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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
Disillusioned DIY: 4 Fun Pinterest Projects & 1 Craft To Avoid
I have a Pinterest problem. It's not like I really needed another reason to be on the Internet, but the universe still gave me one. It has made me want to cook a lot more, but my house is also starting to look like a bizarre "trash to treasure" experiment gone mad.
Since I don't volunteer or help the community in other ways, I thought I could at least help someone out there from drowning in pins and boards. Here are a few of my successes and failures in the DIY realm*:
I had a hard time believing this bread was actually going to turn out, but it did. I am now obsessed. I've made four loaves, and we've already eaten two. Admittedly, we like to add cheese at my house, but it's been quite the tasty adventure. The SO thinks I'm a domestic goddess, and my new Le Creuset oven (not a cheap investment, but worth it) looks really pretty in the kitchen even when I'm not using it. I am very pleased.
Despite my rather perilous learning curve, this tutorial was incredibly helpful. I've made about seven of these. (Wow, this is starting to sound like I have a lot more time on my hands than I do.) Here are a couple of suggestions:
A) Do not buy traditional Christmas lights or the lights from Big Lots. You will spend too much time putting those lights in the bottles. I actually ended up pushing each individual light into the bottle and had an incredibly sore hand. Buy LED string lights. They are thin and much easier to work with.
B) If you're don't think too much about science like me, you might have an urge to clean your wine bottles right after drilling the hole. Don't. The wine bottle will be very hot from the drilling, and what happens to hot glass when it comes into contact with cold water? It cracks. Fooled by the laws of nature yet again.
3. Coin Jewelry
This was another handy tutorial. If I was you, I'd actually follow all of the instructions. Instead of stabilizing my drilling with a wood block, I decided to use a phone book because it was nearby. This was not the best idea. Still, the holes were easy to drill, and I can finally do something with all of the foreign money I've saved from trips throughout the years.
I put some coins on a key ring instead of a jewelry ring, including one coin each from Japan, Thailand and Europe to represent the around-the-world trip a BFF and I took in 2003. It makes for a far more elegant souvenir than I expected.
Sometimes the fact that I can't stand clutter runs afoul of my Southern sentimentality. On my first date with the SO, we were given free t-shirts by the concert venue. The t-shirts are hideous. They look like hypercolor without actually being hypercolor and advertise a local car dealership. The only sizes available were large and extra large. Nothing is attractive about these t-shirts. (Stuff like this happens when your first date is to a Def Leppard concert.) However, when the SO tried to throw out his t-shirt, it spawned a long conversation, the crux of which was, "How can you even think about getting rid of something that represents such a special day in our lives?"
I lost this argument because of the ugly factor, and it spawned a DIY t-shirt projects hunt. Enter the scarf. While this isn't my favorite project of all time, I do like it. Plus, the red circles come from the aforementioned t-shirt so I feel like I have a piece of that day without pouting that my boyfriend won't wear a Toyota t-shirt when we go out and about.
Now, even though I don't really like to sew, sometimes a complete "no sew" project looks too ragged to me. While I didn't sew the loops that make up the bulk of the scarf, I did sew the bits of t-shirt that connect the loops for a somewhat neater look. (Looking back at the original post, I now realize how much prettier her scarf was than mine. Sigh.)
5. It Is Not Easy To Cut Glass At Home
I feel like I've said this 1,000 times by now and people probably wonder why I'm oddly bitter towards glass crafts, but this undertaking was one of the biggest pains I've ever encountered. Take a moment to look at these glasses:
Now let me mention the 50 broken wine bottles I threw out in various pieces to get here. I saw this video and thought I was set. Clearly, I was not. Also, these are my three best examples, and you can see that they're not completely even.
To think that I did all of this to avoid paying for a $29.99 set of the exact same glasses makes me question my decision-making skills. (The scorer was $25.) If you value your sanity, and the unbroken skin on your hands, leave this one alone.
* I never claimed I was a photographer.
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.
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.
My Sinister Side
The universe does not want me to exercise (or perhaps even leave my house). How do I know this? A few weeks ago, on a day when all I did was walk, sit on a stool and do some deep breathing (I’ve gotten into some new relaxation techniques), I woke up at 5:30 a.m. with horrible pain in my left knee. I have a floating knee cap there, but I still never saw two Aleve and an ice pack coming from that day.
Who injures themselves walking and breathing? Apparently, me.
Perhaps more disturbing is that this latest “injury” goes to support my theory that the left side of my body might be evil.
Not evil in a possessed, does-amoral-things-when-I’m-asleep way or anything, but still just a little off. Maybe I just have a difficult left side? I could call it ornery?
On top of the floating left knee cap, I’ve broken my left wrist twice, and yes, when it rains, my wrist hurts. Sometimes it hurts a lot. I have a special brace, like all the cool kids do.
Even the left side of my mouth has issues. I have two crowns and need a third on that side of my mouth. During my senior year of high school, when I had the two root canals that led to the crowns, I was in so much pain before the root canals that I stopped chewing with that side of my mouth. To this day, I still can’t seem to break the habit and most often use the right side of my mouth to eat. (If you thought I was weird before...)
I even think I broke my left toe once, too.
While I like to joke that the left side of my body is evil, I’ve learned that not everyone appreciates this humor. Especially people in the health care field.
On my first visit to a new dentist, he and I were going over the results of my X-rays.
“You have a little decay in some of your molars,” he said. “But I think we can just keep an eye on it for now.”
“Are they on the left side of my mouth?” I said.
“They are,” he said. “How did you know that?”
“I just figured,” I said. “That’s the evil side of my mouth.”
My dentist didn’t laugh. He cocked his head to one side and stared at me in a way that clearly said, “I’m not sure this is a patient I should have given nitrous oxide.”
Little did he know, that was probably the most coherent I’d been during the whole visit. These are just the kinds of things I say. But when I walked into a wall on the way out of the office, I didn’t exactly help my case.*
* That last part was due to the nitrous.
My First Drink
If you’ve been reading my blog for awhile, you might have picked up that I have some proficiency with alcoholic beverages. At one time, my shot vocabulary was more impressive that what I knew about geometry. (The ingredients for a surfer on acid? Yes. Which is one is the isosceles triangle? No.)
And while this might come as quite a surprise, it wasn’t always this way. I didn’t drink in high school – as in ever, at all.
I was terrified of getting in trouble and convinced that drinking would destroy my chances at going to a good college, but I decided that my senior trip to Europe would be a great time to have that long-awaited first drink. (College applications were done, and it was Europe. The legal trouble aspect was gone.)
Since I was in Italy, you’d think my logical choice would be wine. Even without wine, you’d think I’d go for a beer, but after having a sip of beer at 13, I decided that it was one of the most foul-tasting liquids I had ever put in my body and wanted nothing to do with it. (Nothing to do with it until I was a sophomore in college that is, but bygones.)
Surrounded by all the choices in the world at an Irish bar in Italy (I might have already been starting off on the wrong foot, but I think it was close to our hotel), I ordered a margarita.
“A margarita?” the bartender said.
“Yeah, a margarita.” I’d seen my parents order them enough, and it seemed like a perfectly lovely choice for me.
Of course, there were two major problems with this plan:
- No one in Italy does girly drinks. Traveling abroad, especially in the country of the world’s finest wines, is not the time to order a Midori Sour or Peach Schnappes unless you also want to wear a large neon sign that says “Ignorant American” with an arrow pointing at your head.
- There is no ice in Europe. Ice is kind of important when it comes to a margarita. “Frozen” or “on the rocks,” you’re going to need ice.
Giving me yet another of her confused/disgusted looks, the bartender pulled a martini glass off the shelf, filled it nearly to the rim with straight tequila and squeezed a lime in it.
Not knowing much better, and not wanting to seem like a wimp on my first drinking excursion, I took a swig.
If I thought beer was foul before, I had an entirely new standard.
Still, I couldn’t give up, and I had to keep going with my “margarita.”
I made it through one and a half drinks. (Yes, I was stupid enough to order another one.)
That’s when a friend of mine who knew the potential disaster of what I was actually drinking too my glass away from me.
“You’d have to be very tipsy to want more of that,” he said.
This was more than fine with me because by now, I was feeling very giggly and really needed to use the restroom. A couple girlfriends and I walked back to our hotel, and I was asleep soon after.
When I did have my first real margarita as a freshman in college, I figured the difference in drinks was just another cultural difference – like berets to baseball caps.
It took one re-telling of the story of my first drink in Italy, to a friend whose family was from Italy, for me to realize how innocent (nice word?) I had been. And that maybe picking up a guide book or two wouldn’t have been a terrible choice before heading abroad.
Either way, I can’t say that I recommend straight tequila for the inexperienced drinker. It might not improve your street cred, but a Midori Sour is a lot easier to choke down.
* Obviously, the margarita pictured looks nothing like what I ended up with in Europe.
"Exercise" -- The Laurel Way
In what might not have been one of the wisest decisions, I went in search of fitness programs to go with the Wii on Monday. The SO loves his Mario brothers, but since I prefer games where you don’t die (because what’s the fun in that – especially when you lack good hand-eye coordination), our Wii games are an odd mix of action-packed games that require You Tube video walk-throughs for secret level access and those designed for five-year-olds.
It’s pretty easy to figure out my games – Family Feud, Haunted House, Mickey Paints, and my favorite, Guilty Party. I had “The Malgrave Incident,” which is a puzzle and hidden objects game, but after solving it twice, I decided to trade it in.
In case you’re wondering, Guilty Party allows me to solve mysteries about a missing walrus by questioning witnesses, gathering cards and completing tasks like following the suspect’s eyes with a flashlight. I can play for hours. (Plus, until L.A. Noir comes out for Wii, this is the closest I can get to cracking cases from my sofa.)
We also have the Wii fit game, but due to an unfortunate reading of the E-bay listing, we don’t have the board to go with it.
After eating half a sackful of Krystals on Monday and watching three episodes of Supernatural in a row, I thought that it might not be the worst idea to add some kind of fitness element to the Wii.
I started at Walmart, where I learned that balance boards are $100. That’s a big investment for something that I might only use once, so I moved on to Game Stop in the hopes of finding a pre-owned one.
As an aside, my favorite part of going to Game Stop is that the staff there never knows what to do with me. I’m usually in my yoga clothes that I don’t practice yoga in, and they always ask if I’m looking for my kid first. When they learn that I’m shopping for myself, they tend to get really confused and leave me alone. After the “I want to solve crimes with my Wii” conversation from a few months ago, there’s one guy who avoids me like the plague.
There were no pre-owned balance boards, so I started digging through the used products bin and discovered Personal Trainer 2. At $40, it seemed reasonable, and I went to check out.
While I was at the register, I asked about whether or not pre-owned balance boards ever came in. That’s when the Game Stop employee pointed out, “You know this game is for Playstation, right?”
I did not. (This might be another reason the Game stop staff hates me.)
He and I went back to the bin, but all I could find was a used copy of Personal Trainer Version One for Wii. It was really beat up, and now that I knew Personal Trainer 2 was $40, why would I pay $40 for Version 1?
All of this is to explain how I ended up bringing home the UFC Trainer game. Do I know anything about the UFC? No. However, the game was brand new, promised a work out and cost $30. I figured, “What they hey?”
The SO was confused, to say the least.
So far, in my two attempts to play the game, I barely made it through the four-minute fitness test, and I’ve been yelled at by some guy named Chase or Tito for not getting my jabs in fast enough.
It’s not looking good.
In a few months, I could be able to take you in any fight. More likely, I will be trying to pawn off my “awesome” game at a “great price.”
The lesson: This is why I only spend $30 on my impulse purchases – especially when there’s a Zaxby’s on the way home from Game Stop.
Don't Get Lost In The Music
In my opinion, most every major (and non-major) musical artist has written at least one song that only has one purpose -- talking someone into a one night stand.
(If you think about it, just the act of writing the song shows far more effort than your standard Jaeger bomb and "It's all really about living for the moment" line, so at least it's a step far above the person in the bar hoping they find someone before last call. Still sketchy though? Yes. Supportive of my sister's theory that most people learn to play the guitar to attract the opposite sex? Also yes. However, I'm not sure there's a ton we do as humans that isn't meant to attract the opposite sex. Moving on ...)
Let's look at the evidence:
Elvis Presley: "It's Now or Never"
Bob Seger: "We've Got Tonight" ("Who needs tomorrow?")
Eagle-Eye Cherry: "Save Tonight"
The Dave Matthews Band: "Say Goodbye" ("Tonight we'll be lovers, then go back to being friends.")
Heart: "All I Wanna Do is Make Love to You"
Eve 6: "Here's to the Night"
This list doesn't even come close to the dozens of less-subtly titled songs just called "One Night Stand."
Now, of course, none of these compare to what I consider to be the creepiest song of all time: "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)"
All people seem to remember from that song is, "Yes, I like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain."
No one thinks about, "I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long," "I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kind of mean. But me and my old lady, had fallen into the same old dull routine," or "I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape. At a bar called O'Malley's, where we'll plan our escape."
By "red tape," I assume the dear Rupert Holmes means "talking." I also assume "escape" means "motel room."
This is a song about a man who decides to cheat on his partner, so he goes to the personal ads -- a 1979 personal ad keep in mind, so simply by being Disco-era, it's even ickier -- to meet someone new. Then, lo and behold, while he's waiting for the woman he plans to cheat on his "lady" with, he sees his own partner walk into the bar and realizes that she was planning to cheat on him, too.
Even Wikipedia refers to this song as ending on "an upbeat note."
I think we can all be honest here and admit that if this ever happened in real life, there'd be a lot more denial, anger, shame and possible shoving than heartfelt reconciliation. (Then again, two people like this probably deserve each other, and their other options for mates would most likely involve swinger's clubs and well, people who place 1970's era personal ads.)
This song is not romantic; it's creepy.
So, I must go back to my original message -- don't get lost in the music. Unless you're looking for that one night stand or trying to track down an unfaithful spouse. Then, I guess, you should save tonight with all the pina coladas and walks in the rain that you can.
And for all those girls out there dreaming of prom night, beware of the soundtrack.
Karaoke And WASPs
Being tone deaf and all, karaoke has always been a challenge. With no musical ability whatsoever, you're pretty much left with three options:
1. Make sure your song is a group song that involves lots of other girls so you're never close to the microphone. Of course, this comes with the obvious side effect that you are part of a large obnoxious group of girls on stage most likely singing "Love Shack" or "I Will Survive," and your dignity is lost somewhere amongst the red headed slut shots you've been taking all evening.*
2. Only sing once everyone else in the bar is too drunk to realize how bad you really are. If you're me, there's always one table left that cannot -- either due to court mandates or liver problems -- reach this level of inebriation.*
3. Learn a song that involves more speaking than singing.
I once saw a girl perform Eminem's "Lose Yourself" and bring the house down. Admittedly, said house was a smoky bar between a Days Inn and a Waffle House, but I still count it as an accomplishment.
Naturally, I went in search of my speaking v. singing karaoke song. I tried Snow's "Informer," but well, it's really hard, and I don't have that much will power. The obvious fallback? Young MC's "Bust A Move."
Now, while I never did actually learn all the words (and more importantly, timing) to "Bust A Move," I did spend a lot of time studying the song.
Since I cannot embed the actual video, I give you this:
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wJCmtZMc1g]
Last week, the SO and I were in the car listening to the Glee soundtrack (that he bought me, by the way), when he declared their version of "Bust A Move" as the whitest version ever. (Clearly, if I had ever mastered "Bust A Move," my rendition would have been the whitest ever, but I digress.)
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRpKy4MbMms]
I countered that I believe the whitest version of "Bust A Move" ever was performed on One Tree Hill. Their version is not only on One Tree Hill, but is also off-key and involves five-year olds.
Unfortunately, you'll have to follow the link on this one, but I think the evidence speaks for itself.
Dissension is welcome in the comments.
*Neither of these have ever stopped me from singing karaoke when I wanted to.
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.
The Obligatory Halloween Post
I tend to write a lot about Halloween. It’s one of my favorite holidays. My mother says I’ve always been this way about Halloween, and I can only assume that I never saw the downside to elaborate costuming and free candy.
I used to spend hours trick or treating, always hoping to stumble on the one cool house that gave out full-sized candy bars. One year, I found that house, and the candy bars were Snickers (my favorite). It was a true triumph. I vowed that when I grew up, I would be that person on the street, but we don’t get trick or treaters, and those full-size candy bars are expensive, so basically, I’d be spending a lot of money to gain five to ten pounds.
When I was younger, I also tended to bounce back and forth between choosing ordinary costumes and those that were incredibly difficult for my mother to make and made no sense to the neighbors.
When I was a witch (normal, yes?), I also had to have a wig, face paint and fake nails. The year I decided to be a ghost, I freaked out the moment I found myself covered from head to toe in a sheet and insisted on wearing my tutu instead. All in all though, I think we can still classify “witch,” “ghost” and “ballerina” as pretty standard.
Then, I decided I needed to be Jem from Jem and the Holograms. Apart from tearing one of my mother’s workout shirts and putting glitter on my face, there wasn’t a lot of room to work with that one.
The same thing happened the year I decided to be Jessica Rabbit. I mean, really, how is a kid in elementary school going to pull that one off? But I took one of my mother’s long red skirts, wore it as a dress and told people that I was Jessica Rabbit. I’m sure my mom feared what the other mothers thought of her allowing her daughter to dress as a cartoon sex symbol, but I was, and always have been, a determined gal.
(Between my love of Jessica Rabbit and Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, I can only assume that apart from an actress and lawyer, I also aspired to be a busty redhead as an adult. Lord only knows what I would have chosen for costumes if Kristina Hendricks had been around then.)
Despite my much-discussed love of the slutty costumes, I’m still a fan of the offbeat, too.
One year, I dressed up as a washed-up country singer because I happened to have a hideous and cheap red wig as well as a Western-style shirt from Old Navy. (Wigs inspire much of my dressing up -- it’s the only reason I was ever Elvira – but if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.)
Fortunately or unfortunately, the year I dressed up as a washed-up country singer also happened to be the year I discovered the voice memo feature on my cell phone. I woke up to a lot of song ideas in the style of “note to self” dictations at various levels of slurring, like:
“Why Did You Have To Ruin My Credit While You Ruined My Virtue?” (the one I apparently shared with everyone all night)
“You Robbed Me Blind While I Was Blinded by Love”
and “You Took Everything But My Tears.”
Considering I have never lent a boyfriend money (what would there be to give?), so-signed an ex’s loan or even shared a utility bill with a man, I have no idea why I was fixated on lost love and financial ruin that night, but there you have it.
This year, I didn’t have quite the same zeal for Halloween costumes. Not even my pumpkin carving was at its finest. I’m not sure if the dampened enthusiasm began when my first costume arrived in the mail damaged, and I had to send it back, or if it’s just that I acted like a normal person for once, but there you have it.
Either way, I ended up at the thrift story on the morning of the one much-anticipated Halloween party I was attending with few ideas. I came home with a housecoat and an ugly dress (‘80s career woman came to mind).
I told a friend about my purchases, and she said, “If you’ve come up with a valid reason to wear a housecoat around all night, go for it. Think of how comfortable you’ll be.”
That night, I put on my housecoat, some blue eye shadow, the ugliest earrings I could find and a shower cap. When anyone asked what was up, I said, “Oh, I’m not a guest. I’m just a neighbor from across the street who came to complain about the noise.”
Appropriate Attire
On Sunday afternoon, I went to one of Birmingham’s outdoor food and music festivals. I was there to volunteer with kids. I had creative writing exercises for them. The group behind me had wild animals, and the group in front of our booth had pumpkins to decorate.
The creative writing was a tough sell.
Thanks to the Birmingham Zoo and their demonstration, I did however learn more about the chicken snake than I ever wanted to know. (The “chicken snake” name comes from their love of eggs and not chickens. Who knew?) I also saw a fabulous feline thing that I was told would not make a good house pet because it could not be litter-box trained. Since I have a domestic short hair cat that cannot be litter-box trained, I thought about asking if they’d make a special exception for me. I mean, sure, they went to zoo school, or whatever you call it, but I had lived the no-litter-box life. I’d been to the front lines.
Since we were in the kids’ area, when I saw a man in a black suit walking a rabbit, I assumed he was a magician. Tuxedo? Tame bunny? Wouldn’t you go to the same place?
I watched him and his bunny throughout my volunteer shift waiting for the act to begin. Where were the never-ending scarves? The pop-up bouquet? A crazy wand that crumbles when anyone but the magician holds it?
After an hour or so – and when the bunny went back into his cage – I realized that this man was no magician. He was just a dude in formal wear walking a rabbit.
I mean, you’d think the rabbit would be cool with being walked by someone in jeans or even sweats. That is either one demanding bunny or one man who is serious about his appearance.
And for the many, many strange things I’ve seen – including the world champion pimp decked out in velour and Cheetah print holding his large gold trophy at the BWI airport – I still think I’m going to have to rank this one right up there.
Also, for anyone who might be wondering, even when you’re the world champion pimp, you fly Southwest. You might be good with the ladies, but apparently, it doesn’t guarantee that you won’t end up with a middle seat.
* P.S. I promise that the small black bump in the second photo is a rabbit. You may have to look closely, but I did capture proof of the bunny on a leash.
The "Mills Slip"
I am not a subtle person.
It’s just one of those gifts I wasn’t born with. My sister is fond of saying that I am incapable of subtlety or keeping anything close to the vest. (Could this very blog be proof of her theory?)
I can’t lie, I tend to say what I’m thinking and when I can’t say what I’m thinking, you can read my emotions all over my face.
I may tell you that I love your haircut, but odds are that if I don’t, my face will involuntarily recoil into a look that implies you took scissors to your head while drunk and taking style cues from the Sneetches.
More than one teacher told me that they judged how well a lecture was going based on my face because it was always obvious whether or not I was getting the point of the lesson.
(When you’re not a subtle person, it’s usually best to have friends who aren’t subtle either. Since I’m likely to use language that some people might find offensive or over-share at any time, it’s best to surround myself with like-minded people. If I ask, “Do my nipples looks askew in this dress?” – which, yes, is an actual quote from a time I tried on a bridesmaid’s dress – I need a friend who finds that funny or is fully prepared to examine my chest area and give me an honest answer.)
In addition to lacking subtlety, I also lack patience, but love efficiency, so I find that these three traits can actually work together in a kind of oddly beautiful congruence. Anyone who uses the word “lady” in a non-ironic way or can’t admit to a secret crush on JWoww, or other embarrassing reality star, would probably best be seated next to someone else at the dinner party. We aren’t going to be pals, and I prefer to know that kind of thing without the tedium of 30 minutes of small talk.
Unfortunately though, sometimes my lack of subtlety even sneaks up on me. Through the years, I have adapted some filters, but my lack of subtlety is so strong that even this thin veil can fail, and when it does, it fails miserably.
If Freud were alive, I think he would have reconsidered calling the “Freudian Slip” a “Mills Slip.” (Sorry to indict the rest of the family, but I have to be consistent. If it were a “Sigmund Slip,” I would have gone with a “Laurel Slip.”)
Many, many years ago before I was deliriously happy and in a committed relationship, a male friend and I went out to eat at a restaurant. When the meal was over, and we were pulling out of the parking lot, I said, “The next time we have sex, we really should go to …”
And complete silence fell over the car.
It took a few seconds, but the look of shock and confusion on my friend’s face helped me realize what I’d said. The name of whatever restaurant, café or taco stand I’d meant to finish that sentence with as a suggestion for our next meal was gone, and it was gone for good.
Where I’d meant to say “lunch,” I’d said “sex,” and there’s no coming back from that one -- especially when you put the words “we” and “have” in front of it. (Luckily, most men are flattered by the idea that you might want to or have thought about sleeping with them, but it’s still hardly an ideal situation.)
In this type of instance, an “I meant to say lunch” is pointless. Not even laugher works well. Silence is an option, but it seems to just turn the uncomfortable moment into a gaping chasm of social faux pas.
I’ve found that when you’ve blown any cover that you have, it’s usually best just to keep the lack of subtlety going.
“So, that was awkward and weird,” I said. “Want a coffee or ice cream?”
Because, really, who doesn’t love a coffee or ice cream? And you’ve got to figure that conversationally, unless you have actual Tourette’s, there’s nowhere to go but up from there.
Dessert And A Case Of Mistaken Identity
In my ongoing attempts not to implicate people and organizations in my misadventures and misdeeds, let’s just say that I was at a storytelling event the other night. (The details from this one are a little harder to disguise, but let’s all pretend, shall we?)
As much as I like storytelling at cocktail parties and on this here blog, I tend to avoid storytelling in public public. I love listening to other people’s stories, but I can be reluctant to tell my own. However, throw in an open bar and a relatively intimate atmosphere, and I tend to find myself signed up for an activity I didn’t plan to participate in at the beginning of the evening.
In an effort to make myself seem slightly more advanced than someone ruled by wine and peer pressure, I also believe in making yourself do something that makes you uncomfortable at least once in awhile. Whether it’s a particularly steep water slide or a scary movie, I like to get out of my comfort zone from time to time.
So, during the storytelling event, lots of people from many different walks of like stood before the group to tell their food stories. Topics ranged from grandmother’s cobbler and eating abroad to arguing over Doritos.
When I got up to tell my story, I talked about my attempts to woo the SO with food. In the beginning of our relationship, I wanted to make him complete meals, from scratch, that included dessert. The only problem was that I didn’t want to go so simple as to make brownies from a box or through the rigmarole of making a cake from scratch. (Plus, every cake I’d made from scratch has turned out horribly dry, and I’ve wished I just went with Betty Crocker to begin with.)
I chose the middle ground of my mother’s easy cobbler – it doesn’t taste like it came from a box, but it doesn’t require the hours of effort of a homemade cake, torte or mousse either.
The recipe is simple. You take a can of pile filling, a Jiffy box of cake mix and a melted stick of butter and put them in a dish in that order. Then, you bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes.
The SO was wowed.
When I found a pie filling of mixed berries, he thought I’d spent hours chopping and assembling his favorite fruits.
The only problem, of course, with keeping up such a ruse is that you have to make the simple dessert seem complicated. Aprons, spilled flour and strategic stains are involved. You also have to be on top of taking out the trash.
Then, one day, the SO came into the kitchen and found the empty can of pie filling.
“Are we having pie instead of cobbler?” Disappointment was clear on his face.
“Why is there a box of cake mix? Did you make a cake?”
I finally had to admit that the homemade cobbler I “toiled” over was nothing more than three ingredients. Ever since, the SO has called that “the day he saw the man behind the curtain,” but truthfully, I was exhausted, and it’s been easier since the truth came out.
The cobbler story went over well. There were laughs, and despite my many, many nervous hand gestures, I’d told my story aloud and in public. It was a minor triumph.
When the event ended, I went to speak with the emcee for the night whom was also talking with a couple. I wanted her to know how much I enjoyed her hosting. The couple next to her told me how much they enjoyed my story.
“It was one of my favorites,” the woman said.
“I really liked it,” the man said.
“I really liked your story, too,” I said to the man.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said.
“No,” I said, very, very sure of myself. “You were in China and you got lost? Some strangers fed you?”
“That wasn’t me,” he said.
Confused, I left the group and went to join the friend I’d come to the party with. “Why is that guy pretending he didn’t tell that food story?” I said. “Do you think he’s embarrassed?”
“Laurel,” my friend said, “there are two Indian men in the room. That’s not the one who told the story.”
Another guest tried to comfort me, “I think that guy was from Colorado, soat least you’ll never have to see him again.”
“No,” I thought, “but now he’s going to go back to Colorado and tell everyone that people from Alabama think all Indians look alike.”
(In my defense, the two Indian men were also wearing nearly-identical checkered shirts. (“One was blue and one was green,” my friend said, but I’m sticking with my story.) Either way, I was extremely embarrassed.)
I went from being the deceptive cobbler girl to the racist in the room in less than five minutes.
Now, there’s no telling which will be more compelling – my story for the event or my story from the event.
I’ll let you know the next time I'm out and about, brimming with information and wine, and you can decide for yourself.