It is What it Is

My New Home

2009-01-15T12:17:00.001-08:00

On the web, at least: www.laurelfainmills.com

Tough Choices: The Princess Diaries

2007-09-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

Now, there are questions in life that I'd need to take my time answering: What do you think would be the best course of action in Iraq? How should the justice system cope with repeat sex offenders? Who made the better Becky on "Roseanne"? Will that be light or regular cream cheese?

But, the one question I know that I could answer without any hesitation is this one: Are you ready to be Queen?

Seriously, that one only needs two words - the first being "hell," and the second being "yes."

I tend to think that's the one role I've been preparing for all my life. Sure, my "preparation" didn't involve any sort of actual grooming for the position like I'm sure they do in Monaco or Norway, but I certainly have skills that translate. I like bossing people around. I like gowns and parties. I love tiaras. I can stand on a balcony and wave. Really, the fact that I have yet to be named the figurehead leader of a small European monarchy is beyond me.

Yet, every movie that deals with queens (and, of course, the movies I'm referring to don't have Helen Mirren as the star, I'm definitely in the Anne Hathaway/Julia Stiles terrain here) seems to end up revolving around a makeover sequence, a love interest and the question of whether or not the female protagonist is capable of being the queen. In both "The Princess Diaries" and "The Prince and Me," it seems to me that there's a lot of whining and even, dare I say, resentment of being asked to take on the princess/queen role, and this is something that I just can't understand.

Trade in my life of cramped office space, dirty apartment living and a dangerously low checking account balance for a castle and some servants? That really would be "living the dream." (As opposed to how I now use "living the dream," which usually also involves an eye roll and a heavy sigh while staring at the multiple spreadsheets piled on my desk every morning.)

Let's just say that the next time Anne Hathaway, Julia Stiles or any other twenty-something doesn't feel up to the job of royalty, I'm more than happy to step in.

I don't foresee a problem rising to the occasion.

Channel Surfing

2007-09-25T08:36:00.001-07:00

In what might be a slightly premature declaration, I believe that I've found my favorite new show of the 2007 season. Last night, I made the mistake of thinking that "Heroes" premiered at nine rather than eight. (Yes, I realize that there's no excuse for getting this one wrong, considering the fact that it's not like "Heroes" is a little known phenomenon with no advertising behind it and all.) I was sad that I missed "Heroes," but since my television was already on NBC, I decided to go ahead and watch "Journeyman" when it came on.

And, that's when I fell in love.

I probably should have seen this coming. Most anyone who reads this blog is aware of the fact that I tend to regard time travel and wrong-righting very highly. But, almost because of how highly I regard "Quantum Leap" and it's storytelling wonder, I didn't think I would ever find another venue where these same premises would intrigue me.

For those needing a metaphorical perspective, if I were dating my television (which some Saturday nights, it feels like I am), "Quantum Leap" would be the ex on a pedestal that no one else could live up to or "the one that got away."

So, to say the least, I was taken by surprise when "Journeyman" found its way into my heart so quickly. I was so enamored, in fact, that it wasn't until this morning that the fear set in.

You see, I have loved like this before. Oh, "Class of '96" and a young Kari Wuhrer, how I tuned in every week. "Cupid" - where you could find Jeremy Piven before his days on "Entourage" - was a real treat. Even "Reunion," the show that was more bad-good than good, held my attention with it's ridiculous flashbacks and drawn out murder mystery. That's not even mentioning every attempt at a sitcom Bonnie Hunt has ever made, "Freaks and Geeks," "Jack & Jill" and "That's my Bush." I loved them all.

Then, the networks took them all away. Sure, you can say that it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, but I still don't know which of the five friends killed Samantha Carlton on "Reunion" and that irks me. I even promised myself that I wouldn't do this again - that I couldn't jump in to the fall schedule so quickly without considering the potential heartbreak.

After all, I don't know if "Journeyman" and I will last. And, even if we start off strong, who knows is we can make it through a whole season or how many years we'll have? One? Three? Dare I dream - five?

I suppose, awful pun intended, that I'll be taking a quantum leap of faith on "Journeyman" this year. (Oh, it's terrible, isn't it? For some reason, when the opportunity for a pun is there, I just have to take it. It's like kleptomania or car keys if you're a drunk Lindsay Lohan.)

Please wish us the best, and, if you have the time, give the show a shot. My love alone won't be enough to keep it on the air.

Virtual Reality

2007-09-18T21:49:00.000-07:00

Surprisingly (at least it was a surprise to me), the hardest part of "simpsonizing" myself was choosing the background. (Yes, I'm a little behind on this clever marketing ploy associated with "The Simpsons Movie," but the traffic to the site when the movie was actually popular was terrible, and I'm not the most patient person.)

When asked to choose between the nuclear power plant, a school, a kitchen and a TV studio, I was forced to be pretty honest with myself. Sure, I'd like to pretend that I know enough about science to work in a nuclear plant (only because it would be an affirmation of my intelligence, not because I'd want to grow a third arm) or that I'm domestically talented enough to spend hours in the kitchen, I think we all know that's not the case. At my most self-aware, I realize that I'm much more likely to be found picking up some Cool Ranch Doritos, a big gulp of Diet Coke and sour Skittles down at the BP station rather than leading a group of impressionable, fresh-faced third graders in an elementary school class room or working behind heavy, expensive, difficult-to-maneuver equipment on a set.

So, my animated self is at the Kwik-E-Mart - just as she should be.

(On another note, I realize that my Simpson is very thin and svelte and in heels. This not-being-in-denial-about-oneself thing doesn't need to happen all at once. Baby steps. Baby steps.)

Think Before You Style

2007-09-17T07:24:00.000-07:00

Since yesterday was Sunday, I, of course, spent most of my afternoon watching Lifetime and drinking copious amounts of diet coke. (Ah, how I do love to live it up on the weekend ...) And, since this pretty much encompasses all of the "activity" that occurred for me in the last few days, it's also what I'm going to write about.

Therefore, I apologize in advance to anyone reading this with testosterone or some sense of dignity when it comes to their entertainment choices.

My favorite movie from this action-packed weekend was "Thy Neighbor's Wife," a revenge romp starring the lovely Kari Wuhrer. (By "movie," I actually mean "heavily edited piece of what was soft core porn that hopefully made more sense before losing key chunks of plot and/or dialogue because pivotal scenes also involved gratuitous nudity.")

In "Thy Neighbor's Wife," Kari Wuhrer becomes the live-in help for Nicole and Scott, a couple with a strained marriage, and their daughter, Darla. For reasons that should be clearer, Kari has a beef with the world that she wants to take out on the family. Mom Nicole is a diabetic, so plenty of cooking with sugar and other homicidal acts ensue.

Now, I could address the poorly scripted seduction scenes in the movie or why a family with an 18-year-old needs a nanny, but what most concerned me about this "film" was the depiction of Nicole and Scott's marriage.

It was easy for Kari Wuhrer to work her feminine wiles on Scott (played by Jeff Trachta, pictured) because of the conflict in Nicole and Scott's marriage. Nicole and Scott spend the parts of the movie when they're not getting it on (remember, this was once porn), arguing about how much time she spends at work and how she never pays attention to her husband. I believe there's even some dialogue in which Scott complains that his wife doesn't respect his feelings or his opinions.

And, while I'm sure these issues arise between many couples in the world, no matter how much Scott poured his heart out about his hurt, I couldn't help but side with his wife.

You see, if I was a successful businesswoman bringing home the bacon, I'm pretty sure I would also have trouble listening to the thoughts and concerns of a man with a semi-mullet. (Hell, even if I didn't work and instead spent my days keeping up with my stories and eating cream cheese frosting from a plastic tub with my fingers, I'd have trouble taking that guy seriously.) How can one be expected to respect someone who honestly believes that haircut is a good choice?

There's the length. And the poufy bangs. And the feathering. (Dear God - the feathering.) Plus, "Thy Neighbor's Wife" was made in 2001. It's not even like the actor can use the excuse that he didn't know any better or "that was just the style."

I remember 2001 well Jeff Trachta, and this hair, indeed, was not "the style" then.

And, while I don't want to seem that I'm doing too much to support an image-obsessed American culture, I suppose I believe that what you do with your head matters. I might wear curlers when I leave the house, but in doing so, I must also accept that people will see me as a "loony" rather than a with-it young professional. By the same token, if I want my partner to take me seriously, there can be nothing that makes one think of a mullet, no matter how fleeting that thought may be, happening above the neck.

I'd like to think that if Scott had considered his hair choices more thoroughly before Kari Wuhrer caused his wife to slip into an irreversible diabetic coma, "Thy Neighbor's Wife" just might have had a happier ending.

The End of Summer

2007-09-12T07:09:00.000-07:00

In general, I'm pretty sad to see summer go. I like being able to lay out, the slew of big budget blockbuster films in theaters and not having to worry about seasonal depression.

However, one thing I won't miss is a nightly game in my-not-so-great neighborhood that I like to call "Gunshots or Fireworks." (A little hint for those who live in relative safety: The number of pops you hear is how you decide. Two pops? Three? Could go either way. Fifteen pops? You're pretty safely in the illegal fireworks show category.)

Yes, with the end of summer, I'll know for sure that the sounds I hear at night are probably coming from random (or premeditated - who am I to say for sure) acts of violence.

And, at least being armed with that knowledge means that going to the window in hopes of seeing some beautiful, illuminated star burst in the night sky probably won't go terribly, terribly awry.

Laurel's Law #34

2007-09-10T20:40:00.001-07:00

This probably comes as no surprise, but throughout my twenty-seven years, I have devised numerous theories on the workings of the universe and human kind. (Leelee Sobieski must have sold her soul to Satan for success in Hollywood, Donny Osmond would be sweeping floors if he hadn't had Marie for a sister, there was never a need for the Almond Joy candy bar, etc.) And, while for years these ruminations were only known by me and strangers who might have the misfortune of sitting near me on a plane, now that I have a blog, I can share my thoughts whenever I feel like it. Let's just say that America really is a great nation. So, to share yet another of these theories, here are the three things I'm sure are never of interest to anyone but oneself: 1. Pets. Now, I'm not claiming that I'm not guilty of this one, but, in general, I recognize that no one actually cares what your dog does when you give it a bath or how that latest visit to the vet went. For the most part, dog behavior is pretty uniform. And, while this may be a shock to some of the parents out there, the same can also be true of your baby - especially if the story you're thinking of telling involves the phrase "just won't take the nipple," "poo-poo," or "episiotomy." No one needs that. 2. Vacation photos. I'm sorry, but one of the last things I ever want to be forced to look at is vacation photos. (I might choose them over photos of any of the three cautionary phrases mentioned in the last example, but I can't really say for sure.) Unless a UFO landed during your trip to the Eiffel Tower or Grand Canyon, I'm positive I know what you're talking about - without the visual. And, if you don't work for National Geographic, I really prefer to be spared the stacks and stacks of snapshots. Great stories from your trip? Absolutely. Having to hear that story while you point out how tiny ketchup bottles are in Germany in four different photos? No, thank you. 3. Dreams. We all have crazy dreams. In fact, that's kind of why there are all those theories about the subconscious and people love to throw around the names "Freud" and "Jung." And, I certainly understand the desire to share all of those wild inner workings with someone else, but there's probably nothing worse than arriving at the office on a Monday morning to hear, "Good weekend, Laurel? You will not believe what I dreamed about Saturday night ..." It may be a sign of my age, but I can't feign the slightest bit of interest in that anymore. I will allow for the caveat that if you dream about my car stalling on the railroad tracks before an oncoming train and you have a good track record with these things coming true (yes, you must me both requirements), I'm willing to lend an ear. But, otherwise, please keep any "so I was trying to get to this house, only it wasn't my house because the staircase was on the outside rather than the inside, and then my mom was flying a kite with Jodie Foster" to yourself.

Living the Dream

2007-09-07T06:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, my current career path takes me to fascinating places. (There's nothing like writing a story on exotic cat breeds that might be perfect additions to your family to get the pulse racing.)

But, few moments are as exciting as the one I had while I was conducting an interview last week.

I was talking to a former soap opera star when she paused.

"You know," she said, "I played the first runaway teenage alcoholic on daytime television."

"I did not know that."

"Yep, it's true." (This was followed by a rather dramatic, pregnant pause.)

"I'll be sure to write that down," I said.

What I love about this comment is that you know my interviewee was obviously not the first teenager on a soap opera, or even the first runaway or alcoholic on daytime. It is only the unique trifecta of "the runaway teenage alcoholic" that sets her apart.

I guess it's only fair to say that she broke the mold.

Thank God I'm Decent Looking

2007-09-06T07:06:00.000-07:00

Recently, my sister lent me the first season of "Lost" on DVD. Since I've always wanted to get into "Lost" but lacked the discipline to stay tuned week after week without the incentive of Hugh Laurie, and the show "really freaks my sister out" so she didn't want the DVDs anymore, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to catch up on all that I've missed.

This past weekend, I started watching the DVDs, and then, almost before I realized what was happening, I had watched all 24 episodes in a span of four days. (Word to the wise: Don't do this. That much "Lost" in such a short period of time without commercials is like watching the longest, most intense movie you've ever seen with no hope of resolution or closure. I'm not sure that I've been the same since.)

And now that I'm done with season one, I'm left with two thoughts:

1. I'm hooked. Who can I trick into giving me the second season of "Lost" on DVD?

2. I have no practical skills whatsoever. (Darn you liberal arts! I knew that you weren't a financially-prudent course of study, but I had no idea I'd be this worthless afterwards. There were times, sure, especially when I was sitting in my sociology classes, that I had fleeting thoughts about your lack of relevance to the outside world, but, like I said, this was a "fleeting" feeling, and I never knew for sure.)

Seriously, unless someone is interested in writing a constitution for our band of stranded islanders or wants someone to recount the entire saga that is "Quantum Leap: Seasons 1-5" for entertainment around the nightly campfire, I bring nothing to the table.

Let's look at who matters on "Lost":
Jack – Doctor.
Locke – Kills boars.
Sayid – Former Iraqi solider/master of terrain and weapons.
Sun – Can find plants to use as medicine.
Jin: Catches fish.
Kate – Climbs trees and handles firearms.
Sawyer – Remembered to scavenge all the stuff from dead people.
Michael – Construction background/can build a boat from bamboo and twine.

(You'll notice that neither "writer" or "barfly" made the list.)

Right off the bat, we can obviously eliminate doctoring (in addition to not going to medical school or taking science after my junior year of high school, I hate the sight of blood and needles), killing boars (yeah, that would happen), anything related to soldiering, identifying plants (if I were the kind to go camping, I'd also be the kind to use the wrong kind of leaf to wipe), fishing, firearms and construction (not even my LEGO structures were sound).

Then, I even have to take tree-climbing off the list because the last time I attempted to get more than six feet off the ground; I broke both of my wrists. And, I doubt that scavenging would work since I'd either feel bad about robbing the dead or would easily have my finds taken from me since my aforementioned previously-broken wrists don't allow me to put up much of a fight.

Because of my fair skin and light eyes, I don't even handle the sun well. In short, if I was stranded on an island and anything "Lord of the Flies"-like happened, I'd be Piggy.

Therefore, I'm ruling out any trans-oceanic travel until I at least learn how to skin a coconut.

The Invasion

2007-09-05T07:38:00.000-07:00

Normally when I’m at the office, I do all that I can not to leave the office. It probably explains a lot of my shape, but I don’t get up from my desk all that often. Unfortunately though, this habit has next to nothing to do with my work ethic or desire "to get things done."

I avoid leaving my office because of the pesky sales people always wandering the halls. Whether they want to sell you gym memberships, comedy club tickets or coupons to save at Jersey Mike’s Subs, these persistent lurkers pepper our building. And, without the "no solicitors" sign on the office door to protect me, I am easy prey for their terrible offers. (Good at saying "no," I am not. Don’t get me started on the chiropractor package I got talked into, and I don’t even believe in chiropractors.)

But, it had been a few months since I’d run into one of these solicitors, so I decided to be bold on Friday, and I left the office to go next door for a chat.

And that’s when I walked straight in to two high school students trying to raise money for some sort of student program. Plus, since I had walked straight into them, there was no escaping the pitch.

When they asked if I wanted to give money to their program, I went with my typical non-confrontational stand-by of "I don’t have any cash on me."

"That’s OK, we take checks," the lead student said while opening the lid of the laminated box that he was carrying. In the flash that he opened the box, I saw some sort of white leopard decal and figured that I could give him a few dollars and then take the hideous animal sticker to a friend as a joke, so I agreed to make a donation.

"How much are they?" I asked, referencing the box after these kids had followed me back to my desk.

"The sun catchers? They’re twenty-five to thirty dollars," he said.

That’s when I stopped in my tracks. (I remember having a hard time getting people to pay a whole dollar for candy bars when I used to fund-raise for my elementary school, and I feel as if this price increase can’t really correspond to inflation.) I also knew that no matter how much of a people pleaser I am, I wasn’t about to shell out that kind of dough for a cat’s face made of colored plastic and wire.

"The smaller ones are only fifteen," he added, seeing my obvious hesitation, and he pushed a sun catcher with two teddy bear heads and a banner that said "best friends" towards me.

"You know," I said. "Come to think of it, I don’t really need any more stuff. I’d rather just make a donation to your organization."

Silly me thought that this was very nice. After all, they had accosted me at the office, they had no goods of value to offer, and I still didn’t know what I was actually donating money for. (I pray that it’s not the young Aryan nation, but I guess you never know with these things.) Plus, at this point, I’d wasted ten minutes of my work day. (And I wasted those ten minutes not reading perezhilton.com.)

I pulled out my purse and wrote a check for five dollars.

"There you go and good luck," I said, turning back towards my desk and computer screen.

"Thank you," the teenager said. "But, since it is a check, I am going to need to see some ID."

Needless to say, I’m never leaving my office again.

Dolphin sun catcher pictured here might or might not resemble the goods being sold by wandering high school students.

To Hell and Back

2007-08-31T08:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had the extreme misfortune of wasting a large chunk of what is left of my youth in that terrible, terrible place known as the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Now, I know that waiting in line at the DMV is a cliche for a reason, but I still don't think that I've ever spent more than an hour there - and that was back when I was 16 and had to take an actual road test to prove that I deserved a license. I even thought that I had planned my visit for an off-peak hour, and, when I arrived, I was incredibly pleased to look around the waiting area at the DMV and see only a handful of people in line.

Unfortunately, what I didn't realize is that the people working at the DMV operate at about the speed of molasses.

After two hours (two hours!?!?), they called my number, and I took my eye test and paid. Another hour later (one whole hour!?!?), after the computer had crashed not once, but twice, they finally took my photo. All in all, I arrived at the DMV at 1: 25 p.m. (after getting lost because the directions on the web site were wrong), and I walked out at 4:40 p.m.

I was at the DMV for three entire hours. THREE HOURS. I don't know what I did to deserve this punishment (unless, of course, those right wing Christians really are right about the evils of alcohol and voting for Democrats), but hopefully, this will be the closest I ever come to understanding Stockholm Syndrome or how wild animals feel in captivity.

Towards the end of hour one, I still felt pretty OK. In fact, I was even hopeful. I'd found a Sudoku and an old Dilbert cartoon to pass the time. I knew things were bad, but I had faith that my situation would improve.

At the end of hour two, I was torn between outright rage and exhaustion. Half of me was angry at the world and everyone working at the DMV. I did a lot of looking around the room in wide-eyed frustration hoping I could make eye contact with someone willing to listen to me rant about the wait. The other part of me just wanted to give in and curl up in a fetal position right there with my eyes shut tight against anything and everyone.

And, by the end of hour three, I had resigned myself to a life lived entirely within the confines of the DMV. I started looking around the building for potential life mates (and you know that if you're thinking about picking a spouse at the DMV, it's bad). I figured that maybe we could settle down, start a family, build a home from plastic chairs and outdated driver's manuals, and be happy. The guy who looked like he didn't have tattoos so much as a friend he let doodle all over his body in permanent, needle-embedded ink seemed nice enough. After all, if I was never going to be able to leave the building, I might as well make the most of it.

Luckily, just when I had accepted a future that involved washing my hair with hand soap and bartering for Tic Tacs to survive, I got my license.

Then, as if the hours of idle waiting weren't bad enough, I saw my driver's license photo.

Now, you would think that after all those hours of waiting, I would be so happy to have my license in hand (I probably would have walked out with nothing if I hadn't remembered that my license was necessary to purchase red wine) that I wouldn't care at all about the photo. Even I thought that for a few minutes.

But, that was when I was naive and completely ignoring the strength of my own vanity. Even after all that waiting, I would have risked yet another computer crash not to have the license photo that I have now.

I know this picture is blurry, but I think you get the idea. I can't decide if it looks like I'm about to laugh or vomit. (Let's not even start with the fact that my chin and my neck tried to become one right as the flash went off ...)

Oh well, at least I don't have to go through all this again for another seven years - unless that photo really starts to bug me.

Incomprehensible

2007-08-30T07:33:00.000-07:00

On the subject of my apartment, I think that it's finally time to share a dirty little secret with the world.

As you're looking at the picture to the right, you're probably thinking, "What on earth could that abhorrent image be? Is it spoiled food? Dirt? Maybe even human waste?"

And, unfortunately, none of those guesses would be right. What you're actually seeing here is a photo of one of my bathroom walls.
That's right. At some point, in what I can only imagine was either a drug-induced haze or rage-filled attempt at revenge, my bathroom walls were painted dark brown. And then, as if painting bathroom walls brown wasn't bad enough, the painter with poor, poor taste chose to texturize them.

I'm not sure whether or not you can pick this up from the photo, but there are actually irregular swoops through the brown paint that give the walls a kind of 3-D effect. Some might even, or have, said that the walls look like they were decorated with actual poop.

While such a decorating technique is horrible anywhere, as one rarely wants to look at one's surroundings and think of feces, the fact that these are my bathroom walls really does make this all the more coincidental and terrible. (I say "coincidental" because I have to hope that no one could acknowledge that said paint looks just like poop and still choose to put it on the walls.)

In short, my bathroom is a horrible, horrible place, and my feelings towards it might be why some of my normally excellent personal hygiene habits have fallen by the wayside lately.

Might be.

Responsibility

2007-08-29T07:09:00.000-07:00

I try to have low expectations for my living conditions. (At least, I've tried to have low expectations for my living conditions since moving to Nashville. The nicest name I can come up with for my new place is "the hovel," and I can only hope this tale serves as a cautionary tale to the kids out there about not renting an apartment from Craig's List unseen. The internet can be a deceptive, deceptive place.)

Then, a few weeks ago, I learned that I had not let my standards sink low enough when my landlord called to deliver the news no tenant wants to hear: rodent infestation.

Yep, the girl who thinks that gummy bears are gross as soon as they see heat above room temperature was living in the midst of the small, burrowing creatures who inspired the mind-numbing "Tom & Jerry" cartoons and created minor global inconveniences like the Black Plague.

Now, when my landlord called to let me know about the mice (she discovered the problem when a mouse ran across her foot while she was checking on something in my apartment, and, let's just say, that if there's anything I like less than rodents, it's bold rodents), she wanted to know if I had seen anything before to make me suspect this problem.

Of course, this was a pretty nonsensical question because if I had seen anything to indicate that I was living with mice, she would have been the first person that I called. It's not like living in a mice infested apartment has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. Rodent-filled living quarters weren't exactly up there with my hopes of being both U.S. President and Princess and finding a real, live unicorn.

Then, my landlord told me that she would have checked under my sink to see if the mice got in that way, but I had too much stuff there, and she just left. So, when I got home from work, I moved my multiple Swiffers and cleaning products from under the sink to look around.

That's when all my doubts about a mice problem vanished. You see, I didn't just have a hole under my sink - I had the kind of dome-shaped mouse hole I thought only existed in those pesky "Tom & Jerry" cartoons.

I just hope this can serve as another lesson for the kids - usually, it pays to pay attention. If it looks like a duck/hole-for-mice and talks like a duck/hole-for-mice, it's probably a duck/hole-for-mice.

Thank goodness for prompt and thorough exterminators.

Everlasting Love

2007-08-23T07:51:00.000-07:00

When I was little, there was no celebrity I adored more than Michael J. Fox.

I was absolutely enamored with Alex P. Keaton, and I never missed "Family Ties." (I'm pretty sure that the only time I voted for a Republican was in the 1988 mock presidential election held at our elementary school when I cast a vote for George Bush, Sr in our cardboard voting booth. Since I don't come from a family of Republicans, I can only assume that this decision was heavily influenced by the conservative viewpoint of one Alex P. Keaton.)

I have seen "Back to the Future" and its sequels more times than I can count (although I still prefer to think that "Back to the Future: Part II" wasn't part of the franchise), and I scoff at the very notion of Jason Bateman as a basketball-playing teenage werewolf when Michael J. Fox so obviously played the original and the best "Teen Wolf." (I also must unfortunately admit that I wished I too could hear dog whistles for a long time after that movie came out.)

My Barbies married Michaels, not Kens.

I even watched "The Frighteners" - and I liked it. I dare another fan of the Fox to make that claim.

So, you can only imagine my absolute joy on a cold day in 1989 when my mother dragged me to the denim haven that was County Seat and Courtney Cox walked in.

At the time, Courtney Cox was playing a psychology student on "Family Ties." And, this psychology student also happened to be Alex P. Keaton's girlfriend. As far as I was concerned, there could be no luckier lady.

With my mom's encouragement, I worked up the nerve to ask Courtney for her autograph, and since we had no paper, I ended up with Courtney's signature on some County Seat stationary. (I can only imagine how ridiculous this autograph would look if I still had it today. For those of you who can't believe I would lose such an important bit of memorabilia, I blame my uncharacteristic nonchalance on how often I move - it certainly wasn't for a lack of caring.)

And, while this was my first real "brush with fame," I think it might be better than all the rest. (I know, it's shocking considering the thrills that were Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.)

What can I say? That's just how much I love Michael J. Fox - even to this day. I shudder to think what would be the level of embarrassment, stammering and possible confessing to him some of these very details should I ever meet Michael J. Fox in person and not just someone who played his girlfriend on television about two decades ago.

(P.S. If some of this sounds familiar, I might have mentioned some of this before whenever Michael J. Fox was mentioned in my presence or when Rush Limbaugh attacked my first love, but I thought now was a good time to expand on the true depth of my very first celebrity encounter. Plus, I always have more to say about Michael J. Fox.)

On the Road

2007-08-22T14:30:00.000-07:00

As I've said before, I love the South. And yet, it continues to amaze me how many I times I see people in my beloved home state of Alabama who seem intent on proving everyone else right in their stereotypes of our region.

This past weekend, I drove back through Alabama after a week at the beach with my family. When we stopped for gas, I went into the station to use the bathroom and saw one of these aforementioned people.

It was 2:00 in the afternoon, and there was a shirtless guy wandering through the store with a gallon of sweet tea in one hand and a case of Natty Light in the other. (Natty Light is the nickname for Natural Light discount beer for those of you who might exercise standards when you drink, entertain and/or bake chicken.)

Plus, because he wasn't wearing a shirt, I could see the very prominent bulldog tattoo on his bicep that I can only assume was a memorial to a favorite pet since "Sarge" was tattooed beneath it.

Maybe it's silly, but I really don't understand why men don't wear shirts. (I make exceptions for men at the pool or exercising, but even when they're exercising, I feel that if other people are around, men should be clothed.) Truth be told, I just prefer the world clothed. I'm not really one for total honesty, and being able to see all that exposed stuff/skin on a person whose name I don't even know just seems like too much. What could have been so important about sweet tea and Natty Light (and I do understand how pressing these purchases can be to Southerners) that the guy couldn't put on a shirt before running to the Exxon? Seriously?

And, before you say it, the heat is no excuse.

It's Alabama - it's always hot. In fact, it's hot and humid for half the year. It can be freakishly hot in the middle of December. In the middle of August, it's going to be disgustingly hot. But, that certainly isn't a reason not to wear a shirt. It's not like that thin layer of cotton jersey really makes a difference to your body temperature, and if you really think about it, the heat provides even more of a reason to wear a shirt. In the heat, you're going to sweat more, and, if nothing else, I feel that I, as a tax-paying, voting, decent citizen, deserve that thin layer of cotton jersey between me and your sticky flesh when I am in public.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Saturday Night Fever

2007-08-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

When people ask about my writing, they usually seem pretty surprised that I don't write fiction. (Although, that's unless, of course, you talk to my mother who would claim that I do indeed write fiction, but bygones.) That's usually when I explain that I'd much rather write non-fiction because life is so full of stuff that you just can't make up, or stuff that if you did make up stories along the same lines, people would balk at your cheesiness or call you ridiculous. (For further proof that "truth really is stranger than fiction," please see my brief encounter with Ivanka Trump.) Anyway, one of my weekend adventures is another great example of this tenet. A few weeks ago, I visited a bar in downtown Nashville with my friend Lindsay. After hanging out for a bit, we were ready to head home and left the bar to head to the parking lot. When we got to the car, we realized that we didn't have Lindsay's keys, so we headed back inside to make sure that they hadn't fallen out under the table where we were seated. Inside the bar, our table had already been taken by a couple of guys. It was a busy bar after midnight, so Lindsay explained the situation to the new patrons, and we proceeded to climb under the table in search of the missing key. Luckily, we found the keys and climbed back out quickly. But, as we were preparing to leave the bar for the second time, a girl walked out of the bathroom and made a beeline towards me. Before I could really comprehend her scowl and determination, she yanked me by the elbow (hard, I might add) and screamed, "What the f*** are you doing with my boyfriend?" For the next few seconds, I was completely stunned, mainly because a) no one has ever grabbed me and accosted me like that in public before and b) her boyfriend wasn't much to write home about, and therefore not what I would imagine as a prime target for "man-stealing." (Not that I know too much about "man-stealing," but I did watch a lot of "Beverly Hills, 90210" in my adolescence, and a young Luke Perry would have been a different story. But, this guy? No.) As I was still standing there - in shock - the boyfriend stood up to intervene, and I imagine explain that we were just trying to retrieve some keys, when she turned on him and proceeded to take his head off. Thankfully, Lindsay and I know the bartender where we were, so we were able to exit quickly after this and avoid any further commotion. (And, not that I would have, but for the record, I could have made her sorry for such an inappropriate accusation. I don't like to be touched -- especially by strangers leaving dirty bar bathrooms.) Anyway, the point to my story is this: The name of the bar where this near chick-fight occurred? The Trailer Park. I leave it at that.

In Case You Doubted Me

2007-07-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

And, I don't know why you would ... but it seems that Mary Kay might very well be my new allet-bay uild-gay -- they have eyes and ears everywhere.

Not even 12 hours after my last post, I returned from lunch to find the following in my office parking lot. Again.

I know that I said I wasn't afraid, but if you don't hear from me in the next 24 hours, please send help immediately -- I can't go back to that overly lip-glossed place in the basement of the Courtyard Marriott.

My Return

2007-07-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

Now, I know that it's been a long time since my last blog entry, and most of you are probably wondering where I've been, so here comes the long-awaited truth behind my extended absence ... I've had to go into hiding to escape the ladies of Mary Kay. Seriously. A few months ago, a friend of mine invited me to a Mary Kay party. At the time, I had no idea that such things as Mary Kay parties still existed. And, I certainly didn't know that women under the age of 65 attended Mary Kay parties, but my friend promised wine, so I went. For those of you who haven't been to a Mary Kay party, I can't say that I recommend it. Mary Kay prefers to refer to their gatherings as "Girlfriend Parties." (Personally, one of the words I least prefer to hear repeated, next to "lover" and "moist," is "girlfriend," so Mary Kay and I didn't get off to the best start.) There was also the choice to decorate with feather boas, and I'm pretty sure such a choice speaks for itself. So, as the evening drags on, there are many, many product demonstrations and many, many glasses of wine. Then, sometime after the lip-smoothing balm and newly un-corked bottle of Pinot Noir, we were separated for our "personal consultations" with a Mary Kay representative. Of course, this is how they get you - it's a lot harder to say "no" to the hard sell one-on-one than it would be in a group. But, somehow, I didn't just end up with a normal Mary Kay representative. My consultation was with Linda, the regional manager. And, Linda wanted me to do a lot more than buy some Mary Kay products - she wanted me to start selling the Mary Kay line, too. Now, normally, I would be able to get out of such a situation, but I have a tendency to be a bit of a people pleaser. Plus, Linda told me that I would be a good Mary Kay lady because I was so pretty, and I would be lying if I said that alcohol and compliments aren't how I've gotten myself into trouble before. It seems that by the end of the evening, I had committed myself to a national girlfriend event complete with the opportunity to learn all about the corporate side of Mary Kay. A few days later, I spent three hours trapped in the conference room of the Marriott in Brentwood, Tennessee watching Linda award pink baubles to her top sellers and engage the crowd in affirmations. (Another of my least favorite things is affirmations. When I worked at Amsouth, I was called into a 7:30 a.m. morning that included passing around a hand mirror as each staff member said "To perform the best, I must be the best" out loud. I have rarely felt such rage.) Anyway, I thought escaping from the girlfriend event would be enough, but the ladies of Mary Kay do not scare easily. After that, I received daily phone calls from Linda for weeks because she was so anxious to talk about "my future at Mary Kay." Hence, I had to go into hiding. And for those of you who think I might be exaggerating, it was only a a few weeks ago when there was a pink Cadillac in my office parking lot, and I figured that they were back on my trail. But, I refuse to live in fear any longer. I'm taking my life back, and if Mary Kay has a problem with that, well then, I'm ready for her.

Time Management

2007-02-13T05:19:00.000-08:00

Often times, when I'm out and about with my dog, people will ask me what tricks she knows. I will promptly ask Cassidy to sit. ("Sit please" actually.) And, then she sits. Usually this is about the time said strangers or others look at me, seeming to expect more. And, unfortunately, my dog doesn't know how to do anything else. (I'm not even sure you can count sitting as a trick. It seems much more like a necessary command as opposed to a "trick.") Cassidy doesn't shake, she doesn't roll over and she certainly doesn't catch Frisbees in the air or jump through hoops. On occasion, she will fetch, but that's usually completely on her own terms and not mine - when she's bored, she'll lay down in the middle of the yard regardless of what's going on with our game. I've probably looked for the tennis ball more than she has. There's really not much to the Cassidy and Laurel show. (Unless, of course, she's dressed up in something seasonal. We do tend to get attention when she's in her Halloween hoodie or Christmas sweater.) I'm sure most of this is to blame on the fact that I don't really like being "active." After all, it only makes sense that a dog would adapt to the lifestyle of its owner. Therefore, Cassidy won't really make it through a rigorous jog, but she's great at spending hours at an outdoor cafe while Bloody Marys or other libations are consumed. Also, whenever I think about whether or not I want to spend my afternoon training Cassidy, I can't help but wonder about the effort versus return ratio. I'm not sure I see the point to putting hours into teaching her how to lay down. If we're going to spend quality time together, the dog park (where other people might be) or browsing through PetSmart (where I can shop for even more of those seasonal sweaters) seem like much more enjoyable options. And, even though Cassidy doesn't do any of the "tricks" mainstream America seems so fond of, I happen to think she has two skills far better than any "speaking" German Shepherd or "dancing" poodle. Cassidy responds to a few particular sounds. In terms of "novelty sounds," her ears perk up at sirens (leading to howls), barks from other dogs on television and Hugh Laurie's voice. (I'm actually serious about the last one, and I think I prove my earlier point about dogs adapting to the habits of their owners.) But, it's Cassidy's response to more useful sounds that makes her such a brilliant dog. Cassidy also perks up when my cell phone rings or the timer on the oven goes off. And, while at first this might not seem all that impressive, please keep in mind that these are sounds I usually don't hear. When my cell phone rings, Cassidy runs towards it. (This part of her skill is also invaluable since I usually don't hear my cell phone or remember where I put it.) And, when the timer sounds, Cassidy runs to the kitchen. (Without her, I'd probably have even more burned dinners, and that's a terrifying thought.) So, while I might not be hitting the dog show circuit anytime soon, I happen to think Cassidy is on top of everything she needs to know. It's just unfortunate I can't throw a ringing cell phone around to impress strangers.

Facing Facts

2007-01-22T06:41:00.000-08:00

In college, one of my nicknames was "Karen" after the character from "Will & Grace." For awhile, every time I met a stranger, he or she would eventually say, "Wow, something about you is so familiar. I wish I knew who you reminded me of - I just can't put my finger on it." I would then put their minds at ease with a simple, "Is it Karen from 'Will & Grace'?" which was always met with an, "Oh my gosh, yes! That's exactly it! Has anyone ever told you that before?" "Once or twice," I'd say. I think it had something to do with the fact that I often said "my right hand is lonely" while shaking my fingers a bit when it was after 5:00 and we hadn't yet picked a place for cocktails. In a way, I actually appreciated the comparison even though I wasn't sure how true it was. Then, a few months ago, when I was in yet another wedding, after the ceremony all of the bridesmaids and groomsmen were supposed to pile into a limo and then kill some time before arriving at the reception. We discussed a few ideas of how to use up twenty minutes before landing on the winning notion of getting some alcohol. And, that's when I found myself actually speaking the words, "Driver, take us to the bubbly!" I will never dispute my nickname ever again.

It's My Party

2007-01-18T08:29:00.000-08:00

I couldn't think of much to talk about from my present day life (not that that always stops me), so I decided to rely on my childhood for stories once again. I give you a brief video excerpt from my 7th birthday party. If I had to guess, I think you will probably notice the following elements, in the following order: a) The Pose: It is a good one, but, in fairness, I had been practicing since 1981. b) The Dress: I loved that dress - large purple polka dots, floppy daisies and all. After all, it was 1986. I couldn't wait to be big enough to fit in it (probably the last time that ever happened) since it was a "big girl" size, and I was still in the kiddie department. c) The Teeth. d) The Walk: I imagine it's rare to find an elementary school student who can sashay like that.

Truth and Tabloids

2007-01-17T06:15:00.000-08:00

When Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes started dating, there were reports that her car was so dirty when they first met, Tom couldn't even get into the passenger seat. Originally, I thought this was nonsense. After all, if I were on an early date, I would make sure that my car was relatively clean. (It's one of those "girl rules" - like smelling nice, refusing to admit you can sweat profusely, and making sure your apartment is clean when a boy picks you up.) Of course, I'm assuming that when Katie first met Tom, she thought he was a normal guy and not some sort of modern-medicine-hating, cult-believing, odd-shaped-bangs kind of fellow. Those are the kind we'll drive away with our non-lady-like behavior. (Wait a second...) But, then there are days when I look into the back of my own car (which still might be filled with stuff that needs to go to the dry cleaners and post-move-to-Nashville objects that won't fit into my apartment/hovel), and I know that it could happen to any one of us.

The Market

2007-01-16T07:14:00.000-08:00

Last night, I stopped by the grocery store for a quick run. (I had cravings for quiche, pigs in a blanket, and a baked potato. Go figure.) As I was checking out, the guy who worked there looked at the rawhide bone I was buying and said, "Oh, someone has a little doggie." ("Doggie" was his word, not mine.) I just smiled and nodded. (Personally, I really don't like it when strangers comment on your purchases. It only confirms my worst fears about being judged and watched by others. I don't want the Wal-Mart photo tech to tell me "not to worry" because "my photos came out cute," and I certainly don't want the woman at the Western to tell me "that all women go through it" when I'm picking up my monthly Midol and pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. I feel as if these moments should pass without comment.) But, I tried to be polite anyway. Then, he corrected himself and said, "Or maybe someone has a big doggie..." "It's a medium sized dog," I replied, almost cheerfully. "She's right in between." "I guess she's like her mistress then," he continued, "not too big and not too small." Well, let's just say that that's not what I needed to hear. Some people might infer that this meant I was "just right," be we don't live in the world of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," and I don't like it when the word "small" is not applied to me. Plus, being told you're not "too big" is hardly a compliment. There has never been a time I've gotten dolled up and wanted a date to tell me that I wasn't too big. Sure, maybe if I was trying to squeeze out of a small opening to safety, it'd be great to hear that I wasn't too big, but next to underground shaft trappings and the like, I think it's a poor choice of words. Maybe women haven't made it clear enough, but you never toss out words like "thin," "light," "tiny," or "petite" and then don't apply them to the lady in front of you. It's just rude. Luckily, I had all those pigs in a blanket to console me when I got home.

Chores

2007-01-15T07:21:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I went to the laundromat for the first time. At first, I was apprehensive. As much as I love doing laundry (which is actually, disturbingly enough, a lot because I really like making things clean, folding and when I'm done, I kind of get half the high I normally get from shopping because I have so many new outfit options), I was worried that I wouldn't enjoy it nearly as much without being able to watch Lifetime while the machines ran. But, I was at my dirty clothes threshold (which, incidentally enough, occurs when I have no more socks and am on my third string underwear - I'll save the story of my undergarment classification system for another day), and something had to be done. After a failed venture to Harvey Washbanger's Eat, Drink, Do Laundry (it seems that concept didn't work out too well for old Harvey since the building now contains a Mexican restaurant), I found myself at the Squeaky Clean Laundromat. Sure, I did feel a little awkward because I quickly learned that if you're the woman in the laundromat, every man there will assume you know everything about washing clothes because of your gender, but after shrugging my shoulders over fabric softener inquiries a few times, most of the men realized I was no expert. Then, after a few more moments, I was in love. Apart from the warm, humming environment, here's a list of what I adore about the laundromat: 1. The Efficiency. I could do all my laundry loads at the same time, and my clothes were dry within thirty minutes. 2. The Pac-Man Machine. Does it get better than that? 3. The Soft Rock. I got to hear "Manic Monday" for the first time since I bought a Bangles tape for my pocket rocker in 1987. In fact, I was about to designate the laundromat as my new, secret happy place (the former title holder being the library), when I found a way to mar the experience. I removed a pair of jeans from the washing machine and started shaking them out so I could hang them up to air dry for a moment. Now, I thought that I had carefully checked all the pockets and made sure there were no socks stuck in the legs, but the difference between my thinking and the truth usually gets me into trouble. I was about two shakes in when a pair of my underwear came flying out of the jeans and landed about ten feet away. Of course, airborne panties are usually enough of an embarrassment, but since this is my life, the underwear also managed to land right next to the one guy in the laundromat who didn't seem to be doing any actual laundry but just seemed to be around to soak up the atmosphere and yell at the television. He was the last person I wanted seeing my unmentionables, and retrieval under his attentive gaze was awkward, to say the least. It looks like the library is no longer in danger of losing its special designation. I like that the probability of lingerie mishaps is much lower there.

The Home Front

2007-01-12T07:14:00.000-08:00

Lately, the weather has been warmer, so my landlord has been leaving her dogs out in the backyard more often than normal. (Keep in mind that this is Tennessee; the weather is often unseasonably warm.) Other than the somewhat long nails on her dogs, they are generally very sweet creatures, so this really shouldn't bother me. However (because there always is a "but" whenever I say that I'm not upset - just ask some ex-boyfriends), I do wish she would keep her dogs inside more often, and here's why: You see, my own dog, Cassidy, loves to play with other dogs. And, I mean loves to play with other dogs. (No, not in some weird humping way.) She thinks that every dog is just waiting for her to jump on them, run around, or pick up the opposite end of a tug rope. Sometimes I worry about her survival instincts since she will try to play with dogs who snarl, scratch, and snap too. God forbid she ever encounter an overly bold opossum or raccoon. In fact, Cassidy will even ignore me to play with other dogs. And, herein lies the problem. Instead of having my four-legged buddy to play games with, follow me around the house, and snuggle, she constantly wants to go outside to play with my landlord's dogs. She's insistent on it to the tune of constantly sitting by the back door. And, while I know that she's a dog and would of course want to play outside with other dogs and doesn't have a real thought process or the ability to "reject" per say, it started to hurt my feelings. So, tonight when I was at the grocery store, I picked up a special treat. I happen to know that Cassidy adores the real bones that come from the butcher at the grocery. She loves them so much, she will devote hours to finishing one without giving in to any distractions. (Often, while sitting right at my feet.) Tonight, I came home with a bribe to keep my dog inside with me. I bribed my own pet to spend time with me. I have a feeling that the implications of this could be far more devastating than the initial feelings caused by my dog's "choice." (And that I would be a disaster as a divorced parent.) Therefore, I'm just not going to think about it. (Denial is one of my greatest gifts.) Isn't it great that Cassidy's back inside with me?

My Confession

2007-01-11T06:22:00.000-08:00

As much as I realize that this might hurt my image in some people's eyes, there's something I need to get off my chest. (Not that I think there's much to this "image" of mine, but what I'm about to say is not at all "cool" or "hip." This is even less "hip" than my love of "Quantum Leap," and I bet most of us thought that day would never come.) For the past couple of weeks, when I've been alone and in the privacy of my own car, I've been giving in to temptation and indulging one of my more shameful guilty pleasures - the love of Broadway. For months, I thought it was enough to just have the "Rent" soundtrack on hand. Because of the 2005 movie, I figured that there was still some license to owning that one. But, as much as I adore "Seasons of Love" and "La Vie Boheme," it was starting to get a bit stale. Then, I happened to pull out an old mixed CD my sister made me years ago titled "Songs From Our Childhood: Volume 1." As is to be expected, "Songs From Our Childhood," features many of the musical favorites my sisters and I grew up with. Between our parents' and the nanny's tastes, you get an interesting mix of Don Henley, Dan Folgerberg, the theme songs from "General Hospital" and "Unsolved Mysteries," and the ever-popular-with-my-mother Broadway Soundtrack. At first, I just listened to "On My Own" (the stirring ballad of unrequited love from Eponine in "Les Miserables") a few times on repeat. And, that was good. I found my work stress melting away more quickly as I belted out musical theater standards on the drive home. I was kinder to children and animals. I smiled more. But, unfortunately, after awhile even that wasn't enough, and I recently found myself at Spin Street in the mall purchasing the Highlights from "Les Miserables" as performed by the original Broadway cast. Yes, I purchased "Les Miserables." I paid good money for it. I listen to it every day. I might or might not find myself car dancing with jazz hands on the way to and from work. I had hoped that all of this could stay my dirty little secret. I was content to be a closeted Broadway fanatic. However, it seems like I can't help but give myself away. Today, I found myself humming/almost breaking into song with "Master of the House" much to the surprise of and my embarrassment in front of a co-worker. I guess we can all be pretty sure that no one will be asking me for music recommendations anytime soon.

Potential?

2007-01-10T07:01:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, my mom gave me a big box full of stuff from my childhood - you know the drill, pictures, old book reports, letters, etc. For me, this has been incredible because I find few topics more fascinating than myself. (Hence this whole writing business and the tendency to cause eyes to glass over at cocktail parties.) While secretly I think that my mother might be exacting some strange sort of revenge by forcing me to be the one who figures out what on earth you do with poorly constructed puzzle piece earrings and a barely recognizable snowman ornament, I've enjoyed my box of memories none the less. I think my favorite mementos are the old stories. I can only hope I've improved from the days when I wrote a nativity tale that concluded with the statement that Jesus "was as cute as a bear" and The Pied Piper of Hamelin 2 which related the struggle of the "still cripled" Jan who grew up to be an FBI agent hot on the trail of the fugitive Pied Piper. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that there's clear evidence I would never be a poet. Exhibit A is my 3rd grade study in verse. Please enjoy: A Day in Autumn A day in autumn splashing in the leaves, A day in autumn doing as you please; The only trouble with autumn is - SCHOOL! Wow. Did you see that twist coming at the end? All that rhyming and then we get to the real meat of it all. (In case you missed that stunning revelation, it's written in all caps with an exclamation point. My nine year old self was very careful to make sure the point got across.) And, sadly enough, this is probably the best poetry I ever wrote since a few years later I would graduate to adolescent angst love ballads and half-assed nature haikus. My best work from the box is probably a little story called The Fancy Soap. In The Fancy Soap, the aforementioned "fancy soap" is new to the bathroom. ("Fancy soap" is beautifully rendered by my drawing of a bar of Ivory with thick, long lashes, bright pink lips, and a mop of curly hair complete with a pink bow.) "Fancy soap" is also pretty snobby. She thinks she's so much better than "regular soap" even though "regular soap" is perfectly nice and has lived in the bathroom longer. Fancy soap is mean to regular soap at every turn and just keeps her nose in the air. But, then, in an unexpected twist possibly only foreshadowed by my work in "A Day in Autumn," someone comes to the bathroom to wash their hands, and fancy soap's makeup is ruined - much to her dismay. Fancy soap isn't "fancy" anymore, and we all learn a little lesson about pretention and how beauty is about more than just looks. I'd like to think of this story as some sort of comment I, as an exceptional child, made on artifice, the need for kindness, and possibly even the American class system. However, knowing me as well as I do, I'm sure the truth is that I was just upset my mom never let me use the small, nicely colored carved seashell soaps she kept in the downstairs bathroom for guests and this was my only means of rebellion against her household tyranny. Oh well. I guess I might have been off about that whole "childhood genius" thing after all.

It Could Usually be Worse

2007-01-09T07:48:00.000-08:00

If there's one thing I'll say for my new neighborhood, it's that it's never boring. On Sunday, I stopped for gas down the street. When I walked into the service station, the only working clerk was on her cell phone. Naturally, this annoyed me. Or, more accurately, it annoyed me when she stayed on the phone after seeing me standing at the register and continued to stay on the phone for another five minutes while she ignored me, the only customer in the store. And, when she did finally come over to see what I needed, don't think that she got off the cell phone even then. As she asked to see my id for the beer, she also asked "if I ever put up with any b***s***." I answered "no - especially from men" and waited for my total. (For those of you who know me, I recognize that this was wishful thinking on my part. I know that I often put up with bs from men - hence my unfortunate willingness to believe an ex who had many private dinners with his attractive "cousin." But, I feel it's ok to present myself as the more assertive version of myself I dream of being when it comes to strangers at the Amoco.) "Did you hear that?" she said into her phone. "Ladies don't like bs." And, even though I was only around because I still needed to get change, if I hadn't stayed because of the lackluster service, I would have missed the crucial meat of the conversation. "You can't be accusing me of cheating on you," she added, "when you're the one that got somebody else pregnant." I was able to forgive her for the cell phone nonsense after that. The scene reminded me of something I read a few years ago in an indie publication. I don't know if anyone has ever read "Found" magazine, but the entire periodical is just composed of random notes and scraps of paper found by people (hence that brilliant name). My favorite piece in "Found" ("article" or "story" seems misleading, considering) is a note found near a car. The note is obviously from a girlfriend to her boyfriend and says something to the effect of, "I can't believe I found your car at her house again. You are such a lying dog," before ending with the somewhat reductive, "Beep me later." I take it all as a reminder to have standards. Although I'm not the biggest fan, I think Greg Behrendt would consider cheating as a sign that "someone's just not that into you" (or sucky), and I would have to agree. And, if nothing else, he or she should have to sweat it out for at least a little while. So, let's all keep the girl from the gas station in our thoughts. When I run out of peanut M&M's, maybe I'll get to find out what became of it all.

Battle of the Sexes

2007-01-08T07:04:00.000-08:00

Long ago, I recognized that there are many things about men I will never understand. Professional wrestling is only the beginning. There’s also that whole being a jerk so that your significant other will break up with you rather than uttering the words "this isn’t working," fantasy football, refusing to go to the doctor even when a bone is sticking out of the skin, and thinking that Joey would have been better off with James Van Der Beek’s character on "Dawson’s Creek." But, in general, I’m willing to write up most of these idiosyncrasies as being similar to ours (i.e. women). I mean, brunch maybe a somewhat nonsensical meal, but I will continue to love it more than the others, make special plans around it, and wait two hours for an eggs Benedict on Sunday. Most likely, I will probably also love throw pillows (and lots of them) for the rest of my life, insist that women’s magazines do not repeat the same topics over and over again ad nauseam, and believe that Hugh Laurie’s character on "House" is an actual "person" who I need to stick up for at the tiniest inkling of criticism. But, I don’t think I will ever understand the idea of a "fight club." Aren’t football and lacrosse enough? Is it really necessary to boil it all down to simply wailing on one another in a dirty, abandoned space? (Dirt and blood - I just don’t get it. And, on anther note, this was the subject of last night's "Cold Case" to clarify why it's even on the brain.) Even if I really, really wanted to hit someone, I certainly wouldn’t want them to hit me back. (Dear God, that could be painful...or cause scarring. I really like my face, and I really like the absence of hurt.) If I’m upset, I usually watch "Steel Magnolias" until I’m sobbing during the funeral scene, Internet stalk, drink red wine, or shop for shoes. And, while these activities certainly lack "normal" logic for dealing with strong emotion, they rarely involve overt physical confrontation. (Admittedly, I did have a close encounter over some clearance priced BCBGirls boots a few weeks ago, but it was diffused long before the punch-throwing point of no return.) I acknowledge that pain can provide a release, but doesn’t that make fight club just like "cutting," bulimia, and other self-destructive behaviors? And, even if we are willing to say that of course a fight club displays some sort of unhealthy pathology, that still doesn’t explain the cult-like following to the movie of the same name. After all, I have yet to see anyone as anxious to emulate Tracy’s Gold’s character from Lifetime’s "For the Love of Nancy" as people are to try on Brad Pitt’s "Fight Club" role. So, I guess we end up with the fact that I don’t understand men, and possibly on a related note, that I am still single.

Another Day in my Neighborhood

2007-01-05T05:49:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, I had yet another awkward encounter around my apartment/hovel. (Does it ever seem like everywhere I go, I run into problems with my neighbors/living space? I think this has happened in three different states now. Some people might start to wonder about the "real source of the trouble" considering that the only constant in all of these equations is me. Luckily, I've never really considered myself "some people." If I have a gift, it's denial. As I've said on many occasions, reality has never really agreed with me.) Anyway, as I was leaving my apartment the other day, I saw my landlord's ex-husband in the driveway. I don't know much about my landlord's ex, other than that he is indeed her ex-husband and that he still "stops over" on a semi-regular basis. What these "stop overs" entail, I'll leave to the imagination, but my landlord did offer to have him come over and set up my cable for me one time. Since setting up my cable involved attaching one end of a coaxial cable to the wall and the other end to my TV set, I declined the offer. But, the other day was the first time we officially "met." He was in the driveway when I walked out the door, and he proceeded to introduce himself. It went something like this: "Hi, you must be the new tenant. I'm Andrew." "Hi, Andrew," I said. "It's nice to meet you." "Yeah," he said, "I'm the ex-husband." "Uh-huh..." "Yep, I'm the ex..." I nod. "This used to be my house." "Oh, really?" I said. After all, what are you really supposed to say in this kind of situation? "Yep, I bought it eight years ago. I bought it long before I even met Cobey." More nodding from me. Really, where do you go with this? That sucks? Life isn't fair? What did you do - cheat on her or something? "It was my house. My house for years. But, I guess that's what happens when you get divorced." Divorce sucks? Divorce isn't fair? Then, almost like he realized he was being awkward but still didn't understand the full depth of the discomfort he was causing me, he said, "So, do you like living in my house?" That's when I said it looked like rain and ran. My second gift (after denial) is the pathological need to avoid confrontation and unpleasantness at all costs. It's one of the reasons I'd have to vote myself off the island after the first day on "Survivor." (Well, that and the fact that I would be hated by all the other participants for my inability to complete physical challenges of any kind or run more than six feet without complaining and/or panting.)

Hmm...

2007-01-04T18:12:00.000-08:00

Being a huge fan of celebrity gossip, but not so much a fan of celebrity feuds, I've only taken a passing interest in the recent battle between Rosie O'Donnell and Donald Trump. However, I am a huge fan of the "Today" show and happened to catch the Donald and his daughter on the program today. (Side note, at Georgetown I took a course with Ivanka Trump. The class was "Social Inequality." I've never been able to make a joke that was better than the simple irony in those two statements.) What I found fascinating is that Donald claimed all the polls in the media take his side over Rosie's. For one, I didn't know that celebrities actually payed attention to the votes of us common folk on sites like US Weekly and people.com. And secondly, one of the Donald's primary examples was that those who answered the Fox News poll overwhelmingly took his side. Now, I may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but is it really all that impressive that the viewers of Fox News chose a conservative millionaire over an outspoken, liberal lesbian? I think that's like me responding to anyone who thinks that I might have "a problem" by saying that all the guys down at the bar think I'm perfectly normal. (And, "tons of fun" at that.)

Family Outings

2007-01-04T05:22:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, over dinner, my parents and I got into a talk about Albert Einstein. We were discussing his intelligence, math, nuclear weapons, "I.Q." with Tim Robbins, etc., when my mother mentioned that it must have been really hard to be Einstein's mother. At this point in the conversation, I paused and asked what she meant. "Well, I'm just saying it would be so difficult to parent a genius," she said. "Can you imagine what that would be like?" "No," I said. "But, don't you think you have some inkling of what it would be like to have a genius for a child?" Then, there was another, much longer pause. It was awkward.

Hello 2007!

2007-01-03T06:47:00.000-08:00

I apologize for my lack of recent posts. Between the holidays and a massive head cold, I've been sidelined for a little while. And, unfortunately, when I get sick, it usually means that it is nearly impossible for me to have a funny and/or interesting thought. (In fact, I can always tell I'm getting sick because I start to have the most mundane and monotonous dreams in the world. Before I got the flu my senior year of high school, I dreamed about walking to the mailbox to check the mail over and over and over again. It was pretty mind-numbing and apparently the sign of oncoming fever and chills.) My planned activity for the evening is to rest and use my new sweater shaver to get rid of the pills on my winter wear. Worse yet, I'm excited about it and thought about it for the better half of my work day. This sickness is obviously physical and mental. But, in light of the timing, I thought I would share my New Year's resolutions for 2007. Don't expect to find anything about diet or exercise here. I believe in aiming low. It's easier to succeed that way and better for the self-esteem. I prefer attainable goals. 1. I must stop using the phrase "I'm not going to lie." Normally I say this before I make some sort of mildly outrageous/amusing confession like that I really like the show "Yes, Dear" or that I hate saying the word croissant out loud. But, this is not a good joke. I know it's not a good joke. In the back of my head, whenever I start to say, "I'm not going to lie," I find myself thinking, "Dear God, why am I doing that again? Enough already." Seriously, if I'm this tired of my own catch phrase, I know other people must be too. I must ban these words from my speech. ASAP. 2. I will clean out my purses on a regular basis. Now, a lot of people probably think that this doesn't sound very difficult. However, most people probably haven't peered inside my purse to gape at the sea of old receipts, napkins, pixie stick dust, and melted chocolate. I could take up decoupage just to have something to do with all of the receipts I have. (Although, upon further thought, it's probably better to have too many receipts rather than a sea of paper mache woodland creatures crafted from my bar tabs. That path probably only leads to a state run institution and a diet constituted only of soft foods.) To take it slightly further, I might try balancing my checkbook. Might. 3. No more Krispy Kreme chocolate glazed, creme filled donuts. (Especially after 2 a.m.) I don't care how many I can have for free when I buy two dozen at once. It's been highly detrimental to my figure. I guess we'll see how it goes. After all, I am a pretty strong creature of habit. (Hence my twenty-plus year devotion to soap operas despite years of education and intense mockery by my peers.) But, not carrying through on that first one is probably going to cost me some friends, so it will definitely remain the top priority. Happy New Year to all!

Mills on Mills

2006-12-22T07:33:00.000-08:00

Normally, I like shopping. In fact, normally, I love shopping. I can pass hours in the mall. I once killed seven hours inside a single department store (Marshall Fields, how I love thee). In high school, I got a 10% discount on food at the Galleria because I was there so much, they just assumed I was a mall employee. In grad school, I used to study in the food court on Sunday afternoons. I liked the buzz of people around me and the odor of bad Chinese food from Manchu-Wok. I try to slip the word "kiosk" into every day conversation as much as is humanly possible. And, the only math I can do in my hand involves the percentage of clearance markdowns. But, I do not like the mall at Christmas time. In fact, I despise it. I find that merely being in the vicinity of a mall during the holidays replaces my festive Christmas spirit with outright anger and misanthropy. (You might want to reference my previous post on "Black Friday" for examples of manifestations of these feelings.) Truth be told, I used to have a similar reaction to "Six Flags" wherein a day at the amusement park made me question the fate of the human race, as evidenced by the fact that bicycle pants have yet to die off in civilized society, to the point that I had to give up on that enterprise for the sake of still wanting to eventually bring children into this crazy, crazy world. Basically, I don't want to be at the mall with other "mall people." I don't dress up to go to the mall. If I had children, they would not be in matching outfits of red velvet accented by tartan ribbons. I don't own a Christmas sweater or a light-up lapel pin that plays "Jingle Bell Rock." I don't carry around enough shopping bags to make my own Christo-like installation when I get home. I don't horde shirt boxes that say "Dillard's" in red and green. I don't plan my day around staying inside a multi-store structure. And, I certainly don't make sure I can have a light lunch at some sort of grill that involves overly buttered meat and fries, supplement my afternoon cravings with samples of chicken on a toothpick from an overly aggressive middle-aged woman in an apron, and top it all off with a "nice dinner" at Chili's Too. I just don't want to be that person. This is why it was all the more unfortunate that I didn't finish my shopping early enough this year and had to head out to Opry Mills Mall right after work yesterday. Yep, the mall and 5:00 traffic - it wasn't pretty. For about an hour, I bypassed all hand cream and shammy demonstrators so that I could fully "power shop." I mall-walked with determination, ignored all distractions and got what I needed. Then, on the way out to my car, a little girl ran up to me. (She was the first one to phase my steely mall-crowd-proof demeanor. I blame the pigtails.) She couldn't have been any older than five, and she shoved a little bag at me and asked if I "wanted to buy some fresh mistletoe." Now, I know that some of you might be thinking this sounds pretty cute. Little girl, mistletoe, Christmas cheer, blah, blah, blah. I, however, was incredibly disturbed. First of all, she didn't seem to have any discernible parent in sight. A child that young should be chaperoned at the mall - especially around Christmas time. Didn't anyone else have to watch cautionary tales about kidnappings and Adam Walsh as a child? Secondly, if one of her parents was there, why was he or she watching from afar as their child tried to drum up business in the food court? I also think this is creepy. But, really, what I couldn't get over was the idea that it must have been some kind of scam. I could just see myself being taken down in the parking lot by mall cops or worse. When someone with a badge pulls a baggie of green stuff out of your jacket pocket, I really don't think the explanation that you tried to buy Christmas decor off a kindergartener gets you very far. And, while I not seem full of the holiday spirit today, I wish you all a Merry Christmas!

2006-12-19T20:29:00.001-08:00

MyHeritage - photo albums with facial recognition"> I thought this would be a fun self-esteem boost. After all, if you're willing to see who your celebrity look-alikes are, aren't you looking for a quick pick me up? Little did I know, that they would pick a guy! A guy! It seems I resemble the star of "Chronicles of Narnia" (I had to imdb him to know that) more than I do Kristen Bell. (Not that I really thought that I looked like Kristen Bell, but, at least I thought I looked like a girl.) Maybe I overreacted to the fact that a man on "The Price is Right" was named Laurel. Maybe my name (and face) are unisex after all. I pray that it's just the bangs.

Nature or Nurture?

2006-12-19T07:03:00.000-08:00

Some days, I feel like I am becoming my father. (Please don't see this as an opportunity for stray thoughts about excessive body hair or other effects of testosterone. As a single woman during the holidays, it's not fair to kick a girl when she's down. I'm only speaking of behavioral attributes here.) At times, the sensation is subtle, like an inability to change the TV from a Dennis Quaid movie or ordering a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist when I thought I was going to have a cabernet only a few seconds before. And, other times, it's more oppressive - like today, when I found myself behind a particularly slow driver attempting to make a left hand turn from a stop sign onto a four-lane road screaming, "COME ON! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GROW SOME BALLS?!?!" while throwing my arms up in the air. I guess I should check back in with someone about my road rage issues.

A Friendly Suggestion

2006-12-18T07:22:00.000-08:00

On Saturday night, I went to a party with some friends. I ended up sitting next to a girl I didn't know, and we proceeded to engage in the usual kinds of small talk. I told her that I had just moved to Nashville, and she wanted to know how I liked it, etc. Here's a sampling of our conversation: Me: So far, I like Nashville a lot. Plus, I think I needed a change of scenery. New Girl (or NG from here on out): Yeah, I can understand that. Sometimes you really need some space after you graduate college. Me: Actually, I didn't just graduate college. I'm 27, so I've been out of school for awhile. NG: Oh, wow. I mean, wow. I had no idea you were any older than 23. Me: No worries, I get that a lot - mostly from bartenders who seem to think I'm using a fake id. NG: Well, don't you ever let anyone make you feel old...27 isn't really that old...really. Oh, new girl, I don't think that was the best way to minimize our age difference. I can honestly say that I wasn't concerned about being 27 before that moment. For future reference, if you don't want someone to feel old, don't tell them not to feel old in the course of a conversation that does not involve some sort of drunken, birthday-related crying along the lines of "I'm ancient now!" In most situation, if no one else has used the o-word, it's best not to be the one to bring it up. Trust me on this.

Accessories

2006-12-14T06:50:00.000-08:00

I think my biggest pet peeve of the week involves people who keep that little ear piece from their cell phone on their head all the time. It bothers me enough when people conduct phone conversations through the ear piece. Most of the time, I don't realize that they're talking on the phone. I think they're either talking to themselves out loud (which increases my anxiety because I think I've had the misfortune of awaiting public transportation next to a delusional or otherwise mentally-disturbed crazy person who might push me in front of a bus at any moment) or that they're talking to me (and that's when I provide an awkward response thinking we're in a conversation before the stranger stares at me like I'm nuts while whispering to the person that they're actually talking to on the phone how some delusional or otherwise mentally-disturbed crazy person has tried to engage them in the park.) Yet, despite all that, it bothers me even more when people wear the ear piece when they're not talking on the phone - like they're so important they might get an urgent call at any moment that trumps all other people or conversation and is so vital that they can't even be bothered with the time delay mere mortals struggle with when they flip open a phone to take to a call. Seriously, few phone calls are that important. For a point of reference, when's the last time you spotted anyone in scrubs with an ear piece on? And, perhaps most disturbing, is that whenever you see people constantly wearing the ear piece, you're not on the floor of the stock exchange or at some incredibly hip eatery that agents and Hollywood starlets frequent. No, the place you're going to see the ear-piece-wearer is in line at Krispy Kreme or scarfing down boneless buffalo wings at the Ruby Tuesday. Certainly, I'm not necessarily the one to judge delusions of grandeur, but I want to guarantee anyone with lingering doubts that an ear piece does not portray importance or social significance. It certainly doesn't matter to anyone in the T.G.I. Friday's happy hour crowd who probably came to play NTN Trivia at the bar while sipping on an ice cream and liquor concoction known as the "Blue Storm" and arguing the finer points of reality television with "the regulars." (Are these really the people you're trying to impress anyway?) Of course, by "anyone" I'm not at all referring to myself in times of guilty pleasure, extreme sadness, or on Tuesdays at 5:30.

Still Reminiscing

2006-12-13T15:44:00.000-08:00

So, speaking of major holidays and vomiting (because who doesn't want those two subjects tied together in memory?), today I remembered a Christmas when I actually threw up at the table during Christmas dinner. The culprit was congealed salad, and I haven't been able to taste or look at it since. This makes me wonder if that kind of reaction has something to do with age. After all, the occasional similar experience in the years since has never had the same kind of deterrent effects with red wine. I guess that's just one more reason I'd pick alcohol over strange incarnations of fruit given the chance.

More Holiday Memories

2006-12-12T06:44:00.000-08:00

At my (Episcopalian) elementary school, our biggest production was the annual "Lessons and Carols" Christmas songfest. Every year, on the first weekend of December, we would put on a very long program of everyone’s favorite Christmas carols (if your favorites included the Jesus-friendly "O’ Little Town of Bethlehem" and "I Saw Three Ships" as opposed to the more secular "Jingle Bells") intermixed with readings about the birth of Christ. (Even as I’m typing this, I want to write that the show amounted to three hours, but I’m sure that someone will correct me or balk. Just let me assure you that "Lessons and Carols" felt four times longer than it actually was. And, that’s not just my childhood attention span talking - my father would agree.) Each year concluded with rounds of applause and all of our teachers crying as we sang "O’ Holy Night" in the candlelight in French. Despite the fact that "Lessons and Carols" led to massive adoration, praise, and clapping, there were few events I despised as much as it. We always started practicing about two weeks after school started in August (seriously), and we spent a big part of every week trapped in music class with our obviously-frustrated-with-the-direction-of-his-career teacher as he ranted at us and held out the part of playing the triangle like it was the equivalent of be given a puppy or taken to the chocolate store with an unlimited budget. Plus, since the program never changed, it’s not like there was a lot of variety to the days...or years. Also, when we consider the fact that I’m tone deaf, I think you can imagine how much I got yelled at and how many practices ran long because of all the mid-song stops made when "someone was off-key." Unfortunately still, as much as I dreaded every day of the fall because it involved "Lessons and Carols" practice, nothing was as bad as my third grade year. Third grade was the first year that you had to make it through the entire "Lessons and Carols" program in the church. Students in kindergarten through second grade got to enter the chapel for a few songs and then leave to return to their classrooms when they were done. For third graders, those days of ease and mirth were over. About two weeks before the big "Lessons and Carols" of ‘88, the entire school was gathered in the church for yet another grueling rehearsal. I was in the row only a few feet away from the organ, so my music teacher’s stare added to the intense pressure I was already feeling. (Plus, from the pews, if our French teacher didn’t tear up before the afternoon was done, we hadn’t done a good job.) Somewhere in the midst of "Once in Royal David’s City," I could see red lines in front of my face and I felt like I was losing my balance. (I didn’t yet have the stamina that the fifth graders had acquired, and "not locking my knees" was still just words.) A few seconds later, I vomited in front of the entire kindergarten through eighth grade populations. When you haven’t yet turned ten, few things are more embarrassing than throwing up... in public...surrounded by your less-than-mature peers. But, perhaps the worst part was that since I didn’t have a temperature afterwards, the school nurse convinced my parents that I didn’t need to be taken out of school for the rest of the day. Instead of getting to hide in my house watching soap operas and eating jell-o with my nanny, I was given a sweatshirt from the "Lost and Found" box (after all, my original outfit had puke on it) and sent off to join my class in the lunchroom where Jenny Knowles was enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame by recounting the tale of standing next to me during what she termed "the big splat." Yes, it was a good day. But, hey, at least it wasn’t my fourth grade Christmas when I learned that there was no Santa Claus.

Not Normal

2006-12-11T07:04:00.000-08:00

Last week, while I was getting a facial (yes, I am that spoiled), I opened my eyes while the mask was on my face (because it is impossible for me to sit still for ten minutes). And, since the mask covered my eyes and only left small openings for my nostrils and mouth, the only thing I could make out was a small patch of white ceiling and a dimmed fluorescent light. That's when I realized that if I were in an accident and woke up in a full body cast or was like one of the characters on my soap operas who ended up with a completely bandaged face (usually because the character "died" and the original actor is about to be replaced by a new actor who will look nothing like the first actor but will be playing the same part so this must be explained by a "disfiguring accident"), that's all I would be able to see of the world when I woke up. So, like any rational person, I immediately added a new anxiety to my list of fears.

I Miss School

2006-12-08T06:41:00.000-08:00

I think yesterday was one of those days when I could actually feel myself getting dumber. (Actually, the trend might have started Wednesday night when I said "Lance Bass" instead of "Lance Armstrong" while touting my celebrity gossip knowledge/skills. Oh, the irony...) First, I couldn't solve the medium level of sudoku in the morning paper(which normally isn't a problem). On my lunch break, it took me almost twenty minutes to find the fire extinguishers at Target. And, when I went out to the parking lot, it took me another ten to find my car, and later at the car wash, I was literally impressed/near giddy as the different colored soaps covered my windows. Then, when I was back at my desk, I tried to roll my chair away to visit a co-worker's, but I still had my headphones around my neck, so instead I yanked the headphones out of the computer and knocked over all of my notes and a book while the office watched with pity. But, what truly frightened me is that on the way home from work, I found myself doubting how to spell "wrapping paper." I started to wonder if "wrapping paper" was the same as Saran wrap or wrapping a film. It started to seem odd that Christmas wrap would be spelled with a "w." And, much like sometimes saying the same word over and over again can start to make that very word seem odd ("hotdog" does it to me every time, and yes, i do use the word "hotdog" often enough for this to happen), the more I thought about "wrapping paper," the more perplexed I became. Eventually, I reasoned with myself that it certainly wasn't "rapping paper" as "rap" defines a genre of music and probably wouldn't apply to other objects. (Not to mention the fact that you are actively engaged in the act of "wrapping" when you cover a present in paper.) But, I really don't think the thought process should have gotten to such dire depths. Maybe I really do need to start eating breakfast.

Strange Encounters

2006-12-07T18:32:00.000-08:00

I tried to watch "Haunting" on the Sci-Fi channel tonight. (You know, they interview families who have lived in haunted houses, had encounters with poltergeists, etc. I thought it would be like "Unsolved Mysteries," and "The Office" wasn't on.) But, tonight, the family they interviewed would only be on the show on the condition that the producers would "protect their anonymity." They were in the dark, and you couldn't make out anyone's facial features. And, I still don't understand - protect their anonymity from what? The ghosts? Do they think the dead confederate soldier in the basement will retaliate because they "testified against him"? Are they worried about being sued for slander by spirits? If there are ghosts, would they even watch television? It just doesn't make sense, and, truthfully, I'm relatively speechless.

Goodness Gracious

2006-12-06T07:03:00.000-08:00

Interestingly enough, my horoscope yesterday said that I should not change my routine in any way, shape, or form. (Normally, I don't get too into this kind of stuff, but yesterday's was so adamant, I was rather intrigued.) It read that I shouldn't change the way I drive home from work, propose new ideas to my boss, attempt even talking to strangers, etc. Truth be told, even though I was intrigued, it was also kind of nice because "keeping to my usual routine" also means avoiding the gym, indulging in too much celebrity gossip, and eating frosted strawberry pop tarts right before bed. I love life. Anyways, last night, I was sitting on my couch, watching TNT and doing sudoku puzzles on my computer (after all, it was all pre-destined by the stars) when my smoke detector started to go off. I got up, but, having mostly lived in older apartments and homes, I'm entirely accustomed to smoke detectors that go off when a Lean Cuisine gets too warm in the microwave or water boils. So, you can imagine my surprise when I went to grab a broom from the kitchen (to hit the smoke alarm and keep it from beeping in that oh-so-grating fashion) and discovered a small fire on my stove. Being the highly intelligent person that I am, it seems that instead of turning down the heat on my pot of pasta, I turned on the heat for a different burner. And, since the lid to the pot was sitting on that burner, flames ensued. (It appears that the downside of doing all your shopping at the Dollar General is that not all of your purchases are "high quality" or "flame retardant.") Luckily, a lot of my dishes were on the sink (again, fate didn't want me to put anything away or clean), and I grabbed a bowl and doused the fire in water. My kitchen is messier than before (which really shouldn't be possible), but at least the crisis was averted. I have two little lessons to offer from my evening's adventure: 1) Astrology is important. Is cooking part of my normal routine? Certainly not. If I'd driven through Krystal on the way home, none of this would have happened. 2) Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes an event to "break up the mind-numbing monotony of the evening" is a fire, and that's not good. And, as important as these morals are, perhaps the most important info to take from yesterday is that I will be spending today's lunch hour at Home Depot buying a fire extinguisher.

Cautionary Tales From my Youth

2006-12-05T07:06:00.000-08:00

The other day, as I was driving to work, I spotted a hitch hiker on the side of the road. I have to say that it's been a really long time since I've seen a hitch hiker. I kind of thought all those reports about serial killers and stories on "America's Most Wanted" destroyed the enterprise, but I suppose I was wrong. Anyways, my main point is that hitch hikers always remind me of my father. And, right now you're probably thinking, "How in the world could that possibly be?" Well, no, it has nothing to do with the time my father thumbed a ride to the Auburn/Alabama game when his car overheated halfway through the drive, and he didn't want to miss the first ever match-up between the two teams at Jordan-Hare Stadium. You see, back in the day (i.e. the 70s) my father used to pick up hitch hikers. Now, he has told me plenty of times that hitch hiking was much "safer" and "more acceptable" back then, but I still can't imagine anything at all fun or American-open-road-romantic about being in incredibly close quarters with a transient you just met, but bygones. So, my father used to pick up hitch hikers. Of course, that was all until one day when he picked up a particular hitch hiker who pulled out a knife about twenty minutes into the ride. Here's a little something of what the conversation was probably like: Hitch Hiker: So, you like this knife of mine? (He proceeds to sharpen said knife on the sole of his shoe.) My Father: (With obviously raised anxiety) Yeah, that's a nice knife. HH: It's a real nice knife, don't you think? MF: Uh-huh... HH: Yeah, it's a real sharp one too. MF: (Just silence and nervous gulping.) HH: It's a real good knife. MF: (Wide-eyed staring and fear.) HH: So, do you think you might want to buy this knife off me? MF: YES! Yes, I do! Let's do that right now! Obviously, this was the worst and best deal my father ever made. Financially speaking, you really don't have any bargaining power when you're the one not holding the knife, but, survival-wise, it's always better to be the one who's armed in a two-seater Volkswagen beetle. The moral of the story - don't pick up hitch hikers. Otherwise, not much has been going on over the past few days, and I've had to revert to telling my father's stories rather than my own. Hopefully, more to come...

Sexual Politics

2006-12-04T07:08:00.000-08:00

The other day, as I was getting in the elevator, a man called from down the hall asked me to hold the door for him. Of course, I had no problem doing this as it is the polite and courteous thing to do. But, when the man approached the elevator, he wasn't interested in actually getting on. Instead, he handed me his card, introduced himself, and invited me to lunch. Now, while this is flattering in many ways, I really wasn't at all prepared for a date request at 9:00 AM on a Monday. (Meaning, I responded with general awkwardness, avoided eye contact, and stammering.) But, what really bothers me is that when he asked me to hold the elevator for him, I wasn't facing him. The only thing he could see when he decided to approach me was my back, and he hadn't even seen my face. So, I'm pretty sure he decided to approach me based solely on my backside, and I really don't think I'm comfortable with that. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I really do think you should at least examine both halves of a person before asking them out. (As for this "halves policy" of mine, I can see not checking out the back, but not checking out the front? It makes me feel a bit like a piece of meat. After all, it's not like he's ever spoken to me or heard me talk.) Face time is important. It kind of reminds me of when I was living in D.C. Men on the street would occasionally make comments to me and it was usually on the days that I hadn't showered. It's very hard to feel special when you know that if I man will give a compliment to a greasy-haired, dirty person, he probably gives every woman on the street a shot. Plus, now I have to avoid the elevator at high traffic times of the day because I don't want to have a second awkward, stammering, avoided eye contact kind of moment. We all know how little I like overt objectification - and taking the stairs.

High Stress

2006-12-01T06:39:00.000-08:00

In many ways, I am the perfect audience. I am perfectly willing to give up all pretense of plausibility or rationale in the name of being entertained. Aliens want to attack all of the U.S.'s major metropolitan areas? Of course. A serial killer who won't go down despite two rounds in the chest? Terrifying. Chris Klein as someone women are sexually attracted to? I'll give it a shot. (Please, I still think Rupert Everett and I have a chance at lasting happiness.) Like I said - I embrace the fourth wall. I will even get caught up in the most formulaic of plots. (Unfortunately, this led to a very uncomfortable moment for my friends when I started crying in the middle of "The Wedding Planner" and repeating the phrase "these two just aren't going to make it" as a mystified theater crowd watched and shook their heads. I'd like to blame my reaction on a break-up, but I know that it just isn't true.) I want everyone to survive the horror movie. I believe characters who say "I'm sure it's nothing" in reference to their health are right. I am genuinely surprised when my favorite soap characters either reunite or break up during sweeps. Truth be told, if I'm questioning the logic of a movie, there's big trouble. After all, I saw "Kangaroo Jack." (Actually, at least I watched that one trapped on an airplane. My paying to see "Reign of Fire" on its opening weekend is a whole different story...) For this and many other reasons, the makers of "Basic Instinct 2" should be ashamed. While my all-consuming spectatorship means I have a much higher tolerance for television and movie than most, it also means that I get way too involved in what I'm watching. I watched years of "Who's the Boss" actually thinking that Angela and Tony were going to finally get together every single episode. (If you want to blame that on my age, trust that I did the same thing with Ross and Rachel on "Friends.") And, while I thought I at least knew my own limits, I've discovered a whole new level of frustration in "The Office." Why can't Jim and Pam be together? Why? Of course, I know that the tension keeps me tuning in every week, and I know that crowds get bored when couples are happy, but I'm starting to worry that I really can't take it anymore. Jim is just too cute. Pam is just too sweet. She's not engaged anymore. I don't like the girl from the closed office. I need Jim and Pam together, and I need it now. (This might even be worse than my Pacey/Joey obsession. It's that bad.) Seriously, this time it's for my sanity. Let the letter writing campaign begin.

Too Sensitive?

2006-11-30T08:33:00.000-08:00

Some of my friends keep telling me that it's time to "get back out there" (i.e. dating). But, then I have days when I feel like the Mailer-Daemon return service on my e-mail sounds like it's breaking up with me. (After all, it does say, "This is a permanent error. I will not try again.") And, on those day, I think I'm not quite there yet.

A Word Please...

2006-11-29T07:13:00.000-08:00

We all know that I love my celebrity gossip. In fact, one of my favorite gifts this year was a subscription to US Weekly magazine. (Of course, considering my somewhat severe addiction to celebrity gossip websites, I usually know everything in the magazine before it arrives - excepting, obviously, stars and how they're "just like" me, but bygones.) Even if I have all the details on Britney's divorce and Kingston Stefani's hairstyle, I still read it. (I know, I know - between the repetitive play of Lindsay Lohan's shenanigans and soap operas, my brain is well-fed.) And, by most accounts, this Monday was no different from most: I came home from work, I changed into sweat pants, I spent time actually talking out loud to my dog about how my day was, and then I sat down on the couch with my recently-delivered US Weekly. That's when I noticed it. It was right there on the cover, staring up at me. That's when I saw that this particular US Weekly was, in fact, a Collector's Edition. That's right - a collector's edition. A collector's edition of a those-of-us-who-read-it-pretend-it-isn't-but-deep-down-we-all-know-it-really-is-one tabloid. My obvious question is, WHO THE HELL COLLECTS US WEEKLY?!?! Is there someone laminating TomKat's wedding album as we speak? Does it get a special place on the coffee table where it stays - forever? Do you pull it out when people come over for dinner along with slides from that last trip to the Grand Canyon saying, "Now I don't know whether you've seen this before or not...but we've been saving something really special for after dessert"? It's US Weekly people! Everyone has seen it! Anyone can have it! Collector's Edition or not, there's nothing that special about it. I really don't think it will be worth more if they break up, if that's what people are hoping for. I'm pretty sure mainstream copies of celebrity rags don't appreciate in value like baseball cards or discontinued, sexist Barbies. Sure, when my grandmother held a garage sale years ago, her National Enquirers sold out and sold fast, but they went for ten cents a piece. She couldn't exactly retire on rumors. (Hey - do you think that phrase could catch on? Maybe like "living on love"? "Retiring on rumors"? Huh? Ok, I realize it doesn't work and barely makes sense, but I've been dying to slap something on a needlepoint pillow and make my fortune for years. After all, if people like collector's editions of mediocre magazines...) Of course, when I consider that some people amass Precious Moments figurines and clocks shaped like trains from the Time Life corporation, none of this seems that bad, but, as I've said before and will say again, when people are thinking inside "the crazy box," I don't dive in there with them trying to work with their logic. If you're taking "the train to crazy," I'm not hoping on board with you. I'll stay in "reason-ville," and we can have any discussion you want there. Holding on to an US Weekly just because it says "Collector's Edition" on the top is a little bit crazy. I can't help but thinking it's the same mindset that leads to one day far in the future when EMT technicians have to fight their way through a maze of years-old newspapers and empty cans of Le Sueur green peas to find your body. In short, throw it out. Get out of the crazy box. You'll thank me in the long run.

Crank Yankers

2006-11-28T06:30:00.000-08:00

Right after I graduated college, I went to work for a small non-profit firm in Northwest D.C. My title was Assistant Director of Marketing and Development, but since it was a small firm and a non-profit, I usually ended up "wearing many hats" so to speak. And, since the non-profit I worked for operated a CCRC (that's Continuing Care Retirement Community for those of you not in the know), those many hats could be quite interesting. "Assistant Director of Marketing" actually meant that I spent a lot of time talking to the elderly and their family members about whether or not it was time for a retirement community, an assisted living facility, or the nursing home. (Yes, it was a crazy good time every day.) I answered a lot of phone calls (including a 1-800 number that did not have any sort of screening process) and a lot of people who called me tended to get my number confused with someone else's (after all, they were pretty old). Also while I had this job, my roommate would call me every day so that we could plan dinner or discuss who needed to pay the gas bill, etc. (You know - the general joys of domesticity.) And every day when I answered the phone, he would try to prank me in some way. Sometimes he pretended that he needed to find retirement housing for his grandfather, sometimes he wanted to sell me bed pans, and other days just had him screaming "she's fallen and she can't get up" into the phone. And, while this behavior of his is somewhat interesting, what is much more fascinating is that he got me every single time. Despite the fact that the person I lived with called me daily with pretty much the same joke, I never caught on. Every time, I would try my best to answer his questions ("Has your father said anything about being ready to move?" "Sanitation devices aren't really my area," "Should I call 911 for you?") until he would start giggling and tell me for the umpteenth time that he wasn't actually one of my clients. It was more than ridiculous and had him believing I might be the most gullible person on earth. But, you see, the truth is that it was nearly impossible for me to catch on because the "normal" phone calls I got were so weird to begin with. (Remember - old people.) One morning, I got a call asking if I was ready for "the 700 pound man on route to my facility." (I know what you're thinking, but could I really make this stuff up? I'm not that creative.) After many frantic calls to the nursing staff who told me we were in no way prepared for this arrival, and they had no idea what I was talking about, the woman on the phone and I finally worked out that she had the wrong number. And, as bad as that was, no call was as uncomfortable as the one when I picked up the phone to find a very angry, Katherine Hepburn-sounding lady loudly asking "when on earth are you going to get over there to bathe my husband?!?!" I'm pretty sure I stuttered as I answered that that wasn't my job, but she wasn't willing to back down for another five minutes as she continued to ask why I wasn't already at her house sponge-bathing away. (I'm still not sure how those numbers got confused.) As stupid as I seemed for all those times on the phone with my roommate, that was the sacrifice I had to make for not being ridiculously unprofessional at the office. (I sure know that if I had laughed in the face of the woman with a 700 pound patient, I would have been called insensitive and a fatist, and that wouldn't have gone over well with the boss man.) These are the lessons about the working world they don't teach you in school. And, this probably explains some of why I never lasted that long in the customer service field.

My Confession

2006-11-27T06:10:00.000-08:00

I could have been disappointed last night. After all, Sunday is usually my "Cold Case"night, and I don't like it when I can't watch "Cold Case." (I like blending the fictional closure of their cases with the close to my week. It completes me.) So, the fact that "Cold Case" wasn't on last night could have really bugged me. But, fortunately, "Cold Case" wasn't being shown for one of my other greatest guilty pleasures - the Hallmark made-for-television movie. Sure, I usually can't find the raping, stalking, abusing men of my Lifetime choices, but, there's something to the heartwarming cheesiness of their stories that just kills me. If I can't have a murderous secretary out to steal her boss' job and man, I want a disheartened widower who learns to love again or an emotionally scarred old maid who finds peace in caring for an orphaned child. Plus, as a crier, there is rarely anything that offers me as much catharsis as a Hallmark movie. You don't even want to know how much tissue I went through when Rosie O'Donnell played the mentally handicapped woman who just wanted to ride the bus. And, as we all know, a crier tears up over both the commercials and the movie. So, in the spirit of the season, I will now share with you my favorite Hallmark commercial. The shot opens in the Principal's office of a high school. A young brunette girl is sitting in a chair in front of the desk and asks why she's been called into the office. The principal, an older woman who looks like one of those "loving on the inside/tough on the outside" ladies, hands the girl a card. The girl opens up the card, reads it, and says, "You're proud of me?" The principal nods and then tells the girls she needs to get back to class. Now, I'm sure that you're thinking that up until this point, this commercial sounds like the most boring thing in the world. A principal who's proud of a student - how bland. But, as the teenager is leaving, the principal looks up and says, "Now, Laurel, don't forget to close the door behind you." Maybe it was my mood. Maybe it was the lowered defenses created by the movie. Maybe I was having a low self-esteem day, but I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I felt like Hallmark and fate were talking directly to me that night. I was a little overcome, and I cried - a lot. In fact, I kind of creepily hoped that they'd show that same commercial again last night just so I could have another one of my mildly pathetic, warm, fuzzy moments. What can I say? I'm sick, and that gold crown really is something special.

Black Friday

2006-11-24T17:38:00.000-08:00

Now, normally I'm not one to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving. In fact, usually I'm such a wreck about getting ready for the holidays, I've finished my shopping by the end of October and don't even need to get near the mall for the last two months of the year. (Except, of course, for my trips to Forever 21 and The Great American Cookie Company, but that's personal and not really "gift-related.") But, last year, I couldn't sleep and thought that I might as well see what it's like to be in a department store at 7:00 a.m. Unfortunately, being with the rabid bargain-hunting crowd taught me two things: 1. Something about being in the presence of a "doorbuster" completely destroys my rational sensibilities. I was loaded up with seven $12.00 digital cameras (as if a $12.00 digital camera could be any good) before I realized that just because everyone else was grabbing at the boxes under the "special sale" sign didn't mean I had to too. 2. I should not be unleashed on the world in a situation that involves both early mornings and slashed prices. After the doorbuster incident, I found myself at Old Navy in search of discounted performance fleece. I had picked up two jackets that I thought were ten dollars a piece and proceeded to the check-out line. Now, being the day after Thanksgiving, the line at Old Navy lasted for forty-five minutes, but I was willing to wait it out because of the cheap jackets. (I'd also like to add that I don't think waiting in the line was nearly as bad as the "waiting entertainment" dreamed up by overly-peppy retail gurus. I think it's fair to say that I never want to play "purse and pocket raffle." I don't care who has tweezers in their purse. And, having to watch the "sudden death" as to who would win the holiday motif stickers when both middle-aged woman A and middle aged woman B had Q-tips in their purses nearly made me impale myself on a coat hanger.) When I finally got to the register, the salesperson rang up my items and informed me that I owed $27.80. Unfortunately for all involved, this is when I became incensed with rage. After all, I was there at that ridiculous hour for $10 performance fleece and nothing else. So, that's what I told the sales lady. "Well," she said, "you pulled out different jackets. One is $10. The other is $15." Staring at what I considered to be two identical jackets, I was baffled. "But," I countered, "I got both of these off the rack over there that has the huge sign saying '$10" above it." "Ok - but they're different." "How are they different?" "This one has a tab on the zipper, and this one doesn't." Of course, I thought to myself - I see why a zipper tab costs $5. "Fine, then," I said, "I'll take that one and not the other." I then pointed to the one that she just told me was the cheaper jacket." "Your new total is $16.95." "But, you just told me the jacket with the tab was the more expensive one. That's why I told you to put that one back." "This one is the more expensive one. That's why it ran up as costing more." (And she said it as if I was too stupid to understand this basic leap of faith.) "But, you just told me that wasn't the more expensive one." "The scanner doesn't lie." So, by now, I was no longer arguing about $5. At this point, I was angry about misplaced tags, misleading signs, false advertising, UPC scanners, incompetent salespeople, consumerism, corporate America, overly-commercialized holidays, the injustices of the purse raffle game, and the fact that life just isn't fair. The morning ended when I practically threw the fleece back at the check-out woman and informed her that I was having none of this and never wanted to shop at Old Navy again. At least I can admit that I think I overreacted. Despite the fact that I can be somewhat dramatic at times, I usually save my more grandiose antics for boyfriends and my siblings. Really, I rarely pitch fits in stores or at restaurants. And, actually having a hissy fit over performance fleece taught me that I just shouldn't shop with the masses. There is more peace in the world when I stay home on Black Friday and use the Internet for absolutely necessary last minute purchases.

Movie Picks

2006-11-21T07:14:00.000-08:00

Well, since nothing particularly zany has happened to me in the last few days, I suppose I'll be forced to revisit a story from my childhood. So, I figured I'd tell everyone about the movie that scared me the most as a child - "The Neverending Story." That's right, I was most terrified by "The Neverending Story." Nothing about the Wicked Witch of the West in "The Wizard of Oz" got to me. I was cool with the Big Bad Wolf in "Little Red Riding Hood." Not even the title to "Nightmare on Elm Street" bothered me. (I say the title, because, obviously as a four-year-old I didn't see "Nightmare on Elm Street." But, I did know it existed, and I grew up on Elm Street. Kind of freaky, isn't it?) "The Neverending Story" was the big baddie of my nightmares. When I was little, I really liked going to see "The Smurfs and the Magic Flute" at the movie theater in the mall closest to our house. In fact, I liked "The Smurfs and the Magic Flute" so much, I saw it in the theater four times. So, you can imagine the pain my father felt one Saturday afternoon when he asked me what I wanted to do for the day, and I answered, "Watch 'The Smurfs and the Magic Flute!'" On go number five, my father finally put his foot down. He had had enough of the those little blue creatures, so he made me pick another movie, and, since G-rated movies are hard to come by, we had to settle on "The Neverending Story." (Well, truth be told, I stook to my guns. There wasn't really any "settling" involved. I wanted to see my smurfs, and I wanted to see them tout de suite, if you know what I mean. This whole "other movie thing" was really a tyrannical parent choice.) We went down to the theater, and settled in for the show. But, unfortunately, we didn't really make it past the first half hour. As soon as Atreyu lost his horse Atrax to the Swamps of Sadness, I was done. (How could anyone be punished for crying with death? I don't think it's difficult to understand why such dire circumstances for tears would terrify a small girl.) As soon as the horsey was gone, I started to cry. (And, of course, considering what I had just watched, this only elevated the level of upset, leading to - you guessed it - more tears.) I was crying in a way that meant my father had to escort me out of the theater. In the hallway, I calmed down. My unsuspecting father took this to me that we could go back to watching the movie, but he was very wrong. I refused to re-enter the theater. I was having none else of that movie. (As a small aside, my father does not like to waste money, so you can imagine how strong my objections must have been for us to leave right then and there without him seeing the rest of the film.) And, truth be told, I have never seen the end of "The Neverending Story" since walking out of that theater over twenty years ago. (Is there irony in that?) I avoid it in the video store. I switch the channel when it's on TV. It freaked me out once, and I'm not willing to give it another shot. (If only I would remember to apply this same rule to my dating life...) But, more importantly, do you know what the moral to this story is? When I want to watch some German-based cartoons fight evil, it's best to let me have what I want.

Aging

2006-11-20T07:41:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm officially a year older. I was going to attempt a post about the "craziness of this past weekend" that sounded like I was talking about TomKat's wedding when, in fact, I was talking about my own birthday - (do you see what I was going for there? what kind of crazy twist would that have been?) - but, then I realized that I don't have much of anything in common with TomKat, and that creative well ran dry. (Why could I really do? Talk about A-list guests? Exotic sights? An incredible, designer gown? I think we all know my birthday party's classiest moments occurred sometime after I (loudly) shared my theory on olives and their lack of necessity in the world and sometime before I spilled red wine down the front of my shirt.) Then, I thought about writing about my presents. But, since I got "House" on DVD, a book by Amy Sedaris sub-titled "Hospitality Under the Influence," and cash, my gifts were pretty much perfect and, for anyone who knows me, completely expected. I mean, I already get a lot of topic mileage out of Hugh Laurie, alcohol, and running out of money, so I don't want to over-mine, if you will, and find out that the well has gone dry one day. Plus, this is one of the rare weekends I didn't spend eight hours watching Lifetime, so I don't even have cheesy movies to mock and re-hash for the anti-made-for-television crowd. My dog didn't get any new outfits. My landlord has stayed out of sight. And, I haven't run into a single vagrant wanting to predict my future or sell me a dead pigeon. Why am I telling you about everything that wasn't funny enough to write about, you might ask? Because it all leads me to my new worry that turning 27 has killed my storytelling mojo. Normally, weird stuff happens to me all the time - especially on my birthday. At twenty-two, my crazy ex-roommate caused a scene in front of forty people before throwing a beer against the wall and storming out, and I coined the phrase "crazy like a loon and not like a fox." For twenty-three, there was literally dancing on the table. And, last year I threw an 80s prom. Even before I became of legal age, this stuff happened. I spent half of my tenth birthday in a horrendous girl scout camp where an obese camp cook tried to make me eat my weight in spaghetti before a homeless man stole my duffel bag as it was sitting on the front steps of my school when the troop got back and unloaded the van. I usually like to go big. Yet, this past weekend was tame. Some might even say "drama free." I can't help but wonder if I've come to the end of the road for zaniness. Will I stop having the experiences that make for my future anecdotes? Will I have to start writing about food or social issues or what kids will be wearing in the spring to get by? Will I have to embrace gardening or evaluating toaster ovens just to have topics of discussion? I don' think anyone wants to see the day I'm planting crocus bulbs from all the different Home Depots in town to see which one bears the brightest bloom - especially me. All I can say is that if my family gets through all of Thanksgiving dinner without incident, I'm really going to get scared...

My "Real" Job

2006-11-16T08:35:00.000-08:00

For anyone who's interested, the website I work for goes live today, and you can check it out at: http://www.rezoom.com

More on the Thunder-Stealers

2006-11-16T08:15:00.000-08:00

If ever there was proof that a certain "religion" must be a bar bet that got way out of hand, and L. Ron Hubbard is laughing his ass off from somewhere beyond the grave, let's examine the much-publicized-of-late wedding vows: "girls need clothes and food and tender happiness and frills, a pan, a comb, perhaps a cat" While I am willing to get behind clothes, food, tender happiness, and a comb, I'm not sure what the "frills" are unless that's an antiquated way of saying "diamonds and Marc Jacobs" (in which case, hell yes), but if "frills" has anything to do with doilies, very small buttons, or accessories that would impede my drinking, then that's a big NO. As for a pan and a cat - well, those are just silly. Don't get me wrong, but wasn't L. Ron Hubbard born in the twentieth century? Therefore, I assume he learned to talk pretty much the same way the rest of us did. I mean, it's not like these Scientology texts date back centuries. It seems to me that someone (L. Ron, I mean you) was trying to make himself sound smarter than the rest of us, and doesn't realize that he really comes off as being a bit pretentious and sounding more like the friend you grew up with who picked up a fake accent after a week of watching too much BBC America on extended cable but told everyone else that they "couldn't help it" when they were "exposed to new cultures." I think I might rather go through a silent birth than have to watch an over-priced wedding video of me standing near five or six of my satin-clad friends as I promised to "remember his follies."

Buyer Beware

2006-11-15T08:42:00.000-08:00

This evening (yes, this evening, I work late now which is kind of an unsettling phenomenon in my world - especially when it makes me miss my weekly date with Hugh Laurie), I got into an argument with a co-worker as to who has the worse apartment. Apparently, he thought he had me beat because somehow my hardwood floors were such an improvement over his carpeted ones despite my list of complaints that includes an unattractive bricked-in fireplace, textured, brown bathroom walls that actually resemble poop, and a very inconvenient lack of hot water. Luckily, that false sense of victory only lasted until he heard my trump card. As soon as I mentioned the slanting floors - and, by "slanting," I'm talking about a slope that actually prevents me from putting glassware or other valuables on tables or shelves for fear that they will immediately slide off to the floor - he conceded. But, somehow this minor triumph doesn't do a lot for me as I'm sitting in the possibly-in-need-of-condemnation hovel I call home.

Who Knew?

2006-11-14T07:08:00.000-08:00

Now, I'll admit that I've never watched "The Game" on the CW. Not only that, I've never wanted to watch "The Game" on the CW. Nothing about a situational comedy based around the lives of the wives and girlfriends of professional football players starring former child actors from other mediocre comedies like "Sister, Sister" and "Sweet Valley High" does it for me. So, you can imagine my surprise when I caught the end credits of "The Game" today (while somewhat impatiently waiting for "Smallville" and my hour-long ogling of Tom Welling to begin) and realized that the executive producer of that show is one highly-respected, Emmy-winning actor by the name of Kelsey Grammer. What bet in hell did he lose? Seriously, if Mr. Grammer is willing to spend his "highest paid sitcom actor in history" dollars on something like that...I've got some stuff I'd like to float by him. My musical loosely based on the life of Britney Spears isn't my only winning notion - I've got a million of them. Why aren't there more serial comedies based around the prison system or probation officers? Chia heads of your favorite celebrities - specifically Napoleon Dynamite? Necklaces that go from silver to gold with a remote control button? Edible safety pins from the dry cleaners? Chairs with adjustable heights? More movie with alternate endings (that you can choose by vote when you're in the theater)? Yet another remake of "The Poseidon Adventure?" Mr. Grammer, when you've got that kind of cash hanging around, I'll be waiting for your call.

Lunch Hour

2006-11-13T08:02:00.000-08:00

On Friday, a co-worker and I had lunch at a place called "China Hut," and, as I'm sure you've already figured out, it was indeed a Chinese restaurant. Lunch was good. And, of course, I always love being able to eat soup, an eggroll, some cashew chicken, and fried rice for under $5.00. In fact, my only complaint about the whole experience was how it ended. Truth be told, I love fortune cookies. Obviously, it's not for the taste because we all know that fortune cookies kind of taste like crap and have a truly surprising number of calories for what you're actually getting, but I just love knowing that a new little saying or bit of info is waiting for me. It's the same reason I read my horoscope everyday - it gives me a nice little rush of hope and excitement to think about what might lie ahead. It's not that I think my fortune will come true, but I like thinking about whether or not I'll meet someone that day or week or how much fun I might have that weekend. Plus, the really self-involved part of me likes reading that I am "adored by those who know me" or that my "charm wins many friends." I'll take a compliment from anywhere I can get it and, sadly enough, that even includes inanimate bits of dough. However, when I cracked open my fortune cookie on Friday, I found the following words of wisdom inside: You love Chinese food. What is going on fortune cookie writers!?!? I mean, seriously, I don't care how bad your day was or how burned out you were on scouring google for things that Confucius said - this is just pathetic. First of all, it certainly can't fall under the heading of a "fortune." What am I supposed to do with the fact that I love Chinese food? Look forward to knowing I'll eat more Chinese food at some point in my life? Was I supposed to realize that I didn't just like Chinese food, but I really was ready and willing to take our relationship to the next level and bump our infatuation up to the love stage? (Sure, I can make a commitment like that to burritos, but Chinese food? I just don't know.) I sincerely doubt that my fortune cookie writer put that much time and effort into considering the angle of my fortune, but even if he did, it still sucks. But, perhaps, more importantly, it's not even a stretch. We are definitely in the "stating the obvious" territory. Would I be eating a fortune cookie if I weren't in a Chinese restaurant? No. Would I have driven to the Chinese restaurant if I didn't like Chinese food? Probably not. Would I be willing to put the cardboard-like cookie in my mouth if I was indifferent about the taste of the food? I think not. And, I realize that when I address "fortune cookie writers," I'm probably talking about a soon-to-be-revealed illegal child labor ring or some sort of other horrible third world working condition, but I need a little more thought and creativity in my fortunes. And, isn't any job worth doing, worth doing well? Is this really so much to ask? Let's try a little harder kids. I know you can do better.

Sorry

2006-11-10T06:31:00.000-08:00

Well, I wanted to write something really fun today, but I think that my brain is just too tired to think. Life is kind of exhausting when you don't spend most of your time indulging a love of daytime television. Who knew? Also, as we all know, I am not a morning person, and now that I have to keep my showers to under 3 minutes (because otherwise the hot water runs out in my new apartment and I'm in an ice bath), I'm really not a morning person. I worry that my new office mates will be afraid of me because of the stern, obviously displeased look on my face and odd hair style (due to my inability to wash all of the conditioner out my hair before my body goes into convulsions from the cold), and while the facial expression tends to fade after my first Diet Coke, the cowlick is in it for the long haul.

Co-Habitation

2006-11-09T16:46:00.000-08:00

Right now, I live next to Kobe, Maggie, and Ethel. Maggie and Ethel are the dogs, and Kobe is the (completely caucasian, female) landlord. As one of my co-workers pointed out, who would have thought that's the way those names would shake out?

The Joy of the HMO

2006-11-08T05:39:00.000-08:00

Watching "House" tonight, I was reminded of - obviously, my undying love for Hugh Laurie - and my MRI. Yes, back when I was a senior in college, I had a very unfortunate run-in with a particularly rude set of stairs late one Saturday night and ended up in the emergency room that next Sunday morning with a bum arm. (I will let you infer what you want from that timeline.) But, they didn't really think that there was anything wrong with me in the emergency room, so they sent me home with a prescription for very intense Motrin and a splint. Three weeks and two doctors later, when my arm still hurt, I was in Sibley Hospital for an MRI. I don't know whether or not anyone reading this has ever had an MRI, but it's a very strange experience. Personally, as someone who doesn't really like anything to be out of the ordinary, knowing that you have to go into a room where the magnets are so powerful they'll rip jewelry off your body is, shall we say, unnerving. And, of course, there's still all that normal, awful hospital stuff like wearing nothing but a paper sheath and having to ask permission to use the restroom. At least I was lucky enough to have an open MRI, but I still wasn't pleased with the experience. It isn't exactly easy for me to stay perfectly still - even when the only part of me that has to remain motionless is my lower left arm. Plus, my doctor assured me that my MRI would only last for thirty minutes - at the most. But, of course, as doctors and other medical technicians can be prone to do, he fibbed. How do I know he didn't tell the truth, you might ask. After all, there aren't any clocks in the MRI room, and you certainly can't wear your watch during the test. The trick is to listen to the radio. I guess they're trying to entertain you with soft/classic rock (and, normally soft rock will entertain me), but when you're trapped in a large beeping machine, you're willing to count the number of songs playing just to pass the time. And, once you multiply that by 3 (figuring that songs are about 3 minutes apiece), you start to figure out just how long you've been trapped there. Once I had counted 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I decided to ask the technician how much longer I would be in there. The technician isn't in the room because of all the dangerous electric waves running around and such, but he can speak to you through the intercom system. (Actually, that's how I came to call him "voice in the sky." After my 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I did say, "Voice in the sky - how much longer?" But, I don't recommend such phrasing - I don't think he liked that.) And, of course, I don't mean to imply that you will actually be able to understand the answers that come through the intercom when you've finished posing your question. That would be too much to ask. I felt like I was talking to one of the grown-ups on "Peanuts." So, once I got no answers and suffered through 4 more songs, I decided it was time to start singing along to the soft/classic rock, primarily out of boredom and discomfort. Lucky for me and my technician, the song I picked up on was "Shook Me All Night Long." I can't say for sure if it was the end of the test or my tone deaf rendition of AC/DC that made the technician wrap up (my strange way of addressing him might have been a factor too), but at least I got out of that room shortly after I started singing. Unfortunately though, if it was the singing that ticked him off, he certainly had the last laugh - a week later, the MRI showed that I had a broken hand and I spent six weeks in a cast.

The Last One

2006-11-07T06:21:00.000-08:00

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."

The Long Awaited Tale

2006-11-06T17:53:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, they opened an amusement park in Birmingham. It was part of Birmingham's continuing "we're just as good as, if not better than, Atlanta" program and, in another strong pr move, the park was called "Visionland" because it represented the dream of a bigger and better Birmingham. It almost brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it? Yes, Visionland was filled with wonders that it can be hard to find in your traditional amusement park. Sure, there was a log ride and a roller coaster, but there was only one of each of them. The other twelve or so rides in the park were kind of "filler." It was much more the kind of stuff you'd find at the state fair. I think you know what I'm talking about - the "haunted house" that involves a cart on a squeaky track and is only really scary because you never know if you'll get to see your parents again once the cart goes behind the beaded veil where you might or might not be abducted by a transient and forced to do awful, illegal child labor jobs on the really tall parts of the Ferris wheel while an obese chain smoker holds a diet of stale peanuts over your head or the "centrifuge" that kind of makes you want to vomit and most definitely keeps your mouth plastered to the side of your face long enough for uncontrollable drool to crystallize along your jaw line. I won't even bore you with the details of "Prospect Street" and "The Hopeful Kids Gang." Also, in another turn that I've never fully understood, Visionland was mostly staffed by visiting students from Iceland and other very cold, very dark European nations. It's rather strange to wander through a park and notice that the name tags on the staff either say, "Hi, I'm Emily from Gardendale" or "Hi, I'm Lars from Reykjavik." I can only imagine that something went very wrong in state/international politics and there's large debt and/or lax visa standards at stake. Anyway, when the amusement park opened, my friend got us advance tickets so we could go to the park the night before it opened, and, of course, we invited boys along. Now, as a Southern teenage girl, I always had high hopes for "the amusement park date." It probably had to do with the fact that I grew up on too much Lifetime and "General Hospital," but I couldn't help being a little giddy about the possibility of hand holding, snuggling up next to one another on the roller coaster, him winning me a stuffed animal while I ate cotton candy in an oh-so-delicate-and-playful way... Well, about the only part of that fantasy that happened was the hand holding (but, later, after we had left Visionland and there were fewer people to see us/cause him infinite embarrassment), but, as we were leaving the park, I kind of fell onto Richard Townsend. (As we all know, I'm just a klutz. I tripped on the sidewalk, and Robert Townsend helped me catch myself. At the time, it probably would have been best to ask why my boyfriend didn't bother to help me out, and maybe I could have salvaged the next three years of my dating life, but, bygones...) I said hi. (After all, I had seen "Meteor Man" and was a regular viewer of "The Parent 'Hood.") He said hi back. After he walked away, I looked at my friends and said, "Wow, that was Robert Townsend." That is also the moment when all of my friends just stared at me before Leah finally said, "Yeah...We don't know who that is," and we all went on with our lives. My brushes with fame really are quite amazing, aren't they?

2006-10-31T13:54:00.000-08:00

In case no one noticed, Bob Barker announced his retirement from "The Price is Right" today. I think meeting a man named Laurel might have had something to do with it. I suppose after that, he really had seen it all.

What?!?!

2006-10-31T11:26:00.000-08:00

Now, I was going to keep quiet today. I really was. But then something truly mind-boggling occurred, and I had to share it with the world. (And, by the "world," I obviously mean my three friends and an occasional lost internet tourist who was hoping for the other writing Laurel Mills who is a published poet and professor. Yeah - I don' t know what the big deal about her is either.) Anyway, I was watching "The Price is Right" (because that's what I put on the TV when it's 10:00 in the morning and I'm working from home and possibly also because I really am 65 years old on the inside) when, to my excitement, they called a "Laurel" out from the audience to contestant's row. And, of course, because of all the connotations I have with my name (please reference previous post "A Rose is a Rose" for further explanation), I was scanning the crowd for a lovely, rosy-cheeked lady. And, even allowing for the possibility of a scowling, filled-with-rage lady, I was still, above all else, expecting a lady. So, imagine my surprise when a fifty-year-old Asian man bounded out of his seat. Yep, the "Laurel" in question was a middle-aged man. And, before you ask, yes, he spelled his name exactly the same way I do. Hearing Bob Barker say my name over and over again to a dude was just too upsetting. I think I'm having identity issues. And, on a completely unrelated note, I always thought the word "diabetes" was pronounced die-a-bee-tees. Why, then, does Wilford Brimley continually say die-a-bet-ease? Have I been wrong all these years? I don't know whether or not I can stand pronunciation and identity issues all in the same day. It's a bit much.

2006-10-31T07:04:00.000-08:00

Now, I know that I promised a story about Robert Townsend today, but, truth be told, I have movers coming, and I'm not quite ready for them. Check in tomorrow, and I'll be back to my old tricks again.

Seeing Stars

2006-10-30T05:21:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I had a brief brush with fame. When I was 17, like most everyone else, I had to go on the requisite "college trips." I'm sure we all remember the pain that that was - praying that your parents wouldn't ask stupid questions on the tour (you know, all of those ridiculous notions like, "is there a lot of drinking on the weekends?," "is it safe here?," "where are the bathrooms?"), feeling so embarrassed because all of the "adult" college kids are staring at you with your parents (because the only thing college kids care about is what the high schoolers touring their campus are doing), and then yelling at your mom not to stand too close to you in the bookstore while you pick up the requisite super cool college tee that you will casually wear to soccer practice on Tuesday like you might have just spent the weekend in a freshman's dorm room sneaking beers and staring at the magnificence of fuzzy posters under a black light, even though you really stayed in a hotel and shushed your mother whenever she asked questions during "Buffy: The Vampire Slayer." Well, in the fall of my senior year, my dad and I headed up to Providence, Rhode Island for the Brown, Tufts, and Dartmouth tour. And, because my dad tends to be not only thrifty on fares, but also prefers not to miss too much work, I think we had to be at the Birmingham airport around 5:30 in the morning. Even in high school, when I actually had to be somewhere by 8:00 a.m., I was not a morning person. So, needless to say, 5:30 a.m. was tough - especially when I knew I was going to spend the whole day ducking my head in shame and hiding behind my bangs every time my father looked in the direction of a college kid. Then, as my father and I approached the counter, I noticed something very strange in the waiting area for our flight... ...And that strange apparition was Little Richard. Now, if you think that man's head looks big on television, you have no idea how surreal it seems in person and at 5:30 a.m. pre-caffeine. I also have to say that of all the famous and semi-famous people I thought I might meet one day, Little Richard was not on the list, nor had he ever crossed my mind beyond that moment when he showed up at Bo and Nora's wedding on "One Life to Live" and got Nora to overcome her cold feet and boogie down the aisle towards her man. Little Richard is actually from Alabama in case you're wondering about his presence in the Birmingham International Airport. (By the way, don't dwell to long on the "international" in that title. It's mainly for show.) Anyway, the story ends like this: I waved and smiled at him. He smiled back and said hello. Then a member of his entourage (yes, he still warrants an entourage, and a seemingly large one at that) gave me a book about God and a postcard-sized, autographed photo of Little Richard. We all got on the plane, and I promptly fell asleep. Yes, that's my encounter with celebrity in all its glory. Tomorrow, I might tell you the story of me and Robert Townsend, but most people probably need a day to google that name and realize that he is, indeed, someone who has been in movies and on TV.

Week in Review

2006-10-27T03:16:00.000-07:00

This has been a trying week. First of all, Tom Cruise not only wants to steal my psychotropic drugs, but my thunder as well. It is hard enough to share my birthday with the largest football rivalry in the state. Do you know how many people leave town to watch the game so that many years my celebration turns into 3 people sitting around a table in a nearly empty bar? Sure, someone usually thinks to bring a party hat, but that hardly makes up for the disparity in the crowd. And, now, TomKat has decided to get married on my birthday. Not only are our guest lists totally going to overlap, but for the rest of my life, I'll have to know that, not only am I aging, but also, somewhere in a Scientology compound far, far away, there's a strange anniversary celebration going on that probably involves the following exchange: "I love you for allowing yourself to be brainwashed into a fake religion and actually thinking I'm not gay." "I love you, too. Now, where's that tea I'm always drinking that makes me happy on the inside and insures how much I love watching kids play soccer?" And, then, someone I care for deeply was viciously attacked. Why did you have to pick on Michael, Rush? Why? Other than what I am sure are your flagging ratings, why? I have to let you know that Michael J. Fox was my first love. I adored him as Alex P. Keaton on "Family Ties." I once saw Courtney Cox in the County Seat jeans store at our local mall, and I totally freaked out because she got to be Alex P. Keaton's girlfriend. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen "Back to the Future." And, as a child, I even wanted to be able to hear dog whistles so that I would have something in common with "Teen Wolf." (Odd wish - I know.) When I played Barbies, my dolls were not interested in Ken, but rather someone named Michael. I was serious about our love. And, I cried when Michael J. Fox went public with his diagnosis of Parkinson's disease. I admire his strength and determination in a situation where a lot of people would succumb to self pity. So, Rush, you've made me mad before, but you've really gone too far this time. Your next beef with Michael, you come looking for me. Mama don't like it when you go after her babies.

A Day in the Life

2006-10-26T05:51:00.000-07:00

Since we all know that no one starts out on the top (and that beggars can't exactly be choosers), I recently wrote a piece for "Midwestern* Lady" magazine. And, not only was I writing for a magazine with "Lady" in the title, but I was assigned a piece about cheese straws. (For those of you who aren't Southern, a cheese straw is like a spicy cheese cracker, but its shape is more tubular.) For some of you who are already thinking this, when I told a co-worker that I was going to freelance for "Midwestern Lady," she kind of cocked her head to the side and asked, "Have they met you?" When I answered no, she said that I "should probably keep it that way." Anyway, I got a contract and some info in the mail from "Midwestern Lady" prior to beginning the article. "Midwestern Lady" informed me that they did not have any of the contact info to interview the owners of the cheese straw company, but I could probably call the magazine "Midwestern Woman" which had recently featured an article on them, and ask for those details. The 500 word article from "Midwestern Woman" was photocopied and included in the mailing to help me with my 500 word article for "Midwestern Lady." So, not only was I writing for "Midwestern Lady" magazine, but "Midwestern Lady" was the poor man's version of "Midwestern Woman" and proved it by ripping off story ideas from them. That was a low moment - a moment in which I was so glad that I spent so much time in school earning bachelor's and master's degrees. But, rather than calling "Midwestern Woman" magazine, oh-so-resourceful-me used a crazy thing called the world wide web, and found a phone number for the cheese straw makers. What follows is a pretty accurate excerpt from the most awkward interview ever: Me: So, what is your favorite part about running the company? Cheese Straw Lady (CSL from here on out): Well, I guess that's doing something different every day. You know, I'm not always in the office. Sometimes I'm on sales calls. Sometimes I'm at food shows. Me: I guess you could say you like being your own boss? (Polite chuckle on my part to build a friendly rapport) CSL: Well, I don't really know about that. I've never actually had a boss because I started this business right after I graduated college, so I can't really say I know what it's like to have a boss versus being the boss...I don't think I can comment on that. My internal monologue: Thank you for your humorless response to what was supposed to be more a rhetorical question/summation of your answer. Me (Aloud this time and trying to move on quickly): And, what's the hardest part about running your own business? (I ask this in the hopes that there will be something to inspire all of the other women out there thinking about starting their own companies or taking a new idea and running with it.) CSL: Oh, that's definitely the Health Department. They have so many rules when you're starting a food business. I can't tell you how many times they came out to the bakery before we got off the ground. There were just so many regulations... My internal monologue again: And, if those aren't the insightful words of a savvy businesswoman, I don't know what are. Even though I didn't get a whole lot from my interview that I couldn't have learned from the company's website, I turned my article in. A few weeks after my deadline, I got a call from the editors of "Midwestern Lady" telling me that my piece might need a few more edits because it was a little bit "edgy" for their publication. I, for one, had no idea it was possible to be "edgy" when writing about cheese straws, but I guess I was wrong. I turns out that I had to remove the term "Bloody Mary" from the article because alcohol mentions are "frowned upon." Even though the editors agreed that it was "certainly true" that cheese straws were usually served with the old Bloody, they didn't want to "push the boundaries." But, I think what really got them is the last paragraph I used to try and spice things up a bit. Here's the original draft: "Of course, any true cheese straw fan has one burning question for the ladies of the bakery, "I could tell you, but I would have to kill you," Kelley jokes, referring to how they make those familiar squiggles on the cheese straws. "We would really hate for that secret to get out," she says." "Yeah," the editor said, "I know that it's a joke and all...and it's a great joke (don't worry - I know this is not true)...but I just don't think we should mention murder here. It might scare some people." Ah, yes, because I was obviously implying that the women of a small commercial bakery were willing to hunt you down like dogs in the street should anyone figure out the "big secret" of how to put a squiggle pattern on a cheese straw. I naively turned the tone of the piece from readers imagining a sweet, rotund woman baking at home to a hardened Mafia wife who chain smokes and spits on the street while glaring at small children. For shame. I guess I really should have known better. [* Names and other identifying characteristics have been changed to protect professional relationships. After all, when it's dignity or rent money - I have to go with rent money.]

Road Trip

2006-10-24T06:04:00.000-07:00

I'm sure there are people who have lovely things to say about the Red Roof Inn...Unfortunately, I'm not one of them. Last night I had the pleasure/karmic punishment from one of my past sins like coveting Nicole Kidman's wardrobe or having impure thoughts about David Boreanaz of staying in the Red Roof Inn before my morning meeting in Nashville. Now, maybe I would have had a better experience if I hadn't chosen the Red Roof Inn right next to the highway. (I also think we all know how difficult it is to book a hotel room online, especially with a limited budget and lack of familiarity with the city. I liked that internet special and proximity to the office. I knew my own laziness would come back to haunt me one day, but how could my love of bargains get me in so much trouble? It's not like I was trying to buy a Gucci off the back of a truck or anything.) And, while some people might enjoy the lull of semis moving down the interstate well into the early hours of the morning, I found it a tad nerve-racking. Then there was no Lifetime or Bravo in the cable offerings. Is a girl supposed to make it through without a "Project Runway" marathon or reruns of the "Golden Girls"? The in-motel channel kept telling me to push the "menu" button on the remote for happiness (no joke), but I'm pretty sure that for most Red Roof patrons, happiness = porn, and I wasn't up for that. When I want my Estelle Getty, nothing else will do. (Now, I'd like to go on with my story, but this is the point where my father needs to stop reading so that he won't have a heart attack. I got my sense of worry/vigilance honestly. Daddy - remember that I'm home safe now and do have a slight tendency to exaggerate. Also - seriously - stop reading.) A little bit later, there was a phone call to my room at 1:00 in the morning by someone looking for Mohammad in what I can only assume is miscommunication over a drug deal, and I think I saw a man talking to a couple of "working girls" in the parking lot. (Either that, or they were just underage and looking for a crystal meth hook up. Who can tell these days?) I'm just thankful for deadbolts.

Weekend Woes

2006-10-23T05:27:00.000-07:00

Question: How do you know when you've watched too much Lifetime? (And, yes, even for me this can happen.) Answer: When Sarah Chalke actually shows up in your dreams (because you've seen that commercial for "Why I Wore Lipstick to my Mastectomy" too many times), and, as if that isn't bad enough, in your dream she's killing old people for their homes and social security checks. (I know, I know - I didn't think lovely Elliot from "Scrubs" and the former second Becky from "Roseanne" was capable of such maliciousness either, but after watching "Single White Female 2: The Psycho," I realize that danger lurks everywhere.) (As another side note, "Single White Female 2" is not nearly as enjoyable once you get a sense of deja vu/carefully repressed memories moving dangerously towards the surface during some of the scenes. I once had a roommate go out and get my haircut. In a word? Awkward.) Also, in another bit of oddness/it's amazing what you'll find interesting when your entire day consists of watching Lifetime, one of the movies focused on 2 characters named Laurel and Susan. Now, Susan is the only person I know who can watch as much Lifetime as me, and, strangely enough, in proof of what is the true kismet and symbiotic nature of our friendship, the last time I realized that I had watched too much Lifetime, I was with Susan, and we both reached our "television for women" saturation point at the same moment. You see, Susan and I have spent many of our hangover days lying about the house with Lifetime on - usually I'm digging Doritos crumbs out of my bed from Susan's 4 a.m. snack and she's reminding me that no boy should ever see my yarn collection before the 7th date because otherwise, between that and the dog sweaters, he'll probably run away screaming. Sometimes we head out for a strange combination of Sonic tater tots, Captain Dee's hush puppies, and Taco Bell soft tacos, and sometimes we don't. Anyways, on one of said days, we were in the midst of "Bella Mafia" (a truly horrible film starring Jennifer Tilly, Vanessa Redgrave, Nastassja Kinski, and James Marsden as a very odd sociopath/incest-lover) when we both lost our will to live. I don't know if it was James' desperate attempts to make out with his mother, grandmother, and cousin, the presence of a wheezing pre-teen albino who was never fully explained by the script, or, oh yeah, the fact that it was 4 FREAKIN' HOURS LONG, but we still refer to that as "Black Tuesday." It was months before we could even flip past the channel without cringing. Luckily, we powered through for our annual celebration of Meredith Baxter-Birney, but it wasn't easy. (Since asides are my thing today, I feel the need to add that, although "Bella Mafia" is atrocious and is best avoided at all costs, the Lifetime movie neither Susan nor I can condone in any way, shape, or form, is "Danielle Steel's The Ring" wherein Nastassja Kinski plays the widow of a Nazi who lies about being Jewish to get a guy's attention in post-war America. Now, that's just wrong.)

A Trip to Party City

2006-10-13T14:20:00.000-07:00

Should I be concerned that every Halloween costume I'm drawn to somehow involves "wench" in the title? (I thought it was a St. Pauly girl; they call it a beer wench. I wanted to obnoxiously say "Arrr" all evening; it's labeled a pirate wench.) And, then I find it difficult to justify spending more money when I already have an equally slutty costume from last year since all "hot" Halloween costumes for women involve some sort of corset-like top and short skirt. (I mean, I do have to be hot on Halloween. There's still a college freshman in me who really does need that much attention. Of course, I have "Miss Dorothy" because that's so much naughtier than regular old gingham-clad Dorothy and her adventures in Oz.) Two years ago I dressed as a washed up country singer (bad red wig and all) and told everyone that my one big hat was 1982's "Why did you have to destroy my credit while destroying my virtue?" It was fun, but I figured that I probably only have a few years left of being able to get away with the slutty get-ups, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Also, I've included the pumpkin picture to fit the theme and also prove that I really just am that good at carving pumpkins.

2006-10-12T05:51:00.000-07:00

Two things are weighing on me today: 1. When did the word "sequel" stop meaning a continuation of the story (as in the incredible "Die Hard" trilogy, "Father of the Bride 2," and, from what I hear although I've never actually seen any of them, the "Star Wars" films), and start referring to a re-telling of the same story with a smaller budget and less credible dialogue (as in "Bring it On Again," "Cruel Intentions 2," and "I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer")? 2. When I'm going to boil water, I always run the water hot before adding it to the pot, and when I'm going to make ice cubes, I always run the water cold before filling the tray. Although these actions seem intuitive and logical, I doubt they make any significant difference to either boiling or freezing water. Is it possible that the temperature of water pre-boiling or pre-freezing makes either process go any faster whatsoever? I know these questions sound rhetorical (like when I ask why LeeLee Sobieski is still allowed to make films or if Lindsay Lohan actually thinks that people buy this "exhaustion" excuse for a bad hangover), but they're not. Any answers/thoughts would be greatly appreciated.

Hidden Dangers

2006-10-11T05:40:00.000-07:00

Last week, I had to send out a rather dire S.O.S. out to my sister because I had eaten too much candy corn. (My tummy hurt. There was moaning. It seemed like a good time to call my sister and complain. After all, she spends her life gutting houses in post-Katrina New Orleans or living in a house without electricity while she helps out with organic farming in Rhode Island, and I devote myself to the CSI franchise and the consumption of chips and salsa.) Her natural response was, "How much candy corn is too much candy corn?" And, that got me thinking. Before "the incident," I never even considered that there could be too much candy corn. (In a bad way that is. Before last Thursday, anyone claiming to have "too much candy corn," would have been my new best friend. "Too much candy corn? That sounds like too much fairy dust or too many children's dreams.") Thinking back, I'm pretty sure that the actual candy corn kernels didn't do me in. (You know what I'm talking about - the triangular, tri-colored pieces. While it might not have been the best idea to mix the white, orange, and yellow ones with the white, orange, and brown ones - based on past experience, I think my stomach can tolerate that.) What I think was the coup de grace, if you will, was the candy corns that are miniature little pumpkins. And, while I love the candy corn pumpkins most of all, I have concluded that it probably isn't the best idea to consume piece after piece of what are basically lumps of corn syrup and sugar-like chemicals. Even thinking about "the truth of candy corn" kind of makes me feel a little bit sick all over again. In short, beware of seasonal treats. There really can be too much of a good thing.

Work is Good

2006-10-10T06:48:00.000-07:00

Well, what I learned yesterday is that even though I thought I had reached a truly frightening point in my daytime existence (please reference previous post about involvement in soap plot lines and affection for syndicated game shows), I wasn't anywhere close to rock bottom. Sometime yesterday afternoon (probably in the lull between "One Life to Live" and "General Hospital"), I went outside. Now, I'm not sure where to begin painting this scene, so bear with me as the details unfold... I went outside because I wanted to put some pumpkins I had recently carved on the stoop for everyone to enjoy so we could all embrace the holiday spirit. (I don't know when I became fifty on the inside, but it happened. Also, as a little tidbit, I am freakishly good at carving pumpkins, so I tend to spend way too much time doing it in the month of October. I don't do faces. I tend to have huge spiders in their webs, skeletons, bats leaving a haunted house, etc. And, to defend myself, I can't play sports and I'm tone deaf so I don't run, throw/catch balls, or sing. Some people get to shine on the soccer field or inside a karaoke bar. I have pumpkins. Just let me be.) I was also wearing a green velour track suit because I haven't done my laundry in awhile, so there's the uni-color faux sport-style dressing to consider. And, I had Cassidy with me, and she goes off her leash in the yard in front of my apartment building, so she was running around me in circles (dressed in her own Halloween-themed hooded sweatshirt from Target) while I decided the best way to arrange my pumpkins. And, of course, this would also be the moment when my downstairs neighbors returned from their lunch, and I had to let them know that their dog had somehow gotten out of their apartment over the weekend. (After we all looked at my handiwork, naturally.) Could I have looked and/or sounded more like the neighborhood busybody with nothing better to do with her days? As I discussed with a friend of mine, I'm actually kind of hoping they think I'm an unwed mother so at least all of my idle day time and disconnect from reality could be blamed on a baby. If I start talking about starting a Neighborhood Watch anytime soon, I want someone to intervene. I promise that it will be for my own good.

Monday

2006-10-09T11:06:00.000-07:00

I think we should all be glad that I'm returning to full-time, all day work soon. On Wednesday, not only was I looking forward to watching all of "General Hospital," but I also squealed with joy during one of the big reveals. Yep, I squealed. Now, I have always had a problem with excessive clapping. (You know, I clap when they sing "Happy Birthday" in a restaurant whether I'm at the table with the celebrants or not, and last year I had a particularly embarrassing moment when I clapped during the televised Emmys after Megan Mullally and Donald Trump sang the theme song to "Green Acres." Does anyone clap while watching an awards show on television? Apparently, I do. And, of all things, was the Trump/Mullally musical number worth a round of applause even if I had been in the audience? I think not.) But, I have never had an issue with girly, out-loud squealing (post the age of 12 when it was time for someone to call a boy on the phone during a sleepover) until now. I really don't think I should be this invested in who the father of Elizabeth Spencer's baby is. And, right now, it has been ten minutes since "Family Feud" ended, and I'm still bothered that Rick lost $20,000 for his family by responding to the "name a playful animal" prompt with "beaver." Beaver? Seriously? I may be a clapping, soap-opera-loving freak, but I still wouldn't say "beaver" on national television unless it was absolutely necessary. And, I certainly wouldn't say it when I was 13 points away from the big money. (Really, it's going to be good when I go back to work and these aren't the primary issues that plague my day.)

You Know it's October

2006-10-05T05:55:00.000-07:00

This has to be the scariest Halloween costume I've ever seen. And by "scary," I don't so much mean "wow, that Satan figure is so seductive and real I can see how someone might sell their soul in exchange for long life, incredible financial success, or, say, a non-surgical tummy tuck." Between those eyebrows, the mustache, and the mock turtleneck, I find this terrifying in a "worst blind date ever, I must destroy the person or computer program that deemed this an acceptable notion" or the "I feel like he's staring right at me from the sex offender notification flyer" kind of way. I think that even Lucifer himself would be unhappy with this depiction. Although, now that I've finally moved past the 'stache (sort of), I notice that this particular devil might be missing a hand. I'm concerned that (a) I was so distracted by a polyester mock turtleneck, I didn't notice this earlier and (b) I have now mercilessly mocked someone missing a body part, which some might construe as "insensitive." But, who am I kidding? I cant' really get past that mustache, and I'm sure it's going to haunt my dreams.

Too Much Television

2006-10-03T06:15:00.000-07:00

It has been suggested before that maybe I shouldn't watch any of the "Law & Order" franchise. After all, I can be a bit "alert" when it comes to issues of personal safety and crime. I won't walk my dog on a certain route after dark because there's a dumpster there, and I don't want to make it easy for someone to attack me and quickly get rid of my body. (Why should psychos have it easy?) I also won't get gas or use an ATM after dark, and the idea of keeping a taser gun in my glove compartment has certainly passed through my mind. I check the back side of my car before climbing in, I live on the second floor of my building because of the window/break-in issues with a first floor, and when I worked at the bank, I made it clear to anyone who would listen that should they ever choose my line to hold up, I would hand over any and everything I could, probably without ever touching a panic button, because my life meant much, much more to me than their money. In short, I have enough to worry about without introducing crime dramas into the picture. However, usually I can't get enough of my "Law & Order." I really want Jesse L. Martin to be my platonic male best friend. (I think he would smile at me and agree to sing old love songs whenever I went through a particularly painful break-up.) Sam Waterston looks like my dad. Mariska L. Hargitay, even though we got off to a rough start when you were Anthony Edwards' girlfriend on "ER," I've come to love you, too. And, I've developed some odd crushes on Christopher Meloni and Vincent D'Onofrio lately. (I suppose, if you're as concerned about violence as I am, what could be better than falling for a sympathetic, yet brilliant police officer? I'm working on my issues.) Unfortunately though, I might have finally overdone the "Law & Order" last night. It was the "SVU" marathon - of course - and there was a story about a rapist who stalked speed dating groups. And, also of course, I only recently went through speed dating for the first time myself. (Speed dating is another story for another day, but I will say that it confirmed what I have always known, and that is that dating is entirely awful. Rather than strengthening my resolve "to get back out there," having sixteen bad dates in one evening literally made me sad that I had foregone an evening with my dog, "Cold Case," and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food for the experience.) Anyway, after watching a story about a rapist who met his victims at speed dating, I didn't sleep so well. I think my well-meaning friends might have been right all along. But, what I also found interesting is that this is the episode that finally broke me. Not the ones with gruesome mob murders. Not the random convenience store hold-ups. Not the psychotic jilted boyfriends, stalkers from the coffee shop, or schizophrenics that attack innocent by-standers on public transportation. Nope, it was Dean Cain as a speed dater that got me. I think it must have been the trauma of speed dating combined with the build-up of a "Law & Order: SVU" marathon that really did me in. Even though Dean Cain played Scott Peterson, honestly, he's just not that great of an actor. If he's enough to scare me all on his own, I'm an even bigger wuss than I thought... And I already knew I was a big baby.

My Weekend Errands

2006-10-02T06:24:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday when I was at the Super Target, it also happened to be free sample day. (Don't forget that this is the Super Target, so there's a grocery store in there in addition to all of the housewares, Halloween costumes, and women's active wear. Also, I might or might not have gone shopping just because I knew it was free sample day - you'll have to come to your own conclusions on that one.) And, as I was wandering through the aisles, I came upon the Slim-Fast meal bar stand right next to the woman with Ghirardelli dark chocolate squares, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about this odd organizational choice since. Are you supposed to see the chocolate first, and right after you bite in look over to the diet products and feel overwhelmed with guilt so that you must have both products? Does the chocolate make you realize that you've been having way too much of that stuff lately, so you buy lots of Slim-Fast vowing to finally start that diet you made a New Year's Resolution about? (You're going to ignore "Soap Opera Digest" at the register too. This is willpower.) Or, maybe the diet products shame you, and frustrated with yourself, you give in to the wonderful comforting power of chocolate and end up with the "family size" pack even though you know you're going to be the only one eating it? It makes no sense to me, but I imagine some consulting or marketing genius is behind the move, and I want to know what the rationale is. Personally, I skipped the Slim-Fast and went straight to the Ghirardelli lady without any sense of shame or personal defeat. I like to think of this as a sign, not of my lack of impulse control, but rather as an indication that the weight-obsessed media and numerous images of Nicole Richie haven't gotten me down. I'm just that strong - try not to be in awe.

I AM the Whitest Person in America

2006-09-28T16:36:00.000-07:00

So, it seems that there's a new song called "Chain Hang Low." (Well, "new" wouldn't be accurate considering that it's based around everyone's favorite summer camp song, "Do Your Ears Hang Low," but let's just go with it.) When I first heard it, I thought it said "Chain Gang Love." I'm really glad someone corrected me last night because I have been very bothered thinking of ways that members of a prison chain gang might show affection towards one another.

Please Pardon my Gloating

2006-09-27T06:05:00.000-07:00

This probably doesn't need to be said, but I got very little from my devotion to Anna Nicole Smith's reality series, "The Anna Nicole Show." I did realize what an unhealthy attachment to one's pet was, who not to hire as an interior decorator (answer: Bobby Trendy), and why what happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas, but there certainly wasn't a lot I could share with my friends or bring up over Thanksgiving dinner. But, today changed everything. I can now say that countless, often unfortunate, hours of Anna Nicole Smith voyeurism led to this moment - I told you so! I knew that Anna Nicole's lawyer, Howard K. Stern, was in love with her. And, I knew that they were making out when the cameras weren't rolling. (Ask my friend, Josh. We were convinced.) And, now that Howard K. Stern has announced that he is the father of her new baby daughter, I feel gloriously vindicated. I feel right and a bit smug, and I always like being right. Sure, the cost was high, but these fleeting moments of superiority sure are fun. Like I said, I knew it all along.

A Slap in the Face

2006-09-26T18:47:00.000-07:00

Now, of course, I'm aware that some overly eager agents, media outlets, and rising starlets are willing to exploit my and others' love of celebrity gossip to generate publicity and attention for themselves and important projects. (Yes, I feel that I can use the phrase "exploit." They use me to sell movie tickets. I use them to get a daily fix on a life I'll never have. This is exactly how I justify my US Weekly addiction/subscription.) Need we reference the recent Jessica Simpson/John Mayer faux romance to prove my point? But, I really do feel that Aaron Carter has crossed the line. He gets engaged at 18? (Again, how many Macaulay Culkin and Jerry Lee Lewis references do I have to make before people realize that teen marriage is usually very bad?) Then he calls off his engagement within a week? And, interestingly enough, all of this occurs just as the reality show "House of Carters" is set to debut on October 2? Even I'm not that naive, Aaron. (Also, can we talk about the fact that Aaron's former fiance once dated his brother, Nick, too? Is he in such need of a girl to generate gossip with that he takes to his brother's pool of exes?) For shame, Aaron, for shame. After all, you were once the guy that Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff were vying for. Hell, because of you, Lindsay Lohan cut her fingernails against La Duff long before taking on Paris Hilton and Brandon Davis. There was a time when you were semi-big. And, maybe that's why these last few years have been so tough on you, but, you divorced your mom and your sister is regularly charged with assault. I have a feeling that your reality show would have sold itself. There was no need to sink to such tactics. But, now that you have, I, for one, won't be watching.

Unsettling Discoveries

2006-09-25T11:32:00.000-07:00

Truth be told - I'm bothered today. First of all, there really are very few marketing and advertising campaigns that actually bug me. Do I like the commercial for "Head On," the headache cure you literally rub on your head, that just repeats the phrase "Head on, apply directly to the forehead"? No, but once I change the channel, I'm free. Do I think it's right that the people behind the Lunesta butterfly have much, much more money than me? Not necessarily, but I can deal. However, the jingle "get your fash' on" fills me with rage. Whether it is in Old Navy ads or being sung about in something related to J. C. Penney or Sear's, I just can't stand it. I want it to go away. And, even more so than that, I want it to be erased from my memory. "Get your fash' on"?!?! I can only conclude that this was once a bad joke that somehow got out of hand. And, last night, just as I was cringing from one of these Old Navy commercials, I saw a preview for tonight's episode of "The New Adventures of Old Christine," and I hit upon the second matter that is weighing on my mind today. Scott Bakula (Do I need to mention of "Quantum Leap" fame? After all, it was more of a gift to the world than just a television show...) will be guest-starring on Julia Louis-Dreyfus' show this evening, and it seems that he has somehow decided it's ok to have shoulder-length hair in his middle age. This does not sit well with me. I love Scott so much that this kind of criticism is painful for me, but I'm hoping that through our conflict we can reach a greater level of closeness. Oh, Sam/Scott - Why would you do this to me? It is not alright to have long hair past the age of 35 unless you are Willie Nelson. And, it is certainly not alright to live most of your life with short hair but then grow it out in middle age. This is why people mock mid-life crises. Are hair plugs next? Is there a poorly decorated loft with a futon in your future? The sports car with a vanity plate? Insisting you're going to chuck it all for culinary school? I beg you, Scott - cut the hair and get back to making sure the "Quantum Leap" reunion movie gets aired sometime before the end of 2007. I don't want to put conditions on my love, but these two little things would make me so happy. And, it's all about making each other happy, right?

Thursday's Thoughts

2006-09-21T10:39:00.000-07:00

While this may come as a shock to many people, I have actually been accused of being a control freak before. (Personally, I've always thought the phrase "control freak" seemed a bit reactionary. Is it really so wrong to know how you like things? I love diet coke, but I do not love diet coke in a plastic bottle. Fountain soda is the best, and coke in an aluminum can comes in a close second. I will occasionally choose restaurants or convenience stores based on these criteria, but is that really so wrong? Although, I suppose the answer to that question depends on whether or not you're on a road trip with me, but bygones...) Now, sure there are times when I've wanted to ask the Subway sandwich artists if I could come behind the counter and make my own hoagie because it is maddening to watch their technique with the spicy mustard, and I do have a 3-step process for cleaning my rugs, but I still think "control freak" goes too far. Plus, I don't think enough people acknowledge how much better I've gotten in the last few years. My underwear drawer isn't hyper-organized anymore. (I used to have a system based on color, fabric, and style that also involved a sliding scale of general preference, the least favorites being farthest back in the drawer, etc.) Everything still has to be folded, but the categories are gone. I don't always rewind videos when I'm done watching them. I can wait a whole thirty minutes to pre-treat a stain. And sometimes, when I'm feeling really confident, I let other people mail letters for me, and I actually do a fairly convincing face that lets others think I almost trust them and that I don't have sweaty palms thinking about whether or not my bills will be paid on time. Yes sir, I've come a long way baby. But, I will say that on days like today - which, incidentally, is Laurel's Seasonal Decor Day when she takes out her home accessories for the coming fall season and realizes that she really is turning into her mother - my "controlling" ways can come in quite handy. All of my pumpkins and gourds were exactly where I put them and nicely separated from the Christmas decorations which will not be needed until the day after Thanksgiving. It was the easiest Seasonal Decor Day on record, and none of that would have been possible without the power of organization. And, now, if you will excuse me, I think I should stop writing. With these confessions about my underwear and love of gourds, I feel like I've already said too much.

The Last Straw

2006-09-19T13:05:00.000-07:00

Well, in case there was any lingering doubt whatsoever, I now know that the allet-bay uild-gay and I will never get along. It seems that all of the meetings will be on Tuesday nights. (And, yes, of course the meetings are mandatory. If you miss a meeting, you have to make it up with something called a "flex point," and flex points scare me the most of all. I think tea and/or large-brimmed hats might be involved.) But, sticking to the original point - Tuesday nights?!?! Doesn't everyone spend his or her Tuesday night camped out in front of the television fantasizing about a life with Hugh Laurie...uh, I mean watching the critically acclaimed show "House"? Why would you ever plan anything else for Tuesdays when a British man with the most beautiful baby blues in the free world is making snide comments and almost killing his truth-challenged patients? Why - in the name of all that is good and holy - why? So, instead of spending my evening with House, Cameron, Wilson, and the rest of the gang, I will be listening to a scintillating debate on the new amendments to the allet-bay uild-gay's by-laws. Is it acceptable to change the age of membership from 26 to 24? Should the language read "Men's Committee of the Guild" or just "Men's Committee"? Is the invitation chairman responsible for all invitations or only those related to the actual ball? It should be thrilling. I am truly a lucky girl.

Customer Service Woes

2006-09-18T14:16:00.000-07:00

At present, there are few entities I disdain more than my former pet insurance company. (I know, I know - it's weird to have pet insurance. You see, what happens is that you go and pick up a cute little puppy from the pound, and they offer you a few months of free pet insurance as a thank you for adopting a homeless dog. You think this is incredibly sweet, and you never sleep anymore because you're house training a puppy, so you don't notice when the letter arrives in the mail telling you that you're on a short-term plan, but that it will automatically renew if you don't send a letter, and then, before you know it, they have access to your direct deposit, and they own you. It sucks.) Well, my dog passed away right before last Thanksgiving, and the pet insurance company has not only spent six months taking monthly payments out of my checking account for a policy on a dead dog, but also continually ignores my current claim related to his passing. I have sent the same faxes three and four times over, my veterinarian has threatened to never recommend their policies ever again, and I call and call and call. However, despite all this, what annoys me most is the way that they try to "handle" me on the phone. Every time I call, a customer service agent asks me what happened to my dog. Now, we all know that they know exactly what happened to my dog. They are staring at the computer screen with my claim for euthanasia on it. (In all of my experience, euthanasia has never been a go-to topic for fun and laughs.) But, they make me tell them anyway because I know that they're hoping to move me away from anger and frustration to sadness. What they need to learn is that this will never happen. Just today, I am on a double dose of Tylenol Allergy/Sinus because I can't breathe through my nose, my last paid writing gig was researching trivia about the state of Florida for middle school students, I haven't been on a date in the year of 2006, my downstairs neighbor thinks that everyone wants to hear trance music or Reba McEntire's "Fancy" at all hours of the day and night, and I am doing laundry at my parent's house in an airbrush t-shirt that says "Live the Dream" while watching "Yes, Dear." There's no way Petcare Pet Insurance is going to be the one that breaks me. If I find a reason to cry, I guarantee you that my pet insurance company won't be it. And, considering that I had to fight back the urge to tell one rep that "I would end him" this afternoon, I really do hope for all of our sakes that this matter is cleared up soon.

Truth in Voicemail

2006-09-15T13:23:00.000-07:00

A message only a member of my family would leave: "Laurel, it's your sister. I hear that Britney Spears just had a baby boy...Call me when you know more."

Obligations

2006-09-14T11:35:00.000-07:00

Well, it seems that during my Birmingham absence, I was appointed as a co-chair to one of the allet-bay uild-gay's committees. (The allet-bay uild-gay is a "social and philanthropic" organization with the primary function of putting on a debutante ball and allowing grown women the opportunity to wear formal gowns and white gloves ten years after those items should have been safely stowed away in their respective attics. Please refer to previous posts for more information. Also, the allet-bay uild-gay takes itself very seriously, so I have cloaked them in the anonymity of pig Latin to try and escape any personal repercussions for revealing our secrets and inner workings. If you've seen "The Skulls," I'm sure you understand.) Anyway, I'm now the co-chair of the newsletter committee - which is probably the best committee for me to be a part of. After all, I like to write and edit. For a few shining moments after I learned the news, I thought this could finally be my chance to get excited about something involving the allet-bay uild-gay. I was so naive. It turns out that my only responsibility as co-chair of the newsletter committee is to address the newsletters before they're mailed out. Yep, I just have to stick on the labels. I doubt that I can even be trusted to go to the post office. That's probably chairman stuff - not co-chair stuff. There's no writing. There's no brainstorming. There's no content review. And, most of this would be fine for me, except for one little thing. I now quote the newsletter they have put my name on, "The Ball was a huge success impart due to your generous contributions to Friends of the Ballet..." Impart?!?! Impart rather than "in part"?!?!? This is what they included me on?!?! This?!?! Honestly, for a girl who proofreads menus and other signs without even realizing it, this is truly painful. It makes me wonder if this assignment was really some kind of punishment. Does the allet-bay uild-gay hate me? I mean, I don't know why they would dislike me so. What, with my outright mockery of the organization, "relaxed" work ethic, and refusal to do anything in the morning, you'd think that I would make the perfect member. And, what makes this really awful is knowing that I will never be allowed to copy edit the newsletter before it goes out. Even mentioning this mistake will probably be considered an act of insubordination or be greeted with the ever-familiar, "Oh, who cares anyway? No one notices those things. Let's just go ahead and send it out." Who cares? I care. I notice. I don't like having my name on gross misuses of the English language. It hurts me. It hurts me deeply. I can sense the eyes of all my professors on me - and they're judging eyes. The allet-bay uild-gay has struck again. When will I learn that they only hurt me?

Under the Weather

2006-09-12T13:22:00.000-07:00

I don't have much to say today because I woke up around 4:00 a.m. with the beginnings of a massive cold. On the plus side, all of the head congestion means that I can barely hear the trance music emanating from my downstairs neighbor's apartment. Unfortunately though, the flip side of that is that my own chewing seems ridiculously loud and overly intrusive to my enjoyment of "One Life to Live." And, speaking of chewing, I couldn't remember if it's "starve a cold, feed a fever" or "feed a cold, starve a fever," so I just ate half a bag of cool ranch Doritos. (That's a decision that seemed much more reasonable before the cold medicine started to wear off.) Also, I think my cable guy might think that I'm mildly retarded or struggling with a crystal meth addiction. When he knocked, he woke me up from my Nyquil-induced coma, so it was 1:00 in the afternoon, my hair had an odd spiked look, and my answer to every conversation starter he tried was "Uh-huh." Of course, when I finally got past my mono-syllabic uttering, our interaction culminated in me talking to myself out loud while the poor cable guy tried to escape. "So, do I have DVR now?" "No, but I can get it for you. It's just a different box." "Cool, that would be great...But, you know what, I don't need DVR. I'll be fine...Or, maybe I do need DVR. It would be convenient. And, I wanted to record something tonight..Nah, I don't need it. It seems silly..." "Uh, ma'am? I've got to go, but you can just call the office when you make up your mind."

Yet Another Excellent Reason I Never Should Have Pursued a Career in Professional Sports

2006-09-11T11:39:00.000-07:00

(Obviously, the first and best reason is my complete lack of talent. The second would be my fear of balls, bats, golf clubs, etc. and the tendency to duck and scream like a little girl when any such apparatus comes near me. But, we'll have to put all that aside for the sake of the following discussion. Join me in what I do best - let's fantasize about a completely different reality than the one at hand despite all logic and accepted norms.) Lately, I've been training Cassidy to go off her leash when we're out but still obey basic commands. The main reason for this is that I want to be able to play fetch with her. (Living in an apartment, we require dog parks and other such open areas to play fetch. Otherwise, my lamps are in danger.) And, fetch is by far my favorite game. I like the exertion disparity. I stand; Cassidy runs furiously back and forth. She's tired and needs a nap, and I manage to avoid exercise for one more glorious day. Anyway, we're playing fetch when I realize that every time I throw the ball, I'm actually saying "whoosh" out loud with each toss. I know we're talking about me here, and I should have the answer, but what is that about? The only person I could be talking to is myself. It's not like "whoosh" is in my dog's vocabulary. Am I so worried that my throws are pitiful, I add sound effects to try and give them some oomph? Do I just like the way the word sounds? Have I become one of those people who can't help themselves from talking out loud despite how nutty it sounds to anyone passing by? And, the worst part is that I didn't even notice I was saying "whoosh" until five or so minutes into the game. Can you even imagine what I would be like if I was involved in regular sports competition? I could probably put Monica Seles to shame. Plus, since "whoosh" isn't exactly what most Americans would add to a game of fetch with their dog, I think we can pretty much assure that my guttural noises would be weird. I'd probably even end up like Steve Carell from "The 40 Year Old Virgin" and espouse the names of current pop stars when in distress. I think it's safe to say that the broadcasters would not be kind. And, as for my nickname? I don't even want to think about it. I'm just so relieved I chose a different path...

Out and About

2006-09-08T06:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to lie - yesterday was a fat day. And as many people know, and the rest of you will now learn, when women feel fat, we often shop for shoes to make ourselves feel better. Unless you're pregnant and suffering from all sorts of hormonal shifts, the foot is usually the one part of your body that doesn't change sizes. Most people don't need "fat shoes" and "skinny shoes." We just have shoes. And, on many days, such as yesterday, that's a Godsend. It is incredibly dangerous to wander into any other sort of store on a fat day. I made the mistake of going into Old Navy. (Embarrassing truth be told, I was looking for clothes for my dog. Shopping for my dog is the other thing I do on fat days. But, when I actually had the thought that none of Old Navy's offerings were "girly enough," I knew I was not myself and high-tailed it out of there.) However, during my brief time there, yesterday was the only time anyone has every tried to help me in Old Navy, and I knew something was up. Salespeople can smell low self-esteem like a dog can smell fear. Before you know it, they've talked you into trying on many, much-too-trendy and not-your-color clothes because they sense your desperate need for validation. Eventually, they'll start throwing items on the pile without even asking because they know if they give you one little compliment about looking thin, you'll be trapped in their clutches and their commission will go up because you can't fight that icky feeling that comes with realizing one of your skirts doesn't fit the way it did last week. ("Yes, yes, you do want the camouflage-patterned bolero jacket with accompanying skinny scarf" [insert maniacal laugh with devilish finger wiggling here] "You are mine, insecure shopper!") Anyway, let's get back to the shoes. Normally shoe shopping is of little stress to me. I like closed toe. I like open toe. I like a whole array of shoe colors. But, I do not, my dear friend, like the peep toe. You see, my second toe is much longer than my big toe. And, by much longer, I mean much longer. (My mother says that means I'll be rich someday. I think she made that up, but I like it. Although, obviously, the way things are going, "rich" is a long way off. I'd be happy with "subsistence level.") And, when I put on a peep toe shoe, the only toe peeping out is my abnormally long second toe. If you don't believe me, reference the photo. And, believe me when I say that it's actually must worse in person. Fat day shoe shopping was not going the way I wanted. I was about to give up hope when I found a $12.49 deal on these little suede numbers ($12.49!), and my sense of calm returned. So, I celebrated with a burrito. Was this counterproductive to the source of my morning malaise? Absolutely, but at least being well-nourished and having new shoes allowed me to escape my funk and lessened my desire to rip the head off anyone giving the once over to my cargo pant and loose tank outfit combo or rear end the Honda SUV with "KUKARAT" as a vanity plate. (What the hell could that mean? Why would you unleash such a word/letter combination on the world? It's not right.) Can you believe I ever run errands considering how stressful it all is? Don't even get me started on the dry cleaners... (On this particular post, I told my spell checker to learn the word "burrito." I know it's necessary. Considering my loves, that word is going to come up often, but I think that action might have been a setback from the shoe purchasing high.)

War Eagle!

2006-09-07T14:06:00.000-07:00

Cassidy is officially ready for the new season. (Yes, I know that I have too much free time.)

Browsing for Bargains

2006-09-06T06:25:00.000-07:00

As usual, I was wondering through the Dollar Tree on Friday when I stumbled upon this little gem... And, no, you're not seeing things. This is in fact a "rock painting kit" complete with a shrink-wrapped, gray, fake rock. (How this ended up in the discount store is beyond me.) However, the more I looked at the rock painting kit, the more I realized that this is not as much a toy as it is an indicator that Mommy has a severe drinking problem. Let's consider the options: Either (A) Mommy has a hangover so bad, she's willing to give you money for ANYTHING, and I'm pretty sure a rock painting kit is the rock bottom of ANYTHING, so that you and your siblings will be quiet and stop complaining about the fact that she never spends time with you, always smells a little like cherry cough syrup, and you don't remember what color her eyes are anymore because they're always behind sunglasses, (B) Mommy was "too tired" to take you to the store, and the only other person willing to let you spend Daddy's hard-earned money on crap like this is one of Mommy's drinking buddies who you have to call "Aunt Honey," but the truth is Mommy only knows her from the one bar open until 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, and "Honey" probably isn't her real name, but Mommy can't be expected to remember details like that once she's had more than three whiskey sours, or (C) You don't actually have the official "rock painting kit" because Mommy didn't "feel well enough" to get to the register, but the next day when you want to watch TV, she tells you to go out in the yard with her eye liner and your imagination while she stays in the still, silent cloister of her bedroom with all of the curtains drawn. Of course, I could be imagining things, but I don't think I'm all that far from the truth on this one.

2006-09-05T23:53:00.000-07:00

I think my upstairs neighbor got a ferret while I was away. Either that, or he has taken to scurrying across the floor. Neither option makes me happy.

Late Night Dining

2006-09-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

Saturday night, I went to Auburn's first football game of the season in Auburn. Auburn is about two hours from Birmingham, and the game didn't kick off until 6:45, so it was a late night drive back. A little after ten at night, a friend and I decided to stop for food. (They don't take credit cards at the concession stands, and there were no ATMs inside the stadium. Most people probably expect this - I didn't. I spent most of the second half very hungry.) I also didn't want anything fried, so we decided to give the Subway in Alexander City a try. As we walked up, a Subway worker was standing behind the locked door. We assumed that the Subway was closed, since most of them don't stay open very late, but then we saw that the sign actually said that the store was open until midnight. And, as we got closer, she eventually unlocked the door and invited us in. (After this kind of lead-in, we should have known that things were going to be weird.) The moment we stepped through the door, the girl working at Subway started to tell us her saga, "Oh God y'all. Ok, y'all don't look creepy. Come on in. I'm only 16, and they left me up here all alone for the night. I was getting so scared. My imagination was running wild. I was gonna get my Momma to come up here, but she has to work too, so instead I just decided to put my two day notice in. I've been baking bread all night and hiding in the back because I did not want to be here by myself..." After explaining herself (which I completely understood, but I was still very, very hungry), she did actually allow us to place an order, but we could only have turkey or ham. She didn't have enough chicken or much cheese. (And, as another little note, I don't really think she knew how to bake bread because most of my sandwich was kind of mushy.) While she made our sandwiches, she went on to tell us how much she hated Subway and about all of the other places she might want to find a job. As we got to the check out, she told us that the drink machine was broken too, so all there was was flavored water. (I really don't like flavored water.) And, as I finally tried to pay her, thinking I would charge both meals to my card since this was not the time to ask for separate checks, she told me we could just go ahead and take everything "on the house" since she couldn't figure out the register either. (Note to Subway: broken drink machine, difficult register, lack of supplies - this might be why people don't leave sixteen year olds alone to run a store. And, yes, I think the personal safety aspect is fairly compelling as well.) Now, I love free stuff, and the free sandwiches certainly made up for the time delay and lack of decent drinks, but I still felt bad taking stuff from a disgruntled adolescent fast food worker who was terrified of being robbed. I asked if she was sure about this decision about three times before we left. (Also, a couple of her friends had arrived by then, so I felt better that she wasn't alone anymore.) But, it seems my dining companion didn't have any of the same concerns. When we got back to the car, I noticed he had grabbed chips, too. "What?" he said. "If it's on the house, isn't it all on the house?"

Are You Sure You Want to Turn That Up?

2006-09-04T07:32:00.000-07:00

Because of Labor Day weekend, I've had plenty of opportunities to listen to various countdowns on the radio over the past few days. Driving back and forth to Auburn and the lake gave me plenty of free time, too. Truth be told - song lyrics fascinate me. It's amazing how many horrible phrases, bad rhymes, and weird stories can find themselves into songs, but because there's a beat and a catchy tune, no one notices how strange the words are. (Word to the wise, this is also why it is never a good idea to quote song lyrics during romantic or other intimate moments. "Instead of making love, we both made our separate ways," sounds a hell of a lot better being belted out by Poison than it will when you try to express your remorse over a break up. Trust me - these things don't translate.) A nine-year-old would get an "F" if her or she rhymed "dresser" and "beretta" (as well as a probably well-deserved trip to the school counselor), but that's what R. Kelly does in "Trapped in the Closet: Chapter 1." And, let's consider the case of "Escape" by Rupert Holmes. Everyone enjoys "pina coladas and getting caught in the rain," but if you actually listen to the rest of the song, you realize it's about a man who decides to cheat on his partner, places a personal ad to do so, and then ends up arranging to meet his very own, also-wanting-to-cheat-via-personal-ad partner. What a crazy coincidence! Oh, more accurately, how creepy is that?!?! Do you still feel the same urge to sing along while car dancing now? As for unacceptable turns of the English language, don't even get me started on Fergie and her "lady lumps." Well, as I was driving down the interstate yesterday, I had the opportunity to hear "That Summer" by Garth Brooks for the first time in years. I like Garth Brooks, and I don't expect a whole lot from his lyrics. Sometimes, it's just fine to make everything simple and easy to understand. Also, I like the little stories in his songs. "That Summer" is about a teenager who goes to work on a ranch when the school year ends and has a tryst with an older woman. What I don't like is this - the song, as told from the perspective of the teen boy, states that the older woman "had a need to feel the thunder." Yes, those are the exact words. And, I'm sorry, but how freakin' ridiculous is that?!?! When you remove the music and have only lyrics, you get a sixteen-year-old boy who basically starts his junior year of high school telling all of his adolescent classmates about "this old chick who totally wanted me" and "how much she wanted to feel the thunder." I invite you to inject as much asinine body language as you want into that fantasy, so long as you come with me to the place where "That Summer" makes you want to laugh out loud rather than sing along.

Family Album

2006-09-01T11:22:00.000-07:00

Well, it's Friday, and Friday seems like a good day to get nostalgic. So, in light of that, I decided to delve into the old Mills family photos, and now I bring you "just another evening in my childhood home." As Bread might say with their elegant and soulful crooning, "If a picture paints a thousand words," what do we have here? You'll notice that I (on the far right) am incredibly over-dressed for the occasion. My sisters are in pajamas and play wear, and I'm in a Sunday dress. (For a long time, I refused to wear pants because "ladies didn't wear pants." I would appreciate it if there were no comments on the many, many ways I've given up on "being a lady" since kindergarten.) It also seems that I have on some sort of heel or wedge shoe. And - then there's that tiara. It's probably not all that surprising that I loved small, rhinestone crowns as a child and liked to wear them whenever possible. What is unfortunate is that I often wore my little tiara to school, possibly forever cementing my place as a bit of a weirdo and the last one chosen for the kickball team. I even wore the tiara on picture day, so multiple yearbooks also provide proof of the "princess complex" I will never live down. As you can also see, Rachael (on the far right) bears an uncanny resemblance to Teddy, the middle son from "Terms of Endearment," but she's obviously a lot happier because her mother is not dying of cancer and her soon-to-be-deadbeat dad is not running around a variety of mediocre liberal arts colleges throwing himself at co-eds with unfortunate hair. Whatever is so funny that her naked Cabbage Patch doll must have its eyes covered, I don't know, and it seems to have caused some confusion at the time too since I'm staring at her and not the camera. By the way, the doll I'm holding was one that I saw on television and waited weeks for. (Hmmm, I liked infomercials even then...Interesting...) Do you remember how long 4 - 6 weeks was at that age? A few days after it finally came, there was a story on the news about how highly flammable the dolls were, and my doll had to go away. Sure, in hindsight I'd prefer not to have hideous burn scars and years of skin grafts caused by a doll who's only true selling point is the pink hair, but that is not the call I would have made back then. And, there in the middle, looking dazed and unsure of what she's been born into, is my youngest sister, Sarah. Maybe, as she's been claiming for years, she really is the only normal one...Just maybe...

A Rose is a Rose?

2006-08-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

You know it's bad when you can no longer differentiate between your own internal monologue and reality. As such, I just spent the last fifteen minutes reviewing four months worth of blogs to make sure that I have not written on this same topic before, but, truthfully, there's no telling. So, if you've heard all of this before - sorry. And, if not, I suppose that's both good and bad for me - at least I have an original topic, but I really do spend way too much time in my own head. Anyway, I'm going to talk about my name. For those of you who don't know, my name comes from the novel "The Optimist's Daughter" by Eudora Welty. (There is an irony here that we'll discuss later.) And, since I am a Laurel and not a Lauren, Laura, or Laurie, it's not often that I encounter anyone else with my name. (Although, as a small child one of my cousins was named Lauren, and our great grandmother had Alzheimer's, so I do respond to many, many incarnations of "Laur," including the occasional L'Oreal, in an almost knee-jerk fashion.) It's also rare to find my name on television or in movies. There was briefly a Laurel on "All My Children," but I think she ended up killing her ex-husband and had to give her autistic daughter away before being sent to prison. Of course, most people had heard of Laurel as the skeptical, pot-smoking nurse sister in "Jerry Maguire." ( (A) The boyfriend of one of my college friend's would play the Bruce Springsteen "Secret Garden" song from the movie with pieces of the movie's dialogue spliced into it so that he could pretend that when Renee Zellweger was saying "I love him, Laurel," it was his girlfriend talking to me - they didn't make it, and (B) I hope that's the closest I ever get to Tom Cruise considering his behavior from the last year or so. I worry he would use those too white teeth to eat me because of my belief in psychiatry.) There's also a very unfortunate movie called "Sommersby" wherein Richard Gere plays opposite Jodie Foster's character Laurel. I can't even speak of it because trying to remember the incredibly awkward chemistry between those two only causes me pain. Of course, my favorite "Laurel on film" is in the made-for-television movie "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?" which, in addition to the awful, too-long title, features an incredibly over-bleached Tori Spelling from her 90210 days when she was in the abusive relationship with rock star Ray as Laurel. Can you top that? I think not. Well, my original point being that it is rare to meet another Laurel, when I was in the craft store yesterday (because I do those things), the cashier who ran my card said, "Oh, my daughter's name is Laurel, too." We chatted for a second. I told her I thought that was neat. (And, yes, I probably did actually use the word "neat." I become a different, less capable person in the confines of the craft store.)Then she said, "Yeah, I always hoped she'd meet a man named Hardy." I just tried to freeze my face then because I was sure whatever reaction I had would not be appreciated. "Just kidding," she said. "But, I did always think of her as a Southern belle just waiting for her Confederate soldier to come home." Even though I was obviously relieved that the "Laurel and Hardy" couple was a joke, I just didn't know how to react to that one either. Maybe being in Chicago for two months ruined me because I forgot that it's still "ok" to mention the Confederacy like it's a good thing. Maybe I was surprised because I rarely think of myself as a Southern belle since the last time I stepped out of a hoop skirt at the age of seventeen. Mainly, I guess I just didn't think of my name as representing some sort of combo of these two things. It was weird, and I don't think I like it. So, from now on - I only answer to L'Oreal. After all, what could possibly be the connotations with that one...

The Moments I Live For?

2006-08-29T10:19:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, my seven-year-old cousin and I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some snacks. As we were waiting in line to check out, she looked around at all of the glossy magazines near the register. (Maybe I should have been censoring what she can see, but my face was buried in "Soap Opera Digest" so that I could find out all of the "comings and goings" of my favorite stars without actually having to pay for the magazine. Reading and flipping pages that fast is quite the challenge, let me tell you, and therefore requires most of my focus.) After a few seconds, my cousin pointed to a picture of a celebrity and said, "I know her." "That's Jennifer Aniston. You've probably seen her on TV." "Oh, yeah," she responded, I suppose differentiating between people who have dinner at her house and people who are in the movies. "She's pretty, isn't she?" I said. (My conversation skills are not the best when I still have one eye on the weekly recap of "General Hospital.") "She's not as pretty as you," she answered, showing the glorious innocence of children. And, while I know this comment is not true and is colored by familial love, it still didn't give the women behind us in line the permission to LAUGH OUT LOUD. And, it certainly didn't give her permission to still be laughing THREE MINUTES LATER. As Bill Cosby taught us, children say the darndest things, but I still don't think my cousin's comment warranted quite that much mirth. Plus, if I was in a similar position, I would at least have the courtesy to wait until I was in my car to crack up. It's the nice thing to do, and it means that I don't have to be obsessing over the incident four days later. After all, I have so much else to worry about...