It is What it Is

In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding

This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*

I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.

This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)

However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?

If You Weren't Aware, I Don't Lack For Opinions

In case you read yesterday's Birmingham News and were wondering what topics other than Facebook, my love life, why I always lose my car keys and how much I should spend on foundation and eye liner that I like to grossly over-think and over-analyze, pro wrestling happens to be one of them. (P.S. This is not really a kid-friendly post.)

I hope you all had a lovely weekend!

What I Did With My Holiday Weekend

Be prepared. It may be hard to respect me after reading this list. (If you had any respect for me to begin with.)

1. Bought Swim Goggles
Since I was going to spend most of the July 4th weekend in the pool, it only seemed logical for the SO and I to pick up some pool toys. We bought floats (or really one float because I had a deflated one back at my house). I got an air pump because I don't like to blow up floats (and blowing up floats seems beyond the extent of the SO's love for me). Then, we grabbed some goggles because after awhile that chlorine really irritates my eyes, and if I can't see underwater, I run into walls. The choices are few and far between.

Unfortunately, this purchase only reminded me of the same lesson I learned in a much more painful setting almost 20 years ago -- no woman, adolescent or grown, looks good in a pair of swim goggles. I don't know how anyone held back the laughter.

Where To Go From Here?

I remember applying to colleges as one of the most stressful periods of my life. It seemed like so much -- my future career, earning potential and even life mate -- hung on the decision I made then. Not to mention the fact that I had tied my self-worth directly to the U.S. News & World Report ranking of the school(s) that accepted me.

Seven days before one round of applications was due, I had an emergency root canal (one the endodontist called the worst he'd seen "in ten years" of oral surgery). Full of painkillers and Valium (I do not do well around the sound of a dentist's drill), I called my best friend and insisted that she drive me to my closed-for-the-Christmas-holidays school, so that I could use the typewriter in the library to put some finishing touches on the common application. 

I was a little obsessed.

Welcome to 1984 (and Not in a Good, Footloose-is-Back-on-Top-of-the-Charts Kind of Way)

Sometimes I worry that I could easily become a conspiracy nut. (I realize that most people probably don’t have this on their list of concerns, but my worry list has always been longer, and stranger, than most.) I blame some of it on the fact that I spent most of my childhood watching soap operas, Phil Donahue and Unsolved Mysteries. There was even a brief – and unfortunate – period when I believed that Elvis faked his own death.

And despite what my occasionally rational brain tells me about accidents and coincidence, I think I’ve watched far too many political thrillers as an adult, too. (I still find it odd that one of the most liberal members of the Senate, Paul Wellstone, died in a plane crash shortly before some key votes under the Bush administration, but I try to keep this mostly to myself.)

However, I do not think I’m paranoid when I say that we are, at present, on the verge of living in the world created by George Orwell in 1984. But, it’s not big government we need to be afraid of -– it’s Facebook.

Even without the latest issues Facebook has had with privacy, revealing information to other web sources, etc., social networking has always had the potential to implement a kind of social control that no invading army or government entity is capable of. And the key to that societal control rests entirely in surveillance.

For an anthropology class nearly a decade ago (when I sat down on the first day and saw that half the room was full of athletes, I knew I’d found a good place to be), I read a book called Depraved and Disorderly. It’s a study of women in penal colonies in Australia (aka, the founding women of Australia), and for the large part, the book discusses how constant surveillance and the removal of all privacy was used to turn these “wild women” into the model citizens the English government wanted them to be at the time.

The Dead Fowl Standard

Right after college, my roommates and I moved into a brand-new federal style townhouse off of the U Street Corridor in Washington, D.C. It was only a few blocks from Adam's Morgan, but at the time, the neighborhood was still considered very much "up and coming." (Today, the same area is mostly luxury condos and high-end retail, but that was not the case in 2001.)

I, however, could not have been more infatuated with my living situation. The house had gorgeous hardwood floors, a lovely balcony and even a garage. (You have no idea the premium on something like that in D.C.) I also had the master bedroom complete with two closets and a bathroom that had a shower and a whirlpool tub. The $825 I paid each month in rent was way too high a percentage of my salary, but it was comparable with what all of my friends paid, and I had a spectacular house two blocks from the Metro station. I was more than willing to put up with the occasional panhandling or "get out white bastards" greeting in exchange.

But, while I was completely comfortable with my surroundings, I sometimes forgot to warn visiting friends that we weren't in Georgetown anymore. (For those of you who have never been, Georgetown is a very wealthy neighborhood, and you can tell at every turn -- from the gorgeous row houses to the Armani store.)

Serious Friday: The Media and Me

I have always considered myself a writer first.  

It’s not that I have a problem with the term “journalist,” it’s just that I knew I could never be one. Even in all my years in magazines, I always referred to what I did as Lifestyles journalism. It was the fluff of the world – plan your next vacation, how to spruce up your mood with color, what to plant when. Mostly, I was the queen of lists. If you needed a top (fill in number here), I was your girl. At last count, I believe I had written over 100 top lists of some sort (not including my five or the movies that always make me cry). I preferred it that way.  

I briefly considered real journalism. For awhile, I thought I wanted to run the school newspaper, but Gabrielle Carteris’ rather unflattering role as Andrea Zuckerman on Beverly Hills, 90210 made me question that dream. (Truthfully, I was not confident enough about my writing to think I could earn any place on any newspaper then.)  

Writer's Block, Comedy and Insurance Companies

I tell my students that there' no such thing as writer's block. 

I claim that there is this: unwillingness to do the work (because writing is hard work and anyone who tells you anything different is lying), procrastination and fear. (The fear comes in when you worry too much that when you do actually write, what you write won't be good enough.)

I recommend all the tricks for getting started -- lists, clustering and the always-dreaded free-writing. (Free-writing = writing non-stop for a set period of time, and it is more than a bit trying on the brain and the hand.) I tell them to start in the middle if they don't have a beginning or an end. Or start at the end if there's no beginning or middle. I trot out one of my favorite books, Writing Without the Muse, for ideas and inspiration. 

I am so full of mettle, advice and, hopefully support, I just don't know what to do with myself.

There is always something to write, I say. It may not be profound, but as long as you can put pen to paper, there is always something to write. 

The True Spirit of Easter

The Mills are a competitive bunch.

We pull out rule books when there's a question of awarding points in board games, we do not believe in do-overs and we never, ever let anyone win. In general, it makes us a tough, formidable lot when it comes to a game of Balderdash or charades. It does not, however, always make it fun to be a kid in our family.

When I say that we don't let anyone win, I really mean anyone. It does not matter if you are three or thirty, if there's a chance to take you in tic-tac-toe, Scrabble or even Candy Land, we seize it. Once during a game of bocce on my great aunt's lawn, I thought that maybe I should change my throws a little so one of the children could win. (I was twenty-eight to their five, six and eight after all. And, yes, they all probably could have taken me on their own, since this particular game did involve throwing and sports stuff, but let's leave that off the table for now.) Then I looked over and realized that my cousin had just knocked his own son's ball out of the competition, and I figured it was our usual "no holds barred" approach to all gaming.  

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.