The Last One

In the final installment of "Laurel Meets Celebrities," I offer the following. (Sure, this trilogy is no "Die Hard," but at least it shows that my brain might still function following my move. And, by "meets," I obviously mean "might be in somewhat the same vicinity as.") After I graduated from high school, my parents took the family to Australia for our last "official" family vacation before I left the house. My aunt lives in Australia, so our trip was divided between a stay in Melbourne with her and my cousin, a trip to Cairns where we could snorkel on the Great Barrier Reef and visit the rainforest, and a few days in Fiji. Now, I'm sure that this trip sounds like heaven to most people, but, as a moody adolescent who was being forced to leave her boyfriend behind for two whole weeks, I was not so pleased by the time the trip came around. (They wouldn't even let me call him while we were gone. Can you imagine that sort of injustice/misunderstanding of the depths of our love? Sure, it would have cost the same amount as our hotel room to talk to him for five minutes, but is that really so much to ask? After all, they had only taken me halfway around the world for a once in a lifetime vacation, and I can so remember his last name looking back now. Geez...) And, if you think that little temper tantrum is bad, you should have seen my sisters and I when we arrived in Fiji to find out that there wasn't a single television set in the entire resort. (Wait, I take that back. There was one TV set. It was in the "auditorium" near the lobby, and if everyone in the hotel could reach a consensus by open voting, we could watch "Priscilla Queen of the Desert" or "Gallipoli" after dinner.) Well, the point is that on our way back from Fiji, we had a really long layover in L.A., so I decided to pick up a book in the airport store. (Little word of advice: Do not read "Kiss the Girls," about a psycho killing duo in the Duke woods, two weeks before going to live in a dorm room adjacent to said woods. That was one of many poor decisions during my late teens.) While I was standing in line to pay for the book that would be the stuff of my nightmares through November, Juliette Lewis got in line behind me. She is very short and helped convince me of the wonders that are stylists, makeup artists, and airbrushed photos. Sorry, Juliette. I really should be thanking you. I dread to think where my self-esteem would be without that moment of "Hollywood Reality."