The True Spirit of Easter

In honor of Good Friday, here's a little look at Easters past from a 2010 post.

The Mills are a competitive bunch.

We pull out rule books when there's a question of awarding points in board games, we do not believe in do-overs and we never, ever let anyone win. In general, it makes us a tough, formidable lot when it comes to a game of Balderdash or charades. It does not, however, always make it fun to be a kid in our family.

When I say that we don't let anyone win, I really mean anyone. It does not matter if you are three or thirty, if there's a chance to take you in tic-tac-toe, Scrabble or even Candy Land, we seize it. Once during a game of bocce on my great aunt's lawn, I thought that maybe I should change my throws a little so one of the children could win. (I was twenty-eight to their five, six and eight after all. And, yes, they all probably could have taken me on their own, since this particular game did involve throwing and sports stuff, but let's leave that off the table for now.) Then I looked over and realized that my cousin had just knocked his own son's ball out of the competition, and I figured it was our usual "no holds barred" approach to all gaming.  

My father thinks it's character-building. Does life ever let you win? No. Do you have to work hard and earn your victories? Yes. So, the rules are uniform and the same for every one.

Since I could talk, I have never beaten my father in a game of ping pong, Monopoly or Gin Rummy. 

My friends often ask me to join poker games, but I always turn down the invitation. They assume it's because I can't play. "I'll teach you before the game," usually follows my "no thanks."

I can play poker just fine, and I'm actually kind of good at it, but playing poker reminds me of sitting around the kitchen table playing with my dad and sisters when we were much younger. Not only did my dad always win, but he also made us turn over our hands after every game. "Now, Laurel, why would you ever have held onto that eight? What good was that card to you?"

We didn't just lose, we also had to evaluate why we lost. There were times it was a tad excruciating. On the down side, I can't stand poker. On the plus side, it's nearly impossible to beat me in Gin, and I can almost count cards.

No reason or extenuating circumstance could temper this competitive edge -- even on some of the holiest of holy days. And the Mills family Easter egg hunt was one of the most blood-thirsty events of them all.

See that cute picture up there? Those sweet smiles are just facades to hide the plotting we'd already begun. ("There were an egg above the door frame last year. Check there first.") Two minutes after this photo was taken, hair-pulling, pushing and diversionary tactics ("Is someone eating your chocolate bunny over there?") were all fair game as we grabbed Easter eggs from their hiding places like they were pieces of pure gold or coupons for unlimited Barbie dolls.

My middle sister still claims injuries from the hunt of '91. I say I was ten feet away when she fell into that sticker bush.

And even though we're too old to hunt Easter eggs now (I was undefeated when I retired at 13, by the way), it's a tradition we've tried to pass on to our younger cousins. For better or worse, we've given them many of our old tricks, and I look forward to seeing how this Sunday's festivities play themselves out.  

Whatever your leanings/beliefs are, Happy Easter, Happy Passover or just enjoy the weekend! I can't wait for mine -- potential injuries and all.

The New Age

When I was 10 or 11, I went through what can best be described as a "New Age" phase. Now, being a pre-teen from the suburbs with limited means as well as transportation, my "new age phase" probably pales grossly into comparison to anyone else who's ever truly embarked on a different spiritual path. (I never even got to burn incense.) But I did develop a rather unhealthy obsession with The Nature Gallery catalog (crystals and wrapped-dolphin rings) and dream interpretation. (At the time, all I dreamed about were tests that I had forgotten to study for, so it really wasn't worth the seven dream dictionaries, but I suppose bygones are bygones.)  

Also, and I say this with a little more shame, during this time I decided that I really needed to explore my past lives. (Side note: this is what happens to an impressionable younggirl left alone with daytime television. Between guests of Phil Donahue andSally Jesse Raphael and the musings of Shirley Maclaine, I had a lot ofunanswered questions.)

Since, my parents always let me read whatever I wanted(“She’s reading, what more do you want?” as my father would say), after my last tome on dream interpretation, I switched to books with titles like Uncovering Your Past Lives and How the Worlds You Lived Before Affect The World You Live Now.

In my imagination, I was a princess or incredibly sassy innkeeper's wife along the lines of the character from Les Miserables. (I was obsessed with musicals, too. And as I've said before, and as I'm sure I'll say again, yes, elementary school was not easy with these kinds of interests.) I also figured I was bound to figure out my fear of heights once I discovered which of my past lives had led to a disastrous fall off of Mt. Kilimanjaro or a horrible push from the Brooklyn Bridge.

(These days, I imagine my fear of heights came from falling out of a tree house at nine and breaking both of my arms, but past lives were so much more romantic.)

One of the books I picked up at this time had very detailed instructions on to how to hypnotize yourself and discover the mysteries of the "soul's journey." (Having to stop, open your eyes and read the next step in the quest for deep relaxation and inner exploration of the mind seemed a tad counter-productive to the goal even then, but I gave it many a go anyway.) For at least a week, I dimmed the lights of my room, sat in the quiet and tried to access the hidden corners of my brain where these past life memories were stored.

The closest I ever got to a past life "revelation" was a recurring image of a red-headed woman in a gauzy white dress who bore a striking resemblance to the cover of another book I was reading at the time.

My truest epiphany was learning to spend my weekly allowance on The Babysitter's Club books instead. If nothing else, Claudia offered better fashion tips.   

Adventures in the Service Industry, Part Two

It was the end of day four, and I still hadn't made it past appetizers. Around 10:00 p.m., about the time I was dying to escape the restaurant training I had been in since 5:00 p.m., my manger, Lou, decided we were all in need of a pep talk.

"Now, I tell you, I don't know what's happened to this group," he said. "We started out 40 strong, and since then, you guys have been dropping like flies. People show up one day, don't come back the next. What is it? Is it an issue of commitment? Is it the tests?"

He then referenced the poster boards he kept to the right of his podium (because every restaurant manager requires a podium) where he kept multiple poster boards with our daily test scores written next to our names. (Want to know when I began cheating? The first day I saw that Joe, who spent his free time setting his jeans on fire with a lighter, had scored a 100 compared to my 97. No one -- not even pregnant smoker Jeannie -- scored less than a 95, and I figured cheating was the standard.) 

"I thought I selected a committed group, dedicated people," Lou went on. "Could someone tell me what's going on? Because I know it isn't me. So what the heck is it?"

This little lecture went on for 30 minutes. I can tell you because I checked my watch every minute on the dot. I had friends to meet after training. And five hours was more than enough for me. Five and a half hours was turning my barely contained annoyance into pure rage. It's not like there was a real opportunity for me to stand and say, "Hey Lou, I'm pretty sure the problem actually is you. You drive people away. You're controlling, annoying and clearly far too fixed on the notion that we're on a real island instead of being on the backside of a strip mall."

"Y'all can go tonight," Lou said, at last, "but I want you to think about each and every thing I've said."

That last command would have been far easier if I had been listening. I nearly ran out of our training space to grab beers and complain to some friends. (I should probably mention that I had also been told that day that the khakis I spent what little money I had left on weren't "regulation." I read "regulation" as "pleats." The idea of spending more money on khakis with pleats wasn't helping my mood.)

The next day was our break day. Eight days of training meant four days on, a day of rest, and four more days on.

I absolutely loved my day off. I slept in. I had a big breakfast. I didn't worry about tugs at my elbow or any greetings involving "island." The only problem was the nagging voice in the back of my head reminding me that I had to go back.

Morning dawned on my first day back to training, and I really thought I would make it to the restaurant. Even in the late afternoon, I thought I would make it. I was a grown-up with responsibilities, after all. So, you can imagine how surprised I was when my body seemed to go into a state of near-inertia around 4:00. By 4:45, I was nearly catatonic. I could not move, I could not grab my car keys, and I certainly couldn't get in the car and direct it towards the restaurant. Even at 5:30, I thought I might still arrive at work and come up with a brilliant excuse for my tardiness on the way over. In reality, I just never showed up. (I promise that I am rarely this irresponsible. Between khaki rules and offering Jamaica me crazies, I had clearly been pushed to the edge.)

The next morning, my cell phone rang. "Hello," I said.

"Is this Laurel? I need to speak with her."

Realizing it was Lou, I hung up.

He called back. By now, I recognized the number on the caller id and just didn't answer. He called again.

Finally, I went into my sister's room. (I was living at home after my recent move.) My sisters and I sound exactly alike on the phone. It's why my father answers each call from his daughters with "Hello Angel" until speech patterns and mannerisms give away the identity of the daughter in question. Apart from my family, for most of my life, this voice thing has been a problem. (I once spoke to my sister's boyfriend on the phone for 10 minutes thinking it was my boyfriend. When we both realized our mistake, we agreed to never speak of it again.) But, I finally saw how this identical voice issue could work to my benefit.

""Hey," I said, "do you think you could do me a little favor?"

"What's the favor?"

"Quit my job for me?" (Whereas I can easily be guilted into anything -- like cleaning stranger's apartments, giving people rides to and from the airport before dawn and washing your dog -- my sister is far more assertive. She doesn't really take crap from anyone, and I had no doubt she'd be far better equipped to make Lou go away once and for all.)

"What's in it for me?" she said.

"A six pack of your favorite beer?" My only bargaining chip: I was of age, and she was not. Go ahead and judge me.

"Give me the phone."

My 18-year-old sister then called my manager to quit my job for me. Here's what I heard: "Hi ... yeah ... I couldn't make it ... I didn't want to be there ... I won't be back ... I have another opportunity and it's far more lucrative ... you too." Click.

"What did he say?" I said. "Was it OK?"

"It's done," she said, "and he wishes you well in your new endeavors."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

"Awesome."

"Glad you're happy," she said. "Do you think you can hit the package store before five? I've got plans this evening."

It might be one of my more cowardly acts, but it was also pretty painless. Sadly, I have to admit that the easy way out has than name for a reason. And once in a blue moon, I do take it. (Feel free to continue judging me.)

Adventures in the Service Industry

Having been a writer/grad student/member of the under-employed at various points in my life, I've also spent my fair share of time waiting tables.

One of the many lessons I've learned as a former waitress is that being trained to wait tables is always far worse than actually waiting tables. At best, you end up doing the grunt work for whatever server you're shadowing for the shift. ("Yeah, if you sweep out the back and roll the next batch of silver, we should be good to go." There's no "we" when one of us keeps all the tips, and the other finishes out each shift in rubber gloves, my friend.) At worst, you have to role play waiting tables for your manager so that he can see how you'll perform with "Bad Guest #1" before allowing you on the floor.

This is a story about the latter. 

(First, I'd like to make it very, very clear that one of the activities I despise most is role-playing. (LARP-ers, please be assured that I'm not talking about your kind of role play. If I get to wear a wig and a corset, I'm in. Always.) And when I'm in an HR office and hear the words "why don't we role play a few scenarios?", my blood absolutely runs cold. If I wanted to pretend that I was talking to someone other than the person across the desk from me, I'd spend more time at the DMV. And I will not make believe I'm in a room with "Upset Donor Donna" just because your acting dream had to die.)

I was 23 or so and had just moved back to Birmingham from Washington, D.C. when I took a job waiting tables for an as-yet-unopened restaurant in a nearby suburb. (During my interview, I had to "sell" the manager a can of pencils that had been sitting on the table. It should have been my first sign.) Because the restaurant wasn't open, training was an eight-day activity that involved hour-long seminars with subjects like "refilling the sugar caddy" and "condiments 101," nightly tests and, of course, the aforementioned role play.

In the pretend world of restaurant role play, we also couldn't jump right in to waiting on a customer for the entire meal. If we were approved through the initial introduction, we could move on to drinks, then specials, and so on and so forth.

"Welcome to the other side of the island. Can I get you something to drink -- maybe a Bahama Mama or a Jamaica Me Crazy?" I said, each and every night.

And every time I walked away from my faux table, I'd feel a slight tug on my elbow and turn to see my manager standing behind me.

"Laurel, we're really going to need you to slow down a bit. Don't rush your island greeting."

"Yeah, Laurel, do you think you could pep it up a bit? Don't forget that you're an island ambassador, now. Really welcome your guests to our paradise." (If I'd paid better attention to those tests, rather than stealinganswers from the back of the book, I might be able to tell you/rememberwhat the "island" theme was all about. Seafood?)

"Someone forgot about beverage napkins."

"Laurel, do you know what it was that time?"

"That you Jamaica me crazy?" I thought, around the time of my fourth reprimand. "No, Lou," is what I said aloud.

"You walked away from the table before you were done talking. Eye contact and staying power are very important aspects of the server's tool box."

In four long, grueling days, I never made it past appetizers.

(Part 2 of this experience coming Friday ...)

As a Mule*

I have been known to be a bit stubborn.

I won't shop at stores if I learn that they don't have a bathroom for customers. (Not only is this one practical, but I firmly believe that if you're willing to take someone's money, you should be willing to let them use your toilet as well.) I think gift certificates should not have an expiration date, and have had chats with many a manager over this. (They still have all your money, right?) And I do not share desserts unless the terms of the dessert sharing were agreed upon before said dessert was ordered.   

While some people might see these habits as idiosyncrasies, or just kind of odd/difficult, I think it's my commitment to these rules that pushes me into the stubborn territory. No bathroom for customers? You really will never see me in your store again -- unless of course I hear a change in policy has occurred.

But, perhaps the best example of my stubborn streak is what happened in my computer class from the fifth through the seventh grade.

Once or twice a week, we had to go to something called computer class. (I've honestly tried to block this particular part of my elementary education out, so the details on time might be a bit off.) There wasn't much to the curriculum -- we did typing tutorials for 45 minutes. Each and every time. For three years.

We learned absolutely nothing else about computers, and the only incentive to complete the typing tutorials was that if you finished early, you could play computer games.

Now, it just so happened that computer class was taught by one of my least favorite teachers. I thought he was cocky, condescending and seemed far more interested in what the boys had to say than what the girls had to say. For this last reason alone, he was really at the bottom of my list.

When we started our typing tutorials, I found it incredibly boring to pick out "sad," "fad" and "dad" on the keyboard over and over again. Plus, we'd had a home computer since I was much younger (my mother is an engineer by training, after all), and I was used to using the complete keyboard all the time. I was one of the fastest two finger typists you'd ever seen. I'd finish my tests for the day in about 10 minutes and play games.

The problem, of course, was that my teacher could tell I was using the two-finger method rather than actually typing. So, he approached me one day.

"Laurel," he said, "you have to learn to type."

"I can type," I said.

"No, you have to type the new way," he said. "My way." (Like he'd invented it?!?!)

"Why?" I said. "I'm just as fast with my way."

"But you can't use your way forever," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not how it's done."

That was hardly enough of an explanation for me, and I'm an explanations kind of gal. I needed to know how an egg was made at the age of four and nearly drove my mother crazy trying to find an adequate answer.

(Plus, my fifth grade self figured that I'd be a lawyer or actress with an assistant anyway, so why even bother with the mundane tasks like typing?)

The teacher then made me take higher and higher level tests. Each time, I earned what would have been A's with my two-finger method, and since we were only graded on our test skills, we were at a bit of standstill: I didn't like him, and he didn't like me.

So, for the next three years, I refused to learn how to type. I decided it was a skill that I wouldn't take up because I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of thinking he had taught me anything.

That, my friends, is stubborn.

When I changed schools in the eighth grade and had a typing workshop with a lovely woman who smiled often and treated everyone with respect, I picked up real typing in a week and have never gone back.

In many ways, those were some very wasted three years (except for the computer games), and really mature people would probably have moved past the typing debate quickly and never thought of it again. These people probably are also good at letting go, don't stay angry and have really low blood pressures.

I have a lot to learn from these people. But, I also can't completely lie -- a big part of me still takes some pride in being able to say that that man never taught me a thing. And when this here blog really takes off (did I mention I can be stubborn and delusional?), he won't be getting any of the "thank yous" or credit. 

Then again, this same approach could lead to me having a heart attack at 40, so he might get the last laugh after all. 

*My metaphor here is clearly "stubborn as a mule." But this story might make me look like more of an ass. And then the only public domain picture I could find was of a donkey, so the animal metaphors here, or lack thereof, are all a mess now, and I apologize. Please mentally picture the four-legged creature of your choice to go along with this here post.

Mace in Your Face

I have worked in plenty seemingly-less-than-safe areas: downtown parking garages, poorly-lit parking lots next to wooded areas, restaurants in neighborhoods that seemed abandoned by the time you finished closing up from the last shift.

I've even lived in the suspect cities of Washington, D.C., Chicago and Durham, North Carolina. (For those of you thinking Durham doesn't belong on that list, please keep in mind they were on the hunt for a serial rapist during my freshman orientation week at Duke.) Even Birmingham is no picnic with its high homicide rate and large incidence of robbery and break-ins. And need I remind you of the potential peril that was my apartment in Nashville?

But, for most of my time in these jobs and cities, I didn't worry too much about my safety. (By "worry too much," I actually mean "purchase a firearm." I always worry -- it's just a matter of degrees.) If I could find someone to walk me to my car, I would. If I couldn't, I'd go anyway, keep an eye out and have my largest key ready for stabbing if necessary.

Then, I took a new job a couple of years ago, and I really started to worry. It wasn't that the locale was that different from anywhere I'd worked before, it was the comments I heard around the building that got to me, like "the security guard had to draw his gun on the guy" or "someone chased me up the stairs in the parking garage." (Plus, it was a genuine, bona fide runner who had been chased in the stairwell. She stood a shot. I, with my hobbies of wine and Lost, did not.)

Like a lot of my thoughts, none of it really went anywhere for quite awhile. I worried. Sometimes I worried more, sometimes I worried less. But it was still just worry.

Then, I met the Stunning Gal.

It was the Southern Women's Show of 2008, and I had to be there for work. During our occasional breaks from the booth, we would walk other parts of the show. (For those of you wondering, the Southern Women's Show pretty much involves a bunch of vendors stuck in the basement of the Civic Center for three days. Some people go to collect as much free stuff as is humanly possible, others go to shop their a%$es off. I was working, but also in the "grab as much free stuff as possible" category.)

On one of these breaks, rather than walking by the booth with free hand sanitizer again and again, I found myself drawn to the section of the Civic Center that periodically emitted a loud "Bzzz" sound. The Bzzz came from a stun gun, and Stunning Gal, as she is known at the show, sells stun guns in addition to mace, tasers, safes that look like Diet Coke cans and the like.

"I'll give you my show special," she said as I eyed a display case full of objects about the size of a deck of cards with various voltages written across the top. "Since you're working a booth, I'll even give you a price below the show special. You just can't tell anyone."

Suddenly, all my worry seemed to have a solution, and it was right in front of me at a price below the show special.

"I'll throw in some mace, too," she said.

A gift with purchase? The temptation was so, so strong, I had to walk away. I moved a few booths down and decided to give my SO/Voice of Reason a call.

"I'm thinking of buying a stun gun," I said. "But it could be that the lack of natural light and Mega-Vitamin-Water pyramid schemes have gotten to me. Am I insane?"

"Would a stun gun make you feel safer?" he said. Wisely, he did not address the second question.

"Yeah," I said. "I think so. But seriously, is this something I should do?"

"I think you should do whatever you think is necessary to be safe," he said, and our conversation came to an end.

With him in my corner, I was completely sold. A co-worker and I returned to the Stunning Gal booth, where my co-worker (with the far batter bargaining skills) got us each a pink one million volt stun gun and foam mace (it sprays foam that dyes your attacker's face -- how's that for an easy line-up pick?) for the low, low price of ... well, sorry, but I can't tell you. You don't break a promise you made to a woman that's always armed.   

I walked out of that Southern Women's Show with two means of self-protection, and I was quite pleased with myself. Maybe even a little too pleased.

What I didn't count on was becoming drunk with power now that I had these tools at my disposal. A girlfriend thought we should wait a few minutes before entering a store with shady characters at the door? Not necessary -- I'd keep them away. No parking attendant on duty? No worries, I could fend for myself. Dark paths? Piece of cake.

It was when I found myself walking through a parking lot thinking, "Come on, I dare you. Give me a reason to mace your face," that I realized I had a problem.

And as the SO pointed out, "Just because you can defend yourself, it doesn't mean you should stop using common sense. And you certainly shouldn't put yourself in dangerous situations." (For the sake of my father who is reading this, please know that I never really intentionally put myself in a dangerous situation. It was mostly daydreaming.)

He was right, and I relegated my stun gun and mace to the pocket of my handbag where they should be -- for emergency use only and as a last resort. The buddy system and vigilance are what I rely on most.

But, there's still nothing quite like the sound of a far-off Bzzz to get my pulse pounding, my heart racing and my mind filled with images of myself as a completely competent vigilante and awesome superhero.

Birth Order

For most of my life, I took incredible pride in being the oldest sister. (I have two sisters, one three years younger, and the other five and a half years behind me. Yes, my mother had three kids in less than six years. She and my father both worked full-time, too, so she does admit that most of our collective childhoods are "something of a blur.")

For many, many years, I equated "oldest" with "wisest," "most powerful," and "most entitled." (My middle sister is currently thinking that last sentence shouldn't be in the past tense.)

When we moved into a new house, who should have the biggest bedroom? Me, of course. And why? Because I was the oldest. Last piece of cake? Oldest. Right to check the mail, swim in the deep end of the pool and first shot at all gifts simply labeled "for the girls"? Oldest. Oldest. Oldest.

My middle sister still resents the "trades" I talked her into whereby somehow she ended up with my old pack of playing cards missing three Jacks, and I got her newest stuffed animal or Barbie doll. And my youngest sister spent about two years as my personal gopher because every time I wanted something from another room or part of the house, I simply said, "But I'm timing you. Don't you want to know how fast you can go?" (In my defense on that last one, two years? Seriously? You have to admit she had plenty of time to figure out what I was up to.)

Anyone out there who isn't an oldest child (and maybe even some of those that are) is probably having the exact same thought right now -- "Wow, she was evil." But, at the time, it made the most perfect sense to me. After all, I'd gotten to the world first, by the accident of birth sure, but I was still first. These created perks seemed like quite the fair trade for the attention-grabbing and parent-stealing both my siblings had been up to since entering the world.

(One of my favorite home movies is shot right after my middle sister was born. Obviously, my parents were making a tape because they wanted footage of their new daughter in her infancy. It is also quite obvious that this did not go over very well with me. My father holds the camera while my mother shows off Rachael and they talk to each other about how beautiful she is, and blah, blah, blah. In the meantime, I change into every conceivable outfit I can come up with, finally ending up in a leotard and tap shoes so that they will film my dance instead of the baby. I won't even refer to Rachael by name -- in that video she is only "the baby" to me. My father tries to placate me with comments like "how nice" while still keeping the camera most definitely pointed at Rachael. You can also see the wheels turning in my head so clearly, "I can sing, make up stories and tap dance, and all they want to do is stare at 'the baby' who can't do anything yet? What happened to my world?")

Despite the occasional downside (blame for any and all physical altercations, regardless of whether I started it or was even involved), I loved being the oldest sister.

But, as they say, what comes around, goes around. I might have inflicted plenty of abuses on my younger sisters in the past, but their time for comeuppance has arrived. Ever since my third 28th birthday, it has been absolutely no fun being "the oldest sister."

No matter who you are, where you go, or how many years go by, for some reason, people still care about birth order. "Where do you fall?" or "Which sister are you?" are common questions when my family attends an event or I'm with my parents and we run into someone they know from years ago.

And always, before I can get out one of my answers like "somewhere in there," or "the youngest, of course," my mother someone else quickly states, "She's the oldest." (I'm still struggling with whether my mother's other answer of "the unemployed one" is better or worse than "the oldest." I lean towards better because I do think unemployment is associated with youth, but if the conversation happens to reveal that I am both the oldest and the unemployed one, I tend to hide under the covers for a few days afterward.)

Then it hangs there: oldest. Just floating above all our heads -- like crows have just flown out from the corners of my eyes and I should have good advice on whether Clairol or Nice 'n' Easy is better for covering grays. Based on what I see with my grandmother and her sisters, I also know this will never end. God willing I make it to 90, people will still feel perfectly comfortable referring to me as "the oldest one."

So, younger sisters, I think we're finally even. In my mind, having to acknowledge my comparatively advanced age for next 30-50 years more than makes up for all those Barbie dolls and cookie-retrievals.

In fact, maybe I should even get a few more considerations (foot rubs, valet parking, cash) for all the reminders you'll both get about your youth because of it. When it comes to that valet parking, I'll even time you.

What No One Tells You

I always thought that being able to work from home would be my perfect job. I think that's true for most Americans. After all, you can be in the comfort of your own home, work in jammies and avoid all of the office politics. There's no pretending to care about Peggy's photos from her trip to Phoenix, pressure to buy $10 gift wrap because Paul's kid has a school fund raiser or having to remember to swing by Winn Dixie at 7:30 a.m. because you're the one in charge of pimento cheese for the company pot luck.

Work from home, live the dream, right?

I once even accepted a piddly salary (that I later found out put me about $8,000 behind all of my male counterparts) because I was told there would be the possibility of working from home on some days. (Said possibility never materialized.) And every time I've been part of a large office and overheard someone talking about spreadsheets or how to shake the toner cartridge in the copier to get more life out of it, I've stared off into space and dreamed of doing my daily tasks from home. 

Let's just say that after a year of working from home, yet another of my dreams is dead. Here's the stuff they don't tell you about that domestic office:

1. Weight Gain. I thought I had it bad when I spent eight hours in my ergonomically-designed chair a mere 15 feet from the nearest vending machine. (I don't even want to think about what the consultant made who convinced companies that all chairs should have curved backs for happier workers. Note to said consultant: raises, better benefits and even some modicum of respect from management would have made me far happier than that chair.) These days, I sit on my couch instead, and the Cheeto's-laden BP station is less than a mile away. I refuse to admit my number of visits.

2. House Cleaning. When I first started working from home, I thought I should have a spotless house. After all, I was home all day, so why not use some of my break time or those periods when I was waiting for an e-mail response to throw in a load of laundry or Swiffer the floor? In the first month I worked from home, all of my slip covers had been washed, and I'd scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. Whereas I used to think, "Look how much I can do both professionally and domestically in a day," I now think, "The dirt and dust only come back. Maybe it's time to let them win."

3. Personal Hygiene. When you don't see anyone all day, it's pretty easy to forget about your appearance. If you avoid all of your mirrors, it gets even easier. For awhile, I changed clothes at night just so the SO wouldn't think I'd sat around in the same sweats for 24 hours straight. Lately, not even that seems to be a priority. I realize I could dress up just to do it, but rather than helping, I think I'd just feel even sillier -- like I'd turned into the delusional girl who talked about her high-powered job to anyone who would listen while pushing an empty shopping cart down the street or waiting for the guy to read the water meter.

4. Vices. Now, I'm not one looking to live in a 1984-esque world run by Big Brother, but there is something to be said for social norms. Others' eyes can do a little to keep us in check (and keep us from walking around in our underwear 18 hours a day.) When you work at home, there's no one watching. (I do realize that Judge Judy cannot see me through the TV screen even though I can see her. What a piercing glare that one has!) You can start drinking at 10 a.m. (Not that I do -- yet.) You can pop pills. You can spends hours looking at Internet pornography. For all you know, I could be drinking a dirty martini, smoking a pack of Capris and torturing one of the cats from my neighborhood at this very second. I'm not, but those boundaries can get looser and looser for us work-from-home folks.

5. Paranoia. The combination of A&E network, needing breaks from staring at the computer screen and being home all day on a cul-de-sac seems to have turned me into some sort of one-woman neighborhood watch. As someone who never wanted to be a nosy neighbor, I now know my mailman's route like the back of my hand and call tell you who recycles and who doesn't. I also have a loose theory that the people across the street take in homeless men in poor health, take out life insurance policies on them, and wait for "nature" to take it's course. I could very well be wrong, but if a news crew ever shows up in my life, I don't intend to be the interviewee saying, "They were the quietest people. I new saw this coming. I want to be the one to say, "I knew it all along. They were always weird, and I'm not a bit surprised."

(My goals used to involve publishing; now I want to be the smart-ass on the local news. Something is amiss.)

6. General Sanity. In case all of the previous points didn't lead you to this conclusion naturally, I do think mental health can suffer from working at home. Social interaction does more than keep our vices and hygiene in check. I really think it is good for the soul. No man is an island after all. There are days that the longest conversations I have are with my dog. And after the pets and talking aloud to myself, I end up in the worst of all possible places for interact with humanity ... message boards. LM6947* has a lot to say, and I'm not sure I like it one bit.

Of course, anyone working in an office right now probably has very little sympathy for this list, and I'm sure that if I went back to an office environment, I'd be nostalgic for my sofa and Cold Case Files within about two hours. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side -- whether that alluring other grass is a felted cubicle or desk shoved against the guest room wall. 

* Not my real message board name. Although, sadly, I do have one.

A Birthday and the Unexpected

When I was about five, my family moved into a new house on Crestside Road in Mountain Brook near the water tower and the local public high school. It took me quite awhile to recover from the indignity of the move. (How could they tear me away from my childhood home just like that? And it wasn't just any home -- there was an elementary school across the street complete with the largest playground I had ever seen. To take a child  away from her very own across-the-street playground? The cruelty astounds me to this day.)

Eventually, I recovered from the trauma and came to enjoy our much bigger backyard and the decadence of living in a three story house. (It was actually just a split level.) There were also a lot more children our age around, and it was fun to ride bikes, organize kickball games and dig around looking for arrowheads.

There were two new girls, in particular, that I decided I needed to immediately befriend. Both were my age, and while one lived across the street, the other lived a block and a half down or so. They seemed to do everything together, and I had to be a part of it.

It was after a few days of playing house (and trying to get them to like me even though they knew all the same people from school while I was the odd private-school-kid out) that I learned even more about them, "Oh, we're not just friends," Sally said, "we're cousins, too."

I was in awe. For my five-year-old self, being friends was one thing. Being best friends was a whole other sacred and longed-for entity, but being best friends and cousins was cooler and by far better than anything I could ever think of. You chose each other, and you were real-life -- not-just-blood-brothers -- related? I couldn't think of anything better.

I could even hear myself on the playground, bold and surer of myself than I had ever been, "We're more than best friends. She's my cousin." Then, of course, my fabulous cousin and I would walk off hand-in-hand, and the other kids could only wish their relationships were as cool.

In real life, I was lucky enough to have a cousin my age. Her name was Lauren, and we were just under four months apart. The bad part was that she lived in Texas -- not down the street -- and around the third or fourth grade, my aunt, my uncle and Lauren moved half a world away to Australia.

I'd like to say I knew Lauren well. I'd like to say we were close regardless of distance. What I can say is that I always thought we'd be close one day, and I'm going to leave off the cliche that always goes along with that thought.

As many of you know, my cousin died on January 22, 2007. I grieve her loss even though I'm not always sure I'm entitled to the pain I feel. She wasn't my daughter, and she wasn't my sister, and she wasn't anyone I ever shared late night sleepovers or heartbreaks with. But, when you're family, I also think it's always hard to watch those you love -- like my aunt, uncle and cousin -- go through their pain. And grief permeates a whole family; it just does.

At the time of her death (and afterwards), people were generous and kind and some said things I'd like to forget while others were very helpful.

Within 48 hours of Lauren's death, I wanted to hand write an apology note to anyone and everyone I'd ever told "everything happens for a reason." I believe that without each other, we'd all collapse and burn on a daily basis, but I hardly think that's the reason young people die, earthquakes take thousands of lives and we can't cure cancer.

That "Everything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger" nonsense always made me feel like I was in the final round of a game show.

"Well, Laurel," the host would say, "you've made it this far. Now let's see what your prize is."

The audience oohs.

"Behind door #1, we have grinning and bearing it and moving on, and behind door #2, we have death."

"I'd like to take the option that's not dying, Alex. Thanks so much for letting me play."

And when it comes to stages of grief, I'll just add that I think I skipped right past shock to anger, and I stayed in anger for a very long time. Denial and bargaining didn't even cross my radar. Secretly, I was angry most of the time. I was angry at people with living cousins, I was angry at people who had conversations about elective surgeries and such like nothing bad could ever happen to them. I was even angry at friends of mine who lost grandparents and great aunts or uncles. I knew they were in pain, but so much of me wanted to scream, "Ninety-year-olds are supposed to die, twenty-six-year-olds aren't. Get over it." (I never did, and I still feel guilty for the thoughts, but most of us know that grief has to have its own way.)

Soon, you realize you're in a club that no one wants to be a member of -- the club of people attached to tragedies. And this club gives you different advice. "Drink the glass of wine." "Cry it out some days." "It sucks, and it always will."

At one point, I sat down with a friend of mine who had lost his mother and his brother within a short period of time. I told him that I knew I would never get over this, but that I would get on with it. (Something I stole from a guest appearance by Bill Cosby on Touched by an Angel.) But, I also wanted to know when it would be the hardest -- first Christmas, first anniversary of her death -- and when it might start to seem somewhat OK -- although a new OK -- again.

"Here it is," he said, a Manhattan in his hand, "there's no answer to that one either."

"Come on," I said, "you've got to give me something. Anything."

"You're going to have no idea when it's going to hit you and when it isn't," he said. "You might sail through the first anniversary of her death only to be taken over on Arbor Day. And it won't be the milestones you think. It's going to be some event you didn't even think would be or have significance until it happens. You'll be fine, and then something will hit you out of the blue, and that's just how it's always going to be."

In the last three years, there have been many holidays without Lauren. There have been three anniversaries of her death (obviously). There's been part of a very public coroner's inquest. My sister even announced her engagement this summer, and we're all preparing for a family wedding Lauren can't and won't attend.

I thought I was doing OK, and then March 5 hit me like a ton of bricks.

The summer after I graduated high school, my family went to visit my aunt's family in Australia. At the time, I was dating a relatively quiet, Ivy-League-bound boy that went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Lauren was dating a 24-year-old stockbroker named James. (Oh, the sophistication.)

I remember first meeting her boyfriend because most of the family was in the back room. When the doorbell rang, my aunt went to answer it, boyfriend entered, Lauren didn't stand to greet him and my father gave me the look that said "that's how you play hard to get and that's how you let a boy know who's in charge."

Later, Lauren and I talked more about boyfriends. "So, do you think James is the one?" I asked.

"The one?" she said. "The one what?"

"The one you'll marry?"

"Why would I think about marriage now?" she said. "Marriage is for when you turn 30 or something like that."

"Really? Thirty?" I said.

"Oh yeah. What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "By 30 I think I'd like to be settled down with a husband and a couple of kids."

"Kids at 30? What about traveling or getting around the world. A career. There's so much to do."

"Maybe it's a Southern thing," I said. "We tend to have families young, and I'm not so sure how many places I want to see."

We talked more about the cultural differences in how we grew up -- Southern vs. Australian. I was moving away from home for school, something not commonly done in Oz, and Lauren was preparing for her next line of course work. She wanted to be a fashion designer. I was thinking about law. And so on.

In the end, we both broke up with those boyfriends. I did see the world (on an around the world ticket I still consider well worth it). Lauren did, too. I rediscovered my creative side. She spent too much money on shoes, me on handbags.

Now, at 30, I don't have that family or husband, but I do have a great dog, one very difficult cat, a house of my own and a passion (writing, in case it isn't obvious) that I had no clue about at 18. My own 30th, while sometimes difficult (I did keep telling the SO that this was the best I was ever going to look so he should take it all in now), went pretty smoothly. I had good friends to share it with. I had made it.

March 5 is the day that reminds me that Lauren didn't. It is what would have been her 30th birthday, and I would have liked to have known and seen her at this age just as I would have like to have known and seen her at any and every age. 

I didn't count on being the only of us to make it to 30. When we talked of imagined futures, it never occurred to me death would be the reason one of us didn't get there. And like my friend tried to warn me, it's the ones younever suspect that bring you right back to the beginning. I never thought a conversation I had 12 years ago would break my heart open all over again today.

So, for whatever March 5 is for you, enjoy it. Regardless of what you're doing, who you are or where you think you're going, you deserve nice things. Have a happy day.

Southern Hospitality

This past weekend, I attended a series of readings for pms (a literary journal produced by U.A.B. that is an acronym for poem memoir story). Dr. Alison Chapman was one of the readers, and she read from a piece about her work teaching in Donaldson Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in Alabama. While the entire essay was of great interest, the point of interest that lead to a discussion between another colleague and myself was this: Are Southern women ,in particular, torn between honest expression and the need to placate, please or be polite to others?

In short, are we more likely to keep our mouths shut? Do you tell your friend she looks huge in a particular dress when she asks, or do you say, "No, of course not, you're always beautiful"? While no friend, colleague or stranger likes these kinds of confrontations, it seems that Southerner women, especially, have trouble with the concept of expressing what they're really thinking.

This is also a conversation I've had many times before, especially with Northern transplants to the South. "Is everyone always this polite?" "Will someone stare if I want to talk about something other than tea sandwiches at the luncheon?" "Does anyone ever say anything negative about anyone?" "And what is this 'bless her heart'' stuff?"

And here's how I explain it: While Southern women may have been raised with a lot of decorum and a lot manners, we're also raised with a fair amount of sass, and we're not idiots.

If you invite me to your house and you might have accidentally shit on the floor just before my arrival (not that this has ever happened, mind you, but I like an extreme example every once in awhile), I will do everything in my power to pretend that I do not notice or smell the crap in the corner.

My most likely response? "Maybe I'll get the tour later. Want to grab your bag and head out for lunch?"

Surely, this was not something you meant to do, and there is no need for me to draw attention to something that is clearly embarrassing and upsetting to you. Anyone and everyone in entitled to their own human dignity, and when, pardon the terrible pun, shit happens, there's no need to make anyone feel worse than they already do.

If, however, you invite me over to your house, shit on the floor, and then expect me to walk over to that corner with you and tell you it smells like roses, we have a problem. Manners is one thing. Delusion is another.

I can overlook to a certain degree, but I will not lie. And I'll agree not to discuss certain hot-button topics -- God, sex, politics -- in public, out of respect for others' opinion and general cordiality, but if you keep picking, be prepared.

Most of the time, this isn't a problem. After all, I do live in the South, so everyone else pretty much goes by the same rules. Unfortunately though, you might also see how my take on my role as a Southern female has gotten me into more than a few tight spots at work.

Certain generations of Southern men and women don't see things the same way I do. If we're in a meeting, and ideas are expressed that I don't agree with, I will respectfully present my point and vocalize my own opinion. I am always open to a discussion. And when the majority wins, the majority wins.

But, I do think a good discussion is warranted -- especially when my reputation is attached to the project. And I am not open to being told what I will and will not put my name on without my input.

I consider it a kind of continuation of the same idea of being a Southern woman. I may not love a project 100%, but if I've had my say, and I'm on a team, I'll grin and bear it. I will not, however, being told what my contribution is and what my own words will be, impale myself on the leg of the present presentation easel, claim it was all my idea, and then say "thank you sir" afterwards.

I don't represent us all, but this is just the kind of Southern girl I am.

Yep, I'm Taken

I've heard girlfriends and talk show experts discuss relationship weight gain for almost as long as I can remember. I believe one woman even made the bestseller list because she coined the term "the newlywed 19" in her book. (Get it? She plays off "the freshman 15," but it's all about gaining weight in your first year of marriage. I don't know who wouldn't be astounded. Then again, that woman does have a bestseller, and I do not, so I should probably move on now.)

I've also heard all the reasons for the new pounds and even offered a few of own. When you're newly in love, who wants to do anything but spend time with his or her significant other? There goes the gym or fitness center. Even something as simple as staying home on a Saturday night to cuddle and watch a movie means there are no long walk from the best parking spot you could find to the bar -- in stilettos -- or dancing until the wee hours.

I tend to fall into the "I don't want this guy to think I'm one of those obnoxious women who counts every calorie and only eats salad," so I'll end up ordering a Rib Eye or pasta coated in cream on those first few dates just to prove how awesome and self-assured I am.

And when it comes to cooking for a date, there's no way I'm going to load his first (or fifteenth) home cooked-by-Laurel meals with my standard made from 2% milk cheese, non-fat sour cream or low-sodium, 98% fat free cream of anything soup. It's only full fat on those first creations. (And it's also why my dad pantomimes reeling in a fish whenever I tell him what I plan to make the SO for dinner that night.)

Plus, there's always the "if he loves me just as I am, why do I have to kill myself with lite, daily yogurt and hours on the Stair Master?" train of thought.

Luckily, I've only had one problem with relationship weight. This is partly because I'm not as skinny as a lot of girls before they start dating and also partly because, until recently, I've never been capable of maintaining a stable relationship beyond the six-month mark or so.

The only time it was a real issue was the summer after my freshman year of college. My first-year of college, rather than gaining the 15 lbs that comes with late night pizza and beer, I lost weight like I never have before. (And please keep in mind, I was a size four at the time who got into a size two BCBG dress for my high school graduation.) Here's what happened:

1. The dining hall food made me sick. The only option I had was to eat at the dining hall, since it was required of freshman, and because I preferred to spend my $200 monthly allowance on long-distance phone calls to the BF. Since the food made me sick, and we had communal bathrooms on the hallway, I decided that the best choice between my gastrointestinal embarrassment and eating campus meals was to stop eating. (I had been accepted to a great school, but was clearly lacking some fundamental reasoning ability.)

2. Since I didn't like frat parties, I didn't drink, so no new calories were introduced to my body every week. (Again, I'm sure the idea of me not drinking is foreign to most. Remember that this was many, many years ago.)

3. Because I didn't like frat parties, and there was so much empty time in my day, I'd often go to the 24-hour gym just to stave off the loneliness.

By the end of that year, I wavered between a size two and a zero. I also had the appearance of high cheek bones for the first time in my life because the rest of my face became so sunken.

Anyways, you're probably wondering how this is a story of relationship weight gain, so here goes. When I got back to Birmingham for the summer, I weighed nothing and wasn't used to eating much of anything. I was also thrilled to be reunited by my not-long-distance-for-the-summer boyfriend.

Now, I don't know how many of you have dated athletes before, but there are a lot of carbs involved (and if you're lucky, only carbs). After all, they're going to burn them all of with hours of daily physical activity. However, if you go from eating next to nothing to having every meal with your carb-fueled boyfriend (pizza, cheeseburgers and the occasional Chinese were his standards), not only do you gain your lost weight back, but you get about 15 or 20 bonus pounds, too. (It's not like I had or was inclined to hours of running around after all of our lunches and dinners.)

By July, I can remember putting on jeans that wouldn't have stayed on my waist before and barely being able to zip them up. I looked in the mirror and then looked over to my sister.

"That's borderline indecent," she said. "You cannot wear that to visit our cousins."

So, I set about to taking off that weight, and have tried not to let relationships mess with my weight since. According to recent events, however, I've been worrying about the wrong problem.

A few weeks ago, some friends and I were having girl's night at a local bar. A table of men was nearby, and one of my (bolder) friends decided to strike up a conversation, "What are y'all doing by yourselves over there?" she said, "There's clearly a group of attractive single girls right here."

"Oh really?" one of the guys said. "You're all single?"

"Four of us are," my friend said. "Two are taken, but those are still some pretty good odds for you."

The men then came over and sat down. Introductions were made. One guy looked at my friend Lesley and said, "You're one of the taken ones." (Her wedding ring is pretty easy to spot.) She nodded.

Then, he turned to me, "You're taken, too, right?"

"I am," I said, "What gave it away?"

"Just had a feeling," he said.

I smiled. "It's because I'm the one who didn't bother to take a shower before going out on a Friday night, isn't it? I've got to have someone at home if I'm willing to leave the house looking like this, huh?"

We both laughed, but I did realize that rather than having my relationship weight, I've just got some relationship laziness. I still dress up for our dinners out, but by now, it's quite possible the SO thinks of my black yoga pants as formal attire. And the more he tells me how beautiful I look without makeup, the less of it I wear. (Eyeliner? Who has the time?)

He is a sweet, forgiving, brave man.

But, I've also decided to do my best to draw the line at visible-from-50-yards zit cream or anything that resembles a dental headgear.

P.S. My waist has never and will never look like the one in the above photo.

The World's Weirdest Cat (or How I Learned to be an Optimist)

As we all know well, my cat, unlike 99% of all cats, will not go near his litter box. After purchasing four different litter boxes, three different kinds of litter and investing in enough Swiffer products to start my own maid service, I was pretty much at my wit's end. 

I finally decided that since the cat seems to think he's a dog anyway, maybe a daily walk with Cassidy would help.

Have I always been the person who makes fun of anyone who puts a cat on a leash? Yes. Did I ever, at any point in my wildest dreams, see myself as the kind of person who would walk a cat? Certainly not. Was I more embarrassed to walk my cat in front of the neighbors than the time I climbed in the car half-dressed with a towel on my head to drive to a friend's house because my hot water went out just as it was time to rinse the Nice 'N' Easy gray coverage dye out of my hair? Yes.

But, as well all know, desperate times call for desperate measures, so I suited the animals up.

Toonces the cat spent 60% of the walk lying on his back in the middle of the sidewalk refusing to move and trying to squirm out of his collar. He spent the other 40% flattening himself against the ground and creeping along like a crab.

Cassidy, excited for a chance to run and play and sniff was not pleased to have such a sedentary companion.

The only aspect of the walk that seemed passable was when we passed some barking dogs and Toonces clung to me for dear life. I thought, "Maybe, at least now, he'll appreciate me. Maybe now, he'll realize how lucky he is to have a safe, warm and loving home."

No such luck.

Without peeing, pooping or seeming the list bit in need of some relief on our walk, Toonces went right back into the house and took a squat on the kitchen floor. 

But, strangely enough, this is not what I find to be weirdest about my cat.

The other day, I was leaving the house in a hurry and didn't realize that I had accidentally closed Toonces in the bathroom. I returned home hours later to the pathetic cries of a trapped kitten. In addition to being concerned about the poor little guy, my head also filled with visions of a shredded shower curtain, tossed about toiletries and bath mats that could never be used again because of what I was sure were their new roles as kitty toilets.

I opened the door, picked up the cat and braced myself for a look around.

The bathroom was in perfect shape. Nothing had been touched. Not even a Q-tip or two had been batted around. I stared down at Toonces in wonder. Surely, he couldn't have held his bladder for that long.

Looking a little further, I found his spot. There, just behind the toilet, there was a little pile of toilet paper stained yellow.

Yes, you heard that right. My cat is baffled by kitty litter, but somehow seems to know what toilet paper is for. If I hadn't seen it for myself, I never would have believed it. And, in some ways, it only makes me think the little guy just really loves f*&%ing with me. Because, when it comes to who's going to break first here, we all know who it's going to be. Despite his incontinence, have you seen that face?

Wherever this feline came from, he's proving to be quite a formidable match.

As an epilogue to this story, in the last few days, for some strange reason and with no major changes, Toonces has taken to using his litter box about half the time. I can't determine the triggers, and I don't exactly know how to encourage the behavior, but for the first time in my life, I really think I understand how to see the glass as half full rather than half empty.

A Memorable Exit

I have not always been a friend to the earth. (Hey, I'm a Southern girl. I love some hair spray, and as much as it pains me to say it, there's no hold like the hold that comes from an aerosol can. The rest just can't compete.)

But, a few years ago, I decided to make a concentrated effort to be a better citizen of the planet. I'm by no means perfect, but I found that once I started recycling, it became easier and easier to do little things to reduce my carbon footprint.

I try my best to get all of my mixed paper, plastic, aluminum and glass down to the recycling center, and I never set my heat above 68 degrees in the winter. I also may have gone a little insane on the "reuse" part -- I knit from plastic bags, make cork wreaths and turn bottle caps and lids into chains and magnets. (I can just imagine fewer and fewer people looking forward to gifts from me as they read that.)

I'm also a big fan of making it easier for people to recycle. The more I recycle, the more it pains me to throw away anything that could be recycled. But, the neat freak/germ phobic part of me also disdains the idea of carrying around a dirty soda can or sticky bottle in my purse when there's no recycling bin to dispose of it in. 

This next story follows directly from that inner conflict of mine:

The last company I worked for did not have recycling bins for anything other than mixed paper. Their reasoning? It attracted too many bugs and was messy. My response? Messier than plain, old trash? Really?

Anyway, at the time (and until I decided to wean myself a few days ago), I had a nasty diet soda habit. Two per day was my minimum, and on those days when I was particularly tired or dragging, I could hit three, easy.  

At the beginning of each week, I would bring in a 12-pack of either Diet Coke or Diet Dr. Pepper (my drugs of choice) and store them in the file cabinet and drawers behind my desk. (I like to keep most of my records on the computer and back-up disks, so I didn't use the file cabinet for much.) And every day, when I was done with my soda, I would wash out the empty can and put it back in the same file cabinet and drawers with the intention of running everything to the recycling center when I got a chance.

Well, that trip to the recycling center kept getting put off, and the cabinet just filled up with more and more cans. This probably would have been fine and just turned into a weekend trip to the office to clean out the cabinet had I not been laid off.

Newly jobless with a cardboard box in front of me for my personal belongings, I also found myself faced with no less than 200 or so empty soda cans. What's a girl to do?

1) Leave the cans right where they were. What did I care? I didn't have a job anymore, and legally, I don't think you can mention someone's potential hoarding when called for a job reference. The problem? It's not like management would be the one cleaning out my office, and the cleaning crew was too sweet for me to leave such a mess for. I wouldn't do that to them, and even I'm not that unprofessional (i.e., management, leaving a company).

2) Pile those cans into the largest trash bag I could find and carry them right out to my car with everything else. Yep, in a building where no one had cubicles, and all of the employees overlooked a common space, I would carry my large, clanging, commercial-size trash bag out with me as I handed in my badge and parking pass to the security guard. I may not have much dignity, but even I couldn't face being remembered as that employee.

3) Take the back stairs and throw all of the cans into the dumpster, wasting all of the potential energy that would have come from recycling the aluminum.

Needless to say, in the end, I chose option three, and I've felt guilty ever since. But, on one of my worst career days, looking like the Santa Claus of the gutter as I left the building for the last time just wasn't a realistic option. I've been doing my best to make it up to Mother Earth ever since. Former plastic bag wine tote, anyone?

Worst Date Ever

As I mentioned earlier this week, I'm no stickler when it comes to romance. I don't have to receive a dozen red roses on every important occasion, and I'd be perfectly fine if no one ever dedicated a Celine Dion song to me on the radio.

However, I do think certain qualities (apart from my short list of fidelity, truthfulness and not signing on with extremist groups/militias) are important to keep love alive:

Thoughtfulness: "My partner seemed really stressed about getting everything done today, I think I'll pick up dinner on the way home."

Paying Attention: "My partner said it was very important that I get this video back to the store today, I'll do that right now."

Reason/Rational: "My partner is not a fan of Pink Floyd. His/her birthday is probably not the time to buy the complete works of Pink Floyd and force my tastes upon him/her. Maybe I'll buy something he/she likes instead."

The story I'm about to tell you completely violates all three of the above. And, while these events did not happen on Valentine's Day, I think the lessons about love -- or lack thereof -- are more than appropriate to the spirit of the holiday.

It was the summer before an election year. I was going to school in Washington, D.C. and my then boyfriend and I had been breaking up and getting back together for weeks. After yet another one of our loud and embarrassing-if-I-ever-had-to-see-those-neighbors-again fights, he told me that he really wanted us to work out.

"I need more from you," I said. "I need to know how much you care about me."

"I can do that," he said. "I can show you how much I care. I'll be more romantic."

"Really? You'll be more romantic?"

"I will. I'll even plan us a trip."

So, we got back together, and the ex-bf took to working on the details of a trip that was supposed to be even more romantic because it was going to be a surprise to me. Him taking the initiative and making plans for something we could do together? I was pretty excited.

The day of our trip, I put on a dress that was a far cry from my standard classroom uniform of capri pants and a tank top and turned in my summer school assignments early. Then I went back to my apartment to wait for the bf.

He arrived in his standard uniform of khakis and a button-down shirt. "Ready?"

"Sure," I said. "Where are we headed?"

"Philadelphia," he said.

I smiled and nodded.

"For the Republican National Convention."

To make it very, very clear how bad this was (as if it isn't clear enough already): a) there is nothing about politics or a party's national convention that I find the least bit romantic and b) I am not a republican.

"OK then," I said. (Please keep in mind that I did not have anywhere close to the self-esteem or mouth that I have on me now.) "How are we getting there?"

"I thought you could drive."

For more clarity, I am now: a) going to the national convention of a party I do not support and b) acting as chauffeur. In the abbreviated words of Charles Dickens, "... it was the worst of times."

"We better get on the road," he said, ushering me towards the door. "I don't want to be late."

Slightly more than two hours later, we arrived in Philadelphia. "There it is," he said, pointing to a large complex or closed-in stadium (I was a bit blinded by disbelief and barely-suppressed rage to remember the architectural details). "That's where the convention is."

"I see it," I said.

"Now, if we can find the box office, we'll be set."

That's right, ladies and gentlemen -- he didn't have tickets. His plan was for us to arrive at the door and get, I don't know, nosebleed section or lawn seating for one of the nation's biggest political rallies. First, all romance went out the door. Now, any consideration I might have given to his planning skills was gone, too.

Of course, no one can just walk up and buy tickets to the Republican National Convention. (I imagine it has something to do with demand and security clearance. But, I don't know for sure, and I never plan to find out. This is not the kind of trip I will make again.) And since we couldn't get in, and I refused to make a two-hour trip in vain, we decided to grab dinner instead.

We found an Italian restaurant nearby. I want to say there were TVs in the restaurant so the bf could would the convention that he couldn't attend, but I can't be sure on that point. What I do know is that we didn't talk much, and we were literally the only two people trying to get dinner in that part of Philadelphia at that time. 

And, for all of you still reading, here comes the real kicker. It's also the part that you might not believe, but let me assure you that I'm not that creative and life is, by far, stranger than fiction.

When the check arrived, the server handed it to the bf. He picked it up, looked it over and started patting his back pockets.

"Oh man," he said, "I think I left everything in D.C. Could you get this one?"

For some reason I still don't understand, I then paid $75 for a meal in a town two hours from home that I drove to in my own car for the convention of a party I don't belong to and couldn't attend.

As the saying goes, I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but thank God I ain't what I was. (And thank God I've begun to learn the word "no.") This Valentine's Day, I hope you're lucky enough to spend the holiday with someone very special. And if not, it could always be worse. Believe me. 

Shameless Self-Promotion

I try not to ask for much (apart from attention, cash, understandingand fame -- if you even count those), but I would really appreciate asmall favor from the readers of this blog. (I'm sorry if this makes mea terrible person):

Please vote for me (story #1) at My Scoop's Valentine's Day Contest.It'd be the best V Day gift I've gotten since a single rose from theboy who gave everyone roses as part of my high school's Key Clubfundraiser. 

Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's

I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.

As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.

Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.

Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.

(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)

We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.

As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.

In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.

So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.

There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)

I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.

Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)

"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.

"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."

"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."

"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"

"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."

"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."

"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."

"Cocks."

I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"

"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"

"Cocks."

"It's not his fault," I said.

"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."

"Cocks."

"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."

"You can do so much better than this baby."

"I can," I said. "I know you're right."

"Cocks."

"You ready to get back out there?"

"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.

"Go get 'em," the waitress said.

"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.

With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.

I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same. 

* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.

The Week of Love

In honor of the time of year, I thought I'd share some Valentine's Day-related stories this week. However, as with all incidents filtered through me, there will be some caveats.

For the coupled up amongst you, I wouldn't expect too much insight into the world of over-the-top romance. I cringe during proposals on The Today Show or Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve because those moments seems private to me. And the idea of people watching and judging what should be an intimate moment? No, thank you. I don't want to attend your annual physical exam either. I like my sappy moments fictional and created by one Nicholas Sparks. Plus, these days, there's not much I appreciate more than finding out that the dirty dishes have already been put away or that the trip to the recycling center has already been accomplished.

As for the singles, please rest assured I have some tales that will make you only too happy to spend February 14 alone or celebrating with friends or candy, whichever floats your boat.  

To go in what I consider to be reverse order, I thought I'd start with the story of my best Valentine's Day. (Best V-Day before the Significant Other showed up, of course. If confused, please reference previous paragraph about some privacy and intimate moments.)

The year was 1993, I was 13 years old and the Valentine's Day dance approached. I had been to exactly one dance before, but that dance hadn't really counted. (I.E., it wasn't school-sponsored. A friend's mom hosted a dance-themed party for our class in the clubhouse of her condominium complex the year before. While we were all very excited about the concept, no one ended up dancing, and because it was more of a "party" than a "dance," talking our moms into special shopping trips had been a bit of a challenge.)

The Valentine's Dance, on the other hand, was a time-honored tradition for seventh and eighth graders and came complete with shiny cardboard heart decorations, a DJ and teachers-turned-chaperones.

Naturally, I turned all of my attention to the outfit, and after bugging my mother incessantly, we set out for the mall one night after she got home from work. To share with you why this was an even bigger deal for me, let me reiterate what a late bloomer I was. I was the next-to-last girl in my grade to get her training bra, and sixth/seventh grade was just around the time I could finally start wearing "adult" clothes. (Oh, to have the problem of not being able to fit into a size 0 because it was too big, again.) I was stuck shopping in the kid's department for years, and the idea of showing up to a school dance -- of all places -- in an outfit you could also buy in a child's size 6 was too much for me to bear.

In those days, my mother and I always went to Express first because their clothes had a better chance of fitting me. Their outfits came in the now-I-hate-seeing-the-doll-clothes-next-to-my-curvy-body-shapers-built-in-nearly-maternity-style-tops 0/1 size.

Before we even crossed the threshold, I saw it. Sheath dress. Falling just above the knee. Scoop-necked. Black stripes alternating with neon stripes of pink, orange and yellow. (This was 1993.) It was the most beautiful, sexiest (by seventh grade terms) dress I had ever seen. I instantly saw my crush swooning the moment I walked in wearing it.

"Do you think it will fit?"

"We won't know until you try it on," my mother said, and I rushed to the dressing room.

In terms of fit, the dress came pretty close as I remember it. I think my mother and grandmother had to make a few alterations -- most likely taking in the chest -- but all in all, I was in heaven.

The night of the dance, I styled my permed and heavy-banged hair to perfection, zipped up my new and so-bright dress up and topped it all off with a velvet choker that had a single gold heart charm. (For Valentine's Day, of course.) 

Arriving at the dance, I was nervous. But spurred on by my stellar look, I had more confidence than usual. And rather than finding boys on one side of the room and girls on the other, this dance actually had members of the opposite sex talking to one another. When the music started, members of the opposite sex even danced with one another.

Everyone was being very friendly. (When there's only 24 people in your grade, you kind of have to be that way. Private school. Sigh.) As the evening wore on I danced with my crush many times (!!! as my inner-adolescent would say) and a bunch of other boys, too.

But, it was the end of the night that was the most special of all.

"Last song," the DJ called.

It was all coming to an end, and everyone knows the last song at the dance is by far the most important song. (I mean, a last song is all about eternal and ever-lasting love. Marriages and babies are built on who you choose for that last dance. You might as well sign up for adjacent burial plots when you pick that partner for your last dance. Am I right people?)

"What to do?" I thought. People were already pairing off. I turned towards my crush to see what he was doing, and he looked right back at me. He then gave me the shrugged shoulders that mean "Why not? You wanna dance?" in seventh grade boy speak.

I shrugged back. ("Sure," in seventh grade girl speak.)

We moved closer together. He put his arms around my waist, I put my arms around his neck, and with enough room between us for a small person, we danced the last dance of Valentine's Day 1993 to "You're the Inspiration."

I fell asleep all aflutter, dreaming of rock ballads and would could happen at school that Monday. 

I'd like to thank Express and Chicago for making such an incredible evening possible.

Enough Already

We all know I love me some infomercials, but perhaps what you don't know is that my favorite aspect of the infomercial is how they portray life as so hard without the product being advertised -- as if everything sold on television is the equivalent of sliced bread or the light bulb.

My first example? The Snuggie, of course. Watching this now infamous infomercial, you'd think the most difficult task in the world was holding a phone while covered in a blanket.

And we thought the wheel changed the world.

If anyone actually finds it that taxing to grab the phone while covered in a blanket, they have much bigger problems than anything a Snuggie can fix. Every time I see the Snuggie advertised, and the travails of handling a remote control or phone while covered in a blanket are extolled, I can't help but think of the Friends episode when Joey starred on the infomercial touting a product that made it easier to open milk. Because everyone has so much trouble opening milk to begin with.

If you watch the commercial for Aqua Globes, you might think that watering plants is also one of the most painful and difficult tasks on the planet. At one point, the female actress is seen struggling with a dead fern -- like the rotting plant has attacked her or tried to drag her into its water-less and angry clutches.

Is watering plants easy to forget? Sure. Is it a life or death struggle along the lines of a real-life Little Shop of Horrors? Hardly.

Then there's the Perfect Brownie. I'm so glad this product came along because I can't tell you how many times I've worried that my brownies weren't of exactly equal shape and size. And the idea of cutting a pan of brownies with a knife? Who has the time?

No, none of these thoughts go through my head when brownies are on the table. And I can't think of a single person I know who struggles to bake brownies from a box. Unless they invent a product that keeps you from shoving half the pan down your throat before the goods cool, I'm not interested. (Wait -- I think the mysterious product I think of is called self-control, and if it were available, I wouldn't need half the diet and exercise products I have bought off the television. Oh well.)

The Big City Slider Station? Because when you're making hamburger patties it's that hard to make some of them smaller? Again, I am confused.

While I know all products have to say that they make your life easier, watching infomercials, you'd think these days of indoor plumbing, constant Internet access and medical advancement were pure hell. (After all, I'm kind of on the lazy side, and if I think you're exaggerating, you've really missed the mark.)

Walking hundreds of feet uphill in the snow? Hey, I'll tell my grandkids about what it was like when I had to water my own plants and dig for my cell phone in my purse. I can almost hear their groans now ...

Bad Jokes*

While I appreciate a good joke as much as the next person, I've never been much of an actual joke-teller. Most of my humor is anecdotal, in case no one noticed, and when it comes to jokes, I tend to forget the punch lines, so the whole enterprise becomes pretty anti-climactic pretty quickly.

I've also never really been into potty humor -- and my mother will back me up on the fact that even as a child, farts and burps did not make me giggle; I just seemed uncomfortable and ready to move on. Physical comedy irks me, too. I don't laugh when people trip or get hit in the face with hams. For both of these reasons, I've never enjoyed a Ben Stiller movie.

I could pretend that my sense of humor is sophisticated, but that would be a lie. You have no idea how much I enjoyed the movie Corky Romano. Chris Kattan dressed as a girl scout? Too much!

Basically, this is all a really long intro into what are, despite these general biases, my two favorite clean jokes:

Joke #1 (which I'm pretty sure came from a Laffy Taffy wrapper): What did the grape say when the elephant stepped on it?

Nothing. It just let out a little wine.

Grape? Wine? Seriously, there are tears in my eyes.

Joke #2 (courtesy of a former teacher): What is the last thing to go through a fly's head when it hits the windshield?

Its butt.

After that, I think we can all agree I will never again get to pretend that my sense of humor is anywhere close to sophisticated -- or even adolescent. Hannah Montana fans can probably do better.

*My career path is not one of them. Or so I'm told.

Major Awards

I'm not one to let a chain letter die. (Are you surprised considering all this anxiety? I can't risk death by steamroller, exploding gas pipes or break-ups for failing to do something as simple as send a letter. P.S. Sorry e-mail contact list!) And while the "major award" is not a chain letter, I still feel like I have to keep it going.

Thank you, Tina, for bestowing this blessed honor upon me. I haven't won anything in a really long time -- unless you count the $20 Omaha Steaks gift card I received for all my coke rewards points, which I don't -- so I'm going to have to milk this one for all it's worth. Let me say that Tina is just one of the most awesome people I know. When we worked together at Lipstick, people used to ask if we were sisters. I took it as a huge compliment. 

Now, on to the first requirement of the award: I will now share five random facts about me. (I know, I know, as if you all don't know too much already. Is it hard to sleep yet?)

1. When I was little, I wanted to be an actress. I read biographies of Katherine Hepburn and Tallulah Bankhead for school projects. I attended drama classes, and I wrote and starred in my own plays. Then, I realized that I didn't like people looking at me. (Kind of an obstacle in that career trajectory.) Plus, I decided I couldn't deal with all of the rejection. So, I decided to be a writer. Great call on that rejection nonsense, right?

2. What I miss most in the Great Recession is my bi-weekly pedicures. I take great pride in my toes, and seeing them without color makes me sad.

3. I don't like brushing my teeth. (Don't worry, I still do it.) I find it to be the most boring part of my day. And knowing that I have to do it, at least twice a day, with no discernible change in technique or pattern, for the rest of my life, just makes me sigh. Every day, as I brush my teeth, I think, "Really? This? For the course of my natural life?" Bleh.

4. I love chocolate-covered cherries -- the cheaper, the better. I see a red box in the Walgreen's, and it takes all of my self-control not to buy in bulk. 

5. My temper may not be short, but my memory is long. Too long for my own good at times. I carry the memory of insults and slights far longer than necessary. Some people might call it a grudge ... I prefer to think of it as "a history."

For the second requirement, I will now bestow the major award on five other bloggers. Here goes:

1. In the first grade, I fell madly in love with a boy named Chris Knight. I nursed a crush on him for the next seven years -- except for a brief break in fourth grade when I decided his Webelo uniform was "dorky." My love was unrequited, but by ninth grade, when we both reached high school, we were very good friends, and we've remained that way since. He's an incredibly talented, smart and funny guy, who also happens to be a Jeopardy! champion. (And perhaps the smartest thing he's done is pick Julie Bryan Knight for his wife.) A movie buff, he maintains a flog (film blog) that is witty and insightful. I could not agree more with his thoughts on the greatest Christmas movie of all time, Die Hard. 

2. I can't play sports, and I know next to nothing about them. This hardly matters when I read John Bagby's blog. A true sports aficionado, he's also laugh-out-loud funny when commenting on everything from bowl games to a life without gluten. His dead pan delivery and to-the-quick observations get me every time. 

3. In Nashville, I met Phil Thornton, who I worked with at ReZoom.com, andhis lovely wife, Mindy. There were many, many days that co-workers likePhil got me through the job.A funny, talented guy with an awesome, talented wife, they are both wedding photographers, and I consider their blog a visual feast. It's gorgeous, real and intimate -- a true stunner -- like the couple themselves. 

4. I love food. I like to cook, but when I can't find the energy, time or ingredients, I still like to look at recipes and other people's culinary creations. When it comes to food blogs, I'm a glutton (coincidence, I think not). Here are just a few of my favorites: Food Revival, Simply Recipes, Cookthink and Foodimentary.

5. I only recently discovered Jamie Golden's blog, but I'm enjoying it immensely. She understands my love of shiny things, what else can I say?

5.5. I can't end this post without mentioning the website of one Arik Sokol. Talented, sweet, kind, professional and incredible behind the camera, I just can't say enough about him. His portraits are compelling and insightful. The perspective he brings to each and every subject is unique and considered. Color and light seem to perform in front of his lens. I'll stop now before I begin gushing ... As if I haven't already.