How To Entertain Yourself While Pregnant
So, here’s how long ago I initially planned to write this post. My original intro: In light of the recent snowstorms and Valentine’s Day, I thought I would prepare a helpful list for those sure to find themselves in the family way over the next few weeks.
Sorry to let you down, ladies. Those of you impregnated during the snowstorms and Valentine’s Day festivities are probably giving birth in November, so I’m way behind. Regardless, I wrote this, and now maybe I can help those of you overly affected by Facebook photos of cute kids heading back to school and Carter’s ads.
What no one tells you is how boring pregnancy can be. First and foremost, no alcohol is pretty limiting. Then, you throw in the fact that you’re the person at the restaurant asking whether or not there’s raw egg in the salad dressing, if the cheese is pasteurized and if they could heat your turkey sandwich to 140 degrees, and you’re just not a to of fun to go out and about with.
Next, factor in that you’ll spend almost three months in what I call “quarantine” because you don’t know what to say when your friends ask you why you’re not drinking (I was pretty sure people around me would assume rehab), so your social skills disintegrate. (In real life no one wants to know all of my feelings about Taylor Armstrong from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? What?!?!)
Last but not least, please consider the fact that you’ll spend most of your pregnant time trying to figure out what the hell is going on with your body. So, you’ve got a lot of new knowledge about the placenta that no one else cares about. (And, they want to hear about that even less than Taylor.)
It’s very easy to find yourself sipping Sprite, alone, next to a maybe-pasteurized-maybe-not cheese plate at a cocktail party while everyone else gets a good buzz on.
If you’re like me, you’ll also be unable to watch, read about or discuss anything that involves babies, children, sick people, puppies, exotic pets, the elderly, kids going to college, mothers, fathers, changing seasons, mean people, or small goats without crying (heavily and loudly, regardless of time or place). This will reduce your range of conversation topics by about 98%, leaving you to entertain your friends with tidbits about donuts and paint colors.
It isn’t pretty.
I read the entire Rizzoli and Isles series while pregnant. I don’t know why. (And I cried during the one about kidnapped pregnant ladies. I'm still ashamed.) No one wanted to hear about that either (except my father, who, God love him, had thoughts about the casting choices TNT made, but it’s entirely possible he was feigning his level of interest just because he loves me).
So, from my perspective, there’s not a lot to do. But, you can do these things that I came up with during the seven or so months I felt like there wasn’t much for me to do other than, you know, grow a human and all:
1. Pretend you don’t know you’re pregnant.
If someone says “Congratulations,” feign shock.
Tell them you knew you’d put on some weight, but still…Seem to be working out some math in your head. “It has been awhile since I got my monthly visitor.” (Yes, I also like to use antiquated terms in my play to up the awkward. Feel free to substitute “Aunt Flo.”)
2. When your friends are talking about where to go after 9:00 p.m., and you’re tired but know you won’t sleep, suggest the nastiest club in town. Then mention that you were there X months ago and need to look for someone.
(X clearly equals the number of months that you have been pregnant.)
3. Actually go to said club and try out the infamous Amy Poehler/Josh Brolin SNL skit. (Hide your belly while you make eyes at someone across the room and then, “Surprise!”)
This was one of my favorite pregnant lady fantasies.
4. Around Spring Break or anytime during the summer, visit your nearest Target or department store. Find the college girls trying on tiny bikinis for trips to Cancun. Without prompting, point to the tiny bikinis and say, “That and a lot of tequila shooters is how I got here.” [Reference bump.]
Consider it a public service.
5. Pose for stock photos.
I learned a lot putting together this post. If you want to download free photos of pregnant ladies from the Internet, you're in luck! I think we call that a win for the fetishists.
Good luck ladies!
5 Of My Favorite SNL Characters
I've been watching Saturday Night Live since the fifth grade. (The cool kids were watching it, therefore I had to watch it. I also liked watching L.A. Law. I guess you can say my tv tastes haven't changed that much in 20 years.) Back then, the biggest challenge was staying up late enough to see all of SNL. I considered it a win if I made it to the first musical number.
Collectively, our class liked SNL so much that, inspired by the political humor of the show, we put on a sketch at Christmas based on the trial of Sadaam Hussein. (It was 1990. We were very topical.) Each class performed a skit at the holidays. I don't know why, but it was fun. I played Nancy Reagan in the trial. It wasn't long after the Reagan years, and we had to have a role for every student, so it seemed appropriate. I wore a red jacket and had one line when I took my place in front of the entire upper school, "Just say no to drugs."
I think that kind of characterization isn't bad for 11-year-olds.
A little while later -- I can't remember if it was 6th or 7th grade -- we put on a Christmas skit that included impersonations of all of our favorite SNL characters. The copy guy (Rob Schneider) was there, and I'm pretty sure I played Pat. There was a lot of stuffing involved.
I could regale you with tales of other sketches and plays my friends and I put on throughout the years -- including a rainy day summer camp performance that involved a fake exercise video for tools to increase your bust -- but I'm not sure I could maintain anyone's attention long enough to get through all of those. I think the overall point is this: I've always had a flair for the dramatic (surprise, surprise), and I've always appreciated the funny.
No matter what kind of year SNL is having, I always enjoy watching it. It's hard to be funny for an hour and a half week after week. I don't expect every skit to be gold, and considering the constraints on the writers and performers, I'm amazed at whay they put out each episode In light of that, here are a few of my top characters from throughout the years. (Like I said, it's "a few" because it's not so easy to narrow down decades of sketch comedy.)
5. The Church Lady
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX8jo8wIIaU]The Church Lady began my love affair with Saturday Night Live. (As well as my conviction that I could do impressions, which is not true but did not stop me from saying "Satan"with a head tilt whenever I got the chance.) For the sake of full disclosure, I also like The Master of Disguise, so judge my humor recommendations as you will.
4. Sarah Palin
Tina Fey, and "I can see Russia from my house." Do I really need to say more? As my earlier allusion to fifth grade would suggest, I love some political humor. Most SNL "politicians" crack me up, but if I had to pick a favorite, this would be it. I only regret that we had to get the real Sarah Palin for this sake of this masterful impersonation.
3. Pat
Again going back to where it all began, it seems unfair not to include Pat on my list. Has androgeny ever been so funny? Or disturbing?
2. Get Off The Shed Guy
Is there anything quite like the barely suppressed rage of the suburbs? I vote "no." Wether Will Ferrell is demanding his kids "get off the shed" or adamant that he "drives a Dodge Stratus," I am beyond amused.
1. Penelope
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX8jo8wIIaU]
I find few things more amusing than one-upping, so can it really can't be a surprise that Kristen Wiig's one-upping Penelope tops my list of SNL characters. I realize Penelope is a total love her or hate her character, but clearly I love her. Not only do I find her hilarious, but she has renewed my conviction that I can -- and I will, dammit -- do impersonations. Who wants to see me twirl my hair while I talk about having invented the Internet, master minded all Google search capabilities and come out with the world's first ever blog?
My Bumper Sticker And Anthropologie: A Lesson In Courage
When I find an article of clothing that I like, I tend tobuy it in at least two colors. My more frugal sister thinks that this is crazy,but I figure that if you find something you like, you might as well have morethan one. Who knows when you’ll find something you like as much again? What ifsomething happens to the first one, and then you’ve lost your favorite shirt? Ithink I’m being practical, but I also think Tina Fey and I would be besties ifonly we ever met, so take that for what you will.
A few weeks ago, a friend and I were out running someerrands. I had on my relatively standard uniform of black flip flops and blackyoga pants as well as a new shirt from Anthropologie that I thought was soadorable and comfy. (So adorable and comfy that I bought it in two colors. I’dprobably have it in three if they hadn’t gone off sale. It’s called the slouchshirt. I wasn’t going to read into that.)
After driving around for a bit, I realized I hadn’t had mymorning Diet Coke (yes, morning), and I decided to pull into the gas station.My friend said that she wanted a Diet Coke, too.
I stepped into the store and picked up two Diet Cokes and aPowerade for good measure. (You can never be too hydrated on questionablebeverages.)
“You’re very brave,” said the clerk.
“Huh?” I said, looking down at my hands and assuming he wasconcerned about how much sugar and Nutrasweet I was willing to put in my body. “Brave”also seemed like an odd word choice since I was shopping at the mini-mart, andthat mini-mart was not in Pakistan.
“You’re very brave,” he said. “Your bumper sticker.”
That’s when I realized that he was referring to my Obamasticker.
In my neck of the woods, you don’t see too many Obamastickers. I think there are more leftover “W” stickers on cars than Obama/Bidenpronouncements. It’s probably one of the reasons I decided to go with thebumper sticker. I am usually very anti-bumper sticker simply because I’m toolazy to use Goo Gone, but I got tired of everyone making assumptions about mypolitical leanings. Plus, I like for visitors to know that not everyone inAlabama is conservative. We have diversity in our politics just like any otherstate.
“You don’t see too many of those around here,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, really not sure what the appropriateresponse to that comment would be.
I left the store, got back in my car and gave my friend herDiet Coke. Since I had heard some of the comments about her Obama/Biden stickerfrom the 2008 race, I thought she’d enjoy my story. “I just had the weirdestencounter,” I said.
“What happened?” she said.
“The guy told me I was brave,” I said.
“Because you wore that shirt?”
Maybe I was a little too zealous in my love of the slouchshirt after all. Hopefully, my friend will like it better in blue.
My Week In Hair Effort
OK kids, I'm not going to lie; it's been a long week. I'll write more about it later, but for now, I cannot begin to approach serious writing. I'm trying to tone down the crying outbursts for a bit. (I guess you know it's bad when people ask whether or not you have some Xanax on hand.) I'm very lucky in so many ways, and I know my problems are small in comparison to what a lot of people go through, but these have been some off days for me.
While the past seven days include such highlights as getting pulled over for the first time in a decade and an unexpected job change, by far the worst part has been that Cassidy is sick. Poor baby girl has been at the vet since Tuesday, and she'll probably have to stay through the weekend. She had surgery today, and I am not one who remains calm during these times.
Since I've already rearranged all the furniture in the house, begun a very misguided Pinterest project (I don't think t-shirts are meant to have a second act as rugs), organized the baby gifts I will be giving through January* and baked lots of bread (including some for the vet who seemed confused as to why I showed up on Wednesday with Cassidy's favorite foods, a toy and a loaf of Farl), I thought I'd work some more on my "visual storytelling."
And we all know how well that goes ...
* I decided most people would probably prefer to look at pictures of baby clothes than my so-far-from-completion t-shirt rug. The clothes are much cuter.
Mail Call
This is not a post about politics. This is a post about mistaken identity. If you’re going to get all worked up about politics, please save us both the headache and stop reading now.
I love to get the mail.* It’s like a daily dose of presents. I even enjoy catalogs, and I read Clipper magazine. (I’m not sure you can call that reading, but I flip through it and cut out restaurant coupons like I’m going to use them rather that just chucking it in the recycling bin straight away.) Of course, I’m human and don’t like bills, but sadly, there are days I’d take bills to an empty mailbox.
When we have to stop the mail while we’re out of town, and an entire week’s worth of postal goodies arrives at once, you’d think I’d won the lottery.
As long as I can remember, I’ve loved the mail. My sisters and I had to develop a schedule for collecting the mail because we were all equally excited about being the one to get it. Maybe we were strange children, or maybe we just knew how to appreciate the little things in life. I’m going to choose to believe the latter.
Summer camp was awesome because your parents pretty much had to send you letters and packages because they might risk ignoring the fact that you could be homesick or damaging your self-esteem by making you think they didn’t miss you.
I consider myself lucky now because the SO does not care about mail nearly as much as I do. I can check the mail every single day! (He can avoid the long walk down the driveway every single day. This may be the closest we get to a win/win.)
The best part about the mail, for me, is the unexpected. Again, this all comes back to bite me when it’s bill-related, but there’s nothing quite like a letter or package you didn’t know was on its way.
So, the other day when a big envelope arrived via mail for me, I was pretty pumped. Then I opened it up to discover, of all things, a picture of Mitt and Ann Romney.
This raises a lot of questions for me:
- What would I do with a photo of Mitt and Ann Romney? Even if I was a fan, would I frame it? Is it supposed to go in the office? Do I put it on Facebook? How does this photo factor into my life?
- The photo is a candid shot. Why, of all the choices one could make, would you decide to send out a candid photo of Mitt and Ann? Is it supposed to make them seem more relatable? Is it so I can lie and say I snapped the picture myself at a campaign event? The last I checked, Mitt was not so good with the candid moments -- is this a misstep or a way to make up for the “stiff” image?
- A letter** accompanied the photo thanking me for my loyalty to the Republican party. Who did the fact checking here? I am a registered democrat with an Obama sticker in my car (more on that later). I’m not one of those people who is independent or doesn’t sign up anywhere. I’m publicly affiliated, and it’s not with the Republican side. (OK, now that I've read the letter again, I realize I can answer #1. I'm supposed to put the photo in my home or office as a sign that I stand with Mitt and Ann.)
- The letter also said that if I liked the photo, I should consider paying for it. (It was more delicate than that, but I think we all know what I’m talking about, and I know both sides do it.) I understand the psychological principal of reciprocity, and it doesn’t work with me. I don’t pay for return address labels I didn’t ask for either. Also, since said letter attacks the liberal agenda, and if one references #3, I think it would be obvious why I’m not paying for this particular “gift.”
- Mr. Romney addressed me as Laurel Fain Mills. A lot of people know my middle name thanks to stuff like this here web address, but I feel like this narrows down the field of people who could have given the RNC my info into two categories a) my mortgage company or b) someone who likes to mess with me. Since the SO has not taken credit for this one yet, I feel like there could still be a prankster out there. If so, I’d love to know who you are. This was a good one, and I applaud you for it.
Obviously, the amount of time I’ve spent considering this subject is reason enough for why I find the mail so entertaining. I am easily amused, and now I’m easily amused with Romney memorabilia.
I can’t wait to see what’s waiting for me this afternoon.
* I should clarify that I love the mail as it is delivered to my home. I still don’t like going to the post office.
** For people who like random letters. (Download Mitt_romney)
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.
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.
My Shortest Job Yet
In all of this thinking about my various jobs (which if anyone is still counting include babysitter, grocery store clerk, card store employee, hostess and server at four different restaurants, NHL hockey hospitality, substitute teacher and bank teller – and all of this is before my professional career began), I’ve remembered more and more about the items that never made my resume.
I’ve also become extremely grateful for the fact that I’m my own boss now. Who would want to put any training in to this job hopper?
Anyway, I originally thought that my shortest tenure with any employer was my infamous four-day job that I made my sister quit for me. But then I remembered yet another job, and this is one that I held for all of six hours.
Right after I graduated college, and for some reason the six-figure job offers weren’t rolling in, I signed up with a temp agency to keep up with my social and shopping habits.
The temp agency never really took a liking to me. They liked to call really early in the morning – like 9:30 a.m. early – and always wanted to talk about receptionist positions.
“One of your responsibilities would include taking in the mail. How are you with mail?” they’d say.
“I really like mail,” I said, which is true, I do love checking the mail. “But I think I’m going to pass on this one.”
The temp agency did not appreciate it when I passed on job interviews.
“Pass on this one? Again?”
“Again,” I’d say.
Now, I’m in no way knocking receptionists, I’d just made it very clear to them that I wanted to work in non-profits, and seeing as D.C. has a few thousand of those, I was hoping to at least be a receptionist at a non-profit.
“This is a really good vet’s office,” they’d say.
“I’m sure it is,” I said. “I just don’t think this is right for me.”
“Are you worried about the phones?”
“It’s not that exactly.”
“Fine then.”
Two months after graduation, I found a job on my own, but when the agency called with an actual temp job, which is what I’d been hoping for all along to fill in the gaps, I decided to take it since I still had a few weeks until I started work.
“This one’s in education,” the temp agency said, sounding a little snooty. “We thought it’d be more up your alley. You’ll need to be at Catholic University by eight in the morning.”
I agreed to be there, and told them I’d found a job, so they could take me off their call list after that. They also didn’t seem very happy that I’d found a job without them, and when I told them I was going to be the Assistant Director of Development and Marketing at a non-profit, the only response I got was a, “Well then.”
When I arrived at Catholic University, I met up with an older woman and a group of about eight to ten people ranging in age from myself to my mom in the university’s student union. The woman in charge explained that there was some sort of teacher exchange program going on, and we were going to help the teachers prepare to leave the United States. They were swapping classes for a year with teachers in other countries who would arrive later in the week.
This is what that preparation entailed: “Now, if you see here,” the woman in charge said, “we have a line made of masking tape. When the teachers arrive, you’re going to take their luggage from them at this line. Then, you’re going to take their luggage to this line.” That’s when she showed us another line of masking tape in the corner of the room.
“You’ll also notice more masking tape on the floor so you can line up the luggage in orderly rows.”
We had a group of at least eight people to move luggage fifteen feet. I was also pretty sure that since rolling luggage had caught on, it wasn’t going to require more than one person to move bags, but for once I decided not to point out the design flaws.
Basically, I felt like I’d gotten out of bed and done my hair for work that a well-placed sign could have accomplished.
As our “job” was being explained, I made eye contact with the only male in the group, and a guy who was clearly about my age. We’ll call him Dude from here on out.
Until a certain age, I had a very distinct physical type. My roommate at the time said he could walk in to any room and pick out who I would be attracted to within about three minutes. He was right. At the time, it was also a pretty good bet that you could put me in a room with 300 young professionals, and I’d end up spending all night chatting with the bartender who lived in his van.
Dude was definitely my type. He also thought this job was absurd.
As we were waiting for teachers to arrive, I said, “You think there’s a liquor store near here?”
“I wish,” he said.
Since there’s always someone with too much gusto in any group, two women were most definitely vying to be the best at luggage rearrangement, and Dude and I decided to take that opportunity to eat lunch. At 10:30 a.m.
Just as I was fully into the fantasy that involved Dude and I telling people at cocktail parties how we met on the strangest temp job ever, he said, “I really need to make some money to move to be with my girlfriend in Chicago, but this is ridiculous.”
For the next few hours, we talked and had a good time, debated the liquor store idea some more and sat on desks watching women spend way too much time making sure the masking tape borders were respected.
I knew I had a job lined up, and $8.00/hour just wasn’t enough for this. I can handle a lot of things fairly well, but boredom isn’t one of them.
Around 2:00, when Dude and I were told we could take another “break,” he looked at me and said, “Should we make a run for it?”
As irresponsible and terrible as it may be, I wanted to, and I did. (Catholic University has a really convenient Metro stop, so escaping from their campus is really easy to do.) So, while Dude and I did not turn out to be love matches, we were complete soul mates when it came to slacking off.
Almost more amazingly, the temp agency never got on to me for running off the job site. I think someone thought I was on campus all day, doing all that I could for those teachers.
That, or they finally had the evidence to back up why they despised me so for those two months.
“I knew there was something wrong with that one from the beginning.”
"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.
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.
Landlords Are Crazy
From the time I rented my first apartment at 19 until about six months ago, I operated under a basic assumption: all landlords are crazy.
Apartment landlords, or any complex run by a company or management firm, maybe not so much. However, when you rented a house, it seemed to me that all landlords were nuts.
The landlord of that apartment I rented at 19 had a house he divided into an upstairs apartment, a main level that was kept in tact “for the family to visit” and a basement apartment. We basically lived above a creepy museum, and my landlord liked to work on the house shirt-less (at 70), made snide comments about boys coming over and let his son-in-law use the back of the house for his “art” at any given time – which usually translated to the hours of 10:00 p.m. – 2:00 a.m.
I did not like that man.
I had another landlord that tried to keep our security deposit because we didn’t clean the front of the garbage disposal.
Yet, none of these compared to the landlord I had to take to small claims court. He changed the lease after we signed it (not something to do to a lawyer’s daughter), and one of its new clauses included charging us tenants a $50 fee for any repair done on the house.
We discovered this on the day we asked him to send over a plumber because two out of the three toilets weren’t working. (Little known fact: I can fix most toilet issues. I have two sisters; you learn. Even in the 300-year old house where I shared one bathroom with four other girls, we only had one plumbing issue in a year.)
I was not pleased, and seeing how we had not approved the revised lease, my roommate and I decided to move out nine days after moving in. At the time, the landlord said he was fine with that and agreed to return our security deposit and 21 days worth of the first month’s rent.
Three months and no check later, I filed papers at the D.C. courthouse.
I got my money back, but moving in and out of a house in the span of nine days isn’t something you get over quickly.
I had one landlord I adored. “This is my investment property,” Peter said. “Please keep it nice for me.”
When I signed the lease at his (gorgeous) house, and his dog lay down at my feet, we were both sold.
“She’s a very good judge of character,” he said, referring to the dog. “I think you’re supposed to be in this house.”
Based on the original Picassos in the house, I also don’t think he worried too much about money, so Peter tended not to get too involved in our affairs. He even helped me look for a job. When he sold the same house a year later for double what he paid, there were no security deposit issues. Everyone was happy.
Apart from my beloved Peter, I’ve had many other landlords over the years, and they all led me to the same conclusion, landlords = crazy.
He was the one shining exception to my rule.
So, you can imagine how difficult it was when I became a landlord this past August. By my own rules, I’m now in the ranks of the crazy. (This one’s a whole different kind of crazy than the weird, quirky, medicated categories I already fall into.)
In addition to sometimes staying up at night wondering how my hardwood floors are faring, I also worry that my tenants think I’m nuts. (Who worries about how their tenants feel about them? Crazy insecure people, I know.)
I understand a little more of the landlord crazy. I wonder how my new cast iron sink is doing without me. I hope the washing machine is being treated well. I think about chipping paint.
But I also try to give my tenants their space and recognize that they are paying for a place to live, after all.
Hopefully I’ll figure out the balance. But if you ever catch me complaining about the grime on the garbage disposal, I expect a friendly reminder about the small versus the big things in life.
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.
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.
Karaoke And WASPs
Being tone deaf and all, karaoke has always been a challenge. With no musical ability whatsoever, you're pretty much left with three options:
1. Make sure your song is a group song that involves lots of other girls so you're never close to the microphone. Of course, this comes with the obvious side effect that you are part of a large obnoxious group of girls on stage most likely singing "Love Shack" or "I Will Survive," and your dignity is lost somewhere amongst the red headed slut shots you've been taking all evening.*
2. Only sing once everyone else in the bar is too drunk to realize how bad you really are. If you're me, there's always one table left that cannot -- either due to court mandates or liver problems -- reach this level of inebriation.*
3. Learn a song that involves more speaking than singing.
I once saw a girl perform Eminem's "Lose Yourself" and bring the house down. Admittedly, said house was a smoky bar between a Days Inn and a Waffle House, but I still count it as an accomplishment.
Naturally, I went in search of my speaking v. singing karaoke song. I tried Snow's "Informer," but well, it's really hard, and I don't have that much will power. The obvious fallback? Young MC's "Bust A Move."
Now, while I never did actually learn all the words (and more importantly, timing) to "Bust A Move," I did spend a lot of time studying the song.
Since I cannot embed the actual video, I give you this:
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wJCmtZMc1g]
Last week, the SO and I were in the car listening to the Glee soundtrack (that he bought me, by the way), when he declared their version of "Bust A Move" as the whitest version ever. (Clearly, if I had ever mastered "Bust A Move," my rendition would have been the whitest ever, but I digress.)
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRpKy4MbMms]
I countered that I believe the whitest version of "Bust A Move" ever was performed on One Tree Hill. Their version is not only on One Tree Hill, but is also off-key and involves five-year olds.
Unfortunately, you'll have to follow the link on this one, but I think the evidence speaks for itself.
Dissension is welcome in the comments.
*Neither of these have ever stopped me from singing karaoke when I wanted to.
The Magic Room
In The Magic Room, Jeffrey Zaslow explores the world of Becker’s Bridal, a decades-run family business in the small town of Fowler, Michigan, as well as changing trends in marriage and weddings and the lives of the individual brides who come to Becker’s in droves.
Becker’s Bridal itself has been a destination for engaged women for generations, with many mothers who bought their dresses there returning years later with their own daughters, in search of “the one” – the perfect dress. Zaslow unveils (no pun intended) the story behind the store and what it took for a family to keep the business growing and thriving throughout the years.
Zaslow also delves into the personal narratives of eight soon-to-be-married women – from a chaste twenty-something who saved her first kiss for the man she would marry to a forty-year-old bride who thought she might never have a wedding of her own. The stories are heartfelt, thoughtful and touching.
The title refers to a special place within Becker’s Bridal with soft lighting, many mirrors and the opportunity for women to see themselves as they’d always hoped on such a special occasion – as a truly beautiful bride ready to begin the next phase of her life.
In all honesty, I didn’t expect to like The Magic Room. The topic struck be as a bit saccharine, and I worried I would find the book sappy, but The Magic Room is anything but. Each aspect of the book – from the struggles of the Becker family to the portraits of the eight brides and their families – is well-told, and I was struck by the honesty, depth and beauty of the stories. There is no pretense of perfection or princesses, and this makes The Magic Room all the more powerful a read.
The Magic Room is about far more than weddings. It is about love, possibility, and, in some ways, fear. As The Magic Room unfolds, one is struck by the commonalities between theses brides, their families and the Becker’s – all of whom have known love, know how quickly life can change and still stand ready to face the uncertainties of the future with strength, grace and ultimately, hope.
If you’re anything like me, you’ll want to keep the Kleenex nearby.
I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.
Rocks, Signs And Boobs
A recent How I Met Your Mother episode discussed how every sign had a story behind it.
When I was 16, I became responsible for a rock slides road sign. For anyone unfamiliar with the topography of Birmingham, Alabama, let me assure you that our fair city is quite hilly. Being in the foothills of the Appalachians will do that to you. The Southern half of Alabama is quite flat. Montgomery, Mobile, Gulf Shores – all flat. Birmingham, not so much.
The particular suburb I grew up in is also known for being particularly difficult to drive through. The roads are curvy, there’s lots of greenery and very little lighting. I say all this to explain how a 16-year old, with a month-old driver’s license, would have some trouble with a curvy road at the bottom of the hill on a very rainy day. When the rain washes rocks down, well, that’s how I ended up with the first of what would be many flat tires.
Since I cared for more about my appearance in high school than I do today, I ended up on the side of the road in a downpour while my adorable pleated mini skirt (hello 1995) from the Junior’s Department at Macy’s was pretty much ruined as I stared at a flat tire I had no idea what to do about. I’d been given the lesson on fixing a flat, but I wasn’t really planning on doing it. Luckily, a kind police officer arrived at the scene to help me out, and since I was less than a mile from my house, my mom was also on her way to pick me up. I told the police officer about the rock, and there was a sign up the next day. I’ve been taking credit for it ever since.
Last week, I was in the elevator on a way to doctor’s appointment. I climbed into the elevator with another man. Since I no longer have the standards I had in high school, I was wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt from the SO’s improv comedy troupe.
“So,” the stranger said, “what’s that across your tit … t-shirt?”
I don’t believe I’ve ever had a man ask about my t%$&s. Or even use the word in front of me. I get the Freudian slip, but seriously?
“It’s the logo for my boyfriend’s improv group,” I said. If you’re going to call someone out, I say the time to do it is not when you’re enclosed in a small box known for occasionally getting stuck.
“Improv? Really? What’s it called?”
I told him the name, and then turned around to show him the name since it’s written on the back of the shirt. I’ve found that reading a phrase people aren’t familiar with is easier than dealing with, “What did you say again?” “Ugly what?” and “What does that mean?”
When I turned around, elevator man brushed my ponytail aside to read the shirt. In a word: creepy. Also, if having your body discussed in said small box known for occasionally getting stuck is uncomfortable, you can only imagine how much worse it is to be touched by a stranger in there.
Luckily, the building only has five floors.
When I got to my appointment, I told my doctor the story, thinking it would be funny. Plus, once I was no longer inside the elevator, I thought it was funny. A grown man who can’t stop himself from using the word t&%$s? Really?
My doctor wondered if we needed to put up a sign in the elevator, and I started thinking about what it might say. “Please don’t touch strangers while riding?” “Watch your language in the elevator?” “Questions not related to directions or deliveries not allowed?”
I can handle being responsible for a rock slides sign, but I’m not sure how I’d feel about being the reason behind an elevator sign that read, “No Discussion of t&%$s allowed.”
And on that glorious, and rather inappropriate note, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas and a festive Kwanzaa to all!
Christmas Ornaments Of A Different Ilk
For all you dog and cat lovers out there, Shelter Partners, a great organization that helps dogs like Goofy the Great Dane find homes all over the country, is selling ornaments for Christmas to benefit their organization. I personally know a rescue dog who is hoping we can all spread the love.
Christmas On The Cheap
Thanks to some time in grad school, and the lucrative career choice of “writer,” there are plenty of years when I haven’t had that much money to spend at the holidays.
I am a crafty person, but even crafts cost money, and sometimes more than money, they take time. During graduate school, I had very little money, and thanks to finals, very little time. I wanted to do something for my friends, but I didn’t have an answer to the question of how.
Eventually, I drove to a store called Happy Price Zee Outlet. Since you probably don’t have one in your neighborhood, let’s just say that it’s kind of like the Dollar Tree and Dollar General had a crack baby. The prices are very low, and the merchandise can be a) defective b) ridiculous c) cheesy d) borderline dangerous or e) all of the above.
If you want a rainbow-themed umbrella to wear on your head, it’s the place for you. It also carries an unnatural number of bobble-head cats. I cannot imagine the patron that shops here for non-gag gifts, but I sense that his or her home/van might resemble that of a hoarder’s.
(As a total aside, I think few people took to the idea of gag gifts like I did as a child. Once my mom told me what they were, I couldn’t believe anyone had ever come up with such a genius concept and that I hadn’t known about it before. It’s your birthday, you open something hideous and have to pretend you like it since you don’t know whether or not it’s a joke? Hilarious. Since I was also on the beginning of the reusing trend, it was not at all uncommon to open a copy of "Decadent Disco” wrapped in an old granola box from me when I was between 11 and 12.)
That year, I went through the Happy Price Zee Outlet, grabbed a bunch of items (oh, that citrus-themed kitchen thermometer was a treasure!), wrapped them and handed them out to my friends with tags that said, To: X, From: Milo (who was my pet at the time), Happy Holidays!
Whenever anyone opened a gift and seemed puzzled, I said, “I don’t know why he picked that out for you. He’s a dog. It’s not like he knows how to shop.”
The joke seemed to go over well. Then again, I’m not the one who got knee pads that year.
What I Have Learned Watching TV With The SO
The man in my life is into zombies. From what I can gather, this is somewhat normal. At my Halloween party two years ago, at least half the men showed up dressed as zombies. Zombies seem to have snuck into our lives over the last few years. (And please don’t get me started on what it’s been like since The Walking Dead premiered. I think it’s a fine show, but six episodes and then you take off for a year? Can we really call that a season? Really?)
Then again, I watch Lifetime and shows where women talk to dead people, so I’m sort of in a glass house here. While I don’t mind the zombies, I can’t say that I love them. The flesh-eating thing just doesn't really grab me.
Anyway, based on my recent viewings of these kinds of post-catastrophe shows/movies, there are a few tips and tricks I’ve picked up for surviving/dealing with aliens, zombies and danger at every turn.
1. There are absolutely no rules about who lives and who dies. Don’t even try to figure it out. If you’re popular and young, it actually seems like you’re more likely to be a goner. Also, your death will be incredibly unpleasant. If you have any sort of pre-existing anxiety issues, be sure to raid the local pharmacy for Xanax as soon as the looting begins.
2. One member of your vagabond group of survivors is psychotic, plans to sacrifice you to save him or herself or will betray you. It is never the uglies or dirtiest member of your group, despite their appearance and cryptic comments. Trust is going to be hard.
3. It is not a good idea to capture a zombie/alien/freak so that you can study the creature and try to figure out how to overcome its kind, yadda, yadda, yadda. One member of the team will die, and it’s usually the one who had the idea to study the creature in the first place, or the person best equipped to figure out anything science-y.
4. Any captured creature will also most likely possess some kind of mind control abilities, so, well, you’re just kind of f*&%ed there, and seeing as you’re already f&%$ed, why invite more trouble?
5. If you are in need of medical attention and find a doctor, don’t ask, “What kind of doctor are you?” If you don’t know already, or the information hasn’t been volunteered, the answer is always “vet.” Ignorance is bliss here, especially seeing as you won’t have any other options.
6. Hope the catastrophe/supernatural takeover happens while you’re wearing good shoes. Long journeys and lots of walking are, for some reason, crucial to your survival. I’d vote for finding the loon in the neighborhood with a panic room or bomb shelter and waiting it out, but apparently I’d be in the minority there.
7. Having sex to escape your feelings about the end of the world is never a good idea. You’ll either end up with a jerk who is also “helping out” all of the other ladies in your motley crue or with the most inconvenient pregnancy ever. (Please see #6 and #5 as it will be much harder for you to walk while pregnant, and your baby will inevitably be delivered by a vet.)
What happened to the good old days when shows were set in bars and coffee shops? There was so much less to worry about then, unless you were Norm and had that nagging Vera to deal with.
My Top 5 Holiday Movies
Seeing as it’s that time of year, and Magic 96.5 (which I do consider magic because they play soft rock) has been playing Christmas music since November 1, I thought I’d share my favorite holiday films. I could do a music list, but it basically comes down to three songs:
1. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”
2. “Same Old Lang Syne,” by Dan Folgerberg
3. “All I Want For Christmas is You”
They’re all I really need, and it doesn't make for much of a blog entry.
To dwell for a minute on the music station thing -- yes, it’s too much. More soft rock please. I was tired of the Christmas music on November 3, and thanks to my radio pre-sets, it’s soft rock, country or Ryan Seacrest most of the time. I try to avoid Rick and Bubba and sports talk like the plague, so these really are my only options. Does this Christmas music thing happen in the rest of the country? We’re talking about 1/6 of the year here. I find it excessive.
But I digress. Let’s get back to the movies.
5. Love Actually
When a movie has an intro about airports that makes you cry, I say you’ve got yourself a winner. Then you throw in British accents, an adorable 10-year-old scheming to get a girl with Liam Neeson, Hugh Grant dancing to the Pointer Sisters and one of the best soundtracks in the world – all centered around Christmas and a school pageant that includes a lobster. I laugh, I cry, I cry and laugh some more. Seeing this movie for the first time in the theater, I loved everything, and then they got to the scene where Emma Thompson is standing in her bedroom just staring as Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now” played, and I was a goner. I’m not sure you could make a more perfect movie with an ensemble cast. (And as I’ve said this week on Twitter, please stop trying Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve. You only let us all down. And if I have to eat these words after New Year's Eve comes out, I will be thrilled to do so.)
4. Elf
So, I almost went with The Bishop’s Wife here. (I prefer the original to its remake as The Preacher’s Wife. Cary Grant as your guardian angel? Talk about a Christmas wish come true.) But, truth be told, you’re more likely to find me watching Elf than The Bishop’s Wife each year, so there you have it. Will Ferrell is funny. He is at his best playing that clueless but well-meaning oaf. Zooey Deschanel is adorable. Trying to convince James Caan that Santa is real? More excellent casting. I cry at the end when they sing to give Santa’s sleigh power. I cry every time. Oh, and I forgot to mention Bob Newhart. How I love me some Bob Newhart.
3. It’s a Wonderful Life
Sure, it’s an expected choice, but it’s a classic for a reason. My favorite scene is the phone scene. I love when Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed have their faces pressed next to each other as they talk to her other suitor on the telephone. For a gal who loves some sexual tension, it’s marvelous. (The feminist in me is willing to overlook the fact that the worst possible outcome for a woman in that time was to end up, God forbid, unmarried and working in a library.) You’ve got the everyman versus corporate greed. For a holiday movie, you go to some dark places, (I mean, the film revolves around a suicide attempt and unfulfilled dreams) but when you come out on the other side, it feels all the more rewarding. While everyone else might be a fan of “Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings,” it’s “No man is a failure that has friends” that moves me.
2. Home Alone
There’s nothing I like more than poignancy done right. Give me funny and sad any day of the week, and I will love it. I also think we should all move past the groans and pretenses of cool and just admit that this is a funny movie. I will contend that it holds up. Ordering pizza with a gangster movie in the background, pretending your parents are home by wheeling a cardboard cut-out through the living room and even the after shave scene make me laugh. Then you throw in some heart – an old neighbor who just wants to talk to his son again and a family who really can’t have Christmas if they’re not all together – and I tear up during a Macaulay Culkin film. I refuse to be ashamed.
1. Die Hard
Not a holiday movie you say? Let's not forget "Ho, ho, ho" taped to a dead German assasin. Also, if you can’t agree that Die Hard is one of the best movies ever made, I’m not sure we can be friends. With this one, I get to have my action served up with a nice, healthy does of heart. Evil Alan Rickman is out to destroy Christmas (well, really it’s the Japanese businessmen, but since the movie is set on Christmas Eve, I’m going to interpret it my way) while John McClane fights for the life of his wife and other innocent hostages. The man runs through broken glass barefoot and gives the dad from Family Matters his confidence back. I will sum this up with one word: awesome.
Please share your favorite holiday movies in the comments. (Not to get too political at the end here, but I’m a “Happy Holidays” person. If this season is about anything, I think it’s about inclusion and love, and, yes, we should really be about those things all year long and all. Not everyone celebrates Christmas, is it really that big a deal to make our well wishes all encompassing in December?)
Also, if you’ll be seeing any of these movies at the Alabama Theatre this year, I’m usually the one in the back row because she didn’t arrive early enough to fine a good parking place with a glass of red wine in one hand and a stash of tissues in the other.