My New Home

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

Tough Choices: The Princess Diaries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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...

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

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!

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

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!

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?

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

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.