It is What it Is

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.

My Odd Local Movie Theater And Why The SO Will Never Take Me Back to Disney World

Not all that long ago, the SO took me on a trip to Disney World. Now, while I understand that “it’s the most magical place on earth” and “no one can wear a frown at Disney World,” I’m not exactly one of those people who appreciates the magic. (I'm pretty sure the latter isn't really a common phrase, but I feel like it could be.)

My own mother once said, “I think I had the only children in the world that never asked to go back to Disney World.”

I visited when I was nine. I told Mickey that he and I had the same birthday. He seemed pleased (at least, he clapped his over-sized white gloves). I went down Space Mountain, and I bought large Lady and the Tramp stuffed animals from our hotel. As far as I could tell, I was done. For life.

Today, for me, Disney World is a trifecta of things I don’t enjoy: lines/large groups of people, heights and loud noises.

Since new technology allows for rides where you actually just move around in a kind of virtual reality while your cart shifts from side to side, you can also add small spaces and motion sickness to the discomforts mentioned above.

Also, seeing how I feel about parades, you can understand why this might not necessarily be my ideal vacation.

I tried to buck up, but as the SO rarely fails to remind me, I didn’t do a very good job. I’m sorry that I don’t see the point to going down the same roller coaster twice from different sides (it’s just the mirror image!) and that I like to nap, but that’s just how I am.

El Matador

When we went to the beach week before last, we stayed at El Matador, a family favorite for the Mills from 1979-1986 or so. I hadn't been back since I was six years old. Luckily, nothing about El Matador had changed. But, looking at this picture my mom sent me this morning, you can see that a few other things have. (I'm on the right in the cool sunglasses.)

Big Kahunas

Last week, I went to the beach. I love the beach, and I also happen to have a certain fondness for water parks.

Now, some people seem to find this strange. I’ve heard a lot of “you went to a water park without kids?” and “why?” since the end of the trip.

I think the first thing I need to explain is that I will do just about anything for a lazy river. I have looked into joining a gym that will cost me $45/month not because I would ever touch an elliptical or a treadmill, but because the facility houses an indoor lazy river.

Yes, I am considering paying an annual fee of $540 just for the privilege of year-round lazy river access.

Gone Fishin'

Sorry for the lack of posts recently. I've gone fishin' -- in the figurative and not literal sense, and without the hat pictured below. I'll be back and (fingers crossed) ready to write next week. I'll also have the raccoon tan/burn affect that comes with wearing big sunglasses while you spend time in the sun. Please try to laugh only once I've left the room.

In the meantime, I wrote a little about BBQ awhile ago, but I'm afraid of the door I might open considering how many BBQ experts there are in Alabama. (And I wouldn't count myself among them. I just like to eat.) Read more here.

 

It Feels Like Burning

In evolutionary terms, I’m not sure I was really meant for life in the South. By the standards of nurture, thanks to manners classes, ballroom dancing and some great stationary, I’ve done just fine here. However, if we have to look at nature, I’m not sure this pale, WASP-y body was meant for Alabama.

It’s not just the heat. You see, what comes with or causes the heat is the sun (I told you I never really paid attention in science class), and this fair skin and the sun don’t mix well.

(I’d like to thank my Scottish ancestors for the dark body hair and bushy eyebrows that come with my porcelain complexion. I’m sure if my forefathers had settled in Minnesota, I’d be more than prepared for the winters. Instead, I swelter and invest a lot of money in good tweezers. I guess the Scots never figured that they’d put all the distilleries in the South. (This really is the best reason I can figure for previous generations of my family to pick this region of the U.S.) In my family, you don’t follow the money; you follow the line to the bar.)

Luckily, I’ve had 30+ years to adapt, and I spend good money keeping the sunscreen companies in business, too. Still, every so often, I fail.

A few weeks ago, I didn’t just fail to protect my skin. I think I almost melted it.

Hot Times In The City

I have a knack for getting myself in trouble in the heat.

When I was 16, I had a mild heat stroke at my parents’ country club on July 4^th weekend. I had gone with them to work out when I got slightly overheated. (It’s possible that my failure to exert myself physically in the previous two months might have had something to do with it, too.)

After sitting in front of a fan for 15 minutes or so, I decided to go to the snack bar for something to drink. That’s when I proceeded to faint and start vomiting -- in front of about 30 kids and their parents enjoying the pool over their holiday weekend. Oddly enough, if you know me, throwing up doesn’t bother me, but throwing up in public upsets me immensely. My legs were wobbly, and I was covered in some throw-up and shame. It was every teenager’s dream.

My father found me, scooped me up like a child and carried me to the car, so we could go home.

At 18, as a freshman in college, some friends and I were on our way to the first football game of the season when someone started complaining about the heat.

“You can’t think this is bad,” I said. “You should try living in Alabama.”

Well, I might as well have shot myself in the foot because it wasn’t even 30 minutes later that I had an EMT student checking my vitals and recommending that I get back to my dorm before I had a real heat stroke.

When You're Not Out In The Club

Weekend before last, I went up North to hang out with my friend Jane* and meet her new four-month old baby. Our friend Rita joined us, and we had a great time together. On the Saturday afternoon of our weekend, we decided (or really the one of us who is actually a mom decided) to hire a babysitter so that we could go see Bridesmaids (loved it, wish I could be Kristen Wiig, must move on now).

When we got back from the movie, Rita and I decided that it was wine time. This set us off on a slew of questions:

Was the babysitter 21? The answer: yes.

Should we offer the babysitter a glass of wine? I mean, we’re Southern, so it feels rude not to ask, but she is the babysitter and has to drive. We went with “no” on that one.

Is the babysitter going to judge us for drinking at five? Does she think we’re the lush friends of our suburban mom friend? The answer to that one is probably a sad yes.

I could have sworn that yesterday I was babysitting to supplement my income (and due to the Great Recession, “yesterday” is probably closer than you’d think), and suddenly I was on the other side of the babysitter scenario. I do not know when this happened. (In my head, I’m 17. Seriously. I just wish my face would stop giving me away.)

Sister Wives '70s Style

Today, I am grateful for two things:

1. I am not Daryl Hannah or Peter Gallagher, so I don’t have the movie Summer Lovers on my resume or imdb profile.

2. I did not come of age in the ‘70s or early ‘80s, so the subconscious soundtrack to my youth does not feature music from this time frame. (As always, Dan Folgerberg, you are excluded from any and all criticism.)

I was going to put that I was just glad that I didn’t come of age in the ‘70s until I learned that Summer Lovers was actually made in 1982. Based on the quality of the film, I did not see that one coming. (It also messed with my title, but I left it anyway.)

For those who haven’t had the opportunity to see it, and I wouldn’t recommend that, Summer Lovers is the tale of a couple abroad that learns to expand their horizons and defy convention, or some kind of early ‘80s new age crap of a similar vein. I just think of it as Sister Wives 1.0.

Why did I watch this movie? Because occasionally Netflix live-streaming and I have an unhealthy relationship, and after awhile, Summer Lovers is too much of a train wreck to look away from.

In the movie, Michael (Peter Gallagher) and Cathy (Daryl Hannah) go to Greece the summer after they graduate college, and inspired by the lack of inhibitions around them, strike out on a new path that involves living together with a French woman named Lina.

R-Rated Souvenirs

I’m not always up to date on the latest lingo and certain slang terms. If you text me any short hand other than LOL or OMG, I’m completely lost. I have recently added IDK (I don’t know) and IRL (in real life) to my vocabulary, but for the longest time I thought an IDK just meant someone had probably been drinking and was having trouble spelling.

Despite my wide range of friends, sub-sets of society with their own terms also tend to be beyond me. (It took me two years, and extensive questioning, to grasp “emo.”)

When I was living in Chicago for the summer, I lived a few blocks north of Wrigley Field and not far from Boystown, a well-known area for gay men. (According to Wikipedia, it was the first recognized gay village in the United States. I’ve learned something new today.) One day, there was a street fair in Boystown, and a friend and I were off to enjoy the festivities. The primary highlight of the day had been a Menudo/Spice Girls style group singing in matching white outfits with different colored sash belts (to represent all the colors of the gay rainbow) until I spotted a carnival game.

A couple of men were standing next to rows of plastic pigs. For a dollar, you could purchase rings to toss around the pigs, and if you rung one, you could choose between some prizes. Condoms were free just for participating, but what I really wanted was this adorable little pig keychain. The booth was sponsored by Steamworks, which I assumed was some kind of gym.

“Can I please borrow a couple of dollars?” I begged of my friend since I never carry cash.