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.
Two Dreams And My Top 10 Break-Up Songs
In my 32 years of television and movie viewing/life, I have come to want two things:
- A montage set to music: Me falling in love, me moving up the career ladder, me getting a makeover. Any scenario would work really so long as my montage included me throwing papers into the air, twirling in an evening gown and smiling meaningfully at a member of the opposite sex.
- A soundtrack.
Neither of these wishes are real possibilities, what with me being a person leading a life and not the star of a movie, but it does seem that I have unwittingly given all of my break-ups soundtracks.
Each time I have felt rejected or suffered a broken heart, I tended to become obsessed with one song or album. (You don’t want to know how many times I can listen to the same song on repeat.)
My poor, poor best friend from college not only suffered through many of my break-up soundtracks, she also had to listen to my pontifications on what the song meant and how it related to my life.
“Don’t you see? I’m in love with his ghost.” (“Ghost,” Indigo Girls)
“I’m such a good girl. Where’s my reward?” (“Underneath Your Clothes,” Shakira)
“That’s all it was – it was all just a bed of lies.” (“Bed of Lies,” Matchbox 20)
When I’m down, I tend to gravitate towards country, songs you’d find at Lilith Fair and pop no one can admit to liking and still be considered cool.
As I watched the Adele/good cry skit on this past weekend’s Saturday Night Live, I was actually torn between laughing and crying. For God’s sake, “Someone Like You” is a killer. Basically, the SO can never leave me because now that that song is out, I don’t think any one person has the stamina for both the fetal position and my tone deaf ramblings about “that you’d be reminded that for me, it wasn’t over.”
I’m not one to recommend this particular form of grieving, but when it comes to break-ups, I’m a wallower. I sing along to depressing songs on, cry, throw mini-tantrums, knit and watch Steel Magnolias for extended periods of time. Then, one day I wake up, and I’m fine. It’s like I have an internal switch. After the wallowing, I shower, put my party shoes on, bring the cleavage out and hit the town. Healthy or not, it’s my M.O.
So, for no particular reason, I now give you my top 10 list of break-ups songs along with the lines you would have to “see the meaning of” or agree “were just like me and X” were we friends. (I think many of you will both feel for my friends and decide we might not need to meet in real life after reading this.) For the full effect, I recommend hearing a torn, near-teary voice quoting the lyrics with way too much weight/melodrama and more pauses than the songwriter would be happy with.
1. “Landslide,” Stevie Nicks or The Dixie Chicks. I’m cool with either.
“I built my life around you.”
2. “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” Bonnie Raitt.
‘Nuf said.
3. “You Were Mine,” The Dixie Chicks.
“Sometimes I wake up crying at night.”
4. “Almost Lover,” A Fine Frenzy.
“Goodbye my almost lover, goodbye my hopeless dream.”
5, “Be Be You Love,” Rachael Yamagata
“Everybody’s got the way I should feel. Everybody’s talking how I can’t can’t be in love, but I want want to be in love for real.”
6. “La Cienega Just Smiled,” Ryan Adams. (It does not help that a lot of Ryan Adams songs played during the last season of Felicity.)
“I’m too scared to know how I feel about you now.”
(These last few usually signaled that I was on more of an upswing, or at least seeing another side to the situation.)
7. “I’m Moving On,” Rascal Flatts. (“God Bless the Broken Road” is also a good one if you’re more of an optimist.)
“I’ve loved like I should, but lived like I shouldn’t.”
8. “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye,” David Gray.
“It was a kind of so, so love, and I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
9. “Please Remember Me,” Tim McGraw.
“Part of you will live in me – way down deep inside my heart.”
10. “Outbound Plane,” Nanci Griffith.
“I don’t want to be standing her, I don’t want to be talking here and I don’t really care who’s to blame. ‘Cause if love won’t’ fly of its own free will, I’m going to catch that outbound plane.”
Nancy Griffith is usually the sign that I’m ready to move on, but if it’s followed by Aerosmith’s “Jaded,” it just means I’m in the anger stage rather than depression.
I can be a downer.
In short, my iTunes collection is scary, I have some really understanding friends and if anyone knows anyone who loves to edit video, I’ve still got my fingers crossed on that video montage – and we’ll use much peppier songs there. KT Tunstall anyone?
If I’m singing along to show tunes (Les Mis or Wicked in particular), we’re all good. I’d like to thank the SO for my years of musicals. We might argue more about what to play when we’re traveling, but I promise it’s a good thing.
What's On My iPod And Questionable Fashion Choices
To say that I like the musical Les Miserables would be kind of like saying I own a few pairs of Spanx and drink the occasional glass of red wine. In other words – it would be a gross, gross understatement
I saw Les Miserables twice as a kid – once in Birmingham and once at the Fox in Atlanta. My mother listened to the soundtrack non-stop for about four years. (Yes, I am often prone to exaggeration. When I talk about my mother’s listening habits, it is not one of those times.)
I can’t even tell you how often I wore the classic gray t-shirt with the Les Mis orphan on it.
(I also had a Cats shirt that I liked to wear with white Bermuda shorts, but it was old news the moment my Les Mis tee came on the scene.)
I liked to perform most of the score of Les Miserables for my nanny – my favorites being "On My Own" and "A Little Drop Of Rain." Dream role? Clearly Eponine. Oddly enough, my nanny often encouraged me to sing from the porch while she watched her TV shows inside.
“I can still hear you,” she would call from the sofa, even though I often had to remind her when to clap at the end of my numbers.
Now knowing that I’m tone deaf, I bet that two-room distance was not nearly enough, and I feel very loved for not being cut off from my musical re-enactments entirely.
My sister texts me “24601” from time to time just for fun (as well as random Suzanne Sugarbaker quotes, but that’s another story for another day).
So last night, when I got to see Les Miserables on the stage yet again, it was amazing. I laughed. I cried. I stood clapping for an extended period of time like there could be an encore for a play even though that obviously defies all logic, and the cast of Les Mis certainly isn’t Def Leppard.
And for whatever it’s worth, in the bits of theology and wisdom I’ve cobbled together for myself over the last 30 odd years, “To love another person is to see the face of God” still has a spot near the top of the list.
Also, if you think this is bad, just wait for when Wicked gets here in February. I’ve got all sorts of feminist, self-empowerment, “good girl” theories to go along with that one.
Consider yourself warned.
My Top 5 Road Trip Play List
Being tone deaf and a huge nerd, my iPod is an embarrassment or riches – if you really love show tunes, Shakira and soulful girl ballads about break-ups. (When I was going through some old CDs from the mid-90s, a friend commented, “I didn’t realize you were a lesbian in high school.”) I have been making mixes titled “Mellow Music” since I was about 14 ... [Read more]
I'm Going to Learn How to Fly
I get a lot of questions about my middle name.
“What was that you said?”
“Fain.”
“Fain?”
“Yes, it’s just like ‘rain’ but with an ‘f’ instead of an ‘r.’”
“Fain? F-A-I-N. Really?”
“Yep, Fain.”
“That’s interesting. [Beat.] What’s a Fain?”
When I’m not in a hurry, I explain that it’s a family name.When I am rather rushed, I hope the topic will pass and we can move on to thelast four digits of my social security number or my city of birth because thisconversation usually occurs when I’m trying to talk to someone about my gasbill or credit card statement, and it hardly seems like the time to discuss myfamily heritage and naming traditions.
After my sister’s wedding a few weeks ago, I noticed that oneof her friends asked “So, how many last names do you have now?”
It’s true that all of the Mills girls have last names as theirmiddle names. I have my maternalgrandmother’s maiden name, my middle sister has my paternal grandmother’smaiden name and my baby sister ended up with my mother’s aunt’s married name.(My mother’s own maiden name is Stubbs, and I thank her for leaving that one ofout of the naming equation.) If all goes well, we’ll each have three, and onlythree, last names before all is said and done (knock on wood).
I use Fain often in my own life because Mills tends to be a lot(a lot) more common in the U.S. population than other surnames, and even though“Laurel” is a little on the unusual side, I decided many moons ago that I wouldrather be laurelfain via e-mail than LaurelMills27 or LMills4206. After thatfateful choice, it just kind of stuck. (My guy friends especially seem to enjoycalling out “Laurel Fain” to get my attention.)
Also, with there being the other writing Laurel Mills, I figureFain is a good distinguishing factor to throw in there somewhere.
Nothing bothers me about my middle name – other than having toanswer lots of questions – and I’ve come to accept it just fine. I say “accept”because probably unlike the Sarah Elizabeths, Jennifer Claires and ChristineAnnes of the world, I spent the first five years of my life thinking I had avery different middle name.
Maybe it was a hearing thing, maybe it had something to do withpronunciation or maybe it was the simple fact that I couldn’t read or writeyet, but until I was five, I thought that my middle name was “Fame.”
Now, “Fame” was a middle name I could get behind. Not only didit seem to destine me for greatness, but having grown up during the time of acertain very popular Debbie Allen –led TV show, I felt like my name allowed meto personally share in the show’s success.
There was no song I loved more than the movie and TV show’stheme. “Fame! I’m going to live forever! I’m going to learn how to fly!”
My little tone-deaf self sang it again, and again, and again.As far as I was concerned, it was the greatest song ever, and I had the greatestname ever.
So, you can probably also imagine my disappointment when my momasked me why I was so enamored with the theme song from a show I don’t think Iever got to watch. “Because it’s my name,” I said, sure, confident and proud.
“What’s your middle name?” she said.
“Fame,” I said. “I’m Laurel Fame Mills.” (I really thought sheshould have already known the answer to that one.)
“Oh honey,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re middle nameisn’t ‘Fame.’ It’s ‘Fain.’ From your grandmother.”
Once the initial shock wore off, crestfallen, I found myselfasking the same question I’ve heard so often in the 25 years since, “Fain?!?!What’s a Fain?”
Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding
There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.
There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):
1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"
2. Another boy would come around each night and serenade all of the girls' cabins. He played his guitar and sang Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train." It was quite dreamy. One of his friends would accompany him. I don't think the friend did any singing or guitar-playing, but he seemed to recognize that his friend had figured out the key to getting girls' attention, and he was hoping to pick up the leftovers. (Hey, maybe he, too, could make out with someone special in the pool that week.)
3. We learned the song "Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life." This was a problem for me on many levels -- the title, hand motions and metaphor being just the beginning. Since I'm sure you're all dying to know, here are the lyrics:
Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life/End over end neither left nor the right/Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights/Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life.
Yeah, I still don't get it either.
It also appears from my seventh grade scrapbook that we had a '70s night that involved dressing up, but what we did that night, and why the camp assumed that a bunch of 13-year-olds would travel with time-sensitive outfits for theme dressing, I don't know.
I do know that what I'm wearing had to be borrowed since this was not from my closet -- now, then or ever.
However, a few years ago my sister ended up working in the Environmental Education Program at Camp McDowell. (No, I didn't visit. Please don't judge my sister-ing.) While she was there, she met another employee of the Environmental Education Program, and in the classic story of boy meets girl, after they met, they fell in love and decided to get married.
So, this past weekend, I made my first trip back to Camp McDowell in 17 years for their wedding. The wedding was beautiful, and I learned that camp is much better when you can stay in lodges rather than cabins and are of the age to legally drink.
I even re-visited the same pool, but since I spent most of the time playing with my cousins and their children, I'm happy to report no traumatic make out experiences.
The one thing that was most definitely the same? The heat, but that's just an Alabama summer for you.
I now give you an updated photo of me at Camp McDowell, and in case you have trouble recognizing me, I'm two over from the bride on the right in a sage green dress two other girls are also wearing. (It's probably the tan that's confusing since I'm usually pretty translucent. Don't worry about my skin's health though -- it's a spray-on.)
*Yes, I'm counting the photo from '70s night as a memory even though I don't technically remember it. You have to admit it improved the title of this post.
Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's
I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.
As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.
Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.
Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.
(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)
We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.
As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.
In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.
So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.
There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)
I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.
Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)
"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.
"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."
"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"
"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."
"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."
"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."
"Cocks."
I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"
"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"
"Cocks."
"It's not his fault," I said.
"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."
"Cocks."
"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."
"You can do so much better than this baby."
"I can," I said. "I know you're right."
"Cocks."
"You ready to get back out there?"
"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.
"Go get 'em," the waitress said.
"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.
With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.
I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same.
* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.
The Week of Love
In honor of the time of year, I thought I'd share some Valentine's Day-related stories this week. However, as with all incidents filtered through me, there will be some caveats.
For the coupled up amongst you, I wouldn't expect too much insight into the world of over-the-top romance. I cringe during proposals on The Today Show or Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve because those moments seems private to me. And the idea of people watching and judging what should be an intimate moment? No, thank you. I don't want to attend your annual physical exam either. I like my sappy moments fictional and created by one Nicholas Sparks. Plus, these days, there's not much I appreciate more than finding out that the dirty dishes have already been put away or that the trip to the recycling center has already been accomplished.
As for the singles, please rest assured I have some tales that will make you only too happy to spend February 14 alone or celebrating with friends or candy, whichever floats your boat.
To go in what I consider to be reverse order, I thought I'd start with the story of my best Valentine's Day. (Best V-Day before the Significant Other showed up, of course. If confused, please reference previous paragraph about some privacy and intimate moments.)
The year was 1993, I was 13 years old and the Valentine's Day dance approached. I had been to exactly one dance before, but that dance hadn't really counted. (I.E., it wasn't school-sponsored. A friend's mom hosted a dance-themed party for our class in the clubhouse of her condominium complex the year before. While we were all very excited about the concept, no one ended up dancing, and because it was more of a "party" than a "dance," talking our moms into special shopping trips had been a bit of a challenge.)
The Valentine's Dance, on the other hand, was a time-honored tradition for seventh and eighth graders and came complete with shiny cardboard heart decorations, a DJ and teachers-turned-chaperones.
Naturally, I turned all of my attention to the outfit, and after bugging my mother incessantly, we set out for the mall one night after she got home from work. To share with you why this was an even bigger deal for me, let me reiterate what a late bloomer I was. I was the next-to-last girl in my grade to get her training bra, and sixth/seventh grade was just around the time I could finally start wearing "adult" clothes. (Oh, to have the problem of not being able to fit into a size 0 because it was too big, again.) I was stuck shopping in the kid's department for years, and the idea of showing up to a school dance -- of all places -- in an outfit you could also buy in a child's size 6 was too much for me to bear.
In those days, my mother and I always went to Express first because their clothes had a better chance of fitting me. Their outfits came in the now-I-hate-seeing-the-doll-clothes-next-to-my-curvy-body-shapers-built-in-nearly-maternity-style-tops 0/1 size.
Before we even crossed the threshold, I saw it. Sheath dress. Falling just above the knee. Scoop-necked. Black stripes alternating with neon stripes of pink, orange and yellow. (This was 1993.) It was the most beautiful, sexiest (by seventh grade terms) dress I had ever seen. I instantly saw my crush swooning the moment I walked in wearing it.
"Do you think it will fit?"
"We won't know until you try it on," my mother said, and I rushed to the dressing room.
In terms of fit, the dress came pretty close as I remember it. I think my mother and grandmother had to make a few alterations -- most likely taking in the chest -- but all in all, I was in heaven.
The night of the dance, I styled my permed and heavy-banged hair to perfection, zipped up my new and so-bright dress up and topped it all off with a velvet choker that had a single gold heart charm. (For Valentine's Day, of course.)
Arriving at the dance, I was nervous. But spurred on by my stellar look, I had more confidence than usual. And rather than finding boys on one side of the room and girls on the other, this dance actually had members of the opposite sex talking to one another. When the music started, members of the opposite sex even danced with one another.
Everyone was being very friendly. (When there's only 24 people in your grade, you kind of have to be that way. Private school. Sigh.) As the evening wore on I danced with my crush many times (!!! as my inner-adolescent would say) and a bunch of other boys, too.
But, it was the end of the night that was the most special of all.
"Last song," the DJ called.
It was all coming to an end, and everyone knows the last song at the dance is by far the most important song. (I mean, a last song is all about eternal and ever-lasting love. Marriages and babies are built on who you choose for that last dance. You might as well sign up for adjacent burial plots when you pick that partner for your last dance. Am I right people?)
"What to do?" I thought. People were already pairing off. I turned towards my crush to see what he was doing, and he looked right back at me. He then gave me the shrugged shoulders that mean "Why not? You wanna dance?" in seventh grade boy speak.
I shrugged back. ("Sure," in seventh grade girl speak.)
We moved closer together. He put his arms around my waist, I put my arms around his neck, and with enough room between us for a small person, we danced the last dance of Valentine's Day 1993 to "You're the Inspiration."
I fell asleep all aflutter, dreaming of rock ballads and would could happen at school that Monday.
I'd like to thank Express and Chicago for making such an incredible evening possible.
Mean Girl
Forthe large part, I was a very good kid. In some ways, I was almost good to afault. I made straight A’s, rarely got in trouble and had more than a casualrelationship with the term “teacher’s pet.” I longed to be just a little bitbad—to watch R-rated movies without guilt, say the occasional bad word when nogrown-ups were around, make telephone calls after 9:00 p.m.—but I was far tooafraid of anyone’s disappointment, judgment or disapproval to strive foranything less than perfection.
Infourth grade, Bethanywas the new girl in class. Our school had small classes and little turnover, soa new kid was incredibly exciting. She’d also moved from the big city of Atlanta, so between the cosmopolitan background andnovelty factor, I liked Bethanyalmost immediately.
Shehad her own bathroom and a TV and VCR all to herself. When we had sleepovers,her mom drove us to the grocery story and video store, and we could pick outwhatever we wanted. We usually came back from the grocery with sour cream andonion potato chips, sour patch kids and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines.
(Bethany was also the onlygirl I knew to actually read Tiger Beat every week, and her closet was coveredin tear-out pages of pop stars and sitcom leads. I can’t quite remember if itwas Kirk Cameron or Johnny Depp’s poster that had worn lips from her goodnightkisses.)
Bethany sometimes called me LittleMiss Perfect, but it didn’t bother me too much, and it was pretty rare.
Byfifth grade, Bethany and I both loved to sing and perform. Fueled by too manypotato chips, we dressed up, staged photographs and choreographed dances duringmost of those sleepovers.
Theonly thing was that Bethanywas actually pretty good at singing, and I most definitely was not. (To loveBroadway musicals and be tone deaf is a burden I try to bear well.)
Oneday when we were in the hallway at school, some older kids overheard Bethany singing.
“That’sreally good,” one of them said. “Sing louder.”
“Yeah,”another seventh grader added, “You could totally be in the choir. Have you evertried out?”
Bethany was elated. “Can youbelieve they said that? I thought I was pretty good, but I didn’t know I wasthat good.”
I,on the other hand, was not. I’d lost a solo in our school’s holiday program tomy friend Leah years before, and I still wasn’t over it, and now Bethany was being praisedfor one of the talents I wanted most in the world.
“Icouldn’t actually join choir though. That’s too much, don’t you think? But, ifthey really thought I was that good, maybe I should give it a shot.”
Thirtyminutes later, in art class, when Bethanywas still going on and on about her great singing, I’d had enough.
“Ithink I’m going to do it. I think I’m going to try out for choir. What do youthink?”
“Ithink it’d be great,” I said. “Then you’d have something to do other than bragall the time.”
Bethany just stared back at me.Another friend at the same art table said, “Geez, Laurel. That was harsh.”
I’ddone it. The rule-abiding, sweet teacher’s pet had stepped outside her box andbeen sassy, confrontational—and mean. I felt guilty for days. As bad as it feltto have my voice ignored while Bethanywas praised and lavished with attention, it felt far worse to have been so rudeto a friend.
Myone flirtation with the dark side out of the way, I went right back to my goodgirl ways. For the time being, at least …
My Confession
As much as I realize that this might hurt my image in some people's eyes, there's something I need to get off my chest. (Not that I think there's much to this "image" of mine, but what I'm about to say is not at all "cool" or "hip." This is even less "hip" than my love of "Quantum Leap," and I bet most of us thought that day would never come.)
For the past couple of weeks, when I've been alone and in the privacy of my own car, I've been giving in to temptation and indulging one of my more shameful guilty pleasures — the love of Broadway.
For months, I thought it was enough to just have the "Rent" soundtrack on hand. Because of the 2005 movie, I figured that there was still some license to owning that one. But, as much as I adore "Seasons of Love" and "La Vie Boheme," it was starting to get a bit stale.Then, I happened to pull out an old mixed CD my sister made me years ago titled "Songs From Our Childhood: Volume 1." As is to be expected, "Songs From Our Childhood," features many of the musical favorites my sisters and I grew up with. Between our parents' and the nanny's tastes, you get an interesting mix of Don Henley, Dan Folgerberg, the theme songs from "General Hospital" and "Unsolved Mysteries," and the ever-popular-with-my-mother Broadway Soundtrack.
At first, I just listened to "On My Own" (the stirring ballad of unrequited love from Eponine in "Les Miserables") a few times on repeat.And, that was good. I found my work stress melting away more quickly as I belted out musical theater standards on the drive home. I was kinder to children and animals. I smiled more.
But, unfortunately, after awhile even that wasn't enough, and I recently found myself at Spin Street in the mall purchasing the Highlights from "Les Miserables" as performed by the original Broadway cast.
Yes, I purchased "Les Miserables." I paid good money for it. I listen to it every day. I might or might not find myself car dancing with jazz hands on the way to and from work.
I had hoped that all of this could stay my dirty little secret. I was content to be a closeted Broadway fanatic. However, it seems like I can't help but give myself away. Today, I found myself humming/almost breaking into song with "Master of the House" much to the surprise of and my embarrassment in front of a co-worker.
I guess we can all be pretty sure that no one will be asking me for music recommendations anytime soon.