4 Things That Do Not Belong At Forever 21
For anyone who might live in a cave, or avoid the mall, Forever 21 is a large discount store designed for tweens and teens.
1. Me
Yes, I am willing to admit that at 31, I have no business shopping at Forever 21. As much as this girl likes being able to try out trends at bargain basement prices, it's not exactly self-esteeming building to sometimes find myself trapped in a large shirt. Plus, there are only so many times I can hear a 15-year-old girl next to me in the dressing room say, "Does this make me look fat?"
For the teens out there, the answer is always, "No." You are most likely in the best years of your body. (Sorry, but it's true.) Enjoy it while you have it.
However, when the question is, "Is this a dress or a shirt?" the answer is most always, "It's a shirt."
Please dress accordingly.
2. Pleather Zip-Up Dresses
It doesn't matter how old you are, there are only two places that this dress is appropriate to wear. Those are:
1. A strip club, and
2. A strip club.
Unless you have a career as an exotic dancer planned for yourself, or dear God, your daughter, this one needs to stay on the rack.
3. The Snooki Shirt
I know we've all been into irony since Justin Timberlake or Ashton Kutcher put on his first trucker hat, but I think it's time for that trend to die. Should this shirt not be meant in a spirit of irony, I think we have bigger problems.
As women, can we not aspire to more than drunkenness, hook-ups and bump-its? Do we want our daughters wearing Snooki on their bodies with pride?
I hope not.
4. Maternity Wear
If we're going to take it at its word, the target age for Forever 21 would be 21. 21-year-olds, ideally, should be picking out majors and decorating their first apartments -- not buying maternity starter kits.
I know that life doesn't always go as planned, and I admire anyone who can make a young pregnancy work, but I'm not sure Forever 21 should be selling the coolness of maternity wear to its fan base. I feel like I did when I found out American Eagle sold thongs with phrases like "Too Hot"* on them.
(In my opinion, the very phrase "starter kit" gives this one an extra creep factor. I got a skincare starter kit from Clinique when I was 12. I don't like the comparison.)
4b. Maternity Models
Again, we're in Forever 21 -- let's lay off the pregnancy gear.
If there's a maternity version of the pleather zip-up dress, I don't want to know about it.
* I have no idea what the actual phrases on American Eagle thongs were, but I know they existed. You'll just have to roll with me on this one.
What's On My iPod And Questionable Fashion Choices
To say that I like the musical Les Miserables would be kind of like saying I own a few pairs of Spanx and drink the occasional glass of red wine. In other words – it would be a gross, gross understatement
I saw Les Miserables twice as a kid – once in Birmingham and once at the Fox in Atlanta. My mother listened to the soundtrack non-stop for about four years. (Yes, I am often prone to exaggeration. When I talk about my mother’s listening habits, it is not one of those times.)
I can’t even tell you how often I wore the classic gray t-shirt with the Les Mis orphan on it.
(I also had a Cats shirt that I liked to wear with white Bermuda shorts, but it was old news the moment my Les Mis tee came on the scene.)
I liked to perform most of the score of Les Miserables for my nanny – my favorites being "On My Own" and "A Little Drop Of Rain." Dream role? Clearly Eponine. Oddly enough, my nanny often encouraged me to sing from the porch while she watched her TV shows inside.
“I can still hear you,” she would call from the sofa, even though I often had to remind her when to clap at the end of my numbers.
Now knowing that I’m tone deaf, I bet that two-room distance was not nearly enough, and I feel very loved for not being cut off from my musical re-enactments entirely.
My sister texts me “24601” from time to time just for fun (as well as random Suzanne Sugarbaker quotes, but that’s another story for another day).
So last night, when I got to see Les Miserables on the stage yet again, it was amazing. I laughed. I cried. I stood clapping for an extended period of time like there could be an encore for a play even though that obviously defies all logic, and the cast of Les Mis certainly isn’t Def Leppard.
And for whatever it’s worth, in the bits of theology and wisdom I’ve cobbled together for myself over the last 30 odd years, “To love another person is to see the face of God” still has a spot near the top of the list.
Also, if you think this is bad, just wait for when Wicked gets here in February. I’ve got all sorts of feminist, self-empowerment, “good girl” theories to go along with that one.
Consider yourself warned.
The Parade Of Shame
I grew up with “do-it-yourself” kind of parents. My school projects were never taken over by an eager Mom or Dad who wanted it to be just perfect or an anxious parent fearing for my grade. My dioramas looked like they were made by a nine-year-old, and my science fair projects were usually far less than stunning.
One year I did take home a third place ribbon for “Will your plant grow faster if you talk to it?” (Even as a child, I talked to plants and myself. A sign of genius or madness? Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.) However, I think most of that win had to do with the fact that fourth grade is around the time kids figure out that it isn’t cool to be smart, so the level of competition was way down. Also, I used the tri-fold white board as instructed by my science teacher, and we all know how science teachers like rule-followers.
However, the worst do-it-yourself incident of all probably occurred in the fourth grade, the year that our class participated in the annual historic building parade.
“What’s a historical building parade?” you say. Well, let me enlighten you.
A historical building parade involves dressing children up in cardboard boxes that represent some of the finest and most famous works of architecture in the city. I think it might also be some cruel form of torture dreamed up by a particularly bitter city administrator or school official to humiliate 10-year-olds.
Either way, I learned two things the fateful day of the parade:
1. It is really uncomfortable to wear a cardboard box. Seriously, having your neck and arms rub up against cardboard for a few city blocks is quite chafing, and when your one of the shortest kids in class, it’s not too kind on the knees either.
2. 10-year-olds really don’t have the capability of making a cardboard box look like a historical building all on their own.
I vividly remember taking Polaroid snapshots of my building. (It was Firehouse #4. There was also a lot of competition over who got the “best” buildings, but surprisingly, there weren’t too many people jockeying for Firehouse #4. It was quite a relief at the time.)
I then remember spray painting my cardboard box and going to work recreating what I was sure would be an amazing representation. (I was sure all of my projects were going to be amazing. What I lacked in talent, I made up for in dreams. In kindergarten, when I turned in my depiction of the first Thanksgiving, I learned about the wide gap between talent and dreams – not that I let it stop me.)
Firehouse #4 featured a trellis, which was quite a challenge. It also had bricks of a uniform shape and size, a seemingly easy feature to recreate, but when it came down to actually doing it – not so much. While the first row of bricks kind of resembled rectangles, it was all downhill from there, and I mean that in a pretty literal way since my lines started to drift downward from one side of the box to the other creating strange shapes there were narrow on one side and really wide on the other.
In short, I was a mess.
The mother of one of my classmates took her building photos, made them into slides, and then projected the slide onto her box so she could trace every outline of her building.
I couldn’t even trace a ruler from one side of the box to the other.
Then, as if having a terribly homemade project wasn’t bad enough, I think I realized the absolute absurdity of walking through the streets of my hometown dressed as a building just before our teacher sent us out into the street.
And if you are thinking that people don’t judge fourth graders, let me tell you that you are wrong. People judge fourth graders, and you notice the hushes when you and your horribly distorted bricks are marching down Main Street.*
(In fairness, my sister probably had it worst of all because she had to dress up as the fairgrounds. This meant she couldn’t even wear a box, but instead had to strap a piece of white board over herself with something like suspenders. We used cake decorations to try and give her a balloon vendor.)
So, if anyone ever wonders why my bio mentions an extreme dislike of parades – here you go.
Fire Station #4, on the other hand, seems to have escaped unscathed. It turns out that it just got new tenants and everything.
I don’t know whether or not the annual Historic Building Parade still exists, but every time I think back on my experience then, I can’t help but think there has to be a better way to help children develop civic pride. Would a coloring book or guest speaker really have been so much less educational?
*It was actually 20th Street if you’re from Birmingham, but I think we can all tell I’m trying to make a point.
** If you were hoping for photos of me dressed as a building, I’m sorry to say you’re out of luck. No such photos exist. Thank God.
True Devotion
I, too, love Lloyd Dobler. I also consider Say Anything to be one of my favorite romantic comedy/coming of age films. Yes, I think one of the most romantic gestures there is involves kicking glass out of a girl's way. But, I will never claim to be the movie's biggest fan again.
In Which Laurel Proves She's A Grown-Up -- Sort Of
Last weekend was Sidewalk, Birmingham’s big film festival. There are hundreds of films throughout multiple venues as well as talks, parties, etc. To be perfectly honest, I am lucky to make it to four movies during the course of the festival. I have trouble sitting still for that long – unless I’m in a place that has alcoholic beverages, then I can sit for hours – and I have a relatively low threshold for angst, so a lot of relationship films are out for me.
This year, I made it to three movies, which is really pretty good for me. I saw The Innkeepers (very scary) as well as The Greater Good about vaccines and Page One: Inside the New York Times. I don’t think I have to explain what that last one was about, and as a former print journalist, I have lots more thoughts on that one to come.
The SO loves film festivals. In fact, he works at many throughout the Southeast as a jury wrangler (which, as far as I can tell, means that he makes sure the jurors hand in their votes for the winning movies in a timely manner). I’ve traveled with him to film festivals in Atlanta, Memphis and Oxford. All were great fun. That man can watch more movies than anyone I’ve ever met, and all of those cities have great shopping and restaurants for me. He can sit in a theater, and I can hit up IKEA. It’s really a win/win for us.
However, this year’s Sidewalk was particularly special because Christine Elise was on the jury. For those of you who are scratching your heads right now, Christine Elise will always be Emily Valentine in my book. For anyone who is still confused, well then, I don’t know how we’ve made it together this long, but she was on Beverly Hills, 90210, and she was awesome.
Now, the SO does tend to worry a little about me embarrassing myself/him when celebrities are involved.
“You know they’re just people right?”
And really, most of the time, this isn’t a problem. (There was one year that Joshua Jackson was supposed to show up to Sidewalk and WEATHER got in the way, but that was years ago and long before I met the SO.) I continually explain to him that I prefer my fantasies to reality, so if someone I adore turns out to be a jerk, it would just ruin everything. Not to mention the fact that usually I’m not all that familiar with the people on film festival juries because I don’t watch a lot of movies, so it tends to work out.
However, he had concerns about Christine Elise.
“You’re going to be OK, right”
“Of course, what do you think I’m going to do? Ask her about Jason Priestley and Luke Perry for three hours? I’m not 14 anymore.”
“Like I said,” he went on, “you’re going to be OK, right?”
On opening night, as we were standing in the Alabama Theatre, I suddenly noticed that Christine Elise was standing next to the SO.
I went to shake her hand and said, “I hope I’m not intruding, but I’m a huge, huge fan.”
“No, that’s always nice to hear,” she said.
I believe the SO was quite relieved.
Later, at an after party, I had the SO ask if she wouldn’t mind being in a picture with me. She let me take a series to get a good one, and I was a happy gal.
All in all, it was a lovely weekend.
In honor of my “maturity,” here’s the real list of questions/conversation topics I was dying to go over with Christine if I really didn't have any dignity:
1. How many takes did the “I’m going to set the homecoming float on fire” scene take? Were you nervous? Did you know how awesome and “I’m making Beverly Hills, 90210 history” that scene would be? Have you re-watched it and seen Ian Ziering’s facial expression of “shock and fear” when they cut away from you? Two words: not pretty.
2. Did you think it was weird that they called the drug you slipped Brandon at the rave UB40? I mean, how likely is it that the band UB40 would be associated with a drug? If you’re going to go that way, wouldn’t Keith Richards or Aerosmith be a far more logical choice. Or, maybe y’all new UB40 wouldn’t complain. You don’t have to say anymore. I think I get it. (Then I would have attempted a wink, and it would have gone badly because I am genetically incapable of winking. Seriously, neither my mother nor one of my sisters can wink either.)
3. I really enjoyed the school talent show when you, Kelly and Brenda wore Robert Palmer-style dresses but decided to sing “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” in honor of your new found friendship after you went out with both Brandon and Dylan while you were still “the new girl” in school. Was Shannen Doherty a total bitch during that one? I can see her trying to bump y’all out of the way during the performance. Again, if you don’t want to say anything, just blink once for “yes” and twice for “no."
4. Mother Knows Best is one of my favorite Lifetime movies. And your character’s name in that one is Laurel. We have so much in common! How was it working with Lifetime veteran Joanna Kerns? Have you thought about doing more Lifetime movies? I thought Josie Bisset’s Obituary was particularly good. They’ve got some good stuff happening over at that network.
And the silly, silly SO worries.
*As for the photos: 1. In retrospect, I really should have washed my hair that day., 2. I also own the dress Christine Elise is wearing!, 3. That second photo shows our mutual annoyance when the SO refused to take a photo while we were both looking at the camera.
In Other News
Please check out my upcoming creative writing classes in the left-hand sidebar. "Telling Your Story" will be a class focused on essay and memoir as well as general good-writing practices at Canterbury United Methodist Church. "Fundamentals of Creative Writing" is a broader course covering the basics of creative writing as well as both fiction and non-fiction genres offered through Samford University's After Sundown Continuing Education program.
My friend and former colleague Michelle Hazelwood-Hyde and I have also recently published a children's book for the Birmingham area entitled Night Night Birmingham. I invite you to check it out and also join us at our launch party at Oak Hill Bar & Grill on Thursday, September 15 from 5-8 p.m.
Thanks so much!
A Good Hard Look
No, this is not one of my super-introspective, somewhat-depressing posts. (With that title, I could understand your concern.) Rather, it's about a great book I just read. A novel of historical fiction set in Flannery O'Connor's hometown of Milledgeville, Georgia, A Good Hard Look by Ann Napolitano is truly a work of art ...
El Matador
When we went to the beach week before last, we stayed at El Matador, a family favorite for the Mills from 1979-1986 or so. I hadn't been back since I was six years old. Luckily, nothing about El Matador had changed. But, looking at this picture my mom sent me this morning, you can see that a few other things have. (I'm on the right in the cool sunglasses.)
Big Kahunas
Last week, I went to the beach. I love the beach, and I also happen to have a certain fondness for water parks.
Now, some people seem to find this strange. I’ve heard a lot of “you went to a water park without kids?” and “why?” since the end of the trip.
I think the first thing I need to explain is that I will do just about anything for a lazy river. I have looked into joining a gym that will cost me $45/month not because I would ever touch an elliptical or a treadmill, but because the facility houses an indoor lazy river.
Yes, I am considering paying an annual fee of $540 just for the privilege of year-round lazy river access.
When I visited a friend in Indianapolis last summer, I insisted that despite our limited time together, we go to the lazy river at the JCC near her house. I’m sure she mentioned her lazy river in passing having no idea that I would not be able to let it go.
Way too many of our conversations went like this:
My Friend: “Is anyone hungry?”
“Should we go to the museum?”
“Who wants to try [insert the blank]?”
Me: “What about the lazy river you told me about?”
I’m sure it was not at all annoying.
I also happen to love water slides, and after years of water park experience, I have learned one very important lesson: there is no bathing suit that will not lead to some kind of flashing incident at a water park.
There’s something about that rushing water at the end of a slide that seems capable of dislodging the delicate areas of even the most demure one-piece. So, when I visit the water park, I’m also the super cool person with a t-shirt over her swimsuit.
Well, at the water park in Destin, Florida, it seems that the t-shirt is against the rules on certain slides. Why, I don’t know, and I have to imagine that any lifeguards at the end of the ride would prefer to be flashed by co-eds rather than 30-somethings.
When the only lifeguard who wasn’t from the Ukraine told me I’d have to take off my shirt, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. She didn’t blow her whistle, but her “that’s not allowed” was very firm.
(I’d also like to know why most water park employees seem to be from obscure European countries. If you visit Alabama Adventure, every name tag tends to bear some derivation of “Hi, My Name is X. My Hometown is Reykjavik.” Is there some sort of exchange program I don’t know about? Are there a bunch of kids from Bessemer working amusement parks in Iceland? I’ve always wondered.)
After riding the one slide sans t-shirt and receiving a terrible wedgie, I retrieved my shirt and headed for another slide.
As the SO and I were climbing the stairs, I saw yet another sign that read, “No t-shirts allowed.”
I was on the verge of reluctantly removing my boob-protection when a different lifeguard said, “Don’t worry about it.”
That’s when I realized one of the few plus sides to aging – anyone who’s probably going to call you “ma’am” probably isn’t going to make you obey all of the rules (especially in environments where cardboard totem poles tell you how tall you must be to ride).
In a land of skimpy bikinis and tramp stamps*, I was a ma’am, and ma’ams got to keep their t-shirts. (Probably more so for the sake of the lifeguards than myself, but I’m OK with that.)
I’ve never been so happy to be a ma’am in all my life.
*On a somewhat related note, in all seriousness my sister spotted two guys on the beach, one with “Dude” tattooed on his neck, and the other with “Sweet” tattooed on his. Almost more so than what’s happening in the market, the fact that people permanently ink their bodies with slogans from “Dude, Where’s My Car?” terrifies me about the fate of this nation.
Gone Fishin'
Sorry for the lack of posts recently. I've gone fishin' -- in the figurative and not literal sense, and without the hat pictured below. I'll be back and (fingers crossed) ready to write next week. I'll also have the raccoon tan/burn affect that comes with wearing big sunglasses while you spend time in the sun. Please try to laugh only once I've left the room.
In the meantime, I wrote a little about BBQ awhile ago, but I'm afraid of the door I might open considering how many BBQ experts there are in Alabama. (And I wouldn't count myself among them. I just like to eat.) Read more here.
How To Make A Man Feel Special
The SO and I had our first date on August 2. We went to a Def Leppard concert, which is really another story for another day, but I will say that it was memorable. Believe it or not, when you don’t know someone very well, it’s uncomfortable to sit through “Pour Some Sugar on Me” sober.
“It’s kind of awkward that this song is so dirty, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah.”
I’m also not sure whether or not this means our song has to be “Rock of Ages,” but I try not to worry about it too much.
Later, when I realized that we might make it past the first three weeks of hanging out, I thought I would do him a huge favor and move our anniversary to August 1. Men are infamously bad at remembering dates, right? So, if I turned our anniversary into the first of the month, how much easier would that be on him? Plus, I kind of passed my romantic phase at the age of 23, so the 24 hours didn’t really bother me.
(Maybe it’s not that my romantic phase went out the window, I just decided that remembering umbrellas, putting dishes in the dishwasher and letting me watch chick flicks on occasion was more important than flowers, chocolates or limos. My love languages are quality time and acts of service. It turns out that gifts are way down the list. I also have no problem using gift cards and coupons on dates. I consider that smart, not cheap.)
Fast-forward a few months. When I happened to mention that I was looking forward to our August 1 anniversary, the SO looked at me funny.
“Our first date was on August 2nd. What’s with this August 1 stuff?”
“I didn’t really expect you to remember the day,” I said and then explained my reasoning behind the little shift.
“Are you saying we have a real anniversary and an observed anniversary?” he said. “Is this like what happens when the 4th of July falls in the middle of the week but your boss wants to make sure you have a long weekend?”
At first, I think the SO thought it was a way for me to get more gifts – that he might have to honor the two anniversary nights instead of the one. Or, maybe, he’s just a good guy.
Either way, every year I hear about whether I’d like to celebrate our real anniversary or our observed anniversary. I usually go for real – unless it’s easier to get reservations on the observed one or something like that.
I’m totally normal.
Giraffes, Grocery Packaging And Guest Posts
I'm guest posting today, so if you'd like to read about some of the wacky stuff that popped into my head over the weekend, please head over to highly-entertaining Jamie's Rabbits written by the very talented Jamie Golden.
My Hands Are Just Too Small
According to family folklore, when my grandmother didn’t want to do things, she always said, “but my hands are too small.”
As soon as I found this out, I adopted the phrase as my very own and blamed it on genetics. Learn to use the lawnmower? My hands are too small. Time to help move the refrigerator across the room? My hands are too small. Get a ladder and reach the highest shelf? My hands are too small.
(By now, you’ve probably noticed a theme here, and that theme is manual labor.)
I’ve gotten over my issues with lawnmowers and ladders, but I still find plenty of sweat-inducing tasks to duck out of with my grandmother’s infamous phrase.
There’s no time my aversion to “work” rears its ugly head as much as it does when I’m moving.
I don’t like the packing process. I either find ways to reminisce about every single thing I’m putting in boxes – “Oh my gosh, do you remember when we took this picture outside of Graceland” – grossly slowing down the process, or, when I’m tired of looking at boxes, I go to another default mode – “Can’t we just throw it away?”
I have thrown away more pots, plant stands and random papers than any one human being should have a right to. When I left Chicago, I threw away a pot that still had food in it because I didn’t want to clean it or pack it. (Lazy, thy name is Laurel.)
Yes, I realize environmentalists all over the world are shuddering right now in disgust.
If it’s not the packing, it’s the lifting. (I gave up on driving the van 10 years ago after having to take a U-Haul truck through Washington, D.C. during rush hour.)
Those boxes are so heavy, and there are always more of them. Six years ago I started hiring people just to carry my boxes to whatever vehicle I’d decided on for transport (which I usually made my dad drive). Unfortunately, that also brought out a side of myself that I didn’t like.
“A water break already?”
“Is that all you can carry?”
“Is there a reason you’re just leaning against the wall right now?”
Paying by the hour did not make me a nice person.
In the moving world, there’s only one option for me, and that’s professional movers. I let them do it all – the packing, the driving, the unloading. It’s like a dream. And I can honestly say it’s one of the few checks I never mind writing.
Thanks to my movers, I hope that next weekend (when I move out of my house and officially become a landlord – eek!) will be as stress-free as moving can possibly be.
Of course, I’d like to help out the movers as much as I can, but there’s just this one little problem with my hands being so small and all.
No, Thank You
So, I do book reviews now. If you'd like to know what I thought about The Kid by Sapphire (in case the title of this post didn't give too much away), please follow the link below.
I won’t lie. I avoided seeing the movie Precious like the plague ... (read more)
In Which We Learn Why Laurel Fears School Yards
I can’t remember having a lot of dreams about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Before the age of 10, I accepted many Oscars in the privacy of my bedroom, considered life as a high-powered lawyer and said I wanted to be a nurse just because the girl sitting next to me in kindergarten wanted to be one, too, but clearly none of that stuck.
It was around third or fourth grade that the notion of “writer” started to percolate in my brain, but it really was more of a slow burn than an overwhelming “aha!” The "aha" came later.
As I grew up, so much of my attention was focused on getting in to college that I don’t think I did a very good job of thinking about what was going to happen after that. Once I finally did consider that I would have to do something after the age of 22, a master’s degree and Ph.D. sounded nice. For awhile, I thought I could live a life devoted to scholarship.
The closest proximity of what I wanted my life to be was something like that of the mom in The Family Stone (spoiler alert: only hopefully without the cancer and dying part). I could see myself in a small college town with an old house full of books and kids. I, of course, would be one of the most popular professors, and I would always dress impeccably despite the rigors of academia (that’s probably the part I messed up on most, see freelance pants). There was me in straight skirts, sweater sets and heels, arms full of papers to grade, running across campus while my adoring students waved and wanted to stop for engaging and thoughtful discussions about writings, theories and treatises.
Then, I became a substitute teacher at 22. I had left my job at the Justice Department in D.C., moved home and needed some cash flow while I figured out my next step. (I didn’t get in to graduate school on my first go-round of applications, so I was right back in that “what to do now that college is over” place.)
Now, I realize substitute teaching isn’t quite the same as full-time teaching. As one HR rep said to me during a job interview, “I mean that’s really more glorified babysitting than teaching. I don’t even know why it’s on your resume.”
He was a charmer.
It didn’t matter though. I couldn’t stand a single moment of it. While I like children, I really do, I prefer them in groups no greater than five. (I kind of like all people that way, really.) I often found the children disobedient, loud and at least in my case, deaf to the sound of my voice.
“I will send you to the principal’s office!” and “You’re giving me a headache” came out of my mouth more often than anything else. Only, I never sent anyone to the principal’s office. (The headaches were real.) I watched the clock and prayed for 3:00.
Even when I transferred to the elementary school from the junior high – as we all know adolescence is such a dark time – it didn’t improve.
And then there were the mornings. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 7:45 a.m. just isn’t for me.
I decided I’d be so much better when I was teaching college students. After all, they were at least 18. Surely, they were mature, eager-to-learn and respectful.
During my second year of graduate school, I began my teaching practicum. I couldn’t wait to share my love of writing with my class. This is when my dream would begin to materialize, I thought.
While my first semester wasn’t so bad, the winter was a dark, dark time. Another teacher visited my class once and said it was one of the worst classes she’d ever seen. I’m pretty sure she compared them to “a wolf pack.” (There were a few lovely students, but overall, it was not good.)
In addition to the not listening, I now had outright defiance and even a student who called me a bitch after seeing his grade. Every day felt like it was Lord of the Rings, and I was Piggy.
I chose silent grammar exercises for them and more clock staring for myself.
In my last semester, which happened to be the summer, I was thrilled about the shorter term. I was not as thrilled when one of my students approached me after the first class and said, “Just so you know, if I don’t pass your class, I’m going to file a complaint with the English department and the dean. Your attendance policy doesn’t work for me.”
(I always thought I wouldn’t care if my students cut class or not. They were going to love learning so much; I’d never have to worry about it. They were adults. Then I learned that it really pissed me off to spend hours preparing a lesson and only have half the class show up. Hence, the attendance policy.)
At 26, I was officially done with teaching and the cute little dream that involved a quaint college town and a wrap-around porch.
Two years later, I went back to teaching, but this time it was in a continuing education program. (There was a lot of arm-twisting.) Once my students realized I was the teacher and not another student, the discussions seemed to go pretty smoothly. To my complete surprise, I found that I loved teaching. These students did want to be there. I didn’t care when anyone skipped, and there were genuine moments when I knew I had actually imparted some knowledge.
And as cheesy (and selfish) as it sounds, I learned as much from my students as they hopefully learned from me. I remembered what I loved about writing. I remembered why I did it. I was inspired to go home and tell my own stories.
It seems the median age for all of my students should be 40.
(I’m going to take a brief moment here to challenge that whole “people who can’t do, teach” sentiment. Teaching is really hard. Taking something that is instinctual and habit to you and breaking it down to its basic elements for others is damn hard. When you throw in that not every student learns the same way, so you often have to break a concept down anywhere from one to fifteen different ways, it is even harder. Teachers most definitely deserve our respect, and I give a special shout-out to the ones in junior highs across the country.)
This last week, I was thrown back into a room with over 20 nine and ten-year-olds. I tried, but it was rough, and sometimes it’s rougher when I know how much better other people are at it. (Even though we can’t all be good at everything, I’d prefer it if I was.)
Once my 45-minute class was over (I can spend two and a half hours with adults, and I needed 10 minutes of filler with the kids) and my voice was hoarse and my pride hurt, I pulled one of the counselors who had been at the back of the class aside.
“Can you tell that I don’t normally work with children?”
At least she laughed.
My Cans
Here's a little story that I told back in April of 2008.
I am a diet soda addict.
Rare is the day that I have less than two diet drinks (Diet Coke and Diet Dr. Pepper are my two favorites, but I'm also likely to enjoy a Diet Pepsi from time to time), and sometimes, when it's dark (in that emotional "how will I get through the day" kind of way) and I haven't gotten enough sleep, I'll drink up to three. After 4:00, when I don't allow myself caffeine anymore, I might even try a Fanta Orange Zero, Sprite Zero or Diet Sierra Mist because I just like the way fizzy drinks taste.
It used to be that, when the diet soda cans built up on my desk, it didn't bother me to stick them in the trash when no one was looking. Of course, that was before we went and did a green issue of Lipstick. After reading about the ozone and lessening my carbon footprint and energy-efficiency and local eating for four weeks, I can't even think about throwing away those cans without finding myself awash with guilt (and shame from the judging stares of Tina and Nadria).
Unfortunately, between my addiction and my busy work schedule, I had ended up with about 25 empty aluminum cans on my desk. (It was starting to look like I time-shared my desk with a frat boy, only being that Diet Coke was taking over and not Miller Lite, I guess he would have been the most boring brother in the chapter — you know the one, you'd probably ask him to do your homework before you asked him to join you at Innisfree on a Friday night.)
When one of my co-workers from HR walked in, peeked at my desk and said, "Have you heard of water, Laurel?" I decided it was time to take action. On my lunch break, I went over to the recycling center on 25th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenue North. And, what a lovely time I had — seriously. It was so easy to sort my cans and plastic bottles, and once I was done discarding the evidence of the carbonated monkey on my back, I took apart the cardboard box I had transported the cans in and recycled it, too.
In five minutes at the recycling center I accomplished far more than any other lunch break I've had. (Unless, of course, you count the time I was challenged to a corn stick eating contest over at John's ...)
Is There Any Chance This One Is Multiple Choice?
We all get asked a lot of hard questions in life:
“Was someone roller skating in the house?”
“Are there going to be parents there?”
“What do you want to major in?”
“What is 17 squared?”
Most of us figure out the answers -- or pretend we do. (Except for that 17 thing – that’s what calculators are for.) Even when we’re plagued with doubt, there’s usually an answer somewhere, or an answer we lean towards.
Last week, while I was visiting my doctor (aka therapist), she asked me a question that absolutely left me floundering: Where does your self-worth come from?
(I like to think of mental health professionals and animals as the animate team that keeps me sane. The inanimate team includes Diet Coke, red wine, Spanx and my newly-acquired Bissell Spot Bot – because there’s nothing like a vacuum that cleans pet stains itself to give a girl a break when she needs it.)
I feel like this question should have been easy – family, friends, education, job, relationship. Anything really, from my knitting prowess to my hair (which when I try, is pretty awesome) would have been an OK start. Instead, I just stared straight ahead for about 20-30 seconds.
(For those of you who haven’t been in therapy, that’s like eons in mental health time. After all, there’s just you and one other person in the office, and the other person is constantly evaluating whether or not you might be about to lose it.)
I don’t bring up this subject because I need lots of comments about what my self-worth should be or how nice/awful I am, I mention it because I don’t think it’s a question I’ve ever really considered, and I was shocked that when it was put to me point blank, I didn’t have anything to say. Eventually, I could provide some answers, but its still been rattling around up there.
“Where does your self-worth come from?”
If it came from a job, 2009 sure put a big dent there. Relationships? For me, that’s a constant learning process and it gives too much power over to others. Family, friends, home improvement projects – none of that is ever going to be perfect, and you can’t control anyone else. So, in theory, self-worth should always come from within, but how does anyone really do that? Maybe I’m not well-adjusted enough, but it’s hard for me to imagine a sense of self-worth that couldn’t be shaken by a bad hair day, a fight with my sister or screwing up a task at work.
I suppose the point is to not only trust yourself, but to like yourself, and when self-doubt creeps in, to cut yourself a break and do the best you can to bounce back. Maybe there is no such thing as rock-solid self-esteem. Maybe if I had it, I wouldn’t be a writer. Who knows? I think I’ll be working on the answer to this one for a bit longer.
Two hundred eighty-nine seems so much easier in comparison.
Laurel's Unplanned Cat Rescue Service
A few weeks ago, I found a cat behind the SO’s house. This is not really an unusual occurrence. In general, the area behind the SO’s house is kind of like feral cat central (lots of woods), and none of the cats let me get near them. This is why I occasionally feel like I’m feeding a marauding band of homeless cats Meow Mix if Kitty Cat Jones dines al fresco.
(In my mind, they’re a gang kind of like The Outsiders, and they talk to each other in lots of, “What were you thinking man?” and “Ain’t nobody going to care about a bunch of greasers.” Yes, I know I’m nuts.)
This cat was different though. Scraggly, covered in fleas and crying, she didn’t seem like she was built for life on the outside. When she let me pick her up, I knew she was different. (And as soon as I realized she was de-clawed, I knew she was most certainly not running with the other gang.)
I treated the cat for fleas, and because of the intense crying, took her pretty quickly to my vet.
(As a not-really cat person, I still have no idea how I end up with so many cats.)
“Now what is your goal here?” the vet asked. (The vet my friends call SuperVet based solely on the way I talk about him. Really, I love this man.)
Knowing that two dogs and one cat was more than enough, and a second cat was probably a deal-breaker in my relationship, I explained that I wanted to get her better so that I could either find her owner or find her a new home.
“The let’s get started,” he said, and we agreed on a plan of action that involved a feline leukemia/HIV screening, steroids and cortisone.
Since the rescue kitty tested negative for all major diseases, she came back to my house later that day, and we started the work of putting some fat and some hair on her. So far, it’s going pretty well. Or, at least, I thought it was going pretty well.
The SO says, “I think this is one of those cats that will just never be pretty.”
(For awhile, in the early days, holding her was kind of like being in the Family Guy episode where Peter is surrounded by sickly cats and holds one at arm’s length saying, “No, no, you’re cute,” while wincing.)
My friend’s husband says, “She’s going to be one of those she’s so ugly she’s cute cats.”
Either way, she’s got a great little personality.
Of course though, in keeping with the tradition of ever changing cat names at our house, she’s already on name number three.
I started with Katniss because I was reading The Hunger Games and wanted to give her some appeal in the teen market/demographic.
A few days later, I went to Amy Whinehouse because she looks a little like Amy Whinehouse during the rough days, and she is kind of in rehab at my house.
Now, as of Saturday, she’s Buscemi (in honor of Steve Buscemi) because the SO says her looks would destine her for life as a character actor no matter how much talent she had.
So, Katniss Amy Buscemi continues to fatten up at my house. I don’t know if she’ll ever respond to a name, but at least no one is holding her at arm’s length anymore.
Kids These Days And Some Women's History
In my 9th grade history class, I ended up on a group project with some other girls that was to be a mural entitled “A Century of Women: 1890-1990,” or something like that.
Now, since we weren’t actually painting on a wall – the whole thing was down on a long roll of butcher block paper – and I can’t draw to save my life, I’m not sure why this was our chosen medium of expression (or why we called it a “mural” instead of a “painting”), but there you have it. I can be pretty sure that the women’s history part was my idea since studying is something I was good at.
I had the early years, 1890-1920, and what stuck with me the most after all of that research is how the invention of the washing machine, and later the vacuum, blender, and every other appliance a man should never buy a woman on a romantic holiday, affected women’s lives. While everyone claimed that these products would make women's lives easier, it was the exact opposite that occurred. Instead of being free from the kitchen and laundry for other pursuits, women were just expected to get more done in a day.
Even then, it seemed like a raw deal.
Twenty years later or so, I feel the same way about technology. Only, whereas my industrious forebearers kept house and tended to families, I use the Internet and Netflix to watch every episode of every random television series I’ve ever liked and play way too much spider solitaire. I haven’t created more free time, but I have created more wasted time.
And even though it might seem frivolous, I do think children of this generation are completely missing out on the struggle it used to take to watch your favorite show. Without DVR or TV on DVD or the beloved live-streaming Netflix, you actually had to be home when your show was on. And, if heaven forbid you weren’t home, you had to trust a crazy contraption called the VCR to record if for you. That was a 50/50 shot at best. How many times did you rush home only to find that you had snow on tape instead of The Cosby Show?
I’m going to guess it happened more than once.
To this day, the only episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer I haven’t seen has to do with a drive from D.C. to Birmingham and an ill-timed VCR. (I plan to correct this shortly thanks to Netflix, but it was still rough. It was the one where Buffy and Spike finally did it for God’s sake. It left my friend Margaret and I with nothing to discuss for most of that Thanksgiving break.)
Perhaps sadder yet (on many levels, this is a dork story if there ever was one), around the time I was 14, I decided to make it my mission to watch every episode of Quantum Leap. (Again, I know I was weird.) Quantum Leap played in reruns twice a day between 10:00 and 12:00 p.m. So, not only did I have to record the shows, but I had to find the time to watch them somewhere between soccer practice, homework and dinner with the fam.
The episodes were also played in order, so if you missed one, you had to wait for the next go-round for a chance to see it again.
Oh, the struggles of my youth.
I remember when I was only one episode away from completing my goal, when I learned that that one episode was actually called “Trilogy,” so what I thought was one episode was really three.
(I know, it’s hard to believe one adolescent could endure so much.)
"Trilogy" played the week I had soccer camp, so being summer, I could watch it when it was on. I had gotten through the first two episodes just fine. I was finally down to the third episode, and last episode of my saga, which also happened to be a murder trial when, I kid you not, this happened:
Scott Bakula was standing in the courtroom, “I’ll tell you who the murderer is here!”
And my power went out -- one minute from knowing the outcome of a salacious plot line and five minutes from achieving a dream.
The next day at soccer camp was a long one.
Of course, I eventually saw all the episodes of Quantum Leap (and learned that sometimes the worst thing is for a wish to come true – oh, life without new episodes of the greatest time-traveling show the world has ever known can be rough), but it took time and patience.
These days, I don’t need either of those. Can’t recall where you’ve seen an actor before? Imdb.com. Forgot it was Modern Family night? DVR. Don’t like to talk to pizza delivery guys? Order online.
Not only are kids not learning about the potential disappointment of missing a favorite show, they live in a world where everything rests at your fingertips 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Yes, it’s my love/hate relationship with the Internet on display for the world yet again. But, it really does make me wonder where we’ll go from here, and whether or not, like the generations before us, we’re still trading “convenience” for stress, worry and longer and longer work days.