How Not To Entertain Yourself While Pregnant
Whatever you do while pregnant, don’t:
1. Google anything and everything about your pregnancy and/or newborns.
A personal low? I Googled “can my baby kick too much” because I was convinced I could diagnose ADD/ADHD in the womb.
2. Wander the aisles of Babies R Us or Buy Buy Baby wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. It's a very costly place to worry, and buying more wash clothes isn't going to do much.
Hint: You’ll be there daily in the first few weeks anyway, so you might want to wait.
3. Try on those tiny bikinis you see the sorority girls picking up thinking you will look OK (or even like a celebrity) because you’re “all belly.”
If you are super tiny, this might work. I don't wear a bikini when I'm not pregnant, so God only knows why I thought this was a good idea. When I put on that Target brand swimsuit one fateful March day, I did not look like a celebrity rocking her baby bump on the beach, and it still frightens me to remember how my ass looked in so little Spandex.
Everything I Dislike About The Fair In One Photo
Every year, when ads start popping up for the state fair*, I think, "Oh my gosh, that would be so much fun!"
My mind is filled with stock photo images of autumnal delight -- children mesmerized by the twinkling lights of rides, cotton candy and caramel apples, young ladies and gents playing games to win stuffed toys for their paramours ... In my head, it's wondrous.
I get geared up to go. I imagine my head thrown back in laughter as I tilt-a-whirl. I smile at the SO, "I know what we could do this weekend ..."
Then, we arrive, and just as the stench of cigarette smoke and broken dreams reaches me, I remember that no fair has ever lived up to my glossy-staged-photo dreams, but instead always ends in too much hand sanitizer and nightmares of Enterovirus 68.
Cotton candy isn't tasty. It's sticky, like everything else at the fair, and I don't like sticky.
In that germaphobic, I'm-the-freak-that-worries-about-their-insurance-policy spirit, I give you everything I dislike about the fair in one photo:
My son does not want to pet the animals in the petting zoo. Which is cool because the animals in the petting zoo don't want to be touched either. There's a stranger in our photos -- who doesn't smile -- wearing a shirt with the phrase "tickled pink" embroidered on the pocket.
I think it's safe to say that no one involved in this is tickled pink.
And then there's me -- getting felt up by "the 'roo" that we all know isn't a kangaroo. (My aunt, who spent a significant portion of her adult life in Australia, confirmed this for me, and said that this creature was either a wallaby -- or an overgrown rat -- but it definitely wasn't a kangaroo.)
Of course, the kangaroo/wallaby/rat probably has the innocent intention of tapping out SOS on my chest in Morse Code in hopes of salvation, but considering how I feel about stickiness, I think you can imagine how much I wanted an animal that had spent it's day in a poop-filled pen in the parking lot touching me.
When we leave, the SO always gives me the "I told you so" look, and I nod in agreement -- until next year.
* I actually dragged my family to something known as a "fall festival." It's like a kissing cousin of the state fair. It may not carry the title, but the rides, shows and prices are the same.
The Misanthropic Parent
Most likely, one day, my son will discover that I don’t really like people.
Of course, I like my family and my friends and most people depicted on ABC Family shows.
My problem is with other “people.” (And, just to be clear, I’m not talking about “you people” in some thinly-veiled racist way. However, racists are part of the “people” I don’t like.) I’m talking about “people,” like the guy that jumps in line when we’re all waiting for the next available cashier in an orderly fashion. (No, you are not the genius who figured out the line with no wait while the rest of us poor saps stood around like sheep waiting on Tanya on register eight.) It’s the unsolicited-advice-givers and I-don’t-know-what-to-order-at-the-top-of-the-line-during-rush–hour types that make me a tad crazy – and dark.
Where do I think my son is most likely to learn that I don’t like people?
The Zoo.
Like many families, we love an outing to the zoo. There’s fresh air, and cute animals, and walking. And on nice days, there’s also every other family within a 15-mile radius.
On our first trip to the zoo, I was enjoying the otter exhibit when a barefoot woman emerged from the lily pond to talk to me. (I have issues with feet and bacteria. We were already off to a bad start.)
“Have you seen the otters?” she said.
“Not yet,” I said. Then I proceeded to tend to my son – you know, the one in the stroller that I came to the zoo to spend time with. I was doing my best to mind my own business when I heard a kind of squealing noise.
“I found them!”
I did not acknowledge. I know myself.
“Do you want to see?”
“I’m OK,” I said.
“No, come see,” she said. Then, said stranger proceeded to grab my arm (I also don’t like to be touched) and pull me over towards the corner of the giant tank where the otters live. “Do you see them?”
“They’re all sleeping on top of each other,” she said. “It’s a pile-up.”
Friends, it was a pile-up alright. It was a pile of rocks.
But, I don’t like to engage with strangers, let alone argue with them, so instead, I stood there while a stranger held onto my arm and pretended to marvel at the rocks/otters.
“Neato.”
Later, when we went inside the monkey house (which I’m sure has a more scientific name, but I just learned the difference between tortoises and turtles, so clearly I’m behind on all matters animal kingdom), I encountered a middle-aged couple pawing each other in front of the lemurs. While myself and the children – please don’t forget about the children – watched those delightful little imps run around and swing from ropes, Ronnie, as I’m calling her, grabbed Ron’s crotch and whispered things in his ear more appropriate for HBO late night than daytime at the zoo.
(I’m guessing that they really wanted to do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel. Also, in honor of Ronnie and Ron, I will no longer say “go at it like bunnies,” but instead refer to those that want to get it on like visitors to the monkey house. Clearly, I’m not getting as much from primates as some people do.)
Then there are the unaccompanied minors. Please don’t get me started on the unaccompanied minors. I know it makes me sound old, but on this particular day, their clothes were so tight and their comments were so dumb.
I believe it was while four such youngsters were attempting to trap a peacock that I said, “We must move on now, and to somewhere they won’t follow.”
While I’d like to be my best self for my kid, and I’d like to think that motherhood has reorganized my priorities, helped me let go of the small stuff, show more compassion and on and on and on, it seems I’m still me – petty complaints and misanthropic tendencies and all. Is it better to just own it or try and be better? I’d like to say I’ll try and be better, but then someone steals a parking space I’d clearly stalked and claimed with my blinker, and well, we’re right back where we started.
I think I’d rather admit to most of my 20s than see that sweet face fall the first time he hears me yell at an aggressive telemarketer.
Because right now, my son looks at me like I’m awesome, and I don’t ever want it to be any other way. He thinks my singing, dancing, tickling ways are delightful. He has no idea that I’m tone deaf – let alone the rest of it.
When he looks at me with so much love, well, I, too, which I wasn’t the person who complained about “That Guy” at the pharmacy who always says that it will be 10-15 more minutes no matter how many hours in advance I called.
I wish I could stare at a pile of rocks with genuine wonder. It seems like more fun than cynicism.
Maybe it’s enough to try. Let’s hope so, because that’s all I’ve got.
* Photo of actual otter, not rock. Photo by hotblack.
How To Entertain Yourself While Pregnant
So, here’s how long ago I initially planned to write this post. My original intro: In light of the recent snowstorms and Valentine’s Day, I thought I would prepare a helpful list for those sure to find themselves in the family way over the next few weeks.
Sorry to let you down, ladies. Those of you impregnated during the snowstorms and Valentine’s Day festivities are probably giving birth in November, so I’m way behind. Regardless, I wrote this, and now maybe I can help those of you overly affected by Facebook photos of cute kids heading back to school and Carter’s ads.
What no one tells you is how boring pregnancy can be. First and foremost, no alcohol is pretty limiting. Then, you throw in the fact that you’re the person at the restaurant asking whether or not there’s raw egg in the salad dressing, if the cheese is pasteurized and if they could heat your turkey sandwich to 140 degrees, and you’re just not a to of fun to go out and about with.
Next, factor in that you’ll spend almost three months in what I call “quarantine” because you don’t know what to say when your friends ask you why you’re not drinking (I was pretty sure people around me would assume rehab), so your social skills disintegrate. (In real life no one wants to know all of my feelings about Taylor Armstrong from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? What?!?!)
Last but not least, please consider the fact that you’ll spend most of your pregnant time trying to figure out what the hell is going on with your body. So, you’ve got a lot of new knowledge about the placenta that no one else cares about. (And, they want to hear about that even less than Taylor.)
It’s very easy to find yourself sipping Sprite, alone, next to a maybe-pasteurized-maybe-not cheese plate at a cocktail party while everyone else gets a good buzz on.
If you’re like me, you’ll also be unable to watch, read about or discuss anything that involves babies, children, sick people, puppies, exotic pets, the elderly, kids going to college, mothers, fathers, changing seasons, mean people, or small goats without crying (heavily and loudly, regardless of time or place). This will reduce your range of conversation topics by about 98%, leaving you to entertain your friends with tidbits about donuts and paint colors.
It isn’t pretty.
I read the entire Rizzoli and Isles series while pregnant. I don’t know why. (And I cried during the one about kidnapped pregnant ladies. I'm still ashamed.) No one wanted to hear about that either (except my father, who, God love him, had thoughts about the casting choices TNT made, but it’s entirely possible he was feigning his level of interest just because he loves me).
So, from my perspective, there’s not a lot to do. But, you can do these things that I came up with during the seven or so months I felt like there wasn’t much for me to do other than, you know, grow a human and all:
1. Pretend you don’t know you’re pregnant.
If someone says “Congratulations,” feign shock.
Tell them you knew you’d put on some weight, but still…Seem to be working out some math in your head. “It has been awhile since I got my monthly visitor.” (Yes, I also like to use antiquated terms in my play to up the awkward. Feel free to substitute “Aunt Flo.”)
2. When your friends are talking about where to go after 9:00 p.m., and you’re tired but know you won’t sleep, suggest the nastiest club in town. Then mention that you were there X months ago and need to look for someone.
(X clearly equals the number of months that you have been pregnant.)
3. Actually go to said club and try out the infamous Amy Poehler/Josh Brolin SNL skit. (Hide your belly while you make eyes at someone across the room and then, “Surprise!”)
This was one of my favorite pregnant lady fantasies.
4. Around Spring Break or anytime during the summer, visit your nearest Target or department store. Find the college girls trying on tiny bikinis for trips to Cancun. Without prompting, point to the tiny bikinis and say, “That and a lot of tequila shooters is how I got here.” [Reference bump.]
Consider it a public service.
5. Pose for stock photos.
I learned a lot putting together this post. If you want to download free photos of pregnant ladies from the Internet, you're in luck! I think we call that a win for the fetishists.
Good luck ladies!
On My Son And Dating
Note to you, dear reader: While I wrote this awhile ago, I never posted it, and I wanted to revisit the subject in light of Ohio State’s new sexual consent policy and Rush Limbaugh’s comments.
Seeing as my son is only fifteen-months-old, the SO and I haven’t exactly had a lot of conversations about how we’ll handle all of those important coming of age discussions – the birds and the bees, puberty, at what age it’s OK to date, etc. However, not surprisingly, I already have a lot of opinions on the subject.
About seven years ago when I was working in Nashville, a press release for the Date Safe Project arrived at my desk. Since I was the Lifestyles editor, this info fell under my Relationships sub-category, and was just one promotional material I received in a slew of weekly notices. (Previously, my submissions pile had included tips for online dating, how widowers could “get back out there” and one particularly uncomfortable piece on controlling rage within marriage.)
All I saw was, “Can I kiss you?” and I quickly dismissed the release. (And probably thought “tool” while I was at it.)
Then, as I am prone to do, I got bored. I was tired of writing Top 7 lists, and the Date Safe Project DVD was still on the corner of my desk. Figuring that I could at least kill an hour watching a video and call it “work,” I popped the disk in.
It was a pretty uncomplicated video that featured Date Safe Project founder Mike Domitrz talking to a group of school kids and their parents. Domitrz’s basic premise is that either partner should ask for permission before engaging in any sexual activity.
And he means any sexual activity, including kissing.
For some reason, I again thought this idea was kind of ludicrous. I don’t know if it was the effort – like taking an hour to get dressed for a party was worth my time, but talking about sex wasn’t – or the simple fact that I’d never thought about it, but I couldn’t really get on board.
Then Domitrz made one of his key points: If you don’t ask to kiss a female, she has one of two options – accept the kiss or push her date away. Either way, a female’s only options are physical.
That’s when I started thinking. Why do we expect women to have to push men away as part of our “normal”? Is that really the best way?
Buoyed on by the DVD, I called the number on the press release and arranged an interview with Domitrz.
We talked about dating. We talked about getting physical. We talked about what to do when you’re the parent setting the standard for your kids. (Yes, he recommends that you ask to kiss your spouse even if you’ve never done it before.)
One of my favorite comments from Domitrz is in the video. It’s something along the lines of, “People want to know, ‘do I have to ask right one and or left one’? It doesn’t have to be that particular. It’s about asking your date if she or he is comfortable going to the next level. “ For Domitrz, it’s about making sure everyone is on the same page.
So, regardless of what you might think about the Date Safe Project – or my recollections of it seven years later – here’s what I got from all this: explicit consent should be part of any romantic relationship from the get-go. Women (and men) have a voice that should be respected. Boundaries need to be clear. And if someone is too drunk to verbally consent, it’s a no-brainer that fooling around doesn’t even begin.
At this point, when I talk about my dating theories, I usually get one of two reactions from my friends:
1. “Asking for a kiss? What happens to being spontaneous?”
Now, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had too many spontaneous kisses in my life. Usually a lot of talking, making sure we were at the same party and hair flipping has gone into my makeout sessions.
I forget who says that fooling around happens when you run out of things to say to one another, but there’s a lot of that, too. Sometimes, I just couldn’t come up with one more comment on politics or The Challenge.
If the kisses were spontaneous, it often involved a lot of alcohol or wasn’t something I was prepared for. (With this latter point, therein lies the problem. Why should I have to shove someone off of me to avoid a kiss? And conversely, why should a nice guy have to get shoved just because he read the signals wrong?)
I have most always known when someone was going to kiss me, and it never took away from the moment.
2. “That kills all the romance!”
All I know is that if I want someone to kiss me – and I’ve put in the witty remarks, accidental brush-ups and mascara to make it happen – nothing can ruin that moment. The sudden act of asking about a kiss would not be a mood-killer for me. Bad breath? Slobbering? Slipping in a homophobic joke before making a move? These would ruin the romance. A simple question? No.
It’s fascinating to me that in an age when we talk about rape culture, gray rape, Stubenville and the like, we’re pretty quick to dismiss garnering consent as “unromantic” and even “unnecessary.”
I don’t think a little more communication hurt anyone, especially with the variables of libido, alcohol and still-developing brains in the mix.
So, it’s entirely possible that I’ll be the weird mom who suggests her kid ask before he kisses someone. And asks before he goes to second base. And checks in again before considering any of those other bases, etc.
I know one thing: I would much rather be the weird mom who talks to her kid about asking for kisses than the one explaining why it’s not OK to post half-naked pictures of drunk classmates on Facebook.
I also know there's a high probability that he won't follow my advice, what with being an adolescent male and all, but I think I'm OK with that, too. Because maybe, just maybe, if I make a big enough deal about consent, I'll at least have gotten most of the point across.
What do you think? What do you plan to tell your kids about dating?
Image courtesy of Marzie.
The Truth About Your Name
It was very easy to name my children when I was single and all of my children where yet-to-be-conceived.
If you’re female, I think you’ll know what I’m talking about.
“I’m going to have two boys and a girl, and they’re going to be named Bailey, L.B. and Isabel.”
Even when people asked about my fictional children’s hypothetical father, I had an answer. “He can have the middle name.”
So, you can imagine my surprise when, actually pregnant, I told the SO my idea for our baby boy’s name, and he said, “no.”
Sixteen years of planning, and it all came crashing down with one “no.”
After my disappointment/confrontation with reality, the SO and I began the baby naming hunt/game in earnest. For me, I think this process is best described by a woman I met at a baby shower: “I pick names and my husband shoots them down.”
I read a baby book.
I read a baby book with 10,000 names in it.
I highlighted my favorite names and created a working list.
I shared my working list with the SO via a Google doc that we could both edit.
The SO chose to yell things out as we drove or shopped at Target. (He didn’t seem to get the memo about my baby book or Google doc.)
It went something like this:
“Rock!”
“What? Am I going to hit a rock? Is there something in the road?”
“No, what do you think about Rock for the baby?”
“As a cheap toy?” I said. “A nursery theme?”
“As a name.”
“No.”
LeTron, Shogun and Lightning all came to my attention this way.
For the record, I am not someone who could own a cool, alt baby name. Some people fit with an Apple. I do not.
A hip baby name would only cause me deep shame and judgment every time I checked in at the pediatrician’s office or had something monogrammed.
“What would you like on the towels again?”
“Toaster.”
“Toaster?”
“You know, like the Instagram filter.”
And the idea of standing in front of all the other mothers with my non-cloth-diaper-wearing son while the nurse called out “Lysol” or “Legume” is too much for me.
For awhile, I was convinced my child would be named Samurai because the SO and I couldn’t agree on anything, and, at least, as a friend pointed out, I could shorten “Samurai” to “Sam.”
I vividly remember being very pregnant, driving around and crying thinking about the years ahead spent introducing Samurai to his teachers and coaches. (All of whom would be very disapproving.)
So, when, four days before I went into labor, the SO suggested “Benjamin,” I jumped on it.
Before that moment, Benjamin had not been in my top 5 or even my top 25. But, by then, I would have gone with anything to avoid a Samurai or LeTron (LeTronica for a girl).
This is also why I really think the SO played me for the long con. A note to the men out there: if you want to win the baby name game, just hold out any and all non-absurd names until your partner is in labor. Darth, Leppard and Gandolf sound a lot more appealing when you think your alternatives are Drapery and Hopscotch.
And while Benjamin might not have been in the top 25 names during my pregnancy or the first 33 years of my life, it quickly rose in the ranks as my favorite name once it was attached to my favorite little person.
I fell in love with the name as I fell in love with my baby, and now, I can’t imagine wanting a Bailey or L.B. instead.
This is also why you don’t tell people your baby names. Nobody loves Esther or Grayson in theory, but everyone loves it once it’s attached to 10 pounds of cuddly, squirmy baby.
So, getting back to my title, the truth is that your name might not have been your parent’s first choice at first, but it probably is now.
“We always like the name ‘Benjamin,’” is a far better story than, “I used to curse your father and cry thinking you’d be called ‘Samurai.’”
Photo by mwookie.
On Organic Baby Food
Me: The baby just threw up.
The SO: Do you think he’s sick?
Me: No, I think he didn’t like his dinner. There was lots of gagging before he threw up.
The SO: Really? What did you give him?
Me: Sweet potato, mango and millet.
The SO: So the baby doesn’t like millet? I’m shocked.
5 Other Lives
One of my assignments from The Artist’s Way Toolkit was to write down what I would do if I had five other lives to lead. Here’s what I came up with. I’m guessing four of them would require that I spend less time watching J.J. Abrams’ and Joss Whedon’s shows, which is a lot of what I’ve done with my present life. Regardless, here we go with my five other lives. (Should you have other lives of your own planned, I’d love to hear about them. As I’m currently obsessed with Fringe, I fully admit that I spend too much time wondering what alternate Laurel does with herself.)
1. Soap Star
This has been one of my fantasies for years. As a soap opera star, I would preferably be attached to a large family in town and constantly embroiled in love triangles. I would also like to be part of a supercouple, but get married tons of times so that I could put on all the different dresses. Ideally, I would play identical twins on General Hospital. One would be a do-gooding doctor at, where else, General Hospital. The other would be a mob princess.
2. Criminal Profiler
Some people armchair quarterback; I armchair crime solve. I would love to work for the FBI in a way that I would never get shot at. (Pursuits, shooting and possible death really don’t appeal to me.) I’m also aware that “criminal profiler” is not an actual job title. Seriously, if you go to the FBI’s job postings there’s an entire page dedicated to the fact that “Criminal Profiler” is not a position and that despite the popularity of Criminal Minds, that career path does not exist. I knew a lot of people watched Criminal Minds, but I had no idea so many people asked the FBI about it that they had to build a web disclaimer. Fascinating. I'd love to try and solve crimes/find the missing pieces of the puzzle while also trying to discover the whys of it all.
3. College Professor
In this scenario, the scene opens on a some small liberal arts college in New England just before Winter break. Snow is falling. Coeds run around excited about heading home for the holidays and nervous about exams. I walk through the quad in fashionable tweed with piles of papers in my arms before heading back to the big old home with a wrap-around porch that I share with my husband and tons of way too-wise-for-their-years kids. For the sake of the fantasy, we ignore the fact that I disdain snow and tend to have trouble talking to large groups of people under the age of 20.
4. TV Writer
If I'd had more guts when I was younger, I would have loved to have seen what I could accomplish as a television writer. Reading Mindy Kaling's book made me very jealous. (She started writing for The Office at 24, people. 24! I was writing post-it notes at 24.) I think it would have been interesting to explore the Hollywood world from the writing perspective. Again, for the sake of fantasy, we have to ingore the fact that L.A. traffic would do me in within a week.
5. Wealthy Hermit
In my fifth life, I'd just be independently wealthy. I'd always be in beautiful clothes, go back and forth between my impeccable homes, eat amazing food and travel the world. In this life, I think I could keep the J.J. Abrams and Joss Whedon shows. Only, I'd do it without the guilt I feel in thinking I should be doing something else. And better snacks.
Discount Directions
I love some discount shopping. When I can find a light-up skeleton at Walgreen's for $5.99, I'm a happy girl. (And some people think I'm difficult to please ...)
The obvious perk of discount shopping is the low prices because, let's face it, it's not like you're really paying for much else. Organization? Not so much, but if I said I didn't enjoy digging through piles off-brand sweat pants for the one pair without a spelling error, I'd be lying. Customer service? Very much depends. It's better not to ask questions if you can avoid it. Quality? My light-up skeleton is holding up well, but it's always a crap shoot.
A few weeks ago, I wasn't even offered bags for my merchandise as I picked up Halloween party decor. (This is probably punishment for not being more concious of my carbon footprint and carrying my own reusable totes everywhere, but there are times a girl forgets.) I placed my items on the counter (creepy burlap tie included because, well, it was there, and it was cheap) to check out; the woman working in the store scanned each item. Then she handed each item back to me to put in the cart sans bag. It was a little weird, but when you're at Garden Ridge, you roll with Garden Ridge.
Anyway, all of this is leads me to one of my favorite aspects of the bargain-loving lifestyle -- incoherent instructions. If you're buying way, way below retail, it's generally accepted that you're going to have to figure out how everything works by yourself, and I'm fine with that. It's usually when directions are included that things get a little fuzzier. For example:
If I hadn't know what I bought, this would be confusing as all get out. (And am I crazy, or does this look a little bit dirty? Gross, maybe?)
The next set of guidelines I found included written instructions that were in English, not as common as you would think, but I still found the drawings disturbing.
There's something really icky about this one to me -- and, yes, I also think this looks dirty; go ahead and judge me. (I don't deal well with things that look disjointed or bulbous. It's a thing.) I'm also unsure as to why it is necessary to tell me to "watch the set eerie glow." If the goal was to be creeped out on Halloween, I succeeded only by opening the box on this one.
Would you have ever guessed that the first set of directions go with this light-up Zombie? (I never said I shopped for normal stuff.)
Yes, that drawing depicts an arm clutching a beating heart on a cord. Our second set of directions actually shows this:
Because, you know, why draw the hand from the front -- where it actually looks like a hand -- when you can draw it from the side?
In retrospect, I'm not really sure the problem is with where I'm shopping so much as it is with what I'm shopping for, but I'm going to save self-reflection for another day.
Happy Halloween!
5 Of My Favorite SNL Characters
I've been watching Saturday Night Live since the fifth grade. (The cool kids were watching it, therefore I had to watch it. I also liked watching L.A. Law. I guess you can say my tv tastes haven't changed that much in 20 years.) Back then, the biggest challenge was staying up late enough to see all of SNL. I considered it a win if I made it to the first musical number.
Collectively, our class liked SNL so much that, inspired by the political humor of the show, we put on a sketch at Christmas based on the trial of Sadaam Hussein. (It was 1990. We were very topical.) Each class performed a skit at the holidays. I don't know why, but it was fun. I played Nancy Reagan in the trial. It wasn't long after the Reagan years, and we had to have a role for every student, so it seemed appropriate. I wore a red jacket and had one line when I took my place in front of the entire upper school, "Just say no to drugs."
I think that kind of characterization isn't bad for 11-year-olds.
A little while later -- I can't remember if it was 6th or 7th grade -- we put on a Christmas skit that included impersonations of all of our favorite SNL characters. The copy guy (Rob Schneider) was there, and I'm pretty sure I played Pat. There was a lot of stuffing involved.
I could regale you with tales of other sketches and plays my friends and I put on throughout the years -- including a rainy day summer camp performance that involved a fake exercise video for tools to increase your bust -- but I'm not sure I could maintain anyone's attention long enough to get through all of those. I think the overall point is this: I've always had a flair for the dramatic (surprise, surprise), and I've always appreciated the funny.
No matter what kind of year SNL is having, I always enjoy watching it. It's hard to be funny for an hour and a half week after week. I don't expect every skit to be gold, and considering the constraints on the writers and performers, I'm amazed at whay they put out each episode In light of that, here are a few of my top characters from throughout the years. (Like I said, it's "a few" because it's not so easy to narrow down decades of sketch comedy.)
5. The Church Lady
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX8jo8wIIaU]The Church Lady began my love affair with Saturday Night Live. (As well as my conviction that I could do impressions, which is not true but did not stop me from saying "Satan"with a head tilt whenever I got the chance.) For the sake of full disclosure, I also like The Master of Disguise, so judge my humor recommendations as you will.
4. Sarah Palin
Tina Fey, and "I can see Russia from my house." Do I really need to say more? As my earlier allusion to fifth grade would suggest, I love some political humor. Most SNL "politicians" crack me up, but if I had to pick a favorite, this would be it. I only regret that we had to get the real Sarah Palin for this sake of this masterful impersonation.
3. Pat
Again going back to where it all began, it seems unfair not to include Pat on my list. Has androgeny ever been so funny? Or disturbing?
2. Get Off The Shed Guy
Is there anything quite like the barely suppressed rage of the suburbs? I vote "no." Wether Will Ferrell is demanding his kids "get off the shed" or adamant that he "drives a Dodge Stratus," I am beyond amused.
1. Penelope
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX8jo8wIIaU]
I find few things more amusing than one-upping, so can it really can't be a surprise that Kristen Wiig's one-upping Penelope tops my list of SNL characters. I realize Penelope is a total love her or hate her character, but clearly I love her. Not only do I find her hilarious, but she has renewed my conviction that I can -- and I will, dammit -- do impersonations. Who wants to see me twirl my hair while I talk about having invented the Internet, master minded all Google search capabilities and come out with the world's first ever blog?
What A Difference A Vowel Makes
Is it Spanish, spinach or some combination thereof?
I don't know, and for $2.99, I'm not willing to find out.
A Town Not Big Enough For The Both Of Us
I have a Kindle Fire. (It’s hardly big news, but all stories haveto start somewhere.) I think the SO expected me to use my Kindle Fire to readall the time, get into RSS feeds, keep up with news from all over the web,etc., etc. Instead, I quickly developed an addiction for Bejeweled.
(“Addiction” isn’t an exaggeration here. When I findsomething new, it’s all I want to do. So far, the only thing this particularpersonality trait has done for me is allow me to get through lots of episodesof television in a short period of time. I might need to work on my concept of“purpose.”)
When I was done with Bejeweled, I moved on to various hiddenobjects/puzzle games. (I am a complete nerd.) However, it was hard to findanything that gave me the same satisfaction as Bejeweled – until I discoveredThe Oregon Trail.
Unlike The Oregon Trail of my youth, which involved way toomuch dysentary and fording of rivers, The Oregon Trail app lets you build atown out West and make it prosper. You get to build houses, businesses, addlivestock, plant crops … basically, a lot of incredibly boring stuff designedfor 10-year-olds that I seem to find fascinating.
To say that I got into my town would be an understatementakin to saying that the Amy Poehler/Will Arnett split was mildly upsetting. (Ifthose two can’t make it work, I don’t know if the rest of us have a chance.Can’t they stay together for America? Seriously.)
I worked on my town all the time. I cleared all the landpossible to clear. I built mansions. I had every business available, includingthe special edition town hall and a prospecting cart. I occasionally ignored myboyfriend for my town.
“Something, something, something,” SO says.
“Yeah, sounds good,” I’d say while staring down at my KindleFire.
“Something, something, something.”
“Uh-huh,” I’d say, while thinking, “If I can just collectfrom the big log cabins two more times, I can add another telegraph office.”
“It’s your town again, isn’t it?”
“Huh?” (Thinking: “How did I run out of energy so quickly?”)
“That’s what I thought.”
I made it to level 91 on The Oregon Trail. I don’t think anysane person is supposed to do that. I had a $1,000,000 fake dollars stored inmy Trail bank account. I was out of control.
Then, my Kindle Fire died. It stopped holding a charge, andI had to ship it back to Amazon headquarters. Was I worried about my books ormy many, many apps? No. I was worried about my town. What would happen to myprogress? What would become of my houses and the black sheep I won? (You can’tpurchase a black sheep. You can only win one. I’m sure you can all see mydilemma.)
Well, sure enough, when the new Kindle Fire arrived, therewas no town, and that’s when the SO and I had a talk I’m sure every couple hasat some point in their relationship.
“Well, it’s gone,” I said.
“I know that meant a lot to you?” the SO said.
“It’s all gone.”
“I’m sorry?”
“And you know what,” I said. “I don’t think I’m going torebuild. It was a good run, but I just don’t think I have the energy to gothrough it again.”
I’d tell you what the SO said next, but I couldn’t understandhim through the explosion of laughter.
The Newest Member Of The Family
This is the newest member of the household, Gilly (a.k.a. the Gilly monster). She's decided she's not a fan of the flash on my camera, hence the closed eyes.
Yes, she is named for this Gilly.
There are three primary reasons for this:
1. My great, great love of Kristen Wiig. Even if this is one of her less popular characters, I'm still a fan.
2. Both Gillys have similar unruly hair.
3. When we discipline Gilly, the SO and I can do Will Forte impressions.
Paging Pity, Party Of One
So, I’m having one of those days. It’s not like anythingterrible has happened, but my self-esteem just isn’t quite where it should be,and I’m a tad irritable. (If yelling at your car door for opening too wide inthe Lowe’s parking lot can count as “a tad.”) I would love to be one of thosepeaceful, Zen-like people who can recognize how small their own problems are,anticipate the light ahead and enjoy the journey, but well, let’s be honesthere. It’s me.
Since I have this lovely forum known as my blog, I thoughtI’d run through the current causes of myI’m-never-leaving-the-house-again-or-changing-out-of-these-sweatpants-state*:
- ThatI’m not one of those peaceful, Zen-like people who can just go along for theride. Those people seem extremely lovable, good at yoga and capable of sittingstill for longer than five minutes because of what I’m sure are their valuableand renewing daily meditations. They have probably never played a game ofSpider Solitaire for hours on end. I bet they even like how tea tastes.
- Oneday after buying what can only be described as a s&%$ ton of AA batteriesbecause of a buy one, get one free sale, the only batteries I need are AAAs.(These AAAs are for my Slender Tone belt. Yes, I know it doesn’t work, but Iwear it anyway and pretend that I’m doing something. I bought it on Ebay a few days after New Year’s becausethat’s my version of a “get in better shape” resolution.)
- Noneof my pants fit. (Please see note about Slender Tone belt in #2.)
- Mybangs aren’t behaving properly. This, too, is my own fault for thinking I couldtrim them myself. In this instance, “behaving” = “not being long enough.” (Iffor any reason my stylist is reading this, I know. I know. Also, I would liketo add “patience” to the list of qualities I wish I possessed in #1.)
- Netflixhas yet to add season two of Portlandia to its line-up. I can only assume thisis a) part of some sort of grand conspiracy on the part of Netflix to drive meinsane or b) because season two isn’t available yet. Regardless of the reason,I feel like some Fred Armisen would lighten the mood right now.
- Iordered an item off of Ebay without reading the shipping cost, because youknow, seeing as how the item is the size of my hand and in the continentalUnited States, I thought shipping would be reasonable. I was wrong. It’s $40.$40! The seller claims that’s why the item was priced so low. (Diabolicallybrilliant?) I feel kind of cheated here, seeing as how the item itself cost$1.27 more than the shipping. However, since the shipping price was listedbefore the auction ended, we return to the fact that I can only blame myselffor this one.
- Well,there isn’t really a number seven, so a normal person would end this list atsix, but seeing as how I think lists should come in threes, fives, sevens ortens, I just don’t think I can do it. Neurotic much? Yes.
And there you have it. Thank you wonderful reader for putting up with my gripes. Please add your own to thecomments. As I’m being petty, I feel I should invite others to join me. We canall start on that Zen thing on Monday.
* I mean, the sweatpants havepockets. Do I really need to say more?
My Bumper Sticker And Anthropologie: A Lesson In Courage
When I find an article of clothing that I like, I tend tobuy it in at least two colors. My more frugal sister thinks that this is crazy,but I figure that if you find something you like, you might as well have morethan one. Who knows when you’ll find something you like as much again? What ifsomething happens to the first one, and then you’ve lost your favorite shirt? Ithink I’m being practical, but I also think Tina Fey and I would be besties ifonly we ever met, so take that for what you will.
A few weeks ago, a friend and I were out running someerrands. I had on my relatively standard uniform of black flip flops and blackyoga pants as well as a new shirt from Anthropologie that I thought was soadorable and comfy. (So adorable and comfy that I bought it in two colors. I’dprobably have it in three if they hadn’t gone off sale. It’s called the slouchshirt. I wasn’t going to read into that.)
After driving around for a bit, I realized I hadn’t had mymorning Diet Coke (yes, morning), and I decided to pull into the gas station.My friend said that she wanted a Diet Coke, too.
I stepped into the store and picked up two Diet Cokes and aPowerade for good measure. (You can never be too hydrated on questionablebeverages.)
“You’re very brave,” said the clerk.
“Huh?” I said, looking down at my hands and assuming he wasconcerned about how much sugar and Nutrasweet I was willing to put in my body. “Brave”also seemed like an odd word choice since I was shopping at the mini-mart, andthat mini-mart was not in Pakistan.
“You’re very brave,” he said. “Your bumper sticker.”
That’s when I realized that he was referring to my Obamasticker.
In my neck of the woods, you don’t see too many Obamastickers. I think there are more leftover “W” stickers on cars than Obama/Bidenpronouncements. It’s probably one of the reasons I decided to go with thebumper sticker. I am usually very anti-bumper sticker simply because I’m toolazy to use Goo Gone, but I got tired of everyone making assumptions about mypolitical leanings. Plus, I like for visitors to know that not everyone inAlabama is conservative. We have diversity in our politics just like any otherstate.
“You don’t see too many of those around here,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, really not sure what the appropriateresponse to that comment would be.
I left the store, got back in my car and gave my friend herDiet Coke. Since I had heard some of the comments about her Obama/Biden stickerfrom the 2008 race, I thought she’d enjoy my story. “I just had the weirdestencounter,” I said.
“What happened?” she said.
“The guy told me I was brave,” I said.
“Because you wore that shirt?”
Maybe I was a little too zealous in my love of the slouchshirt after all. Hopefully, my friend will like it better in blue.
My Week In Hair Effort
OK kids, I'm not going to lie; it's been a long week. I'll write more about it later, but for now, I cannot begin to approach serious writing. I'm trying to tone down the crying outbursts for a bit. (I guess you know it's bad when people ask whether or not you have some Xanax on hand.) I'm very lucky in so many ways, and I know my problems are small in comparison to what a lot of people go through, but these have been some off days for me.
While the past seven days include such highlights as getting pulled over for the first time in a decade and an unexpected job change, by far the worst part has been that Cassidy is sick. Poor baby girl has been at the vet since Tuesday, and she'll probably have to stay through the weekend. She had surgery today, and I am not one who remains calm during these times.
Since I've already rearranged all the furniture in the house, begun a very misguided Pinterest project (I don't think t-shirts are meant to have a second act as rugs), organized the baby gifts I will be giving through January* and baked lots of bread (including some for the vet who seemed confused as to why I showed up on Wednesday with Cassidy's favorite foods, a toy and a loaf of Farl), I thought I'd work some more on my "visual storytelling."
And we all know how well that goes ...
* I decided most people would probably prefer to look at pictures of baby clothes than my so-far-from-completion t-shirt rug. The clothes are much cuter.
Mail Call
This is not a post about politics. This is a post about mistaken identity. If you’re going to get all worked up about politics, please save us both the headache and stop reading now.
I love to get the mail.* It’s like a daily dose of presents. I even enjoy catalogs, and I read Clipper magazine. (I’m not sure you can call that reading, but I flip through it and cut out restaurant coupons like I’m going to use them rather that just chucking it in the recycling bin straight away.) Of course, I’m human and don’t like bills, but sadly, there are days I’d take bills to an empty mailbox.
When we have to stop the mail while we’re out of town, and an entire week’s worth of postal goodies arrives at once, you’d think I’d won the lottery.
As long as I can remember, I’ve loved the mail. My sisters and I had to develop a schedule for collecting the mail because we were all equally excited about being the one to get it. Maybe we were strange children, or maybe we just knew how to appreciate the little things in life. I’m going to choose to believe the latter.
Summer camp was awesome because your parents pretty much had to send you letters and packages because they might risk ignoring the fact that you could be homesick or damaging your self-esteem by making you think they didn’t miss you.
I consider myself lucky now because the SO does not care about mail nearly as much as I do. I can check the mail every single day! (He can avoid the long walk down the driveway every single day. This may be the closest we get to a win/win.)
The best part about the mail, for me, is the unexpected. Again, this all comes back to bite me when it’s bill-related, but there’s nothing quite like a letter or package you didn’t know was on its way.
So, the other day when a big envelope arrived via mail for me, I was pretty pumped. Then I opened it up to discover, of all things, a picture of Mitt and Ann Romney.
This raises a lot of questions for me:
- What would I do with a photo of Mitt and Ann Romney? Even if I was a fan, would I frame it? Is it supposed to go in the office? Do I put it on Facebook? How does this photo factor into my life?
- The photo is a candid shot. Why, of all the choices one could make, would you decide to send out a candid photo of Mitt and Ann? Is it supposed to make them seem more relatable? Is it so I can lie and say I snapped the picture myself at a campaign event? The last I checked, Mitt was not so good with the candid moments -- is this a misstep or a way to make up for the “stiff” image?
- A letter** accompanied the photo thanking me for my loyalty to the Republican party. Who did the fact checking here? I am a registered democrat with an Obama sticker in my car (more on that later). I’m not one of those people who is independent or doesn’t sign up anywhere. I’m publicly affiliated, and it’s not with the Republican side. (OK, now that I've read the letter again, I realize I can answer #1. I'm supposed to put the photo in my home or office as a sign that I stand with Mitt and Ann.)
- The letter also said that if I liked the photo, I should consider paying for it. (It was more delicate than that, but I think we all know what I’m talking about, and I know both sides do it.) I understand the psychological principal of reciprocity, and it doesn’t work with me. I don’t pay for return address labels I didn’t ask for either. Also, since said letter attacks the liberal agenda, and if one references #3, I think it would be obvious why I’m not paying for this particular “gift.”
- Mr. Romney addressed me as Laurel Fain Mills. A lot of people know my middle name thanks to stuff like this here web address, but I feel like this narrows down the field of people who could have given the RNC my info into two categories a) my mortgage company or b) someone who likes to mess with me. Since the SO has not taken credit for this one yet, I feel like there could still be a prankster out there. If so, I’d love to know who you are. This was a good one, and I applaud you for it.
Obviously, the amount of time I’ve spent considering this subject is reason enough for why I find the mail so entertaining. I am easily amused, and now I’m easily amused with Romney memorabilia.
I can’t wait to see what’s waiting for me this afternoon.
* I should clarify that I love the mail as it is delivered to my home. I still don’t like going to the post office.
** For people who like random letters. (Download Mitt_romney)
Long Lost Post: An Open Letter To The Makers Of Diet Dr. Pepper
Originally published June 5, 2008:
Dear Liars The Makers of Dr. Pepper,
Usually, I am one of your biggest addicts fans. Initially, I was heart broken when my dentist insisted that for the love of God and the health of my already enamel-deficient teeth suggested I make the switch to diet cola. I thought it meant the end of taste. But, the first time I drank your product, I had to double check that someone hadn't started a party in my mouth and forgotten to send me an invitation. It was that good. In the words of my friend Susan, "Did you strike a deal with the devil for that recipe because that's one amazing soda?"
You say that Diet Dr. Pepper tastes just like regular Dr. Pepper, and it's true. You are one of the few companies I believe believed in. I wish I didn't have to put that last sentence in the past tense.
As a devotee of your product, I, of course, purchase Diet Dr. Pepper throughout the year, and therefore throughout a variety of sweepstakes seasons. I've seen you through many contests and promotional tie-ins. X-Men 2 in the summer of 2003? I was there. Superbowl ticket giveaways? Done that. With a fierce love of Harrison Ford and Shia LaBeouf, I actually looked forward to the Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull promotion this summer.
(On a side note to my main complaint, I do think it's pretty crappy to make "limited edition" cans, and then only have two kinds of cans, but I don't plan on hording ant/wasp attractants collecting this particular memorabilia anyway.)
All Dr. Pepper products associated with the Indiana Jones contest clearly state that "1 in 6 wins." To this claim, I must say, one in six my a$%.
Since your website is kind enough to keep track of how many codes I enter, I know for a fact that I put in nine codes without winning. Nine. "0 in 9" is a far, far cry from "1 in 6." Even if I look at the numbers upside down, it still doesn't add up.
Then, after all of the codes I have entered, it turns out that number 10 is a winner. (Again, still not within the confines of the original and promised six codes.) Yeah! I thought, I'm finally a winner! (The self-worth implications of said thought will have to be evaluated later.) I'm finally a winner, but what do I get? Is it a coupon? Maybe some Dr. Pepper gear? No, it's a screen saver. A screen saver. And it's an ugly screen saver at that. You're thinking that it might be fun to have Harrison Ford on the computer. So am I. Then I realize that my Indiana Jones screen saver is simply the title of the movie against a yellow background. The title of the movie. Against a yellow background. I didn't want a screen saver to begin with (I already have fish), and I certainly didn't want an ugly screen saver at that.
Maybe you think I'm being greedy. Maybe you think I expect to win some glorious trip to the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and meet Harrison Ford. I do not. All I really want is to win one freaking bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper. One 20 oz. bottle. Is that really so much to ask?
Of course, all this being said, I will still be addicted to in love with your product, so it's not that there's any real danger I will stop purchasing Diet Dr. Pepper or organize a boycott (sad but true, I come to you with only empty threats), but you have lost my trust. And trust is a lot harder to earn than brand loyalty.
Sincerely,
Laurel Mills
Disillusioned Diet Dr. Pepper Drinker*
* I now realize I might overuse the word "disillusioned."
Inappropriate With A Dash Of Bad Timing
I don’t always have the best timing. I tend to fall in love with new restaurants just before they go out of business, arrive at boutiques during the 30-minute window the owner has gone for lunch and discover listings for events two days after they happened.
Usually, my poor timing is just inconvenient. On other occasions, it’s downright awkward.
Last summer, I took in a cat that I found in the woods behind the SO’s house. You might remember her.* She was declawed, skinny and nearly hairless, so I gave her a name that I thought was befitting of the time we would be spending together trying to get her well.
At the time, the SO and I already had two dogs and a cat, and he made it clear we would not be adding to the menageries. (The SO has to draw the hard line on pets with me. Otherwise, we would have a zoo.) A couple of potential new homes for her fell through, and the days she was supposed to stay with me turned into weeks.
In the middle of July, after months of having my house on the market, I decided to rent it out. I placed the Craig’s List ad and expected for it to take some time. Instead, I had three couples ready to sign a lease within 48 hours. Not wanting to waste time, I decided to move out as fast as I could. This amped up moving schedule also meant that I needed to find a new foster home for my rescued kitty ASAP.
A very kind friend helped me find a foster family. All I had to do was run the cat to a particular vet for her second round of shots. (I mention this only so that my vet doesn’t think I was cheating on him. The other vet had a relationship with the animal rescue service.)
I didn’t realize the vet I was seeing required appointments, so I got there only to find out that they couldn’t see me for a few hours. I probably could have called first, but considering my aversion to the phone, I obviously didn’t. Not wanting to stress the cat out with too much travel, I left her with the vet’s office until I could come back for the appointment. Also, I had been keeping one of those plastic collars on the cat to help her hair grow back, but I decided to take it off for our vet visit.
When I came back and they handed me the cat, I saw that she had rubbed off the hair where she would have had eyebrows if cats had eyebrows. (That plastic collar wasn’t cruel after all for anyone who might have judged me.)
“What happened here?” I said.
“That’s pretty bad,” the veterinary assistant said. “Your cat might be a self-mutilator.”
“The cat might be a what?”
“A self-mutilator. It’s a type of anxiety disorder. It’s very rare, but it does happen.”
Thinking of the Xanax in my purse at the time, I knew you couldn’t give a cat an anxiety disorder, but I still felt kind of guilty. “An anxiety disorder?” I said.
“Have you noticed anything strange about her?”
I suppose I had been too distracted by her near-hairless state and love of rubbing up against my face to notice anything else.
“How much does the cat sleep?” she said.
At that moment, I realized that I never saw the cat sleep. I had been taking care of an anxiety-ridden, insomniac cat for four weeks and never noticed? Now my guilt was more akin to shame.
“Not much,” I said.
“Yep, it’s probably the anxiety,” she said. “We’ll just put her on some meds, and it should help out.”
After an examination by the vet, who confirmed the anxiety diagnosis, I took the cat’s prescription and was on my way. My next stop was to meet the cat’s new foster family in the parking lot of a local movie theater.
So, there I was, standing in the parking lot of a strip mall (most likely wearing yoga pants covered in dog hair and a torn t-shirt) with a self-mutilating cat and a bottle of kitty Prozac when the cat’s new foster parents got out of the car. I handed the cat over and told them all about our adventure at the vet.
“Thank you so much for helping me out. I really appreciate it,” I said. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“I think we’ve got it,” the woman said, “but what’s her name?”
“This is going to seem really inappropriate,” I said. It had been a big week in pop culture news. “But I’ve been calling her Amy Winehouse.”
"Ah."
(She was in rehab at my house. I thought it was fitting. Then Amy Winehouse died tragically, and even though the foster family was very kind about it, I still felt like an incredibly insensitive person. )
That day, I sent off a self-mutilating, anti-depressant-taking, nearly-hairless cat named Amy Winehouse to a new foster family three days after Amy Winehouse died.
It is a day that will forever be marked by shame.
*Amy Winehouse really is the name that stuck. I just never took to Buscemi. The above exchange actually happened.