It is What it Is

I'm Going to Learn How to Fly

I get a lot of questions about my middle name.

“What was that you said?”

“Fain.”

“Fain?”

“Yes, it’s just like ‘rain’ but with an ‘f’ instead of an ‘r.’”

“Fain? F-A-I-N. Really?”

“Yep, Fain.”

“That’s interesting. [Beat.] What’s a Fain?”

When I’m not in a hurry, I explain that it’s a family name. When I am rather rushed, I hope the topic will pass and we can move on to the last four digits of my social security number or my city of birth because this conversation usually occurs when I’m trying to talk to someone about my gas bill or credit card statement, and it hardly seems like the time to discuss my family heritage and naming traditions.

Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding

There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.

There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):

1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"

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.)

Happy Early Halloween!

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Mean Girl

For the large part, I was a very good kid. In some ways, I was almost good to a fault. I made straight A’s, rarely got in trouble and had more than a casual relationship with the term “teacher’s pet.” I longed to be just a little bit bad—to watch R-rated movies without guilt, say the occasional bad word when no grown-ups were around, make telephone calls after 9:00 p.m.—but I was far too afraid of anyone’s disappointment, judgment or disapproval to strive for anything less than perfection.

In fourth grade, Bethany was the new girl in class. Our school had small classes and little turnover, so a new kid was incredibly exciting. She’d also moved from the big city of Atlanta, so between the cosmopolitan background and novelty factor, I liked Bethany almost immediately.

She had her own bathroom and a TV and VCR all to herself. When we had sleepovers, her mom drove us to the grocery story and video store, and we could pick out whatever we wanted. We usually came back from the grocery with sour cream and onion potato chips, sour patch kids and a stack of Tiger Beat magazines.

My Confession

As much as I realize that this might hurt my image in some people's eyes, there's something I need to get off my chest. (Not that I think there's much to this "image" of mine, but what I'm about to say is not at all "cool" or "hip." This is even less "hip" than my love of "Quantum Leap," and I bet most of us thought that day would never come.)

For the past couple of weeks, when I've been alone and in the privacy of my own car, I've been giving in to temptation and indulging one of my more shameful guilty pleasures — the love of Broadway.

For months, I thought it was enough to just have the "Rent" soundtrack on hand. Because of the 2005 movie, I figured that there was still some license to owning that one. But, as much as I adore "Seasons of Love" and "La Vie Boheme," it was starting to get a bit stale. Then, I happened to pull out an old mixed CD my sister made me years ago titled "Songs From Our Childhood: Volume 1." As is to be expected, "Songs From Our Childhood," features many of the musical favorites my sisters and I grew up with. Between our parents' and the nanny's tastes, you get an interesting mix of Don Henley, Dan Folgerberg, the theme songs from "General Hospital" and "Unsolved Mysteries," and the ever-popular-with-my-mother Broadway Soundtrack.

At first, I just listened to "On My Own" (the stirring ballad of unrequited love from Eponine in "Les Miserables") a few times on repeat. And, that was good. I found my work stress melting away more quickly as I belted out musical theater standards on the drive home. I was kinder to children and animals. I smiled more.

 But, unfortunately, after awhile even that wasn't enough, and I recently found myself at Spin Street in the mall purchasing the Highlights from "Les Miserables" as performed by the original Broadway cast.

Yes, I purchased "Les Miserables." I paid good money for it. I listen to it every day. I might or might not find myself car dancing with jazz hands on the way to and from work.

I had hoped that all of this could stay my dirty little secret. I was content to be a closeted Broadway fanatic. However, it seems like I can't help but give myself away. Today, I found myself humming/almost breaking into song with "Master of the House" much to the surprise of and my embarrassment in front of a co-worker.

I guess we can all be pretty sure that no one will be asking me for music recommendations anytime soon.