It is What it Is

Laurel vs. Bear

I've heard about the bizarre antics and survival tips on Man vs. Wild for months, but it wasn't until this past weekend that I was able to witness the strange adventure for myself. (For those of you who don't know, Man vs. Wild revolves around a man -- hence the "man" part of the title -- who fends for himself and makes do with the worst of nature supposedly under the auspices of demonstrating how to stay alive when desperately lost in the outdoors -- i.e., "wild.")

I must say that I cannot imagine a man I have less in common with than Man vs. Wild host Bear Grylls. (Hey, even Bobby Knight and I both dislike Duke University.)

1. Bear enjoys dropping himself in the middle of nowhere. I can't imagine why I would ever need or want to be outside a safe radius and/or walking distance of a Krystal's or vending machine stocked to the gills with Diet Coke.

2.Bear eats stinging ants. Apart from the fact that ants hardly seem worth consuming because of their size (bird or boar, anyone?), why would you need to eat the stinging ants when I'm sure most jungles, deserts and forests are full of ants of all shapes and sizes? You could even branch out from ants to other bugs. If for some reason a baffling wilderness sprung up between me and the nearest Walgreen's, I'd much prefer making do on a meal of the debit card receipts in my wallet or even dirt for God's sake. 

Phone Fear and Fantasy*

I am not a phone person.

I'm not sure exactly when I became anti-phone, but my best guess puts it on the time line somewhere between begging my mother for my own line in the sixth grade so I could watch Melrose Place while "talking" to Elizabeth (not that we did any actual talking when the show was on) and the week I lost my cell phone behind the couch and couldn't have felt more free. (That last story involves wine and less-than-stellar-search-tactics, naturally.)

I also think the fact that I have trouble hearing on a cell phone has a lot to do with my phone phobia. My good Southern manners/laziness dictate that I won't ask anyone to repeat a phrase or question more than twice. And, since I often can't make out all of the words on two tries alone, I end up saying a lot of "Uh-huh, yeah, interesting" and hoping the person on the other end of the line didn't want specifics or details.

Funny Stuff

Despite years of fighting peer pressure in high school, it seems I've found myself falling in with a bad crowd in my late '20s -- improvisational actors.

I'm not a member of the troupe, but I spend an awful lot of time at their shows, and if you're looking for some funny to get you through until Friday, I recommend a bit of the Extemporaneous Theatre Company.

It's Worse Than I Thought

Thanks to some quality time with my sisters this weekend, I was reminded that my obsession with "As Seen on TV" products began long before I first admitted.

In high school, I was one of the first people to jump on the ExerSlide trend. Don't remember the ExerSlide trend? (Admittedly, "trend" is probably an exaggeration. Think "scam" or "fly-by-night operation" instead.) You probably didn't watch as much late night television as I did, or you had more sense. Either way.

With the ExerSlide, I got to put paper booties around my shoes and slide my way to fitness. And, by "slide my way to fitness," I mean "spend 15 minutes finding mself unable to get from one end of the plastic mat to the other before giving up entirely and sticking the ExerSlide under my bed until I left for college."

You think I would have learned my lesson. Oh well.

The Age-Old Dilemma: What do you do with an old pair of leather pants?

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Leather pants? Really? How can this even be considered a problem? No one actually wears leather pants."

But, back in the day, you cannot imagine how much I loved these pants. I was young (read: foolish). I barely weighed anything (that's a small budget and the energy to go out every night for you). I was even blond. It was one of the few times in my life my self-esteem was over-inflated.

I thought these pants were hot, and I had to have them.

(And, "hot" they were. One of the truest things ever put on television was a certain episode of Friends in which Ross finds himself trapped in the bathroom of a date's apartment because he can't get back into the leather pants he took off because they made him sweat. Leather pants are not something you can try on, change your mind and take off for another outfit. If you want to wear leather pants, you've got to commit. Because once you're in them, you're in them. For better or worse. (I've never thought of leather pants as a metaphor for marriage before, but now that I'm there, I kind of like it.))

First Love, Vampires and Cynicism

After numerous recommendations, I finally read Twilight this month.

While the book snob in me tries to avoid "popular" fiction, I happen to not-so-secretly love young adult fiction and some sci-fi. Plus, I also have a really-not-secret love of vampire lore. (This does not mean I've ever bought a cape over the Internet, but it does mean that I've seen every episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. I've also seen everything the History channel has to offer on Vlad the Impaler.)

With Twilight, I thought the stage was set for me to fall in love with a book. And boy was I wrong.

* SPOILER ALERT* For those of you who haven't read the book and don't want to know the ending, I suggest you stop reading now.  

Weekend Tidbits

Here's the most awkward conversation I participated in over the weekend:

On Saturday, I had lunch with a friend. I noticed that the soups of the day weren't posted anywhere, so I approached the woman working behind the counter.

Me: Do you have soup today?

Female Employee: Yes.

I waited because surely she would understand that wasn't enough of an answer. She didn't.

Me: Could you tell me what they are?

Did she really think that I just wanted to know that there was soup? Next time I visit this particular establishment, I'm going to order a soup and sandwich combo -- without specifying which soup or salad. It seems that the details are getting in the way.

Here's the most awkward conversation I witnessed over the weekend:

All About Me

Call it self-indulgent, but lately I've spent a lot of time thinking about compliments. Of course, we all like compliments — they make us feel good about ourselves. And, we've all also experienced the sting of the infamous back-handed compliment: "The extra weight looks good on you." What's most interesting to me though, is the compliments/kudos that we remember years later. When I'm having a bad day (not a simple bad hair day or getting a flat tire in the rain), but I really bad day -- one where I doubt myself, second guess every decision I've made in the last five years, can't seem to find my own self-worth -- thinking about the times my SO [significant other] tells me I look great just aren't enough.

And, I guess that's what I find so fascinating. When I was a little girl, I desperately wanted people to think that I was pretty (probably so that I'd think of myself as pretty), and other compliments rarely mattered to me. Smart, sweet, funny, cute -- there wasn't an adjective I wanted to hear if it wasn't "pretty" or "beautiful," and later in college, "hot." It sounds so vain now, but a validation of my looks was all that I wanted. In true the grass is always greener fashion, I also bet all of the girls told that they were pretty desperately wanted to be acknowledged for something other than their looks -- like a sense of humor or intelligence.

Not Something I Recommend

When I was still working for Lipstick, my former co-workers and I decided to do “research” on an upcoming profile story we were publishing about Southern Magic, the local chapter of the Romance Writers of America. (Sidenote: these ladies are awesome! I think about joining their group all the time, but I’m too intimidated.) In the name of “research,” we walked down to the Birmingham Public Library to see what romance books were around. (Hey, we were thorough journalists, after all.)

And that’s the short version of how I ended up in the possession of what might be the worst book I’ve ever read. (Which was not written by a Southern Magic writer, by the way.) I warn you now. From here on out, there will be lots of spoilers, and this post will not be appropriate for those below a certain age.

What it all comes down to is that I should have known any book mentioning an “ass-toe” in the first 100 hundred words wasn’t going to be any good, but it was a train wreck that I couldn’t turn away from.

Trippin’ tells the story of seven Kansas City denizens: Madetra, Kaylantra, Darryn, Finesse, Destanie (please not the alternate spelling), E’An and Gerald St. John. At first I thought, “Who the hell thought of these names?” and “E’An?!?!” but then I got to page two and the ass-toe, and I had bigger questions on my mind.

My Misspent Youth?

This probably won’t come as a surprise to most, but I spent a large portion of my elementary years as a mathlete.

For the fifth and sixth grades, I was a proud, non-alternate member of my school’s math team. Yes, I chose to take tests outside of the designated school hours, and I spent at least one afternoon a week engaged in our “practices” of reviewing math principles and playing with protractors. (Well, we weren’t “playing with” protractors – that would have been contrary to our goal. We drew perfect circles and measured radii for a reason.)

The high point of every math team season was the two tournaments we participated in – one was held at Highland’s Day in Birmingham, and the other was an “away” tournament at Montgomery Academy.

(If you ever want to feel better about your own adolescent years, consider this: