Time Management
Often times, when I'm out and about with my dog, people will ask me what tricks she knows. I will promptly ask Cassidy to sit. ("Sit please" actually.) And, then she sits.Usually this is about the time said strangers or others look at me, seeming to expect more. And, unfortunately, my dog doesn't know how to do anything else. (I'm not even sure you can count sitting as a trick. It seems much more like a necessary command as opposed to a "trick.")
Cassidy doesn't shake, she doesn't roll over and she certainly doesn't catch Frisbees in the air or jump through hoops.On occasion, she will fetch, but that's usually completely on her own terms and not mine — when she's bored, she'll lay down in the middle of the yard regardless of what's going on with our game. I've probably looked for the tennis ball more than she has.
There's really not much to the Cassidy and Laurel show. (Unless, of course, she's dressed up in something seasonal. We do tend to get attention when she's in her Halloween hoodie or Christmas sweater.)I'm sure most of this is to blame on the fact that I don't really like being "active." After all, it only makes sense that a dog would adapt to the lifestyle of its owner. Therefore, Cassidy won't really make it through a rigorous jog, but she's great at spending hours at an outdoor cafe while Bloody Marys or other libations are consumed.
Also, whenever I think about whether or not I want to spend my afternoon training Cassidy, I can't help but wonder about the effort versus return ratio. I'm not sure I see the point to putting hours into teaching her how to lay down. If we're going to spend quality time together, the dog park (where other people might be) or browsing through PetSmart (where I can shop for even more of those seasonal sweaters) seem like much more enjoyable options.
And, even though Cassidy doesn't do any of the "tricks" mainstream America seems so fond of, I happen to think she has two skills far better than any "speaking" German Shepherd or "dancing" poodle.
Cassidy responds to a few particular sounds. In terms of "novelty sounds," her ears perk up at sirens (leading to howls), barks from other dogs on television and Hugh Laurie's voice. (I'm actually serious about the last one, and I think I prove my earlier point about dogs adapting to the habits of their owners.)But, it's Cassidy's response to more useful sounds that makes her such a brilliant dog. Cassidy also perks up when my cell phone rings or the timer on the oven goes off. And, while at first this might not seem all that impressive, please keep in mind that these are sounds I usually don't hear.
When my cell phone rings, Cassidy runs towards it. (This part of her skill is also invaluable since I usually don't hear my cell phone or remember where I put it.) And, when the timer sounds, Cassidy runs to the kitchen. (Without her, I'd probably have even more burned dinners, and that's a terrifying thought.)
So, while I might not be hitting the dog show circuit anytime soon, I happen to think Cassidy is on top of everything she needs to know.It's just unfortunate I can't throw a ringing cell phone around to impress strangers.
Facing Facts
In college, one of my nicknames was "Karen" after the character from "Will & Grace."
For awhile, every time I met a stranger, he or she would eventually say, "Wow, something about you is so familiar. I wish I knew who you reminded me of - I just can't put my finger on it."I would then put their minds at ease with a simple, "Is it Karen from 'Will & Grace'?" which was always met with an, "Oh my gosh, yes! That's exactly it! Has anyone ever told you that before?"
"Once or twice," I'd say.
I think it had something to do with the fact that I often said "my right hand is lonely" while shaking my fingers a bit when it was after 5:00 and we hadn't yet picked a place for cocktails.
In a way, I actually appreciated the comparison even though I wasn't sure how true it was.
Then, a few months ago, when I was in yet another wedding, after the ceremony all of the bridesmaids and groomsmen were supposed to pile into a limo and then kill some time before arriving at the reception.We discussed a few ideas of how to use up 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.
It's My Party
I couldn't think of much to talk about from my present day life (not that that always stops me), so I decided to rely on my childhood for stories once again.
I give you a brief video excerpt from my 7th birthday party. If I had to guess, I think you will probably notice the following elements, in the following order:
a) The Pose: It is a good one, but, in fairness, I had been practicing since 1981.
b) The Dress: I loved that dress - large purple polka dots, floppy daisies and all. After all, it was 1986. I couldn't wait to be big enough to fit in it (probably the last time that ever happened) since it was a "big girl" size, and I was still in the kiddie department.
c) The Teeth.
d) The Walk: I imagine it's rare to find an elementary school student who can sashay like that.
Truth and Tabloids
When Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes started dating, there were reports that her car was so dirty when they first met, Tom couldn't even get into the passenger seat.
Originally, I thought this was nonsense.After all, if I were on an early date, I would make sure that my car was relatively clean. (It's one of those "girl rules" — like smelling nice, refusing to admit you can sweat profusely, and making sure your apartment is clean when a boy picks you up.)Of course, I'm assuming that when Katie first met Tom, she thought he was a normal guy and not some sort of modern-medicine-hating, cult-believing, odd-shaped-bangs kind of fellow. Those are the kind we'll drive away with our non-lady-like behavior. (Wait a second...)
But, then there are days when I look into the back of my own car (which still might be filled with stuff that needs to go to the dry cleaners and post-move-to-Nashville objects that won't fit into my apartment/hovel), and I know that it could happen to any one of us.
The Market
Last night, I stopped by the grocery store for a quick run. (I had cravings for quiche, pigs in a blanket, and a baked potato. Go figure.)
As I was checking out, the guy who worked there looked at the rawhide bone I was buying and said, "Oh, someone has a little doggie." ("Doggie" was his word, not mine.)I just smiled and nodded. (Personally, I really don't like it when strangers comment on your purchases. It only confirms my worst fears about being judged and watched by others. I don't want the Wal-Mart photo tech to tell me "not to worry" because "my photos came out cute," and I certainly don't want the woman at the Western to tell me "that all women go through it" when I'm picking up my monthly Midol and pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. I feel as if these moments should pass without comment.)
But, I tried to be polite anyway.Then, he corrected himself and said, "Or maybe someone has a big doggie..."
"It's a medium sized dog," I replied, almost cheerfully. "She's right in between."
"I guess she's like her mistress then," he continued, "not too big and not too small."
Well, let's just say that that's not what I needed to hear. Some people might infer that this meant I was "just right," be we don't live in the world of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," and I don't like it when the word "small" is not applied to me.
Plus, being told you're not "too big" is hardly a compliment.There has never been a time I've gotten dolled up and wanted a date to tell me that I wasn't too big. Sure, maybe if I was trying to squeeze out of a small opening to safety, it'd be great to hear that I wasn't too big, but next to underground shaft trappings and the like, I think it's a poor choice of words.Maybe women haven't made it clear enough, but you never toss out words like "thin," "light," "tiny," or "petite" and then don't apply them to the lady in front of you.It's just rude.
Luckily, I had all those pigs in a blanket to console me when I got home.
Chores
Yesterday, I went to the laundromat for the first time. At first, I was apprehensive. As much as I love doing laundry (which is actually, disturbingly enough, a lot because I really like making things clean, folding and when I'm done, I kind of get half the high I normally get from shopping because I have so many new outfit options), I was worried that I wouldn't enjoy it nearly as much without being able to watch Lifetime while the machines ran.
But, I was at my dirty clothes threshold (which, incidentally enough, occurs when I have no more socks and am on my third string underwear — I'll save the story of my undergarment classification system for another day), and something had to be done.After a failed venture to Harvey Washbanger's Eat, Drink, Do Laundry (it seems that concept didn't work out too well for old Harvey since the building now contains a Mexican restaurant), I found myself at the Squeaky Clean Laundromat.
Sure, I did feel a little awkward because I quickly learned that if you're the woman in the laundromat, every man there will assume you know everything about washing clothes because of your gender, but after shrugging my shoulders over fabric softener inquiries a few times, most of the men realized I was no expert.
Then, after a few more moments, I was in love.
Apart from the warm, humming environment, here's a list of what I adore about the laundromat:1. The Efficiency. I could do all my laundry loads at the same time, and my clothes were dry within thirty minutes.2. The Pac-Man Machine. Does it get better than that?3. The Soft Rock. I got to hear "Manic Monday" for the first time since I bought a Bangles tape for my pocket rocker in 1987.
In fact, I was about to designate the laundromat as my new, secret happy place (the former title holder being the library), when I found a way to mar the experience.I removed a pair of jeans from the washing machine and started shaking them out so I could hang them up to air dry for a moment. Now, I thought that I had carefully checked all the pockets and made sure there were no socks stuck in the legs, but the difference between my thinking and the truth usually gets me into trouble.I was about two shakes in when a pair of my underwear came flying out of the jeans and landed about ten feet away.
Of course, airborne panties are usually enough of an embarrassment, but since this is my life, the underwear also managed to land right next to the one guy in the laundromat who didn't seem to be doing any actual laundry but just seemed to be around to soak up the atmosphere and yell at the television.He was the last person I wanted seeing my unmentionables, and retrieval under his attentive gaze was awkward, to say the least.
It looks like the library is no longer in danger of losing its special designation. I like that the probability of lingerie mishaps is much lower there.
The Home Front
Lately, the weather has been warmer, so my landlord has been leaving her dogs out in the backyard more often than normal. (Keep in mind that this is Tennessee; the weather is often unseasonably warm.) Other than the somewhat long nails on her dogs, they are generally very sweet creatures, so this really shouldn't bother me.
However (because there always is a "but" whenever I say that I'm not upset - just ask some ex-boyfriends), I do wish she would keep her dogs inside more often, and here's why:You see, my own dog, Cassidy, loves to play with other dogs. And, I mean loves to play with other dogs. (No, not in some weird humping way.) She thinks that every dog is just waiting for her to jump on them, run around, or pick up the opposite end of a tug rope.
Sometimes I worry about her survival instincts since she will try to play with dogs who snarl, scratch, and snap too. God forbid she ever encounter an overly bold opossum or raccoon.
In fact, Cassidy will even ignore me to play with other dogs.
And, herein lies the problem.
Instead of having my four-legged buddy to play games with, follow me around the house, and snuggle, she constantly wants to go outside to play with my landlord's dogs. She's insistent on it to the tune of constantly sitting by the back door.And, while I know that she's a dog and would of course want to play outside with other dogs and doesn't have a real thought process or the ability to "reject" per say, it started to hurt my feelings.
So, tonight when I was at the grocery store, I picked up a special treat. I happen to know that Cassidy adores the real bones that come from the butcher at the grocery. She loves them so much, she will devote hours to finishing one without giving in to any distractions. (Often, while sitting right at my feet.)
Tonight, I came home with a bribe to keep my dog inside with me. I bribed my own pet to spend time with me.I have a feeling that the implications of this could be far more devastating than the initial feelings caused by my dog's "choice." (And that I would be a disaster as a divorced parent.) Therefore, I'm just not going to think about it. (Denial is one of my greatest gifts.)
Isn't it great that Cassidy's back inside with me?
My Confession
As much as I realize that this might hurt my image in some people's eyes, there's something I need to get off my chest. (Not that I think there's much to this "image" of mine, but what I'm about to say is not at all "cool" or "hip." This is even less "hip" than my love of "Quantum Leap," and I bet most of us thought that day would never come.)
For the past couple of weeks, when I've been alone and in the privacy of my own car, I've been giving in to temptation and indulging one of my more shameful guilty pleasures — the love of Broadway.
For months, I thought it was enough to just have the "Rent" soundtrack on hand. Because of the 2005 movie, I figured that there was still some license to owning that one. But, as much as I adore "Seasons of Love" and "La Vie Boheme," it was starting to get a bit stale.Then, I happened to pull out an old mixed CD my sister made me years ago titled "Songs From Our Childhood: Volume 1." As is to be expected, "Songs From Our Childhood," features many of the musical favorites my sisters and I grew up with. Between our parents' and the nanny's tastes, you get an interesting mix of Don Henley, Dan Folgerberg, the theme songs from "General Hospital" and "Unsolved Mysteries," and the ever-popular-with-my-mother Broadway Soundtrack.
At first, I just listened to "On My Own" (the stirring ballad of unrequited love from Eponine in "Les Miserables") a few times on repeat.And, that was good. I found my work stress melting away more quickly as I belted out musical theater standards on the drive home. I was kinder to children and animals. I smiled more.
But, unfortunately, after awhile even that wasn't enough, and I recently found myself at Spin Street in the mall purchasing the Highlights from "Les Miserables" as performed by the original Broadway cast.
Yes, I purchased "Les Miserables." I paid good money for it. I listen to it every day. I might or might not find myself car dancing with jazz hands on the way to and from work.
I had hoped that all of this could stay my dirty little secret. I was content to be a closeted Broadway fanatic. However, it seems like I can't help but give myself away. Today, I found myself humming/almost breaking into song with "Master of the House" much to the surprise of and my embarrassment in front of a co-worker.
I guess we can all be pretty sure that no one will be asking me for music recommendations anytime soon.
Potential?
A few months ago, my mom gave me a big box full of stuff from my childhood - you know the drill, pictures, old book reports, letters, etc. For me, this has been incredible because I find few topics more fascinating than myself. (Hence this whole writing business and the tendency to cause eyes to glass over at cocktail parties.)
While secretly I think that my mother might be exacting some strange sort of revenge by forcing me to be the one who figures out what on earth you do with poorly constructed puzzle piece earrings and a barely recognizable snowman ornament, I've enjoyed my box of memories none the less.
I think my favorite mementos are the old stories. I can only hope I've improved from the days when I wrote a nativity tale that concluded with the statement that Jesus "was as cute as a bear" and The Pied Piper of Hamelin 2 which related the struggle of the "still cripled" Jan who grew up to be an FBI agent hot on the trail of the fugitive Pied Piper.
Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that there's clear evidence I would never be a poet. Exhibit A is my 3rd grade study in verse. Please enjoy:
A Day in Autumn
A day in autumn splashing in the leaves,
A day in autumn doing as you please;
The only trouble with autumn is -SCHOOL!
Wow. Did you see that twist coming at the end? All that rhyming and then we get to the real meat of it all. (In case you missed that stunning revelation, it's written in all caps with an exclamation point. My nine year old self was very careful to make sure the point got across.) And, sadly enough, this is probably the best poetry I ever wrote since a few years later I would graduate to adolescent angst love ballads and half-assed nature haikus.
My best work from the box is probably a little story called The Fancy Soap. In The Fancy Soap, the aforementioned "fancy soap" is new to the bathroom. ("Fancy soap" is beautifully rendered by my drawing of a bar of Ivory with thick, long lashes, bright pink lips, and a mop of curly hair complete with a pink bow.) "Fancy soap" is also pretty snobby. She thinks she's so much better than "regular soap" even though "regular soap" is perfectly nice and has lived in the bathroom longer. Fancy soap is mean to regular soap at every turn and just keeps her nose in the air.
But, then, in an unexpected twist possibly only foreshadowed by my work in "A Day in Autumn," someone comes to the bathroom to wash their hands, and fancy soap's makeup is ruined — much to her dismay. Fancy soap isn't "fancy" anymore, and we all learn a little lesson about pretensions and how beauty is about more than just looks.
I'd like to think of this story as some sort of comment I, as an exceptional child, made on artifice, the need for kindness, and possibly even the American class system.However, knowing me as well as I do, I'm sure the truth is that I was just upset my mom never let me use the small, nicely colored carved seashell soaps she kept in the downstairs bathroom for guests and this was my only means of rebellion against her household tyranny.
Oh well. I guess I might have been off about that whole "childhood genius" thing after all.
Black Friday
Now, normally I'm not one to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving. In fact, usually I'm such a wreck about getting ready for the holidays, I've finished my shopping by the end of October and don't even need to get near the mall for the last two months of the year. (Except, of course, for my trips to Forever 21 and The Great American Cookie Company, but that's personal and not really "gift-related.")
But, last year, I couldn't sleep and thought that I might as well see what it's like to be in a department store at 7:00 a.m. Unfortunately, being with the rabid bargain-hunting crowd taught me two things:
1. Something about being in the presence of a "doorbuster" completely destroys my rational sensibilities. I was loaded up with seven $12.00 digital cameras (as if a $12.00 digital camera could be any good) before I realized that just because everyone else was grabbing at the boxes under the "special sale" sign didn't mean I had to, too.
2. I should not be unleashed on the world in a situation that involves both early mornings and slashed prices.After the doorbuster incident, I found myself at Old Navy in search of discounted performance fleece. I had picked up two jackets that I thought were ten dollars a piece and proceeded to the check-out line.
Now, being the day after Thanksgiving, the line at Old Navy lasted for 45 minutes, but I was willing to wait it out because of the cheap jackets. (I'd also like to add that I don't think waiting in the line was nearly as bad as the "waiting entertainment" dreamed up by overly-peppy retail gurus. I think it's fair to say that I never want to play "purse and pocket raffle." I don't care who has tweezers in their purse. And, having to watch the "sudden death" as to who would win the holiday motif stickers when both middle-aged woman A and middle aged woman B had Q-tips in their purses nearly made me impale myself on a coat hanger.)
When I finally got to the register, the salesperson rang up my items and informed me that I owed $27.80.Unfortunately for all involved, this is when I became incensed with rage. After all, I was there at that ridiculous hour for $10 performance fleece and nothing else. So, that's what I told the sales lady.
"Well," she said, "you pulled out different jackets. One is $10. The other is $15."
Staring at what I considered to be two identical jackets, I was baffled. "But," I countered, "I got both of these off the rack over there that has the huge sign saying '$10" above it."
"OK," she said, "but they're different."
"How are they different?"
"This one has a tab on the zipper, and this one doesn't."
Of course, I thought to myself -- I see why a zipper tab costs $5.
"Fine, then," I said, "I'll take that one and not the other." I then pointed to the one that she just told me was the cheaper jacket."
"Your new total is $16.95."
"But, you just told me the jacket with the tab was the more expensive one. That's why I told you to put that one back."
"This one is the more expensive one. That's why it ran up as costing more." (And she said it as if I was too stupid to understand this basic leap of faith.)
"But, you just told me that wasn't the more expensive one."
"The scanner doesn't lie."
So, by now, I was no longer arguing about $5. At this point, I was angry about misplaced tags, misleading signs, false advertising, UPC scanners, incompetent salespeople, consumerism, corporate America, overly-commercialized holidays, the injustices of the purse raffle game, and the fact that life just isn't fair.
The morning ended when I practically threw the fleece back at the check-out woman and informed her that I was having none of this and never wanted to shop at Old Navy again.
At least I can admit that I think I overreacted.Despite the fact that I can be somewhat dramatic at times, I usually save my more grandiose antics for boyfriends and my siblings. Really, I rarely pitch fits in stores or at restaurants. And, actually having a hissy fit over performance fleece taught me that I just shouldn't shop with the masses.There is more peace in the world when I stay home on Black Friday and use the Internet for absolutely necessary last-minute purchases.
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?
Pacific White-Sided Dolphins and Me
Monday afternoon, I took a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in downtown Chicago.
Other than the penguins, one of the biggest attractions at the aquarium is the dolphin show. After all, who doesn't love a good dolphin?And, because most people do love dolphins, it's quite a popular exhibition. My friends and I barely got seats, and once we did, we still had to wait about half an hour for the show to start. So, full of excitement and animal kingdom wonder, I waited for the big event.
Unfortunately, the show was hosted by Alison*, who, clad in her Shedd Aquarium-issued polo shirt and mom khakis, and equipped with a wireless microphone over the ear, leads the audience on the journey into the "mysterious" world of dolphins. (From here on out, all words placed in quotation marks will be Alison's choices and not mine.)
Even though we never actually met and Alison was never less than 20 feet from me -- we did not get along.She opened the show with an intro she must have stolen from an old show on the Discovery Channel, but embellished with what I assume to be a background in amateur theater. (I will say this for her -- someone taught her to enunciate and someone taught her sweeping hand motions.)
Personally, I don't think anyone should be as confident as Alison was when she asked overdone rhetorical questions like "What about dolphins is fact [long pause] and what is fiction? [second long pause complete with meaningful sweeping glance over the audience] And, how do we separate the myth [pause] from the reality?"
Also, I don't think Alison fell into her work. I'm pretty sure it was a life-long dream to lead the aquarium show, and thinking of this made me feel like I did when I learned that being a character at period attractions like colonial Williamsburg and The American Village in Montevallo, Alabama is a coveted job and not something forced upon people by some sort of over-arching, all-powerful historical monopoly or the work of a particularly creative judge in the penal system.
Some people really want to wear pantaloons, use hybrid accents, and explain the process behind shoeing a horse.But, that doesn't mean I get these people.
Anyway, here was one of the "myths" about dolphins:"Some people say that dolphins are aliens." Now, who thinks that is a reality?"
Oh, my poor, disturbed Alison ...Here's my question: Who are these people that say dolphins are from outer space?!?! Seriously, when have you ever met someone in a rational and non-institutionalized setting who claimed to believe that dolphins were alien creatures? Who the hell does Alison hang out with that she hears this? And, if she has never heard it ,but only got her poorly syndicated Jonathan Frakes hosted Fact or Fiction confused with something from the history channel, what makes her think it is reasonable to repeat it as part of an educational discussion on sea creatures?
I don't get Alison either.
*Names have been changed because I'm insecure and non-confrontational.
Life Crisis
I never thought I'd say this, but I think I may have watched too much Quantum Leap lately.
I know, I know, I didn't think it could happen either, but I believe my love of Dr. Sam Beckett's adventures through time may be affecting my ability to make decisions.You see, if Dr. Beckett really is "putting right what once went wrong" by changing one event in people's lives, that means we all have one pivotal moment in time when we can either succeed or fail miserably.
Now, with some of the episodes, I can see the big moment -- one should not turn tricks because the rent is late, posing naked for a sleazy photographer in the midst of the "Miss Deep South" beauty pageant is bad, if someone is trying to kill you, calling and telling someone about your every move -- even if that person is a "friend" -- usually doesn't work out well, etc.
And, some of these life-changing moments are just based on the fact that Sam has more information than anyone else -- stopping serial killers, saving people from falls off large rock formations in national parks, figuring out that the creepy albino maid has more up her sleeve than just good disinfectant products ...But, it's the simpler ones that get to me -- a well-timed kiss to reunite exes, taking one job over another, telling a young "Stevie" King that he should write scary novels ... What if I don't see these moments?!?!
What if I miss the tiny cue that keeps me from being buried alive in a silo or spending my life surrounded by cats and well-meaning relatives who use me as a cautionary tale of how not to end up a spinster?Of course, the fact that I'm job searching right now (and, oh yeah, have an anxiety disorder) isn't helping either. As sad as it is to say, I may have to stop watching Quantum Leap for awhile.
But, then I remember how much I learn from the show. Just the other day, in the "Private Dancer" episode, Sam taught me how to say "Quantum Leap" in sign language because as a male stripper named "Rod the Bod" he was trying to help a young deaf girl become a professional dancer rather than spending her life as a prostitute. Now, if I ever meet a deaf person, I can quickly discern whether or not he or she is also a sci-fi geek, and, since the only other sign language I know is the first half of the alphabet, we can embrace over our common bond while I repeatedly spell words like "cab" and make horribly interesting statements like "ab bad" (to denote my aversion to crunches) and "gab gab" (to express my interest in celebrity gossip).
Although I could have lived without watching Scott Bakula's attempt at modern dance to bond with the deaf girl, (it was the sweeping hand motions that killed me), I think I took more from the episode than I lost.Which is why, despite my minor protestations, I can never really give up Quantum Leap. It means too much to me. And, I'll just have to hope that my continued devotion to the show gives me greater insight into my life rather than paralyzing my ability to choose for myself.
In light of what fine actors Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell are, I think this is a risk I'm willing to take.
Mine!
I have a pace for walking down the aisle that is near perfect, and I can remember the names of family members and their relation to the bride and groom with about 85% accuracy. With all of the experience I've been getting lately, I really am that good.
Anyway, this particular wedding was for my friend Sarah who I have known since kindergarten. And, since I do have a blog, I thought I should take this opportunity to address a rumor/possibly embellished story that has been bantered about since Saturday's big event: I might have gotten a bit too "enthusiastic" during the bouquet toss, but I would like the chance to explain further.
First of all, I was the tallest bridesmaid in the wedding. This was quite a shock to me. Other than my summer as a Mother's Day Out teacher for two-year-olds, I have never been the tallest person in the room. In fact, I'm normally the shortest person around. During class pictures in elementary school, I was usually off to the side in a little chair because I was the shortest person in the entire grade. And, today, even though I'm pretty average in height, I'm still on the short side.
I tell people that I'm 5'6", but the truth is that I'm barely 5'4". Fortunately, due to a carefully plotted history of lying and never being seen without heels on, most people, including my own family, have no idea how short I really am.
But getting back on task, the point is that I was the tallest bridesmaid, and since nothing like this has ever happened to me, I think I let it go to my head. Plus, it only got worse when I got my hair done, and the hairstylist added another inch and a half to my height with the volume on the crown of my head. I loved it, but there would have been nothing out of place about me performing the best loved hits of "Diana Ross and the Supremes" at the reception.
Well, unfortunately, during the bouquet toss, I was placed next to the shortest person at the wedding. Which means that I may or my not have used my height advantage to grab the bouquet out of her reach. And, there may or may not have been an incredibly awkward moment afterwards in which we both had our hands on the bouquet and wouldn't let go. And, there may or may not be photographic evidence of said event. (I will say this in my defense - eventually I conceded the bouquet.)
There are several factors, other than the height, that might have contributed to my mild wedding faux-pas.
1. I know how awkward it looks in pictures when no one goes for the bouquet, and it just hits the ground. I couldn't let this happen to one of my best friends. After all, humiliation lasts for a few moments, but wedding albums are forever.
2. Weddings make me feel a bit single. A bouquet might have given my hope. Sometimes we all need a little encouragement from the cosmos.
3. Open bar.
4. I had been wearing my super spanx/girdle since 2:30 that afternoon. I was spandexed from just above the knee to right below the boobs. This probably prevented a lot of blood flow to my brain. It's hard to think straight when half of your body is lycra-ed.
And, while all or some of these factors might play a role, I think the biggest truth lies in the fact that I just have quite a competitive edge. I was never good at sports as a child, but when board games or opportunities to excel are on the table, something happens.
At that moment, it wasn't about the bouquet, it was about beating other people. Just like I think you should have to provide the full, given name in Trivial Pursuit, I think you should accept the fact that if someone can grab the flowers out from above your head, you've lost.
What can I say? I come to play, and I play to win.