White People Problems
My birthday is November 18, and despite the fact that that seems far away from Christmas, when you throw in Thanksgiving, I contend that most birthdays from Nov. 15 - Jan. 15 probably go a tad less noticed because of their proximity to the holidays. (Not that 32 requires a throw down or the complete attention of my friends. I'm actually going somewhere else with this, so please bear with me.)
The lesser attention really gets made up for in the fact that you basically get to open presents for weeks on end. It almost becomes customary to receive gifts, so when January rolls around with it's cold temperatures and historically-significant holidays (that are incredibly important, of course, but have no presents), it's kind of a letdown.
To handle this down slide, and get the most for my money, years ago I started saving my Christmas and birthday money to spend after Christmas when all of the sales are really good. I know I sound like a spoiled consumerist here, but I can't deny that I like stuff. Plus, when you mail order your sale items, it's like you get to keep opening presents because packages are always arriving at the door.
(Seasonal depression, meet my new handbag.)
The other day, I was contemplating one of my purchases, a Kate Spade cocktail ring (because I like to have nice things but only if I can pay less than half the retail price), and I asked the SO what he thought of it.
"It just doesn't look like it did on the Internet," I said. "I really expected more. Do you think I should send it back?" (Also, if you are indecisive about your purchases, you can prolong the whole present/packages deal with exchanges and returns for weeks. Yes, I may have a problem.)
His answer: "White people problems."
And it's true. Whether or not my cocktail ring was purchased under false pretenses hardly has much to do with the world at large. I probably should spend more brain power and time on the debt ceiling or North Korea or something, but I don't. So, in acknowledgement of my not-so-problemy problems, I give you "White People Problems" from last week's Saturday Night Live. Thanks to this particular skit, I can no longer use the word "awkward" without feeling uncomfortable, and since "awkward" was half of my vocabulary (and the real word I wanted to use instead of "uncomfortable"), it's been hard on me. Then again, that's just another white people problem.
Too Soon?
I know it's only January 12, but I might want to call the most accurate headline of the year. (And yes, I double checked the date. Even though the story is mostly focused on Reggie Bush, and not the dude she actually married a few months ago, this is a 2012 publication.)
*I do take issue with the use of "world exclusive." I'm pretty sure most of us didn't need a tabloid to figure this one out.
Karaoke And WASPs
Being tone deaf and all, karaoke has always been a challenge. With no musical ability whatsoever, you're pretty much left with three options:
1. Make sure your song is a group song that involves lots of other girls so you're never close to the microphone. Of course, this comes with the obvious side effect that you are part of a large obnoxious group of girls on stage most likely singing "Love Shack" or "I Will Survive," and your dignity is lost somewhere amongst the red headed slut shots you've been taking all evening.*
2. Only sing once everyone else in the bar is too drunk to realize how bad you really are. If you're me, there's always one table left that cannot -- either due to court mandates or liver problems -- reach this level of inebriation.*
3. Learn a song that involves more speaking than singing.
I once saw a girl perform Eminem's "Lose Yourself" and bring the house down. Admittedly, said house was a smoky bar between a Days Inn and a Waffle House, but I still count it as an accomplishment.
Naturally, I went in search of my speaking v. singing karaoke song. I tried Snow's "Informer," but well, it's really hard, and I don't have that much will power. The obvious fallback? Young MC's "Bust A Move."
Now, while I never did actually learn all the words (and more importantly, timing) to "Bust A Move," I did spend a lot of time studying the song.
Since I cannot embed the actual video, I give you this:
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wJCmtZMc1g]
Last week, the SO and I were in the car listening to the Glee soundtrack (that he bought me, by the way), when he declared their version of "Bust A Move" as the whitest version ever. (Clearly, if I had ever mastered "Bust A Move," my rendition would have been the whitest ever, but I digress.)
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRpKy4MbMms]
I countered that I believe the whitest version of "Bust A Move" ever was performed on One Tree Hill. Their version is not only on One Tree Hill, but is also off-key and involves five-year olds.
Unfortunately, you'll have to follow the link on this one, but I think the evidence speaks for itself.
Dissension is welcome in the comments.
*Neither of these have ever stopped me from singing karaoke when I wanted to.
The Magic Room
In The Magic Room, Jeffrey Zaslow explores the world of Becker’s Bridal, a decades-run family business in the small town of Fowler, Michigan, as well as changing trends in marriage and weddings and the lives of the individual brides who come to Becker’s in droves.
Becker’s Bridal itself has been a destination for engaged women for generations, with many mothers who bought their dresses there returning years later with their own daughters, in search of “the one” – the perfect dress. Zaslow unveils (no pun intended) the story behind the store and what it took for a family to keep the business growing and thriving throughout the years.
Zaslow also delves into the personal narratives of eight soon-to-be-married women – from a chaste twenty-something who saved her first kiss for the man she would marry to a forty-year-old bride who thought she might never have a wedding of her own. The stories are heartfelt, thoughtful and touching.
The title refers to a special place within Becker’s Bridal with soft lighting, many mirrors and the opportunity for women to see themselves as they’d always hoped on such a special occasion – as a truly beautiful bride ready to begin the next phase of her life.
In all honesty, I didn’t expect to like The Magic Room. The topic struck be as a bit saccharine, and I worried I would find the book sappy, but The Magic Room is anything but. Each aspect of the book – from the struggles of the Becker family to the portraits of the eight brides and their families – is well-told, and I was struck by the honesty, depth and beauty of the stories. There is no pretense of perfection or princesses, and this makes The Magic Room all the more powerful a read.
The Magic Room is about far more than weddings. It is about love, possibility, and, in some ways, fear. As The Magic Room unfolds, one is struck by the commonalities between theses brides, their families and the Becker’s – all of whom have known love, know how quickly life can change and still stand ready to face the uncertainties of the future with strength, grace and ultimately, hope.
If you’re anything like me, you’ll want to keep the Kleenex nearby.
I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.
Rocks, Signs And Boobs
A recent How I Met Your Mother episode discussed how every sign had a story behind it.
When I was 16, I became responsible for a rock slides road sign. For anyone unfamiliar with the topography of Birmingham, Alabama, let me assure you that our fair city is quite hilly. Being in the foothills of the Appalachians will do that to you. The Southern half of Alabama is quite flat. Montgomery, Mobile, Gulf Shores – all flat. Birmingham, not so much.
The particular suburb I grew up in is also known for being particularly difficult to drive through. The roads are curvy, there’s lots of greenery and very little lighting. I say all this to explain how a 16-year old, with a month-old driver’s license, would have some trouble with a curvy road at the bottom of the hill on a very rainy day. When the rain washes rocks down, well, that’s how I ended up with the first of what would be many flat tires.
Since I cared for more about my appearance in high school than I do today, I ended up on the side of the road in a downpour while my adorable pleated mini skirt (hello 1995) from the Junior’s Department at Macy’s was pretty much ruined as I stared at a flat tire I had no idea what to do about. I’d been given the lesson on fixing a flat, but I wasn’t really planning on doing it. Luckily, a kind police officer arrived at the scene to help me out, and since I was less than a mile from my house, my mom was also on her way to pick me up. I told the police officer about the rock, and there was a sign up the next day. I’ve been taking credit for it ever since.
Last week, I was in the elevator on a way to doctor’s appointment. I climbed into the elevator with another man. Since I no longer have the standards I had in high school, I was wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt from the SO’s improv comedy troupe.
“So,” the stranger said, “what’s that across your tit … t-shirt?”
I don’t believe I’ve ever had a man ask about my t%$&s. Or even use the word in front of me. I get the Freudian slip, but seriously?
“It’s the logo for my boyfriend’s improv group,” I said. If you’re going to call someone out, I say the time to do it is not when you’re enclosed in a small box known for occasionally getting stuck.
“Improv? Really? What’s it called?”
I told him the name, and then turned around to show him the name since it’s written on the back of the shirt. I’ve found that reading a phrase people aren’t familiar with is easier than dealing with, “What did you say again?” “Ugly what?” and “What does that mean?”
When I turned around, elevator man brushed my ponytail aside to read the shirt. In a word: creepy. Also, if having your body discussed in said small box known for occasionally getting stuck is uncomfortable, you can only imagine how much worse it is to be touched by a stranger in there.
Luckily, the building only has five floors.
When I got to my appointment, I told my doctor the story, thinking it would be funny. Plus, once I was no longer inside the elevator, I thought it was funny. A grown man who can’t stop himself from using the word t&%$s? Really?
My doctor wondered if we needed to put up a sign in the elevator, and I started thinking about what it might say. “Please don’t touch strangers while riding?” “Watch your language in the elevator?” “Questions not related to directions or deliveries not allowed?”
I can handle being responsible for a rock slides sign, but I’m not sure how I’d feel about being the reason behind an elevator sign that read, “No Discussion of t&%$s allowed.”
And on that glorious, and rather inappropriate note, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas and a festive Kwanzaa to all!
Christmas Ornaments Of A Different Ilk
For all you dog and cat lovers out there, Shelter Partners, a great organization that helps dogs like Goofy the Great Dane find homes all over the country, is selling ornaments for Christmas to benefit their organization. I personally know a rescue dog who is hoping we can all spread the love.
Christmas On The Cheap
Thanks to some time in grad school, and the lucrative career choice of “writer,” there are plenty of years when I haven’t had that much money to spend at the holidays.
I am a crafty person, but even crafts cost money, and sometimes more than money, they take time. During graduate school, I had very little money, and thanks to finals, very little time. I wanted to do something for my friends, but I didn’t have an answer to the question of how.
Eventually, I drove to a store called Happy Price Zee Outlet. Since you probably don’t have one in your neighborhood, let’s just say that it’s kind of like the Dollar Tree and Dollar General had a crack baby. The prices are very low, and the merchandise can be a) defective b) ridiculous c) cheesy d) borderline dangerous or e) all of the above.
If you want a rainbow-themed umbrella to wear on your head, it’s the place for you. It also carries an unnatural number of bobble-head cats. I cannot imagine the patron that shops here for non-gag gifts, but I sense that his or her home/van might resemble that of a hoarder’s.
(As a total aside, I think few people took to the idea of gag gifts like I did as a child. Once my mom told me what they were, I couldn’t believe anyone had ever come up with such a genius concept and that I hadn’t known about it before. It’s your birthday, you open something hideous and have to pretend you like it since you don’t know whether or not it’s a joke? Hilarious. Since I was also on the beginning of the reusing trend, it was not at all uncommon to open a copy of "Decadent Disco” wrapped in an old granola box from me when I was between 11 and 12.)
That year, I went through the Happy Price Zee Outlet, grabbed a bunch of items (oh, that citrus-themed kitchen thermometer was a treasure!), wrapped them and handed them out to my friends with tags that said, To: X, From: Milo (who was my pet at the time), Happy Holidays!
Whenever anyone opened a gift and seemed puzzled, I said, “I don’t know why he picked that out for you. He’s a dog. It’s not like he knows how to shop.”
The joke seemed to go over well. Then again, I’m not the one who got knee pads that year.
What I Have Learned Watching TV With The SO
The man in my life is into zombies. From what I can gather, this is somewhat normal. At my Halloween party two years ago, at least half the men showed up dressed as zombies. Zombies seem to have snuck into our lives over the last few years. (And please don’t get me started on what it’s been like since The Walking Dead premiered. I think it’s a fine show, but six episodes and then you take off for a year? Can we really call that a season? Really?)
Then again, I watch Lifetime and shows where women talk to dead people, so I’m sort of in a glass house here. While I don’t mind the zombies, I can’t say that I love them. The flesh-eating thing just doesn't really grab me.
Anyway, based on my recent viewings of these kinds of post-catastrophe shows/movies, there are a few tips and tricks I’ve picked up for surviving/dealing with aliens, zombies and danger at every turn.
1. There are absolutely no rules about who lives and who dies. Don’t even try to figure it out. If you’re popular and young, it actually seems like you’re more likely to be a goner. Also, your death will be incredibly unpleasant. If you have any sort of pre-existing anxiety issues, be sure to raid the local pharmacy for Xanax as soon as the looting begins.
2. One member of your vagabond group of survivors is psychotic, plans to sacrifice you to save him or herself or will betray you. It is never the uglies or dirtiest member of your group, despite their appearance and cryptic comments. Trust is going to be hard.
3. It is not a good idea to capture a zombie/alien/freak so that you can study the creature and try to figure out how to overcome its kind, yadda, yadda, yadda. One member of the team will die, and it’s usually the one who had the idea to study the creature in the first place, or the person best equipped to figure out anything science-y.
4. Any captured creature will also most likely possess some kind of mind control abilities, so, well, you’re just kind of f*&%ed there, and seeing as you’re already f&%$ed, why invite more trouble?
5. If you are in need of medical attention and find a doctor, don’t ask, “What kind of doctor are you?” If you don’t know already, or the information hasn’t been volunteered, the answer is always “vet.” Ignorance is bliss here, especially seeing as you won’t have any other options.
6. Hope the catastrophe/supernatural takeover happens while you’re wearing good shoes. Long journeys and lots of walking are, for some reason, crucial to your survival. I’d vote for finding the loon in the neighborhood with a panic room or bomb shelter and waiting it out, but apparently I’d be in the minority there.
7. Having sex to escape your feelings about the end of the world is never a good idea. You’ll either end up with a jerk who is also “helping out” all of the other ladies in your motley crue or with the most inconvenient pregnancy ever. (Please see #6 and #5 as it will be much harder for you to walk while pregnant, and your baby will inevitably be delivered by a vet.)
What happened to the good old days when shows were set in bars and coffee shops? There was so much less to worry about then, unless you were Norm and had that nagging Vera to deal with.
My Top 5 Holiday Movies
Seeing as it’s that time of year, and Magic 96.5 (which I do consider magic because they play soft rock) has been playing Christmas music since November 1, I thought I’d share my favorite holiday films. I could do a music list, but it basically comes down to three songs:
1. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”
2. “Same Old Lang Syne,” by Dan Folgerberg
3. “All I Want For Christmas is You”
They’re all I really need, and it doesn't make for much of a blog entry.
To dwell for a minute on the music station thing -- yes, it’s too much. More soft rock please. I was tired of the Christmas music on November 3, and thanks to my radio pre-sets, it’s soft rock, country or Ryan Seacrest most of the time. I try to avoid Rick and Bubba and sports talk like the plague, so these really are my only options. Does this Christmas music thing happen in the rest of the country? We’re talking about 1/6 of the year here. I find it excessive.
But I digress. Let’s get back to the movies.
5. Love Actually
When a movie has an intro about airports that makes you cry, I say you’ve got yourself a winner. Then you throw in British accents, an adorable 10-year-old scheming to get a girl with Liam Neeson, Hugh Grant dancing to the Pointer Sisters and one of the best soundtracks in the world – all centered around Christmas and a school pageant that includes a lobster. I laugh, I cry, I cry and laugh some more. Seeing this movie for the first time in the theater, I loved everything, and then they got to the scene where Emma Thompson is standing in her bedroom just staring as Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now” played, and I was a goner. I’m not sure you could make a more perfect movie with an ensemble cast. (And as I’ve said this week on Twitter, please stop trying Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve. You only let us all down. And if I have to eat these words after New Year's Eve comes out, I will be thrilled to do so.)
4. Elf
So, I almost went with The Bishop’s Wife here. (I prefer the original to its remake as The Preacher’s Wife. Cary Grant as your guardian angel? Talk about a Christmas wish come true.) But, truth be told, you’re more likely to find me watching Elf than The Bishop’s Wife each year, so there you have it. Will Ferrell is funny. He is at his best playing that clueless but well-meaning oaf. Zooey Deschanel is adorable. Trying to convince James Caan that Santa is real? More excellent casting. I cry at the end when they sing to give Santa’s sleigh power. I cry every time. Oh, and I forgot to mention Bob Newhart. How I love me some Bob Newhart.
3. It’s a Wonderful Life
Sure, it’s an expected choice, but it’s a classic for a reason. My favorite scene is the phone scene. I love when Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed have their faces pressed next to each other as they talk to her other suitor on the telephone. For a gal who loves some sexual tension, it’s marvelous. (The feminist in me is willing to overlook the fact that the worst possible outcome for a woman in that time was to end up, God forbid, unmarried and working in a library.) You’ve got the everyman versus corporate greed. For a holiday movie, you go to some dark places, (I mean, the film revolves around a suicide attempt and unfulfilled dreams) but when you come out on the other side, it feels all the more rewarding. While everyone else might be a fan of “Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings,” it’s “No man is a failure that has friends” that moves me.
2. Home Alone
There’s nothing I like more than poignancy done right. Give me funny and sad any day of the week, and I will love it. I also think we should all move past the groans and pretenses of cool and just admit that this is a funny movie. I will contend that it holds up. Ordering pizza with a gangster movie in the background, pretending your parents are home by wheeling a cardboard cut-out through the living room and even the after shave scene make me laugh. Then you throw in some heart – an old neighbor who just wants to talk to his son again and a family who really can’t have Christmas if they’re not all together – and I tear up during a Macaulay Culkin film. I refuse to be ashamed.
1. Die Hard
Not a holiday movie you say? Let's not forget "Ho, ho, ho" taped to a dead German assasin. Also, if you can’t agree that Die Hard is one of the best movies ever made, I’m not sure we can be friends. With this one, I get to have my action served up with a nice, healthy does of heart. Evil Alan Rickman is out to destroy Christmas (well, really it’s the Japanese businessmen, but since the movie is set on Christmas Eve, I’m going to interpret it my way) while John McClane fights for the life of his wife and other innocent hostages. The man runs through broken glass barefoot and gives the dad from Family Matters his confidence back. I will sum this up with one word: awesome.
Please share your favorite holiday movies in the comments. (Not to get too political at the end here, but I’m a “Happy Holidays” person. If this season is about anything, I think it’s about inclusion and love, and, yes, we should really be about those things all year long and all. Not everyone celebrates Christmas, is it really that big a deal to make our well wishes all encompassing in December?)
Also, if you’ll be seeing any of these movies at the Alabama Theatre this year, I’m usually the one in the back row because she didn’t arrive early enough to fine a good parking place with a glass of red wine in one hand and a stash of tissues in the other.
Two Dreams And My Top 10 Break-Up Songs
In my 32 years of television and movie viewing/life, I have come to want two things:
- A montage set to music: Me falling in love, me moving up the career ladder, me getting a makeover. Any scenario would work really so long as my montage included me throwing papers into the air, twirling in an evening gown and smiling meaningfully at a member of the opposite sex.
- A soundtrack.
Neither of these wishes are real possibilities, what with me being a person leading a life and not the star of a movie, but it does seem that I have unwittingly given all of my break-ups soundtracks.
Each time I have felt rejected or suffered a broken heart, I tended to become obsessed with one song or album. (You don’t want to know how many times I can listen to the same song on repeat.)
My poor, poor best friend from college not only suffered through many of my break-up soundtracks, she also had to listen to my pontifications on what the song meant and how it related to my life.
“Don’t you see? I’m in love with his ghost.” (“Ghost,” Indigo Girls)
“I’m such a good girl. Where’s my reward?” (“Underneath Your Clothes,” Shakira)
“That’s all it was – it was all just a bed of lies.” (“Bed of Lies,” Matchbox 20)
When I’m down, I tend to gravitate towards country, songs you’d find at Lilith Fair and pop no one can admit to liking and still be considered cool.
As I watched the Adele/good cry skit on this past weekend’s Saturday Night Live, I was actually torn between laughing and crying. For God’s sake, “Someone Like You” is a killer. Basically, the SO can never leave me because now that that song is out, I don’t think any one person has the stamina for both the fetal position and my tone deaf ramblings about “that you’d be reminded that for me, it wasn’t over.”
I’m not one to recommend this particular form of grieving, but when it comes to break-ups, I’m a wallower. I sing along to depressing songs on, cry, throw mini-tantrums, knit and watch Steel Magnolias for extended periods of time. Then, one day I wake up, and I’m fine. It’s like I have an internal switch. After the wallowing, I shower, put my party shoes on, bring the cleavage out and hit the town. Healthy or not, it’s my M.O.
So, for no particular reason, I now give you my top 10 list of break-ups songs along with the lines you would have to “see the meaning of” or agree “were just like me and X” were we friends. (I think many of you will both feel for my friends and decide we might not need to meet in real life after reading this.) For the full effect, I recommend hearing a torn, near-teary voice quoting the lyrics with way too much weight/melodrama and more pauses than the songwriter would be happy with.
1. “Landslide,” Stevie Nicks or The Dixie Chicks. I’m cool with either.
“I built my life around you.”
2. “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” Bonnie Raitt.
‘Nuf said.
3. “You Were Mine,” The Dixie Chicks.
“Sometimes I wake up crying at night.”
4. “Almost Lover,” A Fine Frenzy.
“Goodbye my almost lover, goodbye my hopeless dream.”
5, “Be Be You Love,” Rachael Yamagata
“Everybody’s got the way I should feel. Everybody’s talking how I can’t can’t be in love, but I want want to be in love for real.”
6. “La Cienega Just Smiled,” Ryan Adams. (It does not help that a lot of Ryan Adams songs played during the last season of Felicity.)
“I’m too scared to know how I feel about you now.”
(These last few usually signaled that I was on more of an upswing, or at least seeing another side to the situation.)
7. “I’m Moving On,” Rascal Flatts. (“God Bless the Broken Road” is also a good one if you’re more of an optimist.)
“I’ve loved like I should, but lived like I shouldn’t.”
8. “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye,” David Gray.
“It was a kind of so, so love, and I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
9. “Please Remember Me,” Tim McGraw.
“Part of you will live in me – way down deep inside my heart.”
10. “Outbound Plane,” Nanci Griffith.
“I don’t want to be standing her, I don’t want to be talking here and I don’t really care who’s to blame. ‘Cause if love won’t’ fly of its own free will, I’m going to catch that outbound plane.”
Nancy Griffith is usually the sign that I’m ready to move on, but if it’s followed by Aerosmith’s “Jaded,” it just means I’m in the anger stage rather than depression.
I can be a downer.
In short, my iTunes collection is scary, I have some really understanding friends and if anyone knows anyone who loves to edit video, I’ve still got my fingers crossed on that video montage – and we’ll use much peppier songs there. KT Tunstall anyone?
If I’m singing along to show tunes (Les Mis or Wicked in particular), we’re all good. I’d like to thank the SO for my years of musicals. We might argue more about what to play when we’re traveling, but I promise it’s a good thing.
Unforseen Side Effects
Once you start editing, you can’t ever really stop.* You’d think you could leave the commas and semi-colons at the door once you leave whatever magazine/newspaper/website you’re working for, but it doesn’t work that way.**
You become an editor of everything – menus, billboards, banners. If you pass a car wash that used a possessive when it should have used a plural or vice versa, it irks you.
For 11 months, I lived down the street from Annnie’s Auto Repair and not having a talk with management took all the will power I had.
Then, before you know it, you’re taking pictures on your cell phone at garage sales because you just can’t believe the errors people make.
I might need help.
* I probably shouldn’t speak for all editors or former editors. Most of them are probably far less neurotic than I am. They probably have photos of their kids on their cell phones and not “hilarious” spelling errors.
** This post also in no way implies that I will not commit future spelling or grammatical errors.
Kids These Days -- And Their Kids?
I think this needs to be said: There are too many pregnant teenagers on television.
Is teen pregnancy a reality that should be addressed? Absolutely. Is it unrealistic to pretend that there are no consequences to teen sex? Sure. But, good God, if you pay attention these days, you’d think 1 in 3 teenagers has had a baby. I’m sure there are some great think tanks spreading similar propaganda, but I really want to know when this became entertainment.
No one on Dawson’s Creek had babies. Or Felicity. The original 90210 had some dramatic pregnancy tests, but it’s nothing like you see today. (I also think Brandon dated a girl who had a baby, but they had to break up so she could concentrate on her son, kind of like how he and his ice skater girlfriend had to break up so she could focus on her sport. Note to self: Brandon Walsh’s exes might make for a good “Where are they now?”)
I guess I should have seen the beginning of the trend with One Tree Hill five or six years ago. Two of the main characters were born to teen moms, and another character had a daughter. (If you paid close attention, you’d also notice that half the commercials associated with the show were for pregnancy tests or diapers.) But after awhile, the question became who really watches One Tree Hill? Or the CW network in general? And do we really need Chad Michael Murray in our lives?
(I realize that my aversion to the CW (before Sarah Michelle Geller showed back up) and most reality TV – yes, I watch a lot of reality TV, but it still doesn’t compare to the legions of shows that are out there – is why I don’t know 75% of the celebrities in tabloids these days, but it was probably only a matter of time before I needed to give up my celeb gossip habit. Taylor Momsen, I still have no idea who you are.)
At first, I thought MTV’s Teen Mom was a great cautionary tale. I would pay good money to burn the image of Gary in a bunny suit from my brain, let alone not to be tied to him for life. But, then I started seeing all the stories about teens getting pregnant to become celebrities, and I realized the SO was right about the show having the opposite effect.
I think the real problem is that no one understands the difference between negative and positive attention anymore. It used to be that celebrity had something to do with talent. Now, as Reese Witherspoon pointed out, it’s all about sex tapes and bad behavior.
Want to be famous? You’ll at least need to apply to The Real World and make out with members of both the same and opposite sex before your bags are even unpacked.
My favorite piece of reality show dialogue lately? Kris Jenner (who clearly has issues but also some sort of freaky luck) being upset because her friend told her she’d be “mortified if her daughter had a child out of wedlock and didn’t marry the father.”
I want to back up for just a moment here, Kris. It’s incredibly embarrassing to you that your grown, independent daughter who supports herself has a baby without being married, but you’re totally down with the fact that anyone can watch Kim doing it with Ray J?
Yeah.
And while I realize I’m partly contradicting my own argument by admitting that I saw all of this on Keeping Up With The Kardashians, I’d also like to express my gall at the fact that Kim sided with her mother on this issue and said marriage before kids was more in line with “her values.”
Does she have “desperate desire to get married at any cost” confused with a “value”? Is 72 days of marriage till death do us part? Did Punk’d come back on the air and no one told me about it?
Of course, it’s not just reality TV that’s the problem. I’ve seen more marriage proposals on ABC Family’s The Secret Life of the American Teenager than any other show this year, and half those kids don’t even have their driver’s licenses. How do they even get around to have all the sex that they’re having?
The alternative to having a baby on that show seems to be oral sex, and all the church-going kids do is have the same amount of sex as the rest of their classmates and then tell their pregnant friends they’ll go to hell if they have abortions.
Is this really what the American Broadcasting Company wants to call “family” programming?
I’m not arguing that we should ostracize teenage mothers in any way, but I also think we need to be extremely wary of normalizing teen pregnancy. (Pregnancy pacts anyone?)
I admire girls and women who raise children in far less than ideal circumstances. Hell, I can barely take care of the dogs some days. However, I think those same women would probably be the first ones to tell you how hard early motherhood is, and I don’t think most of them are running around getting breast implants a la Farrah Abraham.
While we’re on the subject, I’d also like to talk about the fact that Bristol Palin made $272,000 last year as an advocate against teen pregnancy. ?!??! Six figures because a less-than-diligent VP vetting team picked your mom from political obscurity, and you had a baby before finishing high school? Really?
I didn’t have a baby as a teenager, and I don’t make nearly that much money. Isn’t it possible that I might be a little more qualified to talk to girls about not getting pregnant as a teen seeing as I successfully avoided teen pregnancy? Bristol Palin has multiple US Weekly covers. I can’t claim that, but I did graduate from college. It’s not that I have to be the poster child for this issue, but what is wrong with our role models?
Again, me = no baby in high school. Bristol Palin = one baby in high school. When it comes to the topic of avoiding teen pregnancy, I think that alone makes me more qualified to discuss the issue.
No one’s asking, but if they were, here’s my plan: Let’s differentiate between positive and negative attention, consider who our real role models should be and, thinking like the crazy liberal that I am, make condoms available to teenagers.
Also, someone needs to investigate how the Kardashians took over tabloid magazines and the E! Network. I’d kill for the good old days of bi-weekly Jessica Simpson covers anytime now – unless she’s guest starring on One Tree Hill or The Secret Life of the American Teenager, of course.*
* Clearly, I wrote this before Jessica Simpson announced her own pregnancy. I'm sure there's a way to tie it all together, but Jessica Simpson is a grown woman, and I'm kind of tired. I'm going to let the coincidence speak for itself for now.
What Happens When You Talk Too Much About Your Wigs
I get that my love of wigs might seem strange to some, but I really did see it as a little quirk, maybe an eccentricity if you will. It may be weird, but it's not intervention- or even therapy-worthy. It's not like I'm Star Jones or Wendy Williams. Apart from certain major holidays or bachelorette parties, you're seeing my real hair.
Then, the other day, shortly after I posted about Halloween, this -- no joke -- arrived in my e-mail inbox:
Hi!
I am the Associate Producer for the new TLC series that is showcasing serious and dedicated collectors and passionate enthusiasts of all kinds. We will follow the individuals on their pursuits for the next great piece, or delve into their world as they teach us what it is that drives their passion.
I came across your article about your wigs, and wanted to discuss the possibility of appearing on our show.
Let me know your thoughts!
Since it was Halloween, I thought it might be a joke. However, I checked out the production company mentioned in the e-mail signature, and it seemed legit. Never one to let even the oddest opportunity pass me by, I wrote back. If curiosity really did kill the cat, I don't know how I made it past pre-school.
Hi Laurel
Here's where I bowed out. My earlier concerns aside, I'm just not the level of collector they need, and I can't lie to anyone affiliated with the network that produces Kate Plus Eight. They'd probably sic some of those Duggar kids on me, and I'd be repenting or procreating far more than I ever planned. That, or again, I'd run the risk of being stuck with hoarders. I wrote back:
Theodora: Great With History, A Little Light On The Sexy Details
Theodora: Actress, Empress, Whore by Stella Duffy is a fascinating work of fiction depicting the early life and ascent to power of a woman who rose from the world of theater and brothels to prominence in the royal court.
Stella Duffy is a gifted storyteller, and her choice of subject matter makes for a compelling read. Sixth century Constantinople and its surrounding areas come to life through Duffy’s vivid descriptions. The setting of the novel nearly wrestles with its heroine for the reader’s attention. Markets, city life and even the desert pulse with energy thanks to Duffy’s writing.
Of course, Theodora is an intriguing main character. From actress and prostitute to penitent and spy in the palace and finally empress, both her physical and emotional journey make the reader curious as to what transformation and cast of characters await on the next page.
However, any fan of romance novels or other books you might secretly buy before checking out at the grocery store will most likely be disappointed. The “whore” part of the title is a little misleading. Yes, Theodora is a prostitute, and she takes her share of lovers of both sexes, but the reader is told rather than shown this aspect of Theodora’s life. There are no steamy scenes, no drawn-out seductions. Duffy lets you know the characters had sex and moves on. If you’re an open or secret fan of anything slightly more salacious, you won’t find it here.
As historical fiction, Theodora will delight readers. It shines light on an often-unexplored time in history and one of its more obscure characters with vibrant language and ample intrigue. But, if you prefer your reading material with barrel-chested men on the front, this really is a book you can’t judge by its cover.
I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.
The Obligatory Halloween Post
I tend to write a lot about Halloween. It’s one of my favorite holidays. My mother says I’ve always been this way about Halloween, and I can only assume that I never saw the downside to elaborate costuming and free candy.
I used to spend hours trick or treating, always hoping to stumble on the one cool house that gave out full-sized candy bars. One year, I found that house, and the candy bars were Snickers (my favorite). It was a true triumph. I vowed that when I grew up, I would be that person on the street, but we don’t get trick or treaters, and those full-size candy bars are expensive, so basically, I’d be spending a lot of money to gain five to ten pounds.
When I was younger, I also tended to bounce back and forth between choosing ordinary costumes and those that were incredibly difficult for my mother to make and made no sense to the neighbors.
When I was a witch (normal, yes?), I also had to have a wig, face paint and fake nails. The year I decided to be a ghost, I freaked out the moment I found myself covered from head to toe in a sheet and insisted on wearing my tutu instead. All in all though, I think we can still classify “witch,” “ghost” and “ballerina” as pretty standard.
Then, I decided I needed to be Jem from Jem and the Holograms. Apart from tearing one of my mother’s workout shirts and putting glitter on my face, there wasn’t a lot of room to work with that one.
The same thing happened the year I decided to be Jessica Rabbit. I mean, really, how is a kid in elementary school going to pull that one off? But I took one of my mother’s long red skirts, wore it as a dress and told people that I was Jessica Rabbit. I’m sure my mom feared what the other mothers thought of her allowing her daughter to dress as a cartoon sex symbol, but I was, and always have been, a determined gal.
(Between my love of Jessica Rabbit and Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, I can only assume that apart from an actress and lawyer, I also aspired to be a busty redhead as an adult. Lord only knows what I would have chosen for costumes if Kristina Hendricks had been around then.)
Despite my much-discussed love of the slutty costumes, I’m still a fan of the offbeat, too.
One year, I dressed up as a washed-up country singer because I happened to have a hideous and cheap red wig as well as a Western-style shirt from Old Navy. (Wigs inspire much of my dressing up -- it’s the only reason I was ever Elvira – but if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.)
Fortunately or unfortunately, the year I dressed up as a washed-up country singer also happened to be the year I discovered the voice memo feature on my cell phone. I woke up to a lot of song ideas in the style of “note to self” dictations at various levels of slurring, like:
“Why Did You Have To Ruin My Credit While You Ruined My Virtue?” (the one I apparently shared with everyone all night)
“You Robbed Me Blind While I Was Blinded by Love”
and “You Took Everything But My Tears.”
Considering I have never lent a boyfriend money (what would there be to give?), so-signed an ex’s loan or even shared a utility bill with a man, I have no idea why I was fixated on lost love and financial ruin that night, but there you have it.
This year, I didn’t have quite the same zeal for Halloween costumes. Not even my pumpkin carving was at its finest. I’m not sure if the dampened enthusiasm began when my first costume arrived in the mail damaged, and I had to send it back, or if it’s just that I acted like a normal person for once, but there you have it.
Either way, I ended up at the thrift story on the morning of the one much-anticipated Halloween party I was attending with few ideas. I came home with a housecoat and an ugly dress (‘80s career woman came to mind).
I told a friend about my purchases, and she said, “If you’ve come up with a valid reason to wear a housecoat around all night, go for it. Think of how comfortable you’ll be.”
That night, I put on my housecoat, some blue eye shadow, the ugliest earrings I could find and a shower cap. When anyone asked what was up, I said, “Oh, I’m not a guest. I’m just a neighbor from across the street who came to complain about the noise.”
Appropriate Attire
On Sunday afternoon, I went to one of Birmingham’s outdoor food and music festivals. I was there to volunteer with kids. I had creative writing exercises for them. The group behind me had wild animals, and the group in front of our booth had pumpkins to decorate.
The creative writing was a tough sell.
Thanks to the Birmingham Zoo and their demonstration, I did however learn more about the chicken snake than I ever wanted to know. (The “chicken snake” name comes from their love of eggs and not chickens. Who knew?) I also saw a fabulous feline thing that I was told would not make a good house pet because it could not be litter-box trained. Since I have a domestic short hair cat that cannot be litter-box trained, I thought about asking if they’d make a special exception for me. I mean, sure, they went to zoo school, or whatever you call it, but I had lived the no-litter-box life. I’d been to the front lines.
Since we were in the kids’ area, when I saw a man in a black suit walking a rabbit, I assumed he was a magician. Tuxedo? Tame bunny? Wouldn’t you go to the same place?
I watched him and his bunny throughout my volunteer shift waiting for the act to begin. Where were the never-ending scarves? The pop-up bouquet? A crazy wand that crumbles when anyone but the magician holds it?
After an hour or so – and when the bunny went back into his cage – I realized that this man was no magician. He was just a dude in formal wear walking a rabbit.
I mean, you’d think the rabbit would be cool with being walked by someone in jeans or even sweats. That is either one demanding bunny or one man who is serious about his appearance.
And for the many, many strange things I’ve seen – including the world champion pimp decked out in velour and Cheetah print holding his large gold trophy at the BWI airport – I still think I’m going to have to rank this one right up there.
Also, for anyone who might be wondering, even when you’re the world champion pimp, you fly Southwest. You might be good with the ladies, but apparently, it doesn’t guarantee that you won’t end up with a middle seat.
* P.S. I promise that the small black bump in the second photo is a rabbit. You may have to look closely, but I did capture proof of the bunny on a leash.
The "Mills Slip"
I am not a subtle person.
It’s just one of those gifts I wasn’t born with. My sister is fond of saying that I am incapable of subtlety or keeping anything close to the vest. (Could this very blog be proof of her theory?)
I can’t lie, I tend to say what I’m thinking and when I can’t say what I’m thinking, you can read my emotions all over my face.
I may tell you that I love your haircut, but odds are that if I don’t, my face will involuntarily recoil into a look that implies you took scissors to your head while drunk and taking style cues from the Sneetches.
More than one teacher told me that they judged how well a lecture was going based on my face because it was always obvious whether or not I was getting the point of the lesson.
(When you’re not a subtle person, it’s usually best to have friends who aren’t subtle either. Since I’m likely to use language that some people might find offensive or over-share at any time, it’s best to surround myself with like-minded people. If I ask, “Do my nipples looks askew in this dress?” – which, yes, is an actual quote from a time I tried on a bridesmaid’s dress – I need a friend who finds that funny or is fully prepared to examine my chest area and give me an honest answer.)
In addition to lacking subtlety, I also lack patience, but love efficiency, so I find that these three traits can actually work together in a kind of oddly beautiful congruence. Anyone who uses the word “lady” in a non-ironic way or can’t admit to a secret crush on JWoww, or other embarrassing reality star, would probably best be seated next to someone else at the dinner party. We aren’t going to be pals, and I prefer to know that kind of thing without the tedium of 30 minutes of small talk.
Unfortunately though, sometimes my lack of subtlety even sneaks up on me. Through the years, I have adapted some filters, but my lack of subtlety is so strong that even this thin veil can fail, and when it does, it fails miserably.
If Freud were alive, I think he would have reconsidered calling the “Freudian Slip” a “Mills Slip.” (Sorry to indict the rest of the family, but I have to be consistent. If it were a “Sigmund Slip,” I would have gone with a “Laurel Slip.”)
Many, many years ago before I was deliriously happy and in a committed relationship, a male friend and I went out to eat at a restaurant. When the meal was over, and we were pulling out of the parking lot, I said, “The next time we have sex, we really should go to …”
And complete silence fell over the car.
It took a few seconds, but the look of shock and confusion on my friend’s face helped me realize what I’d said. The name of whatever restaurant, café or taco stand I’d meant to finish that sentence with as a suggestion for our next meal was gone, and it was gone for good.
Where I’d meant to say “lunch,” I’d said “sex,” and there’s no coming back from that one -- especially when you put the words “we” and “have” in front of it. (Luckily, most men are flattered by the idea that you might want to or have thought about sleeping with them, but it’s still hardly an ideal situation.)
In this type of instance, an “I meant to say lunch” is pointless. Not even laugher works well. Silence is an option, but it seems to just turn the uncomfortable moment into a gaping chasm of social faux pas.
I’ve found that when you’ve blown any cover that you have, it’s usually best just to keep the lack of subtlety going.
“So, that was awkward and weird,” I said. “Want a coffee or ice cream?”
Because, really, who doesn’t love a coffee or ice cream? And you’ve got to figure that conversationally, unless you have actual Tourette’s, there’s nowhere to go but up from there.
My Odd Local Movie Theater And Why The SO Will Never Take Me Back to Disney World
Not all that long ago, the SO took me on a trip to Disney World. Now, while I understand that “it’s the most magical place on earth” and “no one can wear a frown at Disney World,” I’m not exactly one of those people who appreciates the magic. (I'm pretty sure the latter isn't really a common phrase, but I feel like it could be.)
My own mother once said, “I think I had the only children in the world that never asked to go back to Disney World.”
I visited when I was nine. I told Mickey that he and I had the same birthday. He seemed pleased (at least, he clapped his over-sized white gloves). I went down Space Mountain, and I bought large Lady and the Tramp stuffed animals from our hotel. As far as I could tell, I was done. For life.
Today, for me, Disney World is a trifecta of things I don’t enjoy: lines/large groups of people, heights and loud noises.
Since new technology allows for rides where you actually just move around in a kind of virtual reality while your cart shifts from side to side, you can also add small spaces and motion sickness to the discomforts mentioned above.
Also, seeing how I feel about parades, you can understand why this might not necessarily be my ideal vacation.
I tried to buck up, but as the SO rarely fails to remind me, I didn’t do a very good job. I’m sorry that I don’t see the point to going down the same roller coaster twice from different sides (it’s just the mirror image!) and that I like to nap, but that’s just how I am.
(I will say that Orlando has excellent outlet shopping – Kate Spade, David Yurman and Burberry? Amazing.)
One of my favorite parts of the trip was actually visiting the MGM Studio Theme Park. They had one of those rides that isn’t a ride – if you’ve been to Orlando in the last 20 years, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You wait in line to be shuffled into a room where you’re lead into another room where nothing really happens. While you’re seated (or standing, depending on the situation), a character of some sort appears and tells a story or is threatened by some other creature you probably don’t recognize and your seat vibrates or pinches you at opportune moments. Then, you exit through the gift shop.
Call me a traditionalist, but being poked by a chair doesn’t count as a ride. In fact, I think it’s illegal in a few states.
At MGM, one of these “rides” is the Twister experience. You wait, you’re shuffled onto a stage and while you’re watching, the area below gets windy, there’s some lightning and fake trees fall over.
If I have to be at an amusement park, I want The Mummy roller coaster, not a decrepit sound stage.
But, getting back to my favorite part of the ride, while you’re waiting to be shuffled from spot to spot, Helen Hunt (khakis pulled up to the waist and pleated in classic mid-‘90s style) and Bill Pullman, stars of Twister, discuss the harrowing experience of making Twister on screens that are meant to entertain you while the previous group of most-likely-disappointed “riders” make their way out and through the gift shop.
I kid you not: At one point, Helen Hunt says something along the lines of, “It was terrifying to experience the fury and power of an F5 tornado first-hand.”
A note to Helen Hunt, maybe you’ve been in Hollywood too long, but having large industrial-size fans pointed in your direction on a movie set does not replicate the experience of an F5 tornado. It's kind of like how Richard Dreyfuss can't claim to have netted a Great White despite the intensity of filming Jaws. While it might have been realistic, it was still pretend. Maybe we need to dial back that adventurer/survivor attitude just a little bit.
If nothing else, I think a real F5 tornado would have messed with those very crisp pleats on your shorts.
So in the kind of related but kind of not category, when they installed the Hurricane Simulator machine at my local movie theater, there was no way I wasn’t trying it. For a mere $2.00, I too could experience the fury of a hurricane and have something to talk to Helen Hunt about the next (or first) time we ran into each other.
I stood in a tube while “the winds” reached 80 mph, and I have this to say: 1) It wasn’t even my worst hair day and 2) An average thunderstorm is more threatening.
I guess the moral(s) of my story is, simulation isn’t the real thing, maybe we should all be a little careful about the experiences we claim to have had and Bill Pullman never should have had an earring.
That is all.
Dessert And A Case Of Mistaken Identity
In my ongoing attempts not to implicate people and organizations in my misadventures and misdeeds, let’s just say that I was at a storytelling event the other night. (The details from this one are a little harder to disguise, but let’s all pretend, shall we?)
As much as I like storytelling at cocktail parties and on this here blog, I tend to avoid storytelling in public public. I love listening to other people’s stories, but I can be reluctant to tell my own. However, throw in an open bar and a relatively intimate atmosphere, and I tend to find myself signed up for an activity I didn’t plan to participate in at the beginning of the evening.
In an effort to make myself seem slightly more advanced than someone ruled by wine and peer pressure, I also believe in making yourself do something that makes you uncomfortable at least once in awhile. Whether it’s a particularly steep water slide or a scary movie, I like to get out of my comfort zone from time to time.
So, during the storytelling event, lots of people from many different walks of like stood before the group to tell their food stories. Topics ranged from grandmother’s cobbler and eating abroad to arguing over Doritos.
When I got up to tell my story, I talked about my attempts to woo the SO with food. In the beginning of our relationship, I wanted to make him complete meals, from scratch, that included dessert. The only problem was that I didn’t want to go so simple as to make brownies from a box or through the rigmarole of making a cake from scratch. (Plus, every cake I’d made from scratch has turned out horribly dry, and I’ve wished I just went with Betty Crocker to begin with.)
I chose the middle ground of my mother’s easy cobbler – it doesn’t taste like it came from a box, but it doesn’t require the hours of effort of a homemade cake, torte or mousse either.
The recipe is simple. You take a can of pile filling, a Jiffy box of cake mix and a melted stick of butter and put them in a dish in that order. Then, you bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes.
The SO was wowed.
When I found a pie filling of mixed berries, he thought I’d spent hours chopping and assembling his favorite fruits.
The only problem, of course, with keeping up such a ruse is that you have to make the simple dessert seem complicated. Aprons, spilled flour and strategic stains are involved. You also have to be on top of taking out the trash.
Then, one day, the SO came into the kitchen and found the empty can of pie filling.
“Are we having pie instead of cobbler?” Disappointment was clear on his face.
“Why is there a box of cake mix? Did you make a cake?”
I finally had to admit that the homemade cobbler I “toiled” over was nothing more than three ingredients. Ever since, the SO has called that “the day he saw the man behind the curtain,” but truthfully, I was exhausted, and it’s been easier since the truth came out.
The cobbler story went over well. There were laughs, and despite my many, many nervous hand gestures, I’d told my story aloud and in public. It was a minor triumph.
When the event ended, I went to speak with the emcee for the night whom was also talking with a couple. I wanted her to know how much I enjoyed her hosting. The couple next to her told me how much they enjoyed my story.
“It was one of my favorites,” the woman said.
“I really liked it,” the man said.
“I really liked your story, too,” I said to the man.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said.
“No,” I said, very, very sure of myself. “You were in China and you got lost? Some strangers fed you?”
“That wasn’t me,” he said.
Confused, I left the group and went to join the friend I’d come to the party with. “Why is that guy pretending he didn’t tell that food story?” I said. “Do you think he’s embarrassed?”
“Laurel,” my friend said, “there are two Indian men in the room. That’s not the one who told the story.”
Another guest tried to comfort me, “I think that guy was from Colorado, soat least you’ll never have to see him again.”
“No,” I thought, “but now he’s going to go back to Colorado and tell everyone that people from Alabama think all Indians look alike.”
(In my defense, the two Indian men were also wearing nearly-identical checkered shirts. (“One was blue and one was green,” my friend said, but I’m sticking with my story.) Either way, I was extremely embarrassed.)
I went from being the deceptive cobbler girl to the racist in the room in less than five minutes.
Now, there’s no telling which will be more compelling – my story for the event or my story from the event.
I’ll let you know the next time I'm out and about, brimming with information and wine, and you can decide for yourself.
Lunch Wars: The Underworld Of School Food*
Lunch Wars by Amy Kalafa is exactly what the book purports to be, a guide on “how to start a school food revolution.” Filled with facts about local produce, the business of school meals, the impact of nutrition on children’s behavior and overall well being, as well as practical advice on who to approach in your school’s food program when working for change, templates for letters and petitions demanding better lunches, and lists of resources to get you started, Lunch Wars is the ultimate how-to guide for building a healthier school cafeteria.
Kalafa takes what would seem to be a daunting task – weaning children away from sugar and snacks to healthy meals while staying on budget and getting the school system’s support – and breaking it down into manageable and logical steps.
She never claims that the transition will be easy, but her determination and success stories are inspirational.
When I started the book, I was pretty sure Kalafa was preaching to the choir, and while she was doing that with gusto, I wasn’t always enjoying the read. (When the idea of foregoing candy on Halloween for other sugar-free activities came up, she almost lost me.)
I am not a mom, but I have had my own experiences with school lunches as well as spending time in cafeterias as a substitute teacher.
In my elementary school, the “cool” kids brought their lunch from home. I went to private school my entire life, so bringing lunch from home wasn’t a show of money, it just meant that if you already had your lunch in hand, you were guaranteed a spot at the cool table rather than having to wait in the lunch line and risking that the only seats left would be on undesirable cafeteria real estate. We also always had half an hour for lunch, so time was never a concern.
In my high school (also private), lunch was included in the price of tuition, so everyone ate at school. Also, since my high school was populated with both boarding and day students, you could eat three meals a day there. Our lunches included the standard hot fare of pizza and fried burritos, but we also had a baked potato bar and salad bar. There were healthy options, and when one attractive high school girl takes a salad, the rest tend to follow.
(My school was founded on the motto “learning through living,” so at one time it had been an actual working farm with students tending to cows and going to class. That ended pretty quickly since taking care of a farm can be too time-consuming when there’s other book learning to be done.)
My high school remains ahead of the trend in the “lunch wars” by Kalafa’s standards. Today, students grow a garden on the grounds and sell their produce at a local farmer’s market throughout the summer.
With my experience based only on private education and wealthy school districts, and conscious of the socio-economic makeup that seems to dominate my Saturday visits to the farmer’s market, I had concerns about less affluent schools that have trouble finding money for books, let alone freshly grown produce.
As a former managing editor of a magazine, I visited a school in an under-served area when the kids were given a playground as part of a grant from Kaboom!. I kept thinking that if playgrounds are a hard sell, what happens to school food – especially when government regulations are involved.
However, Kalafa changed my thinking on that. Her examples and anecdotal evidence come from all kinds of school districts throughout the country. Her data and commitment are compelling, and the end of Lunch Wars convinced me that healthy eating must be a priority in our schools and culture. I began to re-think my own eating habits, and I would recommend this book to anyone interested in food politics and the ever-changing landscape of how and why we eat the way that we do.
(Not that I'm ready to give up all of my bad habits yet, Cadbury Creme Eggs will always have a special place in my heart.)
* This was a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.