Kids These Days -- And Their Kids?

I think this needs to be said: There are too many pregnant teenagers on television.

Is teen pregnancy a reality that should be addressed? Absolutely. Is it unrealistic to pretend that there are no consequences to teen sex? Sure. But, good God, if you pay attention these days, you’d think 1 in 3 teenagers has had a baby. I’m sure there are some great think tanks spreading similar propaganda, but I really want to know when this became entertainment.

No one on Dawson’s Creek had babies. Or Felicity. The original 90210 had some dramatic pregnancy tests, but it’s nothing like you see today. (I also think Brandon dated a girl who had a baby, but they had to break up so she could concentrate on her son, kind of like how he and his ice skater girlfriend had to break up so she could focus on her sport. Note to self: Brandon Walsh’s exes might make for a good “Where are they now?”)

I guess I should have seen the beginning of the trend with One Tree Hill five or six years ago. Two of the main characters were born to teen moms, and another character had a daughter. (If you paid close attention, you’d also notice that half the commercials associated with the show were for pregnancy tests or diapers.) But after awhile, the question became who really watches One Tree Hill? Or the CW network in general? And do we really need Chad Michael Murray in our lives?

(I realize that my aversion to the CW (before Sarah Michelle Geller showed back up) and most reality TV – yes, I watch a lot of reality TV, but it still doesn’t compare to the legions of shows that are out there – is why I don’t know 75% of the celebrities in tabloids these days, but it was probably only a matter of time before I needed to give up my celeb gossip habit. Taylor Momsen, I still have no idea who you are.)

At first, I thought MTV’s Teen Mom was a great cautionary tale. I would pay good money to burn the image of Gary in a bunny suit from my brain, let alone not to be tied to him for life. But, then I started seeing all the stories about teens getting pregnant to become celebrities, and I realized the SO was right about the show having the opposite effect.

I think the real problem is that no one understands the difference between negative and positive attention anymore. It used to be that celebrity had something to do with talent. Now, as Reese Witherspoon pointed out, it’s all about sex tapes and bad behavior.

Want to be famous? You’ll at least need to apply to The Real World and make out with members of both the same and opposite sex before your bags are even unpacked.

My favorite piece of reality show dialogue lately? Kris Jenner (who clearly has issues but also some sort of freaky luck) being upset because her friend told her she’d be “mortified if her daughter had a child out of wedlock and didn’t marry the father.”

I want to back up for just a moment here, Kris. It’s incredibly embarrassing to you that your grown, independent daughter who supports herself has a baby without being married, but you’re totally down with the fact that anyone can watch Kim doing it with Ray J?

Yeah.

And while I realize I’m partly contradicting my own argument by admitting that I saw all of this on Keeping Up With The Kardashians, I’d also like to express my gall at the fact that Kim sided with her mother on this issue and said marriage before kids was more in line with “her values.”

Does she have “desperate desire to get married at any cost” confused with a “value”? Is 72 days of marriage till death do us part? Did Punk’d come back on the air and no one told me about it?

Of course, it’s not just reality TV that’s the problem. I’ve seen more marriage proposals on ABC Family’s The Secret Life of the American Teenager than any other show this year, and half those kids don’t even have their driver’s licenses. How do they even get around to have all the sex that they’re having?

The alternative to having a baby on that show seems to be oral sex, and all the church-going kids do is have the same amount of sex as the rest of their classmates and then tell their pregnant friends they’ll go to hell if they have abortions.

Is this really what the American Broadcasting Company wants to call “family” programming?

I’m not arguing that we should ostracize teenage mothers in any way, but I also think we need to be extremely wary of normalizing teen pregnancy.  (Pregnancy pacts anyone?)

I admire girls and women who raise children in far less than ideal circumstances. Hell, I can barely take care of the dogs some days. However, I think those same women would probably be the first ones to tell you how hard early motherhood is, and I don’t think most of them are running around getting breast implants a la Farrah Abraham.

While we’re on the subject, I’d also like to talk about the fact that Bristol Palin made $272,000 last year as an advocate against teen pregnancy. ?!??! Six figures because a less-than-diligent VP vetting team picked your mom from political obscurity, and you had a baby before finishing high school? Really?

I didn’t have a baby as a teenager, and I don’t make nearly that much money. Isn’t it possible that I might be a little more qualified to talk to girls about not getting pregnant as a teen seeing as I successfully avoided teen pregnancy? Bristol Palin has multiple US Weekly covers. I can’t claim that, but I did graduate from college. It’s not that I have to be the poster child for this issue, but what is wrong with our role models?

Again, me = no baby in high school. Bristol Palin = one baby in high school. When it comes to the topic of avoiding teen pregnancy, I think that alone makes me more qualified to discuss the issue.

No one’s asking, but if they were, here’s my plan: Let’s differentiate between positive and negative attention, consider who our real role models should be and, thinking like the crazy liberal that I am, make condoms available to teenagers.

Also, someone needs to investigate how the Kardashians took over tabloid magazines and the E! Network. I’d kill for the good old days of bi-weekly Jessica Simpson covers anytime now – unless she’s guest starring on One Tree Hill or The Secret Life of the American Teenager, of course.*

* Clearly, I wrote this before Jessica Simpson announced her own pregnancy. I'm sure there's a way to tie it all together, but Jessica Simpson is a grown woman, and I'm kind of tired. I'm going to let the coincidence speak for itself for now.

In The Event Of The End Of The World

I realize that some people think the world might end tomorrow. I’m not actually one of those people, and honestly, I don’t even know what the theory is based on, but I do pay attention to the four stories that pop up on my Yahoo! home page, and May 21 has been getting a lot of attention lately.

I mean, if the world is going to end, it’s not like there’s a lot I can do about it. (Not that this is an excuse to stop recycling or pursuing green initiatives in case there are still any conservatives left in my blog audience.) As I was discussing with a friend over the weekend, I think most generations would almost like to think that the end of the world would come within their lifetimes. It’s a good way to put off the unnerving truth/realization that, most likely, life will go on without us, for generations and generations, and possibly even eons. An ongoing world means we’re all a little more forgettable, and no one wants to be forgettable. (Sorry to get a little dark there.)

I also know some people are freaked out by the fact that the Mayan calendar ends in 2012. Anxiety disorder and all, I think this is one of the least upsetting signs of a possible impending apocalypse. Let’s be real. For a group of people that went out around 1450, I think it’s pretty impressive they even bothered taking the calendar to 2012. How far out front are you supposed to get with those? I doubt anyone is working on day planners with New Yorker cartoons in them for 2415 right now, and I hardly take it as a sign that the world will end whenever the people down at the warehouse decide to stop making kitten calendars. 

However, since we never know what can happen, I might need to get a few things off my chest before tomorrow – just in case.

1. I cheated on my menu tests at both La Paz and Calypso Joe’s. I have never cheated on any other tests in my life, but those menus presented some problems. At La Paz, I was a hostess, so I didn’t really see a need to learn the menu. They were going to make me take the test until I passed, so I used the menu as the hard surface on which to take my paper test. (I did learn a little though. That job is the only reason that I know the difference between an enchilada and a burrito is that a burrito is made with a flour tortilla while an enchilada is made with a corn one.) As for Calypso Joe’s, well, that one was just pride. The manager liked to post scores at the end of the day, and I refused to come in behind a bunch of perfect scores because I couldn’t have cared less about what dipping sauce came with the conch fritters.

2. I didn't like Titanic -- or Sex and the City.

3. From the ages of 21-25, I gave out my fake phone number to boys far too many times. It wasn’t very nice, but that’s kind of what happens when you’re a slightly cowardly people pleaser. It’s probably a little late, but I’d like to say I’m sorry anyway.

4. I don’t like the symphony, ballet or opera. I find them boring, and they always remind me of being forced to do educational stuff when I was a kid. (And this is coming from a girl who likes learning new vocabulary words.) If I nod when these topics of conversation come up, I’m only pretending to be cultured (or listening).

5. In the third grade, I stole my classmate's square dancing partner. I had a crush on the tallest boy in class, and square dancing partners were assigned by height. As the shortest girl in class, I was screwed -- and stuck with the boy who got very, very angry every time we played dodge ball in gym. When my classmate was out for a couple of days with a stomach bug, I saw my chance to move up, and we she came back to school, I pretty much implied that our teacher thought the new dance partner relationship was better. (Although, I hardly think our teacher had an opinion about the dancing partners.) Oh, the things we do for love ... And again, sorry about that one.

6. I prefer my dog to a lot of people. I can’t help it. She’s adorable, snuggly and completely non-critical. I should probably have some more love and compassion for humanity, but in general, a lot of my affection goes towards the dog. And that whole thing about there not actually being dogs in heaven if you go by strict theology? (I told you Sunday school was quite upsetting for me.) I’m not pleased.

7. For a few years now, my chest has actually been known as “the rapture.” It was a name that a female friend came up with for my boobs while we were drinking one night. I kind of thought it was awesome (especially since my late-blooming meant I didn't have a chest until the age of 18), and the name stuck. I hope this will not be considered blasphemous during the actual rapture, but clearly I can’t be sure. Even in the end of days, we can all appreciate a good joke, right? Maybe?

Anyway, I look forward to our continued interactions next week when I will most likely be experiencing some shame for what I hope are a few very premature confessions.

A Sunday School Drop-Out Spared

My parents tend to worry – a lot. Kidnapping, hostage-taking, teen pregnancy, drugs, drunk driving – you name a problem; my parents have considered how to keep it from happening to their kids.

There’s only one thing my parents never worried about when it came to me and that had to do with joining a cult. Their theory? “You had so much trouble with conventional religion; we never really figured you’d fall for some extreme splinter group.”

I guess there’s at least one plus to raising a natural skeptic.

My parents both taught Sunday school when I was growing up. My father taught kindergarten, and my mother usually taught sixth grade.

Through what I will claim is no fault of my own, I tended to be a troublemaker in Sunday school class. It’s not that I ever meant to get in trouble; I just like to ask a lot of questions. (Outside of Sunday school, my mother and I spent many hours in the library researching my various topics of interest from why ostriches liked to stick their heads in the sand, how an egg develops and the growth of asparagus.)  Curiosity, neurotic-ism or annoyance? You decide.

Wikipedia and IMDB have been Godsends in my adult life.

Long before I knew the difference between evolution and creationism, when one of my Sunday school teachers went over Genesis, I had to ask why she seemed to be in direct conflict with my science teacher. “If the Earth was created in six days, what about the dinosaurs?” I said.

Mrs. Johnson, my science teacher at the time, had explained that dinosaurs roamed the Earth with no humans, and I really didn’t see where Adam and Eve fit in on this time frame.

Then, there was the day our Sunday school teacher came in to explain that “We were all adopted because we were all God’s children, and He had given us to our parents on loan.” (The “on loan” might not be a direct quote, but I promise that that Sunday school teacher was not particularly eloquent.)

I think I started the crying that day, but I know a lot of other kids eventually joined in. I think adoption is lovely, but as a kid who feared learning she was one day adopted, breaking the news this way seemed insensitive to say the least.   

I also did not know how much I would upset my first grade Sunday school teacher when I answered the question, “What’s the last movie you all saw?” with “Aliens.” My mom had been out of town, and it was true. I’m sorry she only wanted Disney answers.

Eventually, my Sunday school teachers seemed really tired of my questions, and it could be hard to get them to notice my raised hand, but I’m not one to give up easily.

“Would King Herod really have cut the baby in half? What if none of the moms said anything?”

“How could you really have all of your power in your hair?”

“Wouldn’t the whale’s stomach acid be a problem for Jonah?”

“Just going from Saul to Paul doesn’t seem like a real earth-shattering name change. Wouldn’t Joe or Sam have been more dramatic?”

Apart from making my class the Bible Trivia champion of 1980-something, I was not an asset to most Sunday school classes. (I actually had to share that title with another Sunday school class, a decision I contested and still consider to be an unfair ruling, but the journey to move on continues.)

I don’t know whether or not it was discussed during some sort of Sunday school teacher conference, but from fourth grade on, I spent three years in my mother’s Sunday school class. She was used to my questions, and I imagine my departure from the regular course of Methodist teachings was a relief to many.

So, this Mother’s Day, I’d like to thank my mom for putting up with a lot – from the struggle to define infinity for me to typing up the school newspaper my third grade class dreamed up one day. But, I suppose that most of all, I’d like to thank her for taking me in when no one else was eager to, listening to and trying to find answers to my questions and never making me feel like I was the weird one for going against the flow.

Happy Mother’s Day Mama! I love you!

Acts Of God And Nature

Not to go all Patch Adams on everyone, but I really do feel like laughter can be the best medicine (along with antibiotics and all the traditional Western stuff that is). I think we should look for laughter – and joy – whenever we can because life can be pretty darn hard.

However, there are also plenty of times when laughter doesn’t seem appropriate. Or when there doesn’t seem like there’s much to laugh about. For the past few months, I often haven’t felt like laughing, but that’s another story for another day, when I’m ready to tell it.

More immediately, today is not a day that I feel like I can share anecdotes or talk about my annoyances from trips to the pharmacy, talking on the phone or attempting to fit in the clothes at Forever 21 (because at 31, I still believe I can be Forever 21).

On Wednesday, as most of the nation knows, a tornado unlike anything I have ever seen tore through my state and my city. The worst reports I hear have the main funnel at 1.5 miles wide and traveling a 200-mile path. Hundreds of people are dead, missing or homeless. So, even though I’ve spent most of my life being called irreverent, I’m going to just let today be today. There but for the grace of God, they say.

Also, at the risk of sounding preachy (which is not anywhere I ever want to go), I’ve been thinking about the ring my best friend gave me when I graduated from college. She’d had the same one for years, and I’d always wanted one of my own. It’s made of silver and says “This too shall pass” in Hebrew. A skyline of Jerusalem is engraved on the inside.

(I’m not Jewish. I have a St. Jude medal, too, even though I’m not Catholic. I don’t worry about it, so I ask you not to either, if you’d be so kind.)

At the time, I thought my “This too shall pass” was just a reminder that the bad times aren’t permanent and won’t last forever. (I’m sure it’s the depressive in me.) However, my friend reminded me that the adage isn’t just for the dark moments. It’s a reminder in the happy ones, too. We will not always be sad, just as we will not always be happy. Life happens in the ebb and flow, and you have to appreciate each of the moments when you’re in them because you have no idea how long they’ll last or what you might learn.

Like we all know, life is hard, and it isn’t fair. I’m just trying to figure it out like anyone else. And what do I know? Very little. But I know that today I’m lucky while others aren’t, and I may not always be the lucky one.  

To quote more pop culture (because that’s what I do) I like what Morgan Freeman says in Bruce Almighty. When it’s all going downhill, sometimes it’s not the time to look up, but to look around. I am thankful for the family, friends, volunteers and general human beings who share in our triumphs and do want they can to make the tough times a little easier to bear.  

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.

Heathens and Happy Hernando

A few weeks ago, the SO and I took a trip to DeSoto Caverns outside of Childersburg, Alabama. (I like to do really cheesy things, and the SO likes to take pictures, and amazingly, these two interests often coincide.)

For those of you who don't know, DeSoto Caverns is the country's first recorded cave (I don't know what this honor means either), and it's a rather amazing natural phenomenon full of stalactites, stalagmites and the like. (By "the like," I mean stuff I didn't bother to pay attention to in either science class or the guided tour.)

The good people who own the cave have seen fit to fill the area around it with attractions like panning for gemstones, a maze and water gun shooting forts. The attractions are pretty fun, and a good way to drive up the price of admission. Of course, rock candy and fudge are for sale in the gift shop, too.

The SO and I had a good time. We engaged in some archery. (I say we didn't keep score. The SO claims victory.) I fed some llamas, and of course, there was the panning for gemstones, maze-running (that I did kick ass at) and cave-touring. But, there were two rather troublesome aspects to the whole adventure.

1. The mascot for DeSoto Caverns is Happy Hernando. Now, while I have no problem with lying to children in some respects -- the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, "Of course Mom and Dad never smoked pot" -- I have my limits. And turning Hernando DeSoto into Happy Hernando, the cutest of the conquistadors, just seems wrong. After all, we're talking about a man known for his cruelty in wiping out and enslaving indigenous peoples wherever he went. Dressing him in all primary colors and adding a jaunty hat doesn't seem like enough to whitewash that past. 

(Then again, maybe it's not so much of a lie. I'm sure Hernando himself was happy, it's just that everyone who encountered him was miserable.)

2. In the middle of the one-hour tour of the actual DeSoto Cavern, everyone is asked to take a seat. All the lights go out, and you experience total darkness. I enjoyed that. As our tour guide pointed out, "A cave is one of the only places on earth other than the ocean floor one can experience total darkness."

Then, total darkness was broken by a laser light show coming out of a rock formation and the words, "And on the first day, God made light ..." The laser lights continued while the rest of the first chapter of Genesis was read -- loudly and with great enunciation. Once the scripture reading was over, the lights stopped, and all that was left was a giant neon cross. The tour guide stood back up, and we continued on our way through some more rock formations.

Now, call me crazy, but I like to be prepared before someone attempts to indoctrinate me, and I don't think a cave tour is the right time for a creationism pitch. (I'm not judging the creationists, I'm just saying that I wouldn't surprise you with a lesson on evolution while you were still high from finding an 1/8 inch amethyst in a man-made, above-ground stream.) If I'm entering a political or religious forum, I want to know about it beforehand. And nothing about that Happy Hernando prepared me for Evangelical Christianity.

A little warning is all I'm asking for. That and maybe some bigger amethysts.

A Birthday and the Unexpected

When I was about five, my family moved into a new house on Crestside Road in Mountain Brook near the water tower and the local public high school. It took me quite awhile to recover from the indignity of the move. (How could they tear me away from my childhood home just like that? And it wasn't just any home -- there was an elementary school across the street complete with the largest playground I had ever seen. To take a child  away from her very own across-the-street playground? The cruelty astounds me to this day.)

Eventually, I recovered from the trauma and came to enjoy our much bigger backyard and the decadence of living in a three story house. (It was actually just a split level.) There were also a lot more children our age around, and it was fun to ride bikes, organize kickball games and dig around looking for arrowheads.

There were two new girls, in particular, that I decided I needed to immediately befriend. Both were my age, and while one lived across the street, the other lived a block and a half down or so. They seemed to do everything together, and I had to be a part of it.

It was after a few days of playing house (and trying to get them to like me even though they knew all the same people from school while I was the odd private-school-kid out) that I learned even more about them, "Oh, we're not just friends," Sally said, "we're cousins, too."

I was in awe. For my five-year-old self, being friends was one thing. Being best friends was a whole other sacred and longed-for entity, but being best friends and cousins was cooler and by far better than anything I could ever think of. You chose each other, and you were real-life -- not-just-blood-brothers -- related? I couldn't think of anything better.

I could even hear myself on the playground, bold and surer of myself than I had ever been, "We're more than best friends. She's my cousin." Then, of course, my fabulous cousin and I would walk off hand-in-hand, and the other kids could only wish their relationships were as cool.

In real life, I was lucky enough to have a cousin my age. Her name was Lauren, and we were just under four months apart. The bad part was that she lived in Texas -- not down the street -- and around the third or fourth grade, my aunt, my uncle and Lauren moved half a world away to Australia.

I'd like to say I knew Lauren well. I'd like to say we were close regardless of distance. What I can say is that I always thought we'd be close one day, and I'm going to leave off the cliche that always goes along with that thought.

As many of you know, my cousin died on January 22, 2007. I grieve her loss even though I'm not always sure I'm entitled to the pain I feel. She wasn't my daughter, and she wasn't my sister, and she wasn't anyone I ever shared late night sleepovers or heartbreaks with. But, when you're family, I also think it's always hard to watch those you love -- like my aunt, uncle and cousin -- go through their pain. And grief permeates a whole family; it just does.

At the time of her death (and afterwards), people were generous and kind and some said things I'd like to forget while others were very helpful.

Within 48 hours of Lauren's death, I wanted to hand write an apology note to anyone and everyone I'd ever told "everything happens for a reason." I believe that without each other, we'd all collapse and burn on a daily basis, but I hardly think that's the reason young people die, earthquakes take thousands of lives and we can't cure cancer.

That "Everything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger" nonsense always made me feel like I was in the final round of a game show.

"Well, Laurel," the host would say, "you've made it this far. Now let's see what your prize is."

The audience oohs.

"Behind door #1, we have grinning and bearing it and moving on, and behind door #2, we have death."

"I'd like to take the option that's not dying, Alex. Thanks so much for letting me play."

And when it comes to stages of grief, I'll just add that I think I skipped right past shock to anger, and I stayed in anger for a very long time. Denial and bargaining didn't even cross my radar. Secretly, I was angry most of the time. I was angry at people with living cousins, I was angry at people who had conversations about elective surgeries and such like nothing bad could ever happen to them. I was even angry at friends of mine who lost grandparents and great aunts or uncles. I knew they were in pain, but so much of me wanted to scream, "Ninety-year-olds are supposed to die, twenty-six-year-olds aren't. Get over it." (I never did, and I still feel guilty for the thoughts, but most of us know that grief has to have its own way.)

Soon, you realize you're in a club that no one wants to be a member of -- the club of people attached to tragedies. And this club gives you different advice. "Drink the glass of wine." "Cry it out some days." "It sucks, and it always will."

At one point, I sat down with a friend of mine who had lost his mother and his brother within a short period of time. I told him that I knew I would never get over this, but that I would get on with it. (Something I stole from a guest appearance by Bill Cosby on Touched by an Angel.) But, I also wanted to know when it would be the hardest -- first Christmas, first anniversary of her death -- and when it might start to seem somewhat OK -- although a new OK -- again.

"Here it is," he said, a Manhattan in his hand, "there's no answer to that one either."

"Come on," I said, "you've got to give me something. Anything."

"You're going to have no idea when it's going to hit you and when it isn't," he said. "You might sail through the first anniversary of her death only to be taken over on Arbor Day. And it won't be the milestones you think. It's going to be some event you didn't even think would be or have significance until it happens. You'll be fine, and then something will hit you out of the blue, and that's just how it's always going to be."

In the last three years, there have been many holidays without Lauren. There have been three anniversaries of her death (obviously). There's been part of a very public coroner's inquest. My sister even announced her engagement this summer, and we're all preparing for a family wedding Lauren can't and won't attend.

I thought I was doing OK, and then March 5 hit me like a ton of bricks.

The summer after I graduated high school, my family went to visit my aunt's family in Australia. At the time, I was dating a relatively quiet, Ivy-League-bound boy that went to church every Wednesday and Sunday. Lauren was dating a 24-year-old stockbroker named James. (Oh, the sophistication.)

I remember first meeting her boyfriend because most of the family was in the back room. When the doorbell rang, my aunt went to answer it, boyfriend entered, Lauren didn't stand to greet him and my father gave me the look that said "that's how you play hard to get and that's how you let a boy know who's in charge."

Later, Lauren and I talked more about boyfriends. "So, do you think James is the one?" I asked.

"The one?" she said. "The one what?"

"The one you'll marry?"

"Why would I think about marriage now?" she said. "Marriage is for when you turn 30 or something like that."

"Really? Thirty?" I said.

"Oh yeah. What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "By 30 I think I'd like to be settled down with a husband and a couple of kids."

"Kids at 30? What about traveling or getting around the world. A career. There's so much to do."

"Maybe it's a Southern thing," I said. "We tend to have families young, and I'm not so sure how many places I want to see."

We talked more about the cultural differences in how we grew up -- Southern vs. Australian. I was moving away from home for school, something not commonly done in Oz, and Lauren was preparing for her next line of course work. She wanted to be a fashion designer. I was thinking about law. And so on.

In the end, we both broke up with those boyfriends. I did see the world (on an around the world ticket I still consider well worth it). Lauren did, too. I rediscovered my creative side. She spent too much money on shoes, me on handbags.

Now, at 30, I don't have that family or husband, but I do have a great dog, one very difficult cat, a house of my own and a passion (writing, in case it isn't obvious) that I had no clue about at 18. My own 30th, while sometimes difficult (I did keep telling the SO that this was the best I was ever going to look so he should take it all in now), went pretty smoothly. I had good friends to share it with. I had made it.

March 5 is the day that reminds me that Lauren didn't. It is what would have been her 30th birthday, and I would have liked to have known and seen her at this age just as I would have like to have known and seen her at any and every age. 

I didn't count on being the only of us to make it to 30. When we talked of imagined futures, it never occurred to me death would be the reason one of us didn't get there. And like my friend tried to warn me, it's the ones younever suspect that bring you right back to the beginning. I never thought a conversation I had 12 years ago would break my heart open all over again today.

So, for whatever March 5 is for you, enjoy it. Regardless of what you're doing, who you are or where you think you're going, you deserve nice things. Have a happy day.

I Don't Do Lines

I believe there are certain attributes we're allotted fixed quantities of each day -- cleanliness, courtesy, tolerance for TNT promos. No matter what we do, only a new night will refresh our stores and allow us to again be thoughtful, caring members of the human race. I think patience is one such attribute.

I usually have a wealth of patience for children and animals. For everyone else, it's a crap shoot. Normally, I can allot my patience throughout the day -- an extra five minutes waiting in traffic, a few more minutes for the cashier in training at the BP station, deep breaths when someone asks how I ever expect to earn a living as a writer. But, if anything exceptionally time-consuming happens, my patience for the whole day is shot.

If the pharmacists takes 45 minutes to fill a prescription he or she promised in 10 minutes, I'll be perfectly cordial to that pharmacist. (Should I be worried that all of my anecdotes take place in the pharmacy? I guess we all write what we now.) I'll thank him or her and take my meds without complaint.

However, the next person to slow me down is out of luck.

Ruby Tuesday: "You said I'd have a table in 15 minutes. It's been 16, and I want some freakin' sliders!"

Intersections: "Are you color blind? Because that's the only reason to still be sitting still on a green light!"

Neighbors: "Of course, you had my mail for two days. Because Laurel Mills printed on an envelope looks just like your name you crazy b*&%^."

(I rarely get quite as bad as that last one, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility.)

On those days when my patience is gone, nothing from meditation to a cocktail can get me back on track, but I wake up the next morning feeling reset to zero and ready to cope with a world of lines, muzak and lagging Internet connections. I might be weird, but all I really know is that I don't get the appropriate daily store for a career in social services or mental health.

Despite what patience I have or don't have, as the case may be, for others, I tend to have no patience when it comes to myself. I often feel like Barbra Streisand's character in The Way We Were, I want, I want, I want, and I usually want now, now, now. I want a career and a family and thinner thighs. And when they're not right in front of me, I worry they'll never come to me. I call it a question of patience, but there's a lot of trust and faith tied up in there, too.

The scary thing is that my impatience often makes me hold onto things not worth having. I'd keep the wrong job or the wrong boyfriend because I didn't want to start all over. (Just think of all that lost time!) Because, if it was a question of will, I'd find a way to make it work. After all, I'm a smart girl, surely I could find a way to make someone love me/advance my career/bend the universe to my agenda. And we all know what pushing and holding on too tightly can do.

Oh, control, or the lack thereof, why must you taunt me always? Even in line at Ruby Tuesday?

I should probably do a little more waiting. Or, at least, a little less rushing.

In my struggles with patience and control, I like to think of something Terri Cheney wrote in her memoir, Manic, " ... My greatest victories have always been surrenders." Surrenders to the universe, to time, to fate. The surrender of letting go. Of trusting a little more and not forgetting to enjoy the ride. Easier said than done, but I'm trying.

I'm sure my pharmacist will be appreciative.

What the Heck

I'm not sure whether or not I believe in a hell. I grew up Methodist and Episcopalian, and truth be told, even if I remembered the views of those two churches on the subject, it probably wouldn't matter much. I tend to like to make up my own mind. (I have issues with authority. I really can't imagine this as coming as much of a surprise.) I also attended a Catholic university, and even though I'm very sure where it stands on the issue, I also tend to disagree with the Catholic church. Stances on womens' roles and birth control are only the beginning of our failure to see eye to eye.

The bottom line is that my theology can be somewhat fluid, and I'm not always sure eternal damnation fits in with my conviction/hope of a benevolent God.

Despite my somewhat ambivalent stance on possibilities for the afterlife, I am fond of using the phrase "that sounds like my idea of hell." This started as a way to let friends know which activities I was and was not interested in participating in, e.g. "I'm in for the Ryan Adams concert but The Creed show sounds like my idea of hell." With time though, the phrase has really come to encompass what I do and don't value in this world.

(Also, if there was a hell, I kind of do think it'd be personally tailored, almost like a "Far Side" cartoon -- James Frey would be in a never-ending Oprah interview while Rush Limbaugh would find himself mute and unable to change the channel from "The Daily Show.")

So, I give you just a few of the items in my idea of hell:

1. A crowd. I do think if I had to go to hell it would be crowded -- most people I know like their cocktails and profanity -- but this makes the list because of how much I dislike crowds. More specifically, my idea of hell would be a spandex-clad Six Flags crowd constantly jostling one another to get closer to a corn dog that never materializes.

2. A drum circle. Drum circle. Ivy League acapella group. Barbershop quartet. Call it what you want, but amateur music performed with way too much gusto just doesn't work for me.

3. Conference calls. If you've ever been on one, you know what I mean. Each one already feels like an eternity, I can't even imagine the rage I'd feel if they actually were.

4. "Vanilla Sky." I disdain this movie. I used to stand in front of it in the video store and beg people not to waste two hours of their life. I considered it a public service -- my roommate considered it "an embarrassment." In my hell, it'd play on rotation with "Cold Creek Manor" and "Fear Dot Com."

5. The Gosselins.

If you're weird like me and spend any mental energy on the same subject, please let me know what makes your idea of hell in the comments.

All Smiles

Like most human beings, Iuse body language to give me clues about what another person is thinking orfeeling and how they are likely to respond to a given situation. I assume thatthe grimacing person with their arms crossed is unlikely to buy whatever I amselling or give me a good teacher evaluation at the end of the semester or evenwant to offer a flotation device if I was drowning. I hope the grinning personwho makes eye contact is a fan.

This might be just one of the reasons that I am continually amazed at the things people will say and do with a smile on. (Another reason probably has something to do with those who misrepresent themselves for the purpose of deceit and some underlying trust issues, but reason #1 seems far easier to tackle in a simple blog post.)

A few years ago, I was sitting at a party with a new acquaintance. We were discussing books because we both liked to read. Beers were in hand. We were both smiling and laughing. I mentioned how amazing I thought Oprah’s book club was because of the boon ithad given to so many writers sales- and publicity-wise.

“Yep,” he said, seeming to take in my words and give them some thoughtful consideration, “because she’s black.”

I sat there a tad surprised, to say the least.

“Don’t even get me started on the blacks.”

Now, let’s just say that based on his body language cues and everything that had gone before, I did not expect for racism to be on the menu in that conversation. A lively discussion on the true merits of William Faulkner? Maybe. Me having to feign interest inbooks related Nascar? Most likely. But outright racism? No. It made me thinkthat I really needed to listen more carefully.

Many people know that one of my personal pet peeves is fundamentalist churches that take a super casual approach to worship. I feel like there are a fair number of churches out there with the attitude of, “Come on in! Hey, we’re laid back here. Look, we wearjeans. Our minister is in a golf shirt. There’s a tambourine. This isn’t yourusual stuffy church; don’t be afraid.”

Only, then you find out, “Yeah, our church isn’t about being fancy or singing hymns from hundreds of years ago. We’re modern. We’re hip. And we’re super inclusive as long as you promise to hate gays, too.”

The point of all of this is that this is one of the reasons I was so upset by a visit to the vet a few weeks ago. I was having my cat fixed. Now, I want to say that overall, my experience was wonderful. The staff was caring. The facility was exceptionallyclean and convenient. The prices were astounding. Five stars out of five.However, shortly after entering the clinic, I was approached by a woman withthe brightest smile. She emanated warmth, and I kind of wanted to ask her for ahug -- just because.

“Don’t worry about your little one at all,” she said. “For the boys especially, it’s a really simple procedure.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.

“So simple,” she said, still smiling. “All we really have to do is grab the testicles [there was a hand motion], make an incision, pull back the skin …”

Let me just say that there are many early morning hours when the last thing I want to hear about is testicles. (Call me crazy.) Also, while being a fairly sensible person, I still don’t like hearing words like “pull back,” “yank” and “cut through the veins” in relation to my feline companion. It was more than a bit much, and I could see the horror on the woman’s face behind my in line as the nurse continued to describe this procedure graphically and in too much detail.

All I’m really looking for is a little truth in advertising – a few more hints about what I’m getting into. Or, maybe just someone who knows that I don’t consider racism, homophobia and/or bloody operations things to smile about. 

*If you feel that the photo accompanying this blog post is false advertising for the subject matter, I apologize. Using only royalty-free photos has severely limited my options. I just really don't want to go to jail, and I can't afford fines. Sorry. 

Proof of a Dirty Mind?

This past Saturday, the SO (significant other) and I headed out for some quality time and yard sale perusing. After running by the farmer's market (aren't we fabulously young and hip? -- if you ignore the whole yard sale tour), our second stop was a large rummage sale at the local Catholic school.

Now, being that it was a Catholic school, you can imagine my surprise to look up and see the word "SEX" in huge red letters on the gym wall. I went to Georgetown after all; I'm familiar with how the Catholics feel about sex of the pre-marital variety and couldn't help but wonder why "no," "never" or "only if you're married" weren't posted nearby for the impressionable youth crowd.

I spent a good 30 seconds staring at the wall and wondering why, oh why, this would be what the priests and nuns chose to put there and another 30 seconds wondering why no one else was as taken aback as I was. Was a priest going to find me and reprimand me just for staring at the word?

On closer inspection, I realized that, of course, "sex" was not painted on the gym wall after all. Instead it was the initials SFX. (For Saint Francis Xavier. Thank you, Georgetown.)  No wonder no one else was as agog as I was.

Now the question that remains is this: Is it proof of a dirty mind that I immediately assumed I saw "sex" rather than some other far more mundane word or phrase? We were at a Catholic school after all. Dirty mind or not, you'd think the context clues would have helped me figure this one out. (Sorry, expensive-education Georgetown.)

I think I know what the priest would say about this one ...

More Holiday Memories

At my (Episcopalian) elementary school, our biggest production was the annual "Lessons and Carols" Christmas songfest. Every year, on the first weekend of December, we would put on a very long program of everyone’s favorite Christmas carols (if your favorites included the Jesus-friendly "O’ Little Town of Bethlehem" and "I Saw Three Ships" as opposed to the more secular "Jingle Bells") intermixed with readings about the birth of Christ.

(Even as I’m typing this, I want to write that the show amounted to three hours, but I’m sure that someone will correct me or balk. Just let me assure you that "Lessons and Carols" felt four times longer than it actually was. And, that’s not just my childhood attention span talking - my father would agree.)

Each year concluded with rounds of applause and all of our teachers crying as we sang "O’ Holy Night" in the candlelight in French.Despite the fact that "Lessons and Carols" led to massive adoration, praise, and clapping, there were few events I despised as much as it.

We always started practicing about two weeks after school started in August (seriously), and we spent a big part of every week trapped in music class with our obviously-frustrated-with-the-direction-of-his-career teacher as he ranted at us and held out the part of playing the triangle like it was the equivalent of be given a puppy or taken to the chocolate store with an unlimited budget.

Plus, since the program never changed, it’s not like there was a lot of variety to the days ... or years.Also, when we consider the fact that I’m tone deaf, I think you can imagine how much I got yelled at and how many practices ran long because of all the mid-song stops made when "someone was off-key."

Unfortunately still, as much as I dreaded every day of the fall because it involved "Lessons and Carols" practice, nothing was as bad as my third grade year.Third grade was the first year that you had to make it through the entire "Lessons and Carols" program in the church. Students in kindergarten through second grade got to enter the chapel for a few songs and then leave to return to their classrooms when they were done. For third graders, those days of ease and mirth were over.

About two weeks before the big "Lessons and Carols" of ‘88, the entire school was gathered in the church for yet another grueling rehearsal. I was in the row only a few feet away from the organ, so my music teacher’s stare added to the intense pressure I was already feeling. (Plus, from the pews, if our French teacher didn’t tear up before the afternoon was done, we hadn’t done a good job.)

Somewhere in the midst of "Once in Royal David’s City," I could see red lines in front of my face and I felt like I was losing my balance. (I didn’t yet have the stamina that the fifth graders had acquired, and "don't lock your knees" were still just empty words.)A few seconds later, I vomited in front of the entire kindergarten through eighth grade populations.

When you haven’t yet turned 10, few things are more embarrassing than throwing up ... in public ... surrounded by your less-than-mature peers.But, perhaps the worst part was that since I didn’t have a temperature after wards, the school nurse convinced my parents that I didn’t need to be taken out of school for the rest of the day.Instead of getting to hide in my house watching soap operas and eating jell-o with my nanny, I was given a sweatshirt from the "Lost and Found" box (after all, my original outfit had puke on it) and sent off to join my class in the lunchroom where Jenny Knowles was enjoying her 15 minutes of fame by recounting the tale of standing next to me during what she termed "the big splat."

Yes, it was a good day.But, hey, at least it wasn’t my fourth grade Christmas when I learned that there was no Santa Claus.