In Defense of Memoir

Irecently finished reading the ginormously successful Eat Pray Love. Did I lovethe book? No. Do I have to see the movie? Have I learned Italian? Am I buyingthe World Market line of products based on the story? No, no and no. But, saywhat you want about the book – love it or hate it – the problem is not that theauthor spends too much time talking about herself.  (A recent review of the movie claimed a bettertitle for the film would have been Me Me Me.)

After all, Eat Pray Love is a memoir and telling your own story is the verydefinition of memoir. It’s an autobiography. It’s supposed to be just about you. 

Unfortunately,most of the time you only hear about memoir when it’s sensational (“you mayhave been sexually abused by your father as a child, but I had a sexualrelationship with my dad as an adult”), written by celebrities (while we’re onthe subject, Mackenzie Phillips) or not true (thanks for that one James Frey).However, as a genre, it’s not sensationalism that drives memoir.

Iapologize in advance to anyone that thinks I’m talking down to them by thebasics I’m about to go over. I am not nearly a good enough writer to talk downto anyone. It’s just that I need to start at the beginning. After all, as LewisCarroll taught us, the beginning is a very good place to start.

Allgood writing must have tension – the phenomenon that happens when two seemingopposites co-exist. It’s one of the reasons mysteries, romances and sportsstories are so prevalent and popular; the tension there is easiest to find.Will the protagonist win or lose? Be rejected or find love? Live or die? Thelatter being the most obvious example of tension one could find and the mostuniversal – mortality. It’s hard to find a bigger gap than the differencebetween life and death, and it’s the tightrope all of humanity walks everysingle day. (Hey, I said I was going back to basics.)

Eachindividual memoir has its own tension, but a tension drives the genre as well.As a literary art form (and I do think it is one), here’s how it works: bydelving as completely as possible into one’s own individual psyche, one triesto discover some universal truth. The opposing forces? The lone individual and the restof the world. A piece and the whole.

Wemay enjoy reading them, but the best memoirs aren’t stories that focusprimarily on other people – be it your mother, father or significant other.(Not that these elements aren’t important to memoir, but let’s not confuse thecharacter with the relationship. The main character in memoir is the author,and relationships are vital because of what they reveal about the author.However, generally speaking, memoirs that focus too much on other characters doit out of fear — talk all about crazy mom so you won’t have to acknowledge thescary truth about yourself.)

Thegenre is defined by revelation and isn’t necessarily for the faint of heart.You may laugh at anecdotes, but they don't qualify as art without the revelation of atruth that applies to a larger audience than one.

Memoiris an exploration of the depths of self – that terrifying abyss that includesour inner most thoughts, fears and failings. It isn’t easy to write, and it canbe hard to read. It’s beautiful because in daring to look at those darkestparts of ourselves, we can discover a universal truth of human nature. Indaring to be so completely exposed, we uncover that we aren’t alone in these vulnerabilities.That, generally speaking, we all sing along to the same songs on the radio fora reason. We all crave acceptance and fear rejection. No one wants to bevulnerable but we all are. We need love, and we’ll do desperate, awful andoften hurtful things to get and/or keep it. We’re primarily selfish even thoughwe try to pretend we’re not, and we all want to peek behind the neighbors’curtains to see just how different/alike from them we might be.

Memoirinvites you in. Memoir throws open the door and says, “Look, here I am, wartsand all. This is my most naked self. Feel free to have an opinion.”

It’sbrazen. And while it may be self-centered, in the most literal sense of theword, it is not narcissistic.  

But,memoir also isn’t for everyone. Few things are. So, if you think a personalnarrator is kind of whiny, that’s fine. I’d just suggest you read fictioninstead. And while I think Elizabeth Gilbert is probably doing just fine withher international bestseller, film rights and ancillary products, I do thinkshe should be cut a little slack on those “me, me, me” criticisms.

Best Flea Market Ever*

Oneof my favorite parts of visiting my parents’ lake house is exploring the smalltowns in the surrounding area. This past weekend, the SO and I picked theSantuck flea market near Equality, ALfor our mini-adventure. The SO and I love a good flea market, so we wereexcited to finally be at my parents’ lake house for the first Saturday of themonth, the only day the flea market is held.

Sometimes,the SO and I can stay together when we’re shopping, and sometimes we have tosplit up. Worried about time, the SO quickly decided that we would have tosplit up to get through the vendors most efficiently. It’s possible that heloves flea markets more than I do, and while the sight of the airbrush trailerhad my blood pumping, he had other things on his mind. (Those things? Mainlycamera lenses and weapons – all with benevolent purposes, he claims.)

Likeany good Southern girl, I bought myself a cast iron skillet and some off-brandbump-its. The SO ended up with some electronics and a slingshot. (Yes, thesepurchases are pretty representative of who we are.)

Iwas able to move more quickly through the flea market because, shockingly, atleast to me, the Santuck flea market is far fuller of weapons and electronicsthan it is of cookware and knock-off As Seen on TV products.

Assuch, I decided to cross the street for some grilled corn on the cob and waitfor the SO to finish his perusing. That’s also when I happened upon the mostfascinating vendor of all – the live animal salesman.

Therewere chicks, grown chickens, rabbits, pheasants and so, so much more. It killedme that I didn’t have my camera because I the first thing I saw in this boothwas a large man in a sleeveless shirt, tattooed and smoking while he held afull-grown, live chicken under each arm. If that moment isn’t priceless (andkind of amazing considering the balancing act required to smoke and hold livechickens), I don’t know what is.

Ipicked up one of the bunnies. I pet the goats. (I’ve always wanted a goat, andI hear that they keep the grass in your yard very tidy, but I’m pretty sure myneighbors would object.) Then I stumbled upon the most magnificent creature ofall – the peacock.

Apeacock?!?! I didn’t even know that people other than Hugh Hefner were allowedthe luxury of a pet peacock. Surely, I thought, I could never afford such awonder. But, there, in the middle of the Santuck flea market was a peacock ondisplay and going for only $65.00. I wanted it. Desperately.

Theonly thing was, I didn’t want to keep it for myself. If I got the peacock, Iwas clearly going to leave it at my parents’ lake house just for the fun thatwould be this imagined telephone conversation:

“Laurel!”

“Yes,Mama?”

“Laurel, you are not goingto believe what I saw at the lake this morning.”

“Sawat the lake?” In my fantasy, I play this very coy, not that I am capable ofsubtlety in real life. “Were there some migrating geese?”

“No, not geese,” my mother says. “Laurel, I could have sworn I saw a peacockthis morning.”

“A peacock?”

“Yes, a peacock. I saw an actual peacock justwalking across the lawn.”

“But that can’t be,” I’d say. “What would a peacockbe doing in AlexanderCity?”

“I thought the very same thing, but there it was.Plain as day. A peacock.”

“Are you sure it was a peacock?” I’d say. “Did youget a picture?”

“Well, no,” my mother would admit.

“Maybe it was just a big bird. Or a weird plant.Had you had your coffee yet?”

“No, but I really think …”

“I mean, come on Mama, where would anyone get apeacock in AlexanderCity?”

I know; I’m terrible. But it would be really funny– at least to me.

Ofcourse, I didn’t end up with the peacock. It was primarily because I don’t knowwhat they eat (is it as simple as bird seed?), and it seemed cruel to get ananimal with no idea of its diet. (Yes, I will torture my mother and make herquestion her own eyes, but God forbid I don’t know what a bird eats inadvance.) I also think that considering how budget-friendly the peacock was,it’s possible that it wasn’t in the best of health and my mother’s and myfictitious conversation would have gone more like this:

“Laurel, do you know whythere’s a dead peacock on my dock?”

*No,the irony is not lost on me.

Worst Babysitting Experience Ever

I spent a very good portion of my adolescence and teen years babysitting. If I do say so myself, I was quite the A-list babysitter. There were mothers who would cancel on other babysitters if they found out I was available. At the time, I thought I was just really good with children. In retrospect, I realize that, really, I never broke into the liquor cabinet and there was no boyfriend to have over once the kids were asleep.

Most of my clients were lovely people, and I had primarily good experiences. I once was humped by the family’s standard poodle, which is kind of traumatic when you’re barely 5’2”, but there was little to complain about. I usually spent at least one night per week and weekend babysitting, I was mostly home by midnight and this “career” provided a lovely cash flow for my ever-deepening love of clothes shopping.

There was, however, one glaring exception.

One of my clients liked to stay out late, and I mean the kind of late that I can’t even make now. I’d fall asleep on their couch, and usually get woken up around three or four a.m. so the dad could drive me home.Other than my being very sleepy, this didn’t seem to be that big of a deal. Except for one night.

I went over to the X’s around six, and it all started to go downhill when I found their little boy putting strand upon strand of Mardi Gras beads down the drain of the bathroom sink.

After I fished those out of the pipes, around eight o’clock, a neighbor started calling about the barking dog. As the babysitter, I had been advised to never go near the dog, since it “only liked certain members of the family.”

“I’m very sorry about that,” I said to the neighbor. “I’ll try to make him stop.”

I went outside, and keeping a very healthy distance from the dog, tried to reason with him that maybe he could be quieter. “Please,” I said, “please, please, please be quiet.”

Even with all of my pleading, two more hours of barking went by. The neighbor called a few more times, and I finally told her I was just the babysitter and didn’t know what to do. (Of course, this was followed by the guilt of breaking the #1 rule of babysitting: Never admit that you are home alone with a small child/children. However, I was a little desperate and figured I could justify it this one time.)

When the neighbor called back for the fifth time, she said, “I know this isn’t your fault, but if that damn dog doesn’t shut up, I’m going to come over and shoot the Gd thing.” (Only, she didn’t abbreviate her swears.)

Did I neglect to mention that I was all of 12 at the time?

I can’t remember how the barking dog situation resolved itself, but there was no canine murder. I think the poor thing finally just wore himself out. Regardless, I was relieved, and after an hour of arguing with the bead-flusher about his bedtime, I was more than happy to lay down on the couch, turn on Saturday Night Live and sleep until whenever the parents were ready to come home.

Around 3:30, they finally did. I climbed into the car with the father, and we started towards my house. Ten minutes into the drive and five minutes from my house, we both heard the siren.

Mr. X was getting pulled over.

"Hello sir,” the cop said.

“Hello,” Mr. X said. “Is something wrong?”

“You seemed to swerve a little over the median back there.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.”

“Have you been drinking tonight sir?” the cop said.

“I may have had a beer with dinner,” Mr. X said. (A lawyer or two has always told me to give this same answer if pulled over because it’s better to tell part of the truth than a bold-faced lie, but I think that “beer with dinner” is a whole lot more difficult to pull off when it’s almost four o'clock in the morning.)

“I think you should get out of the car sir.”

Well, to say that that didn’t go over well with dad would be a bit of an understatement.

“I’m just trying to take the f&*%ing babysitter home,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re harassing me while I try to take the f&%*ing babysitter home.”

Even at 12, I knew this was not the most advisable approach with law enforcement.

“You need to step out of the car sir.”

While I sat hunched in the passenger seat, I watched through the rear view mirror as Mr. X went through a battery of DUI tests including walking a straight line and having to close his eyes and touch his nose. Or, so based on my knowledge of L.A. Law, those seemed to be the tests his actions most resembled.

Also, this being in the days before cell phones, I thought a lot about whether or not the cop would drive me home if he decided to arrest Mr. X or if I’d have to wait at the station for my parents to come get me. Drunk or not, I really just wanted a ride home.

After a few minutes, Mr. X climbed back into the car, slammed the door and we were off. Needless to say, there wasn’t much conversation after that. He took me to my house; I climbed out of the car, thanked him for the ride and went inside to tell my parents I was home.

My parents were obviously groggy from being woken up. “So you’re home?” my father said.

“How was it?” my mother added.

“Oh fine,” I said. “The neighbor threatened to kill the dog, and Mr. X got pulled over on the way home, but other than that, it was fine.”

It was not my smoothest goodnight, but I was a tad stressed and sleep-deprived. And strangely enough, after a few phone calls the next day, I never babysat for the Xs again.

Meeting Senator Ted Stevens

Sometimes,I get all too depressed thinking that this is the face of Alaskan politics.(Although, I suppose that if you resign your governorship to focus on your bookdeal and possible reality show, you’re not really a representative of Alaska anyway.)

Iget even more depressed when I think that this might be the face of women's,national and/or populist politics, so you can see why, if I have to make achoice, I want to relegate her just to Alaska. (Sorry Alaska. Really.)

Long before Sarah Palin, Alaskan politics had another face, and thisweek, Alaska and the country lost Senator TedStevens, the man who represented his statewith such passion and commitment. (Albeit not without controversy, I know.)

I met Senator Stevens in 2001. I was just out of college andworking for a non-profit in D.C. that provided housing and medical care forretired career military officers and their spouses/widows. (This translatesinto running a continuing care retirement community complete with independentliving, assisted living and nursing care. Founded by Mamie Eisenhower, we werevery well-funded, and walking down the plush corridor that ran by the diningroom past the lobby and to the elevators, my boss and I often remarked that wefelt like the activities directors on some kind of luxury cruise line.Especially if there was a game of croquet on the lawn or a bridge tournamentgoing on.)

Onemonth into the job, it was time for the Foundation’s largest annual fundraiser,a gala, and to say that I was feeling a little overwhelmed would be quite theunderstatement.

Decorumand manners I’m used to. I did grow up Southern and in a family that prizedmanners very highly. I know how to eat a banana with a knife and fork, whichsilverware belongs to which course and for the first 18 years of my life, Inever left a table without asking to be excused. Professionalism I could handleas well, but military customs were not part of my repertoire at the time,and I worried about the offenses I could cause addressing a “General” as a “Colonel”and who knows what else.

Ifirst became flustered when the advance team for General Shinseki, the head ofthe U.S. Army arrived.

Speakinginto his cuff, a large man told me that “the commander was on route.”

“What’syour plan for his arrival?” he asked.

Plan?I thought. Was I really supposed to be the one with the plan? I thought of myrole as involving more silent auction items and directions to the bar than howto schedule the arrival of one of the military’s most powerful men.

“Letme find my boss,” I said, which I stand by as a great answer until you becomethe boss. (I’ll also go ahead and mention that our banquet was held on Tuesday,September 4, 2001. At the time, we were all completely clueless that the worldwould change forever in one week. I met General Shinseki that evening, and thenext time I saw him, he was in the front row for President Bush’s post 9/11address to the nation as it was broadcast on every major, and not so major,television network. He directed hundreds of thousands of men and women as theyentered Afghanistan, andlater Iraq.I made invitations for a donor coffee in December.)

Then,they had to go and throw in Senators on top of all that.

Eachyear, the Foundation’s Gala honored a particular guest. In 2000, they hadhonored Senator Stevens, and he returned in 2001 to support that year’shonoree, his friend and fellow World War II veteran, Senator Daniel Inouye of Hawaii. Senator Inouyelost his right hand in the war, and I was also incredibly embarrassed to thinkthat I might have stared as we were introduced. (I also think I was in to thetwo-handed shake at that time. It was a phase, akin to and followed by mykissing everyone on the cheek, that I thought seemed very warm and genuine.Let’s just say that I’m glad I’ve moved on.)

Akind man, Senator Inouye didn’t seem to notice my floundering in this worldthat seemed way over my 21-year-old head. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Bothmen were obviously impressive, but what bowled me over most about each was thatin an environment dominated by politics and power, each with a long history ofgovernment service behind them, that night, both seemed to hold onto something thatwas relatively uncommon in Washington-– humility.

SenatorStevens really was there just to support his friend. He had no interest inpushing an agenda (not that there’s much of an agenda to push in a continuingcare retirement community, but the very fact that he came to spend his eveningwith a bunch of old women that it meant the world to also speaks to hischaracter). He didn’t seem bored. He was kind and gracious to each and everyperson that wanted the opportunity to meet him.   

Iknow his later career was troubled. I also know that controversy surrounds Senator Stevens, especially as it relates to pork belly spending and his often aggressive approach, but what I took fromthat night is that Senator Stevens cared  -- about his friends and the U.S. military. I know Senator Stevens will be missed, andI enjoyed our meeting very much.

Andsome of you think I never say anything good about Republicans …

Cat Watch 2010

Becauseof my flea infestation, I decided to move the world’s most difficult cat to theSO’s house, so he would not be assaulted by the tiny bloodsuckers.

(Unfortunately,despite a flea treatment and a flea collar, the cat still had fleas, so I hadto bathe him with flea/tick shampoo. Bathing a cat? Not easy. Then Iflea-combed him. Also, not easy. After all that, I washed everything in thebathroom from the towels to the floor mats because of my ever-growing fleaparanoia. This is the short answer to why I haven’t been on Twitter as muchlately and why the water bill is late. Sorry social media and utilityprovider.)

Uponour arrival at the SO’s house, the cat seemed just fine. He lazed on the frontporch, as per usual, and taunted the dogs. All seemed right with the world.

Iwent out for the evening, and when I came home, I made my usual “mew” sound tocommunicate with him. (Yes, it is a ridiculous sight.) The cat responds to mymews with mews of his own, so we usually go back and forth for awhile. It’s likethe “Meow Mix” commercial, only in rounds with me being tone deaf and the catseeming kind of annoyed by how off-key I am. By sound, I was sure I should beright on top of him and was all sorts of confused as to why I couldn’t find himuntil I looked up.

Thecat had responded to his new surroundings by running up the tallest tree hecould find. For good measure, he also chose the tree closest to a power line.

Idon’t know what I thought the cat would do, but I continued mewing andstretched out my arms – like he might jump to me I suppose – before giving upand heading in to Google and sleep.

Surely,I thought, the Internet would have answers. That, or he would come down bymorning.

But,my little feline love did not earn the title of the world’s most difficult catfor nothing. He stayed in that tree all day. Every time he saw me or the SO hewould whine, and when he whined, we would go towards him and encourage him tocome down.

After24 hours, it was clear that I refused to buy an extension ladder and that thecat refused to budge from his limb. We were at a standstill.

Unfortunately,the cat also whined whenever he saw a neighbor, so I also felt that my pet-rearingskills were being scrutinized.

OnDay Two of Cat Watch 2010, one neighbor said, “I think you need to call 911about that thing.”

Thisjust made me feel bad for EMTs. As a sane person, I know that a cat up a treedoes not qualify as an emergency. I worry about the definitions other peoplehave.

Ialso learned that the fire department does not get cats out of trees (and theswitchboard operator will chuckle at you if you ask). The humane society,animal control and wildlife rescue don’t get cats out of trees. The treeservices will – for a price.

Andjudge me if you want – it certainly won’t be the first time in these past fewweeks – but I wasn’t about to drop what I figured would be at least $100 ongetting the cat out of a tree it would most likely run straight back up.

So,I took the age old-advice of “have you ever seen a dead cat in a tree?” andwaited for the dear to come down on his own.

Sureenough, right before the beginning of what would have been Day Three of CatWatch 2010, the cat came down ready to be petted and fed.

Whatgoes up must come down -- even when it’s a very stubborn cat.

Infested

There’san old Mitch Hedburg joke about how you never hear of any good infestations.“My apartment is infested with koala bears. It’s the cutest infestation ever.Much better than cockroaches. I turn the lights on and a bunch of koala bearsscatter. I'm like, come back! I want to hold one of you, and feed you a leaf.”

It’strue that “infestation” is never associated with anything positive, and assomeone in the midst of a flea infestation, I’m more than willing to vouch forthis.

Aflea infestation is terrible. By itself, it’s just awful. I mean, there arefleas everywhere – do I really need to elaborate on why this is horrendous?And, almost as bad as the fleas is the accompaniment to every infestation – thejudging.

Noone wants to believe that you get to the level of flea infestation without somegross misconduct. Whether it’s a messy kitchen or karmic-retribution for priorbad acts, people want to believe a flea infestation doesn’t just happen out ofthe blue.

Forthose of you wondering, I am a good housekeeper. My house is neat and orderly,and I am in love with my sanitizing steam mop. I am also a good pet owner(despite what happened during Cat Watch 2010, but we’ll get to that tomorrow).My dog does not have fleas -- it’s just my house, and I have devoted myself totheir eradication:

1. Vacuumedthe entire house and burned the contents of the vacuum cleaner afterwards.
2. Fleabombed my house. Twice.
3. Fleabombed my car and vacuumed it afterwards.
4. Burnedthe cat’s bed. (I felt like I was in some required school reading about ScarletFever epidemics in the 18^th century, but I did it anyways.)
5. Hadthe exterminator out. Twice.
6. Takenthe flea bomb the exterminator left me, set it off and thrown it under thehouse grenade-style in an effort to take out the possible offenders.
7. Foggedthe inside of my house, for the fifth time, with the prescription-strength bugkiller left behind by the exterminator.

Ispend more time talking to my exterminator than I do speaking to some membersof my own family, I might be barren because of how many pesticides I haveencountered in the last two weeks and I haven’t had access to all of my clothesin what seems like a mini-eternity. (Oh, short-sleeved cardigans, how I missyou.) But all of this is to no avail.

Thereare still fleas. Fleas that like to bite me. For awhile, I was going to bed apinkish hue from all of the calomine lotion on my body. I don’t know what theyfeed on (other than me, occasionally). I don’t know where they’re coming from –all of the animals are at the SO’s house. And despite what anyone tells you,rosemary is not a flea-deterring plant because it is the only thing I’m capableof growing, and it flourishes right near the back door/main flea point ofattack.

Iam so tired, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to enjoy the inside of my houseagain – if ever. Please send positive thoughts into the universe for me. Andvery, very bad thoughts about fleas.   

Striking The Perfect Balance Of Customer Service

Iappreciate good customer service. I really do. In a world of “I can’t doanything about that,” “That’s not my problem” and apathetic shrugs, it’srefreshing to find someone who actually wants to help you. (Mylatest adventure in bad customer service? Never being apologized to by theconsignment store that lost a $90 piece of my jewelry. I work in PR, I know howfar a simple “I’m sorry” can go. Perhaps more importantly, when an apologyisn’t there, you really, really notice.)

Thatbeing said, I’m not always a fan of chatty customer service. I know thatcomputers are slow, records take awhile to come up and sometimes there’s a badphone connection. None of that means that I need to fill the silence with whatthe weather is like where I am, how many pets I have or whether or not I’mmarried with some kids. Really, I’ll be OK for those two minutes without havinga lively discussion about the heat. Trust me, I’m fine.

I’mparticularly anti chatty customer service after a long car trip. When it comesto road trips, I don’t like to stop. So, while I save lots of time on the driveto my destination, I’m usually pretty anxious to get to a bathroom the moment Ido arrive at said destination. Therefore, I like efficient hotel clerks.Extremely efficient.

I was not so lucky on my last trip to Atlanta.

“Welcome,”said the very lovely woman who greeted us at the check-in desk, “we’re so gladto have you.” She was smiling. She seemed to like her job. It was pleasant.

Then she went to her computer to pull up our reservation.

“Ohdear,” she said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it looks like youroriginal room isn’t available. Rather than having the downtown view from yourroom, you’re going to have the midtown view.”

Isthe view different anywhere in Atlanta?No. Midtown, downtown, don’t care. This is really the least of my concerns.

“That’sjust fine,” my friend said. The reservation was in her name, and as theresponsible one, we left her to the check-in duties.

“And what brings you to our fair city?” thecheck-in clerk said. “I hope it’s something fun.”

“We’re actually here for a wedding,” my friendsaid.

“Thatsounds so nice,” she said. “Would you like me to check the wedding schedule tosee when you can catch the shuttle to the church?”

“Sure.” By this time, I’m crossing my legs in atoddler-like fashion.

“It looks like you’re leaving at six. I’m sure the Walker family is glad tohave you.”

“Actually, we’re here with a different wedding.”

“Ohmy,” the check-in clerk said. “I had no idea we had so many weddings. Let melook for the other schedules.”

Asshe rifles through a stack of papers at least an inch think, all I can think is“Are you kidding me?” She stopped typing as soon as she gave us the bad newsabout the view, and I dread thinking how far from actual check-in we are. (Incase you’re wondering, the lobby bathroom was nowhere in sight, and I am a girlwith girl issues. I needed to get to the room, and I’m going to leave it atthat.) 

“TheHarris party?”

“No,” my friend said, “that’s not us.”

Iwas 60 seconds from a fetal position or an accident at this particular moment intime. Dear God woman, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but just swipe somecards and write a room number on an envelope.

“I wonder where that information is …”

Luckyfor me, by this point, my friend sensed my desperation and moved things along.“I think we’ll just figure it out in the room.”

“It’s really no trouble.”

“We’re fine.” At last, I saw the keys being tuckedin their paper sleeve.

“Youknow,” the check-in clerk said, “I almost forgot to tell you about ourcomplimentary wine hour at five. You really should come to that.” (I don’t knowif she thought this information was important because we clearly liked ouralcohol -– I was holding a 12-pack of Miller Lite and our other friend had abottle of red wine from the Publix down the street, or she didn’t realize thatthe pre-party was taken care of.)

Iwill love my friend forever for taking the keys from her at that moment. “We’llsee you there,” and we booked it to the elevator.

There are things I need to know and things Idon’t. There are also times I want to talk and times I don’t. And when I’ve gotto go, I’ve got to go. I so appreciate it when my customer service and I matchup on these levels.   

The Wall

A few months ago, I went through what can probably be best described as an identity crisis. After five years producing magazine and web content, I had been out of work for a year with seemingly few possibilities or opportunities in front of me. I was depressed, I spent too much time at home by myself and I had no idea what to do next.

It seemed to me that if I couldn't make money doing what I loved, then I should probably find something else to do. And in doing that, maybe I should even look for something less stressful, or at least something I took less personally than my concepts and writing. That elusive "leave it at the door" kind of job.

The only problem with that plan, for me, was that if I did decide to do something just for the money -- sell high-end wedding gowns (I've certainly been involved with enough brides over the years), look at recruiting jobs or even go back to school for something super-practical like accounting -- I wasn't quite sure who I'd be afterwards. For the past seven years, I've defined myself, both personally and professionally, as a writer. So, if I wasn't a professional writer anymore, could I still be a writer? And if I wasn't a writer, could I be happy with whatever other title I chose to give myself? (Why Americans in particular seem to define themselves by what they do is another question for another time.)

Now, there are also lots of ways to go about handling this kind of crisis (some people might just call it a clash between reality and idealism). I could have gotten on a healthier diet, exercised more to release some endorphins, networked my butt off with a can-do attitude, gone to therapy ...

From that very rational list, I actually did pick going to therapy. The problem was that I couldn't get in for an appointment for two weeks from my initial phone call. So, like anyone would do with that waiting period, I decided the best way to handle this emotional roller coaster was by taking out a wall.

Yes, I said taking out a wall. 

You see, my adorable 1928 Craftsman-style bungalow featured a rather obnoxious wall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. The only problem being that the breakfast nook was not big enough to actually eat in, and with said wall in place, my refrigerator actually had to be in the laundry room because there was nowhere else for it to fit. (Unless, it, and it alone, took up the entire breakfast nook -- an idea I did not find aesthetically pleasing.)

While I was toying with what to do with my life, I took the wall cabinets down one day. A few days after that. I took out the base cabinets that ran along the wall and called my mom to help me take out the counter.

"What exactly are you working on here?" she asked, leveraging her weight against one side of the counter while I pushed from the other end.

"Not sure yet."

A few days after that, I took a hammer and swung it into the wall. Hearing the crackle of plaster was oddly satisfying, so I took another swing at the wall. Then I walked away. Holes could be patched, I figured, and I wasn't sure how committed I was.

"You know, I have a crowbar," my friend Tina said, "when you're ready."

"I might as well have it around," I thought. 

Within 24 hours, I was off. I devoted most every spare moment to my wall and it's careful dismantling. Not one to mess with a sledgehammer, I pulled each interior slat out, one by one. I carted every piece of plaster out to my garbage can by myself. I pulled wood and rock away, piece by tiny piece. I even convinced and  myself I was in the midst of some sort of Zen-like metaphor (the poor woman's Eat, Pray, Love journey of self-discovery): "By taking down the wall, I am putting my faith in the fact that I will know what to do when I reach the other side."

I also learned that I have some really odd thoughts while using a crowbar, like "no one can tell me what I can and can't do." Who knew?

Of course, the problem with taking down a wall (with electrical) is that you do have to hire someone to come behind you and finish up some of the work. You've also fully devoted yourself to a kitchen renovation -- ready or not. The wall is and was, at least in my situation, only the beginning.

Four months later, my wall is entirely gone, I seem to be doing OK career-wise and my refrigerator has even escaped the laundry room. I still don't have a floor, and there's a question about cabinets. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle, somewhere between where I was and where I want to be. But, I don't mind so much. It seems a little bit easier to take it one step at a time.

Maybe I should thank the therapist for that last bit of acceptance. Or maybe the credit does go to the wall. Either way, my only recommendation is to try and keep your home renovations and your emotions separate. I'm very, very lucky that thing wasn't load-bearing.

Part 2: My Top 10 TV Tearjerkers

Picking up right where we left off, with my great love for the fourth wall and all, here's the second part of my list:

5. Medium: Very Merry Maggie

So, I dig the shows where people talk to dead people. I can't help myself. In this one, the D.A., Manuel Devalos, and his wife Lily are dealing with the anniversary of their daughter's death. The wife has hired a supposed psychic to communicate with their daughter, and the D.A. becomes very angry. He then asks Alison about his daughter but all she does is write down the name of a place without realizing it.

Later, as Devalos and his wife are driving to visit their daughter's grave, they get into an argument. The wife thinks she should have come alone. They pull the car over. (Right past a sign with whatever word Alison had written down.) Devalos argues that when people are dead, they're just dead, and that's all there is to it. He can't get on board with his wife's need to believe in more.

They're out of the car having this argument, when they walk into a field of white zinnias (their daughter's favorite flower) blooming in the middle of January. And for a moment, they both believe and know their daughter is somewhere else, and she's OK.

It kills me. Every. Single. Time.

4. Dawson's Creek: All Good Things ... Must Come to an End

I won't lie to you. I stopped watching Dawson's Creek after season four. Season three was awesome -- Pacey buys Joey a wall, Pacey pulls the car over to kiss Joey after her disastrous weekend with college boy, Joey kisses Pacey while "Daydream Believer" plays in the background at Dawson's aunt's house, Pacey and Joey dance at the anti-prom and he knows that the bracelet she's wearing is her mother's and it all ends with the two of them taking off on a boat for the summer. It was perfect.

And then they went and f-ed it all up. They broke up Pacey and Joey. They made Joey and Dawson sleep together. (One word: ew.) Oliver Hudson shows up. Eh.

None of that means I was going to miss the end of a show I had loved very, very deeply. Plus, I had to believe that Pacey and Joey would finally end up together after all of that other nonsense.

What I didn't count on was them giving Jen a heart condition five years in the future. It was destined to be a train wreck. The scenes between all of the characters were too much for me, but when Jack tells Jen that she belonged to him, I really lost it. I still have this on VHS -- that's how attached to it I am.

3. ER: Dr. Greene's Death

I can't narrow this one down to a single episode, but let's just say that I did not handle Dr. Greene's terminal cancer very well. My roommate at the time threatened to keep me from watching ER because every episode ended with my face swollen and red from tears. Anthony Edwards is one fine actor.

Then came Hawaii and "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." I still think it's some of the best writing that ever was on television.

2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer: Becoming

Now, I had plenty of Buffy moments, too. After all, they killed Buffy off in the end of season five. What kind of show kills off its own main character?!?! Then, they brought her back, but she was miserable because she'd been in heaven that whole time -- not hell, as her friends had assumed. They kill Buffy's mom. They sent Giles away. They killed Kendra, Anya and Tara. This was not a show that it was wise to watch if you became easily attached to characters.

However, the end of season two is one of the most dramatic in the entire series. Angel, the love of Buffy's life, has no soul because they slept together, and he experienced a moment of perfect happiness, so he lost his soul because of an old Gypsy curse. (That makes complete sense, right?) He's been super evil since, hanging out with his old bad vampire buddies and all, and Buffy has been miserable.

Then, when Angel finally gets his soul back, it's after he's begun the process of opening the hell mouth, and the only way for Buffy to close it is by driving a sword through her now soul-restored great love.

My phone rang immediately after the episode ended, and there was no talking on the other line, but I automatically knew it was my friend Margaret, and she and I both just cried into the phone for a good 20 minutes. My high school soccer coach gave me a condolence card the next day because he knew how much I watched the show. For a teenage girl, that one was beyond rough, and I don't own the series DVDs today because I'm not sure I could handle it much better now either.

1. Lost: The Final Journey

Why is this one number one on my list? Because I'm still not over it. Literally. I've watched it three times and still just keep on crying. I've thought of turning to message boards to work out my emotions. Jack and his dad. Jack and Kate. Sawyer and Juliet. The dog. My list goes on and on. After all, I'm the girl who cried for an hour when Charlie died, and I'd know for three months that Charlie was going to die. You can hardly say it was the shock that got to me.

Say what you want to about Lost, but I think this show was phenomenal and forever changed the way television is made. Who knew what you could even do on the small screen before Lost? The cast of characters. The complexity. The acting. Come on.

I also think for those of us who tend to get a little attached and over-think, what this episode/series was really all about -- redemption and peace, is pretty powerful. I think what the creators of the show did manage to give the viewers -- for all of the characters -- is beyond impressive. I'd say more, but those final two and half hours speak for themselves, and I'm already a little misty as I type over here.

Should I ever get to the point where I can have a conversation about the show that doesn't involve crying, I'll let you know. Until then, I've just given you all of my kryptonite in a way. Want to keep me away from your party or make sure I stay home knitting for a few days? Just put one of these on the television. I'll be useless for days.

Part 1: My Top 10 TV Tearjjerkers

The other day, over Mexican food, the SO accidentally mistook Scott Bakula for Scott Wolf. While for most couples, this probably wouldn't have been a big deal, being the Quantum Leap fan that I am, this was something I had to correct and assure would never happen again. Somehow, I managed to go from telling him how to never mistake the two again to tearing up over salsa as I recounted the end of the Quantum Leap series and the most pivotal episodes that led to it.

I know.

So, in light of the fact that I've already almost started crying this week just telling the story of Quantum Leap's end, I thought I would take on the topic head-on and present my list of the most tear-jerking TV moments. Warning: there will be lots of spoilers. I also had to split this post in two because, apparently, I have a lot to say on this topic.

10. Alf's Special Christmas

It only seems fair to begin this list where it all began. In 1987, I was a big fan of Alf, the Alien Life Form, who lived with the Tanners. (He always wanted to eat the cat!) During that year's Christmas special, Alf somehow ended up in the hospital with a very sick girl named Tiffany. I think Tiffany had leukemia, and I also think she died or was dying. (This is hard to confirm through any Internet sources. It seems that no one has bothered to do an episode-by-episode breakdown of Alf, and I, for one, am shocked.) The idea of a dying child was too much for me, and I just started sobbing. I cried and cried. I cried so much, my father decided to have a talk with me about the difference between fantasy and reality and moving on.

Clearly, it didn't stick.

9. Cheers: The Finale

Even though I was also relatively young when I watched Cheers, I remember loving the show. Woody and his naivete, Carla the sassy waitress and, of course, Sam. Who didn't love Sam Malone, the scamp? And if you didn't, I don't really want to know you.

In the episode when Diane left, my memory is that she and Sam are alone in the bar. She's going, but she just wants to say "see you later" or something like that. Once she left the bar, Sam said, "Have a nice life." At the time, I thought, "How does he know she isn't coming back?" and "Adult life is complicated."

When the show went off the air, and Sam was left alone in his bar -- the implication being that Cheers was the true love of his life -- I, again, cried like a baby.

8. Party of Five: The Intervention

You've got a family of five who has already lost both of their parents to a drunk driver. They have to keep the family restaurant going. Rebellious Charlie has to be a dad, and then you go and throw in the normal teenage stuff like lost virginity, break-ups, drugs and pregnancy scares. On top of all this, sometime in season three, Bailey becomes an alcoholic and begins driving drunk, oh irony of ironies. Of course, the family has to intervene.

All of the siblings are there, and even Sarah, the ex-girlfriend shows up, because she loves him that much. I won't get into all of the lines that killed me because nothing about this episode wasn't a tear-fest for me. But, in the end, when Bailey brushes Claudia aside to walk out on his family and picks drinking over them, there was a breakdown.   

7. House: Wilson's Heart

Sure, for the most part, I didn't like a lot of season 4 (too little Cameron). I also couldn't stand Amber. That doesn't mean it didn't crush me when she died. House has the key to saving her, somewhere in his fragmented memory, only to realize that there's nothing anyone can do. She's going to die no matter what, and so they wake Amber up for everyone to say goodbye.

Oh, Wilson. Twice-divorced, finally-found-love Wilson. It was all too much for me. I just laid on the couch and sobbed. All over that poor cut-throat bitch. 

6. Quantum Leap: Mirror Image

Clearly, if I can'tget through a burrito without crying over this one, it affected me. Thethree episodes that had gotten to me most before this were, of course,M.I.A. (when Sam won't tell Al's wife Beth that Al is coming home tohim from Vietnam, even though Al begs for it, because Sam believes theyshould not use their leaps for selfish reasons), The Leap Home (whenSam leaps into his own teenage self and sees his dead father andbrother again) and The Leap Home: Part 2 (when Sam does change historyselfishly to save his brother in Vietnam, and in the end, also keeps Alfrom being rescued early and going home to Beth).

So, Samspends most of this leap in the series finale trying to figure out where he isand why he can finally see his own reflection in the mirror. It's hisbirthday. He keeps seeing people he recognizes from the past. He andthe bartender banter and argue. Is the bartender God? Sam says thathe's done enough. The bartender asks if he really has, if he's really done. Sam is supposed to accept that he is the one leaping him through time and space. For the firsttime in five years (in a way), Sam will be able to choose where he leaps next.Will he finally go home?

No, he goes back to Beth, and he tellsher that Al will come home to her. "Georgia on my Mind" plays in the background. Theviewer learns that Beth and Al remain married happily for the rest oftheir lives and have four children. Dr. Sam Beckett never leaps home.

Give me just a minute here. The keyboard is a little wet. 

More to come ...

In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding

This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*

I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.

This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)

However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?

Keep in mind that this is in addition to my other standard barrage of questions: Should I wear my hair up or down? Do you like this jewelry? Did I do my eye liner correctly? Do you think there's cilantro in that dressing? Would you call this ecru or beige? Do you think the cake is white icing on white cake or white icing on lemon cake? Where is the closest bar?

And so on and so on.

I'm lucky I still have friends (especially ones who invite me to their weddings), let alone those that don't seem to mind gently reminding me that the wait staff will fear me if I continue to attack the woman in charge of passing stuffed mushrooms.

* I am honored each and every time someone asks me to be part of their wedding. It's just a bonus for me that it also comes with a detailed schedule and coordinator responsible for most of my moves.

Grover, Horton And The Woman I Am Today

A few years ago, I got into a discussion with some friends about our favorite children's books. After naming all of our favorites, I started to wonder if maybe those early reading choices might have been some kind of sign as to the adults we would all grow into.

One friend named a book about a little girl who wanted to go live alone in her own apartment and her own house (even at five), and twenty-five years later, I can't say that I was all that surprised. Is Alexander's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day the pick of a future pessimist? Goodnight Moon the sign of a calm, content child? If You Give a Mouse a Cookie the favorite of a suspicious tot, always wondering what request is coming next?

Personally, I had two favorites. The first was There's a Monster at the End of This Book. For those of you haven't read it -- here come the spoilers. Grover from Sesame Street is the main character, and he begins the book by begging the reader not to turn the page because there is a monster waiting at the end of the story. (Hence the title, although that hardly needs to be said. I just feel like typing today.)

Of course, you have to turn the pages. I mean, that is the point of reading the book after all. And with every turn of the page, Grover grows more desperate. He puts up fences and builds brick walls to keep you from going forward. And every time you do, he screams, "I told you not to turn the page! What about the monster!"

I thought it was hysterical and giggled out loud every single time because at the very end, there is no monster. It turns out that Grover is the monster, and he realizes how silly he's been this whole time. All that worry when he was the supposed culprit all along.

As a natural worrier, it seems quite appropriate that I would have fallen for this one. Constant concern about the future? Worrying about what's coming next only to find that, really, what's most detrimental every time is fear itself? That anyone can be his or her own worst enemy? Not much of a shocker there.

My other favorite was Horton Hears a Who. I was appalled by the injustice of the fact that no one would listen to Horton when all he wanted to do was save a cute, little town full of cute, tiny people. So what that no one else could see them? Horton heard them, and they should have believed him. When they called Horton crazy and tried to tear the flower away from him that was full of that miniature colony, I was beyond distressed. Why wouldn't they listen to him? Why didn't they care?

Horton was right, he was the only one who was right and no one would listen. How couldn't they see that?

Again, I know it's bewildering that a gal with as many opinions and convictions as myself would find herself appalled by the fact that someone so right could be ignored time and time again. That she would want to hear this particular story repeatedly at bedtime.

I just felt all of Horton's pain. It is so hard to be right all the time. Poor, poor Horton and me. 

I'm Going to Learn How to Fly

I get a lot of questions about my middle name.

“What was that you said?”

“Fain.”

“Fain?”

“Yes, it’s just like ‘rain’ but with an ‘f’ instead of an ‘r.’”

“Fain? F-A-I-N. Really?”

“Yep, Fain.”

“That’s interesting. [Beat.] What’s a Fain?”

When I’m not in a hurry, I explain that it’s a family name.When I am rather rushed, I hope the topic will pass and we can move on to thelast four digits of my social security number or my city of birth because thisconversation usually occurs when I’m trying to talk to someone about my gasbill or credit card statement, and it hardly seems like the time to discuss myfamily heritage and naming traditions.

After my sister’s wedding a few weeks ago, I noticed that oneof her friends asked “So, how many last names do you have now?”

It’s true that all of the Mills girls have last names as theirmiddle names.  I have my maternalgrandmother’s maiden name, my middle sister has my paternal grandmother’smaiden name and my baby sister ended up with my mother’s aunt’s married name.(My mother’s own maiden name is Stubbs, and I thank her for leaving that one ofout of the naming equation.) If all goes well, we’ll each have three, and onlythree, last names before all is said and done (knock on wood).

I use Fain often in my own life because Mills tends to be a lot(a lot) more common in the U.S. population than other surnames, and even though“Laurel” is a little on the unusual side, I decided many moons ago that I wouldrather be laurelfain via e-mail than LaurelMills27 or LMills4206. After thatfateful choice, it just kind of stuck. (My guy friends especially seem to enjoycalling out “Laurel Fain” to get my attention.)

Also, with there being the other writing Laurel Mills, I figureFain is a good distinguishing factor to throw in there somewhere.

Nothing bothers me about my middle name – other than having toanswer lots of questions – and I’ve come to accept it just fine. I say “accept”because probably unlike the Sarah Elizabeths, Jennifer Claires and ChristineAnnes of the world, I spent the first five years of my life thinking I had avery different middle name.

Maybe it was a hearing thing, maybe it had something to do withpronunciation or maybe it was the simple fact that I couldn’t read or writeyet, but until I was five, I thought that my middle name was “Fame.”

Now, “Fame” was a middle name I could get behind. Not only didit seem to destine me for greatness, but having grown up during the time of acertain very popular Debbie Allen –led TV show, I felt like my name allowed meto personally share in the show’s success.

There was no song I loved more than the movie and TV show’stheme. “Fame! I’m going to live forever! I’m going to learn how to fly!”

My little tone-deaf self sang it again, and again, and again.As far as I was concerned, it was the greatest song ever, and I had the greatestname ever.

So, you can probably also imagine my disappointment when my momasked me why I was so enamored with the theme song from a show I don’t think Iever got to watch. “Because it’s my name,” I said, sure, confident and proud.

“What’s your middle name?” she said.

“Fame,” I said. “I’m Laurel Fame Mills.” (I really thought sheshould have already known the answer to that one.)

“Oh honey,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re middle nameisn’t ‘Fame.’ It’s ‘Fain.’ From your grandmother.”

Once the initial shock wore off, crestfallen, I found myselfasking the same question I’ve heard so often in the 25 years since, “Fain?!?!What’s a Fain?”

If You Weren't Aware, I Don't Lack For Opinions

In case you read yesterday's Birmingham News and were wondering what topics other than Facebook, my love life, why I always lose my car keys and how much I should spend on foundation and eye liner that I like to grossly over-think and over-analyze, pro wrestling happens to be one of them. (P.S. This is not really a kid-friendly post.)

I hope you all had a lovely weekend!

What I Did With My Holiday Weekend

Be prepared. It may be hard to respect me after reading this list. (If you had any respect for me to begin with.)

1. Bought Swim Goggles
Since I was going to spend most of the July 4th weekend in the pool, it only seemed logical for the SO and I to pick up some pool toys. We bought floats (or really one float because I had a deflated one back at my house). I got an air pump because I don't like to blow up floats (and blowing up floats seems beyond the extent of the SO's love for me). Then, we grabbed some goggles because after awhile that chlorine really irritates my eyes, and if I can't see underwater, I run into walls. The choices are few and far between.

Unfortunately, this purchase only reminded me of the same lesson I learned in a much more painful setting almost 20 years ago -- no woman, adolescent or grown, looks good in a pair of swim goggles. I don't know how anyone held back the laughter.

2. Ate Enough to Feed a Small Village in China
On Sunday, I treated myself to a turkey burger, baked beans and cole slaw. Not so bad, you say? I finished off the meal with a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog. If my arteries and societal pressure weren't involved, I'd eat a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog every day.

On Monday, I stopped off at Wings Plus 6 and polished off five honey mustard wings, five mild wings (because who knows how spicy wings might have affected my digestive system at that point), french fries and a slice of key lime pie.

I didn't count the beers.

3. Made Bad Choices
On Sunday night, I purchased Hot Tub Time Machine from Videos on Demand. (John Cusack stars and produces. Doesn't that make you wonder?) I didn't really laugh, but I have been thinking about the pivotal choices that affect each and every one of our lives and how those choices can shape our futures -- because of the movie's plot line, not John Cusack's production credit.

Or not. However, I have had "Let's Get it Started" stuck in my head for a week.

Dear Laurel?

I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)

It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.

It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.

For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.

I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa

In this case, the advice-seeker is clearly an idiot. If it doesn't occur to you as you're writing these words on a piece of paper, sealing them in an envelope, affixing a stamp and walking to the mail box that your husband is a two-timing jerk, I don't know what will. My advice? "Hey Troubled -- your husband is cheating on you and has been for years. He is also a liar. Move out and take all of his money." Love Laurel.

(Of course, this could also be an example of b) because I imagine that this woman has been told by everyone she's ever opened her mouth to that her husband is cheating on her and his behavior is not normal, but she's just not quite ready to accept it yet.)

Another letter I read said something to the effect of: "I've been married for 20 years, have four beautiful children and a loving husband, but I've been talking to my high school boyfriend on the Internet for the past few months and think he might be the real love of my life. We only broke up because he impregnated my best friend our senior year, but I know we've both done a lot of growing up since then. My husband is great and all, but don't you think I should give Frankie another chance? How often do soul mates come along after all?" -- Lovelorn in Laredo

Again, we've got some b) as I'm guessing none of this woman's friends support her decision to leave her husband for Mr. Facebook, and also some c) because for this woman, maybe, just maybe, if Dear Abby or whoever says it's OK and all, Lovelorn can throw away her life, drive her children into intensive therapy and live out her days with Frankie (who might or might not have ever earned that GED and require "just a little spending money" to get through most of his days) with little to no guilt.

I also think I'd like that advice column because sometimes I think that Dear Abby's answers really suck. (Note to Jeanne Phillips, you are not your mother.) Ask Amy, Carolyn Hax and Savage Love are up there for me, but that's another story for another day.

Here's an excerpt from Sunday's paper:

DEAR ABBY: I work in a doctor’s office. One of our patients makes abig scene if we do not address him by his title — “Reverend Smith.” Hehas to tell everyone within earshot that he went to school for eightyears to get that title. He insists that, out of respect, we shouldaddress him as such.

Abby, this man is not my reverend. So far, I have avoided calling him this. Am I being disrespectful, or is he being pompous?

Unimpressed In Louisville

DEAR UNIMPRESSED: You are not only being disrespectful, but alsopassive-aggressive. Because this patient has made clear that he prefersto be addressed by the title he has earned, you should use it.

Now, I have to say that I don't know anyone who goes to school for eight years to earn the title of Reverend. (And I live in the bible belt for God's sake.) It seems to me that if you have Ph.D. in divinity, maybe you can ask to be called Dr. But Reverend? Can't we let that one go? The nice part of me would tell Unimpressed to call the gentleman "sir." It's respectful, but refuses to acknowledge how full of himself he is. The passive-aggressive part of me would advise her to call him "Joe," but only if that wasn't his name. He'd spend so much time trying to get her to remember his first name, he'd probably forget all about the Reverend stuff.

Another note to Dear Abby about her Sunday column -- it ended with "CONFIDENTIAL TO MY READERS: Happy Fourth of July, everyone!"

Dear Abby: a) The moment you put something in the paper, it's not confidential, and b) when you're addressing all of your readers (and not just Sue in Salem who's having trouble with her best friend and doesn't want her letter to be printed), why can't you just freakin' say "Happy Fourth of July"?

I guess I want that advice column because of the ire Dear Abby causes me. Maybe I'm more magnanimous and just want to point out to all of those advice-seekers that the answers have been with them all along. Or, maybe I just like to boss people around.

I'll let you decide.

Why I Had to Walk Away From the Pole

I'm sure many of you are wondering what became of my pole-aerobics class. (Or, you're not, either way, you're getting the answer.) I'm somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I only made it through half of my stripper classes. I could build an elaborate argument about feminist principles or coming to some incredible revelation about female politics and my body, whether or not women should embrace or reject their own objectification, etc.

However, the truth as to why I had to give it all up is as simple as this: bruises.

At one point, my knees were black. Bruises ran from the arches of my feet to my inner thighs. I was wearing long pants constantly to hide all of the marks on my legs. (This is not an easy thing to do in the Alabama summers. It wasn't quite as bad as the August I had to wear mock turtlenecks to class because of an unfortunate hickey, but it was uncomfortable.) Even three weeks after my last attempt at the pole, I found the remnants of a pale brown bruise running along my thigh.

Of course, there were a few other factors -- a lot of them having to do with the fact that I sucked at the exercise. When asked to climb the pole, I couldn't even get on the pole, much less move my body once I was wrapped around it. I had hoped for rock hard arms in time for my sister's wedding. Instead, I was facing a black and blue body and the very real chance that I would never lift my arms above my shoulders again. Eventually, I had to decide -- pain and visible injury or perfecting the c-stand.

I picked the former.

Also, for a class that would seemingly improve one's confidence, I was beginning to think that I would never feel sexy again. Seeing my body attempt these moves, with strained facial expressions, from every mirror in the room made me question by self-image more than the cover of the annual Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

In the end, what I did come away with is a very important (and unexpected) life lesson: if Kevin James looks better engaged in any seductive practice than I do, it's probably time to pack it in for the day/the rest of my life.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HPa2onPT3Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&w=470&h=385]

I'd Really Like To Get Down Now Please

In all of my musings about Camp McDowell,I can’t believe that I forgot to mention the most perilous part of the entireweekend – the high dive. (It’s interesting to me that I wrote about both myterrible swimming lessons and CampMcDowell last week, but completelyforgot to mention it. Subconsciously, it must have been floating around upthere somewhere, but I guess I never put it together.)

We covered that I’m not the greatest swimmer. (I do love the water though, I’m just more of a lazyriver/"let’s float this one out with a cocktail" kind of gal.) Well, I also happen to have alittle trouble with heights. I think it began when I broke both of my armsfalling out of a tree house, but with the anxiety in this brain of mine, it’sentirely possible the phobia would have come about regardless.  

(Technically speaking, I think I have what is known asobsessive bad thoughts rather than a phobia. I can be in high spaces – I didn’tmiss out on the top of the Hancock building when I spent the summer in Chicago,but all I think about when I’m too far off the ground is falling. It’s prettymuch the only notion/image that runs through my head once I’m more than 10 feetoff the ground. Once I saw Clueless, even the third floor of the mall couldmake me a little sick to my stomach. Am I the only person in Americatraumatized by Clueless for reasons other than the fact that Alecia Silverstone’slove interest ends up being her former step-brother? Probably.)

But, you know, I’ve done a lot of work to understand myselfbetter in the past few months. I turned 30. I have a prescription for Xanax.Surely, I thought, I can handle the high dive now.

Only a few minutes after the SO and I arrived at the pool, Iheaded straight for the high dive. (That’s right, I didn’t even warm up withthe lower diving board. I wanted to be bold, so I decided to climb right onup.) I’d watched my 11-year old and 7-year old cousins go off again and again-- surely this would be fine.

The ladder itself was not a problem. I went up those rungs likeit was my job. It was the diving board at the top of those stairs that posed aproblem.

Were you aware that those things are wobbly? I know this is forpeople who actually want to jump off the diving board and gain even more heightbefore diving gracefully into the water, but once I was atop the diving boardand actually had to look down, wobbly is not something I was interested in.

I took a few steps forward, and then I took a few steps back.

“You can do it LaLa,” my adorable 11-year old cousin yelledfrom the bottom of the stairs. (I think she was anxious to take another turn.)She is a gem and my heart, so don’t question how much I love her despite whatis about to occur in the rest of this re-telling.

I took another few steps forward and froze again.

“You’ll do great honey,” the SO yelled from the shallow end.“Just like Greg Louganis.”

If I had been closer, I would have taken the Super Soaker tohim for that one.

“I’m not so sure about this,” I said, my knees beginning to goa little weak, and I stepped backwards on the board again.

“Jump LaLa!” More cousins had joined in. The young people’s excitement was tangible. Itjust wasn’t quite contagious.

“I think I might need to come down instead,” I said. “Your bigcousin isn’t as brave as she thought she was.”

“Uh-uh,” my cousin said. “There’s no coming down.” I lookeddown to see that a line had formed at the base of the ladder with more than oneof my tween-aged cousins gathered at the bottom of the steps to prevent mefrom  getting down. Plus, they’re Mills,and you should never try to out-stubborn a Mills. Even though I am one, I knewI’d at least need back-up. They were three or four deep down there. You mightbe thinking, “oh, but they’re just children.” If you are, I’ll just let youtake them on yourselves. It can be quite a pack.

I tried to go towards the end of the board again. “Now, kids …”I began, thinking I might pull the sympathy card instead. I was even preparedto offer silly bands or Miley Cyrus mementos for a reprieve.

“If you don’t go off that board, I’m going to climb up there andbounce on the end until you jump,” my cousin said.

And with that terrifying image in my head, I ran off the end ofthe board into the water. Was it a dive? Of course not. Was it graceful? Not atall. Was it even an attempt at a jump you might recognize like the cannonballor can opener? No. All I wanted right then was to get off the board, and I knewthe only way to do it was to move before I could think much more and shut myeyes tight. (If you’re curious, yes, this is how I get through a lot in life –getting on an airplane, climbing into the dentist’s chair and having my fingerpricked included.) 

So, in the end, you could kind of say that I overcame one of myfears to do something  unexpected. Or, Icould admit the truth – that it turns out my fear of tween-agers is far greaterthan my fear of heights.

Lord help me if I ever find myself in the vicinity of a Justin Bieber concert. 

Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding

There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.

There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):

1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"

2. Another boy would come around each night and serenade all of the girls' cabins. He played his guitar and sang Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train." It was quite dreamy. One of his friends would accompany him. I don't think the friend did any singing or guitar-playing, but he seemed to recognize that his friend had figured out the key to getting girls' attention, and he was hoping to pick up the leftovers. (Hey, maybe he, too, could make out with someone special in the pool that week.)

3. We learned the song "Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life." This was a problem for me on many levels -- the title, hand motions and metaphor being just the beginning. Since I'm sure you're all dying to know, here are the lyrics:

Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life/End over end neither left nor the right/Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights/Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life.

Yeah, I still don't get it either.

It also appears from my seventh grade scrapbook that we had a '70s night that involved dressing up, but what we did that night, and why the camp assumed that a bunch of 13-year-olds would travel with time-sensitive outfits for theme dressing, I don't know.

I do know that what I'm wearing had to be borrowed since this was not from my closet -- now, then or ever.

However, a few years ago my sister ended up working in the Environmental Education Program at Camp McDowell. (No, I didn't visit. Please don't judge my sister-ing.) While she was there, she met another employee of the Environmental Education Program,  and in the classic story of boy meets girl, after they met, they fell in love and decided to get married.

So, this past weekend, I made my first trip back to Camp McDowell in 17 years for their wedding. The wedding was beautiful, and I learned that camp is much better when you can stay in lodges rather than cabins and are of the age to legally drink. 

I even re-visited the same pool, but since I spent most of the time playing with my cousins and their children, I'm happy to report no traumatic make out experiences.

The one thing that was most definitely the same? The heat, but that's just an Alabama summer for you.

I now give you an updated photo of me at Camp McDowell, and in case you have trouble recognizing me, I'm two over from the bride on the right in a sage green dress two other girls are also wearing. (It's probably the tan that's confusing since I'm usually pretty translucent. Don't worry about my skin's health though -- it's a spray-on.)  

 

*Yes, I'm counting the photo from '70s night as a memory even though I don't technically remember it. You have to admit it improved the title of this post.

In Which Laurel Refuses to Leave the Baby Pool

I was not a child who wanted to learn how to swim.

In the first swimming classes my mother ever took me to, every time they made us put our heads under the water, I would go under for about a second, immediately raise my head back up, climb out of the pool and rush towards the nearest dry towel to wipe all of the water off of my face.

(If I had grown up in a time like today when they toss two-year-olds into the pool assuming their natural instincts will take over and cause them to swim or at least dog paddle, I probably would have sunk, at best, and drowned, at worst. Nothing about me was interested in swimming.)

This isn't to say that I didn't like the pool. I just preferred the baby pool, water wings, floaties and any other space in which my feet could be placed firmly on the ground while my head remained free to breathe as much oxygen as I pleased.

Truthfully, I didn't even like the ball pit at Showbiz because I was always a little afraid I might be able to drown in that, too. (What if I became trapped under all those colorful balls and no one could hear my cries for help?) I would walk the perimeter of the ball pit to get to the slide rather than going straight through. On the day I did finally fall in, there were a few minutes of flailing until I realized that I could touch the bottom of that space, too. I calmed down and eventually started to act like something of a normal kid in that token and ticket extravaganza. (You can only imagine what a growing up moment that was for me.)

Nothing my parents could say would get me in the big pool.

"You know that's where all of the big girls are," they said.

I shrugged.

"And you know you can't stay in the baby pool forever, sweetie."

I was pretty sure they were wrong on that one. The baby pool was made of concrete after all; I knew it wasn't going anywhere.

The only word out of their mouth that managed to even get my attention was this: Barbie.

"Barbie?" I said, the first time the subject came up.

"What if we bought you a new Barbie after your swim lesson?"

"Barbie?"

"Yes, a Barbie. All you have to do is go to swimming class."

So, I went to swimming class. And after swimming class, my parents drove me to Smith's (a local toy store) and bought me a new Barbie. What I don't think they realized at the time was that that Barbie was only good for one swimming lesson.

"Are you ready to go back to the pool, honey?" 

"Sure," I said, and I went straight for my floaties.

"But what about everything you learned in swim class the other day?"

There was more shrugging. I still wasn't convinced. So, there had to be the promise of another Barbie.

By the end of that summer, I had quite the collection of Barbies in addition to a wide variety of outfits for said Barbies and even Barbie's dream pool complete with plastic plants decorating the edges of her patio. 

I remember it as a glorious time.

My sisters think I was a "slow learner," as they took to swimming like the proverbial "fish to water," but I tend to disagree. They didn't come out of their swim lessons with nearly as much loot.