It is What it Is

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.

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.

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.)

Bad Jokes*

While I appreciate a good joke as much as the next person, I've never been much of an actual joke-teller. Most of my humor is anecdotal, in case no one noticed, and when it comes to jokes, I tend to forget the punch lines, so the whole enterprise becomes pretty anti-climactic pretty quickly.

I've also never really been into potty humor -- and my mother will back me up on the fact that even as a child, farts and burps did not make me giggle; I just seemed uncomfortable and ready to move on. Physical comedy irks me, too. I don't laugh when people trip or get hit in the face with hams. For both of these reasons, I've never enjoyed a Ben Stiller movie.

I could pretend that my sense of humor is sophisticated, but that would be a lie. You have no idea how much I enjoyed the movie Corky Romano. Chris Kattan dressed as a girl scout? Too much!

Basically, this is all a really long intro into what are, despite these general biases, my two favorite clean jokes:

Season's Greetings!

Myspace Chistmas Comments

I hope you have a wonderful holiday! Now that the shopping is done, enjoy yourself. And I wish you a stress-free, zero-embarrassment time with family and friends!

The Hotel Talisi

My parents were the kind to go through phases.

In the late '80s they developed an incredible fondness for Cajun cuisine. This involved trips to cooking school in New Orleans, large pots of gumbo and cookie sheets full of pralines (my favorite part of this obsession), as well as a brief decorating scheme that had the kitchen island covered in faux netting with plastic lobsters and crabs trapped in its folds. 

When my sisters and I took dance classes in a strip mall, we all started spending a lot more time at the pizza place two doors down from the studio. This ignited the period in which my parents would host "make your own pizza" dinner parties with each couple having their own genuine, fresh-from-the-pizzeria dough. (Lesson learned: tossing pizza dough is much, much harder than it looks.)

There were also musicals (for my mother), Dennis Quaid films (for dad), self-help books (darkness), ping pong and the Footloose finale. Perhaps most unsettling though, was the period during which my parents decided we should take more vacations -- and take more vacation to random Southern landmarks at that.

Dubious Origins

I know many writers who seemed to show two primary interests as children -- reading and lying. (It makes perfect sense after all, even though I'm sure a parent's first thought when his or her child tells a bold-faced lie isn't, "Maybe I'm raising the next Hemingway!")

While I had no interest in lying, I did like to tell stories. I often wrote plays for my sisters and I to perform in. Of course, being a little control freak as well, I liked to write, direct and star in my plays. And, when my sisters gave what I deemed to be unsatisfactory performances or refused to learn their lines verbatim, I would take on their roles as well. By premiere time, I was usually performing all of the roles except for brief cameos by Snuggles the bear. I'm sure it was not the easiest story for my audience, a.k.a. Mom and Dad, to follow. 

And while many older sisters like to torture their younger siblings with tales of how they were actually adopted, I had something else in mind.

"You know you're not one of us," I told my youngest sister while we were at the beach for a family vacation. I think we were having breakfast. She was three to my wise and mature nine, and I'm guessing she'd either gotten on my nerves, or I was bored. (I was so loving at that age.)

Birthdays

I've had my fair share of birthday disasters:

5. A boyfriend forgot my birthday until he was reminded about the date by my roommate. We had been dating for two years. (20)

4. A friend threw a tantrum -- and I mean show-stopping tantrum -- in the middle of my birthday party. (22)

3. I was once dumped on my birthday. Between the celebration and the depression, way too many shots were involved. I saw much more of the bathroom than my friends on that one. (25)

2. Stomach virus. (18)

1. One year, I decided to go to Girl Scout camp in Cullman for the weekend even though it coincided with my birthday. On that fateful weekend, a girl with no teeth went through my underwear, I was forced to learn the polka from middle-aged women in culottes and a homeless man stole my pink and purple duffel bag from the front steps of the school while I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. Not even cake could erase the mental image of Tanya holding my Jockey for Girls up above her head. (9)

Of course, I've also had some great birthdays:

5. Show-biz pizza. It was Show-biz people, do I really need to say more? My chair had a crown on it. There were two cakes. My dreams and my reality have rarely been so aligned. (5)

4. A surprise limo ride. My mom had a limo driver pick me and the family up to go to a Japanese restaurant where they cooked before your eyes. For the early '90s, this was the height of cool and sophistication in my eyes. (13)

3. My driver's license, a car and freedom. My birthday was on a Saturday the year I turned 16 and waiting 48 extra hours to take my driver's test seemed unbearable. Thank goodness, I passed the test. I can still remember turning up the radio to whatever volume I wanted when my mom climbed out of the car so I could drive alone for the first time and grinning from ear to ear. (16)

2. Being legal. Surprise, surprise -- 21 was big for me. Going to Georgetown meant that a lot of the college social scene revolved around bars. (Wow, how's that for marketing my alma mater?) I was also a year younger than most of my friends. Not having to worry about whether or not I would get into the bar was a huge relief to me. It was the beginning of a new era. (21)

1. As I'm writing this, the day isn't over yet, but I'm going to pick this year as a great b'day. Partly, I think it's best to try and appreciate the moment you're in. I also have really fabulous people to share this day with -- friends, family and the significant other. And last by not least, I'm glad to be here. To feel comfortable in my own skin, to have failed and succeeded, to know what I want -- for now, and to have a pretty good idea that it's all going to be OK. (30)

Maybe I'll even get two cakes before the celebration is over.

Controversial Subject Matter

After thinking back to my adventures in the library the other day, I also remembered how difficult term paper time was. Some kids might have been content with topics like Yosemite National Park or the First Thanksgiving, but not I. When it came to research papers, I liked my topics rich and fascinating -- and in the mind of my sixth grade teacher, that also meant controversial. 

In the fourth grade, my first experience in the world of research papers, we were all supposed to choose a country. Naturally, I picked China because my grandmother had recently visited there. I also really liked egg rolls, so it seemed like a great fit. In addition to writing the paper, we also gave presentations. I wore the pajamas my grandmother had brought me as a souvenir, and after a trip to the Asian market with my father (a fascinating outing to what I thought was a secret underworld, but was really just a strip mall in a part of town people from Mountain Brook didn't shop), my mother and I made chicken fried rice that we served to the class. 

(I also remember not being able to understand who in the world came up with the rules for a bibliography. Were the strange rules and off punctuation really necessary? Reverse indentation? Seriously? I'm not sure I get it to this day.)

In the fifth grade, the field was wide open, so I chose the rain forest as my subject matter. While this might have seemed pretty innocuous -- and maybe it was -- I had just read about deforestation and had to know more. So, really, I like to think of that term paper as the first manifesto of a budding environmentalist.