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.

Landlords Are Crazy

From the time I rented my first apartment at 19 until about six months ago, I operated under a basic assumption: all landlords are crazy.

Apartment landlords, or any complex run by a company or management firm, maybe not so much. However, when you rented a house, it seemed to me that all landlords were nuts.

The landlord of that apartment I rented at 19 had a house he divided into an upstairs apartment, a main level that was kept in tact “for the family to visit” and a basement apartment. We basically lived above a creepy museum, and my landlord liked to work on the house shirt-less (at 70), made snide comments about boys coming over and let his son-in-law use the back of the house for his “art” at any given time – which usually translated to the hours of 10:00 p.m. – 2:00 a.m.

I did not like that man.

White People Problems

My birthday is November 18, and despite the fact that that seems far away from Christmas, when you throw in Thanksgiving, I contend that most birthdays from Nov. 15 - Jan. 15 probably go a tad less noticed because of their proximity to the holidays. (Not that 32 requires a throw down or the complete attention of my friends. I'm actually going somewhere else with this, so please bear with me.)

The lesser attention really gets made up for in the fact that you basically get to open presents for weeks on end. It almost becomes customary to receive gifts, so when January rolls around with it's cold temperatures and historically-significant holidays (that are incredibly important, of course, but have no presents), it's kind of a letdown.

To handle this down slide, and get the most for my money, years ago I started saving my Christmas and birthday money to spend after Christmas when all of the sales are really good. I know I sound like a spoiled consumerist here, but I can't deny that I like stuff. Plus, when you mail order your sale items, it's like you get to keep opening presents because packages are always arriving at the door.

(Seasonal depression, meet my new handbag.)

Karaoke And WASPs

Being tone deaf and all, karaoke has always been a challenge. With no musical ability whatsoever, you're pretty much left with three options:

1. Make sure your song is a group song that involves lots of other girls so you're never close to the microphone. Of course, this comes with the obvious side effect that you are part of a large obnoxious group of girls on stage most likely singing "Love Shack" or "I Will Survive," and your dignity is lost somewhere amongst the red headed slut shots you've been taking all evening.*

2. Only sing once everyone else in the bar is too drunk to realize how bad you really are. If you're me, there's always one table left that cannot -- either due to court mandates or liver problems -- reach this level of inebriation.*

3. Learn a song that involves more speaking than singing.

I once saw a girl perform Eminem's "Lose Yourself" and bring the house down. Admittedly, said house was a smoky bar between a Days Inn and a Waffle House, but I still count it as an accomplishment.

The Magic Room

In The Magic Room, Jeffrey Zaslow explores the world of Becker’s Bridal, a decades-run family business in the small town of Fowler, Michigan, as well as changing trends in marriage and weddings and the lives of the individual brides who come to Becker’s in droves.

Becker’s Bridal itself has been a destination for engaged women for generations, with many mothers who bought their dresses there returning years later with their own daughters, in search of “the one” – the perfect dress. Zaslow unveils (no pun intended) the story behind the store and what it took for a family to keep the business growing and thriving throughout the years.

Zaslow also delves into the personal narratives of eight soon-to-be-married women – from a chaste twenty-something who saved her first kiss for the man she would marry to a forty-year-old bride who thought she might never have a wedding of her own. The stories are heartfelt, thoughtful and touching.

The title refers to a special place within Becker’s Bridal with soft lighting, many mirrors and the opportunity for women to see themselves as they’d always hoped on such a special occasion – as a truly beautiful bride ready to begin the next phase of her life.

In all honesty, I didn’t expect to like The Magic Room. The topic struck be as a bit saccharine, and I worried I would find the book sappy, but The Magic Room is anything but. Each aspect of the book – from the struggles of the Becker family to the portraits of the eight brides and their families – is well-told, and I was struck by the honesty, depth and beauty of the stories. There is no pretense of perfection or princesses, and this makes The Magic Room all the more powerful a read.

Rocks, Signs And Boobs

A recent How I Met Your Mother episode discussed how every sign had a story behind it.

When I was 16, I became responsible for a rock slides road sign. For anyone unfamiliar with the topography of Birmingham, Alabama, let me assure you that our fair city is quite hilly. Being in the foothills of the Appalachians will do that to you. The Southern half of Alabama is quite flat. Montgomery, Mobile, Gulf Shores – all flat. Birmingham, not so much.

The particular suburb I grew up in is also known for being particularly difficult to drive through. The roads are curvy, there’s lots of greenery and very little lighting. I say all this to explain how a 16-year old, with a month-old driver’s license, would have some trouble with a curvy road at the bottom of the hill on a very rainy day. When the rain washes rocks down, well, that’s how I ended up with the first of what would be many flat tires.

Since I cared for more about my appearance in high school than I do today, I ended up on the side of the road in a downpour while my adorable pleated mini skirt (hello 1995) from the Junior’s Department at Macy’s was pretty much ruined as I stared at a flat tire I had no idea what to do about. I’d been given the lesson on fixing a flat, but I wasn’t really planning on doing it. Luckily, a kind police officer arrived at the scene to help me out, and since I was less than a mile from my house, my mom was also on her way to pick me up. I told the police officer about the rock, and there was a sign up the next day. I’ve been taking credit for it ever since.

Last week, I was in the elevator on a way to doctor’s appointment. I climbed into the elevator with another man. Since I no longer have the standards I had in high school, I was wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt from the SO’s improv comedy troupe.

Two Dreams And My Top 10 Break-Up Songs

In my 32 years of television and movie viewing/life, I have come to want two things:

1. A montage set to music: Me falling in love, me moving up the career ladder, me getting a makeover. Any scenario would work really so long as my montage included me throwing papers into the air, twirling in an evening gown and smiling meaningfully at a member of the opposite sex.
2. A soundtrack. 

Neither of these wishes are real possibilities, what with me being a person leading a life and not the star of a movie, but it does seem that I have unwittingly given all of my break-ups soundtracks.

Unforseen Side Effects

Once you start editing, you can’t ever really stop.* You’d think you could leave the commas and semi-colons at the door once you leave whatever magazine/newspaper/website you’re working for, but it doesn’t work that way.**

You become an editor of everything – menus, billboards, banners. If you pass a car wash that used a possessive when it should have used a plural or vice versa, it irks you.

For 11 months, I lived down the street from Annnie’s Auto Repair and not having a talk with management took all the will power I had.

Then, before you know it, you’re taking pictures on your cell phone at garage sales because you just can’t believe the errors people make.

I might need help.

* I probably shouldn’t speak for all editors or former editors. Most of them are probably far less neurotic than I am. They probably have photos of their kids on their cell phones and not “hilarious” spelling errors.

** This post also in no way implies that I will not commit future spelling or grammatical errors.

What Happens When You Talk Too Much About Your Wigs

I get that my love of wigs might seem strange to some, but I really did see it as a little quirk, maybe an eccentricity if you will. It may be weird, but it's not intervention- or even therapy-worthy. It's not like I'm Star Jones or Wendy Williams. Apart from certain major holidays or bachelorette parties, you're seeing my real hair.

Then, the other day, shortly after I posted about Halloween, this -- no joke -- arrived in my e-mail inbox:

Hi!
I am the Associate Producer for the new TLC series that is showcasing serious and dedicated collectors and passionate enthusiasts of all kinds. We will follow the individuals on their pursuits for the next great piece, or delve into their world as they teach us what it is that drives their passion.

I came across your article about your wigs, and wanted to discuss the possibility of appearing on our show.

Let me know your thoughts!

The "Mills Slip"

I am not a subtle person.

It’s just one of those gifts I wasn’t born with. My sister is fond of saying that I am incapable of subtlety or keeping anything close to the vest. (Could this very blog be proof of her theory?)

I can’t lie, I tend to say what I’m thinking and when I can’t say what I’m thinking, you can read my emotions all over my face.

I may tell you that I love your haircut, but odds are that if I don’t, my face will involuntarily recoil into a look that implies you took scissors to your head while drunk and taking style cues from the Sneetches.

More than one teacher told me that they judged how well a lecture was going based on my face because it was always obvious whether or not I was getting the point of the lesson.