Lost Overload

I have watched 23 episodes of Lost in the last 72 hours. (Don't judge me too harshly -- most of that was Memorial Day.) I'm a little behind -- it's season three. But, I have to watch it all sometime, and I want to know as much as I can before tonight's two hour season finale. Yes, I should probably watch in order, but I can't stand knowing Lost is on and not watching it.

I love Lost. Obviously, you're thinking, but like most true fans of the show, I really, really love Lost. I think television was invented so that one day something as amazing as Lost could be shown to the world. A few weeks ago, I asked my cousin if he was in to the show.

"Nah," he said, "I missed the first season and I can't imagine that I'm missing all that much by not watching."

"But, you are," I said. "You are missing out."

"OK," he said, smirking as if I was joking as per usual.

"No, really," I said. "There is something missing in your life that you don't even know is missing until you see Lost. You have no idea what television can be without it!"

Then he got scared and suggested we drink more change the subject.

Although, as much as I love Lost, and as excited as I am about the season finale, I do not recommend watching this many episodes in a row. When I e-mailed a friend about my viewing habits, he e-mailed back, "I am not sure that is healthy. You may need to take a break. Has your reality been compromised?"

It's a frighteningly intuitive question: has your reality been compromised? When I spent the weekend watching season one of House, I expected people around me to collapse at any moment from bizarre illnesses. With Quantum Leap, I looked at my friends and family members a bit more closely. (Could they be time travelers in disguise?) Arrested Development led to an even more pronounced inner monologue.

As for Lost, well, other than having spent most of my day wondering how Jack and Kate are doing and looking at maps of the Pacific Ocean, nothing has been that different ...

On the other hand, it might be time to take that break ...

The Other Laurel Mills

Every so often, I google myself. (Yes, that means exactly what it sounds like -- I type my own name into Google's search engine to see what pops up.) What can I say? I find myself fascinating. Also, to discuss amongst yourselves: To what degree is an Internet presence today's gauge of how much one matters/how successful one is?

Those of you with dignity and whatnot can pretend that you never engage in such time-wasting, self-indulgent shenanigans, but I still won't believe you. I think, apart from noticing the occasional celebrity or world news event, most of us find ourselves to be our own favorite subject. This explains the number of mirrors in most homes, the joys of scrap booking and the prevalence of ancestry as a hobby. (Feel free to discuss this last concept amongst yourselves as well.)

Unfortunately for my often-flailing self-esteem, it takes many pages of "laurel mills" Google search results to find the Laurel Mills penning this blog post. There is a town in Virginia called Laurel Mills (a place I think I should be official queen of, but that's another story for another day) mills in Laurel, Mississippi and Laurel, Maryland as well as, perhaps worst of all, another, far more successful and acclaimed writer by the name of Laurel Mills.

Sigh.

But, it's not the other writer Laurel MIlls' bigger talent that concerns me the most about this. (I'm always willing to be mistaken for someone more successful and more talented.) It's that the other Laurel Mills is known primarily for lesbian fiction. The tags "lesbian interest" and "lesbian writing" are most commonly associated with her search results. In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, not that there's anything wrong with that, but as a single gal with mostly married friends, I need all the help I can get. And, on the off, off chance that a single, straight man picks up a copy of a magazine called Lipstick and decided to google me, I'd really rather him know that I'm straight, too.

You can find out about the other Laurel Mills (pictured), lauded poet and author of Undercurrents, here.

Hero Worship, Part II

Well, I made it to Atlanta yesterday. I arrived a few hours before the book signing and talk and even managed to navigate my way from highway to bookstore, bookstore to friend's house, friend's house to restaurant and restaurant to theater without incident. (I contend that a u-turn or two does not qualify as an "incident." I did not hit any pedestrians or get a parking ticket and those are big wins in my book when visiting another city.)

Augusten Burroughs' talk was great. He was hysterical and thoughtful (as I knew he would be), and the Q&A session after his reading was more lively and involved than any I have seen in quite awhile.

But, of course, of all events associated with the evening, I was most excited about the book signing after the reading. The last time I was at an Augusten Burroughs signing, Mr. Burroughs was talking a flight out of town that evening, so only signatures were allowed, pictures had to be brief and you were asked to move quickly so that everyone could get through the line before he had to leave.

Imagine my joy this time around when none of those restrictions were in place. You could request for your name to be included in the signed inscription, there was someone to help take photos and, best of all, there was someone on hand to introduce you to Mr. Burroughs by name.

That's right: Augusten Burroughs said, "Hi, Laurel, thanks so much for coming tonight."

Yes, Augusten Burroughs used my name. My actual name -- not Laurel or Laurie or L'Oreal. And there was eye contact!

Of course, that's also when I, being the huge dork that I am, was struck mute and had nothing to say. (Anytime I have nothing to say, it usually comes as a big shock to my friends and family, but it does happen from time to time.) I'd spent nearly 20 minutes in line trying to think of witty and/or complimentary phrases, but when it came down to it, I had nothing. (Would it be funny enough? What if I came off sounding bitchy rather than snarky? Do I even know how to correctly pronounce most of the words in the English language?)

So, this is how the rest of our conversation went:

Laurel: "No, thank you."

Augusten Burrouhgs: "I really appreciate you're coming out to the event."

Laurel: "Thank you."

AB: "And thanks so much for picking up my work."

Laurel: "No, thank you."

AB: "Thanks again."

I stopped myself from uttering "I'm socially awkward" just after that last thank you, but you can see that there would be no way of knowing I have a vocabulary of more than three words based on our exchange. What I take from it all is this: I'm no closer to my dream of crab-picking and show tunes on the coast, but at least Augusten and I are on a first name bases now ... How's that for seeing the glass as half full?

In my excitement, I also forgot a real camera and had to use my camera phone at the event. I'm trying to pretend like that was not at all embarrassing either.

Hero Worship

It's no secret that I am obsessed with celebrity gossip. I follow the minute-by-minute moves of Jessica Simpson, Angelina Jolie and Lauren Conrad like far more successful people track the stock market. But, in addition to my love of all things US Weekly, I'm also entranced by whole other worlds of celebrity that most people don't give a darn about.

When I lived in D.C., I had "celebrity sightings" galore. "Was that Wolf Blitzer?" "Janet Reno!" "Madeline Albright answers the door for the pizza guy herself?!?!"

After all of these brushes with fame, I'll tell you one thing for certain -- people don't care. Unless you see the president, it's useless. Most of the population tunes out when you talk about spotting Tucker Carlson new the Daily Grill. (Although, I can't really blame anyone for that last one, I kind of tuned out even though I was the one talking.)

And, if you thought it couldn't get worse than political celebrity, in the past few years, it has. I'm now into literary celebrity.

I would love to meet Isabel Allende, and I worry I would be struck dumb if I ever found myself in the same room as Alice Sebold. Those most people haven't heard of and others would never recognize (they never look like the photos on their book jackets in my experience), I would throw myself at while droning on and on about their awesomeness.

Prime example of this: On Sunday, I am driving to Atlanta to hear Augusten Burroughs, of Running With Scissors and Dry fame, speak, and I can't wait. I am mildly distraught because there was a mix-up at the bookstore and I won't be able to read his newest, A Wolf at the Table, before the talk, but I'm trying to persevere.

(In my fantasies, Augusten has no idea what great friends we would be until I impress him with my incredibly witty and insightful comments about his work. Then we'll start spending weekends together on Cape Cod were we cook crab, sing show tunes and laugh uproariously at our comments on an America's Next Top Model marathon. Obviously, not being able to read his latest book before we meet puts me at a great disadvantage in achieving this goal.)

I suppose the lessons here are twofold:
A. I am a bit of a freak, and
B. Beware celebrity gossip. It's a gateway gossip, and if you're not careful, you'll end up hooked on the harder, more obscure stuff -- like where Dave Eggers likes to shop and whether he, too, is "just like us."

Cash Flow

I'm supposed to be working right now. Supposed to. For the most part, I'm pretty diligent about my job. Like all of us, if I don't do what I need to do, there are repercussions. While I'm not responsible for saving people's lives in the operating room or sealing all of the valves on the space shuttle, if I don't do my job, there will be lots of glaring, empty white pages for our readers come next month.

That's not something I want to happen. (And, if it did ever happen, I'm pretty sure that would be the last issue of Lipstick I had anything to do with.)

But lately, all I can think about is my tax rebate check. I filed my taxes on time, I have direct deposit and the last two digits of my social security number are in the 01-05 range. (I would have put the actual number, but I fear that my identity-theft-fearing family would never let me hear the end of that one, and that's just not a conversation that I want to have today. "Yes, I did see that Dateline report ... No, I don't think my financial future is something to take lightly ...") According to many google search results trustworthy sources, all this means that I should have my rebate by this Friday, May 2nd.
It's almost as if I'm powerless to stop myself from visiting Regions' online banking every 15 minutes.

Of course, my rebate is already spent. (Thanks to rising gas prices and a poorly-installed furnace, this winter was an expensive one for me.) But that hasn't stopped me from being nearly giddy over my expected pay out.

OK, it's time to get back to the Regions site now.

The Stuff of my Nightmares

A remnant of the prehistoric past is living in my front yard.

Well, it might not actually be a remnant of our prehistoric past, but it is definitely slimy and slithery and now welcome. I really don't think I've ever seen anything like it before. (I've also never actually worked in a yard before buying my own home, but let's not let that little fact taint our discussion.) On Sunday, as I was pulling weeds, THE CREATURE ("TC" from here on out) emerged from its dark, sinister depths.

TC is black and about six inches long. You're probably thinking that it's a baby snake, but TC was not rounded like a snake. It was much flatter -- the shape reminded me of a tapeworm even thought I've never seen a tapeworm, and I'm not sure tapeworms can ever survive outside of the human intestine. TC also moved in a very squiggly motion (yes, "squiggly" is a common term in biology) that seemed much too flexible for a standard, garden-variety snake.

After a thorough scientific study in which I gathered the above information and poked at TC with a rake, I believe it's perfectly fair to conclude that I have either discovered a new species of reptile or come upon a tapeworm/snake combo from the time of dinosaurs that was previously thought to be extinct. (I will call my discovery The Creaturus Laurelus ...)

Unfortunately, I don't think I'll have a chance to share my findings with the world since the moment TC slithered back into the grass, I decided that I would never go near that part of the yard again.My boss suggested crime scene tape to block off his part of the lawn, but for now, I think peaceful co-existence without fences and other barriers is still possible.

Plus, I think we all know that in a direct confrontation between TC and I, TC would win.

Virtual Reality

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

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

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

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

The End of Summer

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

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

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

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

Laurel's Law #34

This probably comes as no surprise, but throughout my 27 years, I have devised numerous theories on the workings of the universe and human kind. (Leelee Sobieski must have sold her soul to Satan for success in Hollywood, Donny Osmond would be sweeping floors if he hadn't had Marie for a sister, there was never a need for the Almond Joy candy bar, etc.)And, while for years these ruminations were only known by me and strangers who might have the misfortune of sitting near me on a plane, now that I have a blog, I can share my thoughts whenever I feel like it.Let's just say that America really is a great nation.

So, to share yet another of these theories, here are the three things I'm sure are never of interest to anyone but oneself:

1. Pets. Now, I'm not claiming that I'm not guilty of this one, but, in general, I recognize that no one actually cares what your dog does when you give it a bath or how that latest visit to the vet went. For the most part, dog behavior is pretty uniform. And, while this may be a shock to some of the parents out there, the same can also be true of your baby - especially if the story you're thinking of telling involves the phrase "just won't take the nipple," "poo-poo," or "episiotomy."No one needs that.

2. Vacation photos. I'm sorry, but one of the last things I ever want to be forced to look at is vacation photos. (I might choose them over photos of any of the three cautionary phrases mentioned in the last example, but I can't really say for sure.) Unless a UFO landed during your trip to the Eiffel Tower or Grand Canyon, I'm positive I know what you're talking about - without the visual. And, if you don't work for National Geographic, I really prefer to be spared the stacks and stacks of snapshots.Great stories from your trip? Absolutely. Having to hear that story while you point out how tiny ketchup bottles are in Germany in four different photos? No, thank you.

3. Dreams. We all have crazy dreams. In fact, that's kind of why there are all those theories about the subconscious and people love to throw around the names "Freud" and "Jung." And, I certainly understand the desire to share all of those wild inner workings with someone else, but there's probably nothing worse than arriving at the office on a Monday morning to hear, "Good weekend, Laurel? You will not believe what I dreamed about Saturday night ..."It may be a sign of my age, but I can't feign the slightest bit of interest in that anymore.I will allow for the caveat that if you dream about my car stalling on the railroad tracks before an oncoming train and you have a good track record with these things coming true (yes, you must me both requirements), I'm willing to lend an ear. But, otherwise, please keep any "so I was trying to get to this house, only it wasn't my house because the staircase was on the outside rather than the inside, and then my mom was flying a kite with Jodie Foster" to yourself.

Living the Dream

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

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

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

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

"I did not know that."

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

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

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

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

Thank God I'm Decent Looking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: pop culture rantings

The Invasion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Hell and Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Incomprehensible

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

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

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

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

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

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

Might be.

Responsibility

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank goodness for prompt and thorough exterminators.

Everlasting Love

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

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

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

My Barbies married Michaels, not Kens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: pet peeves

Saturday Night Fever

When people ask about my writing, they usually seem pretty surprised that I don't write fiction. (Although, that's unless, of course, you talk to my mother who would claim that I do indeed write fiction, but bygones.)That's usually when I explain that I'd much rather write non-fiction because life is so full of stuff that you just can't make up, or stuff that if you did make up stories along the same lines, people would balk at your cheesiness or call you ridiculous. (For further proof that "truth really is stranger than fiction," please see my brief encounter with Ivanka Trump.)

Anyway, one of my weekend adventures is another great example of this tenet.A few weeks ago, I visited a bar in downtown Nashville with my friend Lindsay. After hanging out for a bit, we were ready to head home and left the bar to head to the parking lot. When we got to the car, we realized that we didn't have Lindsay's keys, so we headed back inside to make sure that they hadn't fallen out under the table where we were seated.Inside the bar, our table had already been taken by a couple of guys. It was a busy bar after midnight, so Lindsay explained the situation to the new patrons, and we proceeded to climb under the table in search of the missing key.Luckily, we found the keys and climbed back out quickly. But, as we were preparing to leave the bar for the second time, a girl walked out of the bathroom and made a beeline towards me.

Before I could really comprehend her scowl and determination, she yanked me by the elbow (hard, I might add) and screamed, "What the f*** are you doing with my boyfriend?"

For the next few seconds, I was completely stunned, mainly because a) no one has ever grabbed me and accosted me like that in public before and b) her boyfriend wasn't much to write home about, and therefore not what I would imagine as a prime target for "man-stealing." (Not that I know too much about "man-stealing," but I did watch a lot of "Beverly Hills, 90210" in my adolescence, and a young Luke Perry would have been a different story. But, this guy? No.)

As I was still standing there — in shock — the boyfriend stood up to intervene, and I imagine explain that we were just trying to retrieve some keys, when she turned on him and proceeded to take his head off.

Thankfully, Lindsay and I know the bartender where we were, so we were able to exit quickly after this and avoid any further commotion. (And, not that I would have, but for the record, I could have made her sorry for such an inappropriate accusation. I don't like to be touched -- especially by strangers leaving dirty bar bathrooms.)

Anyway, the point to my story is this: The name of the bar where this near chick-fight occurred?The Trailer Park.I leave it at that.

In Case You Doubted Me

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

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

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

My Escape

Now, I know that it's been a long time since my last blog entry, and most of you are probably wondering where I've been, so here comes the long-awaited truth behind my extended absence ... I've had to go into hiding to escape the ladies of Mary Kay.

Seriously.

A few months ago, a friend of mine invited me to a Mary Kay party. At the time, I had no idea that such things as Mary Kay parties still existed. And, I certainly didn't know that women under the age of 65 attended Mary Kay parties, but my friend promised wine, so I went. For those of you who haven't been to a Mary Kay party, I can't say that I recommend it.

Mary Kay prefers to refer to their gatherings as "Girlfriend Parties." (Personally, one of the words I least prefer to hear repeated, next to "lover" and "moist," is "girlfriend," so Mary Kay and I didn't get off to the best start.) There was also the choice to decorate with feather boas, and I'm pretty sure such a choice speaks for itself.

So, as the evening drags on, there are many, many product demonstrations and many, many glasses of wine. Then, sometime after the lip-smoothing balm and newly un-corked bottle of Pinot Noir, we were separated for our "personal consultations" with a Mary Kay representative. Of course, this is how they get you - it's a lot harder to say "no" to the hard sell one-on-one than it would be in a group. But, somehow, I didn't just end up with a normal Mary Kay representative. My consultation was with Linda, the regional manager. And, Linda wanted me to do a lot more than buy some Mary Kay products — she wanted me to start selling the Mary Kay line, too.

Now, normally, I would be able to get out of such a situation, but I have a tendency to be a bit of a people pleaser. Plus, Linda told me that I would be a good Mary Kay lady because I was so pretty, and I would be lying if I said that alcohol and compliments aren't how I've gotten myself into trouble before. It seems that by the end of the evening, I had committed myself to a national girlfriend event complete with the opportunity to learn all about the corporate side of Mary Kay.

A few days later, I spent three hours trapped in the conference room of the Marriott in Brentwood, Tennessee watching Linda award pink baubles to her top sellers and engage the crowd in affirmations. (Another of my least favorite things is affirmations. When I worked at Amsouth, I was called into a 7:30 a.m. morning that included passing around a hand mirror as each staff member said "To perform the best, I must be the best" out loud. I have rarely felt such rage.)

Anyway, I thought escaping from the girlfriend event would be enough, but the ladies of Mary Kay do not scare easily. After that, I received daily phone calls from Linda for weeks because she was so anxious to talk about "my future at Mary Kay." Hence, I had to go into hiding. And for those of you who think I might be exaggerating, it was only a a few weeks ago when there was a pink Cadillac in my office parking lot, and I figured that they were back on my trail.

But, I refuse to live in fear any longer. I'm taking my life back, and if Mary Kay has a problem with that, well then, I'm ready for her.