It is What it Is

The Wall

2010-07-30T08:05:00-05:00

A few months ago, I went through what can probably be best described as an identity crisis. After five years producing magazine and web content, I had been out of work for a year with seemingly few possibilities or opportunities in front of me. I was depressed, I spent too much time at home by myself and I had no idea what to do next.

It seemed to me that if I couldn't make money doing what I loved, then I should probably find something else to do. And in doing that, maybe I should even look for something less stressful, or at least something I took less personally than my concepts and writing. That elusive "leave it at the door" kind of job.

The only problem with that plan, for me, was that if I did decide to do something just for the money -- sell high-end wedding gowns (I've certainly been involved with enough brides over the years), look at recruiting jobs or even go back to school for something super-practical like accounting -- I wasn't quite sure who I'd be afterwards. For the past seven years, I've defined myself, both personally and professionally, as a writer. So, if I wasn't a professional writer anymore, could I still be a writer? And if I wasn't a writer, could I be happy with whatever other title I chose to give myself? (Why Americans in particular seem to define themselves by what they do is another question for another time.)

Now, there are also lots of ways to go about handling this kind of crisis (some people might just call it a clash between reality and idealism). I could have gotten on a healthier diet, exercised more to release some endorphins, networked my butt off with a can-do attitude, gone to therapy ...

From that very rational list, I actually did pick going to therapy. The problem was that I couldn't get in for an appointment for two weeks from my initial phone call. So, like anyone would do with that waiting period, I decided the best way to handle this emotional roller coaster was by taking out a wall.

Yes, I said taking out a wall.

You see, my adorable 1928 Craftsman-style bungalow featured a rather obnoxious wall that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook. The only problem being that the breakfast nook was not big enough to actually eat in, and with said wall in place, my refrigerator actually had to be in the laundry room because there was nowhere else for it to fit. (Unless, it, and it alone, took up the entire breakfast nook -- an idea I did not find aesthetically pleasing.)

While I was toying with what to do with my life, I took the wall cabinets down one day. A few days after that. I took out the base cabinets that ran along the wall and called my mom to help me take out the counter.

"What exactly are you working on here?" she asked, leveraging her weight against one side of the counter while I pushed from the other end.

"Not sure yet."

A few days after that, I took a hammer and swung it into the wall. Hearing the crackle of plaster was oddly satisfying, so I took another swing at the wall. Then I walked away. Holes could be patched, I figured, and I wasn't sure how committed I was.

"You know, I have a crowbar," my friend Tina said, "when you're ready."

"I might as well have it around," I thought.

Within 24 hours, I was off. I devoted most every spare moment to my wall and it's careful dismantling. Not one to mess with a sledgehammer, I pulled each interior slat out, one by one. I carted every piece of plaster out to my garbage can by myself. I pulled wood and rock away, piece by tiny piece. I even convinced and myself I was in the midst of some sort of Zen-like metaphor (the poor woman's Eat, Pray, Love journey of self-discovery): "By taking down the wall, I am putting my faith in the fact that I will know what to do when I reach the other side."

I also learned that I have some really odd thoughts while using a crowbar, like "no one can tell me what I can and can't do." Who knew?

Of course, the problem with taking down a wall (with electrical) is that you do have to hire someone to come behind you and finish up some of the work. You've also fully devoted yourself to a kitchen renovation -- ready or not. The wall is and was, at least in my situation, only the beginning.

Four months later, my wall is entirely gone, I seem to be doing OK career-wise and my refrigerator has even escaped the laundry room. I still don't have a floor, and there's a question about cabinets. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle, somewhere between where I was and where I want to be. But, I don't mind so much. It seems a little bit easier to take it one step at a time.

Maybe I should thank the therapist for that last bit of acceptance. Or maybe the credit does go to the wall. Either way, my only recommendation is to try and keep your home renovations and your emotions separate. I'm very, very lucky that thing wasn't load-bearing.

Part 2: My Top 10 TV Tearjerkers

2010-07-27T07:59:00-05:00

Picking up right where we left off, with my great love for the fourth wall and all, here's the second part of my list:

5. Medium: Very Merry Maggie

So, I dig the shows where people talk to dead people. I can't help myself. In this one, the D.A., Manuel Devalos, and his wife Lily are dealing with the anniversary of their daughter's death. The wife has hired a supposed psychic to communicate with their daughter, and the D.A. becomes very angry. He then asks Alison about his daughter but all she does is write down the name of a place without realizing it.

Later, as Devalos and his wife are driving to visit their daughter's grave, they get into an argument. The wife thinks she should have come alone. They pull the car over. (Right past a sign with whatever word Alison had written down.) Devalos argues that when people are dead, they're just dead, and that's all there is to it. He can't get on board with his wife's need to believe in more.

They're out of the car having this argument, when they walk into a field of white zinnias (their daughter's favorite flower) blooming in the middle of January. And for a moment, they both believe and know their daughter is somewhere else, and she's OK.

It kills me. Every. Single. Time.

4. Dawson's Creek: All Good Things ... Must Come to an End

I won't lie to you. I stopped watching Dawson's Creek after season four. Season three was awesome -- Pacey buys Joey a wall, Pacey pulls the car over to kiss Joey after her disastrous weekend with college boy, Joey kisses Pacey while "Daydream Believer" plays in the background at Dawson's aunt's house, Pacey and Joey dance at the anti-prom and he knows that the bracelet she's wearing is her mother's and it all ends with the two of them taking off on a boat for the summer. It was perfect.

And then they went and f-ed it all up. They broke up Pacey and Joey. They made Joey and Dawson sleep together. (One word: ew.) Oliver Hudson shows up. Eh.

None of that means I was going to miss the end of a show I had loved very, very deeply. Plus, I had to believe that Pacey and Joey would finally end up together after all of that other nonsense.

What I didn't count on was them giving Jen a heart condition five years in the future. It was destined to be a train wreck. The scenes between all of the characters were too much for me, but when Jack tells Jen that she belonged to him, I really lost it. I still have this on VHS -- that's how attached to it I am.

3. ER: Dr. Greene's Death

I can't narrow this one down to a single episode, but let's just say that I did not handle Dr. Greene's terminal cancer very well. My roommate at the time threatened to keep me from watching ER because every episode ended with my face swollen and red from tears. Anthony Edwards is one fine actor.

Then came Hawaii and "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." I still think it's some of the best writing that ever was on television.

2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer: Becoming

Now, I had plenty of Buffy moments, too. After all, they killed Buffy off in the end of season five. What kind of show kills off its own main character?!?! Then, they brought her back, but she was miserable because she'd been in heaven that whole time -- not hell, as her friends had assumed. They kill Buffy's mom. They sent Giles away. They killed Kendra, Anya and Tara. This was not a show that it was wise to watch if you became easily attached to characters.

However, the end of season two is one of the most dramatic in the entire series. Angel, the love of Buffy's life, has no soul because they slept together, and he experienced a moment of perfect happiness, so he lost his soul because of an old Gypsy curse. (That makes complete sense, right?) He's been super evil since, hanging out with his old bad vampire buddies and all, and Buffy has been miserable.

Then, when Angel finally gets his soul back, it's after he's begun the process of opening the hell mouth, and the only way for Buffy to close it is by driving a sword through her now soul-restored great love.

My phone rang immediately after the episode ended, and there was no talking on the other line, but I automatically knew it was my friend Margaret, and she and I both just cried into the phone for a good 20 minutes. My high school soccer coach gave me a condolence card the next day because he knew how much I watched the show. For a teenage girl, that one was beyond rough, and I don't own the series DVDs today because I'm not sure I could handle it much better now either.

1. Lost: The Final Journey

Why is this one number one on my list? Because I'm still not over it. Literally. I've watched it three times and still just keep on crying. I've thought of turning to message boards to work out my emotions. Jack and his dad. Jack and Kate. Sawyer and Juliet. The dog. My list goes on and on. After all, I'm the girl who cried for an hour when Charlie died, and I'd know for three months that Charlie was going to die. You can hardly say it was the shock that got to me.

Say what you want to about Lost, but I think this show was phenomenal and forever changed the way television is made. Who knew what you could even do on the small screen before Lost? The cast of characters. The complexity. The acting. Come on.

I also think for those of us who tend to get a little attached and over-think, what this episode/series was really all about -- redemption and peace, is pretty powerful. I think what the creators of the show did manage to give the viewers -- for all of the characters -- is beyond impressive. I'd say more, but those final two and half hours speak for themselves, and I'm already a little misty as I type over here.

Should I ever get to the point where I can have a conversation about the show that doesn't involve crying, I'll let you know. Until then, I've just given you all of my kryptonite in a way. Want to keep me away from your party or make sure I stay home knitting for a few days? Just put one of these on the television. I'll be useless for days.

Part 1: My Top 10 TV Tearjjerkers

2010-07-23T08:34:00-05:00

The other day, over Mexican food, the SO accidentally mistook Scott Bakula for Scott Wolf. While for most couples, this probably wouldn't have been a big deal, being the Quantum Leap fan that I am, this was something I had to correct and assure would never happen again. Somehow, I managed to go from telling him how to never mistake the two again to tearing up over salsa as I recounted the end of the Quantum Leap series and the most pivotal episodes that led to it.

I know.

So, in light of the fact that I've already almost started crying this week just telling the story of Quantum Leap's end, I thought I would take on the topic head-on and present my list of the most tear-jerking TV moments. Warning: there will be lots of spoilers. I also had to split this post in two because, apparently, I have a lot to say on this topic.

10. Alf's Special Christmas

It only seems fair to begin this list where it all began. In 1987, I was a big fan of Alf, the Alien Life Form, who lived with the Tanners. (He always wanted to eat the cat!) During that year's Christmas special, Alf somehow ended up in the hospital with a very sick girl named Tiffany. I think Tiffany had leukemia, and I also think she died or was dying. (This is hard to confirm through any Internet sources. It seems that no one has bothered to do an episode-by-episode breakdown of Alf, and I, for one, am shocked.) The idea of a dying child was too much for me, and I just started sobbing. I cried and cried. I cried so much, my father decided to have a talk with me about the difference between fantasy and reality and moving on.

Clearly, it didn't stick.

9. Cheers: The Finale

Even though I was also relatively young when I watched Cheers, I remember loving the show. Woody and his naivete, Carla the sassy waitress and, of course, Sam. Who didn't love Sam Malone, the scamp? And if you didn't, I don't really want to know you.

In the episode when Diane left, my memory is that she and Sam are alone in the bar. She's going, but she just wants to say "see you later" or something like that. Once she left the bar, Sam said, "Have a nice life." At the time, I thought, "How does he know she isn't coming back?" and "Adult life is complicated."

When the show went off the air, and Sam was left alone in his bar -- the implication being that Cheers was the true love of his life -- I, again, cried like a baby.

8. Party of Five: The Intervention

You've got a family of five who has already lost both of their parents to a drunk driver. They have to keep the family restaurant going. Rebellious Charlie has to be a dad, and then you go and throw in the normal teenage stuff like lost virginity, break-ups, drugs and pregnancy scares. On top of all this, sometime in season three, Bailey becomes an alcoholic and begins driving drunk, oh irony of ironies. Of course, the family has to intervene.

All of the siblings are there, and even Sarah, the ex-girlfriend shows up, because she loves him that much. I won't get into all of the lines that killed me because nothing about this episode wasn't a tear-fest for me. But, in the end, when Bailey brushes Claudia aside to walk out on his family and picks drinking over them, there was a breakdown.

7. House: Wilson's Heart

Sure, for the most part, I didn't like a lot of season 4 (too little Cameron). I also couldn't stand Amber. That doesn't mean it didn't crush me when she died. House has the key to saving her, somewhere in his fragmented memory, only to realize that there's nothing anyone can do. She's going to die no matter what, and so they wake Amber up for everyone to say goodbye.

Oh, Wilson. Twice-divorced, finally-found-love Wilson. It was all too much for me. I just laid on the couch and sobbed. All over that poor cut-throat bitch.

6. Quantum Leap: Mirror Image

Clearly, if I can't get through a burrito without crying over this one, it affected me. The three episodes that had gotten to me most before this were, of course, M.I.A. (when Sam won't tell Al's wife Beth that Al is coming home to him from Vietnam, even though Al begs for it, because Sam believes they should not use their leaps for selfish reasons), The Leap Home (when Sam leaps into his own teenage self and sees his dead father and brother again) and The Leap Home: Part 2 (when Sam does change history selfishly to save his brother in Vietnam, and in the end, also keeps Al from being rescued early and going home to Beth).

So, Sam spends most of this leap in the series finale trying to figure out where he is and why he can finally see his own reflection in the mirror. It's his birthday. He keeps seeing people he recognizes from the past. He and the bartender banter and argue. Is the bartender God? Sam says that he's done enough. The bartender asks if he really has, if he's really done. Sam is supposed to accept that he is the one leaping him through time and space. For the first time in five years (in a way), Sam will be able to choose where he leaps next. Will he finally go home?

No, he goes back to Beth, and he tells her that Al will come home to her. "Georgia on my Mind" plays in the background. The viewer learns that Beth and Al remain married happily for the rest of their lives and have four children. Dr. Sam Beckett never leaps home.

Give me just a minute here. The keyboard is a little wet.

More to come ...

In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding

2010-07-21T08:17:00-05:00

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?

Keep in mind that this is in addition to my other standard barrage of questions: Should I wear my hair up or down? Do you like this jewelry? Did I do my eye liner correctly? Do you think there's cilantro in that dressing? Would you call this ecru or beige? Do you think the cake is white icing on white cake or white icing on lemon cake? Where is the closest bar?

And so on and so on.

I'm lucky I still have friends (especially ones who invite me to their weddings), let alone those that don't seem to mind gently reminding me that the wait staff will fear me if I continue to attack the woman in charge of passing stuffed mushrooms.

* I am honored each and every time someone asks me to be part of their wedding. It's just a bonus for me that it also comes with a detailed schedule and coordinator responsible for most of my moves.

Grover, Horton And The Woman I Am Today

2010-07-16T08:32:00-05:00

A few years ago, I got into a discussion with some friends about our favorite children's books. After naming all of our favorites, I started to wonder if maybe those early reading choices might have been some kind of sign as to the adults we would all grow into.

One friend named a book about a little girl who wanted to go live alone in her own apartment and her own house (even at five), and twenty-five years later, I can't say that I was all that surprised. Is Alexander's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day the pick of a future pessimist? Goodnight Moon the sign of a calm, content child? If You Give a Mouse a Cookie the favorite of a suspicious tot, always wondering what request is coming next?

Personally, I had two favorites. The first was There's a Monster at the End of This Book. For those of you haven't read it -- here come the spoilers. Grover from Sesame Street is the main character, and he begins the book by begging the reader not to turn the page because there is a monster waiting at the end of the story. (Hence the title, although that hardly needs to be said. I just feel like typing today.)

Of course, you have to turn the pages. I mean, that is the point of reading the book after all. And with every turn of the page, Grover grows more desperate. He puts up fences and builds brick walls to keep you from going forward. And every time you do, he screams, "I told you not to turn the page! What about the monster!"

I thought it was hysterical and giggled out loud every single time because at the very end, there is no monster. It turns out that Grover is the monster, and he realizes how silly he's been this whole time. All that worry when he was the supposed culprit all along.

As a natural worrier, it seems quite appropriate that I would have fallen for this one. Constant concern about the future? Worrying about what's coming next only to find that, really, what's most detrimental every time is fear itself? That anyone can be his or her own worst enemy? Not much of a shocker there.

My other favorite was Horton Hears a Who. I was appalled by the injustice of the fact that no one would listen to Horton when all he wanted to do was save a cute, little town full of cute, tiny people. So what that no one else could see them? Horton heard them, and they should have believed him. When they called Horton crazy and tried to tear the flower away from him that was full of that miniature colony, I was beyond distressed. Why wouldn't they listen to him? Why didn't they care?

Horton was right, he was the only one who was right and no one would listen. How couldn't they see that?

Again, I know it's bewildering that a gal with as many opinions and convictions as myself would find herself appalled by the fact that someone so right could be ignored time and time again. That she would want to hear this particular story repeatedly at bedtime.

I just felt all of Horton's pain. It is so hard to be right all the time. Poor, poor Horton and me.

I'm Going to Learn How to Fly

2010-07-14T08:19:00-05:00

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.

After my sister’s wedding a few weeks ago, I noticed that one of her friends asked “So, how many last names do you have now?”

It’s true that all of the Mills girls have last names as their middle names. I have my maternal grandmother’s maiden name, my middle sister has my paternal grandmother’s maiden name and my baby sister ended up with my mother’s aunt’s married name. (My mother’s own maiden name is Stubbs, and I thank her for leaving that one of out of the naming equation.) If all goes well, we’ll each have three, and only three, last names before all is said and done (knock on wood).

I use Fain often in my own life because Mills tends to be a lot (a lot) more common in the U.S. population than other surnames, and even though “Laurel” is a little on the unusual side, I decided many moons ago that I would rather be laurelfain via e-mail than LaurelMills27 or LMills4206. After that fateful choice, it just kind of stuck. (My guy friends especially seem to enjoy calling out “Laurel Fain” to get my attention.)

Also, with there being the other writing Laurel Mills, I figure Fain is a good distinguishing factor to throw in there somewhere.

Nothing bothers me about my middle name – other than having to answer lots of questions – and I’ve come to accept it just fine. I say “accept” because probably unlike the Sarah Elizabeths, Jennifer Claires and Christine Annes of the world, I spent the first five years of my life thinking I had a very different middle name.

Maybe it was a hearing thing, maybe it had something to do with pronunciation or maybe it was the simple fact that I couldn’t read or write yet, but until I was five, I thought that my middle name was “Fame.”

Now, “Fame” was a middle name I could get behind. Not only did it seem to destine me for greatness, but having grown up during the time of a certain very popular Debbie Allen –led TV show, I felt like my name allowed me to personally share in the show’s success.

There was no song I loved more than the movie and TV show’s theme. “Fame! I’m going to live forever! I’m going to learn how to fly!”

My little tone-deaf self sang it again, and again, and again. As far as I was concerned, it was the greatest song ever, and I had the greatest name ever.

So, you can probably also imagine my disappointment when my mom asked me why I was so enamored with the theme song from a show I don’t think I ever got to watch. “Because it’s my name,” I said, sure, confident and proud.

“What’s your middle name?” she said.

“Fame,” I said. “I’m Laurel Fame Mills.” (I really thought she should have already known the answer to that one.)

“Oh honey,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re middle name isn’t ‘Fame.’ It’s ‘Fain.’ From your grandmother.”

Once the initial shock wore off, crestfallen, I found myself asking the same question I’ve heard so often in the 25 years since, “Fain?!?! What’s a Fain?”

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

2010-07-12T08:17:00-05:00

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

2010-07-09T08:45:00-05:00

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.

2. Ate Enough to Feed a Small Village in China
On Sunday, I treated myself to a turkey burger, baked beans and cole slaw. Not so bad, you say? I finished off the meal with a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog. If my arteries and societal pressure weren't involved, I'd eat a bacon-wrapped stuffed hot dog every day.

On Monday, I stopped off at Wings Plus 6 and polished off five honey mustard wings, five mild wings (because who knows how spicy wings might have affected my digestive system at that point), french fries and a slice of key lime pie.

I didn't count the beers.

3. Made Bad Choices
On Sunday night, I purchased Hot Tub Time Machine from Videos on Demand. (John Cusack stars and produces. Doesn't that make you wonder?) I didn't really laugh, but I have been thinking about the pivotal choices that affect each and every one of our lives and how those choices can shape our futures -- because of the movie's plot line, not John Cusack's production credit.

Or not. However, I have had "Let's Get it Started" stuck in my head for a week.

Dear Laurel?

2010-07-07T08:06:00-05:00

I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)

It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.

It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.

For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.

I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa

In this case, the advice-seeker is clearly an idiot. If it doesn't occur to you as you're writing these words on a piece of paper, sealing them in an envelope, affixing a stamp and walking to the mail box that your husband is a two-timing jerk, I don't know what will. My advice? "Hey Troubled -- your husband is cheating on you and has been for years. He is also a liar. Move out and take all of his money." Love Laurel.

(Of course, this could also be an example of b) because I imagine that this woman has been told by everyone she's ever opened her mouth to that her husband is cheating on her and his behavior is not normal, but she's just not quite ready to accept it yet.)

Another letter I read said something to the effect of: "I've been married for 20 years, have four beautiful children and a loving husband, but I've been talking to my high school boyfriend on the Internet for the past few months and think he might be the real love of my life. We only broke up because he impregnated my best friend our senior year, but I know we've both done a lot of growing up since then. My husband is great and all, but don't you think I should give Frankie another chance? How often do soul mates come along after all?" -- Lovelorn in Laredo

Again, we've got some b) as I'm guessing none of this woman's friends support her decision to leave her husband for Mr. Facebook, and also some c) because for this woman, maybe, just maybe, if Dear Abby or whoever says it's OK and all, Lovelorn can throw away her life, drive her children into intensive therapy and live out her days with Frankie (who might or might not have ever earned that GED and require "just a little spending money" to get through most of his days) with little to no guilt.

I also think I'd like that advice column because sometimes I think that Dear Abby's answers really suck. (Note to Jeanne Phillips, you are not your mother.) Ask Amy, Carolyn Hax and Savage Love are up there for me, but that's another story for another day.

Here's an excerpt from Sunday's paper:

DEAR ABBY: I work in a doctor’s office. One of our patients makes a big scene if we do not address him by his title — “Reverend Smith.” He has to tell everyone within earshot that he went to school for eight years to get that title. He insists that, out of respect, we should address him as such.

Abby, this man is not my reverend. So far, I have avoided calling him this. Am I being disrespectful, or is he being pompous?

Unimpressed In Louisville

DEAR UNIMPRESSED: You are not only being disrespectful, but also passive-aggressive. Because this patient has made clear that he prefers to be addressed by the title he has earned, you should use it.

Now, I have to say that I don't know anyone who goes to school for eight years to earn the title of Reverend. (And I live in the bible belt for God's sake.) It seems to me that if you have Ph.D. in divinity, maybe you can ask to be called Dr. But Reverend? Can't we let that one go? The nice part of me would tell Unimpressed to call the gentleman "sir." It's respectful, but refuses to acknowledge how full of himself he is. The passive-aggressive part of me would advise her to call him "Joe," but only if that wasn't his name. He'd spend so much time trying to get her to remember his first name, he'd probably forget all about the Reverend stuff.

Another note to Dear Abby about her Sunday column -- it ended with "CONFIDENTIAL TO MY READERS: Happy Fourth of July, everyone!"

Dear Abby: a) The moment you put something in the paper, it's not confidential, and b) when you're addressing all of your readers (and not just Sue in Salem who's having trouble with her best friend and doesn't want her letter to be printed), why can't you just freakin' say "Happy Fourth of July"?

I guess I want that advice column because of the ire Dear Abby causes me. Maybe I'm more magnanimous and just want to point out to all of those advice-seekers that the answers have been with them all along. Or, maybe I just like to boss people around.

I'll let you decide.

Why I Had to Walk Away From the Pole

2010-07-02T08:10:00-05:00

I'm sure many of you are wondering what became of my pole-aerobics class. (Or, you're not, either way, you're getting the answer.) I'm somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I only made it through half of my stripper classes. I could build an elaborate argument about feminist principles or coming to some incredible revelation about female politics and my body, whether or not women should embrace or reject their own objectification, etc.

However, the truth as to why I had to give it all up is as simple as this: bruises.

At one point, my knees were black. Bruises ran from the arches of my feet to my inner thighs. I was wearing long pants constantly to hide all of the marks on my legs. (This is not an easy thing to do in the Alabama summers. It wasn't quite as bad as the August I had to wear mock turtlenecks to class because of an unfortunate hickey, but it was uncomfortable.) Even three weeks after my last attempt at the pole, I found the remnants of a pale brown bruise running along my thigh.

Of course, there were a few other factors -- a lot of them having to do with the fact that I sucked at the exercise. When asked to climb the pole, I couldn't even get on the pole, much less move my body once I was wrapped around it. I had hoped for rock hard arms in time for my sister's wedding. Instead, I was facing a black and blue body and the very real chance that I would never lift my arms above my shoulders again. Eventually, I had to decide -- pain and visible injury or perfecting the c-stand.

I picked the former.

Also, for a class that would seemingly improve one's confidence, I was beginning to think that I would never feel sexy again. Seeing my body attempt these moves, with strained facial expressions, from every mirror in the room made me question by self-image more than the cover of the annual Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

In the end, what I did come away with is a very important (and unexpected) life lesson: if Kevin James looks better engaged in any seductive practice than I do, it's probably time to pack it in for the day/the rest of my life.