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.
Continue reading "Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's" »
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.)
I love animals, I really do. My dog is one of the most spoiled creatures on the planet. (Only, though, if you count her wardrobe and chest of toys; she in no way has the demeanor of a spoiled dog because she is sweet, loving and perfect.)
I didn't even like cats until I got my own, but now I am enamored, and he regularly sleeps on my chest. Hell, the cat isn't even litter-box trained, and I still love him, and I think we all know there's no true test of one's devotion and affection like finding random puddles of pee -- or worse.
If you were to hurt one of my pets, you would most definitely know my wrath. But, despite how strongly I feel about animals, I'm not so sure where I fall on the spectrum of animal rights. If you abuse an animal, you should go to jail, and I think people who hurt animals deserve a special, fire-filled place in the great beyond, too. However, I also have no problem with the food chain. Mama loves her meat, after all. I own leather handbags (and once upon a time, I had a pair of leather pants).I never objected to a biology class dissection, and when it comes to life-saving, cancer-fighting kinds of drugs, I'm pretty OK with what it takes to make sure those are safe for humans.
I'm not much for New Year's Resolutions. Since I tend to find enough fault with myself as is, I prefer not to set myself up for failure with half-hearted proclamations that usually result from peer pressure. I've seen plenty of commercials for gyms, Nutri System and Wii Fit in the weeks leading up to today, but I don't think targeted ads and social norms are enough to bring about the will power I've lacked for the past 30 years. (Plus, chocolate-covered cherries are still half-price at Wal-Mart, and there aren't enough marketing dollars and judgmental stares for me to fight that kind of temptation.)
I also think the world is too hard on vices. Everything in moderation, as they say. Plus, I can't help but think the occasional vice -- whether it's a cocktail or some celebrity gossip -- keeps us all sane. I worked for a woman who did not drink, smoke, gamble or eat meat. She was one of the meanest and most difficult women I've ever known. If you ask me, a cheeseburger and a martini would have made all of our lives far better.
It's not that I don't think about self-improvement, I just prefer to do it in a different way. For example, I've spent the last year or so of my life working on approval. In the past couple of years, I've realized that there isn't an amount of praise that's enough for me.
If someone says that a story I wrote is "good," I want to know why they didn't use "great." If it's "great," I want to know why it wasn't "awesome." And if it's "the best work they've ever read and they bow down to me as the next great literary genius," I figure they're lying and trying to make me stop asking questions. (Not that the last comment has ever happened, but I wanted to paint a clear picture.)
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.
This might be just one of the reasons that I am continually amazed at the things people will say and do with a smile on. (Another reason probably has something to do with those who misrepresent themselves for the purpose of deceit and some underlying trust issues, but reason #1 seems far easier to tackle in a simple blog post.)
A few years ago, I was sitting at a party with a new acquaintance. We were discussing books because we both liked to read. Beers were in hand. We were both smiling and laughing. I mentioned how amazing I thought Oprah’s book club was because of the boon it had given to so many writers sales- and publicity-wise.
“Yep,” he said, seeming to take in my words and give them some thoughtful consideration, “because she’s black.”
Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)
I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.
Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."
That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.
"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."
"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)
"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."
Thanks to the glorious WE network, I've discovered a new television show that I cannot get enough of. (Me love Women's Entertainment network? Who would have guessed?)
British reporter and writer Dawn Porter completed a four-part series in 2008 entitled Extreme Wife. (Sidenote: Dawn Porter is totally my new girl crush. She's adorable and adventurous, and I really like what she did in Super Slim Me.) In each part of the series, she examines very different kinds of relationships including polygamy, free love, mail order brides and Japanese geishas.
I watched the mail order brides episode on Tuesday night. (I don't think many Southerners have much personal experience with mail order brides -- rather, I didn't -- but when I lived in Washington, D.C., my roommate and I liked to try and spot mail order brides at national monuments. Maybe there were just a lot more older men who happened to meet younger, foreign women there, but often, it seemed like something more was going on.)
For Extreme Bride, Dawn takes a trip to Odessa, Ukraine with a company that arranges meetings between American men and Russian/Ukrainian women. I now think that the eligible bachelors along for the ride might explain some of why our image is so poor abroad. (I don't want to be accused of libel here, but let's just say that the phrase ild-chay olester-may occurred to me more than once.)
