Enough Already
We all know I love me some infomercials, but perhaps what you don't know is that my favorite aspect of the infomercial is how they portray life as so hard without the product being advertised -- as if everything sold on television is the equivalent of sliced bread or the light bulb.
My first example? The Snuggie, of course. Watching this now infamous infomercial, you'd think the most difficult task in the world was holding a phone while covered in a blanket.
And we thought the wheel changed the world.
If anyone actually finds it that taxing to grab the phone while covered in a blanket, they have much bigger problems than anything a Snuggie can fix. Every time I see the Snuggie advertised, and the travails of handling a remote control or phone while covered in a blanket are extolled, I can't help but think of the Friends episode when Joey starred on the infomercial touting a product that made it easier to open milk. Because everyone has so much trouble opening milk to begin with.
If you watch the commercial for Aqua Globes, you might think that watering plants is also one of the most painful and difficult tasks on the planet. At one point, the female actress is seen struggling with a dead fern -- like the rotting plant has attacked her or tried to drag her into its water-less and angry clutches.
Is watering plants easy to forget? Sure. Is it a life or death struggle along the lines of a real-life Little Shop of Horrors? Hardly.
Then there's the Perfect Brownie. I'm so glad this product came along because I can't tell you how many times I've worried that my brownies weren't of exactly equal shape and size. And the idea of cutting a pan of brownies with a knife? Who has the time?
No, none of these thoughts go through my head when brownies are on the table. And I can't think of a single person I know who struggles to bake brownies from a box. Unless they invent a product that keeps you from shoving half the pan down your throat before the goods cool, I'm not interested. (Wait -- I think the mysterious product I think of is called self-control, and if it were available, I wouldn't need half the diet and exercise products I have bought off the television. Oh well.)
The Big City Slider Station? Because when you're making hamburger patties it's that hard to make some of them smaller? Again, I am confused.
While I know all products have to say that they make your life easier, watching infomercials, you'd think these days of indoor plumbing, constant Internet access and medical advancement were pure hell. (After all, I'm kind of on the lazy side, and if I think you're exaggerating, you've really missed the mark.)
Walking hundreds of feet uphill in the snow? Hey, I'll tell my grandkids about what it was like when I had to water my own plants and dig for my cell phone in my purse. I can almost hear their groans now ...
Romance
You would be hard-pressed to find a copy of Love Story or The Bridges of Madison County in my house. The only romance novels I have would fall under the category of gag gifts, and while I know many people who love the books, I don't read Nora Roberts. I'm also not touchy-feely, I don't hold hands and sing in the round and I've never been a fan of Grey's Anatomy.
That being said, apart from Nights in Rodanthe, I have seen every movie ever made from a Nicholas Sparks book. In the theater. Multiple times. And cried.
It's easy to see why I'd like The Notebook. I think Rachel McAdams is awesome, and I think we all know that Ryan Gosling is hot. I also have a not-so-secret old man crush on James Garner. Judge me if you want, but that man is still darn charming. And if you doubt me, find some pictures of Mr. Garner circa 1962.
In a few words: Hubba. Hubba.
I didn't know what to expect with A Walk to Remember, but something in my gut told me that this was a movie I needed to see. At the time the movie was released, I had two male roommates (platonic) and was living in D.C. While one of my roommates had accompanied me to Legally Blonde and Unfaithful, I was still pretty sure that A Walk to Remember would be a hard sell. So, one Saturday afternoon, I snuck out of the house without telling anyone where I was headed and made my way to the movie theater at Union Station.
I started seeing movies by myself the summer after my sophomore year of college. I was going through a bad break-up and was worried that what I would miss most about my relationship was not having anyone to go to the movies with. I figured a head-long dive into one of my biggest break-up anxieties would help with the heartache. It didn't, but I discovered a new favorite past time.
I like sitting in the dark by myself while a fantasy unfolds on the screen. I find it relaxing. When I'm very stressed, I try to find time to escape and see a movie by myself -- cell phone off and no thoughts beyond those related to the story in front of me.
"Most people go to church for that," a friend of mine once said. Maybe they do, but I prefer the movies.
As I took my seat in Union Station that day, I noticed that most of the crowd was women about my age either in small groups of two or three, or also by themselves. There wasn't a man in sight. The theater went dark, and we all watched as Mandy Moore and Shane West fell in love.
As the movie progressed, we, as a crowd, also got girlier and girlier. We aaw-ed during particularly touching moments. ("You're in two places at once. Scratch if off your list!") There were audible sobs during the important reveals. ("I'm sick, Landon.") And when Shayne West proposed to Mandy, a woman in the back yelled, "Yes!" and we all clapped. A bunch of jaded, city-dwelling 20-somethings fresh off The Rules and too many Cosmopolitan articles about dating like a man letting their inner eight-year-olds (complete with drugstore bride costumes and teddy bears filling in as the minister) out for a few hours.
It was the most fun I've ever had in a room full of strangers.
Where am I going with all this? Dear John comes out soon, and I can't wait. So, if you find yourself at the theater, sitting next to a mysteriously veiled woman who travels with a lot of Kleenex in her purse, I may not acknowledge it in public, but we're both there for all the same reasons.
This photo: because it's relevant, and because I can.
You Need Us, You Really Do
A few months ago, I shared some thoughts on the movie The Hangover. While I completely stick by what I said then, I also don't want to give the impression that I was only dogging on women. By no means is the other gender off the hook.
I love movies like Old School, Knocked Up and The Hangover. I saw Old School twice in the theater, and both times, I laughed so hard that I was crying. To this day, listening to Kansas can always make me smile.
And one of the tried and true archetypes in these films is the girlfriend/wife who always gets in the way of fun. She nags. She's skeptical. She's forever anti-guys' weekend. And in all of these films, she's also absolutely right.
Taking The Hangover as an example, let's look at just a few of the situations the male characters get themselves into when left to their own devices (and in case you haven't figured it out yet: SPOILER ALERT):
1. Theft of wild, dangerous, big-teeth-baring animal from the home of a convicted rapist and possible cannibal, a.k.a. Mike Tyson.
2. Quickie marriage to a prostitute -- not to mention consummating a marriage to a prostitute that could lead to potential STDs, etc.
3. Theft of cop car. Stealing is never good. Stealing from cops is worse.
4. Misplaced friend. They lose a person. AN ENTIRE PERSON.
5. Near-complete destruction of very expensive hotel suite.
When I saw The Hangover in the theater, three what I assume to be only-recently-of-legal-drinking-age men sat in the row in front of me. After the movie, their conversation went something like this:
"Dude, that was so awesome," Guy #1 said.
"I wish our trip to Vegas had been like that," Guy #2 said.
"That's what Vegas should be," Guy #3 added.
I nearly leaned over their row and slapped each and every one of them. For starters, I think it's pretty important to keep in mind that all movies are fantasies. Men don't like it when women think dating should resemble When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless in Seattle. Tit for tat, let's be careful what models we pick for our bro-mances.
Secondly, if the events in The Hangover had actually occurred, there would have been three possible outcomes:
1. Death.
2. Prison.
3. Financial Ruin. (Those Vegas chalets aren't cheap. Repairing the structural damage alone would wipe out most people's worldly assets.)
No one would have gotten married. No one would come home with the greatest Facebook photo album ever, and at least one member of the group would have needed years of intensive psychotherapy.
It's no wonder the female characters in these movies are suspicious of guys' trips. They have every right to be. I'm amazed they allow their fictitious partners to walk to the mail box, let alone drive a car or operate the can opener.
When it comes to the battle of the sexes, I'm forever on the side of living in a world with plenty of both men and women (and plenty of all types of men and women, clearly I'm discussing mainstream gender designations and assumptions here, but I recognize the many, many exceptions to the rule). Whenever I hear cries for "an all-female world without war or sports" I'm just as terrified as when guys talk about "getting rid of women and only focusing on fun." I like the balance that comes with varied viewpoints and gender perspectives. After all, my need for a good cry can be just as strong as my love of baby back ribs.
And when it comes to planning weekend away for either gender, let's all remember that it's all fun and games until someone loses a finger -- or the bridegroom.
On The Air
I've often considered that if I ever wanted to be on reality television, there isn't really a good fit for me. (After all, doesn't temporary fame have some kind of appeal? If I could get paid to attend just one party -- a la Stephanie Pratt and Khloe Kardashian -- I could redo my entire kitchen.) Maybe there's no good fit because I'm not insane, but we'll leave that off the table for now.
I'm not an athlete or in top physical condition, so Survivor and The Amazing Race are out. I've aged out of anything on MTV. I cannot sing or dance, so goodbye American Idol. Dating is of no interest to me right now which eliminates The Bachelor, Blind Date and anything involving a millionaire, fake millionaire or getting to know one another in complete darkness. I'm not a real housewife of anywhere, and I'm unwilling to exploit my womb. (That last one might be a "for now." We'll see how this recession goes.) I also have no role in the wedding industry at the moment, which would take care of most of the programming on WE and the Style network.
(While on the subject of womb exploitation, I'd like to go ahead and nominate my two favorite tabloid stories of the year. Sure, this could be a little premature, but I'm feeling optimistic today. My runner-up for favorite tabloid story of the year is something I call, "Douche Does Yoga." Why this even made "the news" is completely beyond me. And this guy has more money than me. A crime against humanity? I think it's possible. My absolute favorite tabloid story of the year is "How I Lose 145 Pounds" courtesy of Nadya Sudelman, a.k.a. the Octomom. Yeah, I don't think dropping a litter out of one's uterus is an option for most women struggling with their weight, but thanks for the thought, Nadya.)
Long sidebar aside, I've decided that there needs to be a reality show where people compete to find the most ridiculous purchases while bargain shopping. (I know! I also get excited just thinking about the hilarity and Hawkins that would ensue.) There would be a budget, of course. And then, with an appropriate time limit, competitors could visit stores like the Dollar General and Fred's to seek out the most inane products for sale. Do you spend all of your money on one big purchase or buy multiple items hoping to increase your odds of winning? I just don't know!
You could have a panel of judges or incorporate America's votes. Either way, I'm sure it'd be some compelling television.
In light of my new idea, this blog entry is also an audition. I bring you my most oddball find from discount shopping -- a bleach kit from Tuesday Morning. Now, while the bleach itself might not be oddball, I think it's the packaging on this one that says it all. I can't tell you how many times I've thought, "These old jeans of mine just aren't cutting it. I wonder what's missing ... Wait, I've got it! If I could just bleach the butt area, I'd have a whole new look and the perfect accessory to set me apart when I go to happy hour in the lounge of the airport Marriott. Thank you Denim Details!"
Fame and fortune, here I come.
David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness
Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.
(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)
In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:
He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.
"Basil," I said.
"That looks like basil?"
"No," I said, "I thought you asked what Laurel looks like. I think Laurel looks like basil."
"OK," he said, "but what does that look like?" and he pointed at his drawing again.
"Thyme?"
At that point, he gave up, wrote basil next to the bananas (?) and drew a marijuana leaf and a dime. We could both agree on those representations. Then, in my next book, he wrote:
Now, I'm pretty sure that I told no good stories. Other than the discussion of herbs and my compliment to his tie, I don't think anything close to "touching" ever happened. Yet, at the same time -- even though I know this has no bearing on reality -- I found myself incredibly moved by the sentiment.
The moral to this story: I'm a sucker. And what I choose to believe/remember is so much better than what actually happens.
Haircut Hiccups
Week before last, I got a haircut. (I'm pictured at right, and even after my visit to the salon, I'm not blond.)
I decided it was time for a cut. I've worn my hair long for the last few years, and I needed a change. Since I've gone "freelance," much to my chagrin and that of the Significant Other, I've gotten a bit more lax about personal hygiene and dressing up. I can only think of two days out of the last 60 that my hair hasn't been in a ponytail. A shorter cut seemed like a good way to force my hair out of its rut.
(Laurel's two-step plan for improved physical appearance:
Step 1: New cut to avoid the ponytail.
Step 2: Change out sweatpants more than once per week.
I'll keep you posted on the progress of the second half of the plan.)
I've been very happy with my cut. I miss my hair some -- it's about six inches shorter -- but after the shock of that first shower when then just wasn't anything to wash, I've adjusted nicely. But, there's always been just one obstacle to my complete enjoyment of shorter hair.
That obstacle's name is Jennifer Love-Hewitt.
I wasn't even that big a fan of Miss Love-Hewitt's until a few years ago, but I've always found her hair quite intoxicating. Yes, I do like shows where women talk to dead people, but the real reason I watch Ghost Whisperer is for the hair and eyelashes.
I want Jennifer's hair, and I always have. I like the loose curls at the end of her long locks. I love the toned down highlights. I appreciate how the perfectly tousled pieces fall just right. Of course, it takes me a minimum of one hour's time, two products and lots of time with a large-barreled curling iron to even begin to approximate this look, but every time I do, I'm enamored with myself. (And that's all that really matters, right?)
Sure, I don't have that hour every day. Or most days. Nor do I have the inclination, but one glimpse of a Ghost Whisperer promo is enough to make me want to trade the weeks I spend with cute, shorter hair for the one day out of a season I could manipulate my long hair into something like this.
I suppose we all have our Achilles' heels. I'll count myself luckier than most that Jennifer Love-Hewitt happens to be mine.
Avoiding The Hangover
I saw The Hangover a few months ago, and I thought it was hilarious.
However, as I was leaving the theater, I couldn't help but comment that the movie never could have been made with women as the leading characters.
Now, this has nothing to do with sexism or that I think women aren't capable of such large-scale debauchery and stupidity. (Lindsay Lohan, anyone?) Women can easily go wild, drink too much, hire strippers and think that stealing is a great idea. It's the conversation that occurs in the lobby of the hotel when the guys check in that would have destroyed the trip for women.
Check-in Clerk: So, I have you in a two-bedroom suite on the twelfth floor. Is that OK?
Doug: Sounds perfect.
Bradley Cooper: Actually, I was wondering if you had any villas available?
Ed Helms: Phil, we're not even going to be in the room.
Bradley Cooper then accepts the $4200/night villa on behalf of the guys and has Ed Helms put the room on his credit card. Here's where this would have fallen apart with women:
Woman 1: Why should I put it on my card? What's wrong with your card?
Woman 2: I'll get you back later. It's no big deal.
Woman 1: No big deal? That's what you always said in college. You know I was the only one who ever bought peanut butter. But did I ever get to eat my peanut butter? No, of course not. You always ate all of the peanut butter, and whenever I asked you to buy more, you always said, "It's just peanut butter, I'll get you back next time." But you never did.
Woman 2: Are you really still not over the peanut butter?
Woman 3: It's OK guys. I'll put the room on my card for now.
Woman 2: Oh no, you won't. This is about whether or not one of our supposed best friends trusts me. Do you trust me, Lisa? Do you?
Woman 1: I think that's what you said to me after you fooled around with Tom Jenkins, too. You knew I had a crush on him!
Woman 2: You had a crush on him, but you'd never even talked to him. Was I supposed to avoid all men you had seen and thought you might want to talk to one day?
Woman 1: He was special.
Woman 3: Guys, really. We just want to have a good time this weekend. Can we all relax?
Woman 2: I can't relax knowing I'm traveling with someone who doesn't trust me.
Woman 1: And I don't think I want to take a trip with someone who can't appreciate me ...
And, thus, the trip is ruined, and The Hangover never happens ... for better or worse. You can doubt me, but as a female, I feel like I've got this one right.
What Makes Me Cry
We all have our emotional hot-buttons.
A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite.
I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)
But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.
I blame this on two main components:
1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.
2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.
For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.
When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.
But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.
You'll Have to Take my Word on This One
Now, I know this doesn't count as a celebrity sighting, but I swear that while I was in Florence, I saw the Gorton's fisherman.
I was in Swamper's, the hotel bar and lounge, and a local musician was on stage. The SO and his partners in crime were filming guests enjoying their drinks and fans listening to the music. I looked over towards the bar and saw an older gentleman with a short mess of gray hair and a beer in front of him. He was also wearing -- no joke -- a yellow rain jacket that ran down to his knees.
(I would have taken a picture for the sake of authenticity and verification, but I didn't think the SO would appreciate my taking photos of hotel patrons that look like popular trademarks for my own amusement while he was hard at work. I try not to embarrass him at work -- emphasis on try.)
Of course, what really gave the icon away was the blank stare we're all so accustomed to seeing carved into wooden figurines that populate mantles all over the middle Atlantic.
I can only imagine the stock pile of fish sticks he had in his room.
Pat Conroy, Writing and Family
Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)
I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.
Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."
That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.
"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."
"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)
"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."
Prosthetic Hands, Shower Heads and Niki Taylor's Restraining Order
As most readers have probably figured out, when it comes to celebrities, I like to read about them, judge their choices, and generally discuss anyone who has been on television, in movies or on the radio like I actually know them or have any idea what they're like outside of an interview or movie role.
Every so often, I even have an in-person run-in with a real-life, living, breathing celebrity. (Although, I do use the term "celebrity" pretty loosely.) I've already written about the times I saw Little Richard, Richard Townsend and Juliette Lewis.
When I lived in Chicago for the summer, even though it was only for two months, I was hoping for at least a handful of celebrity encounters -- Vince Vaughn, John Cusack or Oprah, maybe. (After all, I come from Birmingham. The best we can hope for is running into Charles Barkley at Tiki Bob's every so often.) Alas, I didn't see a single famous person in the Windy City.
My life would almost suffer from a dearth of "celebrity" encounters if it weren't for my time in Nashville, Tennessee.
In the Music City, I say Cowboy Troy at an Oyster Bar. (For those unfamiliar with the Cowboy's work, he was at the forefront of a movement known as Hick-Hop, a stunning collaboration of country music and hip-hop. His most famous song, "I Played Chicken With the Train," featured the lyrics "I played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train, played chicken with the train y'all.") He wore a cowboy hat, lots of bling and was surrounded by some, uh, interesting ladies.
I ran into former model Niki Taylor at the Target. (Side note: Niki Taylor is covered in tattoos. And not just Japanese symbols and delicate butterflies. Niki Taylor has some deep ink on her, which I take as a real testament to the power of Hollywood concealers.) Niki Taylor seemed nervous around me. I think she thought I was following her because she was famous. In fairness, I was following her, but it was because she had the attention of the one Target employee in a 100-foot radius and apparently both the super model and I needed shower heads that day. Who knew?
And last but not least, I saw Christian Kane at Joey's House of Pizza. (Yes, I used to eat at Joey's House of Pizza. It was located in a strip mall, had a soup Nazi-esque calzone maker and I don't think I could have loved it more.) For those of you wondering who Christian Kane is, I will acknowledge that unless you were obsessed with a certain vampire slayer and her true love vampire-with-a-soul who got his own spin-off show, you probably wouldn't recognize the name. Christian Kane was lawyer Lindsay on the first two seasons of Angel -- his character's main attribute was a prosthetic hand. I think today he's best known for bad hair and TNT's Leverage.
So, I'm in Joey's House of Pizza kind of staring at Christian Kane because while I think I recognize him, I'm not quite sure. (I have no idea his name is even Christian Kane until I go back to the office and IMDB him.) And Christian Kane is looking back at me kind of like he wants to be recognized. (I do imagine it's an exciting event for smaller stars.) And we're both trying to avoid leaving covered in tomato sauce.
In the end, I never approached Christian Kane. I just didn't think, "Hey, aren't you the guy from the vampire show with a girl's name and a fake hand?" was an appropriate lead-in to conversation. Oh well.
Extreme Wives
Thanks to the glorious WE network, I've discovered a new television show that I cannot get enough of. (Me love Women's Entertainment network? Who would have guessed?)
British reporter and writer Dawn Porter completed a four-part series in 2008 entitled Extreme Wife. (Sidenote: Dawn Porter is totally my new girl crush. She's adorable and adventurous, and I really like what she did in Super Slim Me.) In each part of the series, she examines very different kinds of relationships including polygamy, free love, mail order brides and Japanese geishas.
I watched the mail order brides episode on Tuesday night. (I don't think many Southerners have much personal experience with mail order brides -- rather, I didn't -- but when I lived in Washington, D.C., my roommate and I liked to try and spot mail order brides at national monuments. Maybe there were just a lot more older men who happened to meet younger, foreign women there, but often, it seemed like something more was going on.)
For Extreme Bride, Dawn takes a trip to Odessa, Ukraine with a company that arranges meetings between American men and Russian/Ukrainian women. I now think that the eligible bachelors along for the ride might explain some of why our image is so poor abroad. (I don't want to be accused of libel here, but let's just say that the phrase ild-chay olester-may occurred to me more than once.)
Bachelor #1 tries to break the ice by giving women bags of Jelly Belly jelly beans with Christian cartoons attached. (???) He also has a moustache. Enough said.
Bachelor #2 is nearly 60 and talks a lot about how American women don't know how to be wives anymore. He also has a propensity for walking around without a shirt on, and I think it's possible that a small former-Soviet republic could have been swallowed up by his overhanging gut. (Hey, I know it takes all kinds, but leaving the shirt on would be a nice start.) Has anyone heard from Moldova lately?
Bachelor #3 has an assault conviction. He says it's because the "young girl" he was seeing had a father that threatened him and he had to defend himself. All I know is that I'd be pretty pissed if someone picked up my kid from her girl scout meeting without my permission, too. (Actual details of that last sentence entirely fabricated by me, but I wouldnt' put it past Bachelor #3.) He also cries on a date and tries to hit on Dawn at one point. I think Bachelor #3 should be in prison somewhere. If you are a law enforcement official, please watch Extreme Wife and look through your cold cases.
Despite the fact that Bachelor #3 made my skin crawl, it was Bachelor #4 who I really worried about being allowed in the general population. In summation:
1. Bachelor #4 says that women date him because he has a cool car -- a Ford Mustang. He also brags that his license plate is "BadBoy3" because he's "a bad boy."
2. B4 wants a younger woman because he's "just a kid at heart." His favorite shows are Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. (Cough, ild-chay, cough, olseter-may.)
3. B4 buys his cologne at the Dollar Tree. Dawn nearly gags entering his hotel room for a pre-social interview.
4. B4 describes himself as "sexually aggressive." He likes to pull hair.
5. In addition to the Mustang, B4 drives a van with the back seats removed to make space for a mattress. He says his friends always want to know how he "gets such young girls." (Between this show and Dateline's To Catch a Predator, I'm wondering how many men use "young girls" as a synonym for "women not yet of the age of legal consent." With B4, I imagine "getting young girls" has a lot to do with the Internet, low self-esteem and images he stole out of store-bought picture frames.)
When Dawn tried to follow up with the lovely men, Bachelor #4's phone number had been diconnected. I can only hope he went to jail.
I've left one Bachelor out because with his seeming respect for women and insistence that he wanted to meet someone his age, in comparison, I was starting to think he was a real catch -- despite the all-white three-piece suit.
Considering my fascination with Mormons (only the Fundamentalist ones), I can't wait for the next episode of Extreme Wife. It may be the most exciting thing that happens to me all week ...
Premature Aging?
Thanks to a heads up from my friend Amelia, this has quickly become one of my favorite videos. (And I'm a hard sell as I've always found SNL's fake commercials to be brilliant. This one had to beat out Annuale, Mom Jeans and Schmitt's Gay.)
http://www.hulu.com/embed/VEOwhtHzcXPNH44JcyZaXQ
And, of course, I can relate. My mother will never live down the fact that she once told my father and I she wanted to see Bad, Bad Things despite the negative publicity. While my father stared at her, trying to comprehend, I explained that she really wanted to go to Eyes Wide Shut. (The connection? Chris Isaak's "Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing" played during the trailer.
While I'd like to pretend that only moms are capable of this behavior, of late, I've been making similar mistakes.
I told a group of friends how much I'd like to see Away We Go with Maya Angelou and Jim Krasinski. (Actual stars: Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski.) Half the time I look through US Weekly, I find myself thinking, "Who is that starlet? I didn't know she was famous. Maybe she's from Idols Got Talent or that High School Gym Class movie. I wish she'd get her hair out of her eyes." And once during a particularly wine-fueled conversation about literature, I referred to Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night ...") as Dylan McKay (fictional character on Beverly Hills, 90210).
If I hadn't been drinking on that last one, I'm pretty sure I would have had my M.A. in English revoked.
So, if birthing a child isn't necessary for this kind of confusion, is it just a product of age? Brain chemistry? Changing hormones? Diet? Too many lost brain cells from my misspent youth?
What can I expect next? Rambling stories? Overly rosy references to the past? Referring to every store I visit by the name of the establishment that hasn't been there in 10 years? Clipping coupons? An overt fondness for the Hallmark channel and Matlock?
Oh dear ...
Well, I suppose that if loving The Golden Girls and a good bargain down at the Walgreen's is wrong, I don't want to be right. When does that senior citizen's discount kick in, again?
Super Models Have it Rough
Thanks to Cosmo (a gift subscription, I promise, and something I never would have read apart from the oh-so-ridiculous cover blurb "An Orgasm Almost Killed Her: We Are Not Kidding"), I have discovered the top three reasons I will never look like Victoria's Secret swim suit model Marisa Miller -- apart from genetics and an aversion to exercise, of course:
According to Marisa, one must "cut out soda, salt and booze. They cause bloating, so don't have them before you have to get into a swimsuit."
Oh, Marisa. Sure, you have a life of exotic travel, money and fabulous clothes, but a life withou Diet Coke and red wine? I don't think so. And no salt? Salt is a wonder. Have you ever had the bread at Macaroni Grill? The one covered in sea salt? And don't even get me started on kosher salt. Add kosher salt to a little olive oil, and I would probably eat in on anything. In fact, I find it makes green vegetables and anything whole wheat that much better ...
So, if the choice is soda, salt and booze or bathing suits, my vices are going to win (as per usual). And I think that's the way it should be.
An Open Letter to the Women of Rock of Love and the Teachers of America
As we all know, I love reality television. I don't consider myself a cruel person, but I do love watching people make fools of themselves in front of cameras. And since no one these days can claim that they "didn't know what there were getting into" with any sort of reality program, I don't even feel bad about it.
To that end, I spent most of my Saturday watching Rock of Love 3 and Tool Academy. (I'll get to Tool Academy later, but if you are not watching this show, you are missing out. Nine men are in boot camp so that can stop being crappy boyfriends. One contestant even had two girlfriends, and they switched places on the show in one episode. I ask, what is more amazing: that this dude had two girlfriends who didn't seem all that fazed finding out about the other one or that both of this guy's girlfriends signed him up for something called Tool Academy? Feel free to discuss.)
Anyways, on Saturday's Rock of Love, Ashley (of the near-beehive hairdo) referred to Rock of Love as "an opportunity," and I had an epiphany: This is why teaching English is so important.
If Ashley understood the meaning of the word "opportunity," then maybe her life would have taken a different path.
You see, Ashley, an opportunity is usually considered a good thing. Ask around. Here's what dictionary.com had to say about opportunity: 1. an appropriate or favorable time or occasion; 2. a situation or condition favorable for attainment of a goal; 3. a good position, chance, or prospect, as for advancement or success.
Examples of opportunities include going to a good college, getting a job with a great starting salary and benefits or finding a mentor in your field of interest.
The chance to sleep with Brett Michaels is not an opportunity. It's a chance to get crabs but not an "opportunity." Let's not confuse the two. Other options that should not be considered "opportunities" are meeting a guy in the food court who says he can make you a star if you pose for a few "artsy" photos, keeping the car running while your boyfriend runs into a bank he does not have an account at and letting anyone borrow your kitchen for a project "you're better off not knowing about."
Opportunities will not involve taking off your clothes, playing in mud with other women or crystal meth.
Let's remember: opportunity = good = self-respect. In general, none of these terms will overlap with Brett Michaels, Flavor Flav or I Love Money in any way, shape or form.
And teachers of the world, hold your heads high. Your job may seem thankless, but your efforts could stop the next Ashley, Bikini Girl or New York from making a fool of themselves on national television.
Or, at the very least, you might keep one little girl from making out with a man with a weave.
Reading Out Loud
I suppose I'm on a kick this month, but I'm going to another reading by an author I greatly admire this evening, and I couldn't be more excited. (I'm trying to plan for potential small talk in advance on this one. I really don't want to tell Ann Hood that I'm socially awkward or have her think that I'm mute.)
For those of you who haven't read Ann Hood, I highly recommend picking up one of her books. My personal favorites are her essays, which I will warn you in advance are both beautiful and tragic. Comfort is her newest book, and it is nonfiction.
Many of Ms. Hood's essays are on the subject of grieving her daughter, who passed away at the age of five. In her grief, Hood began knitting as a form of distraction and comfort. The Knitting Circle is a fictionalized account of a woman learning to knit while she grieves.
I discovered Ann Hood during a period of grief when I really was worried that I would not be able to write again. Finding Ann Hood's essay "Love Me Do" in The Honeymoon's Over: True Stories of Love, Marriage and Divorce was a gift to me, and it brought me what I needed most at that time -- someone who had the words that I didn't, and hope that if she could write something so lovely and touching after the pain she had endured, maybe, just maybe, I could write again, too.
Hero Worship, Part II
Well, I made it to Atlanta yesterday. I arrived a few hours before the book signing and talk and even managed to navigate my way from highway to bookstore, bookstore to friend's house, friend's house to restaurant and restaurant to theater without incident. (I contend that a u-turn or two does not qualify as an "incident." I did not hit any pedestrians or get a parking ticket and those are big wins in my book when visiting another city.)
Augusten Burroughs' talk was great. He was hysterical and thoughtful (as I knew he would be), and the Q&A session after his reading was more lively and involved than any I have seen in quite awhile.
But, of course, of all events associated with the evening, I was most excited about the book signing after the reading. The last time I was at an Augusten Burroughs signing, Mr. Burroughs was talking a flight out of town that evening, so only signatures were allowed, pictures had to be brief and you were asked to move quickly so that everyone could get through the line before he had to leave.
Imagine my joy this time around when none of those restrictions were in place. You could request for your name to be included in the signed inscription, there was someone to help take photos and, best of all, there was someone on hand to introduce you to Mr. Burroughs by name.
That's right: Augusten Burroughs said, "Hi, Laurel, thanks so much for coming tonight."
Yes, Augusten Burroughs used my name. My actual name -- not Laurel or Laurie or L'Oreal. And there was eye contact!
Of course, that's also when I, being the huge dork that I am, was struck mute and had nothing to say. (Anytime I have nothing to say, it usually comes as a big shock to my friends and family, but it does happen from time to time.) I'd spent nearly 20 minutes in line trying to think of witty and/or complimentary phrases, but when it came down to it, I had nothing. (Would it be funny enough? What if I came off sounding bitchy rather than snarky? Do I even know how to correctly pronounce most of the words in the English language?)
So, this is how the rest of our conversation went:
Laurel: "No, thank you."
Augusten Burrouhgs: "I really appreciate you're coming out to the event."
Laurel: "Thank you."
AB: "And thanks so much for picking up my work."
Laurel: "No, thank you."
AB: "Thanks again."
I stopped myself from uttering "I'm socially awkward" just after that last thank you, but you can see that there would be no way of knowing I have a vocabulary of more than three words based on our exchange. What I take from it all is this: I'm no closer to my dream of crab-picking and show tunes on the coast, but at least Augusten and I are on a first name bases now ... How's that for seeing the glass as half full?
In my excitement, I also forgot a real camera and had to use my camera phone at the event. I'm trying to pretend like that was not at all embarrassing either.
Hero Worship
It's no secret that I am obsessed with celebrity gossip. I follow the minute-by-minute moves of Jessica Simpson, Angelina Jolie and Lauren Conrad like far more successful people track the stock market. But, in addition to my love of all things US Weekly, I'm also entranced by whole other worlds of celebrity that most people don't give a darn about.
When I lived in D.C., I had "celebrity sightings" galore. "Was that Wolf Blitzer?" "Janet Reno!" "Madeline Albright answers the door for the pizza guy herself?!?!"
After all of these brushes with fame, I'll tell you one thing for certain -- people don't care. Unless you see the president, it's useless. Most of the population tunes out when you talk about spotting Tucker Carlson new the Daily Grill. (Although, I can't really blame anyone for that last one, I kind of tuned out even though I was the one talking.)
And, if you thought it couldn't get worse than political celebrity, in the past few years, it has. I'm now into literary celebrity.
I would love to meet Isabel Allende, and I worry I would be struck dumb if I ever found myself in the same room as Alice Sebold. Those most people haven't heard of and others would never recognize (they never look like the photos on their book jackets in my experience), I would throw myself at while droning on and on about their awesomeness.
Prime example of this: On Sunday, I am driving to Atlanta to hear Augusten Burroughs, of Running With Scissors and Dry fame, speak, and I can't wait. I am mildly distraught because there was a mix-up at the bookstore and I won't be able to read his newest, A Wolf at the Table, before the talk, but I'm trying to persevere.
(In my fantasies, Augusten has no idea what great friends we would be until I impress him with my incredibly witty and insightful comments about his work. Then we'll start spending weekends together on Cape Cod were we cook crab, sing show tunes and laugh uproariously at our comments on an America's Next Top Model marathon. Obviously, not being able to read his latest book before we meet puts me at a great disadvantage in achieving this goal.)
I suppose the lessons here are twofold:
A. I am a bit of a freak, and
B. Beware celebrity gossip. It's a gateway gossip, and if you're not careful, you'll end up hooked on the harder, more obscure stuff -- like where Dave Eggers likes to shop and whether he, too, is "just like us."
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 20 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.
Lost in Translation
Now, it may seem strange to you that anyone willing to admit her love of soap operas, made-for-television movies and Unsolved Mysteries, would still have shows that she doesn't want anyone to know she watches, but it's true. Even I have programming skeletons in my closet.
So, I'm just going to put it out there -- I really like Ghost Whisperer. I'm not sure what it is about the show. On many levels, I still cringe when I remember paging through Seventeen magazine and reading interviews with Jennifer Love Hewitt wherein she insisted everyone close to her called her "Love." I mean, that's simply not acceptable. You don't change your name to a new age name if you weren't born with one. Because, after all, you can't try to be a "Rainbow" or a "Peace." If you're given that name at birth, you live with it, and you own it. If not, you call yourself Jennifer or Emily or whatever else the birth certificate says, just like the rest of the sane world, and you're grateful that your parents are conformists.
And, if for some reason, that "concept name" sneaks its way in via the middle name as in the case of JLH, you push it out with equal force, and deny, deny, deny. You certainly don't ask people to actually call you by said name/unfortunate delusion your parents were suffering from in the wake of a 20-hour labor that made "Love" seem like a good naming choice. (Don't be too hard on them. At least it's not Kal-El Cage.)
(In case anyone is wondering about the Seventeen reference, let's remember that it was 1995, and I loved Party of Five. And, while I didn't want to be Jennifer Love Hewitt, I kind of wanted to be Sarah Reeves because she was the only one that Bailey really loved, and she got to make out with him every week.)
Anyway, I never watched Time of Your Life because I only liked Sarah as an extension of Bailey. And, while I did see both of the I Know What You Did Last Summer films, I was never what you would call a "Love Fan."So, the fact that I like Ghost Whisperer certainly came as a shock to me.
I even avoided watching the show until one post-bad-break-up Friday night when I had no cable and no desire to leave my afghan/ice cream cocoon, and it was a choice between obscure sporting events, the Ghost Whisperer or going to bed before 8 p.m.
Nearly instantly, I was hooked.I think a large part of it is that I'm a crier, and I kind of appreciate the weekly opportunities to let out some emotion while JLH brings closure to a grieving family and helps a soul pass on. Or, it could have to do with the fact that the actor who plays her husband is hot, and it gives a single gal hope to believe that he would marry JLH's character even though she spends countless hours talking to ghosts and playing fetch with a dead dog. (I know it's fiction, but let me dream.)
But, I have to say that as much as I enjoy Ghost Whisperer, the last five minutes tend to make me a little angry.For those of you who haven't seen the show (which I assume to be most people), during the last five minutes of the hour, JLH usually brings the soul of the dead person into a face-to-face situation with the formerly skeptical loved one or friend so that the two can "talk" and get some closure before the spirit feels free to move past this world.
At first glance, you might wonder, "What could be so bothersome about a heart to heart between the dead and the living?"Here it is -- what gets me is that JLH tends to summarize for the dead rather than giving a word-for-word recap. Now, I realize that this is done for the sake of the viewing audience. After all, watching the same speech repeated by two different characters would be pretty boring, and as the audience, we've already gotten the emotional weight of what's being said.
But, still ...If I were getting a message from beyond the grave, I really wouldn't want a medium who editorializes or "puts things in her own words." That seems like the one time you'd want to make sure that nothing is being left our or omitted for the sake of time. After all, it's not like there are going to be a lot of opportunities for clarification or chances to ask questions later.And, if I had traveled across a few metaphysical and spiritual planes to deliver my last words to those close to me, I would hope that someone would be damn sure to get all of it -- WORD FOR WORD.
After a lifetime of dealing with the DMV, utility companies and traffic, isn't it only fair that your clairvoyant of choice repeats your unearthly wisdom rather than condensing it?Is that so much to ask Jennifer Love Hewitt? Is it?