someone loses a finger -- or the bridegroom.
I Don't Do Lines
I believe there are certain attributes we're allotted fixed quantities of each day -- cleanliness, courtesy, tolerance for TNT promos. No matter what we do, only a new night will refresh our stores and allow us to again be thoughtful, caring members of the human race. I think patience is one such attribute.
I usually have a wealth of patience for children and animals. For everyone else, it's a crap shoot. Normally, I can allot my patience throughout the day -- an extra five minutes waiting in traffic, a few more minutes for the cashier in training at the BP station, deep breaths when someone asks how I ever expect to earn a living as a writer. But, if anything exceptionally time-consuming happens, my patience for the whole day is shot.
If the pharmacists takes 45 minutes to fill a prescription he or she promised in 10 minutes, I'll be perfectly cordial to that pharmacist. (Should I be worried that all of my anecdotes take place in the pharmacy? I guess we all write what we now.) I'll thank him or her and take my meds without complaint.
However, the next person to slow me down is out of luck.
Ruby Tuesday: "You said I'd have a table in 15 minutes. It's been 16, and I want some freakin' sliders!"
Intersections: "Are you color blind? Because that's the only reason to still be sitting still on a green light!"
Neighbors: "Of course, you had my mail for two days. Because Laurel Mills printed on an envelope looks just like your name you crazy b*&%^."
(I rarely get quite as bad as that last one, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility.)
On those days when my patience is gone, nothing from meditation to a cocktail can get me back on track, but I wake up the next morning feeling reset to zero and ready to cope with a world of lines, muzak and lagging Internet connections. I might be weird, but all I really know is that I don't get the appropriate daily store for a career in social services or mental health.
Despite what patience I have or don't have, as the case may be, for others, I tend to have no patience when it comes to myself. I often feel like Barbra Streisand's character in The Way We Were, I want, I want, I want, and I usually want now, now, now. I want a career and a family and thinner thighs. And when they're not right in front of me, I worry they'll never come to me. I call it a question of patience, but there's a lot of trust and faith tied up in there, too.
The scary thing is that my impatience often makes me hold onto things not worth having. I'd keep the wrong job or the wrong boyfriend because I didn't want to start all over. (Just think of all that lost time!) Because, if it was a question of will, I'd find a way to make it work. After all, I'm a smart girl, surely I could find a way to make someone love me/advance my career/bend the universe to my agenda. And we all know what pushing and holding on too tightly can do.
Oh, control, or the lack thereof, why must you taunt me always? Even in line at Ruby Tuesday?
I should probably do a little more waiting. Or, at least, a little less rushing.
In my struggles with patience and control, I like to think of something Terri Cheney wrote in her memoir, Manic, " ... My greatest victories have always been surrenders." Surrenders to the universe, to time, to fate. The surrender of letting go. Of trusting a little more and not forgetting to enjoy the ride. Easier said than done, but I'm trying.
I'm sure my pharmacist will be appreciative.
New Year, Same Me
I'm not much for New Year's Resolutions. Since I tend to find enough fault with myself as is, I prefer not to set myself up for failure with half-hearted proclamations that usually result from peer pressure. I've seen plenty of commercials for gyms, Nutri System and Wii Fit in the weeks leading up to today, but I don't think targeted ads and social norms are enough to bring about the will power I've lacked for the past 30 years. (Plus, chocolate-covered cherries are still half-price at Wal-Mart, and there aren't enough marketing dollars and judgmental stares for me to fight that kind of temptation.)
I also think the world is too hard on vices. Everything in moderation, as they say. Plus, I can't help but think the occasional vice -- whether it's a cocktail or some celebrity gossip -- keeps us all sane. I worked for a woman who did not drink, smoke, gamble or eat meat. She was one of the meanest and most difficult women I've ever known. If you ask me, a cheeseburger and a martini would have made all of our lives far better.
It's not that I don't think about self-improvement, I just prefer to do it in a different way. For example, I've spent the last year or so of my life working on approval. In the past couple of years, I've realized that there isn't an amount of praise that's enough for me.
If someone says that a story I wrote is "good," I want to know why they didn't use "great." If it's "great," I want to know why it wasn't "awesome." And if it's "the best work they've ever read and they bow down to me as the next great literary genius," I figure they're lying and trying to make me stop asking questions. (Not that the last comment has ever happened, but I wanted to paint a clear picture.)
If I hear 99 positive comments about my work or self and one negative comment, I only remember the negative comment. So, I decided that if others' approval was never going to do it for me, I should probably start cultivating my own.
Of course, this kind of attitude doesn't make everyone happy. People love to offer thoughts and advice because it makes them feel important, and if you've ever gone from a period of serious self-doubt to one of assurance or attempted self-confidence, you know how easily this can enrage those who were avoiding their own issues by taking care of yours. Luckily for me (?), upsetting people right off the bat was a great way to test my commitment to this notion of looking inside rather than outside for approval and self-worth.
It's been a good leg of the journey, but it's far from over. Next on my list: not comparing myself to others. And I'm sure that one's going to be a doozy. Hopefully I'll be ready for it by 2011.
But, back to the subject of New Year's resolutions. I was fine without having any sort of list this year, and I figured I'd just excuse myself to the bar whenever the subject came up at cocktail parties. Then, the SO and I climbed into the car:
SO: Got any New Year's resolutions for 2010?
Me: Not really. I'm not so much into that kind of thing.
SO: Would you like me to help you with your New Year's resolutions?
Me: I'd rather you not suggest areas of improvement for me. Unless, of course, you're planning on being single in the New Year.
He quickly relented. But, in the spirit of compromise to the SO and the world, I decided to cave anyway. I now give you my non-half-hearted New Year's resolutions:
1. Get a full-time job. For obvious reasons -- benefits and direct deposit being right at the top of the list.
2. Finish the manuscript for my children's book. It's only five years in the works; I'd rather not make it more than six.
3. Work on a proposal for my knitting book. When traditional publishing doesn't go your way, the wanting-to-be-published go non-traditional. Or something like that. Maybe?
4. Get the cat to pee in a litter box.
5. Deal with the series finale of Lost without some sort of post-partum-like depression. This will be far easier said than done.
I wish y'all the best in 2010! Thanks for reading! I really do appreciate each and every one of you.
Travel Needs
The one thing I desperately needed in San Francisco? A topographical map. Sure, San Francisco is known for its hills, but none of that seemed to occur to me as I looked at our grid-like map each morning to plot our trek through the city.
My failure to account for San Fran's landscape wasn't too much of a problem for the walk to Fisherman's Wharf or Chinatown, but it was far more than I bargained for when I decided the Significant Other [SO] and I should have no problem getting from Union Square to Grace Cathedral/Nob Hill.
I may be prone to exaggeration, but I really don't think there is any hyperbole in saying that this involved a near-vertical ascent. Between gasps, the conversation went something like this:
"How far are we going again?" SO said.
"Top," I said. "To the top."
"That top?" he asked, pointing.
"California Street. Keep moving towards California Street."
"Uh-huh."
Minutes passed.
"Can your heart explode at 30?" I asked.
"Do you think you're having a heart attack?"
"I want to know if your heart can literally explode? Like Pow?"
"I think you're fine, Honey," he said.
"What about your lungs? Can they collapse from exertion?"
"I don't think so, Babe. Do you need a break?"
"No, if we stop now, I don't think I'll start moving again."
More minutes pass.
"How much farther?" I said.
"California Street," he said. "Remember? We're so close."
"I need a break. Let's take a break."
"But, you said ..."
"Break."
"There's a rail over there," he said. "We can grab on to that when we get there." (I was a little afraid that if there wasn't something to hold on to, I'd just start rolling backwards, and then where would be we?)
"Ahhh." It was a glorious, glorious rail. But when I looked up after making sure that my feet were still attached to the rest of my body, I saw that the SO was still on the move. "You left me?"
"I didn't think you'd actually cling to a rail in the middle of the street," he called back. "I'm going to keep going."
So, despite my best judgment, I had to keep going, too. I couldn't be too far away from the SO -- without him, there'd be no one to call 911 when any one of my internal organs caved under the stress. A minute later, I made it to the top of Nob Hill. Ten minutes after that, I caught my breath, and we went to lunch.
"And to think we did it without oxygen," the SO said.
"Very funny," I said, "but I wouldn't turn down a sherpa."
Season's Greetings!
I hope you have a wonderful holiday! Now that the shopping is done, enjoy yourself. And I wish you a stress-free, zero-embarrassment time with family and friends!
Conversation and Interpretation
Sometimes, you know exactly where someone stands on issues of race. "I'm afraid of black people" and "All Hispanics are lazy" are pretty strong indicators. In other instances, the personality of the speaker usually lets you know if the comment is racist or said in irony to draw attention to others' prejudices -- "If that's the way they feel, then maybe the Jews shouldn't have killed Jesus" or continued use of the term "Freedom Fries" eight years after the fact.
Then, there are times you're in Sausalito having a few drinks while you wait for the last ferry back to San Francisco for the night and you have no idea whether or not your bartender spends his weekends plotting the downfall of the federal government and conducting eugenics experiments or just watching the ballgame with his other open-minded friends.
This is one such story.
"So, where are you guys from?"
"Alabama," I said, and the bartender handed me my glass of house Pinot Grigio.
"Alabama, huh? I used to date a cheerleader from Auburn."
"Oh, really?" I said. "How interesting."
"But that was back in the '70s. I bet things were really different then. Lots of Civil Rights stuff going on. What's it like down there now?"
"Much better than those days, I hope," I said. "But I'm still surprised by some of the things that come out of people's mouths. When Obama ran for president, I heard some ugly terms I really thought we were past." (This is all true, and I go in to conversations assuming that people are not racist and that we might have an open dialogue about what goes on in our world.)
"Is it like here?" he said.
"I don't really know what it's like here, but I imagine y'all are pretty open-minded."
"Yeah, here," he said. "We're all PC. So PC. You can't say anything anymore." And before he could elaborate, he had to go get more lemon slices.
Hmmm.
Later, I heard him recommending some of the happy hour food specials to another bar patron.
"We've got these great small plates for only $5.00. You could have the sliders or the fish tacos."
"Those both sound good," the girl said.
"The fish tacos are really great. Very authentic. You know, it's all Mexicans back there."
Ah.
Then, on the trip back to our hotel, the Significant Other turned to me and said, "Did you notice anything funny about that bartender?"
"Like what?"
"Like he might have been a racist?"
Maybe our bartender was misunderstood. Maybe he had some real issues -- like xenophobia. I can't really say for sure. But, I probably should have known that $5.00 drinks in Northern California had to come with some strings.
The Problem With Prison
One of the big debates the Significant Other [SO] and I had while in San Francisco was whether or not to visit Alcatraz. The SO had been before and wasn't sure he wanted to go back. I'd never been but could leave it off my list should, say, shopping and/or food options take greater priority. (Pan-fried gnocchi? Yes, please.) Plus, we reasoned that we'd see Alcatraz plenty from our ferry trips to Vallejo and Sausalito.
But, the more time we spent in San Francisco, and the more times I saw America's toughest prison looming across the bay, the more I realized that I really did want to visit. The outside wasn't enough; I needed photos of myself in a cell. Needed them, I tell you.
So, we went to Alcatraz. And I'll tell you the biggest lesson I learned from our visit: I would not fare well in prison.
Sure, sure, it seems pretty obvious -- I'm not a joiner and my reflexes are frighteningly slow -- but I was still surprised by how many aspects of prison life would present major problems for someone such as myself. (Although I guess that is the point. Crime deterrent accomplished.) I give you my list of the scariest things about life in the big house:
1. The bathroom situation. I don't like for people to be able to hear me pee. And you're highly unlikely to get me to admit that I do anything other than pee in the bathroom -- ever. In college, when faced with group bathrooms on coed floors, I always spent the first day of the new semester seeking out the handicapped restrooms because they were solitary and private. There's not much of a chance I'd be OK using the bathroom in my cell with no door, no curtain and the constant patrolling of guards. Oh, the horror. If I were locked up, there probably wouldn't need to be a suicide watch because the backed-up kidneys would get me first.
2. Meal time. Where to sit? Who to sit with? Will someone try and take my lunch? Junior high was tough enough, and that seating didn't involve quite the same level of group allegiance and potential repercussions. The worst thing that happened when you were the least popular kid at our school lunch tables was a half hour of mockery followed by having to be the one who wiped down the table after wards -- no shanks or payback in the recreation yard. What if I sat with the wrong gang? Got in front of a particularly angry person in line? Will I make friends/allies/people willing to stand between me and a taser? I'm sure the stress alone would lead to gastrointestinal issues, and then I'd be back to concern #1. (What a vicious, vicious cycle!) Add emaciation to the list of worries about what would happen to me in prison.
3. Group showers. Need I really say more? I haven't seen myself naked from behind in three years. (I didn't like what was happening back there -- I swear my ass used to have much better positioning -- so I just decided to stop looking.) I certainly don't want other people seeing me without clothes on. And sharing hot water? I grew up with two sisters and one bathroom, and I thought that was bad. What can I really say? I'm weak, and I don't mind admitting it.
4. Solitary. Some people enjoy being alone with their thoughts. I'm not one of them. I watched a movie about 12-hour silent Zen meditations once. The film was billed as a documentary. I saw it as a horror movie. I need to talk, I need noise and I need distractions. There's only one time I would want solitary, and that's covered in #1. When my mind is left to roam, something like this happens: What a pretty bridge. I wonder how long it took to build that bridge. It would be hard to be an engineer. I wonder what kind of grades that engineer had. Do you think they accepted the lowest bid for contractors? There are a lot of cars on the bridge. Did they know that many cars would travel on the bridge at once? Are state inspectors well-paid? Maybe they take bribes. DEAR GOD THAT BRIDGE IS GOING To COLLAPSE! No. Thank. You.
Since the cell, meals and other inmates tends to cover all aspects of prison life, I'm pretty much out. I will do my best to stay on the straight and narrow. I'm also happy to report that we did get what I hope will be our only behind-bars photos.
Airport Style
For those of you wondering why I haven't posted much lately, I was out of town last week. The Significant Other took me to San Francisco for my birthday, and we had a blast exploring the city, getting out in Northern California and eating our weight in Italian food. We also happened to visit during one of the coldest weeks San Francisco has experienced in the last 15 years. (I think the weather is part of a family curse. Ten years ago, when we went to Melbourne, Australia, the weather was also unseasonably cold and wet. That weather was so bad, I hear no one has experienced it since.) Thanks to that weather, I also brought home a little cold in addition to my new hat, gloves and San Francisco hoodie.
As excited as I was about our trip, I also knew that to get to San Francisco, I'd have to engage in one of my least favorite activities -- flying.
When it comes to dressing for a flight, I try to wear clothes that are comfortable, but I also put on my bigger items so that I can save space in my luggage for later purchases. This means that instead of wearing the FAA-recommended rubber-soled shoes (because I do know these things), I tend to fly in boots, a long sweater and my heaviest coat (winter only, of course).
(My sister would say that this outfit has nothing to do with how much I have to pack. I have a style that she has often referred to as "celebrity at the airport." I think this has to do with my love of big boots and big sunglasses with little attention to anything else -- hairstyle, makeup and showering included -- but I could be wrong.)
Despite the fact that I was beyond layered, I thought I ended up looking pretty cute. I just had no idea how much my wardrobe choices would stand out from the other passengers.
At the Birmingham airport, it seems that you have to travel in your SEC team colors of choice. If you are not displaying your loyalty to one college football franchise or other, you just don't fit in. I saw more Alabama and Auburn sweatshirts and tees than I've seen outside a stadium in years.
At the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport (our stopover), women wore pants with elastic waists (in-flight comfort?) while men wore Vikings paraphernalia and jerseys. Seriously, I saw one guy not wearing Vikings merchandise and he made sure to display his book -- The Vikings Reader by Armand Peterson -- with such gusto that I can only assume he was worried about being assaulted by the other fans if he didn't make his feelings known.
In San Francisco, everyone had a baby strapped to them, and that's one accessory I'm nowhere close to having.
Long story short -- and the real point to this story -- after all of the thought I put into my outfit, not a single person complimented my new brown, slouchy boots. Not a single one.
The Hotel Talisi
My parents were the kind to go through phases.
In the late '80s they developed an incredible fondness for Cajun cuisine. This involved trips to cooking school in New Orleans, large pots of gumbo and cookie sheets full of pralines (my favorite part of this obsession), as well as a brief decorating scheme that had the kitchen island covered in faux netting with plastic lobsters and crabs trapped in its folds.
When my sisters and I took dance classes in a strip mall, we all started spending a lot more time at the pizza place two doors down from the studio. This ignited the period in which my parents would host "make your own pizza" dinner parties with each couple having their own genuine, fresh-from-the-pizzeria dough. (Lesson learned: tossing pizza dough is much, much harder than it looks.)
There were also musicals (for my mother), Dennis Quaid films (for dad), self-help books (darkness), ping pong and the Footloose finale. Perhaps most unsettling though, was the period during which my parents decided we should take more vacations -- and take more vacation to random Southern landmarks at that.
Please keep in mind that this was also in the beginning of my tween years, so the last thing I ever wanted to do was vacation with my parents. I was far more interested in talking on the phone for hours and writing involved notes about the injustices of 6th grade than something as silly as travel.
One Spring Break, we drove to see the homes and Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Then we were off to New Orleans. What I remember most about this trip is drifting off to sleep in the car, only to wake up and realize my parents had foregone the highway for back roads. ("Dear God, why did we leave the interstate?" I thought, "Why, God, why?")
We ended up on a tour of a "plantation." I use quotation marks there because I think that when half the tour involves, "This is the rumpus room we added in the '70s" or "We got rid of the old kitchen to make way for our pool," you've forfeited some of your historical clout and should no longer advertise as such.
Historical home remodels aside, the worst of these jaunts, by far, was a trip to Tallassee, Alabama.
For those of you wondering, no, Tallassee has nothing to do with Tallahassee, Florida. Florida would have a beach. Or some tourist trap. Maybe mini-golf. Tallassee had supposedly one of the best brunches in the South -- and absolutely nothing else.
We arrived after what seemed to be hours in the car (a two-hour drive is nothing unless you're a tween who measures everything by time spent away from the phone) and pulled up to the smallest hotel I'd ever seen. I think I asked, "What else is here?" only to learn from my mother that in Tallassee, what you see is what you get.
"This is it," she said. "The whole town is one block. Can you believe it?"
I could, but I didn't want to.
We checked in, and I proceeded to mope and complain about boredom. The next morning, we went to shop at the five and dime store across from the hotel where a strange man followed my mother around the store and I bought a mini-Barbie for a dollar.
In no way did we have fun for the whole family.
But, I was still sad to learn that the hotel in Tallassee burned down yesterday. Nowadays, I could really get into a quiet weekend with nothing to do but devour fried chicken. And I can't help but wonder how I'll torture my own children without such important Alabama landmarks.
I guess there's always Vicksburg.
Happy Turkey Day!
Happy Thanksgiving to all! I hope you all have a wonderful day of eating, drinking, parade-watching and general merry-making!
And should you find yourself drowning in dysfunction, just remember that you haven't convinced yourself washed-up celebrities are stealing from you. Nor have you caused a Black Friday scene -- at least, not yet.
Dubious Origins
I know many writers who seemed to show two primary interests as children -- reading and lying. (It makes perfect sense after all, even though I'm sure a parent's first thought when his or her child tells a bold-faced lie isn't, "Maybe I'm raising the next Hemingway!")
While I had no interest in lying, I did like to tell stories. I often wrote plays for my sisters and I to perform in. Of course, being a little control freak as well, I liked to write, direct and star in my plays. And, when my sisters gave what I deemed to be unsatisfactory performances or refused to learn their lines verbatim, I would take on their roles as well. By premiere time, I was usually performing all of the roles except for brief cameos by Snuggles the bear. I'm sure it was not the easiest story for my audience, a.k.a. Mom and Dad, to follow.
And while many older sisters like to torture their younger siblings with tales of how they were actually adopted, I had something else in mind.
"You know you're not one of us," I told my youngest sister while we were at the beach for a family vacation. I think we were having breakfast. She was three to my wise and mature nine, and I'm guessing she'd either gotten on my nerves, or I was bored. (I was so loving at that age.)
"Not one of us?"
"You know, not a human." I continued eating my cereal with one eye on the cartoons.
"Not a human?"
"You're an alien," I said. "A per dern dern. From the planet per dern dern."
"A per what?" she said. (Also, while I was clearly creative at that age, I was also clearly not creative enough to come up with a different name for her alien race and her planet.)
"A per dern dern. The aliens dropped you off one day when you were just a baby, and Mama and Daddy took you in."
"I am not an alien! Take that back!"
"But you are an alien. Sorry."
"Am not," she said.
"That's not the worst part though," I added. "The worst part is that they're going to have to come back for you -- the per dern derns. I bet you the mother ship will be here any day now."
This is the point when my sister's disbelief turned to tears. She was not too pleased with my story about her alien origins. And, unfortunately for her, when she ran to my parents to ask about this, they thought all of this talk about per dern derns was pretty funny. Instead of getting on to me, my dad said, "I guess you better watch out for that mother ship, Sarah."
I think she forgave us once she went to college. Think.
What the Heck
I'm not sure whether or not I believe in a hell. I grew up Methodist and Episcopalian, and truth be told, even if I remembered the views of those two churches on the subject, it probably wouldn't matter much. I tend to like to make up my own mind. (I have issues with authority. I really can't imagine this as coming as much of a surprise.) I also attended a Catholic university, and even though I'm very sure where it stands on the issue, I also tend to disagree with the Catholic church. Stances on womens' roles and birth control are only the beginning of our failure to see eye to eye.
The bottom line is that my theology can be somewhat fluid, and I'm not always sure eternal damnation fits in with my conviction/hope of a benevolent God.
Despite my somewhat ambivalent stance on possibilities for the afterlife, I am fond of using the phrase "that sounds like my idea of hell." This started as a way to let friends know which activities I was and was not interested in participating in, e.g. "I'm in for the Ryan Adams concert but The Creed show sounds like my idea of hell." With time though, the phrase has really come to encompass what I do and don't value in this world.
(Also, if there was a hell, I kind of do think it'd be personally tailored, almost like a "Far Side" cartoon -- James Frey would be in a never-ending Oprah interview while Rush Limbaugh would find himself mute and unable to change the channel from "The Daily Show.")
So, I give you just a few of the items in my idea of hell:
1. A crowd. I do think if I had to go to hell it would be crowded -- most people I know like their cocktails and profanity -- but this makes the list because of how much I dislike crowds. More specifically, my idea of hell would be a spandex-clad Six Flags crowd constantly jostling one another to get closer to a corn dog that never materializes.
2. A drum circle. Drum circle. Ivy League acapella group. Barbershop quartet. Call it what you want, but amateur music performed with way too much gusto just doesn't work for me.
3. Conference calls. If you've ever been on one, you know what I mean. Each one already feels like an eternity, I can't even imagine the rage I'd feel if they actually were.
4. "Vanilla Sky." I disdain this movie. I used to stand in front of it in the video store and beg people not to waste two hours of their life. I considered it a public service -- my roommate considered it "an embarrassment." In my hell, it'd play on rotation with "Cold Creek Manor" and "Fear Dot Com."
5. The Gosselins.
If you're weird like me and spend any mental energy on the same subject, please let me know what makes your idea of hell in the comments.
Birthdays
I've had my fair share of birthday disasters:
5. A boyfriend forgot my birthday until he was reminded about the date by my roommate. We had been dating for two years. (20)
4. A friend threw a tantrum -- and I mean show-stopping tantrum -- in the middle of my birthday party. (22)
3. I was once dumped on my birthday. Between the celebration and the depression, way too many shots were involved. I saw much more of the bathroom than my friends on that one. (25)
2. Stomach virus. (18)
1. One year, I decided to go to Girl Scout camp in Cullman for the weekend even though it coincided with my birthday. On that fateful weekend, a girl with no teeth went through my underwear, I was forced to learn the polka from middle-aged women in culottes and a homeless man stole my pink and purple duffel bag from the front steps of the school while I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. Not even cake could erase the mental image of Tanya holding my Jockey for Girls up above her head. (9)
Of course, I've also had some great birthdays:
5. Show-biz pizza. It was Show-biz people, do I really need to say more? My chair had a crown on it. There were two cakes. My dreams and my reality have rarely been so aligned. (5)
4. A surprise limo ride. My mom had a limo driver pick me and the family up to go to a Japanese restaurant where they cooked before your eyes. For the early '90s, this was the height of cool and sophistication in my eyes. (13)
3. My driver's license, a car and freedom. My birthday was on a Saturday the year I turned 16 and waiting 48 extra hours to take my driver's test seemed unbearable. Thank goodness, I passed the test. I can still remember turning up the radio to whatever volume I wanted when my mom climbed out of the car so I could drive alone for the first time and grinning from ear to ear. (16)
2. Being legal. Surprise, surprise -- 21 was big for me. Going to Georgetown meant that a lot of the college social scene revolved around bars. (Wow, how's that for marketing my alma mater?) I was also a year younger than most of my friends. Not having to worry about whether or not I would get into the bar was a huge relief to me. It was the beginning of a new era. (21)
1. As I'm writing this, the day isn't over yet, but I'm going to pick this year as a great b'day. Partly, I think it's best to try and appreciate the moment you're in. I also have really fabulous people to share this day with -- friends, family and the significant other. And last by not least, I'm glad to be here. To feel comfortable in my own skin, to have failed and succeeded, to know what I want -- for now, and to have a pretty good idea that it's all going to be OK. (30)
Maybe I'll even get two cakes before the celebration is over.
On The Air
I've often considered that if I ever wanted to be on reality television, there isn't really a good fit for me. (After all, doesn't temporary fame have some kind of appeal? If I could get paid to attend just one party -- a la Stephanie Pratt and Khloe Kardashian -- I could redo my entire kitchen.) Maybe there's no good fit because I'm not insane, but we'll leave that off the table for now.
I'm not an athlete or in top physical condition, so Survivor and The Amazing Race are out. I've aged out of anything on MTV. I cannot sing or dance, so goodbye American Idol. Dating is of no interest to me right now which eliminates The Bachelor, Blind Date and anything involving a millionaire, fake millionaire or getting to know one another in complete darkness. I'm not a real housewife of anywhere, and I'm unwilling to exploit my womb. (That last one might be a "for now." We'll see how this recession goes.) I also have no role in the wedding industry at the moment, which would take care of most of the programming on WE and the Style network.
(While on the subject of womb exploitation, I'd like to go ahead and nominate my two favorite tabloid stories of the year. Sure, this could be a little premature, but I'm feeling optimistic today. My runner-up for favorite tabloid story of the year is something I call, "Douche Does Yoga." Why this even made "the news" is completely beyond me. And this guy has more money than me. A crime against humanity? I think it's possible. My absolute favorite tabloid story of the year is "How I Lose 145 Pounds" courtesy of Nadya Sudelman, a.k.a. the Octomom. Yeah, I don't think dropping a litter out of one's uterus is an option for most women struggling with their weight, but thanks for the thought, Nadya.)
Long sidebar aside, I've decided that there needs to be a reality show where people compete to find the most ridiculous purchases while bargain shopping. (I know! I also get excited just thinking about the hilarity and Hawkins that would ensue.) There would be a budget, of course. And then, with an appropriate time limit, competitors could visit stores like the Dollar General and Fred's to seek out the most inane products for sale. Do you spend all of your money on one big purchase or buy multiple items hoping to increase your odds of winning? I just don't know!
You could have a panel of judges or incorporate America's votes. Either way, I'm sure it'd be some compelling television.
In light of my new idea, this blog entry is also an audition. I bring you my most oddball find from discount shopping -- a bleach kit from Tuesday Morning. Now, while the bleach itself might not be oddball, I think it's the packaging on this one that says it all. I can't tell you how many times I've thought, "These old jeans of mine just aren't cutting it. I wonder what's missing ... Wait, I've got it! If I could just bleach the butt area, I'd have a whole new look and the perfect accessory to set me apart when I go to happy hour in the lounge of the airport Marriott. Thank you Denim Details!"
Fame and fortune, here I come.
The Hermit's Life
I'm not a customer service-oriented person.
Sure, my resume says that I have plenty of customer service experience, and this is true. I've worked in non-profit development, sports hospitality and the service industry. Rarely has anyone complained (and I used to get great tips). I'll do everything I can for you, but I'm not a fawner or a hand-holder. You'll get what you need and you'll get it in a timely manner, but you also have to be pretty content to get just me -- warts and all.
One of the best questions we received at one of the restaurants where I worked was, "How big is the 10-inch pizza?" Some servers will go out of their way to find a comparable item for you to figure out the size. I'll look you in the eye, give a good laugh that we can both share and say, "Ten inches."
When I worked at a French restaurant, if anyone asked about chicken fingers or ranch dressing, I sent them down a street to a sports bar. (Everyone is happier that way, trust me.) And when I was asked, "What is an olive?" I said, "Do you like peppers? Why don't you have that instead." In some instances, there just isn't enough time.
I like efficiency. And I'd say I don't like to waste time, but the truth is I don't mind wasting time so long as I can waste time the way I want to. I'll spend hours on Family Feud, but please don't ask me to sit in a waiting room, recite a menu that you can read or attend a meeting that could have been accomplished over e-mail.
I've made peace with this part of myself. My fear is that potential employers have not, and the more time I spend working from home, the more I enjoy my semi-hermit life. (Plus, it doesn't help that when I do leave my house, I tend to get in line behind the one woman requesting a price check at Wal-Mart, pick the sandwich artist who huffs when I point out that I asked for turkey, not roast beef, and find the first day pharmacist. Staying home looks pretty good. And, yes, I usually leave the house only for discount shopping, food and drugs.)
Every job I look at lately, I find myself bothered by one caveat -- people. What has become of me? Am I just a surly curmudgeon? Am I getting old before my time? Maybe everyone would pick a good chair, their pets and a laptop as the ideal office environment; I just don't know.
But I would like to make more money, and if that involves people, I guess it's time to suck it up.
Then again, this chair is really comfortable. Maybe I'll revisit the topic next week ...
All Smiles
Like most human beings, Iuse body language to give me clues about what another person is thinking orfeeling and how they are likely to respond to a given situation. I assume thatthe grimacing person with their arms crossed is unlikely to buy whatever I amselling or give me a good teacher evaluation at the end of the semester or evenwant to offer a flotation device if I was drowning. I hope the grinning personwho makes eye contact is a fan.
This might be just one of the reasons that I am continually amazed at the things people will say and do with a smile on. (Another reason probably has something to do with those who misrepresent themselves for the purpose of deceit and some underlying trust issues, but reason #1 seems far easier to tackle in a simple blog post.)
A few years ago, I was sitting at a party with a new acquaintance. We were discussing books because we both liked to read. Beers were in hand. We were both smiling and laughing. I mentioned how amazing I thought Oprah’s book club was because of the boon ithad given to so many writers sales- and publicity-wise.
“Yep,” he said, seeming to take in my words and give them some thoughtful consideration, “because she’s black.”
I sat there a tad surprised, to say the least.
“Don’t even get me started on the blacks.”
Now, let’s just say that based on his body language cues and everything that had gone before, I did not expect for racism to be on the menu in that conversation. A lively discussion on the true merits of William Faulkner? Maybe. Me having to feign interest inbooks related Nascar? Most likely. But outright racism? No. It made me thinkthat I really needed to listen more carefully.
Many people know that one of my personal pet peeves is fundamentalist churches that take a super casual approach to worship. I feel like there are a fair number of churches out there with the attitude of, “Come on in! Hey, we’re laid back here. Look, we wearjeans. Our minister is in a golf shirt. There’s a tambourine. This isn’t yourusual stuffy church; don’t be afraid.”
Only, then you find out, “Yeah, our church isn’t about being fancy or singing hymns from hundreds of years ago. We’re modern. We’re hip. And we’re super inclusive as long as you promise to hate gays, too.”
The point of all of this is that this is one of the reasons I was so upset by a visit to the vet a few weeks ago. I was having my cat fixed. Now, I want to say that overall, my experience was wonderful. The staff was caring. The facility was exceptionallyclean and convenient. The prices were astounding. Five stars out of five.However, shortly after entering the clinic, I was approached by a woman withthe brightest smile. She emanated warmth, and I kind of wanted to ask her for ahug -- just because.
“Don’t worry about your little one at all,” she said. “For the boys especially, it’s a really simple procedure.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.
“So simple,” she said, still smiling. “All we really have to do is grab the testicles [there was a hand motion], make an incision, pull back the skin …”
Let me just say that there are many early morning hours when the last thing I want to hear about is testicles. (Call me crazy.) Also, while being a fairly sensible person, I still don’t like hearing words like “pull back,” “yank” and “cut through the veins” in relation to my feline companion. It was more than a bit much, and I could see the horror on the woman’s face behind my in line as the nurse continued to describe this procedure graphically and in too much detail.
All I’m really looking for is a little truth in advertising – a few more hints about what I’m getting into. Or, maybe just someone who knows that I don’t consider racism, homophobia and/or bloody operations things to smile about.
*If you feel that the photo accompanying this blog post is false advertising for the subject matter, I apologize. Using only royalty-free photos has severely limited my options. I just really don't want to go to jail, and I can't afford fines. Sorry.