Kids These Days And Some Women's History
In my 9th grade history class, I ended up on a group project with some other girls that was to be a mural entitled “A Century of Women: 1890-1990,” or something like that.
Now, since we weren’t actually painting on a wall – the whole thing was down on a long roll of butcher block paper – and I can’t draw to save my life, I’m not sure why this was our chosen medium of expression (or why we called it a “mural” instead of a “painting”), but there you have it. I can be pretty sure that the women’s history part was my idea since studying is something I was good at.
I had the early years, 1890-1920, and what stuck with me the most after all of that research is how the invention of the washing machine, and later the vacuum, blender, and every other appliance a man should never buy a woman on a romantic holiday, affected women’s lives. While everyone claimed that these products would make women's lives easier, it was the exact opposite that occurred. Instead of being free from the kitchen and laundry for other pursuits, women were just expected to get more done in a day.
Even then, it seemed like a raw deal.
Twenty years later or so, I feel the same way about technology. Only, whereas my industrious forebearers kept house and tended to families, I use the Internet and Netflix to watch every episode of every random television series I’ve ever liked and play way too much spider solitaire. I haven’t created more free time, but I have created more wasted time.
And even though it might seem frivolous, I do think children of this generation are completely missing out on the struggle it used to take to watch your favorite show. Without DVR or TV on DVD or the beloved live-streaming Netflix, you actually had to be home when your show was on. And, if heaven forbid you weren’t home, you had to trust a crazy contraption called the VCR to record if for you. That was a 50/50 shot at best. How many times did you rush home only to find that you had snow on tape instead of The Cosby Show?
I’m going to guess it happened more than once.
To this day, the only episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer I haven’t seen has to do with a drive from D.C. to Birmingham and an ill-timed VCR. (I plan to correct this shortly thanks to Netflix, but it was still rough. It was the one where Buffy and Spike finally did it for God’s sake. It left my friend Margaret and I with nothing to discuss for most of that Thanksgiving break.)
Perhaps sadder yet (on many levels, this is a dork story if there ever was one), around the time I was 14, I decided to make it my mission to watch every episode of Quantum Leap. (Again, I know I was weird.) Quantum Leap played in reruns twice a day between 10:00 and 12:00 p.m. So, not only did I have to record the shows, but I had to find the time to watch them somewhere between soccer practice, homework and dinner with the fam.
The episodes were also played in order, so if you missed one, you had to wait for the next go-round for a chance to see it again.
Oh, the struggles of my youth.
I remember when I was only one episode away from completing my goal, when I learned that that one episode was actually called “Trilogy,” so what I thought was one episode was really three.
(I know, it’s hard to believe one adolescent could endure so much.)
"Trilogy" played the week I had soccer camp, so being summer, I could watch it when it was on. I had gotten through the first two episodes just fine. I was finally down to the third episode, and last episode of my saga, which also happened to be a murder trial when, I kid you not, this happened:
Scott Bakula was standing in the courtroom, “I’ll tell you who the murderer is here!”
And my power went out -- one minute from knowing the outcome of a salacious plot line and five minutes from achieving a dream.
The next day at soccer camp was a long one.
Of course, I eventually saw all the episodes of Quantum Leap (and learned that sometimes the worst thing is for a wish to come true – oh, life without new episodes of the greatest time-traveling show the world has ever known can be rough), but it took time and patience.
These days, I don’t need either of those. Can’t recall where you’ve seen an actor before? Imdb.com. Forgot it was Modern Family night? DVR. Don’t like to talk to pizza delivery guys? Order online.
Not only are kids not learning about the potential disappointment of missing a favorite show, they live in a world where everything rests at your fingertips 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Yes, it’s my love/hate relationship with the Internet on display for the world yet again. But, it really does make me wonder where we’ll go from here, and whether or not, like the generations before us, we’re still trading “convenience” for stress, worry and longer and longer work days.
When You're Not Out In The Club
Weekend before last, I went up North to hang out with my friend Jane* and meet her new four-month old baby. Our friend Rita joined us, and we had a great time together. On the Saturday afternoon of our weekend, we decided (or really the one of us who is actually a mom decided) to hire a babysitter so that we could go see Bridesmaids (loved it, wish I could be Kristen Wiig, must move on now).
When we got back from the movie, Rita and I decided that it was wine time. This set us off on a slew of questions:
Was the babysitter 21? The answer: yes.
Should we offer the babysitter a glass of wine? I mean, we’re Southern, so it feels rude not to ask, but she is the babysitter and has to drive. We went with “no” on that one.
Is the babysitter going to judge us for drinking at five? Does she think we’re the lush friends of our suburban mom friend? The answer to that one is probably a sad yes.
I could have sworn that yesterday I was babysitting to supplement my income (and due to the Great Recession, “yesterday” is probably closer than you’d think), and suddenly I was on the other side of the babysitter scenario. I do not know when this happened. (In my head, I’m 17. Seriously. I just wish my face would stop giving me away.)
The next day, the babysitter came back so that Jane could drive Rita and I to the train station and the airport, respectively. While I was trying to hide just how much wine S and I actually drank the night before, we struck up another conversation with the babysitter.
“So, did you go out last night?” Rita said.
“Not really,” the babysitter said, “I was pretty tired.”
I decided to ask my own questions about where she liked to go and what there was to do around town.
And then it happened. I should have seen it coming, but it was a little like a freight train – not really welcome, but unstoppable. Within five minutes of what should have been a very innocuous conversation, I started to relive my “glory days” that were, if you know me well, not really so glorious. (I thank the magazine writer who put a piece in something I read about how she spent most of her early ‘20s in a bar bathroom stall crying about some dude or other before getting her act together. It gave me far more hope than any older adult or mental health professional at the time.)
Before I knew it, Rita and I were on a little bit of a roll. These are the kinds of phrases that came out of my mouth:
“I actually had a fake id that said I was 30 for awhile. It came complete with a social security card. Can you believe that?”
“Hey Rita, remember when I used to have a beer or two while I wrote my summer school papers? Did I really think Latin American economic policy and Bud Lite were a good mix?”
“What was that guy’s name we met in Adams Morgan over Spring Break? Didn’t somebody make out with him?”
And my favorite, which I believe I threw in there as I was walking out the door (a parting gift if you will):
“Don’t worry about having a gay ex-boyfriend or two. It happens to all of us.”
?!?!?!
In a way, my hope is that the babysitter got bored and stopped listening to us pretty quickly. Otherwise, I have a sinking suspicion she went home that night hopeful not to turn into the older crazy lady that was disposing of wine bottles and reminiscing about her borderline-indecent going out wardrobe from college.
*Names have been changed.
Truth And Fiction
Sorry for the short post today. Other than the big news coming about my Bissell SpotBot, it's been a less-than-creative week.
When I was working on my Master’s degree, I signed up for a fiction workshop one semester. Actually, I am no good at making things up. It’s the very reason I write creative nonfiction.
I cannot lie, I cannot cover for anyone and if you want to commit or have committed a crime, do not tell me about it.
Naturally, all of my fiction was based on my life, which is why it was so incredibly upsetting to go through a workshop and have the primary comment be, “This premise just isn’t believable. Something like this would never happen.”
(In case you’re wondering, the story in question was about a married couple with squatters in their back yard. At the time, my great aunt and uncle were trying to deal with some vagrants that had taken up behind their house – in Southside.)
So, whether or not anyone believes me when I write essay and memoir, at least I’ve gone ahead and called it truth to try and avoid that particular criticism.
For God’s sake, I have an anxiety disorder and occasionally still suffer from night terrors, and I was born on Elm Street.
The only time I almost got in a bar fight I was at a place called "The Trailer Park."
And, as I’ve said so many times before, I’ll never write a joke as good as this: My senior year of college, I took “Social Inequality” with Ivanka Trump.
She defended Reagan-omics, shock of shocks.
Sister Wives '70s Style
Today, I am grateful for two things:
1. I am not Daryl Hannah or Peter Gallagher, so I don’t have the movie Summer Lovers on my resume or imdb profile.
2. I did not come of age in the ‘70s or early ‘80s, so the subconscious soundtrack to my youth does not feature music from this time frame. (As always, Dan Folgerberg, you are excluded from any and all criticism.)
I was going to put that I was just glad that I didn’t come of age in the ‘70s until I learned that Summer Lovers was actually made in 1982. Based on the quality of the film, I did not see that one coming. (It also messed with my title, but I left it anyway.)
For those who haven’t had the opportunity to see it, and I wouldn’t recommend that, Summer Lovers is the tale of a couple abroad that learns to expand their horizons and defy convention, or some kind of early ‘80s new age crap of a similar vein. I just think of it as Sister Wives 1.0.
Why did I watch this movie? Because occasionally Netflix live-streaming and I have an unhealthy relationship, and after awhile, Summer Lovers is too much of a train wreck to look away from.
In the movie, Michael (Peter Gallagher) and Cathy (Daryl Hannah) go to Greece the summer after they graduate college, and inspired by the lack of inhibitions around them, strike out on a new path that involves living together with a French woman named Lina.
The movie thrives on two main principles:
1. Michael has to have an affair with a French woman that he meets because his “whole life has been planned out for him.” Really? We’re going to continue to trot this one out. Really? All I could hear in my head was James Van Der Beek saying “I don’t want your life” in Varsity Blues, and I actually preferred his acting to Peter Gallagher’s. (That’s right, I just made Varsity Blues a superior film.) Why can’t we just be honest and say that Michael has an affair with a French woman because he’s young, he’s a man and he can? The psychological subtext is weak, to say the least, and even though his girlfriend Cathy can’t see through it, I think the rest of us do.
2. Cathy can only enjoy self-discovery and liberation from Puritanical American values by not only accepting Michael’s love of Lina and overcoming her jealousy, but also falling in love with Lina, too. Or, as the rest of us call it, low self-esteem.
For anyone who thinks I watched this movie for the “sexy” scenes, let me assure you that there are none. (I think it’s a big mistake to make a movie with “lovers” in the title and not have good sexy scenes. I also think this movie would have really benefited from some better love scenes, and I think it’s rare to find that gem of a film that would be improved by taking more cues from porn.)
There is lots of nudity, but it’s all early-‘80s-at-the-beach nudity. It’s not pleasant. Also, having been to Greece, I can assure you that the beaches are not teeming with naked, attractive young people. Most everyone who takes advantage of the “optional” part of “clothing optional” is eligible for AARP membership or could really benefit from a few less gyros.
Now, you would think this movie might explore themes like what happens to a relationship of this sort or even what happens when summer ends. (Vicky, Christina, Barcelona is a good movie after all.) Summer Lovers doesn’t.
Spoiler Alert: Instead, you get this – once Lina the free-spirited European realizes that she might be developing feelings for Michael and Cathy, she runs away with someone who looks like he escaped from the set of Xanadu. She’s afraid of getting close to people. Saddened, Michael and Cathy decide to end their trip to Greece three weeks early. They are just about to board a plane off the island, when Lina arrives on a moped after doing some soul-searching. The very fact that she would ride a moped shows that Lina has broken through her own barriers since she swore the horrible scooters off after spraining her wrist during a particularly arduous moped outing for the threesome. (During this part of the movie, I mainly thought about how that sprained wrist must have been a real bummer for Michael.) Lina wants Michael and Cathy back, and the movie actually ends with a still shot of the three of them frolicking on the beach.
Clearly, I’m not speechless, but I’m having trouble here. Someone wrote this, someone else decided to throw money at it, and then someone convinced Daryl Hannah and Peter Gallagher it would be good for their careers. I find that both impressive and sad. (It’s similar to the feeling I get when I read some published authors and then count my rejection letters or watch Julia Stiles.)
My favorite scene was when Cathy’s mother paid the couple a surprise visit with her friend, only to find Lina living with Cathy and Michael. Later, the three of them then show up for dinner with Mom and gal pal.
In the end, I took two very important lessons from this film:
1. It’s hard on a couple when your girlfriend breaks up with you.
2. Your mistress should not join you for dinner with your mom. It’s just bad manners and makes everyone feel uncomfortable. Mistresses should stay home for family functions.
Also, "I’m so Excited," "Just Can’t Get Enough" and Chicago’s "Hard to Say I’m Sorry" – all featured on the soundtrack – are now ruined for me. If there was any music that I wouldn’t have minded from this era, thanks to Summer Lovers, it’s now dead to me anyway.
In the future, I think I need to take more caution with my Netflix recommendations. Clearly, the video service and I don't always see eye to eye, and considering my love of Lifetime, I could watch every bad movie in film history before this is over if I'm not careful.
The End Of An Era And A Day of Mourning
All My Children and One Life to Live were cancelled yesterday. (AMC and OLTL for those of use in the Soap Opera Digest know.) While this may not seem like a big deal to some, it’s the end of a very special era for me, and dare I say it, America.
I have never hidden my love of soap operas. Without them, I probably wouldn’t be the slightly dramatic, prone-to-hyperbole gal that I am today. My secret wish in life has always been to be a soap actress (preferably playing my own evil twin as well). I believe soap operas taught me as much about dialogue as any other writing. If you think about it, that’s all that really happens on a soap anyway.
I may not have watched a soap in years (I got too old for the drama. Once my couple is together, I want them to stay together), but that doesn’t mean my love for the characters or the genre is at all diminished.
Perhaps more important than my personal loss is what this means for television. Is this just another nail in the coffin of scripted television? Will our children grow up on reruns of Nancy Grace, Judge Judy and Jersey Shore? Will Maury’s paternity tests go on indefinitely? Will Cheaters be the default for tired moms folding laundry throughout the day?
On soap operas, despite the shenanigans, the good are eventually rewarded while those who lie, trick and manipulate are punished. Can I come even close to saying the same thing about any of the Real Housewives? No.
Even taking me and the fate of television out of the equation, who will teach the children? How will they know all that they’re missing?:
1. The L-Shaped Sheet: That special sheet used in post-coital daytime scenes to cover the woman to her sternum and the man to his waist.
2. How easy and inevitable it is for the heir from the right side of the tracks to fall for the girl from the wrong side of the tracks (most likely after a lifetime of playing together while her mother worked in the rich people’s home).
3. A kinder, gentler and generally more attractive mafia.
4. Is there a better memory exercise than keeping tracks of characters’ changing last names? I’m not convinced.
5. The aforementioned evil twins.
6. The common, everyday nature of long-lost siblings and children.
7. The inevitability of aging – how toddlers will go upstairs in the Spring and re-emerge as teenagers during May sweeps (usually just in time for Summer story lines to capture the teen demographic).
8. Hospitals run by three doctors that don’t need specialties because they have to treat every problem from pregnancy to trauma in a town of 40.
9. The real emotional toil of amnesia and multiple personality disorder.
10. Paternity tests limited to two candidates – one’s loving husband/boyfriend and the ex you accidentally slept with while thinking your loving partner was cheating on you.
11. How to run a city with only cops, lawyers, doctors, competing corporate magnates, models, the help and the staff of one restaurant/night club/coffee shop/country club.
I’m nervous about a world without Oprah, Susan Lucci or Erica Sleazak. Someone please hold me and tell me it’s all going to be OK.
The Things I Think But Do Not Tweet
No offense, but it seems like psychic Alison Dubois really should have called Camille Grammer's divorce at some point on Real Housewives.
Why don't I tweet it? Because after that particular episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I'm kind of terrified of Alison Dubois. (I'm really glad I've already enjoyed my years of Medium viewing.) Seriously, I'm afraid. She brags about knowing when people are going to die?!?! This is no good for someone with an anxiety disorder and people-pleasing issues. I really hope she doesn't get into the double-digit pages of Googling herself.
And I know we all miss things, but just from context, Kelsey had already run off to New York for two months without his wife. It seems like this one could have taken more "educated guess" than "psychic prediction."
My Trinity And Good Intentions (With Video)
I fully believe the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Of course, I’ve also always hoped the adage wasn’t referring to a literal hell. I just figured it was pretty obvious that we all get more than we bargain for when we try a little too hard ... [Read more]
The Top 7 Moments In Soap Opera History
I have a long history with soap operas. From even before I can remember, I know that I watched soap operas. I came from a household with a working mother and a nanny as well as a region of the country with occasionally unbearably hot summers. In short, it was bound to happen.
In case you’re wondering, I’m an ABC girl. I can recount plot lines and family connections going back over 20 years from All My Children, One Life to Live and General Hospital without batting an eye. I gave Days a try for awhile in high school, but everything moved so slowly and then there was an actress playing four different parts, including a nun with terrible teeth, and I had to give it up.
My freshman year of college, as we were reviewing an essay of mine, a professor said, “Have you ever thought about being a writer?”
“Not unless it was a soap opera,” I thought, and I forgot about the whole conversation for another five years.
There were times I would have given my right eye for a column in Soap Opera Digest, but eventually I got to a point where I just couldn’t handle it all. It’s too long a story for most of you, but let’s just say that it began when they broke up Jon (who, yes, used to be my cell phone screen saver) and Natalie on One Life to Live and officially ended when they put Jason and Sam back together on General Hospital. I can’t remember the last time I watched a soap, and sadly, I don’t think I’ll go back. I like my couples strong (Joey and Pacey), and I like it when TV writers accept that certain people belong together no matter how many other relationships they have to explore (again, Joey and Pacey).
I also have two theories about soap operas: 1) Any man who has ever watched a wrestling match cannot bitch about soap operas. They’re basically the same thing, soaps just tend to have better acting (especially if you’re on ABC) and 2) Say as much as you want about groundbreaking television, but most social taboos have been broken on daytime long before they hit the prime time scene. Ryan Phillippe played a gay teen with AIDS on One Life to Live in 1992. That’s got quite a few years on Will and Grace or Glee (both of which I love before anyone gets too worked up).
This past week, I discovered that the website I worked for in Nashville finally came down. While this wouldn’t be that big of a deal to most people considering that the company itself dissolved in 2007, I’m feeling a little bit like I lost a year of my life. My writing samples from that time were on a computer that underwent a major virus attack and I barely survived the recovery process with my family photos and thesis work in tact. And, yes, I had time to take all of those samples off the web, but I just never quite got around to doing it. Of the 100 or so pieces I wrote while I worked there, I think I’ve gotten about 20 back.
(I’m throwing a pity party of one, but despite my own procrastination and role to play, losing any of my writing – no matter how bad – is hard for me. I never really thought “Cat Scratch Fever: Seven cat breeds perfect for your family” would launch my career, but I still miss it.)
Fortunately, for you and me, one of the many pieces I’ve been able to save is a list I wrote on soaps. (Like I’ve said before, I spent most of my early publishing career as your go-to gal for Top fill-in-the-blank lists.) So, without any further ado (Lord knows there’s been enough all ready), I give you my Top 7 Moments in Soap Opera History (with YouTube web links):
1. Katherine's Cosmetic Surgery
The Young and the Restless
In 1984, Katherine/Kay Chancellor (played by Jeanne Cooper, veteran actress and mother to actor Corbin Bernson) had her real-life face lift written into the storyline of the popular daytime drama The Young and the Restless. Cooper was filmed, bandages as all, as she had the surgery and recovered. This was the first time such a merging of fiction and reality occurred on television. Years later, in 1997, Linda Dano would follow Cooper's lead when she had her face lift procedure written into the storyline for her character, Felicia Gallant, on Another World.
2. Marlena's Possession
Days of Our Lives
In a storyline that was often mocked yet still fascinated viewers, Days of Our Lives took a page from The Exorcist when Dr. Marlena Evans' body was taken over by the devil in 1994 and 1995. During this time, Marlena (Deidre Hall) was prone to levitating and having her eyes turn green. Luckily, the love and priestly skills of Marlena's better super couple half, John Black, prove enough to save her from the dark side.
3. Erica's Visit to the Clinic
All My Children
In 1973, infamous soap character Erica Kane (Susan Lucci) was an up-and-coming model who found herself with a dilemma – her career was taking off, and she was pregnant. Unbeknownst to soap husband Jeff Martin, Kane decided to terminate the pregnancy, and the first legal abortion was addressed on daytime television. In 2005, history was made again when Josh Madden showed up in town, and it was revealed that the doctor who supposedly performed Kane's procedure in 1973 had actually transplanted her fetus to his wife who carried the baby to term. (That last medically-impossible part doesn't seem to leave much room for follow-up.)
4. Noah and Luke's Kiss
As the World Turns
Hot button social issues are nothing new to daytime. In 1987, a woman suffering from AIDS made her first appearance in Pine Valley on All My Children. In 1992 on One Life to Live, a gay male teen named Billy Douglas (portrayed by Ryan Phillipe) stirred things up in Llanview. All My Children made headlines again in 2003 when the first romantic kiss between female characters was aired. Yet, it wasn't until 2007 that As the World Turns made soap history with a lip lock between Luke Snyder (Van Hansis) and struggling-to-come-out-of-the-closet Noah Mayer (Jake Silbermann). Once you throw Noah's strict military dad into the mix, you've got the recipe for great daytime drama.
5. Luke and Laura's Wedding
General Hospital
True Luke and Laura fans have trouble picking out the top moment for the super couple that puts all other super couples to shame. These two have certainly had their lows – there's Luke's rape of Laura in 1979, the discovery of Laura's son by a Cassadine in 1996 and Luke's attempt to account for the rape to the couple's confused son, Lucky, in 1998. But, their highs are just as great – misadventures on the run from Frank Smith, the birth of Lulu, a reunion in 2006. Yet, the crowning moment for Luke and Laura will always be their 1981 nuptials. With millions of viewers and a cameo by Elizabeth Taylor, this moment in soap history is hard to beat.
6. Reva's Dip in the Fountain
Guiding Light
As the indomitable Reva Shayne Lewis on Guiding Light, Kim Zimmer has wowed audiences and taken home four daytime Emmy awards. Despite years of plot twists and turns, Zimmer is probably best known for a 1984 scene in which the actress stripped down to her skivvies for a dip on the patio of the country club where she "baptized" herself the "slut of Springfield." Zimmer's performance is incredible, but it's the combination of formal wear and biblical imagery that makes this moment truly special.
7. Karen's Testimony
One Life to Live
Some soap moments are great for their outlandishness; others feed our fantasies of love or comeuppance. And some captivate us for their humanity. Such is the case with the 1979 testimony of Karen Walek (Judith Light) on One Life to Live. Walek is married to kind-hearted, unsuspecting Dr. Larry, when she is forced, under oath, to admit her past as a prostitute. The cold-hearted drilling of the D.A. stands in stark contrast to the desperation and self-loathing of Light's character as she watches her world unravel before friends and family. Light's performance amazes, and this is a television moment that truly leaves the audience breathless.
I wasn't kidding about loving my soaps -- or my Judith Light.
My Top 5 Road Trip Play List
Being tone deaf and a huge nerd, my iPod is an embarrassment or riches – if you really love show tunes, Shakira and soulful girl ballads about break-ups. (When I was going through some old CDs from the mid-90s, a friend commented, “I didn’t realize you were a lesbian in high school.”) I have been making mixes titled “Mellow Music” since I was about 14 ... [Read more]
Volvo Off The Court Excellence Award*
*For those of you who don’t just come to my blog for Georgetown/Volvo stuff, I offer you the alternate title “In Which Laurel Attempts To Write About Sports.” I feel like that should provide some potential amusement ... [Read more]
A Crime Against Criminal Minds
Criminal Minds happens to be one of my favorite shows on television. Sure, it’s formulaic, and yes, the quotes read as the jet takes off each week can be a little cheesy, but I still love the show. (For those who don’t know, it’s about a special FBI team that profiles particularly hard to catch serial killers known as the BAU, Behavioral Analysis Unit.) Thomas Gibson, Paget Brewster, Shemar Moore and all the rest are welcome at my house any time.
(If you’re wondering how anyone with as much paranoia as I have can watch a show about serial killers every week, I’d like to remind you of two points, 1. I still can (barely) draw the line between reality and fantasy and 2. With Criminal Minds, I’m pretty much guaranteed that the bad guy(s) will get caught.)
The show also lets me indulge the fantasy part that I would be a great criminal profiler. I’ve always thought it would be awesome to be a cop with a desk job. No way, no how do I want to run after bad guys or face armed people, but the idea of solving crimes and putting together clues – awesome. Considering my occasionally obsessive mind, I think I’d be good at it. Criminal Minds has also led me to believe that the FBI employs PR people just to feed the right clues to the media. In my new role as a freelance PR person, I have decided this would also be a cool job although I doubt its existence.
Last year, during what I thought was one of the best seasons of Criminal Minds, I found myself crying and yelling “Aaron” at the TV screen (because obviously after five years together, Thomas Gibson’s character and I are clearly on a first name basis) as Agent Hotchner faced off against the man who had killed his wife. (The SO really thought I’d lost my mind on that one.) I’m also convinced Agent Prentiss and Agent Hotchner are totally in love with one another, but that’s another story for another day.
Spoiler Alert: So, considering my love of Criminal Minds, you can see why I’d be particularly wary whenever they introduce a new character (especially since they already had a great character in JJ before they let her go). Last week, said new character was introduced, and I am not happy.
My issue isn’t necessarily that they introduced a new character; I knew it was inevitable. My issue isn’t even that they introduced a new character who looks just like the old character they’re replacing. My issue is that the new character totally sucks as an FBI agent. Let’s examine:
The new agent was brought in because murders were happening in a gated community, and traits of all the supposed suspects were too homogenous. So, new character being – wait for it – the daughter of a serial killer, was coming in to identify traits in the families that might tip the team off as to who the killer was. She grew up with a serial killer, so she’d know what the daughter of another serial killer would act like. Makes sense, no?
As an aside, the fourth murder happens while the team has called together all of the community residents for a meeting about the murders. The woman who doesn’t go to the meeting gets killed. Note to everyone: if your neighborhood is being taken out one by one, don’t stay home alone while the police and FBI and EVERYONE YOU KNOW head to the local church for a briefing. There’ll be plenty of opportunities for peace, quite and “me” time once the psycho stalking your streets is caught.
Now, let me get back to our new agent. Instead of getting anywhere close to identifying the serial killer, she decides to settle her own demons and apologize to the family of one of the victims because she never got a chance to apologize to her father’s victims. So, without telling anyone or taking a firearm, she marches over to the house of the third victim.
Of course, the husband of the third victim also happens to be the serial killer, which means our supposedly brilliant and very-sensitive-because-of-her-dark-past agent not only can’t help identify the serial killer, she walks straight into his house. He even negotiates with her three times when she says “no,” and any Oprah viewer can tell you there’s trouble when a man turns a single “no” into the beginning of a negotiation.
How is she saved? Hotchner calls her cell phone and she doesn’t really answer his questions, so he, being a good profiler and FBI agent, goes in to save her butt.
Not only is she a terrible profiler, walking into the murderer’s house and all, but she probably got him killed because we all know that a normal Criminal Minds episode ends with a chase scene and Shemar Moore tackling the suspect. This one ended with the suspect being shot. Need I say more?
Then, our new agent spends the whole plane ride home crying about how tough it was and how she’ll never go out into the field alone, and unarmed, again.
Do you know what I’m crying over? The fact that a show built on the premise of incredibly perceptive and intelligent FBI agents solving the most difficult and disturbing crimes there are would allow this dolt as part of their team. For God’s sake, a bloodhound would do more for them than this kid.
It is my hope that we won’t see Miss Great-at-the-obstacle-course-but-really-clueless-about-everything-else again – unless the team decides to use her as bait during a sting. That I could get behind.
Impatient and Decisive, Not Always the Best Combo
I like to think of myself as a decisive person. I don’t linger over choices for too long – what color the bedroom should be, how many towels we need, what appetizer to order. I don’t like to linger over major decisions either – when I was offered a job in Nashville, I accepted it over lunch without even asking for 24 hours to think about it. I didn’t know anyone in Nashville, the pay wasn’t enough, but it was the only offer on the table (sorry for another bad pun), so in the span of about 45 seconds, I said “yes.” The SO knows that if we are faced with the end of the world, I want to see it through to the end. There will be no suicide or standing on the beach before the tidal wave for me. (I made that choice in about 20 seconds while watching some asteroid movie, and I don’t intend to go back.)
(Now, there are a few decisions I can’t, and probably never will make, but that has more to do with knowing myself than anything else. Never ask, “If you ever got a tattoo, what would it be?” My answer is that I would never get a tattoo. I have commitment issues, and I’m certainly not putting something permanent on my body when I’m usually tired of my “favorite sweater” after about four days.)
Truth be told, maybe it’s not that I’m decisive, it’s just that I’m impatient. I don’t like lingering, considering or going back and forth. If a wall color doesn’t work, repaint it. If a college doesn’t work, transfer. Can’t pick between two different colored sweaters? Buy both and return the other. (It also helps to only shop at stores with liberal return policies, save receipts and keep pertinent essays on file should you choose to live your life in this manner.)
Awhile ago, I decided that I would rather regret the things I did than the things I didn’t do, so I have a very hard time with the idea of opportunities passing me by. I once flew across an ocean because of an “I miss you." (In addition to saving receipts, one should also be prepared for a little heartbreak with this approach to life.)
Many of the decisions I do make, while they might seem impetuous, have been running around in my head for months, and thanks to the Internet, I can do lots of research before having to present a plan to potential nay-sayers.
A few years ago, after a lay-off and a bad break-up, I decided to get out of dodge. I took some money from a savings account and found a sub-let on an apartment north of Wrigleyville in Chicago for the rest of the summer.
By the time I had my plan in place, I approached my parents with a very familiar phrase, “Here’s the thing …”
After 20+ years, they’ve come to expect that this intro means I will either be relocating, changing schools, tearing down walls in my home, heading to a foreign country or possibly in need of bail (only kidding on that last one, knock on wood).
Yet, this past Saturday, I was a near wreck at Lowe’s when I couldn’t choose a color for the kitchen walls. I wanted chocolate brown, burnt red or some shade of orange, and the SO had to intervene.
“Remember,” he said, “when it comes to resale, most people like neutrals.” Not only was I reminded that I’m weird (I love color, what can I say?), I also became lost in a world of tans, taupes and sands. And if anything drives me crazier than cell phone rings that are animal sounds, it’s being unable to make a decision.
After 30 minutes, I let the guy who mixes the paint at Lowe’s make the call. “I’d go with that one,” he said. “It’s a little dark for my taste, but I like how plain it is.”
Plain? Plain? I took the paint and hung my head in shame.
Unfortunately, while this breakdown at Lowe’s probably should have been expected, it’s the harbinger of what to come when I can’t make choices that worries me most of all.
As sure as I can be when I’m making most decisions, there’s nothing like a little bout of depression to make me start questioning each and every one of those decisions – nearly dating back to whether or not I gave up the pacifier too soon.
When I was pretty sure I needed to transfer colleges, I didn’t just worry about the choice I’d made for school. I worried about the job I’d taken summer after my senior year of college, if I should have applied to schools further away from home/closer to home the year before, if I should have taken pre-cal my junior year rather than skipping it for straight-up calculus, whether Habitat for Humanity would have been a better club to join than Key Club.
After college, when I hated my job it was whether or not I should have studied abroad, where I should have studied abroad, if I should have majored in history instead of government, if I stopped taking French classes too soon, whether or not living off campus my senior year was the best choice, if I should have tried to make more friends, if I went out too little, if I went out too much.
Whenever my life doesn’t seem to be quite what I’d like it to be, rather than finding the strength to make a plan, get on a path and start working towards a new goal, I seem to need to spend at least two weeks questioning exactly where I went wrong in the 20 years beforehand.
Right now, I’m wondering if I sabotaged my career (forever, by the way) by never having lived in New York. If you want to write, you go to New York, right? You meet other writers. You spend long hours at magazines writing paragraphs that get torn apart and never carry a byline until someone lets you interview George Clooney and suddenly your piece is the cover of Esquire? True?
I was reading the memoir Please Excuse My Daughter this week, and when the author talked about the professional photo shoot for her contributor photo, all I could think about was how I’ve been on two contributor pages, and I had to crop my friend out of a beloved photo because it’s the only picture I think my hair looks nice in. I’m hardly complaining about the exposure and breaks that I have gotten, but I seemed to have missed a turn somewhere.
Even Chicago or L.A. would have probably been a good idea. If it’s not what you know, but who you know, what have I been doing all this time?
When I spent the summer in Chicago, I had a call back from Playboy for an fact-checking position, and I jumped on it. (They really do have articles.) By the time the editor-in-chief called me back (Wednesday to Friday, by the way), they’d already found someone for that job but wanted to “keep my resume on file.” That’s the last I heard from them.
Then again, when I have lived in bigger cities, it nearly drove me insane. Living in big cities is great – when you’re not poor. New York, Chicago and L.A. are meant for people with money. While it’s wonderful to have the world at your fingertips, if you have about $12.00 in expendable cash each month, there’s not a lot to do.
Plus, I think it should take less than three hours to go to the grocery store, less than 30 minutes to park and under an hour and a half to get home from work.
The big cities and I probably wouldn’t have made it together, but I still can’t help but think about it from time to time – would I still be toiling away in obscurity if I’d gone to New York at 21? Will I toil in obscurity forever? Does it matter? Maybe it’s not the place. Maybe it is the talent. And, if that’s the case, I have even more to worry about.
So, while I cannot offer any career advice to anyone (except to return editor’s phone calls immediately, even if it doesn’t work out, and not to turn down Oprah, ever), hand me a gift registry to choose from or ask what to read next, and I’m the gal with a quick answer.
In Which Laurel Discovers the Most Indecent Halloween Costume of Them All
I love Halloween. I could pretend that it goes back to a childhood love of free candy (and I really do like free candy), but it these days it's a little more than that.
Nowadays, what I primarily love about Halloween is spending a ridiculously long amount of time carving elaborate pumpkins (I've convinced myself it's a skill) and dressing up in outfits that would be considered "slutty" on any other occasion.
I'm 30, so time is running out on the latter, and I have to get out as much of that last urge as I can (be it annually) before the girls hit my waist. I already decided to get rid of all of my free alcohol-themed baby tees (nothing says "class" like "Stoli" emblazoned across your chest in rhinestones) and a particularly demure black tee that said "Hottie" in silver capital letters across the front at a garage sale last year. (I had fun in college -- and very little fashion discernment it seems.)
I tend to start thinking about my costume around Labor Day and then make a few returns and/or excahnges at Party City before the final reveal that last weekend of October. In recent years, I've gone as "naughty" Dorothy, Elvira and Silk Spectre II from The Watchmen. (Can you tell at which point I began dating a comic book lover?)
This year, I quickly honed in on Lilah from Jonah Hex (it reminds me of a modern saloon girl) and the Black Widow from Iron Man 2 (I love me some ScarJo). Both seemed like fun, and once I started with superheroes, I figured, "Why not keep going?"
However, there was something about the Lady Gaga costumes that kept calling to me.
I don't have particularly strong feelings about Lady Gaga, so all I can figure is that I really, really wanted the Lady Gaga wig to add to my collection. (Yes, I have a wig collection, and wearing wigs -- of the outrageous variety -- makes me very happy. Did I once throw a party whose only theme was "wigs"? Yes.)
Neither Lilah or the Black Widow would require a wig seeing as I already have long brown hair, and lessons-learned-from-the-recession Laurel is trying really, really hard not to buy things she doesn't need. Even though the Lilah wig is only $16.99, but bygones ...
I e-mailed the Lady Gaga costume photos to a friend (to see if it was too slutty), and her comment was something along the lines of, "Uh ... yeah ... that would be pretty daring."
Assuming the costume was just a blue leotard with a big collar and some cut-outs on the sides that would be lined with mesh, I still had hope. "What if I got those nearly opaque cheerleader tights that are kind of shiny and can almost seem like leggings?" I wrote back.
"Maybe," she said.
So, today, despite all of the reasonable warnings, on my third trip to Party City since September 1, I decided to try on the Gaga costume. The result, ladies and gentlemen, was not pretty. Be warned.
What I had assumed would be leotard/possibly Legg Avenue-esque concoction was actually more like a dicky with external shoulder pads and a butt flap attached -- you know, for modesty. There wasn't even fabric on the back -- nothing ran from the top of the bum to the neck. And those cut-outs? They weren't cut out of the suit. They never existed as part of the costume to begin with.
While I normally would not be willing put such a photo on the Internet (because God knows I've never posted unflattering photos of myself before), inspired by my friend Jen West and her amazing, bikini-clad documentation of her recent diet and fitness plan, as well as feeling that this post really does need a visual, I give you the most terrible and most indecent outfit I have ever put on my body.
The final blow? $49.99 for less than half a yard of fabric probably imported from China for $.35.
Parents of the world, beware: your child does not need to dress as Lady Gaga. Unless you want her to end up in soft-core porn or are willing to make the costume yourself. And women out there over the age of 21, just don't do this to yourself. Really. There are other, far more positive ways to gain men's attention.
For the first time, I actually think being a pop star probably isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially if you have a particularly aggressive stylist.
And next year, I might go back to that sheet/ghost costume.
Four Movies That Make Me (And Only Me) Cry
I've said it too many times -- love that fourth wall. So, without further ado, the list:
4. Hotel for Dogs
It's a kid's movie. Emma Roberts stars. Dreamworks and Nickelodeon produce. What could go wrong, right? Well, throw in homeless dogs and kids in foster care, and apparently, I just can't cope. About an hour into the movie, I became convinced that all of the dogs would end up at the pound, where they would most assuredly be euthanized, and Emma Roberts and her little brother would never find a forever family or see their dog again. This thought spiral led to intense waterworks.
"You know there's still half an hour left in the movie, right?" the SO said. "Everything is going to work out. This is Hotel for Dogs, Laurel."
"It may work out in the movie," I said, "but that doesn't mean it would work out in real life."
A real life hotel for dogs?!?! Feel free to be just as bewildered as the SO. I guess in the absence of a good reason for crying during the actual movie, which was, of course, going to turn out fine, I decided to blame my tears on the tragedy of real homeless dogs and children in the foster care system. It's a legitimate reason to cry, but the truth is that those little four-legged critters running from the law (and the very presence of Don Cheadle) just got to me.
3. Frequency
Now, this movie is genuinely touching. A recently-separated-from-his-wife son finds a way to connect with his dead father through an antique radio in the back room of the family home he inherited. There are firemen, baseball games and '60s nostalgia. It's a lovely and magical combination. A lot of people probably teared up.
Most people probably did not cry so hard that they had to remain in the theater past the credits to compose themselves.
I have a special place in my heart for Dennis Quaid, and I do love James Caviezel. (Confession: I didn't see Passion of the Christ because of the controversy or the violence or the fact that I'm not Catholic, etc., etc. I didn't watch the movie because I had issues with the idea of being sexually attracted to Jesus. There, I said it -- it's kind of nice to have that one off my chest.) But, it was something about a family getting to be that wasn't that, well, kept me in the theater trying to get it together long past the last scene.
You know it's bad when strangers seek you out in the dark. "Are you going to be OK, princess?" a very kind gay couple asked me on their way out.
2. Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events
I love kids books and I love kids movies. (Holes is another favorite, and I did get choked up on that one, too, but I'm trying to maintain my forward momentum.) I particularly love the way that the Lemony Snicket books are written, and I recognize that they are a bit darker than your standard children's fare.
In fact, I don't even think I'd be embarrassed to have cried so much during this one if I hadn't been with actual children at the time.
You see, I took my nine- and seven-year-old cousins to see Lemony Snicket while they were out of school for Christmas vacation. They thought Jim Carrey was funny. I held their hands when the snake got away. We were having a good time. Then, right at the end, came that montage about "sanctuary" and what it means, and I was a mess.
"I'm ready Laurel," Cousin #1 said as soon as the film ended.
"In just a minute."
"Can't we go yet?" Cousin #2 said, much more emphatically.
So, we left the theater in a throng of children and their parents -- my cousins happy as larks and dry to the bone while I trailed behind them puffy-eyed and sniffling.
1. Road Trip
I know what you're thinking -- Stiffler and Tom Green made a movie that brought anyone to tears for a reason other than pure embarrassment for their careers/parents? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is yes. (But, no, it was not a prostate joke that caused the crying.)
Just after my sophomore year of college, I found out that my boyfriend of a few years was cheating on me. (We were young and at different schools, and it was bound to happen, but the end of first love is the end of first love. To say that I was a little vulnerable would be like saying Alabama's gubernatorial candidates are kind of conservative.) To keep me from staring at photos or the ceiling and asking "why, why, why," my cousin decided to get me out of the house for awhile.
"Staring at Russell Crowe makes everyone feel better," she said when we got to the theater.
We were supposed to see Gladiator that day, and Gladiator probably would have been a good distraction. At least I didn't have to deal with an evil emperor and fight strangers to the death, right? Maybe I could have found a little perspective there.
"We're sold out for Gladiator," the guy behind the ticket counter said.
"What about the 3:45 showing?"
"We're all sold out for both," he said.
"How about a comedy then?" my cousin said, turning around. "Some laughter will do you good."
Her logic was spot on. The only trouble was that the entire premise for Road Trip is that the main character, who goes to a different school from his girlfriend, cheats on her, makes a tape of it and then accidentally mails said tape to the girlfriend. The whole road trip that gives the movie its name is a desperate attempt to get to the girlfriend's college before the sex tape does.
Let's just say that I didn't cheer up that day.
Also, a large number of teenage boys probably thinks that they saw that film with someone with severe emotional and/or psychological issues sitting in the theater.
Part 2: My Top 10 TV Tearjerkers
Picking up right where we left off, with my great love for the fourth wall and all, here's the second part of my list:
5. Medium: Very Merry Maggie
So, I dig the shows where people talk to dead people. I can't help myself. In this one, the D.A., Manuel Devalos, and his wife Lily are dealing with the anniversary of their daughter's death. The wife has hired a supposed psychic to communicate with their daughter, and the D.A. becomes very angry. He then asks Alison about his daughter but all she does is write down the name of a place without realizing it.
Later, as Devalos and his wife are driving to visit their daughter's grave, they get into an argument. The wife thinks she should have come alone. They pull the car over. (Right past a sign with whatever word Alison had written down.) Devalos argues that when people are dead, they're just dead, and that's all there is to it. He can't get on board with his wife's need to believe in more.
They're out of the car having this argument, when they walk into a field of white zinnias (their daughter's favorite flower) blooming in the middle of January. And for a moment, they both believe and know their daughter is somewhere else, and she's OK.
It kills me. Every. Single. Time.
4. Dawson's Creek: All Good Things ... Must Come to an End
I won't lie to you. I stopped watching Dawson's Creek after season four. Season three was awesome -- Pacey buys Joey a wall, Pacey pulls the car over to kiss Joey after her disastrous weekend with college boy, Joey kisses Pacey while "Daydream Believer" plays in the background at Dawson's aunt's house, Pacey and Joey dance at the anti-prom and he knows that the bracelet she's wearing is her mother's and it all ends with the two of them taking off on a boat for the summer. It was perfect.
And then they went and f-ed it all up. They broke up Pacey and Joey. They made Joey and Dawson sleep together. (One word: ew.) Oliver Hudson shows up. Eh.
None of that means I was going to miss the end of a show I had loved very, very deeply. Plus, I had to believe that Pacey and Joey would finally end up together after all of that other nonsense.
What I didn't count on was them giving Jen a heart condition five years in the future. It was destined to be a train wreck. The scenes between all of the characters were too much for me, but when Jack tells Jen that she belonged to him, I really lost it. I still have this on VHS -- that's how attached to it I am.
3. ER: Dr. Greene's Death
I can't narrow this one down to a single episode, but let's just say that I did not handle Dr. Greene's terminal cancer very well. My roommate at the time threatened to keep me from watching ER because every episode ended with my face swollen and red from tears. Anthony Edwards is one fine actor.
Then came Hawaii and "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." I still think it's some of the best writing that ever was on television.
2. Buffy The Vampire Slayer: Becoming
Now, I had plenty of Buffy moments, too. After all, they killed Buffy off in the end of season five. What kind of show kills off its own main character?!?! Then, they brought her back, but she was miserable because she'd been in heaven that whole time -- not hell, as her friends had assumed. They kill Buffy's mom. They sent Giles away. They killed Kendra, Anya and Tara. This was not a show that it was wise to watch if you became easily attached to characters.
However, the end of season two is one of the most dramatic in the entire series. Angel, the love of Buffy's life, has no soul because they slept together, and he experienced a moment of perfect happiness, so he lost his soul because of an old Gypsy curse. (That makes complete sense, right?) He's been super evil since, hanging out with his old bad vampire buddies and all, and Buffy has been miserable.
Then, when Angel finally gets his soul back, it's after he's begun the process of opening the hell mouth, and the only way for Buffy to close it is by driving a sword through her now soul-restored great love.
My phone rang immediately after the episode ended, and there was no talking on the other line, but I automatically knew it was my friend Margaret, and she and I both just cried into the phone for a good 20 minutes. My high school soccer coach gave me a condolence card the next day because he knew how much I watched the show. For a teenage girl, that one was beyond rough, and I don't own the series DVDs today because I'm not sure I could handle it much better now either.
1. Lost: The Final Journey
Why is this one number one on my list? Because I'm still not over it. Literally. I've watched it three times and still just keep on crying. I've thought of turning to message boards to work out my emotions. Jack and his dad. Jack and Kate. Sawyer and Juliet. The dog. My list goes on and on. After all, I'm the girl who cried for an hour when Charlie died, and I'd know for three months that Charlie was going to die. You can hardly say it was the shock that got to me.
Say what you want to about Lost, but I think this show was phenomenal and forever changed the way television is made. Who knew what you could even do on the small screen before Lost? The cast of characters. The complexity. The acting. Come on.
I also think for those of us who tend to get a little attached and over-think, what this episode/series was really all about -- redemption and peace, is pretty powerful. I think what the creators of the show did manage to give the viewers -- for all of the characters -- is beyond impressive. I'd say more, but those final two and half hours speak for themselves, and I'm already a little misty as I type over here.
Should I ever get to the point where I can have a conversation about the show that doesn't involve crying, I'll let you know. Until then, I've just given you all of my kryptonite in a way. Want to keep me away from your party or make sure I stay home knitting for a few days? Just put one of these on the television. I'll be useless for days.
If You Weren't Aware, I Don't Lack For Opinions
In case you read yesterday's Birmingham News and were wondering what topics other than Facebook, my love life, why I always lose my car keys and how much I should spend on foundation and eye liner that I like to grossly over-think and over-analyze, pro wrestling happens to be one of them. (P.S. This is not really a kid-friendly post.)
I hope you all had a lovely weekend!
Dear Laurel?
I have always wanted my own advice column. (Maybe it has something to do with all those Ann Landers clippings my grandmother sent me over the years.)
It's not that I think I'm in any way qualified to give advice. (Although, if you work at a lifestyles magazine long enough, you learn pretty quickly that most "expertise" from anyone without a Dr. in front of his or her name is made up of learned on the fly. I used to run a relationships channel for God's sake -- as a 27-year-old single woman whose best friend at the time was her dog. And my Top 7 lists? A whole lot of Google.) It's not even that I like to give advice, really, since I'm always afraid someone will try to reciprocate in the process.
It's mainly that I find the entire idea of an advice column pretty ridiculous. Why would anyone need life tips from a stranger at the newspaper in the first place? Can they not think for themselves? Do they have no confidantes? Are most of life's situations -- apart from anything Stephen Hawking is working on -- really that baffling? I think not.
For most letter-senders, it seems to me that either a) the advice-seeker is an idiot, b) the advice-seeker has gotten the same answer from anyone and everyone else in his or her life, so is therefore desperate for one, and only one, person to take the other side or c) the advice-seeker just wants any excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do in the first place.
I once read a Dear Abby column that went something like this: "My husband is very close to a woman from work. They talk on the phone for hours every night. They even go on vacations together -- without me. My husband swears that this is just a platonic relationship, and if I trusted him more, I wouldn't be so upset. What do you think?" -- Troubled in Tulsa
In this case, the advice-seeker is clearly an idiot. If it doesn't occur to you as you're writing these words on a piece of paper, sealing them in an envelope, affixing a stamp and walking to the mail box that your husband is a two-timing jerk, I don't know what will. My advice? "Hey Troubled -- your husband is cheating on you and has been for years. He is also a liar. Move out and take all of his money." Love Laurel.
(Of course, this could also be an example of b) because I imagine that this woman has been told by everyone she's ever opened her mouth to that her husband is cheating on her and his behavior is not normal, but she's just not quite ready to accept it yet.)
Another letter I read said something to the effect of: "I've been married for 20 years, have four beautiful children and a loving husband, but I've been talking to my high school boyfriend on the Internet for the past few months and think he might be the real love of my life. We only broke up because he impregnated my best friend our senior year, but I know we've both done a lot of growing up since then. My husband is great and all, but don't you think I should give Frankie another chance? How often do soul mates come along after all?" -- Lovelorn in Laredo
Again, we've got some b) as I'm guessing none of this woman's friends support her decision to leave her husband for Mr. Facebook, and also some c) because for this woman, maybe, just maybe, if Dear Abby or whoever says it's OK and all, Lovelorn can throw away her life, drive her children into intensive therapy and live out her days with Frankie (who might or might not have ever earned that GED and require "just a little spending money" to get through most of his days) with little to no guilt.
I also think I'd like that advice column because sometimes I think that Dear Abby's answers really suck. (Note to Jeanne Phillips, you are not your mother.) Ask Amy, Carolyn Hax and Savage Love are up there for me, but that's another story for another day.
Here's an excerpt from Sunday's paper:
DEAR ABBY: I work in a doctor’s office. One of our patients makes abig scene if we do not address him by his title — “Reverend Smith.” Hehas to tell everyone within earshot that he went to school for eightyears to get that title. He insists that, out of respect, we shouldaddress him as such.
Abby, this man is not my reverend. So far, I have avoided calling him this. Am I being disrespectful, or is he being pompous?
Unimpressed In Louisville
DEAR UNIMPRESSED: You are not only being disrespectful, but alsopassive-aggressive. Because this patient has made clear that he prefersto be addressed by the title he has earned, you should use it.
Now, I have to say that I don't know anyone who goes to school for eight years to earn the title of Reverend. (And I live in the bible belt for God's sake.) It seems to me that if you have Ph.D. in divinity, maybe you can ask to be called Dr. But Reverend? Can't we let that one go? The nice part of me would tell Unimpressed to call the gentleman "sir." It's respectful, but refuses to acknowledge how full of himself he is. The passive-aggressive part of me would advise her to call him "Joe," but only if that wasn't his name. He'd spend so much time trying to get her to remember his first name, he'd probably forget all about the Reverend stuff.
Another note to Dear Abby about her Sunday column -- it ended with "CONFIDENTIAL TO MY READERS: Happy Fourth of July, everyone!"
Dear Abby: a) The moment you put something in the paper, it's not confidential, and b) when you're addressing all of your readers (and not just Sue in Salem who's having trouble with her best friend and doesn't want her letter to be printed), why can't you just freakin' say "Happy Fourth of July"?
I guess I want that advice column because of the ire Dear Abby causes me. Maybe I'm more magnanimous and just want to point out to all of those advice-seekers that the answers have been with them all along. Or, maybe I just like to boss people around.
I'll let you decide.
Not What I Wanted to Hear From Paula Deen*
Last week, the SO and I had to make an impromptu visit to Savannah, Georgia for some family matters. Between both of our work schedules, we also knew that we'd probably get to spend less than 24 hours in town.
After the SO price-lined our hotel (one of his favorite activities), I jumped on the web link he sent me to check out the amenities we would be enjoying in the 14 hours between check-in and check-out. Of course, there was your standard pool, restaurants and fitness center, but what immediately caught my eye was the advertised proximity of Paula Deen's The Lady and Sons Restaurant.
I like to think that Paula and I have a lot in common, and the short list includes a love of butter, cheese, cheese grits and deep frying.
Knowing that we were going to be cutting it close by rolling into Savannah just around 9:00 p.m., I asked the SO to call and see if we might make a reservation for the last seating. I also figured that even if they were booked, there would hopefully be a bar where we might be able to find open seats and order dinner.
The he broke the news to me: "They only take reservations for parties of 10 or me. I'm sorry."
I was disappointed, but figured it was still worth a walk down to the restaurant when we arrived. It was only 9:20 at the time, and plenty of people were still milling about the streets and dining in the open windows of restaurants. Also, sometimes, when I look sad or wear low-cut shirts, people give me things -- tables, free movie tickets, the fresher peaches from the back of the store. I was going to ask, and I was even willing to pull out all of the stops.
As we approached the restaurant, I could see at least five tables still full of diners, and when we walked through the door, I spotted the buffet. (A buffet? I mean, come on. That's a server's dream -- the completely low-maintenance dining experience. Plus, presented with a challenge and given the chance, the SO and I could have more than done our damage at the buffet and been out of the restaurant before closing time.)
"Are you still seating?" I asked the host when he approached.
"No," he said. "I'm sorry. We stopped seating 20 minutes ago."
Please keep in mind that I am within 30 feet of hot fried chicken at this moment.
"But, if you want," he went on, "you're welcome to come back at 8:30 in the morning and line up for tomorrow night's reservations."
Now, while I knew that this was the parties-of-less-than-10-reservation policy at The Ladys And Sons Restaurant before this moment thanks to the SO's iPhone research, I hardly expected to be confronted with it as a viable alternative to my present hunger and proximity to fried deliciousness.
"Yeah, sorry lady, you can't eat right now, but you're more than welcome to come back ELEVEN HOURS LATER at 8:30 in THE A.M. so you can LINE UP for a CHANCE at reservations"?!?!
This is your counter-offer? Really? How is this supposed to motivate me? Let alone how is this any kind of incentive to come back to your restaurant? Lines? Mornings? I think not.
We walked away, and my guess is that we will never go back. I can be stubborn, and more truthfully, the odds of me waking up in time to make it anywhere by 8:30 when I've lost an hour between the Central and Eastern time zones is slim to none.
So, when it comes to fried chicken, I guess it's just me and Zaxby's for now. With their chicken nibblers at my side, I think I'll find a way to persevere.
* Clearly Paula Deen herself did not turn me down (and I still refuse to believe that she would), but you have to admit that using her name makes for a far better headline than "Not What I Wanted to Hear From the Random Savannah Host."
My Beef With Robert Redford
A few weeks ago, someone mentioned a new movie with Robert Redford that was coming out.
"Idon't think I'll see that. I just haven't been able to forgive him forThe Way We Were," I said. "I've given it a few years, but it's stilljust too hard for me."
"Uh-huh," she said, giving me the "you'rean odd over-sharer" eye, "well, I'm able to separate actors from thecharacters they portray."
"That must be nice for you," I said enthusiastically. Then, I changed the subject.
I have trouble letting things go (surprise, surprise), and I've been known to hold the occasional grudge. I try to forgive, but I don't always forget.
When you combine this little shortcoming of mine with the fact that I am the perfect audience, trouble can ensue. (The Waitress incident is only a small example.) In fact, there are two actors I can seemingly never forgive -- and not in that Tom Cruise way of "why did I waste two hours of my life on Vanilla Sky" kind of way. I can't forgive what they did on screen.
I don't hold grudges for the actual personal lives of stars - a la Tiger Woods, Jesse James and Brad Pitt -- but when it comes to the characters they play, it's a whole different story. My head may know actors and characters are two separate entities, but my heart just hasn't gotten the message. That being said, here's my problem list:
1. We'll begin with the aforementioned Robert Redford. I adored Sneakers, The Natural and A River Runs Through It. His directorial debut, Ordinary People, was one of my absolute favorites, and then I saw The Way We Were. I watched RR/Hubbell cheat on Katie, I saw him give up on her when things got too hard, and I heard him ask about the daughter he wouldn't raise before running off to the blond he'd replaced his wife with.
The worst line for me in the whole movie? When Hubbell is talking to his best friend J.J. on the sailboat near the end of the film. Hubbell has already slept with Carol Ann, and J.J. admits that Carol Ann has left him and California. Then J.J. says that it doesn't really matter because Carol Ann "was no Katie."
I cried like a baby.
After the first time I saw The Way We Were, my boss asked me what was wrong the following Monday. She said that I didn't seem like my usual self. "Did something happen over the weekend? Is it your family? Are you feeling all right?"
"It's none of that," I said.
She continued to look at me with concern.
"I watched The Way We Were last night."
"Oh," she said, and she nodded.
"Men just leave, don't they?" I said. "It gets hard and they go. It's easier for them to go, isn't it? Why is it so much easier for them to leave?"
I was 22 and a little dramatic, but a movie from 1973 had reduced me to tears in front of a woman 40 years my senior. In short, The Way We Were broke me.
Her response? "It is easier for men to leave," and we talked for 30 minutes about RR, Barbra and romantic relationships.
I can barely watch the film these days. If I do, I start crying duringthe opening credits because I know what's coming, and I can hardlystand it. And no matter what Robert Redford does, I see Hubbell standing in the middle of a home movie theater telling Katie he'll only stay until the baby is born, and I just hate him. It's beyond irrational, but I haven't been able to shake it in eight years. He just should have stayed with her -- despite all the McCarthyism and whatnot.
2. Jeff Daniels also makes my list. Jeff Daniels, I don't care that you are the lovable patriarch in Arachnophobia. Pleasantville, Dumb and Dumber and The Butcher's Wife mean nothing to me. (That last one for different reasons, but still.) For me, you will always be Flap from Terms of Endearment.
And Flap went into his wife/Debra Winger's hospital room as she was dying and told her he wouldn't raise their three children. Flap said he was going to go off with his terrible mistress Janice and abandon their children while the woman he married and bore his kids died of cancer.
Again, my disdain is completely irrational, but it is what it is.
On the other hand, there are two other actors who I can apparently accept in any situation or role.
1. I adore Ted Levine. It does not bother me at all that he hunted Jodie Foster down with night vision goggles in Silence of the Lambs. I don't even care that he uttered one of the creepiest movie lines ever -- "It puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again." When he's Captain Leland Stottlemeyer on Monk, he's Capt. Stottlemeyer, and I love him. I love that he fights for Adrian, their often-strained relationship and that, in the end, you know they're best friends. Trying to sew a suit of human skin never even occurs to me when I watch him go a-crime-solving.
I could probably watch the movie and the series back-to-back on USA and not bat an eye.
2. I also like David Boreanaz. When he was Angel, I only wanted him to be with Buffy. But, when I see him now, I don't see Angel. I see Seeley Booth. And Seeley Booth can love Temperance Brennan without my thinking he's cheating on Sarah Michelle Geller. It's all good.
Clearly, there are a lot of X factors here: acting ability, story line, character development, my sanity ...
but, in the long run, there's no telling who will end up on either list.
Hollywood take note, and choose your roles wisely: Laurel Mills is watching.