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.
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.
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)
Current Signs Of My Internet Addiction*
1. I don't just visit People.com too frequently, I hit refresh when I'm on People.com because I feel that strong a need for the latest info on the Robert Pattinson/Kristen Stewart cheating scandal. Not only do I not know Robert Pattinson or Kristen Stewart, I don't even like the Twilight movies.
2. I begin most of my sentences with, "Well, on Pinterest ..." When I'm not on Pinterest, I'm doing fun things like pasting wallpaper to the side of an old dresser, making concoctions with shredded chicken from the crock pot and removing the den doors. (Yes, I physically took down the doors to the den.) Last night, I washed banana out of my hair after reading about homemade hair masks on, what else, Pinterest.
3. Perhaps of greatest concern, I'm newly obsessed with memes. (At present, my favorites are "drunk" Irish baby and "Just describe your lunch to me!") I Googled how to put text on images in Photoshop. A lot of my evenings involve finding photos of the dogs, putting phrases on them and emailing said photos to the SO who is all of two feet away on the couch. If he doesn't pick up his iPhone in the evening, it's most likely my fault because he's tired of getting a notifcation when I send him Carat and Cassidy memes. I should also mention that I'm not good at this.
I'd say that I should find a hobby, but I think that was my original intention with Pinterest ...
* "Current signs" because it's not like this is a new phenomenon.
Wet And Wild
This past week, the SO and I, along with some family members made our annual pilgrimage to the Big Kahuna’s Water Park in Destin, Florida.
Not too much has changed since last year. The slides are pretty much the same, the food is still overpriced and everyone in charge is someone who I could have, in theory, birthed. The “ma’am” quotient seems to be up, but I’m trying not to dwell on it. It’s possible that my move to the full-on Spanx bathing suit has something to do with it.
(I love the suit, but there’s no liquid consumption when I’m in that one. Once the Spanx bathing suit goes on, it’s not coming off unless I’m done for the day. I learned that lesson after a particularly grueling incident in a public bathroom which may or may not have caused other patrons to believe I was a) wrestling with myself b) experiencing a seizure or c) being tortured to death by a large animal. I’m also pretty sure my waiting friends thought that I either had GI issues or an eating disorder considering how long I was absent. I like to get that suit in place, leave it and go through the inevitable undressing struggle later, in the privacy of my own home. Yes, there are breaks involved to catch my breath.)
I also saw a new sign this year. It’s possible that the sign was there last year, but I feel like I would have noticed it then, too.
In addition to the warnings about heart conditions, pregnancy and back problems, this kept popping up in large, large letters: “Do not ride if you are ill with diarrhea.”
This was a warning on every ride. It was one of the largest warnings. Frankly, I found it unsettling.
As someone who tends to wonder about the origins of signs, I couldn’t help but think about what led to this little gem.
It’s actually hard to come up with something more humiliating than being blamed for excessive poop at the water park. Honestly, I could have nightmares. It cannot be pleasant to be that person. Part of me wants to hug him or her. The predominant part of me wants to send a reassuring card and make sure we never touch skin. (I wash my hands about 20 times a day. I have issues.)
Of course, I quickly had to put all of that out of my head for the sake of enjoying the water park. I still have some questions, but I’m also pretty sure I don’t want the answers.
I purposefully don’t know what’s in a hot dog, I don’t ask about expiration dates at Six Flags and I think this Big Kahuna’s mystery will join those ranks. I’m pretty sure curiosity would kill my love of lazy rivers here, and I just can’t allow that to happen.
Also, for anyone keeping track, the best tattoo I saw this year was “Stray Dog” inked vertically down someone’s spine.
Book Review: You Have No Idea
You Have No Idea by Vanessa Williams and Helen Williams is an intriguing and honest look into the world of celebrity, tabloid scandal and family. While chronicling Vanessa Williams’ life, beginning with her discovery of the nude photo scandal that would end her reign as Miss America, and leading up the present, as she ponders an empty nest after years of child-rearing, the book also explores Vanessa and Helen’s feelings about the course their lives have taken and the love they share.
While I enjoyed reading the behind-the-scenes take on Vanessa Williams’ life in the spotlight, it was Helen’s character that I found most fascinating. Raised away from her biological mother and often beaten by her adoptive parents, Helen’s life was not easy. Despite these formidable beginnings, Helen earned a place in college, met and married Vanessa’s father Milton, raised two children and enjoyed a decades long career as a school teacher.
Helen admittedly had trouble expressing affection for her children because of the stark contrast to her own childhood, but her support and love for Vanessa, from scandal to failed marriages, is unwavering. I believe she refers to herself as a force to be reckoned with in the book, and I have no doubt it’s true.
I imagine most people have a Helen somewhere in their family, even if she doesn’t resemble your mother. Her no-nonsense, take-it-on-the-chin approach to life, loss and all of the in between is frank and familiar. Helen is a woman you would want in your corner. (You have to check out her list, and if I was any of the ladies from The View, I’d watch my back.)
If you want to peek into the world of celebrity and family, You Have No Idea is a good read.
* This is a paid review for Blogher, but the opinions expressed are my own.
When I Grow Up, I Want To Be Like My Dogs*
I absolutely believe that the dog is man’s best friend. (Or any pet for that matter. I know that not everyone is a dog person.) Pets offer unconditional love. They are cute. They can’t speak, so they can’t whine or complain. They can be loyal to a fault.
I love almost everything about my dogs. (I use the plural because I had a dog, and the SO had a dog when we met. By now, I think of myself as having two dogs.) I also know they can be much better to me than I am to them.
This might be a little too All I Really Need to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten, but if I could do it (and I’m trying), I would adopt these three traits from my dogs.
1. Every morning and evening, we feed the dogs. We don’t buy expensive or fancy dog food. (It’s Purina. You can find it at Wal-Mart.) Carat and Cassidy have never even had wet dog food. We buy the exact same dog food every time we go to the store. There is the same dry kibble waiting for the dogs every day, and still, whenever it’s time to eat, Carat is just as excited as she would be the first time she was ever given a meal.
All you have to do is say, “Carat, are you hungry? Do you want to eat?” and she literally runs circles around herself with joy.
Carat doesn’t get in ruts. She’s not dissatisfied with what she has. She doesn’t get bored or take things for granted. Every morning and evening is just as wonderful as any other for the sheer fact that she gets to eat.
2. Cassidy is kind of like my little bodyguard. She goes everywhere that I go. Every morning (or, every other morning, whatever), when I get in the shower, she sits on the end of the bed and waits for me to get out. Before she eats her breakfast, she checks to see where I am to make sure that I’m OK. If I’m particularly upset, she senses it and sleeps on the floor right below me. She gives up her bed to be near me.
I, on the other hand, go out when I want to. I take trips and leave her with friends. I forget to buy dog food on the way home from work or have to wait for my next paycheck to take her to the vet for her shots.
She would have me watch her every time she eats, but I don’t.
It doesn’t matter. No matter what I do, Cassidy is the same good-hearted, adorable companion she’s always been. She doesn’t hold grudges. (She peed on my foot once when we moved, and I was working a lot, but that was years ago.) She doesn’t operate on a score system or tit for tat. She doesn’t expect to get as much as she gets. She just gives and seems perfectly content to do so.
3. If dogs really are smiling when they wag their tails, my dogs spend most of their waking hours smiling. Sometimes it’s a huge grin over a treat (even their generic brand biscuits – again, they don’t’ care about labels). Other times it’s a big smile when you say one of their names. Mostly, it’s just a consistent wag/smile because we’re there. What do they need? Food, a warm place to rest and us.
They are so happy just to be, and they express it in the only way they know how – by wagging their tails.
I wish I remembered to smile as much.
Feel free to call this my cheesy post of the month. I’m sure I deserve it, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I really love me some animals.
* I'm also sure I opened myself up to a lot of jokes with this title, but can we avoid any comments with the word "bitch" in them? Thank you in advance.
In Which Laurel Learns A Very Valuable Lesson
Until Tuesday, I had assumptions about certain aspects of the world -- mainly cemeteries.
- Grave robbing was a 19th century problem. You know, something that ended with Dickens. I’d imagined grave robbing in the same age as street urchins, chimney sweeps and people who said, “Blimey, I’d like to get my hands on that ring.”
- Cemeteries were like parks. They closed at dark, and while it was encouraged that you leave at sunset, there was no one to really enforce that rule. All horror movies (not exactly the best source I guess, considering that I don’t want to be beheaded by a ghost) and Supernatural have led me to believe that you can always get into -- and out of -- a cemetery.
- Other than teenagers wanting to drink, fool around or mess with urban legends, no one goes into a cemetery after dark anyway, right, so again, probably not too much security.
Based on these assumptions, I didn’t pay too much attention when I went to Elmwood, Birmingham’s main cemetery. Without getting too deep into this, I went to put some flowers on my great-grandmother’s grave. She lived until I was 13. My paternal grandparents passed away before I was born.
Anyway, I had no idea how many rules cemeteries had. (I mean, really, other than those beheading ghosts, I couldn’t think of much that could go wrong there.) I was very wrong.
First, there are rules about flowers. I’d tell you what those rules are, but the list was so long (10 different points!) that I got lazy. As per usual, I just did what I wanted to do.
I also suppose that when I got distracted by the many, many flower rules – and let’s not even get into regulations about other acceptable mementos – I didn’t see that the cemetery had hours.
It never occurred to me that a cemetery would have hours of business. (Please refer to point #2 at the top. I really kind of thought I was at a park.)
You can imagine my surprise/abject fear when I decided to leave the cemetery only to see large, locked gates in front of me.
Next to the locked gates was a sign that said, “Gates close promptly at 5:30.”
“Now you tell me,” I thought. It was 5:45.
There were no cars around. The office closed at 4:30 (that I did see when I arrived). I grabbed the map that I had gotten and decided to drive around to all of the other exits figuring that at least one would be open in case of emergency or have a really lackluster lock.
This was not the case.
Around this time, I might have been driving around like a mad woman wondering how I would explain to anyone that I had locked myself in a cemetery without ending up in even more therapy. Would I call my mom, have her pick me up, scale the fence and come back for my car in the morning? Would the SO even believe me when I told him where I was? Would I actually have to sleep in my car here?
Anxiety at this point: 11 on a scale of 1-10.
I was circling back towards the main office when I saw a car at the gate. I pulled directly behind him like there was nothing at all odd about the two of us heading out just before 6:00 p.m.
It turns out that I was behind the security guard, so while I escaped the cemetery, I also got a very stern lecture about reading signs and obeying rules.
I was so glad to be out of there, I would have taken an hour-long tongue-lashing. Fortunately, elderly security guards from cemeteries just want to go home, too.
And now I know – grave-robbing is still a very real concern so cemeteries have hours. (I might be the only person who didn't know this considering that when I tried to recount my harrowing evening to the SO, he said, "I mean, I knew cemeteries closed.")
This is one of the few mistakes I plan to never, ever make again. Maybe, just maybe, doing what I want to do without reading all the way to the end of the pamphlet isn’t always going to work out.
In Which I Audition For A Reality Show
I don’t know why I get the e-mails that I get. Some of them seem too good to be true – secret shopper opportunities and large Target gift cards included. Others are press releases that have little to do with me (“U.S. Prepares Secret Charges Against Dictator X”). Some are entirely in Arabic.
However, when a little e-mail popped up in my inbox a few months ago asking if my home was cluttered and I needed help, I decided to respond.
I disdain clutter. I am a neat person. We have known some hoarders, so my mother is the anti-hoarder. This is a trait she has passed on to me. For everything that comes in, something goes out, and the only thing I’m sentimental about is cards and letters. If you come over and don’t see something you gave me, save yourself the pain and don’t ask, but know I appreciated the thought.
Unfortunately, someone I care very much about doesn’t worry about clutter as much as I do. When you throw in the fact that we both work from a home that’s less than 1,000 square feet, well, there can be issues.
I wrote a couple of sentences back to the e-mail. The sender wanted pictures. Within five minutes of sending the photos, this e-mail arrived, “We want to talk to you.”
We chatted on the phone, I sent more photos and I got another e-mail reading, “We’d like to send a producer to your house. Does tomorrow work?”
I wasn’t sure whether or not to be thrilled (free stuff for the house!) or ashamed (I’m a reality TV producer’s dream).
Also, I’d done all of this while the SO was out of town for work, so I had to call him and tell him what I’d been up to. You know that phone call, when you tell your SO that you’ve been scheming to have his house made over (TV crew included) while he went away for the weekend? Pretty standard stuff.
“Have you heard of the Style Network, honey?”
“I guess,” he said.
“How do you feel about being on it?”
When the producer came over to do our interview and take a tour of the house, she and I had a 45-minute interview. She and the SO talked for 10 minutes.
Beyond the “how do you feel about the clutter?” questions, there was “Is this the man you want to family with?” “How would you feel about someone else coming in and telling you what to do with your space?” and “Is this a deal breaker for you?”
That’s when I had another realization: I was the source of drama for this television production. They either expected me to argue with the SO about the house or argue with the organizing team about my house. I was their Omarosa.
I could complain, but whom are we kidding? If someone is going to bring drama to a housing renovation, it’s going to be me. I can bring drama to a lunch for the mute. I like to think of it as passion, but I could be wrong.
We took two and a half hours of footage, I sent more photos and there were lots of phone conversations, but unfortunately, we didn’t make the cut. In some ways, it’s nice to know people need more help than I do. In other ways, I really, really wanted free stuff.
Also on the plus side, I appreciate that the SO continues to put up with my shenanigans, and on the negative one, there’s a tape out there somewhere with a whole lot of me bitching about binders and photo equipment.
* This is not one of the photos I sent of my house. I don't do plants.
The Hidden Dangers Of Seasonal Paper Products
The summer I was 17, I took a job at a greeting card store. (I know, I know. As one co-worked once said, “How many jobs have you had?” I’ve never counted, but let’s just go with “a lot.”) I won’t name the store, but I will add that if you turned over one of our cards, you would not be greeted with the special gold crown that lets you know someone cares.
For a place that was supposed to specialize in spreading joy and sentiment, it was an unusually tense environment. Our manager cried a lot. I think it had to do with a boyfriend, but after a week, I wanted to spend most of my days crying, too.
I blame this weepiness on two unfortunate aspects of the job:
- I actually had to spend two days inventorying Precious Moments figurines. Even if I liked Precious Moment figurines, going down a three page list and counting statuettes like “Bobby Fishes,” “Bobby and Ellen Down by the Lake” and “Susie’s Goodnight Prayer,” would nearly bore anyone to death.
2. We sold those nature sounds CDs that were very popular in the mid-‘90s, and they were housed in a special display that ran samples of each soundtrack over and over again in an hour-long loop. No human being is meant to hear laughing dolphins at 15 minutes past the hour, every hour, and maintain his or her sanity. I finally understood what drove Noriega out.
As a card store, we also carried a lot of seasonal merchandise, and according to the employee handbook (the very long employee handbook, I might add), seasonal merchandise that did not sell on clearance had to be destroyed after a certain point. Employees couldn’t take it home, it couldn’t be donated – it had to be thrown away. (It makes no sense to me either.)
As the lowest member on the card store totem pole, I was also on trash duty. One mid-August day, it was finally time for me to tote the St. Patrick’s Day napkins up to the dumpster.
(If you have never worked in a mall, you do not know the joy of going to the dumpster through the maze of hallways that runs through the back of your shopping center. This is not a job you want to do after dark.)
Anyway, as I was toting my boxes of St. Patrick’s day table décor through the back of the mall to the dumpster, I ran into one of the security guards.
“Those new napkins?” he said.
“I don’t know about new,” I said, “but they haven’t been opened.”
“Where you going with those?”
“The trash.”
“Really?” he said.
“Really,” I said. “Store Policy.”
“That’s a shame,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
When we got to his floor, he looked back over at me and said, “Oh s&%$,” and grabbed all of my seasonal décor before exiting the elevator. I continued my ride up to the dumpsters.
What he was going to do with all of those St. Patrick’s Day table decorations, I don’t know. Why he would take them from a 17-year-old girl, I really don’t know. I can only imagine that he really disdained waste, or for an older black man, loved March 17th with a passion few can understand.
However, knowing our store policy, I wasn’t really into the idea of getting fired from the poor man’s version of Hallmark for “stealing” plastic shamrock tablecloths. With cameras being everywhere and all, and the products never making it to the trash, I thought I should report the incident to my always-tense manager.
“What happened to the paper plates?” she said, her tears turning to an odd form of rage.
I repeated my story.
“I’m calling security,” she said.
Since a security guard committed “the crime,” this did not seem like a good idea to me, but what was a girl to do?
Another security guard showed up to take my report. (All of this over six-month-old paper products, by the way.)
This created a terrible conundrum in my teenage brain: If I really reported the security guard, I might get a guy fired over napkins. If I said next-to-nothing, I’d have a security guard that really hated me wandering the mall. After all, it’s not like there were going to be a ton of suspects for who reported the theft that happened with two people in an elevator, and I was sure my story would be the focus of some mall-wide security meeting.
I ended up giving a ridiculously vague description of the security guard. “He was average?”
It felt like enough to seem like I was trying, but not nearly enough to get anyone fired. It was not, however, good for assuaging my manager’s rage. “I don’t think you’re anywhere close to being ready for cash register duty.”
The next week, I went on a planned vacation. There was some trouble with my return flight, so I asked my mom to call the card store and ask about my schedule. I’d done so much not to get fired, I didn’t really want to get in trouble for missing a shift over a late plane.
When my mom called back, she said, “They said you weren’t anywhere on the schedule. I think they forgot you work there.”
“I think we should just keep it that way.”
And there you have the illustrious story of my two-week career in retail, as well as the reason I prefer to buy all of my greeting cards at Target.
Whitney, The Misuse Of Poison Lyrics And A Valentine
I was a big fan of Whitney Houston.
When I was 9, I sang “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” on a near-daily basis. I even performed her song in front of six grades during our school’s annual dance contest. (Long story short: We didn’t even get an honorable mention, and I was pissed. My hand motions were so descriptive.)
When I first opened the cassette tape holding “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and found the mass-produced, signed photo of Whitney at the back of the lyrics booklet, I thought I had Whitney’s actual autograph and carried it around with me for weeks.
(On another note, what do you call that thing that you unfold with all the song lyrics and info about the producers? Does it have a name? I considered it a study guide for learning my favorite songs for mirror performances, but I imagine any musician reading this is hanging his or her head in shame with such a description.)
When The Bodyguard came out, I was still carrying a torch for Kevin Costner. (I know, I know, but I thought Dances With Wolves was a really sensitive film.) I could not wait to see Whitney and Kevin together, and “I Will Always Love You” became my new ideal for romantic love.
Incidentally, at the time, I also thought the movie had a happy ending. When Whitney climbed off the plane to hug Kevin Costner on the tarmac, I thought they were getting back together. I think this is the same kind of wishful thinking/re-writing of history that made me want to be a writer, but I also just might not be that bright. Mulholland Falls is way beyond me, and I’ve also crafted my own ending to Beverly Hills, 90210 that has nothing to do with the finale or the current incarnation of the show. (In my mind, Brandon and Kelly got back together. I live on the precipice of fan fiction.)
At 20, I broke up with someone using Whitney Houston lyrics. The remix of “It’s Not Right But It’s OK,” was pretty popular at the time. Said boyfriend was explaining to me, after arguing that we should get back together, that he was going to continue dating me and another girl when we started back to school in the fall, and something finally clicked.
“It’s not right, but it’s OK,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s not right, but it’s OK.”
Then there was some staring.
“I’d rather be alone that unhappy,” I said. Then I stood up to leave. (I loved melodrama back in the day). “And I’d rather be alone,” I said.
(This same boyfriend once quoted Poison lyrics to me during one of our fights, so it seemed reasonable to me at the time. Plus, I think my choice was far more dignified than, “Instead of making love, we both made our separate ways.” I also stand by the sentiment – no relationship is worth constant misery. I would rather be alone than unhappy.)
In summation, I guess this cheesy, nerdy, completely lacking in rhythm and soul, tone deaf girl wants it known that she’ll miss Whitney Houston. She was a great talent, and she made some wonderful music. I’m also pretty appreciative for that break-up. Senior year of college was a lot more fun without a BF.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to let a certain someone know that I’d like to feel the heat with him* this Valentine’s Day.
*Mom and Dad -- that is not meant to be dirty.
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.
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!
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.
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.