It is What it Is

Whitney, The Misuse Of Poison Lyrics And A Valentine

I was a big fan of Whitney Houston.

When I was 9, I sang “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” on a near-daily basis. I even performed her song in front of six grades during our school’s annual dance contest. (Long story short: We didn’t even get an honorable mention, and I was pissed. My hand motions were so descriptive.)

When I first opened the cassette tape holding “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” and found the mass-produced, signed photo of Whitney at the back of the lyrics booklet, I thought I had Whitney’s actual autograph and carried it around with me for weeks.

(On another note, what do you call that thing that you unfold with all the song lyrics and info about the producers? Does it have a name? I considered it a study guide for learning my favorite songs for mirror performances, but I imagine any musician reading this is hanging his or her head in shame with such a description.)

When The Bodyguard came out, I was still carrying a torch for Kevin Costner. (I know, I know, but I thought Dances With Wolves was a really sensitive film.) I could not wait to see Whitney and Kevin together, and “I Will Always Love You” became my new ideal for romantic love.

Christmas On The Cheap

Thanks to some time in grad school, and the lucrative career choice of “writer,” there are plenty of years when I haven’t had that much money to spend at the holidays.

I am a crafty person, but even crafts cost money, and sometimes more than money, they take time. During graduate school, I had very little money, and thanks to finals, very little time. I wanted to do something for my friends, but I didn’t have an answer to the question of how.

Eventually, I drove to a store called Happy Price Zee Outlet. Since you probably don’t have one in your neighborhood, let’s just say that it’s kind of like the Dollar Tree and Dollar General had a crack baby. The prices are very low, and the merchandise can be a) defective b) ridiculous c) cheesy d) borderline dangerous or e) all of the above.

If you want a rainbow-themed umbrella to wear on your head, it’s the place for you. It also carries an unnatural number of bobble-head cats. I cannot imagine the patron that shops here for non-gag gifts, but I sense that his or her home/van might resemble that of a hoarder’s.

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.

The Parade Of Shame

I grew up with “do-it-yourself” kind of parents. My school projects were never taken over by an eager Mom or Dad who wanted it to be just perfect or an anxious parent fearing for my grade. My dioramas looked like they were made by a nine-year-old, and my science fair projects were usually far less than stunning.

One year I did take home a third place ribbon for “Will your plant grow faster if you talk to it?” (Even as a child, I talked to plants and myself. A sign of genius or madness? Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.) However, I think most of that win had to do with the fact that fourth grade is around the time kids figure out that it isn’t cool to be smart, so the level of competition was way down. Also, I used the tri-fold white board as instructed by my science teacher, and we all know how science teachers like rule-followers.

However, the worst do-it-yourself incident of all probably occurred in the fourth grade, the year that our class participated in the annual historic building parade.

“What’s a historical building parade?” you say. Well, let me enlighten you.

El Matador

When we went to the beach week before last, we stayed at El Matador, a family favorite for the Mills from 1979-1986 or so. I hadn't been back since I was six years old. Luckily, nothing about El Matador had changed. But, looking at this picture my mom sent me this morning, you can see that a few other things have. (I'm on the right in the cool sunglasses.)

Giraffes, Grocery Packaging And Guest Posts

I'm guest posting today, so if you'd like to read about some of the wacky stuff that popped into my head over the weekend, please head over to highly-entertaining Jamie's Rabbits written by the very talented Jamie Golden.

Kids These Days And Some Women's History

In my 9^th grade history class, I ended up on a group project with some other girls that was to be a mural entitled “A Century of Women: 1890-1990,” or something like that.

Now, since we weren’t actually painting on a wall – the whole thing was down on a long roll of butcher block paper – and I can’t draw to save my life, I’m not sure why this was our chosen medium of expression (or why we called it a “mural” instead of a “painting”), but there you have it. I can be pretty sure that the women’s history part was my idea since studying is something I was good at.

I had the early years, 1890-1920, and what stuck with me the most after all of that research is how the invention of the washing machine, and later the vacuum, blender, and every other appliance a man should never buy a woman on a romantic holiday, affected women’s lives. While everyone claimed that these products would make women's lives easier, it was the exact opposite that occurred. Instead of being free from the kitchen and laundry for other pursuits, women were just expected to get more done in a day.

Even then, it seemed like a raw deal.

Hot Times In The City

I have a knack for getting myself in trouble in the heat.

When I was 16, I had a mild heat stroke at my parents’ country club on July 4^th weekend. I had gone with them to work out when I got slightly overheated. (It’s possible that my failure to exert myself physically in the previous two months might have had something to do with it, too.)

After sitting in front of a fan for 15 minutes or so, I decided to go to the snack bar for something to drink. That’s when I proceeded to faint and start vomiting -- in front of about 30 kids and their parents enjoying the pool over their holiday weekend. Oddly enough, if you know me, throwing up doesn’t bother me, but throwing up in public upsets me immensely. My legs were wobbly, and I was covered in some throw-up and shame. It was every teenager’s dream.

My father found me, scooped me up like a child and carried me to the car, so we could go home.

At 18, as a freshman in college, some friends and I were on our way to the first football game of the season when someone started complaining about the heat.

“You can’t think this is bad,” I said. “You should try living in Alabama.”

Well, I might as well have shot myself in the foot because it wasn’t even 30 minutes later that I had an EMT student checking my vitals and recommending that I get back to my dorm before I had a real heat stroke.

Throwback Thursday: The Old Guard

Last night's Lifetime DVD selection starred the lovely Richard Crenna.

You see, I actually started out the evening watching "Evidence of Love" with Barbara Hershey, but Barbara's frightening fashion choices in the film, from her crude, nearly shaved pube-like hairdo to the large overly round, bug-eye glasses, were so overwhelming and lasting that I didn't want to go to sleep with that being the last image in my brain.

There are 2 reasons for this:

1. I didn't want the nightmares.

2. As Lifetime has strategically led me to believe, someone could break into my home and strangle me at any moment. And, I might not be able to count on a psychic waitress to warn me of said serial killer's attention. Therefore, I didn't want Barbara Hershey's 80s-era Midwest androgeny to be the last thing I saw of this world.

Also, in case you were wondering, "Evidence of Love" revolves around a gruesome murder committed with an axe. And, yes, Barbara's hair scared me more than the hideously painful death by axe thing. So, I popped in Richard Crenna as a hardened cop who, through struggle and hardship, learns a lot about himself so that we, as his audience, can learn a little about ourselves.

When You're Not Out In The Club

Weekend before last, I went up North to hang out with my friend Jane* and meet her new four-month old baby. Our friend Rita joined us, and we had a great time together. On the Saturday afternoon of our weekend, we decided (or really the one of us who is actually a mom decided) to hire a babysitter so that we could go see Bridesmaids (loved it, wish I could be Kristen Wiig, must move on now).

When we got back from the movie, Rita and I decided that it was wine time. This set us off on a slew of questions:

Was the babysitter 21? The answer: yes.

Should we offer the babysitter a glass of wine? I mean, we’re Southern, so it feels rude not to ask, but she is the babysitter and has to drive. We went with “no” on that one.

Is the babysitter going to judge us for drinking at five? Does she think we’re the lush friends of our suburban mom friend? The answer to that one is probably a sad yes.

I could have sworn that yesterday I was babysitting to supplement my income (and due to the Great Recession, “yesterday” is probably closer than you’d think), and suddenly I was on the other side of the babysitter scenario. I do not know when this happened. (In my head, I’m 17. Seriously. I just wish my face would stop giving me away.)