A Horse is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course

I think most little girls go through a phase when they're obsessed with horses. I'm not sure what it is about horses that's so fascinating when you have two X chromosomes and are under the age of 10, but there you have it.

At five, my favorite show to watch after school was Black Beauty. (At least, I think that's what it was called. There was a horse. It was black. It may or may not have been the main character, but it came on after Today's Special, and that's what I called it.) I had many My Little Ponies in addition to a score of off-brand plastic horses that I also liked to gallop across the living room floor. I even did my own horse impersonation that involved neighing. (I can only imagine now how annoying that must have been.)

A few years later, my horse obsession still strong but no longer My-Little-Pony-focused, I was a dedicated viewer or Mr. Ed on Nick at Nite. I watched that crazy talking horse every single night, and every single night, I hoped for Wilbur's sake that someone else would just hear that horse talk. Oh, that wily Mr. Ed -- he was a stinker.

I dreamed of owning my own horse and brushing its mane. I wanted to be so good with horses that I'd be like one of those shaggy-haired dudes who played by no one's rules but his own but could tame a wild mustang like you would not believe. (I either wanted to be like that person -- but a girl, how crazy! -- or marry him. At eight, I was still torn.)

For years, I thought that I couldn't love anything more than horses. That was until, of course, I actually rode one.

It was summer camp, and horseback riding was one of the class offerings. I was beside myself. What color would my horse be? Could I feed him carrots or oats? How long would it reasonably take until we started jumping gates together? Three days? Four?

"You're up," the counselor called on the first day after a couple of girls had gotten on horses in front of me. "So, just swing that leg on over."

That was the first problem. Being less than five feet tall and all torso, it's not exactly easy to throw your leg over a horse's saddle -- even when a ladder is involved.

"That's OK," the counselor said after another counselor had to come over and help her pull me on top of the horse. "I'm sure you'll get it next time." While I appreciated her optimism, I also knew that two weeks was not enough time for me to grown another six inches. 

Once we had all mounted our horses, we started off down a trail. Everyone else seemed to have no trouble staying in line, but my horse had little interest in staying on the trail. So, not only was I hit with the occasional twig, I was also being reprimanded by my counselor for deviating from the path. (I did not like to be reprimanded at that age. I was the kid who thought that the lifeguard hated her for the entire rest of the summer if he or she had to tell me not to run around the pool. I much preferred to be the good one.)

And when I did try to tug slightly on the reins to keep my horse with the others, it threw its head back -- a gesture I found mildly terrifying. (Horses were far larger and more powerful in person than I had imagined in all my years of cartoon-viewing and neighing.)

My horse did the same extreme head-tossing when I tried to pet its mane. It seemed to me that my horse disliked human contact, and I can only imagine that the forced contact of having to carry small people on its back six hours a day, five days a week, was an indignity it did not want to bear in its golden years. 

I also didn't count on horses being so sweaty. Rather than being on an adventure in the woods with a beautiful and majestic creature, I felt like I was trapped on a large, smelly, overgrown thing that wanted nothing to do with me.

It was one of the longest hours of my life.

After that, I don't think I ever rode a horse again. I gave up any thoughts I might have had about the life equestrian and moved on.

I moved on to bigger dreams, dreams of theater -- musical theater to be exact. Surely, my Broadway fantasies would turn out better than the whole horse thing, even if I was tone deaf ... 

Wrong Number, Lady

Back in the day, when I was a young, naive 18-year-old, I couldn'twait to establish my first "adult" residence, the representation ofall freedom, lawlessness (aka, lack of a curfew) and grown-up-ness there couldbe -- the college dorm room. (The underlying question? Can you be in an"adult" residence when your parents are shelling out$15,000/semester?)

As far as I was concerned, there were three very important tasksthat came with establishing my sophisticated, mature digs:

1. Bed linens. As the main fixture in any dorm room, I consideredit paramount that my bed linens be extraordinary – cute, but not childish – soas to showcase both my taste and incredible sense of style. I’ll give you twowords on this one: Pottery Barn. Need I really say more? Most of my wardrobecame from J.Crew, too. 

2. The mini-fridge. At Duke, mini-fridges with microwaves wereavailable to rent for all freshman, and of course, my roommate and I had tohave one of these as well for our room snacks, sodas and maybe, if we werelucky, some beer. Also, without the mini-fridge, it would have been impossible to have the roommate fight that I imagine might have started the whole Cain/Abel thing over who ate who's Pringles and which party finished the last of the peanut butter. (Little did I know that this fight would find a way to rear its ugly little head in pretty much all of my co-habitation situations since.)

3. A phone line. Now, for those of you too young to remember thedays before cell phones, I’ll date myself by saying that when I went tocollege, no one had cell phones. (Of course, some people had cell phones,myself included, but Duke kids at that time mocked anyone who had a cell phone,and since mine was, in theory, for emergency purposes only, I hid it beneathmany layers of underwear and hoped it never rang when anyone else was in theroom. Considering how well I did at making friends at Duke, this wasn’t toomuch of a concern.)

Also, without a land line, you can’t fight with your roommateover who hogs the phone talking to her boyfriend at another school or spend theend of every month scrambling to pay the long distance bill that comes from toomany conversations with said boyfriend. (For that one, all the guilt’s on me.)However, a land line also provides plenty of opportunities for your roommate’smom to ask where she is even though you yourself haven’t seen her in days, soit’s an unfortunate lesson in deception and being thrown under the bus, so that someone else can spend all her time with her on-campus boyfriend. (“I’msorry, Mom, Laurel just didn’t give me the messages.”)

Oh, the lessons of adulthood.

When I arrived at Duke, unpackingmy clothes, setting up my bed linens and stocking the mini-fridge were toppriorities. Then came the incredible thrill of having my very own phone linecomplete with options for individual voice mail.

My roommate and I couldn’t believeour luck at being given such an easy number to remember: 919-234-4000. We’dhave no trouble recounting that to anyone who asked – from new friends to theJimmy John’s delivery guy.

It wasn’t until the first Saturdaynight after orientation, when all of the classes, from freshmen to seniors,were back on campus that we realized that what we thought was good fortune wasactually a terrible turn of bad luck.

You see, the number to accessDuke’s voice mail system was 919-234-0000. And any phone in the hands of a drunkco-ed often seemed to punch that 4 one too many times and end up dialing ourroom instead. Every girl who wanted to know if a boy had called (and viceversa) began ringing us up about 2:00 a.m. (when campus parties and the onecampus bar had to shut down) each and every Saturday night. (Sometimes, it wasThursdays and Fridays, too.)

Now, for those of you wonderingwhy I would still answer the phone at that hour, please keep in mind that 1) Ihad a long-distance boyfriend who also had a knack for calling when the barsclosed on Saturday night and 2) With my kind of anxiety, it’s nearly impossibleto let a phone go unanswered in the middle of the night. Even though I knew itwas probably Candy looking for her ATO hook-up, I always thought, “What if thisis the one time someone is stuck in a ditch somewhere?"

Most people who called our linequickly realized their mistake, and the calls were either hang-ups or terse“sorrys” before a hang-up. But, there’s always one in every bunch, and eachSaturday night, there was always at least one super drunk who didn’t play bythe same rules.

You see, even though this was wayback in the days of land lines and rented mini-fridges, the Duke voice mailsystem was still AUTOMATED. If you wanted your messages, you entered a code(just like we do today), and then you went through a series of prompts to getyour messages.

Still, every Saturday night, I hadat least one conversation that went like this:

Me: “Hello?” I was usually sleepy,frat parties not being much of my scene.

Drunky: “Hey, I need to get mymessages.” (Because, of course, despite weeks and months of encountering asynthesized voice, Saturday night would be the time to switch over to a real,live operator.)

Me: “I think you have the wrongnumber.”

Drunky: “No. I need my messages.”

Me: “I think you want voice mail.”

Drunky: “My code is 2473, OK? Nowcan you just give me my messages. I mean, what’s with the attitude?”

This is usually when I hung up,but the particularly persistent ones would call back.

“I’m trying to get my messages.”Then I’d hear the grating beeps as the person on the other end of the linepunched a series of buttons on the number pad.

“I told you. You have the wrongnumber.”

“Why this isn’t working?” wouldusually be the last thing I heard as whatever drunk it was complained to aroommate I was sure would soon be holding their hair back in the bathroomlater.

I didn't get a lot of sleep mostweekends.

And, so, there you have it kids --some inside information on Duke, the #3 university in the country according to1998’s U.S. News & World Report.You just wouldn’t have any idea about all of that brain power if you watchedhalf the campus try to work a phone on Saturday nights. 

No More Canteen of Pink Wine for Me

I can't tell you how many times I've complained that a full-sized bottle of wine wouldn't fit in my purse. Or that a magnum of Yellow Tail didn't look classy enough on the dance floor. And the times I've worried about a broken wine bottle at the hot tub? Too many to count. (Actually, one and three could be true.) Thank God Beringer has considered my needs with their new advertising campaign for minis -- "Go Anywhere: Hiking, Poolside, Dancing" with an incredible "four unbreakable bottles."

via www.laurelfain.com

Where To Go From Here?

I remember applying to colleges as one of the most stressful periods of my life. It seemed like so much -- my future career, earning potential and even life mate -- hung on the decision I made then. Not to mention the fact that I had tied my self-worth directly to the U.S. News & World Report ranking of the school(s) that accepted me.

Seven days before one round of applications was due, I had an emergency root canal (one the endodontist called the worst he'd seen "in ten years" of oral surgery). Full of painkillers and Valium (I do not do well around the sound of a dentist's drill), I called my best friend and insisted that she drive me to my closed-for-the-Christmas-holidays school, so that I could use the typewriter in the library to put some finishing touches on the common application. 

I was a little obsessed.

When the large and small envelopes finally started rolling in, I was devastated to learn that my first choice [Stanford] didn't want me. Despite my poor attempt at a brave face, I was crushed and spent more than a few afternoons in my car crying.

(Before I sound like too much of a whiner, I would like to acknowledge that I was accepted into some wonderful and amazing schools, and I absolutely believe I ended up right where I needed to be. But, hindsight is always 20/20 as they say.)

The only people this period of my high school career might have been more stressful on than me were my parents. Not only did they have to accept that I seemingly refused to apply anywhere with anything near a reasonable tuition cost, I was anxious, constantly tired  and insecure. Being parents, the moment my rejection from Stanford arrived, they went into protective/consolation mode: "We love you no matter what. This is just a bump in the road. You're brilliant. You're special. You're going to get into so many other schools."

But, I wouldn't have any of it. Every time they tried to console me, I just got more upset. "You don't get it," I said. "I'm not special. I'm just like tens of thousands of other kids out there who make good grades and join clubs and think that it's going to matter."

"You're always special to us."

"Well," I said, "when it comes down to it, I look like everybody else on a sheet of paper, and I'm not special to them. And they're the ones that don't want me."

(I was kind of dark in addition to being a little obsessed.)

If only I had known then that there would be days I feel a lot like that now, too.

I am a writer with dozens of clips -- many from national magazines. But, I'm also an unemployed writer and editor in an era when print media is dying. And thanks to the dire press market in Birmingham, you can't really throw a rock in this town without hitting someone just like me -- many with more experience and better clips. It's a small pond full of writers and editors with great resumes and no magazines or papers to write for. 

So, the thought recurs: I'm not special.

I have been a blogger for five years now, but now I don't even think I know anyone without a blog, and as an unmarried, childless 30-year-old, I don't even have a blog category. I am no longer "young" by most standards -- as in I don't write about clubs, drunken escapades or school. I haven't given birth, so that keeps me out of the "mommy blogger" set. I don't have a wedding in the works, so there's no way to write about flower vendors and mother-in-law issues. Food? I like it, and I occasionally cook it, but I don't have anything to say that you can't find on far better web sites like Food Revival, Cookthink or Simply Recipes (check my favorite sites).

Without a category, I don't have a market share, and without a market share, this blog is never going to make me much more than the $.26 my one ad has brought in in recent weeks.

My market share possibilities? Former party girls who can't afford shoes that don't come from Target? Pet lovers with an extensive collection of Spanx? Those of us who have accepted boxed wine as a party staple?

Not special and without a market share, I keep filling this blog with what I have -- my stories, my voice, my bouts of depressive thinking. I use it to make myself write. I try to remember to exercise the skills that I need -- showing v. telling, using dialogue, setting scenes and avoiding the empty words and phrases that have no examples or illustrations to flesh them out.

When I started this blog, I wanted to write 365 blog posts, so that I'dhave 365 stories/anecdotes written down. (I also started this blogbecause my friends seemed tired of my mass e-mails detailing what Ithought about that day's episode of Cheaters, but I digress.) Plus, atthe time, I never imagined I wouldn't have something else to take up mytime long before I hit that far-off and absurd number of 365 posts. This is my 402nd post, and thanks to my tendency to write aboutCheaters and what Tori Spelling wore to her second wedding, I'm noteven sure I have 365 stories to go along with it. Sigh.

One of my teachers once told me, "Most of the stories have beentold. The only difference is that there's never been a you to tellthem."

I tell my students this. I try to tell myself this. If Iwere to have a mantra, I think it'd have to be something aboutbelieving in my own voice.

At least when I finished high school, the gave me a copy of Oh, The Places You'll Go. (At least it was optimistic.) I think I could use the sequel now.

P.S. Oddly enough, I sort of love Tori Spelling these days. I blame the Oxygen network.

What I Won't Do For $100

I have worked a rather wide varietyof jobs in my years on this planet. Some out of convenience (they workedaround my class schedule), some out of necessity (unemployment benefitsonly go so far, after all) and some because I like being paid in cash(just kidding IRS!).

At the first magazine I workedfor, after beginning yet another story with, “When I was working atx …,” one of my co-workers finally said, “How many jobs haveyou had, Laurel?”

Here’s the pre-college list:I started babysitting at 10 for a little girl who lived across the streetand built up quite a client list by the time I left for college. I tookmy first $5.00/hour, I-have-to-pay-taxes job at a small produce marketthe summer I was 16. The next summer, I worked at a card store wherethey forgot I was an employee due to some sort of management changeafter I went on a 10-day school-sponsored summer program. (I was ridiculouslyrelieved because that place was way too tense for a vendor of PreciousMoments figurines and soothing nature sounds CDs.) My senior year ofhigh school, I worked behind the front desk of a gym, so I would havemoney for a trip to Italy that Spring Break, and that summer I taughtat a daycare.

In the 12 years since that gymjob, I have also been a restaurant hostess, waited tables, worked foran NFL hockey team, done fundraising for a continuing care retirementcommunity, been a paralegal at the Department of Justice, worked asa bank teller, been a substitute teacher and written wine labels. (That’swithout getting into the magazine and PR work that is supposedly partof my elusive “career track.”)

Of all the training and orientationsI have gone through, it was the one for my work as a bank teller thatwas by far the most interesting – and, most likely, exasperatingfor them.

Despite how the ledger for mychecking account may look (or looked, when it existed), I’m actuallypretty good with numbers. And the OCD part of me has no problem countingmoney three times so that I rarely came up short by more than a dimeor so in my drawer.

(Side note: The one time I didlose a lot of money, I accidentally gave the president of the bank $1,000more than I should have. On the bright side, I quickly realized themoney was with the president of the bank and called his secretary toget it back. On the not-so-bright-side, I screwed up in front of thepresident of the freaking bank. Not exactly a career-builder.)

When one is training to be a bankteller, after chats about the cash-in and cash-out forms, legal holidaysand proper forms of identification for dispensing cash, there is theinevitable chat about what to do in case of a bank robbery.

Now, I will not give away thesecrets of the banking world here, but regardless to say, as a teller,you are asked to perform certain fail safes and warnings so that anywould-be bank robber gets away with as little money as possible. Youare also supposed to keep any robber away from all safes and vaults.

As most people are aware, I’msomething of a scaredy cat. I’m also someone who has watched far toomany procedural dramas on TV – the CSI franchise, Law & Order,The First 48 … So, as the leader of our training is discussing earlywarnings and fail safes in the “unlikely event” of a bank robbery,I raised my hand.

“What if you don’t reallyfeel comfortable doing any of that?” I said, imaging a burly, angryman with a gun in my face saying that he knows about the panic buttonand the dye pack.

“Well,” she said, “we wouldnever ask you to do anything that puts your life in danger, but we dostrongly encourage you to use whatever means you have available to youto stop or minimize the loss of a potential robbery.”

“I see,” I said. Then I waiteda minute and raised my hand again, “I kind of think I should tellyou right now that if a guy with a gun wants my, or really, your money,I’m going to give it to him.” (I left out the part about probablydrawing him a map to the largest vault in the place if that would keephim and his weapons away from me.)

“Well, we do offer a very niceincentive program for any teller that thwarts a robbery attempt.”Then she smiled at the rest of the room in what I suppose was an encouragingway.

“And what would that be?”I said.

“We issue $100 checks for thosetellers who minimize financial losses during robbery attempts.” Shekept smiling, but I was still imagining guns in my face and those terrible,terrible ski masks.

“I think I’m going to haveto stick with what I said earlier.” Our trainer gave me one more longglance and then quickly moved on.

And I’m guessing that I musthave scored pretty highly on my initial teller test because they stilllet me work for the bank after that.

But, in all seriousness, and Idon’t know about most people, but I tend to value my life and evenmy general personal safety/general appearance (no black eyes, twistedarms, etc.) at far more than $100. You could even make that check for$1,000 or $10,000, and I’m still giving away codes and access to secretdrawers like the drunk at a family reunion. (And shock of shocks, theCIA has never come calling on me.)

I’m a cautious gal who has neverhad a love or risk and considers the lack of indoor plumbing almosttoo much adventure. I watch TV shows and think the cops with the dreaded“desk jobs” are the lucky ones. I’m not your go-to girlfor stopping a bank robbery – incentive check or not. 

A Krispy Kreme shoplifting caper-- especially if it looks like the chocolate-covered, crème-filledsupply will be depleted? Maybe. But a bank robbery? You’re going tohave to call someone else; I’ll be the one booking it for the door.And you’re more than welcome to charge me $100 for that.   

Unsolicited Advice

I am not a fan of unsolicited advice. At 30, I still have a lot in common with a three-year-old -- the fastest way to get me to do something is to tell me that you think I should do the opposite. Tell me new houses are so much more trouble- and maintenance-free? I'll have purchased a 1928 bungalow "full of character and charm" by the end of the day. Suggest the blue top? I'll buy red. "Tell me" to do anything from changing the oil in my car every 3,000 miles to putting more acai berry in my diet? I think not.

When I'm talking, I usually just want to talk. And if I'm not talking, I don't have anything to say. Rarely, unless specifically stated, do I ever want advice/help/aid on what to do next. Unless there's an open manhole involved, I have to find it out for myself.

That being said, of the wisdom given to me by others, these tidbits have been, by far, the most helpful:

On Food:

"Everyone should know how to make a good sandwich." -- My grandfather

Supposedly,my grandfather thought that there were two keys to success in life.Unfortunately, the only one anyone can remember involves making a goodsandwich. (Hopefully, this blog will at least keep future generationsfrom forgetting all of what he tried to pass on.) The Mills don't makesimple ham and cheese sandwiches. We love our condiments. We addhorseradish and roasted red pepper to the mix. We line toasted breadwith hummus. Don't even show me a Kraft single with iceberg letter ifyou expect me to take you seriously -- or eat.

On relationships:

"No matter what, never say a bad word about a friend's boyfriend. Even if they break up. You never know who's going to get married to who, and the odds are your friend will dump you long before she dumps the boyfriend." -- My Mom

It's just true. And unless your friend has an abusive or crack-addicted boyfriend, you just swallow whatever it is you might want to say. Swallow, swallow, swallow. Because no matter how much you may despise a friend's partner, you love your friend more, and the only way to ensure that you get to stay in his or her life is to play nice with the romantic partner.

"Why do you care that he has a new girlfriend? All that means is that he found someone willing to accept what you already decided you were too good for. He didn't become the magical, wonderful boyfriend that you dreamed of overnight for her. He's the exact same boyfriend you had. He's just with her now." -- A college friend

When my first love and I broke up, I was devastated. I remember torturing myself with images of the romantic dinners, thoughtful gifts and kind words he showered her with that I never got. Then my friend Sylvie stepped in, and she helped me realize that the new girl wasn't dating the perfect version of my old boyfriend; she was just dating my old boyfriend. Most likely, she just had a higher tolerance for watching frat boys play video games while shotgunning beers.

The same applies to most old boyfriends, so that day I learned to be careful with the torture and the nostalgia.

On Happiness:

"The fastest route to unhappiness is trying to make everyone else happy." -- The manager of the Mexican restaurant I worked in after my freshman year of college

We all know this one doesn't work. Make yourself happy because otherwise you'll either constantly fail or exhaust yourself trying.

"Trying to be perfect won't make you happy. There's no prize at the end for making it through with the fewest mistakes." -- Another friend

No mortal I know of has reached perfection, so trying to be the one person that does is pretty much as exhausting as trying to make everyone happy. It took a lot of work, but I learned to embrace my vulnerabilities. And what comes with vulnerability? Relativity and intimacy. I'll take those, and knowing I'm liked just the way I am, over perfection any day.

On Self-Esteem:

"Just go ahead and think of the world like this: one third of the people are going to love you. Another third is going to hate you. And the last third just doesn't give a damn." -- A colleague from my first "real" job"

This one kind of goes along with my happiness advice, but sometimes I have to remember that, no matter what I do, I'll never be loved by everyone. It also helps me remember that maybe I shouldn't be in all this to please others, that maybe pleasing myself is that aloof enough. Hell, at least two billion people are never going to pay attention anyway.

On Myself:

"I'm not going to tell you what to do because the very fact that you're asking means that you haven't figured it out yet. I know you'll figure it out." -- My father

Of course, it's the natural conclusion when you spend your entire life dismissing what anyone else has to say, but now I can't get advice to save my life. Unless diaper rash or the perfect pie is involved, it should probably stay that way. We all have to find our own path and stumbling is just part of the journey. Plus, I do think I'm supposed to be a grown-up now, which means owning my life and picking for myself. Whatever that may be.

How about y'all? Any great advice or particularly meaningful words out there? I'll have to cover horrendous advice ("The key to a good marriage is accepting he'll have a woman in every port") in some future post, so please save those stories for later. I'm sure we'll find some doozies.

Welcome to 1984 (and Not in a Good, Footloose-is-Back-on-Top-of-the-Charts Kind of Way)

Sometimes I worry that I could easily become aconspiracy nut. (I realize that most people probably don’t have this on theirlist of concerns, but my worry list has always been longer, and stranger, thanmost.) I blame some of it on the fact that I spent most of my childhoodwatching soap operas, Phil Donahue and Unsolved Mysteries. There was even abrief – and unfortunate – period when I believed that Elvis faked his own death.

And despite what my occasionally rational braintells me about accidents and coincidence, I think I’ve watched far too many politicalthrillers as an adult, too. (I still find it odd that one of the most liberalmembers of the Senate, Paul Wellstone, died in a plane crash shortly beforesome key votes under the Bush administration, but I try to keep this mostly tomyself.)

However, I do not think I’m paranoid when I saythat we are, at present, on the verge of living in the world created by GeorgeOrwell in 1984. But, it’s not big government we need to be afraid of -– it’sFacebook.

Even without the latest issues Facebook has hadwith privacy, revealing information to other web sources, etc., social networkinghas always had the potential to implement a kind of social control that noinvading army or government entity is capable of. And the key to that societalcontrol rests entirely in surveillance.

For an anthropology class nearly a decade ago(when I sat down on the first day and saw that half the room was full ofathletes, I knew I’d found a good place to be), I read a book called Depraved andDisorderly. It’s a study of women in penal colonies in Australia (aka, thefounding women of Australia), and for the large part, the book discusses howconstant surveillance and the removal of all privacy was used to turn these “wildwomen” into the model citizens the English government wanted them to be at thetime.

For most of any community, it’s not the threat ofpunishment or pain that keeps us in line -– it’s the threat of discovery or exposure. We don’twant our innermost thoughts judged, nor do we want our most intimate actsexposed.

If you think about it, can you be yourself onFacebook? The answer most of the time is “no.” Facebook, Twitter, Ning, MySpace,etc. are not places to express what is really going on with you. They areplaces for the cleaned-up, civilized you. The you without too strong an opinionor emotion. The you that doesn’t want to alienate or offend -– especially onceyou allow co-workers, colleagues, clients and Grandma into the mix. So, whileseeming open and connected to everyone around us, in so many ways, we’ve simplyjoined the herd.

When I Twitter, I constantly wonder about thelines of how much is too much and what goes too far. If I want to do any sortof business or promotion on Facebook (which as a writer, of course, I do), whatcan and can’t I say? If I say what I really think about the Bible (be it theliteral word of God, a historical document or the creation of aliens -– I’m notgiving the real answer away just yet), how many readers did I just lose? Whoisn’t coming back? Are there those who will never want to hire me again? Did Ijust assign myself to one and only audience?

And the same questions are with me when it comesto my views on politics, sexuality or even which brand of deodorant I likebest.

In another way, we’ve also all become our own brands -–only allowing the crafted Laurel Mills or the character of Laurel Mills outonto the Internet , rather than the real one. Even the vulnerabilities we showon Facebook are the ones we choose to show -- our calculated and approvedfoibles.

So, in many ways, just as we’ve embraced our own constantsurveillance and societal control, we’ve also become the ultimate consumers. Webuy what we’re sold on TV or the Internet (I’d say magazines too, but we all knowwhat happened to those), and we buy each other at a constantly alarming andescalating rate.

An example? We don’t even watch scriptedtelevision anymore. We watch reality stars/the people that could be ourneighbors.

Facebook profiles weren’t enough? Add statusupdates. Not enough of those? Twitter. Away from your computer? iPhones, iPads,Droids, Blackberries –- whatever it takes to be constantly consuming the words,actions and whereabouts (I’m looking at you Four Square) of those around you.

We watch each other, all the time. We are our ownjailers. And the more we watch, the less we do.

So, while I’m just as guilty as anyone ofeverything I just talked about, I think the end result could be something noneof us are prepared for –- an international community without identities stuckbehind screens unable to react to any threat or injustice in any way moremeaningful than starting a Facebook group that hopes to eventually be 1,000,000strong.

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but westill have to live lives in addition to just watching them for it to matter.

If after reading this, you’ve ended up branding mea conspiracy nut, so be it. I’ve been called worse, and I just might have earned it.

* While I'm sure there are people with similar views, I haven't read their specific thoughts on the topic. If you've stumbled upon similar or dissimilar thoughts, please leave me some suggested reading material in the comments.

* I really think that, in an odd way, Nathaniel Hawthorne tread similar themes in The Blithedale Romance (1852), and yes, I once included reality TV in one of my graduate level English papers because of it.

Not What I Wanted to Hear From Paula Deen*

Last week, the SO and I had to make an impromptu visit to Savannah, Georgia for some family matters. Between both of our work schedules, we also knew that we'd probably get to spend less than 24 hours in town.

After the SO price-lined our hotel (one of his favorite activities), I jumped on the web link he sent me to check out the amenities we would be enjoying in the 14 hours between check-in and check-out. Of course, there was your standard pool, restaurants and fitness center, but what immediately caught my eye was the advertised proximity of Paula Deen's The Lady and Sons Restaurant.

I like to think that Paula and I have a lot in common, and the short list includes a love of butter, cheese, cheese grits and deep frying.

Knowing that we were going to be cutting it close by rolling into Savannah just around 9:00 p.m., I asked the SO to call and see if we might make a reservation for the last seating. I also figured that even if they were booked, there would hopefully be a bar where we might be able to find open seats and order dinner.

The he broke the news to me: "They only take reservations for parties of 10 or me. I'm sorry."

I was disappointed, but figured it was still worth a walk down to the restaurant when we arrived. It was only 9:20 at the time, and plenty of people were still milling about the streets and dining in the open windows of restaurants. Also, sometimes, when I look sad or wear low-cut shirts, people give me things -- tables, free movie tickets, the fresher peaches from the back of the store. I was going to ask, and I was even willing to pull out all of the stops.

As we approached the restaurant, I could see at least five tables still full of diners, and when we walked through the door, I spotted the buffet. (A buffet? I mean, come on. That's a server's dream -- the completely low-maintenance dining experience. Plus, presented with a challenge and given the chance, the SO and I could have more than done our damage at the buffet and been out of the restaurant before closing time.)

"Are you still seating?" I asked the host when he approached.

"No," he said. "I'm sorry. We stopped seating 20 minutes ago."

Please keep in mind that I am within 30 feet of hot fried chicken at this moment.

"But, if you want," he went on, "you're welcome to come back at 8:30 in the morning and line up for tomorrow night's reservations."

Now, while I knew that this was the parties-of-less-than-10-reservation policy at The Ladys And Sons Restaurant before this moment thanks to the SO's iPhone research, I hardly expected to be confronted with it as a viable alternative to my present hunger and proximity to fried deliciousness.

"Yeah, sorry lady, you can't eat right now, but you're more than welcome to come back ELEVEN HOURS LATER at 8:30 in THE A.M. so you can LINE UP for a CHANCE at reservations"?!?!

This is your counter-offer? Really? How is this supposed to motivate me? Let alone how is this any kind of incentive to come back to your restaurant? Lines? Mornings? I think not.

We walked away, and my guess is that we will never go back. I can be stubborn, and more truthfully, the odds of me waking up in time to make it anywhere by 8:30 when I've lost an hour between the Central and Eastern time zones is slim to none.

So, when it comes to fried chicken, I guess it's just me and Zaxby's for now. With their chicken nibblers at my side, I think I'll find a way to persevere.

* Clearly Paula Deen herself did not turn me down (and I still refuse to believe that she would), but you have to admit that using her name makes for a far better headline than "Not What I Wanted to Hear From the Random Savannah Host."

The Dead Fowl Standard

Right after college, my roommates and I moved into a brand-new federal style townhouse off of the U Street Corridor in Washington, D.C. It was only a few blocks from Adam's Morgan, but at the time, the neighborhood was still considered very much "up and coming." (Today, the same area is mostly luxury condos and high-end retail, but that was not the case in 2001.)

I, however, could not have been more infatuated with my living situation. The house had gorgeous hardwood floors, a lovely balcony and even a garage. (You have no idea the premium on something like that in D.C.) I also had the master bedroom complete with two closets and a bathroom that had a shower and a whirlpool tub. The $825 I paid each month in rent was way too high a percentage of my salary, but it was comparable with what all of my friends paid, and I had a spectacular house two blocks from the Metro station. I was more than willing to put up with the occasional panhandling or "get out white bastards" greeting in exchange.

But, while I was completely comfortable with my surroundings, I sometimes forgot to warn visiting friends that we weren't in Georgetown anymore. (For those of you who have never been, Georgetown is a very wealthy neighborhood, and you can tell at every turn -- from the gorgeous row houses to the Armani store.)

A friend of mine decided to visit one day while she was in town from Alabama. Since her mother lived in Arlington, Virginia, we both figured she'd have absolutely no trouble taking the Metro to meet me at my new home.

When she was an hour late, I called, but figured she was just running behind and couldn't get reception on the subway. When she was two hours late, I was worried.

Just as I was about to call in the cavalry, I saw a figure that looked like my friend wandering the alley that ran behind my house. (I was on the back balcony.)

"Susan," I yelled, and she raised her head. "Why didn't you come to the front door?"

As her figure came into better view, I could see that Susan looked far more exhausted than seemed appropriate for a gal on vacation.

"Thank God it's you," she said. "And I would have come to the front door if I could have found it."

I quickly brought Susan into the house, poured her a glass of wine, and listened as she recounted the story of her continually delayed train ride and the treacherous one and a half block walk from the Metro station to my house. The highlights? Someone threw a shoe at the back of her head, and someone else tried to sell her a dead pigeon.

"A dead pigeon?" I said.

"It was wrapped in newspaper," she said. "He gave some thought to the presentation."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I'd be more than happy to pay him if he wouldn't make me take the pigeon."

Once Susan had recovered from the trauma, we spent the rest of the night drinking wine and catching up, and that dead pigeon became a kind of standard of ours. You got lost? It was terrible? You drove around for hours? Hey -- at least there wasn't a dead pigeon.

We found that the benchmark worked in a variety of situations. Bad break-up? Dressing down from the boss? Expensive shoes that can't be returned? It could always be worse. There could have been a dead pigeon -- and no one wants a dead pigeon shoved in their face.

Fast forward a few years: I'm working for a new magazine, and we've decided to put together a picnic photo shoot in a local park.

Unfortunately, nothing went right that day. A crowd of obnoxious 12-year-olds (who I still think should have been in school) surrounded us to ask insipid questions. The day was unseasonably hot, and everything melted (including us and our makeup). The ground was uneven. We spilled wine on the white picnic blanket. It seemed that the entire shoot was coming apart at the seams.

Shortly after the wine spill, my boss handed me some wrappers to throw away from the food we were "styling," and I walked over to the trash can. As I leaned over to toss in our garbage, I came upon a foul smell and sight. Someone had decided to throw a dead goose from the nearby pond into that very trash can.

Luckily, I was able to turn around before my stomach did a complete flip-flop. And even though the circumstances were far from favorable, after all that work, we were going to get a shot, dammit -- which also meant we'd have to stay near that dead goose for at least 20 minutes.

Again, once we cleaned up, got out of the unbearable sun and found some cocktails later in the evening, we made the dead goose our barometer for photo shoots and all else production-related. A writer didn't turn in a story on time? The photographer was a no-show? An order came from upstairs to slash half the magazine? At least there's not a dead goose.

Why dead fowl are a continuing theme in my life, I don't know. But, in these trying times, I think I'm going back to the standards I set with them. The checking account balance may be low, and the hours may be long, but at least none of my days have involved dead pigeons or geese.

I'm hoping it stays that way.

Heathens and Happy Hernando

A few weeks ago, the SO and I took a trip to DeSoto Caverns outside of Childersburg, Alabama. (I like to do really cheesy things, and the SO likes to take pictures, and amazingly, these two interests often coincide.)

For those of you who don't know, DeSoto Caverns is the country's first recorded cave (I don't know what this honor means either), and it's a rather amazing natural phenomenon full of stalactites, stalagmites and the like. (By "the like," I mean stuff I didn't bother to pay attention to in either science class or the guided tour.)

The good people who own the cave have seen fit to fill the area around it with attractions like panning for gemstones, a maze and water gun shooting forts. The attractions are pretty fun, and a good way to drive up the price of admission. Of course, rock candy and fudge are for sale in the gift shop, too.

The SO and I had a good time. We engaged in some archery. (I say we didn't keep score. The SO claims victory.) I fed some llamas, and of course, there was the panning for gemstones, maze-running (that I did kick ass at) and cave-touring. But, there were two rather troublesome aspects to the whole adventure.

1. The mascot for DeSoto Caverns is Happy Hernando. Now, while I have no problem with lying to children in some respects -- the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, "Of course Mom and Dad never smoked pot" -- I have my limits. And turning Hernando DeSoto into Happy Hernando, the cutest of the conquistadors, just seems wrong. After all, we're talking about a man known for his cruelty in wiping out and enslaving indigenous peoples wherever he went. Dressing him in all primary colors and adding a jaunty hat doesn't seem like enough to whitewash that past. 

(Then again, maybe it's not so much of a lie. I'm sure Hernando himself was happy, it's just that everyone who encountered him was miserable.)

2. In the middle of the one-hour tour of the actual DeSoto Cavern, everyone is asked to take a seat. All the lights go out, and you experience total darkness. I enjoyed that. As our tour guide pointed out, "A cave is one of the only places on earth other than the ocean floor one can experience total darkness."

Then, total darkness was broken by a laser light show coming out of a rock formation and the words, "And on the first day, God made light ..." The laser lights continued while the rest of the first chapter of Genesis was read -- loudly and with great enunciation. Once the scripture reading was over, the lights stopped, and all that was left was a giant neon cross. The tour guide stood back up, and we continued on our way through some more rock formations.

Now, call me crazy, but I like to be prepared before someone attempts to indoctrinate me, and I don't think a cave tour is the right time for a creationism pitch. (I'm not judging the creationists, I'm just saying that I wouldn't surprise you with a lesson on evolution while you were still high from finding an 1/8 inch amethyst in a man-made, above-ground stream.) If I'm entering a political or religious forum, I want to know about it beforehand. And nothing about that Happy Hernando prepared me for Evangelical Christianity.

A little warning is all I'm asking for. That and maybe some bigger amethysts.

From the Archives: Laurel and Annie Travel the World

Well, as we boarded the minibus bound from Pattaya to Bangkok, Anniefound a large knot on her foot. It's probably some disease caused bythe lizard that shared our tropical hell hotel room for a couple ofdays, but she took an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory right afterthe discovery, and we think she's going to make it.

She's a brave soul.

Ithink Annie and I have never been so happy to leave a place as when weleft Bangkok. We were on an Air France flight and thanks to my highschool French teacher always calling Air France "Air Chance," myanxiety level was a little high.

I was about to have my faithin the French restored merely by the presence of personal TV screens atyour seat until we encountered the meanest French stewardess ever. Shewas downright scary, and I'm glad I got to sleep through most of theflight.

I did watch a nice French film as I tried to remaincultured despite the fact that my taste has been seriouslydeteriorating since we left the U.S. This is primarily due to the factthat every English-speaking program shown abroad sucks. Annie and Iactually looked forward to seeing Yes Dear at our hotel in Pattaya. We also loved Sorority Boys . All sad but true.

Of course, my attempts to culture myself went awry when Annie convinced me to watch Kangaroo Jack after the French film. If I come home only interested in CBS and UPN programs, I'm sorry.

Wealso almost missed our connection from Paris to Athens. Something wasup at the French airport. I don't know what kind of alert they were on,but I have never seen people inspect passports with such fervor. I havealso never seen so many people pulled out of line for furtherquestioning. One guy was actually smelling the passports. Our flight toAthens left 40 minutes late because someone was pulled off the planedue to an i.d. problem and the police were called. Perfect flyingconditions for someone who worries about terrorists, etc.

Beforethat, as Annie and I arrived at the terminal for our departure therewas a line of at least 100 people to go through security, and ourflight was already boarding. I had accepted the fact that we would missthis plane until Annie hit me and demanded, "Speak."

Annie hasnever hit me before and this simple act of violence on her part wasquite frightening. It was then that I realized she wanted me to speakFrench to convince the guy close to the front of the line that weshould be able to cut in front of him.

Thank God for my highschool French teacher (I forgive him for the "Air Chance" commentsbecause of this) because I was able to convince him of this and weactually jumped about 90 people in line. I even used the subjunctive.Who knows where that one came from.

After we talked to him, Icould hear him discussing our situation with his wife. He either saidthat my French was shit or that we were in deep shit because of ourflight. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt (and try tosalvage some of my self-esteem) by thinking it's the latter.

Athens is fabulous. I love Greece and don't think I can even say enoughabout how much I love this country. We've been exploring the city,climbed to the top of the Acropolis, and wine is cheaper than water.Tomorrow we're off to Mykonos for 4 days. I can't wait.

There are only 2 things I dislike about Greece thus far:

1. Gatorade tastes like orange Tang.

2.Every staircase and walkway is made of marble. Pretty, but bad forthose who lack coordination like myself. Some of you may be thinking,"Laurel, there's nothing bad about slipping as you climb to the top ofthe Acropolis. You're not in peak physical form, you were probablytired, a little jet-lagged."

The truth is that I slipped notnear the Acropolis, but rather leaving a clothing store and in ourhotel. I went sliding down about 4 steps in our hotel the other day.People in Mykonos are going to wonder who the extremely bruised girl onthe beach is.

Serious Friday: The Media and Me

I have always consideredmyself a writer first.  

It’s not that I have a problem with the term“journalist,” it’s just that I knew I could never be one. Even in all my yearsin magazines, I always referred to what I did as Lifestyles journalism. It wasthe fluff of the world – plan your next vacation, how to spruce up your moodwith color, what to plant when. Mostly, I was the queen of lists. If you neededa top (fill in number here), I was your girl. At last count, I believe I hadwritten over 100 top lists of some sort (not including my five or the moviesthat always make me cry). I preferred it that way.  

I briefly considered real journalism. For awhile, Ithought I wanted to run the school newspaper, but Gabrielle Carteris’ ratherunflattering role as Andrea Zuckerman on BeverlyHills, 90210 made me question that dream. (Truthfully,I was not confident enough about my writing to think I could earn any place onany newspaper then.) 

Even as my confidence and abilities grew,journalism still didn’t seem very viable. I’ve never liked interviewing people,and it’s something I’m not very good at. I always make a list of at least 10questions and then quickly decide that 8 of them are stupid while talking tosomeone over the phone or in person. I don’t like to probe (outside of myfriends’ personal lives and the world of celebrities, of course), and I tend tofeel bad when I write about people. And considering the number of people I’velistened to complain about the “puff” profiles in their lives, I don’t think Iwould have made it very long in any newsroom.  

(As a very wise professor of mine once told me,“Everyone thinks they want to be written about. No one actually does.”) 

A large part of the reason I picked creativenonfiction as the genre to pursue is that, mostly, the only person I riskoffending is me. I expose my own secrets, make my own revelations of self, andcan largely stay out of other people’s business. (My mother would disagree, butI’m sticking by that assertion.)   

Still, for most of my career (until the lastlay-off, that is), I was considered a member of the media. Both liked(freebies) and feared (“Don’t say that! She’ll write it somewhere.”), it’s thegroup I was most associated with. I had colleagues who actually broke stories,people in my life who always knew what was happening before anyone else did andassociated with those who wrote in-depth about people, places and things.   

So, despite my hesitance to call myself a“journalist,” I am a card-carrying (yes, the Association of ProfessionalJournalists does actually give out cards) member of the media. 

This is one of only a number of reasons I find itso strange to be on the other side of a media spectrum as of late. As I’vewritten about before, my cousin passed away three years ago. What I don’tbelieve I’ve mentioned is that there is also a coroner’s inquest into herdeath. My cousin’s death was national news in Australia when she died, and theaforementioned inquest is also national news there.  

In November, when the inquest began, there weredaily stories of the court procedures and testimony, many re-counting the finaldays, hours and minutes of my cousin’s life. (You think your life is prettynormal, and then you read a piece in The Australian detailing the swornstatements of a woman your cousins refer to as “Gigi.” (My cousins and I don’tshare a grandmother even though we have the same grandfather – which is anotherstory for another day -- so I just call her Margaret.) And there arepaparazzi-style photos of her leaving the building after the inquest adjournedfor the day.) And when the inquest picked up again in March, reporters were there again.  

It’s not easy going, looking over the stories about your own family, and the reading (andre-reading, I think we all realize I can be a bit obsessive) is plenty painful. Out of respect for my family, I'll try not to re-hash too much of the graphic detail that is already available on the Internet. I only know that for me,  the headline including "in agony" is hard to shake. I don’t know how my aunt sits through allof this – live and in open court. I only know she has to be one of the bravestpeople I know.

And to get back to where I was going with all this,I guess I have to say that despite the unsettling details of late, and seeingmy family’s tragedy played out on a national stage, my feelings about the mediaand being part of it remain the same. 

I think it’s important to tell people’s stories. Ithink people need to know what happened to Lauren. I hope other families andindividuals make different choices because of what they read about her. I hopelaws change. I hope punishments are doled out. Does it hurt? Hell yes. Is itnecessary? Yes, too.  

Injustice, corruption, greed and general suckiness(best word I've got right now) need to be exposed. As do the triumphs of the human race – relief efforts,rescues and those who live their lives with honesty, compassion andintegrity. We have to tell each other our stories so that we can begin to understand and relate to one another.    

I also think that when it all comes down to it, all anyonewants to know is that they mattered, that they were heard. I think we all wantto know that when we leave this world, we leave a legacy, whether that’s afamily, a friend who misses us, a grand estate or a stranger who remembers thatwe were kind to them once. It’s why we create. It’s why we love. It’s why wepaint, sculpt, sing songs and write. It’s all so we matter. (Please forgive the cheese factor there.) 

The media is a voice, and it plays its part in thequest to matter. Lauren would have mattered without a single news story; we alldo and would. But I do hope good comes of this media coverage that no one can evenimagine now.  

But, while I respect the place of the media, I’dstill rather not be the one asking the really tough questions. Give me a top 10 list over the earthquakes and political scandals any day.  

My Jury Duty Story Can Beat Your Jury Duty Story

Thefirst and (knock on wood) only time I’ve ever been called for jury duty, I wasin my second year of graduate school. Believe it or not, I think jury duty ispart of one’s civic duty and one of the responsibilities that comes with havingthe world’s greatest, though not perfect, judicial system. It’s also one ofthe two excused absences at UAB (the other being military service), so I knew Iwouldn’t have to worry about flack from any of my professors.  

ThatMonday, I packed a couple of books in my purse and headed down to thecourthouse fairly sure that despite my willingness to serve, my status as agrad student and the fact that I was a lawyer’s daughter would keep me off anyjury.  

Ifound a seat in the large room where the few hundred people called for juryduty that week waited and started to read. (I quickly learned that no matterhow deep I buried my nose in a book, some elderly person would insist on havinga conversation at me. Yes, at, not with.) When the first foreman entered theroom and called my juror number, I was relieved to get away from the crowd andmy seat neighbor.

Iwas struck from the first jury after voir dire (when you declare your name, ageand workplace in front of everyone for those who've never had the pleasure), took my lunch break and went back to thecourt house for more waiting in the large jury pool room. 

Around3:30 in the afternoon, a rather handsome* and somewhat familiar-looking youngman entered the room and walked over to the desk to pick up a list of potentialjurors. Seeing as he was cute, and I hadn’t had anything to do for the past twohours, I was kind of hoping he’d call my number.  

Aboutmid-way through his list, he did. 

Asmyself and the other 35 potential jurors made our way to the court room, I dideverything in my power to flirt with this guy, even under the restrictedcircumstances. I smiled. I batted my eyelashes. I maintained extended eyecontact when I said “thank you” as he held the door open for us. And since hekept looking back at me, I thought I might have been successful. 

Whenwe arrived in the court room, we all took our seats in the rows for a trial’saudience, and the young man went to the court clerk’s seat.  

“Welcomeladies and gentlemen,” the judge said from the bench. “Thank you for servingtoday. I’d like to introduce you to the players involved in this case before wemove on.”  

Then,the judge proceeded to introduce himself, the prosecutor, the prosecutor’sclient, the defense attorney and the defendant. “And, of course, I can’t forgetmy court clerk, Tim Smith*,” he said. “It’s his second day on the job.” 

Andthat’s when it hit me. I knew exactly why I had a) thought I recognized theyoung man and b) found him so attractive. Four years before that fateful momentin the court room, Tim Smith and I had made out.  

Asa little background, for most of my life before 25, I liked bad boys. Ifsomeone was going to get hurt in any given romantic situation, that person wasgoing to be me. Unfortunately, there are two glaring exceptions to that rule,and Tim Smith was one of them. 

Imet Tim when I was a senior in college, home for the holidays and celebratingNew Year’s Even in a now-closed bar. Tim was sweet and thoughtful and, if Iasked him to, he would call me when I was in town from Georgetown. But, between the distance and my“love” for one of those bad boys who actually lived in Washington, D.C.,I let him slip off the radar without much of an explanation. I just neverreturned his last e-mail. (I know, I know – shame, shame.)  

So,not only am I now in a court room with a guy I used to see sometimes, I’ve alsofailed to recognize him even though we went out on multiple occasions, and I’veflirted with him after having already rejected him years before. And it’s onlyhis first week in the legal system. 

Inshort, I’m a big, fat jerk. 

“Now,if anyone here knows anyone in this court room,” the judge said, “we’re goingto need to get that out of the way first and foremost.” 

That was when my heart started beating far faster than it should. Am I going to haveto say that I know Tim in open court? Are they going to ask how I know him? Ifso, can I say that we dated? Does three dates count as dating? Should I justsay we hung out? Will I have to acknowledge the making out? Will there be furtherquestions about the details? Are all of these strangers going to think I’m afloozy? 

Theremight even have been a cold sweat involved.  

Luckily,despite my many, many worries, it turns out that when it comes to jury duty, noone cares whether or not you know the court clerk. Only judge, prosecutor,defense attorney and suing parties matter.  

Thankgoodness. 

Iwas struck after voir dire again, and since it was 4:30 by that time, once wewere excused, I ran from that court house with a speed that probably rivals somenewly-released felons.  

Thelesson here? I don’t really know. Be careful who you go out with? You neverknow who you’ll see at jury duty? My facial recognition sucks? All I can sayfor sure is, that with odds like these – finding myself in the one court room ofthe one person in the court house I’ve dated the one the only time I’ve everhad jury duty in his first week of work – I should have won the lottery by now. 

* Not nearly as handsome as the SO, of course.

*Names have been changes because this story is embarrassing enough as is.

More on Me and the Pole

For those of you anxiously awaiting an update on the Pole Yourself Thin/Stripper Aerobics class, here it comes:

1. I cannot wear shorts or skirts because there are bruises that run from my feet all the way up my thighs. I have bruises on my biceps and forearms. If the SO didn't look like such a sweetheart, I worry people would assume he's been beating me. Maybe the near-translucently-pale aren't meant for this line of work. Maybe someone should invent a foam floor. It could be like that memory foam mattress stuff. I'm just saying ... I'd want one even if I wasn't into pole dancing. It just sounds so pleasant.

2. My upper body has no desire to support the weight of my lower body whatsoever. There's a move called the "cartwheel" in which you use your arms to pull your legs up and over to the other side of the pole. My feet want to stay planted just where they are, and my arms want it that way, too. Neither half is willing to give, and neither half listens to a single message sent by my brain.

3. If the class handout (because, yes, we have a syllabus and vocab sheets) says that the exercise is a "comfort move," that exercise is neither comforting nor does it allow the muscles used in it to move the next day. 

4.There is nothing remotely sexy about any of this. Even without the bruises and my lack of talent, if you could see the strain on my face as I even attempt to pole dance, I think there'd be far more pity than attraction. What I imagine if I were to have an actual audience? Cringing, looking away and the occasional "Sweetie, are you going to be OK?" or "Honey, are you stuck?"

5. My dream of making it from beginner to intermediate class dies a little more each and every day.

* This is a photo of the red light district. It seemed kind of appropriate and related to the theme. Again, this is not the easiest subject matter to search on public domain photo sites.

Attacked at the Aquarium

I love a good aquarium.

There are many exotic fish I've had the privilege to see up-close and in person -- including a hammerhead shark. When I was 18, my parents took my sisters and I to the Great Barrier Reef.

(Whenever anyone asks about your trip to a reef, they always say, "Did you get a piece of the reef?" as if the first rule you learn on the reef isn't "Never, ever step on the reef." Those things are far more fragile than they might seem on TV.)

There are also some less than-exotic fish I've had the opportunity to see up-close and in person. My father took me to the Bass Fishing Museum in Eufala when I was a child, too.

So, a few weeks ago, when I went to Atlanta, the aquarium was one of my first stops.

The Georgia Aquarium is a great place, and it was fascinating to see the Beluga whales, Tiger sharks, giant Flounder and all of the colorful rest. (Is it wrong that all I could think of when I saw the giant Japanese crabs was "drawn butter"?)

The Georgia aquarium also has some great touch tanks. You could reach in to pet rays, little sharks, horseshoe crabs and the like.

Unfortunately, there was a moment in one of the touch tanks that led to the SO and I being drenched in water. At one of these tanks, the SO became startled by one of the creatures inside, and as he jerked his hand from the tank, he covered himself in water and splashed me pretty good, too.

The animal that took him by such surprise, you might ask? A shark? No. Manta ray? Nope. Even a spindly, tentacle-y plant? No. It was the shrimp and prawn tank that got him. I suppose he's never been around anything but the frozen kind because he wasn't really expecting the shrimp to move when he touched it. He jumped, and his shirt was soaked -- because a shrimp frightened him. (Sorry, I usually try to leave the SO alone when it comes to this blog, but that one still makes me laugh.)

Of course, I had my comeuppance when we went back to the ray/shark tank on our way out and one of the very large rays tried climbing the wall of the tank in front of me. (I could have sworn I heard a very faint "save me," but I was also in a little bit of shock.) Then it was my turn to jump back. I was fine with touching the smooth back of the ray. I did not know what it would do if it found my hand in its mouth.

So, if you find yourself in Atlanta, I'd definitely put the aquarium on your to-do list. And while many people are biased towards the penguins in the "most adorable" category, when it comes to the cute factor, otters take the cake for me every time.

APB: Missing Freelance Pants

For the first time ever, I accused the SO of thievery the other day.

"Did you hide my black pants," I said, hands on hips and a very stern look on my face. For more than a week now, my favorite yoga pants have been missing (not that I actually practice yoga in them -- they just happen to have the perfect amount of stretch). When they first went missing, I just assumed there was a load of laundry I had misplaced. Four days in, I began to suspect more sinister motives.

I thought that I might have broken the SO. Maybe a man can only see his partner in so many pairs of velour pants, sweats and clothes with drawstring waists before he has to take action. Before he has to destroy. 

"I did not get rid of your freelance pants," he said. "Freelance pants" is a term he stole from a local paper's cartoon to describe the lounge wear that became much more prominent once I started primarily working from home.

"Are you sure?" I said, also giving him the eye that says "we may joke a lot in this relationship, but I mean business about these pants."

"Yes, I'm sure," he said.

"And how do I know that?" Trust only goes so far in any relationship after all.

"Because if I did take and hide all of your sweats, you'd just start wearing mine."

That logic was solid. Taking my yoga pants would really just end up as a lose/lose situation for him.

"Fair enough," I said, and we moved on. (And I didn't even accuse him of a single other crime for the rest of the night.)

But if anyone sees a seemingly homeless pair of nearly-perfect cotton, black pants out there, please let me know. Mine are still on the loose, and the situation is growing dire.

I'm about two days away from posting flyers around the neighborhood. Ever since I went rogue from the corporate environment, zippers just don't work for me like they used to. 

*Photo approximates pants but should not be considered an accurate representation for searching purposes.

Me, Myself and the Pole

Last night, I finally tried what was probably the hottest exercise trend of 2006 -- stripper aerobics. (I'm only four years behind. If you saw the cell phone I carry, you'd think it was far, far worse.)

In many ways, I feel guilty even talking or writing about my "Pole Yourself Thin" class. I'm pretty sure my father has spent the last 30+ years of his life doing everything in his power to keep me away from anything even remotely resembling a stripper pole, and yet, here I am, paying a woman to teach me moves likes the "seahorse," "pole push off" and "stripper legs."

(In my defense, it was a girlfriend's idea, and it seemed like a fun way to work out in addition to the possible makings of a good story. I'll do a lot for a good story. Plus, you wear normal workout clothes, so no one needs to get too carried away out there.)

When we first arrived, we chose stage names for class, so for two hours yesterday, I was Lola Luscious. ("Lola" is also a name my younger, drunken self enjoyed going by after two a.m. This is really something that probably should not be spoken of, so I'll move on.)

Anyways, then we were taken to our poles and began to learn our first routine. After a quick walk around the pole (on tip toe to simulate high heels, of course), we dove right in to the basic moves like the "kick boxer" and "pole kick." I quickly learned that I have a great fireman (this does involve swinging around the pole), but a terrible crawl. 

One thing I could not get used to? Hearing "Lola cannot get her crawl on!" called out by the teacher from the front of the room time and time again.

I also learned about a little thing called "pole burn," which apparently occurs when one spends too much time on the pole or does not hold the pole properly. When it happens, your skin becomes very red and sore from the wrist to about halfway down the forearm. According to our teacher, it is a difficult injury to explain to your friends and co-workers as well.

So, after two quite eye-opening hours, my entire body is sore (strippers must use muscles I didn't even know I had), and I have a nasty case of pole burn.

It's probably a very good thing that I work from home on Fridays. And I've never been more thankful for my education. 

*Sure, this photo is of a dude doing tai chi, but you'd actually be surprised by how few public domain images that are also family-friendly can be found by typing "stripper" or "pole" in the search field. My logic is that both are exercise, so it's related.

The Yard Sale Aficionado

My grandmother is a yard sale pro.

Sure, sure, you might think one of your relatives is a yard sale expert, but trust me when I tell you that your grandparent/aunt/long-known family friend has nothing on my grandmother.

When I was little, my grandmother would give me and each of my sisters $1.00 on Saturday mornings, and we would head out to garage/yard sales. We could spend that dollar however we wanted, but it was the only money we were getting for the day. You might think you had fallen in love with a stuffed unicorn at the first sale, but if it took your whole dollar, you could easily spend the rest of the day full of regret. 

"I like this red teddy bear, but it's a whole fifty cents."

"If you like it, you should probably get it. I heard that we're only hitting up two more sales after this."

Thanks to one great aunt who owned an antiques stall (often full of garage sale finds whose owners didn't know their worth), I can also spot reproductions, silver plate and long-past-their-prime collectibles from an impressive distance.

My grandmother didn't just visit yard sales. She also held three of her own when she was downsizing her home. After attending a class at the community center, she learned that all yard sale signs should be neon (better visibility), to hold sales after the third of the month (that's when most people cash their social security checks) and that dragging a large, nice piece of furniture to the curb is necessary to attract the "drive-bys." (This piece of furniture does not actually have to be for sale, but it lures in the iffy shoppers and a simple "sold" sign keeps you from having to talk about it.)

From the time my sisters and I were ten, seven and five respectively, we could add our own items to the sale if we wanted. Of course, we were also responsible for pricing and bargaining when it came to our personal things. (Don't ever ask my sister about the bike she sold for $12. She's still bitter someone talked her down from $20. To her credit, when you think that the woman was taking eight dollars from a seven-year-old, I can see her point on that one.)

And when we weren't peddling our own items, my sisters' and my primary job at each sale was to help my grandmother and another great aunt watch the perimeter for anyone with sticky fingers.

It was a thrilling time in all of our lives.

So, for those of you who might be planning your own garage/yard sales in the near future, I'd thought I'd offer you a few tips from my years of experience:

1. Everyone loves a good tabloid. It doesn't matter how old the rag is, I watched my grandmother sell each and every one of her National Enquirers within the first half hour of every yard sale.

2. The most common move for stealing from any garage/yard sale is to put on a hat or sweater like you're just trying it on and then waltz off with the item. Watch out for the ones who "just want to test it out."

3. Mark everything with a plug or run by batteries "as is." It'll save you a lot of grief down the line.

4. Get lots of change in advance. Most people bring a $20 but spend about fifty cents.

5. One man's trash really is another man's treasure. Unfortunately, this also means you'll never know what you can sell and what you can't. At a friend's garage sale, I assumed my Queen Anne chair would be a popular item. It ended up being donated to charity at the end of the afternoon, but I made a dollar on the plastic gazelle figurine someone used to decorate my place setting at a safari-themed party.

Wow -- all that, and you don't even have to enroll in a night class at the community center. Feel free to thank me when you're rolling in soiled one dollar bills and the occasional fiver.

My Beef With Robert Redford

A few weeks ago, someone mentioned a new movie with Robert Redford that was coming out.

"Idon't think I'll see that. I just haven't been able to forgive him forThe Way We Were," I said. "I've given it a few years, but it's stilljust too hard for me."

"Uh-huh," she said, giving me the "you'rean odd over-sharer" eye, "well, I'm able to separate actors from thecharacters they portray."

"That must be nice for you," I said enthusiastically. Then, I changed the subject.

I have trouble letting things go (surprise, surprise), and I've been known to hold the occasional grudge. I try to forgive, but I don't always forget.

When you combine this little shortcoming of mine with the fact that I am the perfect audience, trouble can ensue. (The Waitress incident is only a small example.) In fact, there are two actors I can seemingly never forgive -- and not in that Tom Cruise way of "why did I waste two hours of my life on Vanilla Sky" kind of way. I can't forgive what they did on screen.

I don't hold grudges for the actual personal lives of stars - a la Tiger Woods, Jesse James and Brad Pitt -- but when it comes to the characters they play, it's a whole different story. My head may know actors and characters are two separate entities, but my heart just hasn't gotten the message. That being said, here's my problem list:

1. We'll begin with the aforementioned Robert Redford. I adored Sneakers, The Natural and A River Runs Through It. His directorial debut, Ordinary People, was one of my absolute favorites, and then I saw The Way We Were. I watched RR/Hubbell cheat on Katie, I saw him give up on her when things got too hard, and I heard him ask about the daughter he wouldn't raise before running off to the blond he'd replaced his wife with.

The worst line for me in the whole movie? When Hubbell is talking to his best friend J.J. on the sailboat near the end of the film. Hubbell has already slept with Carol Ann, and J.J. admits that Carol Ann has left him and California. Then J.J. says that it doesn't really matter because Carol Ann "was no Katie."

I cried like a baby. 

After the first time I saw The Way We Were, my boss asked me what was wrong the following Monday. She said that I didn't seem like my usual self. "Did something happen over the weekend? Is it your family? Are you feeling all right?"

"It's none of that," I said.

She continued to look at me with concern.

"I watched The Way We Were last night."

"Oh," she said, and she nodded.

"Men just leave, don't they?" I said. "It gets hard and they go. It's easier for them to go, isn't it? Why is it so much easier for them to leave?"

I was 22 and a little dramatic, but a movie from 1973 had reduced me to tears in front of a woman 40 years my senior. In short, The Way We Were broke me.

Her response? "It is easier for men to leave," and we talked for 30 minutes about RR, Barbra and romantic relationships.

I can barely watch the film these days. If I do, I start crying duringthe opening credits because I know what's coming, and I can hardlystand it. And no matter what Robert Redford does, I see Hubbell standing in the middle of a home movie theater telling Katie he'll only stay until the baby is born, and I just hate him. It's beyond irrational, but I haven't been able to shake it in eight years. He just should have stayed with her -- despite all the McCarthyism and whatnot.

2. Jeff Daniels also makes my list. Jeff Daniels, I don't care that you are the lovable patriarch in Arachnophobia. Pleasantville, Dumb and Dumber and The Butcher's Wife mean nothing to me. (That last one for different reasons, but still.) For me, you will always be Flap from Terms of Endearment.

And Flap went into his wife/Debra Winger's hospital room as she was dying and told her he wouldn't raise their three children. Flap said he was going to go off with his terrible mistress Janice and abandon their children while the woman he married and bore his kids died of cancer.

Again, my disdain is completely irrational, but it is what it is.

On the other hand, there are two other actors who I can apparently accept in any situation or role.

1. I adore Ted Levine. It does not bother me at all that he hunted Jodie Foster down with night vision goggles in Silence of the Lambs. I don't even care that he uttered one of the creepiest movie lines ever -- "It puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again." When he's Captain Leland Stottlemeyer on Monk, he's Capt. Stottlemeyer, and I love him. I love that he fights for Adrian, their often-strained relationship and that, in the end, you know they're best friends. Trying to sew a suit of human skin never even occurs to me when I watch him go a-crime-solving.

I could probably watch the movie and the series back-to-back on USA and not bat an eye.

2. I also like David Boreanaz. When he was Angel, I only wanted him to be with Buffy. But, when I see him now, I don't see Angel. I see Seeley Booth. And Seeley Booth can love Temperance Brennan without my thinking he's cheating on Sarah Michelle Geller. It's all good.

Clearly, there are a lot of X factors here: acting ability, story line, character development, my sanity ...
but, in the long run, there's no telling who will end up on either list.

Hollywood take note, and choose your roles wisely: Laurel Mills is watching.

Writer's Block, Comedy and Insurance Companies

I tell my students that there' no such thing as writer's block. 

I claim that there is this: unwillingness to do the work (because writing is hard work and anyone who tells you anything different is lying), procrastination and fear. (The fear comes in when you worry too much that when you do actually write, what you write won't be good enough.)

I recommend all the tricks for getting started -- lists, clustering and the always-dreaded free-writing. (Free-writing = writing non-stop for a set period of time, and it is more than a bit trying on the brain and the hand.) I tell them to start in the middle if they don't have a beginning or an end. Or start at the end if there's no beginning or middle. I trot out one of my favorite books, Writing Without the Muse, for ideas and inspiration. 

I am so full of mettle, advice and, hopefully support, I just don't know what to do with myself.

There is always something to write, I say. It may not be profound, but as long as you can put pen to paper, there is always something to write. 

And, until lately, I believed there was always humor. As a friend told me long ago, "When you're either going to laugh or cry, laugh." I've tried to keep that in mind. I've even been called irreverent because of it. Another old saying goes that "the only difference between comedy and tragedy is a laugh track."I believe that, too.

But, right now, no matter how hard I work at it, I can't seem to do enough laughing, and I'm having a really hard time putting the writing and the humor together. My free-writing does not lead to fodder for good blog posts. (My latest free-writing? Too many sentences as to what it means to be "enough.") I look at the chore list on the refrigerator in the office -- a chore list grown-ups are supposed to follow of their own free will -- and I want to laugh. Three months ago, I think I would have. But, the last time I found myself in the break room, I just sighed. I sighed, pulled my Lean Cuisine out of the microwave and went back to my desk.

I'm not surprised life isn't what I thought it would be. I'm surprised my primary coping mechanism isn't kicking in like it used to.

So, I apologize for the tone of recent posts. I wish they were funnier. I decided that no matter what I had to do to pay the mortgage, I would still update this blog at least twice a week. I promised that I would still write because if I give up on that, I really will have given up, and that is something I refuse to do. I want to write, and the best thing about writing is that when that's all you want to do, you can just do it. (Finding a reader is the hard part. Finding an editor even harder.) I say to work more and work harder. (Another lovely thought, but difficult in practice when no one wants what you've already written and each day seems to bring the return of more and more envelopes I addressed and stamped myself.) I try to remember that the difference between optimism and pessimism isn't just about how you see the glass, but about focusing on what you have rather than what you don't have. I keep in mind that on some days just trying is enough.

Mostly, I'm tired, and I tear up every time I see the Allstate commercial where everybody quotes FDR from the Great Depression.

If you're also having trouble getting through insurance company ads without crying, know that you're not alone. If you've got it all figured out, I'd love to know your secrets (unless they involve Jesus -- what goes on between me and Jesus is what goes on between me and Jesus, and I like to keep that off the Internet). 

In the meantime, I promise I'll do the best I can to get the funny back -- for myself and for those of you kind enough to stop by and read my thoughts every so often.