It is What it Is

Whitney, The Misuse Of Poison Lyrics And A Valentine

2012-02-14T09:00:00-06:00

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.

Incidentally, at the time, I also thought the movie had a happy ending. When Whitney climbed off the plane to hug Kevin Costner on the tarmac, I thought they were getting back together. I think this is the same kind of wishful thinking/re-writing of history that made me want to be a writer, but I also just might not be that bright. Mulholland Falls is way beyond me, and I’ve also crafted my own ending to Beverly Hills, 90210 that has nothing to do with the finale or the current incarnation of the show. (In my mind, Brandon and Kelly got back together. I live on the precipice of fan fiction.)

At 20, I broke up with someone using Whitney Houston lyrics. The remix of “It’s Not Right But It’s OK,” was pretty popular at the time. Said boyfriend was explaining to me, after arguing that we should get back together, that he was going to continue dating me and another girl when we started back to school in the fall, and something finally clicked.

“It’s not right, but it’s OK,” I said.

“What?”

“It’s not right, but it’s OK.”

Then there was some staring.

“I’d rather be alone that unhappy,” I said. Then I stood up to leave. (I loved melodrama back in the day). “And I’d rather be alone,” I said.

(This same boyfriend once quoted Poison lyrics to me during one of our fights, so it seemed reasonable to me at the time. Plus, I think my choice was far more dignified than, “Instead of making love, we both made our separate ways.” I also stand by the sentiment – no relationship is worth constant misery. I would rather be alone than unhappy.)

In summation, I guess this cheesy, nerdy, completely lacking in rhythm and soul, tone deaf girl wants it known that she’ll miss Whitney Houston. She was a great talent, and she made some wonderful music. I’m also pretty appreciative for that break-up. Senior year of college was a lot more fun without a BF.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to let a certain someone know that I’d like to feel the heat with him* this Valentine’s Day.

*Mom and Dad -- that is not meant to be dirty.

Landlords Are Crazy

2012-02-07T10:06:00-06:00

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.

I had another landlord that tried to keep our security deposit because we didn’t clean the front of the garbage disposal.

Yet, none of these compared to the landlord I had to take to small claims court. He changed the lease after we signed it (not something to do to a lawyer’s daughter), and one of its new clauses included charging us tenants a $50 fee for any repair done on the house.

We discovered this on the day we asked him to send over a plumber because two out of the three toilets weren’t working. (Little known fact: I can fix most toilet issues. I have two sisters; you learn. Even in the 300-year old house where I shared one bathroom with four other girls, we only had one plumbing issue in a year.)

I was not pleased, and seeing how we had not approved the revised lease, my roommate and I decided to move out nine days after moving in. At the time, the landlord said he was fine with that and agreed to return our security deposit and 21 days worth of the first month’s rent.

Three months and no check later, I filed papers at the D.C. courthouse.

I got my money back, but moving in and out of a house in the span of nine days isn’t something you get over quickly.

I had one landlord I adored. “This is my investment property,” Peter said. “Please keep it nice for me.”

When I signed the lease at his (gorgeous) house, and his dog lay down at my feet, we were both sold.

“She’s a very good judge of character,” he said, referring to the dog. “I think you’re supposed to be in this house.”

Based on the original Picassos in the house, I also don’t think he worried too much about money, so Peter tended not to get too involved in our affairs. He even helped me look for a job. When he sold the same house a year later for double what he paid, there were no security deposit issues. Everyone was happy.

Apart from my beloved Peter, I’ve had many other landlords over the years, and they all led me to the same conclusion, landlords = crazy.

He was the one shining exception to my rule.

So, you can imagine how difficult it was when I became a landlord this past August. By my own rules, I’m now in the ranks of the crazy. (This one’s a whole different kind of crazy than the weird, quirky, medicated categories I already fall into.)

In addition to sometimes staying up at night wondering how my hardwood floors are faring, I also worry that my tenants think I’m nuts. (Who worries about how their tenants feel about them? Crazy insecure people, I know.)

I understand a little more of the landlord crazy. I wonder how my new cast iron sink is doing without me. I hope the washing machine is being treated well. I think about chipping paint.

But I also try to give my tenants their space and recognize that they are paying for a place to live, after all.

Hopefully I’ll figure out the balance. But if you ever catch me complaining about the grime on the garbage disposal, I expect a friendly reminder about the small versus the big things in life.

In Which The Dogs Question That Whole "Pack Leader" Thing

2012-01-23T10:47:36-06:00

Unfortunately, last night was another night for deadly storms in Alabama. My thoughts are with the families who lost loved ones and homes.

You might think that you would eventually get used to the sound of weather sirens in the night, but I think most people who live in tornado alleys would second that it's always an unnerving and unsettling phenomenon.

Since I live in a house with a concrete slab foundation, our "place of safety" (the real term if you don't live in inclement-weather-prone parts of the country) is the only room in the house without windows -- otherwise known as the guest bathroom. It is also the only bathroom with a tub, so it's where the dogs get their baths. Whether it's claustrophobia or bad memories, neither pooch was too crazy about the idea of getting in there with a bunch of fleece blankets, pillows and the Kindle fire at 3:30 in the morning.

When they realized that they we would be sleeping in there until the tornado warning ended around 4:30, or I knew from local meteorologists that the worst part of the storm was out of Jefferson County, they did not seem pleased.

I might be projecting too much, but I do think my authority is in question now. There's just something in their eyes that seems to say, "The lady has finally lost it."

* Of course, I don't mean to make light of what anyone suffered last night. For those affected by last night's storms, the Salvation Army has announced feeding stations, and I'm sure that the Red Cross will be coordinating donations.

Don't Get Lost In The Music

2012-01-20T15:02:53-06:00

In my opinion, most every major (and non-major) musical artist has written at least one song that only has one purpose -- talking someone into a one night stand.

(If you think about it, just the act of writing the song shows far more effort than your standard Jaeger bomb and "It's all really about living for the moment" line, so at least it's a step far above the person in the bar hoping they find someone before last call. Still sketchy though? Yes. Supportive of my sister's theory that most people learn to play the guitar to attract the opposite sex? Also yes. However, I'm not sure there's a ton we do as humans that isn't meant to attract the opposite sex. Moving on ...)

Let's look at the evidence:

Elvis Presley: "It's Now or Never"

Bob Seger: "We've Got Tonight" ("Who needs tomorrow?")

Eagle-Eye Cherry: "Save Tonight"

The Dave Matthews Band: "Say Goodbye" ("Tonight we'll be lovers, then go back to being friends.")

Heart: "All I Wanna Do is Make Love to You"

Eve 6: "Here's to the Night"

This list doesn't even come close to the dozens of less-subtly titled songs just called "One Night Stand."

Now, of course, none of these compare to what I consider to be the creepiest song of all time: "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)"

All people seem to remember from that song is, "Yes, I like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain."

No one thinks about, "I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long," "I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kind of mean. But me and my old lady, had fallen into the same old dull routine," or "I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape. At a bar called O'Malley's, where we'll plan our escape."

By "red tape," I assume the dear Rupert Holmes means "talking." I also assume "escape" means "motel room."

This is a song about a man who decides to cheat on his partner, so he goes to the personal ads -- a 1979 personal ad keep in mind, so simply by being Disco-era, it's even ickier -- to meet someone new. Then, lo and behold, while he's waiting for the woman he plans to cheat on his "lady" with, he sees his own partner walk into the bar and realizes that she was planning to cheat on him, too.

Even Wikipedia refers to this song as ending on "an upbeat note."

I think we can all be honest here and admit that if this ever happened in real life, there'd be a lot more denial, anger, shame and possible shoving than heartfelt reconciliation. (Then again, two people like this probably deserve each other, and their other options for mates would most likely involve swinger's clubs and well, people who place 1970's era personal ads.)

This song is not romantic; it's creepy.

So, I must go back to my original message -- don't get lost in the music. Unless you're looking for that one night stand or trying to track down an unfaithful spouse. Then, I guess, you should save tonight with all the pina coladas and walks in the rain that you can.

And for all those girls out there dreaming of prom night, beware of the soundtrack.

No More Pretense

2012-01-19T12:19:12-06:00

* A quick note: if you came to this site because you found my via Night Night Birmingham and are expecting child-friendly, appropriate stories, this is one of many posts that probably isn't for you.

Why do I love drugstore chains and Bed, Bath & Beyond? (Other than the coupons and massive supplies of pills, of course.) Because they offer "as seen on tv products" without the required patience of waiting for said products to arrive in the mail. I haven't gotten into cake pops yet, but I can't promise it won't happen.

It also offers a fun chance to observe stuff that's even weirder than what you see on late night infomercials. Massagers are a personal favorites, and I think we can all agree that the manufacturers have stopped trying to hide what they're really about over the last few years. For this particular product, the only slogan they even gave a shot was "relax." Is there anyone out there who would actually try the line that this is for tight shoulders?

White People Problems

2012-01-13T10:00:00-06:00

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.)

The other day, I was contemplating one of my purchases, a Kate Spade cocktail ring (because I like to have nice things but only if I can pay less than half the retail price), and I asked the SO what he thought of it.

"It just doesn't look like it did on the Internet," I said. "I really expected more. Do you think I should send it back?" (Also, if you are indecisive about your purchases, you can prolong the whole present/packages deal with exchanges and returns for weeks. Yes, I may have a problem.)

His answer: "White people problems."

And it's true. Whether or not my cocktail ring was purchased under false pretenses hardly has much to do with the world at large. I probably should spend more brain power and time on the debt ceiling or North Korea or something, but I don't. So, in acknowledgement of my not-so-problemy problems, I give you "White People Problems" from last week's Saturday Night Live. Thanks to this particular skit, I can no longer use the word "awkward" without feeling uncomfortable, and since "awkward" was half of my vocabulary (and the real word I wanted to use instead of "uncomfortable"), it's been hard on me. Then again, that's just another white people problem.

Too Soon?

2012-01-12T14:23:54-06:00

I know it's only January 12, but I might want to call the most accurate headline of the year. (And yes, I double checked the date. Even though the story is mostly focused on Reggie Bush, and not the dude she actually married a few months ago, this is a 2012 publication.)

*I do take issue with the use of "world exclusive." I'm pretty sure most of us didn't need a tabloid to figure this one out.

Karaoke And WASPs

2011-12-30T10:00:00-06:00

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.

Naturally, I went in search of my speaking v. singing karaoke song. I tried Snow's "Informer," but well, it's really hard, and I don't have that much will power. The obvious fallback? Young MC's "Bust A Move."

Now, while I never did actually learn all the words (and more importantly, timing) to "Bust A Move," I did spend a lot of time studying the song.

Since I cannot embed the actual video, I give you this:

Last week, the SO and I were in the car listening to the Glee soundtrack (that he bought me, by the way), when he declared their version of "Bust A Move" as the whitest version ever. (Clearly, if I had ever mastered "Bust A Move," my rendition would have been the whitest ever, but I digress.)

I countered that I believe the whitest version of "Bust A Move" ever was performed on One Tree Hill. Their version is not only on One Tree Hill, but is also off-key and involves five-year olds.

Unfortunately, you'll have to follow the link on this one, but I think the evidence speaks for itself.

Dissension is welcome in the comments.

*Neither of these have ever stopped me from singing karaoke when I wanted to.

The Magic Room

2011-12-29T13:47:24-06:00

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.

The Magic Room is about far more than weddings. It is about love, possibility, and, in some ways, fear. As The Magic Room unfolds, one is struck by the commonalities between theses brides, their families and the Becker’s – all of whom have known love, know how quickly life can change and still stand ready to face the uncertainties of the future with strength, grace and ultimately, hope.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll want to keep the Kleenex nearby.

I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.

Rocks, Signs And Boobs

2011-12-23T11:01:14-06:00

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.

“So,” the stranger said, “what’s that across your tit … t-shirt?”

I don’t believe I’ve ever had a man ask about my t%$&s. Or even use the word in front of me. I get the Freudian slip, but seriously?

“It’s the logo for my boyfriend’s improv group,” I said. If you’re going to call someone out, I say the time to do it is not when you’re enclosed in a small box known for occasionally getting stuck.

“Improv? Really? What’s it called?”

I told him the name, and then turned around to show him the name since it’s written on the back of the shirt. I’ve found that reading a phrase people aren’t familiar with is easier than dealing with, “What did you say again?” “Ugly what?” and “What does that mean?”

When I turned around, elevator man brushed my ponytail aside to read the shirt. In a word: creepy. Also, if having your body discussed in said small box known for occasionally getting stuck is uncomfortable, you can only imagine how much worse it is to be touched by a stranger in there.

Luckily, the building only has five floors.

When I got to my appointment, I told my doctor the story, thinking it would be funny. Plus, once I was no longer inside the elevator, I thought it was funny. A grown man who can’t stop himself from using the word t&%$s? Really?

My doctor wondered if we needed to put up a sign in the elevator, and I started thinking about what it might say. “Please don’t touch strangers while riding?” “Watch your language in the elevator?” “Questions not related to directions or deliveries not allowed?”

I can handle being responsible for a rock slides sign, but I’m not sure how I’d feel about being the reason behind an elevator sign that read, “No Discussion of t&%$s allowed.”

And on that glorious, and rather inappropriate note, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas and a festive Kwanzaa to all!