It is What it Is

What No One Tells You

I always thought that being able to work from home would be my perfect job. I think that's true for most Americans. After all, you can be in the comfort of your own home, work in jammies and avoid all of the office politics. There's no pretending to care about Peggy's photos from her trip to Phoenix, pressure to buy $10 gift wrap because Paul's kid has a school fund raiser or having to remember to swing by Winn Dixie at 7:30 a.m. because you're the one in charge of pimento cheese for the company pot luck.

Work from home, live the dream, right?

I once even accepted a piddly salary (that I later found out put me about $8,000 behind all of my male counterparts) because I was told there would be the possibility of working from home on some days. (Said possibility never materialized.) And every time I've been part of a large office and overheard someone talking about spreadsheets or how to shake the toner cartridge in the copier to get more life out of it, I've stared off into space and dreamed of doing my daily tasks from home. 

Let's just say that after a year of working from home, yet another of my dreams is dead. Here's the stuff they don't tell you about that domestic office:

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.

Southern Hospitality

This past weekend, I attended a series of readings for pms (a literary journal produced by U.A.B. that is an acronym for poem memoir story). Dr. Alison Chapman was one of the readers, and she read from a piece about her work teaching in Donaldson Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in Alabama. While the entire essay was of great interest, the point of interest that lead to a discussion between another colleague and myself was this: Are Southern women ,in particular, torn between honest expression and the need to placate, please or be polite to others?

In short, are we more likely to keep our mouths shut? Do you tell your friend she looks huge in a particular dress when she asks, or do you say, "No, of course not, you're always beautiful"? While no friend, colleague or stranger likes these kinds of confrontations, it seems that Southerner women, especially, have trouble with the concept of expressing what they're really thinking.

This is also a conversation I've had many times before, especially with Northern transplants to the South. "Is everyone always this polite?" "Will someone stare if I want to talk about something other than tea sandwiches at the luncheon?" "Does anyone ever say anything negative about anyone?" "And what is this 'bless her heart'' stuff?"

And here's how I explain it: While Southern women may have been raised with a lot of decorum and a lot manners, we're also raised with a fair amount of sass, and we're not idiots.

Yep, I'm Taken

I've heard girlfriends and talk show experts discuss relationship weight gain for almost as long as I can remember. I believe one woman even made the bestseller list because she coined the term "the newlywed 19" in her book. (Get it? She plays off "the freshman 15," but it's all about gaining weight in your first year of marriage. I don't know who wouldn't be astounded. Then again, that woman does have a bestseller, and I do not, so I should probably move on now.)

I've also heard all the reasons for the new pounds and even offered a few of own. When you're newly in love, who wants to do anything but spend time with his or her significant other? There goes the gym or fitness center. Even something as simple as staying home on a Saturday night to cuddle and watch a movie means there are no long walk from the best parking spot you could find to the bar -- in stilettos -- or dancing until the wee hours.

I tend to fall into the "I don't want this guy to think I'm one of those obnoxious women who counts every calorie and only eats salad," so I'll end up ordering a Rib Eye or pasta coated in cream on those first few dates just to prove how awesome and self-assured I am.

And when it comes to cooking for a date, there's no way I'm going to load his first (or fifteenth) home cooked-by-Laurel meals with my standard made from 2% milk cheese, non-fat sour cream or low-sodium, 98% fat free cream of anything soup. It's only full fat on those first creations. (And it's also why my dad pantomimes reeling in a fish whenever I tell him what I plan to make the SO for dinner that night.)

Plus, there's always the "if he loves me just as I am, why do I have to kill myself with lite, daily yogurt and hours on the Stair Master?" train of thought.

Luckily, I've only had one problem with relationship weight. This is partly because I'm not as skinny as a lot of girls before they start dating and also partly because, until recently, I've never been capable of maintaining a stable relationship beyond the six-month mark or so.

The World's Weirdest Cat (or How I Learned to be an Optimist)

As we all know well, my cat, unlike 99% of all cats, will not go near his litter box. After purchasing four different litter boxes, three different kinds of litter and investing in enough Swiffer products to start my own maid service, I was pretty much at my wit's end. 

I finally decided that since the cat seems to think he's a dog anyway, maybe a daily walk with Cassidy would help.

Have I always been the person who makes fun of anyone who puts a cat on a leash? Yes. Did I ever, at any point in my wildest dreams, see myself as the kind of person who would walk a cat? Certainly not. Was I more embarrassed to walk my cat in front of the neighbors than the time I climbed in the car half-dressed with a towel on my head to drive to a friend's house because my hot water went out just as it was time to rinse the Nice 'N' Easy gray coverage dye out of my hair? Yes.

But, as well all know, desperate times call for desperate measures, so I suited the animals up.

Toonces the cat spent 60% of the walk lying on his back in the middle of the sidewalk refusing to move and trying to squirm out of his collar. He spent the other 40% flattening himself against the ground and creeping along like a crab.

Cassidy, excited for a chance to run and play and sniff was not pleased to have such a sedentary companion.

The only aspect of the walk that seemed passable was when we passed some barking dogs and Toonces clung to me for dear life. I thought, "Maybe, at least now, he'll appreciate me. Maybe now, he'll realize how lucky he is to have a safe, warm and loving home."

No such luck.

A Memorable Exit

I have not always been a friend to the earth. (Hey, I'm a Southern girl. I love some hair spray, and as much as it pains me to say it, there's no hold like the hold that comes from an aerosol can. The rest just can't compete.)

But, a few years ago, I decided to make a concentrated effort to be a better citizen of the planet. I'm by no means perfect, but I found that once I started recycling, it became easier and easier to do little things to reduce my carbon footprint.

I try my best to get all of my mixed paper, plastic, aluminum and glass down to the recycling center, and I never set my heat above 68 degrees in the winter. I also may have gone a little insane on the "reuse" part -- I knit from plastic bags, make cork wreaths and turn bottle caps and lids into chains and magnets. (I can just imagine fewer and fewer people looking forward to gifts from me as they read that.)

I'm also a big fan of making it easier for people to recycle. The more I recycle, the more it pains me to throw away anything that could be recycled. But, the neat freak/germ phobic part of me also disdains the idea of carrying around a dirty soda can or sticky bottle in my purse when there's no recycling bin to dispose of it in. 

This next story follows directly from that inner conflict of mine:

Worst Date Ever

As I mentioned earlier this week, I'm no stickler when it comes to romance. I don't have to receive a dozen red roses on every important occasion, and I'd be perfectly fine if no one ever dedicated a Celine Dion song to me on the radio.

However, I do think certain qualities (apart from my short list of fidelity, truthfulness and not signing on with extremist groups/militias) are important to keep love alive:

Thoughtfulness: "My partner seemed really stressed about getting everything done today, I think I'll pick up dinner on the way home."

Paying Attention: "My partner said it was very important that I get this video back to the store today, I'll do that right now."

Reason/Rational: "My partner is not a fan of Pink Floyd. His/her birthday is probably not the time to buy the complete works of Pink Floyd and force my tastes upon him/her. Maybe I'll buy something he/she likes instead."

The story I'm about to tell you completely violates all three of the above. And, while these events did not happen on Valentine's Day, I think the lessons about love -- or lack thereof -- are more than appropriate to the spirit of the holiday.

Shameless Self-Promotion

I try not to ask for much (apart from attention, cash, understanding and fame -- if you even count those), but I would really appreciate a small favor from the readers of this blog. (I'm sorry if this makes me a terrible person):

Please vote for me (story #1) at My Scoop's Valentine's Day Contest. It'd be the best V Day gift I've gotten since a single rose from the boy who gave everyone roses as part of my high school's Key Club fundraiser. 

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.

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.)